Gone To The Country chapter 1

Note to the reader. This is fiction and the names and places are used fictitously. Big Al, Tiny, Cherokee, and the rest of the crew are "real" to the author. We meet their descendants on Tinberias Cylinder. Those descendants would eventually be sent back to Earth to land just up the hill above the Mowrer farm. This a prehistory of them. Rhoderick D. Ice All rights reserved © 1999


GONE TO THE COUNTRY
R. D. ICE

Big Al was just ready to leave on his Harley. It was a Springer Softail, but had been modified and painted to look like the old Captain America Superglide. It had a white tank with red stars, blue fenders, with deer antlers fastened to the handlebars. He was dressed in boots, blue jeans, faded blue jacket, and black crash-helmet. He was to meet the clan at Tiny's house in an hour. He intended to just ride around until then.

Darkness had fallen and the street lights were on. He stood a few moments to smoke a cigarette. As he looked across the broad lawn to the highway, the lights of a car winked out as it turned into the driveway of the apartment complex. He watched, hidden by the shadows. With lights out, the car silently made its way, going past his street toward the building in the rear of the complex. The police! Could they be looking for him?

He panicked! Quickly he hit the starter. The engine roared into life. The tires screamed as he sped toward the exit trying to get to the highway. Behind him the police car switched on its lights and spun a circle to chase after him.

Big Al raced down the hill. He ran through the intersection, narrowly missing a car. The tires howled in protest as he turned sharply to go behind the Supermarket. He could hear the police car trying to make the same turn. He heard them crash into the dumpster. He roared through the narrow gap into the woods beyond. He was safe!

"There's no peace, I tell you." Tiny was talking. He was 300 pounds plus, dressed in black denim. He rode a Heritage Softail Classic, a dresser, lots of leather and chrome, with a sidecar. Big Al was the leader of the group, Tiny was second in command. There were thirty people gathered at Tiny's house. This was a clan, rather than some sort of gang. Most of them were in fact related. Their people had come north during WWII to work in the factories. All of them stuck together as a community. They were technicians and specialists in the industry.

"What is there to do?" asked Wild Bill. "How can we find some peace and freedom? Where can we go?"

They talked over various possibilities. Cherokee said, "the police will certainly not forgive and forget. I can tell you that." Cherokee had been a policeman for a while in southern Ohio, but given it up. He didn't like the regimentation.

These people were highly intelligent, even brilliant. Yet they chaffed at what they considered interference and regimentation. They sometimes played harmless pranks (and some not so harmless) that disturbed the System. This constantly brought them into conflict with the authorities.

"You know," said Big Al, "my Granddad had property in the mountains. I went down last year. His house is still there. Nobody is living in it. There's a big barn, lots of outbuildings. Wide open spaces. And you couldn't find it unless somebody showed you how to get there."

"Sounds good to me," said Jenny Lou."

"I think it stinks," said Wild Bill. "We have good jobs here. What would we have back in the mountains? I've heard my Dad talk about how it was when you couldn't pay your bills, and you had to live on biscuits and beans. No plumbing. It's primitive."

"I agree with Bill," said April.

"Besides," said Wild Bill, "Al and Tiny are the only ones the police are after just now. The rest of us are in the clear for the moment. It's your problem. You are the ones with all the tickets. And that was stupid to run from the police like that. You'll get time in the can. You'll get us all in trouble. Besides, why should we hide back in those hills?"

Others added their voices to the argument. Everyone tried to talk at once. Some wanted to stay right where they were. But others were ready to start for the hills immediately.

Finally Big Al said, "All right, let's settle this. Whoever wants to go with me to the country, way back in the hills, hold up your hand."

Big Al, Jenny Lou, Tiny, Wanda, Cherokee, and Edna held up their hands. All the rest would be staying right where they were, still battling for what they saw as a life of freedom.

About 3 am a caravan left. Big Al, Tiny and Cherokee were on their motorcycles, Jenny Lou drove the van and Edna rode with her. Wanda was driving a pickup. They crossed into Pennsylvania and turned south on the Interstate. They were on their way!

Big Al held up his hand. The silver light of the moon made it almost as clear as day. On the next hill they could see police lights flashing. Some poor trucker had been pulled over.

Big Al gave the signal, and they spread out with a lot of distance between them. They slowed down and crept as silently as they could past the police. The Trooper turned and stared as Big Al went past, but turned back to the trucker. The caravan continued their travel toward the West Virginia line.

As dawn came up, Tiny rode up to Big Al. “Hey, food," he said, pointing to a McDee's. The caravan rolled into the parking lot.

"Do you come this way often?" Big Al looked up from his burrito to see a deputy standing in front of him.

"Just traveling through," said Big Al. "On our way to my Granddad's farm on the other side of Parsons."

("Damn," thought Big Al, "I shouldn't have told him that. Now he'll call ahead.")

The deputy nodded, then turned and went out the door. They saw him go over to their van and closely inspect it, then write down the license number. The van was painted orange with blue and white stars and half-moons. He was still sitting there in his car when the caravan left.

In Parsons they could feel eyes watching them. They stopped and bought groceries, filling up all the space in the van and the pickup. You couldn't buy anything where they were going. Then they stopped to gas up and fill the spare cans. A police car sat in the shadows on a side street, silently watching.

When they reached the top of the mountain, Big Al signaled a conference. "We go down there," he pointed. A narrow road, just wide enough for one car, wound down the side of the mountain to the valley below.

"You got to be kidding," said Edna. "There's no guard rails. You could go off the road and kill yourself."

"The people around here travel it all the time," said Cherokee. "You better get used to things like this."

One by one they started down the mountain road, staying as close to the inner edge as they could. In the van, Edna just leaned back in the seat, braced herself with her feet, and kept her eyes tightly closed.

At the bottom of the mountain, Big Al turned right on the gravel road. It seemed to be following along a small creek. They continued for a few miles, stirring up great clouds of dirty yellow dust from the road surface.

Then Big Al raised his arm, pointed, and turned up what looked to be somebody's driveway. The road kept going on and on, winding up a small hill and around behind it, finally over a bridge, and then between two huge rocks that were as big as houses.

Big Al stopped. He pointed to a faintly outlined trail, overgrown with grass. It looked as though someone had driven a truck through this way a year or two ago. The trail wound around the side of the mountain and disappeared.

Big Al led the way as the others followed. The trail wound up and over and around, then between a big rock and the hillside, with barely enough room for the van to squeeze through. The bumper scraped against one of the rocks. Water ran across the trail, but didn't look very deep. Big Al went right through it, not even slowing down. The van, however, went too far to the right and got stuck in the mud. They spent a few minutes pushing it out. Then they all got going again.

Finally they came to a meadow. Big Al parked. The others did one by one.

"Here we are, said Big Al. He pointed: “That's Mowrer's Creek." He turned to look across the creek. "And that's the house where Grandad raised his family."

A footbridge led across the creek. They saw steps climbing up the bank. At the top was the house.

The house was old, weather-beaten, long unpainted. It was huge, standing on the crest of a knoll. Two stories high, three if you counted the attic with its windows looking out. It must have held a lot of kids. And over to the right was the huge barn. The white paint on it was faded and peeling.

They ran up the steps to look things over. On behind the house they could see rolling fields, lots of wide open spaces, with a ring of mountains closing it in on all sides. Nobody would bother them here.