Charges (30 page)

The Beretta sounded like a cannon when Vincenzo fired. He’d meant to hit the boy dead in the chest, but at the last moment, he inched the pistol to the right. The bullet zipped benignly between the two young men, but the sound and the muzzle flash had the desired effect. The boy with the bat stopped short, and the other one dropped the machete with a cry.

“That’s the only warning you get!” Vincenzo shouted, his ears ringing and the smell of burnt powder strong in his nostrils. “I’m not going to waste the next one. You keep fucking with me, people are going to wind up dead!”

The younger boy grabbed the older one, wrapping his arms around him. They struggled, but the younger one looked at Vincenzo. “Go! Go!” he yelled.

Vincenzo bolted past them, his boots stomping on the pavement as he ran for the far side of the overpass. He was dimly aware of the stricken man calling out to his boys in a weak voice.

He surged out into the daylight then slowed and glanced back. The family was still huddled together. He took a moment to catch his breath then flipped on the Beretta’s safety and slipped the weapon into its holster. Tucking his walking stick under his arm, he took off his sweat-soaked cap and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He put his cap back on and resumed his walk, casting glances over his shoulder every now and then as he moved on down the road.

###

CARLISLE, PA UNDER MARTIAL LAW

RESIDENTS SHOW ID AT CHECKPOINTS

ALL OTHER PERSONS FORBIDDEN

USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED

Razor-wire fences and armed guards, a few of them in police and military uniforms but most in just street clothes, controlled every road leading into the city. And they had vehicles, as well, older cars and trucks that had either been repaired or had survived the event, and a few of those were military Humvees and trucks. Vincenzo knew from his map that there was an Army installation somewhere in the city limits, which explained the military presence. What he didn’t get was why the entire city was closed.

Is that even legal?
Fort Indiantown Gap, he could understand. That was a military reservation. But denying access to an entire
city
seemed pretty extreme.

He watched from a vantage point on the far side of a car dealership parking lot as the troops and guards milled around beneath the I-81 overpass, using it cover from the sun. A handful of travelers walked up to the checkpoint. One was admitted, but the rest were turned back. One couple went back the way they had come, while another climbed up the embankment to Interstate 81, which appeared to be permissible. They paralleled the interstate for a few feet then disappeared behind a row of trees.

The guards didn’t try to confiscate anyone’s possessions, but that didn’t make him feel all rosy about things. The signs pretty much explained everything. Access through Carlisle wasn’t happening, and his mapped route ran right through the city. He’d have to find another way.

He knelt and pulled his maps out of the knapsack. His choices were to track north or south. It seemed likely that Carlisle was blocked off at the interstates, which meant that as long as he stayed outside of the I-81 and I-76 boundaries, he might be okay. He was closer to the southern end of what he presumed would be the area of control around Carlisle, and there weren’t any rivers or anything to cross. He figured it would be mostly farmland.

So south it is. Another detour, another delay. Fantastic.

###

It took six hours for him to make it past Carlisle. Most of that time was spent wending his way through fields, down country roads, and across vacant business parking lots. He avoided residential areas where he could and crossed private property only when there was no other choice and no one was around to interfere. He saw a band of farmers on horseback patrolling one gigantic corn field while others tended to the land. Taking a chance, he waved at them, ensuring they saw him as he approached. The horsemen stopped and waited for him to approach. They had rifles, but no one pointed one at him.

“Afternoon,” one man said. He wore a straw cowboy hat and actually had a bandana tied around his neck. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but Vincenzo could see enough of the skin around the lenses to tell the man was a weathered sort. He looked to be in his sixties, but the toll of working the land might have made him look older than his years.

Vincenzo stopped about twenty feet away. “Hi. I’m sorry to bother you guys. I just want some directions, if that’s all right.”

“Directions are easy,” the man said. “Anything else might be asking a bit much, though. Where you coming from?”

“New York City.”

The man let out a low whistle. “Mighty long walk. Where you headed?”

“Los Angeles.”

The man snorted. “Seriously?”

Vincenzo nodded.

“Well, then. My directions are ‘Go west, young man, and turn left at the Pacific Ocean.’”

“Yeah, I have that part down. I was actually wondering if there’s a shortcut around here. I’m trying to get back to Route 641, but Carlisle is apparently closed down.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, we know all about it. After what happened to Harrisburg, people around here are a bit nervous with all the strangers coming in. Not sure they can just close down a city that way, but at the moment, it’s not our problem. Anyone with you, or are you traveling alone?”

“Just me.”

“Okay.” The man’s horse stamped one of its hooves, kicking up dust. “You got somethin’ to write with?”

Vincenzo reached into his knapsack. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the other men swing his rifle into his hands. Vincenzo eased a ballpoint pen from his bag. He held it up for them to see.

The older man nodded. “Okay, here’s what you need to do. See that trail right there?” He pointed off to his right.

Vincenzo looked and saw a dirt trail going through the field. “Yeah.”

“Take that trail all the way across the field. Once you get to the trees, go left until you see another trail. Take that to the next road. That’ll be Holly Pike. Turn right and head north on Holly Pike until you get to Marsh Drive, on your left. Stay on Marsh until you get to Walnut Bottom Road. Turn left onto Walnut then right onto Sprint. Stay on Sprint until you make it to Allen, then turn right on Allen. That’ll take you to 641, which is called Newville here.”

Vincenzo wrote all of it down on the back of his map. He read the instructions back.

“You’re good to go. Now, do yourself a favor. Don’t stay on my property any longer than you have to. I don’t want you camping out here. Just walk through and get out. We don’t want any trouble, and we won’t take any. You get what I’m saying?”

Vincenzo nodded. “I get you.”

The older man waved his free hand. “Then you’re good to go. Charlie, you go riding ahead of him and tell the folks at the house not to worry about this man. He has our permission to cross.”

“Yes, sir,” the youngest one said. He pulled on his horse’s reins, and the animal responded obediently.

Vincenzo watched him go for a moment then looked up at the older man. “Thanks for your help.”

“Sure thing. Did the event hit New York hard?”

“New York was on fire when I left. I’m not sure if it’s there anymore. But one thing’s for sure, you boys are going to have a lot of company in the next couple of weeks, and people are going to be desperate come winter.”

The old man nodded. “We know. We’re ready. When it comes time, we’ll do what we have to do. Of course, you’ll hopefully be long gone by then. And I’d recommend you get to it. You have a couple of hours of walking ahead of you before you get back to 641.”

Vincenzo waved farewell to the farmer and his crew. He headed off toward the trail, returning his map and pen to his knapsack.

###

Vincenzo walked for almost seven hours. The farmer’s directions had been pretty accurate. The area was mostly semi-rural farm land until he made it to Walnut Bottom Road, then it became a little more industrial. Sprint Drive was also where a local hospital—Carlisle Regional Medical Center—was located. It was a busy place, and quite a few Army troops were guarding it. He considered trying to pass through their area of control but thought better of it. Instead, he crossed a bank parking lot, went through a thin screen of trees, then rejoined the road well past the medical campus.

Late afternoon, he found his way back to Route 641. The roadway was clear of soldiers, but several other travelers were present. Vincenzo took shelter beneath a halted tractor-trailer to drink some water and eat one of his MREs.

It was twilight before he made it to the next town, Newburg. The elevation was increasing, and the Appalachians lay before him. He felt like hell, and he didn’t know how he was going to be able to tackle any substantial inclines, but he figured if he stuck to a road, he’d be better off. The real heights were still a day or more away, so he had some time to consider any alternate routes. At the moment, all he wanted to do was get some sleep. His legs and feet were killing him. His pants were sagging even more than they had earlier in the day, so he pulled them up and cinched his belt a little tighter. At the beginning of his journey, he had weighed maybe a hundred seventy pounds. He guessed he’d lost about ten of that. Even his boots felt a bit looser, which worried him a little bit. The last thing he needed was an outbreak of blisters.

Finding a campsite was difficult. He was surrounded by fields, and the closest trees were perhaps a quarter of a mile away, down Covered Bridge Road. The road appeared deserted, so he headed down it, paralleling yet another field. He saw a farmhouse out in the expanse, its windows illuminated by pale light. Either a generator was in action, or the place was full of candles.

Night was well on the way when he made it into the trees. He found a narrow pathway more by luck than by sight and followed it for a few hundred feet, before stepping off into the dark brush. He considered switching on his flashlight—something he hadn’t really done since leaving New York—but he didn’t want to give away his position. So he eased in amongst the trees, wincing as twigs and rotting branches snapped beneath his feet. Something smelled a little funky, and he wondered if he might be entering a bear’s den. A bear attack would be the cherry on the cake of his day, but he was counting on not being that unlucky just yet.

He found a small clearing and spread out his sleeping bag. He drank some water, slathered on some bug repellent, then stretched out on his makeshift bed. The darkness was almost absolute. All he heard were insects trilling to each other and the light breeze rustling the leaves overhead.

No gunshots
.
Who would’ve thought?

He passed out almost before the thought finished forming in his head.

24

When Vincenzo woke up, an ant-covered face was staring at him from about ten feet away. With a strangled shout, he sat up and pulled the Beretta from its holster. He scooted back into the brush on his ass, keeping the weapon trained on the person.

The face didn’t move, but the ants crawled across the pale flesh. The man was lying half on his side, his mouth open, revealing a swollen, blackened tongue. Insects crawled in and out of his orifices. They even ambled across the man’s milky, dry eyes. One arm was stretched upward, as if he had died reading for the tree canopies.

Well, now you know why it smells a little funky here.
The man looked to be in his late fifties. He was dressed for outdoor travel—cargo pants like Vincenzo’s and a thin Henley shirt. The butt of a pistol stuck out from the sturdy belt, and the crotch of his pants had a stain. The man had soiled himself before he died, and it looked as if his death hadn’t been all that long ago, perhaps a day. The body was still in rigor mortis, which explained why his arm was reaching for the heavens. Vincenzo felt an itching sensation and realized ants were crawling on him as well. Swearing under his breath, he practically vaulted to his feet, slapping and swiping at the insects. Fortunately, the repellent prevented many from paying him a visit, so the task didn’t take long.

If he hadn’t been so exhausted, or if the light had been better, he would have seen the corpse before bedding down. He wondered what the hell a guy was doing out in the middle of the woods and, more importantly, what had killed him. He looked around, hoping to put that piece of the puzzle in place. There were no signs of a struggle, though he did spot a set of tire tracks on the trail he had walked up last night.

Following the tracks with his eyes, he saw that they led to a big utility vehicle, three quarters of which was hidden beneath a camouflage net. Moving closer, he realized the camouflage netting was still wrapped around two of the corpse’s fingers. It was as if the man had dropped dead while either preparing to leave or setting up for a stay. Vincenzo holstered his Beretta and knelt beside the man.
Dude, did you drop from a heart attack?

He could see no evidence of foul play, no gunshot wounds, no stab wounds, not even a bump on the guy’s noggin. The funky smell definitely came from the corpse, even though it hadn’t been dead long enough to start rotting. Vincenzo figured the source of the odor was contained inside the man’s pants.

Vincenzo stood and went over to the vehicle. It was an old Blazer, of the very early 1970s variety. Despite it all, he found himself smiling. His first vehicle as a kid had been a 1978 K-5 Blazer, Cheyenne package, which had promptly been stolen four days after he’d bought it for six thousand dollars from a used car lot in East Flatbush, Brooklyn. The camouflaged one was older but in much better shape than his rust bucket had been. He pulled off the netting, taking care not to tear it along the mirrors and the radio antenna sticking out of the front right fender like a lightning rod. The vehicle was entirely black, and when he touched the hood, the paint felt rough—a flat matte finish, tough and durable, as though the vehicle was being prepped for restoration. A lift kit held the body well above the big knobby tires. He reached for the driver’s door and was relieved when it opened easily. There was no interior light, but the keys were in the ignition. He climbed in and turned the key to the Accessories position. The idiot lights in the dashboard lit up.

“Oh, wow,” he whispered then turned the key back to the off position.
It still has power!

He noticed a rifle lying across the passenger seat. He picked it up and pulled it into his arms. A Springfield—a newer M1A, with a composite stock. A ten-round magazine was loaded in the well, and a shoulder strap hung from the mounts on the bottom. Vincenzo had fired a similar weapon—one of his hunting buddies had owned one. He pulled back the bolt, and there, gleaming faintly in the dim light, was a cartridge. The weapon was ready to go. Vincenzo eased the bolt back into place and stood the rifle in the passenger side foot well.

He checked the back of the vehicle. It was full of camping gear, several cases of water, and food—more food than Vincenzo had seen in days. He slumped in the driver’s seat and clutched the steering wheel with shaking hands.
Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you.

He climbed out and rolled up the netting then opened the upper half of the rear hatch and tossed it inside. He gathered his own gear and placed it behind the front passenger seat.

Next, he returned to the body and picked up the pistol, a Springfield .45 caliber, XDm series. He removed the man’s heavy belt, wrinkling his nose at the stench. The belt had a neat little surprise—a thin blade concealed inside the buckle.

He fished out the man’s wallet and opened it gingerly. The picture on the driver’s license more or less matched that of the corpse, minus the ants. His name was Walter Scott, from Coatesville, Pennsylvania. In life, he had apparently been a sour sort of individual, since he had favored the camera with a challenging glare. His dark eyes were clear but a bit hostile, and Vincenzo had no doubt that Mr. Scott was a tough customer when push came to shove. He and Mr. Scott were the same height, which might come in handy, as there were spare clothes in the back of the Blazer.

What to do about the body?
Are you going to help yourself to the man’s possessions and not even bother to give him a burial?

Vincenzo considered that for a few minutes before deciding that burying the man was out of the question. He just didn’t have the time, and there was always the chance that someone else might arrive. He wound up dragging the body away from the Blazer and covering it with leaves and brush. After that, he practically bathed his hands with sanitizer.

“I’ll find your people and let them know where you are,” he told the corpse. “That’s a promise. And I’ll return your stuff to them, too.”

He climbed back into the truck and turned the key. The Blazer started right away, which gave him immeasurable relief. The fuel tank was just below full, and the odometer read 69,735 miles, damn low for a vehicle that was more than forty years old. Punching the clutch, he dropped the vehicle into reverse. He stalled it out on the first try and had to restart it. After playing with the clutch, he managed to get it rolling back up the trail. The Blazer bounced a bit on its stiff, heavy-duty suspension as the big tires rolled over ruts and rock before the truck made it to the road. Using the mirrors as well as sticking his head out the window, he pulled onto Covered Bridge Road. Once there, Vincenzo kept rolling and turned the truck until the brush-guard-protected grille was pointed in the direction of Route 641. He set the parking brake then hopped out to do a quick walk-around.

From the door frame, he thought the original paint job had been green. The tires were properly inflated, and there were heavy-duty bumpers on both ends. Mounted on the brush guard were additional lights, old-school KC halogens. He popped the hood and saw that Mr. Scott had apparently paid a lot of attention to the Chevy’s rebuilt 350 cubic-inch engine. It was normally aspirated—no fuel injection and nothing too difficult to maintain, at least in warmer weather. He slammed the hood closed and climbed back into the driver’s seat.

In the better light, he studied the dashboard. It was a stock machine, more or less rebuilt to the factory-new condition. He laughed when he saw the air conditioning switch, and he turned it on. Cool air blasted from the vents, and he was pretty sure that Mr. Scott had added that aftermarket. The windows were of the roll-up variety. The interior was all black vinyl, two bucket seats up front, a bench seat in the back. Inside the center console was a road atlas, ammunition for the pistol and rifle, some spare magazines, several packs of Winstons cigarettes, and a pack of heat-softened cinnamon-flavored Dentyne. Vincenzo popped a piece of the gum in his mouth, released the parking brake, and put the Blazer in gear.

###

He roared through the town of Newburg without stopping, carefully weaving around the dead cars and trucks. It was still quite early, but the sun was up, and some people came out of their houses to watch him roll down the highway. One young boy ran out and jumped around, waving and hollering. Vincenzo waved back and gave a quick toot of the horn. What emerged was a full early 1970s honk, music from an era long forgotten, when men were men and cars and trucks were gas-guzzling fire-breathers.

On the other side of the town, whenever he saw a long stretch with no vehicles blocking the road, he kicked the Blazer up to seventy-five. He slowed only to maneuver around stalled traffic and, once, another Amish covered wagon. He waved at the man and woman sitting inside the black carriage, but they only stared back, perhaps irritated that some form of technology with more than one horsepower still existed. The black horse pulling the wagon didn’t seem to mind, aside from flicking its ears in his direction.

Vincenzo’s stomach rumbled, and he decided it was safe enough to pull over. He brought the Blazer to a halt on the downward slope of a hill. Just in case it wouldn’t start by turning the ignition, he could get a rolling shot at starting it by popping the clutch. He set the parking brake, switched off the ignition, and stepped outside.

The fields to his right looked to be cared for, whereas the ones to the left were growing wild. He didn’t see a farm house, but a narrow road cut through the tended fields. He pulled out the rifle and carried it to the rear of the Blazer. The weapon was obviously well-cared for, though Vincenzo could see it had been used. It was a working man’s weapon, not some monkey’s tacticool range queen. He shouldered the rifle and looked down its length. As far as he could tell, the sights were in good shape, though he’d have to actually fire it to be sure.

He slung the weapon then opened the Blazer’s split tail gate. He went through the supplies there, helping himself to a bottle of water as he worked. There were cans of beef stew, corned beef, and Spam, along with a multitude of vacuum-sealed dry goods. He found a neatly packed four-person tent. The spikes were dirty, so it had been used relatively recently. A cooler still half full of ice, contained sodas, water, and even several cans of Budweiser. Vincenzo laughed at that, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He opened a can of beef stew and ate it cold, using a plastic spoon from his own pack. He then popped a can of Bud and guzzled it. He belched loudly. He couldn’t remember a time when beer had tasted so good. He drained the can in less than two minutes and was surprised to feel a pleasant buzz.
Now, now. No time for a DUI stop
.

He took a quick piss in the ditch then returned to the truck and pulled out the road atlas. Mr. Scott had already used a grease pencil to plot a route to Fredenburg, Minnesota, a town northwest of Duluth. Vincenzo felt a pang of guilt. Mr. Scott’s possessions were so helpful, Vincenzo thought that he should have treated the body with a bit more kindness.
Well, that’s how it goes.

The next town ahead was Roxbury, and it was probably smaller than Newburg. Vincenzo decided he would speed through that one without stopping as well. The next town of any substantial size was Mountain Green, which was just off the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The presence of the highway likely meant more people. Beyond that were the Appalachians. He didn’t know what he’d find there, but the first order of business would be protecting the Blazer.

Fuel would eventually be a problem. There was a five-gallon gas can in the back, but it was empty. Vincenzo figured that out when he found a Flo & Go siphon wrapped up in a towel. Transferring fuel from dead vehicles at five gallons a pop would take a while, given that the Blazer had at least a thirty-gallon tank. But he figured if he kept topping it off every so often, then he’d be good to go.

Vincenzo knew how to operate both of Mr. Scott’s firearms, but he needed some practical experience. He stood the two empty cans on a nearby fence. He used the Springfield XDm first and managed to take down one can at about twenty yards with his third shot. The .45 felt good in his hand, not as snappy as the Beretta, though the sound was something that he’d have to get used to. The second can went down with the first shot from the M1A, and he had backed up to well over seventy yards for that. The rifle was dialed in perfectly, and while it had some kick, he was confident that he could put it to use if necessary.

After his impromptu target practice, he figured it was time to leave. Someone might come looking, and he didn’t want to be found. He hopped back in the Blazer.