SurviRal (20 page)

“No!” Just give me the bag—all of it!”

Jenny glared at him. “I’m getting my damn makeup bag first!” She pulled out the small vinyl bag that Clint and Harold knew held the 9-millimeter semi-automatic. With her other hand, she swung the pack backwards and then tossed it. It fell significantly short.

The kid looked at her pack three yards away from him, scowled, and raised his arm with the gun towards Jenny. “I told you—”

Clint lunged for the kid’s gun hand. He grabbed ahold of it in an upward motion, raising the weapon. It fired again, into the air this time. A wrestle for control commenced. They moved left and stumbled over one of the packs. Out of the corner of Clint’s eye, he saw Harold coming towards then.

But another gunshot fired first. The kid yelled in pain and fell backwards. Unfortunately, the pistol went with him. Lying on his back with a bleeding hole in his thigh, he looked up at Clint with unrestrained hatred and raised his arm. But not before another shot fired into his shoulder. The arm with the gun went back down. Clint scrambled and managed to get ahold of it again, easily removing it from his grip this time. The kid winced in pain.

“I’ll kill you!” he shouted. “I’ll kill all of you! You messed with the wrong guy!”

“Dammit!” Harold said. “What the hell is wrong with you, robbing people? Were you seriously going to shoot the woman?” He picked up his and Jenny’s packs and walked to Jenny. “Good work. Nice shooting.”

The kid on the ground lowered his voice and in a cool, deliberate tone said, “I’m gonna find out who you are, and then you’re dead. All of you.”

Clint picked up his own bag with his free hand, looked at Harold, and motioned back towards the would-be robber with the kid’s own pistol.

“What should we do about him?”

The kid let a barrage of curses fly, the fluctuations in his voice now being influenced by obvious pain.

Harold stepped over. “The way that leg is bleeding, it might be more humane to finish him off.”

“No!” Jenny said. “Let’s get out of here. I want to go.”

Harold looked at her bicycle, still upside down.

“There’s no fixing your front tire. He shot it through. It’s completely blown.”

“There’s a town a few miles up ahead,” Clint said.

Harold turned in that direction. “Fowler, yes.”

“We can walk the bikes there. Maybe try to find someone who has a tire for sale or trade.”

“Not bloody likely.”

“Please,” Jenny said. “I just want to go.”

“We’re down one bike now, honey. We’ll have to walk.”

“Whatever. Let’s goooooo already.”

“I say we leave it,” Harold said. “Maybe you can ride her on the handlebars.”

“All the way to La Junta?”

“We can take turns. Beats walking there.”

Clint thought for a moment. “I guess you’re right. When we get to town we can report this, to send police and an ambulance.”

Harold looked back at the injured crook. “Do that, and two things might happen. First, we’re likely to get seriously delayed in Fowler, for who knows how long while they investigate the incident. Second, this guy will be able to learn our identity rather easily after that.”

“I don’t know if I’m okay with leaving him here to bleed to death,” Clint said.

“All right. I’ll try to make a tourniquet.”

Harold proceeded to remove the inner tube from the shot-out front tire. He cut it with his pocket knife and approached the kid on the ground, who only cursed and spit on him. Harold ignored him and wrapped the tube around his upper thigh, stretching it tight before each wrap and pushing the kid’s leg down with his boot. The kid screamed in pain each time. Finally, Harold had Clint come over and press it down while he tied it off.

“That’s about as good as we can do. It’s not great, but I can see it has already reduced the bleeding. Might be enough to let it clot.”

They left him there on the roadside with his curses and continued pledges of fatal recompense. Harold managed to tie Jenny’s pack securely across his handlebars, so Jenny could sit on Clint’s handlebars unhindered. In such fashion they rode on. It was slower going, especially at first while Clint gained confidence in his balance with Jenny on the bars. But it worked. Jenny said nothing for several miles. When she finally spoke, her words surprised Clint.

“This reminds me of my first date, in eighth grade. With Matt Formont. He rode me on his handlebars to the Dairy Queen. Then to a park afterwards.” She chuckled. “If I had a gun back then, I might have shot him that night, too.”

Chapter Fifteen

“I have a dial tone on this one,” Clint said.

“All right. Go ahead.” Harold looked at Jenny. “There was nothing on your bike that could identify you, right?”

“I don’t think so. Only my fingerprints.”

Harold laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about that. You didn’t do anything wrong. If I was the one who got him, we’d be calling the morgue, not an ambulance—and I wouldn’t be concerned about it at all.”

Clint dialed 911 on the pay phone.

“Hi. I want to report an injured bicyclist I saw on the side of the road.” Pause. “On Garnett Road, four or five miles west of Fowler.” Pause. “A block or two east of 64
^th
Lane, I think. Yes, he looked hurt. Yes, I saw him moving and heard him talking. No, I didn’t witness the accident.” Pause. “No, I didn’t stop. Kept going until I found a phone. He looks badly hurt.” Pause. “No. I don’t know him, don’t know who he is, and wasn’t involved. Just saw him there, hurt, next to a banged-up bicycle. I think he needs an ambulance. That’s all. Thank you.”

Clint hung up. “They wanted me to hold, and were going to ask me a bunch more questions. But they said they would try to get an emergency response vehicle there, if they could. Wow. If you can’t even count on getting ambulances any more, I’d say society has officially crashed.”

“I can’t believe somebody smashed that emergency call box on the highway,” Jenny said.

Harold climbed off his bike. “Things are getting hairier, that’s for sure. I’ll ride you a while. At least we have another handgun now. Snub-nose thirty-eight. Only three bullets, though—at least until we get to Jake’s. Isn’t that the gun you’re practiced with, Jenny?”

“Yes, but please don’t ask me to touch that thing. Besides, I kind of like the one you gave me.”

“I thought you might. That Glock is good protection, and easy to use—which is why undercover cops carry it.” Harold grabbed ahold of Clint’s handlebar.

“Oh, you want to trade bikes?” Clint asked.

 “That’ll be easiest, since I have her pack latched on to my bars so well.”

“Let’s stay on the main highway this time,” Jenny said.

“Way ahead of you there. Ready?”

They left the payphone and made their way through the streets of Fowler back to Highway 50. The fields surrounding this town were even more agricultural than those in East Pueblo. The ratio of corn to peppers was higher, but this was also the beginning of the melon fields. The farther east they rode from here, the more of those they would see. Little beige cannonballs sitting peacefully under large flat vine leaves stretching out for miles. More often than not, workers were in the fields tending them, as melons of all types are a labor-intensive crop. At least some people still had jobs. By the Fourth of July, the first harvests would be in and locals would be lined up for them. This year, those crowds figured to be much larger than normal—assuming the farmers selling direct to the public would still be accepting U.S. currency. That was up in the air at the moment. Clint mused at the thought of people lined up with chickens, deer meat, boxes of ammunition, and maybe even bicycle parts looking to trade for melons. But the way things were going, that comical scene might be exactly what unfolds six weeks from now.

Highway 50 had a wide, well-paved shoulder east of Fowler. An additional dirt shoulder extended even further in many places, which was convenient for getting out the way of the few cars that passed. Clint noticed those were becoming rarer, and was glad for it. He stayed behind Harold and kept an eye on him—though the truth was Harold was doing at least as good of job as Clint in carrying Jenny. What a way to travel.

They switched bikes every couple of miles. Harold had just started his second shift, a short ways past the small town of Manzanola, when he abruptly stopped, causing Jenny to hop off.

“Too tired?” Clint asked coming alongside him. “Want me to keep riding her a while?”

“No,” Harold said. “Look.” He pointed ahead.

Clint saw them now: a sizeable group of pedestrians on the highway, walking towards them on the westbound shoulder.

“I’d like to be more prepared when people approach us,” Harold said. “Let’s walk past them.”

“Good idea.” Jenny rubbed her butt. “I could use a longer break this time, anyway.”

“They’re on the opposite shoulder,” Clint said. “As long as they stay over there, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

But almost as soon as Clint finished speaking those words, the highway walkers crossed over to the eastbound side and continued their pace, blocking the way forward. Clint counted nine pedestrians. The group didn’t look particularly menacing—or at least they probably wouldn’t have if the three of them hadn’t just been the victim of an armed robbery attempt a few miles back. As it stood, another immediate encounter with strangers on the road wasn’t the most welcome proposition.

“Let’s cross over,” Clint said. “Maybe they’ll get the idea we’re not in a sociable mood.”

Harold enthusiastically agreed and followed Clint and Jenny across the road. It worked for a few minutes. The large group held their bearing on the opposite side. But as they came closer, they began crossing the highway again, as if intending to make contact.

Harold didn’t tolerate it. In one coordinated motion, the pack slipped off his back, swung around to his front, and rested on his bike’s crossbar while he opened it. A gun case similar to Clint’s came out. In a matter of seconds, Harold’s Henry AR-7 was assembled with a magazine popped in. Harold raised the camouflage-patterned rifle to his shoulder and leveled it at the nearest on-comers before they came too close.

“Stand clear!” Harold shouted. “We’re not looking for company!”

The highway walkers bumped into each other as the ones in front halted. Clint then noticed some of them had flyers in their hands. Looks of scorn formed on many of their faces as they saw the gun pointed at them. Gradually, they went back across and allowed Clint, Jenny, and Harold a comfortable berth.

One of the walkers then shouted, “You know you’re part of the problem, man!” Others could be seen grumbling and nodding in agreement. But they kept on going.

“Thank you!” Harold yelled before breaking down his rifle and putting it away.

Jenny jumped back on the handlebars, giggling some. Clint was glad to see the trauma from the robber incident wearing off her already. But then Jenny had always been good about getting over things quickly, which is why their fights never lasted more than a couple hours. The occasional sightings of police and military vehicles as they neared town helped, too—although they were all parked alongside the melon fields for some reason.

Harold led them back across the road to the right shoulder. The ride went relatively easy from there into Rocky Ford, where the highway divided and the eastbound side widened into two city-street lanes. Once in the city, there were intersections to have to deal with every block. Still not much traffic, though. Some pedestrians strolled about, and kids on scooters or skateboards sped by in isolated places. Only one person tried to give them a flyer. They decided to allow Jenny another break and walked several blocks, taking the opportunity to eat the breadsticks Celia gave them this morning as a parting gift.

“We need to go right on the 71,” Clint said. “It’s near the east end of town. Jake’s house is only another nine or ten miles from there.”

“Tell that to my rear end,” Jenny said. But she climbed back up on Clint’s bars when they reached the 71, and the three of them resumed riding.

Two miles south of town the melon fields thinned out, especially on the west side of the road. This short stretch was made up of grass, dirt, brush, and rock, with an occasional patch of cottonwood trees. The melon fields could still be seen a couple of blocks to the east, but westward the contrasting barren terrain extended all the way to the closest mountains.

That’s when the next batch of human obstacles came into view, hanging out at a small crossroads. Only four of them this time, but they seemed to be waiting for people to pass by. They had a four-seat electric golf cart with them, pulled off the road on a grassy corner. Clint hoped they weren’t beggars.

“More crusaders?” Jenny asked.

“Let’s walk past them,” Harold said. But before he could stop, a gunshot sounded from close by, off to the right somewhere. Clint turned his head in time to see Harold ride off the road, his head also turned in the direction of the gunfire. The shot must have startled him. His front tire went over a small embankment and crashed into a rock. Harold flew forward into Jenny’s backpack, which knocked loose to one side.