Bayou Days Page 2

  I follow her down to a concrete landing. Kim turns on a light and illuminates an arched steel building that buried underground. We stand on one side, and it stretches forty feet. There are metal racks on each side. One side is filled with canned food, and the other is tools and weapons. I look down the rack of different rifles. “Why do you have six M14’s?”

  “This bakery is a designated staging area. We have a water tower, a radio tower, a charging station and a rallying point close by.” Kim picks up a flash-bang grenade. “Across the street is a house with flowers. It’s mostly concrete and fifty caliber machines guns.

  I pick an M16 with a flash suppressor off the rack.

  “That doesn’t have the punch of a .308,” Kim says.

  “It’s easier to hold and has manageable recoil, anything heavier and I can’t shoot without a rest.”

  Kim picks up an M14 and easily brings it up and sights down the length. “This is getting lighter since my bone and muscle augment.”

  As a nurse, I’m familiar with most of the standard upgrades: bone, ligament, and tendons will be upgraded first. If you start with the muscle, the tissue gets too strong and tears itself off the bone.

  “Where are you at in your treatment?” I ask.

  “Finished with bones and tendons. Got my second muscle injections last week and now I can punch as hard as a prizefighter. The doc says I’m on track to break a hundred meters in ten seconds.”

  I look around and find a bin marked goggles. I pick out a pair of standard Army issues. Wrap around glasses with flash suppression, lowlight vision, and a rangefinder. I find one with a built-in camera and check to see the battery is charged.

  “Is there any body-armor?”

  “Why?” Kim asks, “You think the crocs are gonna be packing heat?”

  I smile at the thought. A gang of Sacrodiles leaning on their rifles, smoking and acting cool.

  Kim laughs. “My set of spider silk got wet and moldy. I ordered another pair, but it’s on back order. Unless you got an active duty military ID, spider silk armor is hard to get.” Kim tosses me a flash-bang grenade.

  “Rats,” I say, “I could have bought a pair at the Exchange.”

  “Yeah, but you gut alarm didn’t go off until now.”

  “I’ll speak to my doctor about getting it recalibrated.”

  * * *

  A little after noon, Kim throws a sleeping bag in the back of the jeep and puts a case of ammo behind her seat. We head north and, in a few miles, pass the north gate. It has a pole with multiple cameras.

  I spent my childhood in the Frisco Bay area. Some of my best memories are summers spent on the bayou. That’s why I know to get a jeep with a high wheelbase. Roads along the estuary are four-wheel drive only. I keep the speed at ten miles an hour and enjoy the late October air fresh from the rain.

  Once we get out of Ceres, the terrain turns to rolling hills. When the dams burst along the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the load of silt behind them turned the Sacramento Valley into the best farmland in the world. At least the parts of it that are still above water.

  The hills are brown with wheat and white clover. The wheat has been harvested, and the stalks stand against the green clover underneath.

  She puts her hand out the window to feel the air. “The clover and wheat never needs watering. And their roots go six feet deep to groundwater. They come back up every year, so you never have to reseed.”

  I forget Kim is a telepath and treats private thoughts as general topics for conservation. I smile. “It seems that farm life is agreeable to you.”

  She leans back and puts her foot on the dashboard, “Yeah. It’s agreeable. Good food.”

  After five miles, the rolling hills of wheat turn to genetically engineered willows and oaks.

  “To stop erosion, the Feds planted trees with roots that go twenty feet deep,” Kim says. “They’re resistant to everything except the chemical key programmed into their genes. One spray from that and they die. It makes it a whole lot easier to clear land.”

  “All of this will be turned into farmland,” I am a little sad at the thought.

  “Yeah,” Kim says, “but everything north of the old city of Davis is a wildlife sanctuary.”

  After an hour the GPS on my phone beeps, and we stop at the top of a rise. To the west is the coastal mountain range with its engineered redwood forest. To the east, the ground slopes down to the water.

  I follow rough track down to near the water. Kim and I get out of the jeep. I put on my belt and holster my pistol. After I put on my daypack, I get my M16 out of the back seat and sling it over my shoulder. That’s when I notice Kim checking me out.

  “You look nice when you dress up, with all those weapons. It’s a good look for you.”

  I say nothing and head down a game trail that leads to the water. In a dozen meters, we’re under a canopy of apple trees. Most of the fruit is laying on the ground. Closer to the water, fig shrubs break up the canopy of trees.

  The trail ends in a lagoon. In the afternoon sun, the water is a brilliant green. With roots like mangroves, the apple trees provide shade on one side. That’s where all the fish are hiding.

  An apple drops into the water and bobs a few times before a meter-long Sacramento Bass swims up and swallows the apple whole.

  On the other side of the lagoon is a mound covered in grass and orange poppy flowers.

  Kim clocks her rifle and takes point as we walk around the lagoon. On the other side is mound with an eight-foot tunnel plugged with mud.

  “Thirty-footer,” Kim says.

  “It’s a beautiful spot. I’ll get an armored houseboat.”

  “An airboat for quick getaways,” Kim adds.

  A bass swims by, and I raise my rifle. When it gets closer to the surface, I shoot the fish between the eyes. I wade up to my knees to get him.

  While I’m in the water, Kim asks, “What’s in your pocket?”

  I wade back with the bass. “Why do you ask a question that you already know what the answer.”

  “Can I see it?”

  I unzip my pocket and hand her the watch box. “You want it?” I giggle out of nervousness. I use my knife to gut the fish.

  “That’s the problem with one of a kind items; everybody knows it’s stolen.”

  “I think that’s why Hermes gave it to me,” I toss the guts into the middle of the lagoon and the water churns with feeding fish.

  I rinse the fish off in the lagoon. “I’m afraid that someone is going to find it and that’s the end of my military career

  “I can fix that,” Kim says and tosses the blue star sapphire into the lagoon.

  I turn around just in time to see it make a small splash into the water. “Plop,” is the sound it makes before vanishing below the surface. Ripples radiate out from the center like an x that marks the spot.

  I just stare at the water until the waves disappear.

  “Feel better?” Kim asks.

  A wave of relief passes over me. “You know, I do feel better,” I laugh and walk back to the jeep. “Come on. I don’t want to haul the cast iron skillet, so let’s cook by the jeep.”

  When we get back, I get the camp stove while Kim takes a machete and clears the brush. “This is a choice spot.”

  “Yes, it’s nice,” I take off my gun belt and put it in the back seat. I leave my pistol and rifle on the hood. “I don’t want to farm. I’ll leave the land as a vacation spot.”

  Kim gets two stainless steel plates, and I serve the fish.

  We on folding stools and eat. “This is good,” Kim says.

  I taste the apple in the flesh. It’s a hint, but it’s there. “Oh baby, this good.”

  “Maggie makes me describe meals. She interrogates me with until I give all the details. It’s her foreplay,” Kim giggles. Then stops abruptly, stands up and drops the plate that was on her lap.

  “Bad guys,” she picks up her rifle and tosses me mine.

  “How many?”

  “Three thugs,” Kim sights her rifle over the hood, “They spotted our jeep at a high point in the road. Through binoculars, they noticed your red beehive of hair.”

  I retrieve my pistol from the hood, “What if they have bullet resistant glass and body armor. Then we’re in trouble.” I open the hood to the jeep. I lean my rifle on the grill and continue: “I’ll play the damsel in distress.”

  Kim puts her rifle behind a willow tree and then hides behind the open hood. “I’ll wait for your move.”

  Soon, the lug-lug of a diesel engine.

  I unbutton half my top and take my hair out of the bun.

  An SUV with a high wheelbase comes into view. Overgrown willow branches scrap against the passenger side of the vehicle.

  I take a deep breath, let it out and give my polished Broadmoor Country Club smile and wave at the SUV. Still waving, I walk towards the vehicle.

  The SUV stops a few yards short of the jeep. The passenger and driver side doors open and two men step out. They’re wearing black shirts and blue jeans.

  I walk closer to the driver and keep smiling. “Hi, I’m Pam, and I am so happy you two came along.”

  He smiles back at me and looks at my tits. He doesn’t see my pistol until it’s too late.

  While he reaches behind his back for his weapon, I shoot him at close range. Bone and blood spray from his neck and he falls to the ground.

  To my left, Kim shoots the passenger in his thigh. His pistol fires and dirt kicks up near my feet. Bits of road fly up and sting my face.

  I fire at the man, and the bullet bounces off his armor.

  Kim casually walks up and puts a bullet through his ear. She keeps moving towards the SUV while aiming her weapon.

  That’s when I notice the man in the back seat.

  He’s trying to get his gun out of his holster, but his pistol is pinched between his thigh and belly.

  He gets his weapon drawn just as I fire through the open driver side door. The bullet bounces off him. I’ve been trained to fire to the center of mass, and that doesn’t work with armored opponents.

  Startled, the fat man fires his weapon into the driver’s seat. The bullet misses me.

  Before he gets a second shot, Kim extends her arm through the passenger door and fires.

  The bullet pierces his neck, and he drops his pistol, grabs his neck and coughs. The fat man opens the back door and gets out. Blood seeps through his fingers.

  Kim opens the glove box and pulls out a roll of duct tape. “What’s this for?” She asks the fat man lying on the ground.

  He continues to cough and hold his neck.

  She opens the back of the SUV and says, “What’s all this rope for?” She peeks her head out from the side of the open trunk and asks, “What’s in the box?”

  The fat man doesn’t answer; he just keeps bleeding.

  Kim casually walks over and puts a bullet through the back of his head.

  Then it’s silent, not even the whine of bugs. I watch while Kim searches the fat man.

  Feeling sick, I walk away from the carnage and retch fish. In sim training, bad guys just fall over. In real life, there is the smell of blood, bile, and shit. Plus a mist of blood that’s drying on my shirt. I look around; killing is ugly work.

  While I rinse out my mouth, Kim strips the vest of a dead man. “You should get the driver’s vest,” Kim says.

  I walk over and take off the man’s shirt. “What’s in the box?”

  “Wallets, purses, and there’s a sock filled with gold teeth.”

  “We got lucky, these killers underestimated us.”

  “These guys are part of a gang.” She tosses me a satellite phone.

  Kim puts a few rounds through the engine block. “When they don’t check in, their buddies will come looking.”

  I take out the sim card, and I toss the satphone into the bushes. Then, I take the vest off the man I shot. “These guys came from the same direction we did. So their friends might be in the same area. We can’t go back the way we came.”

  Using water from my canteen, I rinse the blood off the neckline of the spider silk vest and wring it dry. “We’ll keep going north and find a road heading to the mountains.” I take off my shirt and put on the spider silk vest.

  My t-shirt is covered with blood spatters. I put the soiled shirt in my day pack and get out my long sleeve button down shirt. The collar hides that I’m wearing a vest. Then I take pictures of the bodies. “We should get moving.”

  Kim and I pack up the camp gear, get in the jeep, and drive north.

  We drive about four miles on a dirt road with deep ruts. There are places where the willows are so thick; they block our view. I shift into four-wheel drive and crawl along.

  “Stop.” Kim points to the left. “I bet that trail meets up with the coastal mountain road.”

  Over my shoulder is a break in the willows that is overgrown with tall grass. I back up then turn left and head east. As the vehicle moves forward, the grass scrapes the bottom of the Jeep.

  Oak and willow trees line the trail. “I hope your right because there is no place to turn around.”

  CHAPTER 2 - Hermes

  I’m standing in front of a neon sign that says, “Rick’s Cafe Americain.” But something is wrong. Neon signs have color. This one is in greyscale. There are shadows everywhere.

  I’m having a lucid dream. But this place is not a dream. Casablanca is a mental construct that beings from Titan use to contact me. With all the shadows, it feels like home.

  A man opens the door, and I head towards the bar. Sam’s at the piano. A thick haze of cigarette smoke fills the room. Before I can sit on the round stool with tassels, a man stops me.

  He’s shorter than me and wearing a light grey jacket with a white shirt and a black bow tie. He’s holding a cigarette in a tight grip.

  He looks up at me with bulging eyes and says, “You have to help me.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The Japanese have their agents are everywhere. They’re closing in on the Jewel of the Nile.”

  “Kathleen Turner?” I ask.

  The man lowers his head and massages his temples. “No, you idiot. Try to stay in character.”

  He pats my chest and fixes my tie. “I’m sorry. The jewel is a symbol of your heart’s desire. Ask yourself, what do you want?”

  “A drink,” I say and step around him. I walk over and sit on a barstool with tassels.

  Rick walks over and pours me a drink. “Hey kid, where’ve you been?”

  “Flight school,” I gulp my drink.

  “I thought you hated flying.” Rick fills my drink.

  “I do.”

  Rick takes a puff from a cigarette, and says, “Let me guess, it’s a dame.”

  “Yeah, for a dame,” I say and finish my drink

  The man with bug-out eyes sits to my left.

  Rick pours the man a drink.

  “You seem to have a rapport with this…”

  “Fool,” I suggest. “That word gets batted around a lot.”

  Rick smiles as the man with the bulging eyes massages his temples.

  “Take it easy on the kid; he doesn’t wake up until his third or fourth drink.”

  He hands Rick an envelope and leaves. “I don’t have time.”

  “What was that all about?” I ask as Rick refills my glass.

  “Ugarte intercepted a secret Nazi plan. Hellhounds were genetically engineered to kill trolls. That’s against the Geneva Convention.”

  “Wasn’t that after World War Two?”

  “Work with me, kid; this bar is all about metaphors.”

  My fourth drink kicks in, and I realize what going on. “So, what do the allied powers want from me?”

  Ricks takes a puff on a cigarette: “Allied powers, I like that, the Titans or dragons are…”

  ”Out of context,” I say and finish Rick’s sentence.

  Humphrey Bogart lights another cigarette and smiles. Yeah, kid, it’s war, so we’ll talk in code. The allied powers want a live hellhound.”

  “Hellhound?” Hmm… That’s familiar…” I say and trail off. “I remember holding one in my hands; it was warm and wiggly and bitey. Yeah, that’s right, it was teething, and I was wearing gloves – thick gloves.”

  “You’ve seen them before,” Rick says.

  “Yeah, Hellhounds aren’t dangerous.”

  * * *

  I wake up in my dorm room on graduation day. This will be the last time I get up at 6 AM. There are no classes, just out processing from the Navy. Technically I’m a cadet in the Navy Aviator Training Squadron.

  The only flight school on the west coast is on the Navy Base. To make sure you follow the rules, the U.S. Navy requires you to join as a cadet to attend flight school. That way they can throw the UCMJ at you for breaking the rules.

  UCMJ is the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Everything is an acronym in the military.

  Breaking even the simplest of rules, like leaving food in your room, is punishable by thirty days of picking up cigarette butts. That threat kept me on the straight and narrow for the first six weeks, but then the itch came back.

  I get out of bed and shower. At least my small room has a shower and sink. The room is just big enough for a bed, chest of drawers and a closet to hang your dress uniform. You don’t complain because all of your waking hours are in class, flight simulators or flying. I spent an extra two hundred thousand credits to get qualified on fixed-wing aircraft and helicopters.

  Natasha considers the navy jet simulator “an inadequate experience.” If Natasha says she needs cockpit time to feel trained as a pilot, then who am I to argue?

  My classmates are all navy cadets from a long line of navy officers. Except for Lieutenant Grace Hayes. She’s an army brat from my hometown of Ceres. Grace is four years younger than me. I’ve seen her at Colonel James parties. Her parents are officers with high expectations of their daughter. They don’t like me; they think I’m a bad influence.