He allowed himself a quick look around. Brown for as far as he could see. He glanced at his gas gauge. He had maybe another sixty or seventy miles left. Reluctantly he backed off on the accelerator. If he kept his speed down a bit, he might be able to squeeze out another ten or twenty miles. That could make all the difference in the world.
He let his eyes settle on the hills in front of him. Another fifteen minutes and he’d be there. If he figured it right, once he reached the top he’d be out of the quarantine zone. The thing he didn’t know was how far he’d still have to go to reach anyone after that. The map his dad had given them was also in the backpack.
To this point, he’d focused all his thoughts on surviving-going as fast as he dared, keeping the bike upright, looking for holes in the ground. But the thought of the map brought everything back.
Mom and Sarge. Leaving home after the sun went down. Racing through the dark desert.
Nick.
Lisa.
The girl who meant everything to him and his best friend in the world-both dead.
The thing he kept coming back to was that he’d sat there and done nothing. He had watched the men raise their rifles. He had watched them fire.
And he had done
Maybe he could have created a distraction. Maybe it would have been enough for Nick and Lisa to get away. Would it have worked? Probably not, but, dammit, he should have given it a try. He should have-
He didn’t see the rock.
One moment his eyes were tearing up with anger over his inaction, and the next he was flying over his handlebars, landing hard against the desert floor.
He lay on his back for a moment, groaning with the pain. The worse of it seemed to be coming from his left knee. He pulled off his helmet then felt his leg, checking if it was broken.
When his hand reached his knee, he nearly jerked back. It felt wrong. He tried to sit up, but that just made the pain worse, so he only raised his shoulder and tilted his head so he could see what was going on.
Immediately, he knew what had happened. He’d seen something similar before, during P.E. at school. They’d been playing soccer, and Ryan Young had tried to kick the ball but had stepped awkwardly and fallen to the ground.
Like Ryan’s had been then, Paul’s kneecap was sticking out like a shelf off the side of his bent leg, dislocated.
His eyes slammed shut as a new wave of pain washed over him. He took several deep breaths, trying to regain a little control. When it happened to Ryan, the school nurse had come down to the field and slipped it back into place while the rest of them stood around and watched.
Paul didn’t have anyone to put it back in place for him. He was going to have to do it himself.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said out loud. “Two seconds and it’s over.”
He arranged his leg so that the back edge of his shoe’s heel was on the ground. He then put his left hand on his kneecap, and his right on his thigh. Taking several quick, deep breaths, he tried to calm himself. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed down on his thigh and in on his kneecap. As the leg straightened, the cap moved back into place.
He yelled out, not so much in new pain, but in memory of the old. Because while his knee was indeed throbbing, the sheer intensity of the pain he’d been feeling had subsided.
He lay against the desert floor, panting.
It was several minutes before he finally pushed himself up. His bike was about ten feet away. At first glance, it didn’t look like it had suffered much damage. He took a tentative step toward it, but immediately his left leg howled in pain. There was no way it was going to be able to hold his weight for any length of time, so he hopped as best he could to the bike.
As he pulled it off the ground, he smelled gas. There was a wet spot on the dirt under where the tank had been. He looked at the bike, checking for a hole, a loose hose, anything.
It was the cap. It had come loose somehow. He tried to think back to when he’d siphoned the gas from his brother’s bike. Had he not made sure the cap was on tight? There was really no other explanation.
He took it off now and looked inside. There was still some gas sloshing around in there, but how much had he lost?
“Dammit!” he yelled.
He put the top back on, making sure it was secure this time, then wheeled the bike over to where he’d left his helmet.
Once he was re-outfitted, he got on and started up the bike. His left leg was already starting to stiffen and was going to be a problem. With more than a little pain, he bent it enough to get his foot on the peg.
He coughed a couple times, and he couldn’t wait until he could drink some water and get the dust out of his system.
Then he resumed his journey to freedom.
30
It wasn’t until they landed that the window shades rose again.
Ash looked outside. They seemed to be at a small airport. He could see a few planes parked off to the side and a hangar in the distance.
“Where are we?” he asked.
Pax glanced out the window. “Well, unless we got lost on the way, this should be Sonoma County, California.”
Though Ash had been stationed twice in California, he only had a vague idea that Sonoma County was somewhere in the North.
“This is where my children are?”
“As close as we can get.” Pax tilted his head toward the back. “Chloe will take you the rest of the way.”
Though they were still taxiing, Pax unbuckled himself and got up. He retrieved the metal case from the cabinet, then set it on the floor between his and Ash’s seats. He undid the clasps and lifted off the top. Protective foam lined the box, while another thick sheet covered whatever was inside. Pax pulled this away, revealing a small arsenal.
“You liked the SIG so much, I got you three,” Pax said as he touched the hilt of one of the three SIG SAUER P229 pistols inside. “You have four boxes of ammo, three extra mags…well, five if you only use one gun. I also packed a pair of binoculars, and something we call little bangs.”
“Little bangs?”
Pax moved a few things around, then pulled out a hard plastic rectangular box about an inch thick, and opened the top. The inside was divided into two parts. On one side was a device that looked like a cell phone, complete with a touch-screen display. On the other side were a couple dozen half-inch squares lined up like crackers in a box, the majority of which were gray.
Pax pulled out one of the squares. In the center was a smaller black box that barely rose above the surface. Running out from it were tiny wires that spread over the gray square.
“See the number?” Pax asked.
Ash took a harder look. On the black box a number had been painted in gray. Hard to read, but not impossible. This square was numbered one.
“I see it.”
Pax turned the gray square around. “This other side will stick pretty much anywhere. But you’ve gotta remove this first.”
He flicked his finger across the edge, and Ash could see there was a clear plastic sheet covering the back.
“Put this wherever you need it. Then you use this thing here.” He pointed at the black cell-phone-looking device. “This is your trigger device. Interface is easy. You input the unit number, then either set it off manually or
