by Jason Frost
"That's south. We came in from the west."
She pointed west. "Right. I meant there."
"Uh-huh. There haven't been any cougars there in years. They moved north toward the mountains."
"They must be making a comeback."
He gave her a look.
She bristled. "Hey, Eric, you don't have to live with the fucking Hopi Indians to know a cougar when you see one. Big tail, pointed ears, claws the size of garden rakes. Yeah, it's a cougar."
"They're called pumas, not cougars."
"Whatever. Still rip your heart out."
He nodded and she gave him a triumphant smile.
"I'm just going for a quick look around. Be back in an hour."
That was four hours ago.
Eric had circled Fallows's camp, counting men, studying defenses, etching a mental map into his brain. Everything according to plan. Until he'd seen Timmy.
He'd had to get closer. Timmy's thirteenth birthday had been last week. The first birthday Eric hadn't been with him. Now, after three months as the captive of the man who'd butchered his mother and sister, Timmy was standing only a hundred yards away.
Eric was tempted to just dash in, grab the boy and run out again. But he knew they'd both be cut down within seconds. He had to swallow his emotion, jam it back somewhere deep inside where it wouldn't interfere.
But looking at Timmy touched something he couldn't protect. The boy's face was pale, the eyes dark, hollow. Not from malnutrition. If anything he'd even gained weight. But there was something in the walk, a bit of a swagger now. And the mouth, pressed into a mean sneer. Gone was the gentleness in the eyes, the quick smile, the whooping laugh of his mother. Instead he was starting to resemble the cruel soldiers he was living among. My God, starting to look a little like Dirk Fallows.
Eric struggled to think of some way to get a message to Timmy, some warning to be ready. At least assure him that Eric hadn't forgotten him. But there was no safe way.
Eric watched from the brush, suddenly startled by a drop on his cheek. Immediately he looked up, fearing rain, but realizing with some surprise it was his own tears. He hadn't shed a single tear since Annie's and Jenny's deaths. Had tried to kill that part of him, that feeling part, until Timmy was freed. But there it was anyway, damn.
They'd spotted him almost by accident. Three of Fallows's troops were chasing one of the girls they'd bought the day before from some roughneck camp. The girl was maybe twenty-three, twenty pounds overweight, with short, stringy hair. Naked. She ran, waddled really, through the woods, thorny branches clawing her pale skin raw. The men ran after her, laughing and squealing like pigs. One of them had her panties stretched over his Padres baseball cap, the leg openings hooked around his ears.
"Here, sweetie," he yelled. "Oink, oink."
She kept running, her mouth open and gasping for air, her chubby legs wobbly. Finally she collapsed into the dirt.
The three men stood around her laughing. The one with the panties on his head reached down, pinched one of her nipples, and yanked her by the nipple to her feet.
"P-please," she sobbed. "Please."
One of them grinned. "Christ, Roy, she's beggin' for it. Beggin'."
"Well, now, I told you I had a way with women. I guess she ain't never known somebody with as much imagination as me. Hell, 'tween the three of us, we showed her more combinations than a fuckin' bank vault." He tugged the bill of his cap lower. "Hey, honey, you ever see that movie Deliverance?"
"W-what?"
He twisted her nipple hard and she screamed. "Deliverance, you fat sow."
"I saw it, Roy," one of the others said. "Burt Reynolds. Son of a bitch can act."
"Well, there's a scene in there we're gonna act out right here, just the four of us. Right, fatty?" He twisted her nipple again.
"Yes! Yes!"
He smiled. "Good. Now get down on your knees like a good little sow."
She was sobbing hysterically now.
Roy jabbed his shotgun butt into her flabby stomach and she doubled over, grabbing her stomach as she dropped to her knees, sobbing. Mucus puffed from her nostrils.
"Yccch. You really are a pig." Roy handed his shotgun to one of the others and began unfastening his pants, pulling them down over his hips. He wore no underwear and his skin was even paler than the girl's, but with red sores all over his buttocks.
Eric watched, breathing silently through his mouth. This really had nothing to do with him. He was here for one thing, to get Timmy. Anything he might do to help that girl would only risk his life and therefore Timmy's. That was unacceptable. Besides, whatever happens would have happened anyway.
Roy let his pants puddle around his ankles while he hopped closer to the sobbing girl. He took off his hat and whacked her twice across her naked backside. "Quit moving, damn it!" He handed his hat to the same guy holding his shotgun. "Here, Greene. I always take my hat off in the presence of a lady."
"You got real manners, Roy," the other guy said.
"Dobbs, I got manners up the wazoo. Come here, you fat little watermelon. Quit yer bawlin'."
There was a sudden tearing sound, like a zipper being opened too fast. Then Roy yelled, spun around, his eyes huge with pain and fear. The crossbow bolt had drilled through his lower back, scraping his spinal column, severing a few important nerves on the way, and poked out of his abdomen a few inches below his navel. Roy staggered a couple steps, gaping at the bloody tip as if it were an alien invader. Then he grabbed the tip with both hands and pulled it all the way through his body. "Bastard!" he cried, staggering toward Eric on shaky legs, kicking at the pants around his ankles, holding the dripping arrow over his head like a spear. "I'll… kill… you." He pitched face forward into a thorny bush. Dead.
Greene and Dobbs didn't hesitate. They began hollering for others from camp, dropping to the ground as they aimed their weapons. Stanley Greene pumped a few twelve-gauge rounds at the tree Eric had been hiding behind, but by then Eric was gone.
And they were on his trail.
Now it was dark, and Eric was soaking. He folded a green leaf in his mouth to muffle his chattering teeth. He'd killed one, and they'd killed one, but there were six left. And at least three hand grenades.
He had to move slowly, stay alert. These guys weren't amateurs. Most had military backgrounds, a few were ex-cops. All had been trained by Dirk Fallows, and that was the most dangerous part of all.
Eric twisted through the brush, toeing aside crispy leaves and twigs, ducking branches. Each movement had to be carefully choreographed, each muscle disciplined to move with painful slowness. There was no room for error, no place for impatience. Only the right moves. The kind of moves that had kept him alive in 'Nam.
When he stood still, he could hear a faint rustling or a distant snap. He smiled grimly. The distance between them was increasing. With any luck, he might even be able to dodge them altogether before he gathered up Tracy.
Once he made it through the woods, there was a field of grass that curved over the hill toward Santa Carlotta. Immediately to the west was a jagged ridge with a forty-foot drop that formed the new coastline of California. The old one, originally two miles further west, was now underwater.
Eric studied the sky. No point in trying to read stars. The Long Beach Halo that domed the island of California seemed thicker than usual tonight. There was a pale smudge overhead, that would be the moon. But it offered no light. The Halo was like an overly protective parent tonight. Lights out and early to bed.
Eric crouched low and scrambled across the field, moving with such easy grace that he barely ruffled the long grass. His black crossbow was clutched in both hands, ready.
It wasn't too far to Tracy's camp now and he was sure he'd increased the margin between Fallows's men and him. But he was also sure they'd spot his tracks through the grass and follow. He knew how bad Fallows wanted him.
He ran faster, still keeping his head down, but only in a half crouch now, his legs thrashing through the fie
ld like a tractor.
He was moving so fast he almost missed it. That noise. Someone walking. Someone in front.
He lifted the crossbow as he straightened, his finger tightening against the trigger.
Until he felt the gun barrel thrust against his cheek.
"Oh, it's you," Tracy said, grinning. "I thought you were a puma."
The first grenade exploded about twenty-five feet away.
Tracy and Eric were knocked to the ground but were otherwise undamaged.
Tracy stirred, lifting her head and brushing the clods of dirt from her hair. "What the-"
"Visitors," Eric explained, pulling her to her feet.
They ran without looking back. Tracy's usual limp was hardly noticeable now. Twice they heard the metallic stuttering of semiautomatic firing, but the bullets plowed harmlessly through the field.
Then they heard Dobbs screaming. "Next asshole wastes bullets I'm gonna fucking kill myself!"
At the edge of the field, Tracy tripped over a rusty irrigation pipe, rolled forward and was back on her feet and running without missing a beat.
"Nice," Eric said.
"I was on the '80 Olympics gymnastic team. Broke my heart when we couldn't go to Moscow. Didn't I mention it?"
Eric shook his head as he ran. Christ. But he couldn't help smiling.
"There's a road through there." Tracy pointed. "When you didn't come back, I followed it to come looking for you."
"Where's it go?"
"I dunno. Into town I think."
"We'll find out."
They slid down the embankment to the road, a narrow two-lane strip with most of the blacktop split and crumbled where the road had buckled during the quakes.
"Careful," he said as they hopped and dodged the huge chunks of macadam. Eric noticed that plants had already started growing in the highway's holes. In a year or two, the road would be completely grown over.
Tracy tapped him on the shoulder and nodded at the road sign. SANTA CARLOTTA, 2 MILES.
"You make it?" he asked, nodding at her bad hip.
"A cinch."
They fell into a rhythmic jogging pattern, making about seven minute miles. Occasionally Tracy would lag a step or two, but then she'd churn her arms and be right back up with him. She kept her mouth clenched and forced herself to keep breathing through her nose, just the way he'd taught her. When they'd first started out together in search of Timmy, she'd hardly been able to walk two miles without frequent rests. Then she'd been shot in the hip by that pirate, Rhino, leaving her with a limp. At first she'd needed a cane. Now she was running ten or twenty miles at a clip. And on the really long runs, if the pace was slow enough, she had better endurance than Eric. It didn't bother Eric. He was proud of her.
They could hear the clomping of the six pairs of combat boots crunching along behind them, maybe a half mile away. Fortunately the road was wooded on both sides and curvy enough to keep them from having a clear shot. The darkness helped, too.
Directly ahead, the modest storefronts and one-story homes began to appear in their neat little rows.
"Hometown, USA," Tracy said.
"Not anymore." Eric slowed down enough to take it all in. The collapsed porches, the broken windows, the sunken buildings. About half of the buildings were still somewhat intact, but the rest looked as if they'd been stepped on by some careless giant.
Behind them the clomping of boots grew louder.
"Come on." Eric continued jogging down the main street, around overturned cars, rusting bicycles, parched white bones.
"Cats?" Tracy asked, staring at the bones.
"Too large."
"Dogs?"
"Still too large."
"Shit."
He guided her across the street, passed the storefronts with their glassless windows. A Bob's Big Boy restaurant was nestled between a Christian bookstore and a sporting goods store. Most of the books still rested neatly on the shelves of the bookstore, but the sporting goods store was stripped bare, the glass showcases smashed, the shelves torn down. The window facing the street of the Bob's Big Boy was also shattered, a few jagged pieces stuck in the frame. On the Formica table just inside the window was a scattering of bones. One was obviously a human skull.
"Definitely not puma," Tracy said.
Eric dragged her along the sidewalks, jumping over debris, overturned newspaper stands, abandoned furniture that had been thrown off cars and trucks as people scrambled to escape with whatever they could, not yet realizing that the whole state was cut off from the rest of the world.
"In here," he said, shouldering open the stubborn door to the Presidential Hotel. The lobby was small. A plain wooden counter with cubicles for room keys and messages dominated half the room. The other half had a gift shop, but whatever gifts had once been in there were gone. The back of the lobby had a large, ornate stairway that lead to the rooms upstairs.
"All right, you dinks," Dobbs barked at his men as they entered the town. "No need trying to be subtle about this. They know we're here and We know they're here. So we track 'em down, box 'em in, and then, and only then, we blow their fuckin' heads into stuffed cabbage. OK?"
"Upstairs," Eric whispered.
Tracy nodded.
They climbed the staircase carefully, unsure of its strength, especially after seeing so many collapsed buildings. But it seemed solid enough as they captured each step, easing their weight forward, waiting for their foot to crash through the wood and give them away.
The doors were all closed upstairs. A couple of rats darted between their legs, running for safety at the other end of the hall.
Eric pulled Tracy close. "They'll search this place sooner or later. But at least from here we have the high ground and some cover. With some luck and in this dark, we might be able to take them. Or at least enough of them to make the others reconsider."
"Take them? You don't really believe that, do you?"
"Yes," he said.
She shrugged. "I like my lies better."
Eric pushed open the door. The room was even darker than the outside. But his night vision was excellent and he made his way across the room to the window without stepping on anything. Tracy held onto the crossbow slung over his shoulder, following his steps.
"Christ," she said, shuddering. "Look."
Huddled in the corner was a nest of rats, fat as opposums. There were at least four of them, but bunched together like that in the dark, it was hard to tell. They didn't bother to run, just twitched their noses at the intruders and continued burrowing in the corners.
"Don't worry about them," Eric said. "It's the rats outside we got to keep an eye on." He unslung the crossbow from his back and rested it against the wall. He drew the Walther P.38 from his waistband.
"I never saw so many goddamn bones," one of the men outside said. "Piles of 'em everywhere."
"What're you, a fuckin' archaeologist?" Dobbs said. "You wanna study bones, let's catch Ravensmith and his bitch first. Then you can jump her bones."
A few of them laughed.
Dobbs stood in the middle of the street, leaning against an overturned Toyota. He was pretending to rest, but Eric could see his eyes sweeping the stores, searching. Even if he saw Eric he probably wouldn't tip. He'd just keep standing there, leaning, probably yawn. Then in a couple of minutes he'd gather them up and tell them real loud to move on to the next street. Within five minutes the place he'd spotted Eric would be nothing but dust and rubble. Yeah, Eric decided, Dobbs knew what he was doing.
Across the street was an empty lot. The huge banner stretched across the whole lot, attached to a small white trailer on cinder blocks. The sign read: SANTA CARLOTTA'S CAR LOT. LOTTA CARS, LOTTA DEALS, LOTTA FINANCING. 12.9%. NOT USED, JUST EXPERIENCED.
A couple of Dobbs's men stood there scratching their heads. Eric gauged the distance. The window had no glass, so that was no obstacle. He waved Tracy away from the window, pivoting away himself. He checked his bow, made sure the bolt was snug against the stri
ng, took a deep breath, hinged around in front of the window long enough to fire the arrow, then swung to the other side next to Tracy.
"Unngh." The grunt was loud enough to carry across the street.
The man standing next to Eric's target began to shout. "Shit! Shit, man. He got Hiller. Hiller's fucking down."
Eric peeked around the edge of the window, saw Dobbs drop to the ground and wedge his body close to the Toyota, his M-16 pointing at no place in particular. "Drew?"
"Yeah?"
"What's Hiller's status?"
"His status? Dead, man. That's his status. A fucking arrow in his chest."
"Where'd it come from?"
"I dunno. We were just standing there, figuring where to look next. Then, zing, Hiller's trying to yank this arrow outta his chest. Jesus."
"That leaves five," Eric told Tracy.
"Right. And two of us."
"Hey, Drew?" Dobbs again.
"Yeah?"
"The arrow. How'd it go into his chest?"
"How? Through his heart, that's how."
"No, you dink, I mean the angle. What kinda angle? Up, down, sideways?"
"I dunno."
"Check."
Silence.
Eric cocked the bow and slid in another bolt. He aimed at Drew who was crawling out from under the trailer, bellying along the twelve yards of gravel between his cover and his dead buddy. He fired.
The bolt sank into Drew's back between the shoulder blades. He could see Drew squirming as he tried to reach behind his back to pluck the arrow free. He died trying.
Suddenly the window sill exploded in a clamor of splinters and dust.
"Up there!" Dobbs shouted, firing another blast of bullets through the window.
The rats shrieked out a protest, but didn't move. However it came out, they'd eat well.
"Oops," Tracy said.
Eric shrugged. "It was a matter of time before they figured out where we were. At least now there's only four left."
