Everyone Dies in the End #67

Jack

Sometimes Jack Lang got tired of cruising, because when he cruised he had to listen to Spider’s banal blathering—a noise he put up with because Jack had never met anyone who could drive like Spider. The guy was magic. He could weave between an obstacle course of burning tires, crushed vehicles, and slumped corpses faster than you could say, “Spider, this is insane!” And stretch one arm out the window and fire his 9mm Beretta at the same time, although Jack doubted that those nine-millimeter bullets hit their target. So, Jack kept Spider around. But some days he didn’t want him too close around, and those were days that Jack had the crew build a roadblock.

But Spider avoidance wasn’t the only reason for roadblocks. Roadblocks were just easier. You build the block on the blind side of a sharp curve, and site your weapons. A car negotiates the corner and brakes for the roadblock. The driver mutters “What the…,” hops out of the car, and Jack’s guys go to work. Sometimes the victims resisted, but that was okay, no one resisted for long. A bullet in the leg or shoulder would take the resistance right out of them. And injured blood sacks were just as good as the healthy ones…well, almost. The vampires didn’t want a corpse’s blood so Vader was pissed if Ed’s people actually killed anyone, but wounded was cool. The wounded would be the first given—given while they were still alive, given while the blood was still warm.

Today’s roadblock hadn’t been very productive. Jack wondered if he was just too close to Philly. People were wising up to Vader and his eastern Pennsylvania city-state, and the refuges, were getting fewer and annoyingly further between. Or maybe it was the road on which the block sat. The Pennsylvania Turnpike wasn’t nearly as nice as it had been before America was ravaged by nuclear weapons, but there were far fewer obstacles on it now than there had been two months or even two weeks ago. Both Vader’s clearing crews and surreptitious travelers were slowly pushing the wrecks and refuse off the road. Less road clutter meant greater visibility, and greater visibility meant people spotted the roadblock and got off the road.  At least most people.

The rumble of the big bike pulled Jack from his ruminations. Jack wasn’t a bike guy, but the motorcycle sounded like a Harley; it had that bladda-bladda big bore chug thing going. He heard the chugging first, as did the others. He didn’t need to give any orders, they had been penning humans long enough to know what to do. A handful of his men propped their weapons—a wide assortment ranging from shotgun to a M249 squad automatic weapon—on the sides, fenders, and roofs of their vehicles, and aimed at the roadblock. It was simple, a pair of old refrigerators tipped on their sides, and four five stacks of tires. No big deal, just enough to make their target stop. The ropers would handle it from there, if not…well, that was why the handful of men were leveling their weapons at the roadblock. Whether with ropes or bullets, it would be handled. Always is, thought Ed. 

            In front of the roadblock the road curved left, hugging an undulating rise, hiding the approaching motorcycle. The sun was low, sinking behind the road, a slight breeze—cool with the approaching evening—tickling the hair on his arms. This one would be the last catch of the day, no sense in risking your neck after dark. Bad things happened after dark. The rumble grew louder, and then he saw it. Big bike, small rider, silhouetted against the last sliver of the sun, headlight flashing white against the twilight. The bike rounded the hill and slowed to a stop. Now he saw that the rider wasn’t a small man, but a woman with spiky black hair on her head, and a big-ass gun on her hip. That was okay, Jack liked woman; most didn’t fight as hard. And big-ass guns? Well that was no problem either; he had plenty of big-ass guns too. He stood and handed his assault rifle to Spider. “I don’t think I’ll need this.”