The day after: An apocalyptic morning (82 page)

              The gunshot was shockingly loud in the echo chamber that the gym was. The bullet blasted out of the barrel and out across the open area where people were sitting. It passed within four inches of Stephanie Mills' head, close enough for her to see a streak of gray shooting past her eyes. It passed through Mike Carlton's juice glass, shattering it and spraying everyone around him with Tang. It then hit the wooden surface of the cafeteria table, peeling a four-inch section off, before ricocheting upward, passing six inches from Darlene Sampson's throat, and finally climbing high enough to miss everyone else. It buried itself in the far wall of the gym six tenths of a second after it was fired.

              "Motherfucker!" Jessica screamed just before Skip swung a right hook into her face. He felt the meaty thump of his knuckles shattering her nose and covering his hand with her warm blood. The blow stunned her just enough so that he was able to force her hand downward before her fingers could pull the trigger again. The gun exploded with noise once more but the bullet went harmlessly into the polished wooden surface of the floor.

              Skip reached for his gun again, acting completely on instinct, but before he could draw it Christine grabbed Jessica by the hair and pulled her head downward, slamming her onto the table right into her tray of eggs. Paula also acted, jumping onto her back and getting her hands around her neck, utilizing the chokehold that Skip had shown his students during their training. Now, without a shot, Skip's hand abandoned its quest for his gun and instead concentrated upon getting hers away from her. His left hand was still holding her wrist so his right hand joined it. While Christine and Paula kept her from getting up, he slammed her arm up and down against the edge of the serving table, twisting it back and forth. She managed to fire one more shot, which again went harmlessly into the floor, and then the gun finally fell from her hand. Skip gave it a sharp kick, sending it spinning across the floor.

              "Get her on the floor," Skip yelled as Paul, Maureen, and Mick all stepped up to help. "On her stomach!"

              They pulled her over the table kicking and screaming and onto the floor. There was a clatter as the food trays were pulled off the table as well. She thumped down hard enough to expel the contents of her lungs in a painful gasp. Paula, still trying to choke her out, went over the table with her and landed atop her. Skip, Christine, and the others all dropped to the floor as Jessica tried to kick and squirm her way free of them. She was trying to yell obscenities at them but didn't quite have the breath to do so.

              At Skip's direction they pinned her legs against the floor and forced her hands behind her back, twisting them painfully upward towards her shoulder blades. By now a large crowd was standing around them, watching in awe at the struggle.

              "Somebody get us some fucking rope!" Skip, fighting to keep her right arm in position, yelled.

              "I got it," Paul, who had not been involved in the fracas, shouted. He ran off towards the nearest door, heading for one of the supply rooms.

              Three minutes later it was done. While she continued to scream incoherent obscenities and threats, they tied her hands behind her back, cinching the rope tight enough to reduce the blood flow to her hands.

              "Let's get her in an empty room," Paul said, hooking his arm through hers and pulling her to her feet. She immediately began kicking at anyone who happened to be near.

              "Let me go!" she screamed. "Goddammit, let me go! He needs to die! Don't you see that? He needs to die!"

              Paul and Paula forcibly dragged her across the room, Christine walking in front of them. She opened the far door for them and they pulled her through it, still screaming that Skip had to die.

              Two hours later Paul found Skip in the park's maintenance shed. He was helping Steve Kensington remove the aluminum water tank from the grass fighting truck so that it could be used to transport fuel. The entire rig had been jacked up and placed on stands to allow enough clearance for the tank to be slid out once it was freed from its mountings. The going was fairly slow and Skip was serving very much in the apprentice role. Steve, who had been a pool cleaner before the comet, had also been quite adept at automotive mechanics and certainly knew his way around a toolbox better.

              "How's it going?" Paul asked, lighting a cigarette as he watched Steve dismantle the hose deck of the rig.

              "We're getting there," Skip said, dropping the wrench he had been using and walking over. "Hopefully we'll have it out in another hour or two and then we can start thinking about reinforcing it."

              "Do you think you will be ready to fly tomorrow?" Skip was planning on a mission to recover the maintenance supplies and a tank full of jet fuel from Cameron Park the next day.

              "More than likely as long as Steve doesn't fuck up that tank," he said.

              "Hey now," Steve said lightly. "Be nice."

              "I've also stripped the chopper of every unnecessary piece of equipment," Skip said. "I took out the litter, the medical supplies, even the cabinets that they were stored in. In all I lightened it up by about two hundred pounds and created a little more room. I got room for an extra passenger now or two hundred more pounds of cargo."

              "Are you gonna do a little recon while you're up there?" Paul wanted to know.

              "Maybe on the way out," he said. "I still have more than three hundred pounds of fuel on board. I thought maybe I'd take a swing down through Colfax and Auburn, just to see if anything's left there. Once I'm over the valley I can cut to the south and pick up Highway 50 as a navigation reference to Cameron Park. What other towns are along the 50 corridor? Any chance that they will be standing?"

              "There's Placerville," Paul said. "It was the biggest between Sacramento and South Lake Tahoe but I imagine its pretty much gone. It sat down in a gully, right where all of the water and mud would have drained. Keep an eye out for El Dorado Hills though. It was the first town in the foothills as Highway 50 climbed out of the valley. It was mostly an upper middle class suburb, a little bigger than this town. Portions of it might still be standing."

              "Sounds like a plan," Skip said, wondering just what he would do if he found people in those towns. Would he try to make contact? Would he just note their presence and then fly on?

              "I just finished up my little talk with Jessica," Paul said, changing the subject. It had been decided shortly after the attempt on Skip's life that Paul should be the one to question her despite Skip's greater experience at criminal interrogation. It didn't seem exactly kosher for the victim of the crime to be the one performing the investigation.

              "Did you?" he asked. "And what did she have to say for herself?"

              Paul shook his head a little. "It's something that really has to be seen to be believed," he said, lowering his voice to keep Steve from hearing. "I videotaped the conversation like you suggested. If need be I'll play it at the community meeting tonight."

              "Did she confess to trying to kill me?" he asked. "Or did she try to say it was some sort of misunderstanding?"

              "She confessed," he said. "She told me quite plainly that she had planned to kill you in front of the townspeople to keep you from corrupting them even further. She's really gone around the bend, Skip. She actually believes that she was trying to do this town a favor. She's not just justifying her actions like she normally does, she really believes that. She thought that she would kill you and then address the town and convince them to go back to following her as their leader."

              "Just like that huh?" he asked.

              "Just like that," he said. "I think that removing her from the committee and facing her down in front of the town made something snap inside of her. Do you remember that discussion we had a long time ago about what she would do if her sense of worth was threatened?"

              "Yes," Skip said. "It would seem you were right."

              "It would seem so. When we took away the image of superiority she was fomenting and put her down on the same level with everyone else, she just couldn't take it. She had a breakdown."

              Skip frowned a little. "Whether she's psycho or not, whether its her fault or not, she tried to kill me. What are we going to do about that? We seem to be a little short on mental health treatment centers these days."

              "I'm going to recommend exile to the town at the meeting tonight," Paul said. "We certainly can't have her walking among us anymore and I can't see us keeping her locked in a storage room for the rest of her life, wasting food and manpower feeding and guarding her. Whatever her mental issues, she made a choice this morning and she's going to have to live with the consequences."

              It was a drastic solution, exile. Skip knew that better than just about anyone else. Despite the understandably harsh feelings he had for Jessica, he had strong misgivings about just sending her out there. How much chance did Jessica have out in the wilderness? As he had said when the exile solution was suggested for Stacy and then himself, it was little more than a death sentence that allowed those passing judgment to pretend there was no blood on their hands. Unfortunately, like Paul, Skip really didn't see any other solution to the problem. "Can we at least give her some food when we send her out?" he asked.

              Paul, who had had many of the same feelings, nodded slowly. "I think we could probably do that."

              The mood at dinner that night was somewhat somber, the weight of the decision to be made sitting heavily on nearly everyone. By then the rumor mill had already carried to every ear the proposed punishment as well as Jessica's intended defense for her actions. Appetites were down. Though an unofficial rule against leaving any food on your plate had been in effect for some time now and though this rule was usually followed religiously, quite a few plates came back only half-empty on this night.

              It was Paul who called the meeting to order at 6:00 PM. He flipped on his microphone and announced that the community meeting was in progress.

              "It is my wish that we did not have to conduct this meeting tonight," he said, "because the subject of it is the expellation of one of our citizens. Unfortunately this is something that we must address and that we must address immediately. Now I'm sure that all of you know what I'm talking about here. Most of you were here this morning and of those of you that were not, I'm sure you've heard about it. But let me make it official for you just for the sake of the proceedings we are about to undertake. Jessica Blakely will stand accused of the attempted murder of Skip Adams this morning at breakfast. Now this is not America anymore and we don't have a court system or a public defender or a jail. All we have to decide the Micker with is this community meeting. All Jessica has to defend herself are her own words. And all we have for punishment for a crime of this magnitude is exile. I want you all to keep those things in mind as we go through this process and to think very carefully about your decision before you make it. Does everyone understand?"

              There was a loud babble of voices as everyone said, in different words, that they understood.

              "Very well," Paul said. "Then let us begin. Please bring out the accused."

              Jessica, her hands still tied behind her back, her face calm and determined, was led through a side door by Frank Bender and Barbara Stovington, two of the newest members of the guard detail. A murmur swept through the crowd as they marched her across the room and to a chair next to the podium. She sat down in the chair without being told and faced the townspeople, her eyes trying to make contact with everyone.

              "Jessica Blakely," Paul said formally. "You stand accused of the attempted murder of Skip Adams with a firearm. This meeting will be to decide your fate. I will present the evidence against you to the town and then you will have an opportunity to answer the accusations made against you. We will then vote on your innocence or guilt. If you are found guilty, we will then vote on your punishment. I have decided that two-thirds majority must prevail in both votes. Do you understand all of this?"

              "I understand," she said clearly, her face forming into a quivering smile. She looked very confident in herself.

              "Very well," Paul said. "Let us begin."

              It didn't take very long. Undoubtedly if this had been civilization, the trial would have gone on for months, but in Garden Hill in the post-comet area, justice moved swiftly. Skip came up and told the story about how she had pulled a gun on him and how he, with the help of others, had managed to wrestle it away. Paul then played the videotape of her interrogation, plugging it into a power cord that was tied into a DC converter on the fire engine outside. The crowd watched open mouthed as her taped image told Paul, in a calm, cool, collected tone, that she had planned to kill Skip because she saw him as a threat to the community. She told about practicing drawing the gun from her pants and bringing it to bear on him. She expressed frustration that her carefully conducted plan had not worked out.