Red Asphalt: Raptor Apocalypse Book 2

by Steve R. Yeager

  “Now, let's try this again,” she said in a voice filled with backbone and authority. “I said, 'I want you to leave,' and you say?”

  He pulled his head back until the wall prevented him from moving any further. He stiffened his jaw. She twisted the scalpel in a shaky loops and waited some more.

  He seemed perfectly ready to wait her out.

  She squinted at him through her thick glasses, keeping the surgical steel blade hovering under his eyeball. She steadied herself, and the shaking stopped cold. She now held the scalpel rock steady.

  He tensed slightly as if he were preparing to fight back, calculating just how quick she was.

  She moved the scalpel closer and closer until it just touched his cheek, letting a few more seconds tick by, wondering if he would dare to move, and wondering if she had taken things too far.

  It was a standoff, a stalemate.

  Seconds ticked by.

  Then she saw it. Just a slight movement of his head, almost nothing at all, but it told her she had won.

  “I will report this,” he finally muttered through clenched teeth.

  She stayed silent.

  “Good,” she said. “Fine, do so.” She lowered the scalpel. “I'll go along with you if you wish. We'll both tell him together.”

  He considered this for a moment, and then apparently decided it was not worth it. He abruptly left, jerking the door closed behind him.

  She bent forward and took a deep breath. That was an exceeding dumb thing to do, she told herself as she itched her cheek. She put the scalpel down on a white countertop next to a glass jar filled with cotton balls and gauze. She stopped to massage her temples with her fingertips then went to flip the lock on the door to prevent anyone else from entering uninvited.

  “Now that the gorilla is gone, I guess I'd better look you two over. Take your clothes off, everything.”

  The woman backed away, shaking her head. The girl just cocked hers sideways.

  “Don't worry,” she said, glancing at the door, “he won't be coming back. Really, I need to do this. Who knows what you two have gotten yourselves into?”

  Neither responded.

  “I could call him back to do it for you, but I'd rather do this the friendly way.” She didn't want to get close and personal with either of them, but she also needed to do her job. She forced a smile, which hurt. “Let me start over again. I'm Dr. Andrea Blakely, but everyone here calls me 'Doc' for the obvious reasons, which often makes me feel like a damn walking cliché.”

  She smiled and waited.

  Nothing.

  “Still don't want to say anything, eh? Fine.” She went to the door and unlocked it.

  “No,” the blonde-haired woman said, holding up a hand and shaking it. “Please, no.”

  “Ah, so she does talk. My dear, what's your name?”

  “Eve. Or Evelyn.”

  “Is it Eve or Evelyn?”

  “Eve.”

  “Okay, and the little one?”

  “Kate.”

  “Isn't that better?” Andrea said. “Eve and Kate, how nice. Now, I'll ask again, please remove those filthy clothes. The door will stay locked if you obey. If not, I will open it and call him back.”

  Eve began unbuttoning her flannel shirt. Kate backed away into a corner under a yellowing chart describing sexually transmitted diseases.

  “Come on, dear, don't be afraid. I don't bite. I need to do this.”

  Kate slumped to the floor, folded her knees, and wrapped them with her arms.

  “It's okay,” Eve said. “Not like we have a choice.” She removed her shirt and pants and continued to undress until she was completely naked.

  “Now what?” she asked in a standoffish tone.

  Andrea nodded curtly and began. Eve obviously was a beauty and would be in for a rough time of it. Life for a woman here was nasty, brutish, and usually short. As she ran her hands over Eve's body, she tsked and clucked her tongue. Mentally, she went down her list, checking for all the common medical issues she had come across: skin infections, rashes, STDs, lice, ticks, malnutrition, signs of drug abuse, and many other issues that plagued a society that had gone from quality healthcare, to third-world decrepitude. She then checked Eve's heartbeat and lungs and detected nothing unusual there either. After completing her exam, all she had found were the usual minor scars and scratches everyone had. Eve, she could tell, had apparently led a very charmed life. Even her nails were healthy.

  “All clear on you,” she said and turned to Kate. “See, not so bad. You're up.”

  Eve went to Kate and took her by the hand. “It's okay. Don't worry,” she said. She reached out to unbutton Kate's shirt. Kate swatted her away, glancing at Andrea questioningly.

  “Really, Kate,” Eve said as she fumbled with the buttons. “I trust her as much as we can trust anyone.”

  “That's right, child. I mean you no harm,” Andrea said. “I've seen it all. Lord, how I've seen it all.”

  After a few more tries and a few more timid rejections, Eve was finally able to unbutton Kate's shirt and pull it open. When she did, her hands dropped into her lap and her mouth hung open in surprise.

  “Oh, my, my God,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Kate tried to pull her shirt closed.

  Eve pushed Kate's hands away and gently pulled the shirt down her arms. “How?” she asked.

  Andrea squinted and shifted positions. Her own eyes widened after seeing what Eve had seen. “Come here, little one. It's okay,” she said.

  Kate crossed her arms over her bare chest.

  “How did this happen?”

  Eve shook her head as if to say she didn't know. Kate did not respond either. Instead, she looked away as if she wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

  “May I?” Andrea asked. She reached to touch Kate, but Kate drew away. “No, please, it's okay. I'm a doctor. It's nothing to be ashamed about.”

  Kate lowered her hands slowly. Andrea smiled, wanting to reassure this little girl that everything was going to be okay. The clinical detachment she had wrapped herself in melted away, unable to withstand what she saw. Even though she'd never had children of her own, she pictured this girl through the eyes of a mother. The bond was the same, the feelings the same, the instincts the same, all deep and primal.

  She moved closer. “May I?” she asked again, feeling she needed to reaffirm the permission already granted.

  Kate nodded.

  She ran a finger along a fleshy line of hypertrophic scar tissue that ran from Kate's missing left nipple, past her belly button, and to her right hip.

  What had this poor girl been through?

  The horrors.

  She swallowed a growing lump in her throat, realizing that Kate had been sliced open across the middle. And, by the look of the scar, the injury had been caused by a raptor's hind claw, a nasty, hooked thing teaming with bacterial diseases.

  “Miraculous,” Andrea said. “I've never seen anything quite like it.”

  She truly hadn't. Everyone whom she had examined before that had suffered a wound such as this had died, if not from the initial cut, then from the follow-on infection. The scar's zipper-like appearance told her that the wound had been crudely stitched, and the person who had done the procedure had not been a doctor, but an amateur. It was probably done without anesthesia too, or any way to deaden the pain.

  “God and divine mercy,” she whispered. She prayed that this poor girl was at least unconscious during the ordeal.

  Otherwise—

  It was just too much to process, too difficult to comprehend. The pain the girl had suffered must have been tremendous.

  “Who?” Andrea asked, steadying the tremble in her voice. “Who did this? Who did the—?” She couldn't finish.

  Kate turned to Eve. While Kate displayed no emotion about it, Eve was on the verge of crying. Tears formed in the corner of her eyes.

  “It's okay,” Eve said, blinking. “I think she's okay. Tell her. Tell me.”

&
nbsp; “Brother,” Kate said timidly, as if she were embarrassed by the revelation or was not used to speaking about it.

  “Your brother?” Andrea mouthed. Dear Lord.

  Andrea had constantly fought with her own brother even though he'd been one of the good guys. The kind who had helped her put her life together after so many of her relationships had failed, after her career had failed, and after her life had derailed. He had always been there for her, and she had treated him horribly, giving him little credit for what he had done to help. Now to think, this little girl's own brother had been forced to do something so awful. Something like this.

  Damn.

  She needed a drink, really needed a drink.

  -20-

  SCORCHED

  CORY WOKE. HE rubbed his eyes and made out a bobbing glow of white light, but not its source. His entire head hurt, and he wondered if he had bumped it somehow and been knocked out. But that did not seem right, either.

  It conflicted with what little he could remember.

  He snorted and sucked in a chunk of something coppery, something slimy, which slithered its way down his throat. He worked his jaw and began coughing. When the coughing ceased, he inhaled again deeply and detected the overwhelming stink of a body that was not his. He also detected the sickly sweet stench of infection.

  Memories began to trickle back into his brain, fleeting memories, a flash here, a flash there. He was somewhere near his childhood home, somewhere in Colorado. He had traveled a long way, and had not much farther to go.

  Close, he was so close.

  With considerable effort, he lifted his head from the cold, hard floor. Immediately, he regretted the action. Blurry light before him swam in circles, spun, and then started to resolve. He made out the faint sounds of someone breathing. That someone was breathing rapidly, and roughly. Groaning, he pushed himself up onto one elbow. His vision cleared, and he saw a dim shape sprawled on the cement floor about five feet away from him.

  He climbed to his feet, glanced at the man, and then staggered toward the glow. He realized he was in a basement, but not why. The last thing he remembered was—

  No, it was not that. He had been outside. Now he was in a basement with Jesse.

  And only Jesse.

  He reached for the sword on his back.

  It was not there. Neither was the saya that held it. He widened his eyes and searched the floor, probing into the dark corners of the room the best he could.

  Nothing, he saw nothing.

  Jesse moaned.

  Cory glanced at the basement door at the top of the stairs.

  “Eve,” he called out softly.

  She did not answer.

  “Kate.”

  She also did not answer.

  Weird.

  He tried to remember what had happened to them but could not recall. He remembered arriving at his childhood home, remembered the memories inside. But the last thing he recalled clearly was walking out of the house and into daylight. Then some people showed up. Yellow sun, three vehicles. Everything after that was big, blank gap of nothing.

  He returned to Jesse, rolled onto his knees next to him, and waited for the room to stop spinning. Using his fingers, he measured for a pulse on Jesse's neck. The guy's heart raced. He was hot and damp and stank of infection.

  He slapped him on the cheek. “Hey. You there?”

  Jesse moaned and muttered again. His eyelids fluttered.

  “Hey, come on. We have to go.”

  He struck him again.

  “Wake up.”

  “Huh?” Jesse said woozily, then rolled over and said, “Get it, get it, shoot it, kill it,” then trailed off into unintelligible curses.

  Delirium, Cory figured. Now what? He sat back on the floor, hoping the throbbing in his head would soon stop. He touched his forehead. Something seemed odd. It was wrapped with gauze, many layers. Why? He considered removing the binding.

  Then he remembered.

  He had been shot, shot in the head.

  How in the hell had he survived that? Seemed impossible, crazy, but he was still here.

  Carefully, while still sitting on the floor, he verified that everything still worked: arms, legs, neck, wrists, ankles, fingers, toes. They did, just as they were supposed to. Wincing, he gently probed the side of his head with his fingertips, considering the oddity being alive with a bullet lodged inside his brain. Would it rattle if he shook his head? Would it cause more damage if he tried?

  There was not much he could do about it now. He cracked his neck from side to side and picked himself up off the floor.

  “Come on. Get up,” he said, kicking Jesse's foot.

  Jesse groaned.

  Cory rubbed the back of his neck and eyeballed the dozen or so stairs he would have to climb to escape the basement. He touched the side of his head again. It felt like it was the size of a beach ball, a giant throbbing beach ball.

  Jesse groaned again and said something, but it was too slurred to make out.

  “Shhh,” Cory said. He listened hard. He thought he had heard something else, a click, a crunch, maybe. He held still and waited for it to repeat.

  It did not.

  Spotting a crowbar lying next to Jesse, he stooped to pick it up and staggered up the stairs to investigate the noise. When he got to the door leading out of the basement, he touched the knob lightly and turned it a fraction of an inch. It was not locked, which surprised him. He leaned closer to the door and listened.

  Nothing.

  Then he rapped on the door with his knuckles.

  Silence.

  He rapped harder and listened for movement.

  No noises came from inside the house.

  He turned the knob and pushed the door open a few inches, then a few more. The hinges squeaked. Examining the door as it swung open, he realized just how lucky they had been. If any raptors had been near, they would have busted right through the wooden door. It would have been no more defense than a thick sheet of paper.

  He left the basement behind and checked each room of the house. He smelled raptors, but found none. One could have passed through the house at some point, he figured, or the smell was coming from outside, but there were no visible signs that any had made it inside.

  So where were they?

  He thought about this as he returned to the basement. But, by the time he gotten to the bottom step, he had not yet made any sense out of it. Standing over Jesse, he thought about how he could possibly lift the guy. He had at least thirty pounds on him. But he tried and, with a strained effort, got Jesse up and moving along like a zombie.

  Together, they made their way up the stairs, through the house, and outside.

  In the stark brightness of daylight, Cory's vision blurred and shifted. A few white puffy clouds lingered on the distant horizon to the south, but otherwise the sky was a saturated blue.

  Birds had been feasting on three corpses sprawled in the yard. They had stripped away some of the easier to get to flesh around the men's faces. Each guy appeared to have been shot.

  Had Jesse shot them? When? And how?

  Eve and Kate were gone. That was a given. He had seen no signs of their footprints in the house. He and Jesse were the only ones here. Eve did not seem like she could shoot three men, nor could Kate, though, with her, he was not so sure. So, it must have been Jesse that had shot them, which seemed odd. He had gone out of his way to keep Wilson alive.

  All he knew was that he was glad these men were dead.

  He scanned the neighborhood. The truck they had arrived in was parked across the street, emptied of everything they had taken from Rose. The other vehicles, three he remembered, had fled. While it hurt to think, he could at least put a few things together. Based on the position of the shell casings he could see, it must have very one-sided gun battle. Jesse had somehow killed or chased them all off. Strange footprints surrounded the bodies, people in a hurry. But why had they left the bodies behind? Had they run out of time? Or did they just not g
ive a shit? And the raptors, they should have claimed the bodies in the night, but they had not.

  He continued the scan the scene, trying to make sense of it all, but came up with nothing new. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. The mission could continue.

  “Where are they?” he asked Jesse. “Where are Eve and Kate?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “What happened here?”

  “Mmmm.”

  Cory tossed the crowbar nearby and changed positions, moving in front of Jesse, supporting him by the shoulders. He slapped him across the face. “Listen to me. Where are Eve and Kate?”

  “Kate?”

  “Eve, what about her?”

  “Mmmm. Where?”

  Cory nodded and helped Jesse to sit. The man was too delirious to give any straight answers. Spotting another patch of ground stained by blood, he went to investigate it. The weeds there had been flattened. He saw his own footprints and those of two strangers. It had to have been his blood in the dirt. But, worse, his sword was not there. Someone had taken it.

  He started moving in a widening circle, stamping down the taller weeds, blinking back the throbbing pain racking his skull. His circling reached the edge of the curb and he still had not located any sign of his blade.

  He sank to his knees.

  It was gone. His priceless Muramasa-made blade was gone. The theft was like cutting off his right hand.

  Who? Who had taken it?

  He rested on his knees for nearly a minute. His breathing grew more and more rapid. He wanted his sword back. He needed it back. Someone had taken it from him. Someone had stolen it from him.

  That someone had a death wish.

  Suddenly, his anger flared out of his conscious control. He wanted to hit something, bad. He rushed over and snatched up the crowbar. He spun around and aimed for the house, preparing to throw the bar at it. The clumsy thing felt unwieldy, unbalanced in his hand, ugly, unworthy of him. But when the time came to let go, he could not. He came to a stop, widening his stance. He took a few practice swings with the bar, testing the unbalanced weight until he was satisfied he could wield it without falling over. He returned to the corpse of the man who had shot him, reversed the bar, and cleaved the man's head open with the hooked end. The skull collapsed with a wet thunk, and the head flopped sideways as the flesh of the neck and spine contorted under the assault. He raised the bar to strike again and continued to do so until all that was left of the guy's head was crushed bone, torn skin, and the shiny blackness of old blood mixed with the cheese-like lumpiness of smashed and battered brains.