If the Ancient Bloodlines saw through her eyes, she needed to veil her thoughts. Surely, they knew Scarlett and Twila were traveling east. She needed to throw them off. We’ll travel south for a while; meanwhile, she’d envision the north-eastern route of the map, have it permanently engrained in her mind, so if the probing started again, they’d see the wrong route. It was the only thing she could think of.
“Time to leave,” Scarlett said with confidence. She was tired of playing the hapless victim. Ravers, creepers, Ancient Bloodlines, and the Silver Lady. She must face the unknown, the impossible. Embrace it!
“Fear is only in your mind,” the Silver Lady whispered.
Chapter 14
The wagon lurched to a stop. Estella Marie Vasquez jolted out of her paralyzing nightmare. She turned her head to the side in time to keep from puking on herself. “Oh, my God, are we stuck?” She wanted to yell, only the words came out in an exhausted whimper. A wave of turbulent nausea rolled over her. And she puked. Again. There goes lunch. She had kept it down for two hours. She grabbed the already-used towel to wipe up the mess.
The flap to the back of the covered wagon billowed open. “Did our expectant mother keep down her lunch?” The nurse asked as if he were talking to someone other than her. But she was the only one in the back of the wagon.
“I’m okay,” Ella lied. She was sick and tired of being pregnant. Sick of riding in the wagon, sick of the nurse pestering her, and sick of Father Jacob and his loco followers, who worshiped him like a Saint, or God himself. She fingered the jade rosary around her neck and silently rambled a string of Hail Marys.
“I need sleep,” she mumbled, turning over on her side. Playing dead usually made the unsympathetic nurse go away sooner. She still didn’t know his name, and she really didn’t care to. Ella wasn’t as sick as she pretended. Nearly five months pregnant and riding cross-country in the cold covered wagon in the middle of January was more emotionally draining than physically. What was I thinking when I ran off with these locos?
The nurse finally left. Ella sat up to peek out the wagon. “OMG, not another river.” It seemed like they spent most of their time looking for river crossings. Father Jacob hadn’t planned their trip very well. Then again, it wasn’t like they had GPS. Random city names constantly popped into her mind while she had jostled around in the back of the wagon from Nevada to Southern California to Arizona. She had overheard the guards complaining they wished Father Jacob would make up his mind because they were going to Utah next. Are we ever getting to Texas?
Father Jacob was in search for other Miracle Mothers to add to the Thirty-three. The sad news was, none of the other pregnant women they’d found had lived more than three months into their pregnancy. Which brought her to another unexplainable question. Without the Internet and cell phones, how in the world had Father Jacob known about the other pregnant women, and even stranger, how had he known where they lived? His knowingness almost seemed biblical. Almost. Instead, it was a creepy knowingness, which had her automatically disguising her thoughts as if Father Jacob could see into her mind.
Sara saw her peeking around the canvas flap and turned her back to Ella, waving her fingers behind her back. Ella smiled. Sara was her only friend—had been, before Father Jacob had gotten all poopy about it. No visitors allowed lest she contracted an illness. Yet, she felt like the one with the plague. She was. It’s called pregnancy. How had her mother survived it? And then gone through it a second time with her brother. But her mother hadn’t had to endure bouncing in the back of a wagon rut after rut, day after day.
She twirled the pearl earring in her ear and thought of Justin. He must have been devastated when he found the compound deserted. Had he found her note? To this day, she didn’t understand why she had agreed to Father’s Jacob trip. It was as if she’d been under a spell the day Father Jacob had preached with those insanely hypnotizing eyes of his that she and the baby were amongst the chosen Thirty-three. And, only he could protect her child from the Ancient Ones. Whoever they were.
Funny, there were actually thirty-nine people in their party the last time she had counted. Her baby would make forty. She was getting a crazy-weird feeling she had never been one of the chosen Thirty-three. It was her baby they wanted. Had she made the most horrible mistake a mother could make, or were her overactive hormones driving her insane?
By evening they still hadn’t crossed the river. Ella sat in the wagon all alone, cold, tired, waiting to barf. What she needed was real food, enchiladas, beans and rice, and lots and lots of salsa with avocados. And chocolate-covered jalapenos smothered with sprinkles. Ew, why do I want that?
Her growling stomach woke her up around midnight. Sara usually left a cheesecloth-covered plate of food hidden on the rear wagon wheel. It was the only real food she ever ate. She waited, listening to the night: the soft whisperings of the horses, the cracklings of the fires, the creakings of the wagons, and the winds sweeping over the wagon canvases. She peeked under the rear flap, making sure the coast was clear. It was the only time she left the wagon except for a morning bathroom break in the bushes. She usually used the pee pot in her wagon. Father Jacob was so thoughtful.
The wagons were parked in a circle the way they always were in the evening, with the horses inside the circle. Two men usually stood guard, watching for activity outside of the circle. Only the guards were allowed outside after dark. Father Jacob was obsessively strict about it. Ella checked the wagon wheel and found the plate of food. Thank you, Sara, she said silently. After several bites of bland baked beans and a chunk of chewy cornbread, she tucked the food inside the wagon. It was time for her walk.
She missed the days of working out at the resort’s gym with Justin. Exercise was vital. But they didn’t let her do anything. Ever. She really felt more like a prisoner than a patient. Besides, she didn’t look pregnant, just overweight. If it weren’t for the puking, no one would have known. As Ella walked around the inner circle, she dreamt of the day they’d arrive in Texas. Justin was always there waiting for her. Somehow, she knew he was searching for her this very minute. She heard his calls in her restless sleep. He’d find her. He had to—they were twin flames, destined to be together for eternity. Well, it’s what her dreams promised every night, and she clung to the promise, giving her the will to last another day.
Weird, she always puked after lunch and never after her midnight dinner. And there was something even weirder about the nurse. He always stood outside the wagon holding the flap open and glaring at her until she’d scarfed down the sticky honey-coated nut and berry bar called pemmican while she nodded to whatever the nurse yapped on about. At dinner time, Father Jacob came by and gave her two more yucky pemmican bars, which she’d stopped eating when Sara started giving her food.
The walking relieved her aching, cramped body. A faraway howling murmured through the darkness. Prickles ran from her palms to her spine to her soles. A gunshot cracked. OMG! She rushed to her covered wagon before anyone spotted her. A gunshot meant Father Jacob would be making the rounds.
“Just wolves,” Father Jacob said from outside the canvas covering.
“Okay,” was all she said, creating a vision of Texas in her mind. She huddled under the covers, pretending to be afraid while she ate her dinner. She wasn’t too afraid of wolves. Maybe a little.
The howling continued throughout the night. By morning, everyone ran around shouting at one another. They didn’t even take the time for their morning prayer ritual, which luckily, she wasn’t expected to take part in. When they chanted their bizarre prayers in a Gaelic-like language, she whispered her own prayers. She still considered herself a devout Catholic, despite the fact she had given in to sin on that ever so romantic night with Justin. She remembered the evening like a fantasy dream, relived it every day while joggling in the wagon in a half-asleep state.
Father Jacob interrupted her thoughts. “Are you decent, child?” he asked. His monotone voice always sounded more android than human.
> “Sure,” Ella said, propping herself up on a pillow.
“And how are mother and child?” he said without smiling, handing her a mug of steaming tea.
Oh, every morning Father Jacob brought her hot tea. It was the most wonderful tea ever.
“Danger is nigh. We shall leave post haste. Ring thy bell if in need of assistance,” he said, glancing at the iron cowbell in the corner.
“Okay,” she answered, relieved she didn’t have to endure another morning of their freaky chanting. The more she thought about it, the more she realized Father Jacob was more like a cult leader than a preacher. She wasn’t as afraid of him as she was of his startling blue eyes, which seemed to capture everything—know everything. So, she just smiled a lot, when she wasn’t puking, and pretended she was cool with it all. Sometimes at night, when she knew Father Jacob wasn’t eavesdropping on her thoughts, she silently screamed for Justin to rescue her.
Ella sipped at the special tea. The tea made her feel light like an angel. Free from fear. And it bugged her that Father Jacob wouldn’t tell her what herbs he used. It wasn’t until after lunch that she felt so wretched.
Lunchtime came and passed. They hadn’t stopped. She enjoyed her peace, thankful she didn’t have to scarf another crappy pemmican bar. She pulled the canvas flap open for a blast of fresh air and to see the scenery. She bounced about watching, not seeing, as the landscape blurred by.
Yelling interrupted her daydreaming. The cracking of horse whips attacked the air. Poor horses. Why are they going so fast? Crazy fast. Had the horses gone loco, or had the driver fallen off? A vivid Sleepy Hollow image flashed-flooded her thoughts as she irrationally envisioned a headless horseman at the reins. She blinked rapidly until the random vision went away.
For some reason, one of the wagons raced past hers. She did a double take. It was covered with Zs! She screamed—not hearing it, only feeling it. The demonic Zs straddled the torn canopy, holding onto the wagon’s bow framework, while others clung to the back of the wagon and were dragged across the cacti-covered ground. Gunshots joined the madness.
The demons ripped off the wagon’s canvas covering. The women inside of the wagon flailed about. She heard their screams internally, for the roar of the horses’ hooves and the screechy-whine of the wagons’ wheels tearing across the uneven ground penetrated her ears.
Ella leaned out the back opening, unable to tear her eyes away from the ungodly sight as the demons ravaged the wagon. The two drivers stood, aiming their rifles. A demon went pinwheeling off into the air and thudded to the ground in a dust cloud. Another one fell; Ella’s wagon rolled over its legs.
It was too late. All the passengers, women older than her, whom she had never known, had succumbed to their evil. The demons rushed the drivers. Quickly, she drew the sign of the cross. The drivers didn’t have a chance in Hell. They plopped onto the sand in a huge dust bowl, rolling around like demonic tumbleweeds—like a scene from a really stupid horror flick. The horses veered off to the north, running faster, free of its no-longer-human cargo. Her wagon roared full speed ahead. Why hadn’t anyone helped them? She wanted to puke. So much evil. Evil winning. Where was her God!
They finally stopped at dusk. Defiantly, Ella climbed out the wagon. She needed to find out what was going on. And, she needed a weapon. Justin had taught her his Fab-Five zombie moves. She wasn’t as docile as Father Jacob’s followers. Shy, yes. Naïve, maybe. But blindly following a bunch of locos? No way. Her mind was clearer today than it had been in months. The truth came to her, an epiphany of sorts. The nurse had been poisoning her. She had to take control of her life because her mijo was special. Yes, she was having a boy!
Chapter 15
Scarlett sat by the attic window of the lake house and scanned the backyard below while Twila colored by the sunlight streaming in. The lake house was a nice retreat. After two weeks on the road, Twila had needed the break even more than Willow. After two nights at the lake house, it was time they left before the probing started. Whenever the random headache pricks started, she quickly envisioned Interstate 80’s eastern route with its endless miles of abandoned vehicles, and no doubt hordes of creepers, stumbling on a journey to nowhere. This was the vision she willed the bad people (as Twila called them) to see.
Twila was laughing and playing again. If only they could stay there until the government regained control. She could fish in the lake and even start a garden in the spring. Then again, things weren’t so hunky-dory; after all, they were living in the attic—just in case the residents returned. The house they had stumbled upon had been vacant for a while based on the dust-coated furniture and countertops. Although, there was evidence of post-pandemic inhabitants such as sleeping bags in the den along with numerous empty alcohol bottles.
The bedrooms had been turned into supply rooms, complete with silver-metal shelves stocked with all types of camping and survival supplies, batteries, propane canisters, canned goods, buckets of dehydrated foods, drug store medicines, first-aid items, toiletries, and pharmaceuticals. Strangely, no weapons. She assumed the items had been looted since the pandemic, and that the home’s occupants had most likely died. She had taken the liberty of replenishing their supplies.
Scarlett was going through the canned goods she’d taken to the attic, deciding what to have for lunch when a rash of goosebumps popped up on her arms. Splashing? Twila looked at her with golden-eyes wide with alarm. Scarlett dashed back to the window. Someone’s at the lake! Three men secured a boat to the narrow dock next to the boathouse.
“Oh, no! Willow,” Scarlett uttered in alarm. The mare was tethered to a tree on the other side of the pier’s boathouse, hidden in a grove of trees where she could graze on the grass and drink from the lake.
Twila crawled over to Scarlett. “I’ll tell Willow to be very, very quiet,” Twila whispered and then closed her eyes and sat completely still as if meditating. Finally, Twila opened her eyes. “I told her to take a nap in the grass,” Twila said.
“Uh, what did Willow say?” Scarlett said, not sure how to respond.
“Nothing. I told her to be quiet, silly.” Twila crossed her eyes sarcastically.
Scarlett didn’t know what to believe these days. Could Twila communicate with the mare? B-e-l-i-e-v-e . . . the letters floated across her inner vision.
The men were inside, stomping around the hardwood floors downstairs. They were a rowdy bunch, in the middle of an argument, blaming each other for a botched supply run. They didn’t seem like the reasonable sort. If they found out someone had raided their supplies, surely they’d search the house for the culprit.
Scarlett had prepared for a fast getaway and had already stashed two backpacks of dehydrated soup mixes by the boathouse. She had only packed a few canned goods because they were a bit heavy for Willow to haul. Meanwhile, they had stuffed themselves on recently-expired canned vegetables.
A bolt of lightning blasted the middle of her forehead. Probing! Twila was already lost in a trance. There was no denying it, Twila was indeed a gifted child. A child of the New World. The new Human? Instantly, Scarlett envisioned traveling east along Interstate 80 in the blue Honda Twila used to mislead the Ancient Bloodlines. Might as well keep it consistent, Scarlett thought.
Sometime after midnight, after the probing subsided to a dull throb, the bottle-smashing party downstairs finally stopped. It sounded like they’d been throwing beer bottles into the fireplace. In the cherished peacefulness, Scarlett waited, wishing, willing for the quiet—the quiet of the night, the quiet of her mind until she found herself in a misty state of bliss. Instantly, the darkness disappeared. She twirled around in a white gown. Apple blossoms swirled around her, melting into her skin like pink snowflakes. A gigantic bubble of translucent light floated above her. “Merkaba,” a voice said. Everything spun around her, faster and faster until she was inside a bubble of light. “Remember, the merkaba will protect you,” the Silver Lady’s voice whispered.
***
Scarlett awoke wit
h a start. It was morning.
“It’s safe to go now. They’re fixing a truck,” Twila said.
“Did you read their minds?” Scarlett asked, ready to accept the impossible.
“No, I heard them talking.” Twila’s surprised-frown expression was priceless.
“Of course,” Scarlett mumbled quickly.
“Pack your coloring books and crayons. I’ll sneak downstairs to make sure the house is empty.” Scarlett grabbed her gun.
She opened the half-sized attic door, which led to the middle of the upstairs hallway and then crept to the stairway’s landing. She paused to listen and then tiptoed down the stairs and peeked around the hallway, gun in hand. The sudden revving of an engine rattled her body from the inside-out. Through the partially open living room blinds, she saw three men in the driveway, apparently having difficulty jumpstarting one of the two trucks.
They had to go for it. They couldn’t stay there another night, not after the probing. It would be a fatal mistake. She snuck back to Twila. Scarlett strapped on the ALICE pack. And with Twila’s pack in the crook of her elbow and gun in hand, she led Twila to the kitchen patio’s french doors. The slamming of the front screen door nearly gave her a heart attack. Twila squeezed her hand and pulled her back in a panic.
One of the men yelled, “Baking soda, not baking powder, dimwit.”
Scarlett glanced around. They edged backward into the laundry room adjacent to the kitchen and hid behind the partially closed door.
“What the hell’s the difference?” the man muttered, slamming the kitchen cupboards’ doors.
It was too close for comfort. Scarlett had always avoided the Ravers at all costs, worried she didn’t have what it took to kill a human being in cold blood. Would she be able to kill a complete stranger without knowing he was a friend or foe? Creepers were a completely different matter. They were already dead; they just didn’t know it.
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