SurviRal by Ken Benton

Author:Ken Benton [Benton, Ken]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-12-16T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

“I have a dial tone on this one,” Clint said.

“All right. Go ahead.” Harold looked at Jenny. “There was nothing on your bike that could identify you, right?”

“I don’t think so. Only my fingerprints.”

Harold laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about that. You didn’t do anything wrong. If I was the one who got him, we’d be calling the morgue, not an ambulance—and I wouldn’t be concerned about it at all.”

Clint dialed 911 on the pay phone.

“Hi. I want to report an injured bicyclist I saw on the side of the road.” Pause. “On Garnett Road, four or five miles west of Fowler.” Pause. “A block or two east of 64th Lane, I think. Yes, he looked hurt. Yes, I saw him moving and heard him talking. No, I didn’t witness the accident.” Pause. “No, I didn’t stop. Kept going until I found a phone. He looks badly hurt.” Pause. “No. I don’t know him, don’t know who he is, and wasn’t involved. Just saw him there, hurt, next to a banged-up bicycle. I think he needs an ambulance. That’s all. Thank you.”

Clint hung up. “They wanted me to hold, and were going to ask me a bunch more questions. But they said they would try to get an emergency response vehicle there, if they could. Wow. If you can’t even count on getting ambulances any more, I’d say society has officially crashed.”

“I can’t believe somebody smashed that emergency call box on the highway,” Jenny said.

Harold climbed off his bike. “Things are getting hairier, that’s for sure. I’ll ride you a while. At least we have another handgun now. Snub-nose thirty-eight. Only three bullets, though—at least until we get to Jake’s. Isn’t that the gun you’re practiced with, Jenny?”

“Yes, but please don’t ask me to touch that thing. Besides, I kind of like the one you gave me.”

“I thought you might. That Glock is good protection, and easy to use—which is why undercover cops carry it.” Harold grabbed ahold of Clint’s handlebar.

“Oh, you want to trade bikes?” Clint asked.

“That’ll be easiest, since I have her pack latched on to my bars so well.”

“Let’s stay on the main highway this time,” Jenny said.

“Way ahead of you there. Ready?”

They left the payphone and made their way through the streets of Fowler back to Highway 50. The fields surrounding this town were even more agricultural than those in East Pueblo. The ratio of corn to peppers was higher, but this was also the beginning of the melon fields. The farther east they rode from here, the more of those they would see. Little beige cannonballs sitting peacefully under large flat vine leaves stretching out for miles. More often than not, workers were in the fields tending them, as melons of all types are a labor-intensive crop. At least some people still had jobs. By the Fourth of July, the first harvests would be in and locals would be lined up for them. This year, those crowds figured to be much larger than normal—assuming the farmers selling direct to the public would still be accepting U.

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