The Last Gallon by William Belanger Page A

crossing a river meant some scumbag was going to extort you. The Betsy Ross Bridge was no exception. These guys even had armored vehicles. Mark saw no choice but to see what they wanted. He turned to Joey and said “I think I will request a missile launcher next time Joey, what do you think?” Joey smiled and gave him the thumbs up.
    As he pulled up to the checkpoint Mark realized this was going to be trouble. The thugs running this bridge were the Black Panthers, the famous racist group Mark liked to call the Black KKK. “Shit” he said as he saw the uniform.
    A “panther” approached the car and said “Good morning cracker.” Mark bit his tongue and did not reply with his own racial slur but decided to try to be pleasant. “Good morning” he said. “Open the door” the panther demanded. Mark smiled through the gunport and told the man he “would rather not” which really upset him. At this point Mark counted a dozen others surrounding the car. Kara quietly chambered a round and Joey made sure the belt-fed was ready. Mark calmly asked what the toll was so they could make their delivery and be on their way. “The toll is whatever I see and want in yo car, now open the damn door honkey” the very agitated “soldier” said. Mark shook his head and said “Nevermind, we’ll go around.”
    Mark put the car in reverse as the irate soldier shouldered his rifle. Mark stuck his 220 out the port and put a round into the man’s arm. He spun around from the impact and dropped his AK on the concrete which caused a round to go off into the crowd that had gathered. This set off a frenzy of return fire and Mark gunned it and spun the car around. Joey popped the turret up and squeezed off about 20 rounds at the panthers as the Armadillo zoomed off the bridge.
    “Well shit” Mark said as they sat on the side of the road wondering what the hell to do next. Kara looked at a map and was trying to find alternatives for them. “You know there is a train trestle just past the bridge right?” she asked. Mark didn’t know that but he was curious as to whether the car would make it across. “Hell why not?” he asked her and she just shrugged.
    They drove down to the bridge and luckily it was a two track job that was plenty wide. They had to look around to find an entry point on the tracks and eventually did in an industrial park. Mark set the suspension to off-road mode and the Armadillo bounced along the tracks quite unhappily. The panthers spotted the car crossing the bridge and took some shots at them but they didn’t have a chance at hitting over 200 yards away with no training and little skill. Most hit the steel support of the trestle anyways. It was too dangerous to fire back so they just let it be and went on their merry way.
    Their unauthorized entry kept them from burning an entry coupon as well so if for some ungodly reason they ever wanted to return to Philly they could get in through the gates with no issues. Mark led them down the streets that Kara pointed out and they were in front of the company building in no time. As before someone was waiting on the steps and Mark handed over the envelope. The man gave him a briefcase this time and told him to deliver it to DC and to deliver it before he did anything else there. Mark nodded affirmative. The man handed over the usual envelope with gate passes and depot tickets as well.
    Mark filled the car up even though it had only used a gallon and a half on their journey. He also topped off their magazines and thr ew a couple extra rounds in the back. The route from Philly to Wilmington was almost completely company owned so other than sporadic check-points and card checks the route was safe and trouble-free.
    Between Wilmington and Baltimore was a bit of a dicey stretch. It wasn’t populated enough to be under control and was full of thieves and bandits. There wasn’t much organized gang activity but the people were ver y poor, starving and desperate. This was bad