Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) (33 page)

"Sorry."

Ted chuckled softly.
 
"There's nothing to be sorry about, man.
 
Lindsay is as stubborn as Sue ever was."
 
Ted was quiet for a moment.
 
"Look, things have changed, okay?
 
It's gonna take us all a little time to adjust to the way the world works now.
 
I never even noticed she was limping.
 
I never noticed her ankle was swollen or that big bruise—and I'm her
father
.
 
I would never have expected you to notice first."

Erik clenched his jaw.
 
If anything,
Brin
should have spotted it first.
 
She spent more time with the kids than anyone.
 

No.
 
It's not her fault Lindsay got hurt—it's mine.
 
This constant pressure I put on everybody to push north, to keep going, to switch cars… It's all come from me.

"I can tell what you're thinking," Ted said after a moment. "I want you to listen to me: it's
not
your fault."

Erik tore his gaze away from the road and stared at Ted.
 
"How can you say that?" he whispered.
 
"She said she didn't tell anyone because she was afraid to upset me.
 
Dude, she was
afraid
of me."

Ted shifted in his seat and tried to face Erik.
 
"Listen to me, she's my daughter, okay?
 
I know her better than you do.
 
When she says that, she doesn't mean she's
literally
afraid of you.
 
What she's afraid of his disappointing you.
 
Have you seen the way she looks at you?
 
That girl idolizes you man.
 
I wouldn't be surprised if she's jealous of Brin and wishes she could marry you at some point," Ted muttered.

Erik blinked. "Keep your voice down."

Ted laughed.
 
"They can't hear me, Brin's got them all the way in the back playing games and all the windows are open on this thing.
 
Sounds like we're driving through a wind tunnel."
 
Ted adjusted his rifle and leaned it against the dash.
 

"We didn't find any gas back there except what was in that little tow-behind, right?
 
You need to slow us down a bit so we don't burn through what we got too fast.
 
We're gonna have to keep pushing north, going way the fuck around Washington and Baltimore now. There's no way in hell I want any contact with the army."

“You sure?" asked Erik, grateful for changing subjects.
 
It didn't relieve any of his guilt, but at least it was temporarily distracting relief.
 

"If they found us, how long you think it'd be before they separated us for interrogation?
 
How long you think it'll be before Teddy, Brin, or Lindsay let slip we came from Florida?
 
That we were in a Russian prison camp?
 
That you and me were in the army?
 
That we drove a fucking matvee into some town in Georgia…"

Erik gripped the steering wheel even tighter.
 
"Okay, when you put it that way, you right—it
doesn't
sound very good."

Ted chuckled.
 
"You're God damn right it doesn't sound good.
 
Sounds like a firing squad waiting to happen."
 
Ted looked out the window.
 
"No, we gotta stay the hell clear of the army for a good long time.
 
And that means we need to steer clear of Baltimore and Washington.
 
And Richmond."

"I just wish we could have stayed on the interstate, you know?
 
Feels like we're slowing way down."

"Look at it this way," Ted offered, "at least we're still heading north.
 
Well…northwest.
 
Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the Shenandoah Valley.
 
We may be only going 55 or 60, but there's less traffic and no scavengers."

"So far," groused Erik.
 
"But less cars means less gas."

"You're telling me you're sorry we’re bypassing
 
Richmond?"

Erik answered eventually, "No..."

Ted grunted.
 
"Okay then.
 
Look, if the military's active in or around Baltimore or even Washington, they're trying to push south—and that means one thing: the Russians are still kicking our ass down there in Florida and these guys are trying to get there.
 
Either way, I don't want to get in the crossfire, do you?"

"Nope," said Erik, watching the signs on the road.
 
"Look, we're coming up on Leesburg."

"How are we doing on gas?" asked Ted.

Erik smiled at the laughter that erupted from the back.
 
At least Brin got Lindsay laughing.
 
That was a start.
 
He glanced down at the dash.
 
"Uh, looks like we got a quarter tank.
 
Again."

"And only one jug full…that's about four or five gallons."

"I think this thing has about a 25 gallon tank," Erik mused.
 
"So if we add the reserves in, we'll have between a third and a half a tank."

"But nothing to spare," observed Ted.
 
He rubbed his face, the sound of his hands on his cheeks like sandpaper.
 
"I'm getting hungry again."

"Me too," Erik said.
 
He squinted at the sun.
 
"Should we stop for dinner outside Leesburg?
 
Maybe we'll get lucky and find some cars to drain."

"Sounds like a plan."

A short while later, Erik found a suitably deserted scenic overlook.
 
Sheltered by trees on three sides and the open road behind, the little gravel turnoff fit their needs.

"I spotted a car up the road a ways," Erik said as he stepped out of the van.
 
He held his rifle close and peered around.
 
"Don't see anything else.
 
Want me to go check it out while you get everyone some food?"

"Brin?" asked Ted as he exited the vehicle.

She got out the side door and handed Erik the large and small gas cans.
 
"Here you go—I'll stay and help with the kids."

"Oh," said Erik, holding the cans.
 
"Okay."
 

So much for getting a chance to talk.
 
He took the hammer and screwdriver from her and tucked them in his belt.

He strolled north through the parking lot, listening to the sound of his boots crunching on the gravel.
 
It was just before 3pm and the air held a hint of a chill, promising a cold night.
 
He unzipped his sweatshirt—a boon from one of the parked cars he'd looted—and let the dying warmth of the sun propel him toward the road.

The temperature's really going to start dropping soon,
he mused as he stepped on the highway.
 
He grinned at himself as he checked both ways before starting to walk along the road.
 
Old habits died hard.
 

A stiff breeze ruffled the orange and brown leaves of the oaks and bright yellow birches along the road.
 
He paused for a moment and listened to the wind, the birds chatting in the branches, the utter silence of the day.
 
The sound of the wind in the trees was altogether different the sighing of the pines further south.
 
He'd almost forgotten that unique rattle the wind causes in trees with autumn leaves.
 
The sound was comforting, like nature itself offered proof he was getting closer to home.

He watched a squirrel scamper across the road, cheeks stuffed and round.
 
Erik watched the bushytail disappear into the brush at the side of the road.
 
He'd never thought of eating squirrels before, but their recent brush with an empty larder had him pondering alternative sources of food.

Erik kept his mind busy thinking up ways to trap and kill small game as he approached the car.
 
Shooting one of their precious weapons was a surefire way to accomplish the grisly task, but he wasn't sure how well a squirrel or rabbit would react to a .223 round from one of the M4s.
 
He assumed there wouldn't be much meat left.
 
Maybe if they used the XD he'd found, or the Russian 9mm Brin wore?

He shelved those thoughts as he approached the abandoned car, a purple Scion that had been in an accident.
 
He put the gas cans down and shouldered his rifle.
 
The car had been shoved off to the side of the road, a trail of glass sparkling in the sun from its original position near the middle of the southbound lane.
 
The whole front end had crumpled in on itself after impact.
 
He wondered if anyone had walked away from that mess.
 
The driver's side door had collapsed inward, but the passenger door lay open.

The car was indeed deserted.
 
He didn't see any sign of dried blood and a decent layer of dust and leaves covered the seats.
 
He tore his eyes away from the
 
surrounding woods and examined the back seat.
 
Dried animal droppings littered the back seat.
 
Something
had made a home in there.
 

The driver's door was hopelessly jammed, so he reached in with his right hand and tried to find the trunk release button.
 
After a moment of fiddling around blind, he moved around to the back of the vehicle.
 

First things first.
 
He dropped down to the ground and set the small gas can under the car's gas tank.
 
He took one more look around to make sure no one was coming, then placed his rifle gently on the pavement.
 
Two strong hits from the hammer against the screwdriver's handle, and the blade sunk deep into the tank.
 
Gas immediately leaked around the hole and he yanked the screwdriver out to allow the liquid gold to collect in the small can.

The stream wasn't as strong as some he'd seen Brin find, so he figured it'd take a minute or so to fill up the little can.
 
He sat up and brushed his hands on his pants, sniffing at the strong gasoline smell.

Erik pondered the trunk for a moment.
 
"How do I get you open?"
 
He tried to pry the trunk up with the screwdriver to no effect.
 
The metal around the trunk bent and the paint cracked, but it didn't open.
 
After thoroughly damaging the finish, he paused.

Placing his thumb over the hole in the gas tank, he stopped the flow long enough to use his other arm and pour the little can into the big one.
 
Once it was empty, he returned the little can under the car.

That just got us a couple gallons.
 
Not enough, but it's a start.
 
Erik wiped his hands again and observed the weakened stream of gas.
 
Won't get but maybe half that now.

He stood up and checked his surroundings again.
 
Still nothing as far he could see around the bend to the north.
 
The road disappeared into the dappled shadows—still, there could be anything lurking around that corner just 20 yards off.

Erik set to prying open the trunk under the license plate.
 
This is getting me nowhere fast,
he grumbled to himself.

He stared at the trunk for a moment then peered through the cracked rear window.
 
Maybe there's a trunk release switch or something behind the seats?
 

Hands on his hips, Erik stared at the button just above the license plate.
 
He hadn't tried pushing it yet, assuming the thing had been locked.
 
"What the hell," he said.
 
He stabbed the button with his fingers and laughed when he heard a
click
and the lid popped up an inch.

"Son of a bitch!" he hooted.
 
A jay squawked at him from the side of the road and flew off, indignant.
 
"You too, pal," he muttered, lifting the lid to see what treasures he might find.

"What the hell is this shit?" he asked, rooting through rolls of duct tape and neatly bound lengths of rope.
 
He found two big bowie knives, a couple box-cutters and three cans of tuna.
 
Dirt-crusted work gloves and a couple filthy t-shirts rounded out the contents of the trunk.

Erik shifted his helmet back and scratched his forehead.
 
"It's like a serial killer drove this car or something.
 
That’s creepy as hell."
 
Shrugging, he pulled out one of the shirts, then dumped the knives, tuna, gloves, and rope into a small pile on the shirt.

Satisfied the car held little else of value, he waited for the last few precious drops of gas to land in the small transfer can, then poured it into the big one.
 
The larger can now felt about 2/3 full—possibly three gallons.
 
Erik slung his rifle over his shoulder, hefted the cans in one hand and his bundled shirt in the other before starting back to the others.

Ted met him at the entrance to the scenic overlook.
 
"I’ll take the gas," he said, hand outstretched.
 
"What'd you get?"

"About three, I think."

"Well, that's not too bad, I guess," Ted replied.

"Nope.
 
I'll take it.
 
Found some other stuff too, couple knives, duct tape, rope…"