The Road Sharks

by Clint Hollingsworth

  Her earlier graffiti was barely visible through her guest. Jannelle had come to visit, perhaps, to torment.

  “Hello, Sifu.” Ghost Wind sighed. “You are one persistent hallucination. Always showing up when I’m half awake. Probably not a coincidence.”

  The visitor said nothing, but simply looked at her with sad eyes.

  She held up the toy. “I travel with a new class of friend now, Sifu, much harder to get him killed. Also he’s much less inclined to make a snap judgment about who is guilty and who is not.”

  The visitor seemed to have a slight smile. She seemed to be saying something, but Ghost Wind couldn’t hear her.

  “Oh, Sifu, I know I say it every time you show up, but I didn’t know… I thought he loved me. I couldn’t know… but you told me didn’t you? Clan scouts don’t get involved with strangers, especially handsome ones who tell you everything you want to hear.” Ghost Wind’s heart started to burn with her anger. “Especially lying dogs who want to remove a thorn in the side of all the bandits and slavers in the area, who wanted to remove you.”

  She looked down at the fire “As he did remove you.”

  The apparition seemed to look at her sympathetically, as Ghost Wind’s eyes came back up, blazing with anger.

  “I swear to you Jannelle Longwalker, I will find Axyl, and I will kill him. You will be avenged!”

  The spirit suddenly looked even sadder. Its lips moved but Ghost Wind, trained from a young age to read lips, still could not make out the words as her visitor faded from sight.

  “Oh, Go-Go,” she said, “Even if my life is as short as I expect it to be, I still hope I won’t have to go through that many more times. It tears my heart out.”

  The warrior woman gazed out over the snow covered sagebrush, “And worse, I don’t know if I’m really seeing her, or if I’m just going crazy.”

  She crawled back into her blanket and did her best to fall asleep once more. She thought that would be pretty much impossible, but her exhausted body said otherwise. She was asleep in minutes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Bunch of Screw Ups

  ****

  “This plan is coming together well, Axyl! In a few days, we’ll have the information we need from the scouts I sent out to…” Shell began.

  Axyl looked at Shell, nonplussed.

  “What? Why are you giving me that look, Axyl?”

  “I guess no one told you Porter and his guys got back about two hours ago.”

  Shell was silent for a moment, then said oh-so-calmly, “They are supposed to be my scouts. If I may be so bold as to ask, why the FUCK haven’t they reported in!?” His voice rose, and his second-in-command prepared himself to withstand a hurricane level rant.

  “I’m guessing, they’re afraid to talk to you, boss.”

  “And I’m guessing that means there’s a snag.” Shell’s voice was that of a man trying to master his temper,” Axyl, my dear fellow, would you be so kind as to invite these gentlemen to make an appearance? Before I have them strung up by their balls?”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Oh, thank you so much.”

  ****

  “Boss, we was just getting there, on the road, ready to set up at New Hope when around the bend comes you know who! He jacked Smitty, cut off his freakin’ head with some kinda stick sword. Smitty’s head just went bouncin’ down the road and the rest of us hauled ass outta there!”

  “Porter,” Darwin Shell said, looking at him with a frosty stare, “You are supposed to be one of my smarter lieutenants, but Axyl tells me this happened on the main highway!”

  Porter looked down, afraid to admit his screw up.

  “On a mission of this nature, a so-called smart man might think it would be best to stick to the back roads and dirt tracks of the area. I take it you didn’t think that was a good idea?”

  “Boss,” Porter whined, “a lotta them old back roads is gettin’ so overgrown in the last ten years, you wind up havin’ to chop your way through half of ‘em!”

  Shell’s voice grew soft. “For your plea to move me, sir, I would have to give a shit whether you had to work a little harder or not. Let me assure you, I do not give the prerequisite shit. Now, man up and do your job!”

  Axyl had to work to keep himself from smiling. “So boss, I’m guessing…”

  “Yes, goddamn it,” Shell said, “send them right back.”

  Once outside Shell’s office, Porter asked “Axe, what we gonna do about that damn Eli? He’s messing us up at every turn, man.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Porter. I got a couple boys, indies, that I’m usin’ as bait. Gonna give ol’ Eli a bit of a surprise. And that ol’ boy ain’t gonna like this surprise.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Bridge

  ****

  The bridges were the worst.

  Ghost Wind’s foot went out on the old girder laden bridge, and she could feel the wind making the once solid structure sway and vibrate slightly.

  This bridge was huge and looked like it had been built well before the last millennium. The sixty or seventy intervening years, particularly the last twenty or so, without any maintenance, had not been kind. She bet the Yakamas would never take one of their “wobbly” tanks across it. They’d probably think twice about driving a truck across.

  There were two cars on the bridge. One, formerly a small fusion-powered sedan, leaned precariously over the Columbia River. Even from a distance, she could see the energy generator had been scavenged. The other, an old-school gas pickup held a skeleton sitting semi-upright behind the drivers wheel of his dust rusty tomb, as if he had just pulled over and parked there, forever.

  I can certainly think of better places to leave my mortal remains.

  None of these things were the cause of her nervousness however. Not the height of the road over the huge river below, or the slight swaying caused by the constant bitter wind blowing down the river. And it certainly wasn’t the mortal remains of the people who had been sitting here dead for over two decades. Ghost Wind had seen plenty of decades-old corpses, and not once had one ever threatened her.

  The nerve-wracking thing about bridges was the choke point.

  There’s no way to get across this river unless I use the bridge. She sure couldn’t swim a half-mile of icy river in February. If I was going to set up an ambush, I’d stage it at a bridge like this one. With a decent rifle, you could pick off just about anyone who wasn’t wearing some sort of battle armor.

  This was the reason she hated the idea of crossing it. Someone could snipe her just as easily. She might have to wait ’til darkness fell to make the attempt to cross.

  She moved down the bank of the river to get a look at the bottom of the bridge. Leaving her gear in a clump of bitterbrush, she carefully followed a deer trail. She moved into the shadow of one of the toppled giant wind-harvest power generators, lying there like some sort of huge alien machine.

  Once out of the scant sunlight, the wind chill seemed to drop another ten degrees. As she moved below the bottom of the bridge, she saw a rusty catwalk extending beneath it.

  That looks promising! There are a few sections that look questionable, but I can get to the other side of the Columbia without exposing myself to being ambushed. I think…

  From the sash she wore around her ratty gray wool and deer skin coat, Ghost Wind pulled a carefully padded small package and unwrapped the contents. The monocular she kept hidden fogged slightly as she put it up to the warmth of her skin. Looking at the catwalk, she could now see some of the sections were very rusty and a few looked as if they had separated from the bridge during one of the heavy winds in the canyon.

  Maybe a little less promising than I thought. She stood a moment, considering. Guess I need to flip a coin as to which is the more dangerous way to go.

  To go over the bridge invited, if not instant death, certainly the possibility of being discovered. From what she had heard, that was a very undesirable outcome.

>   The clan scouts who came this far told us of a complete breakdown in morality and law. They saw acts of human depravity to leave one shuddering in one’s boots.

  She looked at the catwalk again with the monocular.

  I sure as hell can’t fight off a large group of men bent on rape and murder, no matter how much Kung Fu training I have. I need to use the Scout Way, the way of concealment, the way of survival.

  She climbed back up, and retrieved her gear. Moving to the beginning of the catwalk, she found her way barred by a rusty metal mesh gate, secured with an even rustier padlock. There was barbed wire hanging limply above the chain links that she might be able to climb over. It was, of course, rusty. Looking closely at the lock, she saw it was in very poor shape.

  Ghost wind reached into her haversack, and after rummaging around for a moment, drew out a bit of craftsmanship she had created while staying with Lila. It had once been a ball-peen hammer, but using a small makeshift forge, she had beaten it into a hatchet and hammer combination tool.

  Carefully aiming at the old padlock, she waited for a strong and loud gust of wind to rush though then struck with all her strength with the hammer. The ancient padlock’s shackle shattered like poorly fired ceramic.

  There now, that wasn’t so hard. Things are looking up!

  Carefully, slowly she pushed open the creaky gate, wincing at the noise it made. The catwalk stretched ahead and through its metal grid flooring, she could see the ice chunks floating down the river. She ventured tentative steps onto the elderly walkway, and when it seemed solid, began her crossing.

  She was halfway across when bolts started snapping.

  The first one sounded so much like a gunshot that she thought her imagined sniper had found her under the bridge. When she heard the second, the entire catwalk lurched and she knew she was in trouble. Ghost Wind began to run.

  She heard Jannelle’s voice in her head. Move from the hips, glide! Up and down motion will tear the catwalk loose even quicker!

  The warrior scout moved as she had been trained from a young age, not wasting motion, gliding forward with her hips as she ran, keeping low. It wasn’t enough. The walkway lurched under her again, as more bolts snapped and began to separate from the bottom of the bridge.

  Jannelle’s voice came again, Go girl, go! GO GO GO!!!

  She was fifty feet from the end of the bridge when the section she had just moved onto tore loose. The snapping of bolts above her was like a twenty-one gun salute and her section slowly began to separate from the bridge, like a loose thread. The end she was on began to dip towards the river, forcing her to scramble using both hands and her feet to keep moving forward. In a few short moments, she was clawing at the deck, climbing towards the next section. Ghost Wind could see only five bolts still held the entire weight on the section she was on.

  Great Spirit, please don’t let me die here! I’m not ready!

  As if to mock her, the wind began gusting again, and the broken catwalk began to sway. She climbed, hanging on with hands covered in only light leather gloves, her moccasin-covered feet barely able to find toe-holds in the grid floor. She had almost reached the edge of the next section when a particularly vindictive gust of wind hit the bridge and she heard the remaining bolts of her section part all in one loud explosion of sound as her perch began to fall.

  Shiiittt!!

  Ghost Wind threw herself toward the next section, landing on her ribs and breasts as the section she was on began its terminal descent into the cold Columbia River. Breathless and in pain, she turned her head to see it plummet end over end, hammering down in a huge wave-making splash that sent small tidal waves towards the riverbanks.

  So much for the way of stealth. I wonder how much attention THAT will attract.

  She inched her way onto the new section and carefully ran the remaining distance to the end. There was a door on this side also, but no lock and Ghost Wind was through and into the tall grass and brush without hesitation. Once into concealment, she waited, watched and listened for the inevitable surge of enemies looking for her.

  Nothing.

  She sat for an hour, senses on high alert and no one came. Finally boredom drove her to climb up to the pavement to find where the snipers might be hidden.

  No one.

  It seemed that when 80 percent of a world’s population was destroyed by a man-made plague, keeping someone in ambush on a bridge in the middle of nowhere, was not an effective use of time. The area was deserted.

  The wind carried a groan to her as if to prove her wrong. It was faint and for a moment, she thought she had imagined it but as she scanned the southern horizon, she saw some sort of structure, roughly a half mile away. Carefully pulling out the prized monocular, she glassed the area. The structure seemed to be a big wooden X, out in the empty sagebrush lands.

  And there was a man hanging from it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hanging in the Wind

  ****

  Don’t get involved.

  For all she knew, the man hanging on this X-shaped implement of torture was a mass genocidal murderer, and helping him might be the biggest mistake she ever made.

  She dropped to the level of the sagebrush and moved in closer.

  He looked awful. He was a muscular dark-skinned man, but he was covered in bruises, cuts and what may have even been a few stab wounds. If he hadn’t moved feebly a few times as she approached, she would have assumed he was dead and passed by him.

  He was supported to a slight degree by a board that his feet would just fit enough on to keep him from tearing loose from the cross, but it was probably small comfort.

  A crosswind came up, and Ghost Wind realized they were not alone out here, the tortured one and herself. An overpowering scent of body odor came from the southwest, near a small hill and she also caught a whiff of campfire smoke. She decided to see if she could shed light on the situation. She dropped her gear into concealment, taking only her big rough-hewn knife, and wove through the sagebrush.

  The camp contained two men, both as filthy as she had ever seen. She was very thankful she was no closer than the top of the small hill, as she knelt in the tall sagebrush.

  Oh, I know your kind.

  Had she been nearer the two men, she was quite sure the smell from them would have brought tears to her eyes. Men like this often formed the slavers and kilabyker gangs her people had been so invested in keeping at bay.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, Lester, we should’ve just gutted that fucker. He’s dangerous as hell, man, and we’ve been tryin’ to get Mr. Boy Scout dead fer a damn long time!” One of the men was gesticulating wildly at the other, obviously in a passion over what he was trying to get across. “It was fun as hell to hammer him to that cross, man, and fun as hell to beat on him for a hour or so with the rebar, but he’s strange. He still might come back an’ get us somehow.”

  “Fat chance o’ dat, Benny,” the other replied. “But let’s finish makin’ these spears, and we’ll use ol’ the law dog as chuckin’ practice. That oughtta give us a bit more fun and make things final for our dear Captain Shit Head. Good by you?”

  “Yeah. Good. I owe that guy, and paybacks are a bitch.”

  Ghost Wind had heard all she needed. Now, should she help, or just keep going and mind her own business?

  ****

  He had been hanging for what seemed like years.

  I wish I could flippin’ die, already. Soon though…

  His hands and his feet throbbed from the thick rusty nails driven through them, and the other wounds he had suffered at the hands of his captors weren’t helping him manage the pain.

  To think I’m going down at the hands of those two dickheads.

  Eli stared down at his leg. As horrific as the wounds from the bear trap were, they were trying to do their thing and heal, at a rate that would astonish the common man. But the sheer number of injuries he had sustained at the hands of Lester and Benny had drained even his ability to heal. If he didn’t escape s
oon, the great experiment would end very badly.

  I think this might be it.

  Unfortunately, he was far from his peak performance level. Usually, he might have been able to pull out the nails securing him to this god-awful Greek cross, painful as that might have been. Usually he was a lot stronger than he looked, but now, he was weak with pain, injury, dehydration, hypothermia and hunger.

  He looked over the landscape of sagebrush and juniper toward Mt. Hood to the west. Maybe when he died, his spirit would wander over its snowy slopes, free from this pain, free from duty, free from worry.

  Assuming he had a soul. There had been a lot of debate about that.

  As his head drooped, he saw the woman standing right in front of him.

  “What…? Who? Where the hell did you come from?”

  She didn’t answer. He was sure she hadn’t been standing there a few moments before, and he saw no way she could have come through the knee-high sage and bitterbrush to sneak up on him.

  He began to laugh weakly. “Oh, I get it. Hallucinating. And wow, did I come up with a wonder.”

  He looked his fever dream over. She was tall, looking vaguely Native American and was wearing an outlandish outfit that looked half wool and half skins and fur. To top it off, she had some sort of coyote-hide draped over her shoulders and his imagination even managed to provide her with a livid scar over one side of her otherwise beautiful face.

  She continued to stare at him, not saying a word, as if making a decision.

  “Oh criminy. I want to get off here so bad, I’m imagining rescuers.” He laughed.

  “Be silent!” she hissed. It was a rather cheeky thing for a hallucination to say, he thought. He watched her bring out what looked to be a small hatchet married to a hammer head and a small wooden strip that she carefully worked under the spike driven through his right foot. He began to feel a little nervous.

  Looking up at him, with her intense blue eyes, she said, “If you scream, those men will come back, and I will slip away and leave you here. Do you understand me?”