SurviRal (21 page)

“Dang it!” Harold said. “Why am I so jumpy?”

“It’s obvious why you’re jumpy,” Clint said stopping, causing Jenny to jump off his bars. “We all are. You okay?”

“Yes, but my bike might not be.” Harold climbed off his mountain bike and lifted it back up to the shoulder. The front wheel was badly bent.

“Oh no,” Jenny said. “That doesn’t look fixable.”

Harold stood there shaking his head for a minute before taking the tire off the bike. He wedged it between the rock and ground and kicked at it, attempting to bend it back. It bent some, but looked even worse now with a bad crease in the rim. Loose spokes dangled.

“Do you guys need a new bicycle wheel?” a female voice said from behind.

They all spun around. A redheaded girl in her mid-twenties stood there, about as unthreatening as a person could look. She had no bags and nothing in her hands. Her tight pants couldn’t be packing much, either—neither could her obviously braless loose blouse.

“Do you happen to have a spare mountain bike wheel?” Jenny asked.

The girl slowly nodded. “I think we do, at the camp. In any case, I’m sure we can help you somehow. A few of our residents are pretty handy. Plus, we can offer you a hot meal.”

“Where’s your camp?” Clint asked.

 “Only a few miles from here.” She pointed eastward. “Come on.” She waved the three of them towards the golf cart where her companions were standing, watching. “My name is Cynthia. I’ll introduce you to my friends. One of them might know if we have a wheel that will fit your bicycle.”

Clint and Jenny eyeballed Cynthia’s friends before looking at Harold. They were now in the habit of getting his input before making even the smallest of decisions. But Harold seemed flustered. That wasn’t like him. Jenny’s backpack was still dangling from one of his handlebars.

Jenny went over to Harold and took hold of the crippled mountain bike.

“Here, Harold. I’ll carry the bike, so you can hold your pack, like you like to.”

Harold looked at her with appreciation and nodded. Jenny took hold of the bike. Harold unhooked the remaining strap, raised his pack, and opened it.

“Please excuse us if we’re cautious of strangers,” Clint said. “Someone tried to rob us today.”

Cynthia clasped her hands in front of her. “Oh, isn’t that awful! I’m so sorry that happened to you. We’ve been hearing reports of bandits on the roads. So sad. Please, let us help you.”

Clint noticed Cynthia’s three friends were now all walking across the dirt road towards them. Two were men, who looked to be in their early thirties and weren’t big on shaving. But their hands were all visible and none of them carried anything. Clint swung his pack around and opened it nevertheless. He felt for the revolver they took from the robber. It only had three bullets left, but that should be enough.

Cynthia introduced her friends. Their names didn’t register in Clint’s brain. He was focused on being aware, like Harold had been back on the highway.

“Yeah,” one of the guys said. “I’m pretty sure we can fix you up with a new wheel. Plus feed you, and give you a place to stay for the night. We’ve got entertainment, too. You still have one good bicycle there. I think the rest of us can squeeze into the cart. John and I can hang off the rear rack.”

“You’re so nice to offer,” Jenny said.

Somewhere in the back of Clint’s mind an alarm went off. But it didn’t make it to the front of his mind. He was unsure of the situation and hadn’t been given adequate time to assess things. Harold’s bike was broken, which meant the three of them were now on foot if they couldn’t fix it. Therefore, any solution that involved fixing it sounded logical. Cynthia and her friends exuded a certain undeniable friendliness. They were polar opposites of the robber kid. But for some reason, Clint’s hand wouldn’t let go of that pistol. He noticed Harold’s remained in his bag as well.

“We’re happy to be helpful,” Cynthia said. “That’s our mission today.”

“Oh.” Jenny looked back and forth between Cynthia and her friends. “Trying to be …part of the solution?”

Cynthia laughed. “We’re not Solution Crusaders. God bless them, though. Their hearts are in the right place.”

“Are you a church group?” Jenny asked.

“Yes. Yes, that’s what we are. A church group.”

“Your camp is a church camp, then?” Clint asked.

“A big one, yes.”

“Sooooo…” Jenny’s voice became a little cooler. “What kind of church?”

“Do you belong to a church?” Cynthia responded.

“Yes. We go to a Bible teaching church in Denver.”

“Oh. Good. Great! We read from the Bible, too.”

“Do you believe the Bible? Or just read from it?”

Clint glanced at Harold and rolled his eyes ever-so-slightly. Harold caught it and grinned back even more slightly.

“We like the Bible. The Reverend Gordy reads from it often. You should hear him explain it, and show how it fits with the universal truth. Oh, you’re in for a real treat. Let’s get going. He’ll be so happy to meet you all.”

“If you don’t mind,” Jenny said, “I still need clarification. We believe the Bible
is
truth. It doesn’t need to ‘fit with’ truth. In fact, any truth better fit with the Bible—otherwise, we can’t call it truth.”

“Yes,” Cynthia said. “That’s what I meant. The Reverend Gordy will explain it.”

Jenny crossed her arms and tilted her head.

Cynthia reacted by pulling on Jenny’s crossed arms, causing Clint to raise the pistol higher in the bag.

“Please don’t do that,” Cynthia said. “We’re not weirdoes. You’re only resisting people with loving hearts, who truly want to help someone today. Come with us. Your bike is broken. You must need a good dinner. We have chicken and rice and lots of fruit, and extra beds. Good, clean, comfortable ones. Just come to our camp and let us take care of you tonight. With any luck, you can ride out again in the morning.”

“You believe Jesus is the Son of God?” Jenny asked.

“Of course! Of course!”

Jenny smiled and appeared to relax again.

“We’re all children of God,” Cynthia added.

Jenny’s smile faded. An uncomfortable silence followed. Cynthia still had her hand on Jenny’s arm. Finally, Jenny responded.

“I think we can come with you, if you will confess that Jesus is the only begotten Son of God, who died on the cross to pay the price for our sins, and then rose from the dead afterwards, so that all who believe in him can be forgiven and have eternal life.”

“We have no problem with that, Jenny. If that’s your way to heaven, we praise God and welcome you to our family. Please come. The Reverend Gordy can teach you so much.”

“I really need you to say it,” Jenny said.

“Say what, dear?”

“That you’re a sinner, that Jesus was sacrificed for your sin, and that the risen Christ is your hope of heaven.”

“I… I…”

“Yes?”

“Jesus was a great man and a true prophet. The Reverend Gordy acknowledges that. The Reverend shows us the way—”

Jenny looked at Clint. “Let’s get moving again.”

She then turned to Harold. “Looks like we’re walking to La Junta. You might as well give these cultists your bike. Maybe they can use it.”

“We’re not a cult!” Cynthia finally let go of Jenny’s arm.

Ten minutes later, Cynthia and her three friends were sitting in the golf cart on the corner, waiting for someone else to come by. Their new mountain bike was loaded on the golf bag rack in the rear; the destroyed front tire lay in the grass nearby. Clint, Harold, and Jenny were about a hundred yards down the road, walking. Clint was a little bitter about having the last bicycle. An eight-mile hike was a lot farther when you were walking a bike.

The sound of motorcycles behind them caught their attention.

“Let’s get off the road,” Harold said, “and let the bikers pass by, if they’re coming this way.”

Clint turned and saw the motorcycles. They were kicking up dust on the dirt crossroad, coming east towards Cynthia and her friends at the intersection. Only two of them, but one was riding double. These looked to be dirt bikes. The riders might be turning south on the 71, so Clint and Jenny did as Harold suggested. They found a rocky mound off the roadside to cut behind, which put them mostly out of the way. Clint and Harold kept their bags at the ready.

“Maybe they’re from the commune, too,” Jenny said.

Clint chuckled at the word commune, though he realized his wife was probably right. And it seemed she was also right about the motorcyclists, as they stopped at the corner and chatted with the cultists.

“They stopped,” Clint said. “Should we go on?”

“Wait a minute,” Harold said. “That conversation down there doesn’t look friendly. Could be some trouble brewing.”

Clint saw what Harold was referring to. The three men who just rolled up had now gotten off the two dirt bikes. They were still talking with Cynthia and her friends, but the scene appeared confrontational. The men from the cult stood before them, shaking their heads while making animated motions with their hands. The women both remained sitting in the golf cart. Cynthia was in the driver’s seat. She looked ready to drive off.

One of the bikers then pushed one of the cult men to the ground. The victim’s friend reacted by stepping closer to the aggressive biker, only to receive a fist across his jaw. He doubled over and held his face.

“Oh my God,” Jenny said.

A different biker then came around and pulled Cynthia out of the driver’s seat, throwing her to the ground. The other woman promptly got out of the cart.

Clint noticed Harold putting his rifle together in his peripheral vision, but kept his focus on the scuffle at the corner. This was beginning to look like an attempted theft of the golf cart.

The cultist who was pushed to the ground stood up, ran around the cart, and grappled at the biker who had taken the driver’s seat. He was able to get an arm around his throat in the ensuing struggle. Meanwhile, on this side of the cart, the one who was punched suddenly kicked the one who hit him in the groin. That biker now hunched over in obvious pain. The third biker then came at the kicker, only to receive a roundhouse kick in the chest.

Back on the far side, the biker who had been in the driver’s seat had freed himself from the hold of the cultist and was now involved in a fist fight. The cultist was surprisingly fast with his hands, though, and bloodied the biker’s face.

“Oh my God,” Jenny said. “Should we help them?”

Clint noticed Harold attaching a scope to his now-assembled AR-7. Clint decided to put his rifle together, too.

“Looks like they might be able take care of themselves,” Clint said unzipping the case. “Maybe they’re from a Kung Fu commune, like a Shaolin Temple or something.”

The sound of a gunshot made Clint stop his rifle assembly and look back to the intersection. The biker who had been kicked in the groin was holding a handgun, pointing it at the cultist who kicked him. That cultist then fell backwards to the ground and stopped moving

“Oh my
God
!” Jenny said.

The girl on that side screamed and ran at the biker with the gun. She seemed to surprise him and managed to grab ahold of the gun with both her hands. They wrestled, but she was no match and the gun fired again. She too ended up motionless on the ground.

Jenny gasped, and then began choking.

The remaining male cultist came around the front of the cart towards the shooter. His former foe was on the ground on the far side trying to stand, looking badly beaten up.

But the brave cultist didn’t quite make it. The shooter shoved his gun hand straight into him and the sound of two more shots rang out—but only one was from the biker.

The other came from Harold.

The cultist was knocked back several feet before falling flat. The shooter looked around, as if he wasn’t sure whether he heard Harold’s shot or an echo of his own.

Jenny was now freaking out and sobbing uncontrollably. Clint looked at Harold, who was in the process of adjusting his scope. Clint wrenched the barrel nut down on his rifle as hard as he could, popped a magazine in, held it up, and aligned the sights towards the shooter.

A new dust trail kicked up on the crossroad as a single additional motorcycle approached. Meanwhile, the biker who lost the fist fight was on his feet. He stumbled over to Cynthia, who had been huddling behind the front fender all this time, grabbed her, and stood her up. He then turned her around and slapped her, hard. The biker with the gun appeared to laugh in response. This only inspired his companion to slap Cynthia again, even harder. Her head, neck, and shoulders could be seen knocked to one side of her body.

“Do something guys,” Jenny said. “Shoot those sons of bitches!”

Clint aimed at the biker with the gun and took a shot. At the same instant, Harold fired his second shot. The biker with the gun dropped it and grabbed his shoulder with his other hand. Either Clint or Harold just scored a hit. The other .22 slug pinged off the golf cart. Clint was pretty sure that was his. He decided to aim his second shot high and left.

All three bikers looked up the road where the new shots came from, just as the third motorcycle arrived on the corner. The injured one bent down to pick up his gun with his good arm. The other two both pulled pistols from their belts. Three seconds later, all three pistols returned fire at Clint, Jenny, and Harold. Clint saw a small puff of dust erupt in the dirt twenty yards away before taking his second shot. Harold fired his third shot about the same time.

The one who slapped Cynthia ran over to the new arrival, who was still sitting on his running motorcycle. The slapper turned and pointed towards the mound where Clint and Harold were shooting from. Harold took another shot. Suddenly the slapper’s head made a very unnatural motion. It snapped backwards, and hung there for a second, before the slapper dropped backwards and lay flat.

Cynthia then ran past him, into the grassy field beyond. The new arrival responded by riding forward, coming south parallel to the highway, and shortly descending into a ditch there.

But not before Clint noticed he had a rifle strapped to his back.