Primal Threat - Earl Emerson [72]
“That’s why they’re not rushing us,” said Muldaur, from up in front. “If I hadn’t set off those firecrackers, we’d be dead now.”
As the road climbed to the right, the surface turning into hard-packed clay, Zak took a quick look behind him. He saw Giancarlo and, tight on his tail, Stephens, who was trying to edge him out the same way he’d edged out Zak.
“Okay,” said Muldaur. “We’re out of sight, so it’s time to slow down. Riding like this screws up your system.” Muldaur had dressed as Hugh once again, the helmet loosened so that it rode low, the sunglasses askew, false teeth in place. They carried water packs on their backs, enough to drink for at least a couple of hours in this heat, the plastic feeding tubes dangling near their cheeks. Their pockets bulged with gel packs, Clif Bars, small bags of raisins and dates. The three slowed their pace and pedaled more or less as a trio, while Stephens steamed up the road ahead of them and around the next bend.
“I thought we were going to slow down,” said Zak.
“Don’t ask me,” Muldaur said. “He wants to blow up, that’s his business.”
Giancarlo came up alongside them. “What was with all the pushing and shoving?”
“He gets like that if there’s any competition,” Muldaur answered.
“Or if somebody’s shooting at us?”
“I should have warned you.”
“I was on the verge of smacking him,” said Giancarlo.
Two minutes later they found a tree down across the road, Stephens sitting on it, his hands shaky when he pushed the CamelBak tube into his mouth. The tree hadn’t been down when Zak and Muldaur traversed this road the day before, and it confounded Stephens. It confounded Zak, too.
Muldaur dismounted, lifted his bike over the tree, and continued to pedal up the mountainside at a measured pace. “I left it attached to the trunk, so they’re going to need a saw or an ax to get it loose.”
“You did this?” said Stephens.
“Yesterday when I took that ride by myself. I had a feeling they were going to haze us for the whole trip, and this was one way to stop them.”
Zak knew even with the aid of a truck and ropes, the tree was too big and too heavy to move. He doubted Kasey and the others had a chain saw, though most locals would probably carry one. Muldaur had taken them on this route because he knew it was the only direction where they couldn’t be followed.
“Any more roadblocks?” Giancarlo asked.
“As many as we have time for,” Muldaur said, pulling a folding camp saw out of his jersey pocket with one hand and waving it. Zak and Giancarlo lifted their bikes over the log and remounted. Stephens, who appeared too tired to get up, said, “So this is why he said to slow down?”
“You should have listened,” said Giancarlo.
“Yeah, well, uh, he should have explained himself. I thought they would get their trucks and be on us any second. I figured the last one in line—”
“We know what you figured,” said Zak.
“Well, wait, uh, wait a minute. Aren’t you going to wait for me? I need a breather.”
A few minutes later they were climbing through trees so dense they could no longer see the contours of the mountain. The road surface was smoother, almost like a clay tennis court, and from time to time Zak saw the sunlight glinting through the branches of the Douglas firs to the southeast as they traversed another of the switchbacks. Zak knew that after they reached Lake Hancock there were two separate and very long climbs above it, one south of the water and one north. But they wouldn’t reach the lake for another twenty or thirty minutes. “So what’s the plan?” asked Zak.
“To get up this mountain and out of range of those rifles,” said Muldaur. “After that we’ll figure out something.”
“You want to ride as slow as you can and still stay ahead of them,” Zak said, directing his words at Stephens. “You start filling your legs with lactic acid, you’ll be a goner. That means you need to keep your heart rate as low as you can.”
“I was keeping it low,” Stephens said, defensively.
“No, you weren’t. Listen, the body produces lactic acid in everything it does. Under