Sometimes We Ran (Book 1) Read online

  I found a tarp and covered up the sad scene. I could almost feel their panic as they huddled together back here, waiting for help that never came. At least they were together, and they were able to die with one of their prized possessions. That’s a lot more than most people got in all this mess.

  There was nothing much to salvage except for the kerosene lanterns. There were four scattered around the quilt each with a little bit of fuel left. I was able to pour the remaining fuel into one lamp, and got it to work. Claire and I would at least have a little light during our stay.

  I went back into the showroom with the lamp, closing the door behind me. Claire came up from the front of the store and leaned on the counter. “Find any thing in the back?”

  “Just the usual,” I answered. “Usual” was our new code word for the horrible things we found in these abandoned structures. “Did you find any shoes?”

  “Nah.” She looked down at her sneakers, stained by undead brain matter. “Nothing to fit my tiny feet. I think the owner thought all female motorcycle riders had huge feet. There’s nothing under size 9 over there”

  I couldn’t help myself, and started checking out all the cool bikes in the showroom. Even though I was a car guy, I also had a passing interest in the two-wheeled world as well. My wife Gia and I had contemplated getting motorcycle licenses and hitting the open road.

  None of the bikes I was looking at now in the shattered showroom were ever going to hit the road. They were going to sit here, silently rusting away, forever. I walked among the rows of dust-covered relics from another time shaking my head. They all had hundreds of dollars in chrome, leather accessories, and huge exhaust pipes. The big v-twin engines sat waiting for owners that don’t exist anymore. They just wouldn’t work in today’s world; too big, loud, and thirsty.

  Claire walked over to where I was standing and touched my arm. “What are you thinking about there, Tiger?”

  I ran my hand over the chrome handlebars of one of the cruisers. “I was thinking it would have been nice to ride a motorcycle, but I guess it won’t happen now.”

  “Well, why don’t you try one of these bad boys? I bet we could get one of these suckers running.” Claire threw her leg over one of the bikes and tried it out. The bike was way too big for her. She had to stand on her tiptoes to touch the floor as she sat on the huge motorcycle.

  “Nah, too loud,” I said, pointing to the exhaust pipes. “We’ll attract every undead sucker for miles if we crank it up. Come on, let’s eat.”

  Claire got off the bike and followed me to the parts counter. Along the way, she stopped at some of the bikes to read the description tags attached to the handlebars. “Hey, check this one out. It says it’s pretty quiet.”

  I looked up from my meal preparations to see what she had found. It was a powerful sport scooter painted bright silver. It had large black-painted wheels, and a chrome-finished exhaust pipe. I had to admit it was a real looker. I got our MREs started, then joined Claire to take a look.

  “So what do you think? I mean, it’s no motorcycle, but it’s close. You think we can get it running?” she asked excitedly.

  The scooter had a lot of dust covering its silver flanks, and the tires looked a little soft. It had a pretty big motor; about five hundred cc’s or so. The price tag read “$10,000.00” in small red type. The tag also listed the scooter’s other great attributes, like “used but not abused,” “sporty,” “good on gas,” and “very quiet and easy to ride.”

  “I don’t know. It looks like it’s been sitting here awhile.” I traced a finger through the dust on the headlight. “The battery is probably dead and gone.”

  “Aw, come on. This is your chance to ride. Besides, walking is so last week,” Claire said as she struck a pose by the scooter. “Lets give it a try.”

  I hated to admit it, but I really wanted to try and resurrect the scooter. It would be nice to hit the open road and feel the wind in my face. Walking everywhere was getting a little stale. I turned to key in the ignition to see if the battery had any charge. Surprisingly, the lights on the dashboard and the gauges responded weakly. The silver scooter might have some life left after all.

  I was convinced. “We’ll give it a try. We’re going to eat first, though.”

  Claire and shared a hot meal and planned how we were going to try and get our steel-and-plastic steed back on the road. I cautioned her not to get her hopes up too high. The battery might be dead, the engine might be gummed up, or it might be too loud. We couldn’t use the scooter if it was too loud. It would attract too much attention.

  After our meal, we did a quick cleanup and nursed the scooter back to life. I gathered up a few tools and a foot-operated air pump, and got to work. A service manual in one of the storage containers of the scooter gave us some vital information about servicing and troubleshooting. We spent a couple of hours working on the scooter, changing the oil, plugs, and coolant. I used a clean rag to wipe some of the dust and accumulated grime off the engine and drive belt. I also added a little fuel I grabbed from another bike on the floor. Claire finished up the maintenance by using the pump to refill the tires. The only problem was the battery. Without electricity, we didn’t have any way to top off the charge. I found a few spare scooter batteries to try if the original battery wouldn’t turn the bike over.

  After the work was done and all the panels were back in place, it was time to try to start our new scooter. I turned the key to the “on” position. The lights and gauges responded, but weakly. The battery was nearly gone. I hesitated with my thumb over the starter button.

  Claire grew a little impatient. “Well, it’s not gonna start itself.”

  I pushed the button and the scooter started to weakly cough and wheeze. At first it didn’t sound like it was going to start, but then the engine caught and the big scooter roared to life.

  “Hot damn!” Claire exclaimed with glee.

  The bike sounded pretty good. It ran with a slight miss, which I attributed to the possibility of bad gasoline or my shoddy workmanship. It smoked a little bit, and a warning light on the dash told of something amiss in the engine, but it actually kept running. Eventually, even the smoke stopped as it warmed up. Best of all, it really was very quiet. Even when I revved the motor, the sound was barely more than what a blender would make. I couldn’t believe it, but the scooter might actually work.

  I killed the motor after a good warmup, and silence returned to the shop. Claire and I looked at each other and smiled. Tomorrow, we no longer walk; we ride.

  Chapter 18

  The Highwaymen

  We got up early the next morning to hit the road on our new scooter. The sun had just come out over the trees when I rolled our new silver ride out into the frosty morning. I gave the bike a quick check, and then started the engine to let it warm up.

  Claire and I had tried to find some helmets, but none of the ones left in the store fit our heads. They were either too big for Claire’s smallish head, or too small for the large melon on my shoulders. Much to my dismay, we were going to have to risk it without protective headgear. I did manage to fit a few small tools and an extra battery in the storage area under the seat. I also added a small gas can and a length of hose, so we could acquire fuel on the road. Claire also found a few hundred dollars for our bribery fund in the cash register and a few bottles of water for the road. We were all set.

  The only problem was I didn’t have much experience on two-wheeled vehicles. Claire found it very funny, and told me to take it for a little spin around the street to get familiar with the bike. I set off on a loop of the area with the bike wobbling beneath me. I tried to remember some basic riding skills from my youth spent riding dirt bikes on the trails near my boyhood home. It took a few laps, but eventually I felt confident enough to hit the open road. I pulled up to the front of the store to pick up Claire.

  “Where to, lady?” I asked, joking around.

  Claire played along. “Oh, how about California? No, wait! Las Vegas. That�
��s where we need to go.”

  Sadly, Las Vegas was probably full of undead. California probably wasn’t a picnic either. “Well, let’s just hit the road and see what happens,” I said, helping her aboard our new silver steed.

  Surprisingly, even wearing our backpacks, Claire and I fit very well on our new scooter. Her weight, plus the weight of the backpacks, was a different story. I wondered if it would change the handling.

  I put the kickstand up and got ready to roll. “Hold on. Just bear with me while I get used to the extra weight.”

  “All right Easy Rider. Just hit the road already.” Claire could be so impatient sometimes.

  I cracked the throttle and pulled away from the curb at a slow but steady pace. Even with the extra weight, the bike glided smoothly down the street. I could get used to this.

  Claire didn’t think I was going fast enough. “Hey, Grandpa,” I heard her say over the sound of the wind. “You can go a little faster, you know.”

  “The speed limit is 45. That’s fast enough.” Claire snorted in mock disgust.

  We made our way to the main road and continued our journey. In some areas, the abandoned vehicles and other debris slowed us down. In some extreme cases, we had to get off the scooter and push it around huge blockages on the road. A few times we even had to ride in the shoulder, or in the grass. We would stop occasionally to scrounge in stores or mini malls for new supplies. I would make sure to hide the bike from prying eyes, or we would simply take the bike with us into the building while we looked inside. It was good to have it near. Claire and I would often have to get away quickly from whatever fresh hell we found while scavenging. Even with all the clogged roads and stopping we were still able to cover a lot of ground.

  All the while, the scooter ran well and gave us no trouble. It was quiet and attracted no attention. We were even able to find a little gas here and there to keep it full. I don’t know why I didn’t think of using a scooter before. Maybe I just liked walking.

  It was the third day out when we came across the fork in the road. It was a rainy, foggy morning with low visibility and a sullen gray sky. I rode up to the sign between the two forks and parked the scooter. Claire and I dismounted to stretch our legs and dry off a little while I consulted the map I had taken from the firehouse.

  “Which way, Tiger?” she asked.

  I took a closer look at our map, and traced a finger along each route. The fork to the right led to a medium-sized town that could be infested with undead. The fork to the left led to more open country that might be a little safer to ride through. The town could have more supplies, but we might have to battle a couple of hundred zombies to get anything. The left fork looked a little safer, but supplies could be limited. I shot a glance at Claire. She was soaking wet even with her shower curtain rain gear. Being wet and miserable doesn’t help when you have to fight zombies. She had been a trouper through all this misery, but I think we needed a break. I made a decision. We’d take the left fork into the open country.

  “That way,” I said, gesturing down the left fork in the road.

  “Okay. Any particular reason why?” Claire asked.

  “Looks like there might be less undead. Besides, according to the map, it looks like a nice scenic drive in the country.” I tried to sound like I knew I was doing.

  She laughed a little. “Okay Tiger, let’s go.” We got on the scooter, and continued our journey on the fog-shrouded road. As I rode away from the sign, I secretly hoped my decision was the right one.

  We rode for about an hour without incident. The rain stopped, and the sky even brightened a little. As we rode, the country changed into tree-lined roadways with the odd driveway or farm on one or both sides. The usual amount of abandoned cars was lighter, so we didn’t have to stop as often to go around obstacles in the road. With the end of the rain, and the relatively clear road, we were going to cover a lot of ground today.

  And that’s when we came upon the sports car in the middle of the road.

  It was a low-slung, Italian-made super car parked right on the center line. Claire and I rounded a curve and nearly ran over the very expensive relic from the pre-zombie days. I hit the brakes hard and we skidded to a stop. I stopped so quick that Claire nearly tumbled off the bike. We dismounted to check it out. I stood there for a minute admiring the beautiful red car.

  “What the hell is this doing here?” I said aloud. I looked around at the surreal scene in front of us. The car was not alone on the road. Surrounding it were a few wooden barricades hastily nailed together, a few flaming garbage cans, and about half a dozen stolen telephone company orange cones. I also saw three cheap motorcycles parked in a neat row on the side of the road.

  Claire drew her bat. ‘‘I don’t like the looks of this, John.”

  “Me neither. Lets get the hell out of here.” I started to jog back to our scooter. This whole scene looked like a diversion.

  Before we could get to the scooter, I knew it was too late. The trap had already sprung.

  Four tough-looking characters blocked our path back to our scooter. They were all dressed like refugees from a bad post-apocalypse movie, and they were heavily armed. They advanced on us like a small army. Claire went for her revolver, but I put my hand out to stop her. They had us outgunned and outnumbered, but they didn’t look like professionals. They actually looked like a bunch of kids playing tough-guy. I thought we could talk or bribe our way out of the situation, and save potential violence and mayhem for later.

  One of the tough guys, a stout, chubby fellow, separated from the rest of the group and walked to conversation distance. He was waving around some sort of weird submachine gun.

  “You like my car? It’s a real beaut, isn’t it? I have three more back at the house,” he said as he approached.

  I casually brought my semi-automatic rifle into a ready position, and said, “Yeah, pretty nice. What kind of mileage does it get?”

  Chubby Boy got the message I was sending with the rifle, and backed off a little. “Well it’s a little tough on gas, but if you got the means to buy one, you go for it.”

  We eyed each other carefully. His buddies looked a little nervous. After about a minute of heavy glancing, he finally said, “Crap, where are my manners? We haven’t introduced ourselves yet. My name is Richard.” He paused a few seconds to point at his associates behind him. “That blond shaggy-haired fellow on the extreme right is my brother Joey. The guy next to him is also named Richard, but we call him Dick. That fellow over there to the left …well, he got a little close to a homemade flame thrower, so we call him Toast.” The entire group, including the one he called Toast, laughed. Toast was in pretty bad shape. Most of his hair was gone, and it looked like he suffered second- and maybe third-degree burns on his face and hands. He almost looked as bad as some of the undead Claire and I had come across in our travels. It was a wonder he was still alive.

  “Yeah, Toast is a little off, but he is a good addition to our group. The zombies think he is already dead.” Richard delivered that last line like a stand-up comedian. You could almost hear the rim shot. His little band of followers laughed like idiots.

  Claire and I definitely didn’t think it was funny at all.

  I’d come across guys like this before. In the old world, they were losers venting their spleens on the Internet in blogs and chat rooms acting like they knew everything. Now, without any authority, they’ve gathered a few friends and guns and try to pretend they own the freaking road. They usually had a cute gang name like “The Enforcers” or “The Blasters” or something equally inane.

  I turned a little bit to make sure his little gang got a glimpse of my rifle. “Well, Rich, glad to meet you. I’m John, and this is my friend Claire. You guys got a gang name? All the toughest road gangs have a name.”

  Richard looked like he was taken aback by the slightly sarcastic tone of my comment. “Well, most people call us ‘The Highwaymen.’ What do you think about that, John?”

  I thought about w
hat he said for a minute, then answered, “Well Rich, I think it’s a good name for a bunch of chumps on imported cheap-ass motorcycles acting like tough guys.” Despite the tension of the moment, Claire couldn’t help giggling a little.

  Richard’s crew didn’t think it was funny. They all pulled extra weapons and started to advance. Richard held up his hand and laughed a little.

  “Very funny, John. It’s kind of nice to meet someone with a sense of humor. Usually the people we meet either start shooting or cower in fear.” He walked up right next to me and Claire. “Actually, we’re not bad guys. We might let you leave if we can make a deal.”

  I unzipped Claire’s backpack, and took out about a thousand dollars from our bribery fund. I showed the bills to Richard, then held them above my head to show his crew. “Is this enough? We have some jewelry too. If you need food or water we can spare a little bit.”

  Richard laughed. “Don’t need money. It’s worthless. I got buckets of bills back at the house. We use them to wipe up household spills. Don’t need food or water, either. We got plenty, and can definitely get more if we start to run out.”

  “No, John, the Highwaymen desire something else in your possession.” Based on the horny look on his face, I knew exactly what his little group wanted.

  They wanted Claire.

  Richard glared at me with menace in his eyes, and pointed in her direction. “We want her.”

  I shoved the money back in Claire’s backpack and gave her a “now-it’s-good-time-to-use-your-revolver” wink. “Well, Rich, you see, Claire ain’t for sale. We’ll have to work something else out.” Richard’s friends began to advance with weapons ready.