WINDWALKER (THE PROPHECY SERIES) (18 page)

They rode past a grove of trees where she and Niyol had once stopped for water, and it made her ache all over again for the sight of his face – for the sound of his voice.

She was still thinking of Niyol when she became conscious of two things. Her grandfather’s arms were suddenly tightening around her waist, and she could hear a woman’s scream. She hit the brakes as she put the bike in a one-eighty turn. She was off the bike and running with the bow and arrows before her grandfather could dismount.

Layla had seen the cougar come out from behind rocky ledge even before she’d dismounted. By the time she was armed and running, it was in a full-out dash toward a half-grown boy who’d stopped to shake the sand out of his shoe. He saw the cougar too late to get away.

Men closest to the boy were reacting, as well. One was already pulling his knife as he ran, but they would be too late.

Layla let the arrow fly just as the cat was leaping. In those few brief seconds, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

She saw the cat in mid-air.

The arrow slicing through blood and muscle.

The cat’s scream, only an octave higher than the child’s mother.

Then it dropped.

Shot through the heart; dead before it hit the ground.

The silence that came afterward was broken by the mother’s sobs as she gathered the boy into her arms.

Layla’s heart was pounding as she scanned the area, wondering what would cause an animal naturally reluctant to be around humans, to attack them in such number. Then she saw another cougar lying dead a short distance away, and one more unable to walk without staggering. Whether it was the heat or something poisonous they’d ingested trying to find water, it was obvious the animal population was as desperate as the humans.

She jogged over to the boy. His face was ashen, his eyes burned red from the wind and heat. His skin was dotted with raising blisters and he was still shaking from the shock.

“Are you okay?” Layla asked.

He nodded as he buried his face against his mother’s breast.

“Thank you, Layla Birdsong, thank you,” the woman said.

Layla touched the child lightly, admonishing him as she might have a student – with a gentle voice, but a stern message.

“Stay closer to your family, okay?”

He nodded.

The People gathered around her, murmuring their gratitude, looking at her with awe. Somehow, the Windwalker had turned her into a superwoman. Even though she was still riding, she had strength and speed that the others did not.

“I said that I would protect you. Have faith that we can do this together,” she said, then waved down the line, signaling they were ready to move.

****

Originally, it was Beamer Paulson’s idea to go find the Indians to keep from dying. He got the notion after his sixth beer at the Roadrunner Bar in Farmington, New Mexico.

The men who frequented the bar were mostly loners. No family ties. No responsibilities; the kind of men who often picked up and moved from one place to another with little more than the clothes on their backs.

They considered themselves tough and didn’t think much about crossing into the Navajo reservation. It wasn’t far from Farmington to the Northern-most corner of Arizona, and they weren’t ready to go toes up to the meteor without a fight.

Two of the men in the bar were too drunk to notice what was going on, but once Beamer voiced the idea, it didn’t take long for the notion to spread.

Sometime before midnight, the bartender and fourteen others walked out with several cases of beer and a drunken plan to escape. With no way to pump new gas, they siphoned off the gas from the other cars in the parking lot, divided it equally between the three newest pickup trucks, and started driving due West.

Even at night, riding in the back of the truck beds and with beer to drink, the heat was oppressing. Every time they opened their mouths to take another swig, it felt as if the wind was sucking oxygen from their lungs. Within an hour they’d crossed the Arizona border, straight onto reservation land.

Their bravado was fueled by the beer, but the lack of real roads and rough landscape began to take the starch out of their half-assed plan. It quickly dawned on the drivers that they didn’t know where to go. The reservation was huge. The Indians could be anywhere. They stopped the trucks, had a little meeting and a lot more beer, and decided to sit it out until morning so they could see where they were going.

Most of them were sound asleep or passed out when a man named Darryl got out of the truck to take a crap. He got the job over with, but passed out behind some brush and never made it back to the truck. He was still there when it got light enough to see, and no one knew he was missing. They drove off without him.

One down, fourteen to go.

Once the vehicles started moving, the motion of the vehicles only added to the misery of their hangovers. Men were hanging over the sides of the truck beds throwing up, and just when they thought it was over, another surge would boil up their throat and they’d throw up again.

One man leaned too far out of the pickup bed and fell out on his head, splattering brain matter and blood on the scorching ground, but no one told the driver to stop. There was no need.

Two down, thirteen to go.

When the first truck ran out of gas, they stopped and re-distributed their load between two trucks instead of three.

The elation of the trip had disappeared with the beer. With no shade, no water, and still no direction in which to go, their brains were cooking on high heat.

When the second truck ran out of gas, the other truck kept rolling. There was no room for six more passengers. It had become an ‘every man for himself ride’.

Eight down, seven to go.

It was the driver who first noticed the giant dust trail due southwest from their location.

“Hey ya’ll look at the size of that dust cloud! That’s got to be them Indians on the move. Hang on.”

He turned the wheel sharply to the left, and as he did, the bartender, who was standing up in the back of the truck bed taking a piss fell out.

He was holding onto his dick when he fell and had not braced for the fall. He went face first into the rocky ground and died from a broken neck.

Nine down, six to go.

The fireball rolled closer as the sun moved higher, and just when they thought things couldn’t get worse, they ran out of gas, stranding the men who were left. Now they were lost
and
afoot without water or food.

The group was silent as they struck out, keeping an eye on the dust cloud. Within a few minutes, the heat and the hangovers began to take a toll.

Roscoe Aldridge watched his drinking buddy stagger, then grab his chest and fall to his knees. Roscoe stopped to help him up, but Fred was beyond help. His face was turning purple and when his eyes rolled back in his head, just like that, old Fred was gone.

Roscoe jumped back, his eyes wide with shock. They’d started out fifteen in number and had been dropping like flies ever since the sun came up. He was scared. He didn’t want to die.

The others never slowed down or looked back. Roscoe took Fred’s pistol, stuffed it in the waistband of his pants and ran to catch up, wiping snot and tears from his face.

Ten down, five to go.

The fireball was like the bad relative who wouldn’t leave. Their skin was on fire. Blisters were popping and breaking on their arms, and without sunglasses, they were slowly going blind from the glare.

A man named Stan stumbled over an uneven patch of ground and reached out toward a rocky ledge to keep from falling.

The rattlesnake lying in the shade on that ledge was barely moving, but not so close to death that its instincts were gone. It struck Stan’s arm just above the wrist, sinking fangs so deep it was still hanging on when Stan began to flail.

“Oh Jesus! Oh no! Somebody help me!” he screamed.

He finally managed to yank the snake from his wrist and beat it to a bloody pulp against the rocks.

His hands were shaking as he dropped to his knees, pulled out his knife and quickly slashed the puncture marks where the fangs had gone in. He began sucking blood and spitting it as fast as he could, hoping he could suck out enough poison to stay alive.

The men stared for a few moments.

Roscoe even empathized. He’d just lost old Fred, but this man was a goner too, and there was nothing to be done. He shook his head in commiseration.

“That’s damn hard luck, Stan.”

He aimed for the dust cloud and kept moving.

The others followed, unwilling to watch what would be a slow, painful death, walking faster than they wanted to, just so they wouldn’t have to hear Stan’s cries for help as he fell farther and farther behind.

Eleven down, four to go.

There was a long line of mountains between them and the dust cloud, and no way to judge the distance between. The canyon ahead gave them a hope of shade and water and they kept moving toward it.

Beamer Paulson was a relative newcomer to Farmington, and was cursing himself for ever opening his mouth about going to look for Indians, but it was far too late for regrets. He focused on the dust in the sky, and kept putting one foot in front of the other.

Chuy Garza had been born and raised in Guadalajara, and wished to God and the Holy Mother that he’d gone home to Mexico die, instead being here in the fucking desert with a bunch of men that he barely knew.

The man beside him was struggling. He didn’t even know his name and felt guilty that he wanted the bastard to hurry up and die so he wouldn’t have to listen to him cry anymore.

Suddenly, the man stopped.

The other three paused and looked back. The man was just standing there with his shoulders slumped, staring blankly at the ground.

“Hey, Walter,” Roscoe yelled. “Aren’t you coming?”

Chuy watched the man’s face for a sign that he’d even heard, but there was nothing. At least now he knew his name.

Roscoe waved toward the Mesa. “Come on, Walter. You can do it. There’ll be some shade and maybe some water up in that canyon.”

“If there is a canyon,” Beamer muttered.

Roscoe glared. “Shut the fuck up, Beamer.”

Beamer started walking and Chuy followed.

Unwilling to be left behind, Roscoe struggled to catch up. The last time he looked back, Walter was still standing there staring at the ground. He swallowed past the knot in his throat and kept on moving.

Twelve down, three to go.

It was Chuy who led them straight into the canyon, but their elation swiftly died when they realized the riverbed was dry.

Beamer cursed.

Chuy thought about it, but didn’t waste his breath.

Roscoe had a different outlook on their situation. He pointed at the dust cloud.

“I’m thinking we just got lucky. From the looks of that dust, I think they’re in this canyon and coming toward us. All we gotta do is keep moving. They’re bound to have food and water.”

“What if they don’t want to share,” Beamer asked.

Chuy pulled a knife out of his boot. “I always carry a little persuasion.”

Roscoe had the gun, but he wasn’t talking.

Beamer wouldn’t let it go. “From the looks of that dust, there’s got to be hundreds, maybe thousands of them. We can’t force them to do anything.”

“If they won’t give us water and won’t let us go with them, then either way, we’ll die,” Chuy said. “I’m thinking to take some with me when I go.”

****

The drums were so loud now that when Layla’s bike began sputtering, she almost didn’t hear it die in time to keep it from falling over. She dropped the kickstand and quickly dismounted before helping her grandfather off.

She was trying not to panic, but she didn’t understand. Everything the Windwalker left with her had been in endless supply. She squatted down to check to see if a wire had come loose, but saw nothing that would explain it. What she did see though made her belly roll.

The ground was cracking from the heat. She could see cracks a good two inches wide beneath the bike, spreading out across the canyon floor like a giant spider’s web. Within moments, she heard more engines sputtering, and looked back. Whatever was going on had nothing to do with fuel.

Firewalker stole the power. Make haste Singing Bird. There is danger ahead and behind.

She saw nothing that would explain the warning, but knew not to ignore it. Every muscle in her body was protesting as she pulled herself upright.

“We walk from here,” she said, touching her grandfather’s arm. “Can you do this?”

“Is it far?”

Layla recognized the landmarks. They were less than two miles from the Anasazi ruins.

“Less than two miles I think, but we must hurry. I think now we have to run.”

She saw the shock on his face, and then the determination.

“I will run until I cannot, and then you will leave me.”

Layla frowned. “No. I’ll carry you if I have to. I-“

George grabbed her by both arms. “Stop. This is Layla talking, and you are no longer Layla. You are Singing Bird. You have a nation to save. It is your destiny. I am one old man who longs to see his wife’s face once more.”

Layla wouldn’t answer. She couldn’t let herself think about making that choice. She turned toward the marchers. They were silent and swaying on their feet. Their skin was raw from wind and sun burn, their lips cracked and bleeding. There was so much white dust on their hair and faces that they all looked like ghosts – an analogy too eerie to ignore. She couldn’t let them die. She’d promised she would save them, and she still had their trust.

“Listen to me! We are very near. I think less than two miles, but there is danger and time is running out. We have to run the rest of the way. Drop whatever you are carrying. Nothing matters but your lives. Pass the word.”

The murmur of their voices as word spread along the march was like a breeze tickling her face, but the noise grew as it rolled back, until the sound was a distant roar.

People began dropping their bags as she took the water bottle out of her backpack. There was less than an inch of water left. She took one small sip then handed it to George. While he drank, she shouldered the quiver of arrows and her bow, and felt for the hasp of her father’s hunting knife strapped around her knee. It was all the protection she could carry, and was hoping it was enough to handle whatever they had yet to face.