Collision Course (23 page)

Gabe's shoulders dropped at the preacher's response. “Okay,” he said, dreading the fact that he'd have to start the meeting again. Perhaps, if Gabe was lucky, Captain Lozano would take the reins. He could only hope.

“You know,” Pastor Washington said, “when I first started preaching, I was nervous about speaking in front of a crowd. Someone gave me good advice. He told me to imagine that I was only talking to one person, a trusted friend or loved one. It really helped me.”

“Thanks, Reverend,” Gabe said, wondering if he was that transparent.

Soon the small sanctuary was filled, and Gabe trudged to the front. “Welcome, everyone. We'll just get right to it, if that's all right. Captain Lozano, would you and your committee like to come up and start us off?”

“Actually, Chief Easton isn't here yet. We realized we needed an easel to display a map, and he ran home to get one. We'll be ready as soon as he gets back.”

“All right, then.” Gabe exhaled. “How about the education committee? Are you all ready?”

“Yes, we are,” a man said as he stood up. Gabe recognized him as one of the two people who had raised their hands when he'd asked for teachers the other night.

“Come on up, Mr. . . . ?”

“Evans,” the man said, making his way forward.

Thank God,
Gabe thought as he relinquished the lectern. He stepped down from the podium and squeezed into the pew in the front row.

“We actually have two solutions,” Mr. Evans began. “First, Mrs. Cook and I, both certified teachers, along with Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Nguyen, the homeschoolers, can teach forty or fifty kids in a modified, one-room-schoolhouse-type of setting. We thought we could use the church here, if that's all right with the preacher. We'd need to see exactly how many and what ages the kids are, but basically we'd divide them into four groups, and each of us would teach the ages with which we're most comfortable. Mrs. Bell has even volunteered to teach a music class.”

A murmur of approval rose behind Gabe followed by a short round of applause.

“Of course, we would expect to get paid for our services,” Mr. Evans said as the din diminished. A different murmur shot through the crowd.

Mr. Evans raised his hands to quiet the assembly. “We know that many don't have cash, but we'd be glad to be paid in goods. We aren't looking to get rich, but if we're going to be away from our families to do this, it only seems fair to us that we receive some kind of compensation. Even if someone has nothing of value to trade, we'd be willing to accept some help with tending our gardens or something similar. We would negotiate with each family depending on how many kids they had and what they could afford to do.”

“That seems reasonable,” someone called out.

“What's your other option?” another asked.

“Mrs. Nguyen has the complete homeschooling curriculum from kindergarten through twelfth grade. She's willing to check out one section at a time, at no charge, to anyone who wants them, as long as they promise to take care of them.”

The sound of applause again filled the church. Gabe turned around to see that everyone seemed happy with the two solutions the education committee had recommended. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and turned back to see Mr. Evans heading back to his seat.

Gabe rose and reluctantly marched back to the front. He hated this. It made him wish for a drink. He recalled the advice Reverend Washington had suggested and decided to give it a try. What did he have to lose?

He considered thinking about Hannah, but he saw Jane's face in the audience and focused on her. “I guess the first thing we need to know is if we can use the church. Would that be okay, Reverend?” He diverted his eyes to the pastor.

“Other than worshipping the Lord, I can't think of a better use for this building,” the preacher said. “Of course it's okay.”

“Thank you, Reverend Washington,” Gabe said, looking back at Jane. She smiled, and the gesture relaxed him. “Does anyone have any comments about what Mr. Evans proposed?”

The group remained silent.

“How many of you are interested in bringing your kids to the church for school?” Gabe said.

At least thirty-five people raised their hands.

“How many of you are considering homeschooling?”

Five or six hands went up.

“I guess you can get with Mr. Evans after the meeting and sign up with him. Is that all right, Mr. Evans?”

“Yes,” the teacher replied. “All four of us will be in the back if anyone has any questions.”

“Thank you,” Gabe said, noticing that concentrating on Jane made him not nearly so nervous. “Captain Lozano, is your group ready?”

“Yes, Daniel just got back with the easel.” The three vets rose and walked toward the front. Gabe walked down the steps back to his seat, but he didn't feel as if he was sneaking out this time. One man carried the easel, another had a medium-sized whiteboard, and Captain Lozano had a spiral notebook. The captain stepped up behind the podium while the other two set up the visual aid and stood to the side of it.

“In case you don't know, my name is Paul Lozano. I am retired army. Standing beside the map is Daniel Easton, a former navy corpsman.”

The man closest to the map waved.

“Beside him,” Paul continued, “is Jerry King, a former air force aircraft mechanic, who is still in the reserves.”

Jerry nodded.

“We have cussed and discussed several plans to protect our little slice of heaven here. The biggest thing we need to do to secure our homes and neighborhood is restrict access to the area to only those who live here. Without controlling who can come and go, we can't control anything.” Paul stopped for a second to let his words sink in.

“If you look at the map we've drawn up, you can see the area we have marked off as being our AO, or area of operation. As you can see, there are four roads that lead into and out of our AO. There's Cotton Creek Road that leads in from the north. Prairie Road goes through the southern part of our AO and enters on both the east and west sides. Then Wilke Road comes in from the northwest.” Jerry pointed to each road as Paul named it.

“We could set up a roadblock at each location,” Paul continued. “The problem is manpower. To do this right, you'd need five or six men at each location. If you ran eight-hour shifts, that's three shifts a day times four locations times six men. That is seventy-two men a day, and that doesn't give anyone a day off. What we're suggesting is that we only have one way in and out of the area. That should give us plenty of manpower, and no one should have to man a roadblock more than every other day. There's a natural choke point on the west side of Prairie Road where it cuts through a small hill, and we're recommending that for the checkpoint. Jerry, will you point to that location? We think that by eliminating the Wilke Road, Cotton Creek Road, and east-side Prairie Road entrances, we can secure the neighborhood from those who don't belong here. We realize this may mean some people have to drive a little farther to get to town, but it's the best compromise between convenience and security we could find.” Paul smiled.

“What do you mean by ‘eliminate'?” a large man in the back of the church asked.

“Just that,” Paul answered. “We can take out the bridge on Wilke Road where it crosses York Creek, and we can do the same thing with the old bridge over Cotton Creek. We'll have to block off Prairie Road by pushing or blasting dirt over it where it passes through the big hill on the east side of the Jacobs place.”

“You can't destroy bridges and roads like that! They belong to the government,” the man said.

“Yeah,” another man said. “I live on the other side of the Cotton Creek Bridge. If you destroy it, I'll have to drive an extra eight or ten miles to town. I can barely afford the gas it takes now.”

This started everyone talking at once. Some were only whispering to their neighbors, while others were shouting out toward the front, but little could be understood. Paul held up his hands to quiet the crowd. It worked a little, but many were still talking, and he had to raise his voice to be heard.

“Listen, everyone, please. I realize that what we're proposing will create some hardships. There are no easy choices to be made if we really want to secure our homes and neighborhood. We've discussed all the options, and this is really the only way we see to make sure the riffraff stays out.”

“Why do you need so many men at each checkpoint? Why can't we just put two or three men at each place and keep all the roads open? Can't two guys check everyone coming and going?”

“Yes, they can,” Paul said. “The problem comes if someone wants in who doesn't belong. It would be easy for a small group to overpower two men. With six, two can do the checking, and the other four can cover them in case something happens.”

“Cover them?” a woman asked. “What could happen? You think this might be dangerous?”

“It's a possibility, and we want to be prepared,” Paul said.

“Well, if it's dangerous, I'm not letting my husband do it.”

“Would you prefer that we just let the murderers and rapists drive right up to your front door?” Paul said flatly.

It got quiet for a minute.

“You're overreacting!” the woman said loudly, breaking the silence. “No one is going to come here and do that. You just want to play Rambo!”

The room filled with voices, as the sounds of bickering seemed to come from everyone. Gabe looked around, a little sorry for Paul and his committee but glad it wasn't him on the hot seat. The arguing went on for a while, and everyone ignored Paul's pleading to come to order. Finally the din settled to a mild clamor and then quieted to where Paul could speak again. Gabe could see that he was trying to remain diplomatic.

“If anyone has a suggestion on how to secure the neighborhood without taking out the other entrances, we would be more than glad to listen.”

“What if we just blocked them off with junk cars or something instead of blasting them?” someone said.

“That doesn't solve my problem,” the man who lived across the Cotton Creek Bridge said.

“It also doesn't really stop anyone,” Paul said. “Unless a barrier is watched, and the watchers have a way to discourage people from taking it apart, it will only slow down the interlopers. With time, any obstacle can be overcome.”

“Then there's no way to guarantee that destroying the bridges will keep everyone out,” the man argued.

“That's true,” Paul said, “but it's much harder to rebuild a bridge or dig a road out from under tons of rubble than it is to push a bunch of junk cars off it. The undesirables we're trying to discourage would not likely take the time to repair a bridge.”

“They could still find a place to wade or swim across.”

“I agree, but again, we're talking about people who wouldn't do that. Criminals are lazy by nature and want a way to make a quick getaway. Walking in won't appeal to them.”

“Well, I still think it's stupid to destroy government property.”

“Why don't you just put a couple of guys at each entrance and keep them all open?” a woman in the back called out.

Paul blew out a long, deep breath. “Let's say we do exactly that,” he said. “Suppose a pickup truck full of guys who have no good on their minds comes up to the two guys manning the checkpoint. What do you think is going to happen?”

“Well, couldn't they call for help?” the woman said.

Gabe could see that Paul was at the end of his rope. “Sure,” the retired army officer said sardonically, “they can just call 911 on their cell phones. I mean, besides the fact that the phones don't work anymore and that the sheriff's department's response time is ten minutes or more before all the shit starts hitting the fan, that should work just fine. You know, maybe after a couple of us get killed, you people will take this shit seriously!”

It was quiet as Paul glared at the crowd.

Gabe didn't want to, but something made him stand up and walk up to the podium. He turned and faced the audience while he placed his hand on Paul's shoulder. He hoped the gesture would both show his support for the angry man and calm him down some.

“Perhaps we all need some time to think this over,” Gabe heard himself say as he painted on a smile. “Paul and his group are only doing what we asked them to do. How about we get back together on Monday evening and talk about this again? Is that agreeable to everyone?”

Everyone murmured their approval, and the meeting was over. As everyone was beginning to file out, the preacher stood and made his way to the podium and stood next to Gabe and Paul.

“I want to invite everyone to church in the morning. It doesn't matter to me or to God what church you usually attend, or if you normally go to church or not. You are welcome here,” he announced. “I hope to see you all here.”

CHAPTER 25

A
s the last of the people exited the church, Gabe, the preacher, and Paul stood on the podium and watched. After a long, uncomfortable moment, Paul spoke.

“I want to apologize for getting angry and using foul language in your church, Reverend Washington.”

“Brother Lozano, getting angry is not a sin. Christ did it when he drove the money changers out of the temple. What we must be careful about is losing control of our words and actions. You did a good job presenting the case for what your committee proposed for all but the last minute or so of the debate. However, the damage you did with just a few words might have undone all the good up to that point.”

Gabe saw Paul's head drop and nod weakly. “You're right,” the retired officer said.

“What we need to do is to find a way to convince these people that you're right, and you
are
right.” The preacher paused, and Paul's head came back up. “I spoke with Deputy Armstrong for a while today, and he told me of unspeakable acts happening not far from here. Our sheriff's department has done a fantastic job keeping this plague of crime out of our county, but they're fighting a losing battle. He's afraid it's beginning to overwhelm them, and we're going to be no better off than the big cities. We must convince these people that we have to take care of our own.”

So that's what they were talking about,
Gabe thought. “Pastor, why didn't you say something about what Deputy Armstrong said during the debate?”

“Because, brother Horne, just like I told you when you asked me to chair the meeting, I'm not a resident of this community, at least not yet. I drive out here once a week to preach to a small congregation, most of whom don't live here, either. Many of the people here see me as an outsider. Some won't listen to me because of that. Others won't hear me because I'm just an old black man to them.”

“No one thinks that,” Gabe said.

“You may not think it, brother Horne, but many do. You're open-minded, and that's one of the reasons these people look to you. I heard about how you'd changed. It sounded like a miracle, too good to be true. I decided to see for myself. Even though I didn't know you before, I knew the stories. You are not the man you used to be. You remind me of the story of Saul. While your transformation may not have been the result of a blinding light from God, it is no less a miracle. Saul became Paul, the leader of the church. You, brother Gabriel, have become the leader of this community, and you are the man who can convince the people to do the right thing.”

“But I don't know what the right thing is, preacher,” Gabe protested. “Right now you talking to me about this stuff makes me want a drink. How do you know I won't go home and get drunker than Cooter Brown when I leave here?”

“I don't know, brother Horne, but I have faith in God that you'll do the right thing, the same way these people have faith in you.”

* * *

It was getting dark, and DJ was ready to go. The quad was loaded the same as it had been when he had arrived this morning with one notable exception. DJ looked with disdain at the jerry can in the failing light. “Piece of shit,” he said under his breath as he double-checked everything on the quad.

He had perhaps four gallons of fuel. It wouldn't last through the whole night. If he was lucky, he would get seventy-five or eighty miles. He went over his plan in his head again, detouring off his course toward the nearest medium-sized town. Hopefully, he'd be able to buy some gas there. If not, then he'd do whatever he had to do.

It was finally dark. He pulled on his night-vision goggles and eased the big quad out onto the road. It was just one problem after another, he thought. He wondered if he'd ever make it to his bug-out location.

* * *

“So, what were you and Paul and the preacher talking about?” Jane said as they walked back to Gabe's house.

“Just about how to get everyone to go along with Paul's plan. Reverend Washington told us that Deputy Armstrong said we've been lucky so far, but that things are getting worse, and we'd better be ready to take care of ourselves.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, the preacher has some fool notion that everyone will do what I say. He said I'm the leader. Isn't that silly?”

“It's not, Gabe. People do listen to what you say. They see the things you do, and they know you'll do what's best. It started when you saved our food at the grocery store, but since then, you've looked after Robby and me, you organized the market, and you got everyone together to have the meetings.”

“I just passed out the flyers,” Gabe said defensively. “I never wanted to be the leader.”

“That's just it. Anyone who wants to be the leader is probably doing it for the wrong reasons. They want to be important, or to do what's best for themselves, or some other selfish reason. You don't want any of that stuff. That, combined with not being afraid to do what's right, is what makes you the best man for the job.”

“You mean if I wanted the job, no one would want me?”

“Yes,” she answered.

Gabe shook his head. “I don't believe it. I got the job because I
don't
want it?”

“That's right,” Jane said with a smile.

“Well, remind me not to ‘not want' any more jobs.”

* * *

DJ was still fuming about the jerry can, so he didn't see the truck on the side of the road until he was much closer to it than he would have preferred. If anyone was in it, they might be able to see him with just a cheap night-vision scope, or they might have heard him. He quickly pulled the big quad into the ditch on the opposite side of the road and grabbed his rifle. When he was twenty yards or so from the four-wheeler, he eased out to where he could see the truck. It was probably out of gas, as were most of the cars abandoned alongside the road, but perhaps it simply broke down and had some of the precious fluid DJ so desperately needed.

DJ eyed the truck for several minutes and saw no sign that anyone was in it. Of course, it could be that the owner was watching from a distance to ambush any unsuspecting passersby. It was probably just an abandoned vehicle, but it paid to be careful, he told himself. He wished he had infrared equipment, as that would be very hard to evade.

Finally he ran across the road in a crouch to the ditch on the other side. After scouring his surroundings from his new vantage point, he cautiously approached the truck. He placed his hand on the hood and pulled it off immediately, as if it were too hot to touch.

It was only slightly warm, but the fact that it had been running in the past few hours made him overreact. He looked around again, trying his best to spot anything out of the ordinary. The night-vision goggles made everything an eerie shade of green, but DJ had become accustomed to this in the past few weeks. There was nothing out of place.

Squatting down in front of the truck, DJ took his helmet off, removed his goggles from it, and balanced it on the muzzle of his rifle. He stuck the helmet up where it would be visible to anyone watching the truck. Nothing happened. After a minute, he pulled the decoy back down. Since the truck was still warm, there was a chance it held some fuel.

Putting his gear back on, he worked his way to the passenger door and carefully looked inside. No one was there. Checking the bed revealed nothing special. There was a spare tire, a jack, a pair of bolt cutters, some other assorted tools, and a bit of canned food. DJ was a little surprised someone would leave food behind. He looked around again, wondering if it might be a trap. However, he reasoned, he'd given anyone who might be lying in wait every opportunity to take a shot at him. Plus, how likely was it that someone who drove an old beat-up truck like this would have the quality night-vision gear it would take to execute an after-dark ambush? In a way, he wished it was a trap because then the truck would have fuel for sure.

He made his way back to the cab and pulled open the door. The dome light came on and activated the auto shutdown on his goggles. Lifting them up, he saw that the keys weren't in the ignition. At least that was a promising sign. He pulled the plastic cover off the interior light and removed the bulb. No sense making it easy for someone. Lowering the goggles and switching them back on, he looked around one more time.

If anyone was going to take a shot at him, surely they would have done it by now. He drove his quad between the truck and the ditch. Then he removed the siphon hose he'd cut at Crystal's and stuck it down into the gas tank. Blowing through the hose only created the sound of rushing air, not the sound of bubbles he was hoping to hear.

Damn it
,
I never have any luck
. He remembered the hole someone had drilled into Crystal's tank to remove all the gas. Was it possible there could be a little gas left that the hose just couldn't reach? He didn't have a drill, but there was a punch and a hammer in his tool kit. He grabbed them, along with a small flashlight. Removing his helmet and night-vision goggles—since he couldn't take a chance on damaging his best asset next to his quad and rifle—he climbed under the truck. He put the punch on the lowest point on the gas tank and drew back the hammer.

Dumb-ass,
he thought. If there was gas in the tank, he had to have something to catch it with. He climbed back out and removed the last good gas can he had. It wouldn't fit under the truck in the upright position, but by rotating it ninety degrees he was able to make it fit. Climbing back under, he resumed his operation.

It took a couple of whacks with the hammer before the punch defeated the metal skin of the tank. Gas began to drip down as soon as the puncture was made, and DJ placed the jerry can's opening directly under the hole. When he pulled the punch out, he was rewarded with a stream of liquid gold. It ran for several seconds and then reduced itself to a slow drip. Finally DJ pulled himself out from under the truck. He figured he had recovered around half of a gallon of fuel.

He happily poured it into the big quad, recovered his tools, confiscated the food in the truck, and strapped everything onto the four-wheeler. Back on the road, he smiled. A half gallon of fuel might not be much, but it would get him another nine or ten miles.

* * *

Gabe had to catch his breath and unkink his back. He sat up on the edge of the couch.

“What's the matter?” Jane whispered, leaning up next to him.

“My back is all twisted. I'm not a teenager anymore, you know.” The taste of her lips was still on his.

“Could have fooled me.” She smiled in the soft candlelight. “I know I haven't felt this way since I was a teenager. Of course, at this age I don't have to worry about my dad catching me making out with my boyfriend.”

“Well, I guess that's good.”

“It's good for you. There's no telling what my old man would have done to you if he caught us like this.” Jane paused. “On the other hand, I don't know what Robby would think about this behavior.”

“He told me it was all right with him when we were out hunting this afternoon.”

“He did?” she asked, sitting up all the way.

“Yes. He said he'd seen us kissing before, and that if we wanted to get married, it was okay with him.”

“Robby really said that?”

“No. I just made it up,” Gabe said, smiling sardonically at the alluring creature sitting next to him on the couch.

She slapped his arm playfully. “Really, did he say it was okay with him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ask him?”

“No,” Gabe said, now serious. “He brought it up on his own. I almost choked when he asked me.”

“What did you say?”

“That we weren't thinking about that right now, but we'd let him know if we were.”

“Hmm,” she said.

Gabe could see the wheels turning in her eyes. He almost hated to ask, but he knew enough about women to know he should. “Hmm, what?”

“I was just thinking, well . . . I don't know . . . what do you think?”

“Think about what?” he asked innocently.

“About getting married, silly!”

* * *

DJ was humming a song he couldn't remember the name of as he drove along. It felt like rain, and that usually would have put him in a foul mood, but for some reason, it didn't. He'd traveled a couple of miles since he'd gotten the gas. The road was straight here, and lined by field after field. The openness let him relax a little and look around. Of course, everything was green through the night-vision monocular, but it struck him that green was a happy color.

In the distance, he saw four animals in a field.
Cattle, probably,
he thought, although they seemed too small. He strained his eyes a little trying to make out the green blobs. Perhaps they were deer. No, they were too tall. As he closed the distance, it became apparent they were humans. DJ could also see that they were moving toward a farmhouse. He slowed the big quad a little to get a better look. It didn't help much at first, but as he got closer, he could see that they were carrying rifles. The one in the back was carrying something else, but he couldn't make out what it was.

He stopped the four-wheeler and stared on as the men crossed the large field. It didn't appear that they had any kind of night vision because each of them occasionally took an unsteady step, and one actually fell at one point. It was also clear that they'd had no tactical training. They were walking so closely together that one well-thrown grenade or one well-aimed burst from an automatic weapon would take out all four. As he watched them, he finally figured out that the last man was holding a gas can.

DJ realized these must be the guys who'd left the truck. What he wasn't sure of was their intentions. It was obvious that they were headed to the farm to get some fuel, but how were they going to obtain it? And they had no idea there was a hole in their gas tank. That can, once poured into the leaky tank, wouldn't take them far. He snickered at their bad fortune.