La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-23

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

[Author’s Note: The next chapter (Part-24) will be the concluding chapter of La Fierabrosa. This chapter below (Part-23), should not be your introduction to Lyndy Martinez. Please, if you haven’t read any of this book, go back and start at one of the earlier chapters to get up to speed. Part-1 is as good a place as any. There is higher than average fighting/violence in this chapter, and if you start here there won’t be any context for it–although obviously Lyndy has been taken captive. Also, I’m personally not a fan of guns or fighting or violence. However, this is a western novel series depicting times nearly 5 decades ago, so again, it has to be taken in context. — ASC]

 Lyndy Life Tip #178: Like a lot of things in life (books are the cliché) you can never judge how nice a guitar is going to sound by outward looks alone. So if you find like a sad, beat up guitar in a pawn shop or corner thrift store—maybe it has a few cracks in the top—take a chance, pick it up and strum a few chords. Don’t be afraid to give it a quick tune. It might sound like garbage or it might possess the rich tones of an aged, but finely crafted instrument. You can never tell until you play it. Some of the ugliest guitars sound the sweetest.

“Fact is, Dale can be a big ol’ baby sometimes, but in the heat of battle he sure does whup some ass; I’ll give him credit. He’s pretty decent in the bedroom too,” commented Lyndy.

Wallach scowled at his pal, presumably for the inappropriate touching. “Wash out man, the woman bites like a rabid dog,” he warned.

A glint of stray light danced in her periphery. The captor with the long hair possessed a bone-handle trapping knife clipped to the inside of his boot. Hopefully Wallach’s numerous injuries had slowed him down some.

The metal restraints were already making her wrists sore, the constant feeling of mass palpable. “Dude, should you really be out of the hospital?” she inquired.

Apparently, I picked the wrong damn day to be wearing a tank top and skirt.

“Bitch, after we bury you, then we’re goin back for Deputy Keynes,” replied the fellow with the bad hair.

Wallach nodded to confirm. “Thank you for your concern about my health,” he added.

Overall, Matt seemed much less perturbed than she would have liked, as though he had a master plan laid out and was biding his time.

For once, The Spitfire could think of nothing clever to say in response. Yet she didn’t want to make it known she was about to take action. Turning to the long haired fellow, who continued holding onto and fondling her legs, she fake-smiled and said: “Now are you the type of guy who takes a girl out to dinner first?”

He smiled unnervingly.

Melinda means sweet.

The next hard bump they hit bounced them both. Lyndy used the opportunity to her advantage, kicking with both legs at the pointed gun. Though nowhere within reach, Wallach reflexively raised his arm upward and away from the path of her feet. Then leaning over, she bit the long haired fellow on his hand. Simultaneously, she grabbed for the knife handle in the boot, pinching the tip with her forefinger and thumb. Cupping her fingers around as best she could, she slashed the man across his inner thigh. It tore through his jeans like paper. It also must have pierced an artery, as blood spurted from the wound, spraying both her and Wallach in the face. It was hot and thick, and some of it got in her left eye making it even harder to see.

Due to the irritant, Wallach squinted his one good eye and rubbed his forearm rapidly up and down to clear his brow. His pistol landed in his lap. Meanwhile, the long haired dude kept bending forward, frantically grasping at Lyndy’s arms to restrain her. She continued thrusting however, managing to stick him again in the stomach; immediately he started screeching like an impaled animal. This time the blade was stiff to remove.

Disappointed by his partner, Wallach began reaching for Lyndy’s legs and backside to stop her himself. She continued to yank on the knife handle until finally her arms sprung back as it let go. Even with Wallach’s paws gripping her thighs she was able to stretch out sideways, snaking her arms through the cab window. Fully extended and reaching as far as one could, she plunged the tip of the knife into the base of the driver’s neck. The act pierced the man’s spine and his head slumped forward onto the wheel. She had to give up on retrieving the knife though; it was too far.

Lyndy twisted her torso to face Matt. For a handful of seconds, both were waiting to see what would occur next. During their scuffle the gun had been dropped in his lap, but Wallach used this time to pick it back up, again pointing it at her face.

“Fun’s over Spitfire,” said Matt.

She felt a tiny bit concerned. Perhaps the truck would coast to a gentle stop. Then what? Thankfully a moment later the tires struck a rut, disrupting the steering components. The vehicle swayed violently, switching directions into a 45-degree turn and rising onto two wheels. Midway into the curve, all the windows burst as it began to roll multiple times.

The Spitfire had never experienced being stuffed into one of those large commercial clothes dryers, but this is what she imagined it was like: repeated slamming from the top to bottom like a pair of tennis shoes at full spin. Her legs and arms were at least secured close to her body, but the uncontrolled weight of the stabbed man kept smashing into her. The cacophony of crunching steel, breaking glass and probably bones too, was frightening.

As the truck settled on its side she began assessing her level of consciousness. Through a jagged opening where the back window used to be, she observed daylight and floating dust particles. The tailgate was open halfway, bowing in the middle like a tortilla chip. The dead man lay beside her, coated in blood and dirt. Grossed out, she attempted to push him away. Wallach was missing. Lyndy figured he’d been ejected.

Next, she surveyed the damage to herself. Red scrapes and cuts oozing coagulating blood had appeared all over Lyndy’s exposed skin. It was revolting to imagine what else was on her body, but there was nothing she could do. Her shoulder felt tender, possibly out of joint. She tried rotating each foot side-to-side. Her right ankle was sprained, or maybe worse, and her skull was aching badly. The upshot: she still had two legs and two working arms attached. Also she was alert. The way her arms and legs had been cuffed together likely helped lessen the injuries.

The Spitfire’s concern turned to locating Wallach. With the wreckage slanting on its side, teetering each time the weight shifted, everything was made even more awkward. The only way to escape was by squirming like an earthworm. Once her feet touched upon the tailgate, she sat up and lunged forward. Since there was no way to control her movements, she managed to somersault out through the opening, landing flat on her back in the dirt. The thud again took her breath away.

The Mojave sun was wicked bright. Reaching up, her left shoulder throbbing, Lyndy set her fingers upon the flared metal edge of the camper shell. Slowly and painfully, she steadied her weight and pulled herself to a standing position.

Her spine was beginning to hurt now. She recognized that feeling: deep tissue swelling from hard impact, pinching against the nerves.

Squinting and looking around, she realized she was standing on a dry lakebed in the midst of a desolate valley. Judging by the outline of the Sheep Hole Mountains at the horizon, it was Cadiz Valley.

In old California, the Spaniards would chain prisoner’s legs together with iron, knowing walking like this would be cumbersome, and running next to impossible.

Then she heard the buzzing of motors. Her eyes fixated upon several rising dust plumes; at first she thought they were whirlwinds, but no. It was vehicles converging on her location—not friends either. Her heart stopped.

“Shit,” she mouthed.

Turning back to the wreckage, she dropped to the ground and started patting along the edges. She was seeking Wallach’s pistol. Instead she noticed something out of place, a loop of fine leather. It was the skinny white strap protruding in dirt near the bumper. She grabbed onto the strap and the purse emerged from the sands, rescued.

Cue triumphant ranchera music.

Obviously her beloved purse was ruined, but adrenaline now coursed through her body like an electrical surge. This ragged thing was sent from heaven. Inverting it, the Beretta slipped into her fingers. She stuffed the contents of the purse into her shredded shirt, tossing away the remainder. Holding the gun between her knees she snapped the top back and forth, arming it.

The Spitfire popped up, taking four baby steps as all three cars were converging. Dust rose in massive clouds behind them. With both hands on the grip, she released the safety and squinted through the sight. In spite of all that was happening around, how close she had come to death already, how Wallach was somewhere nearby, how it was so hot she could hardly breathe, she centered herself. Inhaling and exhaling to the timing of a metronome, thinking only of this moment, she narrowed her vision to what she could see in the sightline. Anything else she would deal with later.

This would be a lot easier without eighteen pounds of metal dangling from my body.

At one hundred yards distance, finger resting on the trigger, she aimed for the farthest right car. All one could discern from afar was the nickel-plated grill, a white hood and the glinting windshield. She knew it was the International. She could see a boiling blur of heat, haze and glints, and this she aligned with the notch horizontally. Experience had taught her one important lesson: at this range she needed to point just a tad high, as the bullet would surely travel in a weak parabola, not a straight trajectory.

At the convergence of exhalation and inhalation with every function of her circulatory system coming to a halt, she squeezed the trigger five times. She barely registered the pops, but the casings were vivid in her periphery, soaring in an arc over her head.

What followed was a perceptible delay. Then with a poof, a large metal panel—what she recognized to be the hood—flipped up and was lost. There followed a yellow flash of flame, and smoke started rising from the engine bay. She knew she’d caught a fuel line. As that vehicle closed in on 50 yards, she was forced to turn her attention to the next.

The center car was approaching just as fast. It had a wide rectangular body with four round headlights that seemed too small for it. The roofline was so low it reminded her of a Lemans racer. But it had to be the Dodge, the one parked outside of Lester’s.

There was no time to overthink. Rotating her stance by 20 degrees, she focused on the Challenger. Aiming a bit over the roof, she squeezed the trigger twice. At that exact moment, she detected a large projectile at roughly her 3-oclock position, barreling in with the ferocity of a flaming meteorite. She catapulted using both feet, knowing she wouldn’t get far. Landing in a crouch position, she ducked her head as low as it would go.

Fully engulfed in flames, the Scout rammed at high velocity into the wreckage of the pickup truck, transferring enough momentum to send the entire heap spinning. An explosion followed, fueled by more gasoline and Lyndy shielded her face from the ball of flame and expanding heat. She could feel it singeing the hairs on her arms, as they protected her face.

No time to assess or take stock of what happened; the worst of the flame subsided and she stood up again. Smoke was beginning to swirl around, but the Challenger was visible through the haze, closing in at 30 yards. She only had a half-second to react, the same time a batter gets with a fastball. Raising and pointing the gun, she fired three more times, twice through the windshield and once at the wheel well. An arc-shaped ribbon of black rubber went flying—it was a tire blowing.

The wheels suddenly turned hard right and the Challenger went into a roll. It had been traveling at such high speed that it took to the air and flipped onto the roof, but continued twirling like a helicopter blade. The forward progress slowed.

Stepping forward and rotating her stance again, she prepared to shoot at the third car, a boring black sedan. With all the time that had elapsed she expected it would be an instant from running her over. Curiously, it was slowing. She squeezed the trigger, but no bang followed—only a dull lifeless click. She squeezed again and nothing. It was out of bullets, but she kept the Beretta pointed at the sedan.

The sedan continued to slow, its dust plume getting weaker, eventually coming to a full and complete stop. With the haze and smoke and glare, she could see only the outline of two figures inside, not much else. Her brain was on such heightened alert, The Spitfire couldn’t understand what was happening. What new form of attack was this? Why were they stopping? Then it struck her: those people were frightened.

A sense of power, at once gratifying and addictive, took hold of her spirit. She cherished that feeling.

After the sedan stopped, it reversed into a 3-point turn, then accelerated away. Lyndy lowered the gun.

“Learn to treat women better,” she whispered.

After waving it in the air a few times to let it cool, she shoved it behind her back, held in by the waistband of her skirt.

In the aftermath the playa became unexpectedly quiet, yet there was a dragging sound, something heavy sliding upon the soil. She turned 180 to follow the sound. It was Wallach, 20 yards distant, dragging himself along the lakebed mainly by one arm. He was moving in a southerly direction and gravely injured from the wreck, his hands clawing for grip.

Since the cuffs on her legs only allowed for an 8-inch stride, Lyndy waddled her way toward Wallach. It was a comical slow-motion foot chase lasting more than a minute. In the meantime, he kept glancing back at her, fearful, but uttering no sounds.

Matt must have known he was certain to lose. Silly, but he wouldn’t give up. He kept struggling along dragging his now useless legs—probably suffering from the same swelling condition she was.

Along her path Lyndy noticed a heavy stone, coarse on three of the four sides, like a broken chunk of concrete left mired in the lakebed. She paused, seeing if she could lift it. It hurt to bend her back. The stone wasn’t light, but it was doable as a bicep curl. The biggest problem was her arms being so close together in the cuffs. She continued on, slower now, weighted down by the rock.

As she caught up to Wallach he paused, looking up at her from the ground. There was anger in his eyes. She lifted the rock high over her head and he shielded his face from the sun.

“Mr. Wallach, to quote a boyfriend of  mine, I have grown tired of this game we’re having,” Lyndy announced, still supporting the heavy rock. “But first, I do want to tell you something. I’ve been noodling it all week. Ya know what still bugs me about Ms. Dixon, the Warden at Pinegate Youth Detention Camp?”

There was an extended stretch of silence, Wallach staring back dumbly and breathing audibly. Her skirt was flapping lightly in the air.

“If she’d only treated everyone the same, ya know equally rotten, I would have forgotten about her by now—not let it ruffle my feathers—forgiven and moved on. But that’s not how it was. She treated everyone bad and Mexicans worse. Can you believe that? She had a hierarchy to her hate. Why did she hate me more than the other wayward girls? You will never know how much that affected me.”

Wordlessly, Wallach shook his head, unable or unwilling to answer.

 

Dusting off her hands, Lyndy chose South, a direction as good as any on this playa, and continued waddling. A slow and brutal hike awaited. In front of her, a floating visage of Mr Chan popped into view like a genie from a bottle, and she could hear him saying, “Melinda, it will be okay, at least it’s a dry heat. Huh. Huh. Huh.”

“Damn you Chan,” she whispered, raising her fists. “Be quiet.”

She soon felt nauseous, having to stop, hang her head and dry hurl. When nothing came out, she jerked her head back. The horizon once again blurred. She wiped her brow with her forearms. The clothes were literally hanging off her body like rags, victims of the struggle and car accident. The dull pain in her backbone was increasing.

On her ankles and forearms, where the cuffs made contact with her skin, the surface was turning tender and raw. Huge purple bruises were forming. It was misery and there was no way to reduce the tension, without ceasing progress. But she had to move; it was move or die.

In her mind she longed for that strange oasis at The Narrows. That was the place she wanted to go exploring with Ted. She would wear a nice summer dress perhaps. Ted could bring Gilda out. They could ride along together—share the saddle a stretch. Lyndy would wear sandals, slipping them off to dip her bare toes in the refreshing waters. Ted would open up his sketchbook; do another portrait of her.

The fantasy helped her keep moving, but the pain in her back was getting much worse. It was a pinching sensation, making her vertebra feel like they were fusing.

After an hour’s time, Lyndy found she could go no further without a rest. There was simply no choice. She collapsed into a praying pose. Lowering her forehead, she let it contact the silty ground, her hair falling around. Once down, she rolled onto her side. She resolved to shut her eyes, only for a bit—a few minutes relief. After a brief nap she would rise again, then keep moving. Just keep moving.