Sol Survivors Page 7

  “Jewelry?” Jessie blurted.

  “Maybe, ma’am. If it’s gold.”

  “Here.” Jessie opened her handbag, dug around in it and produced a necklace. “14 karat, with real diamond chips.” She handed it to Joel.

  Joel hesitated before passing the necklace out the window.

  But before the man could accept it, he pulled it back inside.

  “I changed my mind. I don’t really need any extra propane or water. But thanks.” Joel started his engine.

  “You’re being rude,” the big man began to say. But Joel put the truck in gear and pulled forward before he could finish, tailing the white car as it drove ahead to the right wherever the tire tracks led. They ended up squeezing between a tree and the front of the U-Haul. There, thankfully, an established dirt road provided a westward passage, though it was not much wider than a trail still.

  Archer failed to follow. Joel watched in his mirror as the redhead blocked his path, and the big man now went into the same routine with him. Joel had to stop at the trailhead to wait.

  There he noticed a fourth member of the trading post crew on the back side of the U-Haul, standing next to a parked motorcycle wearing a perpetual scowl—and holding a shotgun. This guy stepped forward when Joel stopped.

  “Here.” Joel handed Jessie back the necklace, but dropped it in her lap without waiting for her to take it.

  “You should have just done the trade,” Jessie said.

  Joel stepped out of the truck with his Glock.

  “Joel! No!”

  The shotgun holder’s slick black hair matched the color of his leather jacket, but not the blue-ink color of his neck tattoos. He lifted his weapon some when he saw Joel come out armed, but seemed to think better of pointing it at him when Joel’s gun hand also began to rise. At the last moment the man cradled the shotgun across his chest instead. Joel in turn lowered his arm, so his pistol pointed to the ground. He could beat this clown if the barrel of that shotgun didn’t stay right where it had settled.

  The two of them stared at each other. Joel felt comfortable enough to take quick glances at Archer’s truck, where the redhead now brought a propane cylinder in exchange for something Archer handed him before loading it in the bed. Another white sedan had pulled up behind Archer and was waiting its turn, so the situation would soon resolve.

  Or at least it would have if Debra didn’t get out of the damn car. She came around to the redhead and appeared to insist on looking at his bandaged hand. The big man then came towards her and yelled something, pointing back to her seat, which she only obeyed after tying the redhead’s loose bandage ends around his wrist.

  Archer finally pulled up to the top of the small ridge behind Joel. The shotgun holder retreated and fully lowered his weapon. Joel went back inside his truck, shifted into gear, and followed the tire tracks away.

  The trail shortly widened and began dividing farm plots, some with fledgling crops that looked to be in urgent need of watering. Eventually they came to a paved crossroads, where Joel stopped again and got out. Archer pulled up next to him and joined him at the hood of his truck, where Joel spread the map.

  “What’s the plan?” Archer asked.

  “Looks like we can reach the 33 from here.” Joel pointed to the thick rising greenery of the western horizon. “Then go through the mountains via the Swift Run Gap, and hook up to Interstate 81 at Harrisonburg. It may be slow going, but at least it goes through.”

  “You think a mountain road will be passable? When the main highway is blocked?”

  “Might be our best bet.” Joel folded the map. “All we can do is try.”

  * * *

  “Red!” Clyde called, still pissed. “Handle the customers.”

  Before leaving the storefront, Clyde watched Red approach the new white sedan, looking at his freshly wrapped bandage as he walked.

  Clyde stormed off. When he reached the U-Haul, he pointed to Tito. “Help him, man. Make sure the cars stop.”

  Tito lit a cigarette, leaned away from the truck, and slowly complied.

  Clyde walked around the back side of the truck to find Roller staring at the distant dust cloud on the trail, both hands tightly gripping the shotgun.

  “So those two trucks were together?” Clyde asked.

  “Yeah.” Roller spit. “The driver of the red one’s a cowboy. No doubt thinks he could have shot me with his dangling pistol before I blasted his chest wide open. I should have shown him how wrong he was.”

  “Maybe you’ll get the chance. Both those trucks are packed with the right kind of goods. Not to mention being the right kind of trucks, both with full tanks. And they come with prime pieces of ass, too. Think they’ll head through the mountains?”

  Roller shrugged. “They’re both four wheel drive, so could still try to forge their way south.”

  “Why don’t you find out?” Clyde held out his hand.

  Roller surrendered the shotgun with a frown, ran his hand through his greased hair and wiped it on his jeans as he moved to mount the bike.

  “See if they head west on the mountain highway,” Clyde said. “If they do, we can probably catch them tonight. I hear it’s jammed, too. I want that son of a bitch to regret he was rude to me.”

  Chapter Six

  The third pounding on the door shook the entire mobile home. Sammy checked his self-winding wristwatch. It was still working. The single ray of sunlight beaming through the partially-closed shades let in enough light to see the time.

  Only three hours since the blackout started. Sammy had already broken into the snack and soda machines out of nervous boredom. At this rate, his sole food source wasn’t a good bet to last long. He hated it when Joel was right—which was most of the time.

  The incessant pounding could no longer be ignored. It seemed best to deal with an intrusion threat before they tried to force entry, and give fair warning that an armed defender was home.

  “We’re closed!” Sammy yelled from just inside the door.

  “We need a vehicle!” An undeterred male voice shouted back. “Are any of these on the lot still running?”

  Sammy eyed the mail slot, about knee-high off the floor. After briefly considering his options, he shoved the short barrel of the shotgun through it.

  “Ow! Watch yourself, you ass!”

  “I said we’re closed!”

  “And I said we need a vehicle! We got guns too, mister. Unless you have friends in there with you, I’m pretty sure you are outmatched. So answer me, or you’re going to find yourself getting nice and toasty in about three minutes. Understand? Will any of these cars out here start?”

  Sammy then noticed the smell of a not-too-distant fire.

  “See for yourself!” he responded. “The keys are all in them.”

  The voice mumbled something about Sammy not being as dumb as he sounded as it trailed out to the lot. Soon an occasional motor could be heard starting, but none for too long.

  The voice eventually returned.

  “Hey, you in there! Wyatt Earp!”

  Sammy decided not to answer.

  “What about this white Toyota mini truck, Wyatt Earp? The keys aren’t in this one.”

  Now Sammy was certain he wouldn’t answer.

  “This one’s yours, isn’t it, Wyatt? Parked right up front like this. Probably actually has gas in it, too. Doesn’t it, Wyatt?”

  Sammy kept silent through ten more minutes of taunting. New male voices also spoke, from far enough away Sammy couldn’t make out the words. One or two car motors again started and stopped.

  No doubt they were filling the tanks of the cars they had chosen with whatever they could siphon from the others—including Sammy’s.

  Finally, they left. Two vehicles started up and drove away. A reasonable length of time passed with relative silence. Sammy decided to open the front door.

  Sure enough, his gas cap hung on the side of his truck. He cautiously stepped outside, still holding Joel’s short pistol-grip shotgun.

>   The fire smell could have been coming from two different spots in nearby neighborhoods where black smoke curled into the air. Sirens wailed in places.

  Another car suddenly pulled up, startling Sammy. This old dented black Nissan wasn’t from the lot. It came out of nowhere, sounding like a stressed sewing machine as it rapidly swung into an open space right next to Sammy’s truck. Sammy instinctively raised his weapon.

  A clean-cut young man about Sammy’s age emerged, dressed in casual business attire with slightly disheveled sandy hair.

  “No need for that,” the new visitor said. “I’m just looking for a running car.”

  Sammy hesitated before answering.

  “It appears to me you already have one.”

  “No.” The customer shook his head. “I don’t trust this thing to make it to West Virginia, much less Idaho. Do you have something reasonably reliable? Anything. I have cash.”

  “Idaho?” Sammy lowered the gun.

  “Yes. I have family there.”

  That’s when Sammy noticed a badge of some type pinned to the customer’s golf shirt.

  “So do you have anything?” The customer eyeballed Sammy’s truck in the space next to him. “I’m in a hurry to leave the city. It’s starting, as you can see.”

  “What’s starting?”

  “You know.” He motioned toward the fires. “Looting and rioting.”

  Sammy took two steps forward. The customer reacted nervously, looking about ready to jump back inside the old beater and peel out.

  “I just wanted to see your ID,” Sammy said.

  “Oh,” the customer replied with some relief. “Forgot I was wearing it.” He unpinned it and held it out. “I work at the Supreme Court building. Or at least, I did. Name’s Mick.”

  “Call me Sammy. What, did you get fired or something?”

  Mick laughed. “Sort of. All the justices have been moved to a bunker. We clerks aren’t considered essential. The heck with them, anyway.”

  Sammy read the badge without taking it from Mick’s hand. “What’s a Supreme Court clerk doing driving this piece of junk, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “My other car is a Tesla SUV.”

  “I guess that explains it. Well, our inventory has already been rifled through. There may be a few running vehicles left, but there’s no gas in any of them.”

  “I have my own gas.” Mick glanced around the lot, but his eyes were drawn back to Sammy’s double-cab mini-truck. “My tank is full. I’m hoping I can siphon it over, maybe? Plus I have a couple full gas cans in my trunk.”

  “That isn’t going to get you to Idaho.”

  “No, I suppose it won’t.” Mick blew on his hair bangs from his lower lip. “I’m willing to take my chances on the random winds of fortune, as long as it’s out of the city. Got nowhere else to go, so I figure due west is as good a direction as any.”

  Sammy crossed the shotgun in his arms and tilted his head at Mick before responding.

  “How do you feel about Tennessee?”

  * * *

  Joel noticed a motorcycle in his rear view mirror. Something about it bothered him. The rider could have easily passed, but after coming around Archer’s truck he hung behind Joel a few minutes before pulling to the shoulder and slowing, letting Archer pass him again.

  “Strange,” Joel mumbled.

  “What?” Jessie said. She still sounded irritated.

  “Nothing. Is this the last town before the mountain pass?” Joel knew it was, but keeping Jessie busy with projects might be a good way to stop the arguing.

  “Looks like it.” She fooled around with the map. “Except for a little place called Lydia a few miles ahead.” Then she looked up. “Why are you slowing? Oh, no. The road is closed?”

  “Not sure. This could be a detour sign posted.”

  That’s what it turned out to be, tacked to an easily-movable wooden roadblock stand, just past the picturesque mountain foothill town of Stanardsville.

  Joel slowed to a stop. “You want to drive for a while, honey?”

  Jessie studied him with some reservation, those deep green eyes only blinking once. While clearly still miffed, her expression did soften.

  “Sure,” she finally said. “If you need me to.”

  “Thanks. Probably better if I ride shotgun. I’m not fond of what’s been waiting for us on ‘detours,’ and think we may want to consider ignoring this one. Anyone could have put this sign up.”

  Her expression hardened again. Before she could say anything, Joel got out of the truck and came around to her side. Jessie took longer to exit, rummaging through her purse first. Archer and Debra had pulled up behind, and appeared to be involved in a debate of their own.

  That’s when Joel noticed the old guy with the cane walking towards him from the side of the road, coming out of nowhere.

  “It’s all right to take the detour,” the man said in a feeble voice but convincing tone. Joel had to do a double-take. Something about him registered as familiar. With straight white hair and a noticeable limp, the man’s clothes suggested he’d gotten dressed this morning in a dark thrift store—though he was clean and well-groomed.

  “What’s wrong with the road?” Joel asked.

  “Rockslide, I hear tell.” The man turned sideways to spit sunflower seeds. “The detour is safe. Some army vehicles took it not half an hour ago. A few other folks since then, too, and none have come back this way."

  Archer’s voice suddenly spoke next to Joel. “You think no one coming back is a good sign, huh?”

  The old man chuckled. “Well, one person from town did come back, a little earlier. Didn’t have the patience, I guess. Slow traveling through the pass. And I ain’t seen none come through from the other side since this morning. So, gotta be some broken-down cars in inconvenient places, but the army boys ahead of you have the ability to clear the road. Probably your best bet if you’re fixing to connect to Interstate 81. From what I hear, everything around Charlottesville is a complete standstill, in all directions.”

  “Thanks,” Joel said. “Thanks a lot.”

  The man winked. “That’s why I’m here. To help good folks like you. Safe traveling, son, and Godspeed.”

  With that he turned and limped away, towards a group of trees where Joel now noticed a cheap wooden chair in the shadows of.

  “What do you think?” Archer asked eyeing the mid-afternoon sky.

  Joel glanced at Debra and Jessie chatting by Archer’s truck before answering.

  “No choice, really.”

  He raised his voice walking back to the driver’s seat. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “I thought you wanted me to drive,” Jessie said.

  “Got a second wind.”

  The detour began innocently enough. A narrow backroad served a course of back and forth turns as it left the oasis of the town behind to be gradually swallowed by early-springtime Appalachian woods. Occasionally the pavement would give way to dirt. The abandoned cars on this stretch were sparse and had been pushed off the road, with no sign of their owners among the trees. Small open spaces unexpectedly materialized around corners, radiant with sunshine and scurrying squirrels, before closing to ever darker woods.

  And then the right side of the woods simply dropped away. The detour road ran alongside a ravine in this stretch, with a view of Highway 33 on the other side. Indeed it appeared that a boulder sat on the highway up there. If that was the problem, the detour should soon be over, whenever the road could next link up with the highway.

  Joel let off the gas as he approached a sharp bend. For reasons he didn’t understand, he came to a complete stop just before it.

  “Joel, why are you stopping? What’s wrong now? You need me to drive after all?”

  “Dangerous turn,” Joel said. He pointed ahead. “See those tire tracks in the dirt, heading right over the edge? They look fresh.”

  “It’s only dangerous if you’re not paying attention. Maybe someone texting while driving got what
they deserved. Honey, stopping in the road is a bad idea.”

  Joel ignored her and exited the vehicle. He followed the tire tracks to the edge. It wasn’t a straight drop-off. The tracks abruptly ended, but the ground on the incline was newly disturbed. No vehicles could be seen among the thick brush near the bottom of the ravine.

  Debra appeared at his side. “You think someone had an accident here?” she asked. “There should be a guardrail at this spot.”

  “I, uh…” Joel shook his head, still staring at the bushes below. “I’m not sure why I stopped.”

  “Hey!” Archer’s voice boomed from behind. Joel turned to see him and Jessie standing next to the trucks. Archer raised his palms upward. Jessie only crossed her arms tighter. Both vehicles were still running, stopped on the right side of the lane-less rural road.

  Joel began walking back, assuming Debra would follow.

  The assumption proved wrong. Prompted by Archer’s ensuing scowl, Joel spun back to look for her. All he saw was the top of Debra’s blonde hair descending below the ridge.

  Joel returned to the edge, trotting and feeling vindicated for some reason. When he got there, Debra was already halfway down.

  “Do you see anything?” Joel shouted to her.

  She stooped before answering. “I thought I heard something.”

  Joel then perceived something as well. It sounded like a subdued human voice, hampered by a limitation in energy.

  Like a cry for help.

  Debra must have heard it too, as she resumed her descent with a renewed vigor. Joel abandoned caution and hurried down the embankment, catching up to her as they both rounded the thickest cluster of head-high bushes.

  Before them there, wedged between even thicker brush and the bottom of the ravine, lay a United States Mail truck, upside down and badly dented, much of its white paint splattered with mud.

  Not five feet from the open door a man in a postal uniform lay sprawled on the ground. Balding with short dark hair, the man gripped his hat tightly with both hands across his chest as if it were helping him fight surges of pain. When he saw Joel and Debra, his eyes went to the sky and his lips spoke something silent.