Instead, it swallowed its mouthful, bent down and took another bite of its fallen rival.
Jonah let out a breath – but stepped on the gas anyway.
The road led up into the mountains – his cabin several miles beyond.
As they put distance behind them, he slowed enough to rub his throbbing arm.
Beside him, Naomi's eyes narrowed. “That didn't hurt, did it?”
Jonah glanced at her sideways. “I'm fine,” he said.
Naomi pocketed her pistol.
“So,” she said, “what's your name?”
Chapter 4
That was how it started out in the sticks.
In the cities, it was much worse.
Per-capita, there were a lot fewer survivors.
New York was first – a preamble – late night on the East Coast – pre-dawn in Europe – a declaration of war before hostilities erupted almost simultaneously across the entire world.
In context, what went on in the sticks, was rather like screaming at a mouse, right before being trampled by a herd of elephants.
But in both cases, it was all of a sudden – no warning – and no one saw it coming.
In San Francisco, Doctor Rosa Holland, MD, had, of course, heard recent rumors, and she knew all the most popular urban legends had been resurfacing – the Bermuda Triangle, Area 51.
In this case, 'Monster Island' – supposed leaked footage, purporting to show living dinosaurs.
On the news, various 'experts' had widely discredited its authenticity. Inundated at work, Rosa had only caught it in passing, but personally suspected some Hollywood promotion, and found it rather ridiculous that the item had made the news at all – it was ironic that, in a day of such increased possibility, you could no longer even be sure of reality. Coverage like this on TV didn't help.
'Genetic engineering' had been added to the lexicon of the tin-foil-hat crowd – 'Monster Island' dated back to the era of the first cloned sheep.
Rosa remembered 'Daisy' – pictured standing next to its genetic parent/twin – ostensibly, just a regular-old sheep. But it had ignited excited conversation at the time – at least one well-known pundit had suggested that this could mean the end of extinction – or at least put it within the reach of human hands.
For herself, Rosa had considered more practical applications. She had volunteered in a lot of third-world countries, and she had seen a lot of war, disease, and atrocities of all kinds. But it was starvation that was always the worst – the most inexorable, the most insidious – the most awful to witness. There were places on Earth that were like nothing less than never-ending death camps.
Of all the atrocities, it was also the most unnecessary.
Ironies abounded. One of the primary motivators in early genetic research was to create better, more plentiful food – larger crops and livestock. Certainly a sensible enough goal – something that might actually go a long way towards solving some of the horrors she had witnessed.
But in her own home town, the entire concept had become paranoiac fodder. And drip-fed through the press, activist-style – salaciously, with buzz-words like 'growth hormones' and 'Frankenfish' – it had become its own conspiracy theory.
Rosa found it amazing how scientific efforts that had extended human lifespan well into the seventies – higher in the healthiest Western countries – were now being blamed for the ill-health of those seventy-year-olds – everything from cancer to heart-disease.
Or Rosa's favorite – 'obesity'.
As a Doctor, she recognized that you had to die of something. She would take obesity in old-age over starvation as a child.
It was easy to get angry over pretentious Western sensibilities and priorities.
Rosa had been questioning a lot about her life lately.
Her job hurt her.
She was in the business of helping people. But when you did that for a living, all you ever saw were people who needed it – people who were injured, sick, or dying.
Rosa had, of course, known about all the divorce, alcoholism, and suicide rates associated with her chosen profession. But she hadn't appreciated it. You never do when you're not living it.
She was still a young woman – and a pretty one – but the frown on her face rarely faded anymore. Whether angry or sad, or just exhausted, her life was a litany of second-hand suffering every single day – even for people she could help.
And then she would come home alone.
No time for anything else.
Was she really ready to spend her life this way?
All this had been on her mind while she was walking home that day – taking the walkway from her hospital to the public parking garage across the street. She crossed with a couple coming from the hospital – a man who was not quite old enough to be the father of the rather rough-looking woman who walked beside him – who might have been showing early signs of being pregnant.
A new welfare-mother-in-waiting.
Rosa sighed. Boy, was that cynical.
Still, she knew the type – her dress once would have been called 'Earthy', but in modern days, it had morphed into something darker – some weird Wiccan-offshoot, counter-culture of the sort most heavily predominant in L.A. – but was clearly migrating north.
Los Angeles was Charles Manson town, after all. Weird, acid-induced cults had always lurked in the background. And judging by this particular woman's Manson-family style-statement, it was a fashion that was coming 'round again.
Rosa tried not to look over her shoulder as they walked just behind her in the parking garage.
As they reached the elevator, the girl that worked the coffee stand looked up from her I-pod.
That was another daily depressant – the sight of that poor mousy girl, locked-up all day in that tiny little booth right next to the elevator on
