The Black Seas of Infinity (13 page)

CHAPTER IX

TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS

An hour later, and I’m trotting up a road, in the
middle of the night and the middle of nowhere. The woods on either
side sport weed-choked borders spilling over onto the moonlit
asphalt. Even the shoulder has disappeared under the encroaching
weeds, and still not a single car has passed. Actually, it isn’t
the middle of the night any longer; it’s a few hours from daybreak,
by my calculations, and I’m in a dicey situation. My plans center
on my vehicle and crossing the border, but currently I am days from
the border—weeks by foot—and if I am captured it could be
disastrous. I trudge onward, a mass of clouds crossing the moon and
throwing everything into such a deep black I can barely make out
the road.

A few hundred feet more, and in the distance
I see a clearing. Hard to tell in the rural dark, but it looks like
the trees recede on the right. It could be a deli, or a gas
station—I doubt a house would be this close to the roadside. There
are no nearby town lights to reflect off the clouds, and the
distant space on the side of the road is little more than a pocket
of nothingness before the impending tree line.

I make out the edges of something manmade
abrading the side of the road. Maybe a driveway. As I approach, the
trees fall back and a shadowy form comes into view. It’s a small
clearing with a gravel lot and filthy white brick hut. An ancient,
heavily worn cylinder gleams in all its chipped and dented glory,
the exposed metal casting a small glare in the darkness. The lights
are out in the building. A grimy glass door and single window
interrupt the flow of whitewashed concrete blocks. I don’t want to
risk going farther. Hopefully, in such a rural area, there isn’t an
alarm. I step in front of the door and set down the twin gas
containers. The clouds have parted overhead and the full moon beams
down in a wash of pale blue.

Studying the empty lot, I turn my attention
to the tree line beyond the road. Nothing. Turning back, I jab my
finger at the glass and it crashes inwards, a single break quickly
encircled by spider webs shooting off in all directions. The
falling shards ring out noisily in the silence, and I quickly
glance around again. Nothing. The lock on the door is a simple
deadbolt, and I stick my hand through the window and fumble around
for the knob. A flip of the lever, a pull on the doorframe, and the
door cracks open. A low-budget mini-market setup greets me, the
packages of donuts and pork rinds glistening in their cellophane
shells to my left, a small counter straddled by an outdated cash
register on the right. The switch for the pump should be right
under the counter, beneath the cash register, or on the wall. On
the counter is a small black TV. I haven’t seen any news in a week,
and I can only hope my little adventure down in the Carolinas
didn’t make too big of a splash. Not that I think the government
would report it, at least not with the true details. I reach over
and turn the little silver knob. The set crackles, taking almost a
full minute to come to life. Bands of static crisscross the screen,
the speakers pouring out an annoying cacophony of hisses and pops.
Assuming the top knob changes the channels, I grip it between my
fingers, and with a shallow crack it comes off in my hands. I toss
it over my shoulder and tightly grip the protruding metal switch. A
slow flip through the stations turns up nothing but white noise.
Another turn, and voices dimly emerge from the unintelligible din.
I flip back and forth, trying to isolate the signal. The static
mutates into a grainy black and white image, but my fingers are
rotating a little too fast and I overshoot it. Twisting back, I see
features resembling

Lebanon, only the streets look a bit more
modern. There are even parking meters. A tank grumbles amidst
clouds of dust, the sharp edges of buildings barely visible through
the smog. The vague forms of soldiers melt in and out of the haze.
Flashes of light erupt suddenly, followed immediately by gunfire.
Those look like American troops! Did we invade somewhere? A
voiceover kicks in, the clamor of warfare slightly muted for the
newscaster.

“In the third day of heavy fighting, the US
government appears to be falling apart. More states have broken
away from the Union, and soldiers are deserting en masse for their
home states. Here is a scene from the beleaguered Washington, DC,
showing rampant carnage and destruction. The tanks rolling down
Connecticut Avenue appear to belong to what we’re now calling the
US Central Government, although the reserves fighting for Virginia
look much the same. There is massive confusion. Most
representatives have left the city, many trying to make it back to
their home states.

“We appear to—wait a minute…”

The TV goes blank, and a cold feeling grips
my spine. I know it’s only a reflex, like an amputee having
sensation in a missing limb, but it feels real enough.

What is going on? I have been so focused on
myself that I haven’t kept up with current events. Something big
must have occurred, but what? Then another thought crosses my mind,
almost a revelation: How will all of this affect my plan? On the
one hand, I won’t have a central government hunting me. But on the
other hand, there will be local militaries quarreling over
territory. Not to mention heightened suspicion and possibly rampant
fighting all the way to Mexico. I think luck might be on my side,
if only slightly. The high-tech conspiracies of a united Big
Brother would be far more of a threat than anything posed by little
fiefdoms. The trip back to the car takes about an hour. I should
fill up my gas cans. I can plan during the trek back.

Circling the counter, I feel under the
register. My hand glides along until it hits a toggle switch.
Flipping the lever, I head back outside. At the doorway I pause,
debating whether I should turn on the outdoor lights. It would make
things easier, but it might draw unwanted attention. I decide to
operate in the dark.

Walking out, my feet crunching through shards
of glass, I scoop up the gas cans and head toward the pump. I
unscrew the metal lid, insert the gas nozzle, and pull the trigger.
Nothing. Had I flicked the right switch? Replacing the nozzle, I
drop the can and return to the hut. Glancing around in the gloom, I
can barely make out what appear to be light switches on the wall
just above the TV. I flip them up. Nothing happens. I flick them
down and up several times, but still nothing. Circling back around
the counter, I run my hands slowly up and down the inside wall in
search of another switch. My fingers bump into an empty key holder,
dislodging some taped on papers, but nothing else. I kneel down and
run my hand underneath the countertop until I reach the register,
encountering nothing aside from the switch that I thought turned on
the gas. I flick it the other way and jog back outside. I try the
gas nozzle again, this time pointing it at the ground. A couple of
drops of gas languidly roll out, making a thick, padding sound as
they hit the gravel. Fuck, no gas. The fleeing hordes probably took
it all. Maybe I can find something farther down the road. Hopefully
everything is mostly abandoned, not enthralled in full-on chaos. I
get the impression that people are holed up, waiting for the worst
to blow over. I drop the hose, pick up the cans, and head back out
onto the road. I can feel the creeping aggravation of things not
going my way crawling up my spine. Some things never change. If I
had teeth I’d grit them.

About fifteen minutes of walking in the dark,
and the trees open up ahead on the left. A few more steps, and a
building pops into view, the wall of foliage falling back into a
pocket of civilization harboring a small ranch-style house.
Drainage gutters outline the contours, most of it buried in the
shadow of overarching trees.

Round patio stones trail from the paved
driveway and disappear into the gloom of oaks, their final passage
to the front door hidden in the twilight. Dark wood paneling
holsters a blackened void of windows, a few thick trunks clustered
in front. An old Ford pickup is parked in the driveway, its front
end emerging from the cover of overhanging branches. I leave the
road, crossing the grassy shoulder, stepping over the drainage
ditch, and hugging the far tree line, my legs half-buried in the
tall weeds. Gently setting down the gas cans next to a thick trunk,
I traipse slowly out of the shadows and head toward the elegiac
house. The high grass falls away into a manicured plot, and in a
few quick steps I’ve crossed into the umbra of the lodging. All the
lights are off, the windows obscured by crimson curtains. I scan
the surroundings, my vision running across the outstretched front
lawn. A huge tree on the left side of the driveway arcs out in a
wide maze of twisted limbs and dying leaves, sheltering the
solitary pickup and casting a pall over the gabled canopy.

I hear a rustling sound and glance up. The
treetops are moving slowly, their leaves whistling in the wind.
Beyond, a chimney straddles the far end of the roof, mostly buried
by the smothering branches. No smoke emerges. All appears still and
lifeless in the early morning darkness. I step onto the gravel of
the driveway, the rocks gnashing loudly beneath my feet and forcing
me to freeze in place like some bizarre pantomime. I let a moment
or two pass, but there are no signs of life. I gingerly step around
the loose rocks as I close in on the pickup. I try the door. It’s
unlocked, and I ease it open. The hinges creak softly, obliging me
to stop and scan the area again. Is everything really that loud or
is my amplified hearing making me paranoid? The ignition cylinder
juts out of the wheel shaft to the right of the steering wheel.

I was never an expert at hotwiring cars. It’s
an older model, so it should have just a few wires to the ignition.
I grasp the small cylinder and slowly apply pressure, trying to
break it off with as little noise as possible. It starts to bend,
and then the plastic cracks loudly. In what has become an annoying
routine, I freeze, listening intently for any response. Still
nothing. I duck back inside, bend the rest of the cylinder until it
snaps off, and pull it out. The red wire should be power. I think
one is for the starter and one is for ignition—at least that’s how
it was on my Jeep. Grasping the red wire in two places, I press on
one end of the plastic tube and pull on the other. The sleeve pops
right off—instant wire stripper. I could never do that with human
hands. I strip the other two wires. Now which one is the starter
and which the ignition? I have to touch both to start the truck,
but only one stays connected. Once the starter fires up, I need to
take off in a hurry. I touch the red ignition wire to what I assume
is the starter wire. Nothing. I touch the next wire, and I hear the
motor turn over. Twisting the coil lead and ignition together, I
brush the makeshift connection with the starter wire. Sparks fly,
and the engine coughs a few times before rumbling to life.
That
noise
is
sure
to
wake
anyone
in
the
house
! I
scramble inside, slam the door, shift into reverse, and gun the
engine.

Suddenly my head flies violently forward,
rebounding off the dashboard and sailing into the passenger seat.
My hat is gone, and I watch as the bandages cloaking my face slowly
slide off. Glittering shards of shattered glass cover everything. I
think I’ve been shot!

“What the fuck are you?”

As I raise my head and slowly turn to my
left, I’m greeted at the side window by an obviously irritated
local. An open flannel top reveals his hairy, fat gut, his striped
pajama bottoms barely clinging on beneath a mass of flesh. A
stained cap struggles to constrain his mop of greasy brown hair.
He’s glaring at me, beady eyes and fat bearded cheeks bunched into
a grimace, the yawning hole of a shotgun barrel monopolizing my
immediate field of vision. I don’t know the strength of this body
and I don’t want to kill him, so a direct assault probably is out
of the question. I reach forward to open the door and climb out of
the truck. He fires the shotgun into my face again, this time a
full frontal blast. I’m ready this time, my neck muscles braced,
and all the barrage does is briefly obscure my vision, pushing me
back slightly.

I smoothly collect myself. He’s staring at me
in shock, his mouth gaping and his eyes bulging. In the heat of the
moment, I didn’t consider how things appear to him. He probably
didn’t get a good view of me until now. He drops the shotgun, his
hands still suspended in midair for a moment as it crashes into the
gravel. Then he turns and runs, his open flannel shirt billowing in
the wind as he careens toward the front door, a panting wheeze
accompanying his movements. Best of both worlds. He lives, I get
the truck.

I slam it into first and hit the gas. Rocks
pelt the sides and a cloud of dust kicks up behind me. Pulling the
light switch, the gauge indicates half a tank. Should be enough to
get me to the nearest town. My mind is focused, yet I don’t sense
that surge of heart-pounding adrenalin that typically follows a
confrontation. I experience a heightened level of concentration,
but at the same time I’m calm and collected. I feel removed, like
I’m observing and influencing events behind a sheltered barrier
that’s not quite a vehicle, but not quite me. I look down at my
left arm gripping the steering wheel. Under the shirtsleeve I can
feel that it’s stiff, locked in place. I sense that I have
authority over it, but the limb nonetheless feels removed. The
shirt fabric rustles in the wind, and although I can sense its
movement, I feel nothing. A strange sensation washes over me, and I
feel a pang of regret. What have I done to myself?