Through the Storm(17)

“Hi, are you Randolph? I’m looking for a bicycle.”

He nodded. “I’ve got about a dozen bikes—kids ones, dirt bikes, racing… What exactly are you looking for?”

“I don’t need a racing bike.” Conner described the trip that lay before him. “I can spend maybe three hundred dollars.”

“That little?”

“That’s about all I’ve got.” Conner regretted revealing how much money he had. He did have a credit card through his dad but didn’t want to have to explain spending hundreds of dollars for a used bike. But, if it got him home, it would be worth it. “With the power still out can you take a credit card?”

“Nope. Can’t process it. Cash only until the government gets things back to normal.”

How long will that take? “Okay, show me what you have.”

Randolph ambled toward the back, leaving Conner to wonder if he should follow. After a few minutes, he returned with a very used, pink and rust adult-sized street bike.

“That’s a three-hundred-dollar dollar bike?”

“It is today.” Randolph shrugged. “Tomorrow it might cost six hundred dollars.”

Conner pulled out his wallet and counted the bills. “I’ve got $287.”

Randolph grinned. “I guess I’m feeling generous today.” He held out his hand.

As Conner handed over the money, he asked, “Can I get a pump for the tires?”

“Sure.” Randolph smiled. “In exchange for that watch on your wrist.”

Conner gave up the watch that had been a birthday gift from his father. Randolph might be a millionaire, but money might already be worthless. Just outside the store, Conner mounted the bike and pedaled south, out of town, with the rifle over one shoulder and the pack on his back. The uneven weight caused him to sway and weave a bit, but the pavement was wide, flat, and empty. Still, out of a lifetime of habit, he stayed on the shoulder to the right.

With the blue sky above and the Columbia River flowing just west of the highway, providing a reliable source of water, he felt good about this part of the trip. Crossing the mountains that loomed to the west was a worry he would try to put off for as long as possible.

It didn’t work. Biking gave Conner too much time to think. His father was in Nevada. He had left Drake alone at home, and it would take him days to get back there.

He hunched his shoulders, shifting the weight on his back, and pedaled faster.

Worry pushed him forward, but fatigue slowed him. Conner prided himself on being physically fit, but it had been years since he last rode a bike any distance. Slow and steady wins the race. As he continued south the words became a mantra, repeated in his head.

The sun had fallen below the western mountains when Conner passed a sign welcoming him to the city of Wenatchee. He continued south, trying to decide whether he should skirt around or go through the town when he noticed a large homemade sign directing refugees who needed assistance to turn off the highway.

He hadn’t passed many people during the day. How many refugees could there be?

The next sign read, “Local Church Refugee Assistance.” An arrow pointed left.

Conner pedaled on until he spotted a gathering of a couple of hundred people in a wooded park by the river. He dismounted and joined a dozen others walking toward the entrance.

In some ways, it reminded him of where he ate lunch. Children played, while adults gathered in groups or cooked food on barbecue grills. But there were many more people here, and not everyone looked friendly. He shook his head. Like him, they were all probably just trying to get home. He had a rifle over his shoulder and hadn’t shaved or bathed in three days. He probably looked like trouble to those around him.

Conner’s fear of gangs subsided when he noticed two police officers strolling among the refugees and another cop near the entrance.

As he approached, the officer held up his hand. “No guns in the park.”

Conner stopped and nodded. “Fair enough. I won’t go in.” He threw a leg over his bike as others walked past him.

A shot boomed behind him.

People shoved and ran.

Conner fell to the ground.

*

Rural Lewis County, Washington, Monday, September 5th

As he sprinted back toward home, Drake changed his mind and turned the corner to Ashley’s house. Out of breath, he slowed to a walk, and then stopped and bent over, panting. More exercise, fewer video games.

Gruff pranced anxiously around him.

When his breathing returned to near normal, he continued his trek. Ashley lived on the north side of Fremont Hill toward the bottom and much closer to the freeway. She had to have seen stalled cars and plumes of smoke. It probably unnerved her, just like it did him, but her parents should be there.

Yeah, her parents were probably home, and he should get back to the farm. No. He rejected the idea. She would be happy he stopped by to check on her. The thought made him smile and again he ran.

Gruff’s tongue hung out as he jogged beside Drake.

Within a couple of minutes, he spotted Ashley’s yellow house. Three motionless cars were visible on the freeway. Beyond it, a grass fire had blackened the slope down to the river and still smoldered.

Drake pressed the doorbell and then slapped his forehead. Idiot, the power is out. He knocked and heard movement inside. The door opened a crack with the chain still latched. Ashley stood just inside with red, puffy, eyes. Her blonde hair seemed limp against her head.