by Nathan Combs
Their eyes locked. Noah’s were cold and hard, sending Horst’s fleeting hope of seeing the sunrise into a nosedive, as evidenced by his face turning even paler.
“What’re you gonna do with me?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry about it? Really?”
“I don’t know yet.” Noah turned toward Anna/Nina, the entity he was married to.
She stood glowing and smiling, still holding Stormy. “Isn’t this exciting, Noah?”
A weak smile played around his lips.
“Yeah, I… It is—I mean, but…I’m…I’m confused.”
She put her free arm around him and kissed him. “I understand, honey, but it’s okay. Really. It is. For the first time in a long time, it’s okay. Nina and Anna are one now. No more wondering which one of us you’re talking to—or making love with. It’s just you and me.”
“But…but…
She laughed. “You sound like an old motor.” Her smile was blinding. “But I understand. If I’m not Anna and I’m not Nina, then who am I? Well…I’m neither, but I’m both. Maybe you should start calling me Anni. Or Nian, because I’ve been reborn.” Her smile lit up the room and the sound of tinkling bells drifted into the distance.
Chapter Ten
The Middle Kingdom
Chen knelt before Ya and said, “We have survived here for nearly ten years, Grandmother, but the weather grows increasingly cold and unpredictable. It is my belief that we must flee to warmer climes.”
Ya replied, “Chen, I grow older and more feeble each day, but my mind still functions. I am aware of the change in the weather.”
Moving his arm in a sweeping gesture toward the south, Chen replied, “We have no knowledge of what is out there, Ya. Perhaps we should have sent someone to investigate. Perhaps some of our countrymen restored civilization. It is difficult to imagine we are the only people left alive in our nation.”
Ya smiled. “It is doubtful anyone has resurrected the Middle Kingdom, Chen. But it is hard to imagine that we are the last of our race. However, there was no one we could have sent on such a journey, except yourself, and we could ill afford to risk losing you. None of us know what dangers await, or how safe leaving the village would be, but I fear if we do not depart soon, the crops will fail and we will starve.”
Chen grinned. “It has been a long time since I have heard anyone refer to China as the Middle Kingdom, Grandmother. Shall I make plans to find us another home?”
“An ancient woman often uses ancient terms, Chen.”
Chen smiled. “You have not answered my question, Grandmother.”
She took his hand. “Yes, Chen. It is time. We must leave.” She looked deeply into his eyes. “It comforts me to know that when I pass, the future of the people of our village will reside in your capable hands.”
“Do not speak of such things, Ya. You will outlive me.”
“Dear Chen, we both know I am nearing the end of my cycle. It is the nature of things. We are born. We live. We die.”
Three weeks after the decision had been made to abandon the village, Ya Zhou sat in a wooden-wheeled cart bundled in blankets. In the queue behind her, a mishmash of horse- and mule-drawn wagons and pushcarts sat loaded with what little food remained, as well as indispensable tools and gear and the village ducks, geese, chickens, and swine. Village elders and those who were sick or infirm wedged in wherever they could, while the young and healthy, carrying whatever they could in makeshift packs, brought up the rear.
“It is a long and perhaps dangerous journey to Hong Kong, Chen.”
“Yes, Grandmother, it is. Seven hundred kilometers. But we will be careful. And the weather should warm once we leave the mountains and approach the sea.”
“I must tell you, Chen, I am no longer excited by the specter of adventure.”
Chen smiled and kissed her forehead. “Are you warm enough, Ya?”
She smiled. “Yes. I am fine.”
Shortly, in a light but steady drizzle, the villagers began the journey into their future.
As the little procession entered the outskirts of Shaoyang, four weeks and 150 kilometers later, the villagers gawked in awe at the empty streets and crumbling, vacant buildings, their hunger and misery temporarily forgotten.
At the edge of a park, Chen signaled a halt and gathered the people in a semicircle. The eerie silence of the city was deafeningly quiet, making Ya Zhou’s groans of discomfort excessively loud as Chen helped her from the cart.
Drawing herself to her full height of four feet, eight inches, she spoke in a soft, barely audible voice, but the timbre was steady and robust. “We have completed the first stage of the journey to our new home. We will rest here for two days. Chen will lead a search party to find food and other goods that we may find useful. We are a strong and resilient people. We will persevere.”
When she finished speaking, Chen brought a chair and helped her to sit, and the villagers gathered around her. Many bowed. Others reached out to touch her. Chen looked on from the side, concern for Ya’s health and pride in her toughness battling for supremacy in his mind.
Gazing upward, he realized the sun was shining and that its warmth felt good. Smiling, he asked for volunteers to begin the search for food.
Ya sat wrapped in two blankets near one of the wagons and watched Chen approach to stand in front of her. Smiling, he said, “We have found firearms and other useful tools, Grandmother, but no food to speak of.”
“Then why do you grin like a fool, Chen Yu?”
His smile grew. “Because there is a silver lining, Grandmother.” He cocked his head but didn’t speak.
A feeble smile creased her aged face. “You would make an old woman ask what the silver lining is, Chen? Have you no shame?”
Chen knelt before her. “I am sorry, Grandmother. Please forgive me. The silver lining is the discovery of several People’s Liberation Army trucks filled with petrol. You will travel in comfort for the remainder of our journey.”
“What of the others? The livestock?”
“Everyone will ride, including the livestock. We will siphon petrol from other vehicles along the way. I suggest we butcher one of the swine and celebrate tonight. We will leave in the morning. If the roads are passable, we can be near Shenzhen by nightfall.”
Ya smiled, raised her hand to Chen’s face, caressed his cheek, and said, “We are so lucky to have you lead us, Chen.”
In a heavy mist the next morning, the journey to Hong Kong began. Chen drove the lead truck, and as the caravan closed on Guangzhou, the highway became a haphazard maze of abandoned vehicles, forcing him to stop twice and clear a path through the labyrinth. With their progress slowed to a crawl, Chen began to worry. He feared the roads would be impassable the closer they got to the city center.
The sky had cleared, and the sun was nearing the end of its journey to the horizon. Fuzzy, elongated shadows of the trucks followed them as they proceeded south. At the top of a slight rise in the roadway, Chen had a commanding view of the southern sky. His jaw dropped, and without warning, he slammed on the brakes and stopped. Ya had been dozing peacefully in the passenger’s seat and was jarred rudely awake to a twilight unlike any she had ever seen. The rays of the setting sun painted the southern sky a pale green laced with angry streaks of black, navy blue, and crimson red.
A chill passed through Chen. He turned to Ya, who stared open-mouthed.
“Why is the sky green, Chen?” she said.
“Because it is clear of smog, Grandmother. Is it not beautiful?”
Ya scowled, then slumped back into her blanket.
In ten minutes, the darkness ate the light, and because the roadway was increasingly more challenging to navigate due to the gaggle of abandoned vehicles, Chen pulled the procession to the side of the road and called a halt for the night. When the people were
settled for the evening, he huddled with the driver of the rear truck.
Jiang Lin was also an ex-PLAN sailor. He was forty-nine years old, short, and slight. A training accident on his ship, an old minesweeper, had cost him his right leg, but he functioned reasonably well on the prosthetic the People’s Republic of China (PROC) had provided him.
“You have seen the color of the evening sky, Jiang?”
“Yes. It is disturbing.”
“What do you believe it to be?”
“I suspect it is the result of radiation.”
“As do I. At the sunrise, I need you to take the PLA motorbike and find an alternate passage. This route is too congested, and I fear we will not be able to proceed. As for radiation, the trucks contain dosimeters and Geiger counters. Take both instruments with you.”
“We should check the radiation level here, Chen.”
“I have done so. This area is radiation-free, Jiang. But I believe that Shenzhen is uninhabitable, so stay west. While you are gone, we will search the buildings for useful items and food. We will wait here for your return.”
“I will return as soon as possible, Chen.”
At sunset the next day, the southern sky morphed from light green to an angrier and more intense shade of jade. Chen stood mesmerized, nervously staring at the exotic exhibit. As the gloaming approached, the putting of Jiang’s motorbike was foreign in the absolute stillness of the evening.
After parking the bike, Jiang walked toward Chen. “Chen? Chen? Chen…do you not hear me?”
With difficulty, Chen turned away from the menacing, alien sky, shook his head slowly, and turned toward Jiang. “Forgive me, Jiang. What have you discovered?”
“It is as you suspected. Shenzhen is demolished. The radiation levels increase to the south, but the way west is clear. Hong Kong still stands, but it is difficult to assess damage from the distance. We will be forced to remove many vehicles from the roadway to get to Macau. It will not be easy, but it can be done.”
“Thank you, my friend. You have done well. While you were gone, we found a shortwave radio and a generator. There is news, and it is not good. It seems few survivors remain in the world. We may be the only ones left alive in all of Asia. Stations are broadcasting from the United States, Great Britain, and Russia. We leave for Macau in the morning, and when we arrive, we will locate a ham radio and make contact.”
Macau was 107 kilometers from Shenzhen, but their route increased the distance to 170 kilometers. The detour would take them west through Zhaoqing, down the west side of Zhuxian Park, then across a series of bridges, and finally to Macau.
At Macau’s Fisherman’s Wharf, two days later, at dusk, Chen checked the air with the Geiger counter. Slight traces of radiation were present but not enough to be concerned with, and once again, he settled the people for the evening.
As was his habit, he personally attended to Ya, making sure she was as comfortable as possible for the night. “Goodnight, Grandmother,” he said as he stood to leave her side.
“Goodnight, Chen. Do you have a plan?”
“Not at the moment, Ya, but I will formulate one soon.”
She smiled at him, pulled the blanket close around her, and said, “I am freezing, Chen. And I am exhausted.”
He kissed her forehead, repeated goodnight, thought for a few seconds, then opted to sleep in the cab of his truck.
When the drumbeat of a hard rain hammering the vehicle’s top awakened him, he looked out the window at chain lightning snaking haphazardly across the sky. He remained motionless, listening to the distant rolling thunder as it mingled with the staccato beat of sheets of wind-driven rain.
In another lifetime he had loved thunderstorms. The thunder, the patter of raindrops, and the smell of the earth after the rain were cathartic. For the briefest of moments, he lost himself in the majesty of this storm, then chastised himself for enjoying it. There was much to do when the sun rose, but until the storm ended there was little he could do.
He glanced at his watch. It was 5:00 a.m., and dawn was not for two hours.
Resting his head against the seat, Chen tried to relax, watched the lightning, and listened to the rumble of the thunder.
The storm was over by seven o’clock, and after finishing a breakfast of rice and fried pork, Chen gave the people their instructions for the day. He talked briefly with Ya, then Jiang, and then walked to the Macau Tower, the tallest building in the city and, at 338 meters (1,109 feet), one of the tallest in Asia.
He counted the steps as he climbed to the observation tower: 1,329. Chen was on top of the world. The day was crisp and bright, and he could clearly see the skyscrapers of Hong Kong fifty kilometers across the bay. The powerful observation deck binoculars provided him with a good view of the city, and he noted that none of the buildings appeared to be damaged. Hong Kong was intact, but nothing moved. The city was as silent as a tomb. He looked to the northeast at Shenzhen. As Jiang had said, it was demolished. It was evident to him that a nuclear explosion had occurred in the center of the city.
Flashbacks of pictures he had seen of Hiroshima scrolled through his memory. Why lay waste to Shenzhen, but not Hong Kong? He momentarily considered the why, and who, but decided it was irrelevant and turned the glass back to Hong Kong. The city and environs were dead but not destroyed. A random thought occurred to him. The Pearl of the Orient may have been targeted with a high-altitude neutron bomb that killed with lethal doses of radiation but caused minimal structural damage in the area below the blast. He knew that Russia, the United States, and his own country had that type of weapon. Other nuclear nations likely had them too. If that were true, Hong Kong would be as uninhabitable as Shenzhen.
He turned the glass westward and looked over Macau. It felt strange to see no sign of human activity. No sound. Nothing. This part of the world was a blank page.
He shuddered, and a lone tear trickled down his cheek.
Chapter Eleven
Game On
The muscles in Gabriel Shelton’s face chased each other from left to right, then north to south, while his eyes flashed anger. Without warning, he stood, slamming his chair against the wall. “A mole?”
David McNulty cringed. “Gabriel, the word mole may be inappropriate. Let’s replace it with the word spy. That’s what your friend Randal was. A spy for the Floridians.”
Shelton leaned forward, hands on the desk. “He actually said that—they will allow us to live?”
“Gabriel, please. You must not allow yourself to get upset by frivolous statements. It is not good for your blood pressure.”
“I don’t need a damned medical lecture, David. Frivolous or not, that takes a special kind of audacity.” He repositioned his chair and sat, then muttered, “I knew he was too good to be true.” After a deep breath, Shelton said, “At least we know where they are. Where’s General Kirilov?”
“I don’t know, Gabriel, but I shall find him.”
It was never difficult to track down Kirilov, and the call to the armory brought the desired result. Ten minutes later, Kirilov joined them in Shelton’s office. As was his usual preference, the general declined the offer to sit. He stood at ease in front of Shelton’s desk, staring straight ahead at the Shelton Coat of Arms on the back wall.
Shelton said, “I assume you’re up to speed on the ultimatum we received from Florida?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
Shelton gave him a look that would curdle milk. “I want you to make plans to bring them into the fold, General. That’s what I want you to do. I want a plan to bring that to fruition.”
“Is that all, sir?”
Shelton gave a curt nod. “You’re dismissed, General.”
Kirilov did an about-face and left the room.
&n
bsp; Walking toward his office, Kirilov’s analytic mind shuffled, sorted, and filed what he knew about the Floridians. He was positive it had been a wise decision to withhold the fact that he had talked to the Floridians’ leader and didn’t approve of an invasion of Florida. Shelton was becoming unstable, and he doubted McNulty could control him.
It was obvious to Kirilov that Coltrane was a professional soldier. He was intelligent and articulate and chose his words carefully. The man made it crystal clear that they did not want a war, but Kirilov knew that if Shelton started one, the Floridians would never capitulate. Kirilov was also positive the Floridians had enough assets to make an invasion very costly indeed.
After Kirilov left, Shelton sat and turned on the desk lamp. The soft glow cast his face in a shadow that smoothed the displeasure lines on his face. He looked fresh and relaxed, which annoyed McNulty. The immature, self-serving statement that followed annoyed him even more.
“I’m not sure the general is up for this, David. Perhaps I should oversee the operation myself.”
McNulty gritted his teeth. He intended to smile but instead grimaced.
“You don’t agree with me, David?”
McNulty shook his head slightly, then said, “Gabriel, Misha is quite capable. He is brusque at times, yes, but he is eminently qualified.” He shook his head slowly side to side. “I mean no disrespect, Gabriel; however, I must ask. Have you thought this through? These people are not, as Kirilov put it, ‘Mexican peasants.’ They are militarily competent. We could suffer many casualties in a confrontation.”
“There’s nothing to think through. We have the manpower. Do you honestly believe that 1,000 can defeat 5,000? We’ll overwhelm them.” He flipped his hand and stood. “We either take them out now while we have the upper hand, or we allow them to gain strength and battle them later.” He pushed the door button. “In any event, they are a renegade group inside my country. That makes them terrorists. I won’t negotiate with terrorists. I’m hungry. Let’s go eat.”
