Deadline
Page 144
Becks started up the van engine and turned on the headlights. I didn’t need them to see where I was going, since the exterior house lights were turned up so far that it practically looked like noon out in the yard. I walked over to the bike and swung my leg over it, balancing myself. “Go,” I said, into the microphone in my helmet. “I’ll be right behind you.”
The van pulled out of the garage. I let them get to the first gate before I started the ignition and followed.
The trip down the driveway was harrowing. We moved slowly enough that I had to walk the bike about two-thirds of the time. When that wasn’t possible, I had to coast, trying to keep from either overbalancing or stalling out. Neither would be good. And I’d be dealing with it alone either way, since there was no way I was letting the others stop the van to help me. That wasn’t part of the plan.
All the gates stood open, allowing us to keep moving through as we wound our way toward the street below. Maggie’s security guards flanked the open gates, their guns held at the ready. I’m not sure they really believed that we were going until we’d passed the third gate. That was when they started locking things down behind us, each gate sliding shut and sealing itself with a clang that was audible even through my helmet. The guards moved forward as the gates closed, reforming their ranks around each new opening.
They stayed behind as we passed the last gate. One of them—Officer Weinstein, most likely—raised his assault rifle in salute. Then Becks hit the gas, speeding off down the road in answer to the instructions in the van’s GPS, and I had to gun the throttle in order to catch up. It took only a few seconds for the house to recede entirely out of sight. The view of the hill that it was on lasted for a little longer, slipping in and out of sight as we followed the curve of the road.
The lights from the house stayed visible even after the house itself was out of sight. They blazed up into the night, painting the clouds with tiered bands of light and shadow. I was relieved when they finally faded. They reminded me too much of everything that we were leaving behind.
The speaker in my helmet beeped to signal an incoming call. I nodded to activate it. “Go.”
“We’re heading for I-5 toward Portland,” said Becks, right in my ear. “We’re going to have to take the main highway for about forty miles, just to get past the worst of the forest.”
“Got it.” Under most circumstances, taking the highway would have been the safest thing to do. It was well-guarded, was well-maintained, and had access to multiple emergency services, including bolt holes we could flee to if things took a turn for the worse. It was also the single route most likely to be monitoed by anyone who was watching to see if we were on the move and, because of the nature of modern highway design, would be relatively easy to isolate from the rest of the grid. It was possible that some innocent bystanders might be caught up in an attack designed to target the five of us… and after everything we’d been through, I no longer had any illusions that the people we were running from would care.
“Watch yourself out there,” said Becks. Then the connection was cut and the van sped up, racing away from the lights of Weed, racing into the darkness up ahead.
The only thing I could do was follow her.
I-5 was eerily deserted. Even the guard stations were dark, proving once again that, when faced with a true national emergency, no amount of “duty” is going to be sufficient to get people to leave their homes. Half the men who should have been guarding the road were likely to be charged with treason if they were caught, and right now, they had absolutely no reason to care. Treason wasn’t as bad as infection and death. At least treason was something you stood a chance of surviving. We took the automated blood tests and rolled on.
Every time the occupants of the van had to roll down a window, I stopped breathing, waiting for the screams to start. They never did. We were far enough outside the footprint of the storm that we were probably safe… but “probably” isn’t something I believe in banking on. Thank God for bug repellent.
With the road empty and both of us driving as fast as we dared, we cleared forty miles of highway driving in just under thirty minutes. From there, Becks led us onto a frontage road that paralleled I-5 but was mostly concealed by the concrete retaining wall meant to protect passing motorists. I guess if you were one of the people who lived in the tiny houses and aging trailer parks we passed, you were shit out of luck. That’s something almost everyone does their best to forget: The world may have changed, but some people still can’t afford to come in out of the cold. The poor didn’t have advanced security systems or hermetically sealed windows, and now that Kellis-Amberlee had found itself a new vector…
It didn’t really bear thinking about.
We were passing Ashland, Oregon, when my helmet beeped again. “Go,” I said.
“Shaun?” Becks sounded uncertain. “The GPS just gave me our final destination.”
“And?”
“And it’s Shady Cove.”
I managed to keep control of the bike, but only because I had George to take care of the vital business of swearing like a madwoman at the back of my head while I focused on the road. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” There was a long pause before she asked, “What are the odds that she’s driving us into a trap?”
“I don’t know. What are the odds that we have anywhere else to go?” She didn’t answer me. “I figured as much. We’re going to Shady Cove, Becks. Tell everybody to take off the safeties and keep their eyes on the mirrors.”
The van pulled out of the garage. I let them get to the first gate before I started the ignition and followed.
The trip down the driveway was harrowing. We moved slowly enough that I had to walk the bike about two-thirds of the time. When that wasn’t possible, I had to coast, trying to keep from either overbalancing or stalling out. Neither would be good. And I’d be dealing with it alone either way, since there was no way I was letting the others stop the van to help me. That wasn’t part of the plan.
All the gates stood open, allowing us to keep moving through as we wound our way toward the street below. Maggie’s security guards flanked the open gates, their guns held at the ready. I’m not sure they really believed that we were going until we’d passed the third gate. That was when they started locking things down behind us, each gate sliding shut and sealing itself with a clang that was audible even through my helmet. The guards moved forward as the gates closed, reforming their ranks around each new opening.
They stayed behind as we passed the last gate. One of them—Officer Weinstein, most likely—raised his assault rifle in salute. Then Becks hit the gas, speeding off down the road in answer to the instructions in the van’s GPS, and I had to gun the throttle in order to catch up. It took only a few seconds for the house to recede entirely out of sight. The view of the hill that it was on lasted for a little longer, slipping in and out of sight as we followed the curve of the road.
The lights from the house stayed visible even after the house itself was out of sight. They blazed up into the night, painting the clouds with tiered bands of light and shadow. I was relieved when they finally faded. They reminded me too much of everything that we were leaving behind.
The speaker in my helmet beeped to signal an incoming call. I nodded to activate it. “Go.”
“We’re heading for I-5 toward Portland,” said Becks, right in my ear. “We’re going to have to take the main highway for about forty miles, just to get past the worst of the forest.”
“Got it.” Under most circumstances, taking the highway would have been the safest thing to do. It was well-guarded, was well-maintained, and had access to multiple emergency services, including bolt holes we could flee to if things took a turn for the worse. It was also the single route most likely to be monitoed by anyone who was watching to see if we were on the move and, because of the nature of modern highway design, would be relatively easy to isolate from the rest of the grid. It was possible that some innocent bystanders might be caught up in an attack designed to target the five of us… and after everything we’d been through, I no longer had any illusions that the people we were running from would care.
“Watch yourself out there,” said Becks. Then the connection was cut and the van sped up, racing away from the lights of Weed, racing into the darkness up ahead.
The only thing I could do was follow her.
I-5 was eerily deserted. Even the guard stations were dark, proving once again that, when faced with a true national emergency, no amount of “duty” is going to be sufficient to get people to leave their homes. Half the men who should have been guarding the road were likely to be charged with treason if they were caught, and right now, they had absolutely no reason to care. Treason wasn’t as bad as infection and death. At least treason was something you stood a chance of surviving. We took the automated blood tests and rolled on.
Every time the occupants of the van had to roll down a window, I stopped breathing, waiting for the screams to start. They never did. We were far enough outside the footprint of the storm that we were probably safe… but “probably” isn’t something I believe in banking on. Thank God for bug repellent.
With the road empty and both of us driving as fast as we dared, we cleared forty miles of highway driving in just under thirty minutes. From there, Becks led us onto a frontage road that paralleled I-5 but was mostly concealed by the concrete retaining wall meant to protect passing motorists. I guess if you were one of the people who lived in the tiny houses and aging trailer parks we passed, you were shit out of luck. That’s something almost everyone does their best to forget: The world may have changed, but some people still can’t afford to come in out of the cold. The poor didn’t have advanced security systems or hermetically sealed windows, and now that Kellis-Amberlee had found itself a new vector…
It didn’t really bear thinking about.
We were passing Ashland, Oregon, when my helmet beeped again. “Go,” I said.
“Shaun?” Becks sounded uncertain. “The GPS just gave me our final destination.”
“And?”
“And it’s Shady Cove.”
I managed to keep control of the bike, but only because I had George to take care of the vital business of swearing like a madwoman at the back of my head while I focused on the road. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” There was a long pause before she asked, “What are the odds that she’s driving us into a trap?”
“I don’t know. What are the odds that we have anywhere else to go?” She didn’t answer me. “I figured as much. We’re going to Shady Cove, Becks. Tell everybody to take off the safeties and keep their eyes on the mirrors.”
