It should have never happened. They should have checked for additional people but they hadn’t, and it had been his fault. Two bikes, two sleeping bags, two people. Logical, but wrong.
“Hang on, sir,” the pilot said.
A second later, the helicopters dipped in unison toward the fleeing motorcycle.
* * *
Jilly and Martina used a stack of barrels to climb up on top of the gas station, then moved to the back edge so they could see what was going on.
“That whine’s a motorcycle. I’d know that anywhere,” Jilly said.
Martina had recognized it, too. It was a common enough noise in the desert around Ridgecrest. But though she was looking toward where she thought the noise was coming from, she couldn’t see anything.
Jilly suddenly pointed repeatedly at the desert. “There, there, there!”
Martina put a hand on her forehead, shading her eyes. “I don’t see it.”
“It’s there! Along that wash.”
Something glinted in the distance, sunlight on a helmet, Martina realized as she finally spotted the motorcycle rider. For a few moments, she watched him — she assumed it was a him — heading in their direction.
“Is that one of the people who lives here?” she wondered out loud.
“I didn’t hear anyone leave earlier, but I guess it could be,” Jilly said.
Until that moment, Martina had thought the helicopters and the motorcycle had had nothing to do with each other. But suddenly both helicopters dove down toward the bike.
“What are they doing?” she asked.
* * *
Under Sims’s directions, the helicopters bracketed the motorcycle, his aircraft coming up on its left, the other on its right.
“We’ll take the shot,” Sims said into the radio. “If he doesn’t go down, you’re up.”
* * *
Paul felt the thumping of the helicopters in his chest. He allowed himself a quick glance back, and was surprised to see they were approaching him from either side.
There was movement at the open door of the helicopter to his left. He turned forward, checking the terrain ahead, then chanced another glance back. A man stood in the doorway now, held in place by what looked like a strap. In his arm was a rifle.
Without even thinking about it, Paul released the accelerator and pulled on the brakes.
Just then he heard something whiz by him through the air. Involuntarily, he jerked the handlebars to the side. The front tire of the bike turned with it, catching the edge of a sagebrush. Before Paul knew it, he was once more tumbling through the air.
* * *
“Is that a hit?” Sims asked. “Is that a hit?”
There was a brief delay. “I’m not sure, sir. But he is down.”
“Get us back there.”
* * *
Martina actually screamed when the driver of the motorcycle flew off his bike.
“Did they… shoot at him?” Jilly asked.
“I’m not sure,” Martina replied.
“I thought I saw a flash.”
Below them, one of the cars in the lot started up. Almost immediately, they could hear tires spinning for a moment on the dirty asphalt, then catching hold. Martina glanced over the other side, just in time to see the cute college boy race away from the gas station in his Jeep and head into the desert toward the downed driver.
* * *
The helicopters had both swung around and were now hovering above the motorcyclist. Sims was pretty sure it was a man.
“Does anyone see any movement?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“No, sir.”
“All right, then everyone suit up, and let’s bag him—”
The radio crackled. “Sir, civilian approaching.”
Out of reflex, Sims looked over at the other helicopter. “What?”
“Just ahead, sir,” the man in the other aircraft said. “A Jeep. There are also a couple people standing on one of the buildings at the roadside stop along the highway, looking this way, and several more doing the same from ground level.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No, sir.”
Sims looked out the open doorway and spotted the Jeep. He quickly realized it would get to the motorcycle rider only seconds after they landed. What would they do then? Kill the Jeep driver, too? What about the people in town watching? He was pretty sure Mr. Shell did not want that kind of bloodbath.
Dammit!
He looked down at the motorcyclist again, then tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Head back to base.”
Even before they made the turn for home, he had his satellite phone out. The quarantine zone would have to be expanded to include that little bit of nowhere in case the motorcyclist was infected. But even if he wasn’t, and those in the town didn’t actually die from the disease, the quarantine would make it easier for Sims and his men to go in and deal with the witnesses.
It was an aggravating problem but fixable.
It didn’t even dawn on him that he should have also requested a communications blackout of the area. He thought that was already a part of the quarantine. Why wouldn’t it be?
It was another lesson they’d learn for next time.
* * *
Paul remembered flying off his bike, but didn’t remember landing. That was because the impact had knocked him unconscious. So the next thing he was aware of was a man lifting him off the ground.
“What…what’s going on?”
“Just relax,” the guy said. “You’re going to be fine.”
Where had the guy come from? The helicopter? But they were going to shoot him, weren’t they?
Then he saw the vehicle he was being carried to, a dark red, old-model Jeep, not a helicopter.
Someone passing by on the road, maybe? Did it really matter?
As the man helped him into the front seat, Paul knocked his injured knee against the dash, which caused him to wince in pain, which in turn caused him to cough a couple of times.
“Sorry,” the guy said.
“I’m…okay.”
The man got behind the wheel and started up the Jeep. As they turned around, Paul caught sight of his motorcycle. It was lying half in a creosote bush, its handlebars skewed. He could see a hole in his gas tank, but nothing was dripping out.
Just enough, he thought with a smile.Just enough.
32
Martina and Jilly climbed down off the roof as the Jeep returned. By then, many of the rest of the people stranded in Cryer’s Corner had come outside to see what all the noise was about. Word of what had happened spread quickly.
When the Jeep pulled to a stop, several people crowded around. The guy who’d been on the motorcycle was a mess. He looked like he’d been rolling in dirt for weeks, then had the side of his head dipped in blood.
There was something familiar about him, but Martina couldn’t place it. This thought, though, was soon forgotten as the cute college boy came around and helped the motorcycle rider out of the Jeep.
“I don’t suppose anyone here’s a doctor?” College Boy asked.
“My dad is,” Amy Rhodes said.
“Yeah, but he’s not here, is he?” Jilly asked.
“Isn’t Coach Delger a nurse?” someone asked.
“Yeah, I think she is,” Martina said. “Where is she?”
“Last I saw her, she was in the cafe,” Amy told them, no doubt trying to redeem herself.
When no one moved right away, Martina said, “I’ll get her.”
She raced over to the cafe and rushed inside. There were only three people there — an old woman behind the counter, and Coach Driscoll and Coach Delger in one of the booths. The coaches both had their backs against the window, with their legs stretched out, and seemed to be asleep.
“Coach Delger?” Martina called out as she ran over.
Both coaches cracked open their eyes.
“What is it, Martina?” Coach Driscoll asked. She was the head coach.
Coach Delger was a volunteer from town.
“Someone’s hurt. And we thought…well, Coach Delger, you’re a nurse, right?”
Both of the women sprang to life and pushed themselves out of the booth.
“Where?” Coach Delger asked.
“Outside. Some guy on a motorcycle got thrown to the ground.”
Coach Delger raced ahead and shot out the door.
“Medical student,” Coach Driscoll whispered to Martina as they followed. “Her residency starts after the end of the season.”
“A student? Oh, uh, maybe we should ask around and see if anyone else is a nurse.”
“She’ll do just fine,” Coach Driscoll told her.
As soon as Martina stepped back outside, she saw that the college boy had an arm around the motorcyclist and they were both walking toward the cafe. Coach Delger ran up beside them and took a quick look at the injured rider. She then glanced over at Martina.
“Open the door,” she called out.
Once they were inside, the college boy helped the rider to a corner booth. It was one of those circular kinds that could fit a lot of people and had a correspondingly large table. Coach Delger had the injured kid sit on the table, then told Martina to get everyone else outside.
“You heard her,” Martina announced to the group who’d followed them in. “Everyone out.”
Soon she had the place cleared, but since the coach hadn’t specifically told her to leave, she returned to the table.
She’d barely walked up when Coach Delger said, “Martina, I need you to look for a first-aid kit. There’s got to be one here somewhere.” Before Martina could leave, she added, “And I’ll need some warm water and towels to clean him up, too.”
Martina found the old woman in the kitchen already filling up a large bowl with water.
“I heard her,” the woman said, then nodded toward the back of the room. “First-aid kit’s hanging on the wall by the bathroom. Just lift it and it’ll come right off.”
The kit was a large metal box. Martina got it off the wall and carried it back into the dining area. When she got back to the table, the coach was examining the rider’s head where all the blood was.
“Not too bad,” Coach Delger said. “A cut and a little bump. I’m guessing you were wearing a helmet, right?”
“Yeah,” the boy said.
“Some of the cushion missing on the inside?”
“A little.”
Smirking, she said, “Get a new helmet and that won’t happen next time.”
The old woman came out of the kitchen with the water and some towels.
“Susan,” Coach Delger said to Coach Driscoll. “Can you clean up his head? I’m going to check if there’s anything else wrong.”
“Sure,” Coach Driscoll said. She grabbed a towel and got it wet.
“My knee,” the boy said.
“Which one?”
“Left. From before.”
“Before?”
He gave a little shrug. “Not my first crash today. Dislocated it.”
While Coach Delger used a pair of scissors from the first-aid kit to cut away his pants leg, the boy looked at Martina.
“What are you guys doing here?” he asked.
“We were at a softball tournament. Got stuck outside the quarantine zone on our way home.”
“Did you win?”
She figured he was just trying to distract himself from his pain. “Second place out of sixteen teams. Not too bad.”
“Go Burros,” he said.
She smiled for a second, then looked down. She wasn’t wearing one of her school shirts. Maybe someone outside was. That must have been it.
“Yeah, go Burros.”
“Who did most of the pitching? You or Sandra?”
Martina wasn’t the only one who was suddenly staring at the rider. Both coaches had stopped what they were doing and were looking at him, too.
“Do I know you?” Martina asked.
“Do I look that bad?”
She squinted her eyes, studying him. “You look familiar, but…”
“Spanish class,” he said.
“Paul?”
“Hey, Martina.”
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Coach Driscoll asked.
“This is Paul Unger,” Martina said, surprised. “He goes to Burroughs, too.”
“What were you doing out there on a motorcycle?” Coach Driscoll asked.
Paul got a faraway look in his eyes, and the small smile that had been on his lips disappeared. “Trying not to die.”
* * *
They got the whole story out of him.
As soon as Coach Delger realized he’d come from the quarantine zone, she immediately segregated everyone into two groups: those who had come in contact with Paul, and those who hadn’t.
The hardest part of the story to believe was the deaths of Nick and Lisa. That was until he showed them the video.
It was Martina’s idea, however, to post it on the Internet.
33
Chloe guided Ash through the woods, circling around to the top of the rise behind the building, just beyond the line of motion sensors. After crossing a small clearing, she walked on for another dozen feet, then stopped under the cover of the trees.
Without a word, she got on her knees and started digging. At first Ash couldn’t figure out what she could possibly be doing, but after she removed a thick layer of needles and branches, she exposed a manhole cover.
“Where does it go?” he asked.
“I have no idea. Just thought I’d randomly show it to you.” She stared at him for a second as if he were an idiot. “Where do you think it goes?”
She was right. It was a dumb question.
“How do we get it open?”
“That’s a better question than the last one, at least,” she said.
She got off her knees and walked over to a tree a dozen feet away. Jumping up, she grabbed one of the low branches and pulled herself onto it. She reached to the branch above her and moved her hands around for a moment. When she dropped back to the ground, she was holding a long metal rod that had an L hook at the bottom.
With a smirk, she stuck the hooked end through a hole in the cover and yanked the disk off, surprising Ash with her strength.
He took a step closer and looked down through the opening. The filtered afternoon light was only able to penetrate a few feet into the dark hole, illuminating just the concrete sides of the tube and the first rung of a built-in iron ladder.
He thought for a moment. Perhaps it was now time to part ways with his guide. “Is it just down and follow a tunnel?”
She scoffed. “No, it’snotjust down and follow a tunnel.”
“Okay,” he said, revising his plan. “I was just asking.”
Chloe went first, pulling a flashlight out of her pocket he hadn’t known she’d brought along, and he followed. At the bottom was a large, damp tunnel running perpendicular to the entrance tube.
“This leads back to the main building?” he asked.
Chloe grimaced, annoyed. “Do you not listen to me? I already told you it doesn’t.” She huffed out a breath, then said, “Come on.”
She headed to the left, the glow of her flashlight leading the way, then stopped after forty feet and said, “Here.”
She turned her flashlight toward the wall and revealed a big V-shaped break. Ash examined it for a moment. There was an opening through the dirt on the other side of the concrete, not really a tunnel, more of a rift through the earth. Just at the furthest reach of the light he thought he caught a glimpse of more cement.
“This happened during the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989,” she said. “You know, the one that took down that freeway in San Francisco?”
He vaguely remembered that from when he’d been a kid. “What’s on the other side?”
Instead of answering, she climbed into the rift and started working her way through the cramped space. Ash knew it was going to be even tighter for him, so
instead of crawling as she had, he got on his stomach and pulled himself forward.
The distant cement turned out to be a wall, the break in it not a giant V, but a lopsided oval. As he slipped through the opening and got to his feet, he found himself in a wide space that fell quickly off into darkness beyond the spill of the flashlight.
“Welcome to the Palmer Psychiatric Hospital’s special patient facility. Or what’s left of it,” Chloe said.
She moved the flashlight through the room. There were piles of wood and old office furniture and what appeared to be mattresses. Trash was strewn throughout.
“When they tore down the building, they left the basement,” Chloe explained. “They threw some dirt over the top and let the earth reclaim it. Above us is that clearing we walked through.”
“Why leave the basement?” he asked.
“You ask me like I was there. I wasn’t. I do know, though, that they tore the building down not long after the earthquake.” She paused. “You want my guess?”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“The hospital was still open then. The people who were running it would have known about the tunnel, and probably thought they could still use this place. It’s nice and hidden from the view of anyone. I wouldn’t have put it past them.”
That was a bit on the conspiracy side of things for him, but then again, hadn’t his whole life slipped firmly to the conspiracy side? God, what was happening to him?
“Show me the tunnel into the hospital.”
“Follow me.”
She led him to a door in the far corner. Inside was a staircase leading down.
“There’s two underground levels?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Just the stairs,” she said as she started down. “And the tunnel.”
Directly left of the stairs at the bottom was a wide opening. Chloe shined the light into it, but it revealed nothing more than walls on each side before the darkness took over again.
As she started to walk into it, Ash said, “Wait.”
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