by Milt Mays
“Okay. I take it you want to go now.” He got up and walked out the door before Sam could say anything.
Dan didn’t see Sam’s worried glance at Rachel. He vaguely heard murmurs but not the details of their conversation:
“It was not Jabril who torched our shuttle bus,” Rachel said. “How could he? He’s in Pensacola. Rocca will take care of him tomorrow.”
Sam rubbed the singed eyebrow again. “Yeah, well whoever it was, they were after us. I’m glad they didn’t block the back safety exit.”
Rachel held her arms out, palms up. “That proves it. If Jabril would have wanted us dead, he would have made sure the back exit was blocked.”
“Marci,” Dan was out of the study and halfway up the stairs as he called to his wife. “I’ve got to go with Sam and Rachel. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in a few days.”
Sam and Rachel came out of the study. Marci had Adam tightly in her arms and her look skewered them. “What’s going on?” Her voice was deadpan and suspicious. Sam knew how much it had taken out of her to finally get Dan back from his depression. This would not be easy.
“Don’t worry,” Sam said. “He’ll be fine. We’ll be back soon.”
Rachel started to say something, but Dan was already coming down the stairs with a duffel bag over one shoulder.
Sam raised his eyebrows at Rachel’s look. “Dan’s organized.” Then he nudged Rachel out the door in front of him and waved to Marci. “See you soon.”
Dan kissed Marci on the cheek and Adam on the forehead and followed Sam. No words or she might start yelling. He closed the door behind him. Sam and Rachel got in the car at the curb. Sam turned his head and there it was again. Definitely a singed eyebrow. Dan almost went back inside. The morning sun was bright, but the prime numbers in his head had all turned red, blood red.
Chapter 20
Jeff’s eyes opened too wide at the sight of the sports car Alexis had in the garage of the service station. Now that his memory was coming back, he definitely knew a Mazda RX-7. This one was tan with a bland olive roof, spoiler and hubs.
She took him to the rear and popped the trunk. On the right side lay a large gray cylinder of nitrous—much larger than the eleven-pound kits he’d seen in high school midnight drag runs. On the left side, separated by a two-inch barrier of what must have been a plastic polymer like Plexiglas, was an extra tank of gas. It was even larger, made of white plastic, the tea-colored gasoline inside filling all but a small empty oval at the top.
“Since we’re going to Denver,” she said, “we’ll need the extra gas to get through the wastelands of Kansas.”
“Wastelands? I thought that was the breadbasket of the world. I can still taste Kansas corn on the cob with a hotdog on the Fourth.”
“There’s still corn and wheat and all kinds of crops; they’re all GMO crops that germinate at nearly one hundred percent, are resistant to hail and drought, require virtually no weeding or pest protection, so no machines are needed for upkeep. The only machines needed are for harvest, and Ambrosia developed some new types of combines and keeps them hidden in warehouses throughout the Midwest. They deliver them to the different areas for harvest all within a two-week span because now all the crops—wheat, barley, corn, sunflowers, hay, to name a few—have been engineered to germinate and ripen at about the same time, and in about half the usual time. The harvest is done quickly and efficiently. Since they harvest so early, they can plant another crop right away, so they bring in the plows and planters and do it again. All the machinery is there and gone in two weeks.”
“But you called it a wasteland. Sounds to me like it’s even more productive.”
“It is so much more productive. I read that their yield of corn is now up to 480 to 520 bushels per acre. That’s nearly twice what they were getting in 2005 in well-managed farms. It’s a wasteland because there are virtually no cars traveling out there due to no gas stations. No need for it with no farming machines. In fact, most of the roads have been plowed under. The only roads are major highways.”
Jeff didn’t like that. The RX-7 would stand out like a white swan on a still pond.
Alexis chuckled. “I’ve got to show you this.” She got in the car and started it, or at least he thought she started it. There was a tiny cranking sound then, if he listened very closely, a faint purr.
She rolled her window down. “Watch closely.”
Her window went up and suddenly a kaleidoscope of tans and greens and yellows vibrated down the sides of the car, as if fields of corn and wheat were passing through the paint.
Her window descended. “Nanotechnology—different colors manifest when the nano-molecules vibrate from an electromagnetic current sent into the paneling. We have several different colors, but that was the ‘Kansas’ module. Dad helped me with it before I came out here. He didn’t want me to have problems with any of the prairie pirates.”
“You did it again,” he said.
Her smile was sheepish. “You noticed, huh?”
Yes, she had read his mind. When he thought about the RX-7 as a beacon on the highway, she immediately showed him why he shouldn’t worry. And now she knew exactly what he was referring to, even though it was way out of context.
“Maybe you’re not a witch, or a magician, but that is way more than empathy.”
She stared at him with those wonderfully reverberating green eyes, and he stopped worrying. Alexis was Alexis and he loved her. He had a sudden urge to kiss her.
She opened the door and got out. “Let’s load up and get moving.”
He followed her movement inside, not far behind, but far enough to enjoy the view: her hair bouncing on her shoulders, her hips in a slow dance from side to side, and her arms swinging in a rhythm as effortless and graceful as a heron in flight. How could this happen? He should be dead, hell, had been for months, at least in his rattled brain. Dead to the world. Now he was with this wonderful woman, Wonder Woman, really. Only not as corny, twice as beautiful, but still as full of superhuman surprises. She was good for him, though . . . Another memory interrupted—some corny superhero movie he’d seen as a child. It had been fun then. Looked like it would be fun now. He shrugged and followed her inside. Fun he could take for a while, a very long while.
He remembered how much anticipation and fun he’d had before he joined the National Guard over four years ago: All brave macho dude—fuck college, going to save the world, protect the United States of America. That looked like a lot of fun for a long while, too. Then everything had turned to shit.
Chapter 21
She drove. Fast.
The road whisked by like the crowd surrounding a merry-go-round, only he wasn’t dizzy and the headache was pretty much gone. Initially they’d planned going north to I-70, the same way Alexis had come. But reports on the weird Internet, a vestige of its former self, said there were occasional barricades by good-ole-boy vigilantes exacting tolls. They supposedly worked for the Army. So instead of the interstate, they took 287, up through Amarillo, then north toward Lamar, Colorado.
“This is still a dangerous part of the country,” she said as the car flew and jumped over bumps in the road. They had passed through Amarillo. Her maroon shirt shone iridescent in the glancing sunlight. Her jeans were plain old Levi’s and her shoes the low-top hiking variety. “A few assholes have taken over and think they can get whatever they want.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll protect you.”
She looked at him and smiled.
“I’m serious.” His camouflage Army shirt and pants were clean and might scare some of the non-military types and gain respect from the others. He had a gun, too. Brandishing it would surely keep them at bay. Things you learn in the Army. Anyway, Alexis was much more worth protecting than Krista ever had been. Yeah. What would he do once he saw Krista? And their kid. Don’t forget about that, shitbird. Mom would probably forgive him and move on. After all, she’d had her fling with the artist guy. But Dad? Would he zone out like usual, or
would they talk like the last night he saw him? Not talk. Argue. Shit.
Alexis pointed her index finger at him, her thumb up, like her hand was a gun, and pulled the trigger. “Did you forget we have no bullets?”
“Okay. Point. Maybe we should try to get some. Or maybe you have another plan?” She was always so sure of herself.
“No stopping for bullets. We’d be hunting and pecking through homes that might have other surprises. One of these small towns might have a gun store, but guess who’d be behind the counter?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Nope, we avoid confrontation.”
Before they left she’d shown him the improved suspension and thick, off-road, Kevlar-belted tires on the car. And it had collapsible side view mirrors to avoid hanging on bushes if they had to do a cross-country run. She also showed off the different types of camouflage, including one they would need now, mostly sagebrush and occasional brown fields with green sprigs of winter wheat. With the ultimate nano-camouflage on the car, she was right: Flourishing his empty gun at rednecks who were already locked and loaded got him the dumb award. There had to be something he could do besides hang out like a tick on a hound’s ass. He glanced at her. A pretty hound, though.
She scraped her upper teeth on her lower lip, almost like she wanted to bite it to keep from talking. “I’ll let you drive in a minute.”
How annoying. If she could always read his thoughts what was the purpose of talking? Everyone needed some peace in their own world. Dirty little secrets. The world thrived on them. Sometimes he wondered how the human race survived with so many secrets. It was like everyone lived to know something others didn’t. The CIA, the newspapers, and him and his secret kid. He wondered if Dad had secrets from Mom?
Secrets. Maybe the human race survived by keeping secrets secret.
Alexis would have to figure out a way to keep from barging into his brain, or this relationship was not going to last.
They were about two hours out of Amarillo, still cruising north on 287, less than an hour from Lamar, passing through Springfield, Colorado. There was nothing left of the town. A few junker cars were visible but no people in the streets. Houses had caved roofs, peeling paint. A ghost town. North of town was similar to the terrain they had passed in the south. There were cultivated fields, some with only tilled soil, but several with green sprigs of winter wheat and a few with six-inch sprouts of what looked like corn.
Alexis was relaxed, cruising at 90 MPH, when ahead the road was blocked by black-and-white-striped highway barriers. Miles back, they’d zoomed around a few that had been only half-assed jobs. But this one was serious and at a well-chosen location: atop a bridge over a dry but deep creek bed. First the car would have to go through the metal side rails, a feat in itself. Then it would be difficult for even their all-terrain tires to get over the deep rent in the sandy bed. Behind the barriers sat three black SUVs, windows tinted dark, and one very large man sitting on the hood of the middle vehicle. He held what looked to be an older, scoped M16, strap wrapped around forearm, elbow on one knee to steady the barrel pointed right at them. He had a baseball cap on, twisted backwards, one eye glued to the scope like he’d been here, done this, had the tee shirt, and was ready. His tee spoke another volume—“Realtree” camouflage, if Jeff remembered right from his hunting buddies. Probably had ironed creases on the arms and a spit-shine on his cowboy boots. A real Army cowboy.
The RX-7 had bulletproof glass and body armor, but if the guy had armor-piercing rounds they were toast.
Alexis slowed to a halt. She pushed an American flag on a stick out her window and waved it. Humid air seeped inside. The wind was nonexistent so she had to hang the flag almost horizontal. Big Dude hunter grinned so big, dark areas looked like spaces between rotten teeth. No. Not Army with teeth that bad. Or it was caked-on chewing tobacco. If he didn’t shoot, his breath would kill them in another thirty yards.
He reached out and unfurled his own flag to face them. The black SUV behind it highlighted the red, white, and blue. But it wasn’t the American flag and it brought back memories to Jeff of a distant war, and history he would rather not relive. The white stars in a blue ribbon made an X in scarlet—the flag of the Confederacy. Obviously Big Dude hunter still remembered. Sherman was probably dancing in his grave.
Yep, they were toast.
Her window was already up and the tires squealing in reverse when the first bullets glanced off the windshield. Not armor piercing. Whew! But soon there would be a lot more. Several men with more traditional, non-ironed tee shirts barely covering guts and butt cracks had sprouted from the other SUVs and were moving the barrier out from the middle of the road. They were coming.
She did a funky, reverse one-eighty turn and they were pointed back down the highway, accelerating so fast they were soon moving at ninety. But beat-up pickup trucks, mostly Fords of the inexpensive variety, had appeared four abreast, blocking that way and headed toward them. This was going to be tricky.
She stopped the car. “Stay inside,” she yelled. “And keep your head down.”
He clicked open his door. He’d always helped out his sister . . . His sister? Huh. Her name was Katie. It brought back memories of Katie in a fight and Jeff belting a big football player. No way was he going to let Alexis go it alone.
Her look was seriously kind, like something his mom might have given him as a boy, telling him to eat the rest of his supper before he got ice cream. “Look. I should have told you yesterday, but I was worried you would leave me. I can take these rednecks. But I need you to stay in the car. You’ll be safe. Once they see me, they’ll forget about you.”
The trucks were almost within firing distance. He couldn’t see the whites of their eyes, though he was sure the guy with the scoped rifle could see the veins on his nose. Probably had real bullets, too. How could Jeff let her do this? Then he felt warmth overcome him; a calm, soothing wave extinguished his fears.
She gazed at him, her green eyes as loving as last night. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” He did. Absolutely. No question, though, he would soon be riddled with soupy channels from bullets.
Okay. He couldn’t resist her. He shut the door and she smiled.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Pretend you’re unconscious and unresponsive. Once they see you don’t respond, they’ll forget about you.”
She zipped up her hoodie, got out and closed the door. He locked the doors, lay back, and was about to close his eyes when he saw her run, right toward the oncoming pickups. Not really a run. More of a gallop and fast as a horse.
Chapter 22
While she drove, Rachel had been studying Dan with furtive glances. Sam was in the back and Dan in the passenger seat, yet he crowded the passenger door. He spoke to Sam but faced the side window, almost like he was trying to discern every molecule of the glass polymer. He never once looked at her the entire hour to the airport, and his replies to her numerous attempts at conversation had been a few monosyllabic answers uttered like one of the bored teenagers she had taken on a horseback ride once with Alexis. What a dolt. Convincing him to help with Jabril had been one thing. But to help spread Alexis’s DNA to the world? This was going to be harder than she thought.
She studied him as he pondered the window, his head tracking around it, as if scanning every millimeter. Second thoughts pulled inside her. The poor man had been severely depressed for years after his son died. He even thought he’d killed him. Maybe she should just leave him be. Alex could help, though he’d been against Rachel modifying Alexis’s DNA to begin with.
It had taken an act of God for Sam to purchase seats on the plane to Milwaukee, but he didn’t stop there. He had finagled various passengers to allow the three of them to sit abreast. Dan could not have the window—too much open space. He said “Nyet” to the aisle seat—too much chance for unknown people to touch him, Sam explained. And yes, Sam said, Dan knew Russian. He had worked for the CIA. He tilted his head; this soirée probably counted, too.
&
nbsp; Rachel took the window. Might as well have a view, since it didn’t look like there would be any conversation. With Dan in the middle, she suspected Sam would get all the attention.
She tried anyhow. “I didn’t know you were into Russian. Did you spend time there?”
He brushed his balding pate with a hand a nervous time or two, then began glancing back and forth from his legs to hers. She was sitting way too close. Didn’t she know that? “You work out don’t you? Yes, I was in Russia. It was the USSR then, before your time, when the war was cold and spies were hot. Not warm, but the in-thing, I guess that would be cool. Shit.” His words spilled out like an open fire hydrant and he couldn’t help what he did, until he put a cork in it at the end.
Not only was she surprised that he answered her, she wanted to laugh. Here was the man who almost single-handedly saved the only remaining oil in the U.S., and he was nervous around women.
If she stayed calm and eased him along, perhaps . . . “That must have been something, seeing the fall of the wall in Berlin. I mean, actually being there.”
This time his head waggled toward Sam, up to the ceiling, back to his lap, and ended with a glance at her legs. He held one hand palm up and curled his fingers in, flicking each nail with his thumbnail, almost like he was hoping to force a melody out of them. He did this twice, then on the third time she crossed her legs and he increased the pace for two more rapid-fire finger strummings. “Didn’t see it go down, personally. Video was good though. Fred and I were . . .” His voice trailed off, he hung his head and pulled his strumming hand in with the other to his chest, like he was praying, though she could not imagine Dan praying.