And then I see the source of his fixation. It’s no spaceship, but its presence is no less startling.
First to appear is the muzzle and barrel, piercing the horizon as if born from the ether. And then the rest of the tank follows, tracks and wheels crushing the white snow below like talc, turret rising high and bulky, a menacing ornament atop a metallic mountain of death.
I stop and assume the same posture as Terry, frozen by the surreality in front of me. But unlike Terry, my paralysis lasts only a moment. My instincts kick on to flight mode, and I turn back toward the interstate. I was correct to be wary of the doctor, but the clichéd cautions of curiosity have proven correct once again.
I plot my tracks back to the truck, mapping out the snowprints we both left on the ascension, and start down the ramp, hopping comically in and out of the deep white holes.
“I have the data, Colonel,” I hear from behind me. It’s Terry, his voice is at once raving and fearful. “Everything. They are prone to violence. Not at first, not when they first noticed us, but as time went on they became aggressive. Murderous.”
Unable to resist the temptation, I turn back toward the tank to see that a man has now appeared on the landscape, his body tall and rigid, head directly below the barrel. From my perspective, he looks as if he’s just arrived from Central Casting. Salt-and-pepper hair, chiseled chin, full military regalia. He’s flanked on either side by equally imposing soldiers, M16s gripped and ready.
“You’re three weeks early, doctor,” he booms. “Ten weeks. That was the experiment.” I’ve no doubt he’s chosen his volume so that I can hear him loud and clear.
“But I have what you asked for,” Terry replies, pleading. “I’ve studied them. At great risk. I’ve carried out my role in the mission. It’s as we believed. They can be weaponized.” There’s a pause of deafening silence, and then “I’m coming with you!”
“You were to arrive back here at ten weeks.” The colonel’s voice is calm but stern. “And alone. By my count, that’s 0 for two, doctor.”
Terry turns back and looks at me, and then pivots back to the colonel. “I had no choice. They insisted we leave. But...but I led them here. And I’ve brought the reports. We’ll leave them. Keep them contained inside the perimeter. They’ll never know what happened.”
“No one’s coming back. Not now. Not ever.”
It’s all I need to hear, and I again begin in earnest to make my way down the ramp, trying to build up momentum on my hopeless journey back to the truck.
“No!”
The doctor’s scream triggers another burst of adrenaline, and I push with all my strength through the snow, using gravity to help propel me back down the exit. I wait for the soldiers’ bullets to scream past me, but none come. “Start the truck!”
I can see that the group has almost managed to free the wheel from the bank, and as I get closer, I can hear the truck running. Another fifty feet and I’ll have made it.
“Where have you been?” Stella calls. “Where is Ter—?”
I turn back to see what Stella’s eyes have fixed on, but before it comes into view I hear it. The tank, in all its massiveness, rolling unstoppably down the exit ramp toward the truck. No need to say anything. It’s time to go.
“Terry!” Stella yells, near tears.
“It was him.” Is all I can manage, my exhaustion nearly complete as I reach the truck. I realize the words don’t come close to explaining the dialogue I heard only moments before, but I pray there will be time for explanations later.
Tom, positioned in the driver’s seat and seeming to understand on some basic level what is happening, pulls the gearshift to drive, foot on the brake. “Let’s go, kids.”
Stella and I squeeze into the passenger door and make our way back to the cargo. Tom and James are on the front bench.
Tom releases the brake and pushes the accelerator, but the back wheels spin impotently, whizzing in their nests of snow. It was too much gas, I think to myself. Gotta lay off a bit, Tom.
But the delay has just saved us. The stall has prevented us from driving head first into a crater left by the mortar that has just flown above us, landing thirty yards ahead with enormous destruction. Had the truck broken free, we would have caught the full force of the rocket with our lives.
The blast is deafening, stunning in its collateral power, but Tom stays calm, and I realize at that moment he’s former military. Has to be.
“That’s an old model,” he says. “Gonna take a few seconds to reload. But I need this damn truck to get going.”
Tom gives the accelerator pedal another punch, and on cue, the truck surges from the last of the embankment. From the rear of the bed we hear the cry of “Go!”
“Oh my god,” Danielle whispers, staring into the side view mirror.
“Who was that?” Tom asks.
“It was Terry. I just saw him. He was behind us. He gave us the push we needed to clear the bank.”
“We have to stop for him,” Stella pleads, her voice is calm, but her eyes reveal the hysteria bubbling just beneath her surface.
I meet Tom’s gaze in the rearview, and simply shake my head slowly. There’s no redemption for Terry, other than the act he’s just performed to save us. If we stop for him, we die.
Tom maneuvers the truck deftly past the crater and gets the truck up to speed on the interstate. “I’m sorry Stella.” And then, “Hang on!” Tom turns the wheel slowly to the left without slowing, keeping the delicate balance between evasion on a slick road and flipping the truck on its side.
Blind to the actions behind us, Stella and I brace ourselves for impact, and feel the ground shake again as the mortar misses somewhere to the right of us.
Tom straightens the truck out again and resumes the path down the interstate. “We’ll be well out of range before they can fire again. We should be safe now.”
I LIVE TWENTY-EIGHT miles from Warren, and when we arrive at my house, it looks like an abandoned shell among many in the blast zone. I had little reason to expect otherwise, to believe my street was spared—after all, the group had told me of their explorations of at least fifty miles—but I had held out hope.
No more.
My street looks deserted at first glance, an abandoned ice planet, but as my eyes adjust to the landscape, I can see them peering from behind cars and hedges. Their black eyes now appearing malevolent in the context of what I know about them, of what I saw with Naia.
Tom pulls the truck into the driveway and parks it with the engine running. “I wouldn’t carry any hope with you to that door, Dominic,” he offers. “Can’t be anything good inside.”
“No, Tom, I don’t expect there is.”
“So what are we doing here?” Danielle asks. “Let’s keep driving until we reach somewhere civilized, until we find the edge of this insanity.”
I step out of the passenger door and stand on the snow-covered pavement, staring back into the faces of my new friends. From the corner of my eye, just at the edge of my periphery, I see a movement inside my house, a white flash in the dining room and then it’s gone. Nobody in the truck sees it.
“We’ll wait here for you, son,” Tom says. His tone is matter-of-fact, as if his statement goes without saying.
“Tom. And the rest of you,” I reply. My face is somber, my look piercing, serious. “You’re leaving. You’re going to find out what happened here, in this county, in this state, however far it goes.” I look at Stella. “I’ve told you everything I know, everything I heard on that ramp. What Terry and the colonel said. Use it. Blackmail people if you have to. Find some media that still exists and broadcast the story everywhere.”
“We’re not leaving you, Dominic.” It’s Danielle, and she is clearly not open to discussion. “So do what you have to, but we’ll be right here.”
I look at James and then back to Tom, both of whom hold the same posture as Danielle. Stella is more stoical. I lock on Tom. “I want you to go when...if things go badly.” I want to say mor
e, leave them with profound words of parting, but all I can say is, “Thank you all for getting me here.”
I follow the L-shaped sidewalk that leads from my driveway and climb the three small steps to my front door. I see the figure again at the dining room window, this time crouched and watching, peering at me over the sill. My wife. She probably danced in the snow when it started to fall, admiring the beauty, just as she tried to do with everything.
I fish the key from beneath the planter and unlock the door. I hear a shuffle inside; from behind me, I hear the scream of ‘No!’ They saw it this time, probably when it stood tall at the window, preparing to greet me the second I walk through the door, just as the three Thai restaurant owners greeted Naia.
But this is how it will be. This decision—to see my wife again—was made on that first day.
The knob catches a bit, just as it always did in my previous life, but I adjust the turn of my wrist and push in the door. She’s standing in the foyer, a white shadow of the woman I used to love. I smile and feel a tear fall down my cheek as I close the door softly behind me, muffling the approaching screams of my fellow survivors.
The End
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About the Author
CHRISTOPHER COLEMAN lives in Maryland with his wife and two children. He received his degree in English Literature from the University of Maryland and has been writing professionally for over five years.
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