Chapter One
It was one of the years of the war. No one knew which, no one cared any longer. It had been going on so long that the count of years had been forgotten. Only the seasons kept their steady cycle, turning and returning over the land, even and smooth, as a ball of yarn is layered. Now, in early autumn, the desert lay before her like a much-used blanket, full of burrs and dirt, and lumpy with small hills. Behind was the rubble of Barstow, burned stores and houses, walls falling in upon themselves, with the rising curve of freeway arching over it. Ghost town. In one of the service stations she had discovered enough fuel remaining to fill the tank of the bike and the two spare cans tied on the back. She had wedged them under the rope that fastened her meager blanket roll, checked and rechecked her supply of shotgun shells, and left the derelict town without a backward glance.
The wind screamed past her ears as she opened up the engine, rising fast along the long slope of freeway and falling back toward the floor of the desert and Las Vegas in the pale distance. A dust storm was gathering behind her, silent, hungry, eating up the past. Cold wind blew out of the west. There were many hours and miles behind her and more in front. She didn't know where she intended to go. Only "gone" had seemed to matter. But from the moment she had left Los Angeles, easing the bike downhill in the darkness and silence of the night and kicking in the engine only out of earshot of the sleeping pack, she had felt flung like a bullet from the vast pistol of the town into the open space of the desert. She had no target in mind. She was a random shot, fired by accident or awkwardness, which might hit something, or might fall spent in a distant place nobody had ever seen. Now the only reality was speed--the speed of the machine and the speed in her veins.
The air was a curtain of ice that ripped and fluttered as the bike ripped through it. Rags of icy air streamed through her body and snapped against her naked bones. She had fixed up before leaving and her blood was full of crushed ice that clinked in her veins like cubes in a glass, poured from the crystal pitcher of her heart. It was nearly the last of her stash, and there was no guarantee of when, or if, she would ever score any more dope at all. But it didn't matter. If the coyotes or the cold didn't get her, there would be another pack in another town. In Las Vegas, maybe. They would hear the noise of the engine in the silent desert, see her worn jeans and the property patch on her jacket, and know her for what she was--a mamma, a bitch with no name on a too-large scoot. They would know what to do with her. If they didn't kill her, she'd end up wishing they had, and there would be another bike in their stable, a little more dope in the house, more precious fuel.
Through blowing sand, she could make out buildings at the top of a long hill in front of her. She had to stop there and rest. Fix up again before going on. There was no sense in risking a crash on the desolate stretch between what had been Baker and what had been Las Vegas.
The engine thundered as she geared down to take the hill. At the top she made a turn onto a short dirt drive, tires launching pebbles out behind. There was what remained of a gas station at the end of the road, two houses, looking a little too well-kept. She pulled the bike up in back of the station, well out of sight of the house. If someone was in there, he might already have heard her engine, but from here she could defend herself with the shotgun.
She parked the bike and pulled the shotgun from its sheath. The only sounds were the soft sough of the wind and the muffled crunch of her boots on the gravel as she slipped along the back of the concrete building. Several creosote bushes and a tangle of ocotillo made a screen from the back of the gas station to the outlying restrooms. Dropping to her belly, she inched slowly along the ground behind the bushes toward the restroom door. Stone dust and grit stuck to her left hand. An unfortunately placed cholla left several of its thorns in her left wrist. In her right hand she held the shotgun. Behind the last bush, she squatted with bent knees, listening. Her thighs were sore. Slipping quickly to the door, she was inside. Face to face with a man.
He was sitting on the shitter. Frozen, they faced each other for an unending instant. Then suddenly, as the shotgun flashed to her shoulder, finger tightening on the trigger, the man lunged forward, his arm knocking the barrel up and sending the shot through the flimsy roof. He made a grab for her, and they closed and rolled sideways onto the floor, each struggling for a killing hold. But he was old and scraggy and hampered by the ragged jeans around his bony knees. Adrenalin and speed galvanized her and she sank an elbow into his throat. She brought her knee up, aiming for his nuts, missed and tried again. It glanced off his thigh. He snatched at her jacket, trying to bring her closer, clawing at her neck. She jerked her head back and brought up her knee again, and this time she connected. A thin animal sound keened in his throat as his body doubled in agony.
She came up to her knees in an instant, going for his neck with the hardened edge of her hand. There was a crisp crack, like a dry stick breaking. His shriek dissolved into a gurgle, and she fell forward on her hands across his body.
Her breath came in sharp-caught gasps. Struggling to her feet, she stumbled against the restroom wall and braced herself on it, looking down at the body. He was dirty, the piercing stink of sweat and filth mingling with an outhouse odor of long-decayed shit. As she lurched forward, her foot hit a button set in the floor, flushing the toilet. She staggered backward at the unexpected sound.
Her mind raced into overdrive. There was running water here. She turned and started out the door, then stopped short. There might be someone else, someone in the house besides this old wreck. She scooped up the shotgun from the floor. Taking two shells from her jacket pocket, she reloaded. She peered cautiously around the edge of the door, listening, but could detect no sound from the house.
Then she was out the door and running for the shelter of the wall between the windows. She flung herself against the wall and worked her way slowly, back against the stucco, to the nearest one. Still she heard nothing. She dropped to the ground and raised her eyes slowly over the sill. Beyond the grimy glass, the room was littered with refuse and a tangled bedroll. The blankets were surrounded by piles of old rusty cans. She took a deep breath, hand on her stomach, lowered the shotgun and rounded the corner to the front door.
It was open, hanging from one hinge. She stepped over more trash and litter in the doorway. Broken glass crunched under her boots. The house was empty. That was good. The old man had been alone. There might even be some food she could use.
She shoved open the bedroom door with the barrel of the gun. Against the walls stood stacks of dusty boxes. These were filled with canned meat and beans. Empty cans were scattered by them on the floor. Dried scums of meat clung to their insides. She prodded another stack of boxes with the toe of her boot. Something inside clinked faintly. She stooped and pulled open the top one. Inside were three bottles of cheap bourbon, one half-empty. Well, well. This was some real luck, even if she didn't plan to drink it herself. It would be handy if she got cut, or if she had to do some trading. And still handier if she still had any when the dope ran out.
She went back outside to her bike, started it and brought it around to the front of the house. She filled one of the saddlebags with cans and wrapped the liquor tightly to keep it from breaking. Back inside, she cleared a path through to the kitchen. Water stood in an enamel pan in the sink. She tried the tap. It coughed, and poured out rusty liquid. She allowed it to run till the water was clear, then made a cup of her hands and drank, wiping her hands dry on her pants.
There must be a clear pipeline to this place. Except for a few scattered places in the LA area that had springs on the property, there was no more indoor running water. The pack had had water inside their house in the canyon behind Monrovia. But she pushed the memories of the pack out of her mind and went back to the bike. Deep in the saddlebag, she found her outfit.
Setting the works carefully on the ground inside its protective baggie, she scraped together a few stones, found some dried twigs and the splinters of some old boards. With the speed of long familiarity, she lit a small fire. Using a tiny grate and pan from her pack, she set a little water to boil. While it was heating, she hacked open a can of meat from the old man's hoard and swallowed it without tasting. It was the fix she really wanted.
She waited, sitting on a rock. It was funny, maybe even lame, she thought, to bother sterilizing the outfit. But there were better, faster ways to die than from something you caught off a needle. The outfit had come from the stash in the house. It was unused, so far as she knew, but more than one of them had died after firing up in the past weeks. You just never knew. She let the outfit boil for a long time, watching as the sun dropped low in the sky and the shadows of the creosote bushes lengthened over her. Then she took out the bottle of crystal, mixing, dissolving, filling the syringe. She pumped a fist, tied off her left arm, and slid the needle in, watching the vein fill and throb, licking her dry lips.
Oh, yes. This was what it was really all about. Not the wet thrustings and slurping tongues of the pack. Not the cocks that had searched her out, smelling her out through several hundred nighttimes under filthy blankets, filling her body with cold come--just this. The bright, sharp-pointed, clean needle, the ultimate, real prick, carrying--not into her cunt, but into her veins and heart which belonged to her alone--the genuine, only, real, true orgasm.
She backed up the syringe, a feathering of red mixing with the liquid, pressed, packed, pressed again, a rhythmic rocking in and out. Ecstasy grabbed her by brain and gut, each thrust a moment of perfect pleasure, a climax, each backing out a taut waiting-on-edge for the next thrust.
She drew it out, making it last until the needle was completely empty. Mouth slack, eyes unseeing, she dropped to the ground, not even bothering to untie the cord.
After the rush, she sat up and took a convulsive breath. Carefully she took the needle out of her arm and untied the cord, putting both away in their protective wrapping. She caressed the syringe with a finger. She would take care of her outfit and it would take care of her ... as long as the crystal lasted. And after that, who cared? Unless she could find more. Somewhere. Somehow. In another time, another house. And after she had rested, in return for anything. And if it was not to be found, there could be the long, long rush through the air over some cliff on the bike. Couldn't lose.
She put everything away and mounted the bike, kicking the engine to noisy life and taking her down the dirt road, away toward Las Vegas.
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