THE HELICOPTER RIDE WAS BUMPY enough to make Alice spill her coffee, but not her lunch. The way the pilot was acting, this particular ride was no big deal, and if she threw up now, Alice could forget about keeping anyone’s respect. She was already a woman heading into what had (of course) become a male-dominated sector of the government, society, and even the specific geographic area. If she tossed her cookies on the chopper floor, no one would take her seriously — not the pilot, not the on-site leadership at Yosemite, not Bobby Baltimore, who’d met her before. Even the undead might laugh and point, such as they were still able.
“This your first time to Hell on Earth?” the pilot asked, projecting his voice above the thumping rotor. The helicopter’s side door was open, maybe for breeze, and the idea of plummeting to her death made Alice uneasy. She couldn’t help glancing at the ’copter’s gaping mouth before turning back to the pilot.
“Officially, I’m supposed to pretend you didn’t say that.” Then, when the pilot seemed unwilling to fix his politically incorrect faux pas, she answered his question. “I’ve talked to Bobby in Aberdeen Valley. But this is my first time to Yosemite.”
“Pfft. Then you’re in for a treat. How many ferals they run across out there in Dead City?”
“It happens in the sticks, not in the city. But I’ve never seen one in person.”
“The idea of being here freak you out?”
“I visited some scary places before the borders were closed. It takes a lot to freak me out.”
“You’ve been abroad?” The pilot seemed impressed. Alice, for her part, was amazed that he could fly without looking forward all that often, even though his inattention made her nervous. Yosemite’s wide expanse yawned ahead — all granite and trees. She’d asked for a flyover of the park section before entering the contained zone but now felt too ill for proper appreciation. The duty sergeant’s response had been acceptable but not conciliatory. Her request had been granted, but Alice had the distinct impression it was only because what the military said went around here, and she’d happened to request the same approach route air traffic always entered the restricted northern section — reporters’ preferences notwithstanding.
“When I was younger,” she said.
The pilot turned fully in his seat, one arm slung conversationally over the back. He was chewing gum and wearing a flight helmet. He looked maybe twenty years old. Nearly young enough to be her kid, if Alice ever had any.
“You don’t say? Tell the truth, Ms. Frank. What was worse? Baghdad in the middle of the conflicts, or this?”
Alice watched the park crawl beneath the ’copter, the first bits of Yosemite vanishing at the windshield’s bottom from her vantage in back. Soon, if she scooted toward the open door, she’d be able to see the open park below. If she fell after that, a parachute wasn’t likely to save her. The hunters did fine in Yosemite, but an unarmed woman plunked among the nation’s oldest ferals wouldn’t last long. She might as well be wearing meat-flavored perfume.
“Are you my pilot on the way back?”
The pilot pretended to tip a cap, touching his helmet with a glove. “Yes, ma’am. Fresno to Hell on Earth, at your service.”
This time, Alice didn’t bother to correct the pilot. Everyone knew the name that even the highest officials used for Northern Yosemite, non-politically correct or not. If she was going to break any big secrets today, that wouldn’t be one.
“Then I’ll have to tell you after my tour,” Alice said, trying on a companionable smile.
The pilot turned back to the windshield.
“Don’t get bitten, and it’s a date,” he said.