Apocalypsis 03 - Exodus

way down to the prison? They can barely walk as it is.”
    “Good question,” I said, once again without answers.
    Jamal spoke up. “I would guess that when motivated with the opportunity of freedom, they might find some hidden energy that would at least get them out of the area. We can also put them on our bikes and push them along. It would take longer, of course, but it could work.”
    “So long as they can hold on,” said Winky.
    “Maybe one or two of them could ride in the trailer,” I suggested, looking over at it and wondering how we might rearrange our stuff to do that.
    “Hey, Peter,” said Jamal. “Do you think you could do some organizing of the stuff in the trailer to accommodate some tired riders?”
    Peter frowned. “Riders as in people?”
    “Yes.” Jamal turned and winked at me.
    “Probably. Yes, if I had some time to work it out.”
    I nodded. “Do it, Peter. Make as much room as you can in there. We have three people who won’t be able to ride a bike. We’ll carry stuff on our backs if we have to.”
    Peter left the care of Bodo to begin his task, and I for one was happy to have him doing something that I knew would make him feel good about his contribution. He never complained about being left behind, but I knew him well enough to know that he wanted to pull his weight in some way.
    “So where are they going to stop?” asked Ronald, almost to himself, studying the area around the highway.
    “You can’t really see it from here,” said Winky, “but there’s a spot on the other side of the road from us that had some shade trees. I didn’t like it because there was no cover except from above. Not like here,” she said, gesturing to the heavy brush that was under the trees, making is possible to be hidden from the view of the highway.
    “Let’s watch and see.”
    The kid who had fallen was on his knees now, causing the other two in his chain gang to have to stop as well. They stayed there for a while, until their herders realized they weren’t moving. One of them came over and gestured to the kid on the ground. He didn’t appear to respond, or at least he didn’t get up. The slavedriver, kicking him in the shoulder, knocking him on his side into the street.
    “Oh, crap,” whispered Winky.
    The slavedriver yelled something I couldn’t make out and gestured to one of the other slaves, who hurried over with the other and lifted up their partner from under his arms. The slavedriver looked over towards our trees, making my blood go cold for a moment, before pointing in the opposite direction. The slaves disappeared from site as they went to where he had ordered them to go.
    “They’re going for those trees I saw,” said Winky.
    “Thank the Good Lord,” said Ronald, “because I thought for a second there, he was going to tell them to come here.”
    “Me too,” I said, still trying to gauge the situation. “Four bad guys, three slaves. Can we take out four guys?”
    “Are we taking them out or just sneaking the slaves out?” asked Winky.
    “I’d prefer to sneak in and out, but what are the chances we could do that?” I asked.
    “Probably not good,” she said, sighing.
    “You should avoid killing anyone, if you can,” said Ronald.
    “Is that the preacher’s son talking?” I asked, trying not to sound sarcastic, but for me, it felt a little late to be talking about morality, considering all we’d been through.
    “No. That’s the guy who doesn’t want other canners to hear gunshots talking, actually.”
    “Oh,” I said, feeling a little guilty over assuming he was lecturing me.
    “Yeah, let’s keep as low a profile as necessary,” said Winky.
    Jamal chimed in. “Speak softly, and carry a big stick.”
    “Theodore Roosevelt. Very nice, my brother,” said Ronald, holding up his hand for the high-five his twin was happy to deliver.
    I had thought that was from Winston Churchill, but pretty much anyone’s knowledge of history was better than mine, so I didn’t argue. It was a good proverb, regardless of who said it, and it’s exactly what I intended to do. Only my stick was going to be some krav maga and a gun.
    ***
    We ate small bits of food and drank water, speaking in whispers and sharing stories from our pasts, hiding our laughter in our shirts. Peter remained on constant guard for Buster’s barks, holding his hand lightly over the dog’s muzzle so that when he did bark, it came out muffled and didn’t carry across the open space to the