Free Finest Hour by Dr. Arthur T Bradley

asked.
    “The cars maybe, but not the bikes.”
    Leila turned to study the surrounding roadway. To one side was a thick stretch of trees and, to the other, a large open field. The town of West Jefferson flashed in and out of view as the road crested and fell.
    “What do we do?”
    “We start by seeing if we can lose them. Hold on!”
    Mason pulled the wheel hard to the left, swerving the truck off the road and down a grassy slope, narrowly threading two copses of trees. Bowie barked as he lost his footing and flopped over in the bed. The truck bumped and bounced for a quarter-mile, finally plowing through a tall chain-link fence and coming to rest on a stretch of cracked asphalt. Ahead of them was the cinder block wall of a small grocery store. Next to it sat a faded green dumpster with a sign that read “Property of Mike’s Groceries. No dumping!”
    Mason circled around the store and sped past a row of gas pumps. The parking lot exited onto Beaver Creek School Road, a thoroughfare that paralleled the interstate. Directly across the street sat the Ashe Baptist Association Center, a nondescript brick building that offered neither cover nor concealment.
    He turned right and began weaving his way through the logjam of cars. Pressing ahead as fast as he dared, he passed a series of rusted sheet-metal buildings, a builders supply store, and a Nation’s Inn motel—none of which seemed suitable to make a stand against a band of pissed-off Ravagers.
    Things only grew worse the further north they went. A huge multi-car pileup blocked the intersection ahead, leaving it completely impassible. A few drivers had tried to squeeze around the mayhem, only to find themselves pinched between cars and the corners of adjacent buildings. Mason saw no way to navigate the narrow road, short of ditching the truck and going on foot, and that was not something he was prepared to do.
    Continuing to follow the path of least resistance, he turned into a large parking lot. To the right was a Dollar General, to the left, a Waffle House, and directly ahead stood a Jiffy Lube. A pickup truck had plowed into the front of the Dollar General, leaving a gaping hole in the wall and the unassuming yellow and black sign dangling precariously overhead. Pregnancy tests, socks, miniature bottles of shampoo, and kitchen utensils littered the ground like breadcrumbs for diehard value shoppers.
    Mason felt his blood pressure rising. Despite his best efforts, every turn seemed to put them in a box that squeezed tighter and tighter. With the sound of engines growing ever louder, backtracking was no longer possible. They would have to hole up somewhere and hope they went undetected.
    He swung the truck around to the back of the Waffle House and parked a few feet from the building. The roof of the restaurant cast a long shadow, and he was reasonably confident that the truck would be invisible both from the highway and Beaver Creek School Road.
    “We’ll hide here until they pass,” he said, shutting off the engine.
    “Do you really think this will work?”
    He swung open his door.
    “It depends.”
    “On what?”
    “On how determined they are to find us.”
    Mason climbed out and began stuffing a handful of fully-loaded M4 magazines into his waistband. Leila scrambled out after him with her Beretta nine-millimeter held awkwardly in her left hand. The gash on her dominant hand still forced her to work the pistol weak-handed, a skill she had yet to master.
    Together they eyed the back of the building. There was only one way in, a small nondescript service door. There was no handle on the outside, presumably to thwart would-be breakfast thieves, but a brick had been used to prop the door open.
    “Let’s check it out,” he said, pointing.
    Bowie hopped down from the bed of the truck and followed along.
    Stepping to one side of the door, Mason eased it open a few more inches. When he did, the smell of pancakes, maple syrup, and bacon wafted out. As far as odors