Free Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure by Christopher Westley Page B

ask’s
      “Yes, me and Dad would fly in here for a hamburger. Gotta be some fuel left in one of the airplanes.”
    “Sure, why wouldn’t there be some there? None anywhere else,” Ava answers sarcastically.
    Ava starts the bike and revs up the engine before letting the clutch out. Slowly rolling ahead, they pick up speed and are on their way north again. Stop light after stop light gives way to an open highway. Up ahead is a sign with an airplane on it and mileage one. Turning off Highway 285, Mac and Ava navigate the bikes into the airport road and out onto the ramp, where a few defunct airplanes are sitting. Pulling up to the first plane, a Cessna 172, Sara jumps out with a one-gallon plastic milk jug. Walking up to the wing, she reaches up to the sump button on the underneath of the wing and presses it in. Nothing comes out.  
    “Damn!”
    Walking over to the other wing, she repeats the process with the same results. Plane after plane, Sara strikes out. Walking back over to Mac and Ava, who seem to be getting a bit better acquainted, Sara glances over her right shoulder noticing something sitting just inside an open hangar. Spinning around on her heels, she turns and runs across the large ramp followed by Mac and Ava. Sara runs up to what looks like a square, metal sink. It is painted red. On one side is printed No Smoking. Flammable Liquid. On the front printed in black block letters is 100 LL. Swinging the lid up and out of her way, Sara peers down into the bottom of the contraption. She can see a few airplane parts suspended by wiring, hanging just above a small pool of liquid. Just then, the fumes hit her nostrils, and she is sure that even dirty fuel will work.  
    “This is Avgas. Aviation Gasoline .”
      Kneeling down, Sara finds a drain valve on the bottom of the square tank. She opens the valve slowly, draining out a gallon of fuel into her jug. “Find another jug; I think there is at least four or five more gallons in here.”  
    Mac and Ava rummage around the hangar and come up with an old metal can that looks as though it holds at least two gallons of aviation solvent.  
    “Here.” Mac hands the jug to Sara.
    “Take this one, Ava; we can fill the bikes and then store some for later.” Sara hands up the can as she continues to fill the other jug.  
    Ava takes the jug over to her bike and dumps the smelly contents into the tank, filling it halfway. Returning to the hangar, she takes the other jug from Sara and returns to her bike, filling the tank the rest of the way.  
    Mac finishes the job by filling his bike, and stores the two jugs on the back of his bike for later.  
    “We should get going; sun is starting to go down, and I don’t want to be in town after dark.” Sara knows that the infected survivors thrive in the cool darkness of night, and she is not eager to make this area a campsite.  
    “Yes, smart. Besides, we need to put some miles on, right?” Mac says as he looks over at her with the look of, you are in charge, but I am an adult and am a lot older and wiser than you are.  
    Sara looks back at him and nods her head yes.
    Leaving the airport behind them, they quickly make the right turn north on Highway 285, leaving the town in their wake. More miles click off in the afternoon light as they pass through another deserted town. A road sign on their way through says Pecos, Texas, Population 8780, but they all knew that wasn’t true anymore. The infected rate of most towns in Texas was nearly 98 percent. Starting in Dallas, Texas, with the first case, followed by the uncertainty and indecisiveness of the bureaucratic federal government and the impossibly hand-tied Centers for Disease Control, the survival rate in the first two months alone was just under 3 percent of those that contracted the initial strain of the Ebola   27x virus. Six months later, multiple infectious mutations of the strain have left Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, and Georgia decimated. The few survivors that