Runner Boy | Book 2 | Rider Kid Read online

  “No. But he wouldn’t come here from wherever he’s been hiding out for nothing. I’m not expecting anything good, though.”

  “No?”

  “He’s not coming to tell us he’s going to turn the lights back on, I’ll tell you that.”

  3

  104 days until the Pulse Anniversary

  Before heading to Juniper to deliver the medicines, I make a stop at the little hospital near downtown Lafayette—West Lafayette is where the Purdue campus is located, and Lafayette is the bigger town adjoining it—to see Rachel. I met her on our family trek from our home in Cincinnati to West Lafayette to find my sister Chrissie. At first I didn’t like Rachel, but she kind of grew on me. Now I spend as much time with her as I can. She’s one of the biggest reasons I make the trip from Juniper as often as I do.

  Rachel has always wanted to be a doctor. She’s only sixteen, so it’s still possible that the world will return to some normalcy and she can get the education she’ll need to get a medical degree, but for now she helps out at the local hospitals as much as she can. She lives in a little house in Lafayette with her mother and her brother, Rob.

  Today she’s busy. It seems even her little hospital gets emergency cases that jam up everybody. Today it’s a couple of gunshot victims. She’s not doing doctor stuff, but the place is a madhouse and she’s trying to help keep people calm and in the right place. It’s all hard because they’re working mostly in the dark, and it’s hot today, so everybody is uncomfortable.

  I get a quick hug and a kiss, but that’s about all that Rachel has time for, so I head to Juniper. I leave thinking about the gunshot victims. Other than the Pulse Flu, gunshots are maybe the biggest cause of death. It’s one of the effects of living in what used to be the good old USA, where it seems like almost everybody has a gun. Once the pulse hit, people started killing each other for all kinds of reasons—to get food, to steal whatever it was they thought was important at the time, to protect themselves, or just because they were pissed off. We heard from some of the people delivering aid that many refused to go anywhere near some of the bigger cities because of the gun battles that raged through them as people ran out of the means to stay alive and were killing each other for even a scrap of food.

  I have a lot of time to think on my bike, and right now I’m thinking that even though it’s not a happy time around here, I’m doing pretty good. I have a role in life, a purpose. I help people, and they appreciate it. I’ve got a place to sleep, food to eat, a family, and a girl I like and who likes me. So I don’t have much to complain about. Oh, I wish that people weren’t suffering as much as they do, that so many people hadn’t died, that so many more wouldn’t be dying in the near future, but I’m doing my best to help with all that. At least, I think I am.

  I’m still thinking all those good thoughts, feeling so good about myself that I let my guard down and get surprised by a bunch of crazies. I’m just getting off my bike to unload the medical supplies at the doc’s place near the center of Juniper when a beat-up white pickup comes squealing around the corner—the only corner in town to merit a stoplight, although it isn’t working now, of course.

  There are two white guys in the truck bed, screaming. One, who’s wearing an old black leather jacket with some kind of symbol on the back, despite the heat, is shooting a pistol into the air. The other’s wearing a green T-shirt and a faded red cap. He’s holding a shotgun and screaming something, but he’s not shooting. They both see me as they drive by.

  There’s a dark-colored old Jeep Cherokee that follows the pickup into the intersection, but it continues straight through. Then another SUV of some kind, maybe an old Ford Explorer, turns left and heads for the other end of the short main street.

  The pickup stops not long after driving past me, and starts backing up. I’m standing with a box of medical supplies just outside the doc’s office, one building off the intersection. The pickup stops near me, and Green T-shirt jumps out, smiling. The pickup screams away.

  “What’ve you got there?” He nods toward the box I’m holding.

  “Just some medical shit,” I say. I’m looking at his shotgun, and notice his eyes, which are open really wide. I’m scared as shit.

  “Drugs?” he says, and steps toward me. “You got some drugs in there?”

  “No. Not any drugs you’d want. Aspirin and shit like that,” I say. “And bandages.”

  “Let me have it.” He reaches out and grabs the box away from me. It’s not super heavy, but it’s a little awkward to hold with a shotgun in your hands, so he is now a bit handicapped as he turns to go after the pickup. It’s stopped down the road at the old grocery, which is now mostly a trading post. Leather Jacket is going in.

  I don’t know exactly why this all hit me so hard, but I’m suddenly really pissed. Medicine. Mrs. Hazelwood’s insulin. Other stuff people need to stay alive and healthy. And this drugged up creep is walking off with it. It won’t do him a bit of good, but he’ll hurt a lot of people if I don’t do something. So I do.

  I kneel down and pull out my Glock from my ankle holster. While still kneeling, I yell, “Stop, motherfucker!”

  He does. And turns slowly to face me. He sees that I’m pointing my Glock at him. He smiles. That scares me more than his shotgun.

  “Put the box and the shotgun down and get the fuck out of here.” I try to sound as mean as I can, and hope my voice doesn’t betray my fear.

  He drops the box, and carefully puts the shotgun down on top of it, keeping his crazy eyes on me the whole time. “You are so fucked,” he says, smiling.

  “Yeah, well, so are you. Get going.” I’m not very good at this threatening stuff. In high school, I was always the one being scared, not the other way around.

  He starts backing away. I stand, walk the ten or fifteen feet to where he’s left the box, and put the shotgun on the ground. When he turns to run toward the pickup, I lift the box and carry it inside the doc’s office. Doc’s standing just inside, looking through another box that I’d given him just a minute ago.

  “Lock the door,” I say, and step back outside, hoping I won’t see Green T-shirt or his buddies, but, shit, there he is. He’s running down the middle of the street, pointing at me, and Leather Jacket is right behind him. Leather Jacket aims his pistol at me and fires a couple shots. I duck, and scurry around the corner of the building.

  I stop and peek back around. They’re still coming. I take a shot at them, mostly to slow them down. They quickly duck and move out of the center of the road, both coming toward my side of the street. But I don’t wait any longer. I run down the little yard between Doc’s and this big white building that’s next door. There’s a small garage out behind Doc’s. I think for a second about running behind it, but instead turn left behind the white building. It’s got a loading dock in back, and I dodge behind a corner leading to the dock.

  Shit, the street’s right past where the dock is, the side street that the Jeep went up. That street leads up to the municipal building, with the volunteer fire department and the sheriff’s little office. I don’t think anyone will be there, but it occurs to me that maybe these crazies aren’t totally crazy. Maybe they have a plan. They have cars at each end of downtown, and one covering whatever government there is. Maybe they are going to rob the whole town, what there is of it. Or take over the town. That’s not all that rare. People who are either too lazy to grow or find their own food and a place to live, or too mean, take over these little towns and live off the work of the residents.

  Oh shit. I hear someone coming. Behind the white building.

  I kneel down. Point my Glock up to where I expect a body to appear at any second. Breathe. Easy.

  Crunch, crunch. Gravel. Close.

  Trying to keep my hands from shaking. Breathe.

  Crunch.

  Crunch.

  A gun whips around the corner. BLAM!

  A leg appears. A body.

  Bam! Bam! My little Glock. Center mass.

  The su
rprise on his face as he goes backward. The shot he fired went over my head as I knelt behind the corner. He was good enough to figure that’s where I’d be, but not good enough to look down. Now he’s on his back. Leather Jacket.

  I crawl out and take Leather Jacket’s pistol. Just in case he’s not dead. Where’s Green T-shirt? He’ll be here soon.

  The pistol has only one round left. I’ve got three in my Glock. I wonder if Green T-shirt stopped to get his damned shotgun. I should have taken it with me. I thought it was too much to carry at the time.

  Shit! There he is. Coming around the other side of Doc’s. He sees me. Quickly lifts the shotgun to his shoulder. I duck behind the corner.

  I can’t let him get too close. That shotgun will spray all over me if he gets close.

  I pop my head out. Take a shot. He’s too far. Duck back in.

  Take the pistol. Pop out again, but lower this time. He’s going for the little garage. I fire. Blam! Fucking pistol. I have no idea where that shot went.

  If he comes around the back of the garage, he’ll be able to see almost all of the loading dock. Crap. Do I run? Which way? Toward Doc’s? Try to get to the garage before he comes around? Or toward the road? I’ll be totally in the open when he comes around the garage. Fuck. Get tight to the corner. Hope I can hit him when he comes around the garage.

  Peek. There he is. Aiming. WHAM!

  The wood is ripped off the corner where I’m standing. I swear I can feel the pellets blowing past me, smashing into the loading dock behind me. Fucking shotgun is powerful.

  I peek. He’s still behind the garage, but I can see his gun barrel. He’s reloading. Fuck me.

  I’ve got to hit him when he pokes his head out to shoot.

  I wait. There. Bam!

  WHAM!

  Fuck. He’s ripping the corner of this building to pieces. And . . . shit. Something hit my arm. Not bad. My shirt is ripped near my bicep. Hurts. He’s maybe thirty paces away. It’s too far for my little Glock. But he won’t kill me from there unless I poke my head out at the wrong time.

  WHAM!

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I was just about to look.

  Wait. That was two shots. He’s got to reload. I peek. He’s not there. Run! I come out, ready to run for Doc’s, get past where he can see me from where he is. But there he is. His shotgun is coming toward me. He’s . . .

  Bwang! A new sound. What is it?

  I see Green T-shirt fall. I stop running. Walk toward him. I’m trying to understand what happened, when I see someone walking toward Green T-shirt from behind. He’s got a rifle pointed at him.

  I point my Glock at this new figure. “Who the hell are you?” I ask.

  He holds up one hand. Keeps the other on his rifle, still pointed at Green T-shirt. He’s an old man. Long white hair. Wire-framed glasses. Skinny buzzard.

  “Thought you could use some help,” he says.

  4

  104 days until the Pulse Anniversary

  “How’d you know . . .” I say.

  “I live right there.” He points to a house across the alley from Doc’s garage. “That’s the thing about gunshots; they’re a mite noisy. Didn’t take much brain power to figure what was going on.”

  I can’t believe this old guy—he had to be at least eighty—just saved my life. “Thanks. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come.”

  He gives me a look that says, “Are you really that dumb? You’d be dead, idiot.” But he doesn’t say anything. I look at Green T-shirt, lying face down. There’s blood oozing out from under him, looking black as it mixes with the gravel. He’s probably dead, but I take his shotgun anyway, just in case. Just as I kneel down to look in his pockets for extra shells, I see the Jeep with some of his buddies go by on the street, heading back toward Main. We’re down the alley a ways, so I hope they don’t see us.

  “I heard them punks come into town, a-shootin’ and raisin’ hell. Saw that Jeep goin’ up to the station, too. Good. They’re going back to join the rest of ’em.” The old guy points to where the Jeep went by.

  “What do you mean, ‘good’? They’re going to be looking for us in about thirty seconds.”

  “Probably looking for us now. But they’re not at the station no more, and my boy can get in and ring the bell.”

  I find two shells in Green T-shirt’s pockets. Not enough to fight off all his friends. “What bell?”

  But a bell starts ringing. Loud. DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG.

  “What is it?”

  “Calling in the volunteers.” He smiles, revealing a gap in his upper teeth, right where one of the eye teeth should be. “They’ll be armed, too. Just ’cause, well, that’s the times we’re livin’ in.”

  Okay, so it sounds like we’ll get some help. But unless we do something quick, we’ll both be dead before the help arrives. He sees me looking at the two shotgun shells, trying to figure out how to load the shotgun.

  “Here.” He holds out his rifle. “You’ll do better with this. I’ll take the shotgun,” he says as I take his rifle. “I use it for squirrels and rabbits, mostly, but it’ll take down a deer easy enough.” It’s a gun I’m familiar with, one of the first I’d used at the training classes I took. A 30–30 lever action. It looks like a gun you’d see in an old western movie, probably because it’s pretty much the same gun they used back then. This one is probably as old as the geezer handing it to me, along with a box of bullets that’s about half full.

  I hand him the shotgun and the two shells I pulled out of Green T-shirt’s pocket. He quickly pops the gun open, sees it’s already loaded, and closes it.

  I tell him to go back home. “You don’t want to mess with these crazies out here. Wait for your friends to show up.”

  He smiles. “Well, I’ll just see. I don’t aim to be shootin’ anymore unless the situation goes bad.” He takes a couple steps back toward his house and says, “You’re one shell light in my rifle. It holds five.” And he keeps walking.

  I pull one bullet from the box and load it into the rifle. It makes a nice little snick sound as it slides in. I shove the remaining eight or nine bullets into a rear pocket of my jeans.

  I feel a bit panicked, afraid we’ve been back here in the alley too long. The crazies must be close. I run up the alley, past Doc’s, behind the old brick building next to his, hoping the crazies aren’t going to appear in the alley in front of me. I come to the end of the big brick building. Next to it is a smaller building that used to be a flower shop. But nobody grows flowers anymore. If they can grow something, they grow something to eat.

  I continue in the alley past the flower shop, which sits just across from the trading post, at the end of the downtown area. I creep toward the street, expecting to see the crazies’ pickup still there. But it’s gone.

  I slide along the flower shop to the street and take a peek to see if the crazies are still here. Yup. There they are. All three vehicles are in the street in front of Doc’s. Two of the crazies are putting Leather Jacket into the back of the pickup. He’s not moving. There’s another one, running out from behind Doc’s, pointing back and telling the others something. He probably found Green T-shirt out in the alley. Now they’re looking around, maybe trying to figure out where I am. Shit.

  Maybe I can wait it out. The volunteers should be showing up soon, shouldn’t they? The bell stopped ringing a while ago. Surely a bunch of locals, armed to the teeth, are going to show and put an end to all this. I could run back home if I wanted. But my bike, and the trailer, are right there where the crazies are gathered. And Doc is locked in his office right there, too. God, don’t let him come wandering out to see what’s going on.

  Come on, volunteers.

  Oh, hell, there’s the first one. Some guy wearing a bright orange hunting vest is loping toward the crazies, coming through the gas station across the street. He has no idea what’s up.

  The crazies see him. Shit.

  One of them points at him and walks toward him. The guy stops. Sees t
here’s something wrong. The crazy has a handgun.

  I step out so I can get a shot off. Bwang! Put one into the pickup to make a racket. Chnk-chnk. I cock the rifle with the lever. It’s sweet.

  The crazies all duck and look toward me. The volunteer can see he’s in trouble and starts to turn.

  The crazy in the middle of the road raises his handgun toward the volunteer.

  Bwang! I put one in his ass, knock him down. Don’t know if he’s dead. Hope not. Chnk-chnk.

  Bwang! I put one through the window of the Jeep. Crazies scatter. Volunteer taking cover behind gas station pumps. One crazy runs for the alley. I dodge out of sight.

  I peek. One coming toward me, staying close to the buildings so I have a tough shot. Another is behind the truck, shooting at the volunteer, who hasn’t taken a shot yet.

  I duck back. Got to move, do something. The crazy in the alley is going to come up behind me.

  I switch the gun to my left hand so I can take a shot without exposing myself too much.

  Bwang! Left-handed along the buildings. Don’t think I hit him, but he’s ducked behind something. Chnk-chnk.

  Bwang! I fire again at where the crazy was, and run, crouching, across the street to the trading post, hoping the crazy will be caught off guard. He’s got a handgun, so hitting a running target will be hard, anyway.

  I get to the door, pull. Bam! Crash!

  The crazy just blew out the plate glass next to the door. Close.

  A voice from deep in the store. “You all right?”

  “Yeah. You got a gun?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Stay hidden.” I crouch behind a stack of empty shelves. Pull out some of the bullets from my pocket, put them on the ground. Unhook the strap on my ankle holster. I’ve still got one round in the Glock. The rifle is empty. I load. Snick. Snick. Snick. Snick. Drop one. Get another. Snick.

  Take a look through the front window, the one that’s still there. There’s a crazy coming around from the back of the flower shop. He points at the trading post. I doubt he can see me, but it’s like he knows where I am. He’s looking at someone off to my left.