by Tim Meyer
“Clever girl,” Soren said, taking the flare and dropping it into the darkness below.
The solar-powered train sat below SUB-LEVEL 5 in a special bay all to itself. It was the only train in the entire station, and if anyone in the group still had an iPhone with Internet access, quick research would tell them it was the only solar-powered train in the entire country, abandoned in the late stages of development, but ready for its inaugural test launch. Almost a thousand feet in length, the station's charging dock was simply not long enough to contain it. So its designers gave the first train of its kind the unique ability to flex and bend, utilizing short cars instead of long ones. It rested in the charging dock like a snake, coiled when not in use. The train itself looked like a long bullet; the head cab's dome-shaped exterior provided the project with the futuristic appeal early concept artists, investors, engineers, and government overseers agreed upon. Atop each car sat long solar panels, giving the train the ability to hold longer charges between stations. They were forged into the frame, molded to fit the design and avoid the clunky appearance that marred most homes' curbside appeal. It was the one “necessity” the project needed. Bulky panels across the top of the train were bad for two reasons: one, the aerodynamic aspect—giant, conspicuous panels limited the train's speed and efficiency rating—and two, it looked fucking ugly and no self-respecting Eco-friendly traveler would pay the amount of money charged to sit inside an unattractive speed machine.
The endgame had the train running across the country, east coast to west, an environmentally friendly (and cheaper) alternative to flying, that would eventually expand to many destinations. As with many dreams and aspirations, the project died when the world died, and the train sat in its charging station outside the city of Richmond, Virginia, unused and never once operated, outside of powering the monster up during initial quality testing.
It never left the station until Soren and his group stumbled upon it.
-8-
Soren ran his fingers over the train's smooth metal exterior, his eyes lost in the battleship gray paint job. He could taste the Alaskan snow on the tip of his tongue. The distance was great, a problem the train would solve easily, transporting him very close to the place beneath the heavenly terrain: The Dish. His return was long overdue. Though thirty years had passed, Soren never felt right being on the outside; like an inmate granted parole after serving most of his sentence. His flesh became riddled with bumps when he reminisced about those days. Sitting in the lab, analyzing the genetic makeup of unknown death-dealing diseases. The Launch Room, where an array of civilization-ending weaponry awaited the push of a button, the ability to wipe the map clean. His small chamber, the one he used to plot and plan against Elias Wheeler, the man responsible for the world's current state of chaos. His bed, where he and Kyra spent many nights, losing hours while exploring each other's bodies, examining every naughty detail.
Behind him, the rest of the group climbed down the access ladder. Mouth brought up the rear, hopping down the ladder one-legged, making sure the ground was clear in case he lost his footing and fell. Once he jumped off the last rung—with David easing him back on his feet—and everyone huddled inside the solar train's bay, Soren turned to them. He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it after hearing movement above. Instead, he waved them toward the front car, the one shaped like a nuclear warhead. Hearing the echo of footfalls above them, they hurried after Soren, occasionally looking over their shoulders, expecting knife-wielding maniacs to appear, eager to flay their flesh.
In front of the windowless door, Soren stood and inserted the golden tickets into the automatic redeemer, solar-powered as with the rest of the train's features. The redeemer swallowed each ticket as fast as he could feed it. Once the train digested all four, the door hissed and slid open. A robotic female voice welcomed them. “THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING SUN-TRAC. AN ELIAS WHEELER COMPANY.”
Hearing his former boss's name aloud soured Soren's mood. Nevertheless, he stepped inside the train's welcoming platform, turned, and waved his six followers on, acting as the train's conductor. Once everyone filed in, he pressed the small red button next to gliding door confidently. The door whooshed shut. Soren turned, heading directly for the door marked “OPERATOR CABIN.”
Unlocked, the door glided open smoothly. Soren poked his head into the room, making sure it was vacant and not harboring street scum or squatters, threats of any kind. It looked empty so he headed inside, leaving the rest of the group to wait in the first car. For a few seconds he stared at the controls, a smorgasbord of buttons, dials, levers, and pulsating lights, none of which had names or labels. Not knowing where to start, he glanced around the cabin, hoping to find an operator's manual, instructions on how to get the beast powered on and the wheels turning. Unable to find anything useful, he turned back to the door and headed into the first cab, where the rest of the group waited nervously.
“Nothing,” he said, leaving the operator's cabin.
He found the looks on their faces disturbing. They looked confused, uneasy, like they expected something terrible to happen. Their attention shifted toward the door to his right, the one he had thought he locked behind them. Susan pointed toward something and cried out, but—
A blur flashed through the air. Something smashed against his head, sending him sprawling to the ground. Pain exploded across the right side of his face. He pressed his hand against his cheek and checked for blood. Scarlet decorated his palm, a concerning amount. Soren crawled until his back was against the train's beach-beige interior. He looked up at the hooded figure as it prepared to swing once again. Kyle advanced on the figure, but the attacker sensed his movement, turned, squared its shoulders, and swung for the fences. Blood and spittle squirted from Kyle's mouth like a fresh bottle of ketchup as the bat connected with his jaw. The blow sent the kid to the ground, unconscious and bleeding. The figure turned back to Soren, pointing the end of the barrel at him. Promptly, the figure peeled back the hood.
“You left me for dead, motherfucker,” she said, her face bloodied and broken. Her nose dipped slightly to the left. Her lower lip had split against her teeth. Gashes had bloomed on her forehead, near her hairline. Crimson rivulets leaked down the side of her face. Murderous intentions burned within her eyes. Soren swallowed hard, hoping one of the others—specifically Susan—would stop her from pounding his face into mush.
“Shondra...” he tried to say, but it came out in a hoarse whisper no one could understand.
“Sent your goons to kill me? Leave me to die out there? Well, let's see how impervious you are to this baseball bat.” Shondra cocked her arms, the bat wavering behind her head, harnessing as much power as she could conjure. The real power came from her legs and as she planted her feet, put pressure on the thick muscles in her thighs, and swiveled her hips, she remembered her high school softball coach's lessons. Swing through the ball, he had said. She pictured Soren's head as a white leather grapefruit she planned on cranking over the left field wall. As the bat gained momentum, as she focused on her target, she heard Susan scream. The scream was music to her ears, a delightful score that soothed her soul.
It all ended when a crack of thunder sounded. A hole opened on the side of Shondra's head, a chunky splash of red spraying the cabin door. The bat fell from her hands and crashed on the floor; her lifeless body along with it.
“Do not be alarmed,” the shooter said, making his way down the aisle. The end of the pistol continued to smoke, ashy billowing wisps. He wore a winter jacket, the hood pulled over his head, ready for northern weather. Despite the darkness, he wore sunglasses that blacked out his eyes. A chest-long beard with autumn tones covered the lower half of his face. His short stature and appearance made Mouth think of a garden gnome. “I am here to harm no one.”
Mouth stared at Shondra's dead body and the crimson puddle underneath her head as it flooded outward. Her eyes were open wide, capturing that last moment of absolute fear, that momentary glimpse into a world beyond t
he living. Looking at her lifeless stare pained him—as did all dead eyes, as they reminded him of the woman he left behind. He liked Shondra. Always had. The resistance against Soren, a man as dangerous as any post-Burn encounter, just decreased by one number.
“Could have fucking fooled me,” he said, looking away from Shondra's body, promising himself he wouldn't look down again.
The shooter glared at him as he strolled past, continuing to hold the pistol out, suggesting his work wasn't finished. Mouth raised his hands, letting the gunman know he was no Clint Eastwood and he'd receive no more lip.
After he made his way past the group, he stopped at Shondra's body. He tapped her corpse with his toe, making sure the woman was gone.
“You okay... old friend?” the shooter asked Soren.
Soren rose to his feet, squinting at the man, digging through his memories.
“It's good to see you, too,” the shooter said. He pushed back his hood. “What do you say we grab a coffee, get this monster rolling, and catch up on old times?”
“PLAN B”
EPISODE TWELVE
-1-
August 22nd, 1985
Sandborough was sitting in the cafeteria, a cheeseburger occupying the hole below his nose, when Aldo sat down across from him, giving him those sad puppy eyes. The look had meant to alter Sandborough's mood, but he stared at his friend and felt nothing. No change in mood, not even slightly.
“If you're going to continue to be pissed off at me,” Aldo said, swirling a french fry in the ocean of ketchup before him, “might I suggest you make it less obvious.”
Alan said nothing, continuing to rip off huge chunks of beef with his teeth. He swallowed slowly, gazing hard into Aldo's beady eyes.
“I know you're upset. I get it. But I told you to trust me. I have a Plan B, and someday, Sandborough, you're going to thank the shit out of me. If things go wrong that is.”
“If things go wrong,” Sandborough said.
“Yes. If.” Aldo bit his lip. “Alan, you don't think Plan B is a replacement for Plan A, do you?”
“I don't know, Aldo. Is it?”
Aldo raised his hand as if Sandborough lunged at him. “You've got the wrong idea.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. You do.”
“Why do I get the sneaking suspicion you hate Plan A, think it's suicidal, and convinced everyone that Plan B is better?”
“For the record—Plan A is suicidal. But still, I'm your friend, and you dragged me into this, so it's your plan we're sticking with, much to my chagrin. Plan B is exactly that. A backup plan.”
Sandborough wasn't convinced. Aldo was avoiding eye contact, staring down at the french fries, greedily shoving them into his mouth.
“Okay, Aldo. Say I believe you. What happens after you get me out?”
“I told you. I have connections on the outside. It's taken care of.”
Sandborough pounded the table with his fist. “Tell me.”
Aldo sighed deeply. He glanced at the ceiling and scratched the stubble on his chin. “It's better you know less.”
“Why is that?”
“Trust me.”
“I trust no one.”
“You better start.” Aldo stood up from the table, abandoning the fries on his plate. “If you're going to get anywhere in this life, you're going to have to trust a few people along the way.”
Sandborough disagreed.
NOW
Soren gripped the man's throat, cutting off his air supply. The man struggled, thrashing wildly. He kicked Soren's shins, but he didn't flinch. He reached for Soren's throat, but he fell a few finger lengths short. Finally, he resorted to words, hoping to talk his way out of the situation.
“Sandborough.... stop,” the bearded man rasped.
“Plan B? Plan B? This was your Plan B?” Soren tightened his grip. “You fucked me. You fucked everything up, Aldo! I trusted you! Your own sister, trusted you!”
“Mistaken... all... big... mistake...”
“The only mistake was listening to you and your half-cocked Plan B!”
With his conscious slipping, Aldo's eyes rolled behind his lids. “Alive...”
“What?” He relaxed enough so Aldo could breathe.
“She's... alive.”
“Who is alive?” Soren let go. He pinned Aldo's shoulders to the vacant space next to the brain-splattered cabin door. “Who is alive?” he repeated through his teeth.
Aldo put a finger up, struggling to catch his breath.
“Kyra.” he said, wheezing. “My sister. She's still alive.”
Sam glared out the window, watching the sun take its seat behind the horizon. Surveying the parking lot. His eyes following the extensive damage to the concrete, his stomach grumbled. He turned to Matty who lay next to Lilah on one of two full-sized beds. The girl had fallen back to sleep some time after the earthquake ended. Jarvis, who sat on the second bed—closest to the window—reading The Holy Bible, predicted as much. He told them she'd drift in and out until “the shit” was out of her system. “The best thing she can do is get as much rest as possible.” That wasn't likely to happen with orbit-altering earthquakes, but the disaster seemed like an isolated incident and wouldn't repeat itself. At least, according to Matthew Wright.
“I'm going to find a vending machine,” Sam announced, turning from the window. “Maybe check a few things out. Make sure it's safe.” He walked to the foot of Matty's bed. “You want to come with?”
Matty, barely making eye contact with his father, slowly swung his head from side to side.
“Jarvis? You want anything?”
Jarvis hoisted the Bible in the air. “I'll pass. I'm getting to the good part.”
Sam smiled, unable to tell if Jarvis was kidding or being serious. He looked at his son before leaving. “I'll be back in a few. Bob and your mother are in the next room.”
Once his old man was gone, Matty returned to facing Lilah. He watched her sleep, wondering if she was dreaming, and if so—what about. Sweat bubbled on her forehead. Her body fought off the fever and Jarvis had said the counteractions were performing as expected. She was in good shape. Or, as good as one recovering from withdrawals could be.
“The second is this,” Jarvis said, reading from the Bible. “'Love your neighbor as much as yourself.'”
“What?” Matty said, continuing to watch Lilah. He wondered if she'd find his affection creepy or sweet, or somewhere in between.
“Just reading out loud. 'Love thy neighbor as much as yourself. There is no commandment greater than these.'”
Matty ignored him the second time around.
“That's a bold statement by Mark, don't you think, little man?” Jarvis asked. He closed the Bible on his finger, marking his page. “I mean, for one, he's saying other than loving God, loving your neighbor is the most important commandment. More important than not killing, not stealing, not saying using the Lord's name in vain. But that’s because—and here's where it gets deeper—every other commandment is an elaboration of loving your neighbor; don’t steal from him; don't think about banging his wife; don't kill him. Instead, love him. Hell, honor your mother and father is the same thing, only they're the neighbors that gave birth to you. There could really be two commandments: love God, and love other people. I think about how relevant it is now. The outside world—it's pure danger. Chaos. We've reverted back to primitive times. If it's not the thing giving this planet life trying to kill you, it's the misguided survivors bent on evil. All this madness out there, and if we could just honor each other—love each other—then maybe we could all survive. Together. Because that's what it's all about. Unity.” Watching Matty continue to focus on Lilah, Jarvis smiled. “It's easy to forget how powerful a book can be.”
Matty turned to him. “Especially when used for the wrong reasons?”
Jarvis narrowed his eyes.
“You never met Soren.”
“No, I never did.”
“You might have a different opinion
of that book if you had.” Matty turned back to Lilah. Her color had changed, her skin more pallid than before.
Jarvis also took notice. Swinging his legs off the bed, he peered over Matty's shoulder.
“I don't understand,” Matty said. “I thought she'd be better by now.”
“These things take time, little man.” He placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know it sounds cliché, but you'll see. She'll be better in no time. No time at all. In fact, she'll be better before you can say strawberry-banana pancakes.”
“Strawberry-banana pancakes,” Lilah whispered. Her eyes remained closed, her body still.
Matty's mouth curled at both ends. He tried to hide his joy, but his eyes stung and he knew tears were taking form. Slowly—trying not to make it glaringly obvious—he slipped his finger into her hand as if to test their relationship, to see how far they had come. Her fingers curled around his and his heart fluttered like a cage of drunk butterflies.
“It's kinda hard to sleep next to your Bible-thumping ass,” she said, her tone rising above a whisper. Her eyes opened to slits and a goofy smirk fixed her dry lips.
“Well, shit. I guess my days as Reverend Jarvis are over.”
Matty jumped off the bed and headed for the door.
“Where you going, little man?” Jarvis asked.
“Going to find my dad. I need to ask him something.”
-2-
The second Brian opened his eyes, he heard shouting. At first he thought Mole's rabble was outside his door, ready to string him up, cut him open, and harvest his innards. But when the world focused, he found himself in the same position he fell asleep; locked in the car, his future grim. The arguments were coming from farther away, around the tunnel's slight bend. Shadows on the wall danced in the flickering candlelight. Things were growing loud and angry and it was only a matter of time before the argument would make its way to him.
