Search and Destroy (2 page)

“You get anything good?” he asked.

She grinned at him and waved her notebook. “I got some great material, I can’t wait to write it up. A lot of urban-legend stuff, but that’s part of the appeal. I’m working the ‘what people are
willing
to believe’ angle. They were a friendly bunch. Most of their information is unusable—‘a friend of a friend saw something in the sky’ stuff. Nothing I can substantiate, just colour.” She pulled out her phone. “Damn. No reception.”

“Twitter addict. Guess your army of followers will have to survive without constant updates.”

Andrea punched him on the arm. “Right, like you’re any better? Your photo essays on the changing face of breakfast hardly set the Internet alight.”

Bruce flapped his arms placatingly. “Okay, children, let’s just agree that you’re both the cream of the Twitterati. Now. Where next? Back to Vegas?”

Andrea grinned and tossed her useless phone on the Jeep’s back seat. “I got a tip from one of the older sky-watchers. According to ‘Darrell from Seattle, aged forty-six’, the Power-lines Overlook is nearby. It’s high up; you can see right into Area 51.” She turned to Bruce. “It’s up a pretty steep hill, rough terrain. Think the Jeep can handle it?”

Bruce puffed out his chest. “Point the way.”

The vehicle didn’t disappoint them, but the going was slow as darkness fell. The pitted track up the hill made the Jeep rock violently. Andrea clutched her laptop close.

The overlook was formed of a natural plateau some thirty feet in circumference on the summit of a wide peak. Rows of power lines stretched into the distance, each connecting pylon weathered to a dull grey. The ground was rock strewn and hard underfoot. Surrounding Joshua trees cast eerie shadows as the Jeep’s headlamps illuminated their spiny boughs, pointing toward the sprawling Air Force base at Groom Lake—Area 51. Stepping from the Jeep, Greg stared at the lights below, and wondered how many of the tales were true. Did the highly classified area really hold crashed UFOs, the Spear of Destiny, or the Ark of the Covenant? He wasn’t convinced, but they were still great stories.

He watched as Andrea walked to the edge of the plateau, her laptop bag swinging at her side. He held Bruce back, sensing that she would want a moment to herself. The constellations were bright above their heads, much brighter than back home in London. But he wasn’t really one for stargazing. He pulled his iPod from his pocket. This view needed some accompaniment.

“Would you look at that,” said Bruce.

“Yeah, it’s really something.” Greg didn’t raise his eyes from the player.

Bruce swatted the iPod. “Would you put that away! We’re supposed to be enjoying our quality time together and you’d rather listen to Miley friggin’ Cyrus.”

The player slipped from Greg’s hands. “Hey, you’ll break it!” He bent over to pick it up. “And it’s Beyoncé, if you must know…” He glanced up at his partner.

Bruce was looking at the centre of his shirt, his hands held in angry claws. The look on his face was something Greg had never seen before, a mixture of agony and shock. Like one of those weird Japanese Kabuki masks.

What was his problem? Greg opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. A dark crimson butterfly was spreading across his shirt. “Bruce?”

Bruce took one step forward, then collapsed face down.

“Bruce?” Greg’s voice jumped an octave.

Greg fell back against the side of the Jeep, his head whipping round desperately towards Andrea. She was staring out over the valley below, her back to him, hands on hips.

He tried to shout her name.

Danny Gunn opened one eye. The view was much the same as when he’d fallen asleep; dark hills and a straight highway that stretched into the distance. He glanced at his watch. He’d only been asleep for twenty minutes. He stretched his shoulder, which emitted an audible pop, and sat up fully in the passenger seat. The windscreen of the Winnebago was huge, and the dashboard console below had more dials and digital displays than most aircraft.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”

“I haven’t heard that in a long time.” Danny grinned over at his older brother, who was driving. “I would kill for some real eggs and bakey, though.”

“I’ll pull over in a couple of minutes. There’s an abandoned casino up ahead. We can stop there for the night.”

“Abandoned casino?”

“Yeah, it looks kinda spooky but there’s plenty of parking space.”

“Is there a diner nearby?”

“No, but I’ve got a month’s worth of food in the back. You’ll just have to put up with my cooking tonight. I’ve got enough steak and eggs to feed a football team.”

“Sounds good to me.”

A few minutes later, Clay Gunn steered the large Winnebago off the main highway and allowed it to roll to a gentle stop. Danny peered out. The jagged silhouettes formed by the buildings appeared somehow medieval in the failing light.

“Is that the casino?”

“Yeah. It’s been empty as long as I can remember.”

Danny shook his head. He’d never heard of a gambling joint going out of business before.

Clay leaned forward on the steering wheel. “I guess it couldn’t compete, with Vegas just an hour away.”

“Suppose.” Danny opened the passenger door and stepped down. “Nature calls.”

“Don’t be pissin’ on my wheels, y’hear?”

Danny thumbed his nose in mock annoyance and headed towards the derelict building. He recalled something his drill sergeant used to say: “If you want to find a man or a dog just look for the nearest tree and they’ll be pissing on it.” And, sure enough, his feet gravitated towards the wall. When nature had run its course, he scooped up a handful of rough sand and rubbed his palms together; an old trick he’d learned in his army days when water was in short supply. He smiled and clapped his hands to disperse the dust. There was a top-of-the-range RV a few metres away that offered better amenities than his house back in England, yet here he was pissing in the sand. Old habits died hard.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the evening. Almost no noise, save for the soft
tink-tink-tink
of the RV’s massive engine as it cooled. It provided a welcome change from gunfire. He pushed the thought from his mind. This was time to relax, no muss, no fuss. Some quality rest and relaxation with his older brother. He smiled as he caught the smell of fried potatoes on the night air, and returned to the Winnebago to look for them.

Clay was already busy in the kitchen area as Danny entered. He looked oddly at home surrounded by the beech panelling and the brass swan-shaped cupboard handles. A single photograph was fixed to the side of one of the cupboards: a woman, caught mid-turn. Her smile was spontaneous and her brown eyes crinkled at the edges with undisguised mischief. Danny watched as Clay paused, eyes on the picture. He touched a finger to her nose as he often did when reminiscing, a delicate gesture for a man topping six foot.

A Jace Everett CD was playing but not at the ear-wrecking decibel level that Danny usually had to endure. He didn’t mind country music but enjoyed a variety of styles, unlike his brother. At least Jace was modern country with a rock-guitar twang to it.

“Need a hand with anything?”

“Nah, I’ve got it covered,” replied Clay brandishing a spatula coated with some dark and sticky sauce. Danny knew better than to question his culinary skills. “Wanna beer?”

“Sounds good.”

Clay pointed to the curved refrigerator door. Danny pulled it open and lifted out two chilled Coronas. A sheen of condensation coated the glass. “Got any lime?”

Clay clicked his tongue.

“I guess we can rough it.”

“Yeah, they made you tough in the British Army, all right,” laughed Clay.

“Hey, I once went two weeks without toilet paper.” Danny winked and took a long pull on the beer.

“Did you get a Scouts badge for that?”

“What, the chapped-arse merit badge? No, I never did.”

“Harsh.”

“Indeed…”

Ten minutes later Danny accepted a plateful of steaming food. Both men moved to the dining area at the rear of the RV and chewed through two of the best rib-eye steaks money could buy. With thick-sliced potatoes and fried eggs on the side, the meal was simple but perfectly cooked.

“You could make a fortune selling these,” said Danny between bites. He wiped Budweiser barbecue sauce from his chin. He saw Clay’s eyes flick to the photograph. His voice dropped.

“I hardly cooked anything while Diana was alive.”

Danny smiled in sympathy. “I don’t think she married you on the promise of your short-order cooking skills.”

“I guess not.”

Danny raised his beer. “To fallen friends and lost loved ones.”

“Ay-men to that.”

The brothers lapsed into an easy silence as another track began. The country guitar twanged a sorrowful melody.

“Got any Duran Duran?”

Clay scowled. “I’d rather stick cactus spines in my ears than listen to that noise.”

Danny started to sing. “Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand…”

“Please stop.”

“Just like that river twisting through that dusty land…”

“I can see I’m going to have to put a bullet in you to shut you up.”

Danny paused. “You can’t shoot for shit. I’m surprised the Rangers ever let you near a rifle.”

Clay narrowed his eyes, sighting along two fingers. “At this range even I couldn’t miss.”

“Ah, you Yanks are all the same; spray and pray. You couldn’t hit a bull’s arse with a blunderbuss.” Danny knew the mock insult of calling a Texan a Yankee would do the trick of lightening Clay’s sombre mood.

“And you Brits are so stiff-assed that you don’t need a gun. Just shove a round up there and let one off.”

Both brothers grinned. It was a routine that never seemed to get old. They clinked their bottles together in mutual respect.

Danny turned in his seat, favouring his right hip. The web of recent scar tissue on his left side was still tender.

Andrea stood at the edge of the outlook, taking in the view. The evening air smelled and tasted so different from the city air back in London. So clear, fresh and somehow raw. And it was so quiet. No blaring taxi horns or wailing sirens. She hugged herself against the evening chill, enjoying the moment. It was good to see Greg happy. He and Bruce were the real deal.

A noise—a strange, unfamiliar sound she couldn’t identify—made her turn towards the Jeep. The towering pylons stood sentient; their only contribution to the night was a low and constant hum. The twin beams of the Jeep’s headlights cut into the twilight, the glare ruining her already meagre night vision. Her brother was huddled over something, something dark and still. His mouth was working like a fish out of water. His eyes met hers.

A low metallic
whoomph
sounded through the evening air. The middle three fingers on Greg’s right hand detached themselves in a spray of crimson. His arm jerked, folding at an unnatural angle behind his shoulder. As the ruined limb flopped back into view, Greg screeched—an unearthly howl.

“Greg!” Her brother staggered towards her, clutching what remained of his hand. Streaks of crimson had transformed his freckled face into a terrifying visage. His eyes stood out in stark terror, bright dots amidst so much blood. An old photo taken in Iraq flashed into Andrea’s mind; a grief-stricken mother looking up from her dismembered child, her eyes and hands imploring assistance. She was horrified to recognise that same expression on Greg’s face.

Fighting her own shock, she ran towards her brother, her laptop satchel slapping painfully against her hip. Jesus Christ, his fingers were gone! “Greg, what’s happened? Where’s Bruce?”

Two savage impacts caught Greg in his right side. A sound like the slap of wet washing against a rock and Greg’s jaw all but detached itself from his skull. Then a chunk of muscle and a thin line of blood erupted from just above his heart. He tumbled sideways.

Andrea fell on top of her brother’s body, repeating his name over and over. She looked around frantically. “Bruce!” Then louder, “Bruce, help us!” Her screams went unanswered, echoing in the barren landscape.

Greg had been shot. The ragged fist-sized hole in his chest left little doubt. She gagged, ashamed at her reaction as the contents of Greg’s bowels escaped. A fierce trembling began in her hands as if a live current were passing through them. She tried to stand but her legs folded weakly beneath her.

Who did this?

Then a strange but familiar sound cut into the night.

Cssssht
.

“Help me…” The words were like shards of broken glass in her throat.

Cssssht
.

Andrea crawled on all fours towards the Jeep. Her hands were slick with Greg’s blood. As she grabbed the door to pull herself upright, both of the Jeep’s halogen headlights exploded in turn. Andrea screamed.

She hesitated, her mind momentarily frozen by indecision as a shadow detached itself from the base of one of the nearby trees. Andrea squinted, her eyes struggling to adapt to the sudden blackout. The figure was a mottled grey with a misshapen head. It moved towards the Jeep, hunched forward, in a short scuttling walk. As it drew closer she saw huge black eyes staring down at her, unblinking, alien.

A staccato voice whispered.

“’Fermative. Got eyes on her.”

Andrea scuttled backwards, crablike, as survival instincts began to nip at the nerves in her cerebrum. Run! Run! RUN!

Her legs pumped into action, spitting up loose gravel and shale as she threw herself bodily in the opposite direction.

A rattle of automatic gunfire sent up a cloud of sand and stones as the rounds impacted around her feet. Then a horrendous pain seared up her left thigh. Andrea screamed, but kept running full tilt. Her laptop case bounced awkwardly as she sprinted, slapping against her back and rebounding high into the air.

A second figure burst into view twenty yards to her left. He had some kind of short-barrelled machine gun carried at waist level. As Andrea veered away from him, she reached the edge of the overlook. She had two options: give up and suffer whatever fate the attackers had planned for her, or risk breaking her neck by going over the edge. An unseen rock decided for her as her ankle slammed into the unyielding obstacle. There was a moment of terror. Then she fell into darkness.