Charges (23 page)

Still a demon with a firearm
.
Still have the knack for killing cops.

###

After the shootout, there was still the problem of getting out of the prison. Plus, there were more guards inside the fortified walls. But the prisoners were armed, having seized the weapons from the fallen guards. Roth had found five magazines of nine-millimeter. It felt good to be armed again, substantially armed, even though what he really fancied were lying on the ramparts of the towers—the Ruger Mini 14s. But getting to them was going to be problematic.

Harley came up with the idea to use the prison transit bus. They knew it still ran, since the guards had still been using it.

Making their way over the fences that separated the yard from the motor pool took time. Many men got slashed trying to navigate the razor wire until someone finally managed to loosen one of the mounts, relieving the tension enough for the prisoners to crawl under the wire. When Roth’s turn came, he was sweating heavily. He wasn’t worried as much about getting cut, though that was a concern, as he was worried that the rest of the guards might choose that moment to counter-attack, when he was nothing more than a sitting duck clinging to the fence like an oversized mosquito holding onto a sheer drape after feeding so much that it was too fat to fly.

As he pulled himself onto the top of the fence and felt the sharp edges of razors gently kissing the fabric of his prison uniform, Roth thought he might lose his grip and fall. But he managed to haul himself over and, keeping a firm grip on the fence, spun around so that he could find purchase with his feet. He scampered down the other side, and when the soles of his shoes finally touched the ground, he ran to the nearest wall and flattened his body against it. The next prisoner managed to get hung up in the razor wire and, while trying to release himself, lost his grip. He fell to the cement on the other side of the fence. Roth heard bones break. The man wailed and writhed on the hard surface. No one bothered to help him. It was every man for himself.

The keys to the bus were kept inside a lockbox in a locked office. While that might have stymied the convicts under ordinary circumstances, two blasts from a shotgun ripped off the door and peppered the room with a mass of shrapnel.

One shot made short work of the lockbox, and Rollo seized the keys, his eyes practically bulging out of his head. “Come on, fuckahs! Let’s
go
!”

The prisoners who had made it over the fence joined him as he ran toward the bus. Roth motioned for Harley and the others to follow. Rollo unlocked the vehicle and pulled open the door. He was about to jump into the driver’s seat when Roth stepped up and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Let Harley drive,” Roth said. “He was a bus driver back in the world.”

Rollo hesitated, looking at Roth with suspicion. “That so?” he asked Harley.

“Yeah,” Harley said. “That’s so.” He cradled one of the liberated shotguns.

Rollo looked back at Roth. “You did your part,” he said. “You really do know how to use a gun, man. But like I said before, we’re done. You ain’t gettin’ on this bus. You and your white trash can walk.”

As he spoke, Rollo’s crew drew nearer. They had weapons too, but they hadn’t bothered to do the math. There were currently more whites in the group, and the lion’s share of the weapons belonged to them.

“That’s too bad,” Roth said then shot Rollo between the eyes.

Harley fired the shotgun at almost point-blank range. The blast took down a hulking black guy from California named Leeks and two more Roth didn’t know. Roth pivoted, firing at each black man who had a weapon. His rounds landed with incredible precision, a product of countless hours of range time and training, as well as an extraordinarily successful multi-state murder spree.

Most of the blacks who didn’t have weapons fled, but a few remained. They were the outcasts, physically weaker than the usual convict, but Roth knew they had skills. He considered taking them out, but he needed to conserve his ammunition.

“Are you coming with us?” he asked them. He focused his attention on a young, very dark-skinned kid who showed no fear even though he was all of twenty years old, at most. “You, there... what’s your name? Tyrone, right?”

“That’s me,” the kid said.

“You with us, Tyrone?”

“Got nothin’ else to do. No family. What’s the plan?”

Roth bent over and pulled the bus keys from Rollo’s dead hand. The thin black man lay on the ground, thick lips parted, eyes knocked askew by the bullet that had passed right between them. Flies buzzed around the body, brought in by the smell of blood and the stench from Rollo’s bowels emptying into his pants.
 
Roth handed the keys to Harley, who climbed in behind the wheel of the bus. The diesel engine caught and fired up, cackling away as a cloud of black smoke emerged from its tail pipe.

“We’ve got a nation to take,” Roth said. “Want to be a founding father?”

Tyrone smiled thinly. “You kiddin’ me, right?”

Roth shook his head. “I don’t do standup, boy. You and your pals in, or are you walking?”

Tyrone looked around at the five or six black men interspersed amongst the whites, Asians, and Latinos that were joining the group. No one said anything, so he cut his eyes back to Roth and nodded. “Yeah. We wich you.”

###

They used the bus to ram through the gates, which parted without causing any real damage other than scratching paint and gashing fenders. Harley pulled the vehicle around to the first guard tower. While the prisoners waited, Roth exited and climbed into the tower, where he retrieved the Mini 14 and all the ammunition he could find. He knew the weapon well. He’d used one just like it in the past.

“Together again, old friend,” he told the rifle as he slung it over his shoulder. “We’ve got work to do.”

17

Vincenzo
stuck with Route 46 for the next several days, passing through small towns and cities. He avoided most of the people he encountered, and they returned the favor. His new hiking pack, which had started out quite heavy, was getting lighter and lighter by the day. He replenished his water whenever and wherever he could, but that was becoming more problematic. Water was a resource for which demand was already surging, especially as the summer heat continued to increase. The folks he saw seemed to have a quiet desperation about them that could give rise to violence at any time. As he tracked through shuttered business areas and more active residential neighborhoods, he felt the mounting discontent as if it was a palpable thing.

While children still played—with each other, as opposed to with smart phones or tablets or other electronic doodads—they were hovered over by parents who were suddenly more protective than ever. And a lot of those parents watched Vincenzo with suspicious eyes. As the hours of putting one foot in front of the other turned into days of the same, Vincenzo also realized he was seeing more evidence of people arming themselves. And for good reason—there were signs of violence, even in the residential neighborhoods, where garbage was beginning to pile up and meals were cooked over open fires in backyards. Sightings of police were becoming rarer, though when he did see them, they were less interested in a single traveler than those farther east had been. But where the police presence was missing, bands of citizens had sprouted up in their place. Sometimes, they formed checkpoints at the entrances to neighborhoods, and Vincenzo skirted those whenever he came across one. He didn’t want any trouble, but he also didn’t want to run the risk of the truly desperate helping themselves to what little he had.

He began to regret letting the Ackermans take the Glock. A backup piece would have been a handy thing.

In the evenings, he veered off the road and bedded down in wooded areas. Every night, he heard the distant reports of gunfire, usually just intermittent shots, but twice he heard what appeared to be protracted battles. Getting a good night’s sleep was a luxury he no longer had, since he was constantly awakened by voices or the passage of other travelers moving through the night. There were more people on the roads than he’d expected, but it made some sense to travel at night and avoid the oppressive heat of the day. He wondered if there was a chance he could find a pair of night vision goggles. Such things were likely as valuable as water, so the opportunity to come into possession of a pair was probably so low that it didn’t even register on the scale of probability.

On the fifth day after his separation from the Ackermans, the skies were full of murky, gray clouds. While the clouds helped block the heat of the sun, the humidity was still high, which meant Vincenzo had another sweaty day ahead of him. After a meager breakfast capped off with another dose of Tylenol and the last of the water in his Hydro Flask, he cleaned up his campsite and refilled the vessel with one of the bottles of water in his pack.

He took Route 612, which doglegged to the south. As he walked past a large mall, he heard the sound of machinery. Curious, he slowed and looked down the street. He was surprised to see several large Army trucks parked along the curb. They were much bigger in person than on TV. Uniformed men and women moved through the area inside a set of orange traffic cones that had been set up along with metal barriers. Civilians stood in neat queues, as if waiting for something. Vincenzo figured it was the National Guard handing out supplies. The thought of getting to stock up was tantalizing.

Then he saw several Guardsman pull a man out of the line and take him to one of the vehicles, apparently against the civilian’s will. There was a brief scuffle, but Vincenzo was too far away to hear what was going on. He presumed the man was a criminal or had done something to attract the ire of the soldier. Then, the Guardsman pulled off the man’s backpack and started going through it. It wasn’t just a search; the soldier was itemizing everything, separating the stuff by purpose and function.

Yeah, let’s not go down there.
He resumed his trek, but he was filled with nagging worry that he had made a mistake. Maybe there was a legitimate reason for the soldier’s actions. Perhaps the man had done something that made them pull him out of the line. The military had operational vehicles, so perhaps they could assist him in getting to California.

Figure it out later. For now, just concentrate on getting out of Jersey.

A light sprinkle began to fall. He felt a few drops hit him, pinpricks of cool against the exposed skin on his arms and face. Then the rain intensified, building with force and volume until the street was soaked and slick. Thunder boomed, loud and forceful, the voice of God shouting in his ear. Vincenzo started to look for shelter, then he decided there was nothing wrong with getting a little wet. The temperature was dropping, and he could make better time without the heat of the day bearing down on him like some nagging mother-in-law that would just never shut up. So he removed his cap and let the rain hit him. Raising his face toward the torrent, he tried to scrub away some of the sweat and grime. It was the first shower he’d taken since leaving New York.

It was glorious.

###

The rain lasted most of the day, and as Vincenzo had thought, he made better time in the lower temperature. He took some time out to spread out his poncho and catch some of the rainwater. After an hour or so, he was able to refill one of the water bottles and top off the Hydro Flask—one less thing to worry about. Also, there were fewer people about, since most had probably sought shelter. Though thoroughly soaked, Vincenzo was actually enjoying the journey somewhat. No one was watching him, and those who did weren’t motivated to contact him. For his part, he kept his head down and just kept going. Route 612 became NJ 57, a two-lane road that ran through a semi-urban portion of New Jersey he’d never seen before and, God willing, never would again. Tall trees lined the boulevard, and their shade would have been welcome if the sun was shining. To his right were open agricultural fields. To his left was a New Jersey State Police barracks, which seemed deserted. Down the road, an actual Army tank sat in front of a slab-sided, two-story brick building. That worried him, and he considered cutting across one of the fields and disappearing into the trees beyond. But he was the only person on the road, aside from a couple sleeping in a pickup truck that looked brand new. They didn’t stir as he stalked past, and he paid attention to them just long enough to determine they weren’t a threat.

The building with the tank in front was a National Guard headquarters. Lights were on inside the office, and Vincenzo could hear generators purring somewhere behind the hulking structure. The tank was an old one and probably just a display, given the amount of bird shit spattered across it. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it hadn’t moved in years.

But there was definitely activity in the building itself, and immediately outside, two armed sentries in uniform watched him as he walked past. He looked directly at them and gave a curt nod. One of the Guardsmen nodded back, and that was it.

Vincenzo made camp just outside of Philipsburg, the last town in New Jersey that stood between him and Pennsylvania. So far, he had made good time. In a matter of days, he had walked from Midtown New York City all the way across New Jersey. Of course, he’d also had to kill a man and face more violence inside one week than he’d previously seen over the course of his life, so every silver lining came with a lot of cloud.

One of the items the Ackermans had bequeathed him was a tarp, and he was able to spread that over the carpet of wet leaves and lay his sleeping bag on top of it. He wrapped the remainder of the tarp around him in a bid to keep the rainwater falling off the branches overhead off his sleeping bag. It would be a bit muggy inside, but that was preferable to being wet throughout the night.

For a moment, he considered leaving the clothes on—they’d eventually dry, but the stink and clammy wetness would ensure he wouldn’t get much in the way of rest. He decided that sleep was more important, especially given the numerous aches and pains that made their presence known. He changed into some dry clothes and stuffed his wet ones inside a plastic bag.
Better wash and dry that stuff before it starts to grow mold
.

After wrapping his calves in ThermaCare bandages, he took more Tylenol, along with some vitamin C caplets, in a bid to ward off any illness that might be lurking around the corner. The last thing he wanted was to be sidelined by a severe cold.

When he awoke the next morning, the rain had mostly stopped, but the sky remained sullen and gray, making the pre-dawn gloom even murkier than usual. Vincenzo ate a couple of the breakfast bars the Ackermans had left him and chased them down with his last energy drink. He still had several bottles of water, all of his water pouches, and the Hydro Flask, so he was good for another couple of days. Just the same, he was glad that he’d taken the time to capture some rainwater—there was no telling when he’d have that opportunity again. If nature didn’t keep lending a helping hand, then he’d have to filter and boil water from a creek or river, and he wasn’t sure that would ever be a good idea, especially in an environment as polluted as the eastern half of America.

Once again, as he packed up his camp, Vincenzo found himself wishing he hadn’t spent so much time ridiculing survivalists.
Knock it off. What next? Am I going to wish I’d voted Republican instead of Democrat?

He took off down New Jersey 57 again, heading in a southwesterly direction. The two-lane highway was still wet. To his right, fields of unharvested corn waved in the gentle breeze that whispered from the east. Lights moved amongst the stalks, and he realized that workers were tending to the fields. He wondered how the harvest would be, if it happened at all. The previous day’s rain notwithstanding, without irrigation, the crop would certainly be a small one.

As he approached Philipsburg, the landscape went from semi-rural to more suburban. Walking past shuttered elementary schools and shops and gas stations, Vincenzo felt like the last man on the planet. Beyond the farm workers he’d seen, there was no one else on the road. There were fewer disabled automobiles on the street, and he wondered whether that was just from circumstance or if someone had actually tried to clear the streets of dead cars and trucks. The only sounds he heard beyond the tweets of birds in the trees were his own footfalls and the occasional
clunk
of the walking stick making contact with the asphalt. Despite the impression that he was alone, Vincenzo remained alert. It wouldn’t be long until the community woke up, and then anything could happen.

Farther down the road, a tractor-trailer hauling a load of gravel had slammed into stalled traffic in an intersection, but the shattered glass had been swept up and most of the wreckage pulled off into a nearby strip mall parking lot. Yet the windows in several stores had been shattered, and wet garbage lay scattered across the lot. A mound of plastic trash bags sat at the corner of the lot, and Vincenzo caught a whiff of the sunbaked waste they contained, even though the pile was several hundred feet away. He passed a car dealership stocked with vehicles that likely would never run again, closed restaurants—some of which showed signs of looting. In a tractor supply company, a man stood behind a locked chain link fence with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Behind him, several pieces of heavy construction equipment—bulldozers, payloaders, and dump trucks—sat idle. But there were tire tracks in the mud at the end of the parking lot, and they seemed fresh.

Vincenzo tipped his cap as he walked past. “Morning.”

“Morning,” the guy replied, but there was nothing welcoming in his voice.

“Those tractors, they still run?”

“Why do you ask? Is it any of your business?” the man asked, his voice a threatening rumble even though he was a good fifty feet away.

Vincenzo pointed at the tire tracks. “Just trying to get a gauge on how bad things are. If some vehicles still run, then maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.”

“Older diesels still run, those without fancy electronic ignitions. So do old cars and trucks and a lot of motorbikes.”

“So do old airplanes.”

The man didn’t seem impressed by the information. “That so?”

Vincenzo nodded and kept on walking without thanking the man for his time.
Fuck him.
He passed the darkened Key Diner and was heartened to see its windows intact. A group of bicyclists were in the parking lot. They regarded him warily as they got their bikes ready. All of them wore backpacks, and a couple even had small trailers behind their wheels.