They were on the southbound GI Rider, the Gary-Indianapolis Rider. The darted through an industrial wasteland: abandoned factories, warehouses, the occasional bar, several half-empty shopping malls, some factories, an old oil refinery. But quickly they were in the city, now hurtling past rows of “boxes”, the apartment complexes that lined the long streets.
At the downtown station, they stepped out and made their way out of the big train station, Rozina hobbling along on her crutches. They would need to walk all the way to Mrs. Williams’ home, as they could never safely board an air-bus. There was no “passing” on the air-buses. But it was doubtful Rozina could walk all the way to Mrs. Williams’ place. After three blocks she needed to rest.
“Wait here,” he said.
Marshall turned into an alleyway, and soon returned with two rusty bicycle wheels and a metal pole. Entering the alleyway again, he came back with a table top. Within thirty minutes he had fashioned a sort of chariot on which Rozina could stand and which he, John Marshall, could pull.
Thus they made their way underneath the elevated highway that covered the old Interstate 65 and then they rolled unevenly along West Street. There were no other pedestrians; they were not seen. It was late afternoon when they reached the industrial area adjacent to the old air-bus/airport hub – where Marshall disassembled the chariot, and flung it onto a high heap of garbage.
“Come,” he told Rozina, “We can walk from here to Mrs. Williams. If the securities have our trail they’ll think we boarded another air-bus or transport,’ he smiled.