Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (2 page)

They’d come back to the AT to pick up his trail—there was no help for that. But the roads were undoubtedly thick with FEMA agents, so the AT was still his only real option. He studied the trail guide. They’d watch trail crossings for sure. The pair Maloney so obligingly pulled off the nearest crossing was the primary containment, but Anderson had no doubt there was a second team where I-66 and Virginia 55 paralleled each other to the south at Manassas Gap. Would they set the net wider? Unlikely, for a fugitive on foot. If he could get south of I-66 undetected while they were looking the other way, he had a chance. He prayed the team at I-66 was listening to the radio traffic from the ‘chase’ now underway and had their guard down.

Another thought occurred to him. The average hiker under pack made twenty miles a day or less in this terrain. But the average hiker didn’t have the motivation of a large group of heavily armed people trying to kill him. What if he made thirty or even thirty-five miles today, then rose at first light tomorrow to duplicate the effort? If he could just slip past I-66, chances were they would think he was hiding and focus the search—and the chopper coverage—where he’d BEEN instead of where he was.

Anderson fastened a better head bandage to avoid a blood trail, stuffed his meager belongings back into the garbage bag, and eased out of the brush, careful to leave no trail. He moved into the creek and glanced regretfully downstream—he had to leave the backpack undisturbed, as much as he wanted to reclaim it. Let them keep guessing as to when and how he eluded them.

He limped upstream in the creek, careful of his footing this time, to the point they’d all entered the water. The walk back uphill was easier in some regards, since his bull-like passage and that of his pursuers had blazed a trail. It was much more difficult in other ways, and his left knee throbbed as he walked uphill backward to avoid leaving a tell-tale footprint in the wrong direction.

At the point he’d originally left the AT, he diluted the remaining bleach with the contents of one of his smaller half-liter water bottles. The mixture wasn’t strong, but there was more of it, and it would still be overpowering to the dogs’ sensitive noses. He sprinkled the mixture behind him as he started south toward the US 50/17 crossing at a limping run, cursing the day he’d met Simon Tremble.

1 Mile off the Appalachian Trail

Near Virginia-West Virginia Border

Day 24, 8:25 a.m.

Congressman Simon Tremble (NC), Speaker of the House of Representatives, looked down at his filthy stolen FEMA uniform and grubby hands and wished not for the first time they had managed to steal some soap during their escape. He sighed. Beggars can’t be choosers, and he’d managed to get Keith to at least relative safety. Despite the circumstances, he smiled as he watched his eighteen-year-old move through the woods ahead of him, without the crutch now, but still with a noticeable limp.

“We got one!” cried Keith as he hurried forward in a limping run.

Tremble stifled a rebuke. They were in a densely wooded hollow and hadn’t heard a chopper in days. He’d allow the boy what simple pleasures remained in this upside-down world, at least here in the deep woods. It would get a lot tougher when they left their sanctuary.

He followed carefully, head on a swivel and fully ‘situationally aware,’ employing all the skills learned as a US Army Ranger. He arrived at the snare to find Keith was already skinning the rabbit. His son grinned.

“That’s two. We’ll eat our fill today.”

Tremble nodded. “More than we need. If there’s anything in the last two snares, we’ll smoke the meat. We won’t have time to trap every day when we head south, not if we want to make any progress.”

“When ARE we going? I’m sick of hiding.”

“When you’re ready, which isn’t now. You’ve only been off the crutch two days, and it’s not that tough to get around in this hollow, but it’s a steep climb almost a mile just to get back up to the main trail.”

“But, Dad, that asshole Gleason is lying to everyone and murdering people to cover it up and we’re the only ones with proof. We HAVE to do something—”

“And it’s BECAUSE we’re the only ones with proof we have the responsibility to be cautious; if WE fail, there’s no one else. We’ll head south when we can, but that ankle’s not near healed. We’ve got food, water, and shelter here and, most importantly, total invisibility. If they spot us when we start moving, we’ll have to run for it, and you know what happened last time. If Wiggins and Tex hadn’t come along, we’d both be dead. Have you forgotten that, or do you honestly feel you’re up to running for it?”

Keith sighed and shook his head.

His father continued. “We have to give ourselves the best shot at success, and that’s not starting across rugged terrain with you barely able to walk. Besides, we have to consider supplies.”

“All right then,” Keith said, “you’re always telling me I need to have a plan. What’s your plan for getting to Wilmington?”

Tremble nodded. “Now that you’re off the crutch, you’ll do exercises to strengthen your ankle. At the same time, we set as many snares and deadfalls as possible and dry or smoke jerky for provisions and gather up whatever else we can find—nuts, mushrooms, edible plants, whatever. I figure a week, but we’ll reassess as we go along. When I think you’re ready, I’ll pick a steep slope on the side of the hollow as a dry run, and when you prove you can get up and down it without reinjuring your ankle, we’re good to go. How’s that sound?”

“Like it will take forever,” Keith said.

“Take it or leave it,” Tremble said. “I’m not putting you at risk without a fighting chance. Old and crafty trumps young and foolish, I’m afraid.”

Keith sighed. “I’ll take it.” Then he muttered, “Like I have a choice.”

Tremble suppressed a smile as his son turned back to the rabbit.
We’ll all have to relearn old skills to survive
, thought Tremble as Keith finished and dropped the rabbit into the plastic garbage bag.

“Ready?” Keith asked, and Tremble nodded.

They walked through the woods, content in each other’s company until Keith broke the silence.

“You think Tex and Wiggins will make it, Dad?”

“I hope so, son. I sure hope so.”

South of Harpers Ferry, West Virginia

Intersection of Appalachian Trail and Chestnut Hill Road

One Day Earlier

Day 23, 9:35 a.m.

“You sure about this, Tex?” Bill Wiggins stared at the treeless gap where Chestnut Hill Road slashed through the woods in front of them. “I feel exposed anytime we come out of the trees now.”

“So do I, but this is the best bet according to Levi’s map,” said Shyla ‘Tex’ Texeira. “It’s less than a mile to a utility right-of-way that runs due east to US 340 and the bridge over the Potomac. Both this road and the right-of-way run through thick woods. We’ll just walk the tree line and duck into cover if we hear anyone coming.”

“How far before we get back on the AT?”

“Just on the other side of the bridge.”

Wiggins sighed. “I’m not looking forward to that friggin’ crossing.”

Tex shrugged. “It’s the best option. If we stay on the AT, we have to cross the Shenandoah bridge into Harpers Ferry and then cross the Potomac on the pedestrian walkway of the railroad bridge. It’s ten miles longer and two bridges instead of one.

“Besides,” she continued, “if those FEMA assholes are watching the southern approach from the AT, that’s where they’ll be looking. This way, if we’re stopped on the eastern bridge, we say we’re coming up 671. There’s no way to connect us with the Trembles, and crossing via the eastern bridge fits our cover story. But no one walking north up 671 would go through Harpers Ferry unless that was their destination. Who the hell walks miles out of their way for no reason?”

“I know, I know. I’d just like to avoid bridges altogether.”

Tex shook her head. “There are rapids and a lot of rocks, so even if we could find a boat, we might end up miles downstream. Or worse.”

Wiggins sighed. “Yeah, I get that. Just wishful thinking. How are your feet?”

“They’ve been better, but I’ll survive.”

“When we get across this bridge, we need to find a secluded place to hole up and scout around the outskirts of Harpers Ferry to find you some better boots. You can’t go much farther in those.”

Tex nodded and looked up at the sky. “Then we need to get moving. It’s two hours to the bridge, and we need to be across and well off the main roads before nightfall.”

Wiggins nodded and started into the clearing.

Sandy Hook Bridge—US 340

Three Miles East of Harpers Ferry, West Virginia

South Bank of Potomac River

Same Day, 11:55 a.m.

They crouched in the woods beside the highway and studied the bridge. “Not a soul moving,” Tex said.

Wiggins nodded. “I’m not liking this. This is a main road; I expected at least local traffic. I was actually hoping we could mix in so we didn’t stand out.”

“I don’t like it either,” Tex said, “but maybe it’s like Front Royal. Could be the locals banded together and barricaded the main roads further out. Loudoun Heights is due south, and there are other farming communities north of the river. Maybe they set up roadblocks to keep from being overrun? They wouldn’t have blocked the AT, so we bypassed them.”

“Or maybe those FEMA assholes did the same thing to make it easier to spot northbound AT traffic.”

Tex shrugged. “Even if they did, what choice do we have? Besides, there are tons of secondary roads, so even with barricades, there’ll be other people who make it this far. We’re just two more lost souls trying to get home. They have no reason to detain us.”

“We’re armed. How will that go down?”

“How would I know?” Tex replied, temper flaring. “We just have to DO IT, all right? It’s either that or turn back, and I’m going to get to my folks or die trying.”

Silence grew between them until Tex spoke again.

“Look, I’m sorry I snapped, but my feet are killing me, and I don’t see an option. If you do, I’m all ears.”

Wiggins shook his head. “No, you’re right. This is it. We’ll play the hand we’ve been dealt.” He gave her a nervous smile. “Let’s cross the Potomac, partner.”

Tex nodded at the Henry survival rifle. “Maybe you should break that down and stow it and move your Sig to the small of your back under your shirttail like my Glock. No point in showing our hand.”

“Good point,” Wiggins said as he shrugged off his pack and began to disassemble the little rifle. A minute later it was all stowed in the hollow plastic stock and he slipped it in his pack. He jammed the Sig into his belt at the small of his back and dropped his shirttail over it. He shouldered his pack and nodded at Tex, and they started across the weed-choked verge toward the highway.

“This is spooky as hell,” Wiggins said as they stepped onto the long bridge.

“Tell me about it.” Tex unconsciously moved closer.

“Uh, maybe we should separate,” Wiggins said. “You know, just so they can’t get us at the same time.”

Tex grinned. “You want to run a zigzag pattern too? Anything else to make us look suspicious?”

Wiggins flushed. “Okay, dumb idea,” he said, but they drifted a few feet farther apart anyway.

They walked in tense silence, eyes watering in the bright noonday sun reflecting off the water, and sweating profusely in the heat radiating from the hard pavement underfoot. It was an unwelcome change from the soft paths and comforting shade of the deep woods.

“I’ll be glad to get back in the woods,” Tex said, halfway across. “I feel like a bug waiting for a flyswatter.”

“More like bugs on a friggin’ griddle—”

He was interrupted by squealing tires as a black SUV swerved onto the bridge and roared toward them.

“FEMA!” Wiggins looked over his shoulder longingly at the sanctuary of the distant tree-lined south bank. “What are we gonna do?”

“Nod and smile a lot,” Tex said out of the side of her mouth. The car swerved to a halt, blocking the bridge a hundred feet ahead of them. Two FEMA cops got out, male and female; both had their guns drawn but pointed down.

“Stop and place both hands on the top of your heads, NOW!” the man shouted.

“Doesn’t look promising,” Wiggins whispered as they complied.

“Walk forward slowly. Don’t make any sudden moves,” the man ordered.

They complied and he halted them twenty feet away. Both cops studied their faces as the man did the talking.

“Who are you and what’s your business?” he asked.

“My name’s Bill Wiggins, and this is Shyla Texeira. We’re seamen who got stuck down south, trying to make it home to our families. We had a car until we ran out of gas. We’ve been afoot ever since.”

“How’d you get past the south roadblock?”

Wiggins shrugged. “Didn’t see it, but that’s not surprising. There are bad people on the road, and we’ve been staying to the fields and woods as much as possible. We’re only on the road now to get across the river.”

The story seemed to be working, on the man anyway. His body language relaxed a bit and his gun moved a fraction lower. The woman was more wary. Tex saw her eyes narrow and followed the woman’s gaze to Wiggin’s boots. The boots he’d taken off the FEMA cop he’d killed to save the Trembles. Boots exactly like the two FEMA cops were wearing.

“FREEZE!” the woman yelled as she focused on Wiggins and raised her sidearm, but Tex’s right hand was already going to the small of her back.

At over six feet and solidly built, Wiggins was the obvious threat, but appearances were deceiving. Tex aimed for center mass, but her shot went high and hit the woman in the throat. Too late, the man turned as Tex unloaded on him, hitting him twice center mass and multiple times in the legs. It was over in seconds, and Wiggins ran forward to kick the guns away from the fallen cops.