Once inside, she saw it wasn’t too bad. It had been looted, but that was a good thing. Anything of value had already been taken—there was no reason to return to this place. It was dry and basically clean. There was a couch she could tip over and lie beneath, maybe sleep under through the day if that was possible, then search for Coru once darkness returned. She tipped the couch against the wall and shoved it closer to the front door. In this position, she could crawl out one end and escape out the door if necessary. She checked out the whole place, planning two more possible escape routes before stuffing her gear under the couch.
Then she went into the bathroom and studied her face in the mirror. Yup. He’d punched her a good one, all right. The left side of her face was swollen, her jaw and cheek sporting a lovely purple bruise. There was a trace of blood at the corner of her mouth. She must have cut the inside of her cheek with her teeth and bled. When she got Coru back, she would be returning his gift in kind.
Tears suddenly blurred her vision. Please let me find him. Please keep him safe. She turned on the water and leaned over the sink, gently washing away the blood and her tears. This was not the time for tears — this was the time for a plan. The streaming water warmed, then grew hot. There was hot water here?
She turned on the shower, testing. Yes. Stretching her sensors, she only encountered dreamers. It would be safe — if she were quick about it. She stripped, and stood under the hot water, absorbing its heat, concentrating on releasing the tension in her limbs, letting go of useless emotion, growing calmer. She needed to be laser focused now — no miss steps.
There was no soap of course, but the water was enough. She stood under the shower head until the water cooled and she’d emptied the tank. These people had not had hot water on demand, obviously, but she wasn’t complaining about their outdated system.
She dried off with her T-shirt, then tiptoed naked into the living room, rummaged around for a clean set of clothes and donned them, stuffing her soiled ones into her pack. Parting the curtains slightly, she glanced out the window. It was full light now and minds were stirring. Not on this street, but the next block up.
She refilled her water bottle from the kitchen tap and returned to the living room. She pulled a bag of Mattea’s and Catherine’s trail mix from her pack and sat cross legged on the floor, not ready yet to crawl under the couch. She tossed a handful into her mouth and pulled out her hand-drawn map. Chewing thoughtfully, she considered where, if she was a crazy-assed monster in a frightened little town, would she set up shop. She knew right away.
He’d be near the highway — not right on the highway, but close. Not the mall — too big, too hard to defend with too many exits. Not one of the big box stores, too confining, one entrance in the front, one in the back. Not big enough. Plus, they were wrecked.
Not a restaurant… a vision of the Ice Cream Palaces’ walk in freezer flashed through her mind and she shoved it away.
He would want cooking capability, right? A despot and his lackeys gotta eat.
She smiled. The Walmart. Nice and big, lots of shelving to shove around and section off areas. Sleeping area, meeting area, with plenty of storage for all a man could confiscate or steal. There were coolers and freezers in the grocery area. The MacDonald’s is in there, so a place to cook, to eat. Limited entrances; easy to defend. Nice big parking space to gather people and tell them what to do, and close to his own private killing fields, the crucifixions lining the Alaska Highway, which were, for the most part, in view of potential audiences. Good visual effects to back up his words, should anyone doubt his commitment to keeping power.
Yup, if she were a despot, that’s where she’d be.
But would Curtis keep prisoners there?
Nope. He’d keep them … Her eyes wandered the map and stopped at the police station. There. They had lockable cells in the police station. She knew the area well. She’d worked the local crime column for six months — interviewed more than a few cops, had the tour, bought the T-shirt. She grinned mirthlessly.
What should be her first move? She needed to stow their gear in a safe place. She needed to travel light — only water and weapons, and she needed to hear from Coru. She considered the couch. Did she really need to sleep? Probably. Would she sleep? Absolutely not. Could she travel safely in daylight? Safer than most – she could clear her way by traveling only where there was no mental activity. Could she out-run them? No. Time to risk Beastette.
Forget sleeping —never going to happen. She pulled all their gear from beneath the couch. Coru had a weapon in here … She searched his pack, then his jacket and found the strange weapon. Exo-Taser. She’d have to be close for it to work. She flipped it on and tested it, touched it to the leg of the couch. It sizzled and snapped on contact. Oh yes. This would do nicely.
Leaving her crossbow tied to her pack, she hitched one backpack over each shoulder, stepped to the open back door and scanned the area. It was safe. She headed toward Beastette, staying in back lanes, maintaining a steady pace, scanning as she ran, jogging away from populated streets, sticking to vacant streets, completely focused on one idea. First Beastette, then Coru. Beastette, then Coru. Beastette. Coru. Beastette. Coru. She ran in time with the two words in her head, keeping the faith she was making the right move.
In under an hour, she’d reached Beastette. The steady little tranny was exactly where they’d left her. Wren wanted to weep with gratitude at seeing her. She tossed their two bags in back and started her up. Full charge. All right! She folded up the charger panels and stowed them. Now she took the time to arm herself. A knife through her belt at the small of her back, a blade at her ankle, under her clothes. Coru’s wonderful little Exo-Taser hung from a strap around her wrist and was safely tucked up her right sleeve. A bottle of water hung from her belt. Her crossbow she would carry along with one arrow at the ready, the others in the sheath slung across her back. All quiet killers. She couldn’t bring attention to what she was doing. She didn’t stop to wonder if she would actually kill someone—she already knew she could. A scary and humbling realization.
She would not leave Rushton without Coru.
She hung her night vision goggles from her neck for later.
Awkwardly armed, she gingerly climbed back into the driver’s seat, and guided Beastette out from her hiding place into the open and scanned ahead for her best route. Down 103rd Avenue all the way to 105 Street was clear. That put her only five blocks away from the cop shop on 100 Street. She’d hide Beastette in a garage nearby.
The perfect garage presented itself to her. She backed Beastette inside, ready to drive forward and away, leaving the door ajar. Beastette was lost in the dark interior.
On foot, she approached the cop shop, scanning for thoughts. It quickly became apparent Curtis was an overconfident guy. He’d only stationed two of his lackeys here at the cop shop, and judging from their thoughts, they were not the sharpest tools in the tool shed.
Drawing closer, she studied the street and the police station across 100 Street from where she hid beside city hall. No one was about. Where was everyone? Judging by the sun, it had to be midmorning by now. Why wasn’t anyone here?
She scanned the two minds—there were three inside—the two guards and one prisoner – her heart leapt. Coru! This prisoner stirred, shifting his gaze to the barred window. Not Coru. This man’s name was Randy. He’d needed food for his wife. His crime was talking to a woman owned by … someone named Jeb, who was Number two … Her interest waned. Not Coru. What she needed was information about Coru.
But her mind snapped back. Women were owned in Rushton?
She fought back debilitating disappointment at not finding Coru, and continued to mine these brains for information. This man, the prisoner, was vacillating between joy and despair. He’d been scheduled to be crucified this morning, but had received a last-minute reprieve. Some other poor sucker—.
Wren jerked away from his thoughts to the two guards, sifting for information about the newest sou
l to be publicly crucified, her heart pounding out her horror so loudly she could barely pick up their thoughts. Please God, not Coru.
The two guards had not seen the newest law-breaker, some guy from outside of Rushton was all they knew.
Wren swayed.
They were pissed they’d missed the crucifixion—.
Missed! It had already occurred!! Wren dropped to her knees in the city hall doorway, her head swimming with nausea. Don’t let this be the reason she could not hear Coru’s mind.
And now there was the celebration to follow, a big-assed rally, with food and beer and women. And they were stuck here with this loser …
She staggered to her feet and turned to leave, but stopped at hearing their new plan to entertain themselves.
They’d beat on this guy, claim he’d tried to escape, maybe. The boss wouldn’t care. One less…
Something broke inside Wren. Something soft and precious.
She faced the cop shop and stalked across the street, her bow loaded. There many things she couldn’t do, but this wasn’t one of them. She pulled open the door. Startled, the pair whirled to face her. She let loose the first arrow, hitting the first in his torso. He went down without a whisper of protest. In a flash, she was armed again, the second arrow making target the same as the first. This man didn’t go quietly. He screamed and fought and dragged himself several feet across the floor, creating a wide crimson swath. She waited him out, scanning the cop shop for anything useful. Handcuffs might be nice. There were a couple of handguns, police issue, on a desk, but they were large and clumsy. If she were to carry a handgun, she’d prefer a small, sleek one, built for a lady. She snagged the cufflinks and a set of keys to go with. You never know. But what she really needed was in the property room. After a while, the second man on the floor stopped making sounds and lay still. She approached the two, looked down at them for a moment before grasping the arrows and pulling away from their bodies. One she got back, the second she couldn’t budge.
Abandoning the effort, she took the keys from the first man, went farther into the police station to cells. The prisoner was on his feet, staring at her when she arrived at his cell, his eyes wary. He was older than her, maybe in his mid-thirties, handsome, fit, and looked out of place here. He’d possibly lived a privileged life before the BSV hit and all hell broke out. She didn’t care a wit about his story so didn’t scan him. Wordlessly she unlocked the door and jerked her head for him to follow her. He blinked in surprised and jumped forward, hurrying after her. Back in the front office she pointed at the second arrow protruding from the second guard. “Get that out for me, will you, Randy? I can’t afford to lose any.” He blinked when she said his name, but stepped up and yarded valiantly at the arrow. It didn’t budge.
“Push it through then, pull it out from the other side.”
He stopped and stared at her, then nodded. Dropping onto his knees, he gripped the shaft of the arrow with both hands and shoved it through. It made a grizzly sound as it popped out the other side, tearing the fabric of the man’s shirt as it did. Randy glanced around for something to protect his hands. There was a jacket hung over a nearby chair. He grabbed it, wrapped it around the arrowhead, put his boot on the dead man’s back for leverage and pulled. He staggered back when the arrow came free. He looked at its crimson shaft then at Wren, then reached out hesitantly, keeping his distance and handed it to her. “H-here you go. Good as n-new.”
She accepted the arrow and wiped it clean on her pants. “I hope you’re right, Randy.” She nodded toward the two dead men. “These two had plans for you, Randy. Not good plans. If I were you, I’d head on back to your wife and find a different way to feed her. Rushton isn’t the answer.”
He nodded his head frantically, already backing away toward the door.
“Maybe find a deserted farm somewhere —.”
Randy was already gone.
No loss.
Wren went directly to the property room, unlocked it with the same set of keys she’d used to free ol’ Randy from a certain to be unpleasant end and found what she needed at once. She returned to Beastette, started her up and cleared a way to travel slowly and cautiously through town by digging into the surrounding minds, not trusting her telepathy a hundred percent after the hive-mind situation just before Coru’s capture. She’d been wrong to rely on it so completely.
There weren’t many minds here to read. She already knew why. They were down at the ‘rally’, eating some good barbecue. Elk ribs. Elk burgers. Elk steaks. They’d be a while.
She headed to where the first two guard’s thoughts had sent her — straight down to the highway and north toward Charlie Lake.
And just like they’d imagined it, she saw the fresh victim on the pole. Her heart stuttered in her chest, but she pressed it down. Not now. There was no time. He was naked, he was beaten, bloody, and unconscious. His head tilted to the left; she could still make out a few of his tattoos, under the cuts and smears of blood.
Most important detail: He was breathing.
That’s all that mattered to her.
She pulled Beastette alongside the pole, climbed on top of the roof with the bolt cutters she’d liberated from the property room — what’s a good B & E if not for bolt cutters? He would fall, but what choices did she have? None. He was unconscious. Maybe he wouldn’t break anything when he came down.
She clipped through the shackles round his ankles. Like butter. She clipped the shackle around his right wrist and his body slumped to the side, hanging by his left arm now. She saw fresh blood trail down that arm from his wrist. She wasn’t alarmed—she was in the zone. The new blood couldn’t be helped. She’d deal with it later.
She climbed off the Beastette’s roof, moved her over about two feet to where her best guess of where he’d fall from this new angle would be. She dragged all the blankets they had out of the back, tossed them onto the roof, climbed back up with the bolt cutters. She arranged the blankets in a pile, hoping her math was right, and this would be where he’d land. She reached up with the bolt cutters once again. This time the tool trembled in her hands, making it hard to get it into position, but after a few tries, she did. Before squeezing them closed around the last shackle, she checked the angle. Yup — this was as close as she could make it. She positioned herself between his body and Beastette, counting on taking the brunt of the impact with her own body and lessening the damage he sustained. Holding her breath, she clipped the shackle and Coru tumbled down on her, smacking her head on one of the cross bars. For a long moment all she saw was white, then watery black.
Do not pass out, Wren. You do not have the luxury of passing out.
She passed out.
27
MURDER OR JUSTICE
ONCE SADDLED UP to ride, Mattea was surprised to find Malcolm and Wyatt mounted up as well. Mattea shook his head. “Not today boys.”
Malcolm urged his horse forward. “I’m coming with you, or I’ll follow behind. You won’t stop me; I won’t stay put. Nobody makes my mom cry.”
Wyatt nodded in agreement, his face set as well. The boys were two peas in a pod; where you found one, you found the other. Now here they were, prepared to fight for what rightfully belonged to the family, and for Catherine, mother to them all and now in pieces. Could he deny them what he himself burned to do — bring justice to D.O.A.?
Mattea and Nicola exchanged glances then looked over at Dan and Sean. Both men shrugged.
“Let’s get started,” Dan said, swinging his horse away from the barn. “We’re losing light.”
Ninja, Ol’ Henry and Xena milled around the horse’s legs, anxious to start. Hero remained at Rhea’s side, where she stood, her little hand buried in the thick ruff at his neck, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Only an hour ago, she’d been swinging off the tire, demanding her brother push her higher, higher!
Catherine’s plan for a carefree day for the children, for the family, gone in a flash.
Mattea led the way, the bette
r tracker. He studied the ground, and quickly led the group through the trees by the edge of the boat launch, then right along the shore, heading south.
Dan rode next to Mattea. “That cow and calf won’t be liking these large stones. They’ll balk with every step and break away as soon as they can.”
Mattea nodded. “That’s what I figure. It’ll be slow going. They’ll either cut them loose, or we’ll get ‘em before long.”
Dan said, “I think Jarvis has seen too many movies — the old go through the river to cover your tracks trick.”
Mattea squinted against the late daylight dancing on the water, reflecting the pink streaks now stretching across the sky. “If they try to cross down by the flats, they’re in a world of trouble.”
“Nobody’s that stupid.”
Mattea glanced at Dan and away, but said nothing. What was there to say? They had to find Annie and Jarvis; their very survival depended upon it. They could hunt another elk, get smoking and drying again, but there were only a few weeks left of summer, with no way to replace what had been stolen. They could only safely smoke meat on overcast days. They couldn’t risk attracting others with their smoke. At the rate they were likely to be forced to work, they’d never recover enough for their numbers before the hard weather came through and locked things down for the season. As for all of Catherine’s preserves—the fruits and vegetables simply were no longer in the garden. They were done until next year.
What Annie and Jarvis had done was sentence them to possible starvation, plain and simple. He couldn’t help thinking if Wren had been here, she’d have learned of their plan and stopped it. Wren gone placed a huge part of their survival at risk.
He glanced at the setting sun, and wondered how Wren and Coru were doing in Rushton. The good news was they had each other. Wren could foresee what was coming at them, and Coru had the strength to stop a train if need be. They’d be okay. It was what they were returning to that had him worried. If he didn’t get their winter supplies back, how would he face his friend?
Lost Sentinel: Post-Apocalyptic Time Travel Adventure (Earth Survives Series Book 1) Page 31