Deserted Lands (Book 2): Straight Into Darkness

by Robert L. Slater

  “I’m about ready to tuck in. You going to sleep in my bed?” he asked, after she was quiet for a long time.

  “If it’s okay.”

  “Don’t worry. I am good with it all, now that I realize what’s been going on.”

  Lizzie scooted forward to give him room to lay down. “You can have the cold side of the bed.”

  Duke laughed behind her. “Some things never change.”

  “Taking care of myself.”

  “Yeah.” Duke walked around the bed, tugging his t-shirt off his head. She examined him from her new perspective—a perspective she’d really had all along. She admired his beauty and his physique—he wasn’t ugly to her. But lust didn’t factor into it. Sure her hormones still made her somewhat horny. But she could take care of that herself if she really needed to. She didn’t need to have sex with him to prove she was normal.

  Duke pulled back the covers and backed into her. She wrapped her left arm around his chest, tucking her right arm up against his warm back. He shivered in front of her. “So, this doesn’t turn you on? Being in bed with a lesbian?”

  “Whatever. ‘Think of me as one of the guys,’ right?” Duke grunted. “Go to sleep.”

  “You first.” Lizzie’s left hand snaked down across Duke’s belly, he wiggled in front of her.

  “Lizzie, don’t ruin it.”

  She laughed. “Just teasing.”

  He snorted. In a matter of seconds his breathing was deep and even.

  “Thanks,” she whispered, “You’re a true friend.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  LIZZIE WOKE TO AN EMPTY bed. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

  There was a knock on the front door. Her heart pounded. Who knew they were here? “Duke,” she hissed. “Where are you?” Maybe Duke had turned her in for some kind of revenge. No, revenge wasn’t his style. Maybe he'd gone for a walk and locked himself out. Yeah. She pulled on her jeans and slipped out the bedroom door, as the doorbell rang and the knocking repeated even louder.

  “Shit,” she muttered. “Who is it?” she called, as if this happened every day.

  The knocking turned to banging and it sounded like someone leaned into the doorbell. “Open the fucking door or we’ll shoot it open.” The voice was not Duke’s.

  Lizzie gritted her teeth. Her brain fast forwarded through the scene playing out in her mind. “Just a minute. I’m getting dressed.”

  She pulled on her jacket, slipping down the hall to the back of the house. She poked the curtains apart so she could see a tiny hairline slice of the backyard. She saw movement. Damn. Out of options she went back to the front door.

  “I’m alone. And I’m pregnant.” Maybe that last would get her some preferential treatment. Seemed to be the only thing sacred in this new world.

  She slipped the slider catch chain out of the slot, turned the deadbolt, and undid the latch on the door knob. Then she turned it and opened it up. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “Stay out of the way.” The lead guy growled, shoving her aside. His machine gun ready at his hip, he slid into the room, motioning other armed men in after him.

  The cold air gusted in with the men. They streamed down the hall, nervous as hell. They looked straight out of a video game.

  Lizzie was glad she’d put the jacket on, the cold air sliced through the thin material. She went to close the door.

  “Leave that open,” The leader ordered.

  “It’s cold.”

  “I’m not worried about the cold right now.”

  Lizzie hauled an old afghan throw off the back of the couch.

  “All clear,” came a voice from down the hall.

  “Post someone at the back door, K-Rod. Pierson, front door. Everybody else, follow the tracks.” He’d been checking Lizzie out as he gave orders. He cleared his throat and spoke more softly. “Okay. So do tell why a pregnant girl is out here all alone in renegade country.”

  Lizzie tried to think of something clever to say—but she was all out.

  A soldier slid past him onto the porch.

  “Let’s try this again.” The leader shut the door, and sat on the couch, affecting a smile that was meant to put her at ease. “I’m Lieutenant Carillo. Have a seat.”

  Lizzie sat on the couch, wrapped in the blanket. The leader was hardly older than Lizzie; he was Hispanic, but he pronounced his name like a gringo. Was it because he’d run out of patience correcting people, or because he was totally out of touch with his roots?

  “Lizzie. Gooden-Guerrero,” she said, emphasizing the Spanish pronunciation, the way her father taught her.

  His eyebrow raised. Without saying anything more he walked back to the door and opened it. He whispered something to the kid he’d called Pierson. Then he closed the door and moved to the recliner against the wall facing Lizzie and the door.

  “Well. I guess we got lucky. Your father’s worried about you.”

  Lizzie’s guts twisted, the beginning of tears in her nostrils. “Is he with you?”

  Carillo shook his head. “We’re in contact with him.”

  Lizzie stared at him doubtfully. Had her father really sent the army after her?

  “I don’t like the implications of you being here, Ms. Goodin-Guerrero. Our intelligence report from Provo suggested a dangerous murderer and traitor was holed up here. And now we find you. Alone. Were you involved in his actions at the Olmsted Power Station? Did you help him escape? Where is he?”

  She bit her lip and said nothing.

  There was a knock at the door. Lizzie started. Carillo’s mouth was a grim line. “Come in.”

  The door opened and two more soldiers in white and gray camo came into the room stomping off their boots on the rug.

  “Duke Madison’s not here,” Carillo continued, “Got folks following the track out the back door. No sign of him your way?”

  “No sign,” said the first soldier.

  “Waters?” Carillo motioned the other soldier toward him. “Go through the bedrooms. Anything that might give a clue, bring it to me.”

  “Bring the girl to our temporary HQ. We’ll bring her into Provo when we find Madison. I’m not willing to spare the man-power.”

  Lizzie had no interest in being this guy’s trophy. None of the guns in the room were pointed at her, but she didn’t feel like she had much choice, for now.

  Lizzie slid open the window. The screen was in tatters so she didn’t have to pull it out. She didn’t see a way to climb down, but saw a way to climb up. An abandoned two-story apartment building made the perfect temporary HQ for these Army numbskulls. They thought they were so clever making a second floor apartment their personal prison ward. Who would have thought a pregnant girl would ever escape out a window with a two-story drop.

  She swung across to the neighboring window, which still had iron bars encasing it. She hung precariously between them for a moment, then got a firm hold and swung the rest of the way. She stood there with her feet on the bottom cross bar, staring into the empty room. Thank God it wasn’t their main office or something. She would have to be careful.

  Once out onto the roof, she longed for her backpack and a proper coat. The February air was still too chilly to only be out in a jacket. She looked out over the roof’s edge. There were men coming and going at the front of the building, but not the back. She could climb down unseen.

  Climbing buildings while pregnant. Crazy Lizzie, what the hell are you doing? She was good at crazy—and running away. Those were her special talents. She went to the back wall, and considered her route.

  She had trouble putting her dad out of her mind. Gone since she was three, and now he was allowed to be the over-protective father? That didn’t fly well with her. But what would she do in his place? Probably the same thing.

  She could see a way down. It involved more window bars, the drainpipe, and a small overhang on a first-floor extension. She tested the edge of the roof under the gutters. The slant wasn’t too bad, bu
t falling most of two stories would not be good for the baby, or her.

  She walked along the edge of the roof to the corner, where she had the best chance of getting down safely She swung and shimmied her way down to the overhang, not even stopping to check the windows for activity. If they spotted her, they spotted her, but if she was fast enough, they might not.

  She slid on her butt down the asphalt shingles of the overhang, then hung from the gutters, with her legs dangling. There should only be a short drop.

  Come on, Crazy Lizzie, jump.

  A bolt holding the gutter in place snapped, and the whole apparatus groaned under her weight.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and let go.

  Her feet hit the wood of a small garden storage bin, and the thud was loud. She swore silently, waiting in a crouched position to see if anyone came to investigate.

  No one came. Other than distant barking, the night was quiet.

  Lizzie breathed for a moment, then slid into the shadows, moving as quickly as she could. Her heart pounded with elation.

  When she’d gone a few blocks, she reached for her phone and found nothing, then she remembered the soldiers had taken both her phones. Her jaw clenched. “I won't cry about my god-damned phone.” But without the phone she was cut off from everyone. How was she supposed to arrange a meetup with Rachael to help them escape? Her entire plan—not that it was much of a plan—hinged on her being able to contact Rachael.

  Now I'm finally really alone. And really fucked.

  Lizzie stumbled. Snowflakes swirled around her as another storm whipped up. Her flashlight flickered. It had seen better days. She’d found it in the storage bin along with a pair of wicked looking garden clippers that she thought would make a good last ditch defense.

  In her efforts to foil pursuers she had become somewhat lost. She walked down another country road with a noticeable absence of mailboxes. Freezing; and dressed entirely wrong for the weather. She should have stayed in the old Farmhouse instead of chasing after Duke. Stupid Lizzie.

  There had to be another house, or a town. She was somewhere between Provo and Salt Lake City; it should have been wall to wall suburbia. Her head was swimming. How long had it been since she’d eaten? She had to get food and shelter soon, or she was going to be just another secondary casualty of the plague.

  A light flashed ahead. She waved her flashlight back and forth. Was it reflecting off something? Her pace quickened. Maybe a car to take shelter from the storm. Maybe...food.

  Her flashlight blinked and went out.

  The light in front of her remained steady. A crazy laugh escaped her throat and strangled off. Now she was seeing things.

  Up ahead the light swung, as though turning away from her.

  “Help,” Lizzie croaked, but the weather swallowed up the sounds.

  She ran forward, waving her hands with difficulty. Her arms seemed almost frozen. “Help me, please.” She didn’t care anymore about collectors, renegades, independents, zombies or aliens. As long as there was food and warmth.

  The light pointed directly in her eyes and then split into two lights spreading away from each other. Thw world spun up to greet her.

  “Hallo?” A gruff voice broke through the storm. It sounded familiar.

  Lizzie’s throat tightened; she tried to answer. No. Tears flowed down her icy cheeks.

  “Lizzie?” Arms encircled her.

  “Mama?”

  “No. It’s Duke. Thought I’d never find you.”

  “Duke?” She collapsed. “I didn’t tell them, Duke.”

  “Come on you gotta help me—you’re too heavy to carry.” Duke’s strong shoulder steadied her, supporting her under her arm.

  She wanted to tell him to fuck off, but she didn’t have the energy. He helped her to get her feet under her. They clumped down the street together. When she stumbled he pushed her on.

  A red brick wall rose out of the snow in front of them, he guided her around the building.

  Lizzie relaxed as she saw the back door, propped open with a flattened cardboard box. Duke pulled it open and kicked the box inside. The warmth bathed her. But then it was too warm and, as the feeling returned to her fingers and toes, everything started to burn like it was on fire, but still frozen at the same time.

  Duke guided her to a couch and wrapped a blanket around her. He scrabbled at her clothing. Lizzie batted him away.

  “You need to get warm and dry,” Duke’s voice was tough. “Let me help you.”

  His hands were insistent and Lizzie gave up. She was so tired. The floor tilted to the side; her stomach lurched. “Water.”

  He placed a Dixie cup of water into her hands, and Lizzie let out a little cry as it jostled her painful fingers. The pain was worse than anything she’d ever felt. She imagined her fingers were frozen solid and a feather’s touch would shatter them like glass.

  She sipped the water gingerly, and the pain began to subside.

  Before she passed out completely she said, “You found me. How?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  LIZZIE LAY IN THE WELCOME warmth of Duke’s friendly arms. He had found her after doubling back and listening in on radio communications. Lizzie wasn’t the kind to put much stock in miracles, but this was pretty close to an honest to goodness miracle.

  And he had something she needed very badly—his GlenPhone.

  She held the precious device in her hands for a moment before calling Rachael. This one didn’t have her saved voice-mails, but it provided the crucial communication she needed to set her shoot-from-the-hip rescue plan in motion.

  She dialed.

  “Lizzie,” Rachael’s usual calm had been replaced by a tone bordering on hysteria. “There are troops driving through town, I am pretty sure they’re Independents. They’re taking over.”

  Shit. How many groups were involved here? The men who had captured Lizzie were not Independents, they were true Army. She’d heard them say something was happening in Provo that they needed to stay out of until the dust settled.

  “Okay, Rach. Relax. No one is going to hurt you or Saj. Remember, to these nut-balls you are the future.”

  “Okay. Okay” Rachael was taking deep breaths. “You’re right.”

  Lizzie’s brain flitted from thought to thought. Could she give good enough directions to Rachael to get her to the safe house? It didn’t seem likely. She could walk there if she was in town, but she hadn’t written down an address for the obvious reasons. It was a secret.

  “Have they taken the militia? DiSilvio?” She hesitated asking about her dad. If he’d been killed in the fighting, she didn’t want to hear it.

  “I don’t know. They’re making everyone stay indoors and prohibiting anyone from gathering in groups. I heard shouting outside. I’m not really sure how many militia are left. Most of them went off to the solar plant.”

  “Rachael, stay where you are. See if you can get Jess to come to you. Nev, too. Anyone else you know and trust, who might be looking for a way out?”

  “Not sure.” Rachael’s voice clipped off in a half-sob.

  “Okay. You’ll be fine. Stay indoors. Start gathering as many people as you can. Tell them to stick to the back alleys and only come in ones and twos. Keep your Glenphone nearby. As soon as I have a meeting place, I’ll call and we’ll get everybody the fuck out of there.”

  “Do you really think we can pull it off?”

  “Yes, Rachael. We have to. Bye.” Lizzie hated to cut her off, but she had a rescue to plan. Which was the crux of it. So far her plan was to have Rachael bring everyone to some not-yet-determined location, and get them the fuck out. It was pretty lacking in details. She put the phone in her pocket and turned to Duke.

  “You sure you know what we’re getting into?” he asked. “We’re free now. If we go back, we might not be.”

  “Absolutely,” Lizzie said, snatching the map of Provo from his hands. “You don’t have to come.”

  “Of course I do. They’re my friends, too.�
�

  The truck jostled Mannie back and forth. His knee was giving him shit like a nagging wife.

  At this point, he knew they were probably heading into a trap. He never should have let DiSilvio convince him to leave. The sneaky bastard. If he was behind all this, Mannie would personally wring his scrawny neck. But it wasn’t like he had a choice. Provo was in chaos without Mr. Ray, and even more so without the power back on. If they were going to convince everyone that things could return to normal, they had to have their power back.

  But that wasn’t possible now. If there were Independents poised to, or already in the process of taking over Provo, there was no returning to normal. He could turn the transport around and go back. But looking around at the riff raff of the militia he had with him, he doubted any of them would make a difference. The only thing they were likely to do well was die.

  The only thing to do now was go forward. Turn the lights on, even if it was just for the new upstarts to see their victory more clearly.

  He tried stretching his knee out far enough to give himself some relief and ended up kicking the militiaman across from him. The young man sprung awake, hands scrambling for a thankfully absent weapon.

  “Sorry,” Mannie hissed. “Damn leg.”

  The kid focused on him, backing down from red alert. “No worries.”

  Most of the kids were sleeping. At least that was like the real military. Those who weren’t looked wired. Trigger-happy was another phrase that popped into his head. This was a fucking recipe for disaster. These raw recruits were as likely to shoot each other as take out the enemy. All the more reason not to tell them this was anything more than a routine mission to flip a switch.

  Why the fuck wouldn’t DiSilvio listen to reason?

  Mannie snorted. He hadn’t listened to Mr. Ray who’d been his boss and his friend. Why would he listen to Mannie or Foote? The asshole had delusions of grandeur. Calling himself the Redeemer—more like the Pretender.

  The troop transport rattled. Middle of fucking winter. And they were in green fatigues. They’d stand out like a sore thumb. Clown costumes for a troop of clowns. The truck ground to a halt. Mannie’s radio popped. “Murder Six. We’re here.”