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

by McCullough Crawford

  Parking the motorcycle between two weathered and muddy trucks, she turns the key, and in the sudden almost silence she can hear muffled laughter and music as her ears adjust to the missing roar from the motorcycle’s engine. Swinging her leg gingerly over the fuel tank and onto the ground, she grimaces as her legs bear her weight for the first time since almost four hours ago when she had stopped last for gas.

  Fortunately after squatting a couple of times and shaking each of her legs out, they return to a condition close enough to working that she can walk to the door of the bar. On her way, she passes several trucks. Each is taller than she is, their gaping grills adorned with winches and spotlights. As she passes them, even with the chill of a clear winter night in the mountains, she can feel the heat radiating from the engine blocks like the warmth from a hearth.

  The bar's door looks as if a pack of rabid dogs had misread the sign for beer as a sign saying “bones” and attempted to break in and partake. The entire bottom half is stripped clean of any semblance of a finish. The door’s core material is hanging in tattered shreds and splattered in mud. The top half of the door is only in slightly better condition, showing the same illegible and weathered logo as the sign out by the road through its peeling paint. Several long gashes extend down the door, which to Sara’s tired mind are proof that the rabid dogs brought their bear friend along and he tried to scratch his way through the door as well.

  “Why worry at the door?” she wonders, reaching for the door knob and finding it missing, only a rough knotted piece of rope where it should be. Surely any enterprising wild animal could figure out such a complex system. But as she reaches to pull it open, the door bursts open on its own accord, and it becomes clear.

  Before her, filling the door is a brawny man who despite the cold air is wearing cutoff jean shorts and a stained sleeveless shirt, its collar half turned up. The wildness in his intoxicated eyes is only matched by the beard and hair spilling from his head. Equally wild-eyed yet clearly less intoxicated are the two whores clinging to each of his arms. The threesome is laughing as they fill the opening with their silhouette.

  What little clothes the professionals are wearing leave nothing to the imagination. The man’s shirt is draped over their customer’s head and seems to be the source of the trio’s laughter. Sara can’t help but admire their bodies in the half light. What they lack in the refinement you’d find in the city, they make up for with raw talent and enthusiasm.

  With a half-smile, Sara steps aside as the wild-haired man lowers the foot he had used to kick open the door. He hoists his evening’s entertainment higher on each hip and saunters through the door with only half a glance in Sara’s direction. As he passes, he mumbles something unintelligible that sounds a lot like “It’s my birthday, I’m going to have fun tonight.” The two whores giggle in protest at being manhandled through the door but continue running their hands through their client’s hair and otherwise keeping him distracted.

  As they pass, Sara’s eyes follow them, admiring the four legs in tight leather pants. The lady of the duo glances back over their client’s shoulder and catches Sara’s gaze; she winks and runs her tongue over her glossy lips.

  Sara turns away with a smile on her face. She would undoubtedly have a great time with the duo, and based on how intoxicated their current client appears, they will be returning to the bar before the night is over looking for more work. She shakes her head. Maybe another time when she is passing through under more cheerful circumstances.

  The inside of the bar is surprisingly not dark, smoky, or brooding. She had expected the air to be thick and the light glaring from the neon signs to cast harsh shadows across the rugged patrons. What she hadn’t expected was the live band filling one corner of the low-ceilinged room, nor, she realizes as she steps up to the bar, did she expect based on the unassuming sign out front that there would be such a varied tap selection as is spread out before her. Several handles proclaiming high-quality, local beers protrude from the haphazard stack of bottles that adorn the shelves behind the worn wooden bar.

  She smiles at the bartender, who is chatting with a customer at the other end. He glances up and acknowledges her presence with a leaden gaze but turns back to his conversation. Resigning herself to less-than-prompt service, she leans her back to the bar and crosses her arms, tuning into the band as they strike up a fresh song.

  It is an infectious melody, not one she has heard before, but one she knows is going to be stuck looping in her mind for the next couple of days. Pretty soon she is tapping her foot along with the beat and genuinely enjoying the bar’s whole atmosphere. A day of solitude on the road has left her hungry for something other than the rush of wind in her ears; unusual for her she has a craving for the presence of other humans.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” the bartender says from behind her in way of a greeting. “We aren’t used to having too many strangers. Mind you keep to yourself, and don’t bother no one. Some of the boys can get a little rowdy.”

  He lets the warning hang palpably in the air for a moment before flashing an awkward grin and continuing.

  “Now Miss, what can I get you?” he asks, idly polishing the bar between them.

  She orders a beer, paying in cash in advance before winding her way through the tables to an exceptionally dark corner where an empty table lurks in the shadows. The single chair at the table is worn, but when she sits down in it she finds it significantly more comfortable than the worn cushion on the motorcycle parked out front.

  Taking her first sip of her beer, she tunes back into the band’s sound to find them just finishing a set and preparing for a break. Left with a relative silence, the big room feels empty. Only the clink of glasses and several conversations fill the space within the bar’s walls. In an effort to fill the space, the bartender fiddles beneath the bar and, without warning, an entirely new genre of music blares from the speakers. Sitting alone, she has no one to yell at over the music, so she turns her attention to the glass before her.

  While it is certainly a good choice and well worth drinking, it isn’t exactly that exciting or engaging considering the number of times she has had this particular beer before. It does not take long for her attention to wander away from the glass, and she finds herself idly eavesdropping on the animated conversation happening at the next table over.

  “I’ve been telling you guys. There’s been strange things happening out behind the Parkins’ ranch,” a rough looking woman in a cutoff denim shirt says emphatically, nearly knocking her pint over with a decisive gesture. “I remember when we was kids we always used to play out on the military land back there. Sure there was a fence and all, but it’s not like anyone actually cared. Then a while back there started being patrols, but as long as you stayed back from the fence line they didn’t bother you.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen them too,” an older man seated across from the woman adds. “I was out helpin’ Parkin mend that fence last spring. One of them patrols came through and chatted with us for a bit. All seemed like nice enough folks. But I will say this, they really didn’t seem like military folks. They were just a little too casual, and they weren’t armed with anything crazy, just some rifles like you and me would own.”

  “I heard that one of the rockets that has been all over the news launched from back there,” the third person at the table says. He is a younger man. His shirt is stained with grease, and his hands are nervously cycling to his mouth from the bowl of peanuts in the middle of the table as frequently as they can.

  “That’s probably why yesterday when I stopped on the road that overlooks the government land back there like I always do to eat my lunch when I’m driving through that area, they tried to arrest me. This wasn’t no cop car out to catch me for abandoning my car on the roadside. No, this was a full-on helicopter followed by two tanks. I haven’t seen that much firepower since I got back from the war,” the old man muses as he stares off into the distance.

  The woman nods know
ingly while taking a long pull from her beer, but before she can say anything the younger man jumps back in.

  “I was talking with Parkin’s daughter just the other day. She says that the folks that used to be out there weren’t the government at all but some sort of rebel group like they’re always talking about on the news,” he says, hurriedly repeating the half-remembered gossip he had heard, trying to draw the woman’s attention back to him. Sara would normally be amused watching his futile efforts, especially since she had caught the woman checking her out as she walked by. If the frequency of glances she keeps stealing in Sara’s direction is any indication, she will be attempting to break away from her current companions at the first possible occasion. While Sara might have started eavesdropping as a byproduct of returning her glances, now the conversation has her attention fully. This might be a chance for her to find the Resistance who can hopefully help Professor Hallowell and the other “terrorists” trapped on the campus disappear.

  Unaware of what she is doing, Sara leans forward onto the table, shifting more of her weight into her elbows as she is entranced by the neighboring table’s conversation. Could it really end up being this easy? Figure out where this ranch is and then start discreetly asking questions about what they might have seen.

  All the movies always make the quest seem to drag on until the characters have almost given up hope, their journey seeming endless, but Sara feels as if her journey is only just beginning.

  “If it was the Resistance, that would explain why the government is all over it now. They always swoop in about half a step behind with twice as much force and half of the plan they need,” the older man says while scratching at his stubble. “You’d think if they were building a spaceship as massive as those initial news reports claimed, someone in one of the surveillance offices should have seen something.”

  “I’d heard that the news was mistaken, that it was just a military training exercise that went wrong,” the younger man says with a bemused look on this face.

  “If you’ll buy that, I have some swamp land that might interest you too,” the old man says with a chuckle. “Something took off from there. Now they’re trying to cover it all up. I’ve seen the crater with my own two eyes. It sure wasn’t an accident that made an entire mountain disappear.”

  As he finishes, all three happen to glance towards Sara’s table. Each interprets her focus on their conversation differently; the woman sees a reflection of her own interest in her, the young man sees a challenge, and the older man sees someone snooping on their conversation. The reality is a combination of all three, but the result is simply that they all stare intently at Sara while she blinks several times, trying to pull her mind back into focus.

  “What are you looking at?” the older man challenges. The young man pushes his chair back, causing it to topple as he stands and steps to loom over Sara’s table.

  She sits back, raising her hands in an attempt to pacify the suddenly hostile men. The atmosphere is tense as everyone in the area cognizant of the conflict holds their breath. The nearby tables have all turned to watch after hearing the universal sound of an impending fight: the toppling of a chair in a crowded bar.

  Sara lowers her hands to the table top, ready to push back from the table herself, whether to flee or fight she does not know. She is tensing her knuckles and preparing to make her move when the bartender barges in from Sara’s left.

  “Can I get you folks something?” he says, making a show of polishing Sara’s table while herding the young man away with his hip. No one answers him. Sara is too busy watching the young man as he is slowly shoved around the table. With his back to the locals, the barkeep leans closer to Sara and continues. “I think it is time you left. Folks around here can get defensive if they think you’ve slighted them.”

  Seeing an out, Sara nods in thanks, and sweeping her jacket off of the chair next to her heads straight for the door. As she weaves her way through the large room, she can feel everyone’s eyes following her, the minds behind each pair formulating their own theories as to her short stay. But just as she is about to reach for the door and push her way back outside into the crisp air, someone taps her on the shoulder. She whirls to find the barkeep standing beside her and glaring back into the room.

  “There isn’t any place for you to stay in town, but if you go all the way through to the ranch land on the far side, it is all owned by Mr. Parkin, and he doesn’t mind if folk camp near the road. Just don’t get too far off the road, because you’ll end up in government land and they do mind.”

  “Thank you for your help and the beer,” Sara says pushing out into the crisp night. “I hope I didn’t cause any serious trouble.”

  “Nothing a round on the house won’t fix. Try to come back. I promise not all us mountain folk are that hotheaded.”

  Sara smiles, turns, and steps out onto the gravel. Beyond the feeble parking lot lights and the glare of the neon in the bar’s windows, the night is impenetrably black. Sara flees into its embrace and the anonymity it offers.

  Chapter 29

  Foothills of the Western Mountains

  A University Town

  The morning after the storm the sun rises into a nearly cloudless sky. Only a few puffy mounds cling to the edges of the horizon. As the sun’s rays steal over the line of hills, they illuminate the undersides of the clouds, steeping them in a blood-red hue. Cowering on the leeward side of the house, Jon and Ryan had been sheltered from the worst of the storm, only subjected to minor cuts and scrapes from the flying debris. Jon surveys the damage to the yard’s landscaping and marvels in passing at the state of the modern horticulturists’ craft; as the sun’s rays reach the backyard, only a few stray branches and miscellaneous leaves mark the storm’s passage.

  Stashing the last of the materials they had prepared in the trunk of the car, Jon blows into his cupped palms, thankful that the worst part of the chill had held off until the hours right before dawn, as the storm was waning. The past forty minutes of fast-paced packing had helped push the chill farther from their bones. It hadn’t been until the preprogrammed time when the house’s security system had released the lock on the garage that they could access the car hidden within, despite having the key. Simply another layer of the standard automated home protection system that could have killed them during the night.

  Sometimes early winter storms like this one can ride a wave of cold air in, quickly turning everything in their path into a windblown ice sculpture. Fortunately last night’s storm had been driven by a warm front, so while the winds were probably stronger, Jon and Ryan were able to survive with only the meager shelter provided by the building and their jackets.

  “You ready?” Jon calls to Ryan, who had been relieving himself behind the garden shed, as the main house is still locked down from the storm.

  “Sure, let’s do this,” he says, returning to the driveway jangling the car keys in his hand.

  They climb into the car and start up the engine. With only a small hiccup, due to the age of the vehicle, the engine turns over, catches, and roars into life before settling down to a well-maintained purr. Without more than an educated guess about where they need to go, Ryan turns the car to the left at the end of the drive and starts into the tangled maze of the subdivision’s streets.

  Perhaps it is blind luck or else the streets simply make more sense from behind the wheel of a car, but they manage to make their way to the edge of the subdivision without needing to backtrack once. Ryan is grinning as he makes a sweeping left out onto the eight-lane road that travels between two nearly identical subdivisions. Scanning for some sort of landmark that will help them find their way back, Jon realizes that the subdivisions they are cruising between are in fact identical except for one detail: The community they have just left features three different shades of red paint on the houses’ trims with a standard olive or light beige for the main color. On their right as they roll down the smooth expanse of cement, the houses feature shades of orange on thei
r trims.

  As they approach an intersection with an equally large road, the light cycles to red and they are forced to come to a stop despite the lack of cross traffic. Jon balks as he looks across the intersection to see the same pattern of houses repeated, except now an identical set of red-trimmed houses are to their right. Ryan, who had been idly humming, suddenly falls quiet and scratches at his chin.

  “I know where we are now,” he exclaims, yanking on the wheel and cutting across several empty lanes to make a right once the light changes. The light flicks to green, and they straighten out their course in the new direction. Jon, still unsure where they really are but lacking any better suggestion, is willing to trust his friend’s judgment. Still, Ryan happens to glance over and catches Jon’s quizzical expression.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he says with a grin. “I used to date a girl who lived in that subdivision over there. So I’ve driven around here a bit. She was certainly crazy, a ton of fun, but when she started bemoaning the fact that our babies wouldn’t inherit my ginger locks I got out of there in a hurry.”

  “Where have you not dated some girl?” Jon asks, perpetually amazed at the expanse of his friend’s love life.

  “I’ll tell you when we get there. But it might take a while since I don’t see an overseas vacation in our futures anytime soon.” His grin grows mischievous as he contemplates the exciting prospects that said trip could entail.

  They are quiet for a few more minutes as the road passes smoothly under the car’s tires with only a faint hiss. Eventually they reach the end of the subdivisions, and the road suddenly transitions from the smooth cement of the privately maintained residential roads to the worn and abused asphalt of the government roads as they enter the commercial district that separates the houses from the freeway.

  Passing through the final green light without needing to slow, they bounce up onto the approach for the bridge over the freeway. The gradual incline leading to the overpass is made treacherous by scattered potholes. Ryan’s attention is focused on the road directly in front of their car as he weaves around the road damage. He is not looking at the crest of the ramp; fortunately Jon is.