Sick

31

The throbbing in Paul’s knee had become so constant he almost didn’t notice it any more. He wished the same could be said for his growing thirst. His dry mouth and chapped lips were constantly nagging at him.

He’d reached the summit of the hill that marked the boundary of the quarantine zone thirty minutes earlier, but any elation he might have felt had been tempered by the miles of open desert that still stretched before him.

He coughed a couple times, then glanced down at his gas gauge. The needle was hovering just above E. He’d be walking soon, and in his condition, he wouldn’t be walking far. If only he could find a road, hopefully someone would drive by and see him. Or perhaps it was his lot to die out here like his brother and his girlfriend. The only difference being that his fate would be delivered by the elements, not a slug of lead.

The ground was rising again in front of him like a gentle swell in the middle of a dirt ocean. As he did every time he neared a crest, he prayed that he’d finally see a road on the other side, anything that would give him a chance.

“This time,” he began repeating. “This time. This time. This time.”

Just before he actually reached the top, he steeled himself and prepared to see nothing. He was so sure that was exactly what would happen, that even as he stared at the distant highway, it took a moment before he realized what it was.

He stopped the bike, his good foot planting on the ground. Was the highway real? Maybe the pain and the dust and the lack of water were making him see things. He wanted to believe, but…could he?

His eyes followed the road, then his breath caught in his throat.

Not five miles away, he saw a handful of buildings grouped together. Parked around them appeared to be several cars and a couple of buses. He blinked. The buildings were still there. The cars and the buses were still there.

Finally allowing himself a smile, he started down the hill. He was tempted to open the bike up all the way, but he knew even five miles might be too far for the fumes left in his gas tank. So he eased all the way back on the accelerator and let the bike roll free down the hill.

He was laughing as he neared the bottom, his hand poised to feed the rest of the gas into the engine as soon as his speed started to slow. That’s when he heard it. The thumping.

He didn’t need to look back to know what was there, but he did anyway.

Two helicopters, like black blots against the western afternoon sky.

There was no doubt in his mind that these were the same two that had come to the canyon that morning, that had brought the men who had killed two of the people he loved most. And though he was out of the quarantine zone, he knew they were here to kill him, too.

He jammed on the gas and shot toward the buildings, already knowing they were too far away and that the helicopters would reach him first.

If only he hadn’t stopped at the top of the ridge. If only he hadn’t fallen off the bike and hurt his knee. If only he hadn’t delayed himself a half dozen other times. But he couldn’t change any of that now.

The only thing he could do was ride.

Martina Gable and the rest of the Burroughs High School softball team were doing what they’d been doing for the last day and a half. Nothing.

They’d been heading home in a school bus from a tournament in Reno, Nevada, when the quarantine had been imposed over much of the Mojave Desert, including their hometown of Ridgecrest. Unfortunately, one of the girls was pumping a steady mix of pop from her iPod through the bus’s sound system, so no one had been listening to the radio at the time. But why would they have done that? They’d come in second in the tournament, much better than they’d hoped, so they had reason to enjoy themselves on the way home.

Ten miles past Cryer’s Corner, they reached the roadblock and learned for the first time what was going on. Initially, there’d been panic and fear, of course. But when they went back to Cryer’s Corner — not much more than a wide spot in the road with a cafe, a gas station, and a small convenience store — they were able to use the land phones there to contact their families and find out that everyone was fine.

They’d talked about driving back into Nevada to find someplace to stay, but when Coach Driscoll called around looking for a motel, everywhere she tried was full. Apparently the quarantine was stranding people all over the place.

The Cryer family owned all the businesses at Cryer’s Corner. They offered to let the girls sleep on the floor of the cafe, so that’s what the coach decided they’d do.

As the day progressed, a few other cars drove in — a couple of families and some solo drivers. They, too, were offered places to sleep.

The coaches tried to organize a practice out behind the cafe that first afternoon to distract the girls, but it didn’t work out too well. So this second day they’d pretty much let everyone do what they pleased, as long as they didn’t cause any trouble.

Martina had played catch with her friend Noreen for a while, then had thumbed through one of the gossip magazines another girl had brought along. After lunch, she’d found a spot on the side of the gas station, and was idly tossing rocks at a dumpster, wishing the damn quarantine would be lifted so they could go home. This put her at a good angle to see the helicopters the moment they popped over the hill.

Immediately, she got up and went around to the front of the station where several others were hanging out.

“Helicopters,” she said, pointing.

Since everyone on the softball team lived next to the China Lake Navy base, they were used to the sight of jets and helicopters. But having already spent a day of monotony on the side of the road, seeing them now felt like something new.

“From the roadblock?” Cathy Thorwaldson asked.

“I didn’t see any out there,” Martina said. “Did you?”

“Maybe they flew in during the night while we were sleeping.” This came from one of the drivers who’d arrived alone, a college-age guy. Cute, too.

“Hadn’t thought of that,” Martina said.

“Do you hear that?” their catcher, Jilly Parker, asked. She’d been standing near the pumps but had taken a few steps toward the desert.

Martina listened. There was a very faint whine in the distance. “The helicopters, probably.”

Jilly shook her head. “Doesn’t sound like helicopters.”

A couple seconds later, they all heard a rhythmic thump-thump-thump.

“That’sthe helicopters,” Jilly said.

She was right, Martina realized. The whine was still there, too. Its volume had increased a bit, and it seemed to be coming from ground level as opposed to the sky.

Sims was crouched just behind the two front seats of the helicopter, trying to spot the motorcycle below. The satellite images had gotten them this far, but now it was a matter of eyeballs.

“There, sir,” the co-pilot said, with a quick nod out the window. “Running along that old wash.”

Sims adjusted his position, then immediately saw movement about a mile ahead.

“Get us down there.”

“Sir,” the pilot said. “We’re already twenty miles outside the containment zone.”

“I don’t care where we are. If the person on that bike is infected, we could have a new outbreak on our hands. Our job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”Yet, he thought, but didn’t add.

The other thing he didn’t voice was his desire to clean up a situation that they had created themselves. The person on the motorcycle had come from the canyon they’d visited that morning. Apparently there hadn’t been two riders, but three. This third person must have hidden from Sims and his men, and that annoyed him.

It should have never happened. They should have checked for additional people but they hadn’t, and it had been his fault. Two bikes, two sleeping bags, two people. Logical, but wrong.

“Hang on, sir,” the pilot said.

A second later, the helicopters dipped in unison toward the fleeing motorcycle.

Jilly and Martina used a stack of barrels to climb up on top of the gas station, then moved to the back edge so they could see what was going on.

“That whine’s a motorcycle. I’d know that anywhere,” Jilly said.

Martina had recognized it, too. It was a common enough noise in the desert around Ridgecrest. But though she was looking toward where she thought the noise was coming from, she couldn’t see anything.

Jilly suddenly pointed repeatedly at the desert. “There, there, there!”

Martina put a hand on her forehead, shading her eyes. “I don’t see it.”

“It’s there! Along that wash.”

Something glinted in the distance, sunlight on a helmet, Martina realized as she finally spotted the motorcycle rider. For a few moments, she watched him — she assumed it was a him — heading in their direction.

“Is that one of the people who lives here?” she wondered out loud.

“I didn’t hear anyone leave earlier, but I guess it could be,” Jilly said.

Until that moment, Martina had thought the helicopters and the motorcycle had had nothing to do with each other. But suddenly both helicopters dove down toward the bike.

“What are they doing?” she asked.

Under Sims’s directions, the helicopters bracketed the motorcycle, his aircraft coming up on its left, the other on its right.

“We’ll take the shot,” Sims said into the radio. “If he doesn’t go down, you’re up.”

Paul felt the thumping of the helicopters in his chest. He allowed himself a quick glance back, and was surprised to see they were approaching him from either side.

There was movement at the open door of the helicopter to his left. He turned forward, checking the terrain ahead, then chanced another glance back. A man stood in the doorway now, held in place by what looked like a strap. In his arm was a rifle.

Without even thinking about it, Paul released the accelerator and pulled on the brakes.

Just then he heard something whiz by him through the air. Involuntarily, he jerked the handlebars to the side. The front tire of the bike turned with it, catching the edge of a sagebrush. Before Paul knew it, he was once more tumbling through the air.

“Is that a hit?” Sims asked. “Is that a hit?”

There was a brief delay. “I’m not sure, sir. But he is down.”

“Get us back there.”

Martina actually screamed when the driver of the motorcycle flew off his bike.

“Did they… shoot at him?” Jilly asked.

“I’m not sure,” Martina replied.

“I thought I saw a flash.”

Below them, one of the cars in the lot started up. Almost immediately, they could hear tires spinning for a moment on the dirty asphalt, then catching hold. Martina glanced over the other side, just in time to see the cute college boy race away from the gas station in his Jeep and head into the desert toward the downed driver.

The helicopters had both swung around and were now hovering above the motorcyclist. Sims was pretty sure it was a man.

“Does anyone see any movement?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“No, sir.”

“All right, then everyone suit up, and let’s bag him—”

The radio crackled. “Sir, civilian approaching.”

Out of reflex, Sims looked over at the other helicopter. “What?”

“Just ahead, sir,” the man in the other aircraft said. “A Jeep. There are also a couple people standing on one of the buildings at the roadside stop along the highway, looking this way, and several more doing the same from ground level.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, sir.”

Sims looked out the open doorway and spotted the Jeep. He quickly realized it would get to the motorcycle rider only seconds after they landed. What would they do then? Kill the Jeep driver, too? What about the people in town watching? He was pretty sure Mr. Shell did not want that kind of bloodbath.

Dammit!

He looked down at the motorcyclist again, then tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Head back to base.”

Even before they made the turn for home, he had his satellite phone out. The quarantine zone would have to be expanded to include that little bit of nowhere in case the motorcyclist was infected. But even if he wasn’t, and those in the town didn’t actually die from the disease, the quarantine would make it easier for Sims and his men to go in and deal with the witnesses.

It was an aggravating problem but fixable.

It didn’t even dawn on him that he should have also requested a communications blackout of the area. He thought that was already a part of the quarantine. Why wouldn’t it be?

It was another lesson they’d learn for next time.

Paul remembered flying off his bike, but didn’t remember landing. That was because the impact had knocked him unconscious. So the next thing he was aware of was a man lifting him off the ground.

“What…what’s going on?”

“Just relax,” the guy said. “You’re going to be fine.”

Where had the guy come from? The helicopter? But they were going to shoot him, weren’t they?

Then he saw the vehicle he was being carried to, a dark red, old-model Jeep, not a helicopter.

Someone passing by on the road, maybe? Did it really matter?

As the man helped him into the front seat, Paul knocked his injured knee against the dash, which caused him to wince in pain, which in turn caused him to cough a couple of times.

“Sorry,” the guy said.

“I’m…okay.”

The man got behind the wheel and started up the Jeep. As they turned around, Paul caught sight of his motorcycle. It was lying half in a creosote bush, its handlebars skewed. He could see a hole in his gas tank, but nothing was dripping out.

Just enough, he thought with a smile.Just enough.