Broken Roads: A Tale of Survival in a Powerless World (Broken Lines Book 2) by James Hunt Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Hunt
small town just west of Pennsylvania in the middle of nowhere.
Whatever cars the town had were parked right where they were when the EMP blast hit. Jake led the Diablos onto Carrollton’s Main Street, past some of their local stores, and the Sheriff’s office, to the motel. The bikers pulled into the motel’s parking lot side by side. The locals came out of their shops. The sight of working transportation caused a lot of jaws to drop.
Jake cut the engine off and set the kickstand out, leaning the bike to the side. His face was red from the wind and his hair was blown back. His dark sunglasses reflected the townspeople moving toward him.
“Afternoon, folks,” Hank Murth said.
Hank Murth was an elderly man. He had walked out of the grocery store that bore his name. He had his apron on and the pistol hanging at his hip seemed out of place. He extended his hand to Jake, who ignored it.
The crowd around them grew. None of Jake’s men moved until he did, so they followed his lead, just waiting. Questions flooded the air:
“How did you guys get the bikes to work?”
“Is the rest of the country in trouble?”
“Where did you come from?”
“Is help on the way?”
Most of the townspeople were older. Their worn faces pleading for answers, worried about what the future would hold for them. Jake looked around and noticed more people leaving their stores, coming out in the street to meet them, but the only person he kept his eyes on was the Sheriff strutting down the sidewalk.
Sheriff Barnes was a good’ol boy if Jake ever saw one, all the way from his cowboy hat to his boots, and that polished badge shining in the sun. Two deputies dressed in similar fashion followed closely behind him.
“Well, I never thought I’d see the day where I’d be happy to have a group of bikers roll through my town,” Barnes said.
Jake looked the officers up and down. Their bellies protruded over their waists, their gun holster straps still covering their pistols, slowing them down if they had to draw. They were kind. They were weak.
“How many people do you have in town, Sheriff?” Jake asked.
“Oh, I’d say there’s probably fifty of us here right now, more if you count some of the surrounding farms.”
“You and your deputies have any trouble lately? Any shortages of anything?”
“Well, no, so far we’ve been okay.”
Jake pulled the knife from his side and jammed it into the Sheriff’s throat. The blood spurt over Jake’s arm as he dug the blade deeper. Jake pulled the blade out and the Sheriff dropped to the ground. The Sheriff’s blood drenched his shirt and dimmed the shine on his badge.
Before the deputies could react Frankie blasted them through the eyes with his pistol. Hank reached for his gun, but Jake drew his own pistol and shot Hank through the gut.
Hank barreled over to the ground and the rest of the crowd scattered. They ran for their stores, their homes, whatever cover they could find.
With the town’s law at Jake’s feet, and their blood pooling on the street, Jake turned to his men, specks of the Sheriff’s blood still fresh on his face.
“We take what we want, boys. This town is ours,” Jake said.
The Diablos cheered and made their way down Main Street. Jake had his men hit the hunting store first. They smashed the windows, broke the glass cases housing the weapons, and horded all the ammo they could find.
They all spread out, hunting down the townspeople like dogs. A few fought back, but there weren’t enough that did to cause any trouble. Jake and his club were twenty strong. They were hungry, vicious, and had nothing to lose.
Gunshots and screams filled the town’s streets. Jake could see people running down the highway. He gathered six of his men around him.
“You three take the north end and you three take the south. Anyone that tries to run for it you gun down,
Whatever cars the town had were parked right where they were when the EMP blast hit. Jake led the Diablos onto Carrollton’s Main Street, past some of their local stores, and the Sheriff’s office, to the motel. The bikers pulled into the motel’s parking lot side by side. The locals came out of their shops. The sight of working transportation caused a lot of jaws to drop.
Jake cut the engine off and set the kickstand out, leaning the bike to the side. His face was red from the wind and his hair was blown back. His dark sunglasses reflected the townspeople moving toward him.
“Afternoon, folks,” Hank Murth said.
Hank Murth was an elderly man. He had walked out of the grocery store that bore his name. He had his apron on and the pistol hanging at his hip seemed out of place. He extended his hand to Jake, who ignored it.
The crowd around them grew. None of Jake’s men moved until he did, so they followed his lead, just waiting. Questions flooded the air:
“How did you guys get the bikes to work?”
“Is the rest of the country in trouble?”
“Where did you come from?”
“Is help on the way?”
Most of the townspeople were older. Their worn faces pleading for answers, worried about what the future would hold for them. Jake looked around and noticed more people leaving their stores, coming out in the street to meet them, but the only person he kept his eyes on was the Sheriff strutting down the sidewalk.
Sheriff Barnes was a good’ol boy if Jake ever saw one, all the way from his cowboy hat to his boots, and that polished badge shining in the sun. Two deputies dressed in similar fashion followed closely behind him.
“Well, I never thought I’d see the day where I’d be happy to have a group of bikers roll through my town,” Barnes said.
Jake looked the officers up and down. Their bellies protruded over their waists, their gun holster straps still covering their pistols, slowing them down if they had to draw. They were kind. They were weak.
“How many people do you have in town, Sheriff?” Jake asked.
“Oh, I’d say there’s probably fifty of us here right now, more if you count some of the surrounding farms.”
“You and your deputies have any trouble lately? Any shortages of anything?”
“Well, no, so far we’ve been okay.”
Jake pulled the knife from his side and jammed it into the Sheriff’s throat. The blood spurt over Jake’s arm as he dug the blade deeper. Jake pulled the blade out and the Sheriff dropped to the ground. The Sheriff’s blood drenched his shirt and dimmed the shine on his badge.
Before the deputies could react Frankie blasted them through the eyes with his pistol. Hank reached for his gun, but Jake drew his own pistol and shot Hank through the gut.
Hank barreled over to the ground and the rest of the crowd scattered. They ran for their stores, their homes, whatever cover they could find.
With the town’s law at Jake’s feet, and their blood pooling on the street, Jake turned to his men, specks of the Sheriff’s blood still fresh on his face.
“We take what we want, boys. This town is ours,” Jake said.
The Diablos cheered and made their way down Main Street. Jake had his men hit the hunting store first. They smashed the windows, broke the glass cases housing the weapons, and horded all the ammo they could find.
They all spread out, hunting down the townspeople like dogs. A few fought back, but there weren’t enough that did to cause any trouble. Jake and his club were twenty strong. They were hungry, vicious, and had nothing to lose.
Gunshots and screams filled the town’s streets. Jake could see people running down the highway. He gathered six of his men around him.
“You three take the north end and you three take the south. Anyone that tries to run for it you gun down,
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