by Bradley West
“Maybe because one of us shot and killed her husband—”
“Who tried to rob us at gunpoint and threatened an orphan.”
Jaime tried another tack. “All Jeanie did was record the mixing process. That’s not exactly Nobel Prize–worthy. It’s a double standard.”
“The only double standard here is you suddenly pretending to care about racial justice. You’re the least socially conscious Mexican immigrant I’ve ever met. Why the change of heart?”
“I have to relieve my men,” he said and turned away. There was nothing left to say to that woman.
* * * * *
Meatball Matt showed Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson to the sizeable spare bedroom. “This is perfect,” Steph said. “I can put Tyson on blankets and a sheet where he’ll be comfortable.”
“I’ll shower and change the dressing on my leg while you set up,” Greg said.
Matt eyed the small cooler on the floor. “I have a freezer in the garage I can put this in.” He bent over to pick it up, and Greg and Steph both said, “No!”
“Suit yourselves. I’ll try to track down that neurologist, then grab a few hours in the rack. Let’s meet for a late breakfast and I’ll have a better idea whether she’s able to see Tyson.” As Matt walked to the master bedroom, he knew something was up. What made those two—one of them wounded in the thigh and the other borderline anorexic—act like they were immune?
Steph waited until she heard Matt’s door close, then crept back to the kitchen and into the garage. She picked up Greg’s things and saw the pistol on the seat as well. She grabbed that too and ghosted back to their bedroom—you couldn’t be too careful around strangers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Prey Species
Saturday, July 18, 2020: Spice Land outside Grangeville, Idaho; Highway 95, Nevada, Oregon and Idaho; Las Vegas, Nevada; early morning
Robert “Spice Bob” Spicer was a wealthy man of many idiosyncrasies and appetites. He’d made his millions through a Northern California gas station/minimart chain. For his retirement, he’d purchased “Spice Land,” nine thousand acres south of Grangeville near Fish Creek Meadows in Central Idaho, where rugged mountains transition to flatter land that supports agriculture, livestock and a smattering of people. He and his team had dedicated 2019 and Covid-ridden 2020 to enclosing the commune with fifteen miles of ten-foot-high, razor wire-topped fence and recruiting more than fifty idealistic young women backstopped by fifteen men.
Spice Land’s appeal to Zoomers was straightforward—free food, lodging, medical care and hallucinogens for six hours a day of producing food, working construction or recruiting. As a bonus, after dinner on Freaky Fridays Spice Bob talked about whatever came to mind for as long as he felt like it, or the drugs wore off.
Spice Land’s official motto was “Build a Better World Together,” a sufficiently flexible slogan to accommodate many causes. (There were enough “Better Drugs for Better People” tees to suggest that this alternative mantra had traction too.) Everyone signed nondisclosure agreements and only over-twenty-ones could apply. Spice Land’s rules outlawed social media, email and phones. Good old-fashioned letter writing was the only approved communication channel, and the mailman hadn’t shown up in three weeks. Superior housing and extra perks went to anyone who got pregnant, with on-site gynecological care and a maternity ward appended to the commune’s clinic. Spicy Sports numbered more than a dozen with a rec center under construction. An ample library of DVDs played on several big screen TVs under the stars, with plenty of beanbag chairs, blankets, boiling water bottles and popcorn to encourage canoodling. The distillers’ guild stumbled along, with the artisanal gin judged almost drinkable.
Once a Spice Lander left the compound, she or he departed for good, no exceptions. At the outset, recruiting had been slow, but as Covid-19 took hold, the commune’s appeal grew. Spice Land featured satellite internet access for Acquisitions Department staff, generating plenty of peer-to-peer recruiting opportunities. The dozen ranch hands provided agricultural and animal husbandry skills, plus ample attention to their disproportionately female companions. There was a waiting list for male joiners, limited by the minimum ratio of three women to every man.
With plenty of arable land and water and three hundred head of cattle, Spice Land was on its way to self-sufficiency. There was enough in-ground storage for gasoline and diesel to keep the ag equipment running for at least a year, by which time the virus would have died out, a cure would be available or they were screwed.
Spice Bob’s worldviews were a mash-up of half-read history, pop culture and teen fantasies. The Spicer family men had long marveled at the fecundity of the Mongol inner circle under Genghis Khan, with eight percent of males from China through Uzbekistan today descended from the same thirty men alive in the year 1200. As the great Khan pillaged his way from city to city in the twelfth century, the Golden Family killed native men by day and enjoyed the fruits of their women by night.
When Covid-20 hit the radar in July, Spice Land shut its doors to new recruitment and the mission shifted from getting high and getting laid to keeping the virus at bay.
Before sunrise on this fine July day, Bob lay on his back and considered two problems. The first was that he’d sold camping rights and laid-up supplies to a nutjob named Sal Maggio who wanted a stopping-off point for a family caravan headed north. When Spice Bob had agreed with Maggio in June, Covid-20 hadn’t existed and there seemed no harm in charging strangers to squat in the desolate western quadrant. Times had changed and Bob didn’t fancy opening the back gate, yet he’d received an email three days ago to expect the imminent arrival of four vehicles and twenty-odd people.
The second problem was that Spice Bob was dying. Bears fascinated him, and news that grizzlies had wandered into Central Idaho near Grangeville filled him with awe and wonder. A major contributor to the decision to locate the commune here was the opportunity to cavort with the cuddly monsters much as “Grizzly Man” Timothy Treadwell had in Alaska two decades prior. The nearby mountains and old growth forests had attracted Ursus arctos horribilis, and Spice Bob was determined to see them in the wild. His men had left a dead steer outside the north gate where they’d seen tracks and set up critter cameras. Two nights ago, a sow and a new cub chased off the coyotes and fed on the black angus’ remains. Bob needed to witness the action firsthand, and yesterday afternoon he hunkered down to wait in a hide only forty feet from the bloated steer. A bear with cubs is a volatile mixture. Add to that a handful of THC consumables and the opportunities for misadventure multiplied.
Spice Bob’s failure to make the eight o’clock comms check triggered a visit by his team, and they found their leader in the fetal position midway between the hide and the half-eaten steer. The sow had crushed the back of his skull and bitten his back as prelude to tearing open his abdominal cavity and scrambling his intestines. Torn clothes and bloody rake marks testified to the bear’s thorough annoyance. Making matters worse, in moving Bob to safety, his team paralyzed him from the sternum down.
Spice Land’s in-house physician said that the wounds required immediate surgery and urged them to call in a medevac helicopter. Bob was adamant that the rules were rules—no outsiders in Spice Land. His team defied his orders and radioed for an air ambulance out of Boise to arrive an hour after first light. More radio calls rounded up an all-star team of surgeons and an uncontaminated OR.
Bob had a theatrical air about him. Fancying himself as Alexander the Great on his deathbed in Babylon, he summoned brothers Ryan and Andrew, best friend Marsh and favored companion Deena. His breaths came in rasps and pain pills dulled his mind. “I know you booked a helicopter. I’ll be dead before it lands. Call off the chopper and have a party instead. Cremate my body on a bonfire and dance around the flames.”
“Stop this nonsense!” Deena wept.
“Who’ll take your place if you die?” Andrew asked.
“In time, one of you will step forward and all will follow. Have faith.” T
hen his lungs failed, and Spice Land’s creator, leading sybarite and mushroom-addled narcissist expired.
“I’ll call International SOS and cancel the medevac,” Ryan said, “Though I already transferred a hundred grand and we might not get a refund. I haven’t paid the surgeons yet.”
Marsh figured this might be the break he’d been looking for. He left to wake up the foreman, Shorty, and make his pitch to govern the commune.
* * * * *
The 3M convoy’s drivers were dead tired when the bumpy dirt road dead-ended at a padlocked gate and a new fence barred their access to Depot #2. As the sun rose, the former military men scrutinized the obstacles and reported back to Carla and Sal. “Heavy duty chain and lock, but Johnny’s acetylene torch can cut it in fifteen minutes,” Jaime said.
“If they’re checking their security feeds, they’ll know we’re here,” Travis said. “There are two solar-powered cameras with transmitters covering the road. Sophisticated gear—one of them looks to be IR-enabled. Do you want me to take them out?”
“Covered supplies eighty meters away,” Arkar said from behind binos. He was rapidly improving thanks to the vaccine.
“There’s a mound twenty meters away from the road not far back where we drove in,” Melvin said. “Yonten and I can set up the SAW on top and cover the approach.”
Carla sighed in exasperation. “This is a place we should be able to rest in peace, regain our strength and wait for Steph and Greg. We don’t want to force our way inside, break or steal cameras, or point machineguns at our hosts.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Sal asked.
“We drive around to the main entrance, introduce ourselves and they unlock this gate.”
“A combination padlock should lock this gate, and I have the numbers. Something’s not right and I’d rather we got inside and confirmed that our goods are all there before we met them. My deal with Bob Spicer was to accept delivery of my orders and allow us to take refuge in a remote part of his property. Knowing nothing about one another, we agreed that his and my people wouldn’t come into contact. That was before Covid-20’s emergence. There’s a solar-powered well next to the pallets. There’s no need for us to venture far: treat Depot #2 like we did Depot #1. Stay out of sight and prep for the next leg.”
“We have to try harder to find a non-aggressive formula for dealing with strangers,” said an exasperated Carla. “Everyone waits outside while I drive over alone to the main gate. I’ll wear a hazmat suit to allay their fears and explain the situation. They’ll either provide a key, or I’ll come back and Johnny can cut the lock.”
“That’s a terrible idea on two counts,” Travis said. “If they’re worried about Covid, seeing someone in a decontamination suit will freak them out. Second, you’re not going anywhere without a bodyguard. We elected you leader, and that means you can’t take unnecessary risks.”
Sal had heard enough. “I have the medium-wave frequency Spicer said they monitored at half-past the hour from six a.m. until ten p.m. Let’s call him. I’d rather do that from inside, but we can form a defensive perimeter out here. Would that work?”
“Why didn’t you suggest that to begin with?” Carla asked.
Because it’s the wrong thing to do, Sal thought, but he kept his own counsel while the military veterans circled the wagons and posted sentries. He was on his way back to the sleeper RV when his heartbeat raced for the first time since the big coronary three days ago. Tachycardia, my old friend, back again. He detoured to the hospital ’Bago to see if Tina had anything to calm his ticker down.
* * * * *
Muller had pushed the XLT hard north on Route 95 into Oregon and up into Idaho. Katerina figured he had a few hours left before he came down with the plague too. That she and Burns were symptom-free proved to her satisfaction that they were both immune. Norris continued to deteriorate, sweating through his shirt as he squirmed in the back seat. She mixed up his meds every two hours, feeding him a blend of oxy-derivatives and speed to keep him awake and suffering. She didn’t want Norris dead—not yet, anyway—but she didn’t want him well enough to hurt her again or try to take command.
“Rolf, you want me to drive?” It wasn’t a sincere offer because Norris’ backhand had half-closed her right eye and Dirty Pete’s head slap had fattened her cheek and impaired her left eye’s vision. She wanted to gauge his alertness and current disposition.
“I didn’t bring a phone book for you to sit on, and we don’t want you looking at the road through the steering wheel,” he quipped. “I’m tired and the gas is down to half a tank. If we can find a pullout, what do you say we grab some shuteye in the truck bed? There’s blankets to keep us warm.”
“That sounds like an idea,” she said, putting a little purr into it.
* * * * *
Travis turned the ham radio to 3158 megahertz at 7:09 Mountain Time and gave a solid dozen “CQ, CQ, CQs” as a general call initiator. He listened for the agreed five minutes but heard nothing. Not encouraging. Travis powered down the set and brought it back up an hour later to see if his former wife Sally was on the air at their appointed time. He heard nothing from East Texas, floated a dozen CQs and listened hard to static until 8:15. Time to find Sal and Carla, and speak to the Big Kahuna or whatever the Spice Burger called himself.
“CQ, CQ, CQ,” Carla intoned at 8:30.
“QRZ,” (“Who are you?”) a man immediately replied.
Carla looked to Travis, who looked to Sal. “My agreed callsign is ‘Pinto’ and Spicer’s is ‘Aragorn.’ ”
“Pinto, Pinto, Pinto,” said Carla. “QRZ.”
“Where are you, Pinto? This is Aragorn,” Andrew said.
“We are at your back gate, which is locked. Please let us in.”
“Spice Land is closed because of Covid-20,” Andrew said. “Leave our property immediately.”
“That’s not Bob Spicer’s voice, Sal said offline. “Ask to speak with Bob.”
“I need to speak with Aragorn. Put Aragorn on,” Carla said.
“Aragorn’s . . . unavailable.”
“We paid fifty thousand dollars for access to your land, water and our supplies. You need to let us in.”
In the radio room, Ryan spoke to his brother offline: “We removed the fuel. There are only pallets of MREs and other shitty survival foods. Offer to refund half.”
“We’ll refund half your money if you leave right away,” Andrew said.
Carla looked at Sal, who shook his head just as another tachycardia episode hit. He strained to maintain a calm facade, but his niece did a doubletake at his pained features.
“Negative,” Carla said. “We want all our supplies and a place to rest for just two or three days. We possess a proven Covid cure and will share the know-how if you abide by our agreement.”
Travis and Sal looked at one another in disbelief.
“Put Aragorn on or tell him to meet us alone at the back gate within thirty minutes. Once we have our supplies, we will describe our method for separating antibodies from survivors’ plasma and distilling it into an inoculation that both treats and prevents Covid-20.”
“We’ll send someone,” Andrew said. “73.” (“Signing off.”)
“73,” Carla switched off the set, expecting an explosion.
Travis and Sal looked at one another. “That was a good balance of carrot and stick,” Sal admitted, “but you put targets on our backs. What do you suggest we do next?”
“As 3M’s leader, I’ll assess whomever I’m negotiating with and make the call.”
Travis drew deeply on his new discipline, meditation, and exhaled slowly. “Walk us through the possibilities.”
* * * * *
Steph and Greg sat in the bathroom and spoke in whispers. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a gun?” she asked.
“I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
“Do you even know how to fire it?”
“Jaime and Travis took me through the basics. I think so.”
“Good,” she replied. “I smell a rat. Why did he offer to cut the fee in return for a look in our icebox? We offered him a thirty-thousand-dollar truck for a specialist’s visit. That should be plenty.”
Greg looked in the bathtub at the cooler. Next to it was the ham radio. Oh, hell. He’d missed the morning broadcast window. “The streets are full of abandoned cars and trucks,” Greg said. “The gas in the tank is worth more than the truck. He wants to know if he can make big money off the cooler’s contents. It’s a shame we don’t have a second icebox so we can swap out the shots.”
“Why don’t we give Matt one shot to pay for the specialist’s visit?” Steph asked. “That would leave three to trade for Tyson’s treatment.”
Greg did the math and came up short. “We’ll need one shot to buy a barrel of gas to take us to the Canada border, one for food and sundries, and at least two for an operating theater and doctors.”
“Compromise,” Steph said. “Tell Matt the truth: We have four shots and he gets the last one once Tyson’s treated and we rejoin our convoy. We also need him to upload the Dark Cure recording onto YouTube. No reason he shouldn’t do it if we’re telling him about the treatment anyway.”
“Agreed.”
“Let’s go find him before Tyson wakes up. He slept better the last few hours and the swelling’s gone down, too.”
“Today’s the day we get answers,” Greg said and patted his worried wife’s arm.
* * * * *
The two Spicer brothers Ryan and Andrew, plus Bob’s BFF Marsh, took the inland track through the Spice Land spread, driving across cattle pastures before bouncing their 4WD over the rocky wasteland that defined the western quadrant. Andrew stopped on the last rise that gave them an overview of the solar panel array and plastic sheets covering the dummy cargo, and the fence ninety yards beyond with vehicles parked nearby. Nervous, Andrew said, “The camera footage from outside that gate showed a lot of men with guns.”