Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (52 page)

“What do you think?” Tex asked.

“The one upstream from town might work,” Wiggins said. “I’ve been thinking about our problem back at that last bridge. They probably weren’t trying to block the bridge as much as protect the borders of their community.” He pointed at the map. “There’s nothing much on either side of this bridge upstream, and the road bypasses the town, so the good folks in Woronoco might care less.”

It was a bit over sixty miles to Westfield via Woronoco, all on state roads, with no back road alternatives shown on their maps. The unknowns, besides the Woronoco bridge, were what they would find in the more populated areas they had to transit. With little choice, they could only trust darkness to shield them. They left at eleven, shooting for a midnight arrival at the bridge.

Things went smoothly until they rounded a curve approaching the town of Blandford and Wiggins saw two police cars across the road ahead. He stopped in the middle of the road and stared at the roadblock glowing green in his NV glasses.

“Is there a way around this, Tex?”

“Negative. The only road south dead-ends at a reservoir, and there are no roads to the north until a ways further into town. What are we going to do?”

“They look like legitimate cops instead of freelancers. It’s probably something like we ran into at Front Royal, but maybe we can talk our way through. We really don’t have a choice.” Wiggins pondered it a moment. “Take off your glasses and put them under the seat.”

Tex complied as Wiggins put the Honda in reverse and backed around the curve they’d just transited. When he was sure they couldn’t be seen from the roadblock, he stopped the car and put his own glasses out of sight.

“Practice looking innocent,” he said, and turned on the headlights.

He drove around the curve and toward the roadblock. When his headlights illuminated it, he stopped suddenly, as if he were seeing it for the first time. The Honda had barely come to a stop when he was blinded by a powerful spotlight, and an amplified voice boomed from the roadblock.

“KILL YOUR LIGHTS AND DRIVE FORWARD SLOWLY. BE PREPARED TO STOP ON MY COMMAND.”

Wiggins held a hand up to shield his eyes and did as ordered. He’d crept a hundred feet when he was ordered to stop, kill his engine, and to keep both hands visible on the wheel. Tex was ordered to raise her hands as well. Totally blinded by the light, Wiggins was regretting his decision when more bright lights probed into the car, one through the driver’s side window and the second through the passenger window. The light on the driver’s side played over first Wiggins, then Tex, then the gear in the back of the Honda. The light on the passenger side held steady, continuing to blind them both.

“Are you armed?” asked the cop on the driver’s side.

Wiggins cursed himself for a fool.

“Seriously, officer? Do you run across anyone traveling these days who ISN’T armed?” Wiggins asked.

“I take it that’s a yes?”

“Yes, we’re armed,” Wiggins said.

“Very well, sir. I would like you both to keep your hands in plain sight. We will open your doors and then you will exit the vehicle, keeping your hands in plain sight at all times. Is that clear?”

“Really, officer. Is this necessary—”

“IS THAT CLEAR, SIR?”

“Yes, officer. It’s clear,” Wiggins said.

The car doors squeaked open, and Wiggins and Tex stepped out, holding their hands up. They were ordered to put their hands on the top of the car and then patted down.

“Nothing here, Chief,” called the cop across the roof of the car.

“Where are your weapons?” the cop behind Wiggins asked.

“On the car seat,” Wiggins said. “It’s not real comfortable driving with them stuck in your belt or the small of your back.”

The cop shined his light into the car and spotted the Sig and the Glock on the seat. He called across to his partner to bring Tex around to the driver’s side, and when she was standing beside Wiggins where he could keep an eye on her, told his partner to collect the guns from the car.

Wiggins started to protest but thought better of it. Losing the handguns was acceptable if that was the end of it. They had plenty more hardware under blankets in the back. Best just to smile and get the hell out of here as soon as possible.

“Where are you going, and what’s your business?” the chief asked.

“We’re merchant seamen. We got stranded down south by the blackout, and we’re just trying to get home to Maine.”

“Where in Maine?”

“Just outside of Lewiston,” Wiggins said.

“IDs?”

“In my back pocket, if you’ll let me get it,” Wiggins said.

“Go ahead,” the chief said, and Wiggins fished his wallet out of his hip pocket, overcoming a sudden impulse to laugh hysterically at just how ludicrous it was that he was still carrying a wallet full of useless cash and even more useless credit cards. Old habits die hard.

Wiggins opened his wallet and removed his Maine driver’s license and, as an afterthought, his Transportation Worker Identification and held them both out. The cop took them and backed away, holding the documents in front of the light so he could see both the IDs and Wiggins and Tex at the same time. He stepped closer and handed them back to Wiggins.

“Thank you, Mr. Wiggins. How about you, ma’am?”

“My IDs are in my backpack,” Tex said. “Do you want me to get them?”

The cop considered that a moment. “No. I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“Look, officer,” Wiggins said. “We don’t want any trouble. We’d go around your town if we could, but the only way we can get where we’re going is through town. But I promise—”

The chief was shaking his head, the action casting outsize dancing shadows in the harsh spotlights from the roadblock. “Be that as it may,” he said, “I have to ask you folks to turn around and go back the way you came. Nobody’s coming into Blandford from any direction, not even to pass through. No exceptions, by order of the town council.”

The cop’s voice softened. “I wish you luck, but you can’t come through here. We’ll unload your guns and leave ’em in the car. Then you have to turn around and leave. Is that clear?”

Wiggins nodded, relieved it wasn’t worse.

“Warren,” the chief said to the other cop, “unload the weapons and toss them and the loose rounds in the backseat. These folks can stop and reload when they get down the road a piece.” The cop glanced at Wiggins. “No offense, but you can’t be too careful these days.”

“None taken,” Wiggins said.

The second cop unloaded the weapons quickly and expertly, then tossed the guns and ammo in the back window. The chief nodded at Wiggins and Tex to get back in the car. Wiggins complied and was about to start the car when the chief spoke again, hesitantly.

“My kid brother’s at sea. He’s on one of the government ships in Diego Garcia. This is probably a stupid question, but I … I don’t suppose you heard anything on your ship …”

“Is he on the
Lopez
?” Wiggins asked.

The cop looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess. There aren’t that many ships at Diego Garcia, and I did a few rotations on the
Lopez
a few years ago. But I’m sorry, we don’t know anything about her. Our communications went down right along with everyone else’s.”

The chief nodded. “Well, thanks anyway. He … he was almost due home on vacation when the blackout hit.”

“Then he’s lucky he wasn’t en route when it happened,” Wiggins said. “And if it’s any consolation, he’s probably better off than any of us here. Those pre-positioned ships have tons of supplies. And no gangbangers.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been telling Mom, but it’s tough on his wife and kids.”

Wiggins nodded, sensing an opening. “So tell me, Chief, if your kid brother was trying to make it home to his family, wouldn’t you want someone to help him out?”

The man didn’t speak for a long moment, then smiled wanly. “I walked into that one, didn’t I? And to answer your question, of course I want to help you out, but I take my orders from the town council.”

“So what if it’s not helping me out, but making a trade to substantially improve security? I mean, it’s the middle of the night, and I doubt the town council wants to be awakened, but neither would they want to miss a great opportunity,” Wiggins said.

“And what opportunity would that be?”

Wiggins reached under his seat for the NV goggles and held them out the window.

“Are those what I think they are?” the chief asked.

“State of the art,” Wiggins said, sensing the cop wavering. “And for an escort through town I’ll let you have these and sweeten the deal with two M4s and a hundred rounds of ammo. Hell, make it two hundred.”

The cop examined the NV glasses. “How do you know I won’t just arrest you both and take these and everything else you have?”

“First, because if you were going to shake us down, you’d have done so by now, and second, because I think you’re still a decent guy trying to make the best of a truly screwed-up situation, and this is the decent thing to do,” Wiggins said. “But mostly because you’ve got a kid brother who’s in exactly our situation who will be trying to make it home sooner or later, and if he doesn’t, you’ll always wonder if it was because there was some guy somewhere who could have helped him but didn’t. Karma’s a bitch.”

The chief shook his head and chuckled, then extended his hand through the open car window. “You missed your calling, Wiggins, you should have had a mind-reading act. You’ve got yourself a deal. I’m Jesse Walters.”

Relief washed over Wiggins as he took the cop’s hand. “Bill Wiggins,” he said, “but you knew that. This is Shyla Texeira, Tex for short.”

The exchange was completed quickly, and as promised, Walters escorted them through Blandford then pulled into the parking lot of an animal hospital at the edge of town. He got out of his patrol car and came over to Wiggins’ window.

“State Route 23 parallels the Mass Turnpike,” Walters said. “It’s only a couple of hundred yards away through the trees. There are all sorts of refugees camped along the turnpike with nowhere else to go. Some are good people and some bad, but all of them are desperate. That’s what our roadblock’s all about. You’re going to be running with your night vision, so you probably won’t have a problem, but don’t stop for anyone for any reason. There have been a lot of ambushes, and they often use women or children as bait, so trust nothing you see.”

Wiggins nodded, and Walters continued.

“In about ten miles, Route 23 crosses the turnpike via a bridge. Hit the bridge at speed and don’t slow down. The woods are close to the road, and the ambushers’ sometimes throw rocks to distract drivers and make them run off the bridge approach and crash down the bank onto the turnpike. Be warned.”

Wiggins shook his head. “Wow! That’s hardcore. Thanks for the warning.”

Walters reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a folded paper and handed it to Wiggins.

“At the intersection of 23 and 20, you’ll hit another roadblock. There’ll be a deputy sheriff in charge named Jimmy Jacobs. He’s my cousin, and that note should get you through the roadblock and an escort over the bridge.”

Walters grinned. “Of course, I suspect one of your ‘extra’ M4s and some ammo might get you an escort almost into Westfield, especially if you offer to replace the gas they use.”

Wiggins grinned back and extended his hand out the window. “I expect that can be arranged. Thank you, Jesse.”

Walters took Wiggins’ hand and shook it firmly.

“Thank YOU, for what you said about my brother’s ship. It might not seem like much to you, but it will mean a lot to my family. It’s getting harder to keep hope alive nowadays,” Walters said.

He released Wiggins’ hand and nodded across the car. “Tex, Bill, Godspeed. I hope you make it home and find your families safe and well when you get there.”

Wiggins glanced over at Tex and saw her quickly suppressed flash of pain.

“Thank you, Jesse,” Tex said. “I hope your brother makes it home too.”

Wiggins nodded his agreement, then flipped down his NV glasses and put the SUV in gear.

Track Services, Inc.

Lockhouse Road

Westfield, Massachusetts

Day 34, 2:50 a.m.

Despite Walters’ warning, the anonymity of traveling without lights allowed them to reach the next roadblock without difficulty. Once there, Walters’ note and a little horse trading got them an escort not only into Westfield, but to the very gates of Track Services, Inc.

The company was located in an industrial area along a railroad spur. The gate to the tall chain-link fence hung open, and the building looked abandoned. The asphalt parking lot was full of equipment the use of which could only be guessed at, but most appeared intact.

Wiggins handed over an M4 and ammo, along with a five-gallon can of precious gasoline. The escort was worth it, and if his plan worked, they had more than enough gasoline. If not, they’d be looking for a plan B anyway. The deputies wished Wiggins and Tex well and left.

They hadn’t disclosed the existence of the NV gear to the deputies at the second roadblock, as they no longer had an extra set to barter and were concerned the deputies might not be willing to settle for just guns and ammo if they knew about the NV. That meant running into Westfield with lights, which they extinguished as soon as the deputies’ car pulled out of sight. They donned their goggles and moved the Honda out of sight from the road between two large pieces of equipment.

They found what they were looking for at the back of the lot. Backed against the fence were three Ford crew cab pickups. They had customized beds, with toolboxes mounted on each side, but of most interest were the odd units mounted at the front and rear bumpers of each truck. A pair of rail car wheels at each end of the trucks were fitted to a hydraulic power unit to raise and lower them.

“Bingo!” Wiggins said.

“I’m surprised they’re still here,” Tex said.

“I’d have been surprised if they weren’t. I mean, think about it, no one’s likely to want one except to ride the rails long distance, and they have to have the gas to do it.”