Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure (2 page)

The board makes solid contact with his chest, with sufficient force to completely knock him off his feet, sending him flying across the yard, landing on top of a concrete planter next to the house. Sara jumps down and starts running to the front gate of the yard. Reaching the gate, she swings it open and glances back to the once lifeless heap.

“Damn it, don’t you things ever give up?”

The feeder starts to move again, working himself into a standing position. Looking straight at her, he snarls. It’s a low, guttural growl that reverberates from the pit of his stomach. His face is as disgusting as the last guy’s face, and it is apparent to her that he is in the late stages of infection.

Sara closes the fence and runs up to the road. A short distance away sits a vintage airplane in the middle of the country road, its white and red paint job faded but its fabric wings still in good condition for its age. As Sara reaches the airplane, she removes the wheel chock from the tail wheel, throwing it and her gear into the backseat. Climbing inside, she quickly sits down, turns on the power switch, and pumps the primer a few times with her left thumb.
 

“Ignition, start position, check.”
 

The engine slowly turns over and sputters, failing to start.

“Come on.”
 

She turns the key to the start position again, and the engine coughs, sputters, and fires up with a large cloud of black smoke. As she shoves the throttle knob all the way forward, the plane begins to move slowly down the road, the propeller blur disappearing into a single blade in front of her. Sara glances over her shoulder, noticing the zombie closing in on her. Just as he reaches the back of the plane, the tail lifts off the ground, gaining enough speed to leave him behind.
 

A dull thud emanates through the plane as a mailbox that was sticking out next to the highway is sheared off, damaging the fabric on the right wing in the process and spoiling some lift. Sara pays no attention to the damage as she slips a pair of goggles down over her eyes while simultaneously pulling the plane into a climb. With one hand on the stick, she turns eastward. The engine settles into a rhythmic rumble as she reduces power and levels off at 500 feet. Glancing out of the cockpit at the damaged wing, she watches the torn fabric flutter in the wind, wondering how long it will last before she starts losing altitude.

2

GLANCING AT THE fuel gauge, it reads a quarter tank left. She was sure she had more fuel than that when she took off, coming to the realization that the damaged wing was also leaking fuel, the vapor trail invisible to her inside the cockpit.
 

 
“Looks like we will need to find some fuel soon.” She mumbles.

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

“Okay, baby, just ease back on the throttle and add some left rudder.”

“I know, Dad! I got this.” Sara loves her father but hates it when he hovers over her. She can fly, among other things, and is almost a teenager.
 

“She’s all yours; take us in.”
 

Sara strains to look over the dash at the runway ahead. Lining the nose of the airplane up at 700 feet while letting the ship gently glide down until 10 feet above the ground, the plane seems to float on the heated air above the hot landing strip, its white markings at 1000 feet from the end of the runway growing larger in her vision. Pulling back on the stick, Sara executes a perfect landing as she gently touches down.
 

“Good job.”
 

“Yesss!”
 

Sara shuts the engine off as they roll up in front of the hangar.

“I think you will be ready for solo after a few more flights.”

“Awesome! I can’t wait, Daddy!”

 
“Well, as soon as you can nail a few more landings like that one, then maybe we will think about it.”
 

He is just buying more time. Mark Robinson is well aware that her skill level is exemplary and that she would do quite well flying solo. But he is still reluctant to let his little girl fly off alone at such a young age. She is growing up too fast for him. Growing out of the young child into a young woman.
 

“So what do you think, pizza? Or hamburgers?”
 

“PIZZA.”
 

“Pizza it is.”
 

Her father throws his arm around his daughter, a doting father cherishing the moment. He is quite proud of her accomplishments as a young aviator and wishes time would slow down. Leaving the airplane sitting in front of the hangar, Sara and her father walk across the estate and into the large dining hall where a freshly baked pizza sits awaiting them. Mark grabs the spatula and serves up two large pieces for Sara, on fine china that is inlaid with gold. Setting the plate down in front of her, Sara quickly works on devouring the pizza, followed by two more pieces before going up to bed. Closing her eyes, she drifts off to sleep.

Inside the cockpit, Sara refocuses on the fuel gauge. As she taps on the instrument with her left index finger, the gauge drops just below the quarter tank line. Sara reaches between her legs and feels for the fuel lever. Twisting it, she switches it from the on position to reserve. The cockpit is sparse, built in a time when accessories included an airspeed indicator, a turn slip indicator, and a compass. The radio was an afterthought and is quite useless now since there is nobody to call and no one to respond to your calls. It was built in the golden years of aviation and is over forty years older than Sara.
 

A tattered, folded chart sits on her left knee; the airport identifier is printed in large block capital letters: T30. “Tango thirty it looks like we’re making a visit to you real soon.”

Her finger moves along the map, tracing an imaginary line back to her current location. Sara studies the map for any features that would be prominent in this desolate country. South Texas had minimal features, and this map did little to help an aviator find their way, the ground flat and featureless. A dry river bed on the map passed underneath the aircraft without her noticing, its flow long ago stopped by the continual drought. “Yep, should be right here. Hmm, about twelve more minutes, and—” she strains to look over the dash and off in the distance “—ah-ha, there you are.”
 

Sara can see the outline of the runway and dead grass surrounding it, even from this distance out. The concrete runway is bleached white from the decades of the harsh South Texas sunny summers. Pulling out the worn checklist, Sara starts going over the pre-landing checks.

“Flaps thirty degrees.”

“Carb heat on.”

“Fuel, hmm, minimal.”

“Throttle back one quarter inch.”

“Airspeed fifty knots.”

The aircraft slowly drifts down to the runway.

“Okay, Daddy, here goes nothing.”
 

Sara imagines her father sitting behind her in the small cockpit as he did many times before. Looking back outside, Sara notices a man walking down the center of the runway 400 feet ahead of her. She pushes the throttle in, adding power to the plane. Flying at 20 feet above the runway, she reaches down and grabs the revolver with her left hand, aiming it out the left side window at the unwary assailant.
 

“Say cheese.”

The revolver makes a loud crack as she swoops by the man. Looking back over her shoulder, she watches him fall over. It was one more dispatching of an infected citizen and another notch in her pistol grip, a couple more points on her scorecard.

“Ha, ha. Bullseye. That will be par.”

Banking the aircraft back to the runway, Sara eases back on the throttle, gently bringing it in for another shot at landing. Her touchdown is flawless and timing on the money, the wheels squealing as they try to catch up, burning the rubber, leaving two 4-foot equal marks on the runway. As the plane taxis off the runway, the engine starts to sputter, quitting just as the plane rolls up to the fuel pumps in front of the hangar and airport office. The hangar and office are co-joined and appear to be vintage 1945, having been built just after World War II. The block office front is worn, with huge chunks of brown paint peeling off as a result of the harsh weather. The metal structure of the hangar is in equally rough shape, but still structurally sound. Sara jumps out of the plane, shoving the revolver back into her pants. Looking around, she is not immediately aware that a figure inside the block building attached to the hangar is looking at her through the mini blinds. Walking over to the fuel pump, she lifts the nozzle out and flips the fuel lever up. There is no noise from the pump as she squeezes the fuel nozzle and nothing comes out.

“Out of fuel.” A voice hits her from a few yards away.

She spins around to the voice.

“Yep. Can you turn the pump on?”

“We’re out of fuel,” the elderly gentleman repeats.
 

“Damn it. When are you getting a delivery?” Sara rolls her eyes deep into her head.

“Probably next week, or the week after, not sure we will get another delivery. Not now anyway. Not since it happened.”
 

Sara puts the nozzle back in the fuel pump and walks cautiously to the stranger. He is a rough looking man, appearing to be somewhere between seventy and eighty years old. His face is weathered from years of working in the South Texas oil fields as a roughneck and raising cattle in the brutal South Texas heat of the many summers spent on the local ranches. His hands are roughened and severely calloused from the physical labor, and he walks with a slight limp to her. Sara places her left hand on the revolver, unsure of his intentions.

“No need for that; we don’t mean you no harm.”
 

“Maybe so, maybe not!”
 

The face of a woman pokes out around the edge of the building, and Sara can see the twin barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun jutting out in front of her legs.

“Probably wise to put that canon away before somebody gets hurt.” Sara points at the lady wielding the shotgun. She knows she has to be wary of everyone now. Even the most benign-looking senior citizen is suspect of ripping you off or killing you for the shirt on your back. Just weeks earlier, Sara had to put two slugs into the chest of a guy bent on stealing her gear and salvaging whatever he could out of the airplane; his only mistake was thinking he had the upper hand on a girl like her.
 

“It’s okay. She’s just a kid.”
 

The lady sets the gun back inside the doorway before joining her husband in front of Sara.

“We don’t get many visitors here anymore. Tom Macklin.”

Sara reaches over cautiously and gives him a quick shake. “Sara.”

“Just getting ready to sit down for supper when you dropped in. Hungry?”

“Yes, I’m starving.” Her canned meat had already worn off. There was one thing in the wasteland she would always let her guard down for: food. If you didn’t accept food when it was offered, you would go hungry. “Well, come on in.”

Tom motions to Sara to follow as he turns around and follows his wife into the airport office. His wife appears to be twenty to thirty years younger but has equal harshness worn across her wrinkled, sunburned brow, her long, jet-black hair stringy and dirty. Sara can tell that the woman is sick, her stick-figure-thin bones showing through the worn T-shirt and jeans.

3

LOOKING AROUND THE cluttered airport office, Sara cautiously watches her new acquaintances with an untrusting eye. The office is just a small room, no larger than an average bedroom. In the center is a large desk piled high with paperwork, with a spot in the middle cleared out revealing a small burner that has a bubbling pot sitting on top. Sara can smell the faint, pungent odor of meat stewing in the pot as she breathes in deeply. On the left side of the office sits an old leather couch that has one leg missing, a concrete block propping it up. The pictures on the walls are of Tom’s friends standing next to their airplanes. In nearly every picture, she notices that one of the men standing with the others is Tom. Tom, the very man standing in front of her and burning holes into her with his gaze and an ever-piercing interest.
 

“Where you headed?” Tom asks.

Sara sits down in the middle of the couch, a puff of air coming out of the worn-out cushion. The old couch has seen many a traveler and is nearly done for. The feeling and smell of the genuine cowhide leather take her mind back to her father’s equally worn-out couch in his large office inside their South Texas mansion. Sara studies the rows of books on the large bookshelf next to her, pulling out a novel she has never heard of before.
 

“Said, where ya headed, young lady?”

Sara snaps back to the present, answering in a soft voice, “Brooklyn.”
 

A large smile comes across the old man’s face. You could see his thought process going into overdrive, trying to dredge up a long-lost memory of his youth.
 

“Ah, went there many years ago when I was in the navy.”

“What is it like?”
 

“Oh, busy, lots of people, lots of traffic. If I recall correctly, everybody was in a damn hurry. Too many people, not enough time.” Tom’s voice trails off as he lifts the lid to the pot and stirs the mystery stew. “It’s not much, but it will hit the spot.”

“Smells good.” Sara breathes in the sweet aroma of freshly cooked meat. Tom clears the desk of the papers and pulls two chairs up against it next to his chair.

“You can take this seat here,” Tom replies.

Sara jumps up and takes a seat across the desk from the two strangers. Taking a seat next to his wife, Tom opens the right-hand desk drawer and produces three plates, two forks, and a spoon, handing a plate across the table to Sara and placing the other two on his side. Grabbing the handle of the pot, he starts scooping out a spoonful of meat and what appears to be potatoes onto Sara’s plate. Tom then starts to serve his wife before filling his own plate, when he looks across at Sara and notices she has started eating with her fingers.