Cries Of The World Page 5

  Michael was still wary, but the man nodded and held out his hands for the shotgun. Michael handed it back, trying not to look nervous and reluctant.

  “Best to boil the water here. People get sick from untreated water nowadays.” Carl told them.

  “Yes sir,” Michael said, watching King watch them.

  “This your camp?” King broke his silence.

  “Sort of. I got a place a little further down but I can’t pull my canoe out of the river anymore. So when I get some fish like I do today, I land it and then carry things a little at a time before floating down and tying off. Makes me work harder, but life in the boondocks has always been like that,” Carl told them.

  “You know about the power being out?” Michael blurted out.

  Carl laughed and nodded. “I’m old and a bit of a hillbilly, but I do know about that. Some FEMA chumps tried to get me to go into the camps but I just faded into the swamp until they quit coming around. You two look all right, you weren’t in the camps were you?”

  Michael looked at King, almost pleading for the big man to answer.

  “Yes,” King told him simply.

  “Too many people? Lots of sickness?”

  “Yes,” the deep voice answered again.

  “That’s what I thought. Well boys, get your water, I’m going to drag this fish home and I’ll be back. Do you want one? Four fish is probably more than I can eat before it goes bad,” Carl asked.

  “Sure,” Michael said, his stomach rumbling in anticipation of something other than the travel food they had.

  Even catfish sounded like a good meal, despite having lived off of it for months. The old man pulled the rope stringer out of the mouth of one of the largest fish, a bass, and handed it to Michael.

  “Thank you,” Michael said.

  “You two have safe travels,” Carl told them and walked up the embankment, the stringer of fish weighing him down and making him walk leaning to the side, the shotgun barely counter balancing the weight.

  “That was…” Michael said.

  “Weird,” King finished.

  * * *

  For two more days, they followed 59/20 south west towards Louisiana. According to the maps, it would be a little over a four hundred mile trip. Something that would have taken them six and a half hours if driving. But after a few days of walking, they’d come maybe fifty or sixty miles, if they were lucky.

  “You want to try the Highway?” King asked, getting frustrated as well.

  “We haven’t walked across in a day or so, maybe it’s not so choked up?” Michael said hopefully.

  The EMP had happened on a Friday night, months and months ago. The surface streets didn’t seem to be in as bad of shape as the highways, but people had left their cars where they had died. The electronics fried out on them. It had made the highway almost impassable for stretches and, although the NATO troops had been clearing roads and stretches of highway, it was closer to their base of operations. The nation itself still had huge areas clogged with dead cars.

  “Maybe we get lucky and find something that runs,” King grinned.

  “Glad I’m not the only one with sore legs,” Michael said.

  They both started up the embankment towards the asphalt and guard railing. It was a climb and they were wary as they went into the tall grass looking for snakes. Both were drenched in sweat as they crested the climb and stepped over the guard rail. As far as they could see, cars were parked, dead.

  “We can walk for now,” King said.

  Michael nodded and followed the big man. What had worried both of them with this situation was how much cover there was between all the broken down cars. An ambush could be set up an hour ahead of time if conditions were good and somebody had been using binoculars to scout them out. The good news, was it also provided them with cover if somebody did try to ambush them. It was a win/lose situation, but their chances of finding supplies and moving faster in a straight line made it a little easier.

  “So King, tell me about your time in the military,” Michael said, breaking the silence.

  “No,” King told him, not unkindly.

  “OK, what was it like for you growing up? Where were you from?” Michael asked.

  “Born right here,” King said, “Growing up wasn’t fun.”

  “Wasn’t fun? I mean, did you play football in school, girlfriend? Married?”

  “You talk a lot,” King said and kept moving.

  For an hour, Michael held his lip. They moved in and out of cars and, for a time, the highway wasn’t raised as much as the surface streets. There was a median and, in the distance, they could see a dark shape sitting in the median, underneath an underpass.

  “Scope that,” King said pointing.

  “Michael stopped and pulled out his binoculars.

  He leaned against the hot metal of a car trunk and tried not to feel the burn against his elbows as he focused on the blob. He turned the focus knob and then saw what it was. An old tractor with brush cutters on both sides. It’d had been parked and left there, probably by whoever had the contract to cut the median and left it for the next time it was needed. Usually saved fuel that way.

  “Tractor,” Michael said, his elbows on fire.

  “People?”

  “Not that I can see. Here,” Michael handed King the binoculars and rubbed his elbows.

  “Come on kid,” King said after a couple minutes, “I think we found ourselves a ride.”

  “A ri… wait, what?” Michael said as King started walking, whistling as he went.

  * * *

  “I can work with this,” King said, his face breaking into a rare grin.

  “It’s just an old tractor,” Michael said, “can you hotwire it?”

  “Don’t have to,” King pulled a screwdriver from his backpack.

  He opened the engine cowling and found the starting solenoid. Motioning Michael to stay back, King crossed the terminals with the screwdriver. Sparks flew and the old machine wheezed and then coughed black smoke as it fired up. King put his tool back and pushed his backpack into the cab, near where his feet would go.

  “Not enough room for both of us inside. I’ll teach you to drive this thing while you stand on the step there.”

  “It’s loud, how are we going to hear anything?” Michael almost had to yell to hear himself over the din of the motor.

  King pushed in a lever to idle it down and the noise dropped quite a bit.

  “Won’t go as fast that way, but we don’t have to shout. Better on fuel. You’re going to stand on the step here. Hold onto this, and you’re my extra eyes and ears,” King said, motioning for Michael to hand him his pack. He did, and the old carbine he got from his grandfather.

  The ride started off bumpy but smoothed out when King was able to drive the tractor up onto the pavement. It wasn’t fast travel, but it was faster than anything they had done it the past four days. Without a speedometer, they could only guess judging by the mile markers they were seeing.

  “Hold on,” Michael said, tapping King on the shoulder.

  The big man idled down so it was barely running.

  “What you see?” King asked, noting Michael’s concerned look.

  “Cars pushed together on the road. Nose to nose. Doesn’t look like a wreck.”

  King hit the red stop button and the motor ground to a halt. It made ticking and pinging noises as the metal cooled. Michael was glassing the area when a glint of sunlight caught his attention. He was working to refocus on it when he caught sight of a gun barrel.

  “Down,” Michael yelled, jumping and landing hard on the ground.

  Two shots rang out, hitting the bush hog on the right hand side, and King bailed out as well. With both of their hearts beating hard, they used the engine block and tires to hide behind.

  “You get a good look at them?” King asked.

  “No, just saw a barrel. I saw a flash of light and when I focused, I saw a barrel—“ A shot rang out, kicking up the dirt a foot to the lef
t of the front of the tractor, “and figured it was—“

  “Scoped rifle. Good eyes, kid.”

  Every time King or Michael tried to get eyes on the roadblock, a shot would ring out.

  “I hope they are running low on ammo,” Michael said.

  “Probably why whoever it is, is keeping us pinned down instead of rushing us?” Michael asked when it was clear that King wasn’t going to answer.

  “Got an idea,” King said, crawling between the two big rear tires.

  A shot came dangerously close, but luckily King had just moved. Between the two large tires, King scoped the area out.

  “Three guys. Rednecks. Looks like they’re drinking beer and having fun,” King, as always, was short and to the point.

  “Want my rifle?” Michael asked.

  “It’s in the cab,” King told him.

  “Oh well, I can fix that!” Michael stood and took two quick steps and hopped onto the lower step to the cab, using the body of the tractor to cover his movements.

  Multiple shots rang out, one of them blowing through the glass of the cab. The safety glass blew out and stuck to Michael’s sweat soaked body in places. Reaching quickly, he snagged his grandfather’s rifle and dropped to the ground, trying to roll behind the big tire in the back.

  “Here,” Michael yelled, tossing the gun butt stock first when he realized he couldn’t reach King.

  “You crazy, man. Crazy,” King said, pulling the rifle to him.

  The thunderous sound of shots on fully automatic broke the silence and Michael jumped, expecting the gunfire but it still scared him.

  “One redneck down,” King mumbled before firing again.

  “Winged him, the rest are running. I only saw three, will keep looking.” King said.

  Michael hesitated a moment and peeked around the corner. No more shots came their way.

  “Is it safe?” Michael asked.

  “Think so,” King said, crawling out from under the tractor.

  Bits of grass and chaff stuck to him and he tried brushing it out of his hair, but it was fairly stuck. He handed Michael the rifle back and opened the motor cowling. He pulled the ignition wire off and then closed it up.

  “What are we doing?” Michael asked.

  “Going to see what those guys were doing.” King said, moving to the highway quickly.

  Michael followed and, using the cars as cover, they made their way slowly towards the ambush point. When they got to the cars that were nose to nose, Michael had to marvel. Starting low on the door three shots had gone through the door panel and one through the glass. Working slowly, they walked around where they found the body. The back of the car had matching holes, but judging by where the man was shot, at least of two of King’s slugs had hit him.

  It was a Mustang, and the glass or safety glass had blown out, covering him much the same way it did Michael. On the hood sat a partially torn open box of cans of Coors. Empties littered the ground.

  “They was having a party, or camped out,” King mused.

  Michael started rifling the pockets of the dead man and came up with some .30/06 shells that would work in his gun. He pocketed them and went to the rifle. The stock was cracked and covered with duct tape. The barrel had a hank of rope tied to it in a makeshift sling. Even the scope was in poor shape. Michael emptied the gun and offered it to king who took it and using both of his big hands, swung the rifle by the stock.

  He let go at the last second as the barrel hit, bending. When it came to rest, he got it and inspected his work. Smiling, he removed the bolt and threw the gun in the median.

  “Never leave a working weapon at your back,” King said.

  “I’ll remember that,” Michael said.

  He would too; he was going to just leave the gun there. But he realized that there was ammo in the world, and all it would take was for the other two to come up and feed it into the gun.

  The rest of the hideout was pretty bare. There had been three cars, not two, pushed together. It was done in an almost U shape, if the cars were parked at ninety degree angles. The men must have gotten stupid after King had shot through the door panel, and stood to run. Blood splatter away from the corpse confirmed that King had indeed winged the other man, but no other supplies were found.

  “Must be watching the road here. No supplies. Camped away from here. I’m worried these guys are going for help.” King said.

  “Me too. Want to take the tractor and go back to the small roads?”

  “No,” King said, motioning for them to start making their way back to the tractor.

  Michael moved to cover him, and grinned when the big man grabbed the case of Coors with one big hand. They didn’t move behind cover as before, but with a more hurried purpose. Michael slung his rifle over his shoulder when they got to the tractor. King put the ignition wire back and jumped it again and hopped in.

  “Tap me if you see something. We’re gonna hustle and it’s going to be bumpy,” King shouted as he idled up the motor.

  Michael just nodded and hung on as the tractor took off, at almost twice the speed as it had before. It took both arms for Michael to hold on at times and the tractor was moving fast enough that he could feel the wind at his face, the sweat drying almost as soon as it tried to form on his skin. It was pleasant to be moving and moving at a decent clip, but it was punishing to his already sore body. Almost an hour and a half later, King idled back the tractor and then hit the stop button.

  “What’s up?” Michael asked, hopping off and stretching to get the kinks out of his cramping muscles.

  “Need fuel.” King told him, checking his side to make sure his pistol was still there.

  That had almost become an unconscious thing for the two guys. It was like an old habit like checking your wallet. Make sure your gun is still seated in the holster well, and keep your water canteens full… Little things that marked how much the world had changed.

  “Oh, uh… Where are we going to—“

  “There,” King pointed at a semi-tractor trailer sitting dead in the fast lane of 59/20 southbound.

  King had parked the tractor very close to the semi, and Michael could immediately see his plan when he opened the cowling of the tractor and pulled out a length of plastic tubing from his pack.

  “Syphon?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah. Diesel don’t taste good, so you gotta be careful,” King said.

  He dropped one end in the chromed fuel tank of the semi and Michael held the tube in place as he unrolled it to make sure it was long enough to go to the fuel tank in the tractor. It was, and had some room to spare, so King started sucking on one end of the hose. The fuel rose in the line, slowly and Michael could see the effort it was costing the big man. He must have been blowing out through his nose, but he never let go of the pipe until gravity took over and fuel started running towards the tractor.

  King spat and pushed the end of the hose into the top of the fuel tank and used his shirt to wipe his tongue off.

  “Wasn’t fast enough,” he complained.

  Michael watched in awe as the fuel transferred with no pump. He had always thought there needed to be quite a bit of height difference for it to work and then he paused to consider it. Even though it wasn’t a raised section of highway, the road surface was built up higher than the median. It’d have to be or it would flood. The fuel tank of the tractor was higher than the semi’s tank, but there was enough of a difference in height to make it work. The hard part had been getting it started over such a long length of pipe.

  “That’s pretty cool. How long were you scouting for a spot to park and fuel up like this?” Michael said, proud he’d figured it out.

  “Half an hour. It was this one or get fuel by hand,” King told him.

  “We were running close to empty?”

  “Just a heartbeat away. Road gear moves you fast, but it’s a pig for fuel.”

  They were silent until King told Michael to pull his end of the hose up. He recapped the semi’s tank a
nd held the hose up as instructed until all of it went into the tank of the tractor. They finished the refueling and got the tractor started again. King once more let it go all out but, after another hour, Michael had to tap him to get his attention. King idled the tractor down hard, almost throwing Michael off.

  When Michael didn’t jump for cover, King gave him a curious glance.

  “What’s wrong?” King asked.

  “Too much bouncing. My arms are cramping,” Michael admitted, not wanting to sound like a wuss, but they’d been traveling fast and hard.

  “Good, I gotta kill a tree,” King mumbled, switching the engine off.

  Michael groaned. The big guy had a sense of humor somewhere, but he could never tell with that James Earl Jones voice until after he thought about it. King dug out a small foldable shovel and Michael almost laughed. He wasn’t joking.

  “Woods over there. You want to wait here?” King said.

  “As opposed to…?”

  “Nothing. Just want to know where to look for you when I come back,” King said.

  “I’ll be here.”

  King took off for the tree line that covered the west side of the highway, across the northbound lane. Michael took the opportunity to look around. No obvious threats - and then he saw the mile marker. They had been making good time! What had taken them days of walking was done in less than an hour. It was bone jarring, but they could cover the distance in a few days if they were lucky. Michael pulled out a worn map and tried to follow their progress and used a pencil stub to make a note on the map. So much ground covered, so much more to go.

  Soon, he hoped to find Lukashenko and his mother. He’d only had the rumors to go on, but he’d heard it from King and from some of Lukashenko’s men who’d surrendered early on and hadn’t been killed. If his mother was still alive, she’d be at the facility, King had assured him. There wasn’t anywhere else close by. Michael prayed his mother hadn’t been abused like so many of the women in the camps and, with his father dead, it’d be up to him to watch after her. Protect her. Deep, dark thoughts clouded his vision and it was footsteps that finally brought him out of his daydream of revenge.

  Michael spun, bringing his rifle to ready. King was making his way across the northbound lanes.