Ill Wind Part 27

Bobby yanked out his rifle and moved it from side to side. The men took a hurried step back. Bobby raised his voice over the man's screaming. "Anyone else?" He flipped off the safety.

The men murmured and made an opening for them. Bobby pointed his rifle at a teenage boy nearest the road. "Help your friend-Kirtland hospital will do what they can. The rest of you listen up! What goes on up here is your business, but down in the city, you're under martial law. That law extends to any military personnel traveling through this pa.s.s." He held up his rifle. "Our weapons still work just fine. Remember that next time."

Bobby motioned with his head for Sergeant Morris and the three wide-eyed scientists to follow at a fast trot. "Move it."

They rode the horses through the opening made by the bandits. Behind them, the scavengers muttered in indecision, the wounded man screamed on the ground. Bobby and Sergeant Morris kept their weapons leveled.

They didn't speak until they left the group far behind. Soon, the rustling of their horses moving along the dusty roadside was the only sound. After another ten minutes, they rounded a curve to where the steep mountain pa.s.s opened up to show the eastern valley spreading out in front of them. Bobby could see mountains on the horizon, eighty miles away. Below them, the skeletal interstate highway wound through foothills. He saw a small town off in the distance.

Sergeant Morris turned and spoke her first unsolicited words to him. "You handled that nicely, Lieutenant."

Bobby felt his shoulders sag with the release of tension. He gulped, feeling a sour taste claw his throat. "Nice shot yourself." He yanked back on the reins, pulling the horse to a stop. Leaning over, he vomited.

Sergeant Morris came around. "You all right, sir?"

Bobby heaved once more, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He struggled to sit upright in the saddle. "Now I am. Just getting prepped for the exciting part of this trip."

Chapter 56.

The ranchhouse sat alone at the far end of a winding dirt driveway. Penned in by a barbed-wire fence, sheep grazed among the scrub around the house. Beside the house a 19th-century windmill stood motionless, waiting for a breeze so it could pump water from deep beneath the high desert.

Heather Dixon s.h.i.+fted the neon pink backpack on her shoulders. She brushed a hand across her forehead to wipe sweat and road dust away. The sun pounded down on them as she and Connor trudged up the long drive, leaving imprints from their hiking boots in the dirt.

Connor insisted that Heather take her own turn carrying the pack. He kept time on his watch, making sure that he didn't do a minute more work than she did. Equality at its best Equality at its best, he called it. Heather wanted to carry her own weight, but he didn't have to be so nit-picky about it. Instead of the pack, Connor carried the shotgun and the big hunting knife.

"We can get some water up there," she said, "maybe some food."

Connor's face had been sunburned, but it didn't seem to bother him. The ruddy change in his skin gave him a rugged appearance. He hadn't shaved, but his beard was pale like his blond hair, making him look like a California beach b.u.m. "I could use a shower too." Connor winked at her. "Like to join me? I had fun the last time we took one."

Heather answered him with a forced laugh, and turned away. Over the hard days of walking she had rapidly grown tired of Connor Brooks. She began to regret going with him at all, wandering on this aimless trek across the southwest, moving eastward with no destination in mind.

The s.e.x had been good, one of the better parts of the whole experience. Lying under the stars, camping wherever they felt like, and totally free for the first time in her life-without a job to go back to, not caring about the social conventions that had tangled up her life. But lately even making love with Connor had become unpleasant, as if it was now expected expected of her, instead of being spontaneous. of her, instead of being spontaneous.

Connor called them the "Bonnie and Clyde of the apocalypse," and his goofy routine grated on her. The look in his eyes and the hidden focus of his thoughts scared her. She realized just how alone she was with him day after day.

Long before they reached the ranchhouse, Heather heard a dog start barking. She could see the big black mutt tied to the windmill frame by a long rope. The dog was s.h.a.ggy, mostly sheepdog but with a dash of Labrador and German Shepherd. The dog barked and barked, but Heather detected no growling menace. After the petroplague, it probably saw few strangers.

Connor walked beside her carrying the shotgun as if he thought it made him invincible.

The front door opened, and a woman emerged; her open-mouthed smile was like a flower unfolding. She was in her late thirties with her hair tied in an unflattering ponytail. Her clothes had the worn broad-strokes appearance of homemade garments. The woman's face lit up like a full moon, making her eyes seem small but bright. "h.e.l.lo! Can we help you?"

Connor, playing his part of tough guy and a.s.shole, stepped forward. He lowered his voice intentionally, like some kind of vigilante. "We came to take food and water."

Heather s.h.i.+fted her pink backpack. She smiled at the woman. "Can you spare some?"

A second woman stepped out, looking wary. She had hovered just behind the other in the darkness of the house, watching and listening. This woman, perhaps a year or two older, wore similar clothes. Her face was gaunt, as if someone had nipped and tucked and tightened her expression over the years. She gave both Connor and Heather a wary look. "We've got a little."

Connor craned his head, squinting to look through the shadows of the doorway. "So where's the man of the house?"

The good-natured woman piped up, "He's returning from temple in Salt Lake City."

The gaunt woman answered simultaneously, "He's out back."

Connor snorted, ignoring the obvious lie. Turning to the good-natured woman, he said, "In Utah?" He p.r.o.nounced it U-taw. "At temple? What are you, Aztecs or something?"

Heather glared at him and muttered, "They're Mormons, stupid."

"Mormons?" Connor straightened up and let out a guffaw. "So, these must be the guy's two wives." He laughed again.

The gaunt woman snapped, "Shelda's my sister."

"Hey," Connor said looking to Heather with an expression of concentration on his face, "aren't Mormons supposed to keep a year's supply of everything? In case of emergencies. They must have plenty to share."

The gaunt woman eased back toward the house, vanis.h.i.+ng into the shadows. Heather knew she was going to go for a hidden weapon. Connor jerked up the shotgun in a frightening, smooth movement and pointed it toward the doorway.

The dog, its protective instincts suddenly ignited, went wild, barking and straining to the edge of its rope.

Connor pointed the shotgun at the animal as if extending a finger at a recalcitrant child and squeezed the trigger. The explosion echoed around the ranch yard and the dog flew backward into the air, its side ripped open by the scatter blast of the shotgun pellets. It tangled two legs into the rope as it somersaulted and lay in a bloodied heap in the dusty yard.

A smothering silence fell. Everyone stood transfixed. The old windmill, finally stirred by a breeze, creaked and turned twice then fell still.

Heather stared at Connor, not knowing what to say. The gun was so loud. This was the first time he had actually fired it, for all the threatening and bl.u.s.tering he had done over the past few days. It smelled foul and sulfurous.

Connor's face took on a pinched, calculating look. "Maybe we should just stay, Heather. This place has everything we need, and I'm sick of hiking everywhere." He laughed. "Go on ladies, get your tennis shoes on. You've got a lot of walking to do."

Heather put her hands on her hips, refusing to let him see her fear. "Connor, cut it out!" She grabbed at the shotgun, but he s.n.a.t.c.hed it away, glaring at her.

The moon-faced woman fell to her knees on the porch. She kept staring at the motionless dog bleeding into the dust.

The gaunt woman reappeared, her eyes as wide as coins. She gripped the door frame but she didn't move a muscle.

Connor spoke to Heather while keeping the shotgun trained on the women. "What's your problem? We've been trudging around this state like scavengers, and these b.i.t.c.hes are sitting fat and cushy on a year's worth of food. It's our turn! We deserve a bit of convenience for a change. I thought you wanted to get back at the people who stepped all over you your whole life."

Heather's words came out quieter than she intended. "These people never did anything to me."

"Well then let's get that Al Sysco you keep complaining about." He dropped the barrel of the shotgun and pointed toward the ladies' feet. "I can make him dance like in an old cowboy movie. Pow, pow, pow!"

"Right, I want to hike all the way back to Flagstaff just so I can make a pathetic little man squirm. Cool it, Connor, we've got better things to do." She turned to the gaunt woman, the only one capable of doing anything at the moment. "Would you get us some water and some packaged food?" She hesitated. "Please?"

Connor pointed the shotgun at her moon-faced sister. "And don't try anything!" Heather didn't like the predatory look in Connor's eyes. More and more of his real personality was unfolding before her eyes. With a chill she wondered what he might have done to the women if she wasn't there.

Connor snorted at Heather. "Man, what made you turn boring all of a sudden?"

Minutes later the gaunt woman returned with the supplies. Heather's heart raced and she tried to slow her breathing. She was afraid the woman might have gone for a rifle of her own, and then things would have gotten messy. But she carried only water and some boxed food. "Here . . . now please, leave us alone."

Connor was about to retort, but Heather grabbed his arm and forced him to turn around. "Let's go," she said, and they set off back down the dirt driveway.

As they departed, Heather glanced back. The gaunt woman took her sister's hand and pulled her to her feet. The two of them moved slowly forward to stand in shock over their dead dog.

Chapter 57.

"Hey, Spence-visitors!" The words echoed in the still air around the electromagnetic launcher on the slopes of Oscura Peak.

"Who is it?" Spencer asked with a sigh. Even with the isolation of the post-plague world, people still found ways to interrupt his work a dozen times a day. He swore that he he would never be the person to bring back the telephone. would never be the person to bring back the telephone.

Gilbert Hertoya shrugged, his small, compact body silhouetted against the door of the tin-roofed accelerator. "Don't know, but they're riding down from the north."

Spencer put down his wrench and wiped sweat from his forehead. His new beard itched like crazy in the stuffy heat. Pinholes of light punched through the metal siding, but no breeze came at all. Spencer could only stand to work inside the enclosure for half an hour at a time.

He left a jumble of wiring on the concrete floor. For the past few days it was the only work he could do that wouldn't bring a squawk from his experimentalists. They kidded him and told him to keep away from the delicate refurbished equipment after the water-pump fiasco. Short no unskilled labor, Gilbert Hertoya had cheerfully put him to work laying down relay switches on the EM launcher facility. "If liberal arts students can handle it during the summer, I think you can manage," Gilbert said.

Spencer emerged from the dim building into the brilliant desert sun; he held up a hand against the glare as he stared down the mountain slope. Gilbert stood on a pile of metal siding to get higher, pointing toward the north. "Looks like five of them."

Spencer squinted. "All on horseback?"

"Yeah. And they're not from Alamogordo unless they got lost coming back from Cloudcroft."

"Too far south. Besides, they'd stick to the mountains if they were lost." Spencer thought for a moment. "You know, Romero's been getting some disturbing reports-martial law in Albuquerque, riots in El Paso, a lot of the Indian pueblos killing anyone who comes on their land. We've been lucky up here."

Gilbert gingerly stepped down from the pile of rattling metal. "What should we do?"

"Send out the welcome wagon, what else?"

In the concrete blockhouse at the base of the railgun launcher, Spencer and Gilbert waited in the shade. The travelers arrowed straight for the facility-the five-mile launcher could be seen for miles around.

Spencer pushed back the drooping brim of his hat, arms folded as he watched the riders approach. The two in front wore Air Force uniforms, and he could see rifles packed behind their saddles. He had a sudden vision of the cavalry riding into town.

"What are they up to?" he muttered. Gilbert shaded his eyes and kept staring.

The broad-shouldered man in uniform looked young and big enough to be a football player. He called out when they were fifty yards away. "Yo! I'm Lieutenant Bobby Carron, looking for Dr. Lockwood. Can you tell me where to find him?"

Spencer squinted at the young man; the voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Had they met before?

One of the three men in back leaned to the side and shouted, "Hey, Gilbert! That you, you old sand rat?"

Gilbert Hertoya broke into a grin. "Arnie!" He turned to Spencer and dropped his voice. "I used to work with him at Sandia. He's okay."

Arnie spread his arms. "They made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Come on, let's talk." As the visitors kept approaching, Spencer saw a troubled look cross Arnie's face. "You're lucky you were down here when the plague hit, Gilbert. A lot of people died."

Lieutenant Carron swung off his horse; Spencer racked his brain, trying to recall where he'd seen the man before. And then he remembered: the drive back from Livermore, the rental car breaking down out in the California desert. Spencer grinned and held out a hand. "I knew you looked familiar, Lieutenant. I'm Spencer Lockwood-you rescued me, just about a month ago, when I ran out of gas near Death Valley."

Bobby held onto the horse's reins and squinted at Spencer. A smile grew across his face. "You're right. You know, I'd forgotten your name-and you didn't have a beard then, did you?"

"No need to waste razors."

Bobby laughed. "It didn't occur to me that you'd be the same person I was supposed to find." He introduced his group. Everyone seemed pleased except sour-faced Sergeant Morris. She stiffly shook Spencer's hand without a trace of warmth.

Spencer said, "What can I do for you, now that you've come across half the state looking for me?"

"We heard you've been generating electricity down here," Bobby said. "We came to get the full details."

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Oh, boy. I was afraid this might happen."

Bobby fumbled with the b.u.t.ton on his uniform s.h.i.+rt. He pulled out a folded sheet of paper, smoothed it, then handed it to Spencer. He looked embarra.s.sed. "We're actually on an official mission, for what it's worth. I'm representing General Bayclock from Kirtland."

Spencer held onto the paper, but kept looking at Bobby. "I thought you said you were a.s.signed to China Lake. What's a Navy man doing in the middle of the desert?"

"That's a long story. Here, this explains part of it."

Spencer started to read the paper. The words ATTENTION TO ORDERS were stamped across the top. He lifted an eyebrow. "Bayclock is the head guy up at the base, isn't he?"

"Base commander . . . and, uh, Marshall of Albuquerque, I guess with the martial law and all that."

"Marshall, huh. Like Matt Dillon?" Spencer scanned the dense paragraphs, growing more uneasy. "So this general thinks that, since he was technically responsible for our logistics before the petroplague, we're under his martial law authority now?" Spencer looked up. "He never once visited our facility, never so much as called me on the phone-and now we're supposed to develop a plan to provide Albuquerque with electricity, just because he says so?" It might have been funny under other circ.u.mstances. "Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?"

Bobby shrugged.

"The general is not kidding, Dr. Lockwood," Sergeant Morris said stiffly.

Spencer folded the paper, resisting the impulse to rip it to shreds and scatter the pieces across the desert. He ignored Sergeant Morris. "So what do you think of this, Lieutenant?"

Bobby held up his hands. "Hey, I'm only the messenger . . ."

"Don't worry, you saved my life once, and I won't shoot you for bringing bad news. In fact, I don't even have a gun."

Spencer turned to the rest of the visitors. Gilbert Hertoya and Arnie stepped up beside them. Squat Sergeant Morris remained on her horse like a statue of an old war hero that belonged in some small-town square.

Spencer said, "Okay, so what's going on? What do the rest of you know about this?"

Bobby Carron said slowly, "Can we get out of the sun?" He took Spencer's arm. Stepping away from Sergeant Morris, he whispered, "I've got stuff to tell you about Bayclock that you won't believe!"