Empire Of Salt (44 page)

Derrick saw them and roared. He took a step towards them.

Natasha found herself hoping that the soldiers would kill him, save him from his horrible existence.

Then she heard dogs barking in the distance. One raced towards her--it was one of the woman's Great Danes, and she was running close behind, waving for Natasha to stop the dog before it got away. The dog ran to her and she snatched a hold of its collar.

Beachcombers from down the shore noticed the helicopter and started towards it. This was no Bombay Beach. People here paid attention. She spied a dune buggy in the distance racing towards the scene. Another couple were getting out of their car and heading her way.

Then three more people stepped down from the aircraft. Two soldiers held a net between them. An officer directed the other two to approach the zombie.

Natasha watched in dread fascination as the net was thrown over her brother, rolled on the ground, and wrapped up. The soldiers picked up either end and bundled him into the helicopter.

The man in charge gave Natasha a cold appraising glare, turned to see the crowd that was beginning to gather - she noticed that although his name tag had been removed, the words "U.S. Air Force" were stitched above his right pocket - then he turned on his heel and entered the helicopter. The two soldiers with rifles filed in next. When the aircraft took off, instead of returning to Bombay Beach, it headed north.

S
he made the highway and stood along the edge beside a salt-encrusted mileage marker, thumbs out in the universal sign of need. As she waited, Natasha wiped the sweat from her face with the back of her hand. She tasted salt and angrily spat it out.

A truck roared past, bathing her in hot air and swirls of biting sand. She watched it disappear in the distance, too tired to move, too tired to do anything but stand there. Eventually another truck headed toward her, this one slowing until it stopped a couple dozen yards off. When she stumbled up, the driver opened the door and studied her.

He was a bear of a man with tattoos covering both arms, a head of wild grey hair, and a mountain-man beard. Finally, he asked, "Where you headed?"

"Where are you going?" Natasha countered.

"Phoenix, then up to Denver."

"Are there any Air Force bases in those places?"

The driver looked at her a moment, trying to fathom the reason for the question. He finally nodded his head. "I think so. Phoenix has one for sure."

Natasha had no plan. She had nothing. Right now she just needed a ride, and maybe some peace and quiet.

"Listen, if you want the ride, then get in. I got time to make."

Natasha climbed into the cab and belted herself into the seat.

He put the truck in gear and they were soon rumbling north towards Interstate 10 and beyond.

Natasha stared out the window at the hot, arid desert as it sped past--the yellow brown earth, the green cacti, the scrubby bushes, the rock-strewn sand. Beneath the superheated sun, nothing seemed able to live out there. Not a single living thing could be seen moving on the horizon. But that didn't mean what she was looking for wasn't out there.

Weston Ochse is the Bram Stoker award-winning author of various short stories and novels, including the critically acclaimed
Scarecrow Gods
.

He is much in demand as a speaker at genre conventions and has been chosen as a guest of honour on numerous occasions. As well as writing many novels, Weston has written for comic books, professional writing guides, magazines and anthologies.

Weston lives in Southern Arizona with his wife, the author Yvonne Navarro, and their menagerie of animals.

www.abaddonbooks.com

www.abaddonbooks.blogspot.com

Follow us on twitter @abaddonbooks

Now read the first chapter from another

exciting
Tomes of The Dead
novel...

ISBN: 978-1-906735-14-2

£6.99/$7.99

Katja

T
he rising of the dead was the best luck I'd had in years. A godsend, even. I was lucky to survive, of course; my owners showed exactly how they valued me when they left me locked in a Cheetham Hill brothel to drown. I was lucky they kept me upstairs; I heard the women on the ground floor. I heard them die. Heard their screams of panic, heard them choked off as they drowned.

At least, at the time I thought they had drowned. Hours later, clinging to a rooftop, holding a gun with one bullet left in it and trying to decide which of us to use it on, I wasn't so sure.

My name is Katja Wencewska. Although my family is Polish, I grew up in Romania. It's a long story, none of it relevant to this. I will tell you what is relevant.

I am twenty-seven years old. My father was a military officer. Special forces. A good, brave man, always very calm. Tall, as well. A tree of a man. An oak. My mother, in contrast, was like a tiny bird ñ very bright, excitable. I loved them both dearly. I was their only child. They were proud of me; in school I won prizes in Literature, the Arts and Gymnastics. I have two degrees.

None of that helped when they died. A stupid man, driving drunk, late one night. Their car went off the road, into a ravine. My father died instantly; my mother took several hours. The idiot responsible was cut out of the wreckage with barely a scratch. I wanted to kill him, and could have. Papa had often shown me how. He knew the world is full of predators, and taught me to protect myself against them.

I was studying for a PhD at the time, but of course that had to be abandoned. Bills had to be paid, but there was no work to be found. Then I heard of a job in England. For a fee, strings would be pulled, things arranged. A teaching job.

I spoke good English. I thought I would work hard, make money. Eventually I planned to come home - when things were better there, when I had money saved.

I thought I was so clever. I was well-educated and, I thought, streetwise. I could kill with a blow after all, if I was forced to. But the thought never crossed my mind. I had heard of people trafficking of course, but you never think it will be you. Predators would be so easily dealt with if they came to us as predators.

I was a fool.

You can guess the rest. My passport was taken. There was no teaching job. I was to service men for money. When I refused, I was beaten and raped. Worse than rape. Other things were done to me. I will not talk about those things: they are not relevant, you have no need to know. After this I felt defiled and wretched. I did not refuse again. It was made clear to me ñ to us all ñ that if we were too much trouble we would be killed. We were expendable; easily disposed of, easily replaced.

I was kept at a brothel in London at first. After six months they moved me to another, in Manchester. I spent the next eight months there. Being able to kill with a blow means little when there are always more of them, when the doors are always locked, the windows always barred, when you have nowhere to go.

I think that is all I need to say about myself.

I was woken that morning by screams and blaring horns.

I got to the window and squinted through the bars. On Cheetham Hill Road, people were leaping onto the roadway to avoid something pouring over the pavement. At first I thought it was water ñ dark, filthy water ñ but when I pushed the net curtains aside I could see it flowed uphill. And over the screams and traffic noise, even the horns, I heard it squealing.