But she couldn't help herself. “Please,” she said, finding her voice. “He will die without the transfusion. If you do not let me finish this, he will—”
“Surely, you'll save him without the transfusion. I have faith in you, Doctor. I know David here has great faith in you even if you don't seem to have the same faith in yourself. Isn't that right, David?”
David nodded slowly. Cyrus let go of David's shoulder and returned his attention to Zeb. Zeb's expression darkened. Andrea went to make sure the needle was still inserted properly in his arm. Cyrus paced away and hovered over the unconscious man on the table. He held the knife an inch from the man's throat. “I could end it all now. One cut. Mercy for our brother? Save you the time and effort. Doctor? What do you say?”
“No. Please. Don't. I can save him. I'm sure of it.”
Cyrus lowered the knife against the man's throat and cut.
“No,” Andrea said in a whisper. She moved to stop Cyrus, but David grabbed her from behind and held her in place.
She closed her eyes. She knew there was nothing she could do now. When she relaxed, David released her.
Cyrus had been waiting for her. “No?” he asked. He raised the blade, showing it to her, again twirling the tip. Then, after a few more seconds, he set it down on the table next to the man.
Andrea pushed past David. The edge of the blade had a small amount of blood on it, but it was a trace amount. She went to her patient and checked his neck. The edge had nicked his skin and left behind a thin red line, but Cyrus had not cut deep enough to do any real damage. She let out a breath she hardly realized she held.
Smiling, Cyrus said, “Okay then. His life is in your capable hands, Doctor. I hope you can save him. I really do.”
David pulled the needle from Zeb's arm and placed it on the table. Andrea watched with dismay as Zeb and David left, wondering what she could possibly do next. It wasn't going to be easy, and now she was committed to saving the man.
Cyrus folded his hands behind his back. He turned on his heels and left the room.
Kate sidled up next to Andrea and threw an arm around her as the door closed. In Kate's right hand was a scalpel. She was pointing the polished steel blade at the door.
“Yeah, I'd like to do that, too,” Andrea said.
-26-
HIGHWAY TO HELL
JESSE WALKED UP the long blacktop driveway that led to a small bungalow style house at the end of the ribbon of pavement. He bashed down the front door with his steel-toed boots and entered. The home had been the last one he'd planned searching in the small cluster of homes and the one he planned to use as a shelter. Surprisingly, the contents of the house had not been destroyed, or looted, or burned, or much of anything. It hadn't even been touched. He felt as though he had come home in some odd way.
As he walked through the house, he thought about Cory, why the guy couldn't seem to understand, and why was he still playing out the tired argument he'd been having with Cory for the past few days. Maybe he needed to change, take a new angle, try to understand the other side, the greater picture, but he kept landing in the same place. So, that meant Cory was just an asshole. Probably had been one most of his life. He'd seen the same types before, the arrogant, self-centered, assholes. His nemesis before the fall, Henderson, had been much the same, and yet, the guy did the right thing in the end. Maybe Cory would change, too. In fact, Cory was almost the same guy, minus the drinking. And going by that, Jesse now figured he probably had a day or less before Cory left in search of his magical mystery virus that would somehow make everything all right again.
So, he had to work fast.
As he scanned the living room to his right, he eyed the sofa there and pictured himself kicking off his boots and plopping down and waiting for his wife to get him a beer. There was even a remote sitting on the coffee table and a black flat-screen television hanging on the wall.
But that would never happen again, ever. No more cold beers, no more football, no more wife and daughter, but there were two others he could save.
So instead of sitting on the couch and pretending, he did what he had done countless times over the past five years, he started looking for the best place to escape to in case any raptors were nearby. It was a very slim chance, given the condition of the house and his own powers of observation, but it was now a habit.
It turned out that the basement would offer the best protection available. It had a sturdy door that opened into the house and not into the basement. Many houses had it the other way around, which was an obvious flaw inflicted by lazy builders.
Yes, the basement would do well.
He continued through the house and noted any furniture that would be suitable for helping to barricade the basement door. A few pieces he scooted into position, but he would need Cory's help with the heavier stuff. Satisfied with his initial efforts and knowing the place would work for the night, he staggered into the kitchen and began searching the cupboards. Most were empty, which didn't surprise him. The pullout drawers had various kitchen utensils stuffed inside. Some, he might even be able to use. Whoever owned this house had packed their things and escaped well before the raptors had come, and they had been smart about it too, taking only the essentials. They had probably thought they could come back when life returned to normal and make the house a home again.
He set the shotgun down on the kitchen counter and flipped open a stainless steel refrigerator then quickly closed it after seeing nothing of use inside. But the image of what he saw continued to process in his mind, black mold, a box of Arm and Hammer baking soda, a six-pack of Diet Coke with two missing and the plastic rings drooping, but nothing else. He half-expected to see an ice-cold beer waiting in there for him.
A squeaking, scraping noise came from another part of the house. Rubber soles on hardwood. Jesse shifted nearer to the shotgun and waited.
“In here,” he said.
Cory came walking into the kitchen and threw the crowbar down on the center island, where it clanged loudly against the granite countertops and knocked a ceramic pot with the desiccated stem of some long dead plant onto the floor. The pot shattered and spilled dirt across the floor.
“Nice,” Jesse said sarcastically. “Had to mess the place up now, didn't you?”
Cory ignored him and opened the pantry door in the kitchen. He peered inside and swept aside items with his fingers. Jesse peeked past. The shelves were full of shredded cardboard and mouse droppings.
“Basement?” Cory asked atonally as he shut the door.
Jesse pointed to the basement door on the living room wall outside the kitchen. Shaking his head, Cory tossed his pack down next to the crowbar on the countertop and kicked out a chair next to a dark brown plank table. He swept away the dust that had accumulated there, returned for his pack, then back to the table, sat, and began digging through the contents of his olive-green nylon daypack. He came back with a can of creamed corn.
“Opener?” he asked.
Jesse rummaged through the drawers closest to the sink. Nothing. He moved farther away. Still nothing. He reached another drawer that had other utensils, but not a can opener. Plenty of dull silverware, measuring cups, plastic serving utensils, spatulas, and knives. But not a single can opener.
“Wait,” Jesse said, opening his pack, “I have…wait, you don't have a can opener?”
Cory shrugged.
After a few seconds of digging for a Swiss Army knife Jesse could have sworn he had put in one of the zippered pocket, he came up empty. He also had a P-38 on a chain, or thought so, but could not locate it either.
Nothing, nada, zippo.
Looking at Cory, he shook his head no. He plunged his hand back in his pack and felt around for something he knew was there, finally withdrawing a jar that contained pink colored jam he'd found in one of the houses. The side was marked Strawberry '12 in thick black pen. He set the jar on the table in front of Cory and wrenched the lid open. Cory held it up and sniffed the contents then dug his finger inside and
scooped out a glob of the jam, which dripped from his finger onto the table.
Jesse frowned and pulled out two spoons from a drawer. He set one next to Cory. “Christ, have some class at least.”
From that point onward, the night went as many nights had gone before. Right before dusk, they barricaded themselves in the basement and slept in shifts, waiting for dawn, neither speaking in anything other than grunts and nods. When the new day finally broke, it cast a feeble glow into the basement from a set of frosted window arrayed around the top edge of the southern wall.
Jesse had taken the morning watch. He kicked Cory's foot to wake him, waited until he did, and then kicked him again. “Been thinking. We need to go fishing.”
“Fishing?” Cory asked, blinking away sleep.
“Yup.”
Fishing was something Jesse had thought about during the night. On the way into the cluster of homes, he'd spotted a pond that the houses all shared in a common area. It was probably mostly for decoration, but there could be fish in it. A small pier extended out over the water. The water level was good, which meant it was probably fed by an underground spring.
He grabbed the shotgun. “Gonna look for some gear at least.”
Outside, he stopped in front of a stand-alone garage fifty feet back from the house. It looked like it could hold two cars plus more, so if there were any fishing gear to be had, that would be the place to store it. As he approached, he heard a sound coming from inside. A small, raspy sound of something moving. He circled the garage to check. There were no holes or obvious ways in or out of the garage, so it had probably remained free of raptors. He located the side door and put his ear against it. The noise had stopped. He tried the knob.
Locked.
Then he simply kicked the door until the frame splintered and the door swung open. His morning exercise, he figured.
Something inside fell and rang out as it settled. He raised the gun and stepped into the darkened interior. He blinked as his eyes adjusted. Inside, he saw spider webs hanging from the rafters like gossamer threads. They caught the bounced the light, almost glowing. A web that had been attached to the door brushed against his cheek, and he pulled it away and rolled his fingers to form the sticky threads into a ball, which he chucked into the darkness. It was silent as a buried coffin. He smelled oil and cardboard and dust, and stale mouse droppings, but no raptors. Not even a subtle hint, only the darkness and the musty odors. He went to the front of the garage and slipped the gun into his left hand, unlatched, then pushed up on the two-car wide garage door. He stopped halfway to wipe away cobwebs from his mouth and beard then finished. Again, nothing moved except the dust he'd let loose when opening the door. He backed through the door and stood, and looked.
He smiled broadly.
In the middle of the garage was a car covered by a canvas tarp.
Steadying the shotgun, he lifted a corner of the canvas to peak underneath. First, he exposed chrome, then blue paint. Pearl-blue paint, for it actually sparkled. He continued to lift the canvas. On the front fender was a logo.
GTO.
It was a GTO, or Gran Turismo Omologato, or Grand Touring Approved, or 'Goat' as he'd often heard them called. He tingled with excitement. In all the destruction, he'd found this, this classic beauty. He peeled back the canvas and cupped his hand to peer into a side window. The interior was also in pristine shape, filled with shiny black vinyl. He set the shotgun on a nearby workbench and wiped his palms against his pants. He did not want to touch the car with his grime-covered hands. It seemed almost sacrilegious to do so.
A squeak made him look up. Something came flying out of the darkness at him. He threw his arms up to protect his face, tripped, and fell onto his butt. He scooted backward until running into something solid while waving his arms to hit what had sprung at him. He heard another squeak and moved away from the wall, knocking a metal sign off in the process. It crashed to the floor and rang out loudly.
A rat that seemed the size of a small cat sprinted for cover under the car.
He glimpsed his gun sitting on the workbench. He sensed something new moving to his right.
Cory had come into the garage. He was holding up the crowbar, ready to attack. “Where? Where is it?”
Jesse laughed.
“What?” Cory said.
“Rat.”
“A rat?” Cory said, shoulders slumping.
Jesse looked down at his pants. One leg had torn open when he had caught it on the edge on a toolbox while backing away from the rat. A small line of blood trickled down his leg.
“Again?” Cory asked.
“Yeah…yeah. Dammit,” Jesse said as he checked the wound. It was just a scratch, but it was slightly embarrassing, and he'd ripped a relatively new pair of pants. He stood and dusted himself off. “Give me a hand?”
Together they worked to uncover the car. When the cover was off, the rat that had sprung at Jesse went scurrying across the painted garage floor.
Cory moved to corner the rat in the back of the shop area near a stack of boxes. Jesse joined him and threw one side of the canvas tarp they'd pulled from the car over the spot where the rat was hiding. It bolted at him, not wanting to be trapped. Cory whacked at the gray blur, managing to catch it on the run with a precisely executed blow. The tiny creature screeched once and squirmed as it realized it was now pinned against the concrete floor.
Jesse crushed the thing's head with the heel of his boot. “Beats eating raptor,” he said, trying to remember how best to skin and cook a rat.
“Does it?” Cory asked, seemingly unconvinced.
After a breakfast of cooked rat, Jesse returned to the garage. He got in the driver seat of the GTO and stared out through the clear glass of the windshield. The car was beautiful and amazingly well preserved. Looking up, he could hardly believe his luck. The keys had been wedged above the sun visor. He flipped the visor and the keys fell onto his lap.
It couldn't be this easy, he thought. It never was this easy.
He inserted a key and turned the ignition switch to the start position.
Click.
The needles on the dashboard flickered, but the car made no sounds other than that first click. He got out and lifted the hood. The engine was immaculate. The air filter still boldly read 400CID as if the entire car had just rolled off the assembly line. Whoever had owned this car had treated it with great care, probably bordering on obsessive. Everything looked good under the hood. He figured that if he could just charge the battery, it might start.
He searched the garage, going through various cabinets. His luck held out. In one, he found a shiny new battery with red and black plastic tabs still covering the lead posts. Using a wrench he had taken from the wall behind the tool bench, he removed the old battery from the GTO and replaced it with the new one.
Fingers crossed, he climbed into the driver's seat, pumped the gas pedal once, and turned the key. The engine turned over, once, twice, three times, but produced no spark, no ignition.
He got out, thinking it might be old gas in the carburetor, or the fuel pump, or maybe the lines had drained. He removed the air filter, and checked the carburetor. He smelled gas, so it had not gummed up too much. The choke was set, too.
He got back into the car and tried again.
The starter spun. The engine chugged. But…nothing. It did not start. And each time the engine cranked over, it slowed. He pumped the gas pedal. One more try. He turned the key. The engine cranked over once then stopped cold. Turning the key again produced only a click.
Jesse slammed a hand down against the steering wheel. “Damn,” he whispered as he leaned his head back on the headrest. “What now?”
When he looked up, he saw Cory standing beside the car with one hand on the raised hood. “Nice car,” he said. “Will it start?”
Saying nothing, Jesse got out and searched under the hood for anything he might have missed earlier. With a shock of recognition, he noticed that the wire going between the wiring harn
ess and the coil had been chewed through along with some other wires that now dangled freely in the engine compartment.
“Are you shitting me?” he said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just…nothing.” Jesse checked his watch. His watch read 7:48AM. He had no way of telling if that was the exact time, but it was close enough. “Give me an hour.”
Just two minutes shy of an hour, he finished reconnecting and patching together the wires. He again tried to start the car. This time, the engine turned over twice before catching and sputtering to glorious life. He pumped the gas to get the RPMs up, and then let it drop to a fast idle. A round tachometer mounted near the steering wheel read 1500 RPM. A little fast, Jesse thought. He pushed on the gas pedal again and the engine coughed, let out a whooshing backfire, and then smoothed out into a throaty burble. He smiled at Cory as the GTO settled into a perfect thumping idle. He revved it a few more times, grinning widely. Gooseflesh had broken out on his arms and every new, budding hair there stood on end.
Cory waved a hand in front of his face. Blue smoke had filled the garage and was rolling out through the open garage door. Jesse shifted the car into reverse. He felt the transmission clunk into gear and the RPM's drop by about 200. Slowly, with his foot on the brake, he let the GTO roll outside, where he set it back in P, for park. The idle jumped back up to where it had been before and produced a sound of meaty, throaty, burbling goodness. All the instruments worked, too. Jesse studied the instrument cluster and tapped on the plastic. The gas gauge had climbed but not far enough.
Cory cocked his head to one side. “What's wrong?” he asked over the idling engine.
Jesse shut off the ignition and stepped out of the car. “Almost out of gas. This beast takes a special kind of gas. Damn. Dammit. I thought we had this.”
“Can it get us a few miles? Maybe find some more gas along the way?”
“Maybe. But,” Jesse said. Then he remembered something he'd seen earlier while looking for wire. He jogged into the garage and began opening boxes he had checked earlier. In the third box he opened, he found what he was looking for, a small metal hand pump. He nodded at Cory. “Start looking for a fifty-five gallon drum.”
Red Asphalt: Raptor Apocalypse Book 2 Page 21
