by Alfred Wurr
“It sure looks like it,” I said.
“Too far away to get to in time without transport,” he said, looking at the burning vehicles in the vicinity. “More of those fire critters?” he asked, walking in a half crouch to the trailer from which the scientists had appeared earlier this evening.
“Maybe.” I shrugged.
The door to the other trailer was pulled tight. Larry banged on the door and shouted, “Anyone in there?”
“Yes,” came the muffled voice of the scientist Harriet from within. “Who’s there, please?”
“Private Donner,” Larry shouted back. “That you, Dr. Huggins, ma’am?”
“Oh, thank God!” Harriet replied. “Is it safe to come out?”
“Sit tight for now, ma’am,” Larry responded. “The area is not secure.” He leaned sideways, looking east toward the sounds of fighting. “Has Command been notified?”
“I called it in a few minutes ago on the sat phone,” said a voice I recognized as belonging to the older scientist, Marcus. “They tell me help is on the way.”
“Where’s the lieutenant, sir?” Larry asked, speaking into the door.
“Pursuing the entities that attacked us,” Marcus said. “We lost radio contact with him a few minutes ago, but I hear gunfire, so they may be too busy to respond to our hails. Those beings manifested out of thin air, hurling fire. The soldiers fired back. Lightning struck one of the generators. It was chaos.”
“All right,” he said, rubbing the stubble on the back of his shaved head. “Y’all stay put. I’m fixing to search the camp, see if anyone is hurt.”
He turned back to me and shooed me away from the trailer. We walked to the edge of the encampment, out of earshot of the occupants, as the thunder and lightning subsided and the wind slowed, and the camp burned around us. The air was much cooler now, the rain changing to sleet.
“Look, Win…uh, Shivurr,” he said. “Team’s on its way. You best get Oscar Mike before they get here. I won’t say nothing ’bout seeing you here; wouldn’t be right seeing as you saved my ass in there. I nearabout lost my mind.”
“Who’re they?” I asked. “I don’t know anyone named Oscar or Mike.”
He grinned. “I mean you should get moving. On the move. Skedaddle.”
“Oh, got it,” I said, snorting. “Thanks, Larry. Bit surprised you didn’t turn that gun on me.”
“Nah, I’ve heard stories,” he said, shaking his head. “I hear you’re a good fella; not right what they been doing to you.”
“Appreciate it,” I replied, extending my hand. “See you around.”
“Stay frosty, sir.” Larry smiled back, pumping my hand.
“I don’t know how to be anything else,” I replied, taking my hand back.
I turned and slipped away into the darkness, leaving the devastation behind, as the sleet turned to welcome snow.
Chapter 5
Ain’t Near Enough
A few hundred feet south, I headed west and continued until the hillside that lay over top of the cavern of crystals was directly to my right, still encircled by a sea of black ash, then moved south again, retracing my steps from earlier in the day. Several helicopters travelled across the night sky toward the encampment as I walked—the help of which the scientist Marcus had spoken, I presumed.
The snow kept falling for the first few miles that I travelled. I felt my face, afraid of what I’d find. My cheek felt normal, whole. I closed my eyes and sighed with relief. I couldn’t see out of either one. Just like it’s supposed to be. Like my cheek, my missing eyelid had grown back. I felt my nose and smiled as my fingers traversed its full and proper length. I looked down at my ruined bottom half. It too had regenerated back to its normal roundness. I slapped it like a beachball, laughing aloud. I’m still gorgeous, I thought, walking with a lighter step.
As I approached US Route 6, the snowfall diminished before fading away entirely. Looking back, I could see clouds, dark and thick, still hanging low over the hills behind me. To my front, in contrast, stars dotted the clear desert sky with their brilliance. Absent any light pollution, the Milky Way was radiant, casting enough ghostly light onto the desert floor that I imagined I could have read a book by it.
As I hiked, I realized that the compulsion to seek out the chamber had left me. Whatever need pulled me there had, it seemed, passed. Either I had done what I needed to do, or it just didn’t matter anymore. It was time to move to phase two, getting to the pickup spot to catch my ride.
Before I left, Scott had arranged a ride with a trucker friend to take me north to another friend’s cabin. The pickup spot was on the outskirts of Las Vegas, which lay nearly two hundred miles away as the crow flies, longer following the roads.
It might as well be on the moon, I thought. Despite my most grievous wounds being healed, I still felt like crushed ice in a saucepan. I needed somewhere to rest and recuperate. I’d replenished my supplies in the chamber’s pool, but they wouldn’t last long; I’d already dipped into them since leaving Larry at the encampment.
After some consideration, I decided to head back to Lunar Crater, gambling that the kids with the cooler of soda pop were still camped there. I knew that what I left behind in that treasure chest would be enough liquid to make the trek to Tonopah. I figured that I could make it there by morning. Tonopah was the wrong direction, but a lot closer than Las Vegas. I’d have the chance to pilfer more supplies in the small town and find a phone booth. Scott had given me a number to call if I needed help, so once there, I could call to delay my Las Vegas pickup, buying myself more time to make the longer journey to Sin City. At least I know the terrain and the dangers on the way to Lunar Crater, I reasoned. Who knew what I’d find—enemies, possibly—or not find—supplies or shelter—on my way to Las Vegas?
Having made that choice, I picked up my pace. In the cool of the night, the journey seemed a lot shorter than it had during the day. Before too long, I approached the crater for the second time in twenty-four hours and sighed with relief.
The Volkswagen van sat parked as it had been when I’d last visited, next to the two tents. A dark-coloured Ford Bronco pickup was parked a short distance away, its engine still running and headlights on. The light revealed several people clustered between the vehicles, behind which a small campfire burned.
Must have brought the firewood with them, I thought, considering the lack of wood out here. I’d seen enough fire for the day, so I almost kept walking, but curiosity and thirst overcame that impulse.
I circled behind the Bronco, keeping the truck’s headlights in front of me. Hard rock blared from the radio inside the truck, mixing with pop music coming from the vicinity of the van, as I skulked closer.
“Well, this ain’t near enough for our troubles,” said a voice. The man who spoke stood in front of the pickup, holding a wad of cash in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other. At his feet lay discarded wallets. Another man leaned against the hood of the truck and looked on, holding a pistol carelessly, aimed in no direction. Five people knelt in the gravel before them, their hands behind their heads, panicked expressions on their faces. I recognized the kid that I’d encountered during my last visit, the one who I thought of as Slim, among them. The other four must be his friends—the hikers I’d seen at the bottom of the crater.
“That’s all we have,” replied one of the boys, who knelt a foot or so ahead of his friends. “Please, just take it and leave us alone.”
The bandits were late twenties to early thirties. The one in front had the start of a potbelly on a slight build, brown hair, dirty white T-shirt, denim jacket and jeans. The other leaning against the truck was thicker, heavyset, with longish black hair and beard. He wore a black-and-red lumberjack shirt with a green trucker’s cap pulled down over his eyes.
Potbelly took a puff of his cigarette, then left it dangling from the corner of his mouth so his hands were free to stuff the money into the front of his trousers. He pulled a gun from his waistband and pointed it at the
group.
“How are you going to make this worth our while? Hmm? How about you, sugar tits?” he asked, leering at one of the women. The raven-haired teen cringed and began to shake. “You got any ideas?” One of the boys scowled at that, but Potbelly’s eyes were focused on the girl. “Ahh, now, now, no call for that. Come on over here,” he said, making a come-hither gesture with the gun.
The girl quailed but didn’t move.
“Now,” he snarled, aiming the gun at her.
The scowling boy gritted his teeth and started to lower his hands. Don’t do it, kid, I thought, knowing that if he rushed the gunman, there was no way he’d make it from a kneeling position. He’d be shot dead and bleed out on the desert floor.
I flinched as a gunshot ripped through the night and someone screamed. In the seclusion of the desert, there was little chance its sound would disturb anyone but those gathered here.
“I said, get over here,” repeated the lead thug, lowering his pistol as a thin wisp of smoke drifted away on the breeze.
His head snapped to the side as my curveball pelted his ear, sending his cigarette flying. The gun hit the earth, and he followed it to the dirt an instant later and lay unmoving. His head steamed as the snow and ice melted, and his ear blazed an angry red.
Damn, is he dead? I’d tried to softball him, but his neck looked fragile as he lay there, limp as a wet dishrag. They’d not yet harmed anyone, aside from psychologically, as far as I could tell, so I wasn’t trying to take them out permanently. No time to worry about it now, I thought. So much for keeping a low profile.
My legs, still tired from my run here, felt heavy as I skirted the truck, changing my direction of approach, but keeping myself hidden in darkness. Four of the five captives scattered, some scrambling away on hands and knees; others leaped to their feet and ran. The teen brunette, however, remained huddled in the truck’s headlights. Her friends motioned frantically to her from the cover of the nearby van.
The other gunman’s head whipped around. He aimed his weapon where I used to be. I threw a frost ball at him as I moved to my right, but it went wide. He backpedalled, firing in my direction. I was still moving, so his shots hit only air. He retreated behind the truck, peering over the hood into the desert.
“You liars! Just the five of you, my ass,” he snarled, glancing at the van. “Who’s out there?” He pointed his weapon at the girl, who still sobbed, collapsed into a ball. “Come on out,” he yelled. “Show yourself or I shoot your friend here. What d’you think of that, asshole?” After a moment’s thought, I drifted into view. “What the hell?” said the bearded thug.
His right eye narrowed and his left flared wide, and his mouth opened and closed like a guppy feeding. The barrel of his gun rose, turning in my direction, and I exploded into motion, running at him like a six-foot avalanche.
The gun spat twice as I hurtled at him. Hot lead tore into my abdomen, leaving holes in their wake. I winced at the burning sensation but kept coming. Ten feet from him, I pelted him with a wad of molten frost.
Wheezing like a forty-year smoker, he fell on his ass, holding his chest as the frost energy coursed through his body, sucking the heat from his flesh. An eyeblink later, I was on him, throwing wild punches. Hunched over as he was, my first few blows hit him square on the crown of his head, bruising my hands but doing slight damage to my opponent. Realizing that, I channelled frost energy to my knuckles, sending flashes of frost into his thick skull with each blow. His cap offered minor protection, and he fell to the ground, out cold, soon after.
No, he’s still moving, I realized as I stood up. Gulping air, I conjured more frost and brought it down on his head like a coconut against rock. “Take a chill pill, asshole,” I muttered, kicking his weapon to the side.
One of the young men crouched next to the crying girl, his hands on her shoulders. The other tourists slowly appeared from the darkness like wraiths, blinking, mouths ajar, as their eyes bored holes in me. I walked over to the still-burning cigarette of the first gunman and snuffed it out with my foot. “Remember, only you can prevent forest fires,” I said with a tired grin.
I glanced at the smoker. He lay in the dirt on his side, with one arm trapped beneath his body and the other extended to his front. I stooped next to him and placed the palm of my hand against his chest as it swelled and then contracted. Good, still breathing.
It had all happened in a few frantic moments and, happily, amazingly, five gunshots later, no one was dead. The lead thug’s handgun was nowhere to be seen. Must have been thrown when he fell, I thought, finding nothing under his body. Satisfied the guns were out of easy reach of the two unconscious goons, I felt my chest, afraid of what I’d find; snow and ice had rushed to close the gaps. While narrowing, I could still feel the paths the bullets had torn through me. I guess the bullets didn’t hit anything vital, if there is such a thing in my insides, I thought.
“Anybody got a drink?” I asked, slumping—a slowly deflating balloon now that the danger and excitement had passed.
Slim walked to their cooler, rummaged around inside, and returned with a can of Coca-Cola, holding it out to me like he was feeding a tiger at the zoo from the wrong side of the bars. “H… he…here you go,” he stammered before clearing his throat.
I nodded, taking the can. “Thanks, Slim.”
“All good, dude,” he said, shrugging. “It’s the one you dropped.” After a moment, he added, “I’m Caleb, by the way.”
“S’up,” I said, before taking a swig. The chemicals thundered through me almost immediately. I stood taller as my vision cleared.
The boom box was still playing, now halfway into a song about an echo at a beach, as one of the girls appeared at Caleb’s side, blinking like she had dust in her eyes.
“This is Lucy,” Caleb said. “That’s Brad,” he continued, pointing to the young man standing next to him, hands held to the sides of his head as he stared at me. Then, more softly, “And Alan and Lilith,” referring to the two crouched teens.
“This is unreal,” said Brad, lowering his hands as he stepped closer. In his early twenties, clean-shaven, Brad stood about five foot eight. His straight brown hair was cut short on the sides and back; long, feathered bangs hung down almost into his eyes. Of medium build, he had the air of an athlete and the tanned skin of an avid outdoorsman. He wore faded blue bell-bottom jeans with a black leather belt, and blue Nike running shoes with a yellow swoosh. A pair of dark sunglasses hung from the front of his white T-shirt with black sleeves that read The Police. “Are you…? Wha…what are you?”
“Uh, duh. He’s a snowman, obviously,” Caleb said, smiling broadly and puffing out his chest. “Just like I told you guys.”
“Not sure what I am,” I said. “Pretty sure ‘snowman’ doesn’t quite cover it.”
“But,” he said, snorting, “you are a snowman.”
“I guess you’re right…meatman,” I said.
They chuckled.
“He’s got you there, Caleb,” Lucy said. She smiled, flashing perfect white teeth. Curvaceous, a few inches shorter than Brad, and of similar age, she looked like a cheerleader on her day off with wavy blond hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She wore tan shorts and a blue halter top, with knee-high white socks and running shoes.
Lilith stood, rubbing tears from her face. Alan put his arm around her, but she shrugged him off impatiently. “I’m all right. Just give me a second.”
She was young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. Long, straight raven-black hair reached well past her shoulders. Wavy at the ends, it framed a pale, pretty pixieish face and bright, intelligent blue eyes. The glint of silver earrings peeked between the strands as her head moved. The left side of her nose was pierced as well, with a simple nose stud gleaming silver in the flickering light. She approached me slowly, craning her head as she looked up at me. Small-framed, just a few inches over five feet, she wore cut-off blue jean shorts and a grey sweatshirt several sizes too large for her with large black letters th
at read “Surfer Dude.”
“This can’t be real,” Lilith said. She crossed her arms over her chest as if chilled. “Are you real?”
I shrugged.
“If this isn’t a dream, thank you for saving us,” she said, looking me directly in the eyes. “Seriously.”
“Fuckin’ A to that,” Caleb said, nodding. “What’s your name?”
“Shivurr.”
“Awesome to meet you, dude,” Brad said, thrusting a hand toward me.
I glanced down at the gun and soda. “Just a sec,” I said, slipping the weapon under my armpit before shaking his hand. “Good grip.”
He rubbed his hands together and blew into his palms. “Icy.”
The thug at our feet groaned and we all looked down.
“Guys, find something to tie up these dickweeds,” Brad said, looking around, “before they wake up.”
“Whoa, Alan, what are you doing?” Lucy said.
Alan, the tallest of the group, aimed the other handgun at the unconscious thug with shaking hands. The teen’s thick, shaggy brown hair, bleached blond by the sun, spilled about his broad shoulders like a lion’s mane, blending with a sparse three-day beard. Lean and muscular, he looked like a cross between a football quarterback and gymnast.
“Relax, dude,” Caleb said, shaking his head. “Ease up.”
“He’s got it coming,” Alan said, red-faced, waving the pistol to emphasize each word. “They both do.”
“No doubt, dude, but you don’t want this heat,” Caleb said. The shorter teen made a down motion with his hands. “Just take it easy…please.”
“Alan, stop it,” Lilith said, glaring daggers at him.
“Brad, do something,” Lucy said.
