Chapter 7

 

Their final destination, the place where Benny hoped to fulfill the promise he’d made to Rose, was a couple of miles southwest of the pileup. Backstopped by mostly open range, it sat on a huge tract of flat desert terrain at the end of a short run of two-lane that began at New Mexico State Route 14 and ended at a closed gate abutting an unmanned guardhouse.

Identical runs of twelve-foot-tall fence topped with coiled razor wire encircled the entire facility. The no-man’s-land between fences was maybe a yard wide.

Inside the perimeter was a pair of lined parking lots that looked as if they could accommodate at least a hundred vehicles. At the moment, a scant few dotted the larger of the two lots. The smaller lot fronting the building, likely used for short-term visitors, held less than ten automobiles.

“Nobody home,” Riker said.

“There goes Plan A,” replied Benny. “I had a feeling that just rolling up and having someone answer my question was probably not going to happen.”

“You know who Murphy is?”

“Murphy Brown?”

Riker chuckled. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “not the lady on that show. In the Army, Mr. Murphy was the fictitious guy who everyone blamed when things went sideways. I just chalk how my cards fall up to fate. But some people … my buddy, Cade, for instance, thought Murphy was out to get him. A malevolent force always conspiring to muck things up.”

“Is Cade one of the reasons why you do the pushups every morning?”

Riker nodded. “He didn’t come home.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Silence fell heavy in the cab. A gust rolling over the flat plain pushed a cloud of dust over the pickup. As Dolly was rocked on her suspension, Riker shook his head.

Purposefully steering conversation back to the previous topic, Benny said, “You know who you remind me of when you dismiss Murphy like that?”

Riker looked a question at Benny.

“I’ll give you two a clue.” Benny took a pull off a bottled water. Turning in his seat, he regarded Steve-O. No participation. The man was staring out his window. The reflection told Benny the thousand-yard stare hadn’t left the man’s face.

“Well?” Riker said. “Who do I remind you of when I dismiss Murphy? Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

Meeting Riker’s expectant gaze, Benny said, “Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side, kid.”

Nothing.

Crickets.

Riker yawned. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Benny looked to Steve-O. The man hadn’t moved.

“Han Solo. You know, the arrogant scoundrel from Star Wars.”

“I don’t get it,” Riker said. “When I did watch sci-fi, which was pretty rare, I was more of a Star Trek kind of guy. Or Alien. Those were some badass monsters.”

Palming his face, Benny said, “Never mind.”

Riker said, “I prefer to be grounded in reality. Trust my gut and my eyes.” He opened the center console and came out with the Steiners. Powering on the binoculars, he glassed the facility, panning slowly left to right.

In the distance, abutting the larger of the two lots, encircled by yet more razor-wire-topped fence, was a cluster of two-story buildings. The main structure consisted of four separate buildings arranged in a diamond shape. Each building was square, the outer walls mostly windowless and roughly the length of a football field. Square guard towers, each rising a few yards above the main buildings anchored each corner. Each building was connected by a slightly shorter elevation Riker figured was for allowing passage between cell blocks. Narrow barred windows were inset high on the throughway.

Coiled razor wire was strung horizontally along the entire flat roofline. Where roof and wall merged, razor wire was strung vertically. Boxy car-sized heating and ventilation equipment rose up from the four main buildings. Smaller units were perched mid-run atop the passages and encircled by razor-wire-topped chain-link. Branching off of both sides of the smaller heating and cooling units, twin runs of identical fencing ran diagonally along the entire length of roof, to an eventual merger with the larger main buildings.

A long, squat building ran away from the right side of the main parking lot. It was connected to one of the cubes and had more windows than the rest of the facility combined. The glass was mirrored and reflected the angry pewter-gray bank of clouds pressing in on them from the south. On a trio of poles rising up in front of the building was a trio of flags. Old Glory, the yellow and red New Mexico banner, and a dull white flag he guessed was a county item. All stood at half-staff.

Benny said, “What’s your gut telling you?”

Riker said, “Nothing.”

“Your eyes?”

“There’s no way to see inside. Therefore I have no firm opinion on occupancy, other than the lack of vehicles in the lot. There may be a separate lot for correctional personnel that we can’t see from here. That could change things.” He paused for a beat, the binoculars still trained on the front of the windowed building. Finally, he went on. “Flags are all at half-staff. Tells me that, at the very least, the warden was aware of the attack on Manhattan. Means they probably knew about Romero and went on lockdown.”

Gesturing at the brick guardhouse straddling the road thirty feet in front of them, Benny said, “What do you make of that?”

The sign affixed waist-high on the guardhouse read Santa Fe County Adult Detention Center. Another sign was planted in the dirt beside the road, just opposite the guardhouse. Spelled out in large attention-getting red letters was the dire message: WARNING! DO NOT BACK UP OVER SPIKES OR SEVERE TIRE DAMAGE WILL OCCUR.

The “that” Benny was alluding to was taped to the inside of the window facing the pickup. It was a sheet of copier paper bearing a message handwritten with a fine-tipped black pen. Riker squinted and focused hard on the cramped scrawl. The result was a bunch of black squiggles cutting horizontally across a field of white. So he brought the Steiners into the equation. Expecting to have to pan slowly and read the message in small chunks, thanks to overmagnification, he instead saw nothing but a bunch of blurry black squiggles cutting horizontally across a field of white.

Regarding Steve-O, Riker said, “You’re wearing glasses. Can you read that from here?”

Nothing from the backseat. The man was hunched over, hat pulled down low, and unmoving. He’d been like that for the duration of the short drive here. Five minutes spent statue still. No observations on the outside world had been levied by the man. No country and western song lyrics had been sung, either.

Not a peep had crossed the talkative man’s lips since he’d been splashed in the face with zombie brains.

Hearing no response, Riker posed the question to Benny.

Benny shook his head. “I can’t read it from here.”

Riker took his foot off the brake and let the idling engine pull the Shelby forward half a truck-length to a spot in the road equidistant from their previous position, but still about a yard shy of the horizontal gash in the asphalt where curved metal spikes clawed upward.

Stepping on the brake pedal, Riker scanned the road all around the truck. Finished, he said, “I still can’t make it out. Can you? If not, one of us is going to have to dismount.”

Leaning forward, Benny focused on the paper. “It says: ‘Back in ten minutes. Turn motor off and have identification and all pertinent paperwork ready for inspection.’”

“Pretty straightforward,” Riker said as he slipped the transmission to Park and killed the motor. Along with the silence came the realization the headache had subsided. Same with the tinnitus.

With the hot engine block ticking as it cooled underneath the hood, Riker spent the first couple minutes of the promised ten-minute wait scrutinizing the lots and adjoining buildings through the Steiners. After two slow sweeps, left and right and back again, he said, “Still nothing moving—living or dead.”

“Let me get this straight,” Benny said. “Plan A was to have us just roll up and ask if Crystal Wagstaff is here?”

“If any place was still up and running, I figured it’d be this place,” conceded Riker. “It’s where I would stay until the military gets a handle on things.”

“You said all the military vehicles you saw on your cross-country jaunt were either heading south or east.”

Riker nodded. “No doubt there’s still a sizable presence in the Midwest. Around the Great Lakes, too. I’d even bet they’re amassing a blocking force along the Ohio River Valley.”

“Illinois was highly active with military. We saw a few Humvees and some tank-looking things in Missouri. We didn’t see anything once we got into Kansas. What makes you think they’re operating here? In the desert states?” Benny shook his head. “Case you didn’t notice … we’re in the middle of effing nowhere.”

“Better than being near a major metropolis full of those things. You just saw how one Bolt can ruin the day.”

“That reminds me,” Benny said. “When are we going to talk tactics?” He looked back at Steve-O. “Any thoughts on the matter?”

No response.

Riker said, “Clearly this place is operating with a skeleton crew. Might take them awhile to come out to check on us.” Silently, he hoped the inmates weren’t running the asylum. If that were the case, the risk wouldn’t be worth continuing on with the mission.

Benny said, “This is where we need to do something to see if there are dead things here. Draw them out into the open. How about you lay on the horn for a second or two?”

“Agreed,” Riker said. “From now on that’ll be our protocol. But no need to do it now.”

“Why not?”

Opening his door, the Sig Legion already clear of its holster, Riker said, “Because once Plan B is up and running, we might as well be ringing the dinner bell.”

“Let’s get set up.” Elbowing his door open, Benny drew the Glock and stepped to the road. Peering back inside, he said to Steve-O, “Sure you don’t want to get out? We could use your expertise.”

That didn’t move the needle. Steve-O was completely withdrawn.

Wondering what it was going to take to draw the man out of his shell, Benny closed his door and stalked down the flank of the Shelby, head on a swivel, his attention focused solely on the immediate surroundings.