Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure

by Christopher Westley

  2:00 a.m.

  The streams of light from a full moon shoot through multiple cracks in the boarded up windows, giving the room an eerie glow. Not enough light to read with, but just enough to make out objects.

  With a snort and rumble, Mac stirs from his sleep and looks over at Sara. An empty display case where she was sleeping is all he sees. Her backpack is still pushed up into the case. Swinging his head around, he barely makes out her small frame silhouetted against the window. He can’t make out what she is doing and questions if she is a sleepwalker, like many young kids her age.

  “Sara.” he calls out to her while standing up.

  “Quiet!”

  Mac walks over to see what she is up to and realizes she is looking through one of the cracks in the plywood that is covering a broken window. Standing nearly three feet taller than she, he can look out at the street just above her. His eyes are still blurry from deep sleep but are able to make out a pair of figures standing in the middle of the street. The two of them are talking in a low voice that he cannot comprehend.

  “What are they saying?”

  Sara looks up at Mac and whispers back, “I’m not sure, but there is another man down the street to the right, and he is dragging someone with him. Pretty sure they are survivors. Pretty sure they are unfriendly.”

  Her instinct is spot on. Maybe it is the roughneck motorcycle rider look complete with long beards and leather jackets. Or she has keyed in on their combat boots. Not necessarily a sign of a military forces, but an early warning sign that these guys are probably part of one of the many para-military, wanna-be, gun slinging, doomsday preppers, the kind of guys who spent their whole life waiting for the end of the world. These are the kind of guys who are living their dreams terrorizing the last remnants of civilized society. Her dad had prepared her for people like this, without telling her what he was preparing her for. The countless hours of karate lessons, shooting lessons, and mixed-martial arts training had honed her into a lethal weapon of epic proportions in a twelve-year-old body, giving her a skill set she would be able to utilize to defend herself the rest of her life.

  Without a word, Sara starts to reach over to her right side for the door handle, to open it. Grabbing her hand, Mac swings his head from side to side mouthing the word no.

  “It’s okay. I just want to get closer to see what they are saying. There is a shadow in the entrance to the store, and they can’t see me.”

  Sara looks up at him and pushes his hand away. Her words were forceful, even at a whisper, and it has done the trick. Mac steps aside and lets her slip out the door and into the entrance. The darkness of the entrance engulfs Sara’s figure as she strains to listen to the thugs in the street.

  “What was that?” the taller man says to his partner.

  “I didn’t hear anything; probably just Jerry pulling that insolent bitch up the street,” says his fat buddy.

  The taller man is not convinced and peers into the darkened doorway where Sara is standing.

  “No, I heard something coming from that building over there! There is someone or something over there.” Just then he starts to take a step toward Sara but stops in his tracks as she steps out of the shadows and into the moonlight on the street.

  “Well, who do we have here?”

  “Where is your mommy, little girl?”

  Sara steps forward a few steps at a time, slowly closing the distance to her target without saying a word. The tall man thinks she is scared and extremely timid, so he just stands there, waiting for her to approach. Seconds later she has maneuvered herself to within ten feet of the two guys and just off their right side. Out of her peripheral vision, she can see the third guy has stopped some forty to fifty yards away and has shoved his captive to the ground.

  Surveying her opponents, she quickly inventories their array of crude but effective weapons. The tall man is outfitted with the latest in post-apocalyptic armor, crudely fashioned body armor protecting his chest, made out of a once fashionable but broken chest protector that moto-cross riders wore when racing. She looks at the crack in the middle while scanning up to his face and back down to his right side. Gripping a crude-looking machete in his right hand, his dirty, unkempt fingernails wrap around the piece in a fashion that states, I mean business. The other man, the fat one, as she sees it, is the lesser of two evils and does not pose an immediate threat. He has no weapons that are visual to her, and she knows his reaction time will be delayed.

  “She’s dead, as you will be, too, in about thirty seconds.”

  She prepares herself for the incoming attack.

  The tall man starts laughing as he turns to his friend.

  “So, you will take us out, huh? Little girl, you should be polite to strangers. I think you will be coming with us.”

  The tall man steps forward, walking to Sara, but before he can take another step, Sara reels back, baseball pitcher style, revealing the bowie knife she is carrying, and throws it straight at the tall guy. It meets his chest right in the center where the chest protector is cracked and sinks in up to the hilt with a big thump. He slumps to the ground, dropping the machete, and is kneeling, gasping for breath. It doesn’t take much longer for the fat man to spring into action, producing a chrome handgun that Sara sees flashing in the moonlight. She is lightning fast and runs over to the tall man, putting him between her and the fat man. The fat man pulls the trigger three times. The first shot narrowly misses her and ricochets of a light pole in the distance. His second shot would have made contact with her head, but is stopped by the tall guy’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The third shot is dead on, catching her in the chest and taking her off her feet and onto the ground.

  “Ha ha. Take that, you little shit!”

  Standing over her body, he hesitates as he prepares to finish her off.

  Sara reaches into her belt and pulls the .38 revolver out. With a crack, the revolver comes to life, sending the lead slug up and into her assailant’s head. He falls off to her right as she struggles to get up.

  “Damn, that frigging hurt,” Sara blurts out as she comes up on one knee. Reaching inside her coat, she pulls the lead slug out of the bulletproof vest, tossing it to the ground just as Mac reaches her. He is horrified by the whole scene but really happy that she is alive.

  “Are you okay?” Mac reaches over and grabs her by the arm, helping her stand up.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” She looks up at him, then down the street at the last thug. “What should we do with him?”

  Mac looks at the last thug and his captive who is still on the ground. He can’t tell exactly if the captive is a man or woman but knows that if they do nothing, that person is probably tomorrow’s dinner. “Let’s go have a chat with him. Maybe he is a reasonable guy.”

  “Sure.”

  Walking down the street, but not before retrieving her knife and new pistol, Mac and Sara slowly make their way toward this seemingly calm man. Within thirty feet, he shouts out, “That’s far enough,” while pointing a baseball bat at them. “Don’t want no trouble; just let me be.”

  The woman at his feet regains consciousness and shakes her head. Through blurred vision, she sees the shadows of the two unlikely heroes standing in front of her. She can clearly tell that it is a man and his young child. Knowing her fate is not good, she musters the courage to blurt out a distress call, “Help me.”

  The side of the thug’s hand comes down hard against her face, and she is knocked out again. “I told you two to stay back; go mind your business elsewhere.”

  Mac and Sara are undeterred and continue to walk to him, closing the distance by half again within seconds.

  “Hey, friend, we just want to check on your lady, see if she’s okay.”

  Mac knows he is just buying time and it will come down to a fight soon enough. Sara spins the revolver drum and puts another cartridge in the empty chamber. Pulling the hammer back on the revolver resonates a cocking sound down the street and into the ears of the thug. He is mo
re bark than bite and drops the bat as he turns running down the street and into the darkness of the night.

  7

  BY THE TIME Sara took out the two thugs and scared off the third, it is nearly two o’clock in the morning. Looking over at the crumpled pile of hair and tattered clothing, Sara reaches into her coat pocket to pull out the golf scorecard. Fumbling for the funny, short pencil with no eraser, she starts to wonder how many people she has dispatched since she last took score. “Hmm, was it three or four? Can’t really remember, so I am going with three; don’t want to put down what I haven’t hit yet. And that makes zero again for you, Mac.” Sara writes his name in the next open box under hers on the scorecard. “Let’s see, we will give you a handicap of twelve; yep, that should about do it to get you started off.”

  “Twelve, huh? Is that what you think of me?”

  “Well, haven’t seen you dispatch anyone yet; just stood in the doorway gathering flies in your mouth while I took care of business. No wonder you wanted to team up with me. You’re not really a man of action are you?”

  “Yes, it is true. I’m not that skilled with this kind of work.”

  “What did you do before?”

  Mac looks over at her and thinks about it for a minute. He is planning on making something up other than his real profession but knows she probably will not believe it anyway.

  “I was a dentist, and one of the best around.”

  “Good to know; if I ever need my teeth cleaned, I will give you a call.”

  Sara looks back to the heap that is starting to move and making a few short groans. “Looks like our new friend is coming around.”

  Mac kneels down next to the young lady and props her head up. Even in the moonlight, she is obviously Latino. Her long, black hair is matted but still falls beautifully down around her shoulders. She appears to be no older than twenty-two or twenty-three. Her body is fit and lean, either from lack of food in the wasteland or because she, like everyone else, is on the run, constantly fending off thugs, infected souls, or wild animals.

  Mac stares into her beautiful, brown eyes, more like pools of caramel coffee colored wonder. She blinks a few times with eyelashes that seem to go on forever.

  “Are you okay?” he ask’s “Can you stand up?”

  She looks at him and slowly starts to stand up with his help. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Mac,” he says, still holding her hand in his. “And this is my, uh, friend, Sara.”

  Sara looks over at the two of them and just nods her head. A quick, hey how you doing; don’t mess with me.

  “What’s your name?” Mac asks while still holding her hand.

  She withdraws her hand and starts rubbing it with her other one. Bringing both of her hands up to her head, she simultaneously draws them through her hair, pulling her hair back into a ponytail, and twists a tie into the hair to hold it in place. Looking up at Mac and then over to Sara, she decides it is okay to let her guard down. Maybe even be a bit friendly. Besides, they did just save her life, or at least from what she could see from where she was down the street from the action, the young girl saved her life.

  “Ava.” She reaches her hand out to shake Mac’s.

  He reciprocates and gives her a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Ava.”

  Sara looks over at the two again and can immediately tell there is more than just formal pleasantries going on. Even at twelve years old, she picks up on the flirtatious attitudes and unspoken gestures going on between the two of them.

  Ava walks over to Sara and extends her hand. “Thanks a lot. I can’t begin to thank you enough,” she says while holding her hand out. Sara looks at it before turning around to walk down the road.

  “Great, another one to take care of.” Sara mumbles it loud enough for Mac to hear as she turns away from Ava and pulls her iPod out of her pocket, inserting the earbuds into her ears.

  “What’s her problem?” Ava ask’s.

  “Not quite sure, but if I had to guess, it would have to do with the fact that she has not been around people for a while. Or she is just that hostile. Lastly, I think she is going through puberty.”

  Sara is immune to the conversation going on behind her and is quickly lulled off to better times as she adjusts the volume up on the iPod. The sounds of island tunes fill her head. Reggae is one of her favorite genres to listen to although she is really partial to the hard, ax-grinding heavy metal tunes made famous by the band Megadeth, who were rock legends during the late part of the twentieth century. She hums along as the three of them walk down the street to a traffic circle. The traffic circle is decorated with a once magnificent and beautiful round fountain complete with multiple cherub statues in the center, arms outstretched to the heavens. The center statue is missing its left arm, broken off and lying in the bottom of the stagnant pool. Sara walks up to the pool and removes a canteen to refill it in the water. Removing the cap from the canteen, she dips it under the surface of the water and watches the water slip inside. Mac stoops down to take a handful of water up into his hands to get a drink, when Sara stops him.

  “Don’t drink that; it’s contaminated.” She points over to a dead dog floating in the water on the other side of the pool. Dropping two iodide tablets into the canteen, she replaces the cap and starts walking around to the other side of the fountain. Looking down the street ahead, she can see they have come to a crossroad. One street sign points left: Hwy 1,888 Luckenbach 28 Miles. The other says Johnson City 14 Miles.

  Turning around to look at the fountain, Sara reads the words that are carved into a wooden sign. “Welcome to Blanco.” She mouths the words to herself as she mentally prepares for the long walk ahead of her. Before she steps off the grassy fountain area, she feels the hand of their new companion on her shoulder.

  “What the—” She throws Ava’s hand off her shoulder. Hitting pause on her iPod, she catches Ava mid-sentence.

  “—that way and not north? Where are you headed?”

  Sara points.

  “That way goes to Fort Worth and Dallas. Highly contaminated. Infection rates were near ninety-eight percent up there, and it probably has a bit of a radiation problem.” She says, adding in the next statement. “This way to Luckenbach; anyone who is somebody goes to Luckenbach.”

  “What’s in Luckenbach?” Ava asks.

  “Really? You know, Waylon, Willie, and the boys? Luckenbach, where everybody’s somebody!” Sara snaps back at her. “I made it this close; I’m going to Luckenbach.”

  Ava looks at her as Sara puts the earbuds back into her ears.

  “Better not argue with her. Let’s just go along with it and see where it leads. Besides, she has skills, skills that I don’t have. Unless you are an ex-assassin or ex-military, I’d suggest following quietly. Where are you from?”

  Mac lifts his right eyebrow as he looks over into Ava’s eyes.

  “San Antonio. You?”

  “Well, before this shit-storm started, I was living in Luling. That’s out on Interstate Ten, near Gonzales.”

  “Yes, I know where it is,” Ava smirks.

  Sara is off in another world as she scrolls through the thousands of songs and artists, flipping from one to another until she finds a ’40s-era singer. Clicking play, the crooner starts a classic tune, one of her favorites. “Who was that lady, that fabulous lady?” She hums along as the duo behind her chat away about their common interests, jobs, past loves. Hours later, the trio continues to click off the miles down the winding two-lane country road as the predawn sun begins to turn the eastern sky lighter shades of dark blue, before a hint of orange is added to the skyline. Oak trees that are devoid of leaves blanket the countryside with charred bark from a recent fire that swept the hillsides. The day quickly starts with a blazing sun rising in the east while Sara continues setting the pace. She knows that her average mileage while walking is around four miles per hour, and at this rate, she is sure they will make it to Luckenbach by sundown.

  Noon comes and passes, and the tunes
keep coming through her earbud speakers. Looking down, she notices the battery bar is down to the last few minutes before shutting down. Without losing pace, she reaches into her pack and pulls out a wire, plugging it into the iPod. She then pulls a flap off the top of the backpack to reveal a sewn-in, miniature solar panel. Turning around to Mac and Ava, she barks out a gruff order.

  “Let’s go, people. We got to pick up the pace. I think we are only two or three miles away.” Sara turns back around, walking faster.

  “Yes, pushy.” Ava grabs Mac’s shoulder with both hands, more of a lean in and get chummy grab. He is not averse to her embrace and accepts the comfort of his new friend.

  “No, she is not a woman of many words, but as I said, she has skills that I just don’t have.”

  Switching songs, Sara spins up some heavy metal to raise her heartbeat. Looking down the road, she sees the sign pointing left: Luckenbach. No mileage is listed, and she is sure they are only minutes out from shade, maybe even some food. Running off ahead of the other two, Sara makes the turn-off and is quickly out of their sight.

  “Damn, she is quick. Let’s go; I’m not letting her out of my sight for long,” Mac yells over to Ava as they both begin to run after Sara. They quickly catch up to Sara, who has stopped in the middle of the road and is looking for a way to get around the triple strand, razor-sharp concertina wire that is pulled out in front of her. Looking to her left and right, she can see that the wire goes all the way around the town. Not to be shut out of her destination, Sara walks downhill to the small stream that is just a trickle. Jumping down the bank, she is followed by Ava and Mac. The razor wire is strung across the stream and is high enough to provide a gap to climb under to gain access to the other side. Sara kneels down into the cool water and crawls on her hands and knees through the stream and under the razor wire. Standing up on the other side of the bank, she motions for the other two to cross. Mac and Ava quickly scramble through the water and meet up with her on the other side. Sara looks at them and then turns to look at the town of Luckenbach off in the distance. “It looks deserted; wait here. I’m going to check it out.” Sara just finishes her sentence and jumps up to run up the hill, when she notices a small group of people walking around one of the outbuildings. She stops, drops the pack off her back, and starts assembling the .308 sniper rifle, attaching the scope and magazine in record time. From a kneeling position, she scans through the scope and can see eye to eye with what looks like a ragtag band of elderly (at least to her) men and a few women. All of them look like they are in their late sixties or even early seventies. A few of them are holding shotguns and hunting rifles; the rest have a menagerie of farm tools for weapons. Sara stands up, slings the weapon across her chest, and starts to walk up the hill toward the group.