Further Adventures of the Borderland Biker -Chapter 13

 

 

The perimeter surrounding the park, with the exception of a small section of parking lot that included a three foot high round platform about eight feet in diameter, was made up of offices and shops. The bandstand was in the center, the hub, with pathways radiating out from it like spokes on a wheel.  

 

“We’ll spend the night here,” said Larry. “There’s enough open space around the bandstand to see anything coming and we’re close enough to gather fuel from nearby buildings to last through the night…but we’ve gotta hurry.”

 

Larry and I quickly began to forage for anything that would burn. From the buildings we carried what we’d collected to within about a twenty five feet of the bandstand. What we couldn’t carry we dragged, what we couldn’t drag we left in a mound outside the buildings and within sight. We’d finished pushing a large set of panel doors onto the last pile when the sun set. The bandstand was now encircled by ten similar piles. Our final act was to move both bikes out next to the three foot high round platform. Our bikes wouldn’t be as close to us as I’d like but then neither would they be too close to the flames. 

 

Dwindling twilight allowed us to watch the surrounding buildings blend into a line of shadow. When the sun set below the horizon the line had reached the bandstand so we lit the first pile of furniture on fire. We’d circled the bandstand with ten piles made up of anything we could find that would burn. Each pile was spaced far enough apart from the others so as to not ignite the ones nearest it.

 

Larry volunteered to take the first watch while I slept, which of course turned out to be impossible, so we both stayed awake. And as much as we stared into the growing darkness we could see nothing out of the ordinary, no opaque tentacle as described in Gary’s story reached out for us.

 

Gary’s story of when he and another Wheeler had ridden into the Old Places and how the other Wheeler had been turned to mush then sucked dry by something that had reached out from the shadows was a reminder to be watchful. Gary said it looked like a tentacle or feeler of some kind. 

 

 

“Neither of us can sleep,” I said, “and you’ve yet to tell me the story of how you first came to the Borderlands.”

 

“Like you I entered the Borderlands quite by accident. And since you’ve accurately pointed out neither of us are going to get any sleep tonight you might as well let me tell you what led up to it.”

 

“My entrance,” Larry continued, “came about a few years before yours. It happened when Bobby and I, Bobby had been my partner in crime, agreed to investigate a mystery. We were serving time at a private minimum security prison in the Nevada desert for robbery and had been taken to the warden’s office. Warden Schaub had us brought there to offer us our freedom if we agreed to become guinea pigs; little did I know what becoming a guinea pig would get me into.” 

 

 

(LARRY’S STORY as told by Larry) FADE IN: TO THE WARDEN’S OFFICE…

 

“Canaries were used to test the air in mines to see if it was safe to breathe,” Schaub spoke candidly. “You two can continue to serve your time here as jailbirds or become canaries and find out what’s outside this facility. We’ve not heard from the two we sent south towards Vegas so we’d like for you to go north towards Reno. Larry, or should I call you Lorenzo; your birth certificate says Lorenzo? It says you’re from Reno so maybe that’ll bring you luck?” 

 

Schaub continued, “We’ve not been in communication with anyone since a nationwide alert warned us hundreds of EMP (electromagnetic pulse) devices hidden across the United States had been found, unfortunately too late, and were about to be detonated. Seconds later all communication from outside went dead.  

 

“My theory is terrorists had been smuggling EMPs in pieces across our one, if we’re honest, open border, the Mexican border for years. Once assembled and hooked into our nation’s electrical grid they were then set off at the same time. The effect of their combined electrical pulse was exponential in power and fried most everything.  

 

“The irony is that since the 1950s we’ve all been paying billions in taxes for a missile defense system. Our leaders must now have the same egg on their face as the French leaders that ordered the building of the Maginot Line.” 

 

Schaub continued, “I won’t force you to go nor will I lie and say that you won’t be going as guinea pigs to find out what’s beyond the horizon. My end of the deal is I’ll log down that the two of you died here in an industrial fire and that your bodies were burned to ashes; I’ll erase your past.” 

 

On Schaub’s desk were two death certificates with all the required signatures and stamps. My name was printed in bold letters on one, Bobby’s on the other.

 

“How do you know,” I said, “we won’t make a run for it?”

 

“I don’t,” said Schaub, “no more than you’ll ever know if I’ve really erased your records. What you do know is that in the time you’ve been here I’ve never lied to you.”

 

That much was true; since being transferred here from a maximum security prison in Arizona Schaub had always kept his word. A year ago the government in an attempt to bring down costs of incarceration started allowing private corporations to, for want of a better term, pay for the use of prisoners. Bobby and I along with three other prisoners had gotten lucky and were contracted out to this small solar energy facility in the central Nevada desert. 

 

Our job during the day, we were now called trusties not prisoners, was to do maintenance work on solar panels; at night we were housed underground. We were underground when the EMPs went off; it was the ground that shielded our diesel generator from their effects. Everything electrical above ground including all our solar panels got fried. 

 

It was the same diesel generator that was keeping alive the three other trusties caught in the cargo elevator when the failsafe systems on the elevator’s brakes were shorted. They were now hooked to the infirmary’s life support units that were in turn being powered by what was left of our diesel fuel. When that fuel ran out they were as good as dead.

 

Bobby had walked over to where a military style walkie-talkie was being charged, “You’ve tried all channels?”

 

“We’ve tried sending and receiving on all emergency bands, even air traffic;” answered Schaub, “there’s nothing.”

 

“You wouldn’t,” I asked, “have recorded the last message from the people you sent south towards Las Vegas?”

 

Schaub reached across his desk and flipped a switch. There was a moment of static then a voice said, “Schaub this is Hanover; it’s getting dark and Murphy hasn’t come back. I sent him to siphon gas from a car about a hundred yards below the overpass where we parked. I’d go looking for him but I’ve got to finish siphoning gas from this car if we’re to make it to Vegas. I need to finish before I lose the light and can’t see what I’m doing. We don’t need any injuries from stumbling around in the dark; our sickbay’s already stressed.”  

 

The recording stopped then started, “I’ve finished fueling our van but have decided to stay the night. I’m climbing down from the overpass to get wood for a fire and look for Murphy. It’s freezing in the shadows. Maybe Murphy will see the fire? I’ll call as soon as I get back.”

 

Schaub reached across his desk and clicked off the recording, “Hanover never called.” 

 

Bobby stared at the shadow created by his hand on the desk when he held it under the desk’s light, “There’s an Aleut Indian legend that says when the shadows freeze you’ll know it’s because the Devil’s left the door to Hell open and he’s waiting in the form of a giant trapdoor spider for the unwary.”

 

“Any other people injured besides the three trusties that were in the elevator;” I asked, “any others missing besides the two you sent south towards Las Vegas?”

 

“We did have another casualty. One of my staff, without telling anyone, went above ground to the loading docks that night. It’s where the trucks unload supplies so he must’ve thought there might be some diesel fuel. It was my fault I should’ve made a second head count. The next day we searched the grounds; it wasn’t until noon we found him.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“He was behind some boxes all puckered up, like a prune; shrunken like a bug that’s had its insides turned to mush and then sucked out. National Geographic could’ve used a picture of him in their feature on Egyptian mummies.”

 

I shouldn’t have asked, “Like that picture of King Tut?” 

 

“Let’s just put it this way, Larry,” Schaub was still calling me Larry and not by my baptized name Lorenzo, “my days of eating beef jerky are over.”

 

“Any theories,” I’d walked across the office to look at an old ‘50s style AM radio and a Roy Rogers lunch box displayed on top of a bookcase, “as to what might’ve sucked all the fluids out of him? Maybe he accidentally got into some type of acid or industrial cleaner?”

 

“We’ve nothing toxic stored where he was found. The only thing unusual about that night was a thunderstorm that passed over us; it didn’t last but for five minutes. They’re not uncommon out here, just not for such short duration.”

 

Bobby had walked over and was standing beside me when he picked up the Roy Rogers lunch box, “I had one like this; it always smelled like peanut butter and jelly.”

 

He then put it down and picked up the AM radio, “Out of curiosity, did you try listening to any of the AM frequencies?”

 

“None of the government agencies broadcast on AM.”

 

Without waiting for permission Bobby plugged the old radio into a wall socket just below a picture of a kid in a Little League uniform that had Steve Schaub embroidered on his jersey. At first there was nothing but the smell of years of dust being burned off wires and vacuum tubes followed by different sounds of static as the dial was turned. 

 

“As I told you, we’ve tried all frequencies,” Schaub said a little defensively, “I don’t see what purpose….”

 

“Quiet!”

 

Bobby twisted the dial back until we could hear what had made him tell us to be quiet. 

 

“Looking for an Echo” by Kenny Vance and The Planotones was just ending.

 

 

 Schaub shook his head, “It’s probably just an old pirate station the EMPs missed and that’s still broadcasting on automatic play. If it were live there’d be an announcer…”

 

“…and that loyal listeners was Kenny Vance and The Planotones and I’m Kate, your DJ, engineer, sometimes waitress, cook and bottle washer, aka the owner of KWOP and Spanky’s Café from where we broadcast. Speaking of broadcasts would a listener loyal or not please let me know if you’re hearing this? No one has called or even driven by this place in almost a week; I’m alone here at Spanky’s and I’ve tried calling…and…”

 

“Hey, what happened?” Schaub sounded surprised. “She was broadcasting, coming in loud and clear, then nothing.”

 

“That crackling sound we heard just before she got cut off,” Bobby was remembering back to another time in his life, “sounded a lot like the static we’d get in the mountains in Bosnia when we were on patrol. Our mikes would crackle like that just before a thunderstorm hit and the lightning would knock out our unit’s communications.”

 

“If we agree,” I asked, “to go north towards Reno,” Schaub already knew Bobby and I had accepted his deal but listened patiently, “will anyone else be coming with us?

 

“I’ve got to stay,” answered Schaub, “as does Doc Niven so I’m sending Talbot with you; he’s one of my best mechanics.

 

“Schaub then turned from me to Bobby, “your official records say your name is Branscombe not Bobby?”

 

“Bobby “interrupted Bobby, “let’s just keep it Bobby.”

 

“Tomato, tamato,” Schaub was smiling knowingly, “and I’m assuming you’ve accepted my offer and I really don’t care what names you two go by. But for the death certificates Larry’s will read Lorenzo and yours Branscombe. These certificates gotta look real. And since we’re on the subject of keeping everything real, it would be unreal to ask you two to go out there unarmed. I know I wouldn’t go out there unarmed and so I won’t expect it of you.”

 

Schaub didn’t wait for a response but walked over to a small wall safe. Some turns of the combination and it opened, “Talbot has a twelve gauge; these little items are for you.” 

 

What appeared to be two Model 1911 Colt .45s with about ten boxes of ammo were stored inside; except that upon closer look the ammo turned out to be 10mm not .45 caliber.

 

“A Colt Delta,” said Schaub, “looks a lot like a Colt .45 Model 1911 automatic from the outside and will fool most anyone when first glanced at, but that’s where their similarity ends. Although based on the .45, the Delta’s insides were modernized in their design to handle the greater stress from the more powerful 10mm round, its alloys are stronger and its balance is better, especially if you shoot instinctually.”

 

Suddenly and with a movement so fast it appeared as a blur Schaub pulled one of the pistols out of the safe. It seemed to have a life of its own as it passed from his left hand to his right hand and there was a light in Schaub’s eyes and a smile I’d not seen before.

 

“The Delta will want to become part of you;” said Schaub but from far away, “it’ll think for you if you let it.”

 

Having said that, Schaub whirled, the pistol sweeping from Bobby then to me, tracking from one heart to the other, and then just as quickly it was reversed in a roadhouse twist and handed butt first to Bobby.

 

“They’re loaded;” Schaub said, having already turned away, “get the boxes of ammo then follow me. Oh, and in answer to the question you both want to ask; I wasn’t always a warden slash solar panel engineer.”

 

Two and a half rooms and a hallway later we were in an underground garage. Near the wall was a Ford van covered with dents that had dents. Behind the van was a chain link fenced in enclosure; within it were two motorcycles. Talbot, who I’d seen fixing about everything that was mechanical in the facility that needed fixing was there to meet us.

 

“Talbot, is the van good to go; I want the three of you on the road heading northwest at dawn?”

 

Talbot gave Schaub a big smile then finished wiping his hands, “Everything’s aboard, siphons, tools, walkie-talkies, first-aid kits; everything’s in here but the kitchen sink.”

 

I found myself, without consciously knowing I was going there, walking over to look at the two motorcycles. One was a maroon colored Indian Chief with the new 100ci motor; the other was a black Harley Davidson Dyna Wide Glide Twin Cam. The Chief was beautiful but my eyes kept coming back to the Wide Glide; it reminded me of my old Softail.

 

“If we run into abandoned cars,” I was making my pitch to Schaub for the motorcycles, “which we will, we’ll find a route around them a lot easier with motorcycles. Bobby and I could scout ahead. Hanover said he and Murphy were starting to run into abandoned vehicles the closer they got to Vegas. Talbot would avoid those problems if he had our eyes out in front.”

 

Talbot seconded my motion, “Larry’s right. If we do find a tanker truck filled with diesel I’ll be the one elected to drive it back here. Hanover said in his last transmission that he and Murphy weren’t able to go much further because of the clogged freeway. Having these two on motorcycles scout for the best path would help.” 

 

“Hanover and Murphy are friends of mine;” continued Talbot, “these bikes belong to them. They would’ve wanted Larry and Bobby to take them if it meant finding some diesel fuel and saving the lives of the three on life-support. They would’ve wanted them used in that way.”

 

Schaub started to reply when the lights flickered out; they flickered back on a second later. “That flicker…means our diesel generator has just switched to its reserve tank, which means we now have about two days left of fuel. We’ve also only about four more hours until daybreak and the three of you leave. Get some sleep if you can.”

 

Bobby had walked behind the chain link fence and was standing beside the Indian Chief, “This model was Indian’s last; the 100ci engine was their latest and most powerful. If you don’t mind I’d prefer riding it.”

 

In my mind I’d already chosen the Dyna Wide Glide, “Go for it;” I said, “the Wide Glide’s closer to the ‘94 Softail I rode for quite a few years.” 

 

I fell asleep knowing I was doing something besides just time in a cell to make up for the robberies I’d committed. Bobby and I were going from being jailbirds to being canaries; we’d volunteered to become canaries on a mercy run to find others and if possible bring back diesel fuel. We’d be on the road again, but was it safe; considering the fact something had obviously happened to the two sent south to Las Vegas?

 

In what seemed like minutes not hours later Talbot was shouting from the doorway, “Larry, Bobby, breakfast’s ready; meet me in the garage.” 

 

After getting dressed, Bobby and I followed Talbot to the garage. Breakfast turned out to be cold toast and an almost as cold cup of coffee.

 

Schaub was drinking a cup of the same almost as cold coffee and standing beside a garage door leading to the outside, “Hey, what can I say, it’s the cook’s day off. Your bikes are gassed and the van’s loaded. I figured on the two of you scouting ahead. Use your walkie-talkies to let Talbot know what’s in front of him. No goodbyes; be safe and may the, and I’ve always wanted to say this, force be with you.”

 

The garage door was the beginning of a narrow driveway leading up from underground and out of the facility; a mile away it intersected with a two lane road. Talbot led, Bobby and I followed. We’d lead once we were underway. Making the turn onto the road made the van bottom out at the intersection; maybe Talbot did find room for the kitchen sink. A hundred yards later Bobby twisted the throttle on the big Indian and passed the van. I followed on the Wide Glide staying a bit behind and to the right. For the next hundred miles we headed north passing through all kinds, depending on the elevation, of different climate zones; the number of abandoned vehicles increased when we turned northwest. The two lane road had now become a wider two lane road. 

 

Once on the wider road and still heading in a northwest direction we came upon even more derelict trucks, buses and cars. We’d radio back to Talbot the best route around them. He was about a mile behind us when we radioed we’d spotted a jackknifed tanker. 

 

“If it’s filled with diesel fuel and if I can get it running, I’ll drive it back,” said Talbot when he pulled up in the van. “The plan is for you two to continue on and for me to bring back diesel fuel. Spanky’s Café isn’t that far off the road to Reno. Schaub’s pretty sure it’s located northwest of Bridgeport; he triangulated its position using the signal’s strength. It’s marked on this map.”

 

Talbot had climbed up on the trailer and looked inside the tank, “It’s diesel; we’re in luck.” 

 

I was already checking for bent rims, flats and brake line leaks, “It’s eleven o’clock; if you can’t get the truck running by noon I vote you head back to the facility then return with some help and something you can transfer the diesel fuel into. If you wait any longer you’ll not make it back before dark. Speaking of which, Bobby and I will also be cutting it close getting to where the radio station’s located before sunset.”

 

“I tuned my walkie-talkie before we left,” Bobby said, holding his walkie-talkie up so we could see it, “to automatically switch on if it receives any KWOP transmissions. So far Kate’s not broadcast since we heard her signal cut off last night.”

 

Bobby and I then went to work making sure all the tanker’s hydraulic hoses were tight and its hitch hadn’t been damaged when it jackknifed. Talbot literally plunged head first under the hood to get the big diesel engine running.

 

“I’m glad I checked the fuel injectors;” said Talbot after surfacing nearly an hour later, “some of injectors were still clogged with sludge. Temperatures cold enough to do that to diesel fuel had to have been quite a bit below zero. Temperatures around here rarely get that low and never this time of the year. 

 

“Back in 1978 when I was in the military and stationed in Alaska we’d see this kind of sludge inside the injector tubes of the tractors we used in construction especially in the morning but it was expected; our base was near the Arctic Circle. The good news is our tanker driver carried a bottle of vodka under his seat. With some luck and a little bit of flame from some burning vodka under the tubes and voila, no more sludge.”

 

Aided by a jumpstart from our bikes, Talbot lit the vodka, hit the starter and said voila again. A grinding sound followed by the deep roar of the truck’s diesel coming to life made us smile; our smiles became bigger when we looked at the time. We’d checked out the mechanical things that needed checking and gotten the tanker truck running and we’d done it all before the deadline. It was five minutes till noon.

 

“I’m taking this fuel back to Schaub;” Talbot shouted from the cab after having turned the truck around and pointed it southwards back down the road, “have you heard anything from that AM station?” 

 

“Bobby was smiling and holding up his walkie-talkie, “While you were turning the truck around “Da Doo Ron Ron” by The Crystals came in over KWOP. Kate’s broadcasting again and from the sound of it she’s a Doo Wop fan.”

 

After giving us a thumbs-up as much for Kate’s choice in music as for our success in catching her broadcast, Talbot headed back towards the facility. 

 

He was almost a minute down the road when I said, “We’ll top-off our bikes later. We’ve taken what we can carry from the van and we’ve quite a few miles left in our tanks.”

 

I’d climbed aboard my bike when I added, “If we’re forced, I wonder if we’ll be able to ride after sunset or will we end up like that freeze dried guy Schaub found? It makes you wonder if there’s anything to your Aleut Indian legend.”  

 

Bobby had ridden his bike around to where it was pointed north, “It’s just a legend, but I vote we ‘don’t’ hang around until nighttime to find out if it’s true. I vote we get started for that radio station.”

 

     

  (FADE OUT of PART 1 of Larry’s to be continued Story)

 

Larry’s story of how he’d made a deal with Warden Schaub was fascinating, and I wanted to hear the rest, but in the faint early morning light some movement out by the round platform where we’d parked our bikes distracted me.

 

“I hate to interrupt,” I said pointing towards the platform, “but there’s something on top of the round platform next to where we parked our bikes and it’s moving.”

 

“Amend that,” said Larry, “to something the size of a Volkswagen and bike ‘not’ bikes…your M90’s gone.”

 

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN coming soon

 

“Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”__Benjamin Franklin