Terminus: A Novella of the Apocalypse (17 page)

Shifting to ‘D’ for drive, I spin the wheel and stomp the accelerator.  The truck rolls through low dunes lining the roadway, smashes through a length of chain-link fence, crosses the parking lot between the recreation building and the BX where we slept the previous night, and then roars down the roadway to the base’s first set of gates.

There I stop, turning the truck so we can watch what happens next.  Rather than continue its roll past the deceptively low hangar building toward that impossibly long runway stretched across the saltpan behind it, the spacecraft stops abruptly.  Then its fuselage silently rotates up and away from its carriage of wheels until its thrusters angle directly down between them.

An odd hum sounds from all over the base as a stunningly beautiful purple light begins to shine inside the thruster bells.  Though I expect a fury of fire and smoke and a chest-rattling rumble of concussion, the massive craft immediately levitates several meters off the ground on that surprisingly gentle glow of purple luminescence.  Now both sides of the wheeled carriage rotate vertical, too, and then these massive units withdraw into the fuselage behind a pair of huge panels that seal them inside.

Anticlimactically, on a vacuous WHOOSH of air, the thing instantly jumps away to a pinpoint dot high overhead.  Leaning forward over the truck’s dashboard, we just glimpse this dot diminish to nothing before it disappears completely among the dimly shining stars scattered across a clear, early evening sky.

Returning our attention to the space it occupied an instant earlier, we see those sprawling door panels pressed into the concrete, paper-thin, along with several red splotches that had once been human beings.  A concussion jolts the truck modestly back and forth on its springs, and then we watch a growing ring of disturbed dust and debris rapidly spread out in all directions around the launch site, gradually fading into the scrubby hills surrounding the base.  This is all.

“Wow,” I whisper softly, “that was unexpected.”

THE ASCENDANCY

When she groans and sags against the passenger-side door, I take note of her injuries and I am alarmed by the soak of blood encasing her right leg.  With suddenly reinvigorated hands, I remove her purse from her shoulder.  This is surprisingly heavy, and for the first time I inspect its mysterious interior to find it well organized and stocked with everything a young girl needs to survive an alien apocalypse.

In the hour that follows, I use her first-aid kid to tend the savage gash on her thigh, first decontaminating it and then stitching it closed as best I can.  I follow this treatment with a massive dose of antibiotics and a smaller dose of painkillers, and then I strip her nude to clean her body, using nearly a full pack of moistened towelets in the process.  Finally, I drape a light blanket over her and lean her across the seat, lowering her head into my lap.

Finally, I drive into the desert as rapidly as I can, hoping to return to Warm Springs before nightfall and its concomitant emergence of those terrible bugs.  This is a close race.  For the first time since Terminus, I hope to win, even as I hope she will heal to accompany me there.

Owing to the incautious, breakneck speed I employ to cut the journey short, we arrive in that small town with the ominous rise of alien bug-sound from the desert around us.  Slowing dramatically to navigate the cluttered streets with their omnipresent scatter of abandoned vehicles and apocalyptic debris, my drained brain struggles to determine the best place for passing the night amid a plague of gigantic alien bugs.  After pondering and discarding a series of options ranged from the corner pharmacy to a small motel, I drive past a squat building standing beneath a small sign declaring it to be the town’s ‘Administrative Complex’.  Another smaller sign bolted to one side of a double doorway situated at the apex of a low riser of steps informs me one of these buildings is the city jail.

I think bullet-resistant windows, steel bars and sturdy locks.  I stomp the truck’s brakes.

Gently as I can manage once I exit the truck with the gaudy handbag secured over my shoulder, I lift The Girl’s semiconscious form from the truck’s passenger seat and carry her up the steps.  Gratefully, I find the doors unlocked and the interior of building in good order.

To her incoherent mumbles, I softly reassure her, saying, “Everything is going to be alright, darling.  Everything is fine.  You’ve done your duty like a good soldier, and now you’ve earned a rest.  Don’t worry about a thing.  I’m here.  I’m never going to leave you.”

Her wondrous green eyes flutter open delicately and I drown in their verdant depths.  To the question apparent within them, the question I know every female would ask in this situation, I nod, smiling.  With all the sincerity my nihilist mind can muster, I repeat, “Never.”

Languidly, she smiles.  Then weary lids shutter those gorgeous orbs again, and she allows herself to relax in my arms.

My arms and legs burning from the strain, I push through an opening in the cramped office’s front counter, find a generously padded couch behind an office door bearing the label ‘Chief Dunham’, and deposit her there.  She smiles contentedly and snuggles into the warmth of her makeshift bed like the exhausted young lady she is, and I take enormous comfort in her trust of my care.

Once I arrange its cushions, pillows and blankets to soothe her shapely nude form, I search her bag for her big knife, withdrawing this blood-caked implement of death, I clean it and place it near her right hand.  I know she would panic to awaken without it.  Then I fetch the magnum and another speed loader to first clear and then resupply its heavy cylinder with live rounds.  On an afterthought, I also fetch from it that nearly empty box of moistened towelets upon taking note of the dried blood that covers nearly every square inch of my own weary frame.

Because she would not be happy without it, I leave the bag leaned against the couch at her feet and then I exit the room, pulling its heavy door closed behind me.  The only exterior window of the office is protected by heavy bars, so I know she will be safe inside for the time being.

Breathing easier now and much relieved by these hurried preparations, I remove myself to the main office of the little police station, strip and clean myself as best I can.  An unopened five liter jug of drinking water and a roll of paper towels aids this effort considerably, and I am much refreshed after removing my clothing and the flakes of clotted blood that paints my skin and mats my hair.  Nude, I search a nearby locker-room for clean attire, ultimately dressing myself in a dusty policeman’s uniform.

Knowing I will not sleep otherwise, I survey the building to make certain all its exterior doors and windows are properly sealed against marauding alien insects and domestic Clansmen, saving the front door for last.  Before I secure it, I step out onto its broad concrete porch far enough to peer into the sky beyond its tattered awning.

Sipping from a half-filled bottle of whiskey I commandeered from a desk drawer, I watch the moon rise for several long minutes.  As the Earth rotates away from the sun, the brilliance of countless shining stars increases, and I am reminded of Terminus by the absence of city lights, which fail to overwhelm that faraway luminescence as it always had before.  Returning my attention to the southeast though I know I cannot see it from so far away, I wonder about the condition of Groom Lake Base and I ponder The Russian’s fate.  I assume he is dead along with the Chinawoman and most of the foreign technicians of The Enterprise left behind there.

Raising my vision again with another sip from the bottle, I next think of The Kid and his suicidal spaceflight.  As though cued by my consideration of his fate, a blinding flash erupts beside the full moon.  Shading my eyes, I squint between splayed fingers to examine this wondrous sight as I watch a distant fireball shine brighter and brighter with each passing second where it swells wider and wider across the night sky.  When its circumference approaches and then passes behind the curvature of the moon, I more fully realize the perspective of the display and I understand the truth of its imponderable distance and power.

“So that’s what the eruption of three hundred ten-megaton hydrogen bombs looks like,” I whisper softly to myself.  Lifting the bottle above my head in a solemn salute, my shadow etched clearly across the wall behind me, I respectfully add, “Way to go, Kid.  This one is for you!”  I finish the bottle in a single throat-bobbing draught without peeling my aching eyes away from the now fading brilliance of my mangled young friend’s last selfless act.  “I hope you did some good up there,” I gasp in conclusion.

Then I pull an exterior roll cage down, re-enter the office, and lock the glass doors behind me.  That night I sleep on the floor beside The Girl in case she might need me, and for the first time since Terminus, my dreams come untroubled; free of blood, guts, violence and gore.

THE BEGINNING

After our injuries heal and we manage to collect sufficient motivation to do so, we drive the truck back to The Village, expecting to find it in a state of total ruination.  Along the way, we encounter ample evidence of a Second Terminus, and many of the fresh corpses we must avoid in the streets belong to various Clans.  Judging by the sheer numbers of these bodies, I suspect those murderous cadres have essentially eliminated each other.

As we drive along a rural highway, the last leg of our journey, we pass a handful of dumfounded people wandering along the roadway at various points.  All of them seem semi-lucid and aware of their situation, perhaps for the first time in five years.  Several wave.  None of them try to attack us or impede our progress.  When we pass them in pairs or larger groups, they seem to be cooperating with one another, and this despite clearly originating from disparate Clans, a feat of social coherence impossible since Terminus.

Though encouraged, we refuse to anticipate anything positive.  At the same time, I feel somehow… different.  Since our experience at Groom Lake Base, the nihilistic attitude that previously overwhelmed my thoughts has dissipated.  I no longer feel the need to seek or promote my own self-destruction and I feel something stranger.  I feel hope.  For the future.

Despite her continuing silence, when I observe The Girl, I believe she feels something similar.  She smiles more often.  Her hand is less inclined to reach for that big knife and more inclined to reach for me to encourage a fond touch or intimate embrace.

As we drive along the two-lane approach to The Village gate, I will not claim happiness or joy.  I do not feel peace, but I do feel at ease.

While I cannot forget what I have done and despite my continued feelings of guilt for my many crimes, I no longer own these incidents the way I once did.  Perhaps this growing sense of freedom derives from The Russian’s stories or my experience with The Enterprise, but I think this new, more human demeanor derives from an absence of some hidden influence, the Sleep Signal for want of a better term.  My thoughts are more ordered, more humane, less focused on violence and all the dark emotions associated with it.

When we arrive at the Village gate, we find it still entangled with razor wire, but abandoned by human attendants.  Parking the truck outside, we make our way through the barricade and walk the distance through the outer ring of luxurious habitations.

Despite passing several fresh corpses scattered on the lawns and streets, nothing much seems to have changed here.  Perhaps an hour later, we arrive at the small hotel serving as ‘TOWN HALL’, and we find its front doors shattered, its interior in a state of disarray.  Furnishings have been scattered here and there, and a frozen waterfall of dried blood spills over the front counter, down along its forward face and into a series of pools piled on the floor there.

Approaching the hallway leading to the conference room where we first met with the governing board, we see it has been recently barricaded with furniture and luggage carts and the like, only to have this barricade torn down again.  Picking our way through the debris, we cautiously approach the doors to the meeting chamber, which stand open and ominously inviting.  Only the low murmur of calm voices encourages us to continue.

When we peer around the corner of the jamb, we find a handful of people huddled around a table engaged in an intense but subdued debate.  Perhaps due to attrition attributable to recent events, we encounter only one familiar face.

Darling lifts her head when she notices us lingering in the doorway.  Her cheeks and forehead are bruised and scratched, while one corner of her mouth flakes with freshly dried blood from an unhealed injury.  Her hair has been pulled out by the roots in clumps, leaving several raw bald spots to mar her otherwise immaculate coiffure.  Lopsided and rueful, she smiles and waves us forward.

“You’re back,” she gushes, gratefully.  “We’ve been wondering about you.”

After only two of us enter into the room, her slight grin folds into a consternated frown.  She asks, “Where are the rest of the team?”

I shrug.  I reply, “Dead.  Probably.  The Chief.  The Kid.  For sure.  The rest… who knows?”

“That’s a shame,” she sighs.  Indicating the ruination of the hotel with a sweep of a scabbed and abraded right hand, she adds, “As you can see, we’ve had another spot of trouble here, as well.  A sort of Second Terminus, I guess.  I don’t suppose you know anything about that… in fact, I wonder if you return with any answers, at all.”

Exchanging a knowing glance with The Girl, I feel her relax onto my protective embrace as she drapes her right arm over my back to support her stiff and sore right leg.  My left hand drops to her waist to pull her close, and I take enormous comfort from her when she buries her face in the soft crook of my neck.  I feel her warm breath rise and fall soft and easy across my throat, while pleasurable thrills chase along my spine.

Rolling my eyes into the back of my skull, I whisper, “Sit down, mayor.  We have a strange tale to tell.”