Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure (24 page)

“I’m out. Aren, hand me another can of ammo.” Sara points to the box of ammo sitting just behind the backseat, sending Aren scrambling over the front seat and into the backseat to grab it. Opening up the lid, Aren pulls the linked ammo out and hands one end up to Sara.
 

“Got it.” Sara grabs the belt, placing it into the gun. With more ammunition in place, Sara pulls the bolt to the rear, cocking the large machine gun.
 

“We got to get out of here, Mac; we only have one more can of ammo.”
 

“Working on it, but they have these streets set up like a maze. A never-ending maze.”

 
Mac turns another corner, and they continue their getaway southbound. Three blocks ahead of them, the other two Humvees that were blocking their exit on the highway roll into the street, blocking this exit, too. A soldier in the back of a Humvee stands up, wielding an RPG (rocket propelled grenade launcher). The explosion from the missile being launched at them rocks the Humvee, sending dust up around the vehicle. Pulling the wheel to the right, Mac sends the buggy over the curb and sidewalk on the right side of the street just in time. The wind noise of the missile fills their ears as it screams by them, inches away from Sara, who is still standing in the turret on top of the buggy. The buggy bounces violently from jumping the curb, but Mac maintains control, plowing through a wooden picket fence in front of a small cottage. Scanning the side of the house, Mac judges the distance between it and the other house next door.

“That’s not wide enough, Mac.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, no it is not,” Sara yells.

Pushing the throttle back to the floor, the tires grab hold of the sand-covered front yard before catapulting the buggy through the narrow gap and into the backyard.
 

“Hang on,” Mac yells as the buggy crashes through a six-foot-tall wooden fence in the backyard. The fence explodes, sending shards of wood into the air. Exiting the backyard brings them right into the desert, with no more houses, streets, or town left around them. Mac weaves the buggy back and forth around sagebrush, looking for a route that will take them back to the highway and around the roadblock. Buzzing out further into the stark desert, a set of rutted tracks is laid out in front of them as they make the crest of a small sand dune. Mac turns the vehicle north, following the tracks, disappearing in the distance inside the mirage of a lake that is produced by the heat radiating off the sand. The Humvees full of soldiers stop in front of the house where Mac just made his exit. Stepping out of the right side of the front Humvee, a soldier holds a satellite phone up to the side of his rotting face. “Watchman here.”
 

 
“Desert Rat here, pursuit of hostile faction, but lost contact. They are headed north, leaving Tonopah.”
 

“Good copy, Desert Rat; describe the hostile force?”
 

The soldier gathers his thoughts before speaking. “Two young girls, one man.”
 

Just outside Las Vegas, Ken Edwards is still on the ground waiting for the extraction team but is elated to hear of the sighting and contact with his intended target.
 

“I understand and will be on-site in two hours; do not pursue. Watchman out.”

 
Ken pushes the power button on the phone, hanging up on the soldier. The soldiers in Tonopah, although infected, still have excellent mental capacity and soldiering skills because Ken Edwards is supplying them with an experimental drug that slows down the progression of the disease.
 

The dune buggy continues its northbound journey and is back out on the highway within twenty minutes after leaving Tonopah. Sitting down in the backseat, Sara strikes up another conversation with Aren through telepathy. “What else can you do?”
 

Aren turns around to look at Sara, staring directly into her eyes. “Things that nobody should be able to do.”
 

“Like what?”
 

“Bad things. They made us do bad things.” Aren moves a hand up and points an open palm at Sara’s throat before slowing making a fist. Sara starts choking as she grabs for her throat. Opening her fist back up, Aren releases her grip on Sara’s throat. Coughing, Sara stares back wide-eyed, stunned that Aren could choke her without touching her.

 
“How? How did you learn that?” Sara rubs her throat.
 

“Hours and hours of training with the doctors at the facility. Some of us could do it, and others couldn’t.”
 

The next couple of hours rolls by as they drive north to Reno, Aren filling Sara in on the finer details of her time at the facility. Sara knows there is some connection to her new friend, but sits silently as she listens to the horrors of Aren’s life as she explains how she endured hours of rigorous physical and mental training, punishment in the form of solitude for months if she did not fight her sisters to the death, and years of medical experiments. Mile after mile, the two-lane desert highway stretches out in front of them, leading to a destination that seems farther than it actually is. The mid-afternoon sun starts to disappear as early dusk takes its place, forcing Mac to turn on the headlights on the dune buggy, as he is unable to make out the sides of the road, which is gradually being swallowed up by the relentless encroachment of sand.

 
Looking at his watch, Mac reads out the time to cure his boredom, unaware of the long conversation going on between the two girls. “Six forty-five, about time to grab one of those MREs back there.”
 

“What do you want?” Sara asks as she sorts through the cardboard box of the meals. “Chicken with noodles, beef brisket, or shredded barbecue beef?”
 

Mac mills the choices over in his head for a few seconds. “Beef brisket, that sounds good.”
 

Sara tears open the package, shoving a plastic fork into it before handing the meal up to Mac.
 

“Well, Aren, what do you think? Chicken or shredded beef?”
 

Aren turns around to look at Sara in time to watch her ripping the top off the pouch. “Beef.”
 

“Beef it is; that leaves me with chicken.” Sticking a spoon into the open pouch, Sara shoves spoonful after spoonful of the chicken dinner into her mouth.
 

“Pretty sure we are close to Reno.” Mac throws his empty pouch out of the buggy.

“You should not litter, Mac,” Sara says.

“Yes, I know . . . not very environmentally friendly, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

Sara reaches into her coat pocket, producing the journal. Flipping through the pages, she finds the map of Nevada. She traces the map up past Tonopah before stopping at a town where Highway 95 and Highway 50 converge.
 

“Mac, we should be coming up to a small town in a half hour or so. Turn left onto Highway Fifty; looks like it is right in the middle of town. From there we can make it into Reno in an hour.”
 

 
Tired from the events of the day and sitting behind the wheel, Mac lets out a sigh. “Hmm, okay, but I am pretty much done driving when we get into the next town. Besides, we will need to look for some fuel.” He looks down as he speaks, reading the gauge on the dash. “Three-eighths left.”
 

The military-grade tank was spec’d out, an extra-large, seventy-five-gallon tank enabling the special ops teams an extreme range in case of extended missions or long-term engagements.
 

The headlights on the buggy throw just enough light on the blacktop road as dusk encroaches on the trio. Looking up ahead on the right-hand side of the road, an old highway road sign shows the mileage to the next town: Fallon 13.
 

“We’re close, but I’m not really liking the thought of riding into town at night on a low tank while looking for some gas.” Mac figures Sara will press him to keep going but is surprised when she doesn’t answer at all. Turning his head around, he notices Aren is fast asleep as well as Sara, who has lain across the backseat, curled up into the fetal position.
 

Pulling the dune buggy off the road, Mac steers it onto a dirt road, driving it a few hundred feet further off the main highway before shutting the engine off. Stepping out of the buggy, Mac stretches his arms above his head before turning back to look for something to start a fire with. Rummaging through one of the toolboxes bolted to the side of the buggy, Mac grabs a road flare, then proceeds to gather up a bundle of brush and whatever else he can find to burn. Within minutes, flare in hand, a small fire starts to build under the pile of sticks piled neatly a few yards from the buggy. The glow of the flames throws shadows that dance neatly around the desert. Flaring her nose, Sara breathes in the sweet, woody smoke, which wakes her. Climbing out of the buggy, Sara steps around to see whether Aren is awake.
 

“Aren, get up.” Aren does not stir, so Sara places her hand on her shoulder and pushes. Unaware that Mac is standing behind her, Sara talks to Aren again. “Wake up.”
 

Mac steps up next to Sara, placing his arm around her shoulder. “It’s no use; she died some time ago. I think it had something to do with what they did to her at the facility.” Sara turns around without speaking and slowly walks over to the fire before sitting down. Mac and Sara spend the rest of the evening in silence, listening for anyone or anything that may disturb their campsite.
 

3:00 a.m.

Jet engines shatter the early morning silence overhead, followed by an explosion and fireball 200 yards away from the buggy and campsite. Awakened by the near miss, Sara and Mac jump back into the buggy before heading back out onto the highway to the north.
 

“How’d they find us?” Sara asks as she turns her head from side to side scanning the night sky for the jet aircraft.
 

“Not sure, but this is no time to worry if the next town is hostile or not.”
 

Gaining speed rapidly, Mac is a few miles down the road before the next onslaught of missile fire rains down behind them, narrowly missing the buggy.
 

“Ha, ha, close but no cigar,” Sara yells at the unseen attacker. The orange glow fills the night sky, lighting up the road in front of them as the jet flies past.

“Go faster; they are coming back.”

 
Sara watches the flame of the engine disappear as the plane makes a left-hand arc, circling back around. Rolling on their side before sliding to a stop, Mac and Sara never heared the explosion until after the buggy has flipped over and off the road. Luckily, the pair are buckled in. Besides being deafened by the explosion, they crawl out of the wreckage unscathed and intact.
 

“Let’s move,” Sara yells again through a pounding headache.
 

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” The pair scrambles away from the wrecked buggy and down into a gully. Walking parallel to the roadway, they stumble into an empty culvert taking shelter beneath the road.
 

“Watchman, this is Reliant, over.” The pilot of the jet fighter scans the desert below him for any signs of life. The radio inside the jet crackles.
 

“Watchman here. Go ahead, Reliant.”
 

Ken Edwards unkeys the microphone, waiting for a reply and situation report.
 

“Watchman, Reliant has completed the mission, no survivors, over.”
 

Ken Edwards wipes his brow, keying the microphone button again. “Good copy, Reliant; return to base. Watchman out.”

“Reliant copies, mission complete.” Still scanning the forward-looking infrared display, the pilot looks for a heat signature from the occupants of the buggy. Satisfied that they were blown up in the explosion, he turns the aircraft back to the south, engaging the afterburners. The sound of the afterburners and jet noise pass over Mac and Sara, who were hiding deep inside the culvert underneath the roadway.
 

“He’s leaving.” Mac says.

“Good. I’m getting damn tired of being shot at, strangled, and blown up.”
 

“Sara, I couldn’t agree more. But you know what they say.”
 

“Not really, what?”
 

“Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” A smile comes across Mac’s lips, happy to be alive but still holding onto a sense of humor.

“Well if that wasn’t close, I don’t know what the hell you would call close.”
 

Climbing the short, steep bank back up to the roadway, Sara and Mac stare at the burning wreckage before turning their back on it. Still dragging the backpack with her, Sara gives it a swing, slinging it across her back. Walking up the road and into the remaining darkness of the morning, Mac and Sara set a comfortable pace to the town of Fallon. Two hours later, the pair reaches the outskirts of the northern Nevada city. Walking further into the downtown area of a city that never grew over 1,000 residents, the buildings on both sides of the road are eerily dark and equally deserted. Whispering to her partner, Sara keeps her voice low.
 

“This place is really creepy. Nobody here, no undead, nobody.”
 

Mac looks over at Sara and nods his head in agreement. The next half hour through the middle of town and the transition onto their new route west go by uneventfully. Walking out of town, Mac sighs with relief as he keeps pace with Sara.
 

Had Mac and Sara strolled through the town a few weeks earlier, it would have been a different story. The last few residents were held up in the city hall, barricaded inside. One by one the citizens became infected, a few of them committing suicide, others waiting their turn, death stalking them constantly. The last survivor died seconds after he fell off the roof while trying to climb to safety, his body engulfed with feeders. Minutes later, he would have been relieved of his suffering if he had waited. The silence of the night was shattered by an explosion as a bomb carrying phosgene gas filled the city, choking the feeders, ending their dismal lives.