Collision Course (5 page)

CHAPTER 5

D
J was pleased with the progress he was making. According to his GPS, he had eight more miles to go before he got off the tracks. Then it was just a short jaunt down a county road to the power line. Once he got to the campsite he had intended to reach last night, he could decide whether to go on or not.

The bridge over the river was the last big obstacle before he turned off the tracks. He couldn't wait to get on a smooth road. The constant thumping of his tires over the ties was starting to drive him crazy. It would take some time to cross the bridge, but DJ knew his plan would work.

His quad's tires weren't big enough to span the gap between the ties on the bridge. This would have made it impossible to cross if he hadn't been prepared. He figured he could let some air out of his tires on one side and let the wheels run directly on the track on that edge. On the other side, he'd use the two-by-eights he'd stashed next to the bridge. They were both twelve feet long, and he could lay them across the ties. He'd have to leapfrog the boards all the way across the bridge, but if what Jacob had said was true and the trains weren't running, he'd have plenty of time.

DJ had figured long ago that any bridge over the river was a natural choke point. Not only did it have the probability of snarling traffic, but it was an obvious place for an ambush. When he was first planning his bug-out route, he'd figured that the railroad bridges were much more likely to be open and safe than a bridge built for cars. In fact, that was how he'd come up with using the railroad in the first place. The only problem was how to cross when there was nothing between the ties. Conjuring the idea to use boards had been easy. The problem was how to carry them to the bridge. Since they'd have hung way over the back of the trailer and taken up valuable space, DJ had decided that the best thing to do was to preposition the boards. That, too, seemed simple enough, but how could he get them there? He'd gone over many possibilities until he settled on renting a small boat and motor and using the river to get to the bridge. Once he was there, it had simply been a matter of burying the boards and motoring back to the boat ramp.

The boards were treated, and he'd carefully wrapped them in heavy plastic and sealed them with duct tape. It would only take a few minutes to uncover them and pull them up onto the tracks.
Not much farther now,
DJ thought.

He rounded the last curve before the bridge and blinked a couple of times to make sure what he saw was really there. A train sat motionless on the tracks. DJ squeezed the brakes on his ride and came to a stop, staring at the train as if it were a ghost. He hoped it had stopped before it got onto the bridge, but he knew that was unlikely—unless it was a very short train. It looked to be one of the trains that hauled coal to the power plant on the outskirts of town. He'd seen them before, and they were usually very long. Other questions flashed through his mind. Had it just stopped temporarily? Why would it stop on the bridge? Could he get someone to move it? If it were abandoned, could he move it himself? Could he squeeze his four-wheeler past it? This was a situation he'd never considered, and he didn't know the answers. He would just have to check it out.

He pulled the quad down into some tall weeds and covered it. Then, taking his rifle with him, he slowly approached the train. As he got closer, he was able to tell two things. First, the train was empty. This made sense because it was headed away from the power plant. Second, and most important, the train had started to make its way across the bridge. DJ's heart sank—he knew his carefully mapped route had most likely been ruined by this unforeseen event.

He slowly walked up to the bridge, carefully watching for anyone lurking. When he got closer, he realized there was no way to squeeze his quad between the train and the side of the bridge. His body could barely fit into the limited space. He walked across, cautiously and deliberately centering his feet on the ties. Once across, he walked the considerable distance to the locomotives. There were five of them, sleeping giants with no regard for his Lilliputian plans. They had stopped, ironically, at the road he had planned to take, most likely for a truck to pick up the crew.

He climbed up on the lead engine, opened the door, and stepped in. He turned off his night vision and fished his flashlight out of a pocket on his vest. Looking over the controls, he thought they seemed rudimentary, but after fumbling with a few buttons, DJ had to admit that he had no idea what he was doing. He thought about how in the movies the hero always found the keys on top of the visor. Unfortunately, there was no visor, and this was no movie. Disappointed, he hiked back to his quad.

Once there, he pulled out his maps and started searching for a way around the bridge. Unfortunately, the last road he had crossed bigger than a goat trail was almost halfway back to where he'd started that night. He groaned as he saw how far out of the way he'd have to travel taking that route. It looked to be at least an extra twenty or thirty miles, not to mention the forty or so miles he would have to backtrack, and who knew if the bridge over the river going that way would be traversable? He searched for another way, but he realized he didn't have any other options.

He checked his gas tank and saw that it was over half-empty. Going back would use at least another half a tank. That was close to five gallons wasted. He refigured how much he would need to complete his trip and realized he'd be short. He plopped down sideways on the seat of the quad and put his head in his hands. For almost fifteen minutes, he didn't move. Finally he pulled his head up and shook it.

“I have to figure out what to do,” he said out loud. He briefly considered leaving the quad and going the rest of the way on foot. He'd known that there was always the contingency that the quad might become disabled and he had gear in case he had to resort to plan B. It would be hard to carry enough food to walk the rest of the way, but he knew he could do it. But the quad and the items he'd have to leave behind were just too valuable to abandon if there was an alternative.

Perhaps he could find a little more gas. He looked at the map again. It wasn't likely he'd find an open gas station on the back roads he'd selected. He could go to a more populated area and try to find a station, but would it even be open or have any gas? DJ knew that gas would soon be worth its weight in gold.

He looked at the map again. Jacob had said that his son didn't live too far.

Maybe I could find him and trade the hundred dollars for some gas.

That seemed like the best idea. Even if he didn't find the old man, maybe he'd stumble on a farmer who would sell him some gas. If he had to, he could even steal some. He didn't like that option, but it wouldn't be the first time he was guilty of some petty thieving. He would just have to do what he had to do.

DJ climbed back on the quad, feeling a little better about his options. He pulled up onto the tracks and began the trip back. Just before dawn, he found a good camping spot not too far from the turnoff. He set up camp, making sure it would be hidden enough in the daylight, and went to sleep.

* * *

Gabe wondered why the woman hadn't shown up. He paced back and forth from the door to the table where he had all the produce ready to go. It wasn't like her to be late. In fact, he couldn't remember her ever being late. If he had had a phone, he would have called her. Maybe her truck had broken down, he thought. Maybe she or her son was sick. No matter what the reason was, Gabe didn't like altering his routine. He decided to get in his truck and go see what the problem was.

The half-ton Chevy groaned as he let out on the clutch. Gabe turned onto the road when he got to the end of his gravel drive and urged the almost-thirty-year-old truck forward with a slight mash of the accelerator. The truck was in nice shape for its age. Gabe was able to keep it in good repair since it was easy to work on. It didn't have all the fancy things a new truck had like power steering or air-conditioning, but the straight-six engine ran well and didn't use much gas. Of course, Gabe only went to town once a month for groceries, so gas mileage was really not a factor for him. Many months, he used more gas in his Rototiller than he did in the truck.

Three and a half miles down the road, he came to the mailbox with a chicken painted on the side. The name painted beside it said J
.
WALKER. Gabe turned into the woman's drive and drove up to the house. It was modest but well kept, and the small yard in front was manicured. Gabe could hear the chickens clucking in back when he turned his truck off. As he opened the truck door, the woman opened her front door.

“What do you want?” she asked. The look in her eyes held the disdain Gabe was used to. It was, however, the first time he could recall seeing it from her. He was much more comfortable with this look, though. In fact, it was the first time he could remember being comfortable enough to look her in the eye for more than a second.

“I just came to see why you didn't come pick up the vegetables.”

The woman ignored Gabe's question. She took a step toward him and lowered her voice. “Robby told me what you said to him the other day. If you want to be mean and nasty to everybody else, fine, but you don't ever talk like that to my boy. You understand?”

Gabe blinked. He didn't remember talking to the boy.
Wait,
he thought.
It seems like someone did come over the other day.
Maybe it had been the boy. There was no telling what Gabe might have said. Obviously it must have been pretty bad to make his mother this mad.

“Is that why you aren't going to the market today?” he said.

Now the woman looked taken aback. She stared at him for a moment, and then the look that Gabe didn't like started coming back. “You don't know, do you?”

“Know what?” he asked, looking down at the grass.

“Don't you listen to the news?”

“No.”

“You better come in. Let me fix you a glass of tea.”

“No, that's all right. I'm fine. Just tell me.”

“Well, to start with, they're not having the farmers' market this week,” she said. “To be honest, I don't know when they'll have it again. Things are bad, Mr. Horne.”

He hated the way she said his name.

“The economy has tanked, and there are riots in the cities. The president has declared martial law. Hopefully things will settle down soon. That's what they keep saying on the news—but so far things seem to be getting worse. They say the power's off in the city, and they don't know how much longer our power will stay up.”

Gabe stood silent as the news slowly sank in. He had often wished that the world would end, but he had never considered the possibility that it could. “What happened?” he finally said, his eyes not their usual slits.

“No one seems to know for sure, or they aren't saying. Most of the experts say it's a combination of oil prices and the national debt. They're calling it ‘the Smash.' I'm afraid it might not be long before some of the rioters come out here. Supposedly they're causing lots of trouble in the suburbs.”

Gabe stood silent for a minute. “Well, okay, then.” He turned and stepped back toward his truck.

“Wait, Mr. Horne.”

Gabe's face scrunched. “Yes?” he said without turning around.

“Please take some eggs. I've got so many I don't know what to do with them all.”

“No, thanks. I'm fine.”

“I insist,” she said. “You wait right there.”

Gabe heard the screen door slam. He stepped to the truck and reached for the door handle. Before he could push the button, he heard the door's hinges creak.

“Here you go.”

Gabe reached behind the cab of his pickup and grabbed the big bucket of tomatoes.

“You take these.” He turned and pushed the bucket toward the woman. She walked to him, and they handed each other their signature produce.

“Thank you, Mr. Horne.”

“Tell that boy I'm sorry about the other night.” He climbed into his truck and tried his best not to see how she was looking at him. Pulling out of the driveway, he thought about the last time he had said he was sorry. It was that night, so long ago, when they had left.

Back in his house, he turned on the old hi-fi and put on a George Jones album. Then he opened a bottle and poured. It was two days earlier than usual, but he didn't care. Now time held no meaning for the rest of the world, either.

CHAPTER 6

D
J finally gave up trying to sleep and got up. He'd tossed and turned all morning, worrying about his fuel situation.
Damn train
, he thought. He filled the quad and then checked to see how much fuel he had left. Including what was in the quad, he had thirteen gallons. Looking at his map, he saw he had two hundred and eighty miles left if he didn't have to make any more detours. He had expected to get twenty miles per gallon, but he was actually only getting seventeen so far. Even if he got the mileage back up, it was only enough fuel to go two hundred and sixty miles.

The good news was that this route took him right by where Jacob's son lived. Hopefully, he could get some fuel from the old man. DJ figured if he could get five or six gallons, he'd have plenty, even if he had to take a few small detours. Confident in his plan and now more relaxed, he lay back down to get some quality shut-eye.

The heat of the afternoon woke him up about four. He fixed a meal and spent some time reading again. A group of seven walked by him on the tracks. They never saw him, and if he'd been asleep, he doubted he would have noticed them. They moved quietly and were all armed. Even the kids, who looked to be around ten and sixteen, had rifles. The little one only had a .22, but that was a lot better than nothing. DJ was glad he'd made sure this camp was well camouflaged.

At dusk, he broke camp and was ready to roll by the time it got dark. He was only four miles from Route 87. When he pulled onto the paved highway, the smoothness of the road was an instant reward. Able to travel at thirty-five miles per hour, DJ felt as if he were flying. There were quite a few houses along this route. Most were dark, but a few had pale lights shining out of the windows. DJ thought it was less than smart to have any light showing. It was an open invitation to troublemakers.

As he approached the five-mile mark, he slowed a little and started looking for the old Caddy. It seemed like no time before he saw the Kessler place. It was just an old trailer on a small lot, and Jacob's car was parked in front. The mailbox was shaped like a fish and said JAMES
KESSLER. DJ only noticed the first name because the “J” in DJ stood for James. He pulled into the dirt drive and stopped his machine. No lights were showing in the trailer.

“Jacob,” DJ called out, but not too loudly. “It's DJ, the guy who helped you the other night.”

No one answered. He called out again, a little louder this time. Still there was no answer. He dismounted and climbed the rickety wooden stairs up to the front door. He knocked softly and waited for a response. None came. He walked around to the back of the trailer. There was no one there, either, but he noticed that the back door stood ajar, so he walked up to it and stuck his head in the door.

“Hello. Is anyone home?”

It was as quiet as a tomb. DJ took a step into the home and, with the aid of his night-vision goggles, saw a man slumped over on the couch. He looked as if he had passed out drunk.

“Hey!” DJ said as loud as he dared.

The man didn't move. DJ stepped toward the man to try to wake him, but something wasn't right. There was something unnatural about the way he was lying on the couch. DJ turned off his goggles and turned on his flashlight. The first thing he noticed was that this man looked almost exactly like Jacob. The only difference was that he was younger and heavier. Suddenly DJ snatched his pistol out of his drop-leg holster and doused the light. The man had a hole in his chest. DJ turned his goggles back on and began to clear the house. He found Jacob behind the counter in the kitchen. He was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. DJ knelt down beside him and felt for a pulse. There was none.

DJ could hear his heart pounding in his ears. His throat had a burning bile taste as he tried to choke back the urge to hurl. He focused on the task at hand, and slowly and carefully cleared the rest of the house. As he went from room to room, he could see that things were missing from the home. The TV and VCR were gone. The stand and the loose cable wires, along with dust outlines, gave their former presence away. Dresser drawers in the bedrooms were opened and clothes were strewn about the room. He finished searching the house having found no one—at least no one who was still alive.

He sat on the bed in the last room he cleared, turned the night-vision goggles off, and stared into the darkness. Thoughts of how Jacob had died for nothing but a few material possessions flooded his mind. He felt a single tear roll down his cheek. It could have been the first of a torrent, but DJ held back his emotions. He couldn't lose it now. It was too dangerous in here. The perps who'd killed Jacob and his son might come back.

DJ stood back up and went outside to move his quad around to the back. There was nothing he could do for Jacob, so he'd get the gas he needed and get as far away from here as he could. The first thing he needed was a siphon hose. There was a garden hose hooked up to the spigot next to the back porch. DJ pulled out his knife and cut a six-foot piece off. He removed the two empty gas cans from his trailer and went around front to the Cadillac. Opening the gas cap, he stuffed the hose in until he heard a dull thud. The tank sounded as if it was completely empty, but that didn't make any sense. Even if Jacob had barely had enough gas to get here, there still should have been enough gas to cover the bottom of the tank. DJ put his lips to the siphon hose and blew. He hoped to hear bubbles, but all he heard was the sound of air rushing through the hose. He looked under the car with the aid of his flashlight and saw that someone had punched a hole in the tank to drain it.

DJ felt his face screw up with anger. Not only had these ruffians murdered his friend, but they'd also endangered him by stealing Jacob's gas. He wished he'd been here when they had arrived. He knew the story would have ended differently. He also knew that he'd only just met Jacob, but since he was the other half of DJ's only “normal” conversation in the past week, and likely the only one for a while, DJ figured the word “friend” was a fitting description.

Again, he made himself focus on what he needed to do. He returned to his quad in the back and noticed a small storage shed in the far corner of the property. Inside it he found a lawn mower and some other tools. A lawn mower would mean gas, and DJ searched the shed until he found a two-gallon can of the liquid gold. It was only half-full, but that was better than nothing. He also noticed a chain saw case sitting on a shelf with a small gas can and some bar oil. He reached for the case and was happy it had something in it. Opening it, he saw that the saw was of good quality. He decided to take it with him, along with the gas and oil. He didn't need it, but Jacob's son didn't have a use for it anymore, either. He might be able to trade it for some gas. There was nothing else of interest in the shed, so he closed the door and made his way back to his quad. Strapping down the chain saw, he wondered if there might be anything else in the house that would make good barter items. He poured the lawn mower gas into one of his cans and threw James's can under the back porch.

DJ quickly swept through the house, but it looked as if the killers had done a good job of swiping anything of value. All of the kitchen cabinets were empty, as well. All he found were a couple of cheap pocketknives and a Chinese-made multitool in the kitchen junk drawer.

He looked down at Jacob and wished he could do something. It was so undignified the way the old man was sprawled on the floor. DJ briefly thought about wrapping him and his son in some sheets and putting them on one of the beds, but that would take time he didn't have. Besides, that wouldn't bring them back.

Back on the Polaris, he resumed his new course, determined to come up with another plan to get more gas. He thought about how senseless Jacob's and James's deaths were and wondered what kind of people could have killed them for so little. He knew things could get this bad—he'd often told people such on the Internet forums he frequented. Most didn't like his blunt and brusque approach, and he'd been banned on many of the sites, but they couldn't say he hadn't warned them. He smiled as a small wave of vindication washed over him.

* * *

When Gabe woke up to total darkness, he realized something wasn't right. Even if all the lights in the house were off, some illumination from the security light out front should have filtered through the window blinds. He got out of the chair and felt his way to the kitchen. He felt the floor change from carpet to vinyl, and then he felt the crunch of glass under his shoes. He wondered what he'd broken this time. He tried to step carefully, not wanting to slip and cut himself on whatever was broken on the floor. If anyone had been able to see through the darkness, they might have thought him a high-wire artist practicing his craft. Gabe knew he was drunker than he should have been, but he still wasn't as drunk as he'd like to be. He'd have to take care of that.

When he finally reached the back door, he flipped the light switch up, but nothing happened. The back landing light switch was right next to the one for the kitchen, but it, too, produced no light when he turned it on. He flicked it up and down several times, as if that might produce the desired result, but it was in vain.

Cursing at the electricity, he turned and stumbled to the drawer that held his flashlight. He forcefully rooted around until he found it. When he pushed the button, the light came on dimly. He knew he had new batteries and used the flashlight to find them. Changing them in the dark proved to be more difficult than he'd expected. His motor skills, degraded by the alcohol, were no match for the fine threads and spring tension of the back cap of the flashlight. He dropped the cap twice and had to feel around to find it, cutting his hand on the broken glass. The slippery nature of the blood on his hand added to the difficulty of screwing the cap on, but he finally succeeded. Hitting the switch again produced a very bright beam that almost illuminated the whole kitchen. He saw several broken glasses on the floor, kicking a large chunk out of the way and stepping around some others on his way back to his chair. He set the flashlight on the coffee table so that it pointed at the ceiling. The beam reflected off the white surface and bathed the room with just enough light to see.

Gabe poured four fingers' worth of whiskey and sat back in his chair. He gulped the whole glass in one motion. The way the flashlight was balanced on the table reminded him of the time he and the boy had placed the light on the kitchen floor in the same way, pretending to be pirates as they swigged apple juice straight from the bottle. It was one of the good times, well before the alcohol had taken over his life, before that uncaring bastard had taken them away from him. Gabe felt his throat closing and his eyes tearing up as the memories flooded back. He clumsily grabbed the light and threw it. He heard a crash as the light went out. He needed another drink. He grabbed for the bottle and filled his glass. That was something he was good at, even in the dark.