SurviRal (16 page)

Zane needed no further urging to leave the premises. He took off running. As it turned out, his reaction wasn’t conceived in solitude. The others ran with him.

Only four of them made it back to the dirt road.

“Skip!” Tommy yelled.

Zane turned around and looked across the untended yard. The image of a man struggling to stand rose from the leaves. Behind him, the doors to the shed opened up. Two human figures emerged from it, one significantly shorter than the other. Both held firearms. They took unhurried steps towards the struggler.

Zane and his remaining companions all pulled their pistols. The other three began firing at the two who came out of the shed. Not Zane. He casually repositioned himself behind a tree.

That proved to be a smart move. One of the homesteaders returned fire with what could only be an assault rifle. Zane heard a ricochet whiz by after removing a chunk of bark from the tree he was behind. His companions then took shelter behind the other trees.

When the firing stopped, Zane stepped out into the open. He wasn’t sure why, but he never liked to be doing what everyone else was doing. He didn’t shoot. That seemed futile. He just watched.

The two homesteaders methodically approached Skip, who had his butt in the air and was trying to crawl with three limbs. He had dropped the hunting rifle, and was no longer wearing his red bandana.

As the homesteaders came up behind him, the short one raised his weapon. Zane saw now that it was a shotgun. The weapon fired. Skip dropped flat and ceased moving. The one who fired bent down and picked up the hunting rifle.

Tommy shouted at them, his head poked out from behind his tree. “We’ll be back, you assholes!”

The one with the assault rifle answered with a splattering of bullets. Zane stepped back behind cover. The sound of slugs impacting into wood surrounded them. When the firing stopped again, Zane’s remaining three companions broke for the bikes. They managed to get ahold of them and run up the road partly around the bend, out of the line of fire.

Only Zane left. There was Skip’s Indian, parked right next to Zane’s newly-acquired Honda 1,000. He looked back and forth between them. Truth was, the Honda was a more comfortable ride. But there was something to be said for a more valuable status symbol. In the end, Zane decided to switch bikes for the second time today. Only there was still a lot of gas in the tank of the Honda.

The bikes were partially protected by trees. That was good enough. Zane transferred his small saddlebag to the Indian, then wheeled the Honda close to it and pulled out his siphoning tube.

The assault rifle resumed firing as Zane transferred the gas over, lifting the front end of the Honda high to elevate the gas tank in order to keep the siphon going. Most of the shots were either blocked by the trees or missed widely. Just before he finished, however, the rear tire of the Honda hissed loudly and went flat.

That was too close. Zane dropped the Honda, climbed on the Indian and started it. He pulled up to his companions around the bend as the last shots fired behind him. They were all looking at him incredulously.

Tommy shook his head. “We need to be more careful. Except you, apparently, Savvy Savage.”

“When are you going to stop calling me that, Tommy?”

“Now. Our gang is getting too small. Let’s head over to the 71. I have some friends down that way, where we can probably spend the night.”

* * *

“You’re the one who waved, aren’t you?” one of them asked. He wore traditional black-stretchy cycling shorts and a helmet, like the rest of them.

Jenny smiled. “Guilty, as charged.”

“We didn’t see your pals there with you. They must have been behind the trees.”

“We were,” Clint said coming next to her.

The cyclist nodded. “Glad to see she isn’t travelling alone. Where y’all headed?”

“South.”

“Pueblo?”

“South.”

“I see. My name’s James. This is my brother Todd, and some friends of ours. We’re going to Pueblo. Started in Aurora early this morning.”

“Wow,” Jenny said. “Long ride.”

“Yeah. Logged about 60 miles so far. But Todd and I do this ride at least a couple times a year.”

“I’m Jenny. This is my husband Clint and our neighbor, Harold. We’re from Denver. Heading to La Junta, and then maybe on to our second home in Springfield.”

Clint elbowed her in the back. Jenny shot him a fearsome scowl. Clint knew he screwed up. The best thing was to leave her alone for a couple minutes, so he took his water bottle down to the lake to fill it.

The lake at the southern end of Clear Springs Ranch was pretty. Clint unscrewed the bottle, filled it, reattached the cap, and popped the straw up at the top. No need to squeeze this time, as the bottle was full. The first couple swallows were warm from the last of the old batch stuck in the filter. But then the cold water hit his mouth. It tasted good. He looked back up.

Jenny and Harold were talking with the other cyclists. Clint counted them. Seven. That’s a good-sized group. All men. A couple looked to be Harold’s age, but the rest, like James and Todd, were mid-to-late thirties. They seemed friendly enough. Then again, so did Barry and Shay.

“That’s a good water bottle,” James said when Clint returned. He held up the same one. “A million fills before the filter needs back-flushing, they say. Hopefully, the pandemic will be long over by then.”

Harold and Jenny went down to the lake to fill theirs.

James looked at the sky. “Going to try to make La Junta tonight? That’s awfully ambitious. And not safe to be riding after dark.”

“Dangerous enough riding by day now,” Todd added.

“What do you mean?” Clint asked.

Todd pointed northward. “There are stories of bandits along some of the roads, targeting anyone with a backpack. Not sure how much of that is unfounded—like the rumor about the sick people shutting down all the roads last night, that turned out to be ATM thieves. Still, even that incident is evidence of a growing criminal element. Are you guys …armed?”

Clint stared back. “Maybe. Are you?”

Todd smiled. “Same answer. Probably a wise one. But either way, I still wouldn’t ride after dusk.”

“Well,” Clint glanced at Jenny and Harold filling their bottles, “we figure on needing to find a safe place to camp for the night in the Pueblo area.”

“Then you should ride with us,” James said.

Clint looked at their bicycles. “You’re on road bikes. We can’t possibly keep up.”

James laughed. “Believe me—we’ll be cruising these last twenty miles. And staying off the interstate, which I highly recommend. Too many crazies racing by on that. We know a better biking route, down the 501. A couple miles east, but a better road and a straight shot into town once we’re on it. Please join up with us.”

Harold consulted his map when he and Jenny came back. He agreed the 501 looked like a better way to go, given what James said about it. So, they all got moving again. Ten bicyclists banded together, heading for Pueblo.

Once south of Clear Springs Ranch, they cut across the two-mile connecting road to the 501. Clint had to admit it felt better riding in a larger number. Other cyclists on the road must have felt the same way. It didn’t take long before they had even more company.

Chapter Twelve

“So you’re good with computers, then?” Todd asked.

“Wouldn’t be much of a programmer if I wasn’t.”

“No, I suppose not.” Todd seemed to be thinking about something. His legs stopped moving and he coasted for a ways with one hand at his side. Clint had to keep peddling in order to stay up with him, though.

“So what do you do?” Clint asked.

Todd smiled. “I’m an innkeeper. Kind of a family business.”

“In Aurora?”

“Right. We’ve closed it up, though—as is the case with most hotels for the time being. My brother and I are going to wait out the pandemic with our parents in Pueblo.”

Two cyclists who joined the convoy a few miles back rode up alongside Todd. One of them spoke.

“We’re going up ahead now. This pace is too slow for us. Thanks for letting us ride with you a while.”

“Sure,” Todd said. “Be careful.”

Those two then veered into the left lane, clicked into high gear, and raced up ahead of the pack. This was a repeated scene now on the southbound 501. More bicyclists were on this road than cars today. The occasional patch of abandoned vehicles they all had to weave through testified to the rising necessity of this form of travel. James’ group started off from Clear Springs Ranch ten-strong after recruiting Clint, Jenny, and Harold. That must have been attractive to the other riders who kept joining them, especially those going it solo. The cyclists who wanted to go faster would then eventually form smaller groups and break out ahead. Clint found it interesting how the convoy would expand and contract again in this manner. Safety in numbers. They were the biggest group on the highway, and thus the safest. At one point, their ranks swelled to over twenty.

A small band of intimidating motorcyclists sat at one of the crossroads. They watched the cyclists go by with what Clint thought was a little too much interest. Suddenly he was glad Harold made him practice assembling the breakdown rifle. Harold and Jenny carried the two handguns. Jenny never fired a semi-automatic pistol before, but Harold still thought it would be the best one for her, as it had less recoil than his .45 revolver. He gave her a quick lesson on loading the first bullet into the chamber when they were still under the trees, before they found their way to the lake and happened upon James, Todd, and friends.

The motorcycles from the crossroads passed the convoy about eight miles down the road. Clint was thankful for the slow pace. He wouldn’t be as comfortable now with only the three of them in their own isolated group.

Jenny and Harold rode ahead of Clint for the most part. They took turns chatting with James and one or two of the other riders as they progressed. Time passed quickly. Soon they came to the outskirts of Pueblo. Cyclists began breaking off there, going in their own direction. By the time they reached Santa Fe Drive in the main part of the city, the number in their convoy had whittled down to seven.

“What should we do?” Jenny asked Clint. “It’s late in the afternoon. I don’t want to ride any farther today. Maybe there’s a park here where people are camping out, like last night?”

Todd heard her and slowed alongside. “Why don’t you come with us for now? How would you guys like a hot meal?”

“Sounds lovely!” Jenny answered. “If you’re sure we’re not imposing.”

“No,” Todd said. “Maybe we can work out a trade.” He glanced at Clint. Clint in turn glanced at Harold.

Harold’s facial expression changed to one of concern. Clint didn’t blame him. So far, their “trading” experiences with strangers weren’t exactly gratifying. But, they had talked with James and Todd enough on the road to nearly graduate from stranger status—and since Jenny was so avid about the dinner offering, and they had no alternative plan at the moment, they followed along to at least see where Todd and James were going.

An inn. It turned out to be a nice little inn, nestled on a quiet street in the east part of town. Though the wooden signs spray-painted with the word “closed” hanging about the A-frame shaped building diminished some of its charm.

“This is our Pueblo location,” Todd said. “It’s the original.”

“How many do you have?” Harold asked.

“Just two—this and the Aurora property. You can wheel your bikes inside with us.”

The front door of the inn opened. A man and woman who looked to be in their early sixties stepped outside.

“You made it!” The man said. The bulge in his Hawaiian shirt suggested that the food shortage had yet to affect him personally.

“Hey, Dad. Hi Mom!” Todd took his helmet off and brushed the top of his short black hair rapidly with his hand. James did the same, only his hair was longer and a much lighter color, more like his mom’s. They both went over to hug her. The two friends who were still with them greeted their parents as well. Obviously, they all knew each other.

That’s when the mom and dad looked over at Clint, Jenny, and Harold.

“These are some friends we met along the way,” James explained. “Clint, Jenny, and their neighbor, Harold. From Denver, heading to La Junta.”

“Pleased to meet y’all,” the man said. “I’m Stephen Cole. This is my wife, Celia.”

“I promised them dinner,” Todd said. “Clint’s a computer guy, so I thought he might be able to help you fix yours.”

Stephen turned sideways and extended his arm towards the front door. “In that case, welcome to the Hollow Trunk Inn. Hope you like pasta.”

 “Whatever you’re serving sounds wonderful,” Jenny said. “Better than nuts and beef jerky.”

Celia laughed and promised to serve some salad with dinner. That news especially excited Jenny. They all wheeled their bikes inside and stowed them, along with their backpacks, in a secured den behind the reception desk where guest luggage was usually held.

The Hollow Trunk Inn was a cozy place. It reminded Clint of the ski lodges in Aspen. They wandered into the front lounge where a fireplace, small bar, and wide screen television welcomed them. Despite the fact CNN was on, Clint was overjoyed at the opportunity to sink into a couch with Jenny while James, Todd, and their two friends got situated in their rooms. Harold milled about looking at pictures on the wall before finally sitting in a lounge chair.