Ill Wind

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Yes, sir.” Bobby sat straight in his chair, watching the general. So what’s the point? This isn’t a social call.

  Bayclock continued. “In addition to upholding the law, I’ve got to care for these people, keep the place going in the long run. That means coordinating food expeditions, fixing waterlines, staying in contact with the President in case orders change.”

  “So, are communication lines open?” Bobby must have sounded incredulous, because Bayclock snorted.

  “The plague didn’t affect the electromagnetic spectrum, Lieutenant, just oil!” Bayclock rocked forward and pushed the paper to Bobby. Bobby caught it as the sheet spun off the edge of the metal surplus desk. “In fact, we’ve intercepted some messages from White Sands coming across the FEMA emergency network.”

  Intercepted? thought Bobby, keeping a stone straight face. That was the most important thing he had learned in all his military training—how to smother his reactions. This guy sounded as if he was at war!

  “Somehow they’ve reestablished full electrical power down there, using it to run their water pumps. Water pumps! Do you have any idea how many of my people it takes to pump water up from this damned aquifer we’re sitting on top of? That’s a major part of that manpower drain I was talking about. People are getting away with murder because good military personnel are pumping water instead of patrolling the city.

  “Now, White Sands is technically under my jurisdiction, and the President has reconfirmed it. We’re all in this mess together, and if those wizards have managed to get back on their feet by producing electricity, then I need it.”

  Bobby Carron sat in his chair like a statue, ignoring the pain in his leg and ribs. Shadows in the room highlighted the intensity in Bayclock’s face. He had seen a few squirrelly commanders before, but Bayclock seemed to think he was Napoleon of the Apocalypse!

  “I can’t trust any of the damned civilians to head up this expedition—the scientists at Sandia Albuquerque turned tail and deserted their labs at the first sign of a riot; my Phillips Lab troops aren’t much better. I haven’t been able to reach the enclave of researchers up at Los Alamos, and I’ve never trusted those bomb designers anyway. But down in White Sands they’ve made a little Atlantis for themselves.”

  The general cracked his knuckles one at a time. It sounded like someone snapping twigs—or neckbones.

  “I need someone I can trust, Lieutenant Carron—an operator who’s used to working alone and can function when things get tough. In short, I need a fighter pilot.” Bayclock drew himself up, setting his mouth. “When I took this command, I saw it as an opportunity to instill some of the esprit that pilots have… you know, the sense of duty that comes from being in an operational fighter unit. These scientists and nonrated pukes have a warped sense of duty, more allegiance to their profession than to the overall mission.”

  Bayclock looked suddenly tired, as if the effects of his orders wore at him. “I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or not, Lieutenant. I just met you, but I know you wouldn’t be flying fighters unless you had the right stuff, even if you did join the Navy instead of the Air Force.” He smiled wearily.

  “A colleague of mine once said, ‘There’s two types of people in this world: fighter pilots and weenies.’ Well, I’m surrounded by weenies. What I need is a fighter pilot to head up an expedition to White Sands, then return here with a report.”

  Bobby tried to keep the astonishment off his face. The events of the past few weeks swam through his mind—waking up in the ravaged hospital, the execution of looters, seeing the full effects of the petroplague…. The general probably thought Bobby would be apprehensive about leaving the “security” of a city under martial law.

  Bobby saw it as an opportunity to get away from this insanity, but he knew it would be the worst thing in the world for him to show his eagerness. He stood and reached across Bayclock’s desk, extending his hand. “General, you’ve got your man. Where do I sign up?”

  * * *

  The horses kept to the side of Interstate 40 east out of Albuquerque, paralleling old Route 66 in the pass between the Sandia and Manzano mountains. The spongy asphalt highway was too soft to bear any weight, and the horses clopped along on the shoulder. Each rider carried several dozen liters of water along with their food rations.

  Beside Bobby at the front of the five-person expedition, his assigned escort—a stout, gruff sergeant named Catilyn Morris—had not spoken in an hour. Three scientists trailed behind—two from Sandia’s Albuquerque Labs and one from the Air Force’s Phillips Lab—who would study the White Sands power generators and take back whatever components the general might need in Albuquerque.

  The horses walked through the pass. Boulders littered the sides of the barren hill, sloping up on either side like a giant brown funnel that had been cut in half and laid on its side. Although he had lived at barren China Lake for the past two years, Bobby still missed to the thick trees in Virginia where he had grown up, the ocean, and humidity. This seemed like an alien landscape.

  Bobby turned to the taciturn woman sergeant beside him. Catilyn Morris was a helicopter mechanic who had flown many times along the corridor to White Sands. Her blond hair was clipped short, accenting her stout frame and full hips. She stood no taller than five feet, but she rode high in the saddle, confident.

  “Seems like we’re making good time,” Bobby said. “How long do you think it’ll take to get to White Sands?”

  Sergeant Morris didn’t look at him as she answered; she kept scanning the road in front of them. “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Lots of things.”

  Bobby felt a flash of annoyance. “Look, Sergeant, I don’t want to play Twenty Questions—”

  She interrupted him by holding up a hand. “Wait up.” She slowed her horse and placed a hand against her revolver. It glistened from her cleaning, polishing, and refurbishing.

  Bobby pulled back on the reins. He started to speak, then he glimpsed several figures scrambling down the sides of the hill. They were dressed in dusty jeans, threadbare shirts; some of them tried to take advantage of the brush cover, while others didn’t care if they were seen. They all carried sticks, crowbars, or unwieldy knives. It took them only a minute to spread out in a line, blocking the highway fifty yards ahead. Bobby counted fifteen men. Half were teenagers.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” said Arnie, one of the scientists behind them. “What do they think they’re doing?”

  Sergeant Morris turned in the saddle. “It’s your game, Lieutenant Carron. The rest of you keep quiet.”

  “Thanks,” muttered Bobby. He left his rifle in the holster at the back of the saddle, not ready to pull it out yet.

  One of the men stepped toward them. Bearded and balding, his patchy skin peeled from sunburn. The man stopped twenty yards away. He held a long iron bar like a swagger stick in his left hand. “Where you folks headed?”

  Bobby wondered if the man was going to ask for a toll to use the road. He turned at the crunch of gravel and saw five more people come up behind them, blocking their return.

  “White Sands. I’m Lieutenant Carron, representing General Bayclock at Kirtland.” Maybe the general’s bloodthirsty tactics would scare these people off.

  “You’re going the wrong way. White Sands is due south.”

  “So is Laguna Pueblo. We’re respecting Native American land. There’s been some trouble down there.”

  The man grinned. “Good for you, Lieutenant. Still, a long way to carry your own food and water. I don’t think you’re going to make it. Your horses would fare better here, I’m sure.”

  “We’ll resupply at Clines Corners before turning south. The general authorized us to exchange some supply chits, redeemable at Kirtland.”

  “Redeemable at Kirtland?” The man roared as the rest of the group broke out in chuckles. “So Generalissimo Bayclock is going to let people walk into Albuquerque and pick up food? Well, then. You won’t mind donating some chits to mak
e sure you get through the pass? For protection, you understand.”

  Bobby drew himself up. This was weirdly medieval. “The chits aren’t for passage. We’re an official military expedition, operating under martial law. I’ll ask you gentlemen to allow us to pass, or face the consequences.”

  The men laughed among themselves. The bearded man stepped closer. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Lieutenant. I was asking for a donation. If you can include a couple of these horses, and some of your supplies along with the chits, we’ll help you along.” He spoke softly and stared at Bobby.

  As he approached, he seemed to notice Sergeant Morris for the first time. His eyes widened. “So what are you, missie, his protection? You’re probably worth more than a horse, aren’t you?”

  Sergeant Morris pulled out her revolver. The man grinned. “You military types haven’t used those guns for a while, have you?” He puffed up as he walked, changing his path from Bobby to Catilyn. “What makes you so sure they’ll work?”

  Bobby raised his voice. “This is your final warning.”

  The man ignored him. He was within five yards when Sergeant Morris calmly brought the revolver up. She aimed at his crotch and glanced at Bobby; Bobby nodded, and she clicked off a round. The explosion of the gun echoed off the bare boulders.

  The man grabbed at his groin and fell, screaming. The others in the mob stood in shock, uncertain what to do.

  Bobby yanked out his rifle and moved it from side to side. The men took a hurried step back. Bobby raised his voice over the man’s screaming. “Anyone else?” He flipped off the safety.

  The men murmured and made an opening for them. Bobby pointed his rifle at a teenage boy nearest the road. “Help your friend—Kirtland hospital will do what they can. The rest of you listen up! What goes on up here is your business, but down in the city, you’re under martial law. That law extends to any military personnel traveling through this pass.” He held up his rifle. “Our weapons still work just fine. Remember that next time.”

  Bobby motioned with his head for Sergeant Morris and the three wide-eyed scientists to follow at a fast trot. “Move it.”

  They rode the horses through the opening made by the bandits. Behind them, the scavengers muttered in indecision, the wounded man screamed on the ground. Bobby and Sergeant Morris kept their weapons leveled.

  They didn’t speak until they left the group far behind. Soon, the rustling of their horses moving along the dusty roadside was the only sound. After another ten minutes, they rounded a curve to where the steep mountain pass opened up to show the eastern valley spreading out in front of them. Bobby could see mountains on the horizon, eighty miles away. Below them, the skeletal interstate highway wound through foothills. He saw a small town off in the distance.

  Sergeant Morris turned and spoke her first unsolicited words to him. “You handled that nicely, Lieutenant.”

  Bobby felt his shoulders sag with the release of tension. He gulped, feeling a sour taste claw his throat. “Nice shot yourself.” He yanked back on the reins, pulling the horse to a stop. Leaning over, he vomited.

  Sergeant Morris came around. “You all right, sir?”

  Bobby heaved once more, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He struggled to sit upright in the saddle. “Now I am. Just getting prepped for the exciting part of this trip.”

  Chapter 56

  The ranchhouse sat alone at the far end of a winding dirt driveway. Penned in by a barbed-wire fence, sheep grazed among the scrub around the house. Beside the house a 19th-century windmill stood motionless, waiting for a breeze so it could pump water from deep beneath the high desert.

  Heather Dixon shifted the neon pink backpack on her shoulders. She brushed a hand across her forehead to wipe sweat and road dust away. The sun pounded down on them as she and Connor trudged up the long drive, leaving imprints from their hiking boots in the dirt.

  Connor insisted that Heather take her own turn carrying the pack. He kept time on his watch, making sure that he didn’t do a minute more work than she did. Equality at its best, he called it. Heather wanted to carry her own weight, but he didn’t have to be so nit-picky about it. Instead of the pack, Connor carried the shotgun and the big hunting knife.

  “We can get some water up there,” she said, “maybe some food.”

  Connor’s face had been sunburned, but it didn’t seem to bother him. The ruddy change in his skin gave him a rugged appearance. He hadn’t shaved, but his beard was pale like his blond hair, making him look like a California beach bum. “I could use a shower too.” Connor winked at her. “Like to join me? I had fun the last time we took one.”

  Heather answered him with a forced laugh, and turned away. Over the hard days of walking she had rapidly grown tired of Connor Brooks. She began to regret going with him at all, wandering on this aimless trek across the southwest, moving eastward with no destination in mind.

  The sex had been good, one of the better parts of the whole experience. Lying under the stars, camping wherever they felt like, and totally free for the first time in her life—without a job to go back to, not caring about the social conventions that had tangled up her life. But lately even making love with Connor had become unpleasant, as if it was now expected of her, instead of being spontaneous.

  Connor called them the “Bonnie and Clyde of the apocalypse,” and his goofy routine grated on her. The look in his eyes and the hidden focus of his thoughts scared her. She realized just how alone she was with him day after day.

  Long before they reached the ranchhouse, Heather heard a dog start barking. She could see the big black mutt tied to the windmill frame by a long rope. The dog was shaggy, mostly sheepdog but with a dash of Labrador and German Shepherd. The dog barked and barked, but Heather detected no growling menace. After the petroplague, it probably saw few strangers.

  Connor walked beside her carrying the shotgun as if he thought it made him invincible.

  The front door opened, and a woman emerged; her open-mouthed smile was like a flower unfolding. She was in her late thirties with her hair tied in an unflattering ponytail. Her clothes had the worn broad-strokes appearance of homemade garments. The woman’s face lit up like a full moon, making her eyes seem small but bright. “Hello! Can we help you?”

  Connor, playing his part of tough guy and asshole, stepped forward. He lowered his voice intentionally, like some kind of vigilante. “We came to take food and water.”

  Heather shifted her pink backpack. She smiled at the woman. “Can you spare some?”

  A second woman stepped out, looking wary. She had hovered just behind the other in the darkness of the house, watching and listening. This woman, perhaps a year or two older, wore similar clothes. Her face was gaunt, as if someone had nipped and tucked and tightened her expression over the years. She gave both Connor and Heather a wary look. “We’ve got a little.”

  Connor craned his head, squinting to look through the shadows of the doorway. “So where’s the man of the house?”

  The good-natured woman piped up, “He’s returning from temple in Salt Lake City.”

  The gaunt woman answered simultaneously, “He’s out back.”

  Connor snorted, ignoring the obvious lie. Turning to the good-natured woman, he said, “In Utah?” He pronounced it U-taw. “At temple? What are you, Aztecs or something?”

  Heather glared at him and muttered, “They’re Mormons, stupid.”

  “Mormons?” Connor straightened up and let out a guffaw. “So, these must be the guy’s two wives.” He laughed again.

  The gaunt woman snapped, “Shelda’s my sister.”

  “Hey,” Connor said looking to Heather with an expression of concentration on his face, “aren’t Mormons supposed to keep a year’s supply of everything? In case of emergencies. They must have plenty to share.”

  The gaunt woman eased back toward the house, vanishing into the shadows. Heather knew she was going to go for a hidden weapon. Connor jerked up the shotgun in a frightening, smooth m
ovement and pointed it toward the doorway.

  The dog, its protective instincts suddenly ignited, went wild, barking and straining to the edge of its rope.

  Connor pointed the shotgun at the animal as if extending a finger at a recalcitrant child and squeezed the trigger. The explosion echoed around the ranch yard and the dog flew backward into the air, its side ripped open by the scatter blast of the shotgun pellets. It tangled two legs into the rope as it somersaulted and lay in a bloodied heap in the dusty yard.

  A smothering silence fell. Everyone stood transfixed. The old windmill, finally stirred by a breeze, creaked and turned twice then fell still.

  Heather stared at Connor, not knowing what to say. The gun was so loud. This was the first time he had actually fired it, for all the threatening and blustering he had done over the past few days. It smelled foul and sulfurous.

  Connor’s face took on a pinched, calculating look. “Maybe we should just stay, Heather. This place has everything we need, and I’m sick of hiking everywhere.” He laughed. “Go on ladies, get your tennis shoes on. You’ve got a lot of walking to do.”

  Heather put her hands on her hips, refusing to let him see her fear. “Connor, cut it out!” She grabbed at the shotgun, but he snatched it away, glaring at her.

  The moon-faced woman fell to her knees on the porch. She kept staring at the motionless dog bleeding into the dust.

  The gaunt woman reappeared, her eyes as wide as coins. She gripped the door frame but she didn’t move a muscle.

  Connor spoke to Heather while keeping the shotgun trained on the women. “What’s your problem? We’ve been trudging around this state like scavengers, and these bitches are sitting fat and cushy on a year’s worth of food. It’s our turn! We deserve a bit of convenience for a change. I thought you wanted to get back at the people who stepped all over you your whole life.”

  Heather’s words came out quieter than she intended. “These people never did anything to me.”

  “Well then let’s get that Al Sysco you keep complaining about.” He dropped the barrel of the shotgun and pointed toward the ladies’ feet. “I can make him dance like in an old cowboy movie. Pow, pow, pow!”