unlock the steering column, and then you’re got a ride.”
Pulling a thick, flathead screwdriver from the bag, Bishop inserted the tool into the keyhole and then gave it a good thwack with the hammer. It took a lot more force than he anticipated, but eventually the plastic and metal gave way.
Before long , he had practically dissembled the steering column in the process of locating the mechanisms to unlock the wheel.
Next , he began the search for the computer chip that controlled the ignition. Cory had shown him several examples of what to look for and where to find it. Four wires exited the black box, and before long, they were snipped.
Bishop looked back at Hugh, finding the pilot scanning the area and being a good sentry. “It’s now or never,” he whispered to himself and then touched the final two wires together.
The engine turned… crank, crank, crank… but didn’t start. Cory had predicted it would take a while for the fuel to make it through the system and up to the engine. “Don’t run the battery down, just crank it three or four turns until it catches.”
Again, crank… crank… crank.
Hugh’s warning broke Bishop’s concentration on the obstinate machine, “We’ve got company!”
Movement drew the frustrated car thief’s attention. Half a mile up the road, men were approaching. Bishop stepped on the truck’s running board and raised his rifle. Using the optic to scan the newcomers, he didn’t like what he saw.
Five or six figures were visible, each carrying a long gun. They were moving quickly and with some degree of caution. There was zero doubt regarding their intended destination.
Too many , judged Bishop. They might be only curious… maybe even friendly… or maybe not.
Keeping a constant visual on the approaching men, he returned to his brief criminal career. On the fifth try, the motor fired, but only for a moment. Still, the progress improved Bishop’s outlook. With the seventh attempt, the engine started, ran for a few moments, and then died.
It kept running the next try. Apparently, the eighth time is a charm , Bishop thought.
After he was sure everything was working, Bishop put the truck in gear and did a quick 100 -yard test drive. He spun the wheel hard, returning to pull up close to the plane.
Hustling , he threw his pack into the back and strapped on his chest-rig. An extra set of maps went flying into the cab.
“Okay, we’ve got transportation. I’m going to drive it to that airstrip and spend the night. I’ll see you tomorrow for phase two of the operation . I’ll turn on my radio around noon. Contact me before you try to land,” he instructed Hugh. “Don’t forget about me, and tell Terri and Hunter I love them. Now GO!”
“Good luck,” Hugh replied as he throttled the propeller.
Bishop stepped back, keeping an eye on the approaching locals while the pilot turned the plane around in the median and then began gaining speed as he rolled down the pavement.
A minute later, the red truck followed, Bishop watching the men behind him growing smaller in the rearview mirror.
As he drove west in the eastbound lane, Bishop watched the plane fade until it was nothing but a small speck in the sky. The successful start to the plan, combined with his rebellious driving on the wrong side of the road, left him feeling pretty good about the day.
At one point , he considered moving over to the proper side of the highway, but dismissed it. I may still get to make that trip with Terri to visit England, and this is good practice , he mused.
After five minutes of putting distance between himself and the scene of his crime, he pulled to the shoulder and began to study the map.
As best he could tell , the airport they had flown over was 25 miles south of his current position, a casual Sunday afternoon drive before society had fallen. Now, he would have to navigate a cautious route through unfamiliar territory. The fact that the map wasn’t detailed enough to show
Pulling a thick, flathead screwdriver from the bag, Bishop inserted the tool into the keyhole and then gave it a good thwack with the hammer. It took a lot more force than he anticipated, but eventually the plastic and metal gave way.
Before long , he had practically dissembled the steering column in the process of locating the mechanisms to unlock the wheel.
Next , he began the search for the computer chip that controlled the ignition. Cory had shown him several examples of what to look for and where to find it. Four wires exited the black box, and before long, they were snipped.
Bishop looked back at Hugh, finding the pilot scanning the area and being a good sentry. “It’s now or never,” he whispered to himself and then touched the final two wires together.
The engine turned… crank, crank, crank… but didn’t start. Cory had predicted it would take a while for the fuel to make it through the system and up to the engine. “Don’t run the battery down, just crank it three or four turns until it catches.”
Again, crank… crank… crank.
Hugh’s warning broke Bishop’s concentration on the obstinate machine, “We’ve got company!”
Movement drew the frustrated car thief’s attention. Half a mile up the road, men were approaching. Bishop stepped on the truck’s running board and raised his rifle. Using the optic to scan the newcomers, he didn’t like what he saw.
Five or six figures were visible, each carrying a long gun. They were moving quickly and with some degree of caution. There was zero doubt regarding their intended destination.
Too many , judged Bishop. They might be only curious… maybe even friendly… or maybe not.
Keeping a constant visual on the approaching men, he returned to his brief criminal career. On the fifth try, the motor fired, but only for a moment. Still, the progress improved Bishop’s outlook. With the seventh attempt, the engine started, ran for a few moments, and then died.
It kept running the next try. Apparently, the eighth time is a charm , Bishop thought.
After he was sure everything was working, Bishop put the truck in gear and did a quick 100 -yard test drive. He spun the wheel hard, returning to pull up close to the plane.
Hustling , he threw his pack into the back and strapped on his chest-rig. An extra set of maps went flying into the cab.
“Okay, we’ve got transportation. I’m going to drive it to that airstrip and spend the night. I’ll see you tomorrow for phase two of the operation . I’ll turn on my radio around noon. Contact me before you try to land,” he instructed Hugh. “Don’t forget about me, and tell Terri and Hunter I love them. Now GO!”
“Good luck,” Hugh replied as he throttled the propeller.
Bishop stepped back, keeping an eye on the approaching locals while the pilot turned the plane around in the median and then began gaining speed as he rolled down the pavement.
A minute later, the red truck followed, Bishop watching the men behind him growing smaller in the rearview mirror.
As he drove west in the eastbound lane, Bishop watched the plane fade until it was nothing but a small speck in the sky. The successful start to the plan, combined with his rebellious driving on the wrong side of the road, left him feeling pretty good about the day.
At one point , he considered moving over to the proper side of the highway, but dismissed it. I may still get to make that trip with Terri to visit England, and this is good practice , he mused.
After five minutes of putting distance between himself and the scene of his crime, he pulled to the shoulder and began to study the map.
As best he could tell , the airport they had flown over was 25 miles south of his current position, a casual Sunday afternoon drive before society had fallen. Now, he would have to navigate a cautious route through unfamiliar territory. The fact that the map wasn’t detailed enough to show
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