Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (31 page)

Kinsey cursed and turned his NV goggles toward the riverbank. He was scrutinizing a block of empty barges lashed together and moored to the tree-lined shore downstream when Bollinger spoke.

“Maybe we can take them around the downstream end of these barges into the backwater between the barges and the bank,” Bollinger said. “Nobody will be able to see them from either the dock or the river, and the trees will screen them from the bank. There can’t be much surface current there.”

Kinsey nodded. “Looks like our best shot, but first let’s get our gear ashore.” Kinsey turned to Cormier. “Andrew, we’re done with the trolling motors, right?”

“
Mais
yeah,” Cormier replied. “They ain’t gonna do no good against the current. We go back upstream on the outboards. Why?”

“Because I want one of the batteries.” Kinsey told them about the old truck.

They got their gear ashore, including a battery and a five-gallon can of gas, working in the soft warm glow of their red headlights. Given his claimed expertise, Kinsey left Bollinger working on the truck with Bertrand’s assistance while he and Cormier hid the boats. As hoped, they found a protected backwater between the barges and the riverbank and tied the boats up securely to a tree. By the time they’d slogged up the muddy riverbank and through the trees to the parking lot, their two companions were ready to try the truck.

“Ready when you are, boss,” Bollinger said from the driver’s seat.

Kinsey nodded, then grimaced as Bollinger touched two wires together under the steering column and the starter ground loudly, followed immediately by the roar of an unmuffled exhaust as the engine caught.

“Shut it down!” Kinsey hissed, and Bollinger complied.

“We can’t drive around in that,” Kinsey said. “We may as well take out an ad.”

But Bollinger was already out of the truck and on his back in the gravel, inching under the truck with his headlight. He emerged with a diagnosis. “The exhaust system is Swiss cheese, but I saw some sheet metal scraps in one of the shops. I can patch it, at least temporarily.”

Cormier looked at his watch. “It’s two thirty. We don’t have much time.”

Bollinger ignored the Cajun and fixed his gaze on Kinsey. “Five minutes now can save us an hour later. It’s worth a shot, boss.”

Kinsey looked from Bollinger to Cormier. “Okay. Five minutes. No more.”

Bollinger was moving before Kinsey finished speaking, and emerged from the nearest shop moments later with a handful of sheet metal scraps of various sizes. He tossed them on the ground, then rummaged in his pack for a roll of duct tape. He motioned for Bertrand to assist, and dove under the truck again. Kinsey and Cormier watched as Bollinger periodically asked for a piece of sheet metal and Bertrand passed it under the truck. Kinsey kept glancing at his watch.

“Time’s up, Bollinger,” Kinsey said. “Get out of there and let’s—”

“Almost done, boss. One more minute, two max.”

And so it went for ten. Kinsey was about to drag Bollinger out feet first when the man scrambled out, grinning. “Done!”

“And how long is friggin’ duct tape gonna last?” Kinsey asked.

Bollinger shrugged. “Ten or twenty minutes or until we catch fire, whichever comes first. I figure it’ll keep us quiet enough to get past the projects and to your family’s house, and that’s all we need, right?”

“Let’s hope so,” Kinsey said. “Give it a try, but shut it down if it’s too loud.”

Bollinger slid into the driver’s seat, and Kinsey cringed again as the starter ground. But this time the engine was much quieter; still not exactly a whisper, but not a roar.

“All right, I’ll drive. Bollinger, get in back with night vision and an M4. Andrew, you guys ride front or back, whichever you want,” Kinsey said.

“Back,” Cormier said. “Even if we can’t see nothin’, if Bollinger starts shooting we can shoot in the same direction. Maybe we get lucky, eh?”

“Fair enough,” Kinsey said, sliding behind the wheel as Bollinger got out.

“Just a minute, boss,” Bollinger said, and disappeared around the back of the truck. Kinsey heard several loud whacks and the sound of something breaking.

“Dammit, Bollinger!” he hissed. “Can you make any more noise—”

“Sorry, boss,” Bollinger said softly. “Just takin’ out the brake lights.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s go,” Kinsey said.

He settled behind the wheel of the idling truck, and moments later, Bollinger knocked on the cab, signaling everyone was ready. Kinsey put the truck in first gear and crept out of the parking lot and up the steep incline to the top of the levee. He turned right, down the road on the levee crest rather than descending to the mean streets below. The higher vantage point would make it easier to avoid an ambush and give Bollinger a clear field of fire.

Any pretensions to stealth quickly evaporated when he shifted into second gear and the raucous sound of mechanical mayhem rose from the ancient transmission. He cursed and shifted back to first, and the transmission quieted. He built up sufficient speed to shift directly into third, hoping it wasn’t gone as well, and heaved a relieved sigh as the truck slid smoothly into higher gear. The old beater moved quietly along the crest of the levee, ‘quiet’ being a relative term. In less than a mile he spotted a large office complex to his left at the foot of the levee: the vet school. He slowed, looking for a way down, and spotted a wide sidewalk angling down the side of the levee to the street below.

He stuck his left hand through his open window and pointed at the sidewalk. Bollinger knocked quietly on the top of the truck cab in acknowledgment and Kinsey started down. All went well until he bumped across a high curb and into the street, and cursed at the loud, grating sound of the truck dragging bottom. The impact was followed immediately by a rumbling roar, announcing he’d just undone Bollinger’s makeshift repairs to the exhaust system.

***

Kinsey gritted his teeth and cursed himself for not vetoing the use of the truck immediately. But it was too late now. If anyone was around, they’d already heard, and since that was the case, the truck would minimize the time to Connie’s house. He muttered another curse and rumbled east on the first street he came to.

He was unfamiliar with the campus this near the river and drove six or seven blocks before he saw Tiger Stadium looming in the glow of his NV goggles. Reassured, he accelerated and the old truck rumbled through the dark.

Stadium Drive took him to Highland Road, where he made a sharp right. Connie’s house was less than a mile away, and for the first time since they left Texas, Kinsey felt optimistic. He fantasized about getting his loved ones back to the safety of
Pecos Trader
, but his daydream was interrupted by frantic knocking on the truck cab.

“WHAT?” Kinsey yelled out the open window, the roaring exhaust system negating any need for silence now.

“I THINK THE DUCT TAPE IS ON FIRE! THERE ARE FLAMES SHOOTING OUT FROM UNDER THE TRUCK!” Bollinger yelled.

“WE’RE ALMOST THERE,” Kinsey yelled. “HOW BAD IS IT?”

“WHO THE HELL KNOWS? JUST KEEP GOING,” Bollinger replied.

Kinsey mashed the gas, trying to coax a bit more speed out of the old beater. He almost missed the turn to Connie’s subdivision, but he braked hard, managing to negotiate the left turn on to Sunrise Drive with his passengers still aboard. Then he slowed, remembering the numerous speed bumps along the quiet tree-lined street, a point of some irritation and frequent complaints from his brother-in-law. Flickering light illuminated the trees beside the truck as they passed, evidence of the growing fire under the truck.

He drove as fast as the speed bumps would allow, and bits and pieces of the exhaust system clattered to the pavement as they lurched over each bump. But whatever was falling off didn’t seem to have duct tape attached, because the flames continued to grow beneath the vehicle.
How much of that crap did he use
? Kinsey wondered as the truck moved forward. The engine noise was deafening now, precluding even shouted conversations.

Kinsey spotted the entrance to the gated community ahead. The ornamental wrought-iron gate was closed, and he wondered if the old truck would hold together long enough to force it open. There was a sharp crack as a bullet shattered the windshield a foot to the right of him, and he slammed on the brakes just as the front wheels were starting over yet another speed bump. The combined assault transmitted through the steering system and jerked the wheel from Kinsey’s hands and the truck veered into the trunk of a massive oak tree. Only the relatively slow speed prevented the collision from being worse.

He pushed himself back from the steering wheel, thankful his tactical vest had spread the force of the impact. He’d be bruised, but there were no broken ribs. But his self-congratulations were brief as the smell of gasoline from a broken fuel line drove him from the cab. Bollinger and the two Cajuns were still on the truck bed, disentangling themselves from a heap against the back of the cab. Another round ricocheted off the street near Kinsey and whined into the distance.

“Get the hell off there and away from the truck!” he yelled at the others. “There’s a gas leak somewhere and this heap is liable to blow, and the fire is silhouetting us for the shooters.”

Kinsey was dragging a groggy Bertrand off the flatbed as he spoke, and Cormier and Bollinger were gathering their weapons and gear. They were on the ground in seconds, moving away from the burning truck into the shadows and safety of the massive oaks on the opposite side of the street. They barely reached cover when the air was split by a thunderous explosion and the night flashed bright for a brief instant as the gas tank exploded.

The truck continued to burn; no need for night vision now. Kinsey flipped up his goggles and peeked around the tree trunk to see something he’d missed earlier. The guardhouse by the gate, occupied in better times by a lethargic and geriatric rent-a-cop, was now sandbagged. He could just make out heads popping up over the sandbags for a quick look: two or possibly three men. A shout rang out across the distance.

“YOU ARE SURROUNDED! DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND STEP INTO THE LIGHT WITH YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS.”

Kinsey was contemplating his response, when Cormier made it for him.

“MAYBE YOU SHOULD DROP YOUR WEAPONS,
COUYON
, BEFORE I THROW A GRENADE IN YOUR LITTLE HOUSE,
EH
?”

“I REPEAT,” the man at the gate yelled, “DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND STEP INTO THE LIGHT WITH YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS.”

Something about that voice? Relief washed over Kinsey as he shouted a reply. “ZACH! ZACH DUHON! IS THAT YOU?”

There was a long silence. “WHO WANTS TO KNOW?” the voice replied.

“MATT. MATT KINSEY.”

More silence. “IF YOU’RE MATT, STEP INTO THE LIGHT AND WALK TOWARD US AND KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM.”

Kinsey stepped out from behind the tree, hands on the top of his head, and walked toward the gatehouse. When he was halfway there, a tall man moved from behind the sandbag barricade and rushed to meet him. They embraced in the area in front of the gatehouse, then stepped back, both embarrassed by the gesture.

“Man, it’s good to see you,” Zach said. “We thought you were—”

“Is Kelly okay?”

“She’s fine,” Zach said. “And she’ll be more than fine when she sees you.”

Zach looked toward the trees in the shadows. “Is Luke with you?”

Kinsey shook his head. “No, but he’s safe. He’s in North Carolina.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Zach said, and grinned. “You want to bring the rest of your folks in. I promise we won’t shoot them.”

Kinsey turned and motioned the others forward. When they arrived, he made quick introductions all around, and they all turned toward the gate. Zach’s fellow guards were a bit less welcoming, holding their weapons pointing downward, but leaving no doubt they were prepared to raise them at the slightest provocation.

“They’re okay,” Zach said. “This is my brother-in-law and he vouches for the others.”

One of the guards shook his head. “You know the rules, Duhon. We’re not supposed to let anyone in without approval from the council.”

“I don’t think that applies to family,” Zach said. “But if you want to go wake up Fat-Ass Fontenot at three in the morning, be my guest. Meanwhile, I’m taking these boys to my house. You know where to find us if anybody has a problem with that.”

The two men held their ground for a few seconds, as if contemplating pressing the point, but seemed to think better of it. They both stepped back to let Zach pass. Zach clicked on a headlamp to light their way and started down the middle of the street. Kinsey and his comrades turned on their own headlamps and fell in beside Zach. Kinsey held his tongue until they were well away from the gate.

“I get the impression there’s no love lost there?”

Zach shrugged. “They’re all right, but the longer this drags on, the more strained things get. We were doing okay for the first two or three weeks. There was rioting and looting after the first few days, but the governor called out the guard and they were able to contain a lot of it. Then as it got worse, most of the guardsmen just left and went home to protect their own families, and those that were left were tasked with defending the governor’s mansion.”

“Have you had any trouble?” Kinsey asked.

Zach nodded. “Yeah, at first the looters were running all over the place. But we’ve only got the one way in and out, so me and a few of my neighbors set up a guard on the gate. The wall around the community isn’t much of an obstacle, but between that and guys with guns at the gate and a roving neighborhood patrol, it was enough to encourage the bad guys to look elsewhere. There were a lot more vulnerable places around.”

“So what happened?”

“Fat Ass Fontenot happened, that’s what. He’s retired, but he was some sort of corporate bigwig. He ran for city council a couple of times but always lost, but for all that he has a pretty good line.” Zach shrugged. “With things like they are, some people aren’t thinking straight, if they ever thought straight to start with. They want someone to tell them what to do, so Fontenot took it upon himself to start beating the drum for a ‘community council.’ A lot of us just figured he was a blowhard and ignored him, but that turned out to be a mistake. More than half the residents went along with it, and the next thing we know we got the council, and surprise, surprise, the council elected Fat Ass as president. He didn’t do much for the first week, but then he started trying to control things, and it’s gone from bad to worse.”