Alone, Book 3: The Journey (5 page)

     His instincts were right on the money. It only took him a few minutes to find what he was looking for.

    
The Rand McNally United States Road Atlas.

     “Bingo,” he said out loud.

     No one heard him, of course, and no one saw the look of pure joy on his face.

     It was just too darn dark.

     Dave tucked the atlas under his arm and headed back toward the broken window he’d crawled in through.

     He cautiously exited the building and stealthily made his way back to the Explorer.

     He looked around in all directions, and didn’t see anyone around.

     His luck was holding so far.

     In his right hand he held his 9mm handgun, just in case. He opened the driver’s side door and quickly swept his eyes over the back seat and the cargo area.

     Just in case he’d picked up any stowaways.

     It was clear.

     He climbed back inside, hoping his luck would hold just a little bit longer.

     In the back of the vehicle was a jump starter he’d pulled from his Faraday cage, just in case. About half the size of a car battery, it was charged by plugging it into a wall socket. Once charged, it held enough juice to jump start three or four dead car batteries.

     Since Dave hadn’t thought to save a spare alternator along with his other spare parts, and since the instrument panel was no longer working, he had no way of knowing whether the alternator would keep his battery charged.

     The jump starter was an insurance policy. But he didn’t want to use its juice unless he had to.

     So he crossed his fingers, whispered, “Please God…”

     And turned the key.

     The engine began purring like a kitten.

     He wasted no time, pulling the door closed behind him and pressing down the lock.

     He put the vehicle into gear and crept back into the parking lot and back onto Zavala Avenue, then back to Military Drive.

     He let the Explorer creep at its own pace most of the time. The only time he touched the accelerator was to speed past two teenaged boys walking in the darkness on the shoulder of Military Drive.

     One of them shouted, “Holy shit!” and jumped out of the way as the almost invisible vehicle sped past.

     The other one chastised his friend.

     “I told you, dude! You thought I was frickin’ crazy. I told you I heard a car!”

Chapter 8

     Once he was too far away for the teenaged boys to catch him, Dave took his foot off the accelerator and let the big SUV creep at its own pace again.

     He wasn’t moving fast, but at fifteen miles an hour, he was running virtually silent.

     On surface streets littered with abandoned vehicles, where there was the chance he might encounter roadblocks set up by the police, or by marauders, it was prudent to move cautiously and carefully.

     Still, he hoped he could pick up the pace once he exited the city and entered the open highway.

     At this rate, it would take him forever to get to his girls.

     A couple of miles away Dave drew a sigh of relief when he connected with Interstate 35.

     His ticket north and out of the city.

     But he was far from free.

     Dave lived on the south side of San Antonio. To escape its grasp, he’d have to travel through the heart of the city, the downtown area, within a few blocks of the Alamo and the San Antonio River.

     His newest concern was the traffic situation downtown. He hoped the highway wasn’t clogged by a sea of stalled cars that would block his path and make him return to the streets to get around them.

     Luckily, the blackout didn’t occur during the morning or evening rush hours, when traffic frequently came to a standstill in all lanes.

     Still, he’d been downtown enough to know that such conditions could occur any time of day. It didn’t take much. An accident. A pretty girl trying to change a tire and several men trying to pull over to help. He was once in a traffic jam for an hour when a horse got loose from a trailer and San Antonio’s finest had to corner it and calm it down.

     “Please, God. You’ve blessed me so far. Please continue to do so. At least until I get out of the city and have some room to breathe.”

     So far, so good.

     As Dave passed over Cesar Chavez Boulevard, he looked off to the east when a sudden burst of light caught his attention.

     He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly.

     An explosion off in the distance, maybe?

     But he’d heard no noise.

     He moved his head from side to side, driving about fifteen miles an hour, trying to avoid the cars blocking his lane, and at the same time trying to figure out what caused the flash of light.

     Suddenly he saw it again.

     It flashed behind the Hemisfair Tower two blocks south of the Alamo. The tower was a hulking structure, built in 1968 to celebrate a worldwide carnival of cultures, and drew people from around the world for many years after.

     Before the blackout, the revolving restaurant at the top of the 750 foot tall tower was a favorite for locals and tourists alike.

     Any other time the blacked out tower, backlit by a flash of light might appear serene, even pretty.

     But not to Dave. Not when the flash of light was a lightning bolt.

     A storm front was approaching from the east.

     Dave’s mind raced with the implications.

     His windshield wipers, like his lights, went through the destroyed electrical system and would not work.

     He knew that.

     What he didn’t know was how hard it would be to see through a rain soaked windshield, when he was already hindered by the limited capability of the night vision goggles.

     Of course, this could be a good thing.

     The rain, if more than just a drizzle, would keep most of the marauders off the streets.

     Not that he expected many of them to be wandering the elevated highway above downtown San Antonio.

     Still, there might be a few, looking for tractor trailers to break into. If the rain kept them from being in the open, it might help Dave get through the gauntlet that was San Antonio, even driving at such low speeds.

     Of course, if the rains were bad, he’d have to drive even slower.

     He couldn’t drive any slower than fifteen miles an hour. At that speed, a bandit in fairly decent shape could run for short distances and keep pace with him. And even in the black of night, against a darkened vehicle he might be able to barely see, he could land a lucky bullet.

     Bullets traveled much faster than fifteen miles an hour.

     He picked up his speed a bit, to twenty.

     And hoped for the best.

Chapter 9

     After he got used to winding around stalled cars at twenty miles an hour, Dave’s confidence grew and he was able to pick up the pace a little more.

     At twenty five, he felt like he was finally making progress.

     It helped that he could limit all his attention to the front windshield, now that he’d identified the source of the flash of light. Only occasionally did he glance off to his right to see if the approaching storm had gotten any closer.

     He breathed a sigh of relief when he passed by the Loop 410 Interchange without getting stuck. The interchange was one of the busiest in the city, any time of day, and was subject to bottlenecks that once frequently stopped traffic in its tracks.

     Loop 410 was the innermost of two loops that circled the city. When it was completed there wasn’t much of anything outside the loop. Now, though, the city was so large that a second traffic loop, Loop 1604, encircled Loop 410 a few miles farther out.

     Dave wouldn’t rest easy until he passed under Loop 1604.

     For only then would civilization start to thin, and hopefully the number of stalled cars with it.

     He began to wonder if his plan to travel at night was a sound one.

     Yes, at nighttime he had the advantage that his night vision goggles gave him.

     But in the daytime he could see the stalled cars from a much greater distance. That meant he could drive at much higher speeds.

     Of course, in the daytime, a man with a rifle could see him coming from a mile away.

     And would be able to see Dave well enough to line up a shot before Dave drove past, even at higher speeds.

     No, he finally decided. It was too late to change his plans.

     And even at these maddeningly slow speeds, this was the safest way to travel.

     A raindrop plunked down in the center of his windshield.

     Dave uttered, “Oh, crap.”

     Another one hit the windshield on the passenger side. He heard a couple of them hit the roof as well.

     He was tempted to pick up his speed a bit, suspecting that a heavy rainstorm would stop him dead in his tracks. And the faster he moved, the farther away he’d be from the city when that happened.

     But no. He needed to keep his cool, and stick to his plan. Higher speeds meant more chance he wouldn’t see an obstacle in time and would plow into it.

     And then he’d be screwed.

     Mile by mile he plodded on, hoping the rains would hold off just a little bit longer.

     He smiled when he passed under the overpass of a multilane highway.

     The sign said, “Loop 1604.”

     He was, for all practical purposes, out of San Antonio.

     And sure enough, just as he’d hoped, traffic had been much thinner here on the day of the blackout.

     The stalled cars were getting fewer and farther between. And he still only noticed raindrops occasionally.

     His luck was holding.

     Or maybe a higher power was continuing to watch over him.

     He picked up his speed just a bit, to twenty five miles an hour. At this speed, he had to keep his eyes glued to the road ahead. The stalled cars and trucks were nothing but black patches against a slightly lighter background. If he lost focus, he would crash into the back of one of them.

     Just south of San Marcos and about twenty miles or so from San Antonio, Dave pulled over in front of a nondescript little green sign with white lettering reading “200.”

     It would be the first of his food and water drops.

     The idea was to make the return trip much easier on him and his family. Every fifty miles, they could count on finding a cache of food and water that would sustain them for a couple of days or more.

     It wouldn’t provide all their needs, of course. But it would make a big dent, and would lessen the time they had to spend foraging for food or water.

     He scanned the horizon in every direction and saw no signs of life.

     Then he reached over to the passenger side of the vehicle and unlocked the door.

     Next, he stepped outside and scanned the horizon in all directions again.

     Still clear.

     He reached back and opened the locked rear door from the inside, then depressed the driver’s door lock and closed it.

     From the back seat he took a black plastic garbage bag, just like the ones he once packed leaves and grass in from his lawn.

     Only this bag didn’t contain leaves or grass.

     This bag contained a large glass jar that once held three gallons of pickles. It was one of several such jars Sarah had once bought at a garage sale in the hope they would come in handy in their prepping efforts.

     And they did indeed. This jar was now chock full of dried fruits, protein bars, rabbit and beef jerky, and even high calorie hard candy. Enough to sustain Dave, Sarah and the girls at least two days, and maybe more.

     A screw on metal lid would protect the contents from moisture and from animals and insects.