Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-20

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: Sometimes it boggles my mind to remember we used to eat baloney and white bread sandwiches in school. What exactly is baloney?

The Spitfire’s brown eyes were fixated on the bullwhip. The handle lay in the same spot where Bo had dropped it, while slumping over in death.

Her left cheekbone and upper jaw, never injured, were suddenly aching; funny how pain could transfer from one part of the body to another. Like a raging brushfire, it seemed to be spreading in all directions.

This situation—irksome as it was—had turned into an existential crisis. The knowable world becoming blurred out, and in this state she recognized decision making would be compromised. Henceforward she could no longer trust her five senses. Nonetheless, actions were necessary for survival. To allow for inaction was to welcome death and pass the baton to the other side.

“Mr. Decklin, you were a weightlifter. On one of your best days, what’s the most you ever squatted?”

Jack exhaled. “Maybe 350 or 375. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Then together, I’d wager we can move that plate,” she surmised. “I think I can do a hundred pounds at least, deteriorating as I am.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you,” he sighed drearily. “Good luck Miss Martinez.”

In many ways Deputy Keynes, her ex, was a male enigma. He frequently voiced blatant untruths, changing his personality from one week to the next, but charming all the while. He could be loving and tender one day, morose and indifferent the following. Yet there was something redeeming which she had trouble pinpointing. And now in this strange moment she’d at last identified it. When she needed him, really needed Dale’s strength and presence, his loyalty was unwavering. A man of action, he would protect her fiercely and fight alongside her against any odds—having done so on occasions when they were vastly outnumbered. Therein lay part of the attraction. Something of a Martinez in him, an honorary member of the family. Well, that and his looks.

This made Jack Decklin a new version of low. What kind of a man would sleep with a woman, but not lift a finger to help or defend that woman? Very unsettling.

“Come again? You’re refusing to help get us out of here!” she exclaimed, mopping sweat from her brow with her elbow, so copious it dribbled to the floor. Yet even touching fingers on her tender skin felt like pin pricks, spreading the flames.

“Sorry,” he repeated meekly.

“But you aren’t paralyzed? You can walk!” Mind in a daze, The Spitfire felt explosive anger rising again. She paced to Bo’s corpse. “We simply don’t have time. I’m dying. You’re dying. I’m down to one arm and I weigh 130 pounds soaking wet. We’ve got to combine our strength in one final rally to get out of here. We have to try and slide the plate together. Can’t you see something greater in yourself? Isn’t there something you want to finish? I need your muscle.”

Bending down, she took hold of the whip and immediately tested it. High craftsmanship, producing a really sharp crackling noise including a popper; Bo knew his livestock herding implements.

“Jack, it’s obvious I can’t do this on my own. For god sake, stand up you idiot.” Stuffing the handle of whip in her waistband and returning to the square chamber, she began yanking away the remaining blankets, angering Jack.

“Stop it,” he argued, rolling onto his side.

“Mr. Decklin sir, would you like some help up?” The Spitfire offered, standing over him and glaring. Droplets of blood peppered her exasperated face like freckles.

“I just told you I can’t move,” he answered defiantly. “Didn’t you hear me? Do you ever listen to anything!” he pleaded.

“Jack, let me remind you, it was you who sought my services, not the other way around. You came to me. And it was you who wanted the toughest, meanest PI in the county for you foolhardy quest. I should never have trusted you. And now look what’s become of us! I should never have deceived Mr. Chan. Every time it happens the result is calamity.”

“Show some mercy woman. I can’t move.”

“You just don’t get it. Your brand of irrationality puts mine to shame. One doesn’t come to a woman with my reputation and history of personal affairs, asking for mercy. “I’m gonna offer you one last chance at redemption, a count of ten. And when I’m finished, you will be standing up.”

She waited for Jack’s agreeing response, but none came. Lyndy cracked the whip on the floor. “One,” she began coldly.

“You’ve gone insane.”                     

“Two.” Again she cracked the whip upon the floor, near to Jack’s ears, causing him to flinch. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Stop this, please Lyndy,” Jack begged. “Let me be.”

She snapped the whip again.

“Three.”                                                                                    

“Fine. Jesus Christ. I do admit, my train had been there before. I was going to tell you when the time was right.” He pressed his fingers against the floor, fully uncovered. “I have made mistakes, but we all do.” His back started to arc as he re-positioned his feet. “The first time, my father told me we needed to suppress a worsening story in the media. I was young. I went along with him. I did what I thought I had to do.”

“Four.”

She could see now he was telling the truth about having been beaten and battered. His shirt was torn, only a few strips of fabric left. His skin where exposed, showed both bruising and lengthy ugly scabs, foamy and oozing.

“Will you just settle down,” he complained through gritted teeth, moving too slowly.

With a flick of her wrist the tip of the whip raked across the middle of his cheek. “Ten,” she shrieked.

“OWW! OWW! Do you know what that thing feels like?” Quickly Jack put a hand against the laceration, pulling his palm away and eyeing fresh blood. He pointed an accusing finger. “Damn you Lyndy Martinez! You were on FOUR you little brat.” But he shot up to his knees, then scrambled to his feet, suddenly filled with savage energy.

They don’t call me The Spitfire for nothin.

Backing six feet away out of reach, Lyndy whipped Jack again across his upper thighs. “Let’s go you indolent bastard!”

Looking terrified he assumed a defensive position, twisting to face her. His bloodshot eyes were tracking every move now. “I can see why people hate you.” He watched her arm closely. “Take another shot at me girl. I dare you,” he threatened, cupping his fingers toward himself.

As he stared her down, she had little doubt if Jack could somehow get to her he would deliver a massive beating. “You’re quite a talker for one who stinks worse than a house fouled by urine of fifty cats, then set aflame. Someone ought to put a garden hose on you.”

“You stink too. And I can see why you’re single,” he replied. “You’re effing crazy.”

“I can see why you’re divorced,” she quipped.

With Jack closing in, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, she backed further away. When he lunged for her Lyndy eluded him, moving to the opposite corner of the room. “Just end this.”

“You’re ten times richer than any of my boyfriends, and yet on balance you aren’t half the man that Ted Crawford, or Kyle Ellis, or Rickman, or even Dale are now. Certainly aren’t as handsome as Dale.”

“Well … well … your hair is bad and that waitress Catherine is way prettier than you,” Jack challenged. He paused catching his breath, knowing the argument had turned farcical.

She huffed the kind of mock chuckles substituting a laugh, because a laugh would have expended far too much energy.  “Alright, alright … ouch,” she replied.

Lyndy allowed the whip to fall to the floor, putting her hand on her hip while she battled another installment of nausea and pain. Preventing an all-out breakdown, she backed to the wall and collapsed in a corner, coming to rest on her right shoulder.

“Can we at least call a truce now?” Jack reasoned, his voice having returned to calmness.

Lyndy nodded in answer, her eyes downcast and set upon the floor.

“Okay then,” said Jack. Using both hands he massaged his brow, chuckling and mouthing, “fouled by the urine of fifty cats…”

“I’m exhausted and metaphors were never a strength of mine,” she whispered.

Using a hand to steady himself, Jack began sidestepping along the horizontal passage, heading to the ladder shaft. “If we get out of here I never want to see you again.”

“Likewise,” she replied, her voice cracking, but following his footsteps.                                            

Catching up mid-way she held out her black pistol by the barrel, offering him the grip side. He glanced down solemnly, asking with his eyes why she would do this.

“This vile thing discharged without a magazine in place. I need you to re-arm it.”

Jack nodded, pulling on it sharply, causing it to emit the familiar click as a new cartridge entered the chamber. Achieving this he passed it back to her without emotion.

He pointed briefly to the mock stairs. “If I balance on that third to last rung, where will you stand?”

“The one higher, crouched but pushing upward. That way I can go first.”

“Okay,” he replied.                                                 

Ascending the iron rungs with renewed vigor—perhaps he wanted to be rid of her—Jack guided himself into position using the tunnel walls for bracing. Satisfied with this perch he rotated his body, putting his back up against the plate, then offered a hand to Lyndy. Her fingers locked with his as he helped her up.

Climbing around and behind Jack, she positioned herself slightly above, with a hand pressing upon the plate hoping to increase their combined leverage. She knew she had to be ready, because assuming they could get this thing to budge, a gun battle might ensue.

Pushing his lower back up against the coarse, rusty steel, he strained his leg muscles— a disgusting and excruciating thing to consider, as she’d seen how scarred up his back had been. She was glad to not see his face, would have had to look away. Teeth clenched, she began to do what she could to help, her whole body shaking. Blood or some mixture dribbled down the sides of Jack’s heaving rib cage, each rib covered in so little bodyfat that the stream arced up and down. He grunted loudly as he struggled and she shut her eyes in disgust.

Feeling her arm begin to throb and her stomach spasm, she didn’t know how long she could hold this position. But then she detected the faintest scraping noise, something she’d not been sure was possible: metal in friction, sliding against a concrete floor.

She felt Jack fighting, trembling so much his body kept brushing against hers. He groaned louder. Then miraculously a whiff of new scent entered her nostrils, the shoe polish odor of the workshop. This combined with the sound and feel of motion was making them both work harder. Little by little, they knew their efforts were succeeding. The sounds of scraping intensified, until at last they’d managed to force it sideways enough to create a 15-inch opening. The gap size was adequate for both of them to squeeze through.

Up above the lights were bright. She’d known there’d be no time for celebration. Before emerging she reached down to unholster the Beretta. Nine bullets.

At the mouth of the tube she set her elbow atop the shop floor. Like a groundhog weary of a circling hawk, she popped her head out, feeling Jack supporting her from below. The lights were dazzling at first.

It’s funny the things which stick in your brain. Those stencils on the side of the Patton tank; she counted ten kills. Truly one hell of a survivor. Chilling.

Unfortunately Take a Chance on Me had returned with a vengeance. On top of this a patter of footsteps, followed by motion and the bang of a door closing, then silence. “The one to the office?” she wondered.

“Someone’s here,” Lyndy whispered to Jack. “Must be Teri.”

The amount of clutter in this space would make it difficult to track somebody. Setting the gun down a moment, she used her arm and knee to lift herself out of the tube. She rose to her feet swiftly, scooping up the gun as she did.

Barely scurrying away, a burst of automatic weapons fire shattered the silence. Having no other choice she dove for the floor under the tank. Her eyes detected traces of movement in the play of shadows near the rolling toolboxes. But the person was out of sight.

Crouching beneath the cannon and extending her elbow, she held her pistol steady at arm’s length. It was too late to find better cover. Another burst came and she watched the muzzle flashes, squeezing the trigger three times, aiming for the source of the gunfire. Empty casings pinged to the floor. The lights flickered again.

“She’s trying to draw your fire,” said Jack, still not able to safely exit. The last of the echoes faded and all went quiet again. Unfortunately Jack was a sitting duck, under the yellowish cone of a bright light.

Rather than wait, extending this game, Lyndy began creeping along the floor near the bogie wheels and toward the aisle side. Ahead, her sightline inches above the floor, she could make out a person’s silhouette, their boots moving near the office. She sheltered by the disassembled tracks.

“I’ve got grenades,” shrieked a woman’s voice.

Lyndy caught her breath. Her heart was pounding again and it was a bad time for that—at least she knew she was alive. From the darkness she watched the door.

“You’re bluffing,” Lyndy responded. I hope.

She heard the clink of an M60 magazine engaging followed by another burst of gunfire, bullets ricocheting off the hard floors and spraying the indestructible armor of the tank. That gun could turn a person into a human colander. Lyndy squinted her eyes as chips of concrete peppered her body, stinging like tiny needles but preferable to bullets. Looking back, she thought she saw Jack’s head poking up.

“Drop the gun,” cried an angry Teri Rawlins.           

“We didn’t come for the money. Just let us go free. It’s all we want,” Lyndy yelled, voice echoing in the room.

“Drop yer gun and I won’t have to use this grenade.”

The sound of footsteps again stomping toward her, twenty feet away. Lyndy got up on one knee, pointing to where she expected to see the silhouette. Behind she heard Jack moving to another position.

“I just pulled the pin.”

Lyndy waited ten seconds then dove, rolling out across the aisle and taking partial cover behind a workbench.

She commenced shooting before she actually had a lock on her opponent—a risk she almost never took. But the grenade must have been a bluff as no explosions followed. Instead, with a screech like a banshee Mrs. Rawlins came charging her direction, the assault rifle pointed ahead of her supported in a shoulder strap. In her other arm she held a green canvas duffel bag. Though Bo’s claim of her death was false, time had been unkind to Teri’s looks.

Teri was headed straight at her with nowhere to escape. Pumping the trigger through the opening in the legs of the workbench, Lyndy watched a bullet tag Teri in the collar bone. Her arm slumped causing her to let go of the bag. But her other armed lifted, and that one had a finger on the trigger of an M60. The same large gap which provided Lyndy the open shot, offered an easy kill to Mrs. Rawlins as well. And she could fire 30 or more rounds, a guarantee of strafing Lyndy. Knowing she was in the line of fire Lyndy figured she’d have at best time for one shot only, so she aimed at the center of Teri Rawlin’s chest. In that same instant Lyndy witnessed Teri being slammed sideways by a massive football-style tackle from Jack. The woman hadn’t been weary of someone attacking from the side, probably not expecting Jack to be up and moving.

Narrowly missing Jack, her one bullet zinged off harmlessly to pierce the hangar doors. Meantime the sound of the tackle was like the crunching of metal, her body being crushed into steel cabinets and though she’d not seen Mrs. Rawlins hit the deck, she knew by the crashing of bodies that Teri would either be gravely injured or dead. The assault rifle fell to the floor.

She heard Jack huffing, spitting something on the floor, then regaining his composure.

“Is she  …” Lyndy trailed off, waiting. Using the bench to steady herself, she clambered back to her feet. With the aid of her mouth again she tightened the makeshift sling.

Jack soon arrived carrying the duffel bag, and the look on his face told her everything she needed to know. Something in his demeanor seemed baleful and Lyndy stayed far away from him as they hurried for the broken door. Once through the door, they realized the night air was moist, and a drizzle falling from a weakened summer storm—an unexpected surprise to cap off every other weirdness of this night.

“Where’s your car?” he questioned.

“I hid it, bout a mile down the road,” she answered. Fearful he might express anger over this inconvenience, or else extract revenge for the ignoble whipping, she held tight to the Beretta. Otherwise she would have holstered it.

But he said nothing, made no complaint, holding tight to the bag full of presumably his safe contents. The Spitfire led the way into the darkened driveway, their path lit only by the glowing perimeter lights.