I Am Not Junco Omnibus: Books Four - Six (12 page)

But of course I did go home. Because if I had stayed with John Hando none of this would ever have happened.

I'd be his wife instead of that woman in the picture he showed me. Those babies might be mine. Those golden little babies with wispy brown hair and large dark eyes.

If I had stayed, I might be that girl, and not this one.

It stuns me a little, to know that I have such deep regrets at this young age.

I made a mistake that weekend.

I made a mistake and even if I get my satisfactory end, I'm not sure I'll ever stop regretting walking away from John Hando with nothing more between us than kissing at the top of the world.

I leave the Hando Compound in the eternal darkness of the belly before any of his little sisters can wake up and cry and beg me to stay. It was so hard to see them again knowing I have to leave. Even Vincent looked sad last night when I told them my story, and unlike Cora's version, I did give the details. They deserved the details. They were my only family that senior year of school.

Hand's mom, Gerta, clutched her smaller children to her bosom and tsked her tongue over and over again when I got to the part about Inanna and Gideon. She covered their tiny ears when I described my second stint in the tank. She's a baby machine, that woman. Hand is the fifth child of fifteen and there was a trio of younger siblings clamoring around my legs that I'd never even met before.

The canvas jacket Mia gave me is soft and comfortable and smells like them. A nice reminder to take with me into the world of death that I live in.

Vincent gives me the best grav bike they have even though I tell him I won't need it. He insists, then admits it's hot so why not let me dispose of it? I just laugh as he stocks the storage compartment with food, water, ammo and a loaded TZi with an extra magazine.

Hand mounts his own bike and escorts me to the edge of the belly where we stop on the side of the road that leads north, towards the former RR. He grounds his bike and removes his helmet, then sets it down on the seat and walks over to me. I flip my visor up and force myself to smile and meet his dark eyes. I can feel the sadness building up in my throat and it starts to ache. I push it down but it makes its way out of my eyes as light. If this bothers Hand he never shows it. "Thank you," I whisper.

He pulls me to his chest. "Be careful, OK? And if you need anything, just get in touch." I nod and he pulls back. "I don't believe what Cora said, Junco."

I love him for that. "It's not true, John."

He chuckles at my use of his given name. His father is Hando to most people, after the surname, but even though there are three boys who came before John, none of them were nicknamed Hand. It's like they saved it up for him, the only one interested in carrying on the real family business.

"I know it's not true, Junco. I didn't need to hear you say it. You do what you have to and forget the rest."

I nod. "Yeah, OK. When I'm done with all this I'll come back and stay for a while. Meet your new family and shit."

His eyes are suddenly glassy and sad. We both know that will never happen, but whether he simply feels it to be true, or he knows it for certain, I can't tell. He gives my arm a little squeeze and then walks back to his bike and I get on mine. I pull out and lean down on the gas tank to head north, then catch him watching me disappear when I look over my shoulder one last time.

Chapter Twelve

Texas is huge. Everything's bigger in Texas, that's how the old saying goes, but what they really mean is if you're ever crossing Texas, plan for it to take twice as long as you expected.

I travel the open country using small roads that cut across diagonally and then lead up to a major highway that will take me into Peaks. After seven hours of straight riding I stop and take a room near the border of the Desert Republic using an identity I stole from a self-serve gas station back in Amarillo. In the RR, the second week of September typically has the hint of fall on the wind, but the DR area has none of that cool breeze going for it. It feels just as hot up here in the high desert red rocks as it did down in Dallas.

The DR doesn't even have a border guard up this way, so the next day I pass in and out of their little corner of the world without incident and when I make my way up to Trinidad I pull off at the lake, towards the busiest part of beach, and make myself at home while I wait it out.

The radiation didn't blow this way much, thanks to the southern wind, and the lake is alive with workers who have made Trinidad home base for the clean-up efforts. I lounge on a picnic table and eat the food Vincent packed for me. It's hard to believe I was there with them just yesterday.

The boisterous fun of the day turns into night-time drinking by ten o'clock and pretty soon there's all kinds of men milling around my bike trying to get my attention. Sometimes it's just not fair. Not only that I'm such an efficient killer, but that men can be led around so easily with blonde hair and tits.

I accept the first proposal and get in his work truck with the Republic of Texas logo on it, then hold down my revulsion as he grabs for my hand which makes the vehicle swerve a little because he's a bit on the drunk side. He can barely slip his card in the reader at the hotel but after several failed attempts and few impatient huffs of air from me, he finally ushers me into his rented abode.

I almost throw up from the smell.

I crack him in the head with the butt of my TZi and he goes down before he even has a chance to get his hand up my shirt. I snatch his truck codes, steal his jacket and helmet and walk back out to the parking lot.

From here it's easy. They don't even stop me when I roll through the border check north of Trinidad and I cut off on a little-known dirt road that takes me east, then north again, in and out again through Council 4, until I'm facing the barren land that used to be my home.

Finding the exact area that used to be our family fishing cabin is not easy, but luckily the depression that was once a lake is still there, as is a faint dirt path that used to only accommodate horses and grav bikes. Since all the trees have been burned down, my stolen truck traverses the path with ease. I stop at the end of the road, grab a shovel and a pick from the truck bed, and head on up to where the cabin would be if my dad hadn't nuked the place to the ground. My vision screen scans the area, gives an all-clear as far as radiation goes, then picks up the dense block of lead-lined concrete which shows up several feet down.

I swing the pick until the ground is loose and then shovel the dirt out and repeat the process until I hear the clang of metal on concrete. I drop to my knees and spread the dirt away from the hatch.

It's intact.

A sneaky satisfied grin develops and I continue shoveling until the doorway is clear and the mechanism is accessible.

The combination is not digital. That would never work for a nuclear attack since the electromagnetic pulse would shut it down immediately and I'd never be able to get back in. It's just a plain old alphanumeric flip dial that you can buy in just about any hardware store. It's not there for security, just the illusion of one. If you get inside and think you're gonna steal the most precious thing I'm keeping in here without the codes—well, to put it bluntly, you're out of your fucking mind.

Pretty much all my access codes are based off one name—Gideon. Because he's the whole reason I stocked this cellar in the first place. I dial the letters and listen carefully as things inside click and change positions.

On the last letter I hear a hiss as the air inside escapes.

I pull the hatch and let it flop over. Fresh air rushes in to trade places with the foul-smelling shit coming out and I sit back on my butt and laugh.

Welcome to
after-the-shit-hits-the-fan
, Junco.

This whole thing started long before my dad ever went missing. Back when I was about eleven. He took me up here, showed me the hatch in the back of the cabin, and told me what it was for.

Not nuclear war, he said. Although it could withstand that and more.

I remember his words exactly. "It's a place for you to hide, Junco. When the whole world is looking for you. So stock it up when you have a chance and never tell anyone. Not even Gid, not even HOUSE. No one." And when we left he made me change the combination and then turned and said, "Never talk to me about this again. Ever."

At the time I thought it was because of Matthew or Dale or someone involved with the camp who didn't know he'd helped me cheat. But now I know why I wasn't allowed to talk to him about it ever again. Because he knew they'd exchange him someday. He knew. And he made sure I had one last power to get me through before he left. It chokes me up a little, really. The way he took care of me in secret for all those years.

I miss him. And I don't care what his part is in all this, I love him.

There was already food and water in there back when he brought me here, just like we had in the regular pantry under the cabin, so that's not what he meant when he said stock it up. It took me a while to figure that out, I mean, I was only eleven. But when things started getting weird that summer before senior year, I knew it was time.

And then HOUSE sent me that message from James about the first job. That's how it all started. With James. And then the jobs with the Hando family business, and then Gideon resurfaced after months of being missing. He was injured, I was told that, but I never did get to see him.

But James was always there, like a gift. Helping me get ready. Pointing me to friendlies who could get me things. Pointing me down to Dallas to meet the Hando Family.

The Hando Family were part-time pawn-shop owners in the underbelly, full-time hit men for topside big shots. And they were more than happy to pay me in Republic cash, weapons, armor, and ammo for each kill I completed that year.

And then Gideon came home again and this time I did get to see him, only this time he wasn't just injured. He was dying.

I lean down on my belly and sniff the air. It's still foul but not as bad as it was. I swing my feet down and feel for the rungs, then climb until they hit the bottom about a hundred feet below.

It's quiet, not even a drip. When sealed properly this place is completely waterproof. Of course, it’s also airtight, so, you know… tradeoffs.

I take a deep breath and don't get dizzy so that's a good sign. I'll have to leave the hatch open though, unless I want to start the air filters. But I don't. We won't be here long enough. I walk over to the electrical panel and switch on the small emergency lights, then head straight to the weapons and key in the code. It chirps an acceptance. There are only two things in this place that are locked up. This little black box and the door that leads to the room on the other side of the cinderblock wall.

The contents of the black box clank around as I pull it out of the stash and open it up. My smile escapes and a wave of relief washes over my entire body. I don't take them out, I don't need to take them out or make sure they work. I know they do. I just snap the lid closed and stuff them in a pack. I load that up with two more TZi's, eight empty mags, a dozen boxes of ammo, and some throwing knives. A girl should never go anywhere without a throwing knife.

There is only one more thing to do and it's risky. I could kill her for good if I fuck it up, but if I don't try she's as good as dead anyway. So screw it.

The backup drive that holds HOUSE's memory is a massive room in the back filled with hundreds of battery tanks. They will run her for approximately fifteen minutes once she's brought back online and cannot get back to the house where her systems draw the required energy for her survival from the nuclear reactor deep below the ground.

But I am a receptacle. I've already housed one AI for months at a time so this should not be a problem. Except that I have no idea what I was doing, Sera did it all. And HOUSE is very naive compared to Sera. She's like a little kid in terms of maturity. My little sister, that's who she is.

My heart starts to flutter with anxiety and I don't even bother locking it down. What for? Those days are over, why should I have to control my excitement and anxiety? This is a big fucking deal, so for fuck's sake I'm gonna let my heart beat wildly for a change.

I open the control panel on the battery bank and press the start button. The starter whines and I keep my finger pressed down until the generator kicks on. When it stops sputtering and the cloud of smoke seems like it's thinning out, I walk over to the backup panels and wait for it to come to life. I check the time on my vision screen and swallow.