by Tes Hilaire
Nope, didn’t want to think about that. So I tuned him out, shoved my apple into my mouth as I jumped up, and grabbed my backpack from the corner. Quizzes, a track meet, and boys. I definitely had enough on my plate besides the impending end of the world.
16.
Most decidedly uncomfortable.
I squirm in my harness, trying to keep my gaze on a point somewhere between Rodriguez’s and Matt’s head. I can be polite at least, even if no one else here can. I swear, sometimes I think I’m the only person whose parents taught them that staring is rude. Everyone is staring at me. Well, everyone except Herbie, who is flying the helicopter, and Convict sitting beside him. But the other sets of eyes appear to be glued to my forehead. Probably trying to drill holes in it.
I am persona non grata and it’s decidedly unfair. Hadn’t I been the one to get them out of there? Okay, so my trick is kind of freaky. Still, I wouldn’t give it end of the world status. Certainly not when compared to the zombie outbreak. And not compared to the visions my hive queen has of the future either. Hives, really. With a queen bee, working bees, and a boat load of honey for their continued consumption. Only in this case the honey is the humans they’ve collected and are raising in captivity. Whoops, silly me, safety. Raising in safety.
I should tell my team. After what we’ve seen at Nellis, I realize the danger is closer than I once believed. I would tell them too, but I’m betting I won’t get any brownie points for it if I do. Nope. Either Convict or Brian will come up with some lame theory about me infiltrating the base to gain information. A spy in their midst, which is a theory that could well have me flying home… without the benefit of this helicopter. Yeah, let’s avoid that, shall we?
Juanita makes an uncomfortable sounding grunt. I look to where she is strapped to the gurney, leg braced. She gives me a faint smile and a wink. Then she reaches out and slaps Roy on his knee. “Get over it, boys. You wanted a way out of there? That was it.”
I appreciate her support but know it’s not going to work. Even John has mustered enough of an expression to look uneasy, his gaze flitting between me, the others, then out the front windows. He can’t wait to get back to base and out of my presence. Which hurts. Stupid me. Guess I thought our relationship had made it to some sort of happy teammate/companion level.
At least Juanita seems cool with my current freak-hood status. And that’s so reassuring, coming from the woman who seems to want to die in a blaze of glory.
I sigh, focusing on my hands and the dried blood under my nails. Juanita’s. I set to picking it out, wiping it off on my pants. I don’t know how long I manage to occupy myself with this task when the helicopter gives a great lurch to the side, the propellers making a strange whine before settling back in their reassuring air-chopping rhythm.
“What was that?” John demands, his voice strangely croak-like, as if he’s injured his larynx at some point.
Herbie answers over the intercom. “Sorry people. Wind is picking up. Might get worse too so hold tight.”
John leans his head back against the thin black padding, closing his eyes. I watch in fascination as he makes an effort to take deep steadying breaths. What’s this? Does John not like to fly? The notion sets me on edge. John is solid, steady. Even when he’s agitated or angry he’s able to keep it together. But he’s been decidedly “off” since the moment we found out we were being sent on this mission.
I’m not the only one who seems concerned by John’s anxiety levels; Convict twists around in his seat, looking back at John. “We’re half-way home, John. We’ll be back before breakfast.”
“That’s fine, sir.”
With a nod, Convict turns back to the front.
What’s up with that? Why would John be worried about the time? Now that I think about it, he had grilled Marine pretty hard about the timeline for this “quick” intel mission. At the time I figured he was asking because of me and the whole nighttime mission thing, but with the way he’s been unable to even look me straight in the eyes on this ride back, I’m thinking his apprehension is not for me. Or if it was, that was before the whole mind-control thing.
I decide my earlier assessment must have been right. John wants to get out of this flying death trap and away from me. Well that’s just fine. Soon as we get back to base I’ll make sure to stay well out of his way. Maybe I’ll even do us both a favor and ask for that transfer to Rodriguez’s team. I think it’s obvious there is no way Convict is ever going to get used to me and the whole feeding thing, and with Juanita out of commission for the foreseeable future, Brian still on the hunt, and John’s obvious abandonment… well, even the dense girl can tell when she’s not wanted.
The helicopter lurches to the side again. Herbie swears, jerking the controls. We twist back the other way, nose dipping. Ah, hell. I knew this was just a flying coffin.
Sixty heart-hammering seconds later, Herbie manages to get us leveled out again. We’re still being buffeted around, but at least we aren’t trying to do any more nosedives into the desert below.
I slowly get my breathing under control. Then, and only then, do I work on prying my bloodless fingers from my shoulder harness.
“Wild,” Juanita says from the stretcher that has slid across the floor and up against Rodriguez’s, Matt’s, and John’s boots. I think she’s truly crazy, until I see that she is paler than death and that her brow is beaded in sweat.
“Can someone get that rope so we can tie the stretcher down?” I call to the back. Brian is the closest. He hits his safety release and lurches up on unsteady feet. He opens one of the upper cabinets and pulls out the rope, shuts it again as he tosses the length of coiled rope in my direction, and then sits back down, strapping back in.
Figures. I snatch the rope, glaring down at the tight cotton. The helicopter is just big enough and wide enough that I can’t bend over and work with the other peeps to strap the stretcher down. I’m going to have to rig it to one of the safety hooks near the door, through her stretcher, to the other door to securely anchor her. Which means getting out of my safety harness.
“I’ll help,” Blaine offers from beside me.
I shake my head. “I got it.” Probably have the steadiest feet here. I guess that’s one good thing about my new nature: I am no longer a complete klutz.
Grumbling, I pop the safety buckle and slide off the bench. I’m not too proud to crawl and this is how I make my way over to the safety clip by the door on my side of the helicopter. Using one of the nifty knots my dad taught me, I secure the first end and then scoot-shuffle back over to Juanita, the helicopter dancing and lurching the whole time.
The stretcher is one of those standard plastic ones with long handholds along the sides. I figure I can loop the rope through the ones near her feet and secure it to the other door. Then, with the leftover rope, I’ll string it through the ones near her head and somehow loop it around my own harness. Or maybe hold it. I should be strong enough to do that.
I’ve gotten the rope through the two holes on the stretcher and am trying to get the excess through the other safety clip on the other door when the helicopter starts on a sideways rolling wave glide. We crest and dip, crest and dip, my stomach enough off-sync to make me want to barf, and since Juanita isn’t latched down yet in the front, she goes for a back-and-forth sliding roller-coaster ride across the floor.
“I got her.” John pops off his harness, and with one hand secure on the nylon straps he’s just forgone, reaches for the top of the stretcher to steady her.
A howling wind buffets us from the front. Everything shifts. John’s grab for the stretcher misses and he ends up clinging to his shoulder harness as the nose jerks up. Juanita and her stretcher bang into me. My hand slips completely off the rope. I swear, trying to keep the stretcher steady as I grab for the dangling end. The helicopter reverses direction again and Juanita and I are tumbling back toward John. Only someone grabs the back of my cargo pants and holds on, which is quite a feat given I’m hanging onto all the weigh
t of Juanita’s stretcher as well and we keep on dipping down, then up, then down.
The helicopter levels out for a moment. I sit up, swatting at the steadying hand. It is Brian. I hate being grateful to him.
“Christ, Herbie, can’t you keep us steady for one effing minute?” John swears, grabbing for the stretcher again.
There is no answer, only another tummy tumbling twist and dip. And then Herbie answers, his voice amazingly calm for the man who likes to run from danger. “Sorry, people, but I suggest you get a handhold somewhere. We’re going down.”
17.
I’ve never crash landed before. Never want to try it again. Though, I do have to give Herbie mucho credit here. He somehow pulled it off. All those times when he was a smart-mouth or a chicken-shit or merely a plain old dick are forgiven. The baldheaded NASCAR driver has just saved our lives. Even if we are stranded out here in the middle of nowhere.
Herbie’s still sitting in the cockpit petting his controls like a depression-age grandmother about to sell off her stuff, but then he sighs, shaking his head as he squeezes through into the back bed of the helicopter.
“So which of you is the bad luck charm?” he yells over the howling wind.
No one responds, ignoring him in lieu of gathering up the equipment needed for our trek. There has been a lot of debating on whether to hang tight and wait out the winds and/or hope for a miraculous rescue, or strike out for an abandoned military storage facility that is supposedly located nearby. With day coming and the soaring temperatures that can be expected here in the middle of the Mohave Desert, it’s a pretty easy choice. Besides, the Santa Ana winds that are the cause of our grounding can last for days, sometimes weeks on end. Our best hope is that the facility, though abandoned, has a working vehicle left to confiscate so we can drive back to our base.
If we’re lucky, we’ll be home by bedtime. Of course, in order to make this goal, we’re going to be traveling during the day. Yeah. But everyone, especially John and Convict, seem adamant that we have to get back ASAP. And who am I, the freaky, mind-controlling blood-sucking vampire-tag-o-long, to argue?
I ignore the blistering hot wind that carries the desert grit and sand in through the open helicopter door and look at the sky. It’s those murky pre-dawn hours that are marked with a general irrevocable lightening of the world. Only it’s still dark. The winds have brought in with them a nice thick bank of swiftly moving clouds that I hope—please, please, please—will last through our travels.
Five minutes and we’re packed and ready to go. With a last look through the door to make sure the clouds haven’t instantly peeled back to reveal the fading night sky, I jump out and fall into step beside Juanita on her stretcher, which is being carried by Matt and Blaine. Juanita looks at me with concern, her lips parting, but I shake my head, fending off whatever she might be about to say.
The truth is a vamp can go out in the day. The whole see-the-sun, burst-into-flame thing is a total myth. That said it’s not exactly wise. See, it’s a dehydration thing. For a creature that lives off liquids, we seem to lose water awfully quickly. Expose us to sun and the moisture literally pours right off of us. We can get a little back through water, but the only way to keep from shriveling up and going into a state of mummydom is to be well hydrated beforehand, and keep well hydrated. Which means feeding. A lot.
I really, really hope that cloud bank holds.
It does. Hours later the only sign that true day has broken is the increasing heat level. It’s still a murky dark morning for the desert and I know this is an exception and not the rule. Somebody up there must like me. It’s as I think this that there is a crack in one of the clouds. Not quite all the way through, but enough to expose the shadowed disk of the sun.
Brain, who’s been stalking along in the front of the line, looks up, then over his shoulder at me, his lip curled back into a cruel smirk. “Just how powerful was that vampire who turned you, fangs?”
Even though it hurts my sensitive eyes to do so, I make a point of looking up into the sky, staring directly at the fuzzy globe of light trying to break its way through the clouds before I pin my gaze back on Brian. “Very.”
He grunts and faces forward once more. Point made. I don’t look at the sky again but stare down at the monotonous landscape of sand that continually shifts beneath my feet. We can’t be far now. An hour, maybe two. I can make that. Absently I reach up to wipe my forehead and come away with a layer of crusty salt. Um, not good. All of a sudden a wad of moist fabric is being shoved into my chest.
I look up at John. He’s stripped off his outer shirt and must have used his ration of water to wet it and is now holding it out to me.
“Wrap it around your head.”
I think of refusing—the jerk is one of the ones enforcing this daytime march on me, after all—but decide neither pride nor obstinacy are worth shriveling like a dried prune. I take the shirt, tugging it over my head like a hood, the base buttoned around my mouth like a scarf, and the tied-off sleeves that hold it all in place slapping against my back like a wet ponytail.
Another bonus of the turban, I’m no longer eating desert grit.
The sky lightens some more, the clouds thinning even as the wind settles to something short of sand blast. I look over at Juanita. She lost a lot of blood last night and I haven’t seen her take a single sip from the canteen that rests on the stretcher beside her.
“Drink,” I tell her, my voice muffled by the wet fabric.
She does, then holds the canteen out to me. I hesitate. The water will help a little, but not enough to make a real dent. Besides, I’m betting at least half, if not all the rest of the team members, might object to sharing one of their two canteens.
I shake my head, purposely putting a bit more distance between us by picking up my pace. Bad move. I trip over a rock planted in the sand, a desert shrub flying up to meet me. Except John is there, steadying me with his hand on my elbow. “You okay?”
Good question. There’s no doubt that even with his makeshift turban, I’m dehydrating quickly. I’m not at critical levels. The snack I had last night will keep me going as long as the cloud cover holds, but I’ll need to go out again soon for a pick-me-up snack.
I’ll deal with that later. Everything is always later. Have to take care of the here and now. And right now is putting one foot in front of the other as I fix my sights on the mirage of buildings that may or may not actually be there in the distance.
“I’m good,” I say.
“Almost there.”
“Halleluiah ,” I mutter inaudibly under my breath.
John’s lips twitch. My eyes narrow. I didn’t say it that loud. How did he hear me above the wind? He lets go of my elbow and we continue on, my questions shoved to the back of my mind as I strive toward the mirage that I’m sure now is not a mirage.
The buildings are there. A set of waffle-board warehouses lined up in parallel rows that stretch back too far on the horizon for me to see the end. All around them is one of those really high chain-link fences decorated both on the top and around the bottom edges with jagged razor wire. Under normal circumstances, I could probably jump it, but I wouldn’t want to try given my current state of dehydration. So it’s a good thing there’s a sturdy gate on this side of the perimeter and butting up against it is a lone, squat cement building.
I’m guessing the building, which is decorated with cameras instead of windows is both gatekeeper and office combined.
“Looks welcoming,” I say when we get closer and I start to notice that not only is there the slice-you-to-ribbons razor wire, but that there are remote rifles topping the fence at regular intervals. “Are those motion activated or does someone inside have to press a button?”
John’s jaw tenses as he studies the rifles. “I’m not sure it matters. I’m doubting the power is still on here and any battery back-ups would be drained by now.”
“You want to risk it?”
He shrugs, and with a glance at the sky says,
“What choice do we have?”
Good point. It’s close to noon and the clouds, though still holding, are getting wispier. More importantly the temperature is rising, and despite the stiff wind we’re all, not just me, baking like a bunch of foil wrapped potatoes out here.
John and I aren’t the only ones who’ve noticed the remote rifles. At one point Brian stops, bending down to pick up a fist-sized stone. A few yards later he grabs another one. This one he chucks, lobbing it as far as he can toward the razor wire fencing. Maybe he was trying for a rifle, but it misses by a mile, falling a good twenty yards short of the fence. The rifle doesn’t move, though, so that’s a good sign.
Seeing that he has a good idea, Convict orders us all to grab some rocks and throw them at regular intervals.
I keep my eye on the ground, scooping up every appropriately sized stone I see. The Mojave Desert is actually littered with small rocks. Probably what keeps the sand from blowing into the sand dunes of the Sahara. Soon I have a good handful of half-inch to inch-size rocks. I jiggle them in my hand, thinking about my disastrous attempt to play softball one year—it’s all in the momentum and the angle of release, the coach kept telling me—then plant my feet and let ‘er rip.
The stones fly, shooting toward one of the rifles with a scary kind of force and accuracy that shocks me. Furthermore, it does what I’d hoped the rocks would do, which is spread out in a nice buckshot pattern as they near their target. One of the smaller stones ding off the top of the rifle, twisting it slightly off kilter, but the rest fly by with absolutely no response.
I put my hands on my hips, gnawing my lip. “I guess that means it’s probably not motion activated, right?”
John grunts, grabs up a much bigger stone, and winds up for his own throw. I figure it’s a waste. Brian is just now able to get a stone to clink off the bottom of the tall fence, how does John expect to be able to…
