Charges (31 page)

25

Vincenzo sped through the few towns he came across without stopping, despite the attempts of some people to convince him to do just that. One individual even shot at him, but the guy had a shotgun, and by the time he’d pulled the trigger, Vincenzo was rolling out of range. He pulled over a few minutes later and checked out the Blazer, heart hammering in his chest, M1A at the ready. There was nothing, not even scratched primer or chipped glass.
Well, at least I know for sure how badly people are going to want it
.

He had traveled over one hundred miles since finding the Blazer, which while encouraging enough on the surface, was a bit dismal when he considered it at length. His route avoided the interstate, and a good number of the roads he took weren’t the most direct. Plus, there were more travelers out on the road, headed in both directions. A lot of them looked at the Blazer as it sped past with expressions that ranged from shocked to outraged.

As the gas gauge dropped to below the half-full mark, he realized the Blazer’s previous owner hadn’t just restored the engine but had dropped in a small block V-8 with a great deal more horsepower. Vincenzo had been pushing the truck, so his lead foot was probably more to blame. At any rate, he needed to think about taking on some fuel. His original plan had been to find a place to hole up and get fuel under the cover of night. Even though there were more travelers on the road, there were still wide expanses where not a person was to be seen. And while obtaining fuel at night could be less risky, it also meant he had to work without any light and without practicing first.

When he happened upon a late-model F-150 on the side of the road and no one in sight, he pulled in front of the disabled pickup and killed the Blazer’s engine. He slung the M1A and hustled around to the back to pull out the gas can and siphon. Beside the abandoned pickup, he unscrewed the fuel cap and let it hang on the plastic dongle while he set up the siphon. After inserting the hose into the fuel tank, he placed the nozzle of the handle with the squeeze pump into the gas can, and pumped the lever. It was almost like filling up at a gas station. Aided by gravity, the fuel flowed out of the F-150’s tank and into the gas can. When the can was almost full, he stopped the flow then carried the gas can back to the Blazer. He screwed a separate black plastic nozzle onto the can then stuck that into the truck’s fuel fill. The gasoline poured into the Blazer’s tank with a loud chugging noise. Once the gas can was empty, Vincenzo returned to the F-150 for another load. He took care to ensure the siphon’s hose wasn’t near the bottom of the Ford’s tank in case water condensation had formed.

He was in the process of transferring the second can of gas into the Blazer when he heard the noise of an engine. He looked up and saw an ancient Dodge pickup rumbling toward him. He quickly put down the gas can and slung the M1A into his hands as the truck began to slow. The driver stuck his hand out the window and waved it slowly from side to side.
Don’t shoot,
he seemed to be saying.

Vincenzo held his position, sweating in the late afternoon sun as the old Dodge slowly crept forward.

“We just want to pass by,” said the driver, an overweight man in his late thirties with several days of stubble on his face. The back of the truck was full of possessions held in place by a series of bungee cords. In the cab with him was an equally overweight woman and a chubby girl who looked to be about twelve. Their eyes were as wide as saucers as they stared at Vincenzo.

“So go,” Vincenzo said. “Don’t stop.”

The Dodge crept forward.

“Don’t go into Washington,” the driver said. “There’s some kind of big raiding party hitting the town hard. They killed all the cops and the civilian patrol, and they’re taking everything they can get their hands on.”

“Washington?” Vincenzo frowned. That was the next town on his route.

“Yeah, don’t go there. Really, man, don’t do it. Hey, you know anything about Van Voorhis?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “Never even heard of it.”

“All right, man. Take care of yourself, and keep your head down. It’s kind of tough up ahead, you might want to turn around and take Mitchell Road down to Lagonda if you’re going west. Stay south of the airport. A bunch of people from Pittsburgh took over that place. It’s basically a ghetto now.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Vincenzo said. “You need to keep your eyes out, too. Had some trouble on the other side of Eighty-Four. People are looking to take what you have. You armed?”

“Got a shotgun,” the driver said.

“That’ll have to do. Don’t stop until you get to where you’re going.”

“Thanks, man. Later.” The driver stepped on the accelerator, and the old beige-and-rust pickup accelerated away with a puff of greasy black exhaust.

Once the Dodge disappeared behind the next rise, Vincenzo emptied the gas can into the Blazer then went back for one more. As he was pumping the can full, he heard a burst of gunfire in the distance. There was a flash on the western horizon, then an orange and yellow fireball rose into the air. A muted thump came a second later.

“Okay, Tony, that’s enough gas for now,” he muttered. He didn’t know what had blown up and didn’t care to find out.

He packed up the siphon and emptied its hose into the gas can. He transferred the couple of gallons he’d removed from the F-150 into the Blazer, screwed on the gas cap, and put everything away. Back in the driver’s seat, he cranked the engine and nursed the vehicle into a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, heading back the way he had come.

He caught up with the laboring Dodge pickup and passed it at sixty miles an hour; the Dodge was making maybe forty. Vincenzo tooted his horn, and the Dodge responded with a rusty-sounding blat that reminded him of a baby’s fart. He found Mitchell Road and turned right. The street was basically wide enough for one and a half cars. The narrowness made him a bit nervous, since it was a prime place for an ambush.

He rode for about a mile, passing a couple of houses that seemed quiet and empty. When he got to a stretch where no residences were visible, he stopped and set the parking brake. He paged through the atlas, looking for his approximate location.

Lagonda Road was almost ten miles from where he sat, and that was by taking a series of twisting country roads that led him well south, past Interstate 70, where he would then begin to parallel Interstate 79. It was only when he made it down to Lone Pine Road that he would cut westerly, following a serpentine trail that would take him within a half mile of the airport he had been warned about. Another couple of miles west-northwest would take him back to US 40. The new route was about a twenty-mile detour.
Crap.

Ahead, a family of deer stepped out into the road, their heads turning toward the idling Blazer. Vincenzo ignored them and focused on memorizing the directions.

When he put the Blazer in gear and released the parking brake, the deer bolted across the road and bounded into the trees on the other side. By the time he pulled abreast of their point of entry, they had disappeared into the undergrowth.

###

Getting to Lone Pine Road took much longer than he had planned, courtesy of a series of trees that had been cut down and used to block off one of the roads he needed. He had to backtrack almost four miles and re-plot his course. The only viable option—he did not consider mounting one of the interstates as viable—was to tack southeasterly before turning west, which added another seven miles to his trip. He averaged fifty miles an hour where he could, but the road was twisty enough that he had to slow to negotiate the curves. That was one bad thing about having a lifted truck. They tended to suck when attempting to take a curve at high speed.

Lone Pine was more populated. Once, a couple of families paused their roadside game of badminton to turn and gawk at him. One of the kids waved, and Vincenzo slowed and raised his hand in response. A shirtless young man pointed toward one of the houses, and when Vincenzo looked in that direction, he saw a late-1970s Dodge Ramcharger sitting in the driveway, its chrome grille pointed at the road. It was in great shape, better than the Blazer. Vincenzo shot the young man a thumbs-up before accelerating away.

Lone Pine Road dead-ended into Route 19, and the sign at the juncture told him that Washington lay to the right and Amity was six miles to the left. The overpass of I-79 was a few hundred feet away, and Vincenzo examined it critically. No one was near, but he could see people walking along the interstate a few hundred yards to the north.

He cranked the wheel to the left and accelerated onto Route 19, bolting beneath the two overpasses and kicking up a storm of garbage in his wake. Farther up, a service station was on the left and, to the right, in a big cutout in the road, were four or five trailers. As he charged past them, several people ran toward the road, waving their arms frantically. Vincenzo veered left, giving as much berth as possible. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a man holding his hands in the air, as if wondering why the hell Vincenzo hadn’t stopped.

Sorry, guy,
he thought as he accelerated to fifty miles per hour.

Half a mile down, he turned off US 19 onto Vankirk Ridge Road, which was lined by decent-sized houses on half-acre plots of land. The people there seemed to care about the way their community looked. There weren’t piles of garbage stacked everywhere, and any cars that might have died on the road had been cleared. Families were out working their lawns, grilling food, or just playing in the summer heat. Despite the pastoral scenery, Vincenzo didn’t linger. Mindful of young children that might bolt out in front of him, he cruised at around thirty-five miles per hour. A beagle tried to chase the Blazer down, but it gave up after a few yards.

He stopped along one deserted stretch of roadway and reviewed his course. He was back on his original track, which meant that he would be going through a series of turns to make it to Lagonda Road. He drained the contents of his water bottle then set off again.

Vankirk transitioned to Banetown Road, and he coaxed a little more speed out of the Blazer when he encountered a clear straightaway. His next turn, a left, was onto Scenic Drive, which curved away to the north slightly before easing back to the west. He entered another community of neat homes. He made another left onto Cove Road. Light strobed off water, and he saw a reservoir through the trees to his right. At least the people there had a source of water, so they were pretty well off for the moment.

 
A mile down the road, he turned right onto Lagonda. Even though he was still in mostly farmland, houses appeared with more regularity. Many were well off the road, hidden behind screens of trees, but quite a few were close. People stopped what they were doing and stared as the Blazer tore through the neighborhood. Vincenzo pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and concentrated on not missing his next turn coming up.

Lagonda ended at Park Avenue/Route 18, but as he drew close to the intersection, he saw people. A
lot
of people. They were mostly heading south but several turned toward the Blazer as Vincenzo rounded a gentle curve. He stood on the brakes, and he was surprised to see some of the people actually starting to run away. Over the rumble of the truck’s engine and the hiss of cool air pouring out of its vents, he heard distant gunfire.

The guy driving the Dodge had told him that the Washington County Airport, which was a couple of miles north, had been converted into some kind of haphazard refugee center. Whatever action was rolling through Washington had apparently spilled over, and people were fleeing the violence on foot.

Vincenzo cut the wheel and drove through a patch of lawn then across a school parking lot. He headed around the back of the brown brick building and came out the far side. There were still plenty of people around, and they seemed taken aback by the black truck’s sudden appearance, as if unsure whether the driver was friend or foe. Vincenzo didn’t hang around to give them time to figure it out. He revved the engine, and the rebuilt V-8 responded with a throaty roar. He swerved around groups of people, sending them diving out of the way as he accelerated, heading south once again.

“God
damn,
but this is getting fucked up!” he shouted as he wrenched the wheel from side to side, frightened that he might run over someone but not about to stop for fear of being mobbed.