Collision Course (4 page)

“Do you have a jack?”

“Yes, but I already tried that. It's one of those scissor jacks and the place you have to put it is too close to the tracks to get it under the car.”

“Let me see it,” DJ said.

The old man opened his car's passenger door and retrieved the jack from the floorboard. DJ tried to get the jack behind the stuck wheel, but there wasn't quite enough room. He looked in front of the tire, but there was no place where the jack could mate up. It was made to only attach to the vehicle at the four jack points. Probably some lawyer design, DJ thought. If only he'd been able to bring his truck, he would have had his high-lift jack. But there was no use dwelling on that—he'd just have to make do with what he had.

He examined the back of the car and saw that it was slightly farther away from the tracks than the front. Probably a result of the old man spinning the tires as he struggled to get out, he thought. DJ tried the jack in front of the back tire, and it slipped into place with almost no room to spare. It would fit here and might raise the whole side of the car up enough; they'd just have to see.

DJ attached the handle and began to crank. What the little jack lacked in versatility, it made up for in lift. As the car began to rise, DJ watched the front tire. It remained stuck between the ties until the jack was almost as high as it would go. Then it popped out.

“All right!” Jacob said as the tire finally came free.

DJ smiled and finished cranking the jack up the last inch or so. “Now we just need to find a board or something to bridge the broken tie,” he said.

“What if we just fill the hole with gravel?”

“Why not?”

The two men took positions on each side of the wheel and used their hands to pack as much gravel as they could in the hole. When they were satisfied, DJ let the jack down. The tire was almost level with the others. Jacob started the car and easily pulled forward. He got out of the car with a huge smile on his face.

“Thank you so much, DJ.” He pulled his wallet out and retrieved a hundred-dollar bill. DJ could see that there wasn't a lot of cash in the leather case. “Here you go.”

DJ almost waved the old guy off. After all, the money was probably not worth much, but he realized it might come in handy.

“Thank you, Jacob,” he said as he stuffed the bill down in his pocket.

“Is there anything else I can do for you? Would you like a ride to my son's place? It's not much, but you could get a decent meal.”

“Thanks, Jacob, but I just better be on my way. Good luck to you.”

“Same to you, DJ. You stay safe,” Jacob said.

“You might want to keep that revolver where you can get to it quickly. No telling in these times what you might run into.”

“So noted,” the old man said. “Thanks again. If you change your mind about coming by my son's place, it's about five miles north of the tracks on Route Eighty-seven. Just look for the bigmouth bass mailbox that says Kessler.”

“Thanks,” DJ said with a single nod of his head.

Jacob climbed back in the Cadillac and started down the tracks. DJ walked back toward his quad, thinking about how he hadn't even made a third of the distance he had planned. When he reached the vehicle, he noticed that there were enough trees and other cover right there to hide him well enough until tomorrow evening. He pitched his tent and hit the sack.

* * *

Gabe woke up. He smacked his lips and made a face. His mouth was dry and gummy, and it tasted as if mice had nested in it. He got out of bed and trudged to the bathroom. The face in the mirror looked like crap. Bloodshot eyes, four days' worth of beard—coming off a three-day bender could do that to a man. Of course, a genuine hatred for one's self didn't help any. The face stared back with the same abhorrence that everyone held for Gabe. Well, almost everyone. He put some toothpaste on the brush and began the long process of making himself half human again. Next came a shower and then a shave.

As he combed his hair in the dresser mirror, he almost recognized himself. He was thinner, and his face was haggard, but he still looked a little like the Gabe from before. This thought pulled his eyes to the picture of the three of them. He only let himself look for a second, though. Any longer would send him back to the whiskey.

After dressing, Gabe walked into the living room and surveyed the single-wide mobile home. Nothing looked damaged or too out of place, indicating that he'd just drunk until he passed out this time. The front door was open, and he wondered why. Had someone come to see him? He couldn't remember for sure, but it seemed that someone had. He closed the door and then hurriedly straightened up the rest of the house.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach. Had he eaten in the past three days? The single plate in the sink said yes, but he couldn't remember when or what. He fixed some bacon, eggs, and biscuits and sat down at the table. He ate quickly, as his hunger really manifested itself after the first bite. When he was finished with breakfast, he quickly grabbed his hat and headed for the door. There was dirty work that needed to be done, and he was just callous enough to do it.

CHAPTER 4

D
J slept soundly until about ten. He probably would've slept longer, but the sound of voices jarred him awake. A little disoriented at first, he needed a minute to remember where he was and why. When it came back to him, he began to wonder if he'd been dreaming. The answer came when he heard them again. He quickly and quietly dressed and stepped out of the tent, rifle in hand.

He stood outside the door and listened. A moment later, he saw movement, and he squashed his instinct to hit the dirt. Even though he was more exposed than he'd like, it was safer to be still. He tracked the movement with his eyes, and a second later he identified two people on bicycles. A young man and a young woman were heading the same way he was going. They both had their mountain bikes loaded with gear, and the man had a trailer attached to his bike. It was one designed to carry children. DJ didn't know if it held its intended cargo or just more gear, but he thought it was a good plan. Not as good as his, but without night-vision equipment and a quad, it would be hard to improve on.

Of course, they shouldn't be talking, and he didn't see anything for self-defense, but it was still a good plan. They were moving quickly, the bikes were quiet, and they were able to carry a good bit of gear. Fortunately they passed without even knowing DJ was there. He relaxed and was thankful they were moving quickly because in daylight he realized the woods he'd set up camp in weren't as thick as they'd seemed in the dark. His tent stood out the most, so he took it down and packed it. He moved the quad into a better spot and covered it again. Satisfied that things were as good as he could get them, he decided to fix some breakfast.

As he ate, he realized he had to be more careful about where he set up camp. If the bicyclists hadn't been talking to each other, he probably wouldn't have woken up. He wondered if anyone had passed when he was asleep. He doubted it, but it was possible. He might have to start using some precautions just in case someone did stumble onto his camp.

Later in the day, DJ was playing solitaire when he heard voices again. They were coming from down the tracks, and he guessed they were at least fifty yards away. It seemed as if the tracks were turning into a main thoroughfare.

I've got to get off these tracks as soon as I can
.

He carefully moved to where he could see down the tracks. A small group of four or five was walking between the rails in a tight cluster. They were moving too fast to be watching for ambushes but too slow to cover much ground. The one in the lead had a shotgun, but DJ couldn't tell about the others, and the group was making no effort to be quiet or conceal themselves. DJ wondered how they'd made it this far with their lack of noise discipline. He could take them out easily if he had the notion. It was a good thing for them he was one of the good guys, he thought.

He was thankful for their leisurely pace, though. It gave him time to examine his camp once again. The four-wheeler was still not hidden as well as he would have liked, but the camouflage cover helped. If these people were looking for threats as they should have been, it might have been a problem, but DJ was sure they would pass right by just as the bicyclists had.

He found a spot where he could watch them as they walked by, but they wouldn't be able to see him. He lay down on his stomach with his rifle in front of him. His heart was beating at an increased pace, and he concentrated on his breathing to bring it back down to a normal level. The walkers were getting closer, and he was able to make out some of the words.

“. . . tired . . . when . . . stop . . . ,” a distinctly female voice said. The response by a male voice was too muddled to discern.

“. . . sucks!”

DJ snickered quietly. After a few more minutes, the travelers came into view of DJ's hide. There were four of them, a family from the look of things. The father was in the lead carrying a huge backpack. He also had a hunting-type shotgun in his hands. His overlapping belly almost balanced out the backpack. A woman was behind him, presumably his wife. She wasn't as fat as her husband, but she was close. She had a large purse draped across one shoulder and a small duffel-type bag over the other. A teenage girl followed next, trailed by a preteen boy. The kids both had day packs, probably the ones they used for their schoolbooks. They were both in decent shape, especially compared to their parents. Mom and Dad were sucking wind, but the kids didn't seem to be too overworked.

“Can we at least stop and rest for a few minutes?” the mom asked. It was the same whiny voice DJ had heard before. He held his breath—he didn't need them resting this close to him.

“Look, Linda, we can't stop every five minutes if we want to make it to your sister's before we run out of food,” the father said. “It'll be dinnertime before too long, and we'll take a nice rest then, okay?”

The woman said nothing.

DJ breathed a sigh of relief. He wondered how far the family was going. Probably not too far at the pace they were going. As they got even with his camp, he noticed that the girl, while not beautiful, had a cute face and a superb body.

She might have been sixteen or seventeen, he thought. She began to look side to side as if she knew someone was watching her. DJ realized that he was staring at her and he quickly averted his eyes. He had heard that people could feel when they were being watched. It seemed like too much of a coincidence that the girl had just started looking around.

“Hey, Dad, what's that?” she asked.

DJ realized she was pointing right at his four-wheeler.

“I don't know,” the dad answered. “It looks like stacks of boxes that somebody covered up. I'll take a closer look.” He dropped his pack. The woman dropped her two bags as well and plopped down on the duffel.

The man was stepping over the track as DJ positioned his rifle. He didn't intend to shoot the man, but DJ had to cover him just in case. The man was only twenty-five or thirty yards away, and his shotgun could make mincemeat out of DJ at that range.

“Hold it where you are,” DJ barked. The man froze, his grip on the shotgun tightening. Slowly he began to turn toward DJ.

“Please don't move,” DJ said. “I have a rifle on you, and I'll have to use it if you point that shotgun at me.”

“Don't worry,” the man said nervously. “It's not loaded.”

What a moron,
DJ thought. He wondered if the man was a bigger idiot for carrying an empty gun or for admitting that it wasn't loaded. Of course the man could have been lying, but DJ had a strong suspicion that he was telling the truth. DJ thought about how easy it would be for someone to kill the man, woman, and boy and take the girl.

Lucky for them I'm not that kind of guy.

“Well, there's no way for me to know that for sure, so how about you just set it down?”

The man complied. His eyes moved back and forth searching for whoever was talking to him.

“The stuff you see is mine, and I'd just as soon you didn't mess with it,” DJ said.

The man's head turned toward DJ. His eyes were still looking, but his ears had at least narrowed down the search field. “I understand. We'll just be on our way.” He started to bend over and reach for his weapon.

“Don't do that!”

The man stopped at midbend. “I can't leave my gun here.”

“I don't expect you to. Let's just get your daughter to pick it up and carry it until you get out of sight.”

“Whatever you say, mister. I don't want any trouble.” He backed up to his pack. “Tammy, go pick up my gun.”

Tammy looked back and forth as though her dad was talking to another person and she was trying to figure out to whom. DJ was amused by the girl's reaction. He decided to have some fun.

“Yes, you, Tammy,” he said. “Walk over to your daddy's shotgun.”

The girl obeyed.

“Now put your hands up and turn around so I can make sure you don't have any weapons.”

The girl did as she was instructed, and DJ watched, but not for weapons. He smiled. “Even better than I thought,” he said to himself.

“Okay, now pick up the gun and make sure the muzzle is pointed straight up. You can give it back to your dad once you round the next bend.”

Tammy just nodded and continued to follow instructions. DJ wondered if they would make it to where they were going. The way they were traveling, making noise, and walking down the middle of the tracks in broad daylight, their odds weren't good. He could have helped them, but he was already behind schedule, and slowing to walking speed would only throw him further behind. He couldn't afford that, especially now that more people seemed to be using the tracks. He would just give the man some advice.

“Listen, buddy, when Tammy gives you the gun back, I'd suggest you load it and stop making so much noise. Anybody could have killed you before you even knew they were there if they wanted to. I heard you four or five minutes before you even got here. If you're smart, you'll get off the tracks and walk in the brush. Quietly.”

“Okay, mister. Thanks for your help.”

DJ watched them walk out of sight and wondered if they would take his suggestions to heart.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Finally it was time to leave. DJ packed up what little he needed to and pulled a fuel can off the trailer to fill up his bike. It took a little more gas than he'd expected, probably because he'd needed to slow down to avoid obstacles. It was all right, though. He had brought extra gas just in case. He examined the tracks to make sure they were clear. Then he mounted his machine. Pulling up between the tracks, he was glad to be on his way.

* * *

Walking down the steps of his trailer, Gabe looked up at the sun. He didn't need a watch to know it was three thirty. That was another indication he'd really tied one on. He saw that weeds were trying once again to take over his garden, pulled a hoe out of the shed and fought back the undesirable flora. Sweat from the heat and the work poured out of his body. He could smell the toxins he'd poisoned himself with over the past weekend. His muscles protested at the work, not because they weren't used to the physical demand but because Gabe's single meal in three days had already been burned. Gabe pressed on, ignoring his body's pleadings.

When the weeding was done, Gabe grabbed a big bucket and started picking vegetables that had ripened over the weekend. There were so many that the harvest spilled over into a second and then a third bucket. He took the bounty into the kitchen and washed the produce, piece by piece. The tomatoes, most of them softball-sized, were Gabe's specialty. They used to be Hannah's, but he'd inherited them when she'd left. He sold them at the farmers' market on Wednesdays. Well, the woman down the road and her son did. No one in town would have bought anything from Gabe. They all hated him. He was the town drunk, after all. Just as that Otis fellow on the
Andy Griffith Show
had been. Only he didn't just walk into the sheriff's office and lock himself up. The sheriff's deputies had done that—more than once, too.

Gabe began to separate the vegetables into two piles, one he'd sell and one he'd eat. He found a tomato that was a little odd-shaped. Although there was nothing really wrong with it, he knew it wouldn't sell. The city slickers who shopped the market wouldn't buy anything that didn't have a typical shape and color. He looked at the odd tomato for a moment and then bit into it as if it were an apple. The sweet fruit filled his mouth with a flavor little would match. If only this could obscure the memories the way the bourbon did, he thought.