H Romero - The Girl Who's Made of Leaves - Post Apocalyptic Science Fiction

Eventually, Dr. Valentine’s able to prop herself up on one of the ambulance berths and manages to talk above a whisper. It’s the first time she’s been able to speak since the accident. Rose is relieved.

Major Connors passes Dr. Valentine a bottle of some dark and strong-smelling liquid. Whatever’s in it makes her voice come out in slow motion, and the things she says are funny. And the liquid also makes her sleep a lot too. Rose decides whatever’s in the bottle must be good medicine to make her feel so much better.

The windows on the old ambulance are all rolled down as far as they can be rolled because the summer days are tremendously hot in Texas and it’s stifling inside. Static comes through the sunbaked speakers of the radio. No one has answered the major’s calls, so he’s stopped calling out as often as he did in the beginning. But all at once he sits straight up in his seat, cocks his head to one side and listens for a few drawn out moments.

He grabs the microphone from the dash, holding it, he waits anxiously. At first, the sounds were entirely inaudible to everyone but him. But now, everyone can hear the voice clearly, as it comes through. “…rt Worth Last Command respond. Repeat, this is Fort Worth Last Command Base, respond. Over.”

Major Connors is more excited than Rose has ever seen him be about anything. He presses the button on the side of the mic, “This is Major Connors, Commanding Officer of Camp Able in route to Fort Worth, Last Command Base.”

“God Almighty, I don’t believe my ears. Connors! You old dog. This is Collier.”

“Collier? My God, what are you doing in Fort Worth?”

“Well, it’s Colonel Collier now, and it’s a long story.”

“This is impossible. I find you during the apocalypse, and you outrank me? Now I know this is a nightmare.”

“Just in the right place at the right time, I guess. What’s your position?”

“At best guess, two to three days out from Last Command. Do you have any intel on the terrain or enemy movement between… where are we?” says Connors looking at the map, “Waco and you?”

“Negative. I don’t send men out that far anymore. Just don’t have them to send. I’m down to 13 men and one fat genius.”

“That must be the guy we’re coming to see,” says Connors.

“Yup, that’s the guy. I heard you were looking for someone who might have some insight on some kids. I didn’t know you were coming, but I’m sure glad you are it’ll be good to see you again, Connors.”

“It’ll be good to see you again too, sir” Connors chuckles.

“Your visit is timely, Creighton.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. A few nights ago, we got an odd message from a satellite base we set up in Dallas, a while back. The transmission was cut off, so I don’t know whether it was trouble brewing or not. I sent out a couple men, all we could spare, but haven’t heard hide nor hair from them. I hate to do this to you Creighton….”

“You want us to make a side-trip?”

“Affirmative. I’m really sorry to have to do this to you, Connors, but if you could drive by and wave at the base, that would be great. And tell, O’Riley, I said to send us a bottle of the good stuff.”

“O’Riley? You don’t mean Miles O’Riley?”

“The one and only.”

“I’ll be a son-of-a…. I haven’t seen him since… hey, that reminds me, he still owes me ten dollars.”

“Look, Collier. I mean colonel, I’ve never been one to argue with a superior…”

“The hell you ain’t never, ha, ha,”

“Well, usually, I’ve never… but we’re in no position to make a side trip. With all due respect, I have an injured person. She’s in need of medical attention ASAP. I have one soldier with me, a kid, and a coward, and Dallas takes us way off course.”

Shaw looks as if he could cut Connors in half with his glare, but he goes back to changing Dr. Valentine’s bandages after Connors catches him looking at him.

Static fills the speakers again. Rose thinks they’ve lost the signal, but then the colonel’s voice comes back loud and clear.

“I understand, but there are also civilians there, and we need to make sure they’re as safe as they can be, within reason. There’re some crates there too, and we need those pretty badly. Last I know of the crates they were stored in warehouse number six. They’re marked with my name, and there should be three of them. It would be of special interest to me if you can bring those back, intact.”

Major Connors buries his head in his hand, massaging his face harder than Rose would have thought possible without breaking his cheekbones. “Consider it done. Connors out.”

“Connors, it’s good to know you’re alive.”

“Yeah,” It takes everything Connors has, to say, “You too, sir.”

The major’s not happy. He throws the mic into the windshield and practices his bad words some more. He’s pretty much perfected them. He looks over his shoulder into the back of the ambulance where Dr. Valentine is swaying from drinking too much of the good medicine. Rose smiles at him. She’s surprised because instead of trying to shoot her, he returns a forced smile. She doesn’t know what to do with this now that it happened, so she leans back and rests next to one thoroughly medicated, Dr. Valentine, who falls into the side of the Flying Fish , head first and begins to snore.

Something hits the outside of the ambulance, rocking it with a jolt. The Fish veers to the right, but Sergeant Hollander has things well under control. Rose falls onto Dr. Valentine who rolls out of the berth and onto the floor. Tires screech and hot rubber vaporizes, leaving black smoke to billow above the road behind them.

“What happened?” cries Dr. Valentine. She’s groggy, weaving like a sailboat in a hurricane, but she’s more like the Dr. Valentine Rose remembers.

“I think we hit something,” says Connors.

“No, something hit us,” says Sergeant Hollander. “I think we might’a blew a tire. We gotta pull over and fix it.”

“There,” says Connors, pointing to an abandoned gas station, about a quarter of a mile ahead. “Maybe we can find some food and fuel.”

“And I wouldn’t mind taking a piss,” adds Dr. Shaw.

The Flying Fish closes the distance between them and the station. It limps along like an old man, to a park bench. It rolls into the deserted lot. The gravel crackles and pops beneath the tires as they slow to a stop.

Two, unassuming, fuel pumps grace the exterior drive. Red and blue, plastic flags many torn away, clap in the hot breeze. The smell of rain looms in the air and grey clouds build in the distance. Rose feels a strange drunkenness coming on; she’s an addict for a good storm, and it’s been too long since her last fix. Her mouth and lips feel even drier now because she’s been teased with the rainy smell.

“We need to get the tire changed before those thunderheads up there turn loose on us,” says Connors, pointing west.

Rounding the rear fender of the ambulance the men gather around the flat tire and stare at it without saying a word. The tire yawns, a hole gapes in the side-wall.

“Strange spot to have a blowout,” says Dr. Shaw. “You’d think if we ran over something the damage would be on the treads, not the sidewall; at least you’d think so, anyhow. Right?”

“Like I said,” says Hollander. “we didn’t hit anything, something hit us.”

On closer inspection, they find an evil-looking chunk of steel buried in the rubber. It’s been hammer-forged and sharpened into an effective spearhead. A small part of a splintered shaft is still fixed to the end of it. “This is no accident. This is by design,” Connors says, eyeballing the horizon. “Someone threw this thing and blew the tire.”