Nikki was regarding Alice with awe. “How do you know all this?”
“I was a geography nerd in school,” she said, grinning.
“So where is it?” Carole asked impatiently. “Is it close?”
Alice traced a line with her finger. “Very.” Alice said, holding a spot with the tip of her finger.
Aiden leaned in for a closer look. “Where’s youwinta?”
Carole hit him playfully. “Uintah is north of Salt Lake City.” And as she said the words, hope began to surge through her tired body.
Even Alice was smiling. “Most of that area is farm land that runs along the Green River. Won’t take us long to get there by car.”
Tension creased Carole’s brow. “Might not take long, but who knows how long we’re gonna be there. We should swing by the house and get some of our things.”
“But I live on the other side of town,” Alice said.
“I don’t know if we’ll have time to do both. If things inside the airport are anything to go by, there’s no telling what conditions are like on the outside. I think we’ll be lucky to make a single stop.”
The smile on Alice’s face wasn’t nearly as bright as it had been a minute ago.
“I know we’ll be able to find things at our place you can use.”
Alice was shaking her head. “I don’t care about my things. It’s hard to wrap your head around the idea that home is only a few miles away and I may never get to see it again.”
“Of course you will,” Carole’s hand found Alice’s back and rubbed it in a slow circle. “I know it’ll only be a question of time before everything goes back to the way it was. Trust me.”
After gathering the few useful items they could get their hands on – a half empty bottle of Gatorade and a bag of cold cuts they found in the fridge – they made their way to the front. There was food at home, Carole knew, and plenty of bottled water she kept on hand for when she brought the kids to their sports meets; soccer for Aiden and cheerleading for Nikki. The Cartright family van was out in the airport parking lot somewhere. Jim hadn’t wanted to pay the steep parking fees, but the slim prospect of fitting into a cab with all of their luggage had been enough to convince him otherwise. In spite of Nikki’s continued searching, there didn’t appear to be any weapons they could use to defend themselves against aggressors. Although the need might be greater than she previously imagined because for all she knew, Hawaiian Shirt and Mechanics’ Overalls had spent the night licking their wounds and looking for a chance at revenge.
Slowly, they peeled small pieces of their barricade away in order to peer through the front window and see if anyone was outside. The slit at the bottom of the window had been plugged with an old security guard sweater they found dangling over a chair. Nikki removed it so they could listen.
“I don’t hear anything,” Aiden said, his ear pressed close to the opening. “What about you?”
She leaned in, listened and then shook her head. “Maybe everyone’s asleep.”
“You do have a point,” Carole conceded, only half believing it.
In the map drawer they also found a brochure with the airport layout. They were smack between concourse A and B which led out to Terminal 1 and beyond that the parking lot. The plan was to load into the golf cart and floor it down the corridor, through security to the airport’s drop off area.
“Cart still out front?” Carole asked.
“Yeah Mom, I can see the edge of it.”
The door handle felt cold against Carole’s hand as her fingers closed around it. “Count of three, ready?” She watched each of them in turn. “One... two... THREE!”
The door swung open and all four of them rushed out. And as soon as they did, all four of them skidded to a stop. The man standing there was wearing what had once been a white pilot’s shirt, black and gold stripped epaulets on either shoulder, except now that shirt was smeared in a bloody stain that ran all the way up to his face and the hole where his left ear used to be. The way the rest of his face was torn up with scratch marks gave the rather strong impression that someone had bitten it off during an altercation. But it wasn’t only his presence which they hadn’t detected at first, nor the man’s gore encrusted appearance that terrified them. It was the suitcase strap he was using as a leash for the woman standing slightly behind him.
The bloodied pilot bared his teeth and jerked the strap. The woman he held captive came stumbling forward.
There wasn’t enough time to jump onto the golf cart and flee, because he was right in their faces now. Carole was the first person he lunged for and he grabbed a scoop full of her hair in his hand, snapping her head to the ground as he had done with the leash a minute before. Nikki screamed and jumped on the man’s back, pounding against the top of his head with her fists. Aiden rushed forward to force him to release his grip on Carole’s hair.
There was movement from the shadows. The fight was kicking up a violent ruckus and shapes in the distance were beginning to close in. Leaning against the golf cart, Alice was clutching at her heart as though she were watching a scene from a nightmare playing out before her.
Nikki shrieked as the woman on the leash dragged her nails down her back. Incredibly, instead of helping them, she was protecting the pilot. Finally, Carole reached up and shoved her hand between his legs, her fist clenching into a vice the minute her fingers found the soft mound there. The pilot squealed and released his grip on her hair.
From the floor, Carole caught a glimpse of the shadows moving closer, aroused by the sound of battle. The desperate sounds of their fight was beginning to draw a crowd. The plan had gone horribly wrong and they needed to leave right away.
The woman with the leash yanked Nikki clean off of the pilot’s back and onto the floor where she landed with a thud, the wind knocked clear out of her lungs.
Carole rose to her feet and swung her foot between the pilot’s legs, hitting the hands he already had cupped around his balls. His eyes rolled up with excruciating pain about a second before he fell backward on top of Nikki.
From out of the gloom, Mechanics’ Overalls appeared, grinning from ear to ear as though he’d just been seen an old friend.
“Carole, come on!” Alice shouted desperately. She and Aiden were in the golf cart and had it turned around. All Carole needed to do was jump in. Five yards. A few measly steps and she’d be free. But Carole knew there wasn’t enough time to get Nikki to her feet before the mob descended on them. And leaving her alone just wasn’t an option. She was only a child. She would never survive what they were about to do to her. Carole turned to wave them away and the words “get out of here” nearly made it past her lips before something hard struck the back of her head and everything went dark.
Larry Nowak
Holland Tunnel, Manhattan
Larry found a flashlight and some duct tape sitting on the dash of a plumber’s van and used both of them to fix the light to the front of his bike. Duct tape had been the real star of the show. That magical little invention with the power to mend nearly every situation.
His leg throbbed where the cop had smacked him with the baton as he pedaled and Larry was starting to wonder if this plan of his to ride underground was such a great idea. Soon enough, he was rolling down a gentle slope, the words overhead in giant white letters confirming with a sense of dread what he already knew was coming: Holland Tunnel.
The darkness closed around him as soon as he entered and suddenly, the cool air was filled with carbon monoxide. Most of the cars seemed to be idling, their engines idling with no one inside. Larry brought his tie to his nose. He was finding it difficult to breathe. Felt like he was padding along the streets of London, where unleaded fuel made soot come out your nose whenever you blew it.
If he hadn’t been sure before, he knew now without a doubt the idea had been a bad one.
But taking the bike had been a stroke of genius. Larry was able to weave between cars that had either crashed into the wall or into one another. Among oth
er things, people had forgotten how to brake. The few headlights that weren’t buried in walls or the bumper of the car in front of them cast a strange glow about the tunnel, shining off the tiled walls around him.
With the light from his flashlight dancing a merry jig ahead of him, Larry felt like he was making good progress. He hadn’t seen anyone so far, but nor had he looked inside many of the trashed cars along the way, afraid of the cavernous eyes he might find staring back at him. He was maybe a few hundred meters in when he saw the fat guy with the reflective vest standing on the roof of a Dodge Charger. Upon seeing his light, the man quickly disappeared behind a tangle of cars.
There was something about the way people were acting after the change that reminded Larry of rats.
The bike drew to a swift stop. Larry planted his foot on the ground and felt for the gun in his pocket. It was one thing to ride and one thing to shoot and a third thing altogether to ride and shoot at the same time. Maybe the man up ahead was lost, the way the people he’d seen wandering through the streets were lost.
Or maybe he was lost like the man you saw eating that poodle in the alleyway.
Larry swallowed hard, not entirely sure what to do. The prospect of turning around and heading north toward the Lincoln Tunnel or beyond to the Washington Bridge would tack hours onto a trip that was already going to take days. Of course he wasn’t going to bike the whole way, but even after finding a car in Jersey, who knew what condition the roads would be in?
Speed was the key, Larry decided. If he tried to build enough momentum, even the fat man in the reflector lights would have trouble stopping him.
He bit down on the pain in his leg and began pedaling. On his left he saw where a crack in the wall was letting in water from the Hudson. It was collecting on the tunnel floor and already his tires were slowing as they sloshed through it.
Larry stood, working the pedals as he battled through this new resistance.
The car door swung open without warning and struck the bike’s front tire, sending Larry slamming onto the bed of a pickup truck stacked with cordwood. The impact should have broken his neck, except, somehow, inexplicably, the wood had been soft. Blood from his bottom lip filled his mouth. He could feel it already growing twice as large, along with a knot thumping at the top of his skull. Scrambling for purchase, Larry realized why this wood was so squishy. It wasn’t wood at all. The truck was filled with dead bodies and someone - Reflector Vest? - had stacked them up, for reasons Larry didn’t quite understand. Perhaps they were city workers on rescue and salvage operations. If so, that didn’t explain why they had they just knocked him off his bike.
A booming sound filled the air as the big man with the reflector vest jumped from the Charger to the hood of the pickup. A thin Hispanic guy with heavy bags under his eyes was approaching from the rear and suddenly Larry understood. This wasn’t just a trap. This underground cesspool had become their lair and anyone who entered it was at their mercy.
Reflector Vest was on top of the cab now, making ready to step down onto the flatbed where Larry was still dazed and who knew what would happen next? Feeling his chest constrict with fear, Larry fumbled for the Glock in his right pocket. His fingers found the handle and pulled it out. Seeing the gun didn’t seem to faze Reflector Vest one bit and he stepped down onto the pile of bodies. Larry squeezed off three quick rounds, aiming for the man’s chest.
The large man let out a whimper as blood trailed down his florescent vest. Arms wrapped around his chest, he fell, face forward onto Larry, knocking the Glock from his hands and sending it skittering into the knee high water below.
A rough set of hands grabbed him from behind and began yanking him off the pick-up. The skinny Hispanic guy with the gaunt face was trying to pull him out from under Reflector Vest. The .38 was in his other pocket and Larry reached in to grab it.
His hand continued to stab furiously, without finding the pistol.
Larry’s insides froze with the cold certainty he was about to die. He wasn’t a fighter; he didn’t know the first thing about hand to hand combat. It was far easier to pull the trigger on a gun and waste someone from a distance than it was to meet a man toe to toe. Larry knew he was in big trouble.
The skinny man yanked him onto the hood of a car partially wedged under the rear of the pickup. Larry landed with a thud, all the wind knocked from his lungs. Fists began raining down on his chest and face and Larry tried his best to ward them off. A direct hit on his forehead sent starbursts blooming before his eyes.
Something sharp was digging into his back and he reached behind him. Was it someone else trying to stab him?
The fingers of his right hand wrapped around the object, his other striking back at the skinny man intent on killing him. His fingers found the metal edge of a windshield wiper that had been twisted during the accident. Now the man stopped punching and wrapped his hands around Larry’s neck. The pressure was tremendous and he knew only a few more seconds of consciousness separated him from death. Larry swung his right arm with every last ounce of his failing strength and drove the edge of the metal wiper casing into the skinny man’s eye. It didn’t seem to go in very far, but at once he loosened his grip, reeling back, his sickly hands clutching at the object jutting from his face. He was screaming too, but not a single legible word came out. No, curses or threats of retribution. Just a primal scream as the man ran away, bashing into the sides of crashed cars as he stumbled into the darkness.
Larry sat up and brought his hand to his tender face. One blow had struck him on the cheek and the pain of it bit pretty hard. The fading headlights gave just enough light for him to find his bike, half submerged under the rising water. The front tire was bent slightly, but it was still rideable. He briefly considered searching for the guns he’d lost, but decided to forget them. One was somewhere in the truckload of dead bodies and the other was underwater. Getting out of this tunnel before the skinny ‘Spic came back with reinforcements was his first order of business. Larry mounted the bike, wincing as new pains slowly throbbed in parts of his body he hadn’t known existed. He was making slow progress at first. Up ahead, he could see a glimmer of sunlight spilling in from the Jersey side exit. Just a few more minutes and he’d out of harm’s way.
Finn
Las Vegas
Finn was still ruminating about what he’d read on the paper taped to the door when he caught a glimpse of someone near his motorcycle outside. Looked like they were grabbing at the bag of food and supplies he’d tried to the back of the Ninja. He ran out at once, pipe in hand.
“Hey, asshole!”
A black kid, no more than fifteen years old, took off running with Finn’s stuff. The building complex was divided in two and the kid cut between the sections with as much grace as a panther.
Finn started to give chase and got about ten yards before he realized he was outmatched. The heavy coverall he was still wearing severely restricted his movements, leaving him short of breath, seriously pissed off and with a single recourse left at his disposal.
Hollow threats.
The curses he threw at the kid made him feel better until he realized the punk probably didn’t understand a word of it anyway.
Finn glanced across the street to the Buy Low Grocery store. Regardless of the thief who had managed to steal the little food he had, Finn was facing a serious logistical dilemma. Salt Lake City was at least a five hour drive from here. With the sun already showing high noon, he would be spending a night in the desert for sure and would need plenty of food, water, not to mention gas in order to make the trip. If he was lucky he might come across a car or two along the way and fill the tank with the trick he’d used at the Nevada Joe’s, but none of that was a guarantee. And this new world wasn’t anything like the one before it. Finn couldn’t just call the Triple A guy to bring him a few gallons of gas. If he didn’t plan properly, the only one who would show up was the Grim Reaper.
And before all that, Finn would need to head to the grocery store. Pleas
e let the shelves have food on them. And then he’d need to lug it back on the bike to the Land Rover that he’d left by the side of the highway.
Tucking the pipe into the pocket of his coverall, Finn turned the key and then thumbed the ignition switch. The Ninja came to life at once, settling into a low growl.
Less than a minute later, he was rolling up to the Buy Low’s front entrance. The sight was an ominous one. The sliding glass doors that opened into the store had already been pried apart, although no one seemed to be around at the moment. He killed the engine, removed the lead pipe and walked inside.
The rank scent of rotting food struck him like a fist to the gut. The heat outside was nothing compared to how sweltering it was in here. And every corner was filled with deep pockets of shadow. Several long aisles receded into darkness, swallowing every ounce of available light. Above them, a handful of banners hung from a high ceiling advising him to always buy low.
Cute.
The plan was to make this a quick in and out. Grab whatever he could carry and high tail it out before anyone else decided to show up.
Aisle one: Organic.
Yuck.
Finn kept going.
Aisle two: Condiments.
Nope.
Aisle three: Canned goods.
There we go. About as good a place to start as any.
No sooner had he turned the corner than the toe of his boot connected with a miniature version of Chef Boyardee’s head. The can of mush floating in fake sauce skittered across the floor.
That was when that surprised look settled onto Finn’s face. Unlike the other aisles, the cans in two had barely been touched. Then another interesting thing. About a half dozen of those cans lay dented and deformed at his feet. One even showed a set of teeth marks.
Primal Shift: Episode 2 Page 4
