Redzone

by William C. Dietz

  But it was a very touchy situation since Lee had requested that all of the cameras be removed and didn’t know she was being spied on. The only people allowed to see the video feeds were female—but that wouldn’t appease Lee if she found out. And understandably so.

  That wasn’t all however . . . Jenkins was under a great deal of pressure to find the Bonebreaker, and crazy or not, Lee was the best bait he had. So, once the RZL courier left, he had given Wolfe permission to search Lee’s apartment while she was visiting with Kane. What if the RZL letter was from the Bonebreaker? But the letter wasn’t from the Bonebreaker, and since Wolfe didn’t have a search warrant, Jenkins couldn’t admit that he knew about it. Nor could he call Lee out even though she was clearly getting ready to enter the red zone and visit her mother. A very dangerous proposition indeed.

  Still, according to Dr. Kane, while the act of watching her father’s death had been very traumatic for Lee . . . a lot of her pent-up anger stemmed from having been deserted by her mother. That meant there was a possibility that the trip could be therapeutic. “If Dr. Kane is okay with the trip, then so am I,” Jenkins said finally.

  “I could take vacation instead of sick leave.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Jenkins assured her. “You’re covered for up to six months of leave for a job-related injury. But remember this . . . I can’t send any LAPD officers along to watch over you up in Washington state. And even if I could, the cost would be astronomical.”

  * * *

  The complete lack of protection scared Lee—but not enough to abandon her plan. “No problem,” she said. “I understand. Chances are that the Bonebreaker will keep his head down for a while . . . If I’m careful he won’t notice that I’m gone. Or, if he does notice, he won’t know where I went.”

  “Sounds good,” Jenkins said. “But keep your phone on in case I need to reach you.”

  “Sure,” Lee said. “Thanks for the slack . . . I appreciate it.”

  Jenkins rose and circled the desk to give Lee a hug. “You take care, girl . . . And watch your six.”

  It wasn’t until later, as Lee took the elevator down to the parking garage, that the words echoed in her mind. “Watch your six.” That was a strange thing to say to a person who was headed out on vacation. The doors slid open. The trip into the red zone had begun.

  FIVE

  LEE FELT THE bus jerk to a stop and opened her eyes as the driver spoke over the PA system. “All out for Halloran,” he said. “The restrooms are in the motel. The bus will depart in fifteen minutes.”

  Lee sat up and stretched. Most of her fellow passengers were blue-collar types who lived in the town of Primm, which was an hour and fifteen minutes east of Halloran. Primm had once been a place where gamblers could test their luck on the way to Las Vegas or lose their winnings on the way back to LA.

  But that was then. Primm was a military town now, a staging point for the army should the relationship with the Republic of Texas deteriorate, and one of the entry/exit points through which people could legally enter or depart the country of Pacifica. The second being easier than the first.

  Lee was seated toward the back of the bus. So she had to wait for the passengers in front to disembark and that included the man seated next to the aisle. Once he was out of the way Lee stood, pulled her backpack down from the overhead bin, and made her way forward. The plan was to travel light and blend in. The only items in the much-abused pack were a change of clothes and some toiletries.

  Unlike the rest of the passengers Lee was planning to stay the night in the town’s single motel. It was called the Arrowhead, and as Lee stepped off the bus, it was directly in front of her. It looked as though the three-story-tall structure had been built before the plague and hadn’t fared well since. A line of sixteen-wheelers were parked off to one side—and Lee figured the truckers were the ones who kept the place in business.

  That impression was reinforced as she entered a shabby lobby and approached the reception desk. The woman behind the counter had garish red hair, faded blue eyes, and a face with plenty of mileage on it. “Good evening,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have a reservation,” Lee answered. “The name is Travers. Tina Travers.”

  After consulting her computer, the clerk nodded. “I have you down for one night, a nonsmoking room, and a queen-sized bed.”

  “Perfect.”

  “That will be ninety nu . . . In advance, please.”

  Credit cards were okay in LA . . . but not that close to the border. There weren’t very many norms who wanted to enter the red zone, but there were a few. And once over the border it would be very difficult for the motel to get its money.

  Lee slid two fifties across the counter. As the woman made change Lee scanned her surroundings. The whole purpose of staying the night in Halloran was to check for a tail. The Bonebreaker had followed her before . . . Would he do so again? If so he’d be a lot easier to spot in a town that consisted of a motel, a gas station, and a sun-baked trailer park.

  But as Lee eyed the people from the bus, many of whom were starting to stream outside with cold drinks in hand, no one looked back. No one other than the soldier who had tried to hit on her back in LA. He waved, and she waved back.

  “Here you go,” the woman said, and Lee turned to discover that ten one-nu coins were waiting on the counter, the hope being that Lee would drop them into one of the motel’s sleek slot machines. She said, “Thanks,” and swept the money into her left hand.

  “Here’s your keycard,” the woman said. “Room 203 is on the second floor. The elevator is out of order, so you’ll have to take the stairs.”

  Lee accepted the card, took her pack off the floor, and made her way back to the stairwell. Judging from the planter in front of the elevator doors the lift had been out of service for a long time. Lee made use of the card to access what turned out to be a very bare-bones room. Everything about it looked worn, and Lee wasn’t about to slip between the sheets.

  Unpacking consisted of dumping the pack on the floor. Then Lee went over to peer through a dirty window. The sun had started to set by then and there was nothing to see other than a parking lot, Highway 15, and the desert beyond.

  Lee was hungry. So she left the room, paused to tear a piece of clear tape off a dispenser, and placed it across the crack that separated the door from the jamb. After that she followed a worn set of stairs down to the first floor. The bus had left, and Lee kept her eyes peeled for any passengers who had stayed behind. But she didn’t recognize anybody as she left the lobby and entered the restaurant. Lee spotted a table where she could sit with her back to a wall and made her way over to claim it. Once seated she scanned the room to see if she was attracting any attention. A couple of truck drivers were eyeballing her, and Lee knew that what they were talking about had nothing to do with the Bonebreaker.

  A tired-looking waitress waddled over, blew a wisp of gray hair out of her eyes, and popped the question. “So, hon . . . What’ll it be?”

  “I’ll have the grilled cheese sandwich and a tossed green salad.”

  “Dressing?”

  “Ranch.”

  “And to drink?”

  “A Diet Coke, please.”

  “Got it,” the woman said, and turned away.

  The food arrived about fifteen minutes later. And as Lee began to eat, she had time to reflect on the fact that while she was perfectly happy to eat alone while sitting in her apartment, it felt awkward to do so in public. Why was that? The best solution was to bring something to read. But having failed to anticipate the moment Lee was forced to stare into space and wound up eating her food too quickly. So it was a relief to finish the meal, pay her bill, and depart.

  Lee knew that another bus would pass through Halloran the next afternoon—but she didn’t want to sit around waiting for it. She went outside and made her way over to the area where a dozen big rigs were parked. Maybe she could hitch a ride.

  There was plenty of illumina
tion thanks to the sodium-vapor lamps mounted on tall poles. And as Lee walked along a line of trucks, she noticed that some of the drivers were preparing to leave, while other rigs were parked for the night. Were the drivers sacked out in their sleepers? Or were they drinking beer in the motel’s bar? The problem was that the first group wouldn’t appreciate a knock on the door—and those in the second would assume she was a hooker.

  So Lee was about to give up, and return early the next morning, when she saw light and movement up ahead. As Lee got closer she could see that a woman was working on one of the trucks. A work light was positioned above the point where the trailer was hooked to the tractor. “Hi there,” Lee said. “It looks like you have a problem.”

  The woman straightened up, turned, and frowned. “Yes, I do . . . And I’m looking at it.”

  Lee felt foolish. The woman was skinny as a rail, had leathery skin, and was wearing a black eye patch. “Sorry to bother you . . . I’ll . . .”

  “You’ll what?” the woman demanded. “Are you going to unbother me? It’s too late for that. So spit it out.”

  It was difficult to intimidate Lee, but the truck driver had succeeded in doing so. “Well, I . . . That is . . . I was hoping to catch a ride. I can pay.”

  “That ain’t no bus,” the woman replied, as she hooked a thumb at the truck. “That’s Big Bertha . . . And I’m her bitch. Here, hold this.”

  Lee took the wrench and held it ready as the woman bent to her task. “This is called a gladhand,” the woman explained, as she held a doughnut-shaped part up for Lee to examine. “And don’t ask me why. Men name these things, and most of ’em ain’t very smart.

  “See the flaplike things inside it? They seal the gladhand and keep it shut whenever the hose is disconnected. That keeps dirt and moisture out of the air line—and that’s important for those of us who like to have brakes that work. But the ass wipes in the bar? Half of them should be out here doin’ what I’m doin’, but they aren’t, so they’re gonna pay. Who are you running from?”

  The question came out of nowhere. So did Lee’s answer. “My boyfriend.”

  The driver nodded. “Been there, done that. Where you headed?”

  “East.”

  “The name’s Annie. You got a place to stay?”

  “Yes. In the motel.”

  “Okay. You be here at 5:00 A.M., and I’ll give you a ride to Primm. Don’t be late, because if you are, I’ll leave you like a bad habit.”

  Lee nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  When Annie smiled, her face broke into leathery lines. “Don’t worry, hon . . . Put the shithead in your rearview mirror and move on. Everything will be fine in the end.”

  On that unexpectedly cheerful note, the two women parted company. Lee returned to the motel and went up to her room, where she paused to check on the piece of tape. It was intact. So it was unlikely that either the maid or the Bonebreaker had opened the door.

  Assumptions could be fatal however, so Lee had one hand on the Glock as she opened the door and slipped inside. Both the room and the adjoining bath were empty.

  As Lee got ready for bed, she kept her clothes on—but removed the Smith & Wesson from the small of her back and placed it on the bedside stand. Then she set the alarm, checked the lock, and slipped a wedge-shaped stop under the door. It was a cheap but effective way of making sure that people with keycards, be they good or bad, couldn’t get in.

  Still fully dressed, Lee stretched out on the bed, managed to pound a lumpy pillow into submission, and put her head down. So far so good. Dreams were waiting . . . They were filled with ghosts.

  * * *

  In spite of her tendency to ignore alarms, the clock radio woke Lee up with an overly cheerful, “Buenos dias, mutantes! And good morning to our brothers and sisters in the green zone . . . We’re all people, sí? And that includes one-eyed freaks like myself!”

  That was followed by a wild cackle of laughter, and a song that Lee recognized as “Flor D’Luna” (“Moonflower”), by a preplague genius named Santana. It was a tuneful reminder that the red zone was only sixty or seventy miles away.

  Thirty minutes later Lee approached Big Bertha with the pack on her back and a cardboard tray in her hands. It was loaded with two supersized coffees and two maple bars. Annie’s eyes lit up when she saw it. “Now that’s what I call a copilot! Right on time with fuel for the driver. I’ll take that . . . You’ll need both hands to climb up into the cab. Go ahead and throw the pack into the sleeper.”

  Lee did as she was told, and they were ready to pull out five minutes later. The coffee was hot, Lee’s maple bar was sinfully good, and the view of the desert was spectacular. “Hang on, honey,” Annie said, as Bertha lurched into a higher gear. “We’re outta here.”

  * * *

  It was just past 5:00 A.M., and the sky turned bloodred as the sun cleared the mountain range to the east. That was followed by an explosion of pink light as two Heevy brothers waited for the third.

  “It’s a nice day for it,” Hoss Heevy said, as he puffed on his pipe. He was the oldest, the biggest, and the one who looked the most like the family patriarch, “Boss” Heevy. He had long hair, a full beard, and wore an enormous Stetson on his lumpy head. The black duster was large enough to serve most people as a tent—and hung down over the Clydesdale’s flanks.

  Bruce Heevy was the walleyed progeny of Boss Heevy’s second wife, Monica. He was wearing a cowboy hat as well but preferred a fleece-lined leather jacket to a duster, along with a pair of faded jeans. He made a face. “Where’s James? He said 5:00 A.M., and it’s ten past.”

  Hoss produced a puff of smoke and lung-warmed air. “The supreme one will arrive when he’s good and ready.”

  Bruce knew that was true. James Heevy, the son produced by his father’s third wife, Alala, was the old man’s favorite. There were lots of reasons for that. James was significantly more intelligent than his siblings were—something their father made frequent reference to. And James was better-looking as well. Because even though James was a mutant, he looked normal . . . And that meant a lot to the Boss. Having a near-normal son was like having a big house, the best horse, and the finest cigars. It made a statement. “Here he comes,” Hoss said. “Sound the trumpets.”

  Bruce looked back toward the house. And sure enough . . . Jimbo was strolling down the path from the house with a footman trailing along behind. The “house” looked a lot like a castle and was located on high ground at the head of a long, narrow valley.

  Unlike his siblings James favored formal attire for such outings and was dressed in a shooting jacket, riding breeches, and tall boots. Both he and the servant stopped just short of the horses so that James could take a final sip from the stirrup cup before turning to place the object on a silver tray. “Well,” he said cheerfully. “Here we are . . . Three amigos all ready to do our father’s bidding.”

  Bruce didn’t approve of the mocking tone—but knew better than to object. James didn’t like people to push back and always found a way to punish them when they did.

  James mounted his horse with ease, settled into the saddle like the natural he was, and drew the Browning A-Bolt III out if its leather scabbard. It was chambered for .300 magnum bullets and equipped with a preplague Bushnell Elite 4-12X40 scope on Leupold STD bases. The old man had given the rifle to James on his sixteenth birthday and it was his pride and joy. A quick check confirmed that the box-style magazine was full up and ready for action. God help his groom if it wasn’t.

  James returned the weapon to its scabbard and kicked the big Morgan into motion. And, in keeping with the well-established pecking order, James took the lead. They followed the road at first as it switchbacked down past a checkpoint manned by a dozen members of the family’s security team. The mercenaries knew the brothers and waved at them as they rode by. Half a mile down the road James pulled his horse’s head to the left and sent the animal down the narrow trail that led out to the top of a ridge. It ran west to east along the south side of
the valley.

  The path rose and fell every now and then, meandered through stands of whitebark pine, and clung to sheer cliffs. That was when Bruce had the opportunity to look down into Heartbreak Valley. It had been given the name back during the California gold rush, when men came for precious metals, but failed to find any. What they didn’t realize was that the real bonanza was an enormous deposit of rare earth metals—including lanthanides and quantities of scandium.

  It wasn’t their fault of course since products like super magnets, fluorescent lightbulbs, and the components required for missile-guidance systems had yet to be invented. And now, as Bruce looked out over the vast open-pit mine that his father operated, he knew that most of what the family took out of the ground would be sold to companies in Pacifica.

  That was unfortunate since the Republic of Texas and Pacifica had been at each other’s throats in the past and might be again someday. But most of the people who ran the Republic were suspicious of technology and believed that the plague had been sent by God to punish an increasingly secular society. So to their way of thinking rare earth metals were part of the problem rather than part of the solution.

  Would that change as the Aztecs continued to push up from the south? And missiles continued to fall in Texas and Arizona? Boss Heevy thought so . . . But in the meantime, he was happy to sell his product to the people who had the money, regardless of which country they were in.

  Both the valley and the mine disappeared from sight as the trail angled to the right and slipped behind an outcropping of lichen-covered rock. A short time later, James led his brothers out onto a spur, where they stopped next to a wind-twisted pine. “This is the spot,” he said. “I spent three hours here two days ago. Bruce, I’d like you to serve as my spotter. Hoss, you will be in charge of security. And that’s an important job! How would I explain it to the old man if some yahoo was to sneak up and shoot Bruce in the ass?”

  Hoss wasn’t amused, and Bruce knew why. The truth was that Hoss wasn’t willing to act as the shooter or the spotter, because in his words, “It ain’t right.” Was that his mother talking? Quite possibly—since she was a Bible thumper. Of course that didn’t keep her from living in luxury even as she offered up all sorts of holier-than-thou bullshit.