Seeds to the Wind (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 2)

by McCullough Crawford

  Half hopping half limping, Jon starts across the ravine to where an old rockslide has mellowed the slope. He doesn’t look back to see if Ryan is able to handle The Professor’s limp form. Instead a sense of urgency drives him outward; it is not so much that he has somewhere to be, there is no hot date waiting for him in the town on the other side of the small copse of trees. No, the reason he struggles up the gentle slope as fast as he can on hands and knees is that somewhere behind him there are five or six people, normal people, relatively similar to him, with automatic rifles, who, despite their obvious belief that the three of them are nothing more than mischievous teenagers, also seem to have forgotten their relative humanity. Unsurprisingly they appear to have no moral compunctions about eliminating the hostiles that were threatening their zone.

  Jon grimaces as he clears the top of the slope and thinks of what they would probably be facing if the patrol had realized they were the presumed terrorists who’d been menacing the campus. There would have been gunships circling the area and probably a jet on its way with some heavy ordinance. The patrol’s commanders, wherever they might be, seem not to be interested in half measures. The campus is completely locked down, all its inhabitants carted off. Looking back at the towering barbed wire fence illuminated by harsh floodlights and the patrol armed to the teeth, Jon muses that if he hadn’t spent the last five years familiarizing himself with the buildings silhouetted behind the fence, he could see himself in one of those overseas warzones that frequent the news.

  With each step though, his mind numbs to the pain in his leg, and he moves a little bit farther down the shooting range. Ryan’s breathing is labored behind him as he toils up the slope, one hand clutching his side while the other steadies the limp form of The Professor draped over his shoulder.

  “It’s all downhill from here,” he says through a crooked grin between short, ragged breaths. “A nice easy stroll through the trees followed by a nice cold beer, and maybe we’ll even get some cute girls’ numbers given how rugged we look from this little adventure.”

  Jon can’t help but chuckle at his friend’s indomitable spirit, and somehow, step by painful step, they make it through the trees and find themselves in a quiet cul-de-sac surrounded by peaceful family homes.

  Dawn is still several hours off, so not even the false light that preludes it brightens the sky. Above them, the velvet purple of the sky reflecting the myriad of lights below it is only broken by the occasional wisp of lower clouds that appear almost white in contrast. It is a moody sky, bruised and beaten, yet somewhere in its reaches the sun is shining, and it will burn off the smog and clouds that rise up at night to cover the cities.

  Ryan sags against the only streetlight in the cul-de-sac. Its bulb is flickering on and off irregularly while emitting a low spitting sound that is imperceptible until Jon notices it, but once he does it grows into a nearly deafening hum that fills his ears. The neighborhood suddenly takes on a foreboding character. The buzz from the light covers the normal sounds of the night; no owls hoot, no crickets chirp. The bland houses with their shutters drawn seem to have swallowed all signs of life. Jon feels like a fly who has accidentally wandered into a garden of carnivorous plants.

  Ryan’s breathing has calmed, and he no longer seems to be resting quite as heavily against the light post, but Jon can see the same uneasiness that he feels mirrored in his friend’s shifting eyes.

  “You ready to get going?” Jon asks. The only response he receives is a grunt as Ryan pushes off the post and starts towards the exit of the cul-de-sac.

  Walking down the wide lanes there is no change in their surroundings, but Jon is determined to keep track of where they are, noting each street name and trying to plot a straight course. However, it is not long before they are hopelessly lost. Each street seems to be named some variation of the same thing, and none of them seem to run straight for more than the width of two houses.

  With no landmarks, distinct features, or even stars to guide them, it only takes thirty minutes or so of wandering up and down the avenues and lanes before they are completely lost. Jon waits at the top of another gently sloping hill in the pool of light from another street lamp for Ryan to struggle to the top. Jon’s legs are beginning to ache and move woodenly. He can only imagine what Ryan’s feel like after carrying The Professor around.

  “We really need to start leaving breadcrumbs or something so at least when we backtrack there will be something to eat,” Ryan grumbles as he stops beside Jon.

  Jon grins weakly as he scans the peaceful surroundings for some identifying feature that might lead them to the edge of this maze, but none are visible. He looks up and notices the sky is beginning to lose its bruised appearance, instead taking on the deathly pallor that comes before the sun rises. However, instead of bringing with it the hope of some orientation granted by the rising sun, the thick clouds are brightening uniformly. Dawn will only bring more chance of someone spotting them and asking questions or, worse yet, alerting the authorities.

  “We need to find a place to hide and see how badly he’s hurt,” Jon says, nodding at The Professor’s still limp form draped across Ryan’s shoulder.

  As if to add urgency to his words, in the distance a siren wails. From a different direction, another answers. Their howls begin to draw closer as Jon listens. They are the auditory equivalent of two shark fins circling a floating morsel.

  “This place looks as good as any other,” Ryan says, walking towards the garage of the nearest house. “Let’s hope this apparent love of large bushes continues into the backyard.”

  They are lucky. The side of the yard on which they enter is filled with bushes that are taller than Ryan but still scrape the ground with their lowest branches. Sliding into the green cave made by the branches, Jon breathes a sigh of relief. As long as the lawn crew doesn’t show up to trim the bushes, they should be able to spend the day here in relative comfort.

  Of course no sooner has he thought this than he hears the click of an antique pump action shotgun.

  “Come out slowly with your hands up.” The man’s voice is tough but is tempered by a layer of sleep.

  Jon does as he is instructed. Ryan lags behind as he first finishes laying The Professor down on the layer of mulch beneath the bush. Crawling out on his hands and knees, Jon doesn’t notice the details of the man holding the gun, but when he stands up and raises his hands, he towers over the stocky figure. The man is holding the shotgun raised to his shoulder but lowered enough so that it points at the ground a half step in front of Jon. In the slowly increasing light, his eyes appear to be all black, so dark are his irises. They do not blink, staring intently at the two men as they emerge from the bushes.

  “Where is the third one? The one you were carrying?” The gun shifts slightly to Jon’s left to rest pointing at Ryan’s feet as the little man quizzes them suspiciously.

  “I left him under the bush,” Ryan says simply, his voice tightly under control. “He’s hurt bad, and I didn’t want to move him more than I have to.”

  The man glances to his right and nods to a woman standing there. So silently and smoothly had she moved into her position that neither Jon nor Ryan had noticed her or the large revolver she is gripping with two hands. From the ease with which the couple carry their firearms, it is clear that they have practiced enough to be at least decent marksmen, and at this range even a bad marksman could score a hit.

  “Keep an eye on them, I’m going to check it out,” the man says to the woman.

  Her only response is a slight tilt of her head as she keeps her eyes locked on Jon and Ryan. Neither of them moves as the man ducks into the bushes. He returns quickly with an unreadable expression on his face.

  “What do you know about this man?” he demands gesturing towards the bush.

  “He’s a friend. We were hiking in the woods when he slipped and fell down a ravine. We got lost hiking out…” Jon’s voice fades off as his quick lie begins to stretch too far.

  “Tell me th
e truth, and I won’t call the police in,” he says, raising the shotgun so Jon and Ryan can see clearly into the open bore. “I don’t think any of us want them poking around and hauling us in for questioning.”

  “Ok, ok. Just lower the gun,” Jon says, raising his hands slightly higher and hoping to placate the man with a bit more of the truth. “His name is Keith Hallowell. We were on our way out of town when he fell. We were hoping to hole up for the day before moving on tonight.”

  “Better. But you’re still holding back.” The gun stays steady and they hear the safety click off. “How do you know him?”

  “Our friend used to work for him in his lab. She introduced us…”

  “I see. This friend of yours has a name?”

  “Yes, her name is Sara.”

  “And your names are?” The man continues but lowers his gun ever so slightly.

  “I’m Jon and this is Ryan. We don’t want any trouble. We’ll just be on our way and it will be like we never even bothered you.”

  “You folks aren’t going anywhere,” the man says, lowering his gun down from his shoulder to rest easily at his hip. “My wife and I used to work for Professor Hallowell and knew Sara quite well. We just needed to make sure you’re who the newscasts said you are.”

  “What newscasts?” Ryan asks, lowering his hands warily.

  “The three of you have been all over the newscasts the last day or so. Something about your involvement with the terrorist attacks on the campus. When they tried to paint The Professor as some sort of mastermind behind the whole thing, some big shot from the Resistance or something, we knew it had to be propaganda.”

  The woman emerges from the bushes where she had disappeared to without either Jon or Ryan noticing her move. Her face betrays the worry inside her.

  “There is no way they’re going to be travelling any time soon with Professor Hallowell. His leg is broken in at least two places, and he’s probably broken a couple of ribs as well. They’re going to have to hole up here until I can patch him up.”

  “In that case, let’s get you out of sight before the neighbors notice us standing out here in our pajamas,” the man says, motioning towards the screen door at the back of the house.

  “You never told us your names,” Jon asks, feeling more relaxed now that the gun is no longer pointed at him but still somewhat confused by the couple’s strange behavior.

  “No I didn’t. And I’d like to keep it that way a little longer,” the man answers as he emerges from the bushes supporting The Professor with the assistance of his wife. “Inside, quick, and head down the stairs to your left.”

  The sirens’ wails increase in volume as one of the vehicles speeds by on the street in front of the house, its pitch shifting rapidly as it moves past.

  Chapter 16

  Foothills of the Western Mountains

  A University Town

  She awakens to the smell of old, moldy hay and motor oil. It isn’t so much the shaft of sunlight creeping up her body that makes Sara open her eyes; some sixth sense she hadn’t known she possessed kicks in to warn of potential danger. Through a crack in the boards, she can see a figure ambling across the yard. Despite its slow gait and casual whistle, she knows she only has a few seconds before it reaches the shed.

  Without thinking she grabs an old dust-covered tarp that is draped over something in the center of the shed and dives back into the hay that had served so well as a bed the night before. The latch rattles, and the door slides open, the wheels that help support it squealing in protest. Meanwhile the whistling continues, slowly building from a tuneless chromatic wandering into a simple yet catchy melody. The constant sound makes it easy for Sara to track the man’s movements. He pauses for a moment upon entering the shed, presumably to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light that filters through the cracks, and his song wanders off into silence before reaching any sort of conclusion.

  His footsteps shuffle off to the far side of the shed, and she can hear him rummaging around on a work bench. She fervently wishes he’d take up his whistling once more and head back to the ranch house that is up a small hill from the shed, but to her dismay he begins talking.

  “You’d think after fifty long years in the same house I’d remember where I left something.” His voice is low and quiet but still clearly audible in the early morning stillness. He stops rummaging around on the workbench. Sara can hear his footsteps beginning to retrace their path towards the door, but he stops before reaching it. Her heart beats a little faster when she hears a faint metallic click and the man clearing his throat softly. “I may be old, but I am not that forgetful. You can come out now, but do it slowly as I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

  Heart pounding, Sara slowly reaches her hand around the edge of the tarp and slides it down, keeping her hands visible while letting the rough cloth slide over her hair and face. Each movement is slow and deliberate, yet she feels like she is twitching and going to break into some involuntary movement that will result in a bullet being dispatched towards her. It is not the first time she has had a gun pointed at her, and considering the last several weeks of her life, she is surprised at how on edge she is. Something about the unknown of the situation has triggered a primal flight instinct.

  When she finally emerges from under the dusty cloth, her hair has brushed over her face, giving her even more of a tousled appearance than a night spent running from law enforcement and sleeping in hay should be responsible for.

  “Now, you hardly look like you broke in here to steal my hay. So why are you out here on the edge of nowhere making an old man’s life more exciting than it need be?” The man holding the silver long-barreled revolver was once broad shouldered with powerful arms, but time has rounded the shoulders and turned the frame more portly than trim. However, the arm holding the gun hangs easily in the air, and the muzzle does not waver.

  Sara shifts forward until she is sitting on the edge of a hay bale, all the while keeping her hands visible as she moves the tarp farther off to the side.

  “I was just passing through on my way out of town. I am headed up north to my aunt’s ranch,” she lies with a shrug and slight cock of her head. The old man only gives a grunt in response but slowly lowers the gun into his lap. When no further response seems forthcoming, she continues more hesitantly. “Honestly, since they closed school down, I thought I’d get out of town for a bit.”

  “I believe that more than your other tale, especially since I happen to live on the south edge of town, not the north closest to your dearest aunt.” His grin is feral but not malicious; clearly he is enjoying the riddle of decomposing her lies. Sara returns his grin somewhat sheepishly, determined to stick it out to the bitter end.

  “You hardly look like the normal vagrants who like to squat out here. Your clothes are actually in decent repair, and I can’t smell you from across the room, so you might have even bathed in the last year. Nor do you look like one of those terrorists they’ve been saying took over the campus and shot all those people.” He stands up and approaches the piece of farm equipment from which she had appropriated the tarp. He fiddles with something near the top of it before returning to his seat. “Plus, if you were one of my usual tenants, you would have at least thought about stealing this.”

  The machine had been so thoroughly lost in shadow and Sara had been so focused on the gun in the old man’s hand that she had failed to register what type of machine she had disrobed. The gleam of chrome catches her eye, and from the shadows, a silver carburetor takes shape. With a sharp inhale, she recognizes the machine. Far from a dour farm implement, it is a beautifully restored classic racing motorcycle, the kind her father lovingly told stories of, the kind of bike she had dreamed of racing when she was a kid.

  “I see you have fine taste in motorcycles,” he says, reading her reaction. “What do you say we go up to the house? I’ll make us some breakfast, and you can tell me the real reason you’re in my shed.”

  Grateful for the free food and t
he fact that when she stands up, he walks back over to the workbench and returns the gun to one of its many drawers, she sees no reason not to indulge the old man’s curiosity. The hill up to the house, which had seemed to completely separate the two buildings the night before, only takes a few minutes to climb, even at the old man’s shambling gait. As they near the top of the rise, a light breeze picks up, stirring the knee-high grass around them.

  The house itself is nestled amongst a stand of trees. It could be called quaint if there wasn’t something inherently cliché and insincere about that. This house is not a set for a commercial for some country-themed product. It is the real deal, and that is something that Sara draws comfort from. The worn paint has not been artfully distressed, the grass growing knee height around the building and amongst the trees has not been carefully cultivated; it merely sits at the bottom of a to-do list.

  The back door, when they reach it, does not have a lock, only a simple latch to keep it from blowing in the wind. The spring and hinges squeal in protest, demanding that someone give them some form of lubricant or next time they won’t budge—a complaint they have been making for several years now.

  The kitchen beyond the screen door, like the house that surrounds it, is quaint enough that Sara would almost believe it was staged to lull her into a false sense of security; that is if it weren’t for the tiny details that would be impossible to fake. The table is covered with newspapers, each displaying the crossword puzzle in varying degrees of completeness. Interspersed within the layers of literary riddle are several used coffee cups. The one nearest the surface is still almost full, its aroma spiraling up in thin wisps of steam. Her mouth begins to salivate as she breathes deeply of the earthy scent.

  “Why don’t I get some bacon started and you can begin your story?” the old man asks as he pours her a cup of the coffee. “If you start with your name, I might even make you some eggs. Mine is Clive, by the way.”