Jason Frost - Badlands

Greene and Dobbs didn't hesitate. They began hollering for others from camp, dropping to the ground as they aimed their weapons. Stanley Greene pumped a few twelve-gauge rounds at the tree Eric had been hiding behind, but by then Eric was gone.

And they were on his trail.

Now it was dark, and Eric was soaking. He folded a green leaf in his mouth to muffle his chattering teeth. He'd killed one, and they'd killed one, but there were six left. And at least three hand grenades.

He had to move slowly, stay alert. These guys weren't amateurs. Most had military backgrounds, a few were ex-cops. All had been trained by Dirk Fallows, and that was the most dangerous part of all.

Eric twisted through the brush, toeing aside crispy leaves and twigs, ducking branches. Each movement had to be carefully choreographed, each muscle disciplined to move with painful slowness. There was no room for error, no place for impatience. Only the right moves. The kind of moves that had kept him alive in 'Nam.

When he stood still, he could hear a faint rustling or a distant snap. He smiled grimly. The distance between them was increasing. With any luck, he might even be able to dodge them altogether before he gathered up Tracy.

Once he made it through the woods, there was a field of grass that curved over the hill toward Santa Carlotta. Immediately to the west was a jagged ridge with a forty-foot drop that formed the new coastline of California. The old one, originally two miles further west, was now underwater.

Eric studied the sky. No point in trying to read stars. The Long Beach Halo that domed the island of California seemed thicker than usual tonight. There was a pale smudge overhead, that would be the moon. But it offered no light. The Halo was like an overly protective parent tonight. Lights out and early to bed.

Eric crouched low and scrambled across the field, moving with such easy grace that he barely ruffled the long grass. His black crossbow was clutched in both hands, ready.

It wasn't too far to Tracy's camp now and he was sure he'd increased the margin between Fallows's men and him. But he was also sure they'd spot his tracks through the grass and follow. He knew how bad Fallows wanted him.

He ran faster, still keeping his head down, but only in a half crouch now, his legs thrashing through the field like a tractor.

He was moving so fast he almost missed it. That noise. Someone walking. Someone in front.

He lifted the crossbow as he straightened, his finger tightening against the trigger.

Until he felt the gun barrel thrust against his cheek.

"Oh, it's you," Tracy said, grinning. "I thought you were a puma."

The first grenade exploded about twenty-five feet away.

Tracy and Eric were knocked to the ground but were otherwise undamaged.

Tracy stirred, lifting her head and brushing the clods of dirt from her hair. "What the-"

"Visitors," Eric explained, pulling her to her feet.

They ran without looking back. Tracy's usual limp was hardly noticeable now. Twice they heard the metallic stuttering of semiautomatic firing, but the bullets plowed harmlessly through the field.

Then they heard Dobbs screaming. "Next asshole wastes bullets I'm gonna fucking kill myself!"

At the edge of the field, Tracy tripped over a rusty irrigation pipe, rolled forward and was back on her feet and running without missing a beat.

"Nice," Eric said.

"I was on the '80 Olympics gymnastic team. Broke my heart when we couldn't go to Moscow. Didn't I mention it?"

Eric shook his head as he ran. Christ. But he couldn't help smiling.

"There's a road through there." Tracy pointed. "When you didn't come back, I followed it to come looking for you."

"Where's it go?"

"I dunno. Into town I think."

"We'll find out."

They slid down the embankment to the road, a narrow two-lane strip with most of the blacktop split and crumbled where the road had buckled during the quakes.

"Careful," he said as they hopped and dodged the huge chunks of macadam. Eric noticed that plants had already started growing in the highway's holes. In a year or two, the road would be completely grown over.

Tracy tapped him on the shoulder and nodded at the road sign. SANTA CARLOTTA, 2 MILES.

"You make it?" he asked, nodding at her bad hip.

"A cinch."

They fell into a rhythmic jogging pattern, making about seven minute miles. Occasionally Tracy would lag a step or two, but then she'd churn her arms and be right back up with him. She kept her mouth clenched and forced herself to keep breathing through her nose, just the way he'd taught her. When they'd first started out together in search of Timmy, she'd hardly been able to walk two miles without frequent rests. Then she'd been shot in the hip by that pirate, Rhino, leaving her with a limp. At first she'd needed a cane. Now she was running ten or twenty miles at a clip. And on the really long runs, if the pace was slow enough, she had better endurance than Eric. It didn't bother Eric. He was proud of her.

They could hear the clomping of the six pairs of combat boots crunching along behind them, maybe a half mile away. Fortunately the road was wooded on both sides and curvy enough to keep them from having a clear shot. The darkness helped, too.

Directly ahead, the modest storefronts and one-story homes began to appear in their neat little rows.

"Hometown, USA," Tracy said.

"Not anymore." Eric slowed down enough to take it all in. The collapsed porches, the broken windows, the sunken buildings. About half of the buildings were still somewhat intact, but the rest looked as if they'd been stepped on by some careless giant.

Behind them the clomping of boots grew louder.

"Come on." Eric continued jogging down the main street, around overturned cars, rusting bicycles, parched white bones.

"Cats?" Tracy asked, staring at the bones.

"Too large."

"Dogs?"

"Still too large."

"Shit."

He guided her across the street, passed the storefronts with their glassless windows. A Bob's Big Boy restaurant was nestled between a Christian bookstore and a sporting goods store. Most of the books still rested neatly on the shelves of the bookstore, but the sporting goods store was stripped bare, the glass showcases smashed, the shelves torn down. The window facing the street of the Bob's Big Boy was also shattered, a few jagged pieces stuck in the frame. On the Formica table just inside the window was a scattering of bones. One was obviously a human skull.

"Definitely not puma," Tracy said.

Eric dragged her along the sidewalks, jumping over debris, overturned newspaper stands, abandoned furniture that had been thrown off cars and trucks as people scrambled to escape with whatever they could, not yet realizing that the whole state was cut off from the rest of the world.

"In here," he said, shouldering open the stubborn door to the Presidential Hotel. The lobby was small. A plain wooden counter with cubicles for room keys and messages dominated half the room. The other half had a gift shop, but whatever gifts had once been in there were gone. The back of the lobby had a large, ornate stairway that lead to the rooms upstairs.

"All right, you dinks," Dobbs barked at his men as they entered the town. "No need trying to be subtle about this. They know we're here and We know they're here. So we track 'em down, box 'em in, and then, and only then, we blow their fuckin' heads into stuffed cabbage. OK?"

"Upstairs," Eric whispered.

Tracy nodded.

They climbed the staircase carefully, unsure of its strength, especially after seeing so many collapsed buildings. But it seemed solid enough as they captured each step, easing their weight forward, waiting for their foot to crash through the wood and give them away.

The doors were all closed upstairs. A couple of rats darted between their legs, running for safety at the other end of the hall.