Rourke was smiling, seemingly off in his own world, as if remembering a fond childhood memory. “Let’s say, hypothetically, Bartz wants me to dance around like an idiot.” Rourke began dancing around spastically, his feet kicking up in all directions as if doing some demented polka.
“Or maybe he wants me to shoot my guns in the air.” Rourke began firing shots haphazardly in all directions. Two of the shots ricocheted off distant towers behind Owen. Everyone, including Owen, sought cover or hit the ground.
Rourke said, “You see, some of us don’t like to dance, but we do it because our bosses ask us to.” He put his arms up in a harp formation, as if holding a dance partner, and then pretended to waltz along with this imaginary figure. His pistols still dangled from his hands, creating ripples of evasive action in the mules as he pranced by them.
After swaying back and forth several times, Rourke arrived at Newton’s makeshift litter. Newton was moaning softly and gritting his teeth.
Rourke massaged Newton’s chin for a moment with his thumb and index finger, then he launched a torturous glare at Chester. “So… this is what you’re going to do. You’re going to agree to your orders, and you’re going to come with us as our wrench, since poor Newton here is hurt.” He made a sad face, and then put the muzzle of a pistol against Newton’s head. “Or I could just make this easy for everyone, so I don’t have to keep dancing around like an idiot.” He ended with yet another egregious smile.
For a moment, there was complete silence. Everyone in the area had either frozen in position or had fled from the line of fire of Rourke’s pistols. Even the railroad folks had found cover.
Chester slowly stood up, brushing off a few leaves that were stuck to his frock. A bitter look gradually propagated across his face. He whispered something in Arsalan’s ear and then said aloud, “I’ll do as you say.”
“There! That wasn’t so hard,” Rourke said gleefully, and he began holstering his weapons.
One by one the mules reluctantly left the empty platform where it was and moved over to organize another bike platform. Then the mules worked swiftly and methodically to unload neatly packed parts from one side of the platform and haul them into the bottom section of the tower.
Meanwhile Rourke and other railroad men pulled aside a few other riders and ordered them to join their platform team.
Owen helped out with the unpacking as much as he could and then sheepishly meandered over to the empty bike platform the railroad folks had reserved. Once proud to be with the railroad contingent, he now felt ashamed to be associated with it. He told himself they were doing something important for the community, something important for Spoke society as a whole, so tough calls like these needed to be made. It did nothing to assuage his shame.
A few minutes later the platform with Newton on it pulled out, with eight of the strongest mules driving it forward. Fourteen other riders left with the Newton platform, some scouting ahead and some pulling up the rear.
The other three fully burdened platforms wasted no time in leaving soon after. They pulled out slowly, the platform riders laboring under the heavy loads. Once they had a head of steam, inertia helped them coast and get into a rhythm. Another twenty supplementary riders left with these other three platforms.
Thirteen of them were left in the campsite, comprised mostly of railroad men and a handful of mules, including Chester. They finished cleaning up and locked up the excess bike parts in the bottom section of the tower, along with a few ladders, ropes and pulleys they left for the next tower run.
Their platform made out soon after, navigating again through the bullet hole and then backtracking west. At the I-95 intersection they turned off to the south where the three-notched sign said Danger—to Richmond Fever Lands.
Owen remembered what Thorpe had said about the fever lands. He’d said they wouldn’t enter without warning them first. Hopefully he was being honest.
Despite their empty platform, it didn’t make for “louder trips” as one mule had quipped the day before. Chester and the other mules’ cautious eyes darted around to watch Rourke and the railroad folks just as much as the terrain around them.
They followed the Old World highway south for a time and then turned off onto a bumpier, narrower road heading east, and then eventually veered to the southeast.
The first bandits they saw were in an old town abutting a large river. Here the road had fresh bike treads and hoof prints that went directly through the small cluster of worn out houses and old stores. Only a few rusted-out cars and truck frames dotted the streets, each with one or more pockets melted away by retchers. Owen could see an old, stenciled name on one of the buildings that said Tappahannock.
Despite paying close attention through the town, Owen didn’t notice any bandits until Chester pointed to the top of one of the stores. There, hooded figures poked out from hidden locations on the roof. As a show of strength, Chester and several other bikers held loaded crossbows with one hand as they pedaled. Rourke and two others also had pistols visible in their hands.
They passed a few more hooded bandits later on, but they also kept to themselves. It was difficult to resolve their intent or even facial expressions under the shrouds of their hoods. No arrows were shot, and no threats were made.
The expedition passed through the town without incident.
After Tappahannock they veered southwest, continuing along on a different, yet just as bumpy, road. Owen’s legs were feeling thick and clumsy, as if the constant motion of each revolution of the bike assembly underneath him had dulled the nerve endings in his lower half. Owen’s back and arms were even more exhausted from the shock and tension perpetrated by maintaining a tight grip on the handlebars as the knobby turf undulated beneath them.
Periodically they would have rest stops and Chester would confer with the railroad folks, pointing this way and that way, and at the maps in their hands. They always wandered too far away for Owen to make out the conversation.
At one rest stop a mule was brave enough to ask, “Can we at least know when we’re supposed to arrive at this train part place?”
Chester answered, “We should be there midday tomorrow, assuming no major roadblocks. It’s another sixty miles.”
The mule seemed satisfied enough with the response. Indeed, it was good to know the rest of the trip could be measured in hours, not days or weeks.
They ended the day on an even rougher road heading southeast. It was the least used of any they had been on, with no recent signs of bike treads or hoofprints. Several times they had to clear a path for the platform through encroaching branches and shrubs. One time they had to lift the entire platform and attached bike assemblies over a fallen tree.
The expedition pushed right through to darkness and made camp near a small river.
When the fire was set a dinner of stale provisions was distributed. Many of the railroad folks branched off to confer on their own. Owen wasn’t invited, as far as he knew, and he would rather not be body-slammed by Rourke, so he stayed with the mules.
As he was massaging his stiff forearms by the fire, Owen could feel eyes weighing on him.
“Are you with them or not?” one of the mules asked.
Owen chose his words carefully. “They invited me to come. I might be able to help with the cargo we’re after.”
“Are we really after a train engine part?” another asked him.
“At this point… I… I’m not entirely sure,” Owen said.
“I think you better tell us, boy,” one of the larger mules said as he squinted his way.
Chester shook his head and said, “That won’t do any good.” As he spoke, Chester was meticulously cleaning out some cornbread crumbs from an old plastic container with a wet finger. “We don’t need any more strong-arming. There’s been enough of that. Let’s get the job done and get back to Seeville. Next time we can all pick our expeditions more carefully.”