Authors: Mary Rosenblum
Tags: #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #General, #Collections & Anthologies
“I think that’s going to cost you a little extra.” Renny’s eyes flickered and she made a flicking motion with her fingers, as if brushing away invisible flies. “I know a lady in Portland who makes her living on the net. She can dig up everything you need. No one keeps Lydia out.”
“Great.” Nita stood, settling Rachel on her hip. “When can you get it for me?”
“
We’ll
leave right now.” The wiry trucker grinned at her. “I’ve got half a load for the city. That’s enough to pay expenses. Why wait?”
We? “How do I get back here?” Nita fished in her pack for Rachel’s beads, trying to hide her unease.
“Babe, you can hop a ride anywhere you want. Even with the kid.” Renny sounded dryly amused. “You looked in a mirror lately? But I might pick up an eastbound load, you never know.” Her grin widened. “And if I don’t, I’ll find someone who owes me a favor. A little gift from me. Keep it in mind.” She eyed Rachel dubiously. “Those boobs mean you got to bring the kid, right? She’s not going to scream the whole way, is she?”
Nita shook her head, looked at Jeremy. “Would you stay up at the house for me? If the beans don’t get watered on time, they’ll wilt. The automatic valve’s broken and you have to do it on manual.”
“Sure.” Jeremy nodded. “I’ve worked fields before.”
“You got a half hour.” Renny opened the door. “I’ve got to pick up my stuff and warm up my rig.”
Jeremy walked past her, out into the grimy hall. Nita followed him outside and around to the front entrance of the inn, the one the cops used. She squatted on the cracked concrete walk, in the narrow strip of shade, cradled Rachel on her lap and leaned her forehead against her daughter’s small heat.
Jeremy put a hand on her shoulder, his sympathy falling on her like dust.
“It was that or Dan. She hates him.” She didn’t lift her head. “What if I say no?”
“It wouldn’t be a good idea,” Jeremy said reluctantly. “Truckers back each other up and they have long memories.”
“Thanks a lot.” A big engine rumbled a bass note in the parking lot and Nita caught a whiff of ethanol on the hot breeze. She swallowed a hard knot of apprehension, gathered Rachel into her arms and stood. “I hope this satisfies Carter,” she said bitterly.
“I’ll meet you at the house when you get back.” He touched her lightly. “Good luck.”
As Renny swung the door open, Nita straightened her shoulders, tucked Rachel into her sling, and clambered up into the high cab.
Renny sat in a padded seat — the only seat. Embroidered cushions, a tiny kitchen unit, shelves, and cupboards turned the rest of the cab into a plush — if cramped — living space. Even a flatscreen hung on the side wall, and a little GPS screen glowed on the dash. Nita looked apprehensively at the gleaming bank of gauges and displays that surrounded the screen as she settled herself gingerly on the carpeted floor beside Renny’s seat.
“Relax, babe.” Renny ran a blunt-nailed finger down Nita’s arm, her eyes glinting with amusement. “You scared of me or the truck? I don’t collect ’till I deliver your dirt, so you’re safe ’till then.”
Needling again. Nita lifted her chin and managed a smile. “I’ve never been in a truck cab before. It’s . . . amazing.”
She didn’t have to pretend awe. She could feel the power vibrating through the cab but it was quiet inside, so cool that her skin had gone tight and bumpy. She brushed her palm across the thick crimson carpet. The dashboard was paneled in what looked like real wood. Nita touched the satiny finish, tracking the rich grain. Silver winked at her from knobs and the rims of the digital display. Blue green numbers and letters winked indecipherable codes at her.
“You’ve got your mouth hanging open like a native, babe.”
“I can’t help it.”
Renny tossed her head. “Take a good look — she’s a sweet rig. I won’t waste power specs on you, but she’s one of the best on the road. Custom design, state of the art engine. If the kid gets sleepy, you can put her on the futon back there. Don’t let her piss on it.”
“I’ve got diapers on her . . .” Nita gasped as the truck suddenly swerved. She fell against the door, grabbing for Rachel.
“What the hell?” Renny snarled. The truck swerved again. “What’s that hotshot trying to do? If he scrapes my fender I’ll run him into the damn riverbed.”
Clutching the door, Nita peered through the windshield. A battered van was crowding the truck, forcing Renny to steer close to the rough shoulder of the highway. Here, the ground dropped off abruptly into the riverbed. If the truck went over, Nita thought in terror, it would roll.
“Duck,” Renny yelled and hunched down behind the wheel.
Bits of glass stung Nita’s face and she heard a sound like a distant backfire as she crouched over Rachel.
“The bastard’s shooting at us.” Bent low, Renny clutched the wheel.
The truck shuddered and lurched. Renny cursed in a continuous monotone, her voice barely audible over the roar of wind and engine noise. More glass stung Nita’s neck and she gasped at a white explosion of shock. I’m hit, she thought, and then; it’s Renny. Rachel started to scream as the truck swerved again. Nita caught a flicker of cold, focused hatred, lost it. That wasn’t Renny. She recognized that hatred. The cab shuddered and metal crunched. Renny gave a wordless cry as another impact shook the truck.
Triumph, not pain. It was over, whatever was going on. They weren’t going to roll down into the riverbed. Nita raised her head cautiously. Vibrations shook the cab, but they were still moving, still on the highway. Renny clutched the wheel with both hands, her face set and white, eyes squinted against the dust in the air. More holes pocked the window in Renny’s door, and blood soaked her left sleeve.
“I ran the bastards off the road,” Renny said between clenched teeth. “Good thing they were so low. Door’s bulletproof and you can’t hit much anyway, shooting up. A ’jacker would’ve sprayed the windshield and we’d have gone over for sure.”
“Stop,” Nita said. “You’re bleeding.”
“I sort of noticed, babe.” Renny bared her teeth. “But I don’t think they went off fast enough to do serious damage. We’ll stop down the road, where we’ve got better high ground.”
Her arm was beginning to hurt with a hot, grinding pain. Nita clenched her teeth. Rachel was still screaming. Nita soothed her as best she could, and used her sunscarf to block the holes in the windshield so that Renny didn’t get too much dust in her face. Renny didn’t stop until they reached the Mosier detour. Once off the interstate, she pulled over onto the shoulder of the two-lane road, struggling one-handed with the wheel. The truck finally jolted to a halt and Renny leaned back against the seat, her face white.
“I want the medical kit from that top storage cupboard,” she said. “There’s a gun under the seat. Get that first.”
Nita put the crying Rachel onto the futon and found a squat rifle in a concealed holster beside Renny’s seat. She handed it to Renny, then took down the green plastic box of medical supplies.
“You handle the gun if I pass out. It’s full auto.” Renny opened one eye. “Nine millimeter hollow point, not much kick but it’ll stop someone. Point it and pull the trigger. Don’t swing it around — aim steady and you’ll probably hit something. Safety’s there.”
“Let’s hope they don’t show.” Nita put the gun on the floor and opened the box.
Renny carried a lot of medical supplies. Nita fumbled through bandages and surgical instruments, vials of antibiotics, pain-killers and stimulants. This was all black-market stuff, worth a small fortune. This was where the antibiotics on Dan’s shelf had come from. She looked down the road, but saw no sign of the van. She reached for Renny’s injured arm.
“I’ll take care of it.” Renny slapped her hand away. “Give me those scissors.”
“Shut up and sit still.” Nita clenched her teeth against Renny’s pain. “I have two hands.” She began to cut away Renny’s blood-soaked sleeve. “What pills do you need to take?”
“You’re a gutsy little bitch. You’d better do a damn good job.” Renny swallowed a groan as Nita swabbed blood from the wound with an antiseptic pad. “I’ll need the white tablets for infection and two of the orange capsules for pain,” she mumbled through tight lips. “They’re loaded with meth, so I won’t nod off. Custom mix.”
“The bullet went through,” Nita said over Rachel’s cries. “It’s bleeding pretty badly.” She dug her fingers into Renny’s armpit to compress the main artery. David had taught her a lot, out in the hills. Nita pressed a fresh gauze pad against the ugly exit wound, relieved as the bleeding slowed.
The orange capsules worked fast to dull Renny’s pain. Rachel finally stopped screaming and fell into instant, exhausted sleep. Feeling shaky herself, Nita finished cleaning the wound and bandaged Renny’s arm. Blood had run down Nita’s arm to her elbows, had dripped onto her worn jeans. She taped the bandage in place, wiped her hands, and began to put the supplies away. Renny looked better, not so pale.
“Nice job.” Renny managed a faint grin. “I was right. You wouldn’t make a half bad trucker.” She pushed her door open and slid awkwardly to the ground. “Look at my rig.” She glared at the crumpled skin of the truck’s gleaming fender. “I’d like to get my hands on the bastards. Do you know who they were?” Her good hand locked on Nita’s wrist.
“I think so.” Now that it was over, Nita’s hands wanted to tremble. “It was a Major Delgado in the van. From the base. It’s because of the fields. He doesn’t want me to get that proof. I’m sorry, Renny.”
“You gave me his name,” Renny said flatly. “We’re even. Don’t worry. You’ll get your proof, babe. You just make damn sure you twist someone good with it. Delgado’s days are now numbered.” She touched the bandage on her arm, flexed her fingers, and winced. “Let’s go,” she said as she swung herself into the cab. “I want to get to Portland before those caps wear off. There’s some fiber tape in that cupboard. You can patch the windshield while we drive. Leave the gun where you can reach it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
C
arter left his office and went down to Operations, needing to be there in person. He had taken a risk, leaving the Shunt valves with a single guard, even for half an hour. The safe thing would have been to deny Corporal Roscoe’s request, to have had him wait until the relief detail showed up. But by then, the sniper would have vanished. He wanted a wedge into who was behind this, and the sniper would give him that wedge.
Carter paused outside the big double doors. He needed that wedge and he needed it damn badly. He couldn’t afford to believe anybody here, not Nita, not Greely, maybe not Hastings. His cell buzzed.
“Delgado, here.” The major’s voice sounded harsh in his ear. “We’ve got a situation. The relief team was ambushed, just west of the Shunt. Roscoe called in for support. We’ve got casualties, sir.”
The war had finally started. Carter felt cold. “I want that squad rolling now,” he said harshly. “Major?”
“Sir?”
“No local people on this mission. Pass it on to the unit’s CO.”
“Yes, sir,” Delgado said briskly. “We’re rolling.”
“You stay,” Carter snapped. “I’m taking it.”
“Sir?”
Carter hung up on him. No way Delgado handled this. He ducked into Operations, where Major Bybee gave him the all-clear. No problem with the flow — not yet. He left Operations almost at a run and burst out into the baking afternoon heat. The squad was riding two of the battalion’s new AAVs — armored and baled to take any dry terrain. The captain in charge saluted and Carter returned it as he scanned the troops. His eyes narrowed and he veered around to the rear of the nearest truck. “Private Wasson?”
“Sir.” The private’s sandy head jerked up as she snapped him a salute.
“You’re off this assignment. Get out.”
“Sir?” Her face flushed. “You can’t to that. Captain Westerly . . .”
“You heard me,” Carter snapped. He’d deal with Westerly later. “Move it, Private.”
Face sullen, she climbed down. The first vehicle was already pulling out and the grunts on this one were looking carefully elsewhere. Wasson yanked her rifle out to the truck bed and stalked away, her shoulders rigid.
“Sir?” Westerly saluted, her face tight.
“Later.” Carter cut her off. “Let’s go, Captain.” She hadn’t expected him to come along, and looked for one instant as if she was going to protest. Her salute was razor sharp, but her eyes were almost as sullen as Wasson’s. Carter swung himself up into a seat without returning it, angry at Westerly, angry at himself. He’d handled that badly, but hell, there hadn’t been time to handle it any other way.
The grunts behind him were silent. Because he was there. “This is a hell of a situation,” Carter said. “We’re supposed to be running water, not shooting people.” The AAV lurched forward and he grabbed for a handhold.
“I’m tired of just takin’ it.” The low voice was just audible.
Carter felt the sudden stillness all around him. “You think I’m pretty soft on the hicks, don’t you?” Carter looked back, picked out the dark-haired kid who’d spoken. A private — Carter read his name, Andy Stakowski. “They can shoot us a hell of a lot easier than we can shoot them. You think about that, Private.” The kid looked angry. He was, what — nineteen? Twenty? “If that Pipe leaks we have to go out and fix it. That makes us sitting ducks. If a war starts, we’ll lose it. But we’ll take out the bastards who are shooting at us. In spades.”
“You said it,” someone said, farther back in the truck.
Carter watched the walls of the Gorge slide past. They were all scared. We’re not combat troops, he thought bitterly. People joined the Corps to design lifts, fix pipe, drive a dozer, or watchdog flow turbulence. The vehicle rocked as it hit a stretch of bad pavement, throwing him back against someone’s shins. “Sorry.” Carter glanced over his shoulder to find himself looking into the young private’s face.
“It’s a rough ride, sir.” He hesitated, blushing red. “I’m sorry, sir. About what I said, sir.”
“It’s okay,” Carter said. “We’ve got people down out there. Let’s get to them.” The kid’s eyes were bright with excitement or fear or maybe both. He was ready to be a hero. It’s not like the videos, kid. Carter stared out at the passing landscape, remembering the stink of blood and bowel and dust after the Chicago riot. The bodies they’d picked up had bloated and split open in the heat.
The rattle of automatic weapons echoed back and forth between the walls of the Gorge, coming from everywhere and nowhere. The AAV was slowing and Carter’s stomach clenched. “Keep your heads down,” he yelled as he leaped from the back of the still-rolling truck. “Scatter and get under cover. If they’re up on the rim, they’ve got us.”
He landed lightly as the rest of the grunts piled out. The men and women hit the ground running, scrambling for whatever cover they could find. Roscoe was waving from a jumbled pile of rocks near the bottom of the riverbed.
“They’re in the bunker,” the corporal yelled. Another short burst of weapons fire rattled down the Gorge. “They’re not using hunting rifles, sir. Not this time.”
Doing
what
in the bunker? “We’ve got to get in close enough to lob gas. Carter crouched beside Westerly. “Send one team around to the north, another along the Deschutes side of the bunker. If they can come up on it from behind, they can get in pretty close under cover. We’ll keep the bastards busy here.”
“Yes, sir.” Westerly scuttled away, crouched low.
It might already be too late. It wouldn’t take much to wreck the automatic valves. Carter snatched his cell from his belt, using the secure channel.
“Operations. Yes sir, Colonel?”
“Any trouble?”
“Negative, sir. It’s running fine.”
“We’ve got intruders in the Shunt bunker. Put an override on all manual controls. Lock ’em down tight.” Worst case scenarios unrolled in his head. “Get ready to shut down the flow fast. Call me if anything at all shows upon the boards.” He snapped the phone closed and scrambled down the slope toward Roscoe’s rock. A Corps 4x4 lay on its side at the bottom of the bed; Carter thought he could see a body behind the wheel. Corporal Roscoe, a light-skinned black man with a long, bony face, reached for Carter as he got close and pulled him down behind the shelter of the dusty boulder.
“I sure am glad to see you all.” His Louisiana accent softened his words. “The relief team walked right into an ambush. They were waiting for us.”
Carter looked past him. Another Corps body lay in the sun — a dark-haired woman.
“The hicks had it all set up, sir.” Roscoe’s eyelids flickered. “Lopez and I were up on the rim, sir. We couldn’t do anything. Lopez got it when we tried for the truck. They were already in the bunker, sir. Amesworth was in there.” His shoulders jerked.
Carter put a hand on the Corporal’s arm, then slithered around the side of the boulder to peer up at the bunker. Its concrete walls gleamed white in the glare. If one of the teams he’d sent out could get gas in there, they’d have them. He’d have salvaged something from this mess, and he’d damn well wring some names out of them. Carter looked back up the bank. His people had spread out over the rocky slope of the riverbed. Sporadic bursts of gunfire rattled down the Gorge — all Corps fire. They were keeping the bastards busy, as ordered. Carter’s jaw tightened as two new vehicles pulled up along the highway. Media. Who the hell had called them? He reached for his cell again. “Any trouble?” he asked Operations.
“Negative,” Bybee told him. “Thumbs up. We’ve locked out the manual controls.”
Carter frowned as he replaced the phone. “I haven’t heard any more shots from the bunker. I wonder if they sneaked back into the Deschutes bed. They’d be out of sight from this angle. I don’t like it.” Carter felt a growing uneasiness. “They had plenty of time to screw up the valves before we got here. What are they up to?”
“Colonel?” Roscoe cleared his throat. “They knew every move we were making out there. I think someone set us up, sir. Someone from the base.”
And had called in the media to come watch the action.
An explosion cut off their words, roaring through the Gorge like a vast roll of thunder. A fist of concussion slammed Carter flat. Rocks and dirt showered down, some chunks big enough to hurt. Ears ringing, blinded by dust, Carter wondered why the thunder of the blast didn’t stop. It went on and on and its low, hissing rumble shook the ground. Dazed, blinking, he lifted his head, caught a glimpse of brown motion, as if the entire riverbed had lifted and was sliding toward them. With a flash of horror he realized what he was seeing.
Water.
“Up to the road!” He staggered to his feet. “Move it, move it!” he yelled hoarsely.
Captain Roscoe was already scrambling up the slope. Carter started after him and nearly tripped over a limp body. It was the kid, the private. Face bloody, he groaned as Carter hauled him to his feet. He slung the kid’s arm across his shoulder and staggered as the first rush of water hit him. Debris rode a crest of dirty foam, tugging at him with incredible force. Why the hell didn’t they shut down the flow? The flood washed higher, shoving the barely conscious private against him, tearing at them both.
He went down on one knee under the weight of the boy’s body and the water seized them both, cold and deep now. Something slammed into his side and pain blazed through him. He couldn’t stand up, felt his footing going, his feet sliding as the water torqued them both. His arm had gone numb. Then the water pulled him off his feet and he stifled a cry as water closed over his head. Stand up, he told himself. It couldn’t be that deep. But the kid’s body twisted in his grip, dragging him down. His shoulder scraped sand . . . riverbed? Which way was up? They were rolling, tumbling. He slammed against rock and a new spear of pain blasted the air from his lungs. His mouth filled with water and his lungs spasmed as he struggled not to cough and breathe water.
Let go, his brain screamed at him. Let go and you can make it. But his fingers had turned to stone, locked into the fabric of the kid’s coverall. He had to breathe
now.
One more kick. His legs felt like lead, but his toe caught a rock and shoved him a few inches forward.
A hand closed on his collar and fingers dug into his armpit. Carter’s head broke water. He sucked in a blessed, agonized breath, choked on water, and gagged. Sunlight dazzled him, turned the world to a blinding kaleidoscope of silver light. Someone was yelling. The hands locked under his armpits dragged him higher, out of the cold clutch of the water and onto the welcome heat of the rocks. Carter took another breath and cried out as pain knifed through him.
“Keep working,” someone said loud and close by. “Got a pulse yet?”
I’m alive, Carter wanted to say, but it hurt just to breathe. He coughed and the world went gray and fuzzy. He coughed again and groaned, sucking the searing, wonderful air.
A face moved into view, blocked out the glare of light. “You’re the biggest fish I ever caught.” Johnny gave him a faint grin. “The only one, for that matter. Not bad for a beginner.” Water dripped from his hair, ran down his face.
“What the hell?” Carter whispered.
“I showed up with the cavalry. Or the media, as the case may be. Not too many people can drown in a dry riverbed. You sure tried hard. They got the flow shut down, by the way.” Johnny’s face looked pale in spite of his flip tone. “It was something, seeing water in the riverbed. Scared the shit out of me, if you want to know.”
“Thanks.” Carter forced the word out through the pain that banded his chest.
“Any time.” Johnny raised his head and his face went grave.
Carter heard the murmurs. The kid. They had been talking about his pulse. He tried to look, but when he moved, pain filled his vision with wavering black spots.
“Take it easy.” Johnny put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “They’re going to bring a stretcher down for you in a minute.”
“Did he make it?” Carter didn’t need Johnny’s headshake. He had heard the answer in the hushed voices. Damn, damn, dam. He closed his eyes. He had held on to him. He hadn’t let go. It should have counted. He should have lived.
It seemed to take a small eternity for a medical team to arrive from the base and struggle down the bank with their equipment. Shaded from the sun by a makeshift awning rigged from a shirt, Carter watched the mud dry in the riverbed. The saboteurs had vanished, had probably set the charges and slipped up the Deschutes bed. The blast had shattered the multiple pipes where they entered the Shunt complex. The emergency system should have shut down the upstream flow as soon as the pressure dropped, but it hadn’t. Something was wrong about that, but pain fogged Carter’s brain and he couldn’t think straight.
“How’re you doing, Colonel?” One of the paramedics bent over Carter, settling a plastic-framed stretcher down beside him. “We’re going to move you in a minute, okay?” He wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Carter’s upper arm, pumped it tight, frowned at the dial for a minute, then jerked a nod at his buddy. “All right, let’s go. Just relax and let us do all the work here.” He and his partner slid arms beneath Carter’s neck, back, hips, legs. “One, two . . .”
“Three.”
They slid him sideways onto the hot plastic padding of the stretcher. Carter had been prepared for pain, but something moved inside of him, and bone grated on bone. Sickness welled up in his belly. I’m going to throw up, he thought, and passed out.