ocalypse (Book 10): Drawl (Duncan's Story) (20 page)

Just like the previous calls he’d placed to his brother in
Utah, once the ringing ceased, Duncan heard the same stock recording telling
him that “
all circuits were busy
” and urging him to “
try again later
.”

Crestfallen, he flipped the phone closed and tossed the
worthless brick of circuitry-filled high-impact plastic into his NRA bag.

“No answer, huh.”

“Nope. Means I have no choice but to soldier on. My bro and
I have an understanding: family comes first. Always did when our folks were
alive. When Dad was refitting oil rigs in Texas, I was the muscle at home. When
I came back from Nam, I helped Mom with my little brother.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re an only, Charlie. Spoiled brat, right?”

“Just drive. I don’t want to talk about it.”

And he did. Blinker still flashing away dutifully to no
audience, he turned right real slow. There was nothing moving on Marine Drive
for as far as the eye could see. However, when he consulted the rearview
mirror—a very necessary habit he hoped to follow religiously going forward—he
saw a flight of six dual-rotor helicopters moving slow and low, north to south.
Probably Chinooks ferrying troops and supplies from Fort Lewis, Washington, an
easy hundred-and-twenty-five-mile drive north on Interstate 5. And judging by
the artillery pieces slung underneath the two nearest CH-47s, whoever was
tasked with saving Portland had a hell of a fight on their hands.

A brooding silence filled the cab. With the river snaking by
on their left, brownish-green and benign, Duncan took his eyes from the road
long enough to size up Charlie, who, in the thirty minutes since the incident
with the dead thing, had thrown a couple of hard-to-miss shivers. Big 7.0s on
the scale, in Duncan’s opinion. Also troubling, his friend’s upper lip and brow
now glistened with a perpetual sheen of sweat.

“You OK?” Duncan asked, as a marina entrance guarded by
three gun-wielding civilians slid by on the left.

“Just feeling a little peaked, that’s all.”

“Maybe you’re a little dehydrated. You had more to drink
yesterday than I did.”

Smiling at the dig, Charlie flashed Duncan the bird. He
hinged over and took a bottled water from his pack. Cracked the seal and
drained it in three gulps, making the brittle plastic bottle pop and crackle
with his final swallow. He chucked the empty to the floor. “Thar she blows,” he
said in a choked voice a tick before letting loose a long, drawn-out belch.

“Goshdang, Charlie.” Duncan inadvertently took his foot off
the accelerator and turned away. “You have a side of deep fried roadkill with
that chilidog last night?”

Charlie smiled and answered with another burp.

Duncan crinkled his nose in disgust at the odor. It was
sweet and vaguely familiar. Something he had experienced recently, yet couldn’t
quite put a finger on.

“Payback’s a mother,” Charlie said, in front of a burst of
laughter. “Think about that next time you wanna try that missed turn bullshit
on me.”

“I’m sorry. Deflect with humor is how I deal with stress.
You oughta know that by now. Plus, you seemed to be getting a little sleepy on
me back there.”

“Maybe you should take up smoking.”

“Quit that years ago.”

“But you kept on drinking.”

“Baby steps. I haven’t had a nip since yesterday. Crazy what
the dead starting to walk will do to a guy. Who knows … let’s see what the next
few days brings. Maybe I’ve got this one licked too.”

“Cold snap in Hell,” Charlie quipped. “That what you’re
predicting?” He was hit by an especially vicious tremor that caused his teeth
to chatter.

Duncan leaned forward against his shoulder belt. Looked Charlie
over. “You sure you’re OK? You’ve been dry, too. You having a case of the DTs?”

“I’m
fine
,” Charlie insisted as a station wagon, its
roof covered with all manner of stuff barely concealed under a flapping blue
tarp, passed them from the other direction, the wall of air in front of it
setting the Dodge to rocking.

Duncan stopped the line of questioning after the unequivocal
retort. However, as a compromise with his gut that wouldn’t stop tingling, he
made a pact with himself to keep a close eye on his friend from here on out.

***

A little over three miles east of the Fast Eddy Marina and
its armed guard detail, Marine Drive set off on a course divergent from the
river. As the two-lane angled away from the Columbia, Charlie spotted a pair of
four-door sedans, one white, one black, stopped nose-to-tail on a narrow paved
drive a yard or so from a closed wrought-iron gate. Rising a good ten feet
above the cars, the gate and adjoining chain-link fence was topped with
flopping coils of razorwire. On the northeast corner of the massive facility
rose a billboard-sized sign emblazoned with the words Chinook Recreational
Vehicle Storage. And parked on the vast expanse of weed-choked gravel inside
the perimeter fencing were just that—scores of recreational vehicles. Most of
the acreage was home to motorhomes. Motorcycles, boats, and smaller personal
watercraft were wedged in with the Winnebagos, Fleetwoods, Itascas, and
gleaming Airstream trailers.

Between the parked cars and looming gate two men stood with
their backs to the road. They were hunched over, presumably trying to jimmy the
lock.

As the Dodge drew even with the short drive feeding the RV
place, the men stopped what they were doing and cast hard looks over their
shoulders.

Seeing a flash of red and recognizing the tool in one of the
guy’s hands for what it was, Duncan said, “Don’t mind us fellas. We’ll be doing
a little breaking and entering ourselves real soon.”

Charlie kept his attention on the action as they passed by.
As soon as it was apparent to the men that the interlopers in the old pick-up
were moving on, the taller of the two went back to attacking the gate with the
largest pair of bolt cutters Charlie had ever seen. And when the big guy
shifted his body back around to face the gate it became apparent, save for the
empty driver’s seats, that the two cars didn’t have room inside for another
soul. Gear on the package shelves had concealed the fact there were at least
four additional people crammed into each car. Faces wearing expectant looks
turned and tracked the Dodge until the perimeter fence blocked it from view.

“They’ve got the right idea,” Charlie blurted. “C’mon …
rethink your stance on a water escape. Let’s turn around and get one of those
thirty-foot cabin cruisers. Put it in the water the next chance we get. Ride
this infection thing out on one of the islands we passed back there.”

Shaking his head, Duncan said, “I don’t know how my
brother’s doing. From what you said, Salt Lake is a shit show with this
infection. No ifs, ands, or buts. We’re going to Utah.”

Still craning around in the direction of the RV depot fading
away behind them, Charlie said, “Let’s get something roomier then. An RV. Maybe
a twenty-footer with a toilet.” He dabbed the sweat off his lip and brow. “And
a
working
air conditioner.”

“No need,” Duncan answered. “I’ve got a better idea.” He
braked the Dodge hard and wheeled it left into an empty turn lane and through
yet another red light.

Charlie eased his frame back around, hunched over the dash,
and fixed his gaze left. Then, as another shudder rocked his body, he saw what
lay diagonally beyond the intersection and knew exactly what his friend had in
mind.

Port of Portland
was emblazoned in big white letters
on the sign a dozen yards off the pick-up’s left front fender. Also in white,
below the first line but in much smaller font were the words
Troutdale
Airport North Entrance
.

Beyond the sign was a twelve-foot post where two fence lines
met. Running off south and east from the corner post, both runs of chain-link
were topped by triple-strand barbed wire angled out toward the road so as to
deter anyone from illegally accessing the west end of the single runway.

“Even better than a boat or RV,” Charlie said
enthusiastically. “We’re flying to Utah, aren’t we? You devil. Why didn’t you
say so earlier? I would have packed lighter.”

Leaving Marine Drive’s eastbound lane behind them, Duncan
said, “You didn’t know Stump Town Aviation had an east office, did you?”

Charlie nodded his head up and down. Grimacing, he said, “You
mentioned it once or twice. Didn’t dawn on me until I saw the sign. I assumed
the Hillsboro facility was the only concern of Darren’s you managed, though.”

“Used to manage. He let me go, remember? And there you go
assuming again.” Suddenly Duncan’s silver brows came together in the middle of
his forehead. “You don’t look so good,” he said, voice full of concern. “You’re
kind of pale. I gave you the benefit of the doubt back there at the T. Chalked
the pallor up to the flat light of summer.”

They were on Sundial Road and heading north along the fence
paralleling the runway on their right. At the end of the drive Duncan swung
wide right and eased the Dodge into a chute of cement Jersey barriers fronting
a trio of humongous robin’s-egg-blue metal hangars.

Charlie clicked out of his seatbelt as the truck slowed to a
crawl, hung out the window and adjusted the side mirror so he could see his
face square on. “You’re right,” he said, staring at his reflection. “I look
like death warmed over.”

“Probably just food poisoning, like you thought. Old chili’s
probably the culprit,” Duncan said.
Or maybe Bicycle Girl’s spit is the
culprit
, he thought grimly. “We get inside, you can splash some water on
your face. You’ll be good as new.” He stopped them beside a yellow cube roughly
the size of a basketball. It was mounted on a waist-high pole—also yellow. He
fumbled in his wallet for the keycard he’d failed to return along with his keys
that last blur of a day at the Hillsboro facility.

“Why’d you keep that?”

“Forgot to turn it in. Hell, my head was reeling from
getting fired. Not to mention I was nursing the mother of all hangovers. First
job I’d lost since not showing up at Tastee Freez when I was sixteen. Lost that
one on account of a girl.”

“And this one on account of Jack Daniels,” Charlie said.
“Damn shame.”

“I don’t need your sympathy.” Hoping the power was still on,
for one, and secondly, that the card would still be recognized, Duncan leaned
out his window, stretched his arm to full extension, and ran the card through
the reader. A quick swipe that made a snicking noise. Which was followed by a
distant hum as an electric motor came alive. Then there was a soft click as the
attached pulley and wire system hidden under the cement pad started the wheeled
fence on a slow motion left-to-right creep.

Charlie said, “First hurdle cleared. Brings us to hurdle
number two.”

Still waiting for the gate to clear the entry lane, Duncan
flashed Charlie a questioning look.

To which Charlie said, “If there’s a helicopter in there,
will you be able to get it started and fly the thing?”

“Maybe on the first,” Duncan said, easing the Dodge through
the open gate and onto the airport property. “As for part deux, flying a
helicopter is a lot like riding a bicycle … once you learn how, you never forget.”
He spun the wheel, worked the transmission into Reverse, and backed them into a
spot adjacent to the door servicing what used to be a spartanly appointed
office.

The Dodge rocked subtly and then the engine cut out. “Hurdle
number three,” Charlie said. “What if the helicopters aren’t fueled up?”

Duncan said nothing. He grasped the rabbit’s foot and yanked
the keys from the ignition.

Charlie watched the gate return to its starting position,
then turned back to face Duncan. “If it has fuel … you can fly it all by
yourself, right?”

“Done it many times. Why? What are you getting at?”

“I’m going to be doubling up here in a second. Probably be
of no use to you … in any capacity.”

“Diarrhea?”

Charlie nodded. “Stomach’s cramping up real bad. I’m feeling
nauseous, too. Figure it’ll be coming out of me from both ends any minute now.”

“There’s a bathroom inside. Let’s go.” He shouldered open
his door and stepped onto the sun-splashed blacktop, noting his parking job,
which was nowhere near acceptable. The rear dual wheels were in the spot
reserved for Darren, while the front wheels bracketed the blue and white
wheelchair symbol stenciled there.

“That’s a five-hundred-dollar fine,” Charlie said.

Duncan shook his head at the notion of getting a parking
citation after all that had happened in the span of twenty-four hours. He
reached in, grabbed his bag and shotgun, and slammed the door. Looking over the
hood at Charlie, he said, “Let’s hope we clear hurdle number four.” A statement
that earned him a sideways look from his friend. “That the locks haven’t been
re-keyed.”

Charlie nodded and, walking a little doubled over, followed
Duncan across the lot in the direction of the windowless steel door. Along the
way he said, “Kidnapping. Abuse of a corpse. Illegal discharge of a firearm
within city limits. Parking in a handicap space. Not to mention the breaking
and entering with the intent to steal a multimillion-dollar aircraft that’s
still to come. And all before noon. Pretty impressive for a former Army
flyboy.”

Addressing each accusation, Duncan said, “Guilty, not
guilty, guilty.” He paused a second, peered over his shoulder at the illegally
parked Dodge and added, “Definitely guilty.” He jangled his keys to find the
one with the words DO NOT DUPLICATE stamped on the head. Saying a little
prayer, he slid the key in the lock and smiled inwardly at the thought that the
admonition stamped so permanently into the metal clutched between thumb and
finger held no jurisdiction over keeping possession of the bronze item upon termination.
Gray area, for sure. But a moot point, now. Because the mechanism moved
smoothly and the deadbolt retreated from the strike with a resounding
snik
.

Success.