Men jumped out of nearly every door, most with guns pointed directly at him.
“Stay right there, Mr. Ellison.”
“They know who you are,” the disease whispered in his mind. “They found you. See? You should have just stayed.”
“Get back!” Ellison yelled at the men. “I’m infected. Doesn’t matter if you shoot me or not. You come near me, your life is over.”
None of the men flinched.
“I’m not going to be a problem,” Ellison told them, then coughed. “Just let me take care of this, and it’ll all be over.”
He stepped around the back of the sedan and headed for the driver’s door.
“Stop. Now!” someone shouted.
But Ellison couldn’t stop. He had to finish.
“Stop!”
Ellison put his hand on the door handle and started to pull it open.
The first bullet caught him in the shoulder, knocking him into the car. The second went through his kidney and exited just below his ribs. He slipped to the ground, rolling onto his back as he did, and ended up looking at the group of armed men.
They parted in the middle, and two new men dressed in protective gear stepped through. Not biohazard suits, though—something different. Then Ellison saw the thin rifles in the men’s hands, rifles with hoses attached to one end running around to tanks on the men’s backs.
Not rifles. Flamethrowers.
Oh, thank God.
There was a whoosh, then short flames flickered at the end of each nozzle.
The two men took a few steps closer to the car and raised their weapons.
“The phone,” Ellison whispered as loudly as he could. “Don’t forget the phone.”
But his words were lost as long streams of flames roared out from each weapon.
“STOP THERE, STOP there,” Chuck said, pointing down the road at the lonely gas station.
“Why?” his friend Len asked. They were supposed to be meeting some other friends for a couple nights of camping, but somewhere they’d made a wrong turn. Neither of them could get a signal on their cell phones so using their GPS wasn’t an option.
“I gotta go.”
“Again?”
“What do you mean, ‘again’? That was like two hours ago. I’ve drank two sodas since then.”
Len pulled into the station, figuring while Chuck did his business he could at least find out where they were. As he got out of the car he caught a faint whiff of barbeque. Maybe they were selling sandwiches inside. He could use something to eat.
Chuck raced ahead like his bladder was about to burst.
“Next time, don’t drink so much!” Len yelled after him.
Without looking back, Chuck flipped him off as he entered the store. Len reached the door a moment later, and was starting to pull it open when his friend came running back outside. He looked at Len, opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then quickly bent over and threw up on the asphalt.
Len jumped back. “What the hell? I didn’t know you were sick.” As soon as his friend seemed to finish, he said, “Are you all right?”
Chuck breathed deeply, but said nothing.
Len could see his friend’s face was a mess, so he said, “I’ll get some napkins.” As he reached for the door, Chuck grabbed his arm.
“Don’t go in there!”
“Why not?” Len asked.
“The guy’s dead. Somebody shot him.”
“What guy?”
“The attendant! He’s slumped over the counter, blood all over the place.”
“Is the person who shot him still there?”
Chuck’s eyes widened. “I…I don’t know. I didn’t hear anybody. Jesus, do you think maybe he is?”
Len glanced around. The only other car he could see was an old truck parked against the side of the store, right where someone who worked there would probably park.
“I doubt it,” Len said. “I’m going to go take a look, okay?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Did you check his pulse to make sure he was dead?”
“No,” Chuck admitted. “But he looked dead.”
“We should check to make sure, don’t you think?”
Reluctantly, Chuck nodded.
“Why don’t you call the police while I go inside,” Len suggested.
“Okay. Good idea.”
Len pushed the door open with his shoulder in case there were fingerprints on the handle the police could use, and stepped inside.
Immediately, he covered his nose to block out the overwhelming smell of blood. The counter was just inside on the left. Lying face down across the top was a man with gray hair. There was no reason to check his pulse, though. He was dead for sure. Len could see two bullet wounds: one between his shoulder blades, and one in the back of his head. The cash register was open, and whatever money had been there was gone.
A robbery, out in the middle of nowhere.
“Len,” Chuck called from outside.
Grateful for a reason to leave, Len rejoined his friend.
Chuck held up his phone and shrugged. “I still don’t have a signal.”
Len pulled his cell out. No bars for him, either.
He looked back at the store. There was probably a phone inside, but chances were it was on the counter next to the body, which would mean stepping on the bloody floor to find it. Beyond the fact that doing so wouldn’t make the police happy, the creep-out factor was way off the scale, so as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t an option.
“We’ll have to go to the next town,” he said.
“And just leave him here like this?”
Len thought for a moment. “No. You’re right. We can’t do that. One of us should probably stay.”
“I ain’t staying.”
“Fine. You take the car. I’ll stay.”
Chuck didn’t look happy with that solution, either, but then he started rocking on his feet and said, “I gotta pee.”
He headed toward the side of the building.
“Where you going?” Len asked.
“I’m not going back inside!” Chuck disappeared around the corner. But it was only a couple seconds before he yelled, “Hey, Len!”
“What?”
“There’s a pay phone over here. If you have change you can call the police.”
“You don’t need change to call 911.”
“What?” Chuck’s voice had grown distant.
“You don’t…never mind.”
Len headed around the side of the building and saw that his friend had moved out into the desert. The phone was off to the right just a bit, hanging on a wooden post.
Good, he thought as he walked over. At least now he and Chuck wouldn’t have to split up.
Thirteen
ASH WOKE WITH a pounding headache.
He must have gasped or something, because a hand was suddenly on his shoulder, rubbing it softly. Then a voice said, “It's all right. You're okay.”
It was a woman's voice, but it didn't sound like Janice's.
“My head,” he grunted.
He tried to raise his hand to his temple, but his arm would only move a few inches before it stopped. He opened his eyes just enough to see what the problem was. There was a tube or something coming out of his arm, and what looked like a leather strap around his wrist.
He tried his other hand. It moved without opposition.
“Sleep some more,” the voice said. “You’ve been through a lot.”
“Are we stopped?” he asked, realizing he felt no motion.
“Stopped?” A pause, then, “Just sleep.”
And as if it were a command, darkness overtook him once more.
THE NEXT TIME he woke, his headache was gone.
When he opened his eyes, he realized he was not, as he’d previously thought, still in the RV. Instead he was lying on a bed in a wood-paneled room, soft sunlight seeping in through the window on the far wall.
There w
as a dresser to his left and an armoire in the corner beyond the foot of the bed. Below the window was a writing desk. All the surfaces were empty.
He tried to prop himself up so he could look out the window and get a sense of where he was, but his right arm caught on something. No, he quickly realized, not caught. Restrained. Hadn’t he been immobilized the last time he’d woken?
Around his right wrist was a padded leather cuff attached to the frame of the bed. The apparent reason for this was the IV line attached to his arm. His left, though, was completely free.
He had no idea what he was being fed from the bag hanging on the stand, but being both restricted and drugged did not appeal to him. He quickly worked the cuff open, turned the IV flow off, and pulled the tube out of the port on his arm.
His first stop was the dresser to see if there were any clothes to go with the T-shirt and underwear he’d been sleeping in. He found several pairs of jeans, more underwear, socks, and a whole drawer full of colored T-shirts. The bottom drawer even had two dark wool sweaters and a hooded pullover sweatshirt. The biggest surprise was that not only was everything new, it was all in his size, too. He got dressed.
Inside the armoire he found the boots he’d worn during his escape, and beside them, the messenger bag. A quick check of the bag showed that the only thing left was the money. What did he care, though? None of the contents had been his in the first place.
He pulled on the boots, laced them up, and walked over to the window. What greeted him was a surprise. It wasn’t the chaparral country where the mysterious Mike and Janice had picked him up, or even the desert. Instead, there was a mix of grassy fields and groves of evergreens. In the distance was a row of mountains.
The only structure in sight was way off to the left and only partially visible. It was big, though. Maybe a barn or large equipment shed. No way to tell for sure.
As for people, he saw none.
Where the hell am I?
He walked over to the door, put his ear against the wood, and listened. In the distance, he thought he could hear a low muffled conversation but that was about it.
He glanced back at the room. He could wait until somebody showed up, but he was done waiting so he opened the door.
“Thought I heard you moving around in there.”
Directly outside was a hallway about as wide as the room he’d been in. Sitting on a wooden chair against the far wall was a tan-faced man with the gentle creases of someone who’d spent more than his fair share of time outdoors. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a short mostly-salt goatee. Ash guessed he was in his fifties, early sixties at most. He was outfitted in jeans and a green flannel shirt.
The man pushed himself off the chair. “So how are you feeling?”
Ash glanced down the hallway. “Where am I?”
“You're safe, that's where you are.”
“Yeah, that's not really an answer.”
The man snickered. “No. No, I guess it's not.” He paused. “You're on the Hamilton Ranch. I’m Rich Paxton, but I go by Pax, mostly.” He held out his hand. “I help keep things running around here.”
Ash kept his hand at his side. “You're the one in charge?”
Pax shook his head. “No, that would be Matt. Matt Hamilton. It's his place. Well, his and Rachel's.”
“I want to talk to him right now.”
“That's convenient, because he wants to talk to you, too. Supposed to bring you to him when you finally got up. Which I guess is now.”
“Let’s go,” Ash said, ready to follow him.
Pax glanced down at the IV port still attached to Ash’s arm. “Should probably have Billy take a look at that first. Get that thing off you.”
“I'm fine.”
“Sure you are. But Billy's on the way, and it’ll only take a minute.”
Pax led him through several hallways, a large sitting room, up one flight of stairs, and past a dozen closed doors. Whatever kind of building this was, it certainly wasn’t small.
Finally, Pax stopped in front of an open door and stuck his head inside. “Billy?”
“Back here,” a voice replied.
Pax signaled Ash to follow him in.
The room was set up like a doctor's office, complete with examining table, cotton swabs, blood pressure cuff, tongue depressors, and all the other medical items you'd expect to find. There was also a computer monitor and wireless keyboard on the counter.
A door on the left led into another room. Since there was no one in the room they’d just entered, Ash assumed this Billy must be in the other.
“The new guy needs his tube removed,” Pax said.
“I need a few minutes,” Billy called out. “Just have him sit tight, and I'll be down as soon as I can.”
“He's not in his room. I brought him with me.”
There was the dull thud of a stack of paper being set down, then the sound of footsteps. A second later, a guy a few years younger than Pax entered from the other room. He walked over to Ash, grabbed his arm, and looked at the port. “You shouldn’t have done this by yourself.”
“No one else was there.”
“That’s not the point. What about the fluid? Did you close the tube, or is it running all over the floor?”
Ash narrowed his eyes, not liking the tone of the man’s voice. “I cut the drip before I disconnected it. I hope that’s okay with you.”
Billy frowned. “You should have just waited. You have no idea what was in the fluid. It could have been very dangerous.”
“Was it?”
“No, but it could have been.”
Billy got to work removing the dock from Ash’s arm. When it was out, he used some gauze and a bandage to cover the wound. He then looked at Pax. “Can I get back to what I was doing now, or do you have any more emergencies?”
“Have at it. I think we’re good.”
Billy forced a smile then said to Ash, “Welcome to the ranch.” With that, he headed back to the other room.
Ash half expected Pax to give him an excuse for Billy's behavior once they were in the hallway again, but, to his credit, Pax said nothing. He led Ash to a closed door at the far end and knocked.
“Come,” a muffled voice said from inside.
Pax opened the door and let Ash pass through first.
It was a big room divided into two areas. The far end was dominated by a large oak desk with a matching credenza behind it, while the area nearest the door was set up with a couch, chairs and a low-lying table. There were several windows, but wooden blinds prevented any clear view of the outside.
The only person in the room was a man sitting in one of the stuffed guest chairs in front of the desk. He was probably about the same age as Pax, only with a little less hair on top and no goatee. Though the man was sitting, Ash could tell he was big. Long legs and a broad chest. Somewhere in his past he’d probably been a high school linebacker. The man had angled his chair so he could watch a TV hanging on the wall.
Ash glanced at the screen just in time to see the Prime Cable News logo in the corner before the picture went dark.
“Glad to see you're up,” the man said, rising to his feet. He was tall. Six-foot-three on the low end, maybe as much as six-five. His grin was friendly and welcoming as he extended his hand to Ash. “I'm Matt Hamilton. Welcome to the ranch.”
Ash hesitated only a second before shaking. “I’m…” He stopped himself, unsure what he should actually say.
“You’re Captain Daniel Ash.”
“Yes,” Ash said with a sense of relief.
“Welcome, Captain. Why don’t you have a seat?” He gestured toward the couch.
Ash held his ground. “Excuse me if this sounds rude, but I’d like to know what the hell's going on.”
“Of course you would. I would, too, if I were you. What would you like to know first?”
“Let’s start with why I am here.”
Hamilton shrugged. “Easy enough. You needed someplace safe to hide.”
“And what am I hiding from?”
“That one is not so easy.”
Ash’s nostrils flared as he drew in a long breath.
“Hold on, Captain,” Hamilton said. “I’m not avoiding your question. It’s just that there are several different answers, and I’m trying to figure out which is the one you’re interested in at the moment.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Hamilton said nothing for a moment, then looked at Pax. “Can you give us a few minutes? Maybe make sure the captain’s quarters are ready?”
“You got it.” Pax nodded to Ash and left.
Once they were alone, Hamilton said, “You can stand, but if you don’t mind, I’m going to sit.”
Hamilton favored his left leg as he headed for the couch. He caught Ash looking at it as he sat down.
“I’m told a knee replacement will take care of the problem,” Hamilton explained. “Someday, I guess. When I have the time.”
Ash walked over. He thought about remaining on his feet, but it seemed a pointless protest so he took the seat across from the couch.
Neither man said anything for several seconds. Finally, Hamilton leaned forward. “By all rights, you should be dead.”
A faint sneer grew on Ash’s face. “I’m having a hard time believing anyone was planning on killing me. I only went with your people for one reason—to find out who murdered my family and why.” He hesitated, then added, “They did get me away from the explosion, so I owe you thanks for that.”
“You misunderstood me,” Matt said. “I wasn’t talking about the fact the order had been given to eliminate you before you woke, which it had been, or about the explosion, which wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“The disease. It should have killed you, too. But it’s my understanding that you never showed any effects of the illness. There were seventeen families living at Barker Flats. Seventeen families, all recent transfers to a base that, until two months ago, had been in mothballs. Of the sixteen families besides yours, none had any survivors. So what made you different?”
Ash stared at Hamilton in shock. “None? They’re all dead?”
The Project Eden Thrillers Box Set 1: Books 1 - 3 (Sick, Exit 9, & Pale Horse) Page 6