Dystopia Road, page 3
part #1 of Dystopia Road Series
Mr. Anderson thought for a moment and said, "Yeah, downtown there is a Motel 6 and another just across the block. They're on Main."
He didn't want to go any further into the city. "What about a rest area, where I could just sleep in the truck?"
"Just outside of town. About an hour away on seventy-four."'
"Thank you Mr. Anderson" He said and started the truck. He pulled out slowly and watched the two men in his rear view mirror. He was waiting to pull back out of the road and a car was slowly coming towards him. As he waited for it to pass, he checked his mirror again.
"You smart mouth!" He could hear the older man say. Then Mr. Anderson pointed the gun at Tommy's head again, and pulled the trigger. The young clerk's head exploded in a mist of red. He could not imagine how one head could hold so much blood.
He sat in his truck looking in the side view mirror stunned. Watching in horror he was frozen and unable to look away.
Mr. Anderson moved quickly to his truck and peeled out of the parking lot. He pulled out after him, hoping he wouldn't exit on to I-74 West bound. Luckily he didn't.
He drove and listened to the radio for an hour or two. It was still all bad news. The government in Washington D.C. said that they had power, and government relief efforts were on-going and successful. The solar flares were mild, but there were three of them, so power would still be intermittent for at least the next couple of months. They were estimating that as much as twenty percent of the population could die from the pandemic, but if everyone worked together the rest would survive.
They were also reporting that many churches would remain open for counseling services and they would act as food banks.
He turned off the radio and started to listen to music, then turned the music off and drove on in silence.
He took a route that would take him far south of Davenport Iowa but it meant he had to drive through Champaign, Bloomington and Peoria Illinois. He marked a rest area just east of a small town called Brimfield Illinois. That should give him a fair amount of time to fill up again, and he would only spend about half a tank of gas in the truck. From there he would head north towards and take side roads towards Davenport Iowa and Sioux Falls South Dakota. If he could find gas when he needed it, he could be in Idaho within two days.
He sped through Champaign without slowing down. There were fires burning in the city and small groups running around with guns and packages in their hands. But he had no problems on the road. Going through Bloomington was easier.
The highway kept him to the south and west of the city. There were cars pulled off to the shoulder, but they were abandoned. There were also police cars with lights on. He hadn't seen a police car since he left Pennsylvania. And now there were three behind one car. He could see a dead man in the driver's seat. He passed a broken down camper, and another police car was investigating that situation.
The presence of the police cars was at first disconcerting, then comforting. The next city was Peoria. And according to his mapped routes, it was the biggest, and the last of the big cities he would need to drive through. The plan was to take 474 and bypass the city to the south. From that point it should be fairly smooth sailing all the way to Idaho.
But of course, he would know no such grand luck. The exit ramp to I-474 was closed. Blocked by several big semi-trucks, burned nearly to the ground. He would have to stay on I-74 through the heart of the city. The traffic was light and the late May afternoon sun was warm. He drove cautiously for about a mile and then a line of three cars was stopped. A black man was stopping each car. When he reached the man he rolled the window down and rested his right hand on the revolver.
"If you want to drive through here, you going to have to pay us. Give me $100 and I'll tell my crew to watch you all the way through town. If anyone tries to stop you, or steal something from you, my boys will stop them."
He reached into his wallet, unsure if he was supposed to negotiate, and decided to just pull out a hundred dollar bill. He paid the man and looked for further direction. The gun still resting in his lap.
The man put his two way radio two his mouth. "Red truck, white guy driving alone. No exit tax, and make sure this guy gets through fast and furious." Then he nodded and walked to the next car.
There was no problem in Peoria, for him. And this was a lesson he would not forget. In this new world, paying for a little protection was worth it. He saw men trying to slow cars further ahead. But as his red truck came within view, everyone backed off. There were stopped cars with hoods up, doors open, and clearly looted, dotting the shoulder.
The next small town was Brimfield. He stopped to get gas. He wasn't near empty, but two men were standing at the exit with a sign that said they had gas, so he pulled in.
And there was gas, but no electricity. In a brilliant move, the owner of the store had filled dozens of five gallon tanks with gas when the electric was on. So when it was off, he could sell the gas at a much higher price, and everyone paid.
Ten gallons filled the truck. The little store was surprisingly well stocked, so he bought as much beef jerky, Slim Jims and bottled water as he could carry. Cigarettes were available, so he bought what he could. Just a few of the packs that were left were non-menthol, so he bought all of them.
And then he was on the road again. He drove in silence, the map lay opened on the passenger seat, and the gun rested comfortably in his lap. He left I-74 north of a city called Galesburg. A Walmart Supercenter was a tempting distraction. The parking lot was full, but didn't look like anyone was shopping, just standing around talking. He slowed down and thought about stopping, when he noticed that a hundred worried faces were holding rifles of all type and staring at him. He gunned the engine and sped away.
The city of Monmouth was next. A college town that was placid and still. A string of small towns and cities rose in front of him and then disappeared in the rear view mirror. Just a few miles from Des Moines he went through a small town called Monroe. He slowed down because he saw movement on the side of the road. He slowed down even more when he realized it was just kids playing.
They laughed, yelled, chased each other and played. They did things kids had always done. He cocked his head slightly to the side when noticed something peculiar. Everyone he saw, men, women and children, were wearing baggy clothes. He noticed his own pants had to be cinched a bit tighter with a new hole in the belt. Everyone was losing weight. Which meant food was becoming scarce.
The power was off here as well so nothing was open. He pulled to the side of the road just to rest his eyes and watch the kids play.
"Can I help you with something?"
The voice startled him. A man was standing just behind the door and had poked his head around. He was sure the man was holding a gun, but he couldn't see it.
"Shit, I'm sorry." He said. "I've been on the road for a few days, and I saw those kids playing. I've seen people killed, just flat out murdered at gas stations and in a few of the bigger cities I've stopped at along the way. Buildings burning, cars burning, you name it. So, when I went through your town here and saw the kids playing, I just wanted to watch. To see something normal for a minute."
It was the most he had spoken in months. And he felt embarrassed about.
"I'll be on my way, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare anyone."
The man wore a green John Deere hat on and moved his head around so he was more visible.
"Hey son, I understand that completely. I was just about thinking the same thing myself. Two of the younger ones just got into a fight, and I was thinking, the whole world may be going to hell, but kids don't care. They just live. I didn't mean to startle you. But you have to understand, we all need to watch out for the marauders."
He just nodded, apologized again and drove off.
The man had started to say something else, but he couldn't make it out. He left because he was becoming emotional. He could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he didn't know why. He glanced at the rearview mirror and saw that the man was watching him drive away.
Another man had joined him and was talking, but the man in the John Deere hat just kept staring straight ahead.
He moved his eyes back to the road and kept the truck at over seventy miles an hour. He knew this would burn up gas faster, but he had to get through Des Moines. He went as far south of the city as he could, but there was no escaping the businesses, houses and other places where people could be gathered, and thus, problems. But this time, there were none. It was quiet.
'The stillness of the gloaming is either comforting or terrifying.'
He shook his head and laughed a little to himself. Why had he thought that? What a pretentious way to phrase a thought. Was it a quote from some famous author he had read in college that had somehow wormed its way to the front of his mind? Or, was that above average IQ he'd been cursed with about to start tormenting him again?
When he'd first discovered that he was smarter than most of the kids in his class, strange thoughts would pop into his head, and leave him no peace. He thought that college would either help him understand the thoughts, or challenge him enough to put them at ease. But it hadn't happened. So he left college, and would fight the odd thoughts consciously. He just wanted normalcy. And after all, he wasn't Einstein, just smarter than the average bear. It meant nothing, but it twisted his mind. Normalcy was the goal.
But that goal was dead. The new goal was rest. A nice night's sleep, and then the final stretch tomorrow for Idaho.
Chapter 3
A Rest Area
Thirty miles outside of Des Moines he came upon a rest stop. It was time to sleep. There were several people there, from here it looked like at least fifteen or twenty, mostly campers or vans.
He approached slowly. The exit leading to the parking area of the rest stop was a good mile long. At the far end, where the parking started, stood four men all armed.
He thought about just pulling back on to the highway, but he needed to sleep, so he crept forward slowly. The men were all looking towards him nervously.
Two started to walk towards him, but he was still half a mile away. He put his hand out the window to wave, and flashed his lights at them. Then the other two men joined the first two and started to pick up the pace. He noticed more men behind these men also heading towards him.
He stopped the truck, put it into reverse and looked into the rear view mirror to make sure his exit path was clear. It was not.
Behind him a group of motorcycles was heading towards him. He was caught in the middle of something.
The man on the front motor cycle had a shotgun leveled across the handle bars. He fired two quick shots. The second hit the back window of the truck. Whatever the nature of this problem, the biggest problem right now was behind his truck.
He slammed on the breaks, pulled his revolver up and leaned out the window just enough to see clearly.
The first shot was slow and measured. The driver of the motorcycle immediately slumped. The bike wobbled and drove into a tree on the right.
The next five shots were quicker, and two of them somehow found their mark. Two more men slumped and two more motorcycles crashed into the woods to the right, or the highway off to the left. The men on motorcycles behind the three who had been stopped pulled back on to the highway and attempted escape.
They fired towards the men at the rest stop who seconds earlier were running towards him. He watched from his truck as four other men on motorcycles were gunned down. It was all over that fast. He got out of the truck with his gun still at his side, thought out of bullets as he had fired all six.
One of the men from the rest stop was yelling something at him, but he couldn't hear. The sound of the gun he'd just fired caused a ringing in his ears and he could not hear much. As the man got closer he could finally make out, "Are you okay?"
He nodded. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. What the hell was that all about? Who were they?"
"Just marauders. Probably from Washington or Oregon. From what we hear, the ones who left California have tended to go south. Up north, they cut across the Midwest for some reason."
"What do they want?" He asked.
"They're just roaming around stealing what they can. Pull your truck up here in front of the line. Are you staying for the night?"
"I hope to, if it's okay with you guys."
"Sure, no problem at all. My name's Don. Just pull your truck and find a parking spot. They've rounded up some burgers and buns from somewhere, get yourself something to eat."
He pulled the truck ahead, got out and surveyed the damage. Not only was the rear window hit, there was a clear bullet hole in the tailgate, peppering from the shotgun in his side view mirror and another bullet that had hit the back door just behind the front door driver's side door.
Don had followed him in. "Where ya' coming from?" He asked.
"Pennsylvania. I left a few days ago. Stopped to see an aunt in Indiana, and left her early this morning. I've been on the road all day, and this is just the latest of my problems. I just need to sleep for a few hours if you don't mind. Then I'll be on my way."
"No need to run off. You're more than welcome to stay and rest up as long as you like. We actually prefer it. This is a kind of transitory fort. People stay for a few days, train the next group to come in, then they move on. That's the first time we've been hit when it's still light out. Usually they wait until its dark and they think we're asleep. I've been here about a week. Sometimes nothing at all happens, but most nights, a group of marauders tries something.
So far, we've always been able to run them off pretty quick. Get yourself a hot burger, then get you some sleep. We'll need to wake you up about 11:00 to take a shift standing guard. Think you can rest enough in four hours?"
"Shouldn't be a problem." He said
He was handed a paper plate. "Thank ya son. That was some pretty quick shooting. You probably saved one of us getting shot or killed by taking those three out so fast." An older man said to him.
He just nodded and smiled slightly. "Well, I saved my own ass to, so good for all of us I guess."
A light rain, just a sprinkle, had started. "What size hat you wear son?"
"I really don't know."
"Don't move." The man said as he walked away. A few others made small talk with him. He gave short answers or nodded silently. After a few minutes the man came back with a stack of light beige cowboy hats. The plastic kind you see at Tractor Supply.
"Here, find you one that fits and keep it. They were looting the store ways back. I know I shouldn't have, but I took a stack of these hats. An umbrella won't work on the road. So you just stick this hat on your head and it'll keep the rain off of ya."
He found one that fit, thanked the man and walked back to his truck. He threw the hat into the front seat, and climbed into the back to sleep. But any rest would elude him. When he tried to sleep, his eyes would pop open. He could not shake the thought. He had killed four people. The first man he had run over just two days ago, yet it seemed like a life time. That one he felt bad about. What was troubling, was how little the three he had killed today, actually troubled him.
The men on the motorcycles were trying to kill him. There was simply no other way to understand the situation. So the fact the he felt no remorse was perfectly logical. And yet he could not shake the feeling that something had fundamentally changed inside him.
He thought for an hour or two on the issue. Had he changed? Or had something inside him been revealed? And did everyone have that same capacity to kill inside them? Was self-preservation just an evolutionary trait that had been bedded down by a lifetime of relative security?
He must have drifted off at some point, because when he finally heard Don saying, "Hey partner!" He woke up with a start.
"You gonna be able to help keep watch for two hours? If you can get through that, you can get right back to sleep. We just need every able bodied man to take his turn."
"Yeah, I'm up, I'm good." He said.
He slid out the backdoor, reached for a box of bullets and his hat and reloaded his revolver. When he had six bullets in, he tossed the box into the back seat and turned to see Don staring at him.
"You might want to bring the box. I don't mean to scare you, but sometimes it gets a little rough. Now it might be quiet as a Sunday morning, but it could get bad. I'd bring the whole box." He stared at the man for a second, blinked, and said, "Okay."
They walked towards the exit of the rest stop. "It's obviously a bit quieter down here, but since it's your first night, this might be a better fit." He took no offense. The four men and two women shook hands and introduced themselves. He couldn't remember any of the names but shook hands cordially anyway.
There were no chairs, and Don commented on it. "A week or so ago, someone fell asleep in a chair, no harm done, but we decided that's probably a bad idea. We go in two or three hour shifts, depending on how tired you are. Don't try to be a hero or tough guy. If you're tired, get someone else to stand guard."
They had worked out a pretty good system. For fifteen minutes, two would not talk and would stand a few feet forward of the other four. Those two, would maintain a distance of ten feet at least, so they couldn't talk to each other. This kept you sharp and focused. The other four would hang back and talk, but still watch.
He was the last of the six to be given the forward watch. The first watch was uneventful. He mustered towards the group on secondary watch, but didn't join in on the conversation. He lit a cigarette and just milled about silent and in his thoughts.
"Here we go." A voice said.
His eyes darted quickly towards the front. One of the men was on a two way radio talking to someone at the front of the rest area. "I told them to hold tight. We need to make sure this isn't a two sided attack so I don't want 'em running up here and leaving our ass hanging in the wind."
"What is it?"
"Its motorcycles at least, can't hear anything else yet. Nope, hear that? All motorcycles sounds like. Look! There they are coming up slow."
