Steven Konkoly - The Perseid Collapse

“I’m not risking the Jeep, Alex—or my family,” said Ed.

“If Charlie starts shooting—you’ll lose the jeep. The police will be all over us before we get to the tollbooth. We have to get him out of there before he panics.”

“I’ll wait in the intersection, but that’s it,” he said, as the Jeep rapidly approached that terminal point.

“Slow down for a second.”

“Are you crazy?” Ed bellowed.

“Ed, get us out of here!” screamed Samantha.

“Stop the Jeep, and wait for me at the intersection. Do it now!” ordered Alex.

The Jeep jerked to a stop, giving Alex enough time to jump down onto the street before it lurched forward again. He hit the street in a dead sprint, slicing between two thick sections of beach roses and emerging on a collision course with the man catching up to Charlie. Alex’s sudden appearance caused Charlie to lower his rifle, which averted the first of many disasters ripening at the moment. With several hotels in the immediate area, he could almost guarantee a nearby police presence.

He emphatically waved his hands at Charlie, silently imploring him to keep running. As he barreled closer, the first runner caught movement in his peripheral vision and turned his head.

Too late.

He tried to bring the SKS rifle around while decelerating out of a full-speed run, but Alex stopped the man’s rifle with his left hand and landed his right elbow into the man’s neck. Momentum did the rest.

The controlled collision flattened the attacker, leaving him gasping for air on the gritty pavement. Alex ripped the SKS rifle out of his grip, stumbling to the ground. Loose bits of blacktop dug agonizingly deep into his knee. He scrambled to his feet and reassessed the situation. Not much had improved.

“Keep going!” he screamed at Charlie, who had slowed down again.

The next threat, a mid-twenties, stick-thin guy wearing jeans and a salt-stained black T-shirt, arrived without a plan. Alex swung the SKS by the barrel, smashing the wooden butt stock against the right side of his head. Skinny tumbled to Alex’s left, hitting the ground hard. His beefy replacement, half muscle and half fat judging by his stretched blue polo shirt, didn’t hesitate to close the gap. Alex barely found the time to shift his grip on the rifle and jam the butt stock into the man’s oncoming face. Surprisingly, Beefy managed to deflect some of the rifle’s momentum, taking a glancing blow to the head. He collapsed to his knees, out of the fight.

His third threat, a longhaired guy wearing fatigue pants and a white tank top, widened his rapid approach.

Time to gain some ground.

Alex turned and sprinted for the intersection, unfolding the SKS’s spike bayonet as he ran. He’d taken several strides when something solid struck the back of his head. The dull thud surprised him more than it stunned him, and he kept running. When he heard a metallic object strike the pavement, he risked a look back. A large hunting knife clattered to a stop on the black and gray pavement several feet behind him.

Wild Man raced toward him at full speed. Even if he could beat the guy to the intersection, which was doubtful, Wild Man would be on the Jeep before they could mount up and leave. Alex saw no other option. He reversed direction and squatted low, thrusting the business end of the rifle up through his outstretched hands. The spike bayonet penetrated the man’s upper abdomen, just below the xiphoid process, disappearing deep into his chest cavity. The collision’s momentum buried the metal barrel deep into the gap opened by the bayonet. Warm blood sprayed onto Alex’s arms.

He released the rifle and ran, drawing his pistol to discourage anyone else. He hated to leave the rifle, but trying to remove it from the man’s chest could take considerable time and effort. They’d be long gone before anyone could put it into action against them. He reached the Jeep a few steps behind Charlie, pushing him through the open passenger door and holstering his pistol.

“Christ,” he huffed. “I almost beat you to the Jeep.”

“I wasn’t expecting Olympic sprinters in the group,” replied Charlie, out of breath.

Once Charlie was inside, Alex slammed the door and jumped onto the running board.

“I’m on! Let’s go!”

The Jeep pitched forward, nearly yanking his bloody grip from the front passenger window. He hugged the side of the Jeep as Ed accelerated down the Maine Turnpike Approach Road, risking a glance behind them at the rapidly disappearing intersection. The bulk of the mob emerged from the bushes and swarmed the far side of the intersection, bringing at least thirty men and women into the open. From what he could tell, none of them crossed the intersection.

“Slow down!” he yelled through the window.

He heard Charlie repeat the request and felt the stiff wind weaken.

“You all right?” asked Alex, leaning his head near the window.

Charlie poked his head partway out of the window, staring at the bright red arterial spray covering Alex’s hand. “I’m fine. What about you?”

“Good to go!” he said, forming a scarlet red thumbs-up.

He was far from “good to go.” He’d just run a man through with a bayonet, leaving him to bleed out onto a dirty asphalt parking lot. The man represented an imminent threat to their group, just like Jamie’s husband.

Both of them had to go.

Emotionally and intellectually, he didn’t like his ease of transition into this frame of mind. Rationally, his experiences more than justified the evolution. His reluctance to embrace a “kill or be killed” mentality during the Jakarta Pandemic had resulted in disaster. He couldn’t make that mistake again. Threats to his rescue mission would be neutralized with extreme prejudice. Terminated if necessary.

The trick was to avoid these situations if possible. “Force application” was a dual-edged sword, attracting unwanted attention while inviting a similar, violent response. The parking lot was a perfect example.

Staging their final rally point in the Best Western’s parking lot had been a bad idea. One that had nearly cost them everything at the very start of their journey. He’d underestimated the number of refugees scattered around the hotel, and should have kept driving when it became apparent. Most importantly, he failed to anticipate the rapid rate at which their reception to Alex’s group would deteriorate. This should have been obvious from the start.

His group was well organized, which more than likely gave the mob the distinct impression that they had a plan. It probably didn’t take them long to figure out that the plan included a destination close enough to reach by bicycle. Some had been interested in learning more about their final destination. Questions hurled at them verified this. Others were solely interested in acquiring a mode of transportation to achieve their own objectives. Some of the more aggressive and vocal members of the crowd had suggested that they “double up” on the bikes and leave the rest behind.

All of them were hungry for information, and desperation lurked dangerously close to the surface. He couldn’t afford to misjudge the immediate and lasting effects of desperation again. He had to assume that everyone outside of his own circle had the worst intentions, and plan accordingly—regardless of the situation. Looks could be deceiving. Sympathies could be played. He hated to think like this, but their short-and long-term survival would depend on it.

Alex’s group represented something to everyone, and everything to some . He had to make sure that Kate, Linda and Samantha understood what this meant and adopted the same mindset for their trek to Limerick. A group of nine well-equipped cyclists represented an opportunity, regardless of weapons. Alex wasn’t optimistic about their chances of arriving without incident.