Slow Burn | Book 10 | Firestorm

by Bobby Adair

  My head was still swimming. “Do you know how to get us out of here?”

  “I got an idea.”

  “Good. I don’t know if I can—”

  Murphy grabbed my arm and propelled me down an aisle between the jibs. “Just try to stay on your feet.”

  103

  I wasn’t super clear how we escaped from the jib hut, stole a pickup, and wound up in the middle of a plowed field under a blanket of twinkly stars. I’d dozed off on the ride. Or zoned out. All I was sure about was my skull felt like it was full of broken glass and Murphy stood atop a mound of dirt, pissing into a furrow.

  I said, “Hey,” because I’m eloquent like that.

  “So, you’re not dead.” He finished up and strolled back over to the truck. “One thing I can say for the end of the world, you can’t beat the night sky.”

  “Thanks.”

  Murphy shrugged. “You took one for the team when you zapped those yellows with the puck tools. At least, when I got there and saw everybody blubbering and puking that’s what I figured you did. You did do it on purpose, right?”

  I nodded, and immediately regretted the movement.

  “You gonna be okay?”

  “This truck didn’t come with a bottle of tequila, did it?”

  “‘Fraid not. I mean, I didn’t check it out, you know, before I bought it.” Murphy reached through my window and flipped open the glove box. It held gloves, several pair.

  “Huh.”

  Murphy laughed. Out in the middle of the field, there was no one to hear.

  I pulled in a deep breath and rubbed my temples. The puck was still attached. “You didn’t happen to steal the screwdriver to remove it, did you?”

  Murphy thumbed at some tools scattered on the back seat.

  “Murphy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Am I hallucinating, or is that a normal all tied up in the back seat?”

  “Yeah, that’s what it is.”

  “Do you think a hostage will make a difference when they come for us?”

  “That’s not a hostage,” Murphy told me. “That’s a talking road map. You know, because we don’t know where anything is around here.”

  I looked at the normal again.

  Murphy said, “Say something.”

  He said, “Don’t hurt me.”

  Murphy smiled proudly. “I told him he could only speak if spoken to.”

  “I’m guessing you did just a bit more than tell him.”

  Murphy grinned. “Some folks do what you ask. Some folks need a thump before they get what the deal is. Although, in your case, I guess neither works.”

  “So, what about these buzz bolts, then?”

  “I figure maybe we leave ‘em on.”

  “I’m not figuring much of anything at the moment, so why don’t you tell me why.”

  “We still gotta pick up Grace, Jazz, and Steph. Yellows running around with no puck will get noticed. With the buzz bolt still attached, we look like everyone else.”

  I was tempted to nod. Instead, I grimaced. “Makes sense.”

  “You okay, man? You look like shit.”

  “A million volts through your skull a couple of times in a row kinda sucks.”

  “I seriously doubt it was a million volts.”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “Not to a whiney ass, I guess.”

  A downside of Murphy’s puck idea occurred to me. “If we’re going to leave the buzz bolts on, we need to know for sure they won’t shock us.”

  Murphy groaned. “You’re kidding me. Tell me you’re kidding me.”

  “You know we have to know.” I pulled my door handle.

  Murphy stepped away so I could swing it open. “I’ve seen that martyr look before. Give me the clicker. We don’t both have to do this.”

  I swung my feet out and slid down to the dirt, steadying myself on the doorframe. I pointed out into the field. “I’ll head over there a ways and zap myself.”

  “No.”

  “It can’t be you, Murphy.”

  “You’ve taken two jolts already. If you take another, I’ll have to stop by the store and buy you some diapers.”

  “And if you take the zap, we’ll both be like I am right now.”

  “Only for a few hours,” Murphy argued. “You need to sit back down. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

  My head was clear enough to know we only had one option. “We’re on the clock, dude. After what went down at the jib hut, Billdo’s boneheads will put out the dragnet.” I drew a deep breath, because just talking seemed to wear me out. “If we don’t do all of this tonight, and get out of Happy Land by dawn, we won’t be getting out. Probably not ever.”

  “Don’t be a drama queen.”

  “Murphy, this is my third strike. Bill isn’t going to buy me a Big Mac and make nice this time.”

  “Wait. They have a McDonald’s in Taylor Town?”

  “We had barbecue.”

  “Why’d you say it was a Big Mac?”

  “Jesus, dude.” I started walking, made it five steps and turned. “If I zap out, you can find Jazz and Grace without my help. Hopefully, I’ll be functional by the time we go after Steph. If you zap out, with me already like this—” I didn’t need to say the rest again. I turned and walked on.

  “But—”

  “You know I’m right.”

  Murphy did let me go.

  I stumbled over the furrows, putting fifty, then a hundred feet between me and the pickup, before calling back to Murphy. “Go behind the truck and get down.”

  “You don’t have the range to—”

  “Just to be on the safe side. Please.”

  Murphy groaned and moved to the other side of the truck.

  As an extra precaution, I knelt on the ground, and pushed the clicker into the furrow below me. Would a mound of dirt add just enough protection for Murphy if I’d misjudged the range?

  “You do it yet?” Murphy called.

  “No.”

  “I thought you said we don’t have all night.”

  I gritted my teeth, tensed for the pain, and pushed the button.

  Nothing happened.

  I exhaled the breath I’d been holding. I clicked the zapper a few more times, just to be sure. My puck didn’t punish me. I stood, looked up at the stars, and thanked whichever ancient god ruled the apocalyptic world.

  “You good?” hollered Murphy.

  “Golden like a honey bear.”

  “Stop trying to say funny shit. You don’t have a sense of humor.”

  104

  We rolled into Camp Four with the headlights on, acting every bit like we were supposed to be there. Besides some tall trees scattered between the buildings, the place was laid out just like Stalag 17. Murphy parked the pickup in front of the armory and killed the engine.

  “You good to do this?” he asked me.

  “I was born good.”

  “Good better be real good, because I’m tired of dragging your limp ass around.”

  Murphy had our road map safety-belted onto the seat, and had added a gag a few miles back up the road. His wrists and ankles were still bound tight. “You gonna try and slip away, Houdini?”

  He shook his head.

  I didn’t figure any more needed to be said. Murphy had taken a moment earlier to lay out the threat/benefit contract—cooperate, and we’ll let you go unharmed, screw us over, and we’ll kill you. Murphy wasn’t the empty threat type of guy. I hated the idea of harming normals, normal normals anyway, obvious exceptions aside. At the same time, I hated New Tejas, and all who willingly contributed to the evil it stood for. Also, I didn’t particularly like the way the good normals of Balmorhea had found it so easy to forsake me.

  Murphy killed the engine, flung his door open and marched up to the armory door. I followed, clicker-zapper in hand. He stepped back to kick the door open, and I stopped him, instead opening it quietly with the handle. “There’ll be plenty of time later for pande
monium.”

  “This advice, coming from you?” Murphy laughed at me.

  I stepped inside, as a bleary-eyed yellow stumbled into the front room through a door on the back wall. Rubbing his eyes, he said, “Who are you, and—”

  I buzzed him for three seconds, watching him fall and then stiffen as the electricity jolted his nervous system into the land of puke and pain. Thumping bumps from the back room made it clear his helpers still in their bunks were in range.

  Murphy hurried into the armory stockroom.

  “Grab me a flamethrower,” I reminded, as I stepped over the yellow’s prone body.

  Coughing on the bile in his throat, he told me, “You dogshit piece of—”

  I zapped him and his crew a second time, knowing that would incapacitate him until Murphy and I had finished our business in Camp Four.

  “Go get the girls,” Murphy called. “I’ll finish here.”

  “I need my fire gun first.”

  105

  I found Grace in barracks seven, exactly where Salgado told me she’d be. The taints on their communal bunk were all agitated to have me in the room, and everyone was stirring when I shook Grace awake.

  She sat up in her bed. “Zed?”

  I leaned in close. “Murphy and me, we’re making a break. Do you want out of this place?”

  “You!” someone shouted. “What are you doing in here?”

  “How?” Grace asked me.

  “You!” the shouting came again. Grace stiffened, as did the women in the bunks around us. They started to groan. They’d all just been buzzed.

  I looked up to see the Bull, a rough woman with a burr haircut smacking her click-zapper against her palm, because she’d just figured out that it wasn’t working on me. I pointed my zapper at her and buzzed her to her knees. Putting the directional functionality of my zapper to use, I stepped over to her, pointed, and gave her an electric shock to follow.

  “Zed, what are you doing here?” asked Grace, shaking off the effects of the zap. “What happened to your hand?”

  “If you want to go, we’ve got to go now.”

  She shook her head, still dazed. “I don’t need you to save me, Zed.”

  “I’m not here to save you. I need your help.”

  “Oh, no. You’re on a crusade.”

  I pocketed my clicker-zapper and dragged her off the bed. “Get your boots on.”

  She slowly complied. Whites and taints in the barracks were coming to life. I half dragged her out onto the porch and told her, “Run to Jazz’s barracks. I’ll catch up.”

  She stumbled down the steps and staggered over the rough dirt.

  “Hurry.” I stepped back through the door.

  Those who had their wits about them looked at me. As for the rest, it didn’t matter. When I figured Grace was far enough away, I held my clicker button down and administered a wide-area zap. Again, that would knock them all senseless enough for me to help Grace with Jazz.

  I ran through the door, and spotted Grace in the darkness down a path a few hundred feet away. I ran as fast as I could with the flamethrower mounted on my back. As I caught up, I panted, “Are you okay?”

  She stopped at the steps of a building, looking at them like they were an obstacle she might not be able to negotiate. “This one.”

  “Wait here.” I bounded up the steps, flung the front door open and rushed in. I ran to the far end of the bunk room and administered a directional shock to the Bull wench before turning back to the waking barracks to spot Jazz already on her feet.

  I pointed at the door.

  She didn’t need any time to decide. She slipped her boots over her feet, grabbed her battle jacket, and dashed for the exit with me right behind.

  Once outside, I grabbed Grace’s arm to steady her.

  “I’m okay,” she told me.

  I pointed in the direction of the armory. “Murphy has a pickup.” We didn’t walk, but we didn’t quite run, either. When we were close enough that I could make out Murphy in the dark, loading something heavy into the pickup’s bed, somebody yelled, “Stop!”

  Grace and Jazz collapsed, like they’d both been hit in the head.

  Spinning on my heel, and sparking my flamethrower’s ignitor, I already knew what had happened before I spotted the three yellows, not twenty paces behind us. One had a clicker-zapper in her hand, pointed at me, thumb depressing the button. Too bad her concentration was on the wrong thing. She never saw my geyser of fire until it swallowed her and her tagalong stooges.

  I relaxed my grip on the trigger and the roar of my fired died away, along with the last of their screams.

  I heard footsteps running up behind me and spun, ready to blast again, but saw Murphy.

  “Dude.” It was all he could manage.

  Glancing down at the girls, who were up on their hands and knees by then, I told him, “Get them to the truck.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I charged toward the officer’s hut, knowing full well that Murphy had already guessed. I didn’t look back, but trusted him to get the girls to safety, even stubborn Grace.

  All around me, the camp came to life.

  Just as I got within range of the officer’s barracks, the door swung open and one of the Senior Women’s stooges sauntered out, looking around for clues as to what was going on.

  I slid to a stop in the dirt, leveled my torch, and unleashed the inferno. It blasted the stooge back through the door, and splashed across the building’s wide front porch, setting the wood alight. Jumping to my feet, panting from the effort, I sprinted as close as I dared to the fire and sent another long jet through the already burning doorway. Inside, taints screamed as the windows exploded and plumes of flame rose into the sky.

  I turned to run, but saw the pickup barreling toward me over the rough ground. Murphy skidded to a stop, yelling, “C’mon, dumbass. You can’t burn the whole damn world.”

  I shed my flamethrower rig, heaved it into the pickup bed, and then jumped into the cab. Grace and Jazz were wedged in the back seat, on either side of our guest. I said, “Grace, take that dude’s gag out of his mouth.”

  Murphy spun the wheels on the loose dirt and raced into the night.

  Grace asked, “Who is this guy?”

  I glanced into the back seat. “I didn’t ask his name.”

  Grace huffed. “Is this the right time to be a wise ass, Zed?”

  Murphy told her, “His name is Garmin. Now, don’t mind Zed. He got zapped twice. He’s not all there.”

  Jazz broke into a laugh. “Is that what happened to his hand?”

  “No,” Murphy chuckled. “He got caught playing hooky.”

  Not expecting an answer, I asked, “Why are all my friends shitheads?”

  “I feel like I’m stuck in a classroom full of seventh graders again.” Grace wasn’t amused. “Zed, at least tell me we have a plan.”

  I tossed her the tool we stole from the jib hut. “You and Jazz use that to deactivate your buzz bolts. Slide it under and turn.”

  Handling the tool to get a feel for it, Grace asked again. “The plan?”

  “We’re going to snatch Bill,” I told her, “and use him for leverage.”

  “The Bill?” she asked.

  “Yup,” I answered.

  “What’s the matter,” she snapped, “didn’t plan A work out?”

  Murphy laughed again. “Man, we’ve been through plans A, B, and C already. Hell, I’m not even sure where we are now. Probably plan F.”

  Grace sighed. “I knew when I saw you with a prosthetic, Zed, I should have stayed in the barracks.”

  “That’s not true,” Jazz told her. “You’ve been whining about getting out since we got here.”

  “I just—” Grace searched for the right words. “I just don’t want to be stuck in another Zed scheme.”

  “Hey,” I countered. “Most of the time they work out.”

  “In a way,” Murphy taunted.

  “Just tell us what you have
in mind,” Grace asked.

  I scooted around in the seat. “I call it ‘Operation Karma is a Bitch’.”

  “Oh, no,” she grumbled. “He named it.”

  106

  We started at the Evaluation Center, because that’s where the live taints we’d rounded up in Cameron that morning were being processed.

  We drove up. The semis were lined up in front of the building with livestock trailers still connected. Half were still full of hungry Whites. The scores of yellow sentries guarding them were easily neutralized with the clicker-zapper I’d stolen from the jib hut. We didn’t even raise the interest of the security guards inside the facility. Murphy checked the big rigs and found a few automatic transmissions for Jazz and Grace to drive. Neither had ever been inside the cab of a semi—no surprise. Murphy, though, had driven one before, so he didn’t care what kind he took possession of. As for me, I got the pickup, because it was easier to drive with a single useful hand. That was our convoy, speeding through the night with headlights on, me in the lead with three tractor-trailers behind, carrying two to three hundred irritated taints. And the four of us, stripped down to boots and shorts, to display as much infected pale skin as possible.

  “It’s the next turn up here on the left,” the navigator told me. “Then a mile or so. The road runs right up to it.”

  I slowed, made the turn, pulled off the road and stopped so Murphy could pass me. That was part of the plan at work. Bill’s personal residence compound, as our navigator had explained to us, lay on a rise, well out of town. It was an old spartan farmhouse Bill hadn’t had the heart to desecrate by fortifying. Apparently, he had a soft spot for old architecture. He did, however, surround it with three concentric rings of tall fence, each separated by a few hundred yards of killing field. Not one tree or shrub grew in that bare dirt. As for weapons or bunkers, or the number of guards Bill employed to keep his home secure, nobody outside of Bill’s personal protection detail knew anything. At least, that was all our navigator was willing to tell us.