Biofire, p.20
Biofire, page 20
Instead of slowing down or stopping, Emma raised her own gun and began to fire.
With the first shot, all three guards dropped flat onto their bellies. One of them managed to get off a single shot, but that was all. They were too busy staying as flat against the floor as possible while Emma continued to fire at them as she approached.
The metal door grew larger in Emma’s tear-blurred eyes as she continued to flame. She could feel it draining her, making the pain in her head worse, pressing on the backs of her eyes, spreading into her teeth and jaws.
The guards did not move on the floor. One of them whimpered quietly as Emma hurried past them and pushed on the metal bar that stretched across the door. She did not know if she had shot one of them or if the noisy one was simply miserable from being flamed, and she did not care.
Outside the door, she was bathed in cold, damp air. She kept running into the rain, into the gloomy, ash-colored light of day.
She slowed only briefly to look around, get her bearings.
Cars. Everywhere. The parking lot.
To her right stood the front gate, where a guard stood in his kiosk, another stood outside, and a black-and-white-striped security arm blocked the entrance. A tall cyclone fence with barbed wire strung along the top went all the way around the lot and the building.
Before one of the guards at the gate spotted her, Emma hunkered down and hurried along the side of the building, her moccasin slippers slapping on the wet pavement.
Landon would not park among the other cars in the lot, especially in the Bugatti. He had to have a private space separate from the others.
The wall went on forever.
The pain in her head seemed to have reached a plateau, but it was not receding. Her chest burned, her legs ached, and her hand had gone numb from gripping the gun.
She had almost reached the corner of the building when she heard a door open far behind her.
Voices, footsteps. Shouting.
A gunshot.
She rounded the corner and there it was, the shiny black Bugatti EB 110, parked all by itself near the door. As she stumbled toward it, her left hand fumbled with the keys, hit the button in the middle of the fob, and heard the short blip that meant the car alarm was off.
Emma had the car door open and was getting inside when she heard the nearby door of the building open. Two more guards came out, guns drawn. She fell into the driver’s seat of the Bugatti and leaned out just enough to point the gun in the general direction of the guards and fire.
The gun gave a solid click, but nothing more. It was empty.
“Drop the gun, lady, right now.”
She did. Emma did not realize she had fired the gun that many times, but it was okay. Her head, though pounding with pain, was still tingling and humming. She was still flaming.
The guards were on the ground in seconds.
She slammed the door and started the car, put it in gear and shot away from the building, driving away from the guards on her tail, who would no doubt round the corner behind her at any moment. She drove away from the U-shaped building and down the center lane of the parking lot between columns of cars, heading straight for the gate.
The guards were ready for her. One stood on each side of the gate, guns drawn. They began to fire.
Emma hunched down behind the wheel and the tires squealed as she swerved to the left, then the right, then left again. The passenger-side window shattered and she heard bullets hitting the car. Emma tensed, waiting for one to hit her.
The Bugatti slammed through the security arm with a horrible crunch. The arm broke away, leaving the left front corner of the car mangled. She did not ease the pressure of her foot on the accelerator and put OdysseyCorp behind her fast.
It occurred to Emma that, providing she had not killed Landon back there, then seeing his precious Bugatti drive through that security arm under a hail of bullets probably would be enough to make him drop dead.
That made her smile as she sped on.
The headache receded quickly. By the time she reached the freeway and had dropped the Bugatti’s speed to the legal limit, the tingling and humming had stopped. The headache had left her weak, and her hands were trembling fearfully, but she felt fine. Better, in fact, than she had felt in a long time. Because she was free. She had done something Landon had not expected, something he would have laughed at had she told him in advance that she was going to try. His overabundance of self-confidence was Landon’s biggest weakness, and perhaps one of his worst enemies.
The needle on the gas gauge indicated that the tank was full and the Bugatti ran purringly; Landon never let the needle drop below three-quarters full in any of his cars. Emma could not help wondering how Landon was—not that she cared, but because she knew that if he regained consciousness and found that she had taken his Bugatti, that might require hospitalization and medical attention more urgently than anything she had done to him. He would no doubt have a hard time deciding what to be more furious about: that Emma had escaped, or that she had stolen his precious car. The windshield wipers were on high-speed to keep up with the downpour of rain and Emma was careful to drive a little slower than the speed limit. She could not afford to have an accident now, she was still too close to OdysseyCorp.
An army of Landon’s people would be after her in no time, if they weren’t already, and Landon, if he were healthy enough, would call the police and sheriff’s department to pull every string within his reach.
Emma’s plan had been flawed. It had only gone as far as her escape from OdysseyCorp. Now that she was out, she had no idea what to do, where to go.
But she had to lose the Bugatti, and soon. They were not exactly a dime a dozen on the roads, and if she did not get it off the freeway soon and abandon it someplace, she would have police cars with lights flashing and sirens wailing hot on her tail in no time. But where could she go in her thin hospital gown, terrycloth robe, and moccasin slippers?
Although it was not quite noon, the day was almost as dark as dusk. Emma felt disoriented, not even sure which freeway she was on or in what direction she was headed.
There had been two eighteen-wheelers ahead of her ever since she had pulled onto the freeway, but when they finally moved, she could see the hulking specter of the city ahead in the distance; that gave her a reference point.
Now she needed a destination.
On each side of the freeway were empty fields, real estate developments, clusters of gas stations convenience stores, and fast food restaurants. Then she saw the enormous, brightly lit sign. She had seen it a million times before, but never once had she thought to read it. She did now:
K & L TRUCK STOP
FUEL – FOOD – SUPPLIES
FAMILY RESTAURANT
FULL SALAD BAR
FRESH BAKED PIES
* NEXT EXIT *
Before she reached the exit, she could see the truck stop off the freeway to her right. It had two massive parking lots: one for trucks, one far cars and pickups. Both were full.
Emma took the exit and pulled into the crowded parking lot, avoiding the deep potholes and sections of pavement that had broken away to be replaced by large patches of mud. She parked the Bugatti between a white Chevrolet pickup truck with a camper shell on the back and an ancient Mustang of indeterminate color. The black beauty she was in would shine like a neon light in the truck stop parking lot.
Once she killed the engine and headlights, she sat back in the seat, the key chain still dangling from the ignition, and closed her eyes. Emma had no doubt that walking around in a robe and slippers in the pouring rain at a truck stop would get her plenty of help, from truckers if no one else. But would it be the kind of help she needed? She did not even know what she was looking for, or what kind of story she would tell to anyone who offered assistance.
“First things first,” she muttered with a sigh. She looked around in both directions. There was no one nearby, so she opened the door and got out of the car. She left the door open. She wanted to make sure that any passersby could see the keys in the ignition. Then Emma got away from the Bugatti as quickly as she could.
She was soaked through long before she reached the glass doors of the truck stop. She stopped in the foyer and leaned against the wall, wiping a hand over her face, then back over her hair.
A new kind of headache began to bother Emma. Although not nearly as bad as the last, this one was nevertheless agitating. It was a…crackling…headache. Something inside her head actually seemed to crackle, like a blinking electronic sign with a short in it, blinking and crackling. It affected her eyes as well as her head, made them ache, as if she had been staring into a bright light. She rubbed them slowly, her eyes, trying to push the crackling headache away, out of her head.
Emma did not see the two police officers until she had pushed halfway through the door and into the restaurant and gift shop. She froze in the doorway.
They were standing with their backs to her at the counter, talking to the blonde girl behind the cash register. One was leaning forward over the counter, the other stood straight.
They’re not here because of me, Emma thought. They can’t be. They just came here for coffee and now they’re flirting with that cashier. But…I can’t go in. Not like this. They’ll notice me, maybe stop me. Ask questions. What if they’ve already heard? What if a call’s already been put out?
She turned away from them, then went back outside before they turned around and saw her. She turned to her left and hurried along the front of the building, staying on the covered sidewalk. She passed window after window, and on the other side, people sat in booths in the restaurant, looking away from their food to watch the drenched woman in her robe and slippers hurry by.
The sidewalk came to an end. So did the cover.
Ahead, she saw the fuel island where two trucks were parked beneath the brightly lighted shelter to be refueled. Other trucks were lined up behind them. She looked around the corner of the building and saw the other parking lot in the back. It was much bigger than the one in front and filled with scores of eighteen-wheelers.
She ran across the pavement, looking for a truck with someone in it or around it. They all seemed dead, like giant metal coffins lined up neatly, ready to be buried.
Emma rushed between two of the trucks, then stopped to rest, leaning on one of the trailers. She was about to push away and go deeper into the truck lot when she heard a voice.
“You okay?”
Emma spun around to face a man standing beside the cab of the trailer she had been leaning on, gripping the handle of the door, his head turned to face her. He wore a puffy down jacket and a cap with a long bill that stuck out over his face.
“Hello?” he said. “You okay?”
His face was in the shadow of the camp’s bill, but he sounded like an older man, voice thickened by a heavy Texas accent.
“No,” she said reluctantly. “No, I’m not. I was just…trying to get out of the rain.”
“Well, now, what’re you doin’ out here dressed like that?” he said.
“Um, well…” She thought hard and fast, searching for something sympathetic and believable. “Somebody’s after me. I need help.”
“Hellfire, why didn’t you say so? Come on into the cab and get outta these elements.” He opened the door and helped her up, climbing in after her.
Inside, the air was made of body odor, cigarette smoke, and the smell of strong coffee.
Emma stood hunched over between the seats as he slid behind the wheel, reached up, and flicked on the small light in the middle of the ceiling.
“You’re soaked to the bone, honey,” he said, looking at her with concern. “You want some dry clothes?”
“Oh, yes, please, anything you have, even if it doesn’t fit, I can—”
“Hey, hey, wait just a second, now. You said somebody’s after you. Who might that be?”
She did not hesitate. “My husband.”
He nodded slowly. She could see his face now. It was ruggedly pleasant with silvery stubble on his chin. He smiled.
“Climb on up into the sleeper, there,” he said. “Light’s above your head. Switch’s on the right. Turn it on.”
She did as he said.
“Now, just to your left, there’s a bundle of clothes. Grab yourself a shirt. One of them quilted flannels. But first, you get ridda that wet stuff. Throw it out here and I’ll dump it. Sure ain’t no good to you.”
Once again, she did as he said, tossed the soaked robe and gown into the cab, never giving modesty a thought, and put on one of the quilted flannel shirts, blue plaid with lots of red and yellow stripes. It felt wonderful, glorious, so soft and dry against her flesh.
“Do you have something I can wear, um…from the waist down?” she said. “Some pants, maybe? Anything?”
His head rose from the opening that separated the cab from the sleeper.
“Well, now, honey,” he said, grinning as he pulled himself up into the sleeper with her. “You don’t need them just yet, do ya?”
Emma crawled backward, away from him. She felt a tingling in her head, and a faint humming.
15.
Aftermath
* * *
Jorgan was in the same chair in which he had collapsed almost two hours ago. His legs were stretched out and spread, and his head was hanging back limply, a cold, white cloth over his eyes and forehead. The cloth was darkened with blood.
Miranda stood beside him. She did not look too healthy herself, but she had held up better than Jorgan.
“Feeling better?” she said.
Jorgan slurred, “The explosions have stopped going off in my head.”
“Shaw’s down the hall. I heard him yelling earlier. He sounds pissed off.”
“Oh, I’m sure he is.” Jorgan touched his mustache with his fingertips. Blood from the nosebleed was beginning to dry among the scraggly hairs. He took the cloth and scrubbed around his mouth. “Are they absolutely sure she got away?”
“Gone with the wind. She took Shaw’s Bugatti. From the way he sounded earlier, he may be having a stroke soon.”
“Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head. “This was the wrong time for her to pull something like this.” He glanced up at Miranda. “Did she flame anyone else?”
“Everybody who got in her way. Even Shaw. He was out as long as you were. Two of the guards went into cardiac arrest, and she shot another one. In the hip. He’ll live, but one of the other two is dead, and the third is pretty iffy, from what I hear.”
He pulled his legs in and leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, palms pressing to the sides of his aching head.
“How did she do it?” he said. “I mean, she was doing well in all the tests, quite well, better than I’d expected. But…this. She always became symptomatic after three or four mild tests, sometimes even fewer. She wasn’t ready for this much activity yet.”
Miranda pulled out the chair to Jorgan’s left and seated herself heavily. She was pale and looked weary.
“Well, you could’ve fooled the security staff,” she said. “They seem pretty convinced she was ready.”
Jorgan shook his head, confused.
“Maybe it was just beginner’s luck,” Miranda said quietly, reaching over to stroke his hand.
“This has nothing to do with luck, dammit.” He dropped his hands to the table, pulling them out of her reach. “The only time she could’ve exercised was with me, during the tests. If she’d tried anything with anyone, we would’ve found out, it would’ve gotten back to us. How…in the hell…did she do it?”
When she spoke again, Miranda’s voice was level and a bit cool. “She should’ve been isolated. That’s what you were supposed to do. And you know as well as I do that Shaw’s gonna throw all of this into your lap because you didn’t isolate her properly. All because of whatever little…crush you have on her.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m being accused of having a crush by the queen of the crush? Queen Miranda?”
She flinched slightly at his words, then seemed to shrink.
Jorgan leaned back in the chair again and his voice contained an element of fear along with exhaustion when he said, “My God, what have I done?”
“You made a mistake, that’s all,” she said. But there was very little comfort in her flat, cold voice.
“No, no, no, that’s not what I mean,” he said, waving vaguely toward his open briefcase.
She frowned then and for a moment looked as if she were going to pursue that. But she seemed to think better of it.
“By the way,” she said, “looks like you’ve got a burst blood vessel in your left eye. You look like Christopher Lee, or something. Does it hurt?”
Before he could reply, Landon Shaw’s voice began shouting obscenities in the hall outside. The door of the conference room was open and they heard his footsteps stalking over the tile floor as his voice grew louder.
Jorgan sat up straight in the chair and handed the washcloth to Miranda. He stared at the door, bracing himself.
Shaw’s fists were clenched at his sides as he stormed into the room. Apparently, he’d had a bloody nose recently because there were streaks of blood above his upper lip. He took long, angry steps to the table and stopped beside Jorgan, glaring down at him. He pressed his fingertips to the tabletop, fingers stiff, palms tented.
“I’m only going to ask this question once,” Shaw said, his voice a low grumble. He sounded more threatening than if he had been roaring. “I don’t want any stuttering or stammering, just a straight answer. If I don’t get that, and if I don’t get it immediately, I may very well kill you with my bare hands. Right here and now. Do you understand?”
Jorgan nodded.
“All right, then.” Shaw took in a deep breath and screamed, “What the fuck happened here?”
Jorgan did not even blink. Watching Miranda hurry out of the room, he envied her. He leaned his head back and looked Shaw in the eye.
“She flamed me, just like she flamed you. And the guards. And God knows who else.”
