Battlecraft VR

by Linden Storm

  “William, what do you think we should do?” Belle says.

  Belle watches William’s face. He looks into the middle distance. She thinks he’s waiting for his famous intuition to kick in. Which is not actually intuition, Belle knows. It’s experience moving knowledge from his unconscious mind to his conscious mind, and now she trusts him to get it right.

  “Wait,” William says. “Paul will get her here.”

  “We wait,” Belle says.

  ∆∆∆

  Paul looks at Gemma’s wound. The bullet has gone through the right side of her chest, up high by her shoulder.

  “It could be worse,” he mutters.

  “I’m dying,” Gemma says.

  Her face is beaded with sweat, and that’s not a good sign, Paul thinks. But he’s not about to tell her that.

  “You’re not dying,” Paul says. “I’ve seen people dying of gunshot wounds, and you are not one of those.” He’s not nearly as sure as he sounds. He needs to get Gemma to a hospital, and fast. There’s way too much blood on the ground. He pats his pockets, finds the earbud, puts it in, turns it on. “Marina? What’s going on?”

  “Paul!” Marina says. “Thank God! Where are you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Paul says. “I think about half a kilometer from where you’re supposed to be. Are you at the rendezvous point?”

  “We are. Hurry up.”

  “I can hear them coming,” Paul says. “If we don’t make it there in three minutes, leave and get help.”

  Paul puts one arm under Gemma’s shoulders, the other under her knees, braces himself, and lifts. It’s like lifting a bag of sticks. Her thin limbs hang down, and her body bends at her narrow waist. She moans in pain.

  She’s not heavy, but cradling her like a baby in his arms is too awkward. He won’t be able to see where he’s going. He swings her around and places her over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

  She moans, and then he feels her body relax and go limp.

  He tucks the rifle under his arm. “Can you hold on, Gemma?” he says, shaking her arm gently.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “I guess that means no,” he says, and grabs one of her hands. He starts walking downhill, hoping he doesn’t trip on the steep, rough ground.

  ∆∆∆

  Harold’s skin feels itchy. It might be days without a shower, he thinks, or it may be nerves.

  Or shingles. It could be shingles.

  He’s never gotten that damned shingles vaccine, never had time. Or maybe he hasn’t gone in because he hates shots.

  The van is idling, which makes him more nervous, given the busted gas gauge. A foreign vehicle with a busted gas gauge and God knows what else wrong with it. And the kids in the back seat talking and arguing instead of figuring out what to do next. He turns around and gets ready to scold them, but Marina suddenly shouts and points out into the dark hillside, the abandoned ski slope.

  Careening down the slope are the wide-spaced headlights of a giant SUV.

  “Well, they ain’t in self-driving mode now, anyhow,” Harold says. “Maybe they’ll drive into a tree.”

  “I don’t think we can count on that, Harold,” Rupert says. “But we can count on them being extremely angry.”

  “No doubt about that, boy,” Harold says. He puts the van back in gear.

  “We’ve got to go,” Rupert says. “Harold, turn this thing around. I used Marina’s phone to call the pilots, and they’re set to pick us up at the Nevada County Air Park.”

  “No!” Belle says. “We can do this. We don’t have to leave anyone behind.”

  “Belle,” William says quietly. “Maybe Rupert’s right. We should go.”

  “No. Look!” Belle says.

  Harold looks where she’s pointing and sees movement uphill near where the fence disappears into the trees. He puts the van’s headlights on.

  And sure enough, there’s Paul, carrying something across his shoulders.

  “Is that Gemma?” Harold says. “Oh, no!”

  “Yes,” Belle says. “We’ve got to help them. Drive up there.”

  “There’s no road, Belle,” Rupert says. “What if we run over a stump and break an axle?”

  “We won’t,” she says.

  And Harold makes a decision. Even as he puts the van in first, he knows it’s foolish as hell. But he wants to believe Belle. He wants to believe in her, too. And he wants her to always know he took her side when it came down to it.

  Plus, he can’t let that magnificent woman, Gemma Gosnold, die.

  “No!” Rupert says, as the van crunches ahead on the rough ground. They are rocking violently from side to side. Harold feels the right front wheel clunk down into a hole, but he down-shifts and the van keeps going.

  They are bumping along the fence, making for Paul’s position.

  “Paul wants to know what the hell we think we’re doing,” Marina says.

  “Giving him a chance,” Harold says, pressing the gas pedal.

  ∆∆∆

  Paul can hear the SUV gunning it down the ski slope. They’re only a couple of hundred yards away now, and he’s hoping for a miracle. A sinkhole to swallow them up. A mudslide. Something.

  What’s worse, Marina and the rest are trying to take the van up the hill to pick him and Gemma up. Paul can see they’ll never make it in time.

  He turns around so he’s facing uphill, then gently places Gemma down on the sloping ground. She groans and curls back into a fetal position.

  His shoulders feel wet. He hopes it’s his own sweat and not Gemma’s blood, but he thinks those hopes are in vain.

  He swings the rifle up.

  He hears a hollow pop, then another.

  Yup, those fucking asshole lunatic murderers are shooting at the van.

  He takes aim, slowly, feeling as angry as he’s ever felt, and he seems to disconnect from himself and look down on the scene. He finds himself wondering if he’ll shoot through the windshield at the driver’s head and end this nonsense now.

  He pulls the trigger.

  ∆∆∆

  “Come on!” Belle says. She opens the door, crouches down. William’s right behind her.

  Marina jumps out of the front passenger seat.

  “The rest of you stay here,” Belle says.

  Bent double, she runs up the fence line toward Gemma and Paul. She hears the pop pop pop of gunshots but chooses to ignore it.

  “Paul says we should go back,” Marina shouts.

  “No,” Belle says. “Tell him we’re coming to get Gemma.”

  They crawl on their hands and knees for the last few feet. When they get to her, she’s curled up around a small bush. Bell grabs her knees, and William and Marina each take a shoulder.

  Gemma cries out in pain.

  Belle turns around so she’s facing downhill and gets a tight grip on Gemma’s bony ankles. Then she starts forward at a fast clip, trusting William and Marina to keep up. They do.

  They’re within ten yards of the van when Belle hears an enormous crunching sound and the tinkle of glass.

  Then all she hears is heavy, fast footfalls and breathing behind them.

  It’s Paul.

  Belle looks over her shoulder in time to hear his whoop and see him lift the rifle over his head.

  The van’s hatch is open, and Rupert and Nick are waiting. They help put Gemma into a nest of clothing and blankets in the back of the van.

  They pack themselves in, with Gemma on the floor in the way-back, and Nick, Paul, William, Belle and Rupert crammed on the two rows of seats.

  “I hope this thing has the guts to carry all of us,” Harold says. “It’s a good thing we’re heading downhill now.”

  He backs up, sliding around on the hillside, and for a moment, as the van tilts, Belle wonders if he’ll get it under control.

  But he does. He slides the front end around, and then takes off bumping down the hill toward the road. He turns the headlights off just in case anyone is still trying to follo
w them.

  And then they are on the old highway, speeding toward help with only the light of the moon to guide them.

  “You can slow down,” Paul says to Harold. “I shot both their tires out and they crashed into a tree. They’re not coming after us.”

  “All right, then,” Harold says.

  And he turns on the lights and drives at a much more reasonable clip toward the main road. He’s focused on getting Gemma to a hospital. Everything else can wait.

  Once they’re on the road, Marina turns around and looks at Belle. Slowly, Belle turns her head and looks at Marina.

  “What happened to your face?” Marina says.

  Belle doesn’t answer. Instead, she pulls the sweatshirt hood back and turns her head from side to side. She knows her right eye is purple and swollen, and she can feel a knot on her forehead.

  “We had to stage some fighting amongst ourselves,” Belle says. “And I might have hit my head on that window a couple of times. And then there was that sheriff jumping me and that other guy who grabbed you.”

  Marina’s hand goes to her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  Belle nods. “You should have let us in on your plans. That’s for sure.”

  “It wasn’t a plan. That was the problem, at first, anyway,” Marina says. “I was doing what I tell you never to do. I was only running away.”

  Marina begins to cry quietly, and everyone else in the van falls silent.

  ∆∆∆

  After they drop Gemma off at the ER of the Tahoe Forest Hospital in Truckee, Harold gets the van back on the road, heading for Rupert’s jet, which is waiting for them an hour’s drive west on Highway 20. Harold shakes his head and slaps his own face. All the kids are sleeping.

  It reminds him of being a young father, driving home late at night from some softball tournament or soccer game, the vehicle full of quiet bodies, their breath making the windows fog.

  He turns on the defroster and a prodigious wind blows his hair back, wakes him up for real.

  Just two more exits to go, and something catches his eye in the rearview mirror.

  Blue lights.

  Everyone stirs. There’s a chorus of groans and swears. To Harold’s ear, it sounds like a cosmic cry of pain and frustration.

  Haven’t they been through enough?

  At least Gemma’s out of trouble. His heart is full of admiration for that woman. She’d saved them by giving them the time to get away, and she’d been shot. But she was sure to live—at least that’s what the doctor had said.

  As he wrestles the van off the road and stops, Harold feels so weary and worried he wants to cry.

  “Let me handle the trooper,” he says, watching the frantic blue lights in his side mirror.

  “I’m just going to rearrange things back here,” Paul says.

  Harold hears rustling and knows it’s Paul shoving the rifle farther under the seat. The rest of them are sitting up, straightening their clothes, running fingers through their hair.

  “I wish we’d cleaned up,” Nick says.

  “Like I said, we can clean up on the plane,” Rupert says. “Which is waiting for us ten minutes down the road.”

  “God, it’s smelly in here,” Belle says. “He’s going to wonder what he’s stumbled into.”

  “That’s for sure,” William says. “Maybe we can say our religion prohibits bathing.”

  “Is there such a religion?” Marina says.

  “Let’s make up a new religion,” Nick says.

  “The Church of the Revolting Stench,” Belle says.

  “I think I should handle this,” Rupert says.

  “You think wrong, son,” Harold says. “I’m the only person in this vehicle who’s too old to be a serial killer.”

  “You’re never too old to be a serial killer,” Rupert says, adding a maniacal laugh. “You just have to be good at evading capture.”

  “See there, that’s what I’m worried about,” Harold says. “You have to take these things seriously. This isn’t my first traffic stop. I know what to say.”

  “Fine,” Rupert says. “Do your stuff. But if I identified myself, he might recognize me and decide to let us go right away.”

  “I’m not sure your fame will work in our favor,” Belle says. “Sorry, Rupert, but not everyone likes billionaires. And not everyone likes you.”

  “Nice,” Rupert says huffily. “But I’ll tell you something. People talk trash about rich guys, and yet when they meet us face to face they’re almost always nice.”

  Harold watches the patrol car in the rear view and the side mirror.

  The officer is still sitting in the car.

  “What is taking so long?” Rupert says.

  “He’s checking us out,” Harold says. “Patience is a virtue.”

  It actually is Harold’s first traffic stop, and he feels like all of his intestines and internal organs have liquified and are now roiling like Yellowstone’s bubbling pools. The fact is, he’s been a meticulously law-abiding citizen his whole life, every vehicle he’s ever owned has been kept in perfect working order, and the only conversations he’s had with a law enforcement types were over a friendly cup of coffee with Wilfred and Chet, Dayton’s town cops.

  Not too many men can say that at his age, he thinks proudly. And then he remembers all the laws and rules he’s shattered in the past week and wonders if at 78 he’s lost his mind or developed a brain tumor that has radically and abruptly changed his personality.

  He can pretend he’s innocent, at least. He looks more innocent than anyone else in the van.

  He does have a cut on his forehead and a big lump, but they're on the right side of his face, so maybe the patrolman won't notice.

  Marina is scratched up and her hair is falling out of a ponytail in a lopsided manner—she looks like she’s been in a brawl or a cage fight….

  …Maybe in a cage fight with Belle, who is filthy and is sporting a purple bruise on her face, a black eye, and a sweatshirt that’s stained, torn, and full of holes.

  Nick, in his muddy, goldenrod blouse, looks like a demented railway hobo who’s been sleeping outside for months.

  William, with his long, tangled hair, is red-eyed and grinning and wrapped in a burlap sack; he might as well be some drug-addled rock star who hasn’t had a gig in years.

  Rupert, while his face is famous, is now dirty, bearded, and disheveled and can be relied on only to make things worse with his smart mouth.

  And then there’s Paul, who is soaked in someone else’s blood. Even if he wasn’t soaked in someone else’s blood, his bloodshot eyes and dented head make him look like a convict escaped from a mental hospital for the criminally insane.

  “Paul, wrap something around yourself,” Harold says. “We don’t want the officer to see your bloody clothes.”

  Paul finds a sequined cape in the way back.

  Harold shakes his head.

  “What is he doing back there?” Rupert says, twisting around to gaze back at the parked police car. “Maybe I should go talk to him.”

  “You will not get out of this van,” Nick says, with such force and vehemence that everyone turns and stares. He never talks to anyone like that, least of all Rupert.

  “God damn it, Rupert,” Nick says. “We wouldn’t be in this predicament if Belle hadn’t gotten out of the car during a traffic stop. None of this would have happened. You’re staying here.”

  A chorus of catcalls greets Nick’s statement.

  “All right! I know it’s not true,” Nick says, his face reddening. “Those people were going to figure out a way to arrest us no matter what. But stay in the car anyway. Please?”

  Harold lifts his hand in a plea for silence.

  “This discord is to be expected from folks who have been held against their will in a shed for several days,” Harold says. “However, the worst thing we can do is tell the officer anything about what’s been happening to us. We’ll be held up again, made to explain the unexplainable, and kept down here in t
his wasteland instead of allowed to board Rupert’s private plane with its food and wine and shower. Not to mention his ridiculous heated toilet that sprays the rectum with rosewater at the touch of a button.”

  “You’re right, Harold,” Rupert says, sighing. “Point taken. We’re with you.”

  Harold’s mouth waters as he thinks about Rupert’s imported cheeses and juicy grapes, then goes dry as he watches the side mirror and sees a giant California State Patrol officer exit his vehicle, arrange his equipment belt, and point a club-like flashlight at the van, then move it around and shine it in each window like the spotlight at a demented stage show in hell.

  Harold keeps his hands at ten and two. He’ll listen respectfully and volunteer nothing, he thinks, watching the patrolman in the mirrors.

  The patrolman looks like he spends nine hours a day in a gym. His forearms are as meaty and brown as hunks of brisket. He’s wearing a khaki shirt with pocket flaps, a gold badge on his chest, and a large black microphone near his collar. Bulky gadgets and weapons decorate his belt. He bends down so his face is even with Harold’s. His eyes are mahogany brown and clear. His head is shaved close. He might have just stepped out of the 1960s. The early 1960s, when people went to church every Sunday, and everyone drove cars with manual transmissions.

  Harold nods at the young officer, says nothing, and refrains from looking him directly in the eye, instead focusing on his golden badge.

  Now that I’m experiencing it, getting pulled over is not one of my favorite things, Harold decides.

  One of the officer’s hands rests on the van door. The other rests on his gun, which threatens mayhem from an unsnapped holster on his hip.

  “License, registration, and proof of insurance, please,” he says. “Or you can let me scan your implant.”

  “Yes sir,” Harold says, and then, gasping, he remembers that the degenerates took all his things. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my license. And I don't have an implant.”

  “You lost your license, sir?”

  “Yes. When we were on a…uh…hiking trip. I’m licensed to drive in Washington State, but I just don’t have my license at the moment. It’s lost. Because I lost it. Hiking.”

  “I see. And your registration?”