The Hunted (7 page)

Shy woke up on the dog-hair-covered rug, next to Carmen's cot, aware only of a smoky smell and a subtle rocking of the motor-home floor.

His first thought: another earthquake.

Or an aftershock.

He climbed to his feet and looked around. The bright curtains told him it was morning. Nothing from the shelves had fallen. The flat-screen TV was still mounted on the wall. But there was smoke creeping out of the heating vent in the wall.

Shoeshine hurried past him toward the kitchen.

Carmen was still curled up, sleeping. Marcus was passed out against the opposite wall holding his battery-less radio.

When Shy heard something outside the motor home, he quickly turned toward the window. It sounded like some kind of engine. A
motorcycle
engine.

“Shoe!” he barked. “You hear that?”

Shoeshine continued rifling through the cupboards beneath the kitchen sink, sifting through buckets of cleaning supplies, opening and closing the fridge, the silverware drawer.

“Is it those bikers we heard about?” Shy said, aware of the fear in his voice. He swallowed hard and made a move for the kitchen window, but Shoeshine snatched him by the wrist.

“Keep away from the windows!”

The look in Shoeshine's eyes told Shy they were in deep shit.

Carmen was up now, too, eyes darting all around the motor home. “What is it?” she kept repeating. “What's happening?”

Marcus pressed his palms against the motor home floor. “It's another earthquake!”

“No earthquake,” Shoeshine said, shooing Carmen off the cot. “And stay away from the windows, you hear?” He flipped the mattress, ran his hands along the seams, then dropped it back on its frame and broke for the bathroom.

Shy hurried behind him, remembering the two kids in shower caps he'd seen when they first discovered the motor home. They must have told somebody. The Suzuki Gang. And now they were outside.

“What are you looking for?” Shy called out to Shoeshine.

The man ripped open the shower curtain, revealing the bloody tub. The smell. But no bodies. “Gotta be another cartridge somewhere,” Shoeshine muttered to himself. “Or some other weapon. He believed in protection.”

“Who?” Shy said. “You still have the gun, right?”

Shoeshine gave Shy a blank look. Then he moved toward the medicine cabinet and flung it open and brushed all the small tubes and bottles onto the floor. He stood there, staring at them.

Shy's heart was in his throat.

What if the Suzuki gang came in after them?

The motor home was rocking more dramatically now. Like they were trying to tip it over. And there was smoke creeping along the bathroom ceiling, making it hard to breathe.

Shy now realized what Shoeshine was looking for. If a gun held six bullets, and each dead body they'd found in the bathroom accounted for one shot, including the dog, the gun Shoeshine had was down to one bullet. He was looking for ammo.

A loud blast came from outside.

The sound of glass shattering inside the motor home.

Shy spun toward the main cabin. Someone had shot out one of the windows. He dove to the floor just as he heard a second shot. And he huddled there with Carmen and Shoeshine, the three of them staring at each other wide-eyed.

Marcus appeared in the doorway, out of breath. Frantic. “There's four of 'em. On motorcycles. They got gas masks and a blowtorch.”

“I said stay away from the windows!” Shoeshine barked. He grabbed Marcus by the collar and yanked him to the ground. “Best listen to me, boy!”

“They're trying to set us on fire!” Carmen shouted. She grabbed Shy's arm, pulled him toward the bathroom door on her knees. “We can't stay here!”

Shy held his ground, watching Marcus slam his fist into the wall, watching Shoeshine stand and close the cabinet door, then turn suddenly toward the toilet. The man lifted the plastic cover off the tank and tossed it to the floor. “Here!” he shouted, reaching into the tank.

Shoeshine pulled out a dripping-wet metal box and set it on the floor and tried opening the thing, but it was locked. Another shot rang out. Shoeshine stood again, holding on to the sink, and kicked down onto the small metal lock, but all he did was dent the lid.

Someone pounded on the front door. Shy craned his neck so he could see into the smoky main cabin. One of the curtains had caught fire. Even if there were more bullets in the metal box, he didn't see a way out. He turned to tell Shoeshine, but he was too spooked to form words.

Shoeshine brought down two more powerful kicks, deepening the dent. A fourth kick stripped the lock off the front of the box, and he fell to his knees, opening the lid and sifting through the contents.

Shy watched him toss away a loaded money clip, a few pieces of jewelry in ziplock bags. Shoeshine then stood up, clutching an odd-looking black discus.

“That's a Blackhawk knife!” Marcus shouted.

“How's a knife gonna help?” Shy said. “They got guns! I thought you were looking for bullets!”

Carmen scooped up the bag of jewelry and the money clip, then thought better of it and tossed them back down.

Shoeshine hit a button on top of the discus and a thick, curved blade shot out the front. “When I tell you to run, you run!” he shouted, pushing the blade back into its sheath and moving through the bathroom door.

Shy held on to the hall walls, his heart thumping, as the four of them crab-walked back into the smoke-filled main cabin, coughing and trying to breathe. He saw where the windows had been shattered, glass all over the rug, two jagged holes in the opposite wall.

At the closet, they hastily put on their shoes. Their beanies and jackets. They slipped their arms into the straps of their backpacks, Shy eyeing the thick layer of smoke at the ceiling and the flames licking at the drapes.

As Shoeshine carried the duffel bag toward the peephole, Shy closed his eyes for a second, pleading to God, or anyone. This couldn't be it. They'd just gotten back to California. He still needed to see about his family.

Marcus was right, they had to explain what was in the duffel bag. Maybe they could barter the vaccines for their lives.

Shy grabbed Carmen by the elbow, told her: “Stay with me.”

She nodded.

“No matter what.”

Her terrified eyes gave him a small shot of courage. If he focused on protecting her, he'd worry less about himself. Just like on the sinking ship. Shy pried Carmen's fingers from the closet door and had her hold on to his backpack instead.

“Which way we supposed to run?” Marcus said.

Shoeshine turned to them. “Always east. And don't look back.” Then he grabbed Shy by his jaw. “Something happens, you get this where it belongs. That's your priority. Nothing else.”

Shy took the duffel bag and tried to nod into Shoeshine's grip.

The man let go of his face and handed him the knife, too. “Toss me this when I tell you.”

Shy looked down at the heavy disk, his heart slamming against his chest. Something tremendous would be expected of him. He was sure of it. And what if he failed? Shy glanced at Carmen, who was sucking in short, gulping breaths. Marcus stood against the wall, coughing wildly into the shoulder of his jacket.

Shy spun back to Shoeshine just in time to see him pull out the handgun and kick open the front door.

Shoeshine leaped onto the back of the closest man, both of them tumbling to the dead grass. The man let out a howl as Shoeshine wrestled him onto his stomach, delivered two quick blows to the guy's mask and pressed the muzzle of his gun against the back of the man's skull.

“Back away!” Shoeshine called out to the rest of the bikers. “Or else I'll kill this man dead!”

Shy crowded into the motor home doorway next to Carmen and Marcus, his eyes darting all over. There were four of them, like Marcus had said. Two off their bikes, beside the motor home—one holding a blowtorch, the other near the rear tires, a handgun by his feet. A third man was still sitting on his motorcycle, a rifle resting in his lap.

All of them, including the man Shoeshine had pinned to the lawn, were wearing leather jackets and leather pants and military-style gas masks, the kind that hid their faces.

“Get him off me!” the man underneath Shoeshine shouted, his voice muffled by his mask.

“Jenkins, do something!” the man with the blowtorch called across the yard.

“We're not sick!” Marcus yelled.

Shy had to explain the vaccine. They could hand over four syringes and still have three left. But everything was happening so fast. The man on the motorcycle, Jenkins, suddenly lunged forward on his bike and stopped, trying to intimidate Shoeshine. He raised the barrel of his rifle.

“Drop it!” Shoeshine shouted.

Shy gripped the knife and the duffel bag, scared out of his mind. He knew he should be doing something more, but he felt paralyzed.

When the guy on the bike inched closer, Shoeshine ripped off his hostage's mask and tweaked the man's head so that his veiny brown neck was fully exposed. He pressed the gun against the man's temple, and the man gave a deep, guttural growl.

Marcus and Carmen stood in front of Shy, staring. Their mouths hanging open, chests heaving.

Shy spied the man near the motor home inching toward the gun on the ground.

“You were warned about moving zones!” the motorcycle guy shouted through his mask.

“Everyone was!” the man with the blowtorch added.

“Drop it!” Shoeshine warned. “Or your friend dies!”

“He's
already
dead!” the rifleman answered.

Shy watched in horror as the guy cocked his rifle and shot his own man right in the chest. Blood sprayed Shoeshine's clothes and face as he ducked behind the limp body to avoid a second shot.

Carmen screamed.

Shy grabbed her and they crouched in the doorway, next to Marcus, hardly breathing.

Shoeshine raised his gun above the body in his arms and fired a shot of his own, at the man on the motorcycle. His lone remaining bullet. It burrowed into the rifleman's gas mask, painting it bright red. The weapon fell from the man's hands, and he toppled over the back of his bike, onto the grass.

Shoeshine turned his gun on the two men by the motor home, ordering them not to move.

Shy stood up.

Flames were now leaping off the far side of the motor home. The dead man's motorcycle was still running, though it lay useless on the ground. Shy, Carmen and Marcus cleared out of the hot doorframe, onto the grass, looking at one another in silence. Shoeshine kept his gun aimed at the two remaining men while he slid out from under the body he'd been using as cover.

When Shy saw one of the men make a move for the gun on the grass, he flipped open his knife and charged without thinking. Swiped at the man's arm just as he lunged for the weapon. The knife gashed the man's leather jacket at the forearm, and Shy felt the blade sink into flesh.

The man quickly pulled back, holding his arm and cursing Shy.

“He said don't move!” Shy shouted, kicking the gun away. He reached down to pick it up and tossed it to Shoeshine, shocked by his own actions but pretending confidence, his breaths going in and out and in and out.

Shoeshine held both guns now, though one was out of bullets. He glanced at Shy again, then at the duffel in Shy's hand.

Shy hurried back to Carmen and Marcus and stood there nervously, looking all around. At the flames climbing the side of the motor home, and the dead bodies in the grass, and the blood splattered across Shoeshine's face. The man he'd just gouged who was holding his arm. Shy clutched the duffel. It was up to him to get the vaccine out safely.

“We're here to protect you,” one of the men mumbled through his mask. “Can't you
understand
that?”

“Not everyone wants your kind of protection,” Shoeshine answered.

The other man lifted his mask and cried, “Look at Jenkins, man! He shot Jenkins in the face!”

“We're not even sick!” Marcus shouted again.

“You don't know that,” the first man answered. “It's everywhere now. Our only hope is if everyone remains in their zones.”

Shoeshine turned to Shy, Carmen and Marcus and said: “Go now. Stay together.”

“What about you?” Carmen said.

“I'll catch up.”

“Why can't you just come with us?” Marcus wanted to know.

“I said go!” Shoeshine shouted.

Shy slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, and the three of them hurried away from the motor home.

Before they rounded the half-collapsed DMV building, Shy turned to get one last look at the surreal scene. Two bodies on the ground, dead. The motor home in flames. Shoeshine holding a gun in each hand, both aimed at the remaining men whose faces were hidden by gas masks.

And then they were past it. Running east. Fast as they could down a narrow, buckled street.

Toward the rising sun.

Shy, Carmen and Marcus raced through the maze of destruction they found in the first major intersection. Deserted cars. A wrecked big rig jackknifed in the center divide. A flipped-over FedEx truck with all its doors flung wide open and a grotesquely bloated face framed in the windshield.

Shoeshine knew what he was doing, Shy told himself as they rounded the big rig. He wanted Shy to get the duffel bag as far away from those Suzuki guys as possible. To be safe. Then he'd catch up. It was all part of his plan.

Still.

Shy had a sick feeling as they cut down the narrow road on the other side of the intersection. How could they leave Shoeshine behind? He'd saved their lives on the island. And he'd sailed them all the way back to California on a boat he'd fixed himself.

You don't leave people like that.

But what if they
order
you to?

Just put it out of your head, he told himself.

And run.

The early morning was quiet aside from the subtle hum of a few distant helicopters. And their shoes hitting the pavement. And their furious breathing. But then Shy heard something else.

Another motorcycle.

He looked back, still running, watching the thick smoke rising off the burning motor home. Watching a helicopter several blocks away just hovering there as a man pushed out supplies attached to a rope. Based on sound alone, he worried the bikes were headed toward the DMV. And Shoeshine.

Shy spun back around to tell Carmen and Marcus they had to go back, but just then a man in a suit and no mask stepped right into their path. He held up his hands and called for them to stop.

They tried to sprint right past him, but at the last second the man reached out and grabbed Carmen by the arm, jerking her back. “You have to come with me!” he shouted. “I can help!”

“Yo, get off her!” Shy shouted, marching back toward the man.

Carmen ripped her arm free just as Shy lunged at the man, cracking him in the side of the face, the impact jarring Shy all the way to the bone.

The man hit the deck. Hard.

Shy stood over him, fists still clenched, daring him to move.

Carmen pushed past Shy and kicked the man in the legs.

“What are you doing!” Marcus shouted, pulling Carmen away. “He's a priest!”

The man looked up at them, cowering slightly and holding the side of his face.

Shy refused to budge. No way was he going to let someone put his hands on Carmen. He didn't care
who
it was. But he also saw what the man was wearing. Black suit jacket over a clerical collar. Nicked-up briefcase on the pavement beside his feet.

“Please, I can help,” the man said. “Those men have been terrorizing anyone they see on the road for weeks. It's not right.”

“You really a priest?” Shy asked.

The man nodded and sat up. “I'm the pastor at Saint Augustine's,” he said. “Or I was, anyway. My church burned down after the earthquake.”

Marcus helped the man to his feet, apologizing.

Shy and Carmen apologized, too, though Shy still didn't trust him. He didn't trust
anyone.
Not all the way. Even if the guy did seem like a legit church person.

“I can take you someplace safe,” the pastor told them.

“Where?” Carmen asked.

“A psychiatric clinic across from the hospital.” The man picked up his briefcase. “I've got several people staying with me already. No one's sick, I promise.”

Shy eyed the man, skeptically. “Why? What's in it for you?”

“He's a priest, dumbass,” Marcus said. “He's
supposed
to help people.”

“What about Shoe?” Carmen said.

Shy peered back down the street. What would happen when that new motorcycle guy found two of his own men dead? Shoeshine couldn't hold off
everyone.

Marcus nudged Shy to get his attention. “We gotta go with the pastor. To regroup and shit.”

“How would Shoe find us?” Carmen said. “We can't just leave him.”

“Aren't we splitting up anyway?” Marcus asked.

“Not before he gets
this
back,” Shy said, holding up the duffel. “Or else it's on us.”

“You ever think maybe that was his plan all along?” Marcus raised his eyebrows at Shy. “To pin that shit on us?”

Shy shook his head. “Shoe's not like that.”

Marcus glanced up at a helicopter flying overhead and then turned and spit on the pavement. “That shit back there,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “It's got me all messed up, man.”

Shy watched the pastor pull three hospital masks out of his briefcase. “How far'd you say this place was?” he asked.

“Just over the freeway,” the pastor answered, holding out the masks. They were still wrapped in plastic. “Put these on. They'll protect you from the disease.”

Carmen and Marcus waved him off, but Shy took one, figuring it would help him deal with the smoke near the motor home.

“Why aren't
you
wearing one?” Carmen asked the pastor.

“I have my faith.”

“Let's go with him,” Marcus said again. “Get off the street for a minute. Me and Shy can go out looking for Shoe later.”

Carmen turned to Shy.

He shrugged, thinking he should at least stay with them part of the way. “Let's go, then.”

They followed the pastor east, around fallen power lines and wrecked cars, past cracks in the pavement so wide they had to leap across them. But Shy couldn't shake the sick feeling in his stomach. Before they even reached the end of the block he asked the pastor: “So
where's
this place again?”

“A few more blocks east,” the man answered as the four of them continued moving at a brisk pace.

“I know,” Shy said. “But what's the address?”

The pastor pointed ahead. “See what's left of the freeway up there? We're on the other side, right across from the Brotman Medical Center.”

Shy could now see that the freeway overpass had collapsed in the earthquake, leaving a mountain of rubble. He stopped in his tracks and called out to Carmen and Marcus: “You guys go. I'll meet you there.”

Before anyone could argue, Shy spun around and took off back the other way. He heard them shouting things at his back, especially Carmen, but the sound of the wind whipping past his ears made it impossible to make out what she was saying.