Badlands w-3

by Jason Frost

  Eric noticed the warm affection under the chiding tone, filed that away. Something to use later. He knew she had no intention of taking Tim back on the Columbia, that she was just using him. But he'd find a way. First, though, he had to find her father. And Tim.

  "My God, I don't believe it," she said, reaching deep into the glove compartment. Crushed styrofoam cups spilled onto the floor. When Paige's hand reappeared, it was wrapped around a full can of Coke. "He used to drink at least a six-pack of these every day. We'd all sit around the breakfast table drinking orange juice and he'd be guzzling a can of Coke." She smiled fondly at the memory. "Told us if it weren't for cola he'd have been an alcoholic."

  Eric looked at the can, felt his taste buds contract. He hadn't had a soft drink or a beer in months. Finding fresh water had been enough of a chore. "You going to drink that?" he asked softly.

  "Are you kidding. It's warm."

  Eric took it from her and carefully eased the pop-top open. He didn't want to do it too fast and have it all fizz out. He wanted every last drop. The top hissed, sprayed some warm cola onto his pants and across his hands. He licked his hands while waiting for the foam to die down. He leaned his head back on the seat and drank half the can in one swig. "Jesus, that's good."

  She gave him a disgusted look. "Just don't belch, OK? I hate that."

  He drank the rest of the Coke. Belched. "Couldn't be helped," he said.

  Paige ignored him, continued rummaging through the glove compartment. "Nothing here. Mostly trash. Credit card receipts for gas, grocery lists, deck of cards, a Doonesbury cartoon book. Some tape cassettes of Judy Collins."

  "No top secret documents to save the world?"

  "Half a pack of Juicy Fruit. You interested?"

  "Stale?"

  "What's the difference? I'm surprised you didn't rip open the Coke can and lick the insides."

  Eric said, "You haven't been here long enough to pass judgment on my manners, lady."

  Paige flushed, her cheeks glowing red. She jumped out of the passenger side and slammed the truck door hard. The truck rocked. She marched all the way around the truck before standing in front of Eric, her face still a bit pink. She was breathing hard, her mouth a tight slit. Then she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, it was as if a different person was staring out. "I'm sorry, Eric. I mean it. I know how I act sometimes, I mean I can see me making a fool of myself. Inside I cringe, but that only makes me charge ahead even harder. You're right, I tend to pass out judgments on people like I was sent directly from God. I don't mean anything by it. Really."

  Eric said, "Does that mean I get the Juicy Fruit?"

  She laughed. "Ladies first." She unwrapped one stale piece, shoved it in her mouth and began chewing. She tossed the rest of the pack to Eric. "Help yourself. Only I suggest kneading it with your tongue before chewing. Save your teeth."

  Eric stepped out of the truck and looked around. "How far to the cabin?"

  "Another couple miles. Three at most."

  "Then the truck was coming from the cabin, not going toward it."

  "Looks that way."

  "It also looks like he had the truck loaded with some of his stuff. Got a flat tire here, but when he took out the spare, he found that was flat too."

  "Typical of him to have a flat spare."

  "Absent-minded professor, huh?"

  "No, not really. Just didn't care much about the details of daily living. He didn't forget things, he just ignored them."

  "Like his daughter?"

  "No!" she snapped, the anger back. Then it was gone, under control. "No. Actually we were very close until I got into the astronaut program. Then we didn't see much of each other. Not his fault. He called every Monday, invited me to fly out just about twice a month, planned dinners with me whenever he was in D.C." Paige sighed. "I was the one who drifted away. So busy trying to make it on my own, proving I wasn't just the famous Dr. Lyons's daughter, that I, well, pushed us apart, I guess."

  "When's the last time you saw him?"

  "Over a year before the quakes. A year and a half."

  "Well, from the looks of things here, whoever was driving this truck probably returned to the cabin. Maybe to look for something to repair the tire."

  "Then why didn't they come back? Where did the stuff that was in the back go?"

  "I don't know. Maybe he realized there was no place to go anymore. Figured he was safest staying home. Maybe he carried the stuff back or someone else made off with it. No way of knowing until we find the cabin."

  "Then let's go."

  "Just a second," Eric said, reaching back into the truck's glove compartment and grabbing the two cassette tapes. He stuffed them into his shirt pocket.

  "You some kind of Judy Collins fan?"

  "Sometimes. Only right now I'm just curious."

  "About what?"

  "About why he's got the cassette tapes in the truck, but no cassette player."

  "That's the cabin," Paige whispered. Only it really wasn't a cabin at all. More like a converted barn. "It looks different."

  "You sure this is the place?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure. It's just… oh, never mind." How could she explain that she remembered it as it was when she'd last seen it, through a sixteen-year-old's romantic eyes. It had been their family retreat, a place to hike and run and yell at the top of your lungs if you wanted. Christ, now it looked old, weather-beaten. Shabby.

  She started toward it, trancelike.

  Eric touched her shoulder. "Better wait."

  "For what?"

  "To make sure it's safe."

  Paige let the implication register for a moment. "OK."

  "Besides, what makes you think he wouldn't have taken off with the others when he read your phony flyers?"

  "No way. Not Dad. He'd know the government would have to get him out sooner or later, and he'd certainly recognize this silly ploy as their style."

  Eric stared at the house awhile. Nothing unusual about it. Someone had spent a lot of money a long time ago to have this place built. It wasn't a barn, merely built to look like one that had been converted, a popular style years ago. But time and neglect had ravaged its appearance. Yet there was something a little funny. The windows were clean.

  "How was your father on housework?"

  "A menace. Last time I saw him he told me he'd converted entirely to paper plates and plastic forks rather than wash any dishes."

  "Better call in again, see if your friend's made it back."

  "Right." Paige pulled the transmitter from her backpack, tapped out a coded message. It wasn't Morse or any of the others Eric knew, so he just watched the house while she and Dr. Bart Piedmont conversed in dots and dashes. It didn't matter anyway; he already knew what the answer would be.

  "Well, Steve isn't back yet." She was trying to sound casual, but Eric could hear the tightness in her voice. "Guess he's slower than we thought."

  "Might have sprained an ankle or something."

  "Yeah, right." Paige began chewing on her thumbnail, a habit she'd been fighting for the past fifteen years. "Could have sprained an ankle, or gotten a little lost."

  "Uh-huh."

  "But you don't believe that?"

  "I don't know. But just in case, we'd better start working fast, OK?"

  She nodded. "OK."

  "Let's go; Keep three feet behind me and to the left. If anything spooks me, I'm diving to the right. You drop where you are and get ready to shoot. Clear?"

  "Clear."

  They both lifted their HK 93s, checked the clips and flipped the safeties off. Eric's crossbow was slung over his shoulder.

  "Just don't accidentally shoot my father, OK?" She wasn't being smart, it was a sincere plea.

  "As long as he doesn't shoot at us."

  "He's never even fired a gun in his whole life."

  "Lucky man. Only since the quakes, a lot of people have done a lot of things they'd never done before, or ever thought they could do." He point
ed his gun at the front of the house. "Like I said, people have changed, but most haven't gotten neater. You say your dad was a slob, but those windows are spotless. That's unusual out here. Most people are too busy surviving to do anything more than the minimum of cleaning."

  "You've made your point, Eric. Let's get on with it."

  Eric lead the way through the thick weeds and thorny underbrush. Paige gripped her HK 93 tightly, her teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached.

  The thirty yards around the house were cleared. What weeds and grass grew there had been pulled or tramped down. Eric stopped when he reached the edge of this yard. He tensed his finger around the trigger with one hand and cupped the other around his mouth. "Hey!" he shouted at the house. "Dr. Lyons?"

  There was no answer. He could see no one at the windows either.

  "Anybody in there? We're not looking for any trouble."

  Paige waded forward a few steps and shouted, "Daddy! It's Paige."

  No answer.

  "Now what?" Paige said, more to herself than Eric. Her voice was heavy with disappointment. She let the HK 93 sag to her side.

  "Maybe he's being cautious."

  "Sure," she said. "And maybe he's dead."

  "Maybe. But as I understand your mission, you're to bring back either your dad or his papers. Right?"

  "Yes."

  "Then we go ahead. If he's not in there, maybe there's some sign of where he went."

  "Like a body."

  "Like a map, a letter."

  "A treasure map?" She scowled at him. "You think I'm only here for his lousy plans, don't you? Little Paige, government robot who follows orders no matter what. Maybe that's how you were, mister, when you were in 'Nam, but I'm not built that way. Yes, I want his papers, but I want him more."

  Eric touched her shoulder. "I didn't doubt that, Paige. I didn't mean a treasure map, but something to indicate where he might have gone. You said he was expecting to be rescued."

  "Yes." She brightened. "Yes, he might have done something like that. He was very meticulous when it came to his work."

  "Well, let's find out." He started toward the house, crouching low, the gun set on semiautomatic.

  A movement behind the window, someone peeking and ducking away. Too fast for Eric to see a face clearly. "Someone's home," he whispered over his shoulder.

  "Let's huff and puff and blow the house down."

  Eric patted his HK 93. "That's what these are for."

  They were only fifteen yards away now, Paige still behind and to the left of Eric. She was chewing on a sliver of thumbnail that had come off earlier.

  "Come on out," Eric said to the front door. "We don't mean you any harm."

  The front door flew open and they all came charging out at once.

  17.

  "Five minutes," Fallows told his men. "That's all."

  The men stopped running, some holding their sides, trying to rub out the stitches that had settled into their muscles a mile or so back. Others just dropped to the ground, panting and puffing, fumbling open their canteens, guzzling water. Bedlow was hugging a tree, vomiting on the bark. But no one complained. It was hard to while being watched by Fallows, who wasn't even breathing hard.

  "You all on your periods?" Fallows laughed, brushing his white hair with his hand. "Christ, even this little kid can outrun you sissies."

  Tim stood next to Fallows, fighting to control his breathing. He wanted nothing more than to drop to the ground with the others and gulp air like a dying fish, but he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. He regulated his breathing, just as his father had taught him. Besides, Fallows pointing him out like that made him feel kind of proud. Funny, he never thought he'd feel that around here. He shoved his hand in his pocket, felt the smooth casing of the 9mm bullet.

  "Soon, kid," Fallows said, patting Tim's shoulder, "I'm going to have your father right where I had him in 'Nam. Then you're going to see what he's really made of. The kind of man who let his family be destroyed that way. Who abandoned them the way he abandoned me. He could've been my partner, made a fortune with me. Wars are God's way of letting the strong get rich. But he turned me in instead. Testified against me. Well, he's done the same to you, Tim. That's why we have to stick together."

  Tim wanted to cry out, defend his father, but he was afraid Fallows would take his bullet away. And he wanted that bullet more than anything in the world. Besides, Fallows wasn't saying anything that Tim hadn't sometimes thought himself. Why hadn't his father rescued him yet? Was he even going to try? If he was, what was he doing up here where Fallows had to chase him?

  Eli Palmer was running down the road toward them, his heavy boots thumping the dirt road. "Sir… sir…" he panted.

  "Speak, Palmer," Fallows said impatiently.

  "Up ahead… abandoned truck. Same as that pilot said… belonged to the… scientist."

  "Any sign of the man?"

  "No, sir. Truck had a flat, so'd the spare. No sign of foul play."

  Foul play. Christ, Fallows thought, once a cop always a cop. "What about papers? Anything?"

  "No. Nothing. But looks like someone has already rummaged through the glove compartment. Probably recently."

  Fallows could see by Eli's expression that he was waiting to be asked. Fucking cops. "How do you figure that, Eli?"

  "Well, the truck had been there quite awhile. Weeks at least. But I found an empty Coke can in the cab and there were still a few sticky drops on it." Eli Palmer smiled, having finally proved that he had belonged in Homicide rather than Burglary, just what he'd been telling the department for three years before the quakes.

  "Good work, Eli." Fallows smiled. "They can't be too far away. We take it slow and easy from now on. I don't want to spook him. Let's go."

  Everyone was on their feet and following Fallows.

  Fallows turned to Tim and grinned. "Still got that bullet, kid?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. You're going to need it."

  18.

  There were maybe twenty of them. They ran out of the house, circling Paige and Eric like Indians attacking a wagon train. Only they didn't attack. They stood still, each holding something to use as a weapon. A hammer, a saw, a hunk of firewood, a screwdriver, a fork.

  The oldest was a girl of about fifteen. She wore a tattered but clean dress and a full-length apron. Her blond hair hung down her back almost to her waist. The weapon she was brandishing was a wooden spatula.

  The rest of the children stood silently, obviously waiting for her command. The youngest was about three. He carried a sharp stick that reminded Eric of roasting hot dogs.

  "Hi," the oldest girl said. Her voice was neutral, her eyes wary. She gripped the spatula tightly as she studied Paige's and Eric's automatic weapons.

  "Hi," Paige replied. "We don't mean you any harm."

  The girl waved the spatula at the guns. "Then put those things down."

  "Can't do that," Eric said. "We're being followed by some men who want to kill us."

  The girl shrugged. It wasn't her problem. "Then maybe you should go."

  "What's your name?' Paige asked her. "My name's Paige."

  One of the young boys giggled. "Page? Like in a book?"

  "Yes," Paige said.

  Several of the children giggled.

  "I'm Wendy," the girl said. "What do you want?"

  "We're looking for a man, an older man in his sixties. About my height, gray hair and a thick moustache. He used to live here."

  Wendy shook her head. "No adults live here. Just us kids."

  "No adults?"

  "That's right."

  Eric could see Paige trying not to show her disappointment, but her shoulders sagged and her eyes were shining with held-back tears. He stepped toward Wendy and all the other children lifted their weapons and stepped toward him. He looked at them and stopped. "May we come inside and look around? The man we're looking for used to live here. Maybe he left something behind to tell us where he's gone."

  "There's
lots of stuff inside. We just left most of it."

  Paige brightened. "May we look?" Wendy hesitated, studying their faces with a child's skeptical eye. She looked at the guns again and sighed as if she had no choice. "I guess. Only don't mess things up, OK? We've been cleaning all morning. Peter will be back soon."

  "Peter?" Eric said.

  "Yeah. He's out hunting. Me and Peter take care of everyone. Kinda like their parents, see."

  "What happened to everybody's real parents?"

  "I dunno. Dead. I guess. Peter and I were on a field trip with some other students from Uni High in L.A. We were studying tide pools for Mrs. Levy's biology class. Then the quakes hit and most everybody else in the class was killed. Mrs. Levy fell into the ocean and got pulled out to sea. Me and Peter started running. We passed this junior high school and tried to steal a couple bikes so we could get away faster. The whole building had collapsed. Dead kids and teachers everywhere. We grab the bikes and start pedaling out of there when we see some kids wandering around bawling. They'd been on the playground of some elementary school when it hit. With everybody around us dead, they started following me and Peter. We finally ended up here."

  "Was it empty when you got here?"

  "Sure. Otherwise we wouldn't have stayed, right? The place was a mess, I can tell you that. It's bad enough picking up after all these kids, but when the place was so gross to start… Well, I guess we can't complain. At least we have a home now."

  Eric and Paige exchanged looks.

  "So you and Peter have been taking care of all these kids by yourselves?' Eric asked.

  "We ain't babies," one of the boys snapped. He was about eleven.

  "We do our share," one of the girls, ten, added.

  There was some muttered approval among the others.

  "All rights, that's enough," Wendy scolded gently. "Let's wash those grimy little paws and get ready for lunch. I haven't been slaving over a hot fire all day for nothing, right?"

  The kids scattered to behind the house.

  "Got a pump back there," Wendy explained. "Whoever was here before rigged it up. We get all the water we need. I guess that's why we never left. Here at least we can eat and drink."