Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure

by Christopher Westley

  Lupita turns her back to the camera as the camera pans off her and zooms in on the podium.

  Dr. Bishop steps up to the podium and adjusts one of the three microphones, making it squeak.

  “Good morning, I’m Dr. Frank Bishop, lead scientist with The Space Weather and Prediction Center. This morning we will explain the exciting news we have uncovered in the past few days and the rapid developments in the previous twenty-four-hour time period.” He adjusts his glasses. “Approximately twenty-two days ago while analyzing the surface of the sun, we noticed a flare up of some magnitude. This solar flare up, while initially presenting itself as a normal course of events in the solar cycle of the sun, has continued to grow and is now at the apex of a coronal mass ejection.”

  Dr. Bishop looks up from his bifocal glasses at the small group of TV reporters and catches the eye of Lupita just as she is opening her mouth to ask.

  “Yes, Miss Rodriquez. You have a question?”

  Lupita looks at him as she lifts her microphone close to her lips. She is a rookie field reporter and at the young age of twenty-three is still lacking the extreme confidence exuded by a seasoned pro.

  “What—” she clears an unsteady throat “—does this mean for us here in the United States of America? We have had solar storms in the past, and there have been no adverse effects from them.” Her brown eyes sparkle like pools of caramel.

  The doctor starts to smile but quickly regains composure before explaining the situation. “The difference with the past solar flares and the current solar flare is the magnitude. In layman’s terms, if the last event were Pee Wee League baseball, this event will be a pro level, Major League baseball game, without the hotdogs and peanuts.”

  The doctor looks back over to Lupita and is about to ask her if she has another question, when she blurts out, “So, this solar flare event will be bigger; is that what you are telling us? Just how will this affect us? Will we even notice it? Or is it like most of the other space news and, in essence, a non-event to the common citizen?”

  Pulling off his glasses, Dr. Bishop leans over the podium.

  “Let me make this clear,” he says, pointing his glasses at the camera and into the viewers’ homes. “This is not just another blip on the radar, not just another geeky scientific event that will go unnoticed on the six o’clock news or be buried on the back page of the Denver Times. This is the event of the millennium. A global event of epic proportions that has the potential of disrupting the magnetic field of the earth and causing mass electrical disturbances.”

  Lupita raises her microphone again. “Are you talking about blackouts and losing some power across the electrical grids similar to what happened in Canada a few years ago?”

  “Yes, Miss Rodriquez. That’s exactly what I am saying. Not only will we have disruption across the power grids, but this flare will also disrupt all electrical systems, including batteries, generators, and any electronics that are not protected by shielding. This has the potential to disrupt most, if not all, electrical systems globally. We are informing the citizens to plan for the possibility of not having electrical access for weeks, if not months. I am not trying to incite panic, rather prepare our citizens for the upcoming reality of minimal services.”

  “It seems as if the solar storm is really coming. Whether we are disrupted, losing power and inconveniencing our daily lives, time will tell. I’m Lupita Rodriquez, reporting live from Boulder, Colorado. Back to you, Bill.”

  Mr. Robinson reaches for the remote and switches off the television, hearing Sara’s footsteps coming up the stairs from the garden and into the dining room. Looking up from his newspaper while still clamping down on a meerschaum pipe, he lets out a large puff of sweet smoke while talking.

  “Please sit down and eat your breakfast, Sara.”

  “Sorry, Daddy. Am I late?” She knows she is late, but is playing the game with him. Her dad never treats her poorly, and Sara pushes the limits all the time, trying to get by with things here and there. She is a good kid. But still a kid. Mark lets her slide from time to time, happy to have her enjoy her childhood even though he has high standards for her.

  Sara runs over to him and kisses him on the forehead before turning to walk over and sit at the opposite end of the table. “No, baby; well, maybe just a few minutes. Eat your eggs and toast; we’ve got a long day ahead of us.” Mr. Robinson sticks his head back into The Wall Street Journal, studying the stock report. As Sara looks down the table, she notices the words “Ebola Pandemic” printed across the cover of the newspaper. It was a word she never heard before, and curiosity got the best of her.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “What’s a pandemic?” Sara knows what Ebola is and understands that it is something that affects animals and people.

  “Well, it’s a word to describe a horrible outbreak of disease in the world.”

  Mark never looks up over the paper or lets out that he is concerned about the headlines on the front cover.

  “Are we going to be okay?”

  “Yes, baby, we are fine here at the ranch. This Ebola scare will burn itself out in a few weeks. That’s the thing with it; it’s short-lived, and then it’s over.”

  He was not exactly telling the truth, but he knew it would be better for Sara to live in a world of somewhat normalcy and ignorance than to know all the horrors of the newly mutated form of Ebola.

  Dr. Robinson, through contacts with the Centers for Disease Control and University Medical Center in Dallas Texas, was working on a cure for the new virus, in his lab beneath the large mansion.

  “What happens to the people that get it?”

  “So many questions.” Mark puts down his paper and tilts his head forward as he sits straighter in his chair. “Finish eating; we’ve got work to do!”

  A telephone sitting on the far side of the room rings a few times before the maid picks it up.

  “Hello. Yes, he is right here,” the maid says, holding the telephone out for the doctor. “Sir.”

  Dr. Robinson gets up from the table and walks over to the odd-looking, 1940s-style telephone. The telephone has no dial, no buttons, just a handset. He takes the phone from the maid and answers, “Dr. Robinson.” The voice on the other end is familiar to him as he listens.

  “Sir, General Edwards here. It seems that we are running out of time. We are getting ready to move on Dallas, then Houston. I know I don’t need to tell you the importance of this conversation going no further than you and me.”

  “I understand.”

  “And furthermore, sir, I think you should get ready to leave. We can send a unit to bring you here to us.”

  “Okay, I’ll get the lab tests and records ready to go.”

  Dr. Robinson has been working on a cure for the virus but is still months away from perfecting it.

  The general, Kenneth Edwards, is the head of a new government agency in charge of containing the virus. Looking at the map in front of him, a map of the USA, with cities in Texas circled in red with an X through the middle of the circle, the stress from what he will eventually have to order is overcoming his professional nature.

  “Mark, don’t hesitate to leave. Don’t wait; we will send commandos to escort you here.”

  “No problem, Ken. I understand and will see you soon, old friend.”

  Hanging up the phone, Dr. Robinson remembers back to a simpler time in college when things were carefree. When he and friends like Kenneth Edwards had the world by the balls, ready to accomplish all their dreams and goals before they reached thirty years old. Both of them had grown up together in a small town in South Texas near the Gulf Coast. Moving on from college and going their separate ways led one into the military and the other through medical school. Looking back at his daughter, Dr. Robinson tries to remove the worried look from his face before sitting back down at the table. Picking up the newspaper, he buries his face back into the sports section in an attempt to cover up his concern. The newspaper is two months
old, but he doesn’t care. Following professional football, baseball, and hockey was once one of his favorite pastimes, something that looks as though he will never get to enjoy in person ever again.

  Sara continues shoveling the food down in an unladylike manner, unbeknownst to her father, separated by the twenty yards of solid oak dining table and his knowledge of the end of times as they know it.

  A few minutes later, Mark looks up. “Finished?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Okay then, let’s join your sensei in the dojo and see what you got today.”

  Mark walks over to her end of the table, and Sara stands up and follows him out of the giant french doors that lead to the garden and Japanese-style dojo. She grasps his hand as they walk in silence up to the paper and wood doors of the small building. Sara removes her shoes and steps into a small anterior chamber to put on her uniform. The room is vacant and dark, containing only a white uniform that is neatly laid out on the floor, complete with a black belt sitting nearby. Finishing up the outfit, Sara ties the belt and steps into the adjacent room.

  “Sorry I am late, sensei.”

  Sara walks to the elderly Japanese sensei seated on the floor. She bows with her hands clasped. Just then, the karate master jumps up from where he was sitting Indian style, defying gravity. As he comes back down, he lands a well-placed kick to Sara’s chest, sending her flying across the room. She gasps for breath as she rolls over to stand up. Neatly tucking her uniform back in place, she carefully eyes her aggressor.

  “Never take eyes off opponent,” Sensei Ryota (pronounced ree-oh-tuh) Shimitzu says with a thick Japanese–English accent.

  “Yes, sensei.”

  Sparring off with her instructor just a few feet away, she initiates a series of kicks and punches, but to no avail. The master is more adept and skilled at the lunges of a fifth-degree black belt.

  “You fight like a girl. Girl who kicks like you does not make a good fighter.”

  The sensei is just taunting her to keep going; he has never seen such dedication and skill from this young of a student. Sara runs in for another round of punches and kicks and is equally met with an assaulting barrage of returns. Just as it looks like the sensei is getting the best of her, she lands a smart kick to his groin, sending him to his knees, but not before he lands an equally jarring blow to her forehead. Sara staggers backward and slumps to the floor, unconscious.

  Inside command headquarters, General Edwards briefs the commandos on their mission.

  “Gentlemen, I need to send you into harm’s way again. Your mission will be the extraction of two VIP targets north of Corpus Christi, Texas. I will leave all the details up to my liaison officer, and he will finish the briefing.”

  The officer is standing behind General Edwards and fills the team in on their targets.

  “We need to secure these targets at all costs. Dr. Robinson and his juvenile daughter are of high importance in the defense of this disease and the future of humanity.”

  “Young lady, young lady, wake up!” Sara struggles to regain consciousness as she peers through small slits in her eyes as the brightness of daylight pierces her brain. Her head is foggy as she tries to shake off the sleep of the night, her eyes sandy.

  “You’ve been out all night.”

  “What time is it?” Sara looks around the small airport office, realizing she was in a deep dream state just moments before.

  “Six forty-five and just in time for breakfast. Coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you!”

  “As soon as you finish eating, you can look around the hangar and see what meets your fancy.” Tom turns the yellowy substance in the skillet over and over with a fork.

  “Where’d ya get the eggs?”

  “Chickens, that’s where they come from.”

  “Yes, I know they’re from chickens. I mean, where are the chickens?” Sara is quite sure the chickens would make a tasty meal and is ready to barter.

  “That bucket over there.”

  Tom points to a five-gallon bucket in the corner of the room as Sara looks inside at the powdery, yellow substance.

  “There is nothing in here except yellow powder?”

  “Powdered eggs. Tastes like the real deal. Got thirty-five more buckets in the cellar, just like that one.”

  Sara just stares across the room at him. “Uh, okay.”

  She finishes her coffee and sits down to eat the eggs, pulling out her scorecard.

  “What’s that?” Tom asks.

  “I keep score. You know, how many of them I get rid of.”

  Sara takes out a pencil and writes in the number two in one of the open blocks of the golf scorecard. Written across the top of the card is the course name. It is well worn and faded: ewaku golf cours is all that is left. Just as quickly as she has written down her score, she returns it to the inside breast pocket of the leather jacket. Rituals keep her mind active in the wasteland; sanity is something that all people now have to deal with daily. Let your mind slip for a few days, and before you know it, months have passed you by with little to show for your life. Sara knows this, and she knows she has to keep moving. She has seen people stand by and let time take them through slothfulness.

  4

  THE INTERIOR OF the hangar was dirty and mostly bare. Long gone were the days of aircraft shoved inside with wings crossed together in cramped conditions. Long gone was the chatter of aviation mechanics clanging around, the jingle of wrenches, the wisp of paint guns shooting lacquer onto newly covered wings. Gone were the days of mail deliveries, the friendly conversation of a mailman saying, “Sign here.” Sara flicks the lathe on and off, checking to see if it works before walking out to her airplane. Reaching into the backseat of the plane, she yanks on a large trombone case and pulls it free, placing it on the ground next to the tire. Looking back at the dash, she produces a small screwdriver and proceeds to remove the compass from the middle of the windscreen. Satisfied with her handiwork and making short order with the compass, she slips it into her coat pocket, lifting the trombone case in her right hand, and leaves the aircraft for the hangar.

  The mini blind of the office rustles as Tom stares out the window intently and wonders what she has planned with the lathe and a trombone case. Sara reaches the lathe, setting the case down and opening it up, and removes what appears to be a long piece of steel pipe. She quickly inserts it into the lathe, installs a bit into the tool, and turns the machine on. The carbide tip of the lathe tool cuts into the steel pipe as she slowly rotates one of the wheels on the lathe. Sara switches the lathe back off and inspects her work. Satisfied with her results, she returns the long pipe to the trombone case. Looking at the end of the table, she scrounges around with calipers in hand, measuring pipe after pipe until she finds a two inch by twelve-inch piece of pipe and returns it to the lathe. Repeating the process, Sara cuts inside threads into the pipe and removes it from the lathe.

  Hours later, Tom’s curiosity gets the best of him. “Whatcha makin?” He stands there with his hands in his back pocket like he is standing at the water hole on the ranch, his back arched, belly pushed out.

  “Pipe bomb.”

  “Oh, pretty elaborate for a pipe bomb.”

  He looks around her at the trombone case, rubbing his head before walking off to leave her to her project. Sara ignores her visitor’s prying eyes peering out of the glass door of the office, and the daylight hours trail off to dusk and eventually darkness of night, the sound of crickets and a single bullfrog filling the air. Lifting her goggles up and looking around the hangar, she takes the pipe out of the lathe and places it in the trombone case.

  As Sara walks back into the hangar office, she is again greeted by Tom and motioned to sit down for dinner. She looks around, and his wife is nowhere to be found.

  “Where is she?” Sara scans the surroundings frantically.

  He looks at her and shakes his head. “Where is who, dear?”

  At seventy-eight years old, Alzheimer’s and dementia might h
ave taken over, or could it possibly be something else?

  “The lady that was here last night?”

  “It’s just you and I.”

  He looks at her with a confused look on his face as he continues to stir the pot full of food.

  Sara notices the familiar twitch of the recently infected, something that would be barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but she is certain that he is infected. She’s uncertain to what extent and she cautiously backs up against the door.

  “Where you going? Dinner’s almost ready.”

  “I, I have to wash up; be right back.”

  With pack in hand and still hanging on to the trombone case, she carefully opens the glass door and slips off into the darkness. Looking back over her shoulder, Sara can see the silhouette of the elderly gentleman framed in the doorway and what appears to be his wife standing behind him. As she turns around to walk off, her peripheral vision catches the glint of a shiny blade swinging up and over the head of the elderly gentleman. Turning her head back to the door, she witnesses the horror of the ax contacting the back of the gentleman’s skull, the splatter of blood on the glass door in front of him. Even at this distance, she can tell it split his skull in half. Sara picks up her pace, running out of sight and down the runway, vanishing into the darkness.

  5

  NARROWLY ESCAPING WHAT could have been another close call, Sara sets the trombone case down next to her, masked by the dark shadows of night at the far end of the runway. She then removes her backpack, placing it in front of her and quickly opens the trombone case to reveal a rifle that is broken down into three sections. Removing the butt piece, receiver, and barrel, she assembles the weapon in just a few moments’ time, with military exactness. The precision scope (for its time period and made famous during wartime) and 308 caliber rifle feel comfortable in the young lady’s hands as she quickly spins the silencer onto the barrel of the rifle. Lying down in the prone position, Sara flips open the scope covers and looks back to the hangar, nearly a mile away. With low light, she cannot make out any movement of objects as she strains to look through the scope. A few seconds later, her head begins to nod as she fights to stay awake; her day caught up to her.