The Black Seas of Infinity (25 page)

The shrieking din of sirens is now augmented
by the squawk of radios. I hear the patter of multiple pairs of
feet chasing me, the ground vibration intensifying with the
addition of pursuing vehicles. I flit around the brick wall and
dash by the hotel entrance, jumping a curb and continuing into the
lot of a local Hertz dealer. Pausing for a second, I swivel around,
the thought of stealing a new car running through my mind. There is
a red compact parked maybe a hundred feet away. I hear shouting
voices, and twist back to see not only cops, but a couple dozen
angry citizens running toward me.

A police car passes on the left, screeching
into a spin as it turns around to face me. The door snaps open, and
a brown-attired officer in a tan cowboy hat jumps out, using the
door as a shield as he raises a Mossberg. I dive forward, tumbling
into a roll just as a blast pierces the air. Scrambling to my feet,
I jolt forward, zigzagging my stride. Projectiles explode all
around me.

With a shredding groan, holes erupt in the
metal sidewall of the rental car. The front windshield collapses.
Changing course, I head back toward the road, dash around the
yellow Hertz sign, and stumble into the lot of a small bank. A
middle-aged man in a dress shirt and Dockers is cracking open the
door of a Ford Explorer. I run toward him. His chiseled face turns
to see what all the commotion is. A look of shock rolls over him
and I pounce, ripping the keys out of his extended hand and shoving
him away from the door. Over the escalating roar I hear the wet
sound of bones cracking. Goddamnit! I keep forgetting how strong I
am! I slam the door, plunge the keys into the ignition, and stomp
on the gas. The SUV bounces forward, convulsing as it clears the
concrete embankment. The rear window collapses in a deluge of
tinted glass. Rounds punch through the sheet metal, one bouncing
off my leg. I speed down the street, the automatic transmission
slowly shifting through the gears. The angry howling of the mob
resounds behind me, trumping the blare of sirens in a seething
milieu of fury.

I can’t take this truck all the way to
Mexico, what with the angry mob of locals and law enforcement hot
on my tail. Just ahead, at the intersection, is a roadblock of
police cars. I jerk the wheel to the right, popping up over a curb.
With a crunch my rear differential catches on the yellow parking
barrier. I jerk the shifter into reverse. Metal screeches and
rubber squeals, a rear tire spinning helplessly in midair.
Fuck!

I spin and kick out the door, the metal shell
flying into the McDonald’s parking lot. Lunging out, I take a sharp
right and dash down the street. A police car squeals around the
corner behind me, closing in with a blare of sirens. The midday sun
beats down in a blistering glare, blurring the edges of everything
in a haze of brilliance. There are no fucking trees! No shadows!
Goddamn this state!

I tear to the left, passing through a sandy
lot hidden behind a reddish orange building. Out of nowhere, a
crack of thunder rips the air, and it starts raining. Big, sloppy
drops, the impacts cratering the loose sand and buckling the blades
of grass. The sprinkle quickly progresses into a torrential
downpour, the water cascading downward in long queues of glistening
silver. Visibility decreases to a few feet as everything is plunged
into a disorienting fog. Stumbling through a tiny strip of
waterlogged lawn, I barge into a small cluster of trailer
homes.

A battered picnic table hovers nearby, the
legs lost in the storm, its surface a glistening mirror of pools. I
shuffle forward, slender pillars erupting out of the maelstrom and
clogging my path. I flounder sideways, a wall of white paneling
emerging out of the storm and cutting off the right side. This is
probably the side of a trailer. I shuffle forward, the slick
vegetation underfoot giving way to the hard veneer of concrete.

The rain lets up slightly, and I find myself
on a side street. Commercial buildings are on my left, the trailer
homes I just passed on the right. I jog forward, glancing around
for some kind of landmark. The street ends with another cluster of
trailers, and I swing to the left.

The path ends abruptly, the street T-boning
into a slightly larger road. I dart right, skirting an Exxon
station and copier store before blundering into a four-lane
highway. An empty flatbed comes grumbling down the street, shedding
torrents of water. I dive out into the road and swivel to face the
oncoming truck. Against my expectations, he speeds up! My
last-minute leap isn’t quite enough to keep him from winging
me.

Flying over a dotted white line and into the
oncoming lane, I come crashing down into a roll. I hear the
squealing of rubber, and quickly raise my head to see a rapidly
approaching Nissan Titan pickup, the gleaming silver grille molting
water ferociously as it bears down on me.

The truck grinds to a halt just inches from
my head. A door cracks open and boots emerge, hitting the side
steps with a muffled thud. They are followed by dark jeans and a
red flannel shirt, finally coalescing into a bearded man in his
forties.

The pouring rain buffets his trucker’s cap,
the pooling water dribbling off in small rivulets. Creases score
his grizzled face, clustering in spiderwebs at the corners of his
eyes. He pauses in his step, surveying me in a hard-boiled gaze.
Then he starts to back away, still staring intently.

I lunge forward, pushing him aside and
leaping into the truck. Slamming the door, I look out to see him
standing there in what appears to be either calm reserve or mild
shock. I can’t quite tell. Pulling the automatic into drive, I
stomp on the gas and surge forward.

The rain intensifies into a scathing barrage,
the massive drops pelting the windshield as the wipers fight a
losing battle. I can barely make out the road. Buildings and what
looks like a power line flow by on the right. The road splinters,
and I bear left, the tires sliding in a watery curve that thrusts
me into a spin. I twist the steering wheel to the right, but the
truck doesn’t respond, the vehicle looping in an uncontrollable
doughnut as it whirls through the intersection. An abrupt jolt over
the curb, and I glide sideways across a parking lot. The whole
wayward odyssey ends with a violent sideways crash into a parked
car, the collision throwing me into the door.

My elbow hits the window, smashing straight
through in a shower of crystal shards. With a shudder of groaning
metal, the cab tilts back, the shocks bottoming out as the tires
reconnect with the asphalt. Rain starts to pelt me through the
shattered window, a slow mist rising up around. I pull myself
upright and flip the key. The engine thunders back to life, and I
mash down the gas pedal. With a gnashing shriek the truck frees
itself and lurches forward. The front end rises as I fly over the
curb, nosediving in a bounce as I spin out onto the main road.

A shiny Exxon sign looms out of the storm,
and I angle left, away from the side of the road. As I push ahead,
buildings flow by in a shifting train of blurred shadows. A distant
gleam turns into approaching headlights, the beams piercing through
the milky downpour. I must be at an intersection, and the last
major road I was on was Route 90. I decide to chance it. I spin the
wheel, sliding into a wide-angled turn. A violent wrench and I’m
thrown forward, my outstretched elbows all that save me from
kissing the dashboard. That fucking knob must have hit me!

Grinding to a halt, I glance in the rear view
mirror and see the crumpled grille of a white sedan. The windshield
is a shattered mess. I stomp on the gas pedal and take off. As long
as they were wearing their seatbelts, they should be fine.

The gray shroud closes in, the steady patter
of rain muffling the roar of the engine. I don’t even think I have
adrenaline anymore, yet I could swear I feel something surging
through me. Something antagonizes my thoughts, whispering the need
to hurry. Maybe I’m cracking up. This body probably wasn’t built
for human consciousness, and for all I know it might be slowly
driving me mad. I keep driving.

CHAPTER XV

MEXICO

The rain thins out, the monsoon progressing into a
funereal downpour. Endless pillars of telephone poles flow by on
the right, dourly strung up in slumped columns, their foundations
smothered by squat bushes and low-lying trees.

The Amistad Reservoir should be close. That’s
probably my best chance for a border crossing. It is sufficiently
isolated, with a Mexican shoreline that leads up into badlands that
precede the Sierra Madre mountains. The precipices and basins of
that mammoth strip stretch all along the western seaboard. By the
time that finally peters out, I should be delivered into the depths
of the rain forest and not too far from the Mayan ruins. It’s a
long trek, maybe a month or even more, but the landscape is
beautiful. I’m in no hurry, and that would be far safer than
attempting a pass through the Gulf of Mexico. If I were discovered
and pursued by military ships, where would I hide? If I were on a
boat that I scuttled, I’d have to try my luck crossing the ocean
floor. Not only would that slow my progress considerably, I’m not
even sure I would be able to point myself in the right direction. I
could spend months underwater. If the isolation and dark didn’t
drive me crazy, I might end up on the coast of Africa. It might be
longer and more arduous, but a trek through the Sierra Madres is
far safer. I have a surplus of time, and an odyssey through the
mountains should hold plenty of new experiences. The isolation will
be a welcome change of pace, a chance for me to feel out the
properties and limitations of this body. I’ve been on the run for a
long time, and a revamping of my course is way past due.

The highway steams in a hazy sheen, the
condensation swirling up into a milky fog. The roadsides have
disappeared, their walls of foliage bludgeoned into a misty blur. I
must be near the reservoir. I can’t see anything in this soggy
mess, but the borders have melted away and I assume I’m almost on
the bridge. A slight jolt of the suspension, and the front of the
trunk starts to angle slightly upward. Leaden queues of silver flit
in and out of the fog. Guardrails. Off to the left I can make out
the skeletal structure of something manmade. Maybe it’s another
bridge, or an old rail line? As long as it’s not an impediment to
Mexico, I don’t care. I can’t imagine the US building any sort of
barrier across this entire body of water.

I let up on the gas and drift to a halt.
Pushing open the door, I crawl out and face what I presume is
Mexico. The rain hasn’t let up, and stepping out in the storm turns
the incoming assault into a downpour.

The silhouette across the water from me,
looking more than ever like an old train line, drifts in and out of
view. As I advance, my feet bump into a rail. Gripping the
balustrade, I lean forward slightly and vault over.

For a moment I float through whistling air,
accompanied by large, drifting drops of precipitation. Suddenly,
I’m swallowed by a writhing mass of liquid. I register a drop in
temperature and the tug of currents. It’s a feeling of
displacement, as if I am observing the pushes and pulls of the
water, yet all of it swirls as if part of a lucid dream.

Is this what life has in store for me? I feel
less attached to my surroundings without the human responses to
cold and lack of oxygen. I wonder what would affect me. This body
was built to explore worlds in which the temperatures range from
hotter than Venus to colder than Neptune. Pressures as low as
Mercury or as high as Saturn. If conventional explosives and
firearms do nothing, what would? A nuke? I wonder if I would
survive even that.

The currents are strong, a writhing mass that
continually pit themselves against me. Something, probably seaweed,
tugs at my feet, pulling me toward the sea floor. Kicking softly, I
free myself and move forward. I strain my vision, but still can’t
see anything. I wish I had a compass. I had one in my Mustang, but
that seems like eons ago. I wouldn’t be able to see it in this
darkness, but I’m sure it would come in handy in Mexico. It is
gone, lost to the aggressions of small-minded people. Which brings
us to another recurring theme in the history of man. We’ve lost so
much as a species to the limited vision of small-minded zealots.
The ruins I’m visiting would be much more thoroughly documented if
it weren’t for the Spanish, who burned all the writings they could
get their hands on. Mankind is such a petty animal. The creators of
this body would probably be horrified to know that a homo sapiens
had found his way into it. I float through the churning dark, my
feet losing their stride and drifting aimlessly. I shouldn’t
experience any chemical-based emotions, but I feel depressed and
more than a little doomed.