Desperate Times (10 page)

A motorcycle engine roared to life followed
by another. Two bikers were fleeing the scene, heading out of the
rest area the same way they’d arrived. For one glorious moment
Jimmy thought they were going to continue south and run. He was
wrong. He listened as the bikes quickly accelerated on Highway 53,
heading north behind the narrow barrier of trees. As they
approached the north exit, they went suddenly silent. Jimmy
realized that they’d just been flanked.

From the bus, someone began to unleash an
automatic weapon. The chattering bursts exploded like a long string
of firecrackers. Limbs fell from the trees as lead thudded into the
birch trees around him. Jimmy crouched as bullets whizzed by his
head and he flattened out to find refuge from the gunfire. He
looked back to the man behind the sign, but he was gone. The
shooting seemed to be all around him now and Jimmy felt naked and
helpless. How he wished he’d had a gun to protect himself. He was
pinned down with nothing but open field, asphalt, and the tamarack
swamp beyond in which to flee. Jimmy peered out toward the bus and
watched as dark figures scrambled about, firing as they advanced on
the brick building.

There was a moment of silence, a few seconds
of calm in the storm. Jimmy’s ears were ringing, yet they managed
to catch the unmistakable sound of boots. He turned just in time to
see one of the bikers jog up behind him. He held a revolver in his
right hand; his long hair was tangled and bloody. He raised the gun
and pointed it at Jimmy. Jimmy closed his eyes.

The biker’s gun barked and his shot was
quickly followed by two others from a different gun. Jimmy felt a
burning pain in his shoulder, high up, and he heard something heavy
fall to the ground. He opened his eyes to see the biker sprawled
out before him, inches away, blood pooling from gunshot wounds. The
body twitched and a gurgle escaped from the man’s open mouth. Then
there was nothing. Jimmy wrestled the gun out of the biker’s dead
hand and quickly examined it. It was a revolver; he knew that much.
He hoped that there were still a few bullets left in it. He quickly
examined his wound. Impossible as it seemed, the bullet had barely
grazed his shoulder blade. Blood trickled down his back, but the
pain was already beginning to subside.

The automatic began to fire again, spraying
bullets indiscriminately in two spattering bursts. Jimmy clutched
his gun tightly and tried to collect his thoughts. Daylight was
nearly gone and no overhead lights had come on in the gathering
gloom. Jimmy thought that any moment he’d hear sirens, that the
police had been notified about the war raging at the little rest
stop. He stole another glance in the direction of the sign and
there was just enough light for him to make out the man with the
rifle. He was waving Jimmy back toward the highway. Jimmy shook his
head. He couldn’t leave Julie and Cindy. Hopefully, they’d kept
their heads down and hadn’t been discovered. The shooting seemed to
have stopped. A haze of spent gunpowder hung thickly in the air. A
woman moaned in the distance.

Jimmy had to move; he had to get to where he
could cover Julie and Cindy. He had a gun now and the feel of its
molded grip in his hand, foreign as it was to him, gave him
courage. He stood in a crouch and slowly made his way to the narrow
strip of grass on the other side of the trees. From there he could
just make out the mound where he hoped they were still hiding. He
wasn’t going to leave them behind. Jimmy took a deep breath and
sprinted toward the dark shape of the truck, fifty long yards away.
He waited for gunfire, expecting to be torn in half by a hail of
bullets. His feet felt heavy as he ran, as if he were in a dream.
The few seconds it had taken him to reach the truck had seemed like
minutes. He stopped at the front tire on the passenger side of the
Mack and fought to catch his breath.

He looked underneath the engine. Nothing
seemed to be leaking, which was good news. The tires still held
air. He knew that the keys were still in the ignition where he’d
left them. He crept to the back of the Mack where Grease and Lonnie
lay still on the asphalt in a mingled pool of blood. He shuddered
and gave Bill’s Honda a quick once over. It also looked to have
survived the battle, no worse for wear. Jimmy crawled on his hands
and knees to the back of Bill’s car, where he had a clear view of
the bus.

“Hold your fire!” shouted a voice from behind
the bus. “We want to gather our wounded and leave! We’ve got women
here. This is over! Let us ride out of here!”

“As long as you head south!” answered the
unmistakable voice of Ken Dahlgren.

“But we’re not going south!” replied the
biker, sounding irritated.

“You are now,” shouted Ken. “You’ve got five
minutes to hit the road. Do you hear me? Five minutes. We’ll cut
you in half if you turn north. That’s a promise!”

There was silence for at least ten seconds
before the biker responded: “Deal! We’re leaving. No bullshit!
We’re coming out!”

Jimmy watched as the bikers slowly emerged
from the darkness and like human rats, they scurried to their
motorcycles. The girls ran from the bathrooms down to the bus,
their shadowy figures gliding across the parking lot. An engine
started, followed by another, and soon the rest area was filled
with the sound of revving motorcycle engines. Jimmy held his breath
as he waited for the group to get moving. The lights of the bus
illuminated the lot and it slowly began to make a three-point turn.
Jimmy felt a chill, feeling the cool night air for the first time
since this whole battle had begun. The chill persisted and Jimmy
felt something like a feather being run up his spine. He spun
around.

Standing nearly on top of him was Lonnie.
Jimmy’s eyes bulged and he could see that Lonnie still held the
knife in his right hand. His left hand clutched his bloody stomach
in a futile attempt to keep his insides from falling out. Blood
trickled from the corners of his mouth and Lonnie’s eyes blazed
with an intensity that bordered on the insane. The message was
unmistakable: if he was going to die, he was going to take Jimmy
with him. Lonnie raised the knife and growled like a mad dog.

Jimmy sprung out of the way and rolled onto
his back, just half a second before the blade arced down to where
he’d been crouching. Lonnie screamed silently in frustration as the
motorcycles roared fifty yards away. Lonnie’s eyes were boiling
with hatred. He took two quick steps and raised the knife again,
this time with both hands. He suddenly lunged at Jimmy.

The gun bucked in his hand, followed by a
muffled thud and Lonnie was on top of him. Jimmy felt the warm
blood as it covered him and wondered if the blood was his own. He
didn’t remember pulling the trigger; it had all happened so fast.
He lay still for a moment before he pushed hard on Lonnie’s
shoulder with his free left hand and rolled him over onto his back.
He could see in the pale moonlight that Lonnie’s eyes were open and
his face had grown slack, even peaceful, in death. Jimmy sat up and
examined himself. Besides the bullet crease in his shoulder he
seemed to be fine.

The motorcycles roared away, leaving nothing
behind but their dead. There would be no leaving the dead men’s
Harleys as they held value. The bus followed and true to their
word, they left in the direction they had come. They were heading
south and Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief.

A long minute passed and figures began to
emerge from the shadows. The first to emerge was Jon, the
hairdresser. He held a rifle and wore a camouflage jacket. He
kicked at Lonnie with the toe of his boot. His jaw was set and his
eyes were cold.

“Are you hit?” he asked, eyeing the blood on
Jimmy’s shirt.

“I’ll be okay,” said Jimmy. “Most of the
blood’s from this guy. I just got winged. No big deal.” Jimmy was
lying. He’d just killed a man and it was a very big deal. He even
knew the man’s name and somehow that made it much worse. He felt
empty and afraid that he’d crossed over a line from which there was
no return. He’d taken a life. How could this have happened? How had
he gotten here? Where was he headed?

“What about the others?” Jon asked.

“I don’t know, I had them hide over there,”
Jimmy said, pointing to the little hill which was just barely
visible in the blackness. The growling motorcycles faded in the
distance like a passing thunderstorm.

“Okay,” said Jon. “Stay down. I don’t trust
those assholes. They might’ve left a few behind. Cover me and I’ll
go retrieve the others.”

Jimmy looked at the gun in his hands.
Cover you?
Jimmy thought to himself, watching Jon zigzag his
way to the hill before disappearing into the blackness. Footsteps
approached from behind and Jimmy turned to face Ken. His face was
pale and sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Are you okay?” Ken asked.

“I’m fine,” answered Jimmy, turning his head.
“The blood’s his,” he added.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Jimmy could make out four dark shapes
emerging from the gloom. Even from this distance he could see who
they were. His heart lightened considerably.

“Turns out he’s Special Forces,” Ken said
with disbelief. “I guess he did three tours in Iraq. He took out
both of those creeps by himself, some hairdresser, huh? Boy, do I
ever feel like an ass.”

Bill appeared from behind the truck and
stared at Jimmy. “Oh my God, we need a doctor!” he shouted.

Jimmy wasn’t listening; he was on his feet
and unbuttoning his shirt. He didn’t feel like explaining the blood
again.

“The blood’s from the other guy,” Ken said to
Bill.

Jimmy took off his shirt and removed his cell
phone. He then placed the bloody shirt over Lonnie’s face. He then
tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t know it
then, but from that moment on, a gun would become as much of his
daily attire as shoes and socks.

Julie sprinted to Jimmy and nearly tackled
him. She held him as if she never intended to let go. She was
crying and tears fell from her cheeks onto the bare skin of his
back.

“You’re hurt,” she groaned.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“Oh, Jimmy,” she whispered in his ear. “I was
terrified that something would happen to you. I don’t know what I
would’ve done.”

Jimmy closed his eyes and held her tight.

He opened his eyes to see Bill hugging Cindy.
He was fighting back tears and from what Jimmy could see Bill
wasn’t doing a very good job of it. He caught Cindy’s eye and she
smiled. She then gave Jimmy a stern look as if she was watching
him.

“How long do you suppose it’ll take the
police to get here?” Ken asked Jon.

Jon laughed dryly. “They won’t be coming
here. Not tonight, anyhow. I’ve got a satellite radio and before
they jammed the signal, I got some bad news. We’re on our own;
they’re calling it a
transitional
period. Basically it means
that we have to fend for ourselves until the military takes over.
Right now they’ve got their hands full on the east coast and
southern California. My guess is that northern Minnesota won’t have
any sort of law enforcement for at least a week, maybe even
months.”

“So we’ve got to get moving,” said Ken.

“The sooner the better,” agreed Jon.

Bill fished around in the back of his car and
produced a sweatshirt. He handed it to Jimmy who stood bare-chested
in the cool night air. Jimmy accepted it gratefully and carefully
slid it on over the ugly crease on his shoulder blade. Thankfully,
it appeared to have quit bleeding.

Three more men joined the small circle and
each wore the same pained expression on their faces.

“Bob’s dead,” said the stodgy voice of Glen
Putnam. “Tom Bauer got it, too. Somebody has to go tell Sharon. I
can’t. Damn those dirty bastards to hell. They just got
married!”

Jimmy knew both men, Bob Campbell worked in
the shipping department. He was divorced and lived on the other
side of the trailer court. He’d caught a ride to work from Bob on
more than one occasion. He was a quiet man who loved the outdoors
and was looking forward to retirement. Tom Bauer had been a good
friend, a year behind Jimmy in school. Tom had started working at
Dahlgren Industries the year after Jimmy had. Tom and Sharon were
married in February. Jimmy had been one of the last to leave the
wedding reception.

Jimmy also knew that both men had died coming
back here to save him. He would never forget that.

“Dear God,” said Ken, shaking his head. “I’ll
do it.”

“Where are they?” asked Jon, leaning his gun
against the front of the Mack.

“On the other side of the building,” said
Putnam. “But they’re dead all right. Trust me.”

“I do,” said Jon. “But we’re not leaving them
behind. Open up the back of the truck and make some room. We’ll
bury them when we get up to Ken’s.”

“Right,” answered Putnam. “Come on. I’ll show
you where they are.”

“What about these guys?” asked Jimmy,
motioning to the bikers.

“We’ll leave them to the wolves. Drag them
off the lot, over the hill. There’ll be others through here. We can
at least take out the trash.”