Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (54 page)

“Make a move and you’re dead,” Wiggins said quietly.

The man’s eyes flew open, puzzled at first, then terrified.

“Put both your hands on the wheel where I can see—”

Wiggins saw the movement in his peripheral vision and reacted instinctively, stepping back several steps as the man who’d been sleeping unseen in the backseat raised a pistol. Wiggins silenced him with a three-round burst, then turned back to the driver, who was now bringing up a pistol as well. Wiggins fired a three-round burst through the thin sheet metal of the car door, and the man jerked and fell forward on the wheel. The blare of a car horn split the night air.

Wiggins looked helplessly at Tex, who shook her head in insect-like astonishment. He jerked open the car door and dragged the dead man out, relieved the horn stopped at least. He laid his M4 down and jumped behind the wheel to pull the car off the tracks, then was out and scooping up his weapon to run back towards Tex. He found her crouched behind the short steel wall of the viaduct, watching the men at the roadblock.

They were all awake now, and Wiggins counted seven. All were well armed, but he could see no NV gear at all.

“I think we’re all right,” Tex said. “They don’t know what the hell is going on, and they can’t cut us off unless they crawl up that steep slope to the tracks, and it’s pretty overgrown with brush. The only other way up here passes under this viaduct, and we have the advantage. I’ll hold them off while you bring up the truck.”

“I’ll stay. You go get the truck,” Wiggins said.

“Knock off the Sir Galahad crap, Bill. You know I’m a better shot. Just go get the truck. And hurry, before those clowns get organized.”

Wiggins hesitated, then set off down the tracks at a run. He’d just reached the truck and started it when he heard all hell break loose. He could easily distinguish Tex’s disciplined three-round bursts from the roar of full-automatic fire from the street below. He mashed the accelerator and sent up a silent prayer for Tex. He had no doubt she was giving better than she got, but the goons on the street below were throwing out a lot of rounds, and they might get lucky.

He rounded the curve and was relieved to see Tex on the opposite side of the viaduct, firing and moving, taking advantage of the fact her opponents could only see her muzzle flash, and making sure she immediately vacated the place they’d last seen it. With the truck on the rails, Wiggins had no need to steer it, so he shouldered his M4 and stuck it through the open window. He smiled when their opponents came into view. Far from advancing, they’d all taken cover behind the three-car barricade, popping up to spray rounds in their general direction then dropping down again. He added his own fire to Tex’s as the truck rolled across the viaduct, then belatedly remembered the rather limited stopping power of the rubber tires on the slick rails and slammed on the brakes.

Tex glanced over her shoulder as the pickup flashed past, tires squealing, and she turned and raced after it. It was still moving when she managed to throw open the door and leap inside.

“GO, GO, GO,” she yelled.

Wiggins transferred his foot to the gas and they were off, racing over the Merrimack.

Haverhill, Massachusetts

Same Day, 4:55 a.m.

They rode in tense silence through the dark city, expecting to be fired upon any moment. Slowly the tension ebbed, and Tex started chuckling.

“What?” Wiggins said.

“The next time the task requires silence, I’m doing it,” Tex said. “Seriously? The frigging horn?”

“It’s not like I planned it,” Wiggins said.

“Obviously,” Tex said, and laughed harder.

Her laughter was infectious, and soon Wiggins was laughing along with her, but a glance at the lightening sky to the east killed his good humor.

“We have to find a hiding place, and soon,” he said.

Tex looked at a highway bridge towering above the track ahead, then glanced at the map.

“That’s gotta be I-495. The area ahead looks to be a mix of rural land and subdivisions. There’s a crossing about five miles ahead. We should be able to get off and on there with no problem.”

A few minutes later Wiggins started slowing, and as Tex had predicted, the road crossing proved a perfect place to exit the tracks. He pulled into the crossing and raised the guide wheels, allowing him to steer off the tracks and onto the pavement.

“Which way?” he asked.

“Left,” Tex said. “But go slow, and let’s see if we can find an opening in the woods to the right.”

Wiggins had driven no more than fifty feet when Tex yelled and pointed to a dirt track.

“This isn’t the SUV, Tex,” Wiggins said. “I doubt the off-road capabilities are close to the same.”

Tex nodded and opened her door.

“What are you doing?” Wiggins asked.

“I’ll walk in front to check things out. I’ll walk a bit, then motion you forward. If we run into problems, we can always back out.”

She closed the door without waiting for a response and walked forward. She went fifty feet and motioned him forward, then repeated the process. They’d gone about two hundred feet when he emerged on the now neglected green expanse of a golf course. Tex came over, grinning.

“I saw it on the map,” she said. “I figure not too many people are playing golf these days, so hiding in the woods off the eighteenth hole should be fairly secure.”

Granite Fields Golf Course

Kingston, New Hampshire

Day 35, 7:25 p.m.

Wiggins didn’t argue when Tex insisted on taking the first watch. He collapsed across the backseat of the crew cab and was snoring soundly before the sun was fully up. He awoke in the early afternoon, rested but sweaty, and relieved Tex. She woke near sundown to find Wiggins standing in the fading light, the railroad map spread out before him on the hood of the truck. She went into the woods to relieve herself and came back to stand by Wiggins’ side.

“Problem?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I was just going over the route again to see if there were any more blind approaches like that curve back there.”

“And?”

He shook his head again. “There aren’t any, but I’ve had second thoughts about our route. Riding the rails all the way to Lewiston means transiting Portland and two long bridges we don’t really need to cross. I don’t think it’s worth the risk, BUT”—Wiggins put his finger on the map—”there’s a spur here in Biddeford with its own bridge across the Saco River. It dead-ends in an industrial park less than forty miles from home. I’ll feel a lot more comfortable maneuvering on back roads I know well and with a night-vision advantage instead of being stuck on rails in a city.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Tex said.

They were close now, and as much as he wanted to rush, Wiggins forced himself to be patient. They decided to wait until after midnight to increase the odds the people in the towns they transited would be asleep. They ate MREs and passed the time talking about their lives. Wiggins hadn’t spoken much of his home and family, suppressing his worry to concentrate on the all-important task of getting home. Now that goal was in reach, and he felt a need to verbalize his fears. Tex offered quiet encouragement, silent most of the time but asking questions when appropriate.

He smiled when he talked of his wife, Karen, and their three-year-old, Billy, and his own parents who lived nearby. Then he turned somber.

“Karen’s folks were killed in a car wreck when she was in college, but my folks love her as much as I do. She had a real hard time when Billy was born, and my folks were right there with her.” His face clouded. “But I wasn’t and I’ve never really forgiven myself.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Billy came early and Karen had to have a C-section. I planned to work until a couple of weeks before delivery so I could be there and still have most of my vacation left to help out, but I was a day out of port when she went into labor. I practically rode the gangway down when we made port, but by the time I got home, it was all over. Luckily it turned out okay, but this time I was determined to be there.”

He shook his head. “Look how well that turned out.”

“When is she due?” Tex asked softly.

Wiggins didn’t respond. “Five days ago,” he said at last. “And she was likely going to need another C-section. But now …” He trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Bill,” Tex said, but it sounded lame even to her.

“She has to be,” Wiggins said, his face a mask of grim determination.

They lapsed into silence, checking the luminous faces of their watches as the minutes dragged. Finally at eleven, Wiggins could take it no more.

“Screw it,” he said, and donned his NV glasses and started the truck.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Riding the rails

Northbound

Near Biddeford, Maine

Day 36, 2:25 a.m.

They got off to a good start, managing to get the pickup lined up on the rails and the guide wheels locked on the second try. Wiggins started down the track and they were soon at the proscribed safe speed limit and then five miles over it. Tex said nothing as Wiggins stared ahead grimly.

They rolled through Exeter and Newmarket without difficulty and barely slowed through the University of New Hampshire campus at Durham. Movement seemed to lighten Wiggins’ mood, and he began to make small talk once again. They slowed for the Cocheco River bridge at Dover but found it clear, but only five miles further down the line, they spotted a self-appointed toll collector at the Salmon Falls River bridge at Rollinsford.

They surprised him with their high beams and air horn technique and were almost across the bridge before the man recovered and fired at them, or rather their sound, somewhat perfunctorily.

Wiggins let out a relieved sigh as they rolled off the bridge on the far side.

“We’re in Maine, Tex! That was the border!” he said.

“How far to Biddeford?” Tex asked.

“Thirty miles to the switch for the spur,” Wiggins said.

“Do you have any idea how we’re going to manage that? Don’t they have padlocks or something?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Wiggins said.

Tex raised her NV goggles and studied the map. “Maybe we don’t have to. After the lines diverge, they cross Main Street about three blocks apart. We can follow this line to Main Street, get off and drive three blocks, and get back on the spur at the crossing. That should be a lot faster than messing around with a switch when we don’t know what we’re doing.”

“Agreed. Good thinking.”

Tex smiled. “That’s why I’m the navigator.”

The miles clacked by beneath the truck’s multiple sets of wheels. As they entered Biddeford, the track curved to the right, and Wiggins was forced to slow so the screeching wheels didn’t announce their presence as they made their brief foray on the city streets. The transfer to the spur was uneventful, and the rail bridge was unguarded. Wiggins picked up speed again, rushing through dark residential areas before plunging again into heavy woods.

Tex looked at the map. “Take it easy, Bill. There’s a sharp turn to the left coming up.”

Wiggins slowed, but not enough, and the metal guide wheels screeched a piercing lament as the truck rounded the curve at speed, barely managing to stay on the track.

“Oops! Sorry, Tex,” Wiggins said, slowing the truck even more. “I guess I need to keep it together. “Any more curves I need to worry about?”

She looked at the map again. “There’s a slight jog to the right around some sort of big facility ahead on the left. Then a bit farther there’s a sharp turn to the right under the interstate and maybe a quarter of a mile to the dead end.”

Wiggins sighed. “Almost there.”

He increased speed again as they hurtled through the thick woods, but mindful of the slight curve ahead, he kept the speed well below the prescribed limit. They rounded the curve, and the trees thinned enough for him to catch fleeting glimpses of a huge industrial building through the trees to his left. He saw movement on the track ahead and glanced back toward a large sign on the building. Uh-oh!

The movement resolved itself into two figures standing astride the track, both in full combat gear with helmets and NV gear. Wiggins watched in mute surprise as one raised his hand in a stop gesture.

“Who the hell are those guys, and what are they doing in the middle of the woods?” Tex asked.

“Army, National Guard, or FEMA I’d say,” Wiggins replied. “That building is the General Dynamics Weapons facility. It was a big employer here, but I forgot all about it. They make machine guns and ammunition, so no doubt any number of groups want to control it. They probably heard us screech around that curve and sent guys to check the track.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Well, I’m NOT letting them stop us this close to home. At a minimum they’ll be suspicious about all the guns and how we happen to be riding the rails. Nothing good can come of dealing with them. Get ready to sound that horn and dive for the floorboard.”

The men were both raising their assault rifles now, and Wiggins braked, the rubber tires squealing on the slick rails. He saw their body language relax slightly, and one stepped to the side, obviously intent on questioning them, while the other remained in place on the track. They held their rifles ready, but pointed down. The truck was fifty feet away and coasting to a stop when Wiggins raised his NV goggles and told Tex to do the same.

“NOW!” he hissed, and stomped the accelerator as he hit his high beams.

Tex blasted the horn at the now blinded men as the truck tires squealed and spun on the rails. Wiggins realized his mistake and eased off the accelerator, allowing the tires to bite, and the truck shot forward. They brushed aside the man blocking their way, who barely managed to get off the track in time, and a hundred feet away they heard gunfire. A round slapped into the truck, and Wiggins belatedly killed the lights to make them a more difficult target.