Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-21

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: I hate to be the one stereotyping people, but when you find out a man is named Jimmy-John, can’t you just picture in your mind what he looks like?

Somehow ABBA had been subdued and in its place: Vin Scully. But this time it wasn’t in her head, an AM radio was cracking. She could hear the disembodied voice of Vin calling a Dodger game. There were other baffling sounds of chirping doodads, busy people rushing about. Her back was aching, body fixed in an odd position, unable to turn over.

She felt like one of those rotisserie chickens on a spit.

The Spitfire was frightened to open her eyes but did so anyway. Opening drowsily, her vision revealed an otherworldly scene ahead of her: a contented Mr. Chan in a hospital chair, an apparition dressed in a fanciful red Hawaiian shirt—like a modern interpretation of a Daoist monk’s half-robe—calmly slurping hospital Jello from a wax-paper cup with a spoon. Next to him a decorative iron teapot, two dainty porcelain teacups; something he could only have brought from home, as no medical center would permit such an obscure item.

The funny thing about Chan, he was already a ghostly figure. Whether he existed at all, or represented some transitory metaphysical construct apart from reality was a matter worthy of debate. He mostly presented in two localities: the thoroughly drab cinder block structure on Route-66 known as CBB, and the Riverview Trailer Park, where his singlewide trailer backed up along an embankment of the dry Mojave. If Chan had transported himself from the desert to wherever this room was, he’d done so out of necessity—travel to cities outside his cocoon was practically a last option for him.

Twisting her neck to the side, she observed a plaster cast swallowing three-quarters of her left arm, including the fingers up to the nails. It was bound to a metal chain contraption, held in traction at an elevation greater than her heart. Thankfully it meant her arm was still attached and for the time being that was worth celebrating.

Glancing to her right she could see an IV drip, draining through clear plastic tubing to her right hand. Ominous medicinal names were imprinted in a bold courier font on the label. Looking down she saw she was wearing a hideous hospital gown. Considering all this, feeling woozy and fatigued, she knew this was no small thing. Indeed she was fighting for her life.

Her eyes met with Chan’s.

Grinning with raised eyebrows, Mr. Chan passed her a teacup half-full with a brownish liquid. Cradling it shakily, she raised it to her lips, but kept her eyes locked on him.

“Drink, drink,” he commanded.

She sipped about a tablespoon, them grimaced. “God dang, that’s bitter,” she whispered. She sniffed. Unable to control it, tears were clouding her eyes and she rubbed them with her knuckle. “Where’s my purse?”

“Why?”

“I want my makeup kit. I wanna see my face.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh.” Chan chuckled sincerely. “Melinda Martinez, it is a hospital. Everybody look bad in here.”

“What’s wrong with me?” she demanded, tilting her head. “Aside from the obvious.”

He stood up, shuffling closer. “You have infection in bloodstream and bone.” Tapping on the IV. “Doctor want to remove your limb. Save life. But I reason with him. Turns out his family is from China as well. He agree to try this penicillin mixture for few days.”

“Dios mio,” she shuttered, wiping at her eyes. She felt cold.

“Look over there,” said Chan, pointing to a table and large bouquet of yellow flowers.

“Who sent those?”

“The crazy boy who drives around hammering on rocks.”

Lyndy exhaled, amused. “Ah. Kyle Ellis.”

The discomfort was increasing—would have been better to stay unconscious. The tears she could not control were spilling down her cheeks, landing on the bedsheets. Turning her head away to a window with blinds. “What am I gonna do?” she pleaded.

It was intended to be rhetorical, but to Chan, no question was that way.

“What are you going to do?” he echoed. “You must pray. It is the only way. You are young and you will heal.”

She breathed a long sigh. “But what if …” she trailed off. Reaching for a tissue from the nightstand, she began dabbing her face. It sounded childish to continue.

“What?”

“What if you know … the stuff they said is true … that I’m possessed by a demon?”

He did not immediately respond, nor scoff. Instead tilting his chin down, he paced to the window. He pushed aside the vertical blinds, letting in a midday sun so blinding the saturation revealed nothing of the outside view.

“A demon.” Chan chuckled to himself; it was hard to tell whether he was amused at her suggestion, or giving it serious reflection. At last he spoke, “Well, a demon, they are nothing more than fallen angels.”

Huh. Good point.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” she asked. “Aren’t you missing out on business?”

He was still staring at the view. “This place is dangerously unfortified. Your enemies will soon discover you are here, if not already.” He turned to face her. “Look Melinda, if your brother were alive, it would be him staying here until you are better. In his absence, it will be me. Until then, I put Rita in charge.”

She pictured prissy Miss Lovelace, seated on the mahogany desk doling out bonds.

Her eyes fell upon the lunchroom tray, its formed fiberglass cubbies containing items impersonating food. It reminded her of middle school. But nothing looked appetizing and she felt ill just conceiving of a meal. In a few minutes, she drifted off back to sleep, hearing of a bases loaded and the fourth inning.

 

Lyndy Life Observation: Late one night I’m seated alone, depressed, eating a bad waffle in a Blythe area truck stop. For some reason there’s a middle class family eating there too, and I overhear an eight year old kid shout cheerfully: “I wanna be a trucker when I grow up!” Seconds later this grizzly-bear-size trucker with a ZZ-Top beard, gold medallion against his hairy chest and Texas-style, woven straw hat stands up. Then in the deepest, most commanding smoker voice bellows: “Stay in school, kid.”

On older maps these things were called lonesome gods, stone tower monuments built by unknown desert peoples. Some were hundreds, if not thousands of years in age. If you were a pilot and knew where to look, they could be relied upon for crude navigation.

The secrets of this place she didn’t know; as far as she could tell the rockpile had been standing eons and she’d only added to and bolstered its base over time. A few half-buried flat rocks surrounded, perfect for sitting. The stargazing here on the ridge was spectacular, and often when she needed to think, couldn’t sleep, or simply wanted to visit the ashen remains of her late brother, she hiked to this spot.

Its location was six-hundred feet higher than the town and about a half-mile distant from the airstream trailer. An impressive nolina grew here, its leaves slender and rigid with sharp pointed tips, reminding her of Spanish fencing swords.

Pulling her crocheted sweater tighter, as the coolness of the night had taken hold, she wrapped fingers around a square bottle of Herradura. Touching it directory to her lips she sipped about a capful.

Though unable to see her watch, she knew the hour was well after midnight. She could tell this for two reasons: a quarter-moon was rising over the high mountains, and a certain early AM train had blazed through the Amboy crossing, blowing its horn.

Taking another sip of tequila she began to sprinkle dried flower petals around the base, a mixture of primrose and honeysuckle. She pushed back her hair, now in its natural state, circling the monument base on foot. Ever vigilant for scorpions—they inhabited this area in droves—she’d made certain to wear hiking boots.

Gradually the petals dried up, were blown away or carried off by insects. She would bring more.

Her broken arm was in a cast and sling, immobile. The aching was still overwhelming at times—she’d been given a bottle of prescription pills—and if the bones wouldn’t heal straight there was still a chance of amputation or more surgery. Her orders from the doctor had been to rest. Unfortunately, her chosen career path didn’t go well with time out.

Night after night, she’d been having difficulty sleeping. The cause was no mystery. For this reason she’d been partaking in fewer of the painkillers, to prevent herself from becoming drowsy. It was more than one visit she’d made this week to the ridge.

Instinctively The Spitfire knew spiteful men were coming. Chan had felt it too, the reason he’d been so uncharacteristically helpful at the hospital. But ultimately no one could protect her from every eventuality. Lyndy felt like the tortoise must have felt while teetering on his back.

And that’s when she saw the low beams. They crested the shallow rise at Chambliss, traveling below the speed limit, alone as they were on an arrow straight road. She might have fancied a cigarette, and though the risk was slight, she was afraid to reveal her position.

Nobody sane would drive this way. It was the middle of the night, on a dark highway. Like the song said—a dark, desert highway. And low beams? Huh. There were cows out there, they slept in the road because it was warm. Other animals too. Why not take the interstate?

She observed them for a period of minutes. She would have bet money on it being an American car, but too far to sort out the motor. Her hand slipped to the cold steel grip of the Beretta. It was armed, having been cleaned and reloaded since the shootout at Bo’s repair business.

Days after the drama a telegram arrived at her door. It contained a perforated check attachment. She’d expected some word from Jack Decklin, a half-assed apology maybe. But instead it bore the moniker of a Miss Illyria Jameson. That was his secretary.

Very lawyer like, she explained the check, written in the sum of fifteen-thousand dollars was to cover any further medical expenses, and also to settle the investigative services on the Jackrabbit Homesteader sanction. A prepayment had already been made to the Loma Linda hospital, and no further monies were coming. Depositing this check was considered an honorable agreement to aforementioned terms. And finally, she was to package up and return a steel-cased Rolex watch. Good thing Lyndy hadn’t pawned it.

She’d made it to the bank in a cloud of dust with cartoon-like speed. Lyndy’s next stop had been the sporting goods store, to buy ammo. And then to Darrel’s, to pay him for parts.

She sipped more tequila, rising to her feet. The vehicle slowed as it approached an intersection for the Amboy cutoff. Then it did an even more curious thing. The person driving shut off their lights entirely. If she listened close she could hear the exhaust note, coming in waves then fading when the wind direction became unfavorable.

Why must it always be left to The Spitfire to finish things?

There was still time to escape, sneak off to the hills, wait it out. Tempting to run from one’s problems. But that solution was a band-aid, keeping you living in fear.

The next question was how many.

Near the school complex a series of dirt roads trended north, most of them unmarked where they intersected 66. Here were a collection of tamarisk trees, about the only cover in town. She assumed that’s where they were ditching the car. A tiny flash of light confirmed their presence—a dome or trunk light perhaps—and then nothing. The sound of the motor was gone. No way to tell how many were coming.

 

Several minutes later …

Her early morning congested voice rose above the din of crickets. “I hate finding trash on my property,” she said softly, yet loud enough for Chet and two companions to hear.

They’d expected her to be indoors at this hour, asleep. Normal stuff. Their kicking up dust as they spun around to face her, confirmed this belief. Their plot was foiled.

The scene was vague, only outlines of figures could be discerned, but no question who was confronting who. She was standing by a middle-height mesquite tree, grinning to greet them if they could only see her face.  Her gun was drawn, pointed earthward, fingers clenched tight on the grip. A gap of fifty feet separated her from the adversaries.

She knew it was Chet for a funny reason, his capped teeth were glinting in moonlight. His helpers had longer firearms, size of shotguns, but Chet clutched a polished revolver—in profile appearing like a Ruger Security-Six—double action, taking magnum cartridges. Street toughs didn’t bother with guns like this. Sucker was loud as hell, difficult to conceal, easy to trace. Then again, in the dark she could be mis-IDing it. A frightened man would bring whatever his best was.

“I wouldn’t think less of you all if you ramble on,” she announced, speaking mainly to Chet’s companions. “Ask yourself, is it worth the risk? Feeling like a coward, versus dying out here in the wild for some fool’s revenge. Bo Rawlins is dead. Matt Wallach is in a shitty bare soil graveyard. Who do you think put him there?”

Chet shifted, his eyes quickly darting to each of his companion, wondering whether he’d misjudged their loyalty. He took a breath. “How’s that busted arm healing up?” he inquired with a nod of the head.

Surprisingly, the men in the shadows were holding their ground, as was she.

She jerked her head to the side. “Well, not so good if I’m honest. Sad, but my best origami days are behind me.”

Chet didn’t laugh, but one of his pals snorted, clearly trying to suppress a chuckle. “I got another question for you Spitfire.” He gestured to his partners. “I think you’ve got our motives wrong Miss Martinez. We were coming here to check on your welfare, knock on your door, see if you needed anything. If you kill one of us, how are you gonna explain to the sheriff what happened?”

“Nice try. I don’t think he or anyone else would buy that,” she chuckled, her index finger slipping down, coming to rest lightly on the trigger.

“Tell me this bitch, how you gonna bury 3 grown men with only one arm?”

“Very slowly,” she thought.

She could see the belt of Orion above their outlines, blue Alnitak twinkling brightly.

Cue triumphant ranchera music.

“Trust me gentlemen. You all don’t need to worry about me ever again,” she assured. “I’ll be alright. I have a strong feeling my grave digging days are just getting started.”

The sound of a train horn pierced the night air. A banging of guns and flash of light. She squeezed on the trigger twice. A fast projectile swished her sweater out. Chet fell back with a thud. Smell of gunpowder tickled her nostrils.

His companions were still vertical, but they took one look at one another, then turned tail and bolted off running.

Checking her sweater she saw that there was a circular hole, singed by the shock wave of a .357 magnum, but feeling around her waist she’d suffered no flesh wounds.

 

Next morning at dawn, the black-winged birds had taken to air. Tortoise could see them soaring as he strolled along his morning route, the perimeter of his territory. But it was not for him they flew.

Munching on a pencil cactus he felt a vibration in the dirt, which was odd, since he was a mile and a half from the nearest paved road. It was unremitting and the tempo didn’t match anything he was used to, making him nervous and weary. Humans were up to something; his first guess a new development.

Curiosity getting the better of him and in his steady manner, he began to amble nearer to the source of this activity, using the circling birds as a beacon. The rumbles became louder, accompanied by a scraping of metal on rock.

Cresting a hummock, lingering in the shade of a chokecherry, his old eyes witnessed the female human, one who wore dark colors and the violet lipstick.

She had a shovel in hand, perspiration dripping down and her soaked shirt was unbuttoned all the way to her navel, resting on her lower shoulder, just a black bra covering her top—her brown skin moist and dark from the sun. She was standing in a deep hole with sides up to her hips, pants rolled up and she was digging. Clearly those birds were hoping she’d fail, maybe croak of exertion herself. And though her body was small, her build slight compared to a man’s, her muscles and back had a look of steel resiliency. Knowing what he did about this girl, he felt they’d be wiser to give up on any notions of an easy meal. This human would not stop until a task was finished. This human would never stop.

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.

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-19

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: If life is a giant game of chess, then I made some pretty rotten opening moves.

Bo was hobbling again, trouble in his hips. The odd item he’d been clutching unraveled, plummeting quickly to the floor. From where Lyndy was crouching it appeared like a thick extension cord, black and somewhat reflective.

As hellish as Camp Pinegate was known to be, one had to admit valuable life experience could be gained there. Warden Dixon had pitted her against some far superior athletes. They had taught her a lesson or two. Sometimes it was simply, how to lose and live to tell about it. Other times it was the nature of people. The more insecure an adversary, the more likely they were to launch all their best attacks early on, and at once. Thus if she could survive through the first round, the opponent would show far less energy in subsequent ones. Over time she’d become sensitive to this. It was the way she’d triumphed over a so-called Olympic boxing hopeful. The Spitfire just needed to keep from falling unconscious.

“I must remember to breath,” she told herself.

“Me and that ol’ cripple Steve, we’ve had our differences in the past,” spoke Bo in an irritated tone. She watched as he twirled his wrist. Now she could see it was a bullwhip he was holding. Bo snapped it against a wall. “We two used to work together. But really, I was hoping ya’ll might stick it on the bastard Brennik. Drives the same truck as us, and believes in every dang government conspiracy theory ever conceived.”

The tunnel lights flickered, the electric crane sapping energy. From below they could hear the buzzing as it unwound. It had a surprising rhythm to it, like a ticking watch with two slow beats and then a fast.

“But … but I liked you Bo,” she moaned. “I defended you to Jack.” Her hand was inching nearer to the Beretta. Ever so subtle, yet the fingers were quaking. With one rapid motion she would need to undo a snap, then palm the grip.

Meantime Bo kept advancing. She could feel warm tears forming in both her eyes, unsure whether they were due to pain, fear or disappointment. She knew this much: the Beretta was armed.

Rapidly as she could The Spitfire unholstered the gun, tugging it loose and straightening her good arm in the direction of Mr. Rawlins. In a flash the business end of the whip raked across her elbow, stinging like a scorpion tail; and though it didn’t coil all around, her shaky grip let loose. To her horror the matte-black 9-mm went sailing, landing six feet away and skidding impossibly out of reach.

Bad luck.                                                                                                 

For a fellow of his stature and condition, Bo’s reflexes were keen. If only the holster hadn’t been secured she felt she would have beaten him.

He quickly waddled to the spot where the gun landed, grunting as he bent over, clearly a painful thing to do. Then he pinched the barrel of the Beretta between two fingers, lifting it.

Bo cleared his throat. “Them fellas tell me you’re possessed by a demon. Any truth to the rumors?” She watched as he held the gun arm’s length from his body, released the clip and allowed the magazine to smack onto the floor. It was the sound of her plan failing.

Slowly she shook her head, following him with her deep brown eyes. Her left wrist was throbbing. She sniffed as tears began to pool, letting loose, sliding down one cheek. “I don’t suppose you have any more of those cold sodas do you?” she asked.

Bo stared at her unamused, locking eyes.

“What’s become of Jack?” she squeaked.

“Dead and buried.”

The steel plate landed with a sudden crash and blast of air. The ladder exit—possibly the only way out—had been sealed.

She felt herself hyperventilating. “Look Bo, as you can see I’m hemorrhaging blood. I’m dying.” Her voice became a whisper. “So I’ll let you in on a secret I’ve never told anyone.”

He paused, still roughly eight feet distant, waiting but skeptical.

“What you’ve heard is true. Demons are real and I’m possessed by one. Its name is … is … Mabel Dixon.”

In many ways, a fitting name for a demon.

Bo tilted his head. He still held the gun in one hand, the bull whip by the other; a single loop one foot in radius curled on the floor. “Ain’t never heard a demon by that name.”

“Well now you have. Do you wanna meet this demon?” she offered.

“Why? What sort of game are you playing?”

“Not a game. I can’t control it. I promise as I die, you will meet the demon.” She began to inject more of a drawl and hissing into her speech. Her only reference was how demons talk in movies, a limited bank of experience.

An amused look came over him. “Cut the crap, Spitfire. What a joke.”

“You gotta come closer,” she coaxed.

She started to make her eyes roll up in her skull, showing more of the whites.

He came nearer, crouching. “I didn’t wanna kill ya. You’re worth a lot of money to right people. Maybe I can get something for your corpse?”

“Closer Bo, the demon has something to say.”

“Stop messing around,” he demanded, but he was listening.

“Curious about demons are you?” she hissed. Her fingers wrapped tight round the knife and she plunged it into Bo’s ribcage, underneath his left shoulder, keeping it parallel to the floor to maximize likelihood it would pass between ribs. A look of shock and anger came across his face.

He slammed a fist into her ear and she squinted. For a moment one pain superseded the other, her skull hurting greater than her snapped wrist. Meantime Bo reached for the handle of the bowie knife, wincing as he extracted it from his torso.

Knowing Bo was distracted she reached down and grabbed his hand, the one holding the gun. She slipped her finger over the trigger and squeezed, sending the sole chambered bullet into Bo’s right thigh, in one side and out the other.

The cracking of the gun reverberated so loudly her ears went numb—like being in close proximity to a celebration cannon—as slivers of the parabellum zinged from the walls.

Bo slumped over, clutching his knee and screeching like an animal. Indeed being shot through the thigh, having a shattered bone that way would put anyone in shock. Now the Beretta was truly empty and she needed to reload the magazine.

First she needed to extricate herself. She was battling waves of nausea. Placing one knee atop her good right arm, she let her fingers wrap around the trap handle. Then biting her lip until she tasted blood, she used her leg to aid in leverage as she forced the handle into the trap-set position. Grimacing and straining with everything she had left, she felt the trap beginning to scrape open.

As the jaws of the trap released tension, the blood from her injury began to flow more freely and pool on the floor. In spite of the discomfort, she pitched back away from the trap, feeling relief just being able to stand. Her left arm was mangled and useless. She felt another wave of nausea and gagged. Her stomach unable to hold its contents, she hurled on the floor.

Catching her breath, outfit now splattered in vomit, she stared at Bo. He was writhing on the floor, clutching his leg with both hands and bleeding profusely from double wounds. Soon he started to choke, unable to speak or scream. The one under his shoulder was the gravest of the two injuries, and likely she’d pierced a lung. She’d seen a man or two get stabbed this way and unless it happened a stone’s throw from an operating room, there was hardly a chance of coming back from it. Bo was a goner. On the other hand, her situation was no better and in some ways she envied his easy way out. A disgusting compound fracture like the one in her wrist would take longer, but could kill as easily—just meant an extended period of suffering.

Being trapped in a fallout shelter and bleeding out, if ever there was a time to panic it was now. Except she had no time.

The Spitfire knew she needed to fashion a tourniquet desperately. Perhaps she could repurpose something from Bo’s belt, or a section of the whip? Bo continued mumbling things unintelligible amidst gurgles, his eyes wide and vacant, as frothy blood foamed from his open mouth. He kept twitching too, making her uncomfortable.

As she re-holstered the gun, Lyndy looked down at him with a twinge of pity. “Sorry dude, but you left me no other choices.” Still out of breath, whilst reaching down to retrieve the full magazine she added, “and say hi to the devil for me.”

Lyndy Life Observation: Know how they have those famous 24-hour wedding chapels in Las Vegas? I would love to find out the percentage of those spur-of-the-moment marriages which actually lasted. Do you think ten percent? Too high?

“Must concentrate,” she told herself.

Haunted by weariness, a pop tune had somehow invaded her psyche, planting itself in her brain: Take a Chance on Me by ABBA. “Oh god. Please not now,” she thought, as the piano kicked in. Catchy, but entirely the wrong moment.

With shock setting in, Lyndy recognized she may be losing her grip. Every exposed skin surface had become shiny with excess perspiration. Her head felt heavy, her view of the room clouded and reasoning hazy.

Panting, she glanced around, her eyes darting. The corridor was sealed and how many backyard fallout shelters had more than one entry and exit? None that she’d ever seen. Might as well be a tomb.

She could try pressing against the steel plate but she already knew the outcome; even with two functioning arms and her legs straining, the plate hadn’t budged. The thought of raising it from beneath was unfathomable in her condition. “I’m really in deep shit now.”

Her broken wrist was throbbing, hanging too low down below her heart; she needed to do something. It was breaking her concentration.

Observing Bo, she could tell he’d ceased twitching. She poked at his ribs with her boot. A fresh dribble of blood flowed from his mouth, but otherwise he didn’t react. Heart must have stopped.

Crouching down, The Spitfire grabbed hold of his work shirt. Twisting the flap around her hand to obtain a better grip, she jerked her right arm. At first it was stuck under the weight of Bo. She yanked harder throwing her full body into it, finally causing the buttons to loosen or snap. The shirt ripped with three-quarters breaking free, leaving one sleeve behind and the hairy white body of Mr. Rawlins uncovered.

She cradled her left arm at the elbow, drawing the smelly shirt around her neck like a shawl. Using her mouth and her hand, she tied the sleeve into a crude overhand knot.

In another pulse of surging pain seeming to radiate up her torso, she bent at the hips and tucked her good arm across her navel. Nothing could allow her to continue during these. Paralyzed, she was forced to squint and endure this episode. Her strength was fading fast.

Once on the down swing and able to move again, Lyndy began to explore, staggering wearily to the square room. As she’d anticipated it was a dead end, the bleak chamber having poured concrete walls on all sides, only one way in or out—like a death row prison cell. A busted transistor radio, plastic buckets and ammo cans populated the corners, plus a spartan metal shelf. Nothing remotely useful—not like dynamite or a plasma torch. One small vent in the ceiling roughly four inches diameter. What she wouldn’t give for a clean dry towel to absorb her blood.

A pile of dirty blankets littered the floor, taking up the middle. It smelled strongly of human piss and the concrete floors were stained. Near to this a dog bowl, rust colored water.

“Ay-ay-ay,” she mouthed, rushing back to the rebar ladder and surface tube. With one arm she started climbing. At a high rung three from the top, Lyndy balanced uneasily, having to lean into the wall. Then reaching up she pressed her palm flat against the steel. The thought of moving it this way was laughable, obviously no give at all. Ascending an extra step, contorting her body, she tried pushing her upper back against it. But it seemed risky, inviting a bad fall. Plus she was unable to apply much force. This situation was hopeless.

“Dang, if only I had Jack here,” she whispered. “But he’s dead like Bo.”

Moving sloth-like, yet intermittently having to jerk her arm between the rungs Lyndy descended. Touching boots to the floor, she gazed back in the direction of the big square room. Glancing at her makeshift sling she could see the fingers were turning an ugly shade of purple. It was becoming difficult to stand.

“What sane guy marries a chick with just one working arm? Scratch that. What sensible fellow dates a one-armed girl?” she shuddered.

Personality wasn’t going to make up for this deficit. Let’s face it. My personality is crap. But I will save big money on manicures.

With a closed fist she smacked herself in the forehead four times. “Get. It. Together. Spitfire,” she muttered, emphasizing as if each word were its own sentence.

Chest heaving, she continued gazing to the square room and the pile of blankets. She sniffed. “This shithole smells horrid. Why?” she thought. It wasn’t Mr. Rawlins—too soon for that. She got a sinking feeling. If horror movies had taught her anything, then something was lurking under there. A corpse? A monster? Jimmy Hoffa?

Tilting her head, Lyndy at last marched up to the pile of blankets. Reaching down gripping by an edge, she swiped the uppermost off like one would a tablecloth. Underneath was another blanket. She frowned. As uncomfortable as it was, triggering yet another wave of intense pain, she squatted as low as possible. She then went down on her knees to become more eye level with the clutter.

“Jack Decklin?” she whispered.

“What,” came a weak reply from the darkness.

Her spirit was reeling. “Holy crap! Have you been here this entire time?” At first she was thrilled just not being alone. Were the situation any less dire her heart would have rejoiced for this reason. But something seemed offbeat.

Like a frightened tortoise Jack extended his head in a guarded fashion from underneath his pile of blankets, craning his neck to peek around.

Was his memory wiped? Did he know who he was? “Mr. Decklin,” she repeated, a little louder. His eyes were vacant.

“Lyndy,” he replied.

“Yes. Yes. Can you stand? Walk I mean. Can you walk?”

Sullenly Jack shook his head. “No. Too weak.” Reaching out with two fingers he clawed back the blanket she’d moved aside. His face was blackened with dirt.

“Why? What’s happened? Are you paralyzed?” she asked.

“They captured me, tortured me with a chain. I fell prey to one of their damn booby traps.” His voice was raspy, breathing irregular, face looking feverish. “I keep passing out so they stopped … temporarily.” He nodded to the upstairs. “My back is one big open wound and now I have an infection. Haven’t eaten in days. I think they had plans for me, but Bo couldn’t transport me. I’m too ill. Every time they touch me I start screaming and lose consciousness.”

“But you realize Bo’s dead now?” Lyndy pointed to the end of the passage. “I killed him. I was forced to; him or me. So let’s go.”

Jack barely acknowledged her.

“What happened to your gun?”

He grinned to himself. “I pulled the trigger to shoot Bo and it jammed, like a stovepipe where the previous cartridge stuck in position. Worst possible timing.” He sounded sheepish as he spoke the words. “Got any smokes on you?”

She laughed, partly from the absurdity of it all. “Oh man, you’re kidding.” Getting back on her feet she saw blood, a dark claret red, soaking through the makeshift sling. She felt her life force depleting. “Okay, we should catch up later. Listen, with Bo out of the picture, how many people do you suppose are still upstairs?”

Jack inhaled and winced, as though in agony. “What time of day is it?”

His eyes remained shut now. He smelled repugnant, and she’d still not forgotten the story Leonard Mack had told her.

“It’s after dark, probably nine-thirty at night,” Lyndy replied.

“It’ll be only Teri Rawlins now. They sleep in a trailer out back. Watch out, she’ll be armed.”

The shift in personality was dramatic and what little she could discern, revolting. He’d once projected the strength of a male who could handle anything. Now Jack seemed reduced to a whimpering toddler. A part of her felt sorry, but she felt so many conflicting emotions at once, she wasn’t sure what to think. And anyway there was no time for this nonsense.

“We have to get out of here as soon as possible. I’m literally dying and at this rate I won’t make it through the night. You’re not long for this world either. One way or another, we’ve both got to move.”

“Teri won’t move that plate for love or money … or anything.”

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-18

Lyndy Life Observation: How come diesel pump handles are always filthy? Seriously, every dang time. It’s one of the major drawbacks to owning a diesel engine.

She listened carefully for activity, a door creaking, a window, a radio, anything human. There was nothing but insects and the wind. She felt confident the last remaining worker had gone home for the night, but now a new problem: the locked door.

Her older brother used to boast that he looked forward to passing away. Often she wondered if it was really true, or a kind of false bravado. It sounded like the sort of thing one would hear on the streets Hermosillo uttered by a wanna-be gunslinger. There were a lot of those.

Ducking her head, she dashed across the exposed terrain to the shadowy steel building. Scanning along the east-west flank she detected no movement, then gradually approached the rear exit. Earlier she’d checked whether the hangar door was open, even a crack, but alas it was a no-go. Above the fans were spinning.

She rested her hand upon the holster, a move to comfort herself as she waited for her breathing and heart rate to stabilize. So far it seemed too easy; no one to spring on her from a hidden cover.

The skyline was hazy, shades of orange, mountains a black outline.

Stiffening her back and shoulders, The Spitfire curled her fingers round the metal knob, suffering repeated waves of doubt. Perhaps this theory was all in her head and she was rushing in on an innocent person—startling or waking him from a snooze—causing Bo to shoot her by accident, in surprise. A pretty dumb way to go, breaking and entering on the wrong person, tarnishing her record.

But she shook off her self-doubt. No single factor pointed to the guilt of Bo Rawlins, it was a combination. Sometimes certainty was elusive; the way of things in this business. Thus one needed both evidence and intuition. But there was a big reason for coming here. Jack had gone missing. The one individual who’d openly expressed a distaste for him was Mr. Rawlins.

Bo had the means. He had the weapons, a partner and a getaway vehicle. If her theory was correct he had a motive too. This place remained her best shot.

She squeezed the lock, twisting the knob side to side. There was minimal play, at most a degree or two. One of those nice commercial lock sets, not some el cheapo hardware store copy intended for houses. Unfortunate because it was an expensive mechanical set to perish at the hand of a Martinez, but so be it.

From her pocket she extracted a used tobacco tin, skinny and 2.5 inches long.

Jack would owe her mightily for this act … assuming he was alive; her fee was going up. She took a breath, attentive and listening again. The breeze was picking up in intensity. One positive of a perm, no wild hairs flying in her face while she worked.

Crouching eye level with the keyhole Lyndy wove together strands of copper thermite, each the diameter of spaghetti noodles. Demolition was a specialty at CBB. Although Mr. Chan was famous for smashing a wall or two—Kool Aid man style—she preferred the exothermic chemical reaction approach. Besides, he nearly doubled her in mass.

These types of industrial locks were designed to thwart the average picker. The springs were extra stiff, so it took patience and was an artform threading the thermite deep enough. But after several minutes passed she reasoned she’d packed enough in.

Lyndy wiped her forehead then dried her palms on her shorts. Now for the fun part: she unfolded a foil gum wrapper. Inside, a single stormproof match of the type sold at yuppy camping retailers, mainly to city folk. These matches burned hotter than the paper kind used to light cigarettes, enough to ignite the thermite. Regular matches from a gas station wouldn’t.

Against the wall she struck the matchstick, a swift snap of the wrist action.

The match, held at arm’s length began to puff smoke and crackle like a firework on 4^th of July. She turned her head, shielding her face while she touched the match to the keyhole. A flash of white light followed, punctuated by a shower of sparks extending several feet from the door. The fire burned bright as a welder’s torch and sounding like a pair of Spanish maracas. In the time it took to sing the birthday song blue flames consumed the copper thermite, hopefully in the process turning the brass inner workings to a metal sludge. While still warm, she lifted a heavy axle-shaft off the racks—convenient substitute for a hammer, roughly four feet in length—and raised it above her head like an axe. Squinting her eyes she slammed down the rod as hard as she could, letting the mass do the work.

You know how they say a cute young couple has chemistry? Well this was the kind her and her ex-fiancé Deputy Keynes had.

Opening her eyes she saw white brass metal fragments littering the ground, other lock parts had fallen inward. The knob was dented and partially bent. She was committed. She let go of the shaft, dropping it to the concrete.

Unholstering the Beretta she gripped the slide firmly and tugged, arming it.

The door now slumped, beginning to creak open by a half inch. She pointed the gun at the crack, prepared for anything. Keeping alert she used two fingers to coax the door wider. Then with her boot she hooked it even broader, to 45 degrees.

Peering indoors she could see only a quarter of the ceiling fixtures were on. Looming above, the ominous outline of a Patton tank turret. “Hola, Chan’s Bail Bonds,” Lyndy breathed. Freezing in place, she waited to see if anyone would pounce. Still nothing. No longer hearing coyotes she glanced over one shoulder. Out here, even someone lighting off dynamite sticks wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.

Keeping the gun pointed ahead she slipped through the doorway into the darkened workshop. Secured with both arms, she held her index finger near but not resting on the trigger. By now an assailant could approach from multiple directions, and some areas were in shadow. Her heart was racing, hummingbird-like.

To her left along the south-facing wall were toolboxes and work stations. At the far end, in the corner and near the hangar doors was the boss’s office, glassed-in. She knew it was Bo’s. Although a light was on, it was impossible to tell if someone was lurking inside.

She lowered the gun an inch, freeing up her right hand.

On an I-beam support near to the destroyed door she found a square panel with four twistable light switches, oversized for a person wearing welding gloves. She picked one of these at random, twisting it all the way to max. Half the overhead lights flickered to life, one of them buzzing loudly. Reflexively she backed against the wall, but no one came. She picked another and the light in the office became twice as bright.

Concern was mounting inside her. Without cause, it appeared she’d unlawfully entered a business. She was becoming doubtful of Jack’s presence and Bo never said he lived here, not exactly. Maybe he had a normal house somewhere else in the valley.

“Jack?” she called out. Her voice echoed within the expansive. No response.

Lyndy jogged a beeline down to the office. At the door she kicked hard as she could, bursting through with her gun alternately aiming at both desks. Ducking down she searched the areas underneath, sweeping back and forth by 90 degrees to clear the sides. Save for a few old telephone books the space was uncluttered and empty.

No stray cups of coffee or ash trays. No lunch boxes. No pens or paper. Everything in its place. Why?

The Spitfire backed out onto the shop floor. It might take all night to clear this place. Too many vehicles, too many side buildings, heaps of car parts. Too many excellent hiding places.

The Spitfire paced her way underneath the long cannon. From there she could see a print reflecting in the light, the young woman in the bathing suit. Mrs. Rawlins was it?

“Jack!” she cried out again and lowered her gun to waist level, letting her arms rest.

She leaned back at the hips, tilting her gaze to the rafters. Twenty-five feet above the light was still buzzing, a dimmer shade of orange, contained in a hemispherical globe lens cover and protected in a metal cage. Next to this an overhead crane system. Its weight limit clearly marked with black on yellow lettering: four tons. Certainly not enough to move a tank.

Lyndy followed the steel cable with her eyes to a hook dangling mid-air. If one were to drop a line down from this hook straight to the floor it would intersect a steel plate resting flat, same kind used to bridge trenches on city roads. That was interesting.

Re-holstering the gun, she dashed to this panel and knelt there with both knees. It was roughly the dimensions of a plywood roofing sheet. In the center was a shackle loop, hard welded with a carveout and pivots allowing it to lay flat against the floor—otherwise it would be a trip hazard. Looking up, she could see the hook could be attached here without swaying much. Also there were tiny thimble-size holes here and there, darkness below.

Lyndy smooched the back of her hand, holding it moist side down against the holes. She felt cooler air escaping and snatched her hand away. This was definitely not normal.

Creepy music starting now.

She knew this type of crane would have beefy switches for operation, high amperage cables and oversize control buttons the size of milk caps. She scanned the walls with both eyes for anything comparable. Nothing of the sort was visible. The wire bundles were leading to a wall mounted junction box, high up out of reach.

The plate itself was three-quarter inches thick and perhaps five feet long by four feet wide. Mild steel weighed a third pound per each cubic inch of material. She had no pen and paper, but reasoned 12*4*12*5 was a sizeable number. Even multiplied by 3/10.

Wanting to test the weight anyway she went into a catcher’s squat. Holding her right ring, middle and index fingers together, she passed them through the shackle. She did the same with her left. Knowing most of the work would be done by her legs she tested the mass, seeing if there was a snowball’s chance of sliding it. But even with every leg and back muscle straining, huffing and holding breath—absolute limits of her power—the plate wouldn’t shift a millimeter; felt like Thor’s hammer welded to the floor. Had to be over 275 pounds. She put her hands on her lower spine. Good thing her back was young.

Lyndy stood up in defeat, hoofing it to the office. This time she flipped all the desk lamp switches, making the room even brighter. She could see bundles of wire extending into the ceiling. The whole joint was wired for 50-amps. Yet much of it was out of reach, blocked by metal cabinets and shelving weighed down by junk. She couldn’t follow any of it at floor level. This building was vexing. One didn’t want to mess with an electrical system which could fry you like a crispy critter.

She hadn’t told Chan she was coming here, worried he may try to talk her out of it.

Returning to the plate and shackle she reasoned all she really needed was to slide the plate horizontally by a foot or two, not up and down. An everyday winch could do the job, and fortunately she was in a room full of old military vehicles.

Twelve feet away were the pair of vintage J8 Jeeps on blocks. One had been fitted with an aftermarket power take off style winch in front. These winches utilized direct mechanical connection to the transmission. She stepped up onto a block of wood, standing on her toes while examining the engine bay. Inside was a so-called “dauntless” V-6, but the six-volt battery was missing from its compartment. She might be able to scavenge one, the other mechanicals were present. Then she noticed the distributer cap and her heart sank: its rotor arm and contacts were corroded and rusted solid. The chances of getting this motor running were nil, even for a well-trained mechanic.

Disappointed, fearing failure, her eyes fell upon the cargo bed. Suddenly she spotted something familiar, with darkened red paint coated in decades of dust and grime. Reaching inside, brushing off loose dirt and cobwebs she unearthed the one prize that could save this operation. A Wyeth Scott more-power puller. Farmers loved those.

“Okay, we can work with this,” she whispered, reaching in to retrieve the heavy cast iron manual winch. Those things were tedious and primitive, but surprisingly effective. Given enough time one could get a Jeep unstuck from a ditch.

She loosened the winch allowing it to unspool while visualizing the plan in her mind. With one end of the puller hooked to a tow point on the Jeep, using it as the anchor, she attached the other end to the pop-up shackle on the steel floor plate. Then she locked the ratcheting mechanism in place, linking it to the bull gear.

Lyndy changed her stance, spreading her feet apart to achieve a rock-solid footing.

It created a unpleasant noise, but she found the process of cranking the handle back and forth a bit like rowing in place. The braided steel went taught; sections were rusty and fraying. She feared it may snap. But soon the plate began to move accompanied by a hideous screech. Seeing some progress made her work harder, repeatedly pulling then pushing the grungy handle. Each cycle resulted in another half inch gained.

Once it had slid roughly eighteen inches, she let go of the handle to check on progress. If she held her arms close and breathed in, there was enough space to squeeze in the hole. Kneeling by the opening she saw that the shaft had a depth of no more than ten feet.

A ladder constructed of iron rebar allowed one to descend, kind of like a pool exit, but diffuse light from the main floor illuminated only a blank cone on the lower level, and one could observing nothing of what was beyond.

Not wanting to overthink or give herself an out—because this rescue mission seemed more and more risky—she hiked up her shorts and re-secured the gun holster. Then taking a breath, she lowered her boots, one after another onto the top rung of the ladder. Next, hand over hand she began to drop into the square shaft, until her head was the only part of her left sticking up. The Spitfire took one last look around, wishing she’d brought a flashlight, then dipped into the tunnel.

On each rung, the rebar had been flattened and embossed with a diamond plate pattern to prevent slippage. She down-climbed swiftly, knowing the ladder put her in a vulnerable position and skipped the bottom rung entirely.

Landing on both feet, Lyndy spun around to face the darkened passageway. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and not as much was revealed as she hoped. Near all the light was coming from the shaft above and bouncing diffusely. Wishing she possessed the abilities of a cat in the dark, she squinted to see down a hallway which was arched like a sewer tunnel, leading to a larger room with a square opening. This bunker could only have one purpose: it had been a fallout shelter dating to the Cuban missile crisis. Everything fit.

The Spitfire felt for the walls. Up ahead in the larger space, there were indications of items on the floor, possibly a pile of blankets or clothing. She reached in her pocket for the lighter and holding the flame in front of her, she proceeded along the wall, toward the objects.

“Jack?” she whispered. Clearing her throat, she spoke louder: “Jack, is it you?”

That’s when a confusing event happened. She tripped, stumbled front ways and heard a startling crash as she landed, like one of those metal cellar doors abruptly being slammed on itself. Simultaneously she felt something clamping ahold of her left wrist. She assumed at first someone had seized her from beneath, thus she tried yanking her arm back, but it was obviously caught, immobilized. Then a horror came over her, a fear so visceral and raw she’d scarcely experienced anything comparable in life—and she worked for Chan. A wave of panic hit her nervous system.

Now she could see what terrible thing happened, it was a monstrous booby trap, corroded and old; her arm had been captured in an antique wolf trap, placed on the floor in this exact location specifically to ensnare someone. One needn’t have seen a cruel wolf trap in person to recognize one. She felt hot blood oozing down her wrist, dripping on her useless fingers. Her skin gashed, only the bones, themselves broken, prevented her arm from being severed. With all this realization, she was surprised how little she felt.

Moments later a lamp clicked on in the tunnel, near the square room.

Next came the hurt, a stabbing pain radiating all the way to her shoulders and making her feel like vomiting. She fumbled for a release mechanism and indeed one side of the wolf trap exhibited a lever which needed to be pressed down to the floor, to release the upper jaws. She was in an unfortunate position, as the leverage required was too great. Despite her straining, she was having trouble getting the rusty non-oiled mechanism to budge. Were she able to stand, her body weight could have provided the necessary leverage.

This would be the worst time for one of those fainting spells.

She tested her grip, squeezing harder on the handle and trying to get her knee in position to help with the plunge, except every movement of her body caused a new wave of pain to travel up her arm—even a breath.

From the end of the passage she heard the voice of Bo: “I wish you wouldn’t have come.”

The lamp glow at the large room was dazzling and she could only see an outline of the man. He was stepping towards her.

“Them sons-a-bitches supposed to catch you in the legs, not an arm,” he remarked. He was holding something in his right hand, not a gun, more like a baton and a coiled rope. “You must be pretty darn clumsy to get stuck that-a-ways. Yer arm is toast.”

Bo slapped his fist against the tunnel wall and shouted: “Close it up!”

From the opening she could hear the whirring of the crane, moving into position and unspooling. “Crap,” she thought. These events were connected.

Gradually she slid her right hand nearer to the thigh holster, as Bo was closing in. “Did you send someone to kill me at the rest stop?” she questioned.

Bo chuckled. “That fool had three dudes and you were all alone, without a weapon.”

She groaned. “So you were trying to pin this on Project Genesis all along?”