The Black Seas of Infinity (19 page)

The Camaro wheels were made for racing, not
gripping wet pavement. I would feel far more secure if the car were
sealed tight against the storm. I just hope the water doesn’t fuck
with the exposed wires under the dashboard. The last thing I need
right now is for everything to short out and to have to try and
find fuses in a downpour.

Don’t flip... Don’t wreck... C’mon, baby, you
can make it... I keep repeating it like a mantra, glancing
affectionately at the dash. Strange how easily desperation can make
you form bonds with non-sentient objects.

Water pools on the base of my steering hand,
dribbling off the knuckles. The clouds rage and whirl in a seething
vortex, stretching overhead and blotting out the horizon. This is
starting to feel like the climax of something, a dam about to
burst. I have a bad feeling.

The downpour diminishes, and I make out a
sign for Baton Rouge. The interstate splits, and I veer through the
opaque chaos onto what looks like the entrance for Highway 12. It’s
a bit of a shortcut, and I’ll take whatever I can get. I’m starting
to feel like this car might not have much left to give.

Water sloshes at my ankles, the black
dashboard beaded in drops of precipitation. Little pools undulate
gently in the alcoves of the deep-set gauges. The vibration of the
road causes the water to writhe in small eddies and waves, the
overflow splashing out in glistening strands. C’mon... Just a
little more...

The torrent has waned into a drizzle as I
roll into Baton Rouge. The sky is clearing, becoming a pale blue,
with spacious cumulonimbus clouds drifting lazily across the
firmament. I roll through the bland, sepia-tinted streets of
downtown, the lazy spread of squat buildings and gray shingled
houses extending out through the clutter of low-lying trees into a
nameless oblivion. Rejoining Route 10, I roll over a trestle bridge
and back into the anonymity of the bucolic South. I’ve encountered
no real resistance so far, Virginia aside. It could be the Southern
states are joined in some sort of loose confederacy, but I’m sure
Texas is a different matter. If any state is likely to have struck
out on its own, it would be Texas. Even when things were normal,
half its population had secession on their minds.

I ascend onto a bridge, the broad expanse
rising above the forest in a smooth plain of white. The trees fall
away, and a shining expanse of tranquil water rolls out beneath.
Clouding the end of the bridge, a thin line chokes off the opposite
bank. As I draw in, it slowly resolves into a barricade of
sandbags. The right and left sides are flanked by watchtowers, the
sunlight shimmering brilliantly off their canvas rooftops. The
glare blurs the contours, but I can make out the silhouettes of
soldiers and what looks like a large-caliber machine gun. Behind
the barrier, I see the outlines of a couple of HMMWVs as well.

As I draw near, details take shape. Just
visible past the crest of sandbags are servicemen in camouflage
fatigues, the regalia overlaid with OTV vests and topped off with
ACH helmets. All suited up with the latest gear and spoiling for a
fight. Somehow, I wouldn’t expect any less of Texas. Shimmering in
the early morning glow is the unmistakable outline of a Stryker,
nestled among the HMMWVs.

I maintain a constant speed, steadily closing
the distance between me and the barricade. A tense moment of
idleness passes before I am greeted with the anticipated spray of
gunfire. Holes materialize in the windshield, the glass cracking
into elaborate spirals. The seats emit a dull thud and expel a
plume of stuffing as rounds tear around me. A couple of slugs hit
my chest, mushrooming into a wad of lead before sliding off. I step
on the brakes and turn the wheel, trying to bring the car into a
sideways skid. I succeed in completing a ninety-degree turn when
the side window shatters. A moment later my surroundings turn into
a bubbling inferno.

I watch the rubber melting off the steering
wheel, dripping from my hands in a sticky morass and continuing
downward in spindly strings. I pull my hands free and shake them,
flinging melted rubber into the circle of flames. Spinning to the
door, I give it a kick. The hinges tear apart in a baleful shriek,
and the door flies outward. The bottom edge collides with the
pavement, the corner bending at a sharp angle and twisting it into
a skipping tilt as it bounces across the tarmac. As I start to step
out of the fire, a bullet hits my leg. I continue to emerge slowly.
Lead spews forth, pummeling me mercilessly, the rounds rolling off
like liquid. I straighten up and scan the surroundings.

Sidewalls of concrete separate the lanes and
close off the edges of the road. Just beyond lies a steep drop into
the forest, its trees rolling out in a maelstrom of orange and red
toward a hazy horizon. A wriggling swath of olive river splits the
woods. Atop the bridge, a metal sign proudly proclaims:

Texas State Line

Orange County

Something pounds heavily against my right
eye, and my line of sight is suddenly blotted out. The blindness
dissipates almost as quickly as it sprang up.

What the fuck?

A wave of pressure drums along my side.

Wait a minute—I’ve been pelted by machine gun
fire the entire time, and a round just smacked me in the eye!

I turn and blitzkrieg the blockade, running
straight at the sandbags and into the torrent of fire. Barely a
full step in, and I’m smothered with dust. A clap of thunder
immediately ensues, and grains of rock rain down on me. My whole
balance feels suddenly off, like I’m drifting through the air in
reverse. I land on my ass, cratering the pavement and trailing a
sunken groove as I slide backwards. The crumbling road grinds me to
a halt.

That must have been another rocket blast. I
leap up and start sprinting, zigzagging my path. Mortar shells
explode around me, transforming the atmosphere into a smoky haze.
Concussions and flurries of rock pound me on all sides. A pulsing
roar resonates through the thick turmoil.

I reach the sandbags through the heavy smog.
The soldiers are in a state of confusion, barking questions at one
another and backing away from their posts, abandoning the
.50-calibers like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Leaping over the
barricade, I crash down on the other side. The explosions die down
for a moment as the soldiers attempt to find me in the smoke. They
wouldn’t dare set off heavy artillery on this side for fear of
friendly fire.

I make out the contours of an HMMWV through
the fumes and dart toward it. Lead bludgeons my back, some of it
ricocheting off and generating shocked screams as it finds new
victims. No doors, thankfully, on the HMMWV, and I dive into the
driver’s seat. No keys either apparently. Bending under the
steering column, I attempt to hotwire it. I hear a deep grinding
sound close by. It sounds menacing, like a large vehicle. Maybe
even a tank. I lean out the doorway and turn my head in the
direction of the noise. Through the smoke I see what looks like a
barrel swinging in my direction. Ducking back in, I anchor my feet
on the door well and propel myself out the passenger side. Just as
I’m crashing down, the truck explodes in a ball of fire. Metal
shrapnel pelts me as I scramble to my feet. I can hear the grate of
vehicles revving their engines. The smog is blinding, so I head for
the closest noise.

A HMMWV emerges out of the haze, the shadow
of a soldier nestled behind the windshield. I duck down in a crawl
and circle around toward the passenger side. The smoke thins out
enough for me to get a good view of the door well. I sprint forward
and jump in the passenger seat.

In the driver’s seat is a young soldier in
fatigues, his sandy blond hair cropped close under a desert camo
helmet. Just as he turns to confront me, I instinctively punch.
Forgetting the strength of this body for a moment, I inadvertently
punch through his face, my fist impacting the soft flesh with a wet
crunch. My hand continues through and erupts out the back coated in
gore, little pink chunks of brain and bone clinging on.

I pull, and the limp body comes with. Using
my palm as an anchor, I pry loose my buried hand, a burst of
gristle accompanying the release. The bloody tunnel seems to stare
at me for a second before falling backwards, the corpse tumbling
out the open door. I climb over and turn the key, the metal
slippery under my blood-coated fingers. The motor grinds, and I
realize it’s already running. I pop the lever into reverse and spin
the wheel around, assuming I’m pointed in the opposite direction of
the wall of sandbags. I stomp on the gas and surge forward. A
bellow of noise, followed immediately by a rain of asphalt,
punctuates the smog. Close, but not close enough. The smoke rapidly
thins, diminishing into a slender shroud of white before falling
away completely.

A broad thoroughfare stretches out before me,
its faded white span simmering in the midday sun. Thickets of
dwarfish trees border both sides, the left the only avenue not
barricaded by a concrete wall. From behind me come metallic noises.
Probably vehicles turning to mount a pursuit. Turning the wheel, I
cross the gravel shoulder, bounce through a dirt side road, and
plow into a field of yellow grass. The tall weeds swallow me up,
the stalks pelting the sidewalls like drums of war.

I bear at a diagonal angle, aiming for a gap
in the trees big enough to fit this wide truck through. The tanks
can’t follow me in the woods; neither can any other high-speed
pursuit vehicles. It’s just down to the HMMWVs. I don’t know if the
local militia will risk losing more armor after our little
confrontation at the sandbags. It depends on how stubborn they
are.

The grass falls away and I’m delivered into
the trees. It’s hardly the forest it appeared to be from a
distance, more a smattering of oaks and pine clustered into frail
groves. The foundations of the trunks are smothered by a legion of
tall brown weeds, the tenuous islets winding haphazardly through a
boggy marsh.

Gnats swarm around me angrily as I tear
through the swampy terrain. The tires keep losing traction,
sticking in shallow ruts and spewing dirty water. I jerk the wheel
back and forth in an attempt to retain traction. Crunching through
a thick snarl of branches, my front tires sweep up into the air. I
come crashing down raucously on sloping ground and plunge down a
hill, thin trunks popping up in front of me as a maze of poles.
Hard jolts throw the tail end of the truck into complaining trees.
Branches pelt the windshield, the limbs snapping against the glass
so hard I expect it to shatter at any moment. Off in the distance I
hear the sounds of pursuit. They’re probably using HMMWVs. They
might even have gotten a hold of some ATVs or dirt bikes, although
they can’t really carry heavy weaponry on those. I hope they don’t
have a jacked up Jeep at their disposal. That would be way more
navigable in this terrain, and it could support some serious
artillery.

The bog transforms into a solider thicket of
small trees and foliage. I jerk to the right, tearing past the
copse and into a wall of reeds. The stalks tear apart with a watery
crunch as I plow through. The tires spin, and mud flies up to
splatter the roof, but I don’t move. I turn the wheel side to side
and gun the engine. The truck rocks back and forth, spewing sludge
and pulverized strips of greenery. I lean out the door well and
look down. The left front tire is half-buried in a murky brown
quagmire. I jump out, my feet sinking into the olive muck, a spray
of dirty water shooting up to greet me as I drop. Great.

I tramp behind the truck, picking my way
through a stringy slush of leaf and root. Grasping the metal
tailgate, I widen my stance and push. It rocks slightly forward and
then back, shoving me into a backwards slide. Fuck!

I dig my toes in and push again. It moves a
little. I inch closer to the tailgate, dig my toes in once more,
and shove. The vehicle starts a gentle roll. Taking slow steps, I
force the truck forward. A few feet, and I hit a resisting wall of
reeds. The sound of pursuit is louder now, and with the crushed
trail of vegetation I left behind, I won’t be hard to find.
Glancing around, there’s nothing solid I can spy to secure the
winch to. I’ll try airing down the tires. Circling around, I lower
the PSI and climb back in. I stomp on the gas pedal and start to
roll forward. I hear a crunching sound in the distance. A quick
glance in the rear view mirror reveals at least three HMMWVs
descending the slope behind me, their sharp contours framed through
the trailing tunnel of trampled reeds. I glance forward again. The
stalks are collapsing in a noisy, brittle torrent before my front
end. The truck is picking up speed! Suddenly the underbrush parts
and I’m delivered out of the marshy entanglement and into sparse
woodland. My tires lumber up a small embankment and kick me into a
cluster of Chinese tallows. I jerk back and forth, bashing through
a thick huddle of underbrush. The foliage opens up into a small
stream, and I bound over, plowing into a wall of bushes on the
opposite bank. Just through, and a thin assembly of trees barely
conceals a large body of water beyond.

The crests sparkle in the sunlight, the
currents swirling and writhing as they sweep by. That’s probably
the river I crossed at the border. I pull up to the tree line and
jump out. A short embankment of white sand ushers down into a wide
river. On the far bank, a sheath of pine and fiery leaves span the
horizon. I’m not really sure where this river leads. I conclude it
must eventually empty into the Gulf, flowing by the city of Port
Arthur. I planned to take Route 10 to Mexico, but right now, I need
to lose my pursuit. After that I can concentrate on a destination.
Running back to the HMMWV, I climb in and shove the lever into
reverse. Backing up a few feet, I stomp on the gas.