“You’ll figure it out!” Griz said and nodded at Scratch. They both ripped their doors open and wind filled the plane, making it shudder. Gunny made one last check of Stabby’s gear before shouldering his parachute and shoving him out the door after a screaming Bridget. He and Griz exchanged a grin as they leapt free of the plane and out into the open sky. They had jumped at about five thousand feet, plenty of time for the chutes to deploy and they would even have a few minutes to enjoy the scenery, maybe try to spot a camp or a car or something. The canopies bloomed and Bridget had stopped screaming, Hollywood was playing with his riser cords and figuring out how to steer. The plane continued its slow descent, loosing altitude faster than them for a time then it seemed to stop, went into a spiraling dive and they watched as it plummeted into the ground in an awful crunching explosion of flying debris.
It was quiet in the air as they floated down, normal conversation could be had even though they were hundreds of feet apart. Scratch pulled his riser and swung under Griz, stealing his air and causing his chute to start to collapse. He laughed maniacally as Griz cursed him and ran along the top of Scratch’s parachute to jump off and back out into the open air to fill his canopy back up. There was nothing like almost dying to make you feel alive. Stabby and Bridget both were starting to relax a little and enjoy the ride but the ground was coming up fast.
“Bridget, Lars! Gunny raised his voice to be heard over the laughing and cursing. “Right before you land pull down hard on these.”
He pointed out the handles attached to the risers, then demonstrated. His descent slowed and suddenly he was above them. “It’ll slow you down so you don’t break a leg. Avoid the rock, try to aim for the sand.”
Scratch was below them, going in circles around Griz but before he could cause any more mischief, he had to break off and find a good spot to land. Rocks and bushes and cactus dotted the soil. There was no wind so Gunny didn’t tell the two beginners about the release buckles to collapse their chutes once they landed. He didn’t want to complicate matters and maybe have them pulled in the confusion. He aimed for the dirt road cutting through the scrub, flared out and ran a few steps before gathering in the cords, collapsing the canopy.
“Next time, I’m just gonna slash your lines.” Griz threatened Scratch who was still giggling at the scare he’d given the big man.
Gunny looked off in the distance at the plane wreckage. There was no fire and the dust cloud it had sent pluming into the air was already dissipated. He didn’t know if that was good or bad. The raiders didn’t have a column of smoke from a fire to follow and find them but if the raiders didn’t find them, then they couldn’t set up an ambush and get a few vehicles. They had the stealth advantage, they’d hear anyone coming and see a cloud they churned up for miles. They’d have plenty of time to set up a trap and eliminate the raiders. Without a smoke trail though, the raiders would never find them. There would be no ambush. No air-conditioned trucks and bottle of water.
It was a long hike to anywhere, he hadn’t seen anything resembling civilization before he jumped. He wasn’t even sure exactly where they were except somewhere deep in a wilderness area. The middle of nowhere. At least there was a dirt path to follow, it had to lead somewhere. Maybe to a ranger station.
It was still early in May, the heat wouldn’t be too harsh, but it was well up into the eighties and he was already starting to sweat. Staying hydrated would become an issue. They were nearly a mile up when they bailed out and he hadn’t spotted any paved roads or houses. At five thousand feet, visibility on clear day was at least twenty, maybe thirty miles.
“Did anyone see anything?” he asked, pulling his knife and slicing pieces from the parachute to make a head covering. “A car, an RV, anything?”
Griz shook his head as he cut lengths of cord from the risers, coiling them in long loops to throw over one shoulder.
“We were heading towards Phoenix.” Bridget said. “We were in the air almost thirty minutes. Lars, you know how far we came?”
“How fast were we going, Stabby?” he asked, cutting his own bandannas from the colorful parachute.
“About one fifty, most of the time.” he answered
“Then eighty or ninety miles at the most.” he replied.
“I’ve hauled a lot of freight across the I-eight corridor.” Griz said. “It’s about two hundred miles from Mexicali to Phoenix so we’re at least half way there as a crow flies.”
They were in a wide valley between two mountain ranges with nothing but a dry creek bed, scruffy brush and a dirt road that didn’t have any tire prints on it. The sun was beating down mercilessly and there was no shade anywhere. Bridget was putting on sunscreen and offered the bottle around, everyone dabbing their cheeks, noses and foreheads.
“We’ll keep heading north.” Gunny said. “I saw a flash of light up towards those mountains. Might be a tin roof, maybe a camper or ranger outpost. Let’s hike up there. It can’t be more than eight or ten miles, maybe we’ll find something. If not, at least there will be some shade and we’ll start traveling at night. Agreed?”
Griz nodded and slipped his blade back in its sheath, wrapped his head with the strip of canopy. It had been a while, it had been a lot of years and he’d been quite a few pounds lighter but he’d hiked farther under harsher conditions. It was all mind over matter. He glanced over to Bridget and Stabby, the only two who hadn’t run up and down Agony and Misery at Fort Knox or any of the other aptly named PT courses at various military bases. They might be the weak links and they’d soon find out what they were made of. The trek that lay ahead was going to test their limits. He had a plastic emergency blanket in one of the pockets in his vest, Gunny probably did too. There were scattered plants around so they could dig a hole and make a solar still if it came to that, they’d be able to get water if they had to walk a hundred miles. At least they were all wearing sturdy boots, scorpions shouldn’t be a problem and rattlesnakes would be hiding under the rocks in the shade.
6
Jessie
Jessies danger alarm never quite went off entirely. He didn’t trust her and even though they laughed as they drank, told stories of their childhoods and happier memories of happier times, he tried to keep his guard up. He wasn’t going to let her drink him under the table, even if he had to cheat and pour some out when she wasn’t looking. He wasn’t above being duplicitous if his life was part of the gamble. He didn’t have to, though. He had a good forty pounds on her and he was well on his way to being healed while her body still raged and fought against the injection he’d given her. They sampled all the whiskeys and liquors, emptying them one by one. The hours passed and by afternoon, she was sloshed. Not that he wasn’t, even to the point of peeing off the porch instead of stumbling inside but she was in the same state, probably worse.
He learned a lot about her, about her child hood growing up without friends, most of it in foreign countries. She could speak three languages and it was exotic and melodious when she sang. Her singing voice was clear even if her speaking voice was a little slurred. She named the mangy looking cat Nefertiti because it had a damaged eye from a long ago fight and she crooned Persian lullaby’s as she brushed its hair.
They drank and talked, getting to know each other and Jessie slowly relaxed. He forgot to think of her as an adversary and when she started talking about her father and all he had built, she did it with equal parts pride and sadness. They had saved a lot of people, they had reverse engineered the virus and created a remarkable drug but things had changed. She didn’t like where the movement was headed. They should be working together with other settlements, with Lakota and the Tower, not trying to destroy them and control them.
“Why can’t we all just get along?” she’d asked, stroking the cat. “Like Bob and Nefertiti? You two are friends, right? Zombies walk the earth but cats and dogs can live together. Why can’t people?”
The spirits made her introspective and sad. There was a melancholy surrounding her like three sha
des of black, she mourned what she had done to help the new religion become so strong. In the beginning, it had been necessary. Now it was an out of control juggernaut and those on the inside couldn’t see the farce it had become. It was never meant to be blood sacrifices and fat old men having sex with teenagers. Thousands of years ago that might have been normal but she couldn’t come to grips with it. She didn’t want it to happen. Why couldn’t they be more like Lakota and try to rebuild the world instead of tearing it down?
Jessie listened as she spoke, as she railed against what the religion was becoming, her words becoming more and more slurred. He’d been trying to roll a cigarette for a long time, his fumbling fingers unable to coordinate enough to get enough of the tobacco in and roll the paper without tearing it or spilling it out. Scarlet watched him and laughed softly, stumbled to her feet then shuffled over to him, one of her legs dragging on the porch.
“Here.” she said, her words nearly incoherent from the alcohol and still swollen lips. “Hold the paper, I’ll fill it.”
Jessie took another one out of the pack and slowly, carefully held it with both hands, trying to keep it still. He closed one eye so he’d stop seeing two of everything and waited. She took a handful of tobacco and sprinkled it all over his lap, missing the proffered paper completely.
“Oops.” she giggled and tried to brush it away, leaned too far and lost her balance. Jessie didn’t even see her falling toward him until she crashed into his rocking chair, tipping him over backward and breaking it into pieces. She sent them sprawling on the painted porch, tobacco and papers flying away. They both cried out in pain that could be felt even over the massive quantities of liquor they’d put away, then lay still, breathing heavy, trying to push it back down to a dull background roar. She lay half on top of him, her face buried into his chest, scrunched against the throbbing hurts. Their breathing slowed, they controlled the pain, Jessie felt a warm liquid soaking through his shirt. She had broken open one of the cuts on her face. They lay there, unable to muster the strength to get up and he wrapped an arm around her
“My daddy wants me to kill you.” she said, her voice muffled, talking into his shirt.
Jessie stroked her hair, didn’t know what to say so said nothing.
“I don’t want to, though.” she said. “He’s not the same, I don’t know who he is anymore.”
Jessie turned, kissed the top of her forehead and was surprised at how hot she was. A fever was still raging through her. He noticed it then, the heat radiating from her. How sick she was. It wasn’t just her body working overtime to heal the wounds, she was burning up all over. He ran his hand up her shirt, palm against her skin. She shivered and snuggled in closer, threw a leg over his. He nearly screamed as her knee hit his gunshot but still felt the clammy sweat on her back. She was hot and cold at the same time and his booze addled brain started sounding alarms. The sober part of him was sending warning signals, demanding his attention. She was sick. Maybe dying kind of sick. Whatever infection or bug she had was stronger than the serum in her veins.
“Shouldn’t you sweet talk a girl before you try to undress her?” she mumbled, moved her hand along his chest, feeling the muscles under the thin t-shirt.
“C’mon.” he said and slid out from underneath her and staggered to his feet. “I’m taking you to bed.”
“I’m not that kind of girl.” she slurred, her eyes misty and far away as he pulled her up, grimacing and trying to keep most of the weight on his good leg.
They hobbled into grandma’s room, using the walls to keep them upright and both crashed down on the quilted bed spread.
He tried to get up, get a towel soaked in cold water, but she pulled him back down, her swollen lips finding his, her fingers tangling in his too-long hair.
Jessie tried not to kiss her back, tried to pull away, but she was strong. And he didn’t try too hard.
“I need to get you something to cool you down.” he said when they came up for air. “You’re burning up.”
“Your kinda hot yourself.” she purred and smiled, her bruise mottled face, her swollen eye and deep gashes diminishing the effect.
“No, seriously.” Jessie said and pulled away, a little frightened at her behavior. It wasn’t the same girl, it wasn’t the snarky, self-confident fighter he’d seen before. This was a weak and needy Scarlet and he knew the fever was cooking her brain. “I need to cool you down.”
Her eyes got clear for a moment as they stared at each other.
“Something isn’t right.” she said. “I’m not supposed to get sick. I can’t get sick. I feel wrong, everything feels wrong inside.”
“I’ll get some antibiotics, some penicillin or something.” Jessie said. “First, let me get some towels, I’ll soak them in water, it’ll help.”
“It won’t.” she said. “I’m immune to everything. I’m not supposed to get sick. I feel like I’m dying.”
Her eyes glassed over again and she fell back against the pillow. Jessie hurried from the room, grabbed his walker and a handful of towels then speed hopped to the well. He soaked the washrags and towels then hobbled back in, draping them over her head and chest. She didn’t move but her breathing was steady.
“I’ll be back.” he said, not sure if she could hear him anymore. “I’m going to run into town.”
He turned to go but she reached for his hand and her hazy eyes found his. She was barely coherent and struggled to get her words out.
“I don’t want to die.” she said. “So many things I haven’t done yet. I’ve never seen Paris. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never been in love. I want to know what it feels like.”
Her grip relaxed as her eyes closed again and she fell back into troubled sleep.
Love hurts. Jessie thought. It’s not all it’s made out to be.
“You can work on that later, there are plenty of guys out there and you’re still pretty.” he said quietly and brushed a strand of her hair away from the three slashes on her cheek.
“Bob, stay.” he ordered as he turned away. “Take care of her.”
He limped his way back out to the porch and strapped on his guns. His head was reeling from the alcohol, the afternoon feeling yellowish, twisty and indistinct. Everything was a little fuzzy around the edges and things kept moving for a few seconds when he stared at them. It took them a while to settle down and be still. The sun was low in the sky, it was late afternoon, and he wondered how much they’d drank in the last seven or eight hours. The bottles were knocked over from their tumble but there wasn’t much spilled out, most of them had been empty. He squeezed his eyes shut, forced the world to stop tilting and moved towards his car.
The buzzards watched him as he stopped in front of the veterinary clinic, hunched over the wheel and concentrating on the road. They went back to their grisly meals, pulling strings of flesh from the raiders bodies and ignoring undead corpses for the fresher meat that was only a few days old. Much more flavorful. Jessie ignored them and limped up to the front door. He leveled the shotgun and fired, blowing the lock away and sending the carrion birds flapping off, making their creepy yodeling screeches. The town was too small for a pharmacy and Jessie knew he didn’t have the time or the frame of mind to find another village and clear it. He had barely managed to keep the Mercury out of the ditches, he was in no shape to fight the undead. During one his training classes, the SS sisters had said animal penicillin was basically the same as the stuff for human use, just easier to get at. Most farms or vet clinics would have various forms of it.
He waited, listened for zombie sounds and sniffed the office air as he stood swaying on his feet. No rotten, undead smell. No screamers running for him. He lowered the wavering shotgun and hobbled in, looking for the powders or the pills. They were in a cabinet with a flimsy lock and he tossed all they had into a bag then made his way back out to the car. The vultures were on rooftops and trees, glaring at him but keeping their distance. The buzzing clouds of flies swarmed up but went immediately back t
o their meal after he passed.
He felt like he was getting drunker and drunker instead of sobering up and realized he probably was. They’d chugged bottles of the hard stuff and it was still sitting in his belly, still being absorbed in to his blood. He rested against the car, the world spinning slowly, then stuck his finger down his throat. Pure, burning liquid came up through his mouth and nose, splashing in the dirt. He swayed, bent over and retching at the smell and taste for moment then did it again. More whiskey ejected on to the ground and he dry heaved, hating the acrid, bitter taste. He forced himself to puke until there was nothing left. He grabbed the bottle of trucker speed and gargled with it, swilled it around his mouth, washing away the taste of vomit, then spit. He didn’t know which tasted worse, the barf or the speed, but he took a big chug of the bitter concoction to help order his thoughts.
When he got back to the farm, his head was a little clearer and the world had stopped leaving trails behind everything he looked at and it had mostly stopped moving in ways it wasn’t supposed to. Bob greeted him at the door with a whine and he could smell it when he stumped in: She had thrown up, too. He ignored the pain in his leg and nearly ran down the hall, afraid he would find her drowned in it like Janis Joplin or Jimi Hendrix or that drummer guy from Led Zeppelin. He burst into the room and found her on the floor, half way to the bathroom, a trail of sick behind her and covering her clothes. She was still breathing, she hadn’t choked to death, but she was burning up with fever and incoherent. Jessie grabbed the bottom of her sundress and peeled it over her head, a little surprised that she was naked underneath it. He ignored what he saw and wiped up most of the sick with the dress before getting the flush bucket from the bathroom. It was fresh water from the well, used to fill the toilet tank. He rolled her to an unsoiled spot on the hardwood floor and gave her a sponge bath, cooling her down and washing away the sour bile, the clammy sweat, the dried blood, the spilled whiskey and the reeking vomit. Her body was still piebald with fading purple and yellow bruises, long knife slashes crisscrossed her legs and the gauze over her bullet wound had a patch of red on it. Her green eyes were closed and she mumbled things he couldn’t understand under her breath. Sometimes in English, sometimes in some other exotic tongue.
Zombie Road (Book 5): Terror On The Two-Lane Page 4
