SurviRal (9 page)

Clint could clearly see the driver at the front of the left lane shake his head and roll his window up. He was in a small red car, possibly a Fiat. The highway men directed him to the right side of the fence. He started for it, but then did something unexpected. He veered onto the shoulder, squeezing between the line of cars and the tow trucks. Dust and gravel kicked up from his tires. Up ahead, he appeared to find a spot where there was a break in the tow trucks and abruptly cut through them.

Harold laughed. “There’s an option. If he got through okay, he was probably able to cut over to Bear Dance Road. It leads to the golf course, but there’s a highway onramp up there.”

Both cars in front of them handed the highway men something through the window. Both were allowed through on the left side. Harold pulled forward and rolled his window down. Now it was their turn.

“What’s going on?” Harold asked cordially.

The man leaned down so Clint and Jenny could see him clearly. He wore a white t-shirt, smudged in places, had black hair and a mustache. Large tattoos covered most of his muscular forearms, but Clint couldn’t make out what the images were of.

“Good afternoon, folks. I’m with the Colorado salvage, towing, and road maintenance alliance. Lots of problems with blockages on I-25 today. Too many abandoned cars, with the gas stations closed and all. We’re doing our best to clear them and let folks through as we’re able to make room, but it’s a heck of a project and a bit of a slow go. I’d also like to mention most of us are now working on unpaid overtime. This is a tough job with no benefits, so we’re asking for help from the community. Would you care to make a donation to the tow truck driver’s retirement fund?”

Harold laughed. “Never heard of such a thing. Neither have I heard of a Colorado salvage and road maintenance alliance. Is this for real?”

The tow truck driver only frowned. Clint heard Jenny rustling in the back seat.

“Here,” she said, sticking her arm past the other side of Harold’s head.

“Thank you, ma’am.” But when the man took the bill from her hand and saw that it was only a ten, he seemed disappointed. His frown returned, and he just kept standing there with is forearms resting on Harold’s open window. Finally, he spoke again.

“Unfortunately, it may be a while before we can get you through…” His voice trailed off as he turned and looked at the right lane.

“Wait,” Harold said. “Do you like beef jerky?”

“Jerky? Sure, I do.”

“Here you go.” Harold handed him the sandwich baggie that he and Clint had been nibbling from, still mostly full.

The tow truck driver took a bite and smiled. He then tucked the jerky bag with the ten dollar bill in a pocket, whistled for his partner standing in front, and signaled him with his other hand.

“Thank you, folks. Please proceed through on the left.”

Harold acted smug afterwards. “I told you this was good jerky.”

They had to proceed cautiously, as the car in front of them was only six or seven lengths ahead and also going slow. To their right, on the other side of the fence, many people were standing around their parked vehicles. Some of them yelled at Harold’s car as they passed. Clint thought he saw one guy even spit at them. But then there was so much commotion in one spot Harold slowed even more, so they could try and see what was happening. Clint rolled his window down and stretched his neck out in an effort get a glimpse.

“Oh no,” he said.

“What?” Harold and Jenny both responded.

Clint came back inside. “It’s the red Fiat. Didn’t make it. Rolled down a steep embankment. Probably why there was nothing parked in that spot. Looks like some people are trying to help, and one of the available tow trucks is backing down to it.”

“That’s terrible,” Jenny said. “Are they really not letting people go on that side go because they didn’t pay a bribe? How can they get away with this? Where are the state troopers?”

“They must have all gotten called away on other emergencies,” Harold said. “I’ll say this much for these tow truck drivers. They’re a much more enterprising group of fellows than I ever gave them credit for. Glad ours wasn’t a vegetarian.”

“Vegetarian tow truck driver,” Clint mused. “I wonder if there is such a thing.”

They finally came to the end of the fence. It turned and closed against a boulder on the roadside. Three more tow trucks were parked directly in front of it. No way to get by even if you moved the fence. The poor people who refused to pay the bribe were corralled, and appeared to be going nowhere for a long while.

For those who paid, however, the road opened back up to two lanes and normal highway speeds resumed. It was nice again for a while.

But only for a while. In seven more miles, all southbound traffic on I-25 came to another halt.

“What is it this time?” Jenny whined. “The Air Force Academy demanding a supplement to their pensions?”

“You might not be that far off,” Harold said. He looked out his window at the sound of helicopters.

Clint leaned forward and peered up through the windshield. “Two large rotors fixed on wings. Aren’t those the tilt-rotor aircraft?”

“Ospreys, yes,” Harold said. “I saw them performing at the academy once. Those things are amazing. They hover to land and take off, and then the wings with the props tilt forward. Can fly almost as fast as a plane when they need to.”

Clint nodded. “I see some other types now, too. Large transport crafts—and I think even a couple of attack helicopters circling south. I wonder if they’re what’s holding us up.”

“Or maybe they’re responding to whatever is holding us up.”

Clint started to glare at Harold, but then realized he may be right. Clint decided to check himself. He might be getting a little over-defensive in trying to keep Jenny from being scared.

They began moving again, slowly. What a grind. It soon became obvious that all traffic was being routed off I-25. Orange cones blocked the highway ahead, reinforced by air force vehicles and several state troopers beyond them. Both lanes were being bottlenecked on the off-ramp.

“They’re making everyone get off here,” Jenny said.

Clint smiled. She had a penchant for stating the obvious.

“Not a bad place for a detour,” Harold said. “We’re in Monument. This is the 105 they’re putting us on. Only a few miles to Highway 83. I’m sure we can get back to the I-25 in Briargate.”

Jenny sighed. “I don’t know if we can be sure about anything today.”

They slowly progressed off the highway and eventually merged into one lane. Several cadets and servicemen stood talking on the off-ramp shoulder. Harold suddenly pulled out of the line of cars and stopped next to them.

“What are you doing?” Clint asked.

Harold opened his door and set one foot outside when a female voice shouted.

“Stay in your vehicle!”

Startled, Harold stopped with one foot on the ground. The voice repeated the command, this time louder and more forceful. Harold got back inside and closed the door. The woman who yelled walked over to the car. She wore a full dress U.S. Air Force uniform, including a service revolver.

“Something wrong with your car?” she said as she approached Harold’s open window. “Out of gas?”

“Um, no ma’am, sir,” Harold replied. His voice cracked.

No reaction from the air force woman.

“We’re trying to get to Pueblo. I just wanted to know if the roads were going to be open.”

“You’re not going to make it to Pueblo today. All southbound traffic is being held up. There’s been an …incident.”

“What kind of incident?” Harold asked.

“I’m not at liberty to say. You can turn around and head back north, or wait it out locally, off the highways.”

“What about the 83? Can we get through that way?”

“No. It’s being blocked as well, a short ways past Shoup. Along with all other southbound roads.”

Harold glanced at Clint with a look of aggravation.

“Can I talk to someone who can tell me why the roads are blocked?” Harold asked her.

The woman leaned down. “Mister, I’m a Major in the United States Air Force. You’re not likely to find a higher authority. I’m going to have to ask you to merge back in and continue with the detour. Unless you need a tow truck.”

“And go where?” Harold said.

Before she could respond, Jenny rolled her window down.

“Major?”

The major looked at Jenny.

“I think you should know there’s a band of tow truck drivers, about seven miles back, that has the highway blocked off—and they’re extorting money from people to let them pass.”

The major nodded. “We got that report. It’s been given to the state troopers.” The contents of Harold’s over-packed wagon then seemed to draw her attention.

Clint was suddenly upset at Harold for stopping here. What if she spotted the firearms?

“It looks like you folks are well-outfitted,” the major said in a softer tone. “You should be all right. From what I hear, most of the southbound travelers are setting up camp in either Fox Run or Black Forest Park. The roads should be reopened by morning. Now, I really must ask you to continue exiting the highway.”

With that she stood erect, turned around, held up her hand up to stop the line of cars, and waved Harold back in line.

Harold reluctantly complied. They were now driving again. But with no place to go.

Chapter Seven

Jake rarely had visitors. He liked it that way. The front of his house was intentionally arranged in such a fashion as to discourage them. There was the standard no trespassing sign, of course, along with a “beware of dog” warning left in place for a pet that had long since deceased. Overgrown weeds lined the path to his front porch, which was also partially blocked with an old Volkswagen engine block. There certainly was no doorbell or doorknocker. Even if he had close neighbors, kids on Halloween would likely not approach his place for anything other than satisfying the requirements of a dare.

That’s why Jake was alarmed when he heard the loud knocking. It was confident, authoritative. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had the courage to do that. His .45 automatic was an easy acquisition from the lampstand drawer en-route to the entryway. Jake glanced at the umbrella stand before opening, knowing his partially-hidden shotgun was also within easy reach.

He took a quick peak through the peephole.

Military. At least they looked that way. Jake wasn’t about to fall for a ruse, though. He opened the door no more than a foot, keeping the pistol in his hand behind the door.

Six of them. All wearing cammies. Two army Jeeps parked out on the unpaved street.

“What can I do for you boys? Offer lessons in sign reading, perhaps?”

The visitors all appeared to be in their late-twenties. Two of them meandered in the untended yard with assault rifles strapped to their backs, but no other weapons were visible. Two stood on the top step of his porch, with the other two behind them at the edge of the walkway. The one closest to the door was black. He frowned at Jake’s remark.

“Sorry to bother you, sir. We’re army reservists with the First Space Brigade out of Colorado Springs. Sent here in accordance with the President’s order to locate domestic food sources. You appear to have a have a rather large garden. We’re seeking to establish food-buying contracts with mini-farmers.”

Jake moved his eyes from person to person in an attempt to assess the potential level of threat this unwelcome posse presented. They seemed legitimate. He relaxed a little. But only a little.

“Sorry, guys.” Jake shook his head. “This isn’t a farm. And my personal garden could hardly be described as a mini-farm, either. I grow food for my own consumption only.”

The other reservist on the top step moved forward and responded. He had a southern accent.

“Looks like one heck of a personal garden. Much too big for one household, according to our air surveillance. Unless we’re mistaken, you’ve got a grain field back there covering more than half an acre.”

“What I grow behind the privacy of my fence is my own affair,” Jake said. “What’s the army doing spying on my backyard?”

“As we already told you,” the black reservist answered, “searching for food resources. And cooperative partners.”

Jake forced a smile. “Is there such thing as an uncooperative partner?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Jake’s smile vanished. The southern boy spoke again.

“You’re one of those survivalist preppers, aren’t you? Probably have more buckets of wheat stored than you could ever use in a lifetime. Don’t you care that your country needs your support in a time of crisis? We’ll pay fair market value for your excess. But no, you don’t care, do you? We’ve run into your type before. Bet you’re even holding a gun behind the door right now.”

Jake was taken aback. This kid was bold, and appeared to know what he was doing. Truth be told, Jake found himself liking him.

“Well of course I’m holding a gun back here, soldier. Put yourself in my shoes. Wouldn’t you do the same? Nobody ever knocks on my door. Power lines are out and cell towers are down, so I can’t even call my family. Last I heard, there was looting in the cities. Seems to me you ought to be attending to that business, rather than harassing a peaceful fellow American on his own property.”