“Yeah,” grimaced Lumler. “Jus’ like everything else.”
Chapter Eight
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Lying flat on his face in a ditch, some prickly plant stabbing him in the groin, and his legs aching from exertion, Justin thought that maybe he hadn’t picked the right man for the job after all. He’d done a fine job on Dr. Poole’s leg, from what he could tell, but this, running and tripping and falling down into pricker patches and onto sharp rocks as his comrades sang and danced around a bonfire, hoping that a shot wouldn’t suddenly ring out, preparatory to a bullet slamming into his head, well, that was obviously well beyond his capabilities. In fact, there was really only one thing that was even more beyond them, the guts to make someone else do it. And so there he was.
Swearing to himself, sweating despite the chill of the night, he dug out the trinoculars from the heavy satchel on his back and uncapped the lenses. Careful to not look back at the fire, he adjusted the little wheel on the top for the conditions and scanned the nearby landscape. The UV scope revealed nothing, just rocks and bushes and dirt, but the IR showed several heat-blobs. He peered closely at these shapes, but decided finally that none was large enough to be a human being. Probably rabbits or some other kind of rodent. Satisfied, he re-capped the trinocs and returned them to the satchel.
Next he took out the case with the metal detector (actually a medical device used to find bullets and other matter in wounded bodies), unpacked it, switched it on, and went to work. This entailed stooping down, almost crawling, and waving the stupid thing over each square foot of dirt and rock in the wild hope that the little light on it would suddenly flash red. And, having covered only a few dozen square yards in almost two hours of effort, already very tired, achy, and generally scared stiff, all for a few old cans and pieces of waste metal, he was starting to wonder if Lampert’s plan had been such a great idea after all. Matter of fact, it was starting to seem downright ludicrous. Doggedly, though, he kept at it; what else could he do?
An hour later, having fruitlessly swept another ten square yards or so, he was about to pack up the detector when suddenly something crashed heavily onto his back, he was driven face-first into the dirt, and, before he could even wonder what the hell was happening, everything went black.
When he came to, intensely groggy and with no idea how long he’d been out, he was lying flat on his back, staring up at a starlit sky so full of little points of light as to seem almost a solid blanket. Bemusedly, he reflected that this was at least one good result of the Fall; he had certainly never seen stars like this in New Atlanta!
He smiled a little, but the meager effort cost him a terrible pain in the back of his head and he winced and shut his eyes. What was he doing, lying on the ground like this? Where was everybody? Why did his head hurt so badly? And then, recalling his colleagues, their prized patient, and their mission, memories came pumping back into his battered brain and he remembered it all. But what had happened? What had hit him?
Experimentally, he opened one eye, trying to ignore the pain in his head, and looked around, but all he could see were some moonlit bushes and rocks and a couple of slim tree trunks. But then the tree trunks moved and he saw that they were actually someone’s ankles. Terrified, he clapped his eye shut and tried to seem like he was still unconscious, but whoever the ankles belonged to was having none of it.
“I know yer ‘wake,” said a very soft voice, as the feet stopped next to his head. “No use in playin’.”
The voice was, unexpectedly, that of a woman and he thought that it seemed somehow familiar, but between the pain in his head and the desperate nature of his situation, neither fact seemed much to matter. Gingerly, he re-opened one eye and peeked up.
Standing over him, black against the starry sky, was Teresa, the young woman from the Bloodclaw gang. She was dressed as he’d seen her before, in tight leathers that more than accentuated her curves, and holding a sawed-off shotgun lazily in one hand. He couldn’t see her face in the dark, but just the shape and outline of it reminded him of how stunningly beautiful she was. Momentarily alarmed that she was not alone, he opened his other eye and looked quickly around, but there were only bushes and rocks. If there were more Bloodclaws anywhere nearby, they were not making themselves obvious.
Trying to ignore the pain in his head and feeling, for some reason, a bit more at ease knowing that his assailant was female, he tried to smile at the young woman.
“Uh… hello,” he said lamely, his voice rough. “Teresa, isn’t it?”
“S’right,” she said, nodding. “An’ what yer tag, whitecoat?”
“My tag? Oh, yes, my name. I’m Dr. Justin Kaes. I’m from the Center for Disease Control in New Atlanta.”
“Yeh,” said the young woman, cutting him off. “We heard’a all that gink an’ ploop a’ready. Don’ care about none a’ that.”
She went quiet, but he could feel her staring at him. For a long, uncomfortable moment he waited, but when she didn’t seem inclined to say anything more, finally spoke up.
“So, um,” he struggled, “if you don’t mind my asking, was there some reason you attacked me? What… what are your plans? For me, that is.”
“Heh,” said Teresa wryly. “I got plenny plans for you, Medico. Dontcha worry ‘bout that. Now you just lie still for a coupla ticks. And then we need’a get movin’.”
“Moving?” said Justin warily. “Um, where are we going? I can’t just leave my people and—”
“Shuddup,” she said, again cutting him dead. “Jus’ do what I say an’ ya’ll be jus’ juicy, right? But you do one dumb thing, like tryin’ to rabbit, and I letcha have both barrels of this here scatgun. Got it?”
“Er, yes,” he blinked. “I think I understand.”
He waited again as she went through his pack, grunting appreciatively, before slinging it over her shoulder. Then she stood up, waved the gun at him, and gestured towards the inky landscape.
“Right,” she said. “Now zoom. That way.”
“But where are we going?” asked Justin desperately, struggling to his knees.
“That way,” she said again. “Now get goin’.”
With a grunt, his head threatening to split, he got to his feet, wobbled a little, and then stood up. Gingerly, he felt of the back of his head and found a nice-sized lump but, thankfully, no bleeding. Probably only a slight concussion.
“You live,” said Teresa. “Just tapped ya a little on the bean, heh. Now c’mon. Walk.”
And so walk he did. For what seemed like many miles, given his aching head and leaden limbs, he trudged along, over rocks and bushes and across ravines and old abandoned roads, all the while keenly aware of the shotgun muzzle at his back and that, with every step, he was moving farther away from Mr. Lampert, his colleagues, and his mission. Around them the night was quiet, with just a hint of low wind, and, though there was no moon, the stars were so bright that he could see at least a few feet in front of himself. Finally, just as he was considering asking for a break, shotgun or no, Teresa poked him in the back with the gun and gestured down a dry creekbed.
“There,” she said, pointing. “Go.”
Big bushes of some kind soon crowded in on them and then overgrew the creekbed, but a tunnel-like passage had been made and, after a quick hesitation, he dipped his head and moved down into the darkness. They went another twenty yards or so, not far, before he came up short at what looked like a solid wall of corrugated metal. Here Teresa produced a small flashlight and gave it to him.