Chapter 31
The road beyond the shelter narrowed within three miles, choked by vehicles that had died where they stood.
Rachel pushed the bicycle along the shoulder while Sophie walked three paces behind her, matching her despite the blisters that hadn’t fully healed beneath the tape.
The single bicycle had become more of a burden than an asset, its cargo rack unbalanced by supplies that shifted with every uneven patch of pavement.
Harlan’s column stretched ahead of them in a loose line of maybe fifty people.
By midday, the road had changed. What had been an empty two-lane blacktop became a maze of dead cars and trucks pressed together at intersections.
An overturned delivery van blocked the main route south, its wheels pointed skyward and its cargo bay gaping open.
Three men worked to clear a path around it with hand tools, swinging pry bars and wood-handled hammers against the undercarriage.
When the column reached the next crossroads, Harlan announced that the north bridge was gone.
He stood at the junction with his map open against his chest, pointing toward the tree line, where concrete pillars rose above the river.
“Partial collapse. The east span came down last week, according to a traveler we met this morning. Nobody’s crossing it,” Harlan said.
Rachel studied the group of people already gathered at the blocked approaches.
Hundreds waited on both sides of the river, their shapes blurred by distance but their stillness unmistakable.
No one was moving across. The detour Harlan suggested would add eight miles and carry them through two more towns, each likely as crowded and desperate as the church shelter had become.
Sophie sat on the bicycle’s cargo rack, her weight making the rear wheel wobble against the uneven gravel. She’d stopped hiding how her feet hurt.
“We’re breaking off here. The junction’s still two miles ahead, but this detour adds too much distance. We need a better route,” Rachel told Harlan when he circled back.
“The roads aren’t getting easier,” Harlan said.
“I know. Her feet aren’t getting easier, either.”
“Stay in sight of the group until the junction. After that, you’re on your own.”
The junction appeared an hour later, marked by a rusted highway sign and a concrete drainage channel thick with dead leaves.
Harlan’s column turned north. Rachel and Sophie continued west along a secondary road that curved between abandoned farmhouses and empty barns.
The bicycle’s front wheel caught on every crack, and twice she nearly lost her grip on the handlebars when the cargo shifted unexpectedly.
By late afternoon, the road had narrowed to little more than a dirt track.
Rachel stopped beneath a telephone pole and spread the county map across the bicycle seat.
The paper had softened along its creases, stained by sweat and rain and the grime of too many miles.
She traced the route with her fingertip, measuring distances against landmarks she couldn’t always see.
“There’s a river less than two miles south of here. It runs west for at least twenty miles before curving north. If we can reach it and find some kind of boat, we can spare your feet and cover ground faster,” Rachel said.
“We don’t own a boat. We don’t own anything that floats. We own a broken bicycle and backpacks full of beans,” Sophie said.
“Then we find someone who does.”
They reached the river as dusk gathered.
The water moved with a slow, heavy current between banks lined with willow and sycamore.
A small settlement of maybe a dozen homes sat along the near shore, their windows dark and their porches empty except for one.
An elderly couple worked beside a wooden rowboat pulled partway onto a gravel beach.
The man kneeled beside the stern, securing a canvas cover over what appeared to be supplies.
The woman stood at the bow with a coil of rope in her hands, testing each knot with methodical attention.
Rachel approached with Sophie trailing behind.
The man looked up first. He was in his seventies, with white stubble along his jaw and hands thick with calluses.
His wife was smaller, sharper, her gray hair pulled back beneath a faded bandana.
They introduced themselves as Elaine and Martin.
“We’re heading west,” Rachel said. “Toward Brenton. We’ve been on the road for weeks, and the roads are getting worse by the day. Any chance you’d consider two passengers?”
Martin didn’t answer immediately. He looked at Sophie’s feet, the bicycle leaning against a tree, and the packs both of them carried. Elaine set the rope down and walked to Sophie.
“Those blisters have been open for a while,” she said.
“Yes,” Sophie said.
“She can’t walk another fifty miles on those feet. None of us can.”
“It’s a four-person boat,” Martin said. “Designed for four. Not four plus supplies plus whatever they’re carrying. The current gets faster downstream. Every pound makes a difference when you’re trying to keep her pointed the right way.”
“I can row,” Rachel said. “Both of us can help unload when we reach your destination. Whatever work you need done, we’ll do it. We’re not asking for a free ride.”
“We’re going eight miles downstream. There’s a landing where the creek meets the river. From there it’s three miles inland to my brother’s place. You help us unload, then the boat’s yours if you want it. I’ve got no use for it after that.”
“It’s settled, then. Help us finish loading,” Elaine said.
They secured the packs beneath the center seats, tucking them low where the weight would help stabilize the hull rather than tip it.
Rachel carried the bicycle to the tree line and left it leaning against an oak.
There was no point in bringing it. The boat wouldn’t carry it, and eight miles by water would cost them less than a day of walking on roads that had already taken too much.