Badlands w-3

by Jason Frost

  "Blunt, but correct. The space shuttle will only be there a finite amount of time. Two days. Then it takes off with or without your father. With or without his papers. With or without you." Paige stared coldly at the CIA man. He smiled, that dead tooth gray among the white ones. "You know that mountain retreat of his. You know how to get there, where he might have hidden the papers, what they might look like. Your Ph.D. in physics will help there. If anybody can find him, it's you. The only problem is we don't know what else you'll find there. Our scientists figure there's no government of any kind left, except maybe small communities like medieval Europe."

  "Or the street gangs of the cities."

  "Yeah, even better. We just want you to know what you'll be up against."

  Paige Lyons stood up, her long legs lifting her a couple of inches taller than the short CIA agent. "Don't worry, Mr. Plummer," she said with an icy smile. "You've convinced me that I'll be able to kill a human being."

  8.

  "Eric, come here! Cougar tracks. I swear."

  "Tracy."

  "Don't give me that boy-who-cried-wolf shit. I'm telling you they're cougar tracks or puma tracks or whatever the hell you want to call them. Look."

  Eric brushed aside a tree branch and stepped over some bristles and soggy yellow leaflets warning residents to evacuate. They'd been hiking through the woods for five days. Santa Barbara was just on the other side of the hills and today was the day that the experiments on the Long Beach Halo were supposed to take place.

  "Look at that," Tracy pointed with her crutch. "I told you, damn it."

  Eric knelt next to the tracks and studied them.

  "See? Okay, maybe I was kidding before about seeing one, but look. Jesus, the size of 'em."

  Eric stood up, peered through the trees to a clearing. A small house stood alone at the top of a knoll. "Come on, let's check out that house. Might be empty."

  "I was right, wasn't I? Cougar, right?"

  "Nope."

  "What do you mean? Look, damn it. The pads, the four toes, the long claw marks. Four of them here. Another four there. Like it was running."

  "Very good," Eric said, meaning it. "Only it's not a cougar, not any kind of a cat. Probably a wolf or a wild dog."

  "But the claws-"

  "Cats don't leave claw marks, they keep them retracted. Also, there are four footprints together here. Cats leave only two."

  Tracy frowned. "What're you saying? They tiptoe?"

  "No, it's called directly registering. That means that when they pick up their front foot, the rear foot on the same side falls directly into the front print so it looks like a single print. Cats are the only animal family that does that. However, a fox will also directly register."

  Tracy gave him a cold stare and turned away. "I hate you sometimes."

  Eric smiled, stepped up behind her, slipped his arms under her crutches and wrapped them around her. "You love it when I tell you crap like that. Makes you feel outdoorsy. Admit it."

  "Ha. If I felt any more outdoorsy you'd have to mow my legs."

  Eric laughed, kissed her neck. "Hmmm. I see what you mean. You could use a bath. Your neck looks like it's got cougar tracks on it."

  "Me? Me?" She broke away from him. "You're the one who went for a midnight dip in a cesspool the other night. Christ, you smell like Pittsburgh."

  He stepped closer to her, their faces only inches apart. A smile twitched at his lips. "I thought you liked Pittsburgh."

  She laughed, pressed her lips against his, mashing them hard. She let her crutches fall to the ground. Immediately, she felt his powerful arms lift her onto her toes, pull her body next to his, crush it there with just the right amount of pressure. The dull ache in her broken leg seemed to stop for a moment. When she pulled her lips away from his, she was panting a little. "Do we have time for this?"

  "I'll check my schedule."

  "You know what I mean. Today's the big day. White man's silver birds come from sky. Drop chemicals on primitive natives down here."

  Eric shrugged. "I told you, that's a crock. If the government was going to do something like that, they wouldn't pick Santa Barbara. Population density is too great. It makes more sense to try this kind of thing over the desert."

  "Eric, we're talking about the government."

  He laughed. "Yeah, right. Still, something is going on. There's a reason they wanted this place evacuated. Something they don't want us to see."

  "And so we've got to see it."

  "No. Not necessarily. But I know Colonel Dirk Fallows will. He won't believe those flyers any more than we did."

  "Uh, than you did. I believed them."

  "You're here."

  She nodded at the crutches on the ground. "I wasn't given a lot of choices."

  Eric stared at her for a moment. She was right. He hadn't considered her at all. He'd thought only of the opportunity to outwit Fallows. For once to know where he was going and get there first, instead of having to track him. This was his chance to rescue Tim. Nothing else had mattered.

  "You're sure he's coming?" Tracy asked.

  "I'm sure. He's a master at exploiting opportunity. And when the government doesn't want you someplace, that's a guaranteed opportunity begging for someone like him."

  "What do you think it really is?"

  "I don't know."

  Tracy stooped down with awkward grace, her bandaged leg balanced straight out, and snatched up her crutches. She wedged one under each arm. "I guess the romantic mood has been broken."

  They started for the house in the clearing. Eric lead the way with Tracy keeping pace remarkably well despite her crutches.

  "I saw this guy with one leg run the New York Marathon on these things one year," she huffed as she swung next to Eric. "Young kid, maybe seventeen. I kept wondering what the people behind him with two legs were thinking as they tried to catch up."

  "Probably that winning the race wasn't as important as being able to at least run in it."

  "Uh-oh. There goes that deep thinking again. You know what Einstein said, 'I shall never believe that God plays craps with the world.' "

  "He said dice. 'I shall never believe that God plays dice with the world.' "

  "You're no fun. Just because you used to be a history professor doesn't mean you know everything. You can't believe everything you read in books. My uncle Gerald was a gardener for Einstein when he was at Princeton. Uncle Gerald had just told Albert that the azaleas he'd planted last season were all dead of rot. Professor Einstein was devastated. Uncle Gerald tried to cheer him up by telling him that in that particular climate, planting azaleas was a crap shoot. To which Einstein replied, 'I shall never believe that God plays craps with the world.' He later polished it up using the word dice."

  Eric stopped in the middle of the field and stared at Tracy. "Is that true?"

  Tracy kept swinging ahead choppily on her crutches, laughing with each hop. She glanced over her shoulder at Eric and smiled. "Gotcha."

  They approached the cabin downwind. Immediately Eric knew something was wrong. "Down," he whispered. "Down."

  Both of them dropped to the ground, letting the long grass surround them. Tracy had her.357 clutched in both hands. Eric checked the bolt in his crossbow.

  "What?" Tracy asked, eyes raking the house for movement. "You see something?"

  Eric shook his head. "Smell something."

  Tracy took a deep sniff. The usual smells: burned wood from the many campfires and brush fires that swept unmolested through huge portions of the state. There was always the smell of fire in the air. But there was something else. Something rotten. "What is it?"

  "Something dead. Probably human." He pushed up to one knee. "Wait here."

  "Count on it."

  He gave her a smile and was off, dodging in zigzags toward the modest weather-beaten house. She saw him slam up against the house, kick open the door, then crouch into the dark room, his crossbow sweeping for a target. Then he was gone.

  Tracy waited
, ears straining for the sound of an arrow, a gun, a knife, a muffled cry for help. Maybe she was too far away to hear. Her stomach sloshed and growled, but otherwise there was silence.

  Finally, Eric appeared at the door and waved at her to come up to the house. She waved back and he disappeared back into the house.

  As she climbed slowly to her feet, pulling herself up with one crutch, something odd occurred to Tracy. Eric's crossbow had been fired. As he'd waved to her with one hand, his crossbow had been gripped in his other hand, but there was no bolt in it and the string was uncocked.

  Had he fired at something? Or was someone in the house? Someone holding Eric prisoner and waiting for her to come too?

  Tracy hopped slowly toward the house, her gun balanced awkwardly as she held it and maneuvered the home-made crutches at the same time. What would she do? Refuse to go any further? They might kill Eric. But if she kept going, they'd probably kill both of them. With both dead there was no chance of saving Tim. At least with her alive, she could try.

  But would she? With Eric gone would she try to save Tim? Probably not, she admitted.

  She kept moving toward the house.

  9.

  They'd been watching the sky all day. Their faces were fearful, their sweaty hands clenched tightly around their weapons.

  "Quit looking up," Fallows commanded. "The only thing you have to be afraid of is down here standing in front of you."

  Still, the men moved slowly through the woods. Santa Barbara was a good twenty miles away. If they were going to get there in time to investigate whatever was going on, they'd have to quit dragging their asses and hurry. Fallows surveyed his men and smiled. Looks like they'd need some inspiration.

  "Hey, Phelps." Fallows waved the tall ex-CHP officer over to him. "Got a cancer stick?"

  "Sure, Colonel." Phelps dug into his cotton shirt and pinched a Virginia Slim out of the pack. "This is all I got."

  "That's OK. We've come a long way, baby. Right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Damn right. But then we got a long way to go. Right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Fallows snatched the ancient Zippo lighter from his pocket and flamed the cigarette. The rest of the men had stopped marching to wait for Fallows. A few kept glancing up at the sky.

  Tim Ravensmith stood next to Fallows. Within arm's reach. He had Eric's Walther P.38 tucked into his waistband, but there were no bullets for the gun.

  "You boys have been moving a bit slower than I like. We're behind schedule." He puffed smoke from the Virginia Slim up toward the sky. Then he bent over and picked up one of the soggy yellow flyers that were littered everywhere. "I get the feeling that you fellas don't trust my judgment. That so?"

  "We trust you, Colonel," someone said. A chorus of agreement followed.

  "Good. That's good." Fallows put his hand on Phelps's shoulders and turned him around to face the rest of the troops. Fallows stood directly behind Phelps now. "Because you have to trust me to know the way the tiny government mind works. I have no doubt that they wouldn't hesitate to conduct experiments that would be deadly to the inhabitants. Hell, many of you were in the service or worked as cops or firemen. You know what stupid things they're capable of doing."

  There was murmured agreement.

  "But you also know that this is not the place they'd try something like that. Nor is this"-he waved the flyer-"the way they'd go about doing it. They want something here. Or they want to do something here. I don't know what, but I know it will prove profitable for us."

  They nodded support, but he could still see the fear in their eyes. Words would not be enough this time. They needed a more dramatic demonstration.

  "Maybe they're dropping some kind of monitoring station. Something we can hold for ransom until they get us off this island." Fallows gently thumbed open the Zippo lighter. "We could be back on the mainland in a matter of weeks." He spoke loudly to cover the sound of his thumb flicking the flame to life. He touched the flame to the tail of Phelps's cotton shirt. It turned black at first, then a small flame ripped up the back of the shirt.

  "Shit!" Phelps screamed, trying to swat at his back, thinking at first he'd been stung by some giant wasp. Then the flame was all over his back and he knew. "Help! God, help!"

  Fallows booted him in the backside, sending him forward, arms windmilling to keep balance. "Now that's how I want you all to move. With speed and dedication. Like Phelps there."

  Phelps spun like a flaming dervish. No one moved to help him.

  Except Tim.

  Tim rushed over, kicked Phelps's legs out from under him, sending him to the ground. Then he straddled the burning man's chest, keeping him down while he rocked him on the ground, smothering the flames.

  Fallows watched with his pale, colorless eyes. "We'll take a five-minute break here. If anybody wants to tend to Phelps, fine. If not, fine. Hey, Phelps."

  There was a choked gasp from Phelps. "Yes."

  "Be ready to march in five minutes or we leave you behind."

  Phelps struggled to pull himself to a sitting position. Fallows never left anybody behind who was still alive.

  "Follow me, Tim." Fallows marched off into the woods without looking back. Tim followed. They kept walking until they reached a small clearing. Fallows unpacked his binoculars and began scanning the sky. "Nothing yet."

  Tim stood there without speaking. He'd decided that Fallows only used conversation to confuse him, to trick him somehow. With Fallows it was best to say nothing. Just wait for a chance to grab one 9mm bullet. Just one. Then he'd have plenty to say.

  Fallows's head was tilted back, swiveling from side to side, adjusting the binoculars. "That damn Long Beach Halo. It's something all right. Almost pretty if you didn't know what was in it. What it could do to you. Right, Tim?"

  "Yes." That was as much as he'd give the bastard. But it was true. The orange and yellow was pretty. But they'd seen a few people who'd tried to sail through it to the other side, despite the flyers that had warned everybody not to try or they'd be shot. The outside world was frightened of contamination. Tim didn't blame them. The ones he'd seen who'd been exposed to the Halo had gnarled, melted skin all over their bodies, their eyes half hanging out of the sockets. Those were the lucky survivors. Most died right away.

  Tim looked around him, studying every bush and tree, looking for his father hiding out there somewhere. It was something he always did, searching. But lately, he'd been doing it a little less. Where was he after all this time?

  "You did well back there, Tim," Fallows said, stuffing the binoculars back in their case. "With Phelps. Saving his life. Fast thinking."

  Tim shrugged. "I didn't think. I just did it, that's all."

  "That's a good sign. Quick reactions. You think that will make those men like you a little more? Treat you better?"

  "I haven't thought about that." But he had. He'd hoped they would see how he'd helped one of them. Maybe he could turn that to his advantage sometime. Get one to help him escape, or at least make them watch him less closely. Make it easier for him to get that single 9mm bullet he wanted. "Like I said, I just did it."

  "Sure. A humanitarian, like your dad. Come here. I want you to see something." Fallows plucked the binoculars from their case again and handed them to Tim. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder and pointed back toward the camp. "There. Take a look."

  Tim pressed the cold glass against his eyes and lifted the binoculars in the direction of Fallows's finger. He saw Phelps still sitting on the ground, trying to pull himself to his feet by clawing up the side of a tree.

  "What do you see?" Fallows asked. His tone suggested he already knew, even though Tim was sure he hadn't looked before. He'd kept his eyes on the sky. "Well?"

  "Everybody's taking a break like you told them to. Smoking cigarettes or chewing tobacco. A couple of 'em are playing cards, blackjack I think."

  "What about Phelps?"

  "He's getting up. Looks OK."

  "Anybody helping him?"<
br />
  Tim hesitated. At first he'd thought they were just letting him climb to his own feet, like his father had made him do when he'd been thrown from his dirt bike. But Tim remembered the anxious look in his father's eyes, too. He'd wanted to rush over and hold his son, Tim could see that. But he wouldn't. Not until Tim got up and climbed back on that dirt bike. But these men were ignoring Phelps as if he were somehow unclean.

  "I asked if anybody was helping Phelps. Giving him a hand, offering to tend to his wounds."

  "No."

  "Good. They've learned well."

  Tim knew Fallows was waiting for a reaction. He didn't give him one. He just handed the binoculars back and waited.

  Fallows smiled. "Yeah, you're Eric's kid all right. Same stubborn independence. There's a story I told your dad back in 'Nam when he was under my command. We'd just stormed a VC camp and I'd ordered my men not to take any prisoners. Well, one dumb ox from Baltimore hauls out this woman, couldn't have been more than seventeen. He asks me what he should do with her. I said, Shoot her in the head. He balked, his mouth hanging open like I'd ordered him to rape his mother. So I look around at the rest of my men and see that many are just as shocked as this Baltimore jerk. Fine, I thought. Let 'em learn a little lesson. OK, I told him, you can guard her. That night she gets hold of a knife and slices the Baltimore kid's throat. I see her sneaking out of camp and blow her head off with my.45. You see, I tell them, that's why we don't take prisoners. That night your daddy brings me the knife she'd used to shave the kid. He looks at me with those flat, ball-bearing eyes of his and says, handing me the knife, 'You lost something.' Yeah, your daddy knew right away it was me who slipped that bitch the knife." Fallows laughed. "Your dad was sharp, damn it. I'll give him that. So I told him to sit down, I've got a story to tell him. He says he'll stand. Stubborn bastard, like you. When I was a kid, I tell him, my friends and I used to hunt lizards. One day I caught about seven of them. I put them all in a cardboard box. That night I thought I'd feed them, so I caught this giant black bug, I didn't know what kind it was, and dumped it in the box with the seven lizards. Not much to eat, but I figured it would hold them until morning. When I came out the next morning I looked in the box and saw the black bug sitting on the back of one of the lizards. He'd eaten right through its back. He tried to crawl away, but the bug kept eating the red, gooey insides. The other six hzards were lying in the corners of the box with their backs turned." Fallows fixed his pale eyes on Tim. "What was I to learn from that sight?"