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

by McCullough Crawford

  It is a testament to Ryan’s nerve that he does not let the car slow, only grips the wheel tighter as they roll deeper into the tangled mess of the subdivision.

  Chapter 30

  Western Mountains

  Backroads

  In the dark, she had selected the gravel turnout more or less at random. The shape of the valley was indiscernible beyond the tiny slivers briefly illuminated by the motorcycle’s headlamp as it slipped through the scrub trees. So on a feeling, she had turned up this particular ranch access and ridden along its bumpy surface until she was sure the scrubby bushes along the sides would be enough to shield her from the main road.

  Now that it is morning, she realizes fortune had been smiling upon her last night. From her vantage point, cocooned under one of the stubby trees, she can make out the towering mass of the mountain that the old man from the bar must have taken his lunch breaks admiring.

  The rest of the valley through which the two-lane strip of pavement meanders is hemmed in by steep, rocky hills that, while likely quite hard work to climb, are not as daunting as the mountain. It is a single craggy peak reaching towards the sky, and supposedly at its base is a massive crater where its twin peak once stood. She pulls out a map to try and orient herself. Scaling the distance from her to the peak that is visible, she estimates it to be a fairly easy morning’s ride if the roads prove to be passable. On the far side of the twin mountains, the map shows a small town complete with a railhead, which must service a ski resort. Given the unusually variable weather this winter, she reasons it is likely far from booked up and will serve as a good place to hole up for the night if the crater proves to be uneventful.

  At the very least, it should prove to be a very beautiful day in the mountains; the rising sun is not revealing any clouds, which should ensure a pleasantly warm ride. The gravel road stretches off along the side of a gentle ridge. Twisting to follow the topography, it meanders amongst the evergreens. The sun’s rays are just beginning to slide down into the cut through the trees formed by the road as Sara kicks the motorcycle to life. The engine’s roar seems out of place in the awakening forest, but once it settles down to its normal idle, the cadence blends with the running stream and warbling songbirds who were too stubborn to head to warmer climates. The engine’s pop and grumble lay the foundation over which the bird’s melodies dance.

  Sara adjusts the old leather-framed goggles that came with the motorcycle, and with little more than a gentle spurt of gravel, she lets out the clutch. The road is serene, its surface even relatively smooth, only marred by the occasional pothole—certainly a more comfortable ride than some of the paved roads that had led her here. Instead of pushing the bike as hard as she can, Sara eases off the throttle and allows the peaceful forest to wash over her, breathing deeply of the pine-scented air.

  As the sun climbs higher in the sky, slowly illuminating more and more of the road, she follows it up and out of the first valley, then along the top of a second before plunging into a third valley. It is a blissful few hours. Her only stops are to occasionally check the map and once to refill the bike’s fuel tank from the gas can strapped to the back.

  The sun’s rays have just reached a great enough angle that they are shining directly on the road’s surface when she eases off the throttle, letting the bike coast to the side of the road towards a fallen tree. Her map shows that the road curves around the ridge it is currently following before descending into one last valley. From there begins the climb up the side of the mysterious mountain that is her destination. Instead of crassly charging around the bend, the motorcycle’s throttle pinned to the stops, she decides to hike the short distance to the top of the ridge and see if she can discern anything from the protection of the rocks and trees that line its crest using the hunting rifle’s high powered scope.

  When she reaches the top of the ridge, she is a little winded, but the view takes what little breath she has remaining. The road on which she had been travelling continues around the ridge, sinuously making its way down to the valley floor. The trees that had been clinging to the slopes all along her ride continue down the slope and start up the far side, but instead of continuing to the crest of another ridge like the one upon which she is crouched or slowly thinning out as they rise up the flank of the mountain that her map shows to exist, they abruptly stop.

  It looks like some giant hand reached down and ripped off the chunk of earth where the mountain once stood, as if it were an adhesive bandage on a hairy leg, leaving a jagged edge of bare landscape surrounding a deep scar. Behind the scar, she can still see the second mountain where the ski resort is located, but in the foreground where the less imposing mountain once stood, there is nothing.

  Recovering from the initial shock but still feeling uneasy about the view before her, Sara swings the rifle around from where it was slung across her back and props it on a rock. With a deep breath, she adjusts her seat and plunges through the magnification. The trees along the base of the valley instantly spring closer but grow blurry as the focus needs adjusting. She slowly spins the knobs located on the side of the scope while scanning back and forth across the bottom of the valley, searching for something else abnormal beyond the conspicuously absent mountain.

  The trees seem peaceful and still. Sara tracks a gentle gust of wind as it ripples across their crowns. The velvet green carpet is only broken by the occasional outcrop of rock and bare patch where a landslide had previously removed the trees. As she nears the end of the visible valley, she prepares to swing the scope upwards and examine the scar itself when something catches her eye. At first her brain doesn’t register what she sees leaving her paused beyond sight of the anomaly.

  She brings the rifle to bear on a patch of the road that cuts into a particularly steep face of rock as it descends to the valley floor. Sara increases the level of magnification until the roadway fills her entire sight. Trudging along the gravel in a ragged single-file line is the saddest procession of forms Sara has ever seen. Their heads are bowed, arms draped loosely at their sides, and each step seems to require more effort than they have left to give. From her vantage point across the valley, she can almost distinguish the bright orange of their jumpsuits, but too much dust is caked into the fabric for her to see them as much more than a dirty brown, which is why she had looked right past them initially.

  As she scans along the line, she finds what had initially caught her subconscious attention: standing to one side under the shade of an umbrella is a short man who, when not idly cracking a whip in the direction of the forms in jumpsuits, seems by his body language to be yelling obscenities for their slow pace. What had caught Sara’s attention wasn’t so much the man himself. Dressed in fatigues and standing relatively still as he is, she would have easily overlooked him like she did the mostly dirt-colored people before him. But what sticks in her mind, the absurdity of it stalling her reactions, is the umbrella being held over his head. First off, an umbrella for use as a sun shade in the winter strikes Sara as odd. Admittedly the weather seems to be unseasonably warm this year, but there are still hummocks of snow in the shadows of the trees. And secondly, she thinks with a small snort, since when did the military issue rainbow striped umbrellas to its officers?

  His tirade of obscenities continues unabated. He seems to have mastered the art of circular breathing, allowing the stream of air from his mouth to remain in one direction. Sara continues watching as the last member of the work party trudges past, long hair swinging around its head with each step.

  Sara shifts her position as she tracks the group, allowing the rifle to rotate slowly as her vision pans along the road. The road continues through the trees, its course following the topography as closely as its makers could make it. There is no change in the forest to signal the approaching disruption in the trees. They remain peacefully swaying in the morning breeze, but right where they should start rising up a gentle incline to the shoulder of the missing mountain, they simply stop. Intrigued by the sudden transition from
wooded hill to sky she scans the top of the abnormally straight ridge looking for a clue as to its origin. As she is about to lower the rifle to take in the phenomenon with her naked eye someone taps her on the shoulder.

  Startled, she drops the rifle and skitters to the side away from the stranger’s touch. As she rises to a crouch, she reaches for the knife strapped to the small of her back. Her hand wraps around the worn leather hilt as she makes eye contact with the man who had touched her shoulder. His hand is still outstretched, a single finger pointed downwards where it had tapped her. She notes a slowly spreading mischievous grin on his face, then freezes short of drawing the blade and lunging for him. Only her eyes remain moving as they flick around the ridge top.

  The click of rifles preparing to fire all around her keeps her stationary as her eyes pick out several more men standing amongst the rocks and short trees.

  “You move quickly, but I’d take your hand off whatever that is. I doubt you’re that quick.” His voice is conversational, but there is a steel in his gaze that adds a threat to his words.

  Sara releases her grip on her knife and slowly raises her hands, fingers spread, her gaze now focused steadily on the man who spoke, assuming he is the leader of the group that is surrounding her.

  “Thank you. It would have been sad if we’d had to kill you. A pretty face such as yours should not be left for the crows. But enough of that, tell me what you’re doing here.” His tone starts casually with just a hint of a leer in it before becoming completely dismissive.

  Sara bristles at both the command and the comment and for a second contemplates lunging for his overly confident face and wiping the smirk off it for good, despite the number of rifles that are aimed at her. Settling for a safer route, she dodges his question at first.

  “I will, but first, Johnston is it? You need to tell me who you and your motley crew are and why I shouldn’t kill you all right now,” she says with a sneer as she squints at the name embroidered on his chest pocket.

  She had guessed correctly calling his bluff. A shadow of doubt flicks across his face, and he waves for his men to lower their guns.

  “Let’s start again then. I think we might have started on the wrong foot. I am Corporal Johnston, and the men arrayed around you are my recon squad.” His voice has lost some of its swagger, but he is quickly regaining it.

  Recognizing that she needs to keep the conversation under her control before the corporal can fully process her responses, she continues pushing. Guessing their worn and disparate uniforms are no longer government-issued, she takes a gamble.

  “My name is Sara, and I’m here to break the prisoners out of the work camps down there. Are you going to help me or are you too chicken?”

  Chapter 31

  Foothills of the Western Mountains

  A University town

  It seems like no one breathes for the eternity it takes the car to trundle down the suburban avenue. When they finally reach the first intersection, Ryan slows just enough to determine which way does not lead to a cul-de-sac before assertively turning the car out of the sight of the emergency vehicles parked down the block.

  Jon sags back in his seat before reflexively twisting around to see if anyone is following them. No one is, fortunately, and as he looks down at Lillianne’s face, he can see her eyelids begin to flicker as the rising sun continues to creep towards her face.

  “Where to now?” Jon asks as much to the universe as a whole as to Ryan. Behind them the man who had helped them evade the patrols on campus and who had nearly died with them is completely surrounded.

  “We head downtown,” Ryan says. “We need to disappear for a little while. Plus she’s going to need medical attention if only so we can figure out what all these bandages are for, and I’ve heard of these underground clinics that don’t demand papers.”

  The irony is not lost on Jon that Professor Hallowell might actually have a better chance with the medical care he will receive as a prisoner. His condition had been deteriorating when they had left the house. Hopefully as a respected member of the university’s faculty he will be able to fight any charges they bring against him. The kind, if unnamed, couple whose car they have stolen and who had helped hide them can hopefully claim ignorance as the home’s security system will show them as absent when Jon and Ryan had tripped the alarms the night before. Jon is almost able to convince himself that he believes that.

  “Go,” Jon says with a last look back at the militarized response to their activation of a suburban home’s alarm system. One thing is clear: If they don’t leave now, without drawing any attention to themselves, they are going to end up arrested or shot.

  Leticia’s head pokes through the rear seats. She cautiously glances to the sides to make sure she isn’t visible from outside the vehicle. Then she begins checking Lillianne’s vital signs.

  “I take it then the authorities found your old hideout?” Leticia asks.

  Jon and Ryan chorus a grumbled assent, feeling slightly challenged by the gentle mocking tone in her voice.

  “The city is a better option anyway. I bet we’ll be able to find someone who’s sympathetic to our situation a little more easily down there than up here where life is so cushy,” she says with a subtle sneer.

  The car is suddenly a little tenser than can be justified by their flight alone, causing the silence to stretch out longer than is comfortable. Just as the swelling awkwardness is about to get unbearable, Lillianne grumbles and starts twitching. Her head starts bouncing back and forth, straining against the stretcher with enough force that the tendons in her neck become visible. Her skin flushes as her mumbling grows louder.

  “Uh-oh, she’s having a bad reaction and she’s coming off the cocktail they put her on faster than I thought,” Leticia says, genuine fear tinging her voice. “Help me get these restraints off. She’ll hurt herself worse if she keeps trying to break out of them.”

  Jon fumbles with the buckle closest to him, his fingers slipping as Lillianne’s arm twitches and strains under the blanket. After several failed attempts, he manages to free her and nearly gains a black eye for his trouble. As soon as it is free, her hand and the cast surrounding it lash out, searching for something to connect with. Jon is able to jerk back quickly enough that the rear of his seat receives the blow.

  She continues to thrash for the longest two minutes of Jon’s life as Leticia and he fight to direct her arms from connecting with her face or anything else solid as they flail.

  She stops as suddenly as she started as Leticia makes a few adjustments to the dosing controller. Lillianne’s breathing is still ragged, and the flush on her face is deepening, turning the skin a rich shade of purple. Leticia fiddles with the dials once more, and with a gasp, Lillianne opens her eyes.

  It takes almost a full second for her to move as her brain reestablishes the connection with her now-open eyes. She glances around, still not able to focus, her eyes straining open as she frantically searches for something that will help her identify her surroundings.

  “Wha… Where. Who?” her voice rasps out through parched lips. “Water.”

  “Here,” Jon says, gently touching her arm and proffering a half-drunk water bottle. He feels her flinch away from his touch, even though it is light and well above the cast covering her lower arm. “Don’t worry, we’re friends.”

  Her eyes track to the sound of his voice, still uncomprehending and wide with fright. Slowly her eyes begin to dilate as she fights to bring his face into focus, but she remains pressed against the far side of the stretcher, cowering from his gentle touch even though he continues to reassure her.

  “Professor Esmali, it’s ok, we’re here to help. It’s Jon, your teaching assistant, you remember?”

  “I… Um… oh, Jon,” she says, sagging in the stretcher’s confines as her eyes finally focus and her brain is able to process the information they are feeding it. Then with a shudder, she continues, her voice little more than a whisper. “I thought you were one of them. They
’d wake me up sometimes so I knew what they were doing to me while I was out.”

  She takes the outstretched water bottle, guzzling it despite the fact that it is warm from sitting in front of the air vent on the console. The excessive color is slowly draining from her face, and she is returning to a more natural albeit pale shade as the water enters her system and begins to help flush out the drugs. Jon takes the empty water bottle when she finishes and turns back to the front as Leticia continues to fuss over the drug control panel trying to keep Lillianne conscious without shocking her system any more by simply cutting the drugs off.

  Lillianne, feeling refreshed from the water, attempts to sit upright, but the loosened restraints are enough to cause her exhausted body to collapse back onto the stretcher.

  “Just relax, I still haven’t got you all the way off the cocktail they had you on yet,” Leticia cautions. “It’s going to take your body a little while to find equilibrium, and it’ll be best if you stay strapped in case the oaf up there driving wrecks the car.”

  “I need to sit up,” she says through gritted teeth as she tries again to get upright. “Get me out of these straps.”

  There is a level of vehemence and frustration Jon has never before heard in her voice. Lillianne’s tone is enough to give Leticia pause for several seconds before, against her better judgment, she moves to free her.

  “Ok, ok. Jon, help me get her unstrapped and sitting,” Leticia says, concern for Lillianne clear in her voice but with her fingers working to loosen the restraints nonetheless.

  Once Lillianne is free, they help her sit upright in the seat behind Jon before collapsing the stretcher so it can be stowed. Leticia climbs out from the rear of the vehicle, switching places with the now much more contained stretcher as the car continues its journey down the divided roadway.