James dismounted as Hoss pulled the Clydesdale around and turned back. “Okay,” James said, as his boots hit the ground. “We’ll leave the horses here and proceed on foot.”
After tying the animals to low-hanging branches, the brothers took their long guns and made their way onto the rocky spur. It narrowed quickly, and since there was no cover to speak of, it was necessary to crawl. “Take your hat off,” James ordered, as they arrived at the edge of the precipice. Bruce did as he was told and cursed himself for failing to think of it.
As the brothers looked down into the valley they could see the hundreds of shacks that lined both slopes. Many had tiny, carefully terraced gardens, chicken coops, and goat pens. A few were flanked by old jalopies. These were the homes that the workers lived in. Most of whom were barely literate and, lacking the skills required to do something else, had no choice but to perform manual labor.
Still, ignorant or not, there were natural leaders among the people of Shack Town. Men and women who, because of their personal charisma, could urge others to unionize. The solution was a process that the Boss referred to as “culling the herd.” Because by removing the so-called “bad breeders” from the workforce, the family could prevent potential leaders from causing harm. And stop the spread of their DNA.
That was where Bruce differed from Hoss. He didn’t enjoy culling the herd, but he understood the necessity and considered it a duty that had to be fulfilled. It was something that James and he could agree on. Bruce had a spotting scope in addition to his rifle. He brought the telescope-like device to bear on the shacks that were almost directly below them. “What am I looking for?”
James was looking through the Bushnell by then. “The target’s name is Luigi Bravo. He’s been agitating for better medical care. See the shack off to the left? The one with the red blanket hanging out to dry? That’s where he lives.”
Bruce panned over to the dwelling with the red blanket and made a small adjustment to the focus. There was a small yard behind the hovel. Half of it was taken up with piles of firewood, some rabbit pens, and a pile of rusty auto parts. But there was an open area in the middle—and that’s where the little boy was playing. He had a brightly colored toy and was pushing it around. “I see a kid,” Bruce said. “Right in the middle of the backyard.”
“That’s Luigi’s son,” James replied. “It’s Sunday, so Luigi will be home. I will shoot the boy in the leg. He’ll scream. That will bring dad out into the open. I’ll put him down. If the wife comes running out of the house so much the better. Do you have any questions?”
Bruce’s mouth was dry. James made it sound so easy, so routine, but the thought of shooting the little boy made Bruce feel queasy. But you don’t have to shoot him, Bruce reminded himself. James will take care of that. “No,” Bruce said. “I don’t have any questions.”
“Good. Check the range . . . What have you got?”
Bruce eyed the mil-dot reticule, did the math, and gave his answer. “About three hundred yards, give or take.” That was well within the Browning’s reach. What would make the shot difficult was the extreme downward angle, the persistent down-valley breeze, and the fact that the little boy was moving around.
Of course James knew all of that . . . and was making calculations of his own. Bruce shouldn’t have been surprised when the rifle fired, the bullet blew a divot out of the boy’s thigh, and the child began to scream.
Just as James had predicted Luigi came charging out through the back door and rushed to assist his badly wounded son. One of his legs was shorter than the other, and that forced him to limp. Then the rifle cracked again, the sound echoed off the other side of the valley, and a piece of Luigi’s skull flew off.
As the miner fell Mrs. Bravo came out shooting. She didn’t know where the sniper was, and the shotgun was the wrong weapon for the job, but that didn’t stop her. She stood over her husband’s body and fired at the ridge above. “You have to give her credit,” James said, as he worked the bolt on his rifle. “The woman has balls.”
Bruce had to agree. And he knew something else as well. Mrs. Bravo wanted to die. James took care of that for her. The bullet hit her chest at a downward angle and exited through the small of her back. She fell across her husband.
“Okay,” James said matter-of-factly, “mission accomplished.”
“What about the boy?”
The child was still making a lot of noise, and the neighbors could be seen peeking out of their windows trying to see what was going on. “Right,” James said. “My bad.” And with that, his eye went back to the scope. The Browning thumped his shoulder and the crying stopped.
* * *
The city of Primm was anything but. The town was mainly devoted to the bars, honky-tonks, and strip joints that gave soldiers something to do. Though originally located in Nevada, and officially part of the Republic, the community had gradually evolved into two towns. West Primm was located in California, while East Primm remained in Nevada, and the border fell in between.
But before Lee could cross over into the red zone, she needed to purchase some transportation. Because it was one thing to ride buses and hitchhike in Pacifica, and another to do so in the Republic of Texas, where a norm female was worth tens of thousands of dollars on the black market. So Lee asked Annie to stop shortly after they entered West Primm. “I’ll hoof it from here,” she said. “Can I pay for your fuel?”
Annie laughed. “Hell, no . . . You don’t have that kind of money—and I topped the tanks back in Halloran.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now go out there and get happy. That’s an order.”
Lee grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lee took her pack, opened the door, and jumped to the ground. She waved as Big Bertha pulled away. And that was when she noticed the plate on the trailer. “1EYEONU.” That caused Lee to laugh out loud.
The next few hours were spent walking up and down both sides of the highway. There were a lot of nightspots, and a lot of soldiers wandering in and out of them, but plenty of car lots as well. And that’s what Lee was interested in. So she talked to sleazy salesmen, took test drives, and tried to figure out which wreck to buy.
Eventually, with her decision made, it was time to have a couple of tacos in a mom-and-pop restaurant, before circling back to Larry’s Used Car Emporium. Larry was right where she’d left him, boots on his desk, watching TV. He looked up as she entered the office. He smiled wolfishly. “You’re back . . . Which one will it be?”
“That depends,” Lee countered. “It’s down to a van at Jumpin’ Jack’s, or the old 4x4 I drove earlier. Pay me two hundred nu, and I’ll take that piece of shit off your hands.”
Larry threw his head back and laughed. “You got some nerve, girl . . . But I like that in a woman. Let’s go out and kick the tires. They’re in good shape by the way . . . There’s at least twenty thou on those puppies.”
Larry was dressed in a white shirt, bolo tie, and boot-cut jeans. A sizeable paunch hung down in front of a silver rodeo belt, and a cloud of cologne followed the salesman wherever he went. But there was a crafty mind behind the turquoise blue eyes, and Lee had her hands full as negotiations got under way. Finally, in a show of exasperation, Larry threw up his hands. “Okay, okay . . . Twelve-hundred nu. And not a penny less.”
The starting price had been eighteen hundred, so Lee was satisfied. “It’s a deal,” she said, as Larry’s hand swallowed hers. “If you fill the tank, give me a spare, and throw in the high lift jack that’s leaning on the wall over there.”
That produced a string of choice swearwords, but Lee got what she wanted, and took possession of the rig an hour later. The SUV was equipped with knobby tires, widely flared fenders, and lots of dents. The truck had been red once. But, after years in the desert sun, what remained of the paint was pink. And that was fine with Lee. She wanted a vehicle that would look like it belonged, wasn’t worth stealing, and could handle some rough terrain should that become necessar
y. The Republic of Texas plates were a big plus as well. How had the truck come to be in Pacifica? If Larry knew, he wasn’t telling.
The engine started with a roar, the truck rattled loudly, and a whiff of exhaust wafted up through a hole in the floor as Lee pulled out onto the street. Compared to her motorcycle, it was like steering a ship, and Lee was careful to keep both hands on the gigantic steering wheel as she drove east.
It was late afternoon by that time, but the stores were still open, and Lee had a list of things she needed to purchase. It didn’t take long to find a surplus store where she could pick up some basic camping gear and a map of Nevada. “We don’t sell very many of these,” the man behind the counter confided in her, as he blew some dust off the map. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” He had thinning hair, a permanent suntan, and a fatherly manner.
Lee nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“If you say so,” the man said doubtfully. “That’ll be 212 nu.”
Lee peeled the correct number of bills off her steadily shrinking roll and stuffed the rest of the cash back into her pocket. After loading the purchases into the truck, Lee had dinner at a fast-food joint before setting off to find the campground that the man in the surplus store had told her about. A lot of the streetlights were burned out, making it difficult to see street signs. Lee took a wrong turn and drove north for a while before realizing her mistake.
The second attempt was successful. The facility was about half-full. And, judging from the elaborate manner in which some of the campers, trailers, and motor homes were set up—quite a few of the residents were full-time residents.
Lee had been watching for a tail all day and hadn’t detected one. So odds were that the Bonebreaker was still back in LA. But just to make sure, she planned to sleep in the rig. A strategy that would lessen the chance that the killer would place a tracker on the vehicle.
The backseat had been removed at some point—which made the cargo area that much larger. Big enough for the newly purchased air mattress and sleeping bag with room left over. After a quick trip to the women’s restrooms and showers, it was time to place the Smith & Wesson within easy reach, and lock herself in.
Someone’s car alarm went off just after 2:00 A.M. But, other than that, the night passed peacefully. Bright sunlight woke Lee up. Then came the uncomfortable process of getting out of the bag, making what felt like a twenty-mile hike to the shared bathrooms, and performing her morning ablutions side by side with a prostitute who had just returned home from work. She was tall and dressed in a tank top/miniskirt combo that left very little to the imagination. “Hey,” the woman said. “Did you have a good night?”
That was when Lee realized that the woman had mistaken her for a hooker. “I spent it sleeping,” Lee replied, as she dried her face.
“Good for you,” the woman replied, as she removed her wig. “It’s hard to sleep during the day.”
Lee agreed and returned to the truck where she eyed herself in the rearview mirror. Did she look like a streetwalker? No, not in her opinion anyway. Her normal hairstyle had been left back in LA and replaced with a do that was so short she might have been in boot camp. That made her look different, boyish even, which was the plan. Her cheeks were hollow though . . . And there were circles under her eyes. All since watching the video. Was she doing the right thing? Should she go into the red zone? But, if she wanted to meet her mother, what choice was there? None, Lee told herself. None at all.
After a quick breakfast Lee made her way to the main drag and a lane marked BORDER CROSSING. There was quite a backup—and that was to be expected. Because while mutants weren’t allowed to live in Pacifica, they could apply for visas, and cross the border to conduct business. Once they were in-country the mutants had to comply with a long list of strict health regulations. Meanwhile, very few norms wanted to risk their lives by entering the red zone. That meant 99 percent of the vehicles in front of Lee belonged to mutants.
The line jerked ahead in fits and starts. In between Lee had plenty of time to inspect the businesses that lined both sides of the main drag. Most were straight-up stores unlike the seedy bars, strip clubs, and dance halls Lee had seen west of town. There were still lots of soldiers walking the streets, but they were mixed in with dependents and the townsfolk who made their livings off the military.
Eventually, after a half-hour wait, Lee arrived at a concrete hut and the striped drop arm that blocked all further progress. She’d been through the process before and knew what to expect. It began with the look of amazement on the soldier’s face as he peered in through the driver’s side window and saw her ID. He had to be at least eighteen to join the army but looked two years younger. “A cop? You must be shitting me.”
“Yup,” Lee confirmed. “A cop. Let’s get on with it, shall we? You’re going to call for an NCO. He or she will take a look, say something stupid, and summon an officer. So let’s start with the officer. What do you say?”
The soldier said, “No.” It seemed that privates weren’t allowed to send for officers. Only a sergeant could do that. So the situation played out exactly the way Lee predicted it would. And after fifteen minutes of waiting, an officer appeared. Lee had been ordered out of her vehicle by that time and searched. The fact that she was carrying two pistols seemed to confirm the private’s belief that she was up to no good—even though the police ID should have been sufficient to put his concerns to rest.
The officer was a dull-eyed specimen not much brighter than the private. But he knew that it was perfectly legal for norms of every description to enter the red zone. And since there was no “stop and hold” order out on Detective Cassandra Lee, he had no legitimate reason to bar her way.
So he asked Lee to sign a release that would prevent her from suing the government of Pacifica should she be infected with B. nosilla, raped, or murdered while out of country. The implication being that all three possibilities were likely. Once that was out of the way, he ordered the private to return her weapons and tossed a casual salute. “Have a nice trip,” he said. “And good luck.” The you’re going to need it was left unsaid.
Lee got into the truck, started the engine, and eased her way forward. That was when she saw an equivalent security post waiting up ahead. It was unmanned. The overhead sign said, WELCOME TO THE REPUBLIC OF TEXAS. The red zone took her in.
SIX
LEE PASSED UNDER a steel bridge as she left East Primm and saw the remains of an old roller coaster next to the road. It was a symbol of sorts—a monument to better times.
A jagged mountain range could be seen on the horizon. It, like the rest of the landscape, was an unrelieved beige color. It looked as though every drop of water that had ever fallen on the state of Nevada had been absorbed by the thirsty sun. And the air grew steadily warmer as the fiery orb continued to rise in the east. Lee turned the AC on, or tried to, but the only thing the unit produced was an impotent whirring sound.
Lee rolled the window down but couldn’t reach the one on the other side of the truck. So she pulled over to the side of the road, got out, and circled around. The passenger-side door made a creaking sound when she pulled it open. A package of flesh-colored antibacterial masks was sitting on the seat, so she took the opportunity to put one on. Not for the purpose of protecting herself from B. nosilla, not yet, but as a disguise. Because even though the muties weren’t required to wear one in the Republic of Texas, some chose to do so. Not to protect themselves from a disease they already had—but as a way to hide a badly disfigured face. And that was the impression Lee hoped to convey.
Lee checked the mask in an outside mirror, liked what she saw, and pulled a baseball cap onto her head. It had the initials LA on it and looked like she’d been wearing it for years. The hope was that most people would mistake her for a man or a boy. With her disguise in place Lee circled the truck, slipped behind the wheel, and pulled away. The slipstream was warm and buffeted her face.
The occasional truck passed her going in the opposite dire
ction. And a car went by ten minutes east of Primm. But most of the vehicles she saw were riddled with bullet holes and had been sitting next to the road for months if not years.
Had they been shot up with people inside? Or used for target practice after being abandoned? Both scenarios were possible because the roads belonged to bandits during the hours of darkness—and anyone foolish enough to travel them was taking a chance.
That’s why long-haul truckers formed convoys just before sunset and paid mercenaries to escort them from one city to the next. Could the bandits operate as mercenaries? And vice versa? Of course they could. And did.
It didn’t have to be that way. The Republic’s citizens could hire more cops. But then they would have to pay more taxes and increase the size of government, which most of them were loath to do. So the people who lived in the red zone got what they deserved. Or so it seemed to Lee.
Lee had been waiting for the turnoff that would take her to the town of Goodsprings. When the road split, she stayed to the left and drove generally north. She saw occasional signs of life, including a white contrail, a patch of green tucked in between two hills, and a wild horse standing on a rise. But such sights were few and far between.
Lee had just passed a burned-out truck stop when she heard the familiar rumble of motorcycle engines. She glanced at her rearview mirror, saw a column of bikers coming up from behind, and felt a sudden stab of fear.
As she watched, the column split in two so that a line of bikes could slip up along both sides of the truck. Some of the riders wore helmets, including football helmets, but most didn’t. The gang members were dressed in a wild assortment of clothing that included a lot of denim, leather, and bits of metal. Most rode alone, but there were deuces too . . . And, as the lead biker pulled level with the truck’s cab, his passenger was close enough to thump the door with a club.
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