Made in the U.S.A.: The 10th Anniversary Edition

by Jack X. McCallum

  Brian was trying his CB again after having given up on the cell phones. His police band scanner was on and all he heard was a dull hiss. He switched to channel 9, which was reserved for emergencies. Nothing. He couldn’t understand it. They had to be at least ten miles away from Compound West by now. He checked the rear-view mirrors. The San Bernardino County patrol car was moving fast, about thirty feet behind the news van. Brian repeated his message, asking for a reply from anyone who could hear him.

  “I don’t think you’re getting through to anyone but me, Mr. Hanus.”

  Brian recognized the big cop’s voice. “I know. It’s like we’re under a big dome that’s cutting us off from the outside world.”

  “The mountains can be a bitch,” Al said. “But I’ve never seen it this bad.”

  Brian looked around. There were low craggy peaks to either side, and in the direction they were heading. There was a bump and the van shimmied.

  “The hell was that?” Ravi called.

  “We’re back on blacktop,” Brian replied, feeling his weight shift and realizing they were moving up a gentle incline. He looked at the road. It was cracked and crumbling asphalt. If the road held out, and if his sense of direction was right, they were heading north-northeast. And sooner or later they would cross the Interstate.

  The Oldsmobile ahead passed a sign. As he drove closer he could make out the words on the rust obscured face of the sign.

  Dry River Falls Gorge–3 miles

  “What the hell is Dry River Falls Gorge?” Brian shouted into the mike.

  “A chasm, and a truss bridge across it, one of those old Works Progress Administration projects,” Al responded. “That part of the road was bypassed decades ago by the Interstate system. The DOT has condemned the bridge. There’s had been no maintenance on the structure for years. I’d be surprised if it hasn’t fallen into the gorge by now.”

  “Wow.” Brian said. The story of the bridge would make a great local history piece. Maybe he could do it for one of the networks. The road they were on was taking them up the side of a low mountain range and the grade was getting steeper.

  “Listen,” the cop came back, “there’s a turn off from the bridge road. I’ll be taking it to the interstate. Then I’m going to take Carlos to a hospital. I advise you to follow me.”

  Brian didn’t reply. He wanted to wait and see what happened.

  * * *

  Jeannie was getting nervous. Every time she looked back the black vans following on their ugly spider legs were a little closer. Will seemed perfectly calm, a half-smile on his face, until the cars ahead split up at a fork in the road and the news van came to a stop. The patrol car took the left-hand road, the cop flashing his lights once to the men in the news van. The white Olds with Betsy behind the wheel was disappearing behind a cloud of dust on the old road that went to the right, up the steep grade of whatever mountain they were on.

  “Fuck,” Will whispered. He looked at Jeannie. “What’s she up to?”Jeannie shrugged.

  Will nodded to the left. “That’s the way to safety. Al’s taking Carlos to a hospital.”

  “And to people in some form of authority,” Jeannie said. “I can’t . . . well, I just can’t. Neither can you. Follow Betsy. I’m worried about her.”

  Will didn’t say anything. He took the right-hand turn, glancing out the window as he passed the news van. He could see the reporter and his cameraman standing in front of the news van, Brian struggling with something on the ground. Ravi was still taping everything, the plastic body of the camera on his left shoulder making Will think momentarily of Ray Milland’s pasty noggin attached to Rosey Grier’s shoulders in The Thing with Two Heads. The newsmen were raising and shooting a sign that had collapsed years ago.

  Dry River Falls Gorge Bridge—1 mile

  “Hey guys,” Will called, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “Better get a move on. We aren’t out of this yet.”

  Brian and Ravi watched the Corvair accelerate up the steep incline in pursuit of the Oldsmobile. Looking back the way they had come, Brian realized two things. They had already ascended quite a distance from the desert floor. And two of the black vans were still after them. They scrambled back into the news van.

  “So,” Brian said, checking the mirrors and seeing the black vans draw closer. “Do we run for cover or follow the story?” Ravi’s left eye was on him a moment, then it disappeared into the rubber cup on the camera’s eyepiece. That was all the answer Brian needed. He cranked the wheel to the right and stepped on the gas.

  * * *

  Stella eased her van to a stop at the fork in the road. The other van pulled up on her left. Richards was close and looking right through her. She could tell he was almost completely out of the loop. Too bad. He seemed more sensible than his partner. She looked beyond Richards and saw Dicks looking back at her. He appeared anxious now, not the cocky macho asshole with eyes jacked as wide as manhole covers when they had been getting dressed in the Compound, his breathing quickening as she’d taken off the pajamas and pulled on pants and a shirt. He’d been standing to one side, his eyes darting from the swinging tit that wasn’t bandaged to her ass to her pubes like he was watching a pinball game. Now he looked unsure. He also looked like shit what with half his head still wrapped in gauze, some of it bloodstained, some hanging loose.

  “Any thuggeth-junth?” he called to her. Like Stella he’d seen the cop split off from the rest of the group, and he didn’t have a clue which way Godson had gone. They sure as hell hadn’t seen his white Thunderbird among the vehicles crawling up the side of the mountain.

  “I’m going after Norman,” Stella replied. “She’s worth more than the others combined.”

  Dicks seemed unsure. “Yeah, but if the cop get-th back to thivilithation and talkth . . . “

  “Then the Compound will take care of him,” Stella said.

  Dicks was still hesitating. The sheriff had been unstoppable so far. Who knew what damage he’d do if he started talking? And he’d have another witness to what he’d seen, Pedro or Enrique or whatever the fuck the little punk’s name was.

  “If you’re that worried,” Stella said, “you take care of them. Of course, you already tried that once didn’t you? Maybe you should just stick with me, where it’s safe.” She moved her foot from the brake to the gas and started up the right-hand road.

  “Fuckin’ bitch,” Dicks grumbled. “Thtick by me. I bet if I thtuck it up you you’d change your tune you dyke ballbuthter. A nithe bit of Dickmeat inthide you would make you—huh?”

  Richards was tugging on his sleeve. He licked his lips and said, “The cop.”

  “Yeah,” Dicks said. “Yeah. Time for the Great White Hunterth to bag thum trophieth.” He turned the van to the left and started after the patrol car. Dicks winced when Richards started singing.

  “Ally-gay-tor lizzz-ards in the air . . . in the airrrrr.”

  “Holy fucking thit,” Dicks grumbled.

  * * *

  The road wound halfway around the mountain under jutting slabs of gray rock. Just as Will steered the Corvair into a pool of shadow and felt a sudden uneasiness chill him to the bone, Betsy was reaching the bridge a half mile away.

  She stopped the Olds at the foot of the bridge and got out for a look. It was quiet under the blazing sun. Nothing seemed to be moving, not even the air. The gorge was fifty feet across. At her feet was a brass elevation marker bearing the numbers 1562. Another road continued on along the edge of the gorge, seeming to lead nowhere. She walked to the bridge and looked down, guessing that the gorge which had been carved into the rock by a long dead river was at least five hundred feet deep. That made for a very long drop. The bridge appeared to be painted dark orange. When Betsy took a few steps closer she realized it wasn’t paint at all, but an unbroken coat of rust. There were cracks in the metal. Betsy was trying to decide if the bridge was safe when a hand settled on her shoulder.

  “Jeesus!” Betsy squealed, hating the very girlishness of the soun
d. Her skin was ice cold and her heart was pounding as she turned around.

  A handsome man with yummy chocolate skin and a sleek ponytail was giving her a smile, watching her with huge dark eyes that seemed to shimmer and shift like some deep, rich liquid. Godson . . . John Godson. How she knew this man’s name, she had no idea. He seemed so damn familiar. Betsy could remember following him in his convertible toward the big rock that turned out to be Compound West. She remembered dreaming about him, before she woke up in the infirmary, and now here he was.

  She looked beyond him. His car was a few feet away, a white Thunderbird convertible that looked pristine as the dust slowly settled around it. Betsy wondered how he had gotten here without her hearing anything. The sun flashed on and within the stud piercing his left ear. Betsy couldn’t look away. The little silver fish was swimming in and out of Godson’s flesh as if it were on a dark sea.

  * * *

  Will leaned into a turn, the Corvair following the curve of the road, and then the bridge was in view. It looked derelict and dangerous. Parked on the crumbling shoulder of the road was a Thunderbird and Betsy’s Oldsmobile. Not far away he could see John Godson and Jeannie’s daughter. Jeannie saw them too, leaning forward as if she were about to jump out of the car. “Slow down,” Will said, switching off the engine. “Let’s just take this one step . . .”

  Jeannie saw the dark skinned guy raise Betsy’s chin with one hand and gaze into her eyes, his other arm encircling the teenager’s waist. They could have been posing for the cover of a Harlequin Romance. Jeannie turned to Will. For a moment his eyes glazed over and she was afraid he was going to start acting weird, but his eyes were clear and sharp again in an instant. In them was something she had never seen before. She thought it might be fear.

  Will had been reaching for the door release when his ghosts had spoken up. For the first time in his life the voices were subdued, meek. Don’t go over there, they had whispered. That’s a bad person. Awful things will happen if you go over there. Drive away. He considered doing just that, the ghosts’ tone making him uneasy, as if they knew something he didn’t. How he felt didn’t matter once he saw the look of concern on Jeannie’s face and he realized he would do whatever he could to get her and her kid out of trouble.

  The book they had taken from Compound West lay on the seat between them, along with the two handguns. Will took one and jammed it into the waistband of his jeans and took Jeannie’s hands in his own.

  “I’m going to go get Betsy,” he said. “You stay here. There’s no way to know what this Godson fellow might do. Just promise me one thing. If anything happens to me, go to Hometown. Do you remember how to get there? Go south from here and take Interstate 10 all the way through Las Cruces, then go down into Texas to US highway 62 and follow it over the New Mexico border until—”

  “I know how to get there,” Jeannie interrupted, “But you’ll be driving so why go over all this again?” She tried to smile, to hide her growing fear.

  “Just in case,” he said, giving her a quick kiss on the lips and opening his door. Then again, almost to himself, he said, “Just in case.”

  * * *

  Brian and Ravi watched Will get out of the car. They had parked further away from the bridge than Will had, scrambling out of the news van and freezing when Will looked over his shoulder and waved them to a stop. Brian boosted Ravi onto a boulder where he would have a good view of the bridge. While Ravi connected a small directional microphone to his camera, Brian went back into the van to try his cell phone and satellite transmitter once more.

  * * *

  Mondani was fuming. He was in the security station near his office watching Tupper make adjustments at the communications console. Mondani had come to a few minutes before. He had run to the security station and had been freeing Dolan, who was tied into a chair, when Tupper had entered the room and taken a seat as if nothing untoward had occurred.

  “I could have you arrested and locked away, you seditious little shit,” Mondani sneered. “There are still laws against treason on the books. I could have you executed. I could commission the construction of a deep pit, order it filled with feces and toss you in, you porcine turncoat.”

  “And I could take you into custody this moment,” Dolan said to Tupper. He was dying to rough up the fat boy who had let Hill tie and gag him.

  “Quiet please,” Tupper said in a distracted way. He had followed the progress of the chase up the mountain road leading to Dry River Gorge before all of the cameras mounted on Compound West’s exterior were rendered useless by angle and distance. He had then patched into an Air Force satellite and redirected one of its cameras to the Mojave Desert, but just as he had closed in on the area and saw Will getting out of the car, the satellite had moved out of range. He was getting frustrated. It was bad enough that Dicks, Richards, and D’Oro were disobeying direct orders by pursuing the escapees. Now it looked as if Godson was right in the thick of things as well, and Godson was the one thing a scientist like Tupper hated above all else, an unknown. He was unpredictable, and that made him dangerous . . . not unlike Mr. Hill.

  * * *

  Brian let out a whoop. He leaped out of the van and said to Ravi, “We have an uplink!” He was beyond words. He’d finally gotten through to CNN, and used the name of an old friend to get attention. Whatever happened now was going to go directly to CNN’s Los Angeles bureau. Climbing up the rock beside Ravi, Brian composed himself for a quick headshot and then began a running narration to his nonexistent audience as the camera panned back to the bridge.

  * * *

  Mondani and Dolan looked at the big screen above Tupper’s head. A tall man with big hair was positioning himself before the camera. “Where is that image coming from?” Mondani asked.

  “The reporter’s van,” Tupper said, turning with a smile. “Hanus was trying to get through to CNN. He thinks his signal is going up to a satellite when it’s actually coming directly here.”

  “Pretty slick, Doc,” Dolan said. Tupper nodded his agreement. “I just wish the guy with the hair would shut the fuck up and get out of the way.”

  * * *

  After stopping the widebody when she saw the news van pull over ahead, Stella had climbed fifty feet up the mountain. She had wanted to get further down the road, but the van’s telescoping axles were screwed up, the wheels locking every few seconds. It had probably been in the autobay for maintenance. Now looking down on the road, Stella edged along the face of the mountain until she had a panoramic view of the gorge.

  The bridge was a ruin, the red-brown color of rust. Struts and braces of oxidized metal rose over the flat deck of the roadway, and Stella could see more gaps than structure in the steelwork. Central sections of the roadway had fallen away, exposing twisted struts and beams that looked like the remains of a ruined spider web supporting islands of concrete, some of them still bearing faded paint from the white line that divided lanes of traffic on the deck. The two figures standing at the near end of the bridge were close to a long drop into the gorge. She shaded her eyes and squinted, recognizing the man.

  “Fucking Godson,” she whispered. For now she’d watch and wait. She knew that the bridge was impassable and was hoping she could get close enough to grab Jeannie and a car.

  * * *

  Al was glad to be making good time on a real road, even if the road was old and rough, when he saw something parked on the sun-bleached asphalt ahead. It was one of the black vans. It had cut straight across the rough terrain he had spent so much time traveling around.

  Carlos shifted himself into an upright position. “I don’t feel so good, Officer Al.”

  “Hang tight, son,” Al said, giving the youngster’s seatbelt a tug to make sure it was secure. “I’m gonna get you some help. We’ve just got to get by these idiots in the van, and then we should be home free.”

  Carlos nodded. Under his normally golden skin the gray pallor was growing. He held up an automatic and said, “It’s clobberin’ time.”

/>   Al had forgotten the kid was carrying, which made him worry about himself, letting something like that slip his mind. But he was also proud of Carlos. The boy seemed to be putting up a hell of a fight, although the way his hand was shaking Al was afraid he might blow off his own balls or an ear or something if more shooting started.

  * * *

  “Look at thothe fucking knobth,” Dicks laughed.

  Richards muttered something that sounded like fuglish weegs in toaf.

  “You thaid it, pal,” Dicks said. He put the van in gear and stomped on the gas pedal.

  * * *

  “S’up with these guys?” Carlos asked.

  “I don’t know,” Al replied. He hit the flashers and the siren. “Hell of a time to play chicken,” he said, as the patrol car rolled forward slowly. Steering the car with his right hand, he leaned out the window holding the Colt he had retrieved from the trunk in his left, drawing a bead on the two men in the van. Unless these guys had bulletproof glass for a windshield, he was certain he could stop them with a few shots. That certainty evaporated when the chrome grill between the van’s headlights rolled up and out of sight, exposing two pipes of bluish metal.