by RJ Johnson
Stolen vehicle SB Route 94
Geoffrey opened up his phone and began running through his pre-operation checklist in his head. It was time to go to work. Within minutes, a security force made up of locals who knew the area would be joining him — with an impressive array of firepower.
The young man may have slipped away for the moment, but his victory would be short lived; of this, Geoffrey had no doubt.
Chapter Nine
Alex slammed his fist against the Suburban’s Auto-Navigation system, breaking the screen apart. After fifteen minutes on a dirt road, the GPS had finally put him on a real highway road, paved and everything. However, only a few short minutes after finding the asphalt, Alex realized that the GPS probably worked both ways, and it was possible for the owners to track him. He hit the GPS system again, knocking it off its perch on the large Suburban dashboard.
“Stupid technology,” Alex muttered to himself. Alex pushed the truck harder down the pothole-ridden road. He knew he would need to abandon the truck somewhere soon, but he was hoping he could get to the Sheriff's station first before they could get organized and pursue the stolen truck.
Alex was driving so quickly that he almost didn’t see the small, dimly lit police station. He slammed on the brakes, the truck fishtailing wildly in the dirt. Alex threw the heavy truck into reverse, the rear tires protesting their treatment as they squealed loudly in the normally dark and still night. Finally coming to a stop, Alex got out of the car and attempted to open the police station’s front door. His heart sank as he struggled with the door, realizing it was locked. Alex began pounding on the door, praying that someone would answer.
Deputy Mark Rogers heard the pounding on the front door, shaking him loose from a provocative dream. He slept most nights, as it was Joshua Tree, and nothing really happened here. Occasionally, he’d patrol the highway, looking for speeders and the occasional drug smuggler (you could always tell which ones those were), but for the most part, his days were long and dull. He wasn’t especially thrilled with the position he was in, but his father had been stationed in worse places in his life.
A born and bred military brat, Mark Rogers’s family traveled across the world as his father was transferred from base to base. His mother tried to keep some semblance of a family life in the Army housing, but it wasn’t easy. The young Mark had often made more trouble than his overwrought mother could handle, so it brought some relief to his family when he turned eighteen years of age and could enlist.
His years of living on Army bases across the world had given him the ideal upbringing for all the discipline he expected to find in boot camp and the Army. His father had died somewhat unceremoniously in the first Iraq war, from friendly fire. So, ten years later, while Sergeant Rogers was still carrying a torch from his father’s death, he inadvertently fired on some Iraqi civilians, killing several.
The discharge was swift and quiet. The military handled their own problems, and abhorred the press. The administration went along with it, as they felt a long investigation would sour the public’s opinion in an already-unpopular war.
Discharge papers in hand, Mark Rogers contacted an old friend of his father’s (who just so happened to be the current sheriff of San Bernardino County), and was given a job with the promise of something better maybe coming along in a month or two. That had been seven years ago.
It was far more than he deserved, Mark sometimes thought to himself. At night when he was alone, he was sometimes haunted by the ghosts of the Iraqi children he had accidentally killed. The only thing that had helped over the years was whiskey.
Tonight, the drinking had begun earlier than normal, which was why the good deputy did not hear the initial pounding of Alex’s fist on the heavy door.
Resembling something close to a hung-over grizzly bear, Deputy Rogers opened up the front door to the police station, looking to see who was responsible for waking him.
“Stay in the station!” Alex shouted, pushing with his shoulders past the Deputy. Surprised at the young man’s fright, Deputy Rogers did not say anything at first, only watching in puzzlement at Alex cowering behind the heavy police station door.
Deputy Rogers rolled his eyes. Great, he thought to himself, another kid who took too much peyote out in the desert and is now trippin’ balls all over my police station. He only hoped that this one didn’t get sick all over the place like the last one did.
“What seems to be the problem?” Deputy Rogers had gone through this routine several times even this month. The problem, as he was sure the man would tell him, was he thought he was Hunter S. Thompson and was looking for some life-altering mind trip. Usually, guys like him scored low-grade hallucinogens out of Mexico and came to the desert to have a “spirit vision.” Really, it was just an excuse to take drugs.
Spirituality aside, it was the same pattern every time. He would ask what the man took, the man would deny he took any drugs (at this point they were usually so far gone they barely remembered what planet they were on), Mark would repeat his question, and the man would begin to rave about how he was covered in roaches, or aliens were invading, or some other damn craziness.
Sighing, the deputy rose and turned looking at the scraggly looking man hiding behind his desk. He reached towards the belt that held his taser. He held up his hand and cocked his head. “So, what exactly did you take while you were out in the desert there, son?”
Alex’s eyes narrowed as he looked up in confusion at the police officer. He thinks I’m on drugs, Alex realized. Considering his long hair, and his paranoid appearance at the front door, he could hardly blame the man. He needed to convince this man he was stone cold sober, and deadly serious.
“I didn’t take anything,” Alex said urgently, “There’s a team of men operating in the desert right now, and they’ve just killed my father, and tried to kill me only a few minutes ago.”
Why can’t they just collapse out in the middle of nowhere where the coyotes can eat 'em? Rogers thought to himself. The fifth of Jack from earlier that evening had clouded his brain somewhat, but he was still sober enough to know when someone else wasn’t.
“Son, I really need to know what sort of drugs you took,” he repeated as he took out the taser and held it ready at his side, ready to fire at any second should the man turn violent.
“You’re not listening to me!” Alex desperately cried out to the officer. “My father was killed by a bunch of men out over by the Mesa and climbing area. If you come with me, I’ll be glad to…”
The deputy had had enough. He grabbed Alex, twisting his wrist violently and using the momentum to slam him against the wall. “I’ve had about enough of your chicken-fried brain. You’re under arrest,” Mark growled at the young man. “Public intoxication, and after I search your car, I imagine I’ll be adding trafficking to the list of charges.”
He slipped one half of the cuffs on Alex, “You have the right to remain—” A pop loudly sounded through the room as a dark red spot began to spread across the deputy’s chest. Rogers looked down at the blood on his hands before looking back up in shock at Alex.
Alex grabbed the police officer and carried his body to the ground as Deputy Rogers struggled to breathe. Alex ripped off the deputy’s shirt, watching in horror at the blood running down his chest. The hole from the bullet began to foam bright red, splashing as the deputy attempted to draw oxygen into his lungs. His eyes pleaded for help as he looked up at Alex.
The stone began to shine brilliantly blue under Alex’s shirt. The soft blue glow appeared all over Alex’s body, ran down Alex’s arm, and traveled directly onto the wounded deputy’s sucking chest wound.
Alex watched in disbelief as the glow from the deputy’s healing wound gave off the same soft blue light. On instinct, Alex dropped the deputy’s hand, the glow disappearing instantly once he released it.
He stared at his arm, watching the blue glow retreat back into the stone. The deputy, who had been near death only moments before, began to breathe once a
gain. The wound, still not quite healed, appeared bright red, with a dark purple bruising throughout the skin’s surface. Whatever healing process Alex had begun by holding onto the deputy’s hand, it had stopped the very instant Alex had let go.
Alex’s eyes grew wide as he realized what was happening. The stone that now hung around his neck, that had repaired his broken best friend all those years ago, and himself only a half-hour earlier, had an incredible power for healing – a power that wasn’t just limited to himself. If he touched someone who had been injured, the stone could heal them as well!
Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to savor the eureka! moment for long. Bullets fired from outside began smashing into the side of the police station, assaulting them both brutally. A jagged piece of shrapnel flew over Alex’s head, reminding him of the men outside itching to kill him.
Alex grabbed the stone with his right hand as he covered the deputy’s half-healed wound with his left. The blue glow began again, flowing quickly to the deputy’s chest. The hole closed swiftly, and seconds later, the deputy began to cough violently as he regained consciousness.
As amazing as his new trinket was, Alex didn’t have time for any reflection on whatever supernatural voodoo that made it possible. Instead, Alex turned to the back of the station and began to look for anything he could use as a weapon. It’s a friggin’ police station! Alex thought to himself as he ducked a round that pinged closely to their position. Where are all the guns?
The gunfire abated momentarily. Alex took the moment to pop his head up and examine the station more closely. Spotting the gun lockers in the back, he shouted at the deputy, who was still confusedly examining himself for any injuries.
“Guns! We need weapons!” Alex shouted bringing the deputy back to reality.
Deputy Rogers was still running his hands up and down his chest, looking for the wound that had been there only moments before, when suddenly he became aware of the man shouting at him. Shaking his head, he concentrated on the man who had somehow saved his life.
“What the hell is that?” Deputy Rogers shouted over the gunfire.
“My imagination! It’s shooting at us!” Alex shouted back ducking as a bullet pinged close to his ear.
“I owe you an apology,” Deputy Rogers shouted.
“Save it!” Alex yelled over the ricocheting bullets and breaking glass. He pointed to the back of the room. “I’d rather get a gun.”
“Follow me!” the deputy shouted, and he began to crawl towards the back, keeping his head low. Alex followed behind.
The gunfire ripped through the cheaply made government building. Several pieces of the poorly constructed office started falling on their heads. Deputy Rogers turned, covering his head as they moved slowly towards the rear of the station.
Alex kept his head below the line of fire. The men outside paused again. Alex wasn’t counting on having much longer before they figured out the two of them weren’t shooting back. When they did, they would likely go for a full frontal assault.
The deputy motioned to Alex that they needed to jump over the counter. Alex nodded, put up one, two, and finally three fingers, and the pair dived over the bar separating the front and back office of the Joshua Tree Sheriff Station. The gunfire erupted again in earnest, tearing through their shadows on the wall.
Quickly, to avoid being seen in one place for too long, they half-crouched, half-ran to the back room. There, behind a complicated series of locks, metal and chain, were several dangerous-looking guns. Deputy Rogers took the keys off his belt and quickly began unlocking the storage lockers. The glass in the front crashed in. Alex turned and shouted at the deputy across the room, “Get down!” Alex dove behind the cement wall as several men poured into the station, each laying down a deadly stream of suppressive fire.
“What now? We can’t get across without being shot. They’ve got us outflanked.” Deputy Rogers whispered, the fear palpable in his voice. He had died once tonight, and wasn’t looking to make a repeat performance.
Alex closed his eyes, and was transported away momentarily. The sound of popping automatic gunfire retreated. Alex called his considerable skills to bear on his current problem. Magic stone or no, it was clear that they didn’t have much of a chance unless they got some firepower on their side. The deputy, crouched next to him, pleaded with Alex to help. Alex snapped back and made a decision; it was time to put some faith in this new toy of his.
“Throw me the keys!”
The deputy nodded and tossed them to Alex. Rubbing the stone furiously with his thumb, Alex closed his eyes and pushed himself across the firing line. He leaped across and over to the gun locker, then went to work on the heavy locks.
It didn’t take long for the men in the outer room to zero onto Alex’s back. Alex took three rounds the first few seconds he was standing against the locker, struggling with the keys. Pellets of lead, weighing only a few grams each, slammed into his body at supersonic speed, throwing him forward with their compact energy.
The strange blue glow began to heal Alex’s wounds the instant he felt the bullets enter his body. After the fifth bullet had entered and exited Alex’s body, without leaving a scratch on him, Alex began to fully realize the potential of what his father had given him earlier that day.
Alex heard the gunfire abate for a moment. He glanced back, saw a small dark shape fly into the room, and screamed in reflex, “Grenade!”
Suddenly, the room was awash in a brilliant bright light, overwhelming the visual processing systems in Alex’s brain. He cried out in pain, rubbing his eyes, and stumbled blindly across the room. Two blurry shapes moved quickly towards Alex and the deputy, their guns raised and poised to fire. The stone glowed brightly, helping Alex recover from the effects of the shock grenade — at least enough to spot the two men moving in on them. Alex turned and took the two mercenaries by surprise, charging and flipping the nearest one neatly over his shoulder.
Using the full-tilt momentum of his sprint, Alex grabbed the second man’s neck and threw his body to the ground. Alex landed on his back, still holding the neck of the man. With a sickening crunch, it was all over.
The mercenary’s friend, still lying on his back, recovered, reaching for his automatic rifle. Alex turned to look the gunman in the eyes. He’s just a kid. He wasn’t more than nineteen, just some local desert rat, out of luck, and lured in by the promise of an easy job. Any other day of the week, Alex would have kicked his ass, told him to pull up his pants and get a haircut. But now, staring down the barrel of the automatic rifle, he felt nothing, not even terror. Just curiosity.
The deputy, now with his sidearm in hand burst into the room, startling the young gunman. The desert rat fired, the energy from the rattling gun holding his finger down on the trigger. Alex took several bullets, falling flat back on the floor.
The deputy, standing in the standard Weaver stance — one hand over the other, legs braced to the side, as trained — pulled the trigger three times, bringing the young desert rat down. The boy fell, and more automatic gunfire erupted outside again, forcing the deputy to duck back behind the front counter.
Alex sat up suddenly, coughing and struggled for a deep breath.
“I’m really starting to hate that part,” Alex groused. He turned towards the deputy, who was keeping his head low from the gunfire that was once again flying over their heads.
“Did we at least get the gun safe open?” Alex shouted over the din.
Rogers gave the thumbs up, and they both crawled into the back room again. There, they could take some cover from the front door for the moment.
Alex looked up at the wide-open gun safe door. Whoever had stocked it had apparently planned for the zombie apocalypse. The safe held several impressive-looking racks of M-16’s, MP-10’s, AK-47’s, pistols of various makes and models, and even some rifles that looked as though they had been crudely cobbled together in someone’s garage.
The deputy nodded. “People think the desert is a great place to come out and
fire off their illegal guns. I'm supposed to destroy what I confiscate,” the deputy smiled, “but you know...”
Alex looked at the deputy out of the corner of his eye, raising his eyebrow, questioning why he needed this many.
The deputy shrugged, “I like to be prepared.”
Alex grabbed a few pistols, a large rifle, and several magazines. He passed an AR-15 rifle with several clips over to Deputy Rogers.
The gunfire subsided momentarily. To Alex, that meant that this time, the assailants were getting ready to storm their castle. It would be a good time for them to fight back, he thought; the men outside would not be expecting it.
Alex turned to the deputy, concern in his voice. “I'm going to take care of the problems outside. You good?”
It was then that Alex realized he hadn’t really needed to ask the question. The dulled, alcohol-soaked eyes Alex had spied when he first met the deputy had been replaced by the bright young eyes of someone from long ago. Clear-headed backup made for some good news, and Alex could use some good news about then. The deputy nodded and slid a magazine into his assault rifle.
“Is there a way for me to get onto the roof?” Alex asked, his eyes watching the outside lobby door.
“Yeah, see over there in the corner?” Deputy Rogers pointed to an indentation in the ceiling. “Pull down the ladder, and that takes you directly to the roof.”
“Good,” Alex turned and headed for the corner, jumping as he grabbed the cord that dangled from the ceiling. He pulled it, opening the exit, and let the ladder fall to the ground. The night sky above was clear and full of stars — one of those little details you never think of while you’re under attack, Alex thought to himself.
“You keep ‘em pinned down at the front door while I get up on the roof. I’ll use my position up there to snipe out whatever men they have.”
The deputy nodded and began to fire back at the men outside. As Alex turned and leaped up the ladder, only one thought pulsed to the front of his mind:
