by D.C. Clemens
Chapter Eighteen
Parting
More and more people kept emerging from the deep dusk. Their worn out faces carried no expression on their stiffened features, their heads slumped low to avoid the many reminders of the mad world we now lived in. The footprints I saw pressed neatly into the soggy ground were almost as vacant as the people who left them. At multiple points we were able to catch hints of the countless vehicles hopelessly tangled on the roads for miles beyond our sights.
When I detected the horizon was gaining a lighter complexion from the nearing dawn, I started to scout for a place to rest our tiring legs. Dayce rested on my back, shifting my backpack to my front side, and he seemed to gain an extra pound every few steps. Before I could get too serious in my scouting project, some of the refugees ahead of me started to walk with haste, eventually turning a corner to what appeared to be a gated community. We followed them. Huddled by the entrance of the walled neighborhood were dozens of civilians surrounding the tan uniformed soldiers of the Caddoa Army, who were acting as guardsmen in front of the gates.
An amplified voice filled the air. It came from a soldier holding a megaphone declaring, “…children. I repeat. We will begin evacuating as soon as our birds arrive. Women and children are top priority. Once they are cleared we will then start with the men. Women and children can start entering through the gates…”
I didn’t look to anyone for confirmation to do what I knew was necessary. I bent down to allow a half sleeping Dayce to slide off my back, letting my pack slip off as well.
“Dayce, did you hear that? You and Mommy get to go on a helicopter ride,” I told him. I tried to sound energetic, but it came off as a poor imitation of it when a trace of sadness invaded my tone. Luckily, Dayce was too tired to realize it.
“Not you?” he asked drowsily, rubbing his eyes to awaken them.
“No, I’ll have to go later.” I wrapped my arms around him, not only because I badly wanted to, but because I needed to make sure he did not catch a glimpse of the heartache on my face. “You and your mom are much more important, so you get to go first.”
In a frightened and timid voice, Liz began to say, “But, Roym, I don’t-”
Before she could finish, I rose and squeezed her in my arms, saying as steadfastly as I could, “There’s no way you or Dayce are staying. Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you. We’ll be fine.”
I held on to her for as long as I was able, relishing every moment of it. I beheld her eyes with great severity to make sure they were carved into my memory, in case I would ever need them. They sparkled with a beauty I had never seen before. I almost wished I had not drunk them in. I didn’t want to let her go, but at the same time, I never wanted to let her go more. I next faced my mother, who appeared so solemn standing there looking back at me. I only remember her staring at me like that once before. Using some firm coaxing, I walked them over to the gates to make certain they were able to leave the abominable place in the first run. Before I completely entrusted them to someone else, I asked the nearest soldier of their destination.
He replied, with only half of his attention on me and the other to the crowd, “Arora. It’s in the desert, but the lights still work. Please, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step back.”
I followed his request, receding a few steps to give my farewell, though I tried not to think of it that way. I shared a quick kiss with Liz and afterward told Dayce, “Take care of the girls until I get back.”
He nodded and said, “I will, Dad.”
His awakening mind was just now starting to grasp what was happening. I regretted obliging Liz to handle his full understanding on her own. Everyone was saying their goodbyes and they started to cross the gates.
Siena was the last to leave. Before she crossed to the other side, she came and told me, “I will never leave Liz or Dayce’s side. I swear nothing will happen to them as long as I’m with them.”
I nodded my appreciation, but I doubt she saw it, for, in a flash, she was lost in the sea of women and children. Their fates were now out of my influence, but there was some consolation knowing they would soon be far from a Tower. Neves had already found Arora on the map when I went to meet what was left of our group. The small town was located about six hundred miles south of where we stood and forty miles from the coast. The nearest major population area was five hundred miles away and an air force base adjoined it. If the lights there did actually still work, then I trusted they would be comfortable there.
After a wait of less than ten minutes, with the daylight rising little by little and the shadowy clouds dissipating to unveil more of the morning, the whirring of an advancing helicopter became audible. It momentarily became visible and it landed inside the gated community. It was a large two-rotor helicopter, with what looked to be extra fuel pods strapped to its lower frame, and it was one of a group, the rest of which continued flying overhead. The helicopter soon departed southward, holding the most precious cargo it had ever carried. The rest of the morning held this pattern. A transport helicopter landed and carried away six to seven dozen women and children every hour or so, but there was no stopping the influx of more families inundating the evacuation site. The men continued to wait; some nervously, some irritably, but always relieved that their families were heading to safer pastures. Sleep did not cross any of our minds, even if every single person there was exhausted. Still, I felt more contented than I had in weeks.
The state of the men looked a little dire by mid-afternoon. I almost concluded that our collective fates would be to wait on that spot until an agent of eternity swallowed us. Finally, our ears picked up the grumble of engines coming down the road. There was a couple of army Humvees leading a convoy of buses and a couple of semi-trucks. As it stopped near us, a soldier on the stand of the .50 Cal stood up and, while reading a clipboard he had in the left hand and with his mouth to a megaphone, he addressed the male crowd.
“A route has been cleared for your transfer to the airport where we have several birds waiting. Men who have families headed to Arora must board either the semi-trucks or the school buses directly behind them. Those heading to Rett must board…”
That was all I needed to hear. We trudged toward the designated vehicles, ending up taking the second semi-trailer after the first filled to capacity. It was awkward standing tightly among the other men in the cramped space, only enhancing my earlier vision of being treated as livestock. One door remained open to help ease our claustrophobia and to make sure that acquiring air wasn’t going to be a struggle during the trip. Through the open door and between the heads and bodies of the people in front of me, I saw the streets had swelled with more groups of exiles, some of which were chasing after us, begging to be taken in. I caught a glimpse of a woman holding up a small child before they were lost among the wailing mass of the destitute. An empathetic guilt stopped me from attempting to see what we passed outside, but nothing could stop me from hearing their frantic pleas. The convoy halted about twenty minutes into the excursion. The warmth of the bright sunlight felt welcoming on my clammy skin once I stepped out the semi. I observed I was standing in the middle of a small airport reserved for equally petite aircraft. There were a handful of small planes lined on the tarmac, but the soldier told everyone to board any of the three robust transport helicopters located on the grass nearby.
I found myself forcibly ushered into the closest one by the crowd of eager legs. The sunlight faded as the ramp closed, leaving the small circular windows as the only source of infiltration by the natural light. In a moment, gravity no longer held sway over the helicopter and we were in total union with the air. Looking out the window to my right, I saw the other aircraft began matching our movements. My companions were all scattered among the crowd, but I could still see each of them clearly, with Mr. Tillar standing the least distant. Each of their faces were loosened from the bolts of stress, gratified to have escaped the horridness on the ground below. If anyone had a fear of height
s before, they did not anymore. The other groups of men were in an excited clamor as well.
I closed my eyes to better sense the rising of the helicopter’s elevation, and to see if I could sleep standing up, when I overheard something that made my bones spasm; the sound of glass shattering. The only thought I had, before feeling the pain from bumping violently against the wall and other bodies, was thinking that the sound must have originated from within the cockpit. Just as everything started spiraling out of control, it came to a complete and abrupt stop. We had hit the ground, that much was clear, yet I still felt as though I was spinning. All I could definitely perceive was a perpetual throbbing in my head. I did not even comprehend for the next few seconds that I was being crushed by innumerable bodies. I was aware enough to know I was alive, but unaware enough to know to what extent. I wanted to escape from the crushing pile, but I unable to do so in my first efforts. It was only after a few moments of concentrating all my energy and sensing the decreasing weight of the pile that was I able to drag myself out.
My jostled brain could not focus on one thing for long. Combined with the various incomprehensible bustling noises the bellowing of dozens of men generated, my rattled head prevented any clear pathways for my overloaded nerves to competently command my body. However, everything was reset when I saw the lifeless body of Rendry Tillar lying beside me, his leaden eyes looking up at the ceiling, or what used to be the right wall of the helicopter. Still on my stomach, I crawled to his side. I despairingly tried shaking his body and screaming his name, but no response came. The blood pooling under his head told me no response was ever going to come. I didn’t have a chance to start mourning for him, as I then heard a sharp and vaguely familiar cry of pain amid the other exclamations and expletives. My engrossment was instinctively shifted to search for the source of the wail, which I found was Orins. He was kneeling and grasping his left shoulder, grimacing in discomfort. When he ventured to look about himself, I was the first image he shifted his eyes to, as if he sensed I was watching him. He next recognized whom I was next to.
As he gazed dejectedly at the body, he began to form a word on his lips, but it was unable to be articulated. He was interrupted by a metallic thud of what must have been another helicopter crashing. Examining more of the space, I saw Bervin prone over a window. A sick feeling constricted my stomach. I moved a little closer to see that he was still breathing and actually groggily awake, relieving some of the stomach ache. I compelled myself to start helping him up, pushing through squirming bodies, and although he was clearly shaken up, he did not look injured enough to preclude him from walking under his own strength. I soon found Neves and Yitro among the amending crowd in essentially the same manner. A sharp beam of light was spilling in, coming through the open ramp the crash had produced. It was open no more than two feet wide. At the time, I did not appreciate how fortunate we were to have that happened. The piece of sun coming from the crevice beckoned us away from captivity, which many yielded to.
“What made us crash?” wondered Neves, still trying to get himself back together.
“Where’s Rendry?” Bervin asked nearly at the same time.
An awful anguish went through my body when he asked it, but I forced myself to turn to the body and answer, “He didn’t make it.”
“Spirits,” said Neves’ lips, though I could not tell if I had actually heard it or not. “May they guide him to a better place,” he continued more loudly, speaking for all of us.
Fate did not allow Mr. Tillar to receive the reverence he deserved. A sudden salvo of gunfire erupted from outside, involuntarily making most of us in the chopper crouch to the ground.
In a hushed tone, Orins shouted, “Fuck! It has to be those Injector things!”
A muffled shout came from beyond the outer opening of the ramp, which said, “Let’s go! You’re not safe here! Let’s go!”
Whether we wanted to move or not, the crowd of people pushed us toward the exit. To keep from tripping or falling, I had to balance myself on a corpse. The image of Mr. Tillar’s inert body being treated in the same manner flashed in my eyes and it made me nauseous. I reviled myself for doing the same, unintentional or not. The man I respected for much of my adult life, deserved to be respected just as much, if not more so, in death. The conviction, however, was invariably replaced by self-preservation when I met the full brunt of the sun’s rays. With my ears hearing so many noises and my eyes once again trying to adjust to the light, I could not make out anything right away. Nebulously, in the middle of all the turmoil, I did hear, “Buses! Everyone to the buses!” It was exclaimed by the soldier beside the ramp. He was declaring it so sluggishly that, in my estimation, everything around me seemed to be happening at half its normal speed.
I ran with such ferocity on my way to the vehicles, I imagined my legs would reach a bus before the rest of my body. The transports were some twenty yards distant, but they seemed to be an extra zero or two farther away. Halfway to my aspiration, I was swathed with a penetrating heat on my right side. My curiosity conquered me and I turned my head to spot two helicopters lying contorted on the ground. The nearest one was immersed in flames, unwaveringly consuming all the steel it possessed. I could detect stifling screams coming from underneath the blare of the firestorm. With the ramp still jammed in its locked position, I actually caught myself hoping they would die of suffocation before the inferno could touch them. About eighty yards farther out, there was the incarnation of a firefight. Humvees, army jeeps, and even a tank contributed, but who they were challenging was concealed either by distance or mechanism.
Anyone who might have been in or near the airport at the time were linking with our fleeing group. Some vehicles must have left right after dropping off their passengers, for there were only two buses left to choose from, which did not look like enough. The five of us were able to finally reach a school bus. It was crowded, but we fit in, even if there were no seats left. Not that I complained. I wasn’t calm enough to sit down. A few moments and much anxiety later, the soldier directing the wheel closed the door when he saw not even an insect more could enter without bursting the seams apart. He stepped on the gas pedal as hard as he could, forcing me to fall back a little. There were people hysterically banging on the exterior side of bus. I tried not to listen to their despairing entreaties and I knew better than to look out the windows. The driver did not pay any attention to them either, simply making the bus move faster.
Almost as soon as the bus, which was the lead one, finished its U-turn, I heard the windows to our left side shatter in a procession. It forced me and everyone else to duck. The bus swerved and the driver shouted a curse, but he kept the bus under his control and surged it to its utmost gear. Except for the shattered windows, the vehicle did not appear to have suffered any worse damage. My immediate reaction was to ensure I had escaped unscathed. I combed for any trace of blood and waited for any pain that might arise in reference to any wound, but in not finding anything amiss, I investigated if anyone else had undergone any type of grievance. Orins was to my left and I asked him if he was hurt. All the color had left his face and moved into his eyes, for they were boiling in orange flame.
“Orins, what is it?” I asked, practically shouting it in my alarm.
He feverishly began pulling out something from his left shoulder, followed by another and then by several more. I perceived others around me were doing the same.
Neves, who was standing behind me, gripped his son’s arm. Virtually shouting in his own right, though he was trembling too much to make it one, he asked, “Orins, what’s happening? Are you okay?”
Orins’ head slowly revolved to meet his father’s. I don’t think he wanted to look at him, but how could he deny him the right? Orins’ eyes had already lost much of the fire they possessed and were now sunken and sullen. Neves and I next became aware of what he was holding. Between his fingers was an inch-long, clear needle, its tip stained in blood. I gulped down a lump of gathered saliva when I notice
d several more needles were still impaled on his upper arm and neck, with some others resting on the floor. Orins’ face was one of pure agony when I beheld it next.
“Oh, fuck,” said Yitro, who was behind Orins. “In just a few minutes-”
Someone at the back of the bus, easily discernible above the mumblings, yelled, “Stop the bus! They’re infected! Get them off!”
The bus complied with this panicked outburst by braking into a bumpy stop.
The soldier next opened the door, stood from his seat, and said, “All right, whoever was struck by even one needle, get off now! If you don’t, you will be endangering the non-infected in a few minutes! I also need someone who can drive a bus to meet me up here!”
Half the people started shouting and the other half remained silent. I partook with the silent. The second bus passed us, but I could not tell what its condition was.
“I-I have to go, Dad,” said Orins. “I-I feel it’s s-starting to hurt.”
Neves was at a loss. Before he could muster a reply, though I doubt he would have said anything for a long while, the people around us were becoming more hostile in their attempt to force anyone with the unfortunate mark off the bus. How quickly a person could be treated as a horrible monster; how quickly we could become those monsters.
Orins, now with tears streaming down his face, turned to me and said, “Roym, tell Liz she’s been the best sister a brother could ask for. Tell her I’m sorry I didn’t get to let her plan my grand wedding.” He then clasped his father’s shoulders and started to say “Dad-”
Bodies were being pressed into us, which made us push the people in front of us. The chaos in the bus ascended. The pushing escalated into shoving, then intensified into ramming, but it all came to a stop with a gunshot. The soldier had fired a bullet out the fragmented window. In the quiet, we could hear was the remote battle persisting in the background.
“Enough!” the warrior bellowed. “Everyone out! Those who aren’t infected can go back in!” Everyone stayed staring at him. “Move! Or I fucking swear to the Spirits I’ll start shooting everyone who doesn’t!”
No one gambled to test his assertion. Most who were standing were forced to exit. The indistinct echoes of battle fumed in the air as we stood outside the bus door. Only the ones who were fortune enough to have escaped our enemy’s vengeful strike were allowed to return back inside, to tempt destiny once again. Neves and I stayed with Orins for as long as we could push it. His veins were already becoming more pronounced, swelling darkly all across his skin. I could basically see his blood being pumped through his frame, and I sometimes thought I could hear and see his heart beating within his chest. It was impossible for him to hide the pain he felt. In the tears he released, coming from a combination of both his physical and emotional ache, I saw a small trace of blood come out with them. Others who shared in the repulsive corruption were also going through the same signs, making it easier to separate them from those uninfected. Time was remorseless to our farewell.
“Dad,” Orins was barely able to say. He grappled with the impurity that sought to overtake him so that he may last a few moments more, knowing it would prevail in the end. “Dad, please tell Mom I died a hero or something. Just don’t tell her… I… I died like this.”
His father embraced his weakening son, who fell readily in his arms. Neves had tears carving a river into his cheeks when he whispered something in his son’s ear. I could not hear what it was, and I didn’t try to listen.
“Who can drive the bus?” I heard the soldier ask.
He had gone outside, but he was inquiring inside the vehicle in question. I noticed for the first time that his face and hands were displaying the symptoms of the curse.
“I can,” I heard a man inside the bus reply, seeing him stand up through the window. He did not look especially confident.
“Then get on the driver’s seat and leave now!” the soldier demanded with an increasingly unsteady voice. “Go back where we came from. They still might be able to get you out of here.” The soldier hastily turned his face from the bus and even from those who shared in his woe.
I beheld Neves still despairingly holding on to his trembling offspring. I didn’t want to do it, but I could see the new driver take his allotted seat, so I clenched Neves’ arm and urged him somberly, “We have to go.”
Neves looked miserably into my brother-in-law’s blood filled eyes, which only made his own fill with heavier grief.
“Go!” Orins cried, roughly removing his father’s grasp from his arms. “Mom can’t lose you too!”
I led the distraught father back to the bus to begin the new leg of our failing journey to escape, hating having to be the one to part the son and father in their last words together. It was impossible not to imagine myself and Dayce in their position. The door closed seconds after we stepped into the vehicle and we began moving in that instant. Not once did Neves look back, he would not have been able to continue if he had. The bus looked so empty and desolate compared to how it was before. Only half the people remained, giving Neves and me enough room to sit in the back. Bervin came and squatted next to his friend’s seat and tried his best to comfort him, no matter how much in vain that seemed.
Excluding the few whispers of prayer and support, everyone kept to themselves. I couldn’t help stealing a look behind me. I scrutinized the forsaken, knowing any one of them could have very well been me. Why wasn’t it me instead of Orins? Why wasn’t it another world instead of ours? The group behind us became smaller and hazier. When they were hardly visible in the line separating sky from ground, I saw a man, who appeared to be our former driver, lift his gun to his head and, after a short salute, his body collapsed to the ground. The vague pop of the gunshot wasn’t too clear from where we were, but I could feel everyone simultaneously shiver when the soldier’s body fell. I looked away after that.
The only noise I heard for the next few minutes was the rushing of the wind thrusting through the broken windows. It was here I recalled that we had not taken Orins’ pack. This recollection made me habitually look at mine. Sticking to the strap of my upper left shoulder was the delicate glimmer of a needle half-filled with a dark purplish color. I fervently plucked it and tossed it out the window.
