Chapter 4

Hello

They broke down on a two-lane highway somewhere between the last patch of grass and the second clump of dirt. Dust clouds chased tumbleweeds across parched earth as flat as an anorexic chest and barren as a cloistered nun.

He'd told him not to do it. Stood nose-to-nose with Deputy Director Marshall and said it would be safer, and quicker, to slap a pair of cuffs on Downing and hop the next non-stop flight.

Marshall predictably said 'no'; and men in Armani suits, with clean fingernails, ensconced in glass offices with penthouse views, never listen to a field man.

'Harvardville," he'd said, 'is an epic cluster fuck. I've got everyone from the CDC to the President crawling up my ass, and a world coalition of peace protestors, and anti-terrorist activists not far behind. I've got reporters camped out like hippies in a hemp field at every airport for three hundred miles. I'm not about to place a man linked to a disaster of this magnitude anywhere near an airstrip. Give the assholes that caused the first kaboom a chance to do it again.'

'With all due respect, Sir, I believe you're making a mistake.'

'And with all due respect, I believe it's your job, agent Kennedy, to do exactly what I goddamn say. Downing stays off the radar and out of site. Hired guns and badges come and go. Now, you get that sumbitch ready for land transport, or I'll find another badge who will.'

Leon shifted in his seat. Heated breeze, permeated with the leftover scent of antifreeze, swept beneath his neck and rustled wet hairs on the back of his head.

He mopped his forehead on his sweat-stained shirtsleeve and glanced at his watch. Four hours. He shaded his eyes. Two blobs appeared in the transparent heat wave ripple shimming above sun-bleached highway. Agent Barnes and Agent Noble, no relation to the purveyors of fine reading material, on quick-footed approach, moving twice the speed of zombie. 'Bout time.

"Oh look, Tweedledee and Tweedledum return," Downing said in a droll, sarcastic voice that, based on recordings, and a few Chris Redfield impromptu impersonations, resembled a mutual six foot one blonde haired menace.

What Downing needed was a bit more hoity, a lot more toity, and a little less whine, to skyrocket his dour, demeaning tone from plain ass to straight up badass. A dash of virus and pinch of Wesker's ego wouldn't hurt either.

"Correct me if I'm mistaken, but didn't you send them off to bring back assistance?"

They'd removed their undershirt wife beaters and wrapped them around their heads like some sort of mini turban wearing tribesman. And, Downing was not mistaken, they were supposed to get to the next exit and bring back a tow truck, rental, or well-paid redneck assistance. The fact that they had disintegrated from trained agent into survival show contestants told Leon everything he needed to know. Help wasn't coming.

"And would it be too much to ask why the phone you've been using to play DJ, with a repeating set list, since the sun came up cannot be used to call for aid?"

Leon slid his feet into his boots. "We went over that Downing. We're on communications blackout. Our next scheduled transmission is set for twenty two hundred, ten o' clock. Until then," he glanced at Barnes and Noble through the windshield glare, "it looks like we're stranded. We'll have to make the best of it."

"But, this is a special circumstance. Is it not? It's one call. One word. I was thinking something along the lines of...help."

"I have my orders Downing. No radio, cell, computer, or," he waved an arm at the open expanse, " smoke signals. Ten o'clock means ten o'clock."

He raised an oversize container to his lips. Thirtbuster, my ass. The watered down, lukewarm beverage lost its ability to 'bust' his thirst three hours ago.

Downing cleared his throat. His intent to wheedle and complain every long remaining minute on the countdown to contact as incessant as the oppressive sun hung suspended above the vehicle. "Would it be too much to ask for my own drink, officer Kennedy? It's hotter than Satan's armpit in here."

Leon raised his seat and shot a quick glance in the rearview mirror. "It's agent Kennedy, Downing."

"Doctor, if you please. I earned that piece of paper."

He plucked the straw from his soda, clenched it between his teeth, and blew into a used Styrofoam cup. He filled it halfway, leaned around the seat, and pressed the cup to Downing's lips.

"Is this really the best you can do?" Downing wrinkled his nose. "Piss warm cola."

Leon rolled the straw to the side of his mouth with his tongue. "Drink it, don't drink it. That's all there is."

"I think I'd rather dehydrate, thank you very much."

"Suit yourself."

He tossed the cup out the door. Spider web cracks in the soil sucked the moisture into its crevices like a fluid-starved vampire.

"You've made it clear we'll be here until the calvary is given permission to charge; given the circumstances, do you think it might be possible to get out and walk around for a bit. Flex my legs. Perhaps, take care of a few personal needs?"

"Downing, if you need to use the bathroom, why don't you just say it."

"I was trying to be discreet."

That logic right there, in Leon's opinion, was the problem with ninety nine percent of the adult population. Say what you mean and mean what you say. How hard a concept was it to grasp. Sugarcoating shit balls in chocolate didn't change the fact they were still shitballs.

He slipped his arms out of his shirt and draped it over the door. He could go for walk himself. Maybe a stroll, present company excluded, wasn't such a bad idea.

Leon unclipped a key ring from his belt. He patted a firearm tucked in its holster. "I'll agree to a potty break. But, I'm warning you Downing, if you try to run I'll put one in your leg." He pulled the straw from his mouth and dangled it in Downing's face. "And use this for a catheter until we reach our destination."

"And where exactly would I run, agent Kennedy? The sagebrush on my left, the cacti on my right, or the whole lot of nothing in between."

"If you don't want to pee through a straw I'd suggest none of the above."

"Threaten me with violence again, agent Kennedy, and my attorney will have you cleaning restrooms at a gas station. What a charmer you must be with the ladies."

Leon took a step back as Downing swung his legs out of the car. "I do just fine."

"Like the number at the airport?"

Number seemed cheap. Inconsequential. A space in a little black book reserved for when the numbers above it said, 'no.' "She's not a number. She has a name."

"But not yours."

"What's it to you, Downing?"

Leon's phone sounded a siren ring tone.

Downing stretched his arms over his head. "So much for communication blackout."

Deputy Director Marshall's number flashed on the screen.

"Kennedy speaking."

"Hello, handsome."

"Ada?" Leon spun around. His gaze swept the horizon.

"Bingo."

"How did you get this number? This is a secure line."

"No time for chat. You have two on your tail, and another party inbound. Better make like a refugee and head south."

"Ada, where are you?"

"Consider me an eye in the sky. Haul ass and watch for my signal."

"Ada...wait-"

Downing tapped his shoulder. "Agent, Kennedy."

"Ada?"

"Ah, agent Kennedy."

Leon brushed Downing's hand off his shoulder. "What?" He turned and saw exactly 'what'. The headgear wasn't a wife beater. The heads weren't Barnes' or Nobles'. These men carried big guns slung across bigger bodies, and they were headed straight for them.