Charges (32 page)

A lot of the people had firearms. He saw more than a few pointed in his direction, but no one pulled a trigger. Apparently, as long as he was headed away from them, they weren’t willing to shoot. Not yet, at least.

The crowds thinned a few hundred yards down the road then pretty much disappeared. A golf course appeared to his right. Vincenzo drove past it at a good clip then slowed and pulled off onto the grass. Letting the engine idle, he consulted the atlas again. Less than a quarter of a mile ahead was another road that tracked westward, paralleling the golf course. He decided that one would work.

A few minutes later, he was booming down another rural road, blasting past houses and farms. The road became SR 3014, and he took that to South Bridge Road, which according to the atlas, more or less angled toward Route 40. His eyes felt scratchy, and he was getting tired. He’d been driving for hours, and much of his time traveling had been stressful. It was more difficult to remain incognito in the Blazer. Before, fellow travelers might have been interested to know what was in his hiking pack, but since he was mobile, they all coveted the truck. Vincenzo didn’t blame them, but he wasn’t about to hand it over without a fight.

At just past six-thirty in the evening, there was still plenty of sunlight left, but he would eventually need to find a place to park and conceal the truck. He had no idea where he might be able to do that, but he had to stay alert for any opportunities.

Ahead, more highway overpasses loomed. He knew they were for Interstate 70, that great artery that crossed almost the entire United States, reaching as far west as Utah. The desire to hop onto the freeway and take it for as far as he could go was almost overwhelming, but then he saw black smoke billowing from a fire on the far side of the westbound travel lanes, just beyond the span of the overpass. He couldn’t be sure, but it must have been an entire tractor-trailer on fire. The amount of smoke was impressive as it roiled high into the hazy, humid sky.

Okay, maybe no interstate
. He blasted through the shadowy darkness beneath the overpasses at sixty miles per hour, sending the people there diving for cover. Someone hurled a rock that bounced off the right front fender before catapulting over the windshield. It didn’t touch the glass, though, and Vincenzo didn’t slow.

Just before reaching the intersection of South Bridge Road and US 40, he spotted a wide trail that disappeared into the forest on his right. He brought the Blazer to a halt right before the trail’s mouth. The trail seemed to disappear into deep shadow, and he couldn’t see much detail. He drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel. It looked inviting, and it was close enough to his plotted path of travel to make for a quick getaway the next morning.

And he was so damned tired...

He cranked the wheel to the right and eased the Blazer up the trail. The truck jounced as it rolled up the incline, its big tires effortlessly going right over ruts and rocks. The tree canopies soon interlocked, shrouding the trail in deep shadow, and Vincenzo removed his sunglasses so he could see. He realized he was on a fire trail. A couple of hundred feet off the road was a turnaround area big enough for him to horse the Blazer through a three-point turn so that it was more or less pointed back at the road. He decided that wasn’t good enough, so he backed it deeper into the brush, crushing bushes and scrub. Finally satisfied that he had hidden the vehicle as well as he was able, he switched off the engine and sat inside the cool cabin, listening to hot metal tick and ping as it cooled. He sighed then released his lap belt and grabbed the M1A.

He pushed open the driver’s door and stepped down to the forest floor. The trail was a combination of rock and sandy soil, and in the pale light that penetrated the leaves overhead, he couldn’t detect any sign that might tell someone a vehicle had recently been through the area. Slinging the rifle, he walked up the trail and found that it opened up to a field about thirty yards away.

He stuck to the trees and surveilled the space for a few minutes. It was a little smaller than a football field, and the tall grass had been growing unmolested for some time. On the far side stood a thick forest of tall trees, and above those, smoke curled into the air. He thought he heard the distant reports of rifle fire.

He turned and walked back to the Blazer. He intended to spend some time camouflaging the vehicle before treating himself to another helping of Dinty Moore’s best.

26

Sounds of violence erupted throughout the night, as if some fantastic bloodletting was taking place miles away.

Vincenzo lay on his sleeping bag beside the Blazer, the M1A on his right and the Beretta in its holster on his opposite hip. Sleep came intermittently. As soon as he dropped off, it seemed that a spasm of violence, the rustling of some animal slipping through the brush, or even the wind through the treetops above would rouse him again. He wondered if he was far enough away from Washington after all. While he’d put miles between himself and the town, those fleeing the bloodshed might continue their migration during the night, which could lead them to his little corner of the woods. He hoped the forest might slow them down, but not everyone was going to take the roads.

Could’ve driven a little longer, I guess.
But he wasn’t about to travel at night, not when he wouldn’t be able to see anything. And turning on the Blazer’s rather impressive array of lights would serve only to advertise his position.

He awoke later than normal the next morning, for dawn was already well on its way. He sat up and checked the immediate area. There was no one about, and he seemed safe for the time being. Some gunfire still rattled far away, but it was erratic. Whatever fight had been going down had either ended, or there was no one left to shoot at.

He had a hasty breakfast of cereal and canned milk, which didn’t taste as terrible as he remembered. The Blazer’s former owner apparently loved canned goods, and that was fine. Food in cans generally tasted better than stuff in bags, though there was plenty of that, as well. At some point he would have to inventory everything and start consuming by expiration dates, but that would have to wait until later.

After breakfast, he took care of his personal needs and used some of the water to take a quick sponge bath. It didn’t come even close to matching the shower he’d had at the fire station, but it would have to do.

After that, he removed the camouflage netting, shook it do dislodge any bugs that might have taken up residence in it during the night, and packed up the Blazer. Back in the cab, he checked the atlas. He was a couple of miles southwest of Washington and maybe four miles from the West Virginia border. Vincenzo had never set foot in West Virginia, and he wasn’t eager to do so. He came from people who pretty much viewed West Virginia as the land of flat-headed Neanderthals, and if that was indeed the case, then the time since the event likely hadn’t improved anything. Yet, he had no choice. He had to keep moving. He thumbed through the atlas, trying to figure out how long he’d be in West Virginia before crossing over into Ohio. It wouldn’t be for long, maybe an hour if he was able to keep away from any obstructions or other distractions. After that, his route would take him through Columbus. He would detour around that, and maybe drift farther south. The Ackermans were in Cincinnati. He was curious if they’d made it home.

A sound caught his attention, and he dropped the atlas in favor of the rifle. At first, he couldn’t identify it. The noise was completely alien to his ears, but he immediately knew it wasn’t a sound that belonged in the wilderness. He listened intently, then he heard it again.

The whimpering of a child.

He stepped out of the Blazer and gently eased the door closed. Holding the rifle, he moved back to the trail, careful to make as little noise as possible. The whimpering was coming from the direction of the field. Vincenzo cautiously made his way toward it, sticking close to the trees.

The sun was just over the horizon, bathing the field in a golden glow. There was a hint of haze in the air, which meant the coming day would be another humid boiler. A hawk was already riding the building thermals, surveying the territory below for any prey.

A man with a sagging backpack hurried across the field. He was dressed in dirty jeans and a worn denim shirt with rolled up sleeves, and he didn’t appear to be armed. Two children ran with him, holding his hands. On his right was a young girl with wispy blond hair. She wore mud-stained corduroy pants, a floral top, and a pink Dora the Explorer backpack. The other child, a boy, was older. He had on blue shorts, sneakers, and a red T-shirt with the number forty-four emblazoned across the chest. The hair sticking out from beneath his rust-colored Ralph Lauren cap was slightly darker than the girl’s. His backpack was bright orange and covered spikes like a dinosaur’s back. The boy dragged his feet, and the man chided him gently. The boy held a plastic hanger in his free hand, which he whipped and whirled. He studied the hanger with rapt attention, his face going through several expressions. He whimpered but not as if he were hurt.

Don’t get involved
.

The man looked up, and for an instant, Vincenzo was afraid he’d been spotted, but then he realized the guy had spotted the trail. If they took that path, they would pass within feet of where Vincenzo stood. Vincenzo took a step backward, intending to fade back into the trees, but a branch snapped under his foot.

The man skidded to a halt. He looked at the trees with something akin to panic, and when his gaze locked onto Vincenzo, his mouth fell open. “Please…”

“Why are we stopping, Daddy?” the girl asked.

Her brother said something, but Tony couldn’t make out the words. Oddly, the kid continued to be mesmerized by the hanger he was flipping in his hands.

A gunshot rang out, and the man stumbled. A spray of blood exploding from his chest. The girl gave a little squeak as her father toppled face-first into the grass. The boy looked away from his hanger for a moment, an expression of muted shock playing across his face, then he went back to hanger-gazing.

“Daddy!
Daddy
!” the little girl shrieked, falling down beside the man. “Daddy, get up!”

Vincenzo raised the M1A, heart pounding. He scanned the area, trying to spot the shooter.
Don’t get involved! Don’t get involved!

Engines revved, and a moment later, two ATVs and a mud-splattered Harley rolled onto the scene. The men astride the machines looked hard and rough, with beards and shaggy hair. The one on the Harley was older. His long gray hair was neat by post-apocalypse standards, and his trimmed beard had a jagged scar running through it. He wore a Harley T-shirt and faded jeans, and had a military rifle slung across his back and a big revolver in an armpit holster. The other men were younger, with long dirty beards, longer hair, prodigious tattoos, and filthy clothes. One of them looked as if he had been splattered with blood that had dried hours ago.

“Damn, old man, that was a hell of a shot with that Dirty Harry piece you got!” one of the young men said as he braked his ATV to a halt and jumped off.

The blood-splattered one did the same. He swept the area with his pale gaze as he pulled the pump-action shotgun on his back into his hands. If he saw Vincenzo, he gave no indication.

The Harley guy seemed more interest in finding a stone or something to lean his bike’s kickstand on. “Practice makes perfect.” His voice was a deep rumble that matched that of the idling bike. He finally found what he was looking for, and he switched off the Harley and climbed off. While his companions closed on the fallen man, he regarded his muddy ride and shook his head. “Damn, I’ll never take this thing off-road again,” he said.

“So get yourself a new one,” the first man said. He leered at the girl, who was sobbing beside her father. “Hey, little girl! Your new uncle has a piece of candy for you. Want to suck it?” he asked, while unzipping his pants.

Vincenzo felt sick to his stomach.
Don’t get involved!

 
The blood-splattered one looked at the boy, who seemed oblivious to everything but the plastic implement he was waving around. The man laughed and pointed. “Check it out, Harley. This one’s a fucking retard or something.”

Harley regarded the boy for a moment. “Yeah, okay. Let him alone, Dees.”

The girl shrieked as the youngest man grabbed her. He rubbed her small body against his front as she kicked and struggled. One of her kicks managed to catch him right in the crotch, but he only laughed. “Yeah, that’s the spirit!” he shouted. “Fight back. It’s better when you fight back!”

“Hey!” Harley snapped. “You know the rules. Roth doesn’t want anyone touching kids!”

“Oh, fuck that,” Dees said. “We just
killed
a bunch of kids last night!” He walked over and ripped the hanger out of boy’s hand. Ignoring the kid’s grasping fingers, Dees threw the plastic into the weeds. The boy wailed and began slapping himself across the face with enough force to make his skin turn red. His cap flew off his head, and the field was filled with the sounds of shrieking children.

This isn’t going to end very well,
Vincenzo thought.

Don’t get involved!
the small voice in the back of his mind implored.
Wait for them to leave then get the hell out of here!

“I want both of you to leave these kids alone!” Harley snarled.

“No can do, old man,” said the ATV rider with the little girl. He threw her to the ground then dropped his pants, exposing his erect penis. “Maybe when I’m done, I’ll let you have a little.”

“You fucking piece of—” Harley went for the revolver in the holster beneath his left arm. As he did, he twisted slightly, and his eyes widened.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—

Vincenzo raised the M1A just as the old biker opened his mouth to shout a warning. Vincenzo’s first shot caught Harley in the mouth, blasting through his lips and shattering most of his teeth. The biker fell backward, crashing into his bike. For an instant, the motorcycle teetered on its wheels. Harley fell to the ground, and his namesake lost the battle with gravity and landed on top of him.

The taller man standing over the boy jumped back and fired a shotgun blast into the woods. He shot blindly and well to the right of Vincenzo’s position. Vincenzo returned fire, hitting the man first in the gut then again in the sternum as he stumbled backward.

The third man’s cock deflated like a balloon when the air was released. He let go of his pants and reached for his rifle, but his loose jeans slowed him. His fingertips might have just brushed the weapon when Vincenzo fired again, drilling him with three shots that tore through his back. The man released a shrill scream that faded into a blood-choked gurgle as he thrashed weakly in the tall grass.

Okay, that was definitely you getting involved.
Vincenzo broke cover and ran toward the father lying in the grass. When the kids saw him coming, and they both scurried over to their father’s side. The boy stood above the stricken man, flapping his arms as if he could somehow take flight. The girl knelt beside her father, screaming for him to wake up.

Vincenzo reached them and took a knee beside the man. “Take it easy,” he told the girl. “I’m one of the good guys.”

You? One of the good guys?
The little voice in the back of his mind tittered.
That’s rich.

Vincenzo saw a small hole in the man’s backpack. Fearing the worst, he slung his rifle and gently rolled the guy over. He was still conscious. But

The man’s eyelids fluttered, then he looked up at Vincenzo. “Kids.” A little blood appeared on his lips. The bloodstained shirt told Vincenzo that the guy wasn’t going to last very long.

“They’re here. They’re fine,” Vincenzo said. “I took out the other guys.”

“Charity Point, Missouri,” the man gasped. “Their mom—Felix. Remember Felix.”

“Their mom’s name is Felix?” Vincenzo asked.

“Daddy!” the girl howled. “Daddy!”

“Charity Point, Missouri,” the man said, pronouncing each word carefully. “Felix. It’s Felix.”

“Charity Point, Missouri, and some chick named Felix. Yeah, I got it,” Vincenzo said.

The man’s chest made a wet sound as he breathed, and Vincenzo realized the biker’s shot had left him with a sucking chest wound. He tried to think.
How did you treat a sucking chest wound? Plastic sheeting, right?
He had the tarp back in the Blazer, and he could cut a piece of it with one of the knives. And there was surgical tape in the first-aid kit—