Precipice: The Beginning (20 page)

40

S
o many gas tanks and not a single hose to siphon with; so goddamn typical. Dasher searched the next car, reaching in through the shattered driver’s side window to pull the lock. He opened the door and put his knees on the seat as he rummaged through the messy interior. Clothes strewn about the floor, a crumpled map with a dirty footprint across the top. Fast food and candy wrappers, some drops of blood. Just as with the previous fifteen cars he’d searched, there was nothing of usefulness. At least the rain had stopped. First time in over two weeks, but the black clouds still stuck around, covering the world in twilight.

“Fuck!” Dasher pulled out of the car and slammed his fists down on the hood, cringing as the noise carried off into the distance.

He dropped to his knees and pressed his back to the door, holding his breath as a nearby roar drifted out of the trees. Sounding far too close for his comfort. He eased his hand toward the pavement, inching along with stealth, gripping the assault rifle he’d found a few miles back. Used to be, this kind of weapon required military service or some sort of mafia affiliation. Now they were just lying along the road, dropped by some soldier scared shitless at what had been coming down the road. Same with cash. He wished he’d put off his unsuccessful heist a few weeks. He only just passed a pile of hundreds at the base of a tree several miles back. He’d put his Harley on its kickstand and hurried down the shoulder of the road, standing above the money with a strong urge to bend down and stuff it into his pockets. But he laughed instead, uncontrollably until he cried. Seeing a few thousand dollars lying about the shoulder of a road was the perfect visual. Putting this whole shit storm into perspective. But a weapon was a different story. He’d already emptied the clip from the first handgun he’d found, unloading all twelve shells into the head of a charging beast, thankfully dropping it on the final bullet. Now he clutched the rifle, pressing it to his shoulder as a beast emerged from the opposite shoulder.

This one was different. Smaller than the other ones, like a hairless wolf. It walked on all fours, sniffing the air with an elongated snout filled with jagged fangs. Its eyes were a radiant green, larger than golf balls. So far, Dasher had seen the taller human-shaped bastards, the things flying high above, and now this sniveling dog-like monstrosity. Dasher rose up and watched it stock slowly along in the opposite direction, moving stealthily with its head lowered. It reminded him of a cat he used to watch outside his house, hunting birds and squirrels in the vacant lot. But this beast wasn’t interested in sparrows or woodland creatures. Dasher followed its target, a woman far in the distance. As if sensing her stalker, she turned and saw the beast, charging in a sprint. Her awkward retreat was from something she carried, tightly clutched to her chest.

Dasher lifted up his weapon for a shot, but the beast was gone, springing with the speed of a cheetah. It cleared the hundred yards in seconds, tackling the woman while sliding its front claws down her back. Dasher panted as he ran, slamming into a nearby car to rest the rifle on the roof for aim. He pressed the trigger and let the bullets fly. A steady stream of automatic fire poured into the creatures back. Yet it still had strength enough to turn and charge him, the woman’s clothes dangling from its teeth like designer floss. It moved forward a few feet before falling to the ground, its black tongue lulling out the side of its mouth. Dasher took another shot, hitting the dead creature square between its large eyes for good measure. He lowered his weapon and collapsed to the floor, taking long, slow breaths. Fear had a tight grip over his heart, squeezing as if trying to make some new form of juice. The pain subsided and he was able to regain his composure, rising to his feet. Dasher looked down at the dead creature. It had taken twelve bullets, direct hits into the beast’s head and body, to bring it down. Dasher couldn’t help but tremble before such a deadly foe, dead or not.

Dasher held his breath and listened, tilting his head slightly as something drifted toward him from down the road. Could it have been the woman? Surely not. Not when the thing had cut her deep enough to exposé her spinal cord. But there was something, like a cat meowing at the back porch. Hopefully his short burst of gunfire hadn’t gotten the attention of another hunter, or something larger. Against his best judgment, Dasher tucked the stock of the weapon into his shoulder and crept down the road, hearing the soft sound rise in volume as he approached the woman. No doubt in his mind it was coming from her, despite the fact she wasn’t moving. As he stood over her lifeless body, he could hear her crying softly.

Then he saw it. A little finger poking out from beneath her left breast.

“Oh my God.” Dasher dropped to his knees and gripped the woman’s arm, rolling her onto her back.

An infant child lay in the road, covered in her mother’s blood, screaming her head off. Dasher looked her up and down, running his eyes over her pink onesie; a cartoon rabbit set dead center in grey stitching.

“Oh shit” was all he could manage. “Um, shit!”

Dasher hopped to his feet and paced madly, looking rapidly from one shoulder of the road to the other, scanning the woods for anything that might be drawn in by such a racket.

“Shut up,” Dasher said, running a hand though his sweaty hair. The baby hadn’t listened. If anything, her crying only seemed to increase. “I said shut up!” Dasher’s face grew red with rage, screaming down at the infant as if she could understand him. His facial muscles twitched and softened as he looked down to her. Both her arms rose up while she clutched empty air.

Dasher took a seat beside the baby, hesitantly placing a hand to her stomach. The fabric of her onesie was so soft, soothing to his fingertips. Briefly he felt like laughing, thinking this whole ordeal could end if everyone and everything could wear such comfortable fabric, putting aside all anger and rage for such warmth. But the humor was short lived as the little girl gripped his fingers, squeezing them. Dasher pulled his hand back, cringing as it brought out a high-pitched whine. Fearing another visit from those demon dogs, Dasher placed a hand beneath her back and lifted her into his arm. He set his rifle down and patted her stomach with his free hand, swaying from side to side while shushing her. A motion he’d seen women do throughout his life. One that was probably never used on him. To his recollection, he couldn’t even remember being hugged by his mother.

Dasher spit on the infant’s cheek, using his thumb to push some of her mother’s blood off her face. Her skin was so soft. Untainted and hardened by society, everything he wasn’t. A dark urge came over him, rising up from the depths of his mind like a storm. He looked to the child’s mother and debated leaving her. Simply placing her back in the dead woman’s arms while he used the noise of her screaming lungs to draw anything away from him as he continued his search for gas. His abandoned Harley lay on its side ten miles back, aching for him to return. He certainly couldn’t ride it with this baby in his arms. Yes, leaving her was the right thing to do. The only real option. Moving quickly, he knelt down and set the baby between her dead mother’s side and left arm. He grabbed his rifle and hurried down the road, moving faster as she began to cry again. Oddly, her crying seemed to grow louder the more distance he put between them, filling his mind until he could hear nothing else, not even the footfalls of his boots on the pavement.

“Shit!” Dasher screamed and turned around, staring at the small arms of the child as they flailed about in the distance.

He didn’t want to leave the child there. It wasn’t being done out of malice. It was survival, and during times like this you needed to look out for your own best interest. To stay alive at all costs, no matter what hard choices you had to make. And despite this harsh mental persuasion, Dasher found himself more than halfway back to where the baby lay crying, her voice like a siren blaring inside his mind.

“Big fucking softy.” Dasher shook his head with annoyance as he knelt down and scooped the baby into his right arm. He searched the mother’s sweater and pants pockets with his left. “Oh hell yes!” Dasher exclaimed with pure ecstasy, pulling out his salvation in a small plastic pacifier. “Thank God for small favors,” Dasher said as he pushed the pacifier into her open mouth, so very glad to hear the subtle sucking over her shrill screaming.

Dasher slung the rifle over his shoulder and continued on down the road. He looked at the child and shook his head. She was covered in blood and dirt, her mother dead on the road behind them, and yet here she was falling asleep. All the nastiness of life overshadowed by the comfy texture of her plastic binky. At least for the time being.

“You might be better off back there kiddo.” Dasher looked up, eyeing the long road ahead and nothing but abandoned vehicles that had either been set on fire or smashed beyond repair. “Just you and me…” Dasher looked her over and smiled. “I’ll call you Siren.” He nodded, thinking the name suited her.

She fell asleep in the comfort of his arms as he carried her down the road.

41

H
is living quarters were looking more like a prison cell every day. Travis sat on his uncomfortable cot with his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped about his legs. He’s been this way for hours. At least it had felt like hours, maybe even days. Impossible to tell when there’s no measure of time. No windows to watch the sun move across the sky and no clock on the wall. Nothing to occupy his mind but doubt and growing concern. Concern for the mental stability of their security personnel. Concern for the wellbeing of his unit. More than anything, concern for his two wounded soldiers still laid up in the infirmary. For as well as he knew anyway.

Travis looked up as his door opened. He sighed with relief, grateful to see Alvin’s face, even if his expression was tired and worn.

“Your turn to get some grub.”

“About time.” Travis stepped onto the floor, wincing from the cold. “I’ve gotten so hungry I’ve actually been looking forward to this slop.” Travis smiled as he pulled on his socks and boots, but his smile was not returned. “Something you care to share?”

“Please.” Alvin stepped out of the room and motioned for Travis to join him. “We need to keep moving.”

Travis just nodded. He exited his cell and got behind five miners he didn’t know; all of them stood with their heads hunched and their shoulders sunken. Travis’ door shut and the march began. Slow, heavy steps down a long hallway toward the cafeteria. No one spoke. They all kept their eyes to the floor as they passed room after room. Men like them, locked up and waiting for their hour of freedom. Never had their distance from Earth felt so evident.

“Please have a seat at the first table after you’ve received your food,” Alvin spoke loudly, his voice filling the large, empty room. “You have one hour.”

Travis stood in line with the men, but his focus was on Alvin. He stood against the far wall, leaning against it with his arms folded about his chest, his eyes glossy. He was looking at them but he wasn’t seeing them. The look of a man running off orders and a lack of sleep. Even from a distance of twenty or so feet, Travis could see the dark purple bags beneath his eyes. What did he know that they didn’t? Travis shrugged and moved with the men, grabbing his bowl of blended proteins, vitamins and slop. He sat at the far edge of the long table, not wanting to hear the soft conversations of the miners. Instead, he inched down the bench until his left buttock had to grip the edge or he might fall off.

“Why not join us?”

Alvin shook his head, clearing his thoughts and coming back to reality. It was apparent he didn’t expect any trouble from this group of men. His posture showed no evidence of anticipation, no thoughts that at any moment he may need his catlike reflexes to swart a riot. Alvin looked as they did, shuffling about with no real reason as to why or what for.

“Al?”

“What?”

“Have a seat?”

Alvin gave a single shake, eyeing the exits to the room. He looked back to Travis and knew a simple head gesture wouldn’t do. “I can’t be seen fraternizing.” Alvin whispered, speaking from the side of his mouth.

“Why not?”

“Because…” Alvin took a deep breath. He eyed the far door and took a seat, letting out a long sigh as he eased his hands on the table, settling in like an air mattress with a tear in it. “Andrews is calling all the shots here, and I’m already not one of his favorite little pups.”

“Look, what the hell is happening here? Now we all know this isn’t a drill. It’s been seven days already.”

“I don’t know what this is.” Alvin shot a glance back over his shoulder, double-checking he was the only security officer in the room. He turned back to the table and saw the five miners were staring at him, pleading for answers with their heavy eyes. “All I know is that there has been no communication with Earth for a week.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” a miner asked, lowering his head as the others shushed him.

“I don’t know. But the supply ship is still in the hangar.” Alvin said this to Travis, not caring what the miners heard or followed. “Whatever this is, it’s serious enough to cut us off.”

“Kirsch?”

Alvin closed his eyes and took a deep breath, cringing a bit at the sound of Rodriguez’s voice. He turned and looked over his shoulder, giving his fellow security officer a single wave. An awkward moment as he lingered, watching them from the doorway with his hands folded behind his back. Finally he returned the wave and left the room.

“Shit.” Alvin turned back to Travis and pounded the table. “That’s the last thing I need. Andrews’ little lap dog running back to his master.”

“Haven’t you tried another satellite or alternate facilities? Maybe even the space station?”

“Andrews has an open line of communication with the space station –”

“But?”

“I don’t know. He’s just out of it.”

“More than usual?” Travis wondered what could possibly be the norm for an asshole like Andrews.

“He’s becoming isolated. Speaking in short, cryptic responses.”

“All we can do is hope he keeps his shit together long enough for this all to blow over.” Travis leaned back, sliding his mush across the table. His appetite smothered by the suffocating thoughts pressing down on him, thinking of a nut job like Andrews being their only voice to the outside world. Not even a report filed by Dr. Hoffman would do them any good, not now.