Fuel (Best Laid Plans Book 1) (24 page)

“Or they could have some problem with us or what we're doing,” Trev said with a shrug. “No reason to go looking for trouble.”

“What trouble? It's just some cops watching a street. If anything, acting like we're avoiding them would be even more suspicious.
Then
talk about finding trouble.”

His friend paused, looking longingly down the fence to a back yard. “I don't like it, Matt. These are troubled times, only an idiot walks up to potential problems.”

Matt was losing his patience. “These are the people who
stop
problems!”

Another shrug. “I'm not so sure of that.”

That was as much as he was ready to hear. “Well you can go around,” he snapped. “I'll see you on the other side. Or maybe they'll be able to give me a ride farther north and you can keep walking on your own.”

Trev made a frustrated noise and seemed to give up, moving to rejoin him. “This is a bad idea,” he warned.

They started forward down the street, and Matt couldn't help but notice his friend's obvious furtiveness. “Quit acting like a criminal. We haven't done anything wrong.”

“And you think that's going to matter?” But by then they'd drawn the attention of the officers, who quickly straightened and moved into cover behind the cars. All were holding their service issue weapons ready to draw. At seeing their reaction Trev fell silent, squared his shoulders, and moved out into the middle of the street with his hands held out at his sides to walk directly towards them.

Matt followed, watching the three men gripping their weapons and feeling a sudden unease. He'd had more than a few encounters with policemen, and there were a few he'd seen who seemed to like fondling their pistols whenever they talked with people. He'd always thought those types were a bit gung-ho, the sort who liked to swagger and feel big, but there was no harm in it. But these guys had spent a week dealing with riots, and to his eyes the gesture didn't feel like swagger.

Whatever he'd said to Trev, he was beginning to wonder if his friend hadn't had a point. Protect and serve or not those were real guns, and he didn't like the fact that the policemen looked ready to draw them as he and Trev approached.

But that was just Trev's paranoia infecting him. He'd lived in Orem for the last few years and these men were practically neighbors.

“Afternoon, officers,” he called.

The greeting didn't dispel the wariness of the men at the roadblock. “We're here to direct refugees to the Interstate,” an older policeman called back. “If you're caught off I-15 you'll be lucky to only get a face full of pepper spray, and if you're caught looting or causing public disorder you'll be shot on sight. If you're looking for assistance go to the FETF camp on Antelope Island, directly northwest of Salt Lake City, or to the prepared relief stations in the towns to the south. You'll find shelter and food at those locations, but here you'll only find trouble.”

“We're not refugees, sir. My sister lives up in Midvale with her family. We're on our way to get her.”

The older officer's eyes stayed narrowed. “FETF has resources for finding lost family members. Take the Interstate up to their camp and check there.”

“I will, thanks. But I'd like to check her house first since she may have stayed put.”

“She might not've had the chance,” one of the younger officers said. The other two policemen had let go of their guns after the first exchange but he was still fiddling with his. “The rioting was heaviest in SLC and Ogden and a lot of citizens in the area were evacuated to the FETF camp. You're going to want to go there.”

Matt had a feeling he might end up at the camp anyway, but he still intended to try his sister's house since it was on the way. No need to irritate the policemen by explaining that, though. He started forward again. “All right, I'll try there first. Thank you.”

He hadn't gone more than half the distance to the roadblock before the two younger officers, a wiry guy not much older than him and a slightly overweight man with a mustache, were darting forward to intercept them. “Put down your packs,” the wiry man shouted. “And keep your hands where we can see them.”

Matt froze. “What's going on?”

“Contraband check,” the older officer said, making no effort to sound reassuring.

That only made him more worried. “What counts as contraband?” And more important, but not something he was about to ask outright, what was the punishment for being caught with it? He was uncomfortably aware of the Glock on his hip, and for that matter Trev's concealed 1911. His friend might have a conceal carry permit but the officers might not be terribly sympathetic about that.

It was better to be up front about it. He carefully unbuckled his pack's belt and moved his buttoned shirt's tail out of the way so the 9mm was clearly visible. “I'm carrying a-”

In an eyeblink three guns were pointed at him. “Hands in the air!” the mustached man screamed. “Do it now!”

Matt immediately obeyed. “Is there a problem?” he asked, trying to hide his terror. “I was carrying it openly, at least the best I could while wearing a pack and a buttoned shirt.”

The guns didn't waver as the mustached man inched carefully forward to pull the Glock from its holster and toss it aside. “The Governor issued a ban on firearms,” the older officer answered. “All law-abiding citizens are required to turn them in.”

“Since when is giving up our second amendment rights abiding by the law?” Trev demanded. He'd dropped his backpack but was making no move to reveal his own concealed weapon. His voice was also shaking, either from fear or anger. Judging by how he was handling this situation he seemed to be one of those people who managed disagreements badly and let his emotions completely overwhelm him.

The policemen noticed it too, and their fingers were starting to look itchy around the triggers. “There have been gunshot fatalities in the riots,” the wiry officer said. “You don't want to run into an armed mob, do you?”

“No I don't. Especially when I'm unarmed myself.” Trev was actually visibly trembling now. “Another sacrifice of freedom for security?”

For Pete's sake, Trev,
shut up
!
Matt thought frantically. They were going to end up in jail.

The wiry fellow started towards his friend, either to frisk him or to punch him in the face. Trev seemed to realize it too because his common sense finally kicked in. “I have a concealed carry permit,” he said hastily, raising his hands to the level of his head. “I'm carrying a 1911 in an underarm holster beneath my jacket.”

“Hands behind your head,” the man ordered, waving his gun. Trev complied, and a moment later his jacket was yanked aside and his gun drawn free. “Keep 'em there,” the policeman said, tucking the gun into his waistband. Trev was thoroughly patted down, then the officer backed away.

While his friend was being frisked the overweight officer ordered Matt back half a dozen feet and started rooting through his pack. A heavy hunting knife was tossed over to join Matt's previously discarded 9mm, along with a few boxes of ammo and some spare magazines.

Before too long Trev's pack received the same treatment as he was directed back to stand beside Matt. His friend watched his gun being set in the pile with an almost sick look on his face; that 1911 was one of his favorite possessions, and Matt had gone with him to the shooting range outside Aspen Hill a few times in the last few years so they could practice with it. He knew his friend went twice as often without him.

Then the officers began making a second pile with all the food from their packs. “What are you doing?” Matt blurted, surprised.

The wiry fellow glanced up. “You stupid, dude? We just told you, contraband check.”

“You're pulling out food.”

The older officer spoke up, sounding bored. “Martial law mandates that any food being carried within city limits is to be assumed stolen and immediately confiscated. Also FETF regulations make it illegal to hoard more than 2 weeks' worth of food and mandates that it be confiscated from offenders, so you might be guilty on both counts.”

A federal offense to hoard
food
? And any food you carried was assumed stolen? Matt had never heard anything so ridiculous. That basically made possessing any food while traveling illegal, and if you had food storage and stayed put you were also hosed. “This is less than two weeks' worth,” he protested. “It might not even be enough to get to Midvale and back once I find my sister's family and we have to share it between us. Anyway I give you my word it's my own food, legally purchased.”

“It doesn't matter, it's the mandate,” the older officer said. “We have to take this, but if you need food you can go to the FETF camp for assistance.” He was starting to sound like a broken record, and every answer was FETF.

“Can't we keep at least a day's worth?” Matt asked, not caring if he sounded like he was begging. “Enough to get to Midvale?”

“Anything you need will be provided at the FETF camp.”

Yeah, go begging to the government when you just stole my food so I can't take care of myself anymore. And I suppose they'll give us travel rations for the trip home, too?
Matt felt a growing wave of despair. What was going to happen if he depended on the FETF for what he needed to survive? What about April and her family and the food
they
needed? They might all end up trapped on Antelope Island, unable to leave unless they wanted to starve. Just more refugees among the tens or even hundreds of thousands.

No, if worse came to worst he could go hungry for a few days to get back, although he worried about his sister and especially her children having to do the same.

“This is robbery, you know.”

Matt whirled. “Seriously, Trev,
shut up
!” he snapped, all of his anger at this situation spilling out at his friend.

Trev ignored him, glaring at the officers rifling through their packs. Matt saw with uneasiness that the older officer had put away his gun to draw out a smaller, plastic device with a blunt square tip. A taser. That was even worse, wasn't it? The policeman might not just outright shoot someone who hadn't done anything, but he probably wouldn't be as shy about using a stun gun.

Incredibly enough, Trev
kept going
. “We're just trying to get to his family and bring them home, and you're going to make that almost impossible for us? Don't people already have enough problems?”

The wiry officer glared at him, finger shifting slightly on the trigger. “Going to get violent, tough guy? I could picture you at one of the riots throwing a brick at my head.”

Oh no. Oh no no no. They were so going to end up in jail. Why couldn't Trev just shut up? “We'll get to I-15 as quickly as we can and follow it the entire way,” Matt said hastily, trying to sound calm. “Can we go?”

The older officer watched Trev with narrowed eyes. “You know, son, I'm tempted to call a van over and have you hauled off to Point of the Mountain. That's the camp where all the rioters are hauled after we round them up. You want to paint us as the bad guys just like everyone else, but you'll notice that I haven't tased you yet. Even though I'm very, very tempted.”

Trev looked like he had something to say to that, but by some miracle he kept his mouth shut and looked away instead.

Matt spoke for him. “He won't cause any problems, officer, I promise.”

The policeman dragged his eyes away from Trev and glanced over at him. Matt felt like a criminal under that considering gaze, and it was all he could do not to hunch his shoulders. Finally the man nodded. “I wouldn't stay too long in the valley. The public unrest is only going to get worse from here on out.”

He nodded back, feeling a surge of relief. “Thank you.” The officers finished rooting through the clothes and camp equipment still in their packs, then gathered up the food, knives, and guns and walked away. Trev knelt and began shoving his remaining possessions back into his pack, and after a moment Matt followed suit. As quickly as possible they slung their packs over their shoulders, not even bothering to belt them, and started through the roadblock towards the onramp leading to I-15.

Matt felt like he was walking past an unchained rottweiler as he edged around the patrol cars, doing his best not to make any threatening moves or come too close to the glaring officers. After they were past the roadblock Trev came up alongside him, then quickened his pace and pulled ahead.

Matt hurried to catch up to his friend, who said nothing. The look on Trev's face was curiously blank, the only sign of emotion his white-knuckled grip on the straps of his pack as they followed the ramp onto the merging lane. Matt didn't blame him: he was pretty pissed off himself.

After a few minutes of incredibly oppressive, temper-thick silence he cleared his throat. “I bet you think this is my fault.”

Trev laughed harshly. “No, you did the right thing. Duck and cower, jump to help them as they rob you blind, make your friend sound like a crazed lunatic when he protests and tries to defend our rights, then thank them when they mercifully let you go rather than hauling you off to a prison camp for the horrible crime of walking down the street.”

Matt's anger boiled over. “I didn't have to make you sound like a crazed lunatic, you idiot. We might have convinced them to let us keep our food if you hadn't called officers of the law robbers.” No response. “Besides, at least now we won't have to worry about running into armed thugs.”