Tourists of the Apocalypse (21 page)

“What now?” I groan, having had a feeling leaving the car was a bad idea.

“Wait and see what the convoy does.”

We stop on the side of an SUV and wait. The group blocks the road waving and shouting. When the caravan gets to them it slows. Izzy watches with the binoculars while I wait. After a few minutes she hands them to me, wrinkling her nose. Two men from the convoy have stepped out waving rifles. Another guy is patting down the members of the group looking for anything they can use. A fourth man is pulling on the arm of the girl wearing the yoga pants, dragging her into one of the trucks. She’s fair skinned with shoulder length reddish hair. She’s forcefully declining the invitation, but they clearly want to take her along.
It’s like a scene from a John Norman book.

“I really am surprised how fast this went from bad to worse,” Izzy mumbles. “It’s like these people were waiting for a chance to go medieval on each other.”

“When I was a kid my parents took me to Lion Country Safari,” I remark, still watching through the binoculars. “You stay in your car and drive through the preserve. Along the way you get to see lions, tigers, antelopes, giraffes and elephants. They all walk right past the car window.”

“Is there a point to this gripping childhood tale?”

“The day I was there, a lion ate a gazelle on the hood of our car,” I share. “He wasn’t waiting for a chance to go medieval.”

“No, I suppose not. He was just doing what came naturally.”

“Mankind is apparently much closer to medieval than I previously believed,” I sigh.

Two of the men who were sitting on our car go to the aide of Yoga Pants as she’s dragged away. One receives the butt of a rifle in the face, but the second tackles the assailant, freeing the girl for now. I can’t tell who’s who as there is general mayhem for a moment, then the truck starts moving. Several gunshots are fired, causing the innocent walkers to scatter and hide behind the Mercury.

“Hell breaking loose?”

“Yup,” I reply, dropping the glasses and shrugging.

The truck begins moving in our direction, followed by the convertible. We duck behind the green SUV, crouched by the front tire. There is a sudden whoosh of air as a fireball erupts down the road over our car and the two next to it. Shrill screams burst forth as I peer down the side of the SUV. I see the first truck pass and head past us to the East. Two men can be seen waving and cheering the fire.

“They lit the gas?” Izzy whispers.

“Seems so.”

“Glad you stopped me from going over there,” she elbows me.

“I have a good idea every once in a while.”

We watch as the rest of the convoy passes by our position. As the last truck moves away I can see
Yoga Pants
being held by two men in the bed of the last truck. She’s kicking and yelling in vain, but to no avail. This is going from bad to worse very quickly.
I wonder what comes after worse.

A brief discussion over whether to hike back to the car and see what we can salvage takes place. A quick check in the binoculars reveals at least one person still moving and two others badly burnt trying to crawl away from the fire.

“Back to Donna’s?” we utter simultaneously.

Finding ourselves in agreement, we head to the fence to gather our backpacks. There isn’t any chit-chat, both clearly thinking about our situation.
The car is gone so what do we do now?

The ladies are ecstatic we have returned and fain sadness about our plight. In honor of our presence they whip up a batch of pancakes. I’m half expecting bacon or sausage, but then recall it would have to be freshly made.
If you’re not living on a dairy farm you’re not getting any cream in your morning coffee
Izzy had remarked. The thought of cities full of starving people nearly ruins my appetite. Luckily for me the pancakes are amazing, leaving me temporarily happy. After dinner we take a bottle of Ed’s scotch out to the porch and sit on the steps. Donna brings us two very small glasses; the type you would drink your morning orange juice from. Izzy and I toast and try to decide on our next move.

“We could stay here awhile,” I suggest, still worried about going home and dealing with Lance.

“You know we can’t,” she fires back then wrinkles her nose. “Plus it’s a single bed.”

“Funny,” I mutter, not minding the closeness myself. “Then you’re thinking the same thing I am.”

“Plug the tank in the Chevy and get back to the highway.”

I nod agreement and we drink. I was actually thinking about the bed, but decide to keep it to myself. She finishes first and I refill two fingers in each glass.

“And if Donna and Jessica want to come with us?” I toss out.

“They won’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“First off they feel safer here. They aren’t looking to escape; they just want things to get better on their own.”

“And the second reason?”

“I’m not telling them we have another car,” she reveals, tipping up her glass and scowling as she swallows. I’m damn sure they don’t want to hike into the unknown.”

“A lie of omission then?”

“I’m done trying to save the world,” she vows, holding out her glass for a refill. “I thought you were too.”

I toss back my drink and ponder my situation. She’s almost certainly right on this. Given what I have seen the past week there is no good place to settle down and wait for things to get better. That being the case, then making a run for home seems prudent. Not stopping to babysit anyone else would appear to be a necessary evil if we want to make that happen. I nod, putting my finger in her empty glass, and then gathering up mine in the same fashion. With the glasses dangling off two fingers, I take her hand and pull her to her feet.

“First thing tomorrow we plug the tank and bail,” I whisper so as not to be overheard.

She plucks up the bottle and follows me inside, one arm draped across my waist. In the bedroom hallway I see that Catholic values have lost out to hope and need. Jessica has vacated the second large bedroom, giving it to us. Leaving the bottle and glasses on the kitchen table we head for bed. I spend an hour hovering just shy of true sleep trying to think of a way to plug a gas tank.

The three bodies litter the driveway just as we abandoned them. The smell is horrible, but not as bad as inside the garage. When I have to siphon gas out of the cars in the garage, the odor from Bill and Ed is overwhelming. Without dwelling on the matter, one word; flies.

The bullet hole turns out to be small and only half way down the tank. We jack the rusty black car up on the passenger side so the gas flows to the other end of the tank and I thread a machine bolt into the hole. I wrap it with white lock tape first to keep it water tight and when we drop the car off the jack nothing leaks. The location of the keys is a mystery. After shuffling through the corpses’ pockets, Izzy has a thought and flips down the sun visor and the keys fall on the seat. A Hollywood stereotype of the first degree.
Sometimes truth imitates art
.

The tailgate glass is shattered, as well as the long window down the passenger side. When I open the hood I don’t see any air conditioning apparatus so a little breeze will be fine. The motor looks original, although the radiator is obviously new. It’s the only un-rusted painted part under the hood. There are two batteries for some reason, one on either side of the radiator. They must have removed whatever was to the left of the radiator to fit one in.
I think there’s supposed to be a vacuum canister there?
I check the plug wires, belts and hoses and they all look decent. It’s as safe as we are likely to find.

Slamming the hood, I see Izzy sitting behind a large steering wheel. There is a chrome knob attached to the wheel so a person could spin it back and forth with one hand. I’ve seen this type of thing on trucks, but never a car.
Although, this car is bigger than some trucks
. Slipping up to the passenger window I see her moving the stick shift around. A flat metal arm comes out of a ripped spot in the carpet, ending in a white ball the size of a billiards cue-ball. It’s bent at an angle to allow the driver to move it. Peeking under the wheel, I can see they added a pedal for the clutch.
This wasn’t originally a stick shift
. Izzy leans back and wrinkles her nose.

“What?” I ask, sure there is a catch.

“You drive a stick?”

“A little,” I answer, not wanting to look lame. “Or I did once in driver’s education.”

“Then you’re lucky I’m here.”

With this, she turns over the engine. It cranks several times before roaring to life. Each side has a fanned down exhaust pipe and dust blows about the car when she stomps the gas. I wave my hand in front of my face and frown.

“Right, got it, let me toss our stuff in and we can go.

She nods, happy to listen to the car run. We find a case of water in the house and toss our backpacks in the second seat.
At least we won’t die of dehydration for now
. A picnic lunch in a large paper bag from Donna goes in the front seat between us. I slip in, noting the ancient chrome rims and oversize wide tires with the name
Bridgestone Rally
in white letters on the side. There don’t seem to be any seat belts and I ponder the safety of nineteen seventies travel.

When she tries to put it in reverse the gears grind loudly. She tries twice and then utters several expletives.

“Problem?”

“Keep your panties on,” she complains, jamming the gear shifter down hard.

The gear pops and we shoot backwards out the drive and across the dirt road before she gets it stopped. Our rear bumper thumps into their mailbox, bending it over. Her eyes scan in both directions, but wind up back on me.

“Which way?” she mutters, now fighting to get the shifter into first gear.

“Donna said go right six or seven miles, then turn before Main street to avoid downtown. I think she said turn on Maple Street.”

“That runs to the highway?” she huffs, jamming it in gear and rocking the car back and forth with the brake.

“There’s another right after that to get on the main road, but yeah. Let’s avoid downtown if possible. I have the feeling the locals may have seen this car before.”

“You think the previous owners came through town?” she remarks, idling in the middle of the road playing with the radio.

“Maybe, maybe not, but this isn’t a very stealthy car.”

“True,” she agrees, turning the dial, but getting all static. “It works, but there are no stations broadcasting.”

Leaning in closer I see it has a CD player as well. When I push the blue CD button, letters scroll across a read out in green
. This piece of electronics works
? I sit up and wait. After a pause to load the CD, a loud bell can be heard from very large speakers somewhere in the back. It’s like a church bell in a tower. Izzy looks puzzled, and then the song comes to me. A guitar riff wails and then the drums join in.

“What is it?”

“Hells Bells,” I say loudly over the engine and sound system. “AC/DC.”

“Is it good?”

“It’s appropriate,” I shout.

Nodding her head to the beat, she drops the clutch and the car does a half doughnut, throwing rocks as we shoot down the road. I’m holding onto the door just to keep from sliding into her lap. She turns up the volume and winks at me.
How can anyone not love this girl?
We travel maybe five miles and then the dirt road turns to pavement. A half mile later we enter small town, USA. Regular city blocks with stop signs every other road. A speed limit sign reads 25 MPH as we pass at nearly 40.

“How far?” she demands as we swerve around a child’s bike abandoned in the left lane.

“Hard to say. Slow down so I can read the signs.”

She slows, but we fly past Maple Street. When I point back she slams on the brakes, before using the knob to spin the wheel to the right. Tires squeal as she turns almost a one-eighty. As we back track to Maple Street I notice several groups of people standing in their front yards. This car is really loud and Izzy isn’t shy about the gas pedal. We turn right onto Maple and she tears past driveways full of dead cars
.
These people came out of their homes a week ago and the world had stopped cold.
And yet, they didn’t start eating each other like lions. At least, not yet.

When her foot comes off the gas the difference in sound shakes me out of a daydream about Lion Country Safari. Up ahead is a barricade of dead cars. The Town’s people have pushed them across the road to keep anyone from entering downtown. Several cars are in the yards on either side just to make sure no one can avoid the barricade. We slow to a stop midway down the block from the line. A half dozen people stand by the barricade and it’s clear they are armed.

“What’s the deal?” she huffs.

“Town pulled together. They blocked off roads to keep people from drifting in off the highway and raiding the downtown area. They probably have all their supplies in there.”

“We’re trying to drift onto the highway not off it,” she argues. “And we don’t want their supplies.”

“It doesn’t appear any drifting is permitted.”

“There’s no gate,” she points out as she jams the shifter into reverse and starts backing up. “The cars are end to end. It’s a dead end, not a check point.”

“Agreed. Options?”

“I bet there’s a gate on one of the other streets,” she mutters through gritted teeth, turning sharply and heading back to Main Street. “They have to get stuff in.”

This rolls around in my head as she cranks the wheel hard at Main and we skid into the intersection and go left.
Is going downtown a good idea?
I’m ready to tap her on the shoulder to ask, when I see the next barricade. The one into downtown is impressive. Two huge semi-trucks are backed right up to the buildings, wheels on the sidewalk. The two story wooden clapboard houses look surreal with semi-trailers touching the front porch. In front of each truck sit two sedans making it impossible to break through. The remaining gap is maybe two car lengths blocked by two long saw horses.