Z-Burbia 7: Sisters of the Apocalypse (12 page)

"Some crazy bitch in town," I say. "She's dead now because she tried to steal my duffel bag."

He looks at the duffel bag.

"What's in there?" he asks.

"Dolls," I say. "I like dolls."

"Bullshit," he says and his hand tightens on the pistol. But his finger is to the side of the trigger, resting on the guard. He doesn't want to shoot me.

"You hate the Doyles?" I ask. "Because I hate the Doyles. Maybe we can make a deal."

"What kind of deal?" he asks.

"You and your people help me get my sisters back," I say. "We help you kill every last Doyle in this whole place. The Doyles at the farm and the Doyles in town."

"I like that idea," Jack Heavy says. "But there's one problem with that."

"What's the problem?" I ask. "Seems easy enough. You and yours help me and mine. All the Doyles die. No problem."

He sighs then starts to respond. He sighs again and starts to respond again, but just shakes his head back and forth.

"You have guns in that duffel?" he asks.

"Maybe," I say. "You willing to have your people help me?"

"No," he says.

"No?" I ask. "Why the fuck not? I'm not a friend of the Doyles. I hate the Doyles! You look like you hate the Doyles too. Why won't you have your people help me?"

"Because that's the problem," he says. "I don't have any people. I'm it. I'm the Heavies. All of them."

"Oh," I say. "Well, shitfuck."

Chapter Twelve

I'm a little disappointed. I can admit that. A little disappointed.

No Heavies. Just a heavy. A Jack Heavy. If that's his real name.

"Is that your real name?" I ask. "Jack Heavy? Kind of a funny name."

"What's yours?" he asks as he slowly puts his .45 away and tosses mine back to me. Nice guy. A little too trusting, but nice.

I think for a second then say, "Elsbeth."

"Elizabeth?" he asks.

"No.
Elsbeth
," I say again.

"And I have the funny name," he says.

The guy is older than me by about ten years. He's fit and knows how to use a pistol. Easy to see by how he handles it. I don't even need to see him shoot to know he probably hits his target every time. Those missed shots earlier were on purpose. I know a shooter when I see a shooter.

"Why would that chick say there are lots of Heavies?" I ask him.

We're both scooting backwards, staying low as we move our butts farther away from the breeding farm. We aren't heading to the main road, but in a different direction. Jack says he has a Jeep we can use to get away. But it's a bit of a hike. Or crawl. More of a crawl until we can get over the small hill just a few yards away then we hike.

Not going to be fun once we're up on the hill, too much visibility from the farm. But if we can make it over without being seen then we can stand up and walk the rest of the way. I am looking forward to that.

"I'm good at what I do," Jack says. "The local crazies, and the Doyles, all think I'm a team of men when I'm obviously just the one."

"Just the one," I say. "This sucks ball shits."

"Does it?" he chuckles. "Ball shits. Nice."

"Why would they think you're a bunch of men when you're just you?" I ask.

"Because I always shout 'Come on Heavies! Kill them all!' when I hit them," he says. "And I'm fast, so I move around a lot and pretend to have different voices."

"Oh," I say. "Different voices are fun."

He gives me that look people give me when they first meet me. He thinks I'm one of the crazies.

"Yeah, different voices are fun," he says. That surprises me. "I can do a good falsetto, so the Doyles think there are some women in the Heavies. It drives them nuts because they believe all women are inferior to men and need to be captured and controlled."

"And bred," I say. "Fucking Doyles."

"Yeah," he chuckles. "Fucking Doyles."

We get to the base of the hill, which means we're pretty fucking exposed, but there's enough brush around to keep the Doyle guards from seeing us right away. Once we crawl up that hillside, though, I expect to feel the sting and hear the buzz of bullets. I like the buzz, it's a nice sound, but the sting ain't so nice. Nope. Not nice at all.

"Ready?" Jack asks and nods to the hillside. "We should go one at a time."

"Same time," I say. "We need to move our asses. Can't waste the day. If they see us, they'll pause to pick a target. Gives us a half-second lead."

"A half-second?" Jack chuckles. "You're that good that you think in half-seconds?"

"Yeah," I say. Not gonna lie to the guy.

"Your friends inside that good?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say and nod.

"Then why are they inside still?" he asks. "I'd think they'd have busted out by now."

"They're waiting for me," I say. "I come in from the outside and create some chaos so they can tear shit up inside."

"But you didn't expect the level of security the Doyles have, did you?" he says and chuckles again.

Usually, I'd smack an asshole that chuckles at me so much. But, like I said, he's a nice guy. Ain't no mean chuckle. He just thinks I'm in over my head. I may be, but fuck it, I don't care. I just care about getting my sisters out of there and freeing the preggers ladies.

"I didn't expect all the security," I say. "Why they got so much security?"

"Part of that is my fault," Jack says. "I've hit them a few times and they've upped their game. There's also the cannies over in the next valley. They make plays now and again, looking for some quick meat. They never get inside, but they've hit trucks as they come and go."

"Trucks come and go," I mumble. "Can we—?"

He cuts me off. "Easier to hit the farm than try to take a truck as it's going inside. They put everything they have at that front gate. And they search every truck from front to back, top to bottom. I tested it once by taping a bouncy ball up underneath. They found it. If they can find that then they'll find either one of us."

"I fucking hate Doyles," I growl.

He chuckles again and pats my shoulder. "Yep," he says. "I fucking hate Doyles too." He looks at the hillside and gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Ready?"

I like how he squeezes my shoulder.

"Ready," I say.

We go. No waiting or hesitation. No crawl a few feet then wait. He takes the duffel while I carry my gear pack and the Barrett. We're almost at the top when the first shot rings out. From that distance, the bullet would have already hit by the time we heard the shot, so they missed on the first try.

"You good?" he asks as we move faster.

"Good," I say.

Dirt kicks up by my face and I wince. The sound of the shot reaches us just as we reach the top and roll to the other side, safe and covered.

"You good?" I ask him.

"Good," he says. He gets up into a crouch, the duffel bag slung across his back. Guy is strong to move as fast as he does with that much gun weight on him. "Come on. We get down in this gully and follow it for a quarter mile. My Jeep is there."

"Is it gully or gulch?" I ask.

"What?" He frowns at me. "What are you talking about?"

"Is it a gully or a gulch? What's the difference?" I ask.

"What does it matter?" he replies.

"I don't know," I say and shrug as we hit kinda level ground. "This is like the Wild West, so I thought ditches like this are called gulches."

"I honestly don't know," he says. "I'm from San Diego. We have fish tacos and some nice waves out there. I don't know shit about gullies or gulches."

"Okey dokey, just wondering," I say as we follow the gully (gulch?) for a while.

We have our .45s out and take the path nice and easy, watching for Doyle scouts or whatever else might come for us. I ain't happy to hear there are some cannies close enough to make trouble. Yeah, it's great they're making trouble for the Doyles, but cannies don't discriminate who they fuck with. They'll fuck with anyone they think they can eat.

We hit a bend in the gully and Jack holds out a hand. I stop and wait, listening hard against the wind. It's blowing strong and ain't doing my ears no favors. Nor my eyes. Lots of dust and grit swirling around.

Jack whistles low and I hear something I ain't heard in a very long time.

"We're good," he says and straightens up.

We get around the bend and I just stare. Not at the Jeep, which is a sweet ride, but at what's sitting in the front seat. A dog.

"That's a dog," I say. "You got a dog."

"I do," Jack says.

More of that chuckling. I give him a smile. Between the chuckles and the dog, I feel like a girl. I don't quite remember being a girl, other than those stupid nightmares I get, but this feels about right. No worrying whether I'm going to get killed. No worrying about who I got to kill. Just a nice guy chuckling and a pretty dog.

"What's his name?" I ask.

"Muffin," he says.

"Muffin?" I laugh.

"Yeah," he says and his face turns to storm clouds.

"Sorry, I wasn't making fun," I say. "Just wasn't expecting that name."

"My daughter named him," Jack says. "My oldest daughter."

"You have more than one?" I ask.

"I did," he says then points at the Jeep. "Come on. Let's get the fuck out of here." He snaps his fingers. "Muffin! Backseat!"

The dog jumps into the back as we hurry to the Jeep. It's one of those Wranglers. Not tricked out like Critter's, but it has some modifications. Lots of heavy-gauge wire-screen bolted to the roll bars and frame to keep the Zs out. The tires are big and look pretty new and the suspension is lifted pretty high, so I have to climb in by grabbing a roll bar and hauling myself up. When I sit down, I notice there're a couple of weird hooks here and there that I can't figure out.

"What are these for?" I ask.

"Rifles," he says as he starts up the Jeep. It's quiet. He's got a pretty damn good muffler on the thing and must have the engine insulated somehow. "I can rest the barrels there and it steadies my shots."

"You shoot from the passenger seat?" I ask, patting the hook by me.

"I wire in rifles and use lines to pull the triggers," he says as he backs us up a bit then swings the Jeep around and heads right up the side of the gully. He floors it and we're moving fast across the scrubland. "I have to keep up the image of lots of Heavies with lots of guns."

"Right," I say and smile.

I look back over my shoulder and Muffin is staring right at me. His eyes are bright blue and he's about fifty pounds. Not a huge dog, but no small yapper. He's a funky blue/grey color with black spots all over him. He looks like a stormy evening.

"Blue Heeler," Jack says. "That's his breed. I think. He's probably a mix with some pit and maybe Australian Shepherd. Not that I care."

Muffin gets tired of staring at me and looks out to the side, his mouth open and tongue hanging out. I start to turn away too, but he perks up and that tongues goes right back in his mouth as his ears stand up straight.

Jack sees all this in the rearview mirror.

"What is it, Muff?" he asks.

I look the way the dog is looking and see a Z stumbling along the desert, chasing after a much faster rabbit. The Z looks like one of the fast ones, but it ain't faster than a jackrabbit. Not much is.

"Oh," Jack says. "Yeah, we're getting more and more like those around here lately. The fuckers can climb too, if they want to."

"Yep," I say. "I've met a few."

"Where?" Jack asks. "Where are you from?"

"North," I say.

"There's a lot of places north," he replies. "Where exactly?"

"Colorado," I say.

He smiles and nods. "Okay. I'll let you tell me when you know you can trust me."

"That could be a while," I say.

"You're already in my Jeep with me so you must trust me some," he says.

"I trust that I can handle myself around you if you make a move. That's my life," I say. "But I don't trust you with the lives of my friends or my family."

"Fair," he says. "I wouldn't either."

We're quiet for a while. I think I see a road a ways up, but Jack doesn't head for it. He turns the Jeep parallel and stays cross country for a good fifteen minutes before he aims for a dark stain on the horizon. I squint into the sun until I realize we're heading for trees.

"Lunch time," he says as we get closer to the trees. It's a small forest of pines all bunched together. Must be some creek close by. "I like to stop here and wait. That way I can be sure the Doyles haven't followed me."

"I could eat," I say.

"I bet you could." He laughs and looks back at Muffin. "You hungry, pal?"

Muffin gives a short bark and starts smiling again, his tongue hanging out.

We get to the trees and Jack weaves through them until he sets us next to a nice mound of rocks. With rocks to our backs, he turns the Jeep around so we can face the way we came. The trees aren't super tall, but they give us some shade and some shadows to stay hidden in while we eat and wait.

"This is egg salad," I say as I shove half the sandwich in my mouth. So good. Soooo good.

"Yeah," he says and gives me a strange look.

I chew for a while then think about what I'm eating. I swallow and think about the flavor.

"Not chicken eggs," I state. "What kind of bird are they?"

"Nope," he says. "Not bird. Tortoise eggs. You have to find them right away before the embryos develop. Not so easy, but I got lucky this time."

"Yummy," I say. I've eaten way worse things than turtle eggs, so I ain't gonna complain. And it's soooo good.

"Tastes like farts," he says.

"What?" I ask and nearly choke. Those words bring back memories. Memories of my first days with the Stanfords…

"My youngest daughter used to say egg salad tastes like farts," Jack says. "She'd still eat it, but she always made a point of telling us that."

"Kids are silly," I say.

"You have any?" he asks. "Or did?"

"No," I say. "Can't have babies. Sisters can't have babies."

"What does that mean?" he asks.

"My sisters and me," I reply. "Our insides got messed up with gene therapy and drugs and conditioning and shit. Can't have babies ourselves. Bummer. Marcie would be a good mom. Antoinette would be a good mom."