Eight: Road Signs

As I pedaled, I got tired enough that I was starting to fear getting into an accident. I guess I had to find a place to get some rest soon.

Based on the half-obscured and half-faded street sign I just passed, I was crossing a bridge called Warren Bridge, or something like that. As usual, it was cluttered with a lot of broken-down vehicles.

I went down to the access road right beside it and kept pedaling. Eventually I came up to a street called Gary Street, and saw a nice convenient place that was more or less intact, and standing separate of the other houses.

- - - - -

I got a head start the following day, and was already on the move maybe thirty minutes after sunrise. With my new bike, I proceeded on another one of those elevated highways I discovered was called “I-95,” and I had just passed a green turnoff sign that said “Emerson Street.” I, of course, ignored that and proceeded in the same direction.

Everything was curiously familiar, although back home, we didn’t have so many highways, or highways this wide. But everything seemed so familiar. A feeling of déjà vu was growing in me, and it was my hope that I’d be going home soon and see the real thing before these feelings got worse.

The bike was doing well, and my repairs were holding, but the improvised rope-tires were irritatingly slippery. Still, I was doing so much better compared to me on foot.

I looked up at the mid-morning sun, and given how cloudless it was, the temperature was getting up there. I was wondering if my old bike could hold up – I could tell my “lubrication” was starting to melt away. Luckily, I still had some of the oil left in the bottles.

I sniffed the animal fat and it hasn’t gone rancid yet. I decided to stop and pour some of it into the chain, the gears and the steering column link.

As I waited for the oil to cover the friction surfaces, I decided to have a meal again. I finished off the remainder of the food in my pack and, when I was done, took out the cellulose bag full of residue, making sure to drain the oil into the bottles, and threw the remainder to the other lane.

- - - - -

Having rested enough, and ensuring my bike’s main parts were well lubricated again, I pushed on. I passed several places, one of them called the “Twelve Mile Swamp.”

As one would expect, the place was sort of swamp-like, with nature taking back whatever humans have built over.

This gave me an opportunity to refill my pack’s reservoirs with more organic detritus, and then used my utility knife to cut through the few vines that were in my way.

I came upon yet another broken-down building, with a sign proclaiming it the “Flying J.”

It looked like some kind of mini-mall, with what looked like restaurants.

There was nothing there of value, of course, except that it was surrounded by large vehicles, several of which were of the kind I slept in a couple of nights ago. And like before, I slept in one of the metal containers, leaving just a crack open so I could get some ventilation and see out.

This was the longest I’ve ever traveled, and I suppose that’s why I slept straight away. At least that’s the benefit of being so tired - this was the first time I slept through the night.

I guess that’s a good thing, too, since, when I woke up, I found that my pursuers had passed through the parking area during the night.

That they had gained on me was surprising. I can only assume they were able to recover some of their equipment, but maybe not the detecting equipment since they didn’t find me.

Looking out, I felt it was fairly safe to open up the container doors wide open, and I let the cool morning air in. I dangled my legs over the side as I sipped at my water and dug into my faux corned beef and hash.

I looked at the morning sun, and I felt good. This is the day I’ll reach the space center. I could feel it.

I filled my pack’s reservoir with fresh organics – leaves, pieces of wood, assorted bramble – and I headed out.

As I walked my bike back to the “I-95” roadway, I looked back at the truck that gave me shelter last night, saying a silent “thank you.” Behind it, I could see the entire “Flying J” compound. At the very front, there was a restaurant called “Denny’s.”

“So long to you, Denny’s,” I thought. “Hope to not pass by this way again.” I chuckled at that, got on my bike and pedaled away.

“Denny’s…” I thought. “That sounds familiar.”