Eden Rising (10 page)

Rick didn’t answer her.

“What did you call her?” Chloe repeated.

“Ginny,” the girl said. “That’s my name.”

Something clawed at Chloe from the dark space in her mind, the space that had contained the memories taken from her by the Project Eden assholes years before, and it was as if the rest of the world suddenly disappeared.

Ginny. But not
Ginny.

And a girl. But not this girl.

“Rick! Don’t!”

The shout snapped Chloe out of her trance just in time to see a rifle magazine flying through the air toward her. She ducked to her left, and the metal casing flew past her shoulder, almost clipping her ear.

But the near miss came with a cost.

Chloe slipped, her foot shooting into the air, and she landed hard on her hip against the sloped roof. The impact loosened a wide section of snow that began sliding downward, taking her with it.

“Chloe!”

She twisted her head and spotted Brandon standing at the peak of the roof.

How the hell had he—

But the thought went unfinished as she flew off the edge, and arced through the air toward the ground.

__________

T
HE BIG ONE,
the one the other had called Rick, dove for his gun as Chloe sailed off the building.

Though Brandon wanted to scramble down so he could help her, he knew he had to deal with the problem at hand first. He aimed his rifle and pulled the trigger without warning.

The bullet smashed into the side of Rick’s weapon, knocking it away and taking at least one of the kid’s fingers with it.

“Son of a bitch!” Rick yelled.

He grabbed his hand and looked as if he might charge up the slope at Brandon.

Brandon, the gun still tight to his shoulder, said, “Stay right there or the next one goes through your head.”

“Rick, listen to him. Please!” Ginny pleaded.

Rick was only able to glare at Brandon for a second before pain forced him down onto his knees. Ginny immediately crouched next to him.

“Are you okay? Let me see,” she said. “Oh, God.”

“You’d better wrap that up,” Brandon said.

Ginny looked at him, stunned, before nodding and setting to work.

Without taking his eyes off the two shooters, Brandon yelled as loudly as he could, “Mr. Hamilton! It’s Brandon! I’ve got the shooters! But I think Chloe’s hurt!”

It took only a few minutes for the others to get there. They found Chloe unconscious in the snow just a few feet from the scoop end of a tractor. Dr. Gardiner made a quick assessment and had four of the men carry her back to the motel. He then examined Rick’s finger, and accompanied the boy and Ginny—with two other men acting as guards—back to the Paradise.

When Brandon entered the motel parking lot, Josie raced over and threw her arms around him. His father followed, but at a much slower pace.

“What were you thinking?” she said. “You had us scared to death.”

“Did Chloe ask you to go with her?” his father asked, clearly concerned.

“No,” Brandon said. “She didn’t know I was there, not until she fell, anyway. I…I followed her.”

“You followed her?” his father said. “Why would you do that?”

Brandon looked at his dad, wondering why it was even a question. “Because family always has each other’s back. You told me that. Chloe was going alone.” He paused. “She’s family.” He looked past his father at the other members of the Resistance. “We’re all family now, aren’t we?”

His father stared at him for a long moment before reaching out and pulling Brandon into a hug. “We are,” he said. “You did good. Just…next time let me know first.”

9

GORMAN, CALIFORNIA

11:46 PM PST

T
HEY HADN’T TRAVELED
nearly as far as Martina would have liked, but she was to blame for that.

After taking possession of three Honda Shadow motorcycles, and a Kawasaki Ninja for Craig, they’d spent nearly an hour making sure Noreen and Riley—neither of whom had ever driven a bike before—were comfortable enough with their rides before heading out.

When they finally hit the road, they raced through Inyokern and up the slope to Highway 14. Heading south, they had one last look at the valley. As always, brown was everywhere—the hills, the brush, the buildings. Even the trees people had nurtured to life looked tan from the highway.

Martina couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before she might return. She would, of course. At the very least, she had to bring her family down from the mountains, and bury them in the place they always called home.

For a little while, after the valley fell away, Martina could almost pretend the world was as it had been. Highway 14 had been at its busiest on weekends in the winter when skiers from L.A. sped north to the slopes of Mammoth Mountain, another three hours past Ridgecrest. But most other times, traffic was few and far between, so being the only ones on the road was not unusual.

They made it a few miles past Red Rock Canyon before the illusion vanished. A set of abandoned buildings sat to the left of the highway, the remnants of someone’s long-ago attempt to farm the desert. For several years, Martina had thought of the structures merely as markers to and from home. She could never remember seeing anyone walking around them, or any vehicles parked nearby.

That wasn’t the case now, though. Close to a dozen motor homes were there, each parked neatly next to its neighbor. There was an area in front of the vehicles where several camping chairs had been set up. The majority were empty, but a few were occupied.

At first, Martina thought maybe she’d come across more survivors. She’d slowed down and angled over to the side of the road closest to the gathering. But as she neared, she could see that the people sitting would never be leaving their chairs again.

Why were they all there? Had they come to die together?

She added those to the list of questions whose answers she’d never know.

The town of Mojave came into view a few miles before Martina and her friends actually reached it—gas stations and convenient stores and fast food restaurants lining the east side, a handful of railroad tracks lining the west. If there had been a way to go around it, she would have gladly taken it. But there had been no such path.

She stopped at the turn into town and let the others pull up beside her.

“You guys doing all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think I’m getting the hang of it,” Riley said.

“Don’t get too confident,” Martina warned. “Noreen?”

“I’m fine,” her friend said, though it was clear she was still a bit nervous.

“Anyone need to stretch their legs?” she asked.

“Can we just keep going?” Noreen asked.

“I like that idea,” Craig said. He looked left down Mojave’s main drag. “This place kind of gives me the creeps.”

“Me, too,” Riley said.

Me, three
, Martina thought. “All right. As long as you guys don’t need a break.”

They made the turn and headed through town. Deserted streets, near empty parking lots, and no obvious bodies to be seen. Like back in Ridgecrest, apparently most people had chosen to die at home.

After they drove over the bridge at the south edge of Mojave, Martina allowed herself to breathe normally again. If she was this tense going through a small town, what would it be like to pass through someplace larger?

My God, what about Los Angeles?

Her friends should have been getting close to Dodger Stadium at that point. If her reaction was any indication, they must be nervous wrecks.

As Martina’s group came around the east side of Mount Mojave, the highway transitioned into a four-lane divided freeway. This allowed them to pass by the town of Rosemead without actually driving through it. In the distance, she could see the buildings of the Lancaster/Palmdale area. Over three hundred thousand people had lived there. How many of them were still alive? Were any?

Thankfully, she didn’t have to find out.

A few miles south of Rosemead, Martina exited the freeway onto Highway 138. This shot them due west, bypassing both Lancaster and Palmdale, and taking them all the way to the famous Grapevine portion of the I-5 in the mountains north of Los Angeles.

When they finally reached the interstate, Martina pulled over on the transition road, and retrieved her jacket from her bag on the back of the bike. Her friends eagerly did the same. Unlike the warm day back in the desert, it was considerably cooler here.

“A little something to eat might be nice,” Craig said as he climbed back onto his seat.

“And I gotta pee,” Noreen added.

Martina checked the old map she’d picked up back in Ridgecrest. “Gorman’s just a few miles to the north. We should be able to find someplace there we can take a break.”

“Sounds good to me,” Craig said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Noreen said, looking like she was going to burst. “Let’s hurry.”

The someplace turned out to be a Carl’s Jr. burger joint on the north side of the freeway. It was thankfully free of the dead, and with little effort, they were able to get the heat turned on.

They sat silently for a while, already weary from their journey as they ate some of the food they’d brought with them.

Riley spoke first. “So where do we go from here?”

“Up the Five,” Craig said. “That’s the way we always go to the Bay Area. Dad always says…” He paused, the hint of discomfort. “Always said it was the fastest way there.”

Martina didn’t respond right away. The problem was, there were two main routes up the coast. Craig was right. The I-5 was the fastest, but the 101 freeway over on the coast went there, too. And while the latter route
did
take longer, it was the route Ben preferred. He called the I-5 the Mind Number and refused to use it. What if he were heading down to find her? Just because he hadn’t yet didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it at some point. The last thing she wanted was to miss him because she and the others took the wrong road.

The I-5 or the 101?

Their break stretched to an hour and a half as she tried to decide which way they should go. By then, it was growing dark, and the brisk air from earlier had turned frigid. Though she still didn’t have an answer to her quandary, she knew the last thing they should do was travel in the dark.

Next door to the Carl’s Jr. was an Econo Lodge motel. They selected two rooms with an adjoining door—one for the girls and one for Craig. Craig found a DVD player and several movies in the main office, attached the device to his TV, and asked the others to join him. Noreen passed, and was soon fast asleep. Martina declined, too, though her mind was too occupied to shut down just yet. So Riley went to Craig’s room alone. Which, Martina thought, was how Riley and Craig had probably wanted it to work out.

At least someone isn’t alone.

Martina lay in her bed for nearly an hour, staring at the ceiling as the weapon fire and dialogue of what sounded like
Aliens
seeped through the partially closed dividing doors. Her mind was filled with memories—her family fleeing to the mountains; a trip with Ben to the aquarium in Monterey; tossing a football with her brother in the backyard; a cough from the back room of the cabin; her mother’s eyes, rheumy and unfocused; her father dead.

All of them dead.

She pushed herself angrily out of bed, pulled on her shoes, and grabbed her jacket. As she passed the adjoining doors, she peeked into the other room. Riley and Craig were propped up on the bed, riveted by the movie, their arms around each other.

Quietly, Martina opened the main door and slipped outside.

The cold air made her cheeks feel as if they were freezing in place. Each exhalation created a cloud of vapor three times the size of her head. But the cold didn’t bother her at the moment. It was nice actually, a distraction.

She wandered down the road toward the freeway entrance. There was a Chevron gas station just ahead, and to her right a small strip mall that consisted of a jewelry store, an antique shop, and a combination mini-market and liquor store.

She almost kept walking, but something in the half-lit liquor store window caught her attention. Framing the top and sides were strings of silver and red garland, and sprayed on the glass in a frosted white:

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Christmas had been a week ago, a day that had gone uncelebrated as the world began to die. In fact, it had been almost
exactly
a week ago, which meant today…

She checked her watch. It was fourteen minutes until midnight. There was still time.

She hurried across the street to the liquor store and pulled on the door, but it was locked.

“Crap!”

She looked around. Typical cement blocks marked the ends of the nearby parking stalls. The blocks were old, and a few were cracked and broken. She grabbed a loose chunk of cement and slammed it through the glass window.

She looked at her watch again. Eleven minutes. No time to waste.

She ducked through the opening and searched the store for the rack she wanted. It took a few minutes, but she finally found it. Two bottles would probably be enough, but she grabbed three just in case, and stuffed them into a bag she found behind the counter. In another aisle, she snatched up a bag of plastic cups and headed back outside.

It was exactly 11:59 when she threw open the door to her room and flipped on the lights.

“Hey, everyone!” she yelled. “In here.”

She set her bags on top of the dresser and started unloading the bottles.

“What’s going on?” Noreen asked, only half awake.

“Get up,” Martina told her without looking back. “We don’t have much time.”

Suddenly alert, Noreen said, “Is something happening? Do we need to leave?”

Martina ignored her and ripped open the plastic holding the cups.

“What’s with all the noise?” Riley asked, walking into the room holding hands with Craig.

“Over here,” Martina said.

She ripped the foil wrapper off the top of the bottle, removed the metal safety cap, and popped the cork.