by Toby Neal
He didn’t want her in his house. That was fine, she needed to get out of there anyway.
“Do you have a computer? I lost my phone in the crash.”
He grunted and turned, heading for his kitchen. Elizabeth followed, keeping one hand on the waistband of the pants as they tried to slide down her hips. Pinocchio stayed close to her, as if he was trying to make up for the rudeness of his master by being an especially attentive host.
JT rummaged in a closet. The log cabin’s wooden walls made the place feel cozy, and big windows let in the fading light of day. A plate and some silverware waited to be washed in the sink. On the stove, a pot simmered and the homey scent of chicken soup floated in the air.
A woman could survive the end of the world in a place like this, with a man like that. JT turned and she looked away from him.
“You can use this.” JT put a slim Mac laptop on the kitchen island.
“I just want to email my father, so he can get someone out here to pick me up.”
JT frowned and placed his palm on the computer. Fingers spread, his hand looked twice the size of hers. “Tell him to pick you up in North Fork. I’ll give you a ride into town when he confirms. I don’t want anyone showing up at my door.” JT stepped back, and Elizabeth opened the laptop. He stayed close, watching her. “You’ve got a nasty-looking cut on your head.”
“Oh, right.” Elizabeth reached up to touch it, but stopped, her fingers fluttering away from the soreness. “I felt it in the shower.” She wasn’t asking him for help, not when he was so pissed off about her being here. Whoever her father sent could give her medical attention.
“Let me take a look.” He leaned closer.
“I’m fine.”
“How do you know? You can’t see that wound.” His hazel eyes were concerned.
“Okay. Fine.” Then she added a “thank you,” picturing her mother’s reproachful frown.
Elizabeth bent her head so that he could examine the cut. His breath warmed her wet hair, and her skin prickled with awareness. A layer of electricity sizzled between their bodies, and when his fingers gently brushed her hair, Elizabeth shivered.
“Sorry. Does it hurt?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“You say that a lot.” He brushed her hair away from the wound gently, making goose bumps fan out over her skin. Her nipples in the loose shirt were having the same reaction, tightening. Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest, a blush sweeping up her neck. She’d never had this reaction to shock before—but then again, this was also her first plane crash.
“I don’t think you need stitches.” His palm cupped the base of her head and he applied light pressure so that her chin tilted toward her chest. “I’ll put some antibiotic ointment on it though.”
He stepped away to grab the first aid kit and Elizabeth almost stumbled back, her body trying to follow his. She took a deep breath and opened the laptop, giving herself a little shake; nothing mattered but getting these cells safely to DC.
As the laptop loaded, JT dabbed the ointment onto her scalp. “Thank you, again,” she said.
“No problem.” His voice was soft and she looked up at him, his hazel eyes were almost entirely green, but only for a moment. The second after she met his gaze, he turned away, hiding from her, washing his hands at the sink. “I’ve got to feed and water the animals before dark.” JT walked out, Pinocchio in his wake. The front door closed, and silence cloaked the house.
Elizabeth took a breath. “I need to get out of here.” She returned her attention to the computer.
She wrote her father an email:
Dear Mom and Dad,
As I’m sure you already know, my plane crashed. I’m alive and uninjured, though both pilots were lost. The cells are intact. Please send someone to pick me up in North Fork, Idaho. I’ve been trying your phones but can’t get through. Mine was lost in the crash.
Love, Elizabeth
She’d seen the bodies of the pilots despite JT using his big body to block her view as they crossed the crash site to his ATV.
Those poor men . . . did they have partners and children? Did anyone know they were dead besides her and JT?
Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears, blurring the computer screen. She took off her glasses and swiped at them but there was no containing the grief, the aftermath of trauma. It roared through her, and a sob wrenched from Elizabeth’s chest.
She sank into the awful couch and hugged her knees as she let go and wept. The miserable sounds echoed in the empty house.
The phone was busy and no first responders had arrived. What was going on out there, over those mountains? Was the quarantine in effect? People must be freaking out, tying up the lines.
Numbers swirled in Elizabeth’s mind. The United States had a population of three hundred and eighteen million. More than a hundred million were between the ages of eighteen and forty-four, the demographic most in danger of “Scorch Flu.” Since only ten percent of those who contracted the disease survived, it was possible that ninety million people, in the United States alone, could die.
What would happen to those who survived? With so much of the population decimated, how could the government continue? The army and law enforcement would crumble as their ranks passed away and the rule of law teetered.
And now the cells that carried the best chance of humanity’s survival were stuck in a freezer, along with a bunch of venison.
She was screwing this up.
Elizabeth’s lungs, knotted with emotion, stayed stuck on an exhale. She floated for a moment in a state of unreality, the pressure to breathe building, taking over all her senses. Fumbling, her hands numb, she found the switchblade in her pocket and squeezed it, repeating the mantra her therapist had given her, a vibrated sound without words. So hum, so hum, so hum. Elizabeth sucked in a deep, stuttering gasp. She exhaled and breathed again, her body unclenching.
The last rays of light had fled the sky, leaving a dusty blue dome ringed with the dark, jagged peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Mars, orange and brilliant, twinkled at the horizon.
There was no way she was making it out of here tonight, but the liquid nitrogen had several more days. Whether she’d heard from her father or not, she had to leave tomorrow. She’d go to the police and explain, somehow reach her dad though their communication channels.
She looked around for her phone, realizing again that it was gone.
Elizabeth returned to the computer and checked to see if her father had responded. He had not, but there was a message from Melody, a selfie of her in her trailer. Elizabeth hit reply and she began to tell Melody what was going on. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard when she got to the part about JT saving her.
“A local farmer pulled me from the wreckage and I’m at his house now. I have not reached my parents but I’m sure that I will. I’ll be back on the road to DC tomorrow.”
It was like an affirmation. If she just said it enough, maybe it would come true.
She was leaving for DC tomorrow.
She was leaving for DC tomorrow.
Chapter Six
JT
JT woke before the light, stiff and sore. The couch, which Roan had stayed on in the past when he slept over, was truly awful. JT didn’t know how his friend had dealt with it, the rough protrusions of the branches, the length too short to stretch out on, and the lumpy cushions. But Roan slept outdoors on the ground most nights, so maybe the Couch from Hell was fine by comparison. JT was spoiled by his big soft bed, a bed currently occupied by a petite woman wearing his sweats with nothing on underneath.
JT had ended up putting one of the pillows, smelling distinctly of rabbit and chickens, on the floor, and he’d bedded down with it on an extra blanket. During the night, the wounds on his back from the blast had scabbed tight, and he groaned as he rolled onto his hands and knees to rise painfully, glancing at the bedroom door.
It was still closed.
Hopefully Elizabeth had at least slept better than JT, and his
sacrifice would be worthwhile.
He’d tried not to imagine her naked between his sheets, her soft voice breathy in his ear as she whispered his name. His dirty mind combined with the prickling of the Sight had added up to a hellish night waking every hour or so expecting to hear rescue sirens for the plane—but not so much as a neighbor had driven by on the lonely dirt road running past the Haven.
JT brewed some coffee, making more than usual so Elizabeth could have some when she woke. He liked filling the pot to the top line. This kitchen had never seen such a full coffeepot before. Maybe the Sight was telling him something else—maybe it was telling him it was time to share his mornings again.
Elizabeth needed to get to DC though. It was a matter of life and death. This was the only morning she’d be here, and that was for the best.
JT pulled his hand out of the pocket where he’d been holding the gold rings, and snapped his fingers for Pinocchio. The Catahoula hopped out of his bed, ears pricked, ready for whatever needed doing.
It was time to go into town and find out where everyone was and get some help with the bodies from the plane—or he’d have to bury them himself today, which was not an idea he relished. Someone must be looking for the plane, if Elizabeth’s mission was as important as she seemed to think it was.
Next to the coffeepot, he left her a note about where he was and what he was doing.
The Sight tickled his neck as he looked for a pen and a scrap of paper—he’d never had occasion to leave a note for someone at this house before. Roan, like him, was out the door before dawn whenever he ghosted by, and there was no telling when that would be.
Cradling the mug of hot coffee, Pinocchio at his side, JT went out to the steel-sided barn where he parked his souped-up Range Rover.
The goats, eager to be milked, called to him from their stall.
“I’ll be back soon, ladies. Maybe Elizabeth will hear and come milk you.” He snorted a chuckle at the thought of those lily-white scientist’s hands trying to milk any of his three stubborn, opinionated nanny goats—that would be a sight to see. But she was bound to be picked up today by some important government official or other.
“That’s a good thing,” he told Pinocchio, who panted in happy agreement, tongue lolling. “She’s way too young and not my type at all, even if she weren’t here on a mission.” Talking aloud to Pinocchio had become a habit with all the time they spent alone. JT drove the SUV out of the barn and navigated the two gates with remotes from inside, finally getting on the road to North Fork in the pale pearl of earliest day.
He turned on the radio to see what the news was saying.
“Officials in Washington, DC have declared a national state of emergency due to Scorch Flu. The quarantine area of Portland has been extended to the borders of the entire state, Washington, and upper Idaho, and all air traffic has been halted. The CDC has deployed teams to major cities to deal with the increasing outbreaks.”
“But North Fork? How could it have gotten this far out into nowheresville?” The non-appearance of first responders was really bothering him. Pinocchio, seated upright beside him on the passenger seat, cocked his head and whined. The mystery of the jammed phone lines and lack of first responders needed to be solved. “Maybe they all got called in to address other emergencies.”
North Fork, a mere widening of the road, single stop sign, and row of small businesses, looked deserted in the early morning—except for Millie’s Bed and Breakfast.
Millie, a talkative widow from Jackson, kept her old Victorian full of hunters and fishermen drawn to the area for sport. She could be counted on for both a good breakfast and the latest gossip.
The windows of her restored pale blue Victorian were lighted, and thank God, a police cruiser was pulled up in front of the old hitch rail that now served as a parking lot barrier.
JT pulled up next to the cruiser. “Stay.”
The Catahoula dropped his nose to his paws with a disappointed look as JT locked the vehicle after cracking the windows, even though the shadows were still blue with cold and dew was heavy on the ground. Meadowlarks sweetened the air with song, a fox nosed along the roadside—and it was like a dozen times he’d come here for breakfast.
If only it were.
JT walked up onto the worn wooden porch, work boots thumping on the treads, and pulled open the door of the gracious old home. The front room was now a dining room, and Millie hurried across the room, her apple cheeks shiny with exertion. “JT!” Per usual, she wore denim from head to toe and an impressive collection of Navajo silver jewelry. “So glad you’re here. You won’t believe what’s going on in the world!”
“Afraid I would.” JT shrugged out of his leather barn coat and hung it on a peg. “I saw a police cruiser here—where’s the officer who was driving it? I have an urgent matter to discuss.”
“Over there. He’s talking with our firefighter volunteers.” She pointed to a powwow going on at one of the back tables. “Can I get your usual?”
It wouldn’t be right to have his usual ham and eggs breakfast indulgence with Elizabeth sitting back at his house alone, and a couple of bodies bloating in the potato field.
“Not today, Millie. But could you wrap up two of your famous cinnamon rolls?”
“Got a friend to share with?” Millie winked. Even in the middle of her busy morning and a national emergency, she never stopped matchmaking. She’d been trying to fix him up with every sad sack divorcee and washed-up lady trucker that came through town.
“You know the answer to that,” JT smiled. “No one can compare with you, Millie.”
She pretended to clutch her heart, and bustled off to the kitchen as JT wove between the tables to the back corner.
“Excuse me,” he said, when the men took no notice of him for several moments.
“Yeah? We’re busy here.” The sheriff had bags of fatigue under his eyes, but the three firefighter volunteers, strapping young men JT had seen around town, looked tanked up on caffeine and primed for action.
“Well, I had a plane go down in my field yesterday. I rescued one survivor, and now I’ve got two bodies lying out in the open. I’ve been calling 911 ever since it happened and getting a busy signal.”
“Shit.” The sheriff took off his hat, a stained and dusty Stetson, and ran a hand through thinning hair. “I wondered what happened with that distress call to Jackson that we picked up on the radio. Where’s your place?”
JT described the location. “Why isn’t anyone answering 911 dispatch?”
“All the 911 calls are routed out of Ketchum and there seems to be some technical glitch—or they’re really understaffed. I don’t know.” The man clapped his hat back on his head. “This flu is spreading fast and hitting people hard. Me and the boys here were just talking about how to cover the fire and emergencies of this area.” He looked JT up and down. “Interested in a deputy’s badge?”
“No thanks. Got my own fish to fry right now. When can someone come out to investigate the crash? You know, the FAA and all that.”
“Not sure. But I’ll radio it in.” The sheriff took another swig of black coffee and pointed to his volunteer firefighters. “You boys go on back and keep an ear to the ground for any emergency calls with those radios I gave you.”
JT shifted impatiently from foot to foot as the young men left and the sheriff dug into the ham and eggs breakfast JT usually ate when he came here. “I can’t leave those bodies lying out in the sun. Coyotes might have already been at them through the night.”
“Well, I’ll tell you God’s truth now that them boys’re gone.” The sheriff patted the table beside him for JT to sit, so he sat. “My name’s Sheriff Osgood. Hal Osgood.”
“JT Luciano.”
“Well, JT, there’s been little response to my calls either. I’m on my own with this whole area. So, I’ll do my best to raise someone and let them know that plane has been located—but if you don’t hear from me by noon, go ahead and bury the bodies. Don’t seem like it was
foul play, do it?”
“I’m no investigator,” JT protested. “I heard the distress call, saw the plane go down, and got down there with my quad in time to rescue a woman on board.” He described the series of events. “She says she’s a scientist on her way from Seattle to DC with some of the virus to make a cure.”
“Well, damn, that is something. And you believe her?” The man squinted a faded blue eye at JT.
“Got no reason to doubt her story, and she’s protective of a metal container she brought off the plane. She says it has cell samples critical to making a vaccine in it.”
“Make sure that virus don’t get out.” The sheriff gave a harsh chuckle. “Don’t need no more of that stuff running around the countryside.”
“What should I do about the scientist? Can you take her where she needs to go?” For some reason, he was reluctant to say the words even as they left his mouth.
“Too many irons in the fire for me to deal with her. You got wheels that work? Take that woman to Jackson. They can fly her out,” the sheriff said.
“I just heard on the radio there’s no more civilian air travel.”
“Well now, that’s gonna complicate things, but it sure makes sense in keeping the disease from spreading so quickly. Now lemme work the radio with your message about the crash site.”
He threw a ten on the table and stood, hoisting his belt and clapping the Stetson on his head, already talking into his handheld as he headed for the door.
Millie appeared as JT stood. She thrust two large, still-warm cinnamon buns wrapped in wax paper into his hands. “Enjoy those, honey.” She waved away his attempt to dig his wallet out of a back pocket. “They’re on me, and remember to check in on me, will you? I’ve got a feeling I might need some help if this thing goes on for long.”
“Thanks Millie.” Impulsively, JT leaned forward to kiss the woman’s cheek. “I’ll keep an eye on you as best I can.”
Headed for the door, he wondered what he’d just signed himself up for.
JT drove the miles back to the Haven, suffering through the scent of the warm cinnamon buns on the seat beside him. It didn’t seem right to eat one without Elizabeth getting hers, too.
