“In Dixie land . . . duh-duh-duh-duh . . . to live and die in Dixie . . .”
She said to Kelly, “Got it?”
“Not yet,” Kelly said, pulling on the handlebars.
Harding’s face was inches from the velociraptor’s head and jaws. The head flopped back and forth as she adjusted her grip. Close to her face, the open eye stared at her, unseeing. Harding tugged, trying to lift the animal higher.
“Almost . . .” Kelly said.
Harding groaned, lifting.
The eye blinked.
Frightened, Harding dropped the animal. Kelly pulled the bike away. “Got it!”
“Away, away . . . away down south . . . in Dixie . . .”
Harding came around the raptor. Now the big leg twitched. The chest began to move.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Ian, behind me. Kelly, on the handlebars.”
“Away . . . away . . . away down south . . .”
“Let’s go,” Harding said, climbing on the bike. She kept her eyes on the raptor. The head gave a convulsive jerk. The eye blinked again. It was definitely waking up. “Let’s go, let’s go. Let’s go!”
Village
Sarah drove the motorcycle down the hill toward the worker village. Looking past Kelly, Sarah saw the Jeep parked at the store, not far from the gas pumps. She braked to a stop, and they all climbed off in the moonlight. Kelly opened the door to the store, and helped Malcolm inside. Sarah rolled the motorcycle into the store, and closed the door.
“Doc?” she said.
“We’re over here,” Thorne said. “With Arby.”
By the moonlight filtering in through the windows, she could see the store looked very much like an abandoned roadside convenience stand. There was a glass-walled refrigerator of soft drinks, the cans obscured by mold on the glass. A wire rack nearby held candy bars and Twinkies, the wrappers speckled green, crawling with larvae. In the adjacent magazine rack, the pages were curled, the headlines five years old.
To one side were rows of basic supplies: toothpaste, aspirin, suntan lotion, shampoo, combs and brushes. Alongside this were racks of clothing, tee shirts and shorts, socks, tennis rackets, bathing suits. And a few souvenirs: key chains, ashtrays, and drinking glasses.
In the center of the room was a little island with a computer cash register, a microwave, and a coffee maker. The microwave door hung wide; some animal had made a nest inside. The coffee maker was cracked, and laced with cobwebs.
“What a mess,” Malcolm said.
“Looks fine to me,” Sarah Harding said. The windows were all barred. The walls seemed solid enough. The canned goods would still be edible. She saw a sign that said “Restrooms,” so maybe there was plumbing, too. They should be safe here, at least for a while.
She helped Malcolm to lie down on the floor. Then she went over to where Thorne and Levine were working on Arby. “I brought the first-aid kit,” she said. “How is he?”
“Pretty bruised,” Thorne said. “Some gashes. But nothing broken. Head looks bad.”
“Everything hurts,” Arby said. “Even my mouth.”
“Somebody see if there’s a light,” she said. “Let me look, Arby. Okay, you’re missing a couple of teeth, that’s why. But that can be fixed. The cut on your head isn’t so bad.” She swabbed it clean with gauze, turned to Thorne. “How long until the helicopter comes?”
Thorne looked at his watch. “Two hours.”
“And where does it land?”
“The pad is several miles from here.”
Working on Arby, she nodded. “Okay. So we have two hours to get to the pad.”
Kelly said, “How can we do that? The car’s out of gas.”
“Don’t worry,” Sarah said. “We’ll figure something out. It’s going to be fine.”
“You always say that,” Kelly said.
“Because it’s always true,” Sarah said. “Okay, Arby, I need you to help now. I’m going to sit you up, and get your shirt off. . . .”
* * *
Thorne moved off to one side with Levine. Levine was wild-eyed, his body moving in a twitchy way. The drive in the Jeep seemed to have finished him off. “What is she talking about?” he said. “We’re trapped here. Trapped!” There was hysteria in his voice. “We can’t go anywhere. We can’t do anything. I’m telling you, we’re all going to d—”
“Keep it down,” Thorne said, grabbing his arm, leaning close. “Don’t upset the kids.”
“What difference does it make?” Levine said. “They’re going to find out sooner or—Ow! Take it easy.”
Thorne was squeezing his arm hard. He leaned close to Levine. “You’re too old to act like an asshole,” he said quietly. “Now, pull yourself together, Richard. Are you listening to me, Richard?”
Levine nodded.
“Good. Now, Richard, I’m going to go outside, and see if the pumps work.”
“They can’t possibly work,” Levine said. “Not after five years. I’m telling you, it’s a waste of—”
“Richard,” Thorne said. “We have to check the pumps.”
There was a pause. The two men looked at each other.
“You mean you’re going outside?” Levine said.
“Yes.”
Levine frowned. Another pause.
Crouched over Arby, Sarah said, “Where are the lights, guys?”
“Just a minute,” Thorne said to her. He leaned close to Levine. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Levine said, taking a breath.
Thorne went to the front door, opened it, and stepped out into darkness. Levine closed the door behind him. Thorne heard a click as the door locked.
He immediately turned, and rapped softly. Levine opened the door a few inches, peering out.
“For Christ’s sake,” Thorne whispered. “Don’t lock it!”
“But I just thought—”
“Don’t lock the damn door!”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Thorne said.
He closed the door again, and turned to face the night.
Around him, the worker village was silent. He heard only the steady drone of cicadas in the darkness. It seemed almost too quiet, he thought. But perhaps it was just the contrast from the snarling raptors. Thorne stood with his back to the door for a long time, staring out at the clearing. He saw nothing.
Finally he walked over to the Jeep, opened the side door, and fumbled in the dark for the radio. His hand touched it; it had slid under the passenger seat. He pulled it out and carried it back to the store, knocked on the door.
Levine opened it, said, “It’s not lock—”
“Here.” Thorne handed him the radio, closed the door again.
Again, he paused, watching. Around him, the compound was silent. The moon was full. The air was still.
He moved forward and peered closely at the gas pumps. The handle of the nearest one was rusted, and draped with spiderwebs. He pulled the nozzle up, and flicked the latch. Nothing happened. He squeezed the nozzle handle. No liquid came out. He tapped the glass window on the pump that showed the number of gallons, and the glass fell out in his hand. Inside, a spider scurried across the metal numerals.
There was no gas.
They had to find gas, or they’d never get to the helicopter. He frowned at the pumps, thinking. They were simple, the kind of very reliable pumps you found at a remote construction site. And that made sense, because after all, this was an island.
He paused.
This was an island. That meant everything came in by plane, or boat. Most times, probably by boat. Small boats, where supplies were offloaded by hand. Which meant . . .
He bent over, examining the base of the pump in the moonlight. Just as he thought, there were no buried gas tanks. He saw a thick black PVC pipe running at an angle just under the ground. He could see the direction the pipe was going—around the side of the store.
Thorne followed it, moving cautiously in the moonlight. He paused for a moment