Battlecraft VR

by Linden Storm

  Harold raises his hand. “We'll need camouflage.”

  “Camouflage?” Belle says.

  “Actually, Harold is correct,” Marina says. “Drone coverage is entirely visual. If you can disguise your vehicle well enough and you disable your devices, you will not be located.”

  “We’ve got to move to a position farther off the main road, and then we’ve got to cover the van with branches,” Harold says.

  “What?” Belle says. “Are you sure?”

  Marina shrugs. “It’s a good idea.”

  “And then we have to stay off the road? For how long?” Belle says.

  “I recommend several hours,” Marina says. “Overnight would be best.”

  Belle groans. She scans the faces of the men in the van.

  William looks at her, raising his eyebrow to convey, she thinks, something like sympathy. Nick shakes his head and shrugs, mouthing the word “sorry.”

  Harold and Rupert look like kindergartners who’ve just found a treehouse in the backyard.

  “This thing sleeps six,” Rupert says.

  “Easy,” Harold says, grinning. “Don’t you worry, Marina, we’ll be there lickety-split.”

  Chapter Nine

  They’re Still Missing

  a Few Pieces to the Puzzle

  Harold is a little tired, and a little annoyed, to be honest, but the fatigue is about right, he figures, for a 78-year-old man, and the annoyance is too. These kids are smart, but their emotions are ragged, and they don’t appreciate him much, that’s for sure.

  Harold wishes he could have talked Rupert into calling his plane down, instead of cramming them all in an ancient camper and forcing them to travel together. But Rupert is used to being in charge. Harold had given up.

  Maybe he’d given up too soon, though. With these unknown villains chasing them, it sure looks that way.

  The corrupt cops—the worse kind of assholes, in his opinion—whoever they are, are close by, so there doesn’t seem to be another choice but to hide out for a time. Harold hopes the group can acknowledge what he has to offer in a situation like this.

  Nick doesn’t know what to do with him and never has. But Harold loves the boy to heaven and back, and he’ll forever be grateful to him for reaching out in the lonely weeks and months after Meta’s death.

  William seems like an okay guy. He’s a diplomat, and that comes in handy in a disparate group like this.

  Belle, now she’s fierce. And she is tough, capable, and persistent. He likes her, but she most certainly does not like him. On reflection, he understands why. It’s likely that all the older men in her life have done nothing but harass or criticize her. None of them helped her or supported her.

  He would have to do better at that from now on. Much better. The fact is, he admits to himself, he’s been annoying her on purpose to some extent. And that’s got to stop.

  He rubs his face, gives himself a little talking-to. He knows how to talk to young women, doesn’t he? His reflexive objections to her bad language aren’t helping, and it would be wise to crank down the boyish exchanges he’s enjoying with Rupert.

  He thinks about his relationship with his daughter—Nick’s mother. It has not always been smooth. But now there isn’t anyone in the world he trusts more, and he believes those feelings go both ways. They disagree regularly, especially about Nick, but they do it with respect. She’s taught him more than a few things about how young women feel, what they need, and what they fear. He just needs to turn his empathy up a notch. He needs to listen and back Belle up when she needs it.

  “Is this really necessary?” Nick says, tugging on Harold’s sleeve. “Hiding in the bushes?”

  Harold opens his mouth to talk, but closes it again when Belle chimes in.

  “It’s no fun, but I think it’s our best strategy,” she says.

  “She’s the boss,” Harold says. “And she’s absolutely correct-a-mundo.”

  Belle surprises him by bestowing upon him a genuine smile, the first he’s ever earned from her.

  “Thanks, Harold,” she says. “I’ve never heard the term ‘correct-a-mundo.’”

  “In times of stress I tend to revert to arcane expressions from my distant youth. And you’re welcome,” he says, nodding and looking away, careful to avoid making a big deal out of their moment. Belle’s going to need plenty of time and space to develop trust in him.

  Harold takes a mental inventory of his supplies, then digs through his pack until he finds his Swiss multitool. It is black and sturdy and has a knife blade, a can opener, several screwdrivers, pliers, and a small but serviceable saw. He waves the saw around.

  “This might be of help,” he says.

  “Good,” Belle says.

  “Really? Can’t we just call the police? The FBI?” Nick says, rubbing his shoulder.

  “We don’t know who we can trust,” Belle says.

  “She’s right. We have to rely on ourselves this time, son,” Harold says. “What’s next, Captain?”

  He knows what’s next, but he wants her to say it.

  “Rupert, find a suitable place to park this monster,” she says. “We’ll need lots and lots of trees and no people.”

  Rupert is silent for a time. From the jumpseat, Harold watches Rupert’s eyes waggle and peer, and his hands wave in front of his face. Finally, he speaks. “If we drive north just a few minutes to Lee Vining, we’ll be near Forest Road. I think we’ll be able to make our way to a creek with a grove of small trees. There are campgrounds around there, but we can hide between them. Sound good?”

  “I think so,” Belle says. “What do you think, Harold?”

  Harold says, “I think so, too.”

  “Make sure your devices are off and stay off,” Belle says.

  Everyone sighs, but they wave and point and swipe and press buttons until they’re running silent.

  It’s fully dark by the time they make it to Forest Road and start looking for places to pull off. The crescent moon doesn’t provide much light.

  William spots a narrow track and points it out. Rupert drives slowly, the van rocking and bumping along. There are plenty of white-barked aspens and rabbit shrubs next to a small, picturesque stream.

  And there’s a field of tall bushes with whip-like branches.

  “We can back in there,” Belle says.

  “You’re right,” Harold says. “We won’t even need to do much work. It’ll be like hiding in a corn field.”

  Harold’s knees hurt as he climbs out and begins looking for branches to cover the top of the van.

  “We’re not supposed to camp here,” Nick says, pointing at a No Camping sign.

  “But we can’t be around other people,” Belle says, drawing out her words as if she’s speaking to a child. “We have to ignore the sign, Nick.”

  William pats Nick’s shoulder.

  “I've been to wilderness therapy,” William says, grinning. “A couple of times. I can do the sawing.”

  Harold is grateful to hand over his multitool to a younger, more eager and energetic man, but he makes a point of working. He gathers branches from the ground, and when Nick sees him throwing branches up on top of the van, he follows suit. So far so good.

  Rupert doesn’t get out of the van. He leans his chair back, places the hat over his eyes, and pretends to go to sleep.

  “Don’t let us disturb your rest, Rupert,” Harold says.

  “No worries,” Rupert says.

  Harold considers teasing him more, but decides it’ll irritate Belle and thinks better of it.

  Harold and the others work silently to cover up the van while Rupert stays put.

  William and Nick make up the bed in the back, pulling the table out and arranging the cushions. Harold is grateful to lie flat, and Nick flops down next to him. William curls up on the floor. Rupert and Belle recline their seats in the front.

  Harold is profoundly tired, and his chest is clamping down in a familiar, painful manner. He hopes it’s just exhaustion, but
he digs in his pocket for his pills.

  He sees that Nick notices him downing pills, but neither of them says anything. Best to minimize the heart problem. He’ll be fine as long as he takes his pills. Poor Nick—he doesn’t need another thing to worry about.

  ∆∆∆

  In the early morning, before dawn, Nick crawls out of the van to relieve himself and wash up in the creek. He’s careful not to drink the water, though. God knows what parasitical organisms are lying in wait to colonize his vulnerable gut-parts.

  One by one, the others follow his lead.

  He’s worried about his grandfather. He’d seen Harold take some pills out of his bag and dry-swallow them in the middle of the night.

  Harold had tossed and turned for a long time, and when he had finally fallen asleep he’d thrashed around and moaned. Nick had asked him what was wrong, and he’d said it was nothing, but he’d looked gray and seemed short of breath.

  “What’s up with Harold?” William says quietly.

  “I don’t think he’s feeling very well,” Nick says. “I’m worried about him.”

  “Let’s keep an eye on him,” William says.

  Nick’s relieved when Harold comes out of the woods, adjusting his pants and looking a little more normal.

  When Nick climbs back into the van, Rupert is insisting on making coffee, which involves figuring out how to turn on the generator, gathering supplies from odd nooks and crannies in the van, and waiting an eternity for water to boil.

  Still, Nick ends up being grateful for the strong, hot coffee and the stash of peanut butter and chocolate-chip energy bars Rupert passes around. He eats six of them.

  By the time they’re ready to take off, dawn is breaking, and Nick is beginning to feel human again.

  Rupert eases the van out of its brushy hiding place, then takes Forest Road back out to the main road, shortly making it back to Highway 395 and heading north.

  Rupert is playing an odd, ambient playlist that lulls most of them to sleep, but Nick watches the road, trying not to drop off.

  He wonders what’s up but says nothing as Rupert gets off the highway to take scenic Donner Pass Road.

  A chain strung along the road is supposed to keep them from plunging 400 yards to their deaths on the rocky shores of Donner Lake. Right, Nick thinks, picturing the van flying through the air like a doomed dive-bomber.

  And he keeps wondering if their city-bred driver, Rupert, can continue to safely negotiate these tight switchbacks. He can’t help wincing and shuddering as the van swings around curves, slowing to a crawl on the narrow stone bridge that leads to the summit.

  They pull off a viewpoint and Nick imagines this place as a campground, the first white settlers wrapping themselves in hides and sliding into a dead sleep, hungry, wet, and hypothermic, only to stand up the next day and go on.

  Reading the bronze plaque, Nick is appalled. “Eventually the families were reunited and all members arrived safely at Sutter’s Fort in early March 1845.”

  “Well, that’s wrong,” Rupert says.

  “Completely sanitized,” Nick says. “As I recall, 87 people entered the mountains and 48 survived. Some of them ate the dead.”

  Rupert raises his finger. “I’ve got one,” he says.

  “No,” Nick says, covering his ears with his hands.

  “What did the cannibal get when he came home late for dinner? Anybody?”

  “That’s an old one,” Harold says.

  “Don’t ruin it, Harold,” Rupert says.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, son,” Harold says. “Get on with it.”

  “The cold shoulder,” Rupert says.

  Everyone groans.

  “I want to go home,” Belle says. But when she turns, and Nick catches a glimpse of her face, she’s smiling.

  They get back in the van and pick up I-80 once more, near Soda Springs.

  It’s about ten in the morning. Bright blue civilization, Nick thinks gratefully.

  They’re the only car on the road for a couple of minutes.

  And that’s when he hears the roar of a vehicle coming tight alongside them, on the right shoulder.

  He feels a bump, hears the screech of metal on metal. The van pops across the center line, heading straight for the steep hillside. Nick bellows a warning.

  ∆∆∆

  Her heart pounding, Belle watches Rupert try to control the hurtling van and wrestle it back onto the right side of the road, but their adversary hits them on the passenger side again, this time near the rear of the van, this time harder, and suddenly Belle can see down perhaps thirty yards into rocky, sloping ground and trees.

  “They’re trying to push us off the road!” she says.

  “It’s a black SUV,” William shouts.

  “They’re going to do it!” Harold yells.

  The old man is correct. Belle’s starting to realize that the old man is correct much 'sof the time.

  The SUV comes at them at an acute angle and hits them again, this time crashing into the passenger-side door with an enormous thud and screech.

  Belle feels the impact.

  The van rocks and careens off the road.

  Rupert steers and brakes, but the best he can do is guide the van on the diagonal down the slope.

  Belle's seat harness cuts into her chest and her head hits the rearview mirror She wonders why the air bags aren’t deploying. She hears Nick howling in the back. Cupboards fly open and bang shut. Dishes shatter. Energy bars spew out and fly around, and heavy cans of soda and food thud into floors and walls.

  Belle wraps her arms around her head. Near the bottom of the ravine, they hit another tree, causing the off-balance van to tilt over onto its left-side wheels.

  And then, creaking and rumbling, it rolls all the way onto its left side.

  Belle hangs from her seatbelt. She reaches to release it, but she can’t find the buckle and it hurts to reach. Rupert is smashed against the driver’s side window, trying to release his own belt. There’s an odd silence, broken only by moans, as the toppled van rocks itself to stillness.

  Belle waits for the van to stop moving and feels liquid trickle down her forehead. Her fingers come away red.

  “Don’t release your seatbelt yet,” Rupert says, breathing hard and twisting around. “You’ll fall on me. Let me get loose first.”

  “Hurry up!” Belle says.

  “On it,” Rupert says, finally pressing the button. He gets down and wriggles around and reaches up and helps Belle release her belt so she can slide down and out of her seat. Belle’s aware of Rupert’s body pressed against hers, his panting on her neck.

  Someone is scrambling in the back of the van. Belle can hear groaning—she hopes it’s not Harold.

  “Harold?” she says. “Are you all right?”

  Silence.

  “Harold!” she says. “Nick? William?”

  Rupert reaches up and tries to open the passenger-side door like a hatch. It’s heavy, and he’s placing his shoulder shove the door up when it pops open, and a handgun barrel in a gloved hand is thrust in.

  “Get up here!” a man says. The voice is deep and harsh and insistent.

  Belle badly wants out. Her head hurts from the impact she took to her skull, just above her right ear.

  She reasons that she’s going to have to clear the way for the others to get out, and she scrambles up and out of the van, then turns. Then, bracing her feet against the door frame, she helps Rupert climb out. They both heave Nick out. Nick is bleeding from the nose and seems barely conscious.

  She can’t see William or Harold.

  As Nick sprawls on the rough, steep ground, Belle peers down into the van. Still no movement fromWilliam and Harold.

  She quickly looks around and counts three men on the slope. All three have their faces covered with ski masks. Two of them are pointing handguns, one from close in and one from up the hill. The third is waiting still farther up. He’s wearing a beige cowboy hat, dark creased pants, and a dark-green r
ain jacket. By his upright posture and position up the hill, Belle guesses he’s the one in charge. The two gunmen are wearing the same creased slacks and the same dark-green rain jackets.

  Belle crouches down and peers into the van. “Harold? William? Are you okay?”

  There’s no answer.

  She can’t think, but she must. She ignores the command from the closest gunman to get away from the van and crawls back in.

  “Hey!” he says, closing his gloved hand around her arm.

  She kicks him away and hears him fall against the steep bank. She crawls back into the van and leans into the back.

  William is trying to wake Harold up, but he’s unconscious.

  “I’ll help,” she says. “We’ve got to get him out.”

  William nods. “I’ll get under his shoulders. We’ll have to pull him up head first, so let me go around you.”

  Belle nods, and then William is pressing her against the cupboards and floor of the van while he twists into position. Harold is bent over in the jump seat, which is tilted almost ninety degrees. Belle gets the seat harness off. William reaches his arms around Harold’s chest and pulls, and Harold falls out of the seat and into William’s arms. William grunts and pulls him up toward the open window. He tugs a couple of times. William is strong, but Harold is a large man. Not fat, but barrel-chested and solid.

  “Easy,” Belle says.

  “This is terrible,” William says. “What if we’re hurting him worse?”

  “We have to get him out,” Belle says.

  William nods.

  In the meantime, the gunmen are yelling at them to get out of the van.

  “We’re coming,” William yells. “One of our guys is unconscious.”

  Belle picks up Harold’s feet. That’s when he wakes up and starts thrashing around.

  She can hear Nick shouting from up the bank and wonders if Harold is responding to his grandson’s cries.

  “Harold!” she says urgently. “Listen to me. There are three men with guns out there. Go limp. Be a decoy. We’ll get you out.”

  Harold’s eyes fly open, but Belle can see that he understands her. The corner of his mouth twists up in an unsteady grin. Belle’s heart swells, for the first time in her life, with admiration for an old man.