Charges (29 page)

“Sort of. I didn’t like their offer.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“Give them everything I had, and maybe they’d help me out.”

The narrow-faced man pursed his lips. “Huh. Sorry to hear about that. The Gap’s been a pretty good neighbor over the years. But I guess they have to be careful. Lots of bad folks are out there along the good ones, so they have to do what they need to do. They actually said they would take your stuff?”

“Basically. I met some Amish who said they’d taken their land. Orchards, stuff like that.”

The man nodded. “That was probably Carl Danchekker. His family tends to a pretty sizeable apple orchard, and they’re right between the Gap and the game preserve. Wow, that’s not something I’m happy to hear about. How long ago was this?”

“Just today, maybe around two o’clock,” Vincenzo said. “Hey, is Route 22 down this road?”

“Yep. Only about a fifth of a mile away.”

“And how about...” Vincenzo struggled to remember the name of the road he wanted. “Ah, Johnson Road?”

“Jonestown Road, you must mean. About a half mile away. Cross over 22 and head down Yingst Road. It’ll take you right to Jonestown. You know someone in the area?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “Nope. Just traveling through. Things secure around here?”

“So long as you stay off the major highways, things seem to be all right. Can’t say it’s any more or less safe than before the event, but if you keep your nose clean, you’ll be all right. Most people around here aren’t looking for trouble, but if it comes calling, they’ll take care of it mighty quick. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I got you. I’m not the kind of guy to cause any aggravation.”

The man nodded. “Well, all right, then. Too bad we didn’t meet earlier. I could’ve given you a ride down to 22, but I’m on my way back home now. Sorry, I don’t really have an unlimited supply of diesel.”

Vincenzo smiled. “Hey, it’s no problem. Thanks for the chat.”

###

Vincenzo made it to Jonestown Road without incident. Squinting against the brightness of the setting sun, he pulled his cap down low on his brow. He smelled cooking food from some houses, and his stomach grumbled, but he kept on walking. There were other people out on the road, a couple of fellow travelers and some locals. One couple with a young boy nodded as they passed him, walking a large white dog that strained against the leash to get to Vincenzo. The dog was big enough to bite his head off, so Vincenzo just nodded back and kept his distance.

After another few miles, his knee began to complain, along with his feet. He’d probably walked almost twenty miles that day. It was almost eight o’clock, and there was still plenty of light, but he was seriously flagging. There weren’t many stands of trees in the area, as it had become mostly farmland again. Much of that land was fenced off, and Vincenzo didn’t want to trespass. He doubted that would be looked on very kindly. A bit down the street, a thin line of trees stood on a patch of land diagonally across from a volunteer fire station. He didn’t see any signs of activity inside. The trees were most likely on private property, but there was no driveway and no sign of a residence. Continuing to walk was pretty much out of the question, so Vincenzo walked into the trees.

There was a fairly wide space on the other side between another row of trees, and beyond that next row lay a bean field. He shrugged off his pack near a broad bush. While the cover wasn’t perfect, the trees offered enough concealment to prevent him from being easily seen from the road. He wasn’t planning on lighting any fires, so it should be sufficient.

He used his entrenching tool to dig another cat hole then spread out his sleeping bag. The ground was dry enough that he didn’t need to use the tarp, but he had it available just in case a surprise storm popped up. The skies were clear, and the cloud banks on the horizon were sparse. The sunset was going to be gorgeous.

He fixed a meal consisting of a can of tuna fish with a squeeze bag of mayonnaise mixed in, all courtesy of the Ackermans. He ate quickly then wiped out the can with a napkin then rinsed it with a little water. He’d read somewhere that cans could be valuable resources on the road.

Gravel crunched on the other side of the screen of trees. The Beretta was in his hand immediately, and a surge of adrenaline lit up his veins as images of the day’s earlier gunfight sprang to mind. Through gaps in the branches, he caught glimpses of movement on the street as someone slowly walked past. Dry-mouthed and sweating, Vincenzo sat completely still for several minutes after the person left the area. Once he felt safe enough to move, he slid the pistol back into its holster and took a drink from the Hydra Flask.

The events of the day played out in his mind as if he were watching a show at a drive-in from a block away. It didn’t seem real, but it had all happened. A man had shot at him, trying to kill him. He had fired back with the same intent, and he had actually succeeded. He had been involved in a gunfight, and almost two weeks ago, he had killed a man with his bare hands. The nation was sliding into the abyss, and the man he had helped put in the office of the president was apparently giving the government the thumbs-up to strip people of their possessions, even food and weapons necessary for survival.

It was crazy, and it wasn’t getting any better. Crazy was the new normal.

He stretched on out his sleeping bag, the Beretta close by. He stared at the sky as it slowly darkened beneath twilight’s inexorable advance. A half moon hovered above the horizon. California seemed just as far away, and he feared for Jessie and Ben. They were surrounded by millions more people in the Los Angeles basin than he was in the backwaters of Pennsylvania.

Despite the dread such a thought engendered, Vincenzo fell into a deep sleep as the stars began to come out overhead.

23

As Vincenzo tracked toward Harrisburg, leaving the farmland behind, he entered the residential suburbs that surrounded the river city. Several neighborhoods had organized and taken matters of security into their own hands. Roadblocks were set up, preventing any unauthorized visits. At first, Vincenzo avoided them by trekking down different streets, but he soon found that too many communities had come to the same conclusion: the only way to survive was to stem the flow of travelers.

Vincenzo finally had to turn south, away from his intended route. That left him frustrated and concerned. His supplies were diminishing, especially the water. He had two bottles left, and then he would be digging into his Datrex. While that was why he had it, the bags were also the last supply he had. Finding a new water source was going to be a primary directive soon, and with the summer heat intensifying, that would be one of the more difficult things to manage.

However, avoiding Harrisburg turned out to be a possible blessing. Plumes of black, oily smoke rose on the horizon, and he wondered if the riverside city was on fire, much as New York had been. Whether the fire had been started by accident or from lawlessness, he had no idea. All he knew was that he probably wasn’t going to want to head in that direction. He would need to find another river crossing.

His map wasn’t sufficiently detailed to provide a lot of specifics with regards to alternate routes. Rob Ackerman had taken his more substantial maps with him, and Vincenzo hadn’t even thought to ask him if he really needed them, since he would be flying into known territory while Vincenzo was virtually traveling by the seat of his pants.

He kept wandering southward, avoiding another community that had buttoned itself up off Spring Garden Drive. The residents manning the only access point had rifles, and they didn’t seem very open to giving him directions. Vincenzo traveled west on that road until he came to an intersection, then he turned south again on Lumber Street. There, the homes were much smaller ranch-style dwellings, and the neighborhood had a more blue-collar feel to it. Vincenzo stuck to the center of the street, Wonderboy gripped in his left hand, leaving his right free to draw the Beretta if needed. Residents watched him from darkened doorways and open garages. Many of them were armed, and while no one challenged him, no one set out the welcome mat, either.

A Doberman growled at him from behind a chain-link fence surrounding a single-story house with blue linoleum siding, and Vincenzo watched it warily. Garbage was strewn about the street, not from neglect but from piles of garbage bags that had been torn open by raccoons or skunks. He smelled smoke in the air, and when he passed another house, he saw a burly man in a wifebeater and checkered shorts burning something in his backyard. The man wore a nickel-plated, long-barreled revolver in a shoulder harness, and his long hair was an unruly mass on his head. He glowered at Vincenzo as he threw some garbage onto the fire. Black smoke puffed up.

“Keep walking,” the man barked. “Don’t stop here.”

Vincenzo tipped his hat and did just that.

In the late afternoon, he came to a highway overpass that cut through the neighborhood. More garbage was piled up there, either thrown off the highway or deposited by the residents in a bid to distance themselves from the stench of rotting detritus. Vincenzo didn’t see anyone around, but he couldn’t be sure. So before he stepped inside, he pulled the Beretta from its holster.

It was only fractionally cooler beneath the overpass, and it stank of rotting garbage, urine, and... body odor.

Something rustled ahead. Vincenzo stopped and raised his pistol as a shape emerged from the gloom. A skinny old man with a long, filthy gray beard looked at Vincenzo with wild eyes. He was dressed in frayed cargo pants and a ripped T-shirt.

“Don’t shoot!” the old man cried. “Don’t shoot! I ain’t got nothin’! You can have the bridge!” Without waiting for a response, he took off running for the far side of the overpass, blubbering incoherently.

“Huh. Okay, thanks,” Vincenzo muttered.

Vincenzo kicked through the detritus that lined the floor of the overpass. He paused for a moment before emerging into the daylight on the other side, just to ensure the old man wasn’t lying in wait. He walked out after making sure it was safe enough to do so.

At the end of Lumber Street, he turned right onto Second Street. He was back in mixed-use territory again, where residences were interspersed with commercial interests. A burned-out police cruiser sat in the middle of the intersection near a ravaged strip mall. Dozens of people were picking through the mall. They mostly ignored Vincenzo, and he did nothing to attract unwanted attention.
Just put one foot in front of the other.

The overpasses of Interstate 76 loomed ahead. According to his map, the interstate crossed the Susquehanna River. Even though he was still close to whatever was happening in Harrisburg, he needed to find his way across the river, and swimming was probably out of the question. He saw people moving across the overpass, heading in the same direction he needed to go.

Well, looks like you won’t be alone.

He trudged up the grassy bank that led to the interstate.

###

It was hotter than hell by the time he made to the Susquehanna in the late afternoon. The air was still and full of energy-sapping humidity as he lumbered across the slow-moving river. There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the bridge, but several other travelers hiked in front of and behind him, moving across its span. Glancing over the blue guardrail, he saw small boats in the river below, and there was even an island whose treetops almost reached the bridge. On the other side of the span, columns of smoke rose into the air from Harrisburg to the north.

It was getting late, and he needed to find a place to rest for the night before getting back on his route. He saw a prodigious amount of trees across the river, and he hoped that he’d be able to find a suitable place to make camp. The problem was that the other people crossing the bridge were making their own camps on the other side as well. Vincenzo didn’t want to settle down for the night amidst a big group of fellow refugees, so he pressed on through the town of Camp Hill, then even farther, into the small city of Mechanicsburg.

As the sun settled below the horizon, lighting up the sky with hues of amber, he came across a cemetery. It looked fairly deserted, which given the late hour seemed appropriate. Who visited Grandma’s grave in the middle of the night? A relatively thick copse of trees stood along the graveyard’s far border, and he headed that way.

He went through the usual rituals: shrugging off his pack, digging a cat hole, spreading out his sleeping gear, eating a quick dinner, and brushing his teeth. He replenished the Hydra Flask with a couple of packets of Datrex water then stretched out on his sleeping bag. The night was warm and humid, and mosquitoes buzzed about, so he applied some insect repellent to hold them at bay. He fell asleep almost instantly.

He awoke sometime in the night to the sounds of a gun battle being waged somewhere in the distance. He lay there listening to it, wondering what was going on and why. His legs and feet ached, but he refrained from taking any Tylenol. That was another finite resource he’d have to marshal. He was surprised to hear a sudden ripple of full-automatic gunfire. It was surreal, hearing such things happening in America.

But then and again, ’Merica is the land of the gun, right?

He laughed, because despite his political leanings, he’d never been a huge fan of gun control. One didn’t have to be a right-winger to understand the value of the Second Amendment, and it had come in right handy for him so far. Also, chances were good that anyone who had automatic weapons were with the government, and he wasn’t at all interested in getting on the bad side of the feds.

But who are they using them against?
Americans. But why?

As he pondered that, the gunfire trickled into a sporadic set of distant pops that sounded more and more irregularly.

Vincenzo fell asleep again.

###

The next morning, Vincenzo got up before dawn, packed up his campsite, saw to some personal needs, had a small breakfast, and set off into the gloom. As he walked through the cemetery, he saw that others had taken refuge inside its borders. He picked his way around tombstones and sleeping people and turned west on the road.

He came across the site of the battle he’d heard in the night. A little over a mile from where he had slept was a Navy installation. Lights burned there, powered by God knew how many backup generators. Several bodies lay in the street, and some men in uniform walked around them as if checking to ensure the dead were just that. Vincenzo stopped when he saw the carnage. He had no idea what had happened, but he knew better than to try to walk past the installation in the pre-dawn hours.

He crossed the two-lane highway he was on and pushed deeper into the residential neighborhood to the south. Navigating his way through the semi-darkness by the seat of his pants, he went first south then westward. From a low-lying brick house, a dog barked, but no one came out to investigate. Vincenzo hurried on, and a mile later, he cut north again, resuming his route. The Naval facility was directly behind him, but he saw no signs of activity. He was apparently outside the Navy’s scope of interest, which suited him just fine. He hurried through Mechanicsburg, stopping only when necessary to avoid other people. Patchy clouds scudded past overhead, their features revealed as the sun gradually rose.

Mechanicsburg might have been a pretty town before the event, the kind of place where people nodded and said hello as they passed each other on the street. It was fading as time wore on. Like so many other communities he had seen, the sudden cessation of public utilities were taking their toll. Garbage was piled up, and the stench of human excrement was everywhere. Those people who ventured outdoors did so only with a purpose. There was no time for small talk, and many viewed Vincenzo with suspicion and scarcely contained hostility.

Vincenzo kept his head down and continued through the downtown area, plodding down Main Street as fast as he could. The walking stick was in his left hand, and he remained mindful of his sweat-stained T-shirt, ensuring it stayed pulled down to cover the pistol. He heard someone weeping in one of the apartments that overlooked the street, a mournful, solitary sound. It made Vincenzo walk even a little bit faster, his aching muscles be damned.

Two hours later, he breathed a sigh of relief when farmland began to reappear. He had a tense moment when he crossed beneath the I-76 overpass and found several people sheltering there, apparently waiting out the heat of the day. Two teenage boys approached him, one holding a baseball bat, the other a worn-looking machete.

“Drop the stick and give us your bag, man!” the one with the machete shouted. “Don’t make me cut you to pieces!”

Vincenzo drew the Beretta. “Don’t make me shoot you dead.”

“No, no, don’t!” cried a middle-aged man lying along the side of the street. He looked sick as hell. “Please, they’re doing it for me.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Vincenzo said. “If anyone comes anywhere near me, I’ll shoot them.” He looked at the two young men in his path. “Now, you boys need to move aside. Sorry about your father, but maybe someone can help you in Mechanicsburg.”

“We came from there,” the boy with the bat said. “They wouldn’t help us.”

“Our dad’s sick,” the other one added. “He needs insulin.”

“I’m not a pharmacy. Sorry,” Vincenzo said. “I don’t have anything that might help with diabetes. Now you have to let me by, or you’re going to wind up dead.”

“Please,” the old man whispered. A blank-faced woman sat next to him, her pale eyes vacant and unmoved by the drama playing out in front of her. “Please, boys, let him go.”

“I’d listen to him,” Vincenzo told the boys.

The younger boy lowered the machete. Even though he had been the most aggressive of the pair, he was only about fourteen. He looked as though he was about to cry. The one with the bat was closer to sixteen, and he didn’t appear to be anywhere near tears. Instead, he charged toward Vincenzo with the bat held high.