Lamp Black: Second Edition, Disaster, Preparedness, Survival, Awakening (The Gatekeeper Book 2) (44 page)

As he approached the fight scene the headlights from the cars parked on the shoulder pretty much blinded Pete to all activity on the
side of the road. However, he did notice that the men paid no attention to the little red car, even when it slowed to gawk at them as it passed. But when one of the fighters stole a quick glance at his approaching truck, Pete acted quickly. He floored the accelerator in an effort to shoot past the ambush. The dually was no racecar, it had no speedy zero-to-sixty, but the sound of the accelerating engine immediately communicated Pete’s intent to the men standing along the highway.

As the big truck began to pick up speed, instead of changing lanes, Pete stayed in the slow lane and charged forward toward the fighting men. “You’re going to run them over!” cried Bonnie.

“Get down, Bonnie!” yelled Pete. Bonnie dropped to the floor just as the two fighters dived out of the way. The big truck blew past the fight scene. It was moving, but not fast enough for Pete’s comfort. As soon as he passed them, he swerved left, into the passing lane.

Headlights continued to illuminate the cab, and they blinded Pete to everything that was happening on the shoulder. He couldn’t tell what the men were doing, but when shadows passed in front of the stationary headlights he knew they hadn’t given up.

One fool of a man ran into the highway to take a swing at Pete’s truck with a baseball bat. Pete swerved towards him. The man jumped back, but Pete’s large extended side mirror hit him on the shoulder and spun him to the ground. Bonnie screamed at the impact, and screamed again when a flying bottle crashed against the truck’s front grill. A tinkle of glass cascaded off the windshield, followed by several more impacts. Pete actually felt, more than heard, the bangs and thuds as thrown objects hit his truck, but he didn’t care as long as the windows remained intact. He cleared the scene and maintained his speed to clear the area. He didn’t slow until he knew he wasn’t being pursued. Bonnie climbed back into the seat, the pistol shaking in hand, and she looked out the back window.

“What do you see? Is anyone trying to follow us?” asked Pete.

“I can’t see through your dust trail, but it doesn’t look like it,” she replied, breathing heavily and excitedly. She turned and sat the pistol
on the seat next to her. “How’d you know they were going to attack us?”

“It’s probably a good idea to put your pistol in the glove box,” said Pete. “If I hit the brakes it will go flying.”

“I’ve got my holster,” said Bonnie, and she removed the slim Remora waistband holster from her bag. She slid the pistol into the holster and put it in the glove box. With her hands over her face she asked Pete a second time, “How’d you know it was a trap?”

“I didn’t . . . not at first. That car with the flashing lights was probably a lookout, to signal that a target was approaching. As for the fight . . . well, the men didn’t even look at the red car, but one of them looked at me. That’s when I knew . . . when I floored it,” said Pete.

“What do you think they wanted?”

“Probably our truck, but I don’t know for sure. Your guess is as good as mine. But guessing by their numbers, they probably wanted our truck because it’s bigger than what they had. Or maybe they thought we had food and water. I can turn around and ask them?” joked Pete.

“Ha ha,” said Bonnie, “but what would have happened if they managed to stop us?”

Pete could tell by her voice that she was on the verge of tears. “It would have taken a pretty serious roadblock to stop us back there. Besides, those guys were looking for easy prey. I won’t speculate on what they would have done if they managed to stop us . . . it’s pointless to consider. But I wouldn’t have let them hurt you, Bonnie. You can count on that.”

She wiped at her eyes and said, “I think it’s safe to slow down now.”

“You’re right. Thanks,” said Pete, and he brought the truck down to a safer cruising speed.

They continued on in silence, not talking until they reached the outskirts of Waco about ten minutes later. As they began to pass through the city, Pete was surprised to see evidence of electrical power along both sides of the interstate. He wasn’t familiar with the power
grid for the City of Waco, but he figured it should have been dark and quiet, like all the other small towns he drove through on his way north. That clearly wasn’t the case, for several businesses were open and seemed to be operating normally. Gas stations and fast-food restaurants were lit and running as if nothing had changed.

“That McDonalds is open,” said Bonnie, pointing her finger across the cab toward Pete’s window.

“Yes it is,” replied Pete. He was concentrating on the traffic, very interested in getting off the freeway as soon as possible, and much too focused to engage Bonnie in conversation about Waco’s use of electrical power. An uncomfortable feeling of confinement began to rise up in Pete when he noticed the three-strand cable fence that ran down the middle and bordered the side of the interstate. The cables were thick, suspended on heavy aluminum poles, and apparently designed to prevent any out-of-control vehicle from crashing into stores or on-coming traffic. It made exiting the freeway impossible to do without an actual off-ramp. Pete didn’t like the feeling of being trapped on the freeway.

He also didn’t want to add to Bonnie’s stress, so he asked her questions about the layout of the interstate as it passed through the city. “It’s about twelve miles,” said Bonnie. “The river crossing is about eight miles ahead. I think we should get off the freeway as soon as we cross the river. What do you think?” she asked.

Pete slowed the truck and pulled into the slow lane before coming to a complete stop behind a long line of traffic. Trapped, Pete asked the only logical question available to him, “What’s the next exit? I didn’t see the last sign.”

“According to the map, there are no more exits before the river,” replied Bonnie.

“Great!” said Pete. He nervously tapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.

“It’s just a little traffic,” said Bonnie.

“And it was just a little fight back there,” said Pete. “I hate being canalized like this.”

“Canalized?”

“We’re in a canal, of sorts. We’ve got no choice but to deal with the flow. Do you see those cable barriers on your side of the road?”

“Yes,” said Bonnie, as she looked out the window.

“Well, they’re on both sides. That means we’re stuck here,” said Pete.

“Oh.”

They inched forward in traffic, with time measured in feet instead of miles. Pete refused to watch the clock, as it only served to agitate him even more. He hated feeling vulnerable, and being stuck in traffic, on a freeway that offered him no hope of immediate escape, made him feel vulnerable. He didn’t know what to expect down the road, but if the interstate continued to be like this, with endless miles of traffic, he’d rather go around, even if it added days to his trip.

Pete knew they had many miles to travel, and the city of Fort Worth yet to negotiate, but he forced himself to relax and accept the fact that, despite the danger, he wasn’t in a hurry. He wondered what caused the delay, and thought maybe the bridge over the Brazos was damaged during the earthquake. Impatience getting the better of him, Pete opened the door and stood on the running board to see ahead. In the distance, the unmistakable strobe-like flashes of red and blue lights appeared through breaks in the floating ash. He returned to his seat and huffed.

“What did you see?” asked Bonnie.

“We’re about a half-mile from an accident, or something. I saw police cruiser lights ahead, so the police are involved,” said Pete.

“Could it be an ambulance?” asked Jenna.

“They have red lights only, not red and blue. In Texas, only law enforcement vehicles have red and blue lights, not ambulances,” answered Pete.

They talked about the boys, work, the disaster, and everything else as they moved slowly forward. Some thirty minutes later, when only a handful of cars stood between them and the police cars, Pete
stepped out to have another look. It wasn’t an accident, it was a checkpoint. He watched as two City of Waco police officers inspected every vehicle that passed through the checkpoint. They weren’t conducting a detailed search, like the one at Fort Hood, but it was obvious they were looking for something, or even someone.

He watched the two officers, a male and a female, both wearing yellow reflective road vests over their dark uniforms, and disposable N95 breathing masks on their faces, as they worked the single vehicle inspection lane together. The male officer approached the driver’s side and would briefly talk with the driver. Sometimes he would shine his flashlight into the car, and sometimes he wouldn’t. His partner did the same on the vehicle’s passenger side. Pete noticed that she didn’t talk to anyone, and that she was always the one conducting the physical inspections, when signaled by the male officer.

Pete could tell the two officers had a good working relationship because they performed their duties with little or no verbal communications. A subtle head nod would cue the female officer to inspect a trunk or truck bed. Once her inspection was complete, she would nod to her partner and the male officer would wave his hand for the driver to pass through the checkpoint. It looked very proficient, but it still created a painfully large bottleneck. Pete wondered what idiot ordered the checkpoint.

“What do you think’s going on?” asked Bonnie.

“It looks like a sobriety checkpoint,” said Pete, “except they’re checking trunks.”

“What do you think they’re looking for?”

“Don’t know,” he said, as he turned to look at her, “but please let me do the talking, OK? And keep your hands where they can see them. And don’t volunteer any information, even if they ask you a question. Answer directly, quickly, and to the point, but nothing more. OK?” Bonnie nodded and fidgeted in her seat. “And stop fidgeting, you’ll make them suspicious. We’ve done nothing wrong . . . we’re doing nothing wrong . . . so relax.” added Pete.

They were still several cars from the checkpoint, but they were now in a single line. Pete surveyed the checkpoint layout and saw there was no real physical barrier in place. The only controls were two police cruisers, and a small collection of red cones. To Pete, that meant the checkpoint went up quickly, and that it could also be taken down quickly. A hasty checkpoint meant a fugitive hunt, but he didn’t understand why something like that would be a priority given the disaster. He shook his head and slowed his breathing to relax.

Pete watched as a third officer emerged from the second police cruiser and walk up to the male officer. They walked off a short distance to talk, apparently to share some important private police conversation. After a brief discussion, and a hand gesture towards the traffic, the two officers got back to work. The female officer looked over to her checkpoint partner and shrugged once, in a comically pronounced manner. He nodded for her to continue, and she did. The third officer drove away, lights flashing, and Pete imagined him running some kind of important errand just to relieve his boredom.

Finally, when Pete was just two cars from the checkpoint, he pulled out his driver’s license and asked Bonnie to do the same. He wasn’t sure if the cop would need to see his ID, but he didn’t want to give the pair any extra time to examine his truck. Pete’s goal was to pass the checkpoint as quickly and easily as possible.

Finally, after what seemed like days of waiting, Pete moved forward and was waved to a stop by the officer. His window was already down, and he was able to catch the officer’s name. Pete liked using names, it communicated contact, and was useful information that could be used later. Having served as an MP his entire military career, Pete also understood the subtle signs that triggered law enforcement officers to dig deeper; such as improper eye contact, shaking hands, evasive answers to questions, and a handful of other human responses that could communicate deception. “Good day, Officer Bodel. Can I help you?”

The officer looked at Pete and asked, “Where are you guys heading?” He briefly shined his flashlight beam over their faces and around the interior of the truck.

“Dallas,” said Pete.

“You active duty?” asked the officer?

Pete figured the officer either saw the Defense Department decal on his windshield, the large sticker that said “Military Police” on his back window, or probably both. “Retired in 2014,” answered Pete.

“What do you have in the back?”

“Food, water, fuel, camping gear, that kind of stuff,” answered Pete. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What?”

“The checkpoint . . . what’s it for?” asked Pete.

The officer scratched the back of his head and replied, “We’ve had some problem with looters.”

“All this for looters? Wouldn’t it be better to be on patrol . . . presence and all that?” asked Pete, as innocently as possible, so as not to upset the tired and potentially grumpy officer.

“The mayor’s house was looted. We’re looking for the looters,” said the officer, obviously annoyed with Pete’s observation. “Do you have any more questions? Because unless you’re willing to park and help me check all these vehicles, I’ve got work to do.”

It was obvious to Pete that the officer wasn’t serious about his request, but it’s not like Pete would have volunteered to help him anyway. He had no interest in helping a mayor settle a score with some looters. The officer looked at his partner and nodded his head to the north, the sign to let them through. Pete looked across Bonnie and out the passenger window to watch the female officer. He involuntarily stiffened when she took a step away from his truck, but relaxed when she waved her hand for him to proceed. Pete turned to see the male officer respond in kind.

“Good luck,” said Pete, and he rolled up his window and left the checkpoint. When they were clear, Pete sighed heavy and said, “Well, that was fun.”

“What do you mean?” asked Bonnie, curious about her husband’s apparent anxiety over the checkpoint. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“The big deal is that checkpoints are dangerous,” answered Pete, with a little too much edge in his voice. She turned to stare at him, and he saw that her demeanor was once again guarded. “I’m sorry, Bonnie. It’s just that you don’t see the danger in things like I do. But then again, most civilians don’t. Most people will complain about the inconvenience of being delayed, but not question the infringement on their rights. They won’t ask the cops why they’re being delayed. Checkpoints should have legal precedent, not just pop up at the whim of some city mayor. Cops are not supposed to throw up checkpoints whenever they want. Look, there’s another one.” Pete saw the police had a similar checkpoint set up at the bridge on the south-bound side of the interstate.