C.E. Murphy - Mountain Echoes

“Lady, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I need you to drive down toward the van, very slowly. When you get there you’re going remove yourself from the vehicle. You will be isolated, tested for disease and disinfected. The car will undergo forensic scrutiny—”

A tingle of outrage danced up my spine. “Excuse me? Undergo what? ”

“Forensic scrutiny, ma’am. It means the vehicle will be stripped—”

“Like hell it will be.”

“It’s necessary, ma’am. We need to inspect it for any foreign material that may be able to carry disease. You’ve been inside the epicenter of a plague. The vehicle has to be thoroughly examined, even if that means destroying it.”

Morrison put his chin in his hand and his elbow in the passenger side window, looking the other way. I didn’t know if he was fighting laughter or despair, but he was ostentatiously not getting involved in this particular argument. I smiled at the CDC guy, who took it as a good sign and therefore didn’t quite understand when I said, “Over my dead body.”

When he caught up to what I’d actually said, he got grim. “If necessary, yes, ma’am. I have military reserves on hand and at my command—”

“Really.” My voice squeaked with interest. “You’ve got the U.S. military on the Qualla? On land that belongs to a foreign and sovereign nation state? How’s that playing on the news, Officer? How’s that going over with the Eastern Band of Cherokee, or the Navajo Nation? You making it nice and clear they’re next, after an already embittered history of governmental dismissal of Native rights? Are you—”

Somewhere in the middle of my little rant, I started to recognize what I was describing as being exactly what the Master, his Executioner, and the wights were probably after. I broke off with a whispered, “Holy shit. It’s that easy, isn’t it. It’s really that easy.”

“Walker?”

“I’m sure the government has got a media blackout on this anyway, but holy shit, Morrison, it’s perfect. Whether there’s a real disease or whether Sara didn’t listen and burn the bodies—”

My father said, “Burn whose bodies?” but I wasn’t going to stop and explain just then.

“—and if they rose and have created more wights, either way it’s a perfect excuse to bring the government into the reservations. And there’s still bad blood there, there’s always going to be, so once word gets out that the government is trampling Native rights and invading reservation territory again, it’s all over. Either the First Nation peoples are going to revolt and be killed, or they’re going to be taken away, spread out, and assimilated into imion territnonexistence. It’s putting a shiny red bow on the genocides. And I bet anything Aidan’s out there stirring up the will to fight instead of to sit back and take is all passively. Where is everybody?” I demanded of the CDC guy, and behind his glass plate mask I saw a hint of uncertainty flicker across his face.

“You don’t have them, do you.” A smile started to stretch my mouth. “You people came in here like a load of bricks, threatening and angry and scared, and the People told you to fuck off, didn’t they. I mean, I’m sure some of them stayed. Lots, even, I mean, not everybody in this area has Native blood, never mind cares enough to stand up to the Feds, and somebody called you in, after all. But a whole lot of ’em just went to the hills and now you can’t find them, can you. You’re afraid there’s a whole disease center out there somewhere, and it’s completely out of your control. Tell me, who called you? Was it Sara Isaac from the FBI?”

The guy’s whole face pinched up. “We have an FBI agent missing?”

My grin went wild and broad for a couple seconds. “No. She’s not missing. She’s just chosen her side. Look, listen to me, buddy. If you come across bodies with an ash mark on their forehead, like a fingerprint burned in? Just burn them. Don’t do an autopsy, don’t try to figure out what killed them or if it’s infectious. It’s not infectious, except through a touch like the one on the bodies, and you will never understand what killed them, not really. If you want to help, burn the bodies to keep them from rising—”

CDC Man turned white. I took that to mean he’d seen some of them rise, and I was fairly certain he’d lost some men to the newly risen.

“—and otherwise, stay out of the way and let me do my job.”

He rallied a little. “Who are you? What do you know about this? Disease control is our job, not yours. Who are you?”

“My name,” I said, mostly under my breath, “is Siobhán Grainne MacNamarra Walkingstick, and I’m the answer to all your prayers.”

It seemed appropriate to throw Petite into Drive and roar off down the road after a line like that, so that’s what I did. CDC guys flung themselves out of the way, I pulled a 180, and we tore back the way we’d come, hitting ninety miles an hour in about a quarter mile. I cackled the whole way. Morrison covered his eyes with one hand, then dropped it. “I can’t believe you told them your name.”

“Oh, come on, Petite is unique. It would only take them about fifteen seconds to find out who I was anyway, and it was a great exit line. C’mon, Morrison, you gotta admit, that was an awesome exit.”

“Walker, I’m a police captain. From the law’s perspective, that was not only incredibly dangerous—you could have killed someone!—but also unbelievably stupid. They’re only doing their jobs, and we should help them with that.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “From a personal perspective, though, yes, I’ve got to hand it to you, Walker. You do know how to make an exit.”

My father said, “You should have seen the exit when she left the Qualla,” and right about then the military boys started giving chase.

There was no chance they’d catch us in land vehicles. Unfortunately, they had a helicopter. I gunned Petite, sending her well over a hundred miles an hour, and we shot up a mountain road that wasn’t intended to be taken at fifty. I dowt fted givinshifted ahead of a sharp corner that my reflexes remembered more than my eyes saw. Morrison hit a high note I didn’t think a man of his size could produce as we swung around a curve with nothing but hope keeping us on the road. Then he clamped his eyes and mouth shut and hunkered down while I proved to myself, my God, and anybody else within a six-mile radius that I was still the best damned driver in the Qualla. All my shakes and emotions disappeared into the adrenaline rush of dangerous speeds. It was as good as, better than, a drum circle: this was all me, skill and a love of the road tying together to make the best possible antidote for fear and exhaustion.

Raven bounced around in my head, cawing and klok ing and squealing with excitement that only encouraged me. Rattler swayed, hissing gleefully, and I tapped into the speed he’d been known to offer me, increasing my reflexes just that much more. The downshifts came half a heartbeat later, the upshifts that much sooner, eking extra yards out of each action. I didn’t care that a helicopter had the advantage. I was going to outrun it, and disappear us into the hills right under the military’s noses. I bellowed, “Renee, what can you give me?” and my newest companion animal, who didn’t seem naturally inclined to outrageous activity, stepped up.

Time slowed down. That happened a lot, when things were going badly, but for once it was just for the pure outrageous joy of pushing myself, my car, and my magic to the limit. I saw—Saw—the road unfold in front of me with astounding clarity. Saw patches of gravel, fine sprays of water, the smear of some unfortunate possum who’d played chicken with a car and lost. I twitched the wheel fractions of an inch, feeling Petite respond to the most minute requests, and over the roar of her engine I shouted, “Where we going, Dad?”