A tattered, folded chart sits on her left knee; the airport identifier is printed in large block capital letters: T30. “Tango thirty it looks like we’re making a visit to you real soon.”
Her finger moves along the map, tracing an imaginary line back to her current location. Sara studies the map for any features that would be prominent in this desolate country. South Texas had minimal features, and this map did little to help an aviator find their way, the ground flat and featureless. A dry river bed on the map passed underneath the aircraft without her noticing, its flow long ago stopped by the continual drought. “Yep, should be right here. Hmm, about twelve more minutes, and—” she strains to look over the dash and off in the distance “—ah-ha, there you are.”
Sara can see the outline of the runway and dead grass surrounding it, even from this distance out. The concrete runway is bleached white from the decades of the harsh South Texas sunny summers. Pulling out the worn checklist, Sara starts going over the pre-landing checks.
“Flaps thirty degrees.”
“Carb heat on.”
“Fuel, hmm, minimal.”
“Throttle back one quarter inch.”
“Airspeed fifty knots.”
The aircraft slowly drifts down to the runway.
“Okay, Daddy, here goes nothing.”
Sara imagines her father sitting behind her in the small cockpit as he did many times before. Looking back outside, Sara notices a man walking down the center of the runway 400 feet ahead of her. She pushes the throttle in, adding power to the plane. Flying at 20 feet above the runway, she reaches down and grabs the revolver with her left hand, aiming it out the left side window at the unwary assailant.
“Say cheese.”
The revolver makes a loud crack as she swoops by the man. Looking back over her shoulder, she watches him fall over. It was one more dispatching of an infected citizen and another notch in her pistol grip, a couple more points on her scorecard.
“Ha, ha. Bullseye. That will be par.”
Banking the aircraft back to the runway, Sara eases back on the throttle, gently bringing it in for another shot at landing. Her touchdown is flawless and timing on the money, the wheels squealing as they try to catch up, burning the rubber, leaving two 4-foot equal marks on the runway. As the plane taxis off the runway, the engine starts to sputter, quitting just as the plane rolls up to the fuel pumps in front of the hangar and airport office. The hangar and office are co-joined and appear to be vintage 1945, having been built just after World War II. The block office front is worn, with huge chunks of brown paint peeling off as a result of the harsh weather. The metal structure of the hangar is in equally rough shape, but still structurally sound. Sara jumps out of the plane, shoving the revolver back into her pants. Looking around, she is not immediately aware that a figure inside the block building attached to the hangar is looking at her through the mini blinds. Walking over to the fuel pump, she lifts the nozzle out and flips the fuel lever up. There is no noise from the pump as she squeezes the fuel nozzle and nothing comes out.
“Out of fuel.” A voice hits her from a few yards away.
She spins around to the voice.
“Yep. Can you turn the pump on?”
“We’re out of fuel,” the elderly gentleman repeats.
“Damn it. When are you getting a delivery?” Sara rolls her eyes deep into her head.
“Probably next week, or the week after, not sure we will get another delivery. Not now anyway. Not since it happened.”
Sara puts the nozzle back in the fuel pump and walks cautiously to the stranger. He is a rough looking man, appearing to be somewhere between seventy and eighty years old. His face is weathered from years of working in the South Texas oil fields as a roughneck and raising cattle in the brutal South Texas heat of the many summers spent on the local ranches. His hands are roughened and severely calloused from the physical labor, and he walks with a slight limp to her. Sara places her left hand on the revolver, unsure of his intentions.
“No need for that; we don’t mean you no harm.”
“Maybe so, maybe not!”
The face of a woman pokes out around the edge of the building, and Sara can see the twin barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun jutting out in front of her legs.
“Probably wise to put that canon away before somebody gets hurt.” Sara points at the lady wielding the shotgun. She knows she has to be wary of everyone now. Even the most benign-looking senior citizen is suspect of ripping you off or killing you for the shirt on your back. Just weeks earlier, Sara had to put two slugs into the chest of a guy bent on stealing her gear and salvaging whatever he could out of the airplane; his only mistake was thinking he had the upper hand on a girl like her.
“It’s okay. She’s just a kid.”
The lady sets the gun back inside the doorway before joining her husband in front of Sara.
“We don’t get many visitors here anymore. Tom Macklin.”
Sara reaches over cautiously and gives him a quick shake. “Sara.”
“Just getting ready to sit down for supper when you dropped in. Hungry?”
“Yes, I’m starving.” Her canned meat had already worn off. There was one thing in the wasteland she would always let her guard down for: food. If you didn’t accept food when it was offered, you would go hungry. “Well, come on in.”
Tom motions to Sara to follow as he turns around and follows his wife into the airport office. His wife appears to be twenty to thirty years younger but has equal harshness worn across her wrinkled, sunburned brow, her long, jet-black hair stringy and dirty. Sara can tell that the woman is sick, her stick-figure-thin bones showing through the worn T-shirt and jeans.
3
LOOKING AROUND THE cluttered airport office, Sara cautiously watches her new acquaintances with an untrusting eye. The office is just a small room, no larger than an average bedroom. In the center is a large desk piled high with paperwork, with a spot in the middle cleared out revealing a small burner that has a bubbling pot sitting on top. Sara can smell the faint, pungent odor of meat stewing in the pot as she breathes in deeply. On the left side of the office sits an old leather couch that has one leg missing, a concrete block propping it up. The pictures on the walls are of Tom’s friends standing next to their airplanes. In nearly every picture, she notices that one of the men standing with the others is Tom. Tom, the very man standing in front of her and burning holes into her with his gaze and an ever-piercing interest.
“Where you headed?” Tom asks.
Sara sits down in the middle of the couch, a puff of air coming out of the worn-out cushion. The old couch has seen many a traveler and is nearly done for. The feeling and smell of the genuine cowhide leather take her mind back to her father’s equally worn-out couch in his large office inside their South Texas mansion. Sara studies the rows of books on the large bookshelf next to her, pulling out a novel she has never heard of before.
“Said, where ya headed, young lady?”
Sara snaps back to the present, answering in a soft voice, “Brooklyn.”
A large smile comes across the old man’s face. You could see his thought process going into overdrive, trying to dredge up a long-lost memory of his youth.
“Ah, went there many years ago when I was in the navy.”
“What is it like?”
“Oh, busy, lots of people, lots of traffic. If I recall correctly, everybody was in a damn hurry. Too many people, not enough time.” Tom’s voice trails off as he lifts the lid to the pot and stirs the mystery stew. “It’s not much, but it will hit the spot.”
“Smells good.” Sara breathes in the sweet aroma of freshly cooked meat. Tom clears the desk of the papers and pulls two chairs up against it next to his chair.
“You can take this seat here,” Tom replies.
Sara jumps up and takes a seat across the desk from the two strangers. Taking a seat next to his wife, Tom opens the right-hand desk drawer and produces three plates, two forks, and a spoon, h
anding a plate across the table to Sara and placing the other two on his side. Grabbing the handle of the pot, he starts scooping out a spoonful of meat and what appears to be potatoes onto Sara’s plate. Tom then starts to serve his wife before filling his own plate, when he looks across at Sara and notices she has started eating with her fingers.
“Stop! Eating like that is not ladylike; besides, we have not said grace yet.”
“Grace?” She talks through a mouthful of hash.
“Yes, the blessing.”
Sara stares at the two across the table as they fold their hands together and close their eyes. Tom starts reciting what to Sara seems to be gibberish.
He finishes his strange rant with one word: amen.
“Now, young lady. You may eat. Use this.”
Sara snatches the fork out of his hand; Tom would have held it up in front of her face all day if she had not taken it. “I don’t see any need to use a fork. Nor close my eyes; that is how they get you.” She looks over her shoulder to the glass door they entered the room through just minutes ago.
“You’ll use one here if you want to eat,” grumbles Tom as he pauses to shovel in the mystery stew. He points at her with his fork as he talks.
Sara looks across the table and scowls. “Got any scrap steel around here?”
“Yes,” Tom replies.
“How much?”
“No charge.”
Money means nothing in the wasteland, and Tom would never think of charging someone to rummage through the junk pile. The books, he gladly gave away to people he knew would enjoy reading them.
Sara looks across the table and cannot believe what she is hearing.
“Nothing’s free now. What do you want for scrounging in the hangar?”
“No charge, young lady; we don’t have a use for anything out there anymore. Just take what you need. Besides, your company here this evening is more than adequate compensation.”
“Suit yourself,” she grunts while continuing to wolf down the food. “I need some pipe; got any out there? And the use of the lathe I saw when I walked by the hangar.”
“Yes, there is some scrap pipe out back behind the hangar, and the lathe works just fine. Whatever you can scrounge, you can have.” He sets his fork down and looks over to his wife as he wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Not going to get much done tonight, already dark. Best get some sleep and work on whatever you have planned in the morning.”
Sara looks back across the table and shakes her head up and down as she finishes her meal. He stares back at her with equal amusement and bewilderment. In a silent thought, he is astonished that a juvenile who appears to be only twelve years old has survived alone for this long, let alone can fly and apparently has other skills unlike those of any other preteen.
PANDEMIC
Years or even months before her world was turned upside down, this simply was not the case. Sara was not unlike any other eleven- or twelve year-old. A bit precocious and showing a zesty appeal for life, Sara’s room was a fairytale right out of Disneyland. Her bed was a full canopy, lined with bright pink lace, and had a pink comforter set featuring her favorite themed character at the time. On the far side of the gigantic bedroom, a bedroom that would be considered a master suite for an adult but was fit for a child, was a vanity and makeup dresser, complete with an ornate mirrored back. A room such as this would not be complete without a balcony overlooking the palatial grounds of her father’s gigantic estate. Between that, piano lessons, and fencing in the garden with her father’s personal trainer, Sara seemed to have it all. Until it happened, a pandemic of epic proportions. A disease that spread so rapidly from citizen to citizen. Infecting the young and old alike, discriminating against no one, it seems, except for a few lucky survivors here and there. Pockets of humanity left in an uncertain world.
“You take the couch, young lady; get some rest. I’ll stay up and watch out for the undead to come calling, if they must tonight.” Without a word, Sara gets up and walks over to the couch to lie down. As she settles in, making herself comfortable, she removes the revolver from the leg holster and grasps it in her right hand, laying it across her chest. She points the barrel in the direction of Tom and his wife in a show of force, as if to say, don’t mess with me. Taking one last look at her acquaintances, Sara slowly closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep. Minutes later, the lids of her eyes begin to flutter from dream sleep, the kind of sleep that only comes after a long day of hard work or intense activity.
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
“Sara, Sara. Where is that girl?” The head housekeeper scans the outdoor area around the massive in-ground swimming pool and adjacent botanical gardens. Sara’s father’s home is a massive estate and virtual oasis just north of the South Texas town of Corpus Christi.
“I’m over here,” Sara yells from the opposite side of the gardens.
“It’s time for your breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Hungry or not, you need to come in; your father is waiting for you.”
“Okay, on my way.” Sara relents although she does not want to come in for breakfast. The housekeeper turns around and walks back through the large, double french doors into the main dining room. In the middle of the room sits a large rectangular table that seats up to twenty guests and is appointed with the finest chairs, with equally impressive tall wing backs made of mahogany and leather. Across the room on the far wall sits a mammoth fireplace, the burning logs sending flames up into the chimney and the smell of the hickory wafting out into the large room. The fireplace was built from marble imported from Italy, a bluish hue with veins of quartz running lengthwise up the side to the large, oak mantle framing the whole structure. The walls and ceiling are equally ornate, with handcrafted mahogany chair rails circling the room and trimming out the twenty-five-foot ceilings far above.
“Shall I stoke the fire, sir?” the maid asks her employer.
“That won’t be necessary; we are leaving as soon as Sara finishes her breakfast. Did you find her?” Sara’s father says.
“Yes, sir, she’s in the garden. I told her to come in for breakfast twenty minutes ago.” The maid does not like keeping track of the young girl, one of her other duties that was not written into her contract years earlier. Mr. Robinson looks up from his paper again and motions her off. He is always courteous to his wait staff, but today his mind is a thousand miles away. Mr. Robinson, Mark as his closest friends call him, is a quiet, reserved man. He is still haunted by the memory of his late wife’s death and her long battle with breast cancer, which left him to raise a young daughter while managing a career as a research medical director, a stressful job that demands nearly eighteen hours of work every day. His face is weathered and pockmarked not ruggedly handsome, his body fit and lean and all but adept at all things sporting. An expert marksman and avid hunter, he spends most of his time in the Sawtooth mountains near the small mountain town of Smiley Creek during deer and elk season, ever chasing the trophy to add to a burgeoning collection that adorns his study walls just a few feet away from the dining hall. Mark Robinson is now working with his most challenging prey of all, the preteen female daughter. Before his wife’s untimely death at the age of thirty-four, Mark had the run of a bachelor although he was married: weekends skiing in Aspen followed by cigars and whiskey at the New York New York Hotel bar in Vegas and golf trips on the Caribbean peninsula of the Yucatan in Cancun. Mark and the family traveled together on many vacations across the globe, hitting the hot spot theme parks and the sandy beach resorts, but were still just like most affluent families, splitting vacations up for some alone time. But, unlike many unwilling fathers around the globe or the uncaring, Mark is and always has been a doting father. He would take Sara along on many adventures around the globe, although she was always accompanied by a nanny to attend to the female problems associated with a daughter. And the fact that she is a girl did not stop him from challenging her to achieve things that most young girls would not consider doing.
Karate lessons are on the agenda this fall morning, followed by a flight lesson in their vintage Aeronca airplane that is hangared a short distance from the house, with a conveniently and equally impressive grass airstrip that stretches out just beyond the gardens and pool. No, Sara would not have the normal childhood existence that the other girls her age would experience. Hers would be framed by luxury, opulence, and a rigorous schedule. Sara loves it, too; she rarely questions her father’s requirement to achieve her best at everything she attempts. On a large, flat screen television above the fireplace, a public service warning starts beeping.
“Warning, all citizens should tune in,” followed by an opening from a news anchor.
“Good morning, this is Bill Simmons and Channel Twelve News at eight. We have just recently been made aware that a mass global event is imminent. Our reporter Lupita Rodriquez is on scene with scientists at The Space and Weather Prediction Center of the Rockies.”
“Lupita, how are things looking out there in Boulder, Colorado?”
“Good morning, Bill, I have been speaking with Dr. Frank Bishop, senior astrophysicist here at the space center in Boulder, and in just a few minutes, he will make a worldwide announcement about the potential for a solar storm soon.” Lupita looks over her shoulder to the outdoor podium that is set up in front of the space weather building. Two competing local television stations are also reporting from the center and are standing nearby but are not transmitting live. She brushes the long, jet-black hair away from her face and is about to talk about the weather in Boulder, Colorado, when she sees a group of scientists walk out of the building.
“Bill, it looks like we will start soon. The gentleman walking in the front of the group is Dr. Bishop. Let’s see what they have to say.”
Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure Page 2
