The storage shed hadn't been affected. He could pull out stuff in there and use that space. He should also pack the truck in case he needed to leave in a hurry.
He went back inside and dressed quickly. He put on his hiking boots and slid a gun belt through the loops of his jeans then added a holster and magazine pouch for his Glock 19.
From the gun safe he took out the pistol and two loaded magazines. He slipped one magazine into the gun and the other into the belt pouch. Then he racked the slide of the pistol, chambering a round, before holstering it.
He found his daypack and refilled the water bottles and put an MRE in with them. He stashed the remaining open case of MREs and a gallon of water in the truck. He hid his Walther PPK in the glove box as well and then locked the truck.
He stored the rest of the MREs, water, and extra ammo in the shed. He also dug out his sleeping bag, pad, and tent from the back of the closet and placed them in there as well.
As an afterthought, he decided to tuck in the twelve gauge shotgun, too. Just in case. Then he padlocked it shut. Everything else would wait. The next move would be based on what he found in and around town.
Now the question became whether to take the truck or not. Checking out the town proper would involve several miles of walking, which he had no problem with. Walking would draw less attention but it would be slow. Taking the truck would be faster but would use up precious fuel. Then there was the matter of the bridge and its condition.
If he couldn't cross the bridge with his truck, then bugging out to Cherry Ridge wouldn't be an option. The bridge sat seven miles away. Round trip, including time to scout the span, would take him the better part of the day on foot. He didn't have time to waste. Every day that went by became one less day of food and water.
Thinking of Cherry Ridge made him think of Jim, of course, and his heart sank. He had no idea if Jim survived. If he had, he was at least a three hour drive away at highway speed. If the roads in Philadelphia looked anything like his road then that three hour drive might take two days. That assumed he had a working car. If he had to walk, that could take a week or more.
He couldn't bear to think of that situation any longer. He needed to focus on the tasks at hand. He'd drive to the bridge. If the roads were okay then he would take the long way around and swing through town.
If things were bad then he'd come straight back. While out, he would keep an eye out for Olga's daughter's car. Chances were he would never find her, but he had to try.
He climbed into the truck and cranked the engine. The engine stuttered but caught and started. He shook his head and looked grim. That wasn't a comforting sound. He could kick himself for not getting a new battery.
He sat for a moment running his fingertips back and forth across his lip in a gesture of worried thought. He took a deep breath, put the truck in gear, and rolled slowly out of the driveway.
He couldn't drive faster than ten miles an hour, though in some places he dared as high as twenty. The houses along his road looked to be in similar condition to his cottage and his neighbor’s homes.
It looked as if some giant tried pulling out the table cloth of a fully set table but wasn't quite fast enough. He came to the intersection of the main road and headed south toward the bridge.
This next section of road ran fairly straight emphasizing how all the power line poles leaned in various directions. Barely a hundred feet down the road, the red barn that served as an antique shop had been pretty much cleaved in half by an enormous old black locust tree. Further down, the house set up on a small hill had slipped off its foundation and leaned at almost a forty-five degree angle.
A couple stood back staring at it in wonder. They watched him as he drove by and he lifted his hand to wave but they didn't acknowledge him.
The rest of the trip to the bridge was filled with similar sights. A small strip mall looked not only damaged by the quake but also like it had been looted. As he got within two miles or so of the bridge, he began to come across abandoned cars here and there. Then it got to were they blocked the road and the shoulder and he had to drive around, going off the road for a bit. In two cases he actually had to push cars out of the way with his truck.
About two hundred yards from the entrance ramp, it became clear that he wasn't going to drive any further. He cut the engine, grabbed his pack off the passenger seat, and locked the vehicle. Walking between cars, he headed for the bridge on foot. The scene looked like it had been total chaos.
Some cars heading for the bridge decided to turn around by making a u-turn in the middle of the road. People going the other way must have come upon them suddenly because there were several t-bone accidents.
The cars involved were badly mangled and had cracked windows with caked on blood. Gore and debris littered the road. A man's legs in tan pants with bright white sneakers stuck out from behind one of the vehicles as if he'd decided to take a nap on the road. Turnello resisted the urge to look.
To get to the bridge's pedestrian walkway, he'd have to cross an overpass with the highway underneath it. From there he would have a good view of the whole scene and decide if things warranted a closer look.
Directly before the overpass lay the intersection and entrance ramp piled with vehicles the likes of which Turnello hadn't even seen in the movies. At least twenty cars were involved.
It looked like people had panicked and just tried to get away in whatever direction they happened to be going and crashed every which way. In fact it looked like the only way to get past it would be to climb over the mangled mess. It seemed like some had occupants, though none looked alive.
Fairly close to the entrance ramp stood a gas station and movement there caught his eye. Two men, clearly armed, held a sheet of plywood and tried to figure out how to best secure the place. They eyed him suspiciously.
He waved to them and one gave a curt nod. Other than the couple he passed miles back, these were the only other signs of life. That seemed somewhat strange. He thought there would have been more people.
Trying to decide on a path over the mess, he heard a distinct thump of something against glass. Looking into the cars nearby he noticed the movement of a driver in the middle of the road who had rear ended someone and had been rear ended by someone else and they were all still jammed together. The car looked familiar and the thought of who it might be made him sick.
He climbed over the hood of a few autos and dropped into a space on the passenger side of the car. Peering through the window, he could see a woman with her head slumped over against the window. Was it her? Was she Olga's daughter, Michele? She was barely recognizable.
He swung open the passenger door as far as it would go, which was part way. He was greeted by a soft moan and the awful stench of a pit toilet on a summer's day.
He stepped back and took several breaths of fresh air and then ducked into the car and undid the woman's seat belt. He worked it around her and out of the way.
In the process she mumbled incoherent things. Unable to hold his breath any longer he backed out into the fresh air again and this time took off his pack and got out a bottle of water and went back in. He held her head and tried pouring some into her mouth, though most of it spilled into her lap. She coughed a bit and seemed to come to, her eyes opening and closing lazily.
"Michele. Michele, it’s Turnello. You're going to be okay. Tell me where you're hurt?" he asked, wishing he could speak without breathing.
She mumbled something he couldn't understand.
"Do you want more water?"
She nodded and tried lifting her hands for the bottle but lacked the strength and coordination. He poured more water into her mouth and this time she got a lot down.
"Legs," she said in a hoarse voice, "think my legs...legs are...broken."
"Okay, I to have to get you out of this car and I'm not going to lie to you. It's probably going to hurt like hell but that beats dying, right?"
She nodded. He knew this would be impossible to do alone
and even with help they might do more damage than good but he couldn't leave her there.
He stepped out of the car. Looking toward the gas station, the sheet of plywood leaned against the plate glass window and the men were nowhere to be seen.
"I'll be right back. Need some help." When he turned to go around the back of the car, he noticed off in the distance a lone figure shuffled toward him. He climbed over cars as necessary and made his way toward the gas station.
As he got to the edge of the property, the two men came around the corner with another sheet of plywood. They didn't notice him but when he called out they were startled and dropped the plywood and drew their pistols.
He froze in his tracks and put his hands up directly in front of him, palms out. It looked like he surrendered but he could draw and fire his Glock in under two seconds. Of course with his hands trembling like they were, that might not go as smooth as when he practiced at the range.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, take it easy, guys."
"Stay away," one yelled with an Indian accent. He was tall, thin, and olive skinned with a pencil thin mustache.
"There is a woman who is hurt and needs help--"
"We cannot help you," yelled the other.
"All I'm asking is for one of you to help me get her out of the car." Turnello yelled with impatience and anger creeping into his voice. For a brief moment he thought about drawing and shooting both the bastards but before he could the gas station main entrance opened.
"Sahib!" the man cried out from the doorway. He shouted something in Hindi to the men and waved at them to lower their guns. They looked confused at first and then visibly relaxed. Turnello sighed in relief and waved to his friend.
A woman's scream from behind startled him.
He turned to find a man, the man he had seen in the distance, jerking the woman out of the car and then, to everyone's shock, bit a hunk of flesh out of her neck causing blood to spurt all over.
David goes for a walk in the desert - Morning, Tue Sep 3
The desert soil crunched beneath David and his captor's boots with every step. The morning air chilled exposed skin and it seemed strange to think that in a few hours it would be uncomfortably hot.
David led the way and the man followed with his rifle across his arms. They wound their way through a landscape dotted with huge saguaro and smaller teddy bear cholla. David watched a cactus wren land nearby and call out its harsh cha cha cha song before flitting away. It seemed like everything in the desert was inhospitable and waiting to prick at you, even the sounds of the songbirds.
They had been walking for at least twenty minutes with the man correcting their course every so often. David's wrists ached from the power cord that bound them. He tired from the impromptu hike.
"Where are we going?" he called out.
"Shut up and keep walking."
"If you're going to kill me then, please, get it over with. I'd rather not die exhausted."
"You know for a doctor you sure are a dumbass. Stop here. We'll take five." The man sat on a large rock and lit up a cigarette. "Well, go on. Sit down."
David leaned against the rock and looked around trying to figure out where they were and where they might be going. The direction they seemed to be heading made no sense since there wasn't anything but open desert in that direction for miles.
"Let me ask you something, Doc, with all the billions of planets out there do you think we're the only ones alive and kicking?" He scratched his nose and dug in it with the end of his pinky.
"No, I never said that." David looked on with disgust.
"Then why is it so hard to believe I have met and killed an alien?"
"Don't take this the wrong way, but why would they travel as far as they did to get here just to visit you?"
The man laughed. "That's a good question. I wish I knew. Better yet, I wish it happened to someone else." He stood and crushed out the cigarette butt. "Okay, let's get going. Come on, that way."
They walked another twenty minutes until they came to the edge of a small clearing. The man gestured for David to stay put while he circled the edge looking intently at the ground. He stopped and squatted a few times searching for something. After a few minutes he cried out, "Goddammit! Goddammit!" He kicked at the soil and screamed at the sky in frustration. "You motherfuckers! You goddamn motherfuckers!"
David thought this might be an opportune time to get away and yet he felt overwhelmed by a sense of curiosity. "What is it?"
"It's gone."
"What's gone?"
"The body. The alien I killed. It was here," he said pointing to a spot on the ground, "and now it's gone."
David walked over to the man. Beside him was a shallow depression on the ground that could have once contained anything. He searched the area surrounding and noticed odd looking fragments. They were bits of something he could not discern. Then he noticed the sand looked like droplets had fallen on it.
"Untie my hands," he said. The man looked unsure. "Untie my hands, for heaven's sake!" The man relented and loosened the power cord around his hands so he could slip out of it. David poked at the small fragments with a small twig from a nearby brush.
Maybe he had watched too many television crime dramas because he suddenly wished he had some Ziploc bags and a camera to document the area. Of course he had no crime lab to take them to be analyzed. Still...
"I don't suppose you have any plastic baggies do you?" The man thought for a second and then took off his small backpack and rummaged through it. After a minute he managed to find a small sandwich baggie and handed it to David. Holding it up David noticed the sandwich crumbs and mustard smears and so turned it inside out. He walked around with the twig and tried to flick as many of the fragments he could into the bag.
"What are you doing?" the man asked.
"I am not exactly sure." That was the truth as far as David was concerned. He had no idea why he bothered since he didn't believe that whatever the man saw was actually an alien. He felt sure that the depression in the sand had been caused by some animal and these fragments were from nearby vegetation.
He poked at the ground where the droplets had fallen. The sand there seemed to clump together and adhere to the end of his stick as if it had a honey dripped consistency. He put that in the bag too.
"Did you notice where the ship landed," the man said pointing to a place about twenty feet away.
David looked where he pointed but didn't see anything. "Ship? You never mentioned a ship?"
"Well, now how else would they have gotten here? A cab?"
David looked at the man askance and shook his head. Walking to the alleged landing zone he studied the ground. The first peculiar thing were two perfectly round spots about eighteen inches in diameter on the ground about four or five feet apart.
He examined them closely, first poking one and then the other with his stick. They were solid and looked almost like the bottoms of massive glass bottles. That seemed incredibly strange considering they were a significant way into the middle of nowhere. His heart flip-flopped and a tightness appeared in his stomach.
"Did you actually see this ship?" David asked.
"Yeah, but not up close this time, only through binoculars."
"This time?"
"Don't ask."
"What did it look like?"
"Uh, well, it was this dull metallic looking oval. It's real hard to see because it sort of reflects the color and shapes in the landscape around it."
David started walking toward the man when he noticed another peculiar thing. It wasn't clear at first because the vegetation in this area was sparse but there was a curved line of plants that were partly withered with spots and pink streaks.
In fact, when he stood next to him, it became apparent that the curved line of withering was actually an oval. They both stared until David noticed something else wrong.
The area was completely void of insects and other animals. The tightness in David's stomach turned into a fist. "I think w
e should get out of here," he said and began to back away.
"Why?"
"I've got a really bad feeling about this."
The man's eyes widened and he swallowed hard as he felt his mouth suddenly dry. David broke into a jog and the man followed along. They got about a hundred yards and slowed to a walk. David suddenly realized he had no idea where he was going.
"Which way?" he panted.
The man stopped and looked around. "That way," he pointed. David began to walk but he stopped him. "Wait, what in the hell was that all about?"
David paused for a moment sighing deeply. "I have no idea what it was you saw but I think the area we were in is radioactive or has been exposed to radiation."
"Why do you say that?"
"Some of the signs I saw. There will be no doubt one way or the other in a short time."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if it was radioactive and we were exposed, we are going to get sick soon. The more radiation the sooner we will get sick and the worse it will be."
"How bad could it be?"
"Death."
"We could die?" the man said with wide eyes.
"In a nutshell, yes."
"Fuck."
"Exactly, now...what is your name?"
"People call me Skeeter."
"Uh, okay, Skeeter, we really should get moving because getting sick out in the open desert is not a good idea."
"Fuck," he repeated and then took off running. David followed closely behind.
Neither of the men would be described as athletic so the run back to the observatory became punctuated with frequent breathless pauses. By the time they arrived at the base of the hill both were doubled over and panting, with mouths as dry as a cardboard.
They each had numerous pinprick wounds cause by cacti brushing against them in their haste. Skeeter set his rifle down and dropped his pack. He pulled out a bottle of water and with just a few gulps, drank half. He handed the bottle to David who nearly choked in the process of downing the rest.
The last leg of their journey, several hundred yards of an uphill climb, seemed like a cruel joke. They were both spent and yet with death as the ultimate motivator they found the energy to climb.
A Bad Day (Book 1): A Bad Day Page 6