Playing God

by Douglas Moore

  Christopher remained quiet and didn’t speak but looked into his father’s eyes.

  “I love you guys and will never let anything bad happen to us.”

  “But it already has Daddy,” Cassandra said with a blank stare.

  They’d seen the family murdered on the highway and by now an uncertain future tumbled in a child’s mind.

  Paul felt sickened but remained calm, holding her stare, hoping his kids saw confidence even if it was an act. “We have to go guys.”

  “The phones in the rooms were not working.” Jake informed them as they entered the room.

  “There must be a switchboard in the office and the room phones are just shut down,” June reasoned.

  Everyone hurried to get ready, and the vans pulled up to the office door. Paul and Leslie jumped out. Leslie looked back at her daughter. She could see it in her eyes, a strength that said, Go ahead, do what you have to do. Leslie shut her door. She saw Cassie move to put her arm around her brother.

  “Where should I tell Pat we’re headed?” Leslie yelled back to Jake who had gotten out of the cube van to stand at the driver’s window of their vehicle to reassure the kids.

  “When we know, he’ll know. Just tell him to keep heading west, and that we’ll stay in touch.”

  The office had been ransacked and the door to the owner's living quarters had been kicked in. The windows were veiled in a sheer curtain with the blinds half opened, allowing light to filter in.

  “Can I make a few calls first?”Paul asked.

  Leslie nodded and followed Paul to the phone only to see his hopes deflated each call. Leslie held him tight as he sat at the phone. Paul yawned and his chest swelled. It was a forced yawn and they’d been together long enough for Leslie to know this was a coping mechanism he used to control his emotions. And right on cue he broke away from her to wrestle with his grief alone.

  “You alright?”Leslie asked.

  “I will be.”

  He kissed Leslie walked away yawning, eyes narrowed.

  Paul went to search for food and water and found two clear plastic jugs with a blue tinge and blue plastic cap. He filled them with tap water and took them to the van.

  “Anything else?” Jake asked.

  “Been gone through pretty good.”

  “Leslie almost done?”

  “She should be talking to Pat now.”

  “Felix?”

  “On deck.”

  “She should give up on him and go global!” Jake yelled as Paul headed back into the office. He could see the gleam of the Sig tucked into his pants. Good man, Jake thought. It was never fear Jake had seen in Paul’s outbursts. It was a lack of control which Jake saw as weakness. Paul was passionate, and passionate people tend to lead with their emotions. Paul had covered warzones in Bosnia and the Middle East, armed with only a camera. He hated guns, but it looked like he was getting used to the idea. Jake knew he’d come around on the control thing. He had to.

  *

  Most airfields were now being run by the military not only to restrict travel, but to mobilize troops. Gallup Municipal Airport was in New Mexico near the state line. It had become a valuable site because it would enable movements to either Flagstaff or Albuquerque. Historic route 66 ran through it, as well as Highway 666, renamed Route 491 because of the number’s satanic association.

  They were like the four horsemen of the apocalypse, helicopter fuelled and ready for whatever mayhem awaited. Pestilence, war, famine and death lifted off from the tarmac with Hades following close behind.

  “We have a location, sir?” asked Jones.

  Exuding pure confidence and dressed in a pale green shirt with black pants, Major Folkstone sat back and lit a Cuban cigar.

  “Yes, we do. Mountainair Motor Court, New Mexico was their last known location. They faxed everything to the Times at 7:30 this morning, and called our little State trooper Michaels just before.”

  “Do we know where they’re heading?” Borda asked.

  “No. They’re being smart making calls and faxes just before they hit the road and keeping their intended destination close to the vest.”

  “They’re south of Albuquerque. We think they’ve been avoiding the big cities. We fly down 47 and up 60 to the motor court. Hell, I could almost piss on em’. We’ll find them.”

  *

  Jake relayed directions to Paul. “Sixty to I-25, then south back onto sixty and west into Arizona.”

  The dull morning cloud cover had dissipated. The sun was strong and abnormally hot for November, further baking the landscape. The jagged, thorny ridgeline of the Sandia and Manzano Mountains buckled across the desert terrain like a dragon’s spine. It was easy to see how hellish a place like this could be mid-summer. Vegetation was sparse and would provide limited reprieve from the sun.

  “Jake, what are you doing? Why are you stopping?” Paul asked into the radio.

  Jake pulled over ahead of two stranded vehicles. Paul pulled in ahead of him.

  “It’s that scary looking character from the Mountainair last night, number thirteen.”

  “I don’t think we should stop, Jake. The key word there is scary,” Paul said.

  “Get my six Paul.”

  “Christ Jake, I….”

  But Jake had already gotten out of his van.

  Paul looked at Leslie and threw the gear selector into park.

  The vehicles were pulled to the side of the road. One was a beat up ‘80s model Ford truck hauling an airstream camper. The other was a big Buick LaSabre, brown with the rear window smashed out and the trunk lid bungeed down.

  The man from the previous night was leaning up against the big land yacht smoking a cigarette while two woman, five kids and what would likely be his brother pleaded with passersby to stop.

  “Hey, there!” Jake yelled, walking up on the stranded families.

  The lean man with the leathery face flicked his cigarette to the dirt. His right hand went behind his back.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Yeah.” Jake knew Paul was behind him, so he walked wide, out on the roadway, weaving in and out as traffic passed, not wanting to take away Paul’s shot if the need arose. He motioned to the LaSabre with the busted window.

  “Got you too, huh?” Jake said.

  The man kept his right hand at his back.

  “We had everything in the room, but they siphoned our gas. We shared for a bit and here we are. Nobody’s pulling over. They’re too scared!”

  “Not me,” Jake said, keeping his voice calm and even.

  “You’re crazy old man. I wouldn’t stop for me.”

  “Not as crazy as you might think.”

  Paul crept into view from behind the cube van at the long range of the sig.

  “Where’s your sister?” Jake asked.

  “Dead. Ambushed near Amarillo.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Jake replied, still keeping a safe distance.

  “Brother-in-law called. Him and one of my nieces are supposed to meet us in Albuquerque. We hear there’s lots of food and gas there.”

  “That so?”

  “What we heard.”

  Jake dropped his guard and headed back to the cube van.

  “Give me a hand Paul.”

  Paul looked at him, unsure, but Jake kept walking. His mind was set and Paul knew it. He also trusted Jake’s instincts.

  Carrying two five-gallon cans each, they returned to the families at the LaSabre.

  The hard looking man looked puzzled. “Why you doing this?”

  “Someone once told me the measure of a man is what he does with power. So I’m just staying the course. Take care of those kids, and get to somewhere isolated. Good luck, son”

  And with that, Jake turned and walked back to the cube van. He felt the man’s eyes on him.

  One of the kids poked his head out of the back window of the Buick and shouted, “Thanks mister.”

  They wedged back into traffic. Jake could see the hard looking man in the
driver’s side mirror. He mouthed a “Thank you” and raised a hand as he watched the van drive away.

  Jake keyed his radio and smiled at June, who was looking at him with a smile and eyes full of pride.

  “Paul, let’s find a place to park these ladies and children while we go shopping. You in?

  “That’s affirmative, Jake. You lead. I'll follow."

  Chapter 29

  NASA could easily have chosen the area west of Interstate 25 as a test site for the Moon Rover. Anyone traversing the North Plains off- road would get lost more likely than not in a space fantasy. It was a bleak, sedentary moonscape filled with dust. Jagged rock outcroppings scarred with evidence of ancient dried riverbeds sat etched in sharp stone. Strikes and small impact craters dotted the surface.

  The only clue to reality west of the 25 was the odd building structure, an occasional intrusion by man into this harsh and less than desirable area. Vegetation was sparse. Baked grass and twisted burled Cottonwoods grew in the floodplains of the Rio Grande, their spreading crowns like spider’s legs, tapping into the ground, searching for water.

  To the east of 25, man had made a much larger impact. The Rio Grande snaked through small, heavily irrigated towns like Las Nutrias and Bernardo, forced pretty pockets of urban sprawl from Albuquerque, with the mountains as a backdrop on the horizon.

  Los Lunas was no different. It was a thriving bedroom community running alongside the interstate, intersected by Route 66.

  “Paul come in.”

  “Go ahead, Jake.”

  `“How about here?”

  “Let’s have a look,” Paul answered.

  “It’s perfect, location wise. Not too far from Albuquerque, and route 66 is right there. It takes us right back up to Interstate 40. We avoid the city and keep heading west.”

  The search for motels in town turned out to be a futile effort. There were only three in the town, but they were all filled to capacity, which seemed odd that early in the day.

  They’d had better luck west of 25. Just off route 66 was a small industrial park, down a lonely road. According to the signage, it was to have become the home of a window and door manufacturer four years earlier.

  “What do you think happened?” Leslie asked.

  They stood in front examining the shell of the structure. Part of it was closed in with the galvanized inner skin of the exterior walls, but the red structural steel sat exposed and bare in places. It appeared to have been that way for some time.

  “Probably went bust when the recession hit,” Paul said.

  “Did you notice the grid of roads carved out of the desert for residential housing back in town?” Jake asked.

  “Finally some good come from the housing crash,” Paul added tipping his head toward the luckless factory

  “Suits our needs. What do you two think?” Jake asked, looking at the girls.

  “Leave us a couple of guns and we should be all right,” Leslie answered.

  “Well, let’s get you tucked away, then,” Jake said.

  They got in their vehicles and drove through the remains of the tattered fencing meant to keep people out. The graffiti on the walls of the building indicated the fence’s lack of success. They entered a big opening, likely designed as an access door for forklifts. Inside, PVC piping jutted out of the crushed stone. It looked like they were almost ready for the first floor cement pour on the only section closed in. The place was huge with a few interior block walls erected at the west side that provided perfect cover and a great vantage point. Jake backed the cube van in. It would be totally hidden from anyone passing by.

  “Looks good, Jake.” Leslie exclaimed as everyone exited the big Econoline van. Cassandra grabbed some things for her and Christopher who still had not spoken. Leslie had plans to work on her story to take her mind off of what she knew would be a hellish wait.

  “Guns are in the van, Princess. Your dad’s Berretta, Browning Safari and his Remington shotgun, too.”

  “You all right with this, Mom?” Paul asked.

  “Leslie knows how to use the guns?” June asked.

  “The only one I haven’t fired is the Browning.”

  “That’s the one Jake bought your father?”

  “Yes,” Leslie answered, studying her mother’s face.

  “It’s a little heavy, Princess, but it’s a nice gun.”

  Jake took it out of the van to familiarize her with it. It was a Browning Safari 30.06 Springfield with Boss and a Bushnell Elite 3200 rifle scope. Nice gun was an understatement. It had a steel blue barrel with a high gloss walnut stock and intricate engravings.

  “Crossbolt safety with gas operated autoload. It’s loaded now with Federal premiums, and there’s more ammo in the black gym bag behind the driver’s seat. It’s got a boss system on it. Dial in that and the scope, and you can shoot nice tight groups. You all right with this Leslie?”

  “It’s like Dad’s old Remington.”

  “The Boss is different. The muzzle brake makes it a little loud. Less recoil, but it helps with accuracy.”

  “How’s it work?” asked Leslie.

  Jake held the gun and turned so she could look over his shoulder. “It’s already set to the sweet spot. Zeroed and set for the 180 grain Federal premiums, see?” Jake showed her the setting at the five.

  “Screws on like a silencer?”

  “Believe me, it’s not silent. This is what you want to cover the entrances, but this place looks good. No one will ever know you’re here.” He said extra loud for the kids benefit as he handed her the gun. “We won’t be long anyway.” Jake turned for one final inspection.

  “Jake Miller, don’t you take any chances you don’t need to,” June said.

  “Don’t worry June. It’s maybe an hour, hour and a bit there and back. Give us a little time to stock the van.”

  “Traffic was heavy heading south on 25,” Leslie said.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be back with enough food to stay out for a year.”

  The men turned and walked toward the van.

  “Jake!” said June sternly.

  “Yeah, yeah. I heard you.” Jake lowered his voice to Paul. “She’s just worried she’ll have to find a new bridge partner.”

  “I heard that, you old fool.”

  “Good. Then help us clean this van out.”

  No response.

  “She didn’t hear that, did she, kid?”

  Paul just laughed. “No comment Jake. I’m not touching that one.”

  “Thanks for the backup.”

  As they exited the building, June’s voice rang clear as a bell.

  “No unnecessary chances, Jake Miller. I want you two back in one piece.”

  Chapter 30

  Presbyterian Hospital stood to the east of Oak Street like a tortured nightmare. It had been one of four locations of the hospital in Albuquerque. The two red brick towers were heavily pock-marked from small arms fire, and smoke billowed from the single bank of blown out windows that ran up the center of the north tower. There was evidence of a massive internal blast that had knocked out a large section of supporting wall. The remains of a glass atrium sat perched on top of two structural steel arches between the towers, and shards of glass littered the roadway.

  Eight foot sections of Insta-fence topped with razor wire lined the west side of the building and several lifeless bodies lay within the confines of the fence. Nearby, a scorched truck had punched through the barrier, its driver’s charred hands still welded to the wheel.

  Jake and Paul just sat in the van, staring at the carnage. It all felt surreal, like they had stumbled into the middle of a movie set.

  Jake looked around and sighed. “Looks like the hospital was under quarantine.”

  Paul scratched his head and kicked at some bits of twisted metal on the ground. “This is bad. There was no mention of an outbreak in Albuquerque. How could we not have heard something about this?”

  Before Jake could answer, the sound of distant thunder echoed th
rough the empty streets, and they turned to see two military vehicles bearing down on them fast.

  The Humvees were under heavy fire and racing straight toward them. One had a communications dish on top, and the other a .50 caliber machine gun. The gunner, unprotected and vulnerable, fired rapid bursts at the heavily armed mob pursuing them.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Paul hit the gas.

  “Left! Hang a left!” Jake yelled bracing himself.

  Suspecting an ambush, the gunner swung around, and turned the Ma Deuce on them. Paul cranked the wheel hard left as bullets ripped through the van, piercing both sides like butter.

  That’s what we used to call a through and through, Jake thought`.

  Paul swung the van from side to side to counter, hitting several abandoned vehicles. He straightened up and stomped on the gas, accelerating down Central Avenue North West.

  Gunfire echoed in off the extensive concrete and steel underbelly of I-25 as the Humvees raced ahead of their pursuers flashing past the underpass in Paul’s side mirrors.

  “They coming?”

  “Don’t appear to be.” Jake turned to Paul, suddenly glad he’d been at the wheel. “Impressive driving.”

  Paul could only nod.

  “Where are we?”

  “Central Avenue.”

  The street was eerily quiet. It appeared that the population had fled or were hiding.

  “Reminds me of Sarajevo all blown to shit.”

  Jake nodded, “Brings back memories for me, too.”

  Paul continued to ease the van down Central Avenue.

  The roads were an obstacle course. Cars had been torched and abandoned, their blackened shells covered in soot. Restaurants and stores had been looted and firebombed, their furnishings strewn into the street. Some of the stores still smoldered and burned.

  “Try left, Paul. Let’s find 25 and get the hell out of this nightmare.”

  Paul was just starting his turn when he had to slam on the brakes. Just ahead, a Humvee lay on its side. It had been hit by a much larger delivery truck. A soldier was face down on the pavement, his desert cammo ACU’s shredded. There was a dark pool of blood seeping out around his lifeless body.