“You said you heard 75 was clear?”
“I haven’t seen it but that is what I’ve heard. Most of the bridge overpasses have been cleared but I suspect you’ll have a slow go at it.”
“And the other gangs,” Jasmine asked, nodding. “Are they thick along the way?”
“Let me come with you, Jaz. We can do this. We can get this guy.”
“Hawaii. A villa. You. Your old fart. Tank. My aunt and uncle. How does that sound?”
“Damn it, Jaz,” Angela shouted.
Jasmine got off the bike and hugged her. She then kissed her on the cheek. “If you come, we die—”
“That’s bullshit—”
“If you go back, you’ll do well, very well, and we’ll meet in Hawaii,” Jasmine continued. “This is the way it has to be. I have no worries.”
Jasmine got back on the bike and slowly took off. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t look back.
Chapter 16
The ride to the Red River was uneventful. The weather held out, and if it weren’t for the golden-brown haze and horrible taste and smell of the air it would have been a pleasant run. She had seen two small hunting parties but neither came after her, which surprised her. Maybe they assumed she was one of Owen’s and left her alone. She was able to travel at one hundred miles an hour for nearly the entire ride, slowing only when she came upon an old vehicle or debris from one of the fallen overpasses. Although a single lane, she was amazed at how nature and some of the pathetic assholes were able to make a passage between any places that were almost livable; or at least a place to catch their next meal or get the drugs through.
When she reached the Red River, her heart nearly fell to her stomach. The bridge was gone. There was nothing that would allow crossing. Down the side of the banks and into the river were cars, trucks, and other vehicles along with bodies in various stages of dead. Some even looked as if they were killed today but nothing like the skull and poles that she saw when she came out the City of Kansas. What she learned from the poles was that it was more of a scare tactic than anything else and she wondered if the government had placed the poles there to discourage people from leaving the cities.
Jasmine studied the river, the canyon, and several places where people had tried to cross. She closed her eyes and listened, and then allowed her mind’s eye to reach out to those who died trying, looking for maybe a partner who might have made it across, and in her mind’s eye she saw the path. It wasn’t the view of the dead but the view of the killers and how they were able to travel from Oklahoma to Dallas. She also saw the drug runners and knew this was one of the routes. Not only would she stop the bastard but also she was going to learn how to stop his distributors.
Far off to her right, a quarter of a mile, maybe, was an actual road, maybe a frontage road of such that had collapsed, but over the years the gangs rebuilt it. It was rickety, and definitely looked unsafe, but accessible, and from the looks of it they used bikes back and forth.
That’s why they didn’t stop me, Jasmine thought. The rockets. They use the rockets to get back and forth between Dallas and Oklahoma, and once in the City of Oklahoma they’re able to get the drugs to the City of Kansas and elsewhere.
She rode over to the entrance of the rickety bridge and stopped. She looked at it for a long moment, hoping to see how others may have crossed it. She kept getting the feeling that the best way to cross it was as fast as she could, wide open, she kept hearing.
She left the dirt bike attached to the rocket and whipped across the bridge, nearly praying aloud that the bridge wouldn’t collapse. Not only did it not, but it was sturdy enough to even handle a heavier load. The bikes are pulling trailers.
She came out from the ravine and hit highway 75 with the throttle wide open. At last she was creeping up on a hundred and ten miles per hour and feeling the rush, the thrill, and the warmth of knowing that she was getting close. Close to finding and killing the bastard who was responsible for the death of her father.
Within a few minutes, the haze, like a mortician carrying away a body, blurred all traces of Jasmine’s tracks as if she had never stood in the grip of Death atop the Nine of Swords. As if she had never crossed the Red River, hurling past Sherman, McKinney, Alan, Plano, The Colony, and Carrollton. Neighborhoods that she remembered as a young girl, neighborhoods that she thought she’d never see again.
As she sped south on highway 75 she saw the peaks of some of the remaining skyscrapers. Their facades ripped away leaving skeletal ironworks rusting away, never again supporting the life that had at one time walked the halls of employment. Some of the taller buildings disappeared into the golden-brown haze and she wondered if they were still intact or had their tops crumbled down to the once-crowded sidewalks and tarred roadways. She also wondered if anyone had taken residence in the buildings. According to the information she had gotten, the Last Pharmacist took residence in a medical facility near downtown.
Chapter 17
Jasmine pulled into an old gas station. The bay doors were down but looked fragile as if they were ready to fall with one good harsh wind. The plate-glass front was long gone with very little remains lying in or out of the building.
She pushed the bikes in through the windows and into the garage. The lift was on the ground and the oil-changing hole was filled with debris. No dead left behind. Nor were there traces of violence.
She pushed the bikes into a corner with the front facing outward in case she needed a quick escape and looked around, hoping she’d pick up a vibe that said she’d be better off elsewhere. She felt nothing, which was usually a good sign.
Exhausted, she needed sleep, and looked for a place she could lie down for a few hours, and found an office or maybe a walk in pantry-type closet. It was bare, and had never given shelter to anyone after the impact. In fact, the small room was quite clean comparatively to what she had seen since she left home.
She took her pack off and removed a sleeping bag that she knew would keep her warm; however, she moaned at the thought of having a nice soft mattress to lay on. “The floor will have to do,” Jasmine mumbled, and spread the bag in the corner where she could sleep sitting up, facing the door.
She then tried the door and was ecstatic that it closed with no effort. In fact, the door not only closed, it actually latched. The lock, which was on the inside, bolted in place with no effort as if the impact had never corroded its parts. It wasn’t new by any means but had been relatively untouched.
With a Glock in her lap and the Mossberg by her side she closed her eyes and within a few minutes she fell asleep.
She didn’t hear the coyotes padding through the storefront. Nor did she hear the sniffing at the bottom of the door that led to where she lay sleeping.
Five of them lay looking at the door. Waiting.
Something stirred. A dream maybe. Jasmine didn’t know but she bolted up, and as her body came up so did the Glock in her right hand. Her left hand rested on the Mossberg, ready.
Then she heard the sniff.
“Damn it,” She mumbled.
A paw appeared beneath the door. Then a brownish-black nose.
She stood, stretched and holstered both weapons. She had no desire to kill the hungry beast anymore than she wanted to open the door. She slept well, but not long enough and wondered if they had made a mark on the door.