Is This The End?

by Craig Sargent

  He got the whole pulley/cable system rigged up, attaching the holding end to a branch about six feet above the bike. He let the ropes fall to the ground and then swung out on the thing testing it. Strong as a ship cable. Stone lowered himself via his hand all the way down to the ground, and then hoisted himself back up checking for any snags. But the system, an ultra-expensive mountain scaling outfit, appeared to work perfectly. Stone undid the entire box that the dog was in and snapped clamps around the four steel rings on it. Then setting his feet against a branch he let the animal down real slow. The block and tackle was gear-ra-tioed so that it was fairly easy to handle, the weight feeling like only about twenty or thirty pounds of pressure on the ropes he was releasing inches at a time. The box hit the ground softly and Stone released his end and again swung down.

  He hit the ground on his uninjured leg and pulled the box a safe distance away from the tree. He undid the dog’s bindings within the box just in case he didn’t come out alive from what he was about to attempt. And if he did get crushed by the huge Harley he didn’t want to leave the dog tied up, unable to defend itself, not that it was moving too swiftly. Just in case something came looking for food.

  “I’m such a fucking optimist, that’s what I like about myself,” Stone commented dryly as he stood up from the dog, motionless as a stuffed animal, lips pulled back to reveal the long sharp canines, which protruded down as if wishing they could sink into something thick and meaty.

  “Take it easy pal, in case we don’t get to talk again,” Stone said and then walked back to the tree like he was walking down the final corridor to the execution chamber. He didn’t have a good feeling about it at all. The dog was one thing but the bike—it weighed—he couldn’t even imagine. Perhaps a ton with all the excess gear he had stashed around the thing. Stone realized this was going to be a longer operation than he had envisioned. He’d have to strip the entire bike if he had the slightest chance of getting it down from its lofty heights. Cursing under his breath at the incredible hassle that lay ahead, Stone took out his pliers and wrenches and undid every single box and weapon on the bike, including the Luchaire 89mm missile system that he had put on only a week before. He hooked them up to the pulley, then lowered each one slowly down. He then lowered himself, moved the excess baggage away from the tree so the next load could be sent down, and climbed back up again.

  It took five hours to get the bike completely stripped but at last Stone was looking at the last and the only trip that mattered—the Harley itself. He clipped the six hooks in what seemed like a symmetrical arrangement around the bike. It was hard to tell just how the weight should be distributed, but he did his best. His main concern was not so much whether the cables held—according to his calculations they should, but whether he could handle the weight of it, even with the six-to-one weight ratio of the pulley system, and even with a rope wrapped around a branch that he could release bit by careful bit.

  Looking up and seeing the slight color of the late afternoon darkening behind far forests that had survived the tornado’s onslaught, Stone knew he had to move fast. In the darkness it would be a joke.

  He set his legs as firmly as he could between two branches so he was wedged in and pulled up with everything he had. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, he got the Harley to lift up from its resting place between the two branches. He knew instantly that he’d taken on much more than he’d bargained for. Every fraction of an inch was almost impossible. There was no way in hell he’d make it all the way to the ground. When the bike had lifted above the branch edge so it appeared to have clearance, Stone let out a yell and turned his body to the side so the entire pulley swiveled above him. The branch it was attached to wasn’t about to give, it was three feet thick at the base where the cable was attached. But the cable itself was stretching and making sharp sounds like something under incredibly high tension, giving off high harmonic overtones.

  Stone started to lower the bike, feeling his hands turning red and ripped from holding the rope. It started its descent inch by inch dangling around in the air as it twisted back and forth. And it was the turning motion that caused the problem, for suddenly as it reached its outer swing one of the clips ripped free, unable to take the extra weight. As the bike swung back to the other side, another clip went. And that was that. Suddenly they all ripped free and the weight on the rope Stone was holding went to zero like a fishing line that a fish had just bid adieu. He watched with horror as the bike dropped straight down.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  IT was too late to see if the Harley was still functional, and Stone was too tired to try. He set up the machine gun from the bike on the dirt, built a small fire a few yards from it and sat there on his bedding morosely eating a can of Spam, with the dog lying in the metal box alongside him. He sat for hours staring into the flame-licked darkness and swore he kept seeing things, shadows of things darting everywhere. And sounds. But at last he fell asleep in spite of himself, both hands fastened tightly around the machine gun like he was holding a baby.

  When Stone awoke it was with a start. Something was in front of him—and it had teeth. And when his hands pulled back instinctively on the twin triggers the sound of the machine gun letting loose with a twenty-shot volley made his eyes open wide and fast. It took him a few seconds to even realize it was he who had fired the burst and he looked around frantically searching for the enemy upon him. But all he could see was the backside of a groundhog which he had scared the living shit out of and was hightailing its way back under some fallen trees, its fur bristling everywhere.

  Once he realized just what had transpired Stone’s mouth grew into a smile, then a laugh, then a whole gale of laughter that burst from him in an avalanche of pain and anxiety suddenly released. So he was reduced to taking out groundhogs with a .50-caliber. He pulled his hands away from the smoking gun and stood up. He hadn’t slept well at all and already was getting a throbbing headache from the noise. He dropped down on one knee and stirred around the embers of the fire. The thing was still going; with a few branches thrown on, the flames quickly sprang back up to life. Stone took out a small pot from one of the boxes he had taken off the Harley’s back mounted rack and walked about fifty yards before he came to a small stream that trickled slowly by. The water smelled good. He leaned down and took a lick from a palmful. Tasted good too.

  Stone filled the pot and his canteen and headed back. He threw some instant coffee into the scratched-up pot and placed it down on top of the now crackling fire. The brew was bitter, for the instant coffee was years old, from the bunker’s supply stores. But still it was coffee and had that jolt he needed to click his body and brain into gear. He started a second cup and was at last able to look over at the bike, completely disassembled with its component parts lying around it.

  The first thing to check out was the Harley itself. It seemed impossible that it hadn’t suffered major damage in the fall. Stone sat on top of the thing and rocked it around beneath his legs. The bike seemed solid enough. The wheels looked aligned, the bars, everything. It appeared to have been able to withstand the shock. He tried the ignition and the motorcycle started up with a lion roar and then settled quickly back into a growl. He kept it in neutral and gave it some gas and the motor seemed to be all right. He got off, double-checked both tires making sure they were tightened, and then went on with the job of loading everything back again.

  Once he actually got going Stone found it wasn’t that bad. Since he had already put the thing together and taken it apart now he didn’t waste a lot of time figuring out angles and clasps. Lost in concentration as he reattached every part, he didn’t even realize he was done until he looked around and there was nothing more to reattach. Stone stood up and looked at his creation. Not bad. The Luchaire 89mm firing tube looked a trifle lopsided as it sat attached to the left side of the bike. He readjusted it.

  “Not bad, not fucking bad, heh dog?,” Stone commented, glancing over at the pit bull which was lying in its littl
e mobile casket. Stone was so used to making snide comments to the animal, he had forgotten it was not in a hearing state of mind. He clamped his lips shut like he wasn’t going to say another word this year and mounted the dirt-covered Harley. He started her up and headed slowly ahead, keeping both feet flat on the ground, as he wouldn’t have been surprised to find the thing cracking right in half after the fall it had taken. But other than a few new creaks and groans here and there as the metal moved around a little readjusting itself, everything seemed like it was going to stay in one place.

  Within minutes he was moving at about forty, and for the first time that morning he relaxed a little, realizing as he did just how uptight he must have been. His stomach let loose with a whole rush of gurgles as the muscles within unclenched. Now, all he needed was to find the nearest McDonald’s, or the post-nuke version of such anyway, which meant a rabbit on the hoof.

  Stone realized that other than the Spam and a few pieces of candy bar he had choked down with coffee, he had hardly eaten a thing for days now. It was hard to grab a bite sometimes when the whole world was trying to kill you.

  Either he hadn’t noticed them before, because he had been so busy in his repair work, or else there hadn’t been as many where he and the dog had been spat out by the tornado—but suddenly Stone noticed a shitload of birds. He saw vultures as he focused in on a few of them munching on carcasses around the open prairie he was cruising down. With all the carrion around—and he could smell it in the air now, the heavy scent of rotting meat—the decay eaters were having a field day.

  Vultures were everywhere. The bent ugly heads were ripping into their meals in loud snapping groups on every side. Stone raised his eyes up and nearly gasped, for the sky above, relatively clear after the squalls of yesterday, was brimming with the creatures. Stone had never seen so many of the wide-winged birds. They seemed to fill the whole sky, flying in an immense circle that must have stretched out for a mile. There had to be thousands of them all flapping wildly as they went faster and faster and dropped lower. Stone had seen vultures eating before. But they were always in much smaller groups, perhaps a few dozen around a dead buffalo. This was of a vastly different order.

  It wasn’t just the numbers that started getting him a little nervous as he rode through the destruction and the countless feasts of their huge groups—it was their attitude. They were getting frenzied, wild, making screaming sounds constantly and flapping their wings. In some carrion gluts they were ripping into each other, not out of protecting their food, it appeared, but out of sheer madness as they began plucking at each other with sharp hooked beaks that could tear through the thickest of hides. Their frenzy reminded Stone of films he’d seen on the feeding frenzies of sharks when they gathered in large groups around a kill, a whale or something big. They would start hitting at anything, each other, even themselves.

  But he didn’t think birds were supposed to act that way. Yet these were. Swooping in great herds of dark feathers, the vultures built larger and larger circles in the sky as other carrion eaters gathered from hundreds of miles around to take part in the smorgasbord of decay. He could see the whole situation was going to explode. There were just too many bumping into each other until the very heavens seemed filled with nothing but feathers. Stone knew something was going to go. It was like a supersaturated chemical—with the addition of just another drop, it goes over the edge and crystallizes. Only when these birds went it wasn’t into crystals but virulent madness.

  Suddenly they were diving down like kamikaze bombers slamming into others of their species and any other unfortunate living things below. Beaks slashed and snapped at everything, even trees and rocks. They bit into one another in the air and on the ground with vicious snaps. This was no fun and games, but ten thousand six-foot-wingspanned birds who had all gone bananas. And Stone just happened to be in the same madhouse.

  Suddenly there was a loud snapping of wings just above him and he tipped his head up to see about a dozen of the gangly creatures coming down like misfired missiles. Stone swerved the Harley to the right at the same instant he ripped out his 9mm Beretta. He sprayed the thing above and around him in the air and saw feathers and blood go flying in all directions as a few of them plummeted to the ground behind him. But it was as if they knew no fear, they were beyond all that. It was a frenzy of pure numbers, of losing what little mind a vulture has and letting it all go in a kind of bacchanalian feast to the gods, a blood-drunken orgy from which many would not emerge alive.

  Stone suddenly let the bike rip forward, wanting to just get the hell out of there and fast. He accelerated to fifty miles per hour, not wanting to go much faster as the long stretch of prairie was marred with holes and ridges. And if he went down in the midst of all this…. Stone didn’t let his mind dwell on it.

  A dead wild bull that had been decapitated by the tornado was lying about forty yards off to the right, and a virtual blanket of feathers covered the thing, ripping it like there was no tomorrow. Usually vultures were attracted to the motionless, the still, the dead. But their excitement had altered their behavior patterns—and it was Stone’s bike that suddenly caught their attention as he tore past.

  There was a thunderous flapping of wings that totally unnerved Stone. When he swung his head around not slowing an inch he saw every feathery son-of-a-bitching one of them rising up en masse. They were not exactly graceful birds and slammed and bumped into each other all over the place, actually knocking each other out in some cases so that limp wings spiraled down to the ground where they lay broken. But the rest, several hundred of them, rose up about eighty feet, circling the bull a few times just to get their bearings, and then took chase after one Martin Stone.

  Stone couldn’t believe it as he kept glancing over his shoulder, and the flock kept growing closer by the second. They were clearly coming after him, doubtless already salivating or drooling whatever juices flowed in a vulture’s beak. Stone swung the autopistol back over his shoulder without even looking, just gauging the angle of fire, and pulled. He held the trigger until the clip was emptied, and then snapped a quick look around. A whole slew of them were plummeting down and a few were also dropping behind to eat them. But in general it hadn’t done a hell of a lot of good. In fact, unless Stone’s -eyes were deceiving him, more seemed to be joining in the chase as the entire circle of vultures which had been flying far above like a beacon to other carrion eaters throughout the state also started dropping fast. Oh, he’d definitely caught their attention.

  Like an oasis in the middle of a desert Stone saw a thicket of low trees ahead and a sort of pathway leading into them. It looked passable, for him anyway. He leaned forward on the bike and tore into it, slowing the Harley as soon as he hit the path to make sure he could effect passage. He could. Stone heard a fluttering right above the tree canopy. Some of the foolhardy creatures were landing on the interwoven branches above. They were obviously intent on getting to him, no ifs, ands or buts about it, though just what it was that made him so fucking attractive to them was a question Stone was burning to know. Maybe it was the dog lying on the back. He looked dead. Maybe it was as if he were toying with them, dangling a mouse in front of a cat and then running with it. Well, these suckers had gone for the bait.

  Stone debated staying inside the thicket but after a few seconds of listening to their frantic attempts to break down and through the branches he decided against it. He started ahead switching on the lights to navigate through the shadows of the mini-jungle of trees and bush. The pathway that appeared man-made extended right through the thicket. Stone found a comfortable speed and moved along at about twenty, his boots digging down in the black soil. He no longer heard the flutterings and the smashings of beaks and talons against wood, and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d lost them. That was the one saving grace about vultures—they were stupid.

  After about five minutes Stone saw light ahead and suddenly broke through a few vines dangling down over his face, slicing along his chin. He was out into t
he dimness of the end of day. Only as he emerged he saw that something was blotting out the sinking sun ahead. And as he adjusted to the light Stone saw that the sky ahead was filled with an army of them, a single immense circle which turned with thousands upon thousands of birds. As thick and as awe-inspiring as the very rings of Saturn, only this ring was of leathery hide and dark feathers. And it was after him.

  The circle that hovered about five hundred feet above the terrain began dropping the moment he emerged from the grove. Stone knew it was too late to even try to turn around and get back. They’d be on him before he was halfway there. He could only move ahead. He slammed his finger on the firing button of the 50-cal mounted on the front of the bike, swiveling it so it was arched up at a forty-five degree angle pointing straight into the descending flock. Then he pushed hard and held the button down as the barrel burped out a fusillade of thick finger-sized slugs. The whole bottom part of the descending horde seemed to disintegrate before his eyes, as hundreds of the crank-necked buzzards flopped to the ground wings broken, heads hanging limply to one side.

  They retreated momentarily, swooping up and then turned far around, taking almost a mile to do so. But then they started back again, this time gaining speed from far off. It was as if they were going to come down on him with the sheer kinetic motion of their bodies, let him try to shoot them down or not as he wished. Stone gulped hard. The 50-cal wasn’t going to do it. They were ready to die—or didn’t know the meaning of it.