The Survivor Chronicles: Book 1, The Upheaval (41 page)

At least the lava would be quick. He hoped. However, he had no way of knowing and he really didn’t intend to find out the answer.

The truck bounced as he eased it over a pothole that had divided the road. Shocks and struts groaned but the vehicle took the jarring well enough. Rochelle’s hands were fisted on her lap, she was barely breathing. They made it another quarter of a mile before his worst nightmare was confirmed. He slid the truck to a stop as he stared in disbelief at the oak tree that had fallen across the road.

John’s breath hissed out of him as he braced his hand against the dash. “What do we do?” Rochelle asked.

Carl turned to John. “Do you have your handsaw with you?”

“Are you out of your mind?” John demanded. “Do you know how long that will take?”

“Yes, but do you have a better idea?”

“Drive over it, it’s not that big.”

“And take the risk of puncturing the oil pan or radiator? We can’t do it. Do you have your handsaw or not?”

“Yeah I think so. I have to check my bag.” John jumped out of the truck and gestured for Rochelle to lean forward so he could pull the seat forward. She slid up as Carl jumped out to pull his own work bag from behind the seat. As mowers, they both had little use for their handsaws on a regular basis. Every once in awhile though, when the mowing season was winding down, they would find themselves on a tree crew or doing a Vista prune. Thankfully, they’d both been issued handsaws for those occasions.

Carl pushed aside ear plugs, weedwacker string, and assorted tools as he dug through his bag in search of the saw at the bottom of it. He pulled it out and inspected the blade, it was dull but it would have to do. John held up his saw, the tip of it was broken off, but at least it was still useable.

“What would you like me to do?” Rochelle asked.

“Stay with the truck for now,” Carl told her. He turned the truck off, closed the door and turned to John. “We’ll just cut it up enough so that we can move it.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Sweat was already beading down his forehead and trickling down his back before they made it to the tree. John was right, it was fairly small, but it was still going to be a bitch to chop up with their crappy handsaws. Sighing reluctantly, Carl lit a cigarette and knelt down next to the tree. His arms started to ache before he was even half way through the first cut. The increasing sweat coating him trickled into his eyes and made it difficult to keep hold of the saw. Sawdust bits annoyingly stuck to his skin. John let out a string of muffled curses and held up a bloody hand.

“Blade slipped,” he muttered.

“Use the first aid kit in the truck.”

The saw clattered to the ground as John rose and walked away. He left a trail of blood drops behind him as he went. Carl shook his head; he was amazed the kid hadn’t managed to run his foot over with the lawn mower if he couldn’t even use a handsaw without maiming himself. He glanced up as Rochelle knelt beside him and picked up the saw.

“You know how to use that?”

She turned it over in her hand. “It can’t be that tough to figure out.”

“Yeah well, tell that to John.”

She grinned at him as she chuckled. “True. What do I do?”

He left his blade in the middle of his cut and slid hers into the groove that John had managed to create. “Just pull back and forth, and try not to cut yourself.”

“Tell that to John.”

He laughed as he returned to his saw. Grasping the tree, he pushed down on it as he tried to keep it from pinching at the blade. After another ten minutes the tree finally gave way with a satisfying crack. He moved five feet down and began to cut into another section. Though his arms were killing him, Rochelle was still persistently trying to cut through the tree with a fierce scowl of determination.

“Want me to do that?” John asked when he returned.

Rochelle’s sweat dampened hair stuck to her face as she shook her head. “No, I got this.”

John quirked an eyebrow as he snorted with laughter. “Good to know.”

“Kneel on this,” Carl instructed him.

Grasping hold of the tree, John put his weight on it as he bent it downward for Carl. The blade was almost through when a loud noise from the woods froze them all in place. Carl’s hands clenched around the blade, he wiped the sweat from his brow as he searched for the source of the sound. Another harsh snap from the shadowed forest caused him to release the blade.

He glanced back at the truck. He’d been an idiot, a moron. He’d thought they were alone out here, and that no one else would be coming across them. He hadn’t thought there would actually be people in the woods. But as another branch broke he knew that he’d been wrong. There were people there, and they were heading this way.

“Stay here.”

He jumped to his feet and ran back toward the vehicle before John could respond. He was panting, barely able to breathe in the humid air when he threw open the passenger side door and dropped the glove box. He grabbed hold of the gun and snagged the keys out of the ignition just as three men emerged from the forest and onto the road. They stood on the other side of the tree just five feet away from Rochelle and John.

Carl’s mouth went dry as he focused on the rifles they held. He subtly closed the glove box, slid the gun into his waistband and grabbed the bandages John had left on the front seat. He stepped away from the truck, pretending to wrap his hand as he watched them from behind the open passenger door. They were wearing camouflage but there was something about them that didn’t seem right. Their postures were slouched, their shirts weren’t tucked in, and though one of them sported a buzz cut, the hair on the other two was unruly.

Carl supposed that he could be wrong, but he had a feeling that these men weren’t soldiers. Though he had the gun, he wasn’t going to pull it out and start waving it at them. The last thing he needed was a standoff in the middle of the road, especially since they only had the one gun. He was terrified these people may just shoot first and ask questions later. Or they may just run screaming in the opposite direction.

Carl wasn’t going to take the chance that they would start firing, not with John and Rochelle so close to them. Carl’s heart hammered, a sickness started in the hollow of his belly as one of the men turned his attention to Rochelle. Carl’s fingers twitched, fury boiled through him as the repulsive man began to grin creepily. He eyed her from head to toe and back again.

John leapt to his feet, his eyes narrowed, his hands fisted at his sides as he moved closer to Rochelle. The man, the Creeper, continued to watch Rochelle as she released the handsaw and rose to her feet. Carl’s hand dropped to the gun, he stayed behind the door of the truck to keep the direction of his hand hidden from view. Rochelle edged back as John moved further in front of her.

“Hey,” John greeted awkwardly.

Carl grasped hold of the butt of the gun as the three men turned their attention to him, and then the truck. A speculative gleam lit their eyes as they surveyed him. “Is that your truck?” Buzz cut inquired.

Carl thought it was pretty obvious it was their truck, but he refrained from telling them so. John took another step back, pushing against Rochelle as he maneuvered her further away from the tree. The one that had been leering at Rochelle slid the rifle off of his back and brought it around before him. He didn’t aim at them, not yet, but the threat was implicit as he held it against his chest.

Carl knew they didn’t have a chance at keeping this truck if these men decided to take it. He was just hoping to escape here with their lives, and judging by the actions of these men he wasn’t overly convinced that was going to happen. He released the gun, knowing that if he pulled it out now Rochelle and John were as good as dead. He’d sworn he’d somehow get them through all of this; he was not going to be the cause of their deaths. They could find another truck, and other supplies later.

“Is it?” the guy demanded again.

“Yeah,” John muttered as he glanced nervously back at Carl.

“Does it run?”

Buzz cut may be the dumbest individual Carl had ever come across. “Nope, we pushed it here.”

Carl groaned inwardly at John’s retort, he’d had the urge to say the same thing, but he’d managed to keep it back. Buzz cut’s eyes narrowed as he lifted the rifle. From the looks of it, it was a twenty two, and definitely not military issue. It didn’t even have a scope.

Carl’s fingers twitched toward his gun again. There was a very good possibility these guys didn’t have a clue what they were doing with those weapons. There may be a chance that he could defend them after all. Then the Creeper leveled the rifle at John’s chest and Carl knew it didn’t matter if they knew how to use the rifles or not. They were close enough to kill John and Rochelle before Carl even had his gun drawn.

John’s hands rose cautiously into the air, Rochelle went deathly pale as her hands hesitatingly went up behind him. “You think you’re funny?” Creeper demanded.

“
No... Not at all,” John stammered. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

“
Does it have gas?” Buzz demanded.

John swallowed heavily and nodded. “It does.”

“You, get away from it.”

Carl lifted his hands in the air at the command and stepped away from the door. He wasn’t about to tell Buzz that there was no way out in the other direction. They apparently weren’t smart enough to figure that out, and Carl planned on being long gone before they did. Buzz stepped over the tree, his gun still focused on John as he moved toward the truck.

John took another step back, pushing Rochelle with him as they were herded toward Carl. Creeper and the other guy stepped over the tree with their guns raised. They didn’t even know how to hold the freaking things, Carl realized. They weren’t the most powerful of rifles, but with the way they were holding them there was still a decent possibility of dislocating their shoulder, or at least wrenching and bruising it pretty good.

Again he entertained thoughts of firing on them. It had been awhile, but he had to be a better shot than them. If there just weren’t three of them…

Buzz reached the driver’s side of the truck and leaned in. “Where are the keys?” he demanded.

“My pocket,” Carl told him. Buzz leaned back out the window and came around the hood of the truck as Creeper and the other guy moved closer. “I’ll get them.”

He moved gingerly, certain they were going to shoot him as he slid his hand into his pocket. His fingers brushed over the solid muzzle of the gun. He ground his teeth together, so close and so far away, he thought in frustration.

Our lives are more important, he reminded himself as he tugged the keys free with a small jingle. “Toss them over.”

Anger sizzled through him, but he threw the keys across the asphalt to the guy. Buzz didn’t take his eyes off of them as he knelt and grabbed the keys. He nodded toward his two friends as he swung the rifle back over his shoulder and hurried toward the truck. “We’re just going to let them take it?” John murmured.

“Do you have a better plan?” A muscle twitched in John’s cheek but he shook his head as he turned helplessly toward Carl. “We’ll find another truck, more supplies.”

“
Yeah,” John muttered. Carl helplessly watched the other two men approached the truck.

“What about the girl?” Carl and John both stiffened at Creeper’s question.

“What about her?” Buzz inquired.

“We should take her with us.”

Carl’s breath froze in his lungs as Buzz and the other guy eyed Rochelle with new interest. Rochelle’s eyes rolled toward Carl as his hand slid to his waistband. They could take the truck but he was not going to let them walk out of here with her. “No,” he grated through clenched teeth. “Just take the truck and go.”