by Adam Drake
Nate laughed. “Yeah, I guess you're right.” Perhaps in more ways than she knew.
Crystal said, “Doesn't matter what happens out there as long as I got this right here.” She took a another drag.
Nate laughed as he stood and headed toward the side of the house.
“Hey, why are you here so early in the day?” she said.
“Finished a job early,” Nate said with a mischievous grin.
“Dare I ask?” she said.
“Nope!” Nate walked down the side of the little house and entered the backyard through a gate. Overgrowth and weeds choked up every square inch of the back of the property. The high fence, coupled with the entanglement of small trees and other foliage, blocked the view of any neighbors who might peer over.
And that was one reason why Nate had chosen this place.
The back door to the basement had a huge padlock on its latch. Nate fished out his keys and opened it.
Once inside, he closed the door. Darkness greeted him. For kicks he tried the light switch. Nothing.
He carefully moved over to the only window and yanked the curtains open. While doing so he knocked over old cans, and piles of paper from a table.
Muted sunlight filtered in through the grimy window. He'd never opened those curtains since he started to rent this place from Crystal. Couldn't risk anyone looking in.
The room was at the ass end of a typical basement, unfurnished save for a single plastic chair and lined with several old work tables. Boxes full of Crystal's crap were jammed into every available spot. The old hippy was a pack-rat. Anyone sorting through this stuff would have an aneurysm just from considering it.
Perfect for hiding things in.
Nate moved a table away from one wall, then removed a piece of paneling, revealing a small crawl space. From it he yanked out a large black dufflebag and dumped it on the table.
Inside were guns and rifles. He ran his hand over the neat pile of gleaming dark metal. God, he loved these things.
He took the pistol out of his pocket and placed it on the table. Normally he would have dumped it by now, but he had a hunch that forensics were quite possibly a thing of the past. Besides, the gun was too nice to get rid of. Worth the risk keeping it.
He selected a shotgun and a box of rounds, then sat on the little plastic chair which squeaked in protest. One by one he feed rounds into the shotgun.
This was not his home. There wasn't a cot or sleeping bag here nor had he ever intended this to be a place to hang out for more than a couple of hours. The less time spent with all this illegal weaponry, the better.
Crystal didn't care, which was what he paid her rent for. Initially, he kept his distance, but her casual manner and cavalier approach to things drew him into conversations with the old hippy. Over the years they became acquaintances, of a sort. Nate would even venture to say she was a kind of sister to him.
Nate did have sisters, three of them. But two were dead, one by suicide, the other by overdose. The third was in prison down on the coast for fraud. He never spoke to her, nor her him. They both preferred it that way, which suited Nate just fine. Family was something that could be used against you. You could try to convince yourself that the scumbags you worked with or worked for would never mess with your family. But at some point they are eventually brought into the equation, especially in a dispute.
Partly because of this he didn't have an apartment or house. He preferred hotel rooms and staying at one of his girlfriends, of each there were many he could choose from. Can't stay in one place for too long, not in his line of work. If he needed to clean up, or a change of clothes he'd stop by one of the girls' places for a shower and a shag. One didn't have to happen before the other.
As he loaded the weapon an image of Jonas, the fat lawyer, pinwheeling down the side of the building played through his mind. It made him smile. Chris would have approved. You weren't suppose to touch lawyers, especially your own. But Chris getting thrown in prison for life was unacceptable to Nate. Someone had to answer for it, and all other participants in that job were dead. So that left the defense attorney. Irrefutable evidence or not, Chris should have walked away from that courtroom and into the nearest bar.
Didn't happen, so Jonas got himself turned inside out. Such an action would normally have serious ramifications for Nate. Possibly fatal. But he was hedging his bets it wouldn't come to that.
In fact, he was betting a lot of things were about to change for the better.
He finished the rest of his preparations and left Crystal's basement, locking the door behind him.
In the front driveway was a black Trans Am, with a dull red firebird painted across its hood. He walked past it.
“Aren't you gonna take the Bird?” asked Crystal. “Or are you on some kind of health kick now?”
“Doesn't work,” Nate said as he got on his bike.
“Did you break it or something?”
“Not me.”
“Well, who did then?”
“Aliens,” he said with a grin and rode off. It was time he checked in with Unger.
CHAPTER TEN
Wyatt
“Buddy,” Wyatt said as a wide grin spread across his face. “I see some help for you right up ahead.”
Ethan tried to turn and look but couldn't. “What? Some sexy asian girls dying to get their hands on this old body of mine?”
Wyatt chuckled. “Even better than that.”
The ambulance was right smack dab in the middle of a crowded intersection. Dozens of vehicles surrounded it. Its lights weren't flashing and Wyatt didn't see any medics in the front cab.
Wyatt shoved at the cart, accelerating it down the sidewalk. “Let's get you over there.”
At the corner of the intersection Wyatt found he couldn't get the cart down onto the street's pavement. All the vehicles were bumper to bumper creating an impassible wall of fiberglass and steel.
Wyatt grumbled a curse and waved at the ambulance. There were still no medics that he could see.
“You're making a spectacle of yourself,” Ethan said, eyes half-lidded and looking paler. “Damned attention whore.”
Frustrated, Wyatt said, “Wait here, buddy. I'll get you some help.” He left Ethan in the cart and stepped onto the street. A sedan blocked his way, with both ends crammed up against other vehicles, so he heaved himself onto its hood.
“Hey!” shouted the driver, a wild-eyed man with a beard. “What the hell you doing to my car?”
“It's blocking progress!” Wyatt said as he slid over it and off the opposite side. He then navigated through several rows of dead traffic this way, annoying drivers who were already very ticked off at their predicament.
So elated at the sight of the ambulance, Wyatt barely registered their complaints, nor did he shout back at them all that much. Which he considered was lucky for them.
Finally, he stepped up to the ambulance and pressed his face against its windshield. No one there.
“Ah, come on!” he said as he hurried around to the rear.
He found the back doors closed and when he tried to open them, they were locked.
“God damnit!” Wyatt said as he knocked loudly on the door.
“They're gone,” said a woman standing next to a Mazda.
“Gone?” Wyatt whirled on her. “What do you mean gone?”
The woman took a step back, looking concerned. “Yeah, they left about ten minutes ago.”
Wyatt turned and punched at the ambulance's doors. “This can't be happening! Why is this happening?” He thought of Ethan bleeding out and dying in the cart on the side of the road. The ambulance was right here!
The woman said, “They were transporting a patient when everything stopped. Then they hauled him over these cars, put him in a wheelchair and took off.”
“Where?” Wyatt said, his anger in full bloom.
“They're too far from the hospital so I think they were going to try to get the guy to the clinic.”
“Which clin
ic?”
“Elmdale, I think it's called. About four blocks that way,” she said pointing.
Wyatt looked in the direction but saw only a sea of trapped vehicles, the sun glinting off them.
By now, his anger boiled. Why did they leave? If they stayed by the damned ambulance Ethan would be getting help right now.
Wyatt ran to the front of the ambulance again and tried the doors. Locked. He looked back over the cars at Ethan, who appeared asleep, slumped in the cart.
“Damnit,” Wyatt said, then returned the same route he had come, crawling over hoods and matching angry shouts with their drivers.
He reached the sidewalk, again, and stood sweating profusely next to Ethan. “How you doing, buddy?”
Ethan smiled weakly. “Haven't taken to the ghost, yet, if that's what you're wondering.” He didn't look good at all. “The medics there?”
Wyatt shook his head. His heart was racing in his chest. “No. They left with a patient. But the good news is we're close to that clinic.”
“Yay,” Ethan cheered quietly.
Wyatt looked at the intersection again. He needed to get Ethan over to the other side. But there was no physical way to push the cart through. He could try to go further up the street in hopes of finding a clear path across, but looking in that direction told him it would be more of the same.
“Hey, Wyatt,” Ethan said.
Wyatt turned his glare toward him, his eyes frantic. “Yeah?”
“You need to relax a little. Can't have you popping on me.” Ethan looked concerned. He'd seen Wyatt lose his temper before and it had never been pretty.
Wyatt barely registered the words, instead he went back to looking for a path across. If he couldn't get both Ethan and the cart across at the same time, then the only alternative was to take each one in turn. Ethan was the heaviest, so he'd take him first. If Wyatt ran out of juice by the time he got them to the other side, he'd forget about retrieving the cart.
He blinked sweat from his eyes and wiped at his face. This was a crazy idea, but any sane options were no longer on the table.
“Okay, buddy, we need to get you out of there,” Wyatt said as he reached down and grabbed Ethan by an arm.
“Out?” Ethan said, but didn't resist. He let Wyatt pull him out of the cart.
“Yeah, we got to cross somehow. The clinic is further down the road that way.”
Ethan gazed about amused at the sight of so many vehicles rendered useless. “Maybe if we pushed the cross-walk button that would help.”
Wyatt was to agitated to even hear the joke. “We can't go around so we're going over them.”
“Hate to put a dent in your plan, Wyatt, but I'm as useful as a sack of shit, right now. I might fall asleep half way.”
Putting his friend's arm around his shoulder, Wyatt said, “If you fall asleep, I'll carry you. No matter what.”
They stepped up to the sedan he'd crossed over twice before. The wild-eyed driver stood next to it, glaring at them with open hostility. “What do you think you're going to do now, huh?” he said.
“Save my friend, if you don't mind,” Wyatt said and helped Ethan up onto the hood.
“Now wait a minute!” yelled the driver and came up to them.
In an instant, Wyatt had the brass knuckles on and cocked his fist back.
The driver stopped with his hands up. “Whoa, easy now. No need for that.” He looked at the knuckles with apprehension.
Wyatt glared at him, daring him to try something.
Ethan half-crawled, half-slid across the sedan's hood, leaving a trail of blood. He eased off onto his feet at the other side.
Ignoring the driver, Wyatt jumped onto the hood and walked across it, then dropped down.
“You did great, buddy,” Wyatt said, hoisting him up again. “We got a few more to go.”
“I'd say this is kinda of fun if I wasn't dying.”
Wyatt took him over to the next vehicle that had a profile low enough for them to cross. It was an old style Cadillac, its hood practically an acre of metal.
As they both slid and crawled across the sun warmed hood, Ethan saw a woman staring at them with horror from the driver's seat. “Sorry I got blood on your car, lady,” Ethan said and then slid off the other side and flopped to the ground.
Wyatt hurried over to lean down next to him. “You okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
“Just my ego,” Ethan said. “It was too big to begin with.”
The next car crossing got them to the ambulance, right in the center of the intersection.
Wyatt and Ethan stopped to lean against it, panting and sweating.
Ethan patted the ambulance weakly. “Look, we made it.”
“This isn't our stop. We're going to the clinic.” It may be the only way to save your life, Wyatt thought.
“Oh, we forgot the water bottle,” Ethan said.
“No, I got it right here. Don't you worry,” Wyatt said fishing the bottle out of his backpack. There was barely a finger full at the bottom.
He helped Ethan put it to his lips.
“This is a very odd situation, don't you think?” Ethan said when he finished drinking.
Wyatt looked around them. They were in the middle of an intersection surrounded by a sea of cars. Not a place he ever expected to find himself in. “Yeah, this is pretty damned odd. No argument there.”
The people nearby looked despondent. Each one at a compete loss as to what to do. Leave their cars here? Go home? Go to work? Go crazy?
Wyatt tried to feel bad for them, but that lasted all of two seconds. “Screw 'em,” he said, his temper still pulsing hot in his head. “What good are they, anyhow? No one is even trying to help.”
“Hey, now,” Ethan said. “You know I'd join you in that world hating chorus, but that guy did help us.”
“What guy?”
“The guy back there, the one who gave you that wad of cash.”
“Oh, right,” Wyatt shook his head. “Man, things must really be bad if we've switched roles.”
“Roles?”
“Now I'm cynical about people and you're not.”
Ethan offered a feeble laugh. “Must be the end of the world.”
Wyatt stood. “Okay, we need to get the rest of the way before we melt out here.” He tugged at Ethan's arms.
Ethan tried to protest but he no longer had the strength.
Over the next ten minutes they crossed the other lanes of dead traffic. No one protested or put up a fuss. Either they didn't want to mess with the angry blood-covered hobo, or they didn't care.
Finally, they slid off the last hood and made it to the other sidewalk. Wyatt guided Ethan over to the only bit of empty shade under a tree not occupied and eased him to the ground.
Ethan was exhausted and horrifically pale.
Wyatt, gasping for breath and tired beyond reason, was about to sit down next to him for a brief rest. Then he had a good look at Ethan's complexion.
“Your friend doesn't look too good,” a man sitting nearby said.
Wyatt gently slapped at Ethan's face, trying to get him to open his eyes. “Wake up, buddy. No time to be sleeping on the job. We're almost there.”
He shook Ethan and kept slapping lightly at his face. Ethan only groaned.
“Shit,” Wyatt said and stood. With surprising strength he pulled Ethan up onto his feet, then put him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
Ethan was heavy, but it was manageable. Having a body draped over his shoulder brought back memories of a darker time. He shoved them aside and focused at the task at hand.
He moved as quickly as he could down the sidewalk, barking at people to get out of his way.
Fear clutched his heart. This wasn't good. Not good at all. He had to get Ethan to the clinic and fast.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nate
Getting across the city was a major chore by car let alone on a bicycle. By late afternoon Nate had made it through two districts and only by avoiding the major
roadways completely.
The highways were chaotic death-traps filled with thousands of vehicles and people. He'd considered riding up along the sides avoiding the carnage in the middle. But just looking at all that craziness made Nate shiver. Let those idiots sort it out amongst themselves. He wouldn't go near it.
Which meant he had to travel by side-roads and these were little better than the highways.
He rode up on a shopping mall. Here the vehicles had reason to be parked, but that didn't mean the people couldn't loiter about in confusion. With no more air-conditioning, folks left the mall in droves and formed huge crowds outside the entrances. It was like a rock concert without the music. Never mind the highways that was real chaos.
The streets around the mall were just as jammed as the parking lot. Nate kept to the opposite side of the street and managed to pass by. He pulled off down a lane and looked for a particular apartment building.
When he found it he spotted a young punk outside, sitting in the shade of a tree. Nate rode up.
“Hey, man,” Nate said as he stopped in front of him. “How they hanging?”
The punk's eyes widened slightly at Nate, but then kept his face neutral. “Oh, hey, Nate. They're hanging low and large. You?”
Nate got off his bike and propped it up against the tree. “Same,” he said and looked around.
This was a residential area made of low income apartments. Because of the lack of power, people had taken to standing on their tiny balconies or out on the street in whatever shade they could find.
He asked the punk, “What's your name again?”
“David,” the punk said, showing no offense at not being remembered. “But peeps call me Dee.”
“Peeps, huh?” Nate said with a grin. “Who's crew do you run with?”
Dee scratched his chin, and Nate spotted a small pistol cinched in his waistband under his shirt. “I was with Caleb for a while, but now I'm with Granger.” He didn't sound thrilled about the change in management.
“Granger, right,” Nate said. “He kicking around?”
Dee considered the question for a moment, weighing which answer would get him in the least amount of trouble. Looking at Nate, the decision was easy. “Yeah, he's up on the fourth, room 412.”
