by Milt Mays
Jabril rubbed his sore jaw. He opened the door a crack, wide enough to see out. This trailer was at the very back of the park. One other trailer twenty yards toward the others. Nothing in the other direction but a few trees. No one moved. No lights. Nice and private and easy to get rid of the body. The almost dry streambed that ran behind the campground had ample soft earth, and plenty of deadfall trees to disguise the burial. He used a broken branch to dig the shallow grave. He looked at the body and his stomach growled. One meaty arm was all he needed. Slice it off and cover everything up. Even postmortem he might get blood on his shirt. No. Not now. Maybe with Rachel. He took the man’s baseball cap and pulled it snug on his own head, then buried the body.
Jabril was in and out of the RV office in five minutes with plenty of cash. Ten minutes later, he had stowed the mice and plants under the foldout couch and was on the highway, not stopping at the same McDonald’s to avoid any recognition. In another half hour, outside Rockford, Illinois, there was an all-night Kentucky Fried Chicken. A bucket of crispy chicken with mashed potatoes and five apple pie minis and he felt completely revived. Down Interstate 39 to 80 and he was set.
There were no speed limits anymore, as he had learned from research on the smartphone. All the old engines were supposed to conform to the new fuel economy standards, or at least very close to the new cars: 45 mpg. And, they got the same mileage at 90 MPH as they did at 55. Jabril wondered about the van. But its infrared proximity detectors beeped a warning each time the rare car got too close. So it was up to standards on that requirement. And the gas gauge did not move, despite keeping the speed at 85 MPH. There were so few cars on the road, he wasn’t worried about an accident. No speed limits probably saved money on law enforcement. He put the cruise on 88 MPH and figured he would be there in about twelve hours, barring any interruptions. By two in the afternoon he would have Rachel Lane, and by tomorrow his prayers to end the infidels would finally be answered.
He touched the back of his left ear. Fuck prayers.
Six hours later, the proximity alarm went off and he braked hard. Several police cars blocked the road. The van’s tires screeched in a skid headed right for a line of vehicles stopped behind the blockade.
Chapter 40
Jeff woke on his side, half out of his sleeping bag, but warm enough with all his clothes still on. His head rested on the soft pillow of Alexis’s belly. She was on her back inside her bag, her brown pullover still on, her breathing slow, unfettered, each breath raising his head ever so slightly, up and down, up and down. The smell of sweat from last night was faint, but nice. Very nice. He could lie like this, the fragrance, the gentle rise and fall of his head—how long? Don’t worry about it right now. Just enjoy.
The red lights were still on in the cave, but outside daylight filtered in enough for him to see the ceiling and extent of the cave. It was huge. There were trucks and cars and vans filling about two-thirds of the floor space. And they actually had colors. Nothing like the light of day to bring out happiness. People were beginning to stir, yawning, stretching. A line had formed at the two portable toilets.
He sat up. She opened her eyes and smiled at him. Neither said a word. This was pretty nice. Better than that. He could love her. Why not? Love at first sight happened. He was a witness. And now, yes, a participant.
There was no warm feeling, though. No warm bath, kick-off-the-bath-shoes, throw-off-the-clothes, hop-in-and-soak, orgasm-until-morning feeling. It was more like love. It was the same feeling when he thought of Dad and Mom. The feelings for Krista were more . . . not quite this. When he got back he would have to square things with her, for sure. With a kid and all, he would definitely have to marry her. Now that he would be seeing his dad soon, maybe he should back off from Alexis.
He pushed the bag off, put on his coat and shoes, and stood up and looked away from her, zipped his coat up a notch. She also got out of her bag and put her shoes and coat on.
“Are you okay, Jeff?” Her voice was butter-melt soothing.
“Yeah. Better. Sorry about all the boo-hooing. You probably think I’m pretty immature.”
“Not at all. You’ve been through a lot.”
He turned quickly to face her. “Have you been reading my mind while I slept? Or even the last few minutes? Or maybe the mind-meld stuff.” Wow, dude. Why don’t you punch her in the face?
“No. I will not do that again, unless you want me to.” Her words were soft. Gentle. What a shit he was.
He nodded. So, no warm-bath feel, no mind-meld. The other feeling was real then. He loved her, and she him.
“Maybe we should go back down South. Things were okay for you there. We could be happy.”
“What about your dad and mom? And your other responsibility?”
He turned away from her. “You have been reading my mind.”
“No, I haven’t.”
He did not answer and looked at the ground. He could feel her body closer to him. Nearby, a small child was cooing in response to a deep murmur from a man and woman behind a truck. They were a family. They loved each other, supported each other, were happy even in this disastrous situation.
With his head hung, he turned to her and could feel his hair touch her. “Okay. I know about my responsibility; I want to see my parents. That’s all true. But I love you. I—”
She interrupted him with a hand under his chin lifting his head. She kissed him.
The warm-bath feel wasn’t there, but he was so light he could float, his heart full to bursting. Yeah. This helped. Sure.
She ended the kiss and they opened their eyes to each other. “I love you too, Jeff.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Maybe you should decide once you talk to them. Things have a way of working out.”
A thought struck him and he twisted his head back and forth, looking. “Where’s your dad?”
“He works well at night. He should stop a lot of the Ambrosia attack.”
“One guy against helicopters, soldiers, all those guns?”
She smiled. “Yeah.”
From around a white Ram truck, Lorna walked toward them. Her face was haggard: dark and sagging skin under red eyes, aged ten years since yesterday. She smiled at them, an obvious effort, yet with true love for Alexis mixed with what looked like regret.
“Good morning. Your dad got hung up and won’t be back for several hours. I hate to do this, but we’re going to need you, Alexis. Ambrosia’s GMO lab is not far away. Maybe you could get in there and do a little damage and get us some samples so we could see why they’re so angry at us. You’re pretty good at getting in and out quickly.”
Jeff frowned. “You want her to go in by herself?”
Alexis put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”
“Actually,” Lorna said, looking at Jeff, “I want to send twenty with her, but we have no one to spare. I was thinking you might help her. We’ll give you a clip of bullets.” She smiled again, this time like she had told a joke. “Real live ammo. What will that feel like?”
She pointed at his dusty rifle. “You might want to clean it first, though.”
Alexis squinted at her, green irises suddenly swirling in the twilight of the cave. Lorna gazed right back, unwavering, jaw clenched. Alexis’s hand on his shoulder did not move, but her grip tightened.
There was something going on here that Jeff didn’t get. But he knew he couldn’t let Alexis go into the lion’s den without him. If he died helping her? No problem. It would solve a lot of problems.
He touched her hand on his shoulder. “I’m not letting you go without me. I’m going.”
Her grip relaxed, and the two women broke their eyeball-to-eyeball wrestling match.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll help. I understand.” Then she looked at Jeff. “You can come, but I’ll be the only one going into the lab.”
“But—”
“That’s the way it is.” There was nothing warm about her voice, but it was still soothing and firm
and, definitely, most definitely, the end of discussion.
Lorna handed him a clip of bullets. He scrounged through his pack and found oil, a rag and a cylinder brush. In the car he found a clean blanket, spread it on the ground, and sat cross-legged with his rifle in his lap.
Alexis started to walk off with Lorna. “I’ll get food. Hope you can do that pretty quick. We should leave in a few.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Sure he would. He hadn’t fieldstripped this gun in a month, hadn’t fired it in a year, hadn’t fired at another human being in over four years, and hadn’t liked it then or ever wanted to do it again. Even so, the gun seemed to disassemble itself on the blanket and was oiled and back together in minutes. Training? Possibly. Motivation? Absolutely.
If Alexis needed him, he would be there for her. Nobody was taking her from him. Nobody.
Alexis was already walking back with a bag under one arm. She caught his eye and smiled. It was a smile he loved, a smile he hoped to see for years to come. Yet he had a bad feeling about where they were going. It reminded him of the Oil War and a ride in a Humvee with a crazy sergeant right before disaster.
Chapter 41
Dan hugged all the equipment, cursing Rachel’s mad driving. Even with her whipping a U at the sight of the roadblock, he’d prevented any damage. He was good. Face it.
Now she dodged vehicles coming at them, and though this time of night I-80 was not crowded, their closing speed was close to 170 MPH. The oncoming headlights seemed to be jet aircraft, blinding and flicking from bright to low beam, on and off, as if the oncoming drivers thought their headlights a shield to protect them. The proximity alarm bongs sounded like a church bell rung by a manic fiend.
Rachel fumbled a hand for the button to disable it. “Goddamn technology!”
Dan sighed. Everyone always blamed technology.
The car lurched from side to side. Dan bounced off the sides, using his shoulders as fenders to protect his equipment. His heartbeat bounced off his temples like that manic church-bell-bonger had found a new target; his anal sphincter cinched so tight he might never take a dump again; his eyelids sprang wide and unblinking as a robot. The last prayer he’d uttered had been about 4.33424658 years ago, asking God to save Jeff and Lisette, a woman he thought he loved. She was such a good person. Now Jeff was alive. Please, God, I just want to see Jeff again.
Rachel sped down the on-ramp for southbound 148 before Dan had a chance to tell her that Highway 71 would have been better, faster, probably smoother. She really didn’t look to be in a listening mood. Dan hit his head on the roof with one bump; another smacked his right elbow on the side window. The wheels whumped from divots in the road, which would surely cause a flat any second. A few glimpses of the computer map showed 148 would get them there, and maybe, just maybe, since it was a smaller road, there would be less chance of another roadblock. But it was in a sad state of disrepair.
“You okay back there?” Sam twisted his head around, eyeing Dan.
“Wonderful. Can’t work on the computer, though, and our little buddies aren’t happy.”
The mice were hissing and hopping around the now uncovered cage, the blanket having slid off. Dan was careful to avoid touching the cage. No telling what a bite from those GMO mice would carry. Probably Ebola with a touch of H7N1 influenza.
He threw the blanket over the cage, reaching in with quick touches, like he was pushing spaghetti into boiling water, trying to avoid the teeth while adjusting the blanket to cover the sides.
The mice quieted; the road smoothed; Rachel rolled her head on her neck. “That was close. Where do we go now, Dan?”
Dan didn’t answer.
“Dan?” She adjusted the rearview, bringing her eyes into view.
“I would prefer 71. It was the next exit on the interstate. But you didn’t ask me before you turned around and tried to kill us coming back to 148.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
He remembered the men and machine guns blocking the interstate, wriggled his mouth, scratched an eyebrow and adjusted the laptop screen. “In a couple of miles, at a small town, veer right onto Iowa 83, going west. Stay on it until you get to highway 71 . . . it might be Whitney Street, just outside of Atlantic, Iowa. Turn south and stay on 71 south until we get to Missouri. Then go west on Missouri 136.”
“83, 71, 136. Got it.” She sped up.
Dan wished the last number had been 137. Three primes were lucky—him, Marci and Adam. 137 was even better. 1+7=8 with a 3=83, and 71 was already in there. Cool combo. But not 136.
There were large trees and power lines and buildings at the small towns, but in an hour they were on 71 heading into Missouri, and the trees were sparse between flat plowed fields. The headlights lit a road into nothing. Darkness without end. There was a tiny panic doing a dance in his stomach. He looked at the electronic map again, wishing 136 was 137. 136 was unlucky. He looked outside, sure the road would end abruptly at an unrepaired bridge or where a Missouri tornado had ripped out a section. The speedometer read 80, down a notch from the 85-90 she’d been doing on the Interstate. How reassuring. She was being safe.
Rachel quickly turned her head twice, looking at Dan and back at the road. “Too bumpy to work, huh?”
He nodded, but there was no way she saw that before she tapped the music screen. Whitesnake vibrated the car. He didn’t know the name of the song, but it had to be the same band she kept playing over and over. At least she was consistent: drive fast, heavy metal, loud. One good thing: it made her happy.
She yelled over the music, almost a laugh. “Can’t work, might as well enjoy the ride. Never know what’s ahead.”
Guitar jags and whumping bass absolutely ended any road noise. She was right: He couldn’t work. Now he could hardly think. She grinned and thumped the steering wheel with one palm.
The next hour seemed like seven. They got on west Missouri 136. It looked a lot smoother on the GPS map. There were a lot of small creeks and rivers and trees in Missouri, and the road jagged left and right. They finally went through a large metal suspension bridge over the Missouri River into Nebraska. The road straightened and smoothed. Rachel turned the music off, sped up to around 90, and Dan went back to work to avoid thinking of a crash. In another four hours Rachel followed his directions and turned southwest into Kansas, west into Colorado, and took U.S. 385 south, slowing and snaking through Burlington.
He was concentrating and lost track. She squealed around right-angle turns once at a small town he glimpsed, but he had no idea if they were getting close to Lamar, Colorado. He was hardly aware the sun had come up. Prime numbers floated through his head; a rainbow of pastel colors calmed his nerves, and his fingers flew across the keys.
Damn! Got bumped out again. The 5G communication was spotty out here in the boonies.
Now he was in again, got into Stratos and tried Rachel’s program. Son of a . . . The damn thing would not accept the password.
He tried again. And again. Same result. He must get into this program or he’d not be able to analyze the plants and mice tissue.
Screw it. He called up one of his utility programs for deciphering passwords. Must have been a good password because it took twenty minutes for his extremely wonderful program to break it.
Finally, he was in.
Now he was in a groove. All those setbacks never really mattered. Soon he would hug his son.
“I’ve got it. The codes. I got ‘em all.” His voice sounded too high even to him. But he couldn’t help it. He had the DNA sequence and codes to the GMO foods and mice all laid out. Simple. There were the recent ones from Dan’s work and the others, from 2002, a file Rachel had given him. In that file there were two names: Rachel Anne Lane and Alex Smith. Dan’s files were different from the nano-coated GMO food files, though similar. Someone had bastardized them. Typical.
He touched the button to save everything into the Stratos. With Rachel’s help they could now easily stop Jabril.
A
loud whump came from under the car; the road tilted; his head smacked the side window and everything got jumbled and dark.
#
He woke up cold. Where was he? He was hanging upside down, a fly caught in a spider web of the seat belt wrapped around his body, his arms, his armpit, twice. A headache pounded behind his eyes. Running water coated the top of his head like a freezing cap. Bright splashes of sunlight reflected through the jagged outline of the mostly nonexistent windshield. He glanced furtively side to side; his heart tap-danced; he breathed too fast; he wanted to scream. This was not helping. He could not let the thin knife of panic pierce his brain.
He touched chin to his chest, lifted his head out of the water and studied every corner of the upside-down car and spotted two things . . . well . . . spotted one and the absence of the other. Something twisted in his chest and grabbed his heart and he wanted to cry. He thrashed and pushed at the seat belt release to try and get at the one thing he could see. But the seat belt held fast. He yelled, yet not even a croak came out.
That first thing, the thing he saw, the thing that he almost started crying about: His computer was half in and half out of the water. He’d had that laptop for five years. It probably still had mud on it from Louisiana, certainly files from the entire debacle of Xoflex. But most of all, he’d kept photos: Marci, Adam, Jeff, and the only ones he had of her—Lisette. Gone.