"Try some of this." She put her finger under the silken thread and caught another drop of oil. She grabbed his hand and smeared it on his fingertips.
"What are you doing? Try some of wha--" He looked far away for a moment and then his eyes darted back and forth searching for something. "Oh my god. That actually kind of made me feel better."
"Want more?" She caught another drop.
"No, no, we don't really know what it is or what side effects it may have." He half-heartedly retracted his hand, and she rubbed more of the oil on him.
"What do you mean? It's cannabis oil. You smelled it yourself."
"That may not be the only ingredient, or they may have changed it in some way."
"Good point." She wiped her finger on her pant leg, but it was a little too late as she felt the effects of another dose. Her mind became evanescent. Thoughts and images bubbled up and faded away. They moved at such a pace she could not make conscious sense of them. An idea formed in her mind. "Hey, can you help me lift this thing?" She pointed to the alien.
"And do what?"
"Do you remember that old movie Weekend at Bernie's?"
"The movie where those two guys carry around a dead guy and pretend he's still alive?"
"That would be the one."
"That was a horrible movie. What in god's name does that have to do with anything?"
Ivy frowned. "Now don't get your undies all up in a knot. The point is we know it's dead but maybe the controls in this ship don't."
Ivy disconnected the remaining IV and catheter lines so they could pick the alien up and move it to the other compartment. David got an inkling of what she was up to and, bolstered by the cannabis oil, he summoned whatever reserves he had left. He reached down and grabbed the thing's arm. Its skin felt cool and almost rubbery. It couldn't have weighed very much. Not much more than a hundred pounds.
Together, they dragged it into the main compartment, bumping into the egg-shaped chairs, and knocked the sci-fi and horror videos sitting in them all over the floor.
They carried it over to the console and Ivy grabbed its hand and placed it on the surface. The entire instrument panel lit up with a dizzying array of controls difficult to decipher. She stared at it, dazzled by the lights and shapes that were so different from anything she had ever seen. Any initial thoughts she may have had of working the controls to somehow affect an escape dissolved.
"What now?" David asked.
"I'm open to suggestions." Her eyes scanned the console trying to make sense of it.
"The only understandable thing I see are these two spots down here," he said pointing to the front edge of the console, "They seem like places to put your hands."
"Hmmm..." she said narrowing her eyes. She put one of the alien's hands onto one spot and David put the other on the second spot. The large display came on, startling them. It showed the scene outside, but they couldn't get anything else to happen.
Then a spot on the console blinked, and she put the alien's finger on it. The display changed to show a rendition of four helicopters moving toward a spot on the screen that appeared to be them. A moment later off the edge of the screen some other fast-moving dot seemed to be closing in on them.
"I'm not exactly sure what we're looking at, but I don't think it's good," David said.
"Do you think they are coming for us? That other thing is moving pretty fast."
"It might be a missile."
"A missile?"
"If we are under attack, like an alien invasion, then I'm sure the military is responding."
"Goddammit, I'm feeling about as useful as a screen door on a submarine."
"Look, if we can't fly this thing then let's get the hell out. No one knows we're on here and they might try to just blow this thing up."
"How? It's locked down."
"Its hand worked on the console maybe it will work on the door. Bring him over here." David tugged the alien toward the airlock door and Ivy followed along helping. They stood looking at the door for a moment and then David waved the alien arm to see if a motion detector would open it up.
Then Ivy noticed a spot next to the door that seemed a little different. A small square of the same black shiny glass as the console. She took the thing's hand and fingers and after several attempts of placing them on the glass the door slid open.
They dragged the alien into the airlock and she looked for a similar spot. After a few seconds she found it and used the alien's hand in the same way. The external door opened, and they dropped the alien's body. The moment they made it outside they heard helicopters.
Ivy took David by the arm and they ran as quickly as they could.
CHAPTER THREE
Jim on the bridge - Late morning, Wed Sep 4
The quiet flashes of lightning streaking across the sky worried Jim. Wind whipped across the roadway hurling large drops of rain that brought with them the promise of a torrential downpour.
He had narrowly evaded a building collapse during an earthquake. He had endured capture by a biker gang and escaped. Afterward he traveled over a hundred miles with the dogs until he ran out of gas midway across the bridge that would take him home. Now on foot, he and the dogs made it across the bridge to the midpoint between Turnello’s truck and the throng of cars blocking the entrance of the bridge.
Exhausted, starving, and demoralized from all the struggling to get to this point, yet his home still lay a good distance away. At least, on foot. A twenty-minute drive could take a day of walking. The situation seemed grim.
The dogs had fared little better than him. They were looking gaunt and B.A. had a gash on his side that matted a patch of his fur with blood. All three walked with a limp. Whether from injury or exhaustion he didn't know.
This point on the bridge became something of a crossroads. Jim stood looking back at Turnello's truck and then at the roadway ahead. Which way should he go? What should he do? His curiosity pulled him toward the truck. His reason pushed him forward and off the bridge.
He originally planned to just try to get gas for the motorcycle and then try to outrun the storm to get home. Seeing Turnello's truck and then the bodies floating in the river left him nonplussed. Now with a rainstorm likely minutes away, a motorcycle ride didn't seem like such a good idea.
Turnello's place was closer than his home, less than a third of the distance, but in the opposite direction. He could go there. Perhaps Turnello would be there. It seemed entirely possible that none of the bodies floating in the river were him. His truck might have broken down, and he walked home with the idea of coming back with tools to fix it later.
He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt as a chill ran through him. They would need to find cover soon. He knew of a gas station nearby. Perhaps he could take shelter there. Yet something urged him toward Turnello's truck. He looked down at the dogs.
"What do you guys think?" he asked, looking from one to the other. "Back across the bridge to that pickup or keep going?"
B.A. gave a worried whine and looked at him as if to say, "I think we're screwed either way." Tiny looked at him and then walked forward a few feet. He stopped and looked one way and then the other. He sniffed the air, looked again, and then walked toward the other span and Turnello's truck.
Jim and B.A. just stood watching for a moment until the little Chihuahua turned and looked over his shoulder and barked. A loud clap of thunder made Jim nearly jump out of his skin and poor B.A. whined and cowered and pushed into Jim's leg. Jim shook his head and laughed.
"Do I need to rethink your name? You take down those zombie things, you charge people with guns, but you're afraid of thunder?" He stroked the dog's head, and they followed Tiny down the roadway. They didn't get very far when the rain came hard. Yesterday, they might have taken off running but now they were too tired to care.
As Jim moved across the wind whipped bridge in a driving thunderstorm following a Chihuahua, he realized the absurdity of the scene. A few days ago, he'd been working at a job making d
ecisions that involved huge sums of money. It had all seemed incredibly important. Now he left a life and death decision up to a ten-pound dog who, in his defense, appeared to have more sense than half the people he worked with.
One peculiarity of civilized life, he realized, was how insulated people were from the consequences of bad decisions. Take that safety net away, though, and something as simple as deciding to go left or right could mean life or death.
By the time they reached the truck, they were soaked. At this distance, any lingering doubts faded. The truck belonged to Turnello. A large black plastic tub sat in the bed along with an empty gas can. Farther ahead, there appeared to be quite a few bodies on the roadway. Perhaps a dozen. Jim felt his stomach tighten. Something terrible had happened here.
He pulled open the truck door and let the dogs jump in. They shook themselves off spraying water everywhere. Normally he would have yelled at them, but at this point he didn't have the energy and he couldn't get any wetter. The keys were in the ignition and he gave them a turn. Nothing but a dim dome light. The battery must be bad. Great, what now?
He needed a jump, but the nearest car lay three hundred yards away at the entrance ramp where a major accident and a traffic jam had occurred. Did he even have jumper cables? What did the black tub contain? He stepped out of the truck, to the bed, and unsnapped the lid. He reached in and felt around and pulled out a large plastic bag.
His eyes widened at the sight. The package read MRE Menu 2 Pork Rib. He could not believe his luck. He reached in and pulled out another. Cheese Tortellini.
"Turnello, you crazy bastard. You just paid me back for every meal I ever bought you."
He snapped the lid onto the tub and climbed into the cab of the truck. Then pulled the door closed with a grunt and put his head back against the headrest. He looked at the dogs. Tiny lay curled up on the floor of the passenger side and B.A. did his best to get comfortable on the seat.
"I don't know about you two, but I sure am tired of being cold, wet, and living in cars. Good news is this time we don't have to do it hungry." Both dogs' ears perked up, and they looked at him expectantly.
Jim tore open the pouch labeled "Pork Rib" and dumped the contents onto his lap. He found foil pouches containing beef snacks, peanut butter, wheat snack bread, jelly, some kind of drink powder, plus a flat box containing potato cheddar soup and, of course, the pork rib. It also included an accessory packet with salt, sugar and the like. Finally, he found a flameless ration heater.
He felt overwhelmed by the veritable feast. He tore open the pork rib and pulled it out. Laying it on the foil he placed it in front of B.A. who sniffed it uncertainly. He gave a little whine.
"What? You gonna complain about the first real food we've found? Come on. Eat up." The dog gave it a few licks and then deciding it tasted okay; he swallowed it in two bites. Tiny sat up on his haunches expectantly. Jim tore open the pouch of beef snacks and dumped its contents on the floor by the dog. Tiny put his head down and made small growling and chomping noises as he gobbled down the dried beef.
He opened the bread, peanut butter, and jelly and made a sandwich. He ate it while reading the instructions on the flameless ration heater. It needed a small amount of water to get a chemical reaction going that would heat the food. He rolled down the window and held open the pouch in the heavy rain and in a short time he had what he needed. He slipped the soup pouch into the heater and waited.
By now, the windows had fogged up obscuring his view of the outside and the sound of the rain and wind covered any other noise. Instead of bringing him comfort the way a rain storm normally would, it unnerved him. He felt like a tiny man in a tiny truck on a big earthquake damaged bridge over an even bigger river that would morph into a torrent with every passing minute.
He unwrapped the spoon and tore open the pouch to find a tan lumpy goo that, even in his famished state, made him gag a little. He took a deep breath and held it while he spooned some out of the pouch and into his mouth. To his surprise, it didn't taste bad and the warmth of it certainly felt good going down.
The food affected his body almost immediately. His thinking cleared and his energy level improved. Now if it would only stop raining. He needed to get off the bridge and really wanted to take the truck to Turnello's place.
He imagined his friend's surprise when he turned up with his truck and precious supplies. They could rest and recover and then try to figure out what to do next. He needed to find his daughter, and they all needed to get somewhere safe.
Turnello seemed to think Cherry Ridge was the place to go, but other than a silly childhood pact, he couldn't see why. Hopefully, he would get to ask him in person.
He heated and ate the cheese tortellini from the other MRE pouch and then felt sleepy. Now he wished he had a bed to lie on and the wind and rain would stop. His eyelids drooped, and his head lolled. Comforted by a belly full of food for the first time in a while, exhaustion overtook him, and he fell asleep.
A rocking motion woke him. It took several seconds to remember he was in Turnello's truck on the bridge. The windows were fogged with condensation. He couldn't see outside but B.A.'s low growl let him know something was wrong. He didn't know how long he'd been sleeping but based on the diminishing daylight it must have been several hours. Rain still fell in buckets.
The truck rocked again. Jim used his sleeve to wipe his driver's side window but saw nothing. He cleared a spot from the windshield but again saw nothing unusual. There it was again. This time it was clear. Something bumped into the truck causing it to rock. Tiny sat up and growled. Jim held his breath and strained to listen. His eyes darting back and forth, trying to make sense of things.
His hand felt around for the pistol, and once he found it, he wrapped his fingers around the grip. The action reminded him of how sore and painful his knuckles were. He gritted his teeth to avoid making any sound. What in the hell was he thinking allowing himself to fall asleep in a vehicle in the middle of a damaged bridge? It bumped the truck again.
Jim's breath quickened. He moved the pistol to his lap, and he cracked the window a fraction of an inch so he could better hear what was going on outside. A small hand slapped at the base of his window smearing blood and dirt on the glass. It made him flinch. He was panting now, his heart racing.
It had only been there a second, but it looked like a child's hand. Turnello's truck had large off-road tires. Nothing excessive, but they required a large step up to get into the truck. An average sized child would be too small to see inside the window. Perhaps it was hurt, alone, and wandering. Any other option seemed unthinkable.
He tightened his grip on the pistol and unlocked the door. Pausing for a moment to listen he heard nothing but the rain and wind. He felt silly and overly dramatic. It was a child for heaven's sake and he was a grown man with a pistol. He swung the car door open slowly and turned but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ann and Mahirimah - Late morning, Wed Sep 4
Ann pulled her long blonde hair into a ponytail and did her best to apply a little mascara and lipstick in the dim daylight coming into her bedroom windows. She wasn't a big cosmetic user. She preferred makeup that didn't look like makeup. But even the little she wore needed good light to apply. The power being out for this long was unnerving considering there had been no storm.
She looked at the set of pressed scrubs laid out on a chair and ready to go for her shift tomorrow morning. That made her think about the hospital and she wondered if the power outage had also effected them. How long would the backup generators work if they had? Would she be able to get to work, and if she did, would she have trouble getting back home? All of this unsettled her.
"Girls," she called out, "are you ready to go?"
Daisy, the younger of her two daughters, burst into the room. "Mom," she whined, "this shirt doesn't fit me anymore. It's too tight." She tugged at the sleeves and shirt bottom.
"You wore that shirt just last
week, pumpkin. You can't possibly have grown that much in a week," Ann said and yet she had to admit the shirt looked tight on her. "Anyway, you have a dresser full of shirts. Just find another."
Daisy sighed and huffed out of the room in frustration. Ann shook her head and wondered if she had considered an ill-fitting shirt to be the end of the world when she was eight.
She stood and looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad for thirty-five and divorced with two kids. She still had a little something going on even though it was going on under twenty pounds too much. Then she laughed. What on earth was she worried about? It wasn't like she was off for a night on the town. She would be giving out food at the new food pantry and she wasn't likely to meet anyone she would date there. Still, you never knew.
"What's so funny?" her older daughter, Violet, said as she wrapped her arms around her mother with an iPod in one hand. Ann looked at her in the mirror amazed at how much alike they looked even if the girl was only twelve.
"Oh, just my face," Ann replied.
"Mom," she said tipping her head to one side and frowning, "don't say that. You are beautiful."
"Just like you." Ann kissed her daughter on the head causing her to scrunch up her face and pull away.
"Mom, my iPod is dying again."
"You can charge it in the car on our way to the church."
"Okay, but when is the power coming back on? This is terrible. I haven't watched TV in two days and I can't get on the internet. I'm so bored."
"I don't know, honey. I will ask around at church and see if anyone knows anything yet."
The girl sighed, made a face, and wandered out of the room and into her own.
Ann went downstairs and grabbed her keys and purse off the dining room table. She stared at the piles of new binders, notebooks, and boxes of pens and pencils. All ready to go to school which should have started yesterday but hadn't because of the extensive power outage. If there were a real problem, how long would the school remain closed?
A Bad Day (Book 2): A Bad Day Page 2
