The Black Seas of Infinity (23 page)

The front windshield now sports several
holes, the perforations arcing out in a spiderweb of hairline
fractures. The shocks must be ancient. The truck bounces up and
down, the engine wheezing and sputtering with every hard jolt.
Tufts of dirt pelt the sides as bullets kamikaze into the
surrounding weeds. I think he’s trying for a body shot, but the
fitful jerking of the truck prevents a clear target. If he were
smart, he’d try to shoot out my tires. But he isn’t. Not that he
looked like he was in his right mind to begin with.

The trail curves off to the right, angling
through the wall of grass in a stretch of tire ruts. I head toward
the path, the truck rising up on two wheels in the sharp turn.
Thudding down on all four wheels, the rubber spins a moment before
catching, pushing me toward the gravel road ahead. The grass falls
away as I spin out onto a slightly better road.

The truck vibrates like it’s going to fall
apart, but without the old Chevy I would be tromping through this
wilderness on foot. A hard bump, and the gravel road abruptly
morphs into asphalt. The fuel gauge says the tank is half full.
This thing probably gets ten miles to the gallon. Gas will be a
problem sooner rather than later.

The road dims as it slips into a tunnel of
oak trees. Sunlight perforates the overhanging veil of leaves,
irradiating the sandy asphalt in hazy yellow beams. Deep potholes
mar the path, and I jerk the truck violently in an attempt to avoid
them. The loose dirt throws the truck into a controlled slide, the
sudden maneuvers around crevices almost whisking me off the road.
It would be way easier if I slowed down, but the sooner I’m out of
here, the better.

About a mile down, and the street ends in an
intersection. I slam on the brakes and look around. I can go right
or left, down identical roads. In front of me and on all sides is a
labyrinth of trees, the floor an untamed clutter of dying
vegetation and half- buried boulders. There are no street signs. I
pause for a minute and decide to go left. It’s a roll of the dice,
but I have nothing to lose.

An hour passes as I roll through the unending
forest, the monotony broken up by the occasional small meadow. Not
a house or living person in sight. At one point the trees break on
both sides to reveal a stretch of power lines. I wonder if I’m
going the wrong way. In fact, I wonder what the right way is. It’s
going to suck if I run out of gas and get stranded in the middle of
nowhere. I’ll be back to square one with the added bonus of some
unwanted publicity.

The road abruptly curves to the right, the
rural vista opens up, and I’m greeted by a wide interstate. I
screech to a halt. It’s two lanes both ways, a barrier of grass
partitioning the middle. Beyond the road, open fields of prairie
roll toward the distant horizon. Glancing down, I see the gas
needle doesn’t appear to have fallen much. Then again, with these
older trucks, pinpoint accuracy isn’t exactly to be expected. I
spin the wheel to the right, screeching out in a sloppy arc.

The pickup is vibrating like crazy, the
engine coughing through the RPMs like a dying old man. I’m south of
Houston and closer to the Gulf than to San Antonio, but it’s a big
state, with way too many roads. I could be headed toward Oklahoma
for all I know. I’m beginning to think my intrinsic sense of
direction is failing me, because I can’t make out anything.

The cab has an old radio. The channel dial is
missing so I grip the metal lever and slowly spin through the
bandwidth. Progressing through the wavelengths, I hear a crackling.
It sounds like someone giving an impassioned speech, like something
out of an old World War II movie about Nazi Germany. The distortion
masks the words, but the tone is clear. I wonder if it’s some
evangelist stirring shit up, or some politician engaged in the same
activity on a different level. I also wonder how far the gas in
this heap is going to take me. Maybe if I see a gas station I
should risk it. There can’t be a statewide APB out on me. I hope. I
mean... this is Texas.

The tree line on my right has fallen away
into a meadow of tall grass. Just visible beyond is what appears to
be an airfield. I see the shapes of a few helicopters baking in the
midday sun. It might be worth hijacking one. I’d get a way better
view, have a full tank of gas, and maybe even be able to fly
straight over the border. I wonder how all the radar operations are
functioning, given the current political state. Maybe if I stay
low, just above tree level. Only, I can’t fly, and using a pilot
would give away my landing location at the very least. It’s not
very practical, but it would be cool. It always seemed to be a real
advantage in the old zombie movies. Then again, this is real life,
not some Hollywood script, and there is way too much that could go
wrong. I keep driving.

CHAPTER XIII

THE BORDER CLOSES IN

I’m seeing signs for San Antonio, so I have a rough
idea of where I am. If possible, I’ll hop on Route 90 and head
toward a more isolated border town. From what I’ve heard, it’s more
desolate out there. It would be better to deal with rough terrain
than angry citizens and the possibility of military presence.

The last trees have fallen away into
wide-open grasslands. The gas gauge has dropped perilously low, and
I start scanning the wasteland for a gas station. But open fields
with distant clusters of diminutive trees are all I see. There
isn’t much traffic. Occasionally I see a pickup truck or old car
pass, but nothing on my side. No matter how rural the area, I would
guess there would at least be some eighteen-wheelers. To my right I
see cows grazing leisurely in the fields, totally oblivious to the
fall of the Western World.

I crest a small hill and a gas station creeps
up on the right. It’s all shiny white columns and plastic Exxon
signs, a tasteless flourish on the undulating softness of the
savanna. Apparently Texans do things differently, and this gas
station isn’t closed. I pull off the highway and swerve up into the
lot, slowing as I approach the outer row of pumps. Grinding to a
halt, I stomp on the emergency brake and step out.

The sun has fallen, a faded yellow pall
drenching the property. Circling around the outside row, I enter
the shadow of the awning.

I almost make it to the glass box before the
clerk looks up. He’s a bald, stocky guy in a white tank top. His
goatee and mustache sprout in uncombed tangles of faded black from
his pockmarked face. It takes a minute before he notices me, but
when he does, his eyes widen and the toothpick falls out, bouncing
off his goatee in a death plunge toward the counter. He ducks below
the desk and reemerges with a shiny Dirty Harry-style .44 magnum.
There’s no place like Texas. The window cracks and things explode
behind me. A couple of bullets hit me, shoving me back. I hear a
soft whipping sound, and a crescendo of flames course in, engulfing
me and the entire station in a smothering orange ball of fire.

He must have hit a gas pump. Air is sucked
into the raging inferno with a churning roar, a deluge of seething
yellow dancing a destructive jig as it scorches everything into
oblivion. A faint crackling gives way to a loud burst of shattering
glass, windows blowing in intervals like syncopated pockets of
expiration. That was stupid. Everything is destroyed, and I’m
probably the only survivor of this little encounter.

The fireball subsides, the charred corpse of
the attendant wearing a strange grin as blackened skin peels back
from his yellowed teeth. His eyes have disintegrated into burnt
sockets of gristle. The security glass of the window frames the
carcass in an arc of jagged splinters. Shards litter the ledge and
blanket the floor. The glass entrance beside him has also shattered
into a serrated portal, the rift revealing the smoldering ruin of a
mini-mart beyond. I’ve never seen such efficient destruction. Rows
reduced to blackened carbon speed bumps, the contents scattered
about the floor in small smoking piles. The remnants of the shelves
are warped into bent sheets of metal, their empty shells tossed
about. A layer of soot clings to the walls.

Great... Back to trudging through the wilds
of Texas. I turn and walk away slowly. Just as I pass the wall of
the Exxon I peer behind me. Mostly obscured by the building is a
jacked up 1980s Chevy pickup. It’s parked at an angle, nestled up
against a metal air pump/vacuum combo. An unstained wooden fence
stands guard just beyond. That truck probably belonged to the gas
station attendant. Time for me to change rides. I look back at the
now smoldering wreckage of a station. The pumps have deteriorated
into melted rectangles, their sharp edges a charred mess of metal
and plastic. A thin haze of smoke wafts out of the sunken cores.
The awning has been ripped clear, the underside smoldering in the
fading sun as it straddles the far end of the parking lot. The
supporting columns have been reduced to shredded strips of
metal.

The still burning wreckage of my truck lies
sideways just beyond the farthest concrete tier. The rubber long
since compromised, the tires have melted into dripping morasses of
black goo, the clumped remains slowly sliding down the rims. I turn
back around to survey the only other survivor of the encounter.

The body is electric blue, marred by rusted
patches at the wheel wells. It has a lift, probably about six
inches, with bright yellow skyjacker shocks peeping out from behind
thirty-eight-inch Super Swamper tires. There appears to be a full
roll cage welded in the cockpit. An overhead steel light bar
supports four KC lights. A chrome bull bar juts out from the front
grill, a weathered Milemarker winch nestled snuggly in between. I
stroll over to the driver’s side. The windows are rolled down,
exposing stained gray cloth seats—obviously transplants from some
other car. A Summit Racing sticker and a line decal of Calvin
taking a piss complete the back windshield. There are no keys in
the ignition. I’ll bet the gas station attendant has them.
Lovely.

I wander back to the burning shell. A
polluted mist wafts around the concrete wall, growing in density as
I round the bend. The blackened rows of pumps look like something
out of Baghdad, not rural America. Then again, this isn’t the same
America anymore. I should get this over with as quickly as
possible.

It’s only been a few minutes, but the
building has taken on an eerie character, the interior a gloomy
sepulcher sheathed in ash. Stepping in, I circle around the
counter.

The overhead cigarette frame has melted into
hanging slabs of plastic that descend in drooling queues. I push
aside the mutilated shelf and walk up to the charred corpse.

It slouches in repose, the body frozen in a
death’s head form for eternity. The afternoon light pours in
through the shattered window, casting a ghostly shadow abaft that
stretches into the darkened recesses.

The clothing has been mostly burned off, with
a few vestigial tufts wedged into the crevices. A greasy layer of
blackened skin mimics the former contours of the body. The knobs of
joints protrude at his shoulders, the skin cracking like old paint
to reveal the yellowed marrow beneath. He looks like one of those
Japanese World War II victims right after they dropped the bombs.
His right pocket probably held the keys at one point. I look down.
Beneath a layer of soot, a clump protrudes, an exposed edge
gleaming in the smoky sunlight.

I pick it up, the ash sliding away to reveal
a silver key. A GM logo is stamped on the top. Straightening up, I
turn and look out the window frame. Carnage stares back at me. I
don’t know why this, out of all that has happened so far, is
affecting me, but it seems unearthly and out of place. The world
has changed. I spy the underbelly of an overturned SUV, lying just
past the last island of pumps. Circling around, I wander out,
listlessly heading toward the overturned truck. To the left of the
SUV, a charred corpse lies sprawled on its stomach, the right hand
still clutching a gas nozzle. Small tendrils of smoke escape out of
the blackened skin. I can make out the crackle of smoldering
intestines. I turn around and head back toward the Chevy.

He didn’t have to die. It was that clerk’s
fault. Fucking trigger- happy cretins. I can justify killing
soldiers, but not random civilians. Each time it’s like I’m hit
with a gut level shock, followed closely by a profound sense of
wrong. I know I’ll become jaded, but I don’t want to. I shuffle
slowly back to the pickup.

The truck sits a few feet off the ground.
You’d think he’d install footsteps with a lift this steep. Then
again, gas station attendants don’t make that much money. Grabbing
the doorframe, I pull myself up. A flick of the wrist, and the
engine roars to life. It’s a monster, probably a V8. And a manual!
The tachometer mounted atop the steering column holds at
fifteen-hundred RPM. That’s a bit high. Maybe he tuned it that way,
or it has an automatic choke. The gas gauge marks off three
quarters. It’s a nice truck, but I’ll bet the mileage is shit, and
judging from recent experience, I doubt it’ll last very long.
Shifting into first, I stomp on the gas and surge forward. An arc
through the lot, and I’m back out on the highway.

The road stretches out into oblivion. I’ve
seen way too much of south Texas landscape in the last few days.
The drab similarity makes the time seem to drag by. The truck
growls and vibrates, the roar of the engine fighting for dominance
with the rumble of the tires. The stiff shocks agitate the
dashboard into a throbbing blur. A green sign crops up in the
distance, slowly growing as I close in. Route 37 West. That should
lead me to the beltway of 410, which should take me to 90 and on to
Mexico.

Things like highway signs provide a glimpse
of a life that seems to be fading fast. They’re like a relic of a
time before the fall. It’s difficult to see such order and normalcy
persisting in an era of burning cities and trigger-happy locals. A
nagging apprehension tugs at the back of my mind, a paranoid
suspicion that dark forces will eventually come crashing in and
change everything. I can’t wait until I’m out of the US.