When I open my eye I’m upside-down, hanging from my straps. Cold air is streaming in. I feel no pain; only blood pounding in my head. I fumble with my belt release and plop into snow and glass. The laptop is also hanging from its straps. I retrieve it and stumble out into the snow. One of the lights is still on. I can’t stay where I am and the gate is much too far. Both men and cats are likely on their way to the crash site. I have to get back to the barn. I sprint up the road and crawl across the cattle guard on my belly, expecting to look back and see a 700 pound sabre-toothed cat snarling at me. When I reach the other side I sneak a peek. There are no animals. I get to my feet and continue running through the snow.
Just as I get to the barn doors there comes loud voices from inside. “Where’re the keys?”
“How the hell should I know?”
I drop off the road just as the big doors start moving. They open all the way and I become trapped behind one of them. Trapped and hidden.
“Fuck the truck. Come on. I don’t think he made it very far. He probably went down before the cat area.” Three men run out of the barn. One is the security guard, one is Ace the pilot and the other is Lance Evans. I watch from the edge of the door for a time, glad that they are so intent on getting to the crash site that they don’t notice my tracks. I’m sure that isn’t going to last for long. I slip from behind the door and rush into the barn.
I grab the key from under the water trough and scramble into the truck, pushing the bag in ahead of me. I can still see the dark shapes of the three men moving away. I put the key in, take a deep breath, and then turn it. My fear that it wouldn’t start disappears as it comes to life with a roar that reverberates off of the barn walls. I flip on the lights to reveal the men rushing back. I ease up on the clutch, and give it gas. The truck lurches forward and stalls.
“Shit!”
I turn the key and the engine turns over and over and over, but doesn’t start. They’re getting closer. I press the gas all the way to the floor and hit it again. It’s either going to start or the battery is going to die. The security guard’s gun is out and I know he has no intention of doing anything but empty his chamber into my body. The starter keeps turning and I hold my breath, feeling every heartbeat pounding against my empty eye socket.
“Come on! Come on!” And then it fires and the engine once again roars to life. I press the gas pedal over and over, getting the engine hot, waiting for them to get closer. Don’t get in a rush this time, the coach inside me says. Ease out and then accelerate gradually. And so I do. I get the truck in motion, shift to second before I’m all the way out of the barn and then begin a steady acceleration. There is one problem, though.
I’ve never driven in snow. But it has chains on the back wheels and I can feel them rumbling behind me.
Not to worry, I say to myself. Can’t be much different than driving in mud, which I did a bunch of in my younger, stupid days. Got stuck plenty, too.
Don’t get stuck here, Zach old boy. Just keep it cool and on the road.
I leave it in second and watch Ace and Lance jump to the left. The guard eases to my right, cool and calm, and then once again takes a shooter’s stance. I duck as low as I can, think I hear shots fired over the roar of the engine. When I figure I’m past I come straight up, correct from the edge of the road, slide sideways and then correct from that. There are two bullet holes in the windshield. He would have put out my other eye if I had kept my head up.
How far to the gate? How should I hit it? The truck bounces across the cattle guard, the chains making a deathly rattle against the metal grates, and then passes the Huey, lying like a giant upside-down dead beetle with one eye shining in the snow. I slow a bit. No need rushing myself into the ditch now. They aren’t going to be able to follow me, but they could make a phone call and have me met by the sheriff. A helicopter and truck thief. I can see my story against theirs. And if the sabre-toothed cats escape through the gate after I bust it down, I won’t have any kind proof but a couple of Bengal tigers. That and the fact that Sans Sanssabre saved my life and Tanya’s life after we stupidly fell off the cliff edge. I would look like a gold digger trying to capitalize on a chunk of Vandermill’s billions.
This isn’t going to work, but there’s no turning back now. I may be dead either way.
There is one thing I learned in the mud rallies in Texas. Don’t ever stop. The weather has been nice and the snow has been melting, which probably makes it even more of a challenge. If it weren’t for the circumstances I would probably be having fun. The truck fishtails and I correct into it. Before I know it I’m fishtailing the other way. Shouldn’t the chains keep me from doing this? The truck is too big to go sideways down the road and would likely just roll over. I correct again and ease off the gas. Don’t stop! My mind screams, but my body reacts instinctively and the truck slides to a stop. The front right wheel is off the edge of the road, the road being a plowed passage through meadows and trees. The truck idles while I catch my breath and consider my options. I’d like to get out and look at where I am, how the truck is actually sitting and walk the area in front of me to see if I can go forward and drive back onto the road.
Getting out is not an option.
I crawl across to the passenger side, open the window and look out. No drop off here, unlike the other side which drops quickly. If I try to back out and then slide off the road there, I’ll be stuck. I’m sure the chains will do nothing but dig a hole to settle into. There is a slight rise ahead of me; however, the headlights tell me that it drops off again, big time, in about thirty feet. As a matter-of-fact I’m wondering if that’s where I went off the road with Tanya over my shoulder.
I analyze the rise and then put the truck in first and give it a little gas.
It moves.
More gas and my momentum picks up. When both right wheels are on the rise I jerk the wheel to the left and punch the gas. The truck jumps across the road and I have to fight to keep it from shooting off the other side. More fishtailing back and forth as the drop-off looms closer. If I slip off that I’ll probably be found under the same tree they found Tanya and me before. I doubt I’ll be as lucky the second time.
Hit the brakes? Hit the gas? Jerk left? Jerk right? It all flashes at me instantaneously and simultaneously and I freeze at what to do. The truck is sliding on the slight downhill grade of the road and I realize it’s going to go where it wants despite any action on my part. But I can’t just sit here with my fingers frozen to the steering wheel until I’m resting like the Huey, only with my neck broken. I don’t have my seatbelt on this time. I hit the brakes and crank the wheel to the left but it remains on its straight line course. I add some gas and the front end comes around and then overshoots. Now instead of going over front-first, I’m either going to go off sideways and roll or continue on around to the point that I simply go off the edge backwards. In that case I’ll likely survive but will have to deal with the cats if I want to continue with my escape. Escape! The first most stupid thing I could have done after the last most stupid thing I did, which cost Aileen’s life, my eye, and put Tanya in the hospital. I decide to take my chances at getting straightened out and crank the wheel to the right while easing off the gas. The back end starts to drop off the edge and I gun it. I must hit a patch of hard earth or big rocks or something that the chains can grab hold of because the truck suddenly lurches forward onto the road. Before it has a chance to do something else crazy I let off the gas and tap the brakes until it comes to a stop.
And there I sit, directly in the middle of the road, only slightly sideways. I’m breathing heavily and sweating like a marathon runner. I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t like driving in snow. Maybe under a different set of circumstances I might have felt differently, but at this time and place I would more enjoy walking through a mound of fire ants. As my breathing eases I start to chill. I locate the heater controls and turn the knob to high. The sound of the fan fills the cab. The air that’s coming out is only slightly w
arm.
I start the truck moving again, much slower this time, until I see something move on the edge of my lights. Was it a sabre or a trick of my imagination? I keep moving and watch closely at the outer reaches of my headlights.
There it is again. Two of them. This time they stop. I stop. The headlights penetrate past a bend in the road, into the trees. It’s their eyes that catch my attention this time; two pair of penlights shining out of the forest. Sabre-toothed cat bodies silhouette around the eyes. It’s one of the older males and one of the triplets. They have definitely merged forces. They’re working together, stalking a truck that smells of cow and pig.
And human.
They’ve tasted Aileen. What’s the taste of human meat compared to cow? Is it a delicacy or would they rather have the fat cow or a plump pig? I’m certain such would be preferable to a skinny, sweaty, bony human.
I have to assume that there are five of them around me performing as a team, the kittens along to watch and learn. The pregnant females are likely bedded down in their warmer garden awaiting the plunder of their protectors. Where’s our cow? I can imagine them saying as their big male mates drop my carcass at their feet. What are we supposed to do with this scrawny thing? We send you out for steak and you come back with a skinny appetizer.
I have only one option. Drive my way out of here and crash through the gate. I start the truck moving again. The road straightens out, or so appears, and a tightness suddenly rises in my chest.
Indigestion or another death approaching? It’s never indigestion or a looming heart attack. With it coming on so suddenly I know it will happen in short order. Apparently then, I am not out here alone. Did the security guard leap onto the back of the truck as I went by? Is he waiting for me to reach the gate so he can jump out and grab me? If so he may become the kitty’s appetizer. I really don’t wish anyone to die, although the guard did try to kill me. Those weren’t warning shots that he fired through the windshield. The hairs rise on the back of my neck at the thought that he may be crouched only a few feet behind me. Would he attempt to climb around on the outside like the bad guy in the movies? I check my rearview mirrors and find nothing but the slight glow of my tail lights.
The gate appears. It is two gates with a holding area between them, a safety zone so that the animals don’t escape while transiting. You open the first gate, drive in and close it. Then you open the second gate and drive out. Kind of like a space shuttle airlock, in this case a sabrelock. The gates operate on rails, and are not made to be manipulated by hand, as if anyone would want to get out of the truck to do so. I expect to see a box of some sort where I could punch in a code, if I had one that is, from my open window. But there is nothing. It doesn’t make sense. There has to be some way of getting it open from the inside, at least a button somewhere.
I guess I’ll have to continue with plan A.
I put the transmission in reverse and slowly start backing up so as to get a long run at the gate. I back for as long as I feel I’m still on the road, which isn’t very long. I can’t see at all where I’m going.
I stop. A huge sabre-toothed cat walks along the fence into my headlights, and then turns around and walks out. A little reminder that they’re watching and waiting. How far does their intelligence reach? Do they know exactly what they’re doing? Are they all stationed at different locations around me with a master plan, a plan that’s flexible depending on the next stupid thing I do? Are they communicating in some way as I suspected early on? I can read someone’s aura and gain an understanding of their emotions and gather pieces of their history. Why can’t animals do something similar? Maybe they can make a sound at a pitch higher than what we can hear. Whales do it with low frequency transmissions, communicating over miles. Why wouldn’t it be possible for land animals to do the same at high frequencies, like bats who can generate a pulse with which they’re able to navigate in flight.
This is getting really scary. I start imagining a platoon of sabre-toothed cats spread over a couple miles coordinating an attack on a herd of cattle or gaggle of humans. I try to shake the entire notion but it won’t go away. The science fiction B movie is playing in my head and I cannot turn it off, no matter how ridiculous I try to tell myself it is. Set that against the backdrop of an increasing pressure in my chest and the now fluttering butterflies, and we have the makings of a nut-house resident. After listening to my theories, any doctor or judge would commit me in an instant, and then after toasting to their success, pat each other on the back for ridding society of an enormous danger.
The pressure increases and my feet become antsy to get moving. I gun the engine a few times and look for the best spot to hit the gate; or would it be better to hit the fence? The fence would most likely be weaker; however, leaving the road to get to it might not be a good idea. I could wind up stuck and stranded, and forced to abandon the truck when I’m still within reach of the cats, and without a snowstorm to protect me and two women to protect my back.
Play it safe. Even if I can’t get through the gate I should be able to break it enough that I can walk or crawl through it. The small sabrelock compound is not protected by barbed wire so I could climb out over that. The air is blowing hot now–stifling–but I want to absorb as much heat as possible in case I’m forced out into the cold.
My foot is nervous, punching the gas over and over, as if to build my courage. I let off the clutch. Within several seconds I’m in second, considering whether to remain there or go to third before hitting the gate. Should I duck or leave my head up? What are the chances that part of the gate will come through the windshield? I close half the distance, shift to third and then . . .
. . . I see it.
Mounted on the dashboard with pieces of duct tape is what looks like a garage door remote control. All this time while I fretted over how to break through the gate, the answer was right in front of my face. I hit the brakes and start into a sideways slide, let off, steer the truck straight, and then hit the brakes again and fishtail in the other direction. The gate’s coming at me fast and I’m not so sure I’m going to stop. Why aren’t the chains digging in? Then the front wheels drop off one side and the back wheels off the other and like hitting a brick wall, all motion ceases.
More heavy breathing. More heart racing. More chest pressure and fluttering butterflies racing up to my throat. I turn off the lights and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I want to shut off the truck and open the windows so as to listen, but I dare not. The partial moon reveals eerie shapes and treetop silhouettes. There is no movement, cat or man. How long would it take Randolph Spriggs to get here with the other Huey? Maybe they had another vehicle somewhere and they’re on their way here right now. I roll my window down halfway and listen. There is nothing but the idling truck engine; no rumble of another approaching truck, no incoming helicopter, no growls of hunger from a nearby sabre-toothed cat.
I push the button on the remote.
The gate begins moving and I’m momentarily startled by four huge floodlights, one on each corner of the sabrelock. I catch a glimpse of a cat about thirty feet down the fence line. I also catch movement from the corner of my one good eye. It’s on the other side of the fence where the road disappears into the tree line. Could Victor’s goons be over there waiting for me? Maybe they had another way out and a fast way around. I can’t imagine how that would have been possible considering they would have to go all the way through the gardens first to get back to the building. Maybe it was just my overworked eye playing a trick.
Or . . . they have guards wherever the Mexican men are living. I should have thought of that. Of course that’s it. Why did I assume they were shipped off along with all the ladies? The one guard who shot at me probably radioed ahead and raised the alert and what I thought I saw is in fact someone out there waiting for me–a gunman with his sights on my head. He’s watching to see what I do. He’s waiting until I’m within pointblank range so he can shoot me and then drag me back into the cat area for dispo
sal and consumption.
Maybe I saw only a deer dodging back into the trees when the lights came on. I have to assume the best and prepare for the worst.
The gate stops at full open and here I sit sideways, probably stuck. I decide that what I need to do is start the gate closing and then jump out at the last minute and dash the twenty feet into the sabrelock just before the gate finishes closing. How quick can I be? How close is the closest sabre-toothed cat? How fast are they?
Fast enough, I’m sure.
I slide over to the passenger side to be as near to the fence as I can get, hook the laptop over my shoulder, and then open the window and look forward and back. There are no lurking cats, but one could be sitting in front of the truck and I wouldn’t be able to see him. I judge the distance again, and the footing in the snow, and then punch the button. The gate lurches and then starts closing. When it is halfway closed I’ll go for it. My heart is beating a good hundred and twenty beats a minute and I feel a weakness in my legs and more butterflies in my chest.
Almost there. I put my hand on the door handle. A couple more feet.
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 36