The Sovereign Era (Book 2): Pilgrimage (28 page)

“Good idea.”

Sandy pulled off Interstate 15 at Old Highway 91 and eased the van up to the pumps of a truck stop / travel center.

When she turned the engine off, the sudden absence of noise, vibration, and the smell of exhaust made Andrew realize just how tight and tense he’d become. He sighed and clawed for the latch of the back doors.

Sandy was already there. “Can you help me with Denver’s chair, Andrew?”

He looked over her shoulder at the expanse of pavement and sandy earth. The horizon was reassuringly far away. The air was warm, almost hot. Andrew thought it would be nice to just run…

Sandy stared at him. “Hey, there, Andrew.”

There wasn’t really enough cover in the terrain to suit him, anyway.

“Yeah,” he said to Sandy. “I’ll help.” He turned to the wheelchair, mounted on its ramp contraption. “Uh…”

Sandy climbed into the van. “Here.” With her help, they got the chair out of the van and onto the pavement. Andrew couldn’t have repeated the steps twenty seconds later.

“Gonna…stretch,” he said to Sandy.

She wheeled the chair around to Denver’s side of the van. “Stick around, all right, Andrew?”

He grunted an acknowledgment and stepped away from the van. There was a hint of breeze; it felt strange to feel wind without it passing through his tangled hair and beard.

The air brought the scents of his surroundings into his sensorium: motor oil, ammonia, asphalt, warm tire rubber, sweet engine coolant, stomach-clenching gasoline… cooking grease, weird fast-food meat…sweaty, tired humans…a dog?

Andrew grinned. Dogs hated him. He confused them. Maybe they even resented him, since he registered as more animal than man to them, but he walked around and went where he pleased like the things that held the leashes and filled the food bowls.

It wasn’t a nice thing, but he never could resist messing with a dog when he had the chance. Maybe it made him feel a little less like an animal. Maybe he was just an asshole.

He laughed and inhaled deeply through his nose while keeping his mouth just slightly open and his tongue moist. Information flowed in.

One of those big, white, blocky house-trucks was parked near the edge of the lot. Andrew loped toward it.

The dog, tied with a length of rope to its collar, trotted into sight from the far side of the recreational vehicle. It started barking as soon as it saw him.

Andrew laughed again. The names of dog breeds were lost to him, but it was one of the big ones, easily three feet at the shoulders and probably a couple hundred pounds. It was also all tied up.

“Sucker.” He laughed and stopped a leap away from the thing.

The dog’s muscles flexed under its tawny fur as it bunched itself. Its hackles bristled. When it leapt and was yanked with a jerk at the end of its tether, the RV rocked on its chassis.

Andrew crouched on the pavement, his arms wide and his fingers hooked, nails ready. Grinning, he bared his teeth and growled. He stomped the ground in Denver’s slightly-too-large boots, and his feet jostled uncomfortably within.

The mild pain of his feet was ruining his fun. Had to lose the shoes. He straightened up and pulled each one off with his feet.

The dog never stopped barking and pulling on his makeshift leash.

The side door of the recreational vehicle swung open and slapped against the siding. A slender man with gray hair and a neat beard stepped out.

“What the hell is…”

He caught Andrew a little off-balance in the middle of yanking Denver’s socks off his feet. Automatically, Andrew dropped into a low, three-point crouch, balanced on his toes and the fingers of his left hand and ready to leap. He pulled his lips back from his teeth and growled.

The sight of a barefoot but otherwise clean-cut middle-aged man in crisp new blue jeans and a bright red-and-black checkered flannel shirt growling in a very convincing impersonation of a rabid animal gave the man pause, but not for long. He stepped away from the RV, well within Andrew’s striking range.

“The hell is wrong with you, messing with my dog like that?” He turned to the beast, who barked on and on. “Massive, shut up! Jesus!”

Andrew shifted his balance so that he could keep both prey in sight. He could smell the dog’s intent to rip out his throat if he could just break his leash. There was a good chance that rope wouldn’t hold.

The surprise appearance of the dog’s owner was almost enough to push Andrew over to his more bestial nature. He was ready. Neither of these creatures was threatening enough to trigger the instinct to flee. It was fight, all the way.

Andrew, cooped up in Denver’s house all night and in the van all day, wanted it. It had been over a year since he’d cut into a human; a dog, even longer.

Maybe he’d just pick one and go for it.

And then there were three. A little boy, maybe six years old, appeared in the open doorway of the RV. His dark eyes popped.

“Daddy?”

And then there were four. The mother, even more of a meatless stick than the father. “Dan, what—?”

The dog barked on. The RV shook.

The kid hollered, “Mommy!” and started bawling.

Andrew decided on the dog. Those people were no challenge at all. No meat, no risk.

He barked a challenge. The animal seemed to realize the human was crazier than it was. It recoiled and whined, its head low.

Andrew tensed to leap.

“Andy! Lay the hell off, right now!”

Denver’s voice and familiar scent cut through Andrew’s hunter focus like a knife in the belly. He jerked up and back, nearly colliding with Denver in his chair.

“Get off of me, you idiot!”

Denver shoved him hard. It was enough to make Andrew stumble and nearly fall. The sudden vulnerability, coupled with Denver’s no-bullshit attitude, fully shattered Andrew’s animal persona.

He saw Sandy stride past. The dog resumed barking, but Andrew made out Sandy offering strident apologies to the family.

Denver wheeled into his field of vision. “Get back to the van, Andrew. Now.”

Andrew ran back to the van the fastest way he knew how: on all fours. He leapt through the open back doors and closed them behind him.

Inside the otherwise silent interior of the van, he could still hear the dog, whining now, confused and worked up.

Andrew sat on the wheelwell and shook. He felt frustrated and ashamed to the point of pain.

A door opened, and Denver lifted himself up and into the driver’s seat. Sandy opened the back doors and got the wheelchair secured without asking for Andrew’s help.

“We have to go,” Denver said. “Right now. Come on.”

“All set.” Sandy climbed into the back, shut the doors, and went up to the front passenger seat.

“Have to go,” Andrew nodded. “Gotta get to Montana. Please go.”

They had to be able to help him there. They had to be able to do something about this.

They had to.

Andrew noticed his feet were bare. He had no idea what had happened to Denver’s shoes.

From The Journal Of Nate Charters – Twenty Three

I’d never been so far away from home in my life, but after three hours of desert and no good stations on the radio, the experience kind of lost its novelty.

The car was some kind of classy Oldsmobile with all the extras. I’m pretty sure it had cruise control, but I never could figure out how to use it. At least it was an automatic. Otherwise, this whole plan would have been screwed—more screwed—from the start. My mother never taught me how to drive a stick.

I had Denver Colorado’s directions, along with the name and address of a hotel in Provo, Utah, he’d written in his little notebook. I had about fifty bucks’ worth of gas-station food and drink to keep me going: lots of health-food energy bars and nuts and stuff. Every now and then, I pulled over to the shoulder and took a piss. By the time I’d traveled through Las freaking Vegas, I think I passed my behind-the-wheel test a few times over.

I had a lot of time to think. That’s why I kept changing the station on the radio. I heard a lot of country music and a lot of gospel. There was a station playing rock most of the way through California and almost to Vegas, but it faded out eventually.

I didn’t
want
to think. I didn’t want to dwell on what had happened in Kirby Lake. What I’d done. Who knew, by now. What would happen. It was hundreds of miles in the past, and at least at the moment, it was entirely out of my control anyway.

So I kept my eye on the road, got really good with the radio and the air conditioning but not so good with the cruise control, and focused on the destination. When my mind wandered, I coaxed my thoughts in the direction of what was next.

Finding my dad. Warning him about “Lou” from PrenticeCambrian. Joining him on the road to the Donner Institute. Maybe even seeing Byron Teslowski.

Everything else, like the woman who’d tried to kill me, Lina, Eric Finn, my mom—I tucked away in a little box in my head that might as well be locked in the trunk.

Yeah, it knocked around a little, back there. I turned up the radio when it did.

My legs started to get a little jumpy right before I reached the Arizona border, which was pretty good timing for stretching my legs, since I’d need gas before long, too. I considered stopping somewhere in Mesquite, but it looked a little too…populated. I was, don’t forget, a national celebrity. Of a sort. And even if my face hadn’t been rendered on supermarket tabloids in gorgeous airbrushed black-and-white for the last several months, once you saw me, you remembered me.

All things considered, it was better if I didn’t get seen by too many folks. I’d managed to skip the busier gas stations so far; it made sense to skip Mesquite.

I crossed from Nevada to Arizona and saw signs for a truck stop just north of the freeway. That would have to do—the gas tank wouldn’t allow for much else, and I didn’t know when the next place might come along. I took the exit and pulled in to the self-serve gas pumps.

I got out of the car, arched my back, and inhaled deeply. Who knew when I’d get another chance to take in the scents of wherever-in-the-hell I was?

Sure, there were all the usual gas-station odors, all tangy and sweet and vaguely nauseating, but above that, outside of that, sneaking in on the wind, was the smell of the
place
. This was the northwest corner of Arizona, a stretch of freeway maybe thirty miles long, and now I knew how it smelled.

I smiled at the novelty of it all, the idea that I was on the same road that started all the way back in southern California, that I was in freaking Arizona, pumping gas in a truck stop, Arizona wind sending Arizona scents into my brain.

Then the guilt hit. I shouldn’t be enjoying myself. I was at a truck stop in Arizona less than twenty-four hours after I’d hurt the guy who’d tried to rape my girlfriend. Less than a day after I’d fucked up my relationship with Lina but good, thanks to that.

Just a few hours after I’d killed someone with my bare hands.

It was self-defense. It was. But I did it. I did it.

Standing there next to the big Olds, I damn near started to bawl. I was in
so much trouble
, that wasn’t even enough of a word. I wasn’t even the same person I was the day before yesterday.

My brain wanted to keep going down that road, but I couldn’t let it. I had to keep it together. I had to fuel up and get going.

The 15 to the 90 to the 93. A Super 8 motel somewhere in Provo. The 15 to the 90 to the 93. A Super 8 motel.

Then my dad. And then…who knew what.

I sighed hard. I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of Denver Colorado’s shirt. I glanced around, self-conscious, but no one paid any attention to me. That was good.

I went into the station to pay for my gas. The guy who took my money gave me a long look.

“You just pump and get going, all right?” He had a sour look on his long face.

“Ah…yeah. That’s the plan.”

“Had enough trouble around here today,” he volunteered. “I don’t know what you’re doing out here, but we’ve had enough trouble here.”

“I’m just…”

The guy stared hard. I could feel the eyes of a few other people in the place on me, too. A woman scooped up her little girl and they hustled out. The man with them glared at me.

“I’m not…I’m not here to make trouble,” I said. “I’m just buying some gas, all right?”

The attendant nodded sharply. “We already called the cops on you people once today. I don’t care what the rules are; I’ll call the cops. Watch me.”

You people.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I was tired, to the bone, to the soul, but this kind of shit bugged the hell out of me. “What people, anyway?”

“All you Sovereigns, rolling through here on the way to your big party or whatever. Last guy terrorized a whole family; tried to go after their dog.” He squinted at me. “You know him?”

Shit. I probably did. “Ah…what…happened?”

“Big freakout.” He put emphasis on “freak” and backed it up with challenge in his eyes. He had no fear on his scent. “But I guess you all aren’t so hot.” He scoffed and looked superior, like I was automatically part of the Sovereign club and so must be personally put in my place for whatever had gone down. “Guy got scared off by a dude in a wheelchair.”

Well, that pretty much cinched it. Mother
fucker
.

I got out of there. I filled the tank. I had three dollars and twenty cents of change coming to me. I didn’t go back to collect. It wasn’t my money, anyway.

I got back on the road. As I drove, my imagination made up a steady flow of little movies about what kind of “freakout” my dad put on when he had passed through there.

Going after a family. Going after their dog.

The last time I saw my father, he’d been a mostly crazy, bloodthirsty wild man. Did I think he’d be any different just because he’d apparently had a haircut and a bath?

Did I seriously think he’d be able to help me at all? That he’d even need
my
help, assuming this Lou guy got to him before I did?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I put Arizona behind me and slipped into Utah wondering what the hell I was doing.