CHAPTER 3
By the time Burt Gummer had finally gotten within hailing distance of the plane, he noticed two things simultaneously. Whoever was in the plane was trying to climb out of the broken cockpit windshield. And El Blanco's dust cloud was about to pass between them. Freezing, scarcely daring to breath, the survivalist stood like a statue beneath the desert sun. Only a faint quiver in his shadow against the dry ground, and the occasional flicker of eyelashes, indicated there was any life within.
As the gigantic land version of a shark zoomed past, Burt's nostrils were assailed by choking dust, the acrid tang of airplane fuel, and the charred stench of airplane parts. The smell had been steadily growing but was, thanks to either El Blanco or an errant breeze, now quite pronounced. He grimaced, and stifled a cough.
The underground behemoth, unaware of the struggles going on above him, continued his relentless circling of the last spot he had detected motion.
Once the dust trial had disappeared on the distant side of the aircraft, Burt made a faltering, frantic dash toward the temporary safety of the rocky 'island'. He had less than a minute to accomplish this.
El Blanco already had a fix on him. He didn't need to see the dust trail shift to confirm it. His knotted gut and taut back muscles were screaming the message loud and clear, already sensing in-rushing doom. The graboid was coming, homing in on the bass drum pounding of military boots on broken ground. Gummer put on a desperate burst of speed, no longer aware of anything but the mounded dirt closing in.
Burt looked back and forth. The graboid. The oasis. The graboid. The startled eyes of a youth staring at him as he bore down on their location.
And then a stupid thing happened. At least as far as Gummer was concerned. The kid made a move as if to step off the rocky platform to meet him.
"Don't!" Burt bellowed, his good arm, still carrying the bobbing med kit, thrust before him in warning, his other hand vaguely gesturing to the kid's right. "Get back up there. Now!"
"But…" the kid started to say, not exactly stopping his forward momentum.
"Graboid!" Yelled the survivalist. And then he turned on his full speed, which, for a 6'4", middle-aged man, was quite an impressive sight, although neither the kid nor El Blanco was appreciating it much at the moment.
The worm edged up his speed a notch, closing in fast, preparing to surface and snag his next meal. The kid, looking a bit dazed, was leaning too close to the edge, and Burt was giving the foot race everything he had.
Long, snake-like tentacles cleared the surface followed by massive curved jaws. El Blanco was moving into position.
Leg muscles uncoiling, Burt became airborne, one boot grazing the needle sharp fangs that tipped one tentacle as he passed overhead. The graboid's other tentacles whipped around, trying to second guess his prey's next move.
But it was too late. Gummer landed near the youth, his boots thudding loudly on the rock. He slipped slightly, fought for a purchase with his one free hand…the injured one unfortunately…gasped, and lunged his torso forward. He felt something catch at the back of his boot, but then a pair of young strong hands was pulling him clear of the edge. He felt a hand gently pry the med kit handle free of his grip. But he paid it no mind.
Rolling over, he yanked his .44 magnum sidearm free of its holster and instinctively took careful aim. Inflamed by an odd mixture of panic and rage, he was past worrying about what this would do to the fragile economic and environmental truce set up between the people of Perfection, the local government, and the graboid himself.
"Open up!" He commanded through gritted teeth. "Cuz, if you're that hungry, I'm gonna put a whole lot of lead right down that gullet… courtesy of Desert Eagle!"
The white tentacles thrashed wildly against the rock at the sound of Gummer's voice, then stilled as if recognizing the seriousness of the threat.
The cessation of movement did the trick. With each beat of his heart, Burt grew calmer. For years, he'd been the unwilling protector of not only this giant voracious eating machine but of the valley itself. El Blanco's presence kept the land free of developers. He kept Burt's compound devoid of annoying neighbors. Burt slowly lowered the weapon, reholstered it. Instead, he pulled his rifle close, separated the pole-like device from it, and thumbed the toggle switch. The odd looking rod hummed too softly to hear at the moment but Burt could feel a slight vibration in his hand as it powered-up. "Well, old boy," he smirked at the tentacles slowing worming their way up to his position. "I have a little surprise for you…I hope!"
Using a quick jabbing motion, Burt plunged the dual needles into one white snaking tentacle. Though no one could see it, a heavy duty charge of electricity raced through the device, exiting out the tines at the end. An ear piercing shriek filled the air as the tentacles, all three of them plunged beneath the surface, leaving a tan cloud in their wake. The cloud fanned out into the distance, veered left, and began to once more circle their perch.
A solitary twitch, well short of a smile, pulled at one corner of the survivalist's mouth. Feeling pleased with himself, he rolled back onto the solid surface of dark rock, and inhaled deeply.
"Man, you are the luckiest guy alive," a voice was saying to him.
Burt cast an incredulous look at the 'kid'. "Yeah, right," he muttered, suddenly drawn into thinking about how much he'd lost over the years. Most of what he'd held dear over was completely and totally gone. Sure, he'd survived but to call him "lucky" was just plain ridiculous. "If only you knew," he added sarcastically.
Finally, Burt sat up and did a quick inventory of his supplies first and then his state of health. Nothing appeared missing, not even the canteen, and he was too pumped with adrenalin at the moment to feel much physically. The youth knelt down and touched his shoulder.
Turning to meet the kid's gaze, he nodded. "I know. You weren't flying the plane…were you?" It was more of a statement than a question.
The boy's chin gave an almost an imperceptible shake, but said nothing.
Standing hesitantly, Burt put weight on his injured ankle and found it tolerable. "Okay, let's go. Bring the med kit." He grasped his rifle and the modified cattle prod, then set them high and away from the perimeter. "Whatever you do, don't touch," he stated pointedly to the boy, before walking around the nearly crushed aircraft, hoping to find easier ingress than crawling in through the shattered windshield.
About fifty feet away, amidst torn up ground, the tail section still smoldered, tiny wisps of smoke curling out of the gaping wound. It was impossible, however, to tell if anyone was still in there. If there was anyone inside, he or she was no longer living, of that Burt had no doubts. The main section of the plane was slightly better, making Burt wonder why the boy hadn't made his egress from there. He didn't have long to get his answer. A male body, heavily mutilated by broken glass, and jagged metal, was sprawled in a bloody heap on what was currently the floor. Long inured to such sights, Burt simply knelt and felt for a carotid pulse. Nothing, as expected.
He felt a presence move behind him and he whirled, already reaching for the grip of his pistol until he realized it was just the kid, tagging along like a lost puppy. Turning til he faced the boy, he gently asked, "You dad?" Blue eyes met brown, and held.
"No, Mom and Dad are up front. He was just a friend of the family. He was tagging along. Dad told him to buckle up but I guess…" The boy hesitated, lower lip quivering, eyes glazed over with shock. "I guess he didn't listen."
Bending over enough to look the youth straight in the eye, Burt placed one long fingered hand on the young man's shoulder, and gave it reassuring squeeze. Speaking gently, he said in calming voice, "Sometimes there are no acceptable reasons for why these things happen." As he spoke, Burt peeled off the man's windbreaker and covered his face and shoulders with it. "Now, why don't we attend to the others."
Moving further within the shadowed cabin, Burt saw another body sprawled between two seats. This one was female, slightly younger than the man, and judging from the gentle rise and fall of her chest, very much alive. Stopping over her, Burt did a quick assessment for broken bones, and reflexes to pain. She moaned when her right leg was moved, and the distorted shape of the thigh, indicated a probable broken femur.
"That's Ginny, wife of…well…him." The boy told him pointing back over his shoulder.
As Burt continued to examine her overall condition, he glanced at "Ginny" and found her startling emerald eyes upon him.
"How do you feel? I mean, specifically. I know about the thigh. But what about elsewhere?"
"No, just feeling bumped and bruised," she replied, her voice getting stronger with each word.
"Good. Neck hurting? Numbness? No? Wiggle the fingers for me."
She did so.
"Can you feel this?" he queried, squeezing her toes through her Reeboks. "
She acknowledged the question with a quick dip of her chin. "Good, doesn't seem like there's any spinal cord injury."
"Any pain now," he asked next, palpating her abdomen. Her answer was a quick shake of her head.
Hunting around the overturned debris within the cabin, he located a jacket. Balling it up, he put it behind her head to make the woman more comfortable. "Okay, listen, I know it's going to be frustrating to just lay here but moving you right now might not be the best idea."
A fine boned trembling hand reached toward him. "My husband?" she whispered.
Lips pulling into a tight line, Burt hesitated. Looking at her with soft brown eyes filled with regret, his answer was nothing more than a slight shake of his head. As tears coursed down the woman's cheeks, he awkwardly patted her shoulder, and turned to the youth.
"Son…uh…what's you name boy?"
"Jason. But most of my friends just call me "JD."
"Fine JD. Stay put, watch Ginny until I call for you. Here's my canteen." Use the cap. If she wants a sip of water that's fine but nothing more than it would take to wet the lips, okay?"
With JD suitably occupied, Burt remained hunched over, and took the few remaining stops to the cockpit. It was just as well that kid was still too out-of-it to be thinking clearly. His parents, still strapped in, didn't appear to be in good shape. Burt made JD's mother his first priority due to her position in the seat. The safety restraints held her in place but she was literally suspended almost sideways. Her head lolled down, and her skin was a faint bluish color. Quickly, Gummer discovered the seat belt across her throat was the culprit. Potential neck injury or not, she would eventually asphyxiate if they left her where she was.
He needed the boy's help for this, he admitted with chagrin. With only one good arm, he couldn't bring her down without causing further injury to himself or her. "JD, I need you to walk to the front of the plane. Climb back in from there."
Dully, the boy edged out the way he'd come and soon appeared in front of the shattered windshield.
"Careful coming in now." Once JD had complied, Burt positioned the boy's hands by the mother's head and side. "Okay, you and me, we can do this. I'm going to cut her free. When that happens, she's going to drop. Be ready, because even though she's fairly small, it won't feel that way. You with me so far?"
"Sure, I guess so."
Burt gripped his shoulder tightly. "Not you guess so. This is important. Your folks are depending on you. You can do this and you will do this. Understand?" When the boy nodded, Gummer gave the wide, youthful shoulders an encouraging squeeze. "Okay, here goes." He carefully slid his injured left arm under her side. As long as he kept her closer to his shoulder, rather than the wrist, he could manage this. He had no other choice, aside from leaving her that way and that he couldn't do.
A few deft knife strokes later and the woman tumbled free into their waiting arms. The boy had followed instructions, and Burt had managed to support the lower torso with just his upper arm but his strength wasn't what it normally was. Jabbing his knife into the seat cushion, he told JD, "Now, best as you can, we need to get her out of here so we can tend to your dad."
With superhuman effort on both their parts, man and boy managed to pull the prostrate woman through the windshield without further injuring themselves. Together they moved her into the only spot of shade atop their little oasis. Burt immediately did the standard ABC first aid check, airway, breathing, circulation, and as the woman's skin began to pink up, he rapidly went through the paces of checking for serious injury. Aside from a prodigiously large knot on her right temple, and possibly some cracked ribs, plus the expected bruises, she appeared relatively unharmed.
JD's father was easier to reach. He was on the side of the cockpit that leaned against the black stone surface. With the windshield slanted at an inconvenient angle, Burt opted to crawl in on his elbows and belly. He touched the man's neck, felt for the carotid artery, found it…and a pulse. The belt latch opened easily as well. Two for two. Things were looking up, he told himself ruefully. Despite the uncomfortable position, he did a basic survey for neck injuries prior to attempting to move him. Aside from a great deal of blood from number of facial lacerations, a broken nose, and obviously distressed breathing, JD's father probably could have been moved. But Burt decided against it. There was now just enough room to straighten him out a bit inside the cockpit. He did so, cautiously, watching for any unusual reactions.
Finally, that finished, Burt peeled back the man's light denim jacket. The front shoulder sticky with blood, and there was a considerable size oval red patch by the man's right side.
Retrieving his knife from the seat, Gummer wasted no time. He sliced the shirt open, peeled back the torn cloth, and examined the swollen, red, and open wound. The man began gasping loudly. JD hearing the noise, poked his head in. "What's going on?" he asked, clearly scared.
"Nothing I can't handle," Burt replied calmly. "I need you to go outside for a few minutes! Go on now." Then, he pivoted and called to the boy, "First, hand in the med kit."
Seconds later, JD was sliding it over to Burt, who single-handedly opened the latch and began fishing around for what he needed. He found the adhesive tape immediately. The other item provided to be slightly more elusive. Finally, he found it. However, unfolding the clear piece of thick plastic wrap proved to be a major challenge given his limited dexterity.
"JD, I need you here for a minute," Burt finally stated, forced to concede he couldn't do this alone. It didn't take long for the boy to respond. Burt noted he seemed more alert now, which, as far as he was concerned, was good for him too. At the moment, he certainly needed all the helping hands he could get. "Take this tape. Rip me off four good size strips, about this long," and he spread his thumb and forefinger to indicate the desired length.
Once that was done, he made sure the plastic was still in position, placed one tape strip on and said, "Now, JD, we'll seal off the other three sides. It must be on there good. No air allowed in, you hear?"
Not answering the question, JD finished the task, then backed away. "What's wrong with him? I mean, why doesn't he wake up? That doesn't look too bad, "he added, pointing to the small wound.
Burt settled back on his haunches, grimacing at the renewed surge of discomfort from his ankle. He took a couple of quick breaths, and wiped a rolling sweat droplet from his brow before it got into his eye. It was only then that Burt looked the boy in the eyes and patiently stated, "I know it doesn't look like much but it's very serious. Technically, it's called an open pneumothorax. What that means is that something has pierced both his chest wall and lungs. It caused his lung to collapse. That's why he was having such difficulty breathing. This will be a temporary fix, nothing more."
"He's not gonna die, is he?"
"No one's going to die, son. Not on my watch! Now, go see if Ginny needs some water. Take some yourself. Go easy on it. That's all we've got. Meanwhile, I'll see if your mom is awake."
Below them, the great white enormous eating machine, was closely circling their temporary place of sanctuary.
The red jeep followed the same basic trail as the Chevy had two hours before. Tyler's instincts were firmly settled on this course of action. He knew, somehow, that he only needed to keep going. And then he saw it, two indentations in the dirt, made from large knobby tires. Fresh impressions too. There had been no off-roaders around for nearly a month, and the storm two weeks ago would have obliterated those tracks in no time. Next he saw the warning light near the tripped switch. Closer still. The knobby tracks were heading toward a rather large wash and over the crest. Carefully, Tyler followed them right to the edge and looked down.
The sight that greeted his eyes made his stomach tighten painfully. Below him was the overturned Chevy. Without a moment's hesitation, he plunged down toward the vehicle. As he hopped out, he noted, out of the corner of one eye, an opening in the dirt wall. Graboid hole for sure. And the corresponding depression where El Blanco had burrowed back underground.
Fear turned to panic. Despite the relatively short time in town, Burt had become something of a friend and partner to him. If El Blanco had gotten the survivalist, Reed knew he'd feel like a family member had died. And since the people in Perfection were the only family he truly had these days, the thought was almost too painful to bear.
The jeep had barely come to sliding halt before Tyler jumped free, and threw himself on the ground beside the Chevy's driver side. A part of him actually didn't want to look. But he did anyway.
Nothing. Without realizing he was holding his breath, Tyler exhaled loudly in relief, then froze again when he observed browning spots in the sand. Dried blood. He was sure of it. And there was the cut seat belt. A great deal of disturbed dirt and boot prints encircled the vehicle. Which meant one of two things, either Burt was very much alive and had already wandered off or he had become graboid chow and someone else had been there. Totally unwilling to believe the latter, he hopped back in his truck, and radioed Jodi at Walter Chang's Market.
It wasn't Jodi who answered, however, It was Nancy, the blond middle-aged woman who had lived in the valley even longer than Burt had, surviving by selling crafts, while raising a young daughter to adulthood. As long as he got a message through, he didn't care who he spoke to.
"Nancy, I found Burt's truck."
There was silence. Then, "Am I to take it by your omission that Burt isn't there?"
"Well, it's a bit worse than that. The vehicle flipped. Looks like El Blanco was the culprit. But there's no sign of Burt."
"So he's on foot. That's not good news."
"It gets worse," he told her dryly. "I'm betting he's injured. I don't know how badly, but trust me, judging from the way the truck looks, he's probably not at his best."
"Now what? Want us to come out there?"
"With EB possibly still around? No way. Just stand by. I see footprints still heading east. I'm following. If I need help I'll get back to you."
"You take care, Tyler," Jodi chimed in from another radio.
"You bet," he responded, as he threw his muscular frame back into the driver's seat and sped off in the direction of the footprints.