Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure (5 page)

At daybreak, the chirping of a songbird reverberates across the airport as the smell of the fresh morning dew in the air hits her nostrils, waking her up. Sara shakes her head, peering through the fuzzy vision of sleepy eyes. Looking back down the runway through the rifle scope, she faintly makes out movement off to one side. Quickly zooming the scope up to ten power, Sara scans left and right finding the movement.

“Ah, so daylight does not bother you. Or at least not yet,” she mumbles under her breath as she places her index finger on the trigger while looking through the scope at Tom’s wife. Five thousand feet away, the female staggers and drags the still-bloody ax on the ground as she stumbles forward. An instant later, her head opens up and sprays the ground behind her as if someone has taken a baseball bat to a rotted pumpkin on Halloween. The body slumps over, a cloud of dust billowing up as it strikes the ground.

“
Bullseye
.”
 

Sara pulls back the bolt on the sniper rifle, ejecting a smoking cartridge, returning the bolt forward. Sitting up in a kneeling position, she pulls the scorecard out of her pocket and adds another stroke. Her other hand burns instantly, a fire ant bite welting up, the ant smashed between two fingers. It seems that everything now either wanted to rob you, bite you, or kill you. In that order.
 

Ewakum golf cours?
She wonders to herself.
What is Ewakum golf cours?

A low rumble stirs in her stomach as the pains of hunger hit her, followed by a low belch.

“Now for some breakfast.”
 

Breaking the rifle back down and storing it in her large backpack, Sara leaves the trombone case behind and walks off to the location of the pond Tom described to her the day before. The road leading off to the north is nothing more than a dirt trail through a once vigorous cornfield. The cornfield lies abandoned and un-harvested, corn stalks dried up and withered brown, row after row and acre upon acre. Sara stares down at her feet kicking the dust up in front of her as she walks along the broken barbwire fence. Live oaks tower in front of her, hanging over the small pond. The winter sun starts to slowly gain altitude off her right shoulder, giving way for another warm day. The pond is no bigger than a swimming pool and appears to be void of life. A slimy layer of algae extends out from the edge of the bank two feet to the middle. Its green, iridescent color shimmers in the sunlight. Reaching the water’s edge, Sara lays her pack down, pulling out a piece of fishing line and a hook. Scanning the small saplings around the pond, she spots the perfect fishing pole, cutting the stick a few inches taller than she is. Swinging the pole over the water, Sara dips the lure just under the surface, waiting for a bite. Minutes later, the pole bounces a few times, and with a smart tug, she has landed a perch. Sara repeats the process for the next two hours before wrangling four small perch up onto the bank. A small stack of cut firewood sits nearby, and she quickly has a roaring fire going, fish roasting above the flames, hanging over the fire on freshly cut saplings. Sara cooks the fish quickly on the open fire, watching her surroundings for predators.

With the fish in her belly, the once rumbling of an empty stomach subsides, and she is back up again walking, compass held out from time to time, marking her course.

“Northwest. That will take you there.” She hears her father’s words from the backseat of the airplane.

“How long does it take?”
 

“Oh, in this old thing, about seven days of short flying, yep seven days to Brooklyn.”
 

Mark Robinson is not exactly truthful with her but knows that when the time comes, she will want to go when she knows she can fly there in only two or three days.

Days turn into night and again into day as Sara continues walking northward. On the outskirts of a large city, Sara sits down at the end of a long day and opens up a small journal, flipping through the pages until she finds the map. Looking at the hand-drawn map, she studies the words that are committed to memory from the previous hundreds of times she has read them.

“Pearsall, been there done that. Luckenbach next, then on to Brooklyn, hmm?”
 

Reading the words aloud, she lowers the book to her lap and looks off in the distance. The orange glow of the setting sun shimmers in the western sky, telling her it is time to settle in for the night. Her feet feel as though they have gained twenty pounds each, sore from the last few days of vigorous walking. Leaning back against her backpack, bare feet spread out in front of her, she drifts off to sleep.

6

SHORTLY AFTER NIGHTFALL, her quick power nap finished, Sara lights a small fire and sets up a spit to cook on. As the flames dance off the scrub brush and trees in the distance, she is aware of somebody or something watching her. The figure hides in the tree line fifty yards away, shielding their body from her view.
 

“Better come out if you know what’s good for you.”
 

She continues to baste the rabbit that is spread out across the fire, suspended by the skewer and spit, while dumping a red substance from a jar onto the rabbit, creating a sweet smelling steam that works its way into the trees. With her hand on the gun, she turns around just in time to see him step out of the trees and into the light of the fire.

“Smells good.” The stranger’s voice is demure and soft.

“Lift up your shirt and turn around.” Sara gestures with the handgun as the stranger complies by lifting his shirt and turning around, revealing a pistol tucked into his waistband.
 

“Stop right there.”
 

“No need to be rude. I’m hungry and smelled that rabbit cooking. Name’s Mac Krindle.”
 

The stranger slowly walks forward while letting his shirt fall back to his hips. Sara steps back to the fire and looks over at the rabbit.
 

“Looks like it may need turned; getting a bit dark on one side.”
 

Mac steps near the fire and sits down as Sara reaches down to turn the rabbit over. She continues basting the meat as she keeps an eye on him.

“Got a name?”
 

“Sara.”

“Well, Sara, you alone? Or is your mom or dad nearby?”

“Just me.”
 

“A young lady should not be out at night alone. Haven’t you heard how dangerous it can get around here?”

“I’m not concerned about guys like you. It’s the ones with the red eyes and frothy mouth that pique my interest. You, no problem dealing with you.”
 

She turns back to the rabbit and pulls out the butterfly knife to cut off a leg, tossing the leg over to the stranger. Sara looks him in the eye. “Here, it’s the best you will have for some time.”
 

 
Mac ravenously chews on the leg. “Thanks, I appreciate it. By the way, how is it that a young lady such as yourself finds a rabbit, kills it, starts a fire, and bastes this delicious meal without getting killed by the flesh-eaters?”
 

“Don’t know; I guess I am just lucky?”
 

Mac looks at her and thinks about her statement for a few moments as he chews on the leg. “I don’t think so; you would need some good survival skills to make it this far. I’m thinking we should get together, you know. There is safety in numbers. Two guns are better than one.”
 

He is still chewing on the remnants of the bone as he adds in another statement to scare her into teaming up with him. “Besides,
a hungry man is a dangerous man
,” he says, referring to the flesh-eaters.

She looks back at him and studies his face. He is definitely a lot younger than her father but way older than any of her friends. Maybe around the age of her uncle, she thinks to herself. Yes, probably about forty-two years old, just like Uncle Mike.
 

At forty-four, Mac is in his prime and is an avid runner; he incessantly works out six days a week, spending most of his time at the local gym preparing for the next weekend fitness challenge. At least, that is what he did before the virus outbreak and power grid collapse.

“I think I will be better off alone! Besides, I don’t really know how good you are. You make too much noise, I can smell you over here, and it will take a lot to feed you.”

Sara is really just messing with him to see what his reaction will be, although she had smelled him minutes before he stepped out of the tree line. It was one of the gifts of living outside; any peculiar smell hit her nostrils immediately.
 

Mac lifts up his left arm and smells his armpit.
 

“Okay, I’ll give you that; it has been a while since I have had a bath, but in my defense, I think you should reconsider. I travel light, know this area really well, and you should not be out here by yourself. You probably don’t even have a clue where you’re going.”

“I know exactly where I’m headed.”
 

“Oh you do, do you, and where would that be?”

“Brooklyn!”

“Well, Sara, Brooklyn is a long way from here. How do you plan on traveling over two thousand miles by foot, alone, with winter approaching fast?”

“I’ll manage.”

“Suit yourself.” Mac lies down next to the fire and closes his eyes.

The sun slowly climbs over the eastern horizon, giving way to another perfect day in an imperfect world. Already up for hours, Sara packs up her gear and throws on the backpack. Looking over at Mac, she pauses in thought wondering whether she should leave him behind or wake him up and use him to travel north. Walking over to Mac still sleeping, Sara pulls her leg back and kicks him in the butt twice.

“Come on, let’s go; we’re burning daylight.”

Mac grunts as she kicks him in the butt again. He walked for days before he met up with her and is extremely fatigued.
 

Walking off without him, Sara leaves him behind, his mind still in a fog. It takes him a few moments to focus his eyes on the pint-sized runt walking away.

“Hey! Wait up.”
 

Grabbing his pistol and coat, Mac jumps up and runs to catch Sara.

“Thanks for breakfast. So you’ve reconsidered; that’s a very good plan. Glad to join you.”
 

Mac looks down at her as they are walking away and wonders if it is he who is the strongest and least vulnerable or Sara.

“No time for breakfast; we ate last night, good enough.”
 

Sara turns her head and looks up into his deep blue eyes, noticing his brown hair is dusted with a few strands of gray, something she could not discern in the dark last evening. She puts all thoughts out of her mind as she walks down the hill, through the scrub brush, and out onto a rural county road. Looking left and right, Sara slowly walks out into the middle of the road, cautiously listening for the sound of an approaching vehicle. Content that rush hour will never come, Sara looks back at Mac, who is standing off the road, and points north as if to say, follow me or stay behind. Her previous weeks of travel have taken her north of what used to be San Antonio, Texas, through mostly unpopulated areas and abandoned housing developments. Walking at a brisk clip, Sara sets the pace and is clicking off the miles down the road to Brooklyn. The sun is blazing overhead, and it is a balmy seventy-eight degrees, unseasonably warm for a November in southwestern Texas.
 

Four hours later just outside Austin Texas, Sara approaches a bend in the road. She steps off to the side of the road and walks down the drainage ditch and into an empty water culvert. The tube is large enough for a city bus to drive through and appears to be closed off on the other end. No light is emitting from the darkened interior, although she is sure that it will open up on the other side. Mac is right behind her and is straining to peer into the darkness.
 

“Hey, this doesn’t look good. I think we should turn around. There could be something or someone waiting for us in there.” He had a healthy respect for going into an unknown area, having run away from a few feeders in the past.

Sara ignores him and continues walking into the darkness. One hundred feet in, she pulls out a night vision monocular and holds it up to her face. Looking through the monocular’s reticle, the night vision goggle glows an eerie greenish tint. The culvert continues straight ahead for another 200 yards but appears to have a bend at that point. The faint sound of water dripping comes from the bend in the tube. Sara moves forward slowly, cautiously picking her steps, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, to avoid stepping on anything that could cause noise.
 

“Hey.”
 

“Shh!” Sara turns to look at him. His face glows eerily in the dim light, an expression of surprise on his face as he realizes she is holding a night vision device to her eye, the glow of the optics shining on her pupil.

He motions for her to move forward. Turning around, she resumes her walk to the steady drip, drip, drip noise. Walking around the ninety-degree bend in the tunnel, she is presented with the origin of the dripping sound. Standing fifteen yards in front of her is the shadowy figure of a man. He is silhouetted by the light coming from the other end of the open tunnel, which causes the night vision monocle to turn darker through auto-dimming. The man is slumped over at the waist, blood dripping from his head. Sara does not know for sure yet but suspects he may be infected. She steps forward, one foot in front of the other. Half the distance to go.
Snap
.

“Dammit.” Carefully stepping backward, removing her foot from a broken piece of tree branch—too late! The man hears her and immediately stands straight up, looking right at her. Snarling, he lets out a low growl through rotted teeth and oozing slime that is coming from every orifice. He runs to her at lightning speed. Sara braces herself, her right hand at her side, concealing the fourteen-inch polished steel blade of what could only be considered a bowie knife. Sara squeezes the handle of the knife tighter, her fingers pulsating. Five feet away, he reaches out to grab her throat with his right hand. Sara swings the knife, cutting off the attacker’s hand. This has no effect on stopping his advance. Now angrier and more determined, he lunges forward to tackle her. She swings again as she sidesteps his advance, sending the blade deep into his neck, severing his spinal cord. His motion stops immediately, legs wobbling; then he crumples to the floor of the culvert.