by M B Wood
The screen showed hundreds of people in the plaza before the bank building, pushing and shoving against a blue line of mounted police. Something flew through the air and smashed the large plate glass window next to the bank’s entrance. The crowd surged forward. A police horse reared, and an officer swung a billy club. Blood splashed brightly from a blond head. Hands reached up toward the policeman and dragged him from his horse.
A knot formed in Taylor's stomach.
"This took place after the banks suspended payouts on accounts. Earlier, a spokesperson stated the bank had run out of cash. Similar incidents are being reported all around the viewing area." The announcer paused. "We've just obtained these exclusive scenes of the East Coast from WKDA-TV, our affiliate in Pittsburgh, flown in on our own Super-Drone Five."
The screen filled with images of smoking mounds of rubble and shattered buildings. Burned out vehicles littered the open areas.
The knot in Taylor's stomach grew larger. It looked worse than the World Trade Center disaster, much worse.
"This is the Eye-in-the-Sky News from WKDA-TV. From New York to Washington, destruction is beyond belief. There are no apparent survivors in those cities. According to Ham Radio operators, there were nuclear strikes in those areas. The operators reported all communications from Atlanta, Boston, Chicago, Dallas-Fort Worth, Detroit, Houston, Los Angeles, Miami, New York and San Francisco have ceased. There is no official word on these events.”
A stump of an obelisk filled the screen. "This is all that remains of Washington, DC," the voice said. The image switched to a haze-filled valley with several arrow-straight ribbons of still-smoking asphalt One runway contained a shadowy outline of a plane. "I believe we’re looking at Reagan National Airport." The voice rose an octave. "All the aircraft on the ground were destroyed when the District of Columbia was nuked."
"Oh, God." Taylor gasped. "Vivian."
I’ve gotta talk to someone. He grabbed the phone and touched in the number of his neighbor Alec. Maybe his ham radio friends can get me better info... Odd, no answer. Alec was wheelchair bound and always called when he wanted to go out. I’d better check on him. He slipped on a leather jacket and went out.
#
Taylor pushed on the front door of Alec's home. It swung open freely. "Alec? Alec?" he called. The house was silent. Slowly, he walked through the rooms. When he reached the kitchen, Alec was lying face down, motionless, on the floor.
Taylor kneeled and picked up his friend’s hand. It was stiff, cold. He rolled Alec over, struggling with his bulk. His face was puffy, bloodied and gray. Taylor felt with faint hope for a pulse. After several long moments, he gave up. Why Alec? For what?
Taylor looked up. All at once his vision came into sharp focus. The ham radio lay on the floor among a litter of books and magazines. He could hear his heart pounding. He tasted bile and fought back the urge to vomit. He staggered to the front door for fresh air. Gunfire rattled in the distance.
A massive cloud of black smoke rose into a blue sky above the bare trees in the direction of downtown Cleveland. Three men in worn construction clothing stood on the next street corner. One yelled and waved a handgun. “Stop. I want your jacket.”
Taylor broke into a run. As he turned the corner of the street, a shot cracked. A bullet buzzed over his head like an angry hornet. He ran faster.
After a brief struggle with the key, he got inside his home and slammed and locked the door. The house was quiet; its heavy brick walls muffled outside sounds. He dialed the police, but the line was busy. He couldn't shake the vision of Alec's puffy face.
Something crashed against the front door, then again, louder.
Taylor raced upstairs. He grabbed his Remington 1187 shotgun and loaded it with buckshot. He pulled on a Kevlar bulletproof vest, the one he’d bought after reading accounts of hunters getting shot. He’d felt silly wearing it while hunting. Now it seemed like a good idea. He tiptoed down the stairs
The pounding continued, echoing through the house. Each strike against the wooden door produced a puff of dust.
Taylor jacked a shell into the chamber. He waited, gun raised, behind the clothes tree by the doorway into the narrow foyer. I’ve never shot anyone, he thought. The very idea made his knees shake. Maybe they'll go away. Dear God, please make them leave. A quiver ran through his hand and he gripped the gun more tightly. A splintering crack made him ease a glance. The front door collapsed inward.
A man's unshaven face peered, ferret-like, around the shattered entrance. He pointed a short-barreled revolver at each place he looked.
Taylor froze against the wall and held his breath.
"No one's here. Maybe this isn’t the place. Look, it ain't been touched. I bet it’s got lots of shit." A long-faced man clad in grubby brown Carhartt work clothes spoke quietly to an older man in worn blue work-pants and a shabby denim jacket. They stepped into the foyer. The long-faced man held a nickel-plated semi-automatic handgun.
Taylor clenched his gun with both hands to keep from shaking.
"You sure? This place is buttoned up tighter'n crab’s ass. I was sure that fucker ran in here."
"Aw, you been smoking too much shit," said the long-faced man. "Let's check it out."
Bastards! Taylor took a deep breath, stepped from behind the clothes tree into the foyer. He pointed his gun and yelled, “freeze.”
As two handguns swung up toward him, Taylor fired.
The shotgun blast filled the foyer with noise and smoke. The ferret-faced man crumpled as if in slow motion. Behind him, framing a gaping hole, blood splattered brilliant red on the pale wall.
Taylor pulled the trigger again just as the second man fired.
Pain exploded from the center of Taylor’s chest.
The long-faced man staggered and fell, twitching like a deranged cockroach. Blood pulsed from his neck, painting a jagged crimson cross on the beige tile floor.
Taylor bounced off a closet door, slammed into the opposite wall and slid to the floor, his back against the wall. It was as if someone had jumped on his ribs. He tasted the metallic smell of blood and the dry, salty taste of the smokeless gunpowder. It was all he could do to sit, close his eyes and not move as pain surged through him.
A high-pitched voice called, "Joe? Buddy? Did ya get him?"
Oh, God. Another. Taylor raised his gun.
A young man in a grubby football jacket stepped inside. He froze, Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked down at the dead men. He held a handgun loosely, as though not ready to use it.
"Drop your gun and raise your hands." Taylor found each word an effort. His gun's barrel began to waver.
The young man turned with a wide-eyed frightened-deer stare. He swiveled his handgun toward Taylor and raised it as if to aim.
Taylor pulled the trigger.
The young man spun and fell. More blood splattered the wall.
The kick from the shotgun exploded a wave of pain throughout his chest. Nausea swept over him. A blue haze descended as the floor rose up to meet him...
#
Something cool and hard pressed against Taylor’s face as he floated up from a fluid darkness. He opened his eyes to a world askew from floor level. His eyes slid shut. He just wanted to sleep. If anyone comes, I've had it. He forced his eyes open. Must get up. I can't stay here. As he lifted his head, his skin peeled off the cold tile floor.
As he clawed his way upright, pain repeatedly stabbed him in his chest. Feet unsteady, he reloaded. Each shell clacked home with a familiar, reassuring sound. Silently, he tip-toed to the front door and waited, listening.
In a nearby mountain ash tree, a cardinal sang. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked; sounds of a normal world. Nausea boiled up. He staggered into the bathroom off the foyer, dropped to his knees and retched into the bowl until nothing more came up.
#
Later, despite the pain, he dumped the corpses over the edge of the gully behind the house. He watched, drained and detached, as the bodies rolled and sl
ithered down the slope. At the front of his house, he crawled under the bushes to wait, gun ready, watching the driveway. The only sounds were insects' buzzing and sparrows chattering.
It's warm, he thought, for early April.
Two hours passed and the shadows lengthened. No one came. Taylor crept back inside the house, stiff and sore as he made his way to the bathroom where he stripped and sponged himself off. He examined the purple bruise the size of a dinner plate on the right side of his chest. Some ribs might be cracked, he thought, but nothing was punctured. I'll live. Thank God for Kevlar.
Taylor sat on the couch, clutching his shotgun. In spite of the pain, the image of Washington, DC played over and over again, mixed with Vivian’s face. His heart ached for her and grief filled his chest like a cold lump. He replayed the past events and knew he couldn't stay here. It wasn't defensible. In spite of his intentions, he fell asleep on the couch.
#
Noelle Smith's hands shook and her mouth felt dry. As she passed an overweight rent-a-cop guarding the checkout lane in the Mark’s superstore, she saw his eyes run over her and focus on her breasts as if she were naked.
Pig, She thought. She grasped her purse to keep the handgun inside from banging around as she strode through the almost-deserted aisles. Her Reeboks squeaked loudly on the plastic-tiled floor. The overhead lights seemed too bright.
I've got to get Howie’s insulin, she thought. Those bastards at the Free Clinic wouldn't help him. Their words came back repeatedly, “All he needs is a shot of insulin--here, take this prescription.” No shit, as if I didn't know that. And that stupid ATM ate my credit card. All I need is a lousy two hundred bucks. It isn't right. I've always paid my bills on time and I'm nowhere near my credit card limit. Thank God for my neighbor. It sure was sweet of Annie to watch my kids.
"Excuse me." Noelle forced a smile and modulated her voice to sound pleasant. "I came for a prescription."
The round-faced pharmacist behind the counter barely glanced at her. "Name?"
His forehead gleamed as though oiled and a yellow wave of sweat ringed the armpits of his off-white shirt. He punched a button and a counting device rattled pills into a clear plastic vial. Another light on the phone at his elbow joined those already flashing.
"Smith," Noelle said. "Howard Smith."
"One moment, please." He thumbed through a stack of white paper bags on the shelf opposite the counter. The brown jars in the chrome and glass cabinets behind him were almost empty.
Noelle's knees began to shake. I've got to get this insulin for Howie. I can't let my kid die.
"That'll be one hundred ninety-four dollars and eighty-seven cents, cash only," said the pharmacist. "No e-cards, checks or welfare script. It's company policy until the financial crisis is over." He stared at her and frowned. "Say, weren't you here before?" He extended a hand while withholding the paper bag. He pursed his pudgy lips in an almost pout.
Noelle pulled the gun out, racked it and aimed it. "Give me the damn prescription," she said, her voice cracking. "And you won't get hurt." The gun felt heavy, enormous.
"Oh." The man’s voice rose an octave. His pupils dilated.
"C'mon. Now." Noelle motioned with the gun. Her throat ached, and her knees wobbled. Sweat trickled down her back.
The man paled. He slid the package over the counter, hands shaking, making the bag rustle. "You're m-making a terrible mistake," he said. "I c-can find out who you are."
"Who cares?" Noelle’s throat felt scratchy. You think so? Maybe not. The busy staff at the Free Clinic had only taken Howie's name and their computers were down. The doctor scribbled a prescription and pushed her out the door. There're a lot of Smiths in the book and Howie’s cell phone isn’t on any plan.
"You'd let my kid die because I don't have cash." She slipped the bag inside her purse and leveled the gun. "Now you know what it’s like to fear death."
"P-please." The pharmacist raised his hands. Sweat beaded his brow. "D-don't."
"Turn around." Noelle pointed the gun at his eyes. "Count to one hundred before you move."
The pharmacist faced the cabinets on the rear wall.
"Make like you're looking for something." As she waited, she rocked back on her heels.
The pharmacist began to turn his head.
"I fucking-well said turn around and count to one hundred, you dumb asshole," Noelle said, hand shaking. "Do it, or you're dead." She extended her arm and sighted down the gun’s barrel.
The pharmacist sagged as though something gave way. A wet stain spread on his trousers. "P-please, don't kill me."
Noelle smelled urine. "Start counting and don't look until you're finished." She backed away and stuffed the gun into a pocket. At the aisle she turned and almost ran to the exit.
"Stop," a voice cried as Noelle went out the door. From the corner of her eye she saw the guard rise, hand on holstered gun. She sprinted toward her van. She heard a shot, loud and nearby.
She ducked behind a solitary car and glanced back. The visor on the guard's hat reflected the orange-pink light from the high-intensity lamps above. He lumbered onward, head bobbing.
Something inside Noelle snapped. All the frustration and worry about Howie's diabetes, that stupid fucking ATM and shit from snotty bank clerks - it all came to a head. She jerked the gun out and aimed it with both hands, just like in the NRA class. She sighted along its stainless-steel barrel, took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.
The gun was louder than she expected. She flinched, closing her eyes for an instant. A moment later, she peered over the car’s hood.
The guard lay unmoving. A dark stain seeped out onto the cracked asphalt from his throat. His gun was still in its holster.
Oh, shit, Noelle thought, I killed him. She looked around. The parking lot was quiet, deserted. If anyone had seen it, they weren't showing themselves. Shit, shit, shit. I've got to get the hell out of here. Without looking back, she ran to her van.
As her van squealed out of the parking lot, she heard another shot—it was from across the street. She spun the steering wheel and headed toward the freeway.
Chapter 3
Questions, More Questions
Meanwhile, on the distant planet called Qu’uda...
This, Bilik Pudjata thought, is far from the center.
He stared at the image of the fuel tank of the Egg-that-Flies, which stretched out before him, long and faceted. At the other end, barely visible in the dim starlight, was the bulbous half-asteroid forming the ship's living quarters.
Alone in the cramped compartment next to the propulsion system, away from social contact and with the ship halfway to the Kota star system, he felt like an outcast. For just an instant, a wave of rejection swept over him. It was a brief taste of the insanity that came with societal isolation. Every Qu’uda must belong and this was a taste, just a brief taste, of isolation.
He shivered.
How did I get into this? he thought. Is it worth it? It was not chance that brought me here to the depths of interstellar space. I had wanted it—no—I’d lusted for it, right from the very start, almost fifteen years ago...
It was during the time I was female, large with egg, Bilik recalled. I was monitoring data from the deep space observatory, searching for the aliens when my biocomputer alerted me to a faint signal coming from a nearby star system.
"Show me." Bilik slid from the wicker-sleeping basket. Her abode, cool and yellow, with the bed-nest its only furniture, seemed stuffy and closed in. Even its moist yellow-green vegetation brought no feeling of refuge. She felt a tingle run from the top of her head crest to the tip of her stubby tail--something was amiss.
"Picture format, maximum amplification," she said.
A holographic image formed, projected before her by tiny subcutaneous fiber optics at each side of her eyes, a direct feed from the biocomputer that nestled beneath the skin of one of her upper limbs.
A snow of static blurred the image. She unsheathed her claws instinctive
ly. Something electric sparked in her egg-heavy body, like the start of the mating-cycle. "Broken Egg." Her mouth filled with a taste like that of dune-drift sand. "What's wrong with this signal? Where's the audio?"
"Listen," the biocomputer’s voice said.
A piping squeal filled her ears. Sleeting electronic flotsam coalesced into a shadowy creature with two limbs draped from its upper torso. Its small head had hair and it made animal sounds.
"Egg-sucker." The only creatures that Bilik knew that had hair were mammals. Ugh, she thought. Mammals gave messy live birth and were an evolutionary dead-end. This creature was ugly, like all dry-land mammalian vermin. It gestured from behind a boxy structure emblazoned with a circular emblem. At one side, a piece of fabric hung limply from a stick.
The creature’s appearance filled Bilik with an urge to seek sanctuary in an ancestral swamp, to wriggle deep into its mud until only her nostrils showed.
"Oh, my Egg," she said. "It can't be." She felt the scales in her skin ripple. "It has to be alien."
The image faded into the snow of random noise.
"Location?" she said.
"End-point receptors indicate the source is the Kota system," said the biocomputer.
That was but ten light-years distance.
"Biocomputer, call the Community of Investigators." Bilik paused. "No, wait. Validate the signal's integrity; search for evidence of signal reflection and check for external feed into the observatory."
Before I dare bring this to the attention of the Community of Investigators, she thought, I must be sure that it's not someone just tickling my tail. That meant checking thousands of receptors. If this is the Hoo-Lii, I must notify the Defenders of Qu'uda, and immediately. She tried to guess what the Community of Investigators-on-Interstellar Life would want.
"Compare this with known Hoo-Lii signals. Quick, do it now."
As she waited, thoughts nagged at her. Are they a threat to Qu’uda? Will it affect my hatchling? Will this move me closer to the center, or further away? I want facts within my claws before I talk to the Investigators. Maybe I'm showing too much initiative. I've got my place, she thought. And it's far from the center.
