Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-13

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #186: It’s far easier to diagnose mental illness in others than it is to see the same in yourself. Guilty.

Balancing awkwardly on a heel, she elevated her other boot. Checking the bottoms she winced in disgust. This building they spoke of as their garage wasn’t up to the same standard as Brother Steve’s office. It fell short in countless ways, reminding her of a neglected animal shed.

Their dirt floors were coated with an inch of old straw. Mice or other small pests lived in it, ate rotting fruit, left their droppings and fur. With so many holes there would be no practical way to keep them sealed out. Snakes would love this place too.

“Yuck!” She pinched her nose.

“He-he. We don’t bring our guests through here. Probably shoulda given it a once over,” voiced Brother Steve, a bit chagrined. He seemed like he wanted to start sweeping, but wasn’t able to in his condition.

Constructed of corrugated metal nailed to a wood frame—having no interior lighting—shafts of sunlight exposed every gap in the aging walls and ceiling. Empty crates were stacked ten high in corners. In total she estimated a thousand square feet of space.

Electricity was one thing Project Genesis obviously lacked. How they made do without modern refrigeration was anyone’s guess.

A trusting man, Brother Steve had accompanied them into the shed alone, hobbling with his squeaky crutches, yet maintaining a cheery disposition.

Already Jack had trekked his way to the monster they called Goliath. He uncapped one of the saddle tanks, checking the fuel level by dipping a pinky finger, sniffing. He then whipped open the cab door, climbing up with one leg and boosting himself to check the seats and dash. What he hoped to prove with his hands-on tech inspections wasn’t clear, perhaps simply a show to make them believe he was thorough, not to be fooled with.

“Ya know what we really need up here?”

“What’s that?” Jacked asked, pounding a fist against the front tire, checking air pressure.

“An aero-plane. Can you imagine it?” A child-like positivity shone on Brother Steve’s face. “Know what I mean? A piper cub? Picture one a them buzzing along the mesas, bound for Phoenix.” He looked to Lyndy, seeing if she supported his hairbrained idea.

Jack slapped his palms against his chinos. “Hey Brother Steve. Forgive me for asking, but I got to. You have a great deal of activity here. How exactly is Project Genesis funded?”

Brother Steve tilted his head. His blue eyes blinked as he followed Jack. “At first it was all donation. Truthfully, it was youngsters and their life savings, given freely from everyone who joined. But those were the early days. Now we’re all self-funded.”

She could tell Jack wanted to ask a few more questions but they were interrupted by footsteps approaching, and the heavy barndoor sliding wider in a screech. The three of them turned to see. She’d assumed one of Brother Steve’s helpers was coming to check on them, but not exactly. It was the lone African American fellow from before. Now that he was near, she could see he was well over six foot.

“Ah, howdy there Brother Leonard!” announced Brother Steve excitedly. “Leonard has been helping maintain Goliath, doing a little delivery work for us too. He’s a gifted mechanic.”

Leonard smiled shyly, nodding to Lyndy, hands buried deep in the front pocket of his overalls. “Despite the name, these days Goliath isn’t so mighty.” His voice was confident and deep. “Running terrible at the moment; got a fuel supply issue. Parts are harder to come by than the GM version. Been parked this-a-way for gettin on three days while we wait.” Brother Leonard pointed to the mess of empty boxes. “As a matter of fact I haven’t gotten a chance to unload the back.”

“What’s wrong with it?” asked Lyndy.

“Fuel pump is dying,” Brother Leonard replied. “I can try starting it if you like. You’ll notice right away.” Pulling up his hands and shuffling closer to the truck, he then folded arms across his chest.

“Yes and we need to get it running soon,” added Brother Steve. “Got a load of sweet corn to harvest.”

Lyndy could see the last flickers of hope dying, draining Jack’s face, but he shook it off. Bracing himself with a hand on the fender he asserted, “Listen Brother Steve, you’re a candid man. But is it possible to imagine someone in Project Genesis borrowed this truck without your knowledge?”

They would’ve had weapons. But where to store them?

Casually approaching the truck Lyndy elevated the canvas flap, catching glimpses of the cargo. She saw nothing but empty crates; if guns were there then they were well hidden. She turned back.

In the meantime Brother Steve went through the tedious exercise of extracting his wrist from the crutches. Leonard moved in to steady him, should he lose balance. Brother Steve then adjusted the brim of his hat and the straps on his suspenders, setting them straight and even, a show of independence. He sniffed, clearly assessing, putting a hand on the back of his neck. At last, with a half-hearted chuckle he answered, “Son, I understand how you believe you’re on to something. But I assure you no one would try what you’re implying. This place …” he paused, looking out the opening to the sunny, green fields. “… it was founded on love, rooted in dedicated toil. Look how far we’ve come. Think I could jeopardize everything we have by robbing a dumb old train, or letting my followers do it for me? Wouldn’t hardly be worth it.” Brother Steve met eyes with Jack. Lyndy watched from the side.

“In a big organization, sometimes stuff happens we don’t want or know about,” Jack challenged.

“Young man, can you picture when I was your age, the poor folks used to steal from the railroads every dang day. They’d sneak off with piles of coal for their stoves, old railroad ties, wire spools to fix up their fences. Inspectors such as yourself looked the other way.” Brother Steve exhaled, as unpleasant memories came flooding back. “What was taken from you that could be so valuable, to make you come all the way up here … on nothing more than a bill of sale and false narrative about … jackrabbit homesteaders?”

Her ears perked up at the use of such a term. Two strikes on this guy.

“Why not send the law up here? Some days the sheriff gets paid to hassle me.”

Even still, Lyndy was starting to feel moved by Brother Steve’s reasoning.

“If you don’t mind my asking, why are you so fierce about gettin your possessions back? Maybe you should let it go.”

Glancing to Leonard, she could tell he was amused by Jack being given a dose of his own medicine.

“Doesn’t matter now,” voiced a discouraged Jack. “I doubt you’d understand.”

“Now if you’ll pardon us we must make preparations for our afternoon worship session. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

“I’ll pass,” replied Jack with one hand raised.

 

Lyndy Life Observation: Here’s one of those redneck jokes. If you’ve ever purchased a single mismatched and worn down tire for a vehicle you own, just so you don’t have to replace the whole set of four. Guilty.

Today wouldn’t be a day to convince someone the desert was a glamorous place to live. Days like this you’d think the world was ending.

A west wind had been their constant companion on this adventure. As feared it carried aloft microparticles of dust unleashing a miasma of foul air in the valleys; cumulative effects were offensive to the lungs, terrible for the expensive hairdo. Her pink sunglasses protected her eyes, but visibility on the interstate had been reduced to snowstorm-like conditions. The farther out one looked, the more ominous, like driving into a mile-wide tornado.

Since departing the mountains the open top Jeep had become unbearable; among the worst options for the day. Glancing over to Jack she could tell he was miserable as she, yet hadn’t spoken. With one hand he brushed his forehead, keeping his eyes shut tight, loosening dust from the eyebrows.

Fortunately they were coming up on Newberry Springs, a state rest stop where toilet paper always seemed in short supply—mostly cause cheap creeps kept stealing the big rolls. Blow sand often coated the roadbed here, blurring lane divides. This odd oasis had been here as long as she had.

“Dude, I have to go number one,” she shouted, gesturing to the exit sign.

He sniffed, squinting out at the bleak surroundings and uninviting cinder block shelter. “That’s fine. I’ll wait in the car.”

You know when they say 4 out of 5 dentists would recommend this toothpaste? Well 4 out of 5 travelers would not recommend this rest stop.

“Sure ya don’t have to go? This is a good opportunity,” she encouraged.

“Nah. I’ll go behind a bush or something.”

She exhaled. “Were I a male, I’d do the same.”

He shrugged. No other cars were around.

She remembered eons ago, racing eastbound, engaged in an argument with Mr. Chan—what it was about she couldn’t recall, probably money. Chan disgusted with her, pushed her out the door, left her standing by the road and told her to thumb it home. Stamping her feet, arms folded across her chest like an angry teenager she fumed in the heat waves, hot air blowing her blouse top over her head. Still, a much nicer day.

Cutting across the raked dirt area and concrete walkway, she hurried to the shelter of the ladies room. Like a hard slap to the senses, entering she was hit by a combo of bleach and cleaning solution—an affront strong enough you could taste it. The floors were damp from being hosed, while exposed rafters above held cobwebs. The wind howled.

She proceeded to the first stall.

The flimsy plywood dividers included metal hooks, a single nicety meant to stow your purse and keep it off the sloppy floors. One did not want to touch anything. A plastic seat cover dispenser was empty; wonderful, she’d have to hover. At least the door slider latched.

In the midst of going and thinking she perceived footsteps, unexpectedly weighty for a female. The sounds echoed off the cinder blocks. Another tourist taking shelter? A Phoenician bound for LA? A female truck driver? She considered calling out a howdy but it would have been weird. No one wanted to be acknowledged in a motorway rest stop.

It felt ominous, out of equilibrium.

“Jack?” she called. She covered her mouth with her hands.

Under the gap she saw the romper-stomper motorcycle shoes. Suddenly a fist reached up over, hooked her purse and whipped it away. Her eyes went wide.

This was very bad. It was a biker.

More footsteps and chuckling. That queasy sensation as her breathing paused. No time to wipe. She zipped up her jeans. No time to flush either.

Undoing the latch, she allowed the plywood door to swing gradually open.

“Funny. Ain’t been day drinking but I’ve seen a striking hallucination. It was a maroon color four-wheeler. A long dead bounty hunter used to drive a Jeep like that.”

She recognized the squeaky voice; a member of the weakened, but not fully dispatched Wallach Gang. He’d been one of those who fled the dry lakebed after she killed their leader. A cowardly fellow, but cunning and experienced in the justice system. She could picture him in her mind, a black and white portrait pinned to the files at the Sheriff station. His name was Dwight or Chet or Chad, or alternate generic white dude synonym. He liked to talk.

The Spitfire stepped into view.

Scratching at a thin graying goatee, he continued. “Guess what? Your number’s up bitch. I got yer secret weapon!” His mug was as she recalled. Pointing a crooked finger he grinned in delight. Probably it was Chet.

“Just an ordinary gun,” she replied plainly, her tone laced with bitterness.

“And Stonehenge is a goddamn stack-a-rocks,” Chet replied, swinging the purse to a partner who ran out with it.

His pals snickered. One gone, but he’d brought two others, heaviest clutching a water pipe prison yard style, wearing mirrored sunglasses. “She’s tiny! Lot smaller than I remembered,” he chuckled. They were either bikers, or musicians in a southern rock tribute band. At any one time two of these clowns were on active parole.

Damn. Where was knuckle bashing Deputy Keynes or impossibly hard-headed Mr. Chan when you needed them? Out of reach. Come to think of it, where was Jack Decklin?

“Ya’ll get off on bein the pretty Senorita Martinez don’t ya? Yer bother, ugly as sin, but you always wanted boys to fancy you—they like the scary goth chicks.” Chet smiled with bad teeth, half capped. His other brass-knuckled friend, standing next to him, had a head band accompanied by a ZZ-top beard.

Unless more were hiding it was three against one, counting the leader. She felt the hot anger burning, tightness in her fingers, hairs lifting on her forearms. The experience brought back visions of Pinegate Detention Center and unspeakable horrors of Warden Dixon.

Exhaling. “You idiots know nothing. And I’ve lost patience for your intro to psychology bullshit. You want a fight, then bring one.”

She charged forward, jumping at the last minute to grip the rafter. Bending her knees she directed her sharp heels at the face of the fellow with the goatee. Chet put up his arms to block her feet, crossing wrists to protect the eyes. Twisting and springing off his shoulders with both hands she landed on her feet. The floors were slick; she was fortunate to maintain balance. Chet was knocked off his, so next she delivered a swift jab to his stomach.

His brass-knuckled partner threw a long wild punch. Lyndy dodged it by ducking down. Launching off her right heel she rammed a shoulder into the same man’s hip. Then raising her arms, she elevated his legs and rolled him to one side. He landed hard. Once down she delivered a sharp series of blows to his ribs.

Simultaneously the man wielding the water pipe brought it down perpendicular, in the motion of someone swinging an axe to chop firewood. She caught the pipe with both arms, raising her shoulders and pushing with all her might. He was astonished at the power of such a small person. Launching a leg backward, she kicked toward the leader Chet again. Next she spun and punched his jaw.

The fellow with the headband had risen up. He wrapped his arms around her waist and he was strong, able to pull her away. She squirmed, kicking out both legs and twisting her body. However it was difficult to hurl oneself in this position, feet swinging in air. She dug with her nails.

“I need to do more situps,” she thought. Cut down on the drinking too.

With The Spitfire being pulled into a corner, Chet massaging his jawline, stepped forth. Reaching down, he seized on both her ankles. The man with the water pipe moved in. He aimed for her chest; instead of swinging he pressed it against her throat. The panic hit.

“HALT!” came a thunderous male warning. “What on earth is happening?” It was Jack, his profile in the doorframe, tossing away a half-smoked cigarette. Lyndy was relieved—though hopefully he wasn’t about to get an ass whupping too.

“What kinda F’d up yuppie are you?” voiced Chet.

“I hired Lyndy Martinez,” Jack replied. “Who in the F are you?”

Undeterred by Jack’s physical presence, the goateed Chet advanced. Jack blocked his punches, caught him by the forearms.

Repositioning and lifting him by the shoulders, Jack rammed Chet into the nearest wood divider; it split down the middle—sounds of boards snapping—as he was sliding. Jack bent at the hips, pounding him, dunking his head in the toilet water. The man holding the water pipe rushed in, swinging at Jack from behind. She cried out.

Jack was hit in the lower back. He winced in pain. A pause ensued, during which Jack’s face and upper chest went extreme red.

The men were distracted. Lyndy burst free. She caught the pipe, at last ripping it from the heavy man’s clutches. With a cat-like motion, Jack thrust a fist and captured the headband man by his beard. Jack yanked him further into his grip.

In the meantime a single blow to his cheek brought the heavy man to the ground; his glasses went flying. Lyndy tossed the pipe away. Straddling with both knees, she hammered on his face with her fist. Gripping him by the hair, she slammed his head into the floor. Tide turning, she looked to see what Jack was up to.

There’s a first for everything. Seeing Jack body slam a two-hundred pound man in a rest stop bathroom was one of the great firsts in CBB history. The fellow didn’t even move after, rendered unconscious and probably suffering multiple fractures. But no time to celebrate.

One could see the terror building on Chet’s narrow face. He bolted off into the abyss of the sand; it made her smile but there was no time for celebration.

“We gotta get that purse back!” Lyndy exclaimed.