The Black Seas of Infinity (16 page)

Fuck! I assumed Virginia broke from the Union
and this was their reserve forces acting as the state military. No
way to blow through, not with those tanks. I don’t know if I could
survive a cannon round, but I do know this Land Rover wouldn’t
stand a chance. I can’t talk, and given my appearance, I don’t see
any easy way of crossing that roadblock. I think the best plan
would be to head back and take a smaller road in. At least the
resistance won’t be as heavy. I’ll have to head around metropolitan
DC and try the other side.

I slow to a stop, the soldiers a few hundred
feet ahead of me. The intense light blurs everything, casting the
landscape into glaring splotches and blue-hued shadows. The
concrete barrier splitting the highway doesn’t let me traverse to
the other side. I pop into gear and spin the truck around, the wide
trio of lanes facilitating my evasion as I accelerate. I glance in
the rear view mirror at the distant militia. If they can see me,
they’re making no attempt at pursuit. Most cars probably turn
around when they see the barricade, and there’s no reason to assume
I’m any different. I take the first available exit, circle under
the overpass, and reenter the highway on the other side. The
beltway, as this stretch of road is known, forms a giant loop
around DC. I’ll have to backtrack toward the Arlington side. Maybe
I should have taken that to begin with. It’s a more isolated and
less urban area, but a good hour out of the way. I look down at my
gas gauge and notice I’m running on a quarter of a tank. Goddamnit!
Hopefully I’ll have enough fuel to make it into Virginia.

Over an hour of flowing through the
sequestered corridors of I-495, a ceaseless shroud of woods
alternating with lofty brick walls in an effort to shield the
population from the bustle of traffic, and I’m closing in on the
George Washington Parkway bridge. The suburban shroud has declined
into a rudimentary thicket of trees and underbrush, the foliage
enlivened with the fiery hues of fall. The sprawling gamut of a
bridge reflects a lustrous sheen in the mid-morning sunshine, the
wide thoroughfare rolling out in a multitude of lanes as it spans
the river. And choking off the opposite bank is another line of
sandbags. Some unfriendly looking mechanized armor lies ensconced
behind.

Braking to a halt, I scan the distant
conformation. A notch in the sandbag wall bolsters a .50-caliber
machine gun, the barrel languidly pointing skyward, closely tended
by a soldier. Nothing else moves, the long, shining stretch of
roadway silent and abandoned. A feeble breeze cuts through,
buffeting the vinyl soft top. I’m wasting gas. Screeching around, I
head back. Maybe I can cut through DC. I take the first exit,
circling under the overpass and back up onto 495. I head to River
Road, the closest street that I know how to navigate. It should get
me to the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, which turns into Route 66, and
that will lead me back to 95. All that time spent in Northern
Virginia wasn’t quite a waste after all. Funny how things work
out.

Crossing through the dreary suburbs of
Bethesda, Maryland, I drift by a McDonald’s, nestled smugly between
two used car lots, their garish streamers flapping lazily in the
wind. All the commercial properties are shuttered, the dreary
structures extending in a leaden train of gas stations and
multilevel buildings. The lots all empty, the windows bare.

The forlorn queue thins out as I venture back
into the suburbs. I see a speckling of incandescence in the houses.
The monotonous train of brick or wood-paneled dwellings looks not
quite deserted, but far from alive. Little domestic huts that have
no place in a changed world. A few cars, all with the wear of a few
years and even more miles, mope sullenly in the driveways. The
underbrush seems to hold the premises in no more respect than the
owners. It clusters about in loose thickets of scrawny trees and
unkempt foliage. In places it walls off the neighborhood, in others
it blithely tramples through the hollows between buildings,
occupying the gaps that no one cares or dares to groom.

As I close in on Washington, DC the scenery
improves almost immediately. Large two-storey houses and verdant
lawns are nestled among neatly trimmed overhanging trees, the yards
flaunting well-tended bushes and manicured lawns. The cars
anchoring the driveways are few and far between, but the handful
that remain are all expensive, or at least in good repair. River
Road becomes Wisconsin Avenue, and I forge ahead into a broad
thoroughfare that looks too tame and pedestrian to be the
Washington, DC I remember. Perfectly coiffed granite structures
mingle with dapperly adorned small establishments, the sidewalks
broad and level, the crisp edges lovingly maintained. This must be
the upper reaches of North West; no one in the other seven boroughs
lives like this. And lo and behold, who are the first to flee when
the shit hits the fan but the fickle wealthy. Not that I blame
them. DC has way more poor than it has well to do—it’s a class riot
just waiting to happen. I wonder how long it’ll take the other
wards to make it up here?

The street slowly blooms into a quaint
cluster of historical buildings, all whitewashed wood and stone.
Sharply painted black light-posts and trash receptacles dot the
brick sidewalks. It’s like a deserted colonial city, the illusion
only slightly upset by the cheeky signs advertising “The Gap” or
“Ralph Lauren.” Wisconsin leads to M Street, and the periphery
slowly denigrates into a less antique bluster of red brick
buildings, the tame storefronts neat and polished, yet utterly
forsaken.

Turning down Pennsylvania Avenue, I pass over
a small bridge, the huddle of buildings clearing into a wide tract
of lonesome overpasses. The cluster of downtown draws me in. The
buildings grow taller and more modern as I circle around Washington
Circle Park and onto New Hampshire Avenue. I’ve so far managed to
avoid the major cities. With the ongoing political chaos, the last
thing I need is to be trapped in some imploding metropolis.
Washington, DC has a peculiar, segmented quality to it. As long as
I stick to the pocket-sized affluent section, I might just be able
to avoid any unwanted attention. This is why I planned to take the
expressways. The deserted streets are unobtrusive so far, but the
tight confines, the roads littered with a labyrinth of barriers and
concealed strongholds, entail a potential powder keg. I don’t see
anyone around, but there has to be some fortification of security
sealing off this area. It was easy enough to enter. I think the
real test will be the Virginia border. The smaller residential
avenue opens up into a sprawling confluence of grassy islands and
twisting roads, the mammoth bulk of the Watergate Hotel rising up
in curving layers of glass. The chime of breaking glass resonates
behind me, followed quickly by a snap of gunfire and a thud that
sounds right next to me. A spray of asphalt assaults my passenger
window. I speed through the vacant intersection, pushing the gas
pedal to the floor as I swerve around the grassy triangle and surge
toward the hotel. That was one of two things, and neither is
good.

Either the mob has finally had it and is
invading the grounds, or more likely, order is being maintained
with summary executions.

It could just be a domestic disturbance, a
lack of constraint bringing out the worst in the population, except
for the fact no one in this area legally owns a firearm. Then
again, a heavy hand would explain the complete absence of looting
or rioting.

I roll down an embankment, through an
industrial park populated by crisply groomed trees and inane modern
art sculptures, past a balustraded manor of white granite and lofty
American flags, and up onto Route 66.

Rounding the tree-choked corner, the white
stretch of highway flows out into a lengthy span that crosses the
Potomac. A dark mass barely crests the horizon, straddling the
opposite bank. Grinding to a halt, I peer ahead, amplifying my
vision several fold.

Fuck! It’s blocked as well!

I yank the lever into reverse and spin the
truck around. Rolling back down the road, I look desperately for
some break. All I see are small, manicured plots of grass,
carefully enfolded by stone sidewalls. The crisscrossing stretches
of asphalt are empty of traffic, but buffered by white hedges and
difficult to access. Driving slowly down the ramp, the intervening
field grows ever wider, blazing autumn trees cropping up in small
groves and blocking the view. This is the privileged side of
Washington, DC, and I have no idea how to navigate here. Popping
into four-wheel drive, I bounce up over the curb. I roll through
the high grass and edge between trees in a downward slide and bound
through another small road. I finally grind to a squealing halt on
what I think is Route 66. If I follow this I should hit the Key
Bridge. In all likelihood it’s barricaded as well, but it’s worth a
try. It’s a smaller bridge, and if there is a roadblock, it’s
probably more manageable than the last one.

Sailing past the Watergate again, I ascend
onto the Whitehurst Freeway and head toward the bridge. The road
extends in a wide loop, rising upwards as it flows past tall stone
buildings and onto the rampart. I squeal to a halt, pull up the
emergency brake, and climb out. I don’t think the concrete sidewall
ends at any point before the bridge, and hiding in the overhanging
shadows of buildings is probably a better bet than trying to break
the barrier anywhere more open. Strolling over to the stone wall, I
scan up and down the street. Empty. With a swift kick, I plow my
foot into the concrete. The mortar rips apart with a submissive
crack and flurry of dust. Grabbing the jagged end, I scuffle
forward, dragging the long slab in a shrieking grate across the
tarmac. This should be wide enough.

A quick look around, and all I see is the
cool drift of the Potomac in front, a cluster of forsaken
industrial structures behind. The flowing expanse of lifeless
roadway hugging it, its dusky sweep curling up and around an
abandoned city. Clambering back into the Land Rover, I roll through
the gap and into the opposing lane. Rounding the curve, the bridge
comes into view. Its stocky pillars fan out into an arch of beveled
tiers supporting a level span. As I draw in, a thin line on the
opposite bank materializes into a full- blown wall of sandbags.

As I ascend the ramp, the outlook sharpens. I
don’t see any tanks, and resistance appears light, just soldiers
and HMMWVs, the military version of a Humvee. I decide to try and
run it. Not that I have many other options.

I don’t want to venture back into DC. I roll
across the oncoming lane and onto the correct side, casually
traversing the roadway. There is a sudden crashing sound, and the
vehicle lurches violently. I’m engulfed in flames, and my
equilibrium is thrown off, the shallow hull of metal rotating
around me in a bizarre slow motion spin of impending doom. The
truck is torn apart in a violent impact and thrown onto its roof,
continuing to slide forward. The metal shrieks as the soft top
wears away. If this thing didn’t have a full roll cage, I’d be
buried head first in the pavement. I must have hit a mine! That
didn’t even occur to me!

The mangled wreck grinds to a halt, the front
windshield smashed into small shards that encircle the bent
windshield frame. The seatbelt holds, leaving me hanging upside
down. I can see the shining pavement, the base of sandbags a few
feet ahead. I pop the buckle and crash into the asphalt. Kicking
open the metal door, I roll out. A .50-caliber bullet slams into my
leg, shoving me backwards. I crawl upright amid a torrent of
gunfire, and run for the side of the bridge. The force of the
barrage keeps knocking me about, twisting my lunge over the wall
into an awkward sideways sprawl. I land headfirst, the clap of the
impact followed by a tremendous splash, and I sink like a rock.
Projectiles whiz past me in bulbous trajectories, my descent
slowing as I drift toward the bottom. I pirouette, landing softly
on my feet in the muck, and try to gain a sense of direction. It’s
practically opaque down here, a smattering of light filtering down
through the olive green haze. The water hampers my progress,
retarding my movements, but the ground is sloping up, so I follow
it, the water slowly distorting to brown as I stir up the muck
underfoot. My head breaks the surface of the water, and I see the
DC side. Fuck! Wrong way. Not even a minute passes, and the back of
my head is peppered with a flurry of high caliber rounds. I jerk
forward, my feet slip, and I lose my balance as I fall. Bullets
continue to fly past me, burying themselves in filmy spirals as
they impact the bank. At least I know the right direction now.

It’s like a dream, in which I’m trying
desperately to escape, but can’t move normally. Then it hits me! I
will never dream again!

Doesn’t that drive people crazy? Maybe not
right away, but over time? It might not be such a great thing to be
deranged and in this body, but I will be past the point of
caring.

The water lightens and my head breaks the
surface. A short, muddy bank precedes a rising strip of grass,
followed immediately by a wall of stones. To my right the facade of
the bridge shoots straight up, the giant arches sheltering me from
the bright morning sunlight. The bleached out silhouettes of
soldiers are visible beyond the sidewalls.