Solaris Mortem: The New Patriots

by Rusty Henrichsen

  The day wore on and afternoon gave way to twilight. Terry passed a few more small groups and other lone travelers. A lot of them were sick. Am I going to get sick? If you’re going to die, then shouldn’t you get the chip so you can get the vaccine? These and many other questions went through his mind. For the first time in his life, he felt a pang of regret for having never even explored the idea of religion. It just never made any sense or held any appeal for him. Was being scared a legitimate reason to start, or would that just piss God off? Damned if he knew, but he was going to try and find another Bible and start doing a little reading. Just to see…. Never hurts to look.

  * * *

  A screen door flapping in the wind on the porch of an old farmhouse caught Terry’s attention. Did he dare approach? Could be full of sick people. Could be shot in the stomach by some asshole with a shotgun for stepping foot on the porch. Could have supplies. The last thought was the one that got him moving.

  The stairs creaked and moaned causing Terry to groan. “Hello?” He took another step. “Hello? Is there anybody here? I come in peace.” I come in peace? What the hell is that? “Hey, don’t shoot, okay?” The screen door slammed again causing Terry to jolt a little. He didn’t see or hear anything inside so he inched closer. Closer, closer, closer…. “Hello?” No response.

  The screen door opened with a rasp, and he crossed the threshold. It smelled horrible despite the breeze blowing through the house. “Is there anyone home?” He called. Again it was silent, so he decided he was alone and let his guard down.

  Off the entry was the kitchen. Cupboard doors stood ajar, and Terry saw canned goods, bags of noodles, sugar, and coffee. Oh, this could be good…. He turned on his boot heel toward the living room, then noticed the pantry door on his way around. He opened it and found its shelves were still more or less fully stocked. Terry said his second prayer of the day. “Thank you, God.” That can of Dinty Moore beef stew staring him back in the face had never looked so appetizing, but he decided to finish exploring the house first.

  The living room, the bathroom, and a laundry room were also on the first floor, but so far nothing compared to the kitchen and he didn’t suppose anything else would. He walked up the narrow stairwell to the second floor. Terry stepped up to a smallish landing and three closed doors. “Hello?” He called one more time. Nothing.

  He opened the first door and found an immaculately clean guest room. A day bed sat beneath the window, and the wind blew the lace curtains about, filtering the sunlight, faint shadows dancing on a bureau in the corner. He closed the door and went on to the second room.

  It stood in stark contrast to the first. It was someone’s home office, and it looked like a bomb had gone off in there. Disheveled papers littered the desk and the floor, file cabinets were open, crammed too full to close, and the walls themselves were used as a giant cork board. Terry guessed the missus of the house probably didn’t venture in here too often. It smelled of cheddar cheese and rank sweat. He closed the door and moved on to the last one.

  The smell hit him like a Freightliner, and now he knew why no one answered. Ma and Pa Bennett were here all right, but they weren’t well. Or maybe they were; Terry didn’t know. They might be with Jesus now, but their bodies weren’t well. They lay on the bed together; the old woman clutched a Bible, which supported the Jesus theory and the old man clutched a shotgun. Terry figured he could use both and helped himself, though reluctantly. There’s something about stealing from the dead that just didn’t sit right with Terry, and there was something about that smell that would turn anyone's stomach.

  The old man’s skin had turned black already, and the old woman was a lovely shade of purple. They were both bloated with bulging eyes and the old man’s tongue protruded from his mouth like an inflated appendage. Terry dry heaved when he took the gun, for the flesh on the old man’s hands ruptured and unleashed a stench, unimaginable. He snatched the book, the Good Book, and ran downstairs as fast as he could. He knew he would have to go back up there to rummage around, but not until he found some variety of a mask.

  He drew a glass of water from the Brita on the counter and regained his composure. Maybe there was some Vick’s in the bathroom. He’d seen that trick in the crime dramas he liked to watch on television.

  There wasn’t, but there were ear plugs which he stuffed in his nostrils without a second thought. He tied a towel around his face like a gargantuan bandana. Something liked panic tried to grip him as he climbed the stairs, but he shook it off. This is life now. How do you like it so far?

  He turned the knob and went back into the death suite. The smell was less, but the taste was more. On the nightstand beside the bed were a box of shotgun shells. Terry grabbed them and ferried them to the door. He looked through the drawers, then under the bed where he found a deer rifle. It was a Remington .308 and five boxes of rounds. As unpleasant as this was, at least it was profitable.

  The smell and thick taste of putrefying flesh overwhelmed him, and he vomited into his makeshift mask. Terry stripped it off and threw it aside. He almost ran out again but decided against it. He was going to finish this little raid once and for all, and then this door would not be opened again.

  In the closet, he found a Taurus .357 revolver and some clothes in his size. Close enough to his size anyway. He grabbed a change of clothes as well as winter gear. He wasn’t sure how he’d carry all of this, but he was sure summer wouldn’t last forever. In fact, it was probably coming up on September by now. It was getting harder to keep track of the days as they added up.

  He closed the door on the Bennetts allowing them to rest in peace, and Terry ate a cold can of beef stew. He enjoyed every, tasty bite too.

  * * *

  With the unpleasantries behind him and his belly full, Terry packed up his loot. He found a decent sized backpack in the shed and a wheelbarrow behind the house. It was one of those two front wheel jobbies, so he figured it wouldn’t be too bad a companion. I guess this is my rickshaw…. Though he didn’t relish the idea of shooting anyone, he was glad to be armed again and with the rifle he could hunt. Torpedoes be damned, Seattle, here I come.

  At lunchtime, he thumbed through his new Bible, but it was no more interesting now than it had ever been. Time’s passage was washing Dean’s admonitions from Terry’s mind. Still he wondered, but his mind seemed to have a better capacity for doubt than wonder. I guess I’m just a cynic at heart. He always had been. Mother and Father had tried to raise them right, or at least, Mom had. Sunday school and Bible study. Katherine hadn’t minded, but Terry never could quite see the point. I think the point was to make Mom happy….

  Maybe he should have paid better mind. Daddy too, for that matter, but Terry always was his father’s son. Good men, but simple men. Theology was just outside of their grasp if they ever grasped at all. ‘Why do we go to church, Daddy?’ Terry had asked his father.

  ‘Because it makes your mom happy, son.’ Terry guessed that was as good a reason as any, but when Dad had stopped going, so did Terry. I guess Dad didn’t care about Mom’s happiness anymore? No, that wasn’t it. Dad got sick around the time Terry was eleven or twelve. He kept going to work for a couple more years, but some of the extracurricular stuff, like church, fell away. That didn’t bother Terry any, but he missed the other things. Things like playing catch with his old man, taking bike rides to the park or visiting the cabin on the Peninsula. Those were the things he missed.

  Just before Terry got his driver’s license, leukemia took his father. Those were hard times for Terry—for everybody.

  A hot tear streamed down his cheek. Even after all these years, he thought and wiped it away. He was getting close to home. Terry would be back in Seattle by morning so he put his mind on the living. He couldn’t wait to see Kat, Jonathan, and Tabby again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jack boots, Humvees, and covered army trucks ruled the streets in Seattle. Terry wondered what the hell was going on. Where did the power come from? I thought all the
machines were dead? Well, he thought wrong, because sure as shit, here they were: FEMA, Department of Homeland Security, Army, and Marines, and all of them had implements and gadgets galore. Dean had been right all along. He had half expected the whole thing to be a fabrication woven from a sick and road-weary man’s mind.

  He heard an unfamiliar sound in the sky and turned toward the noise. It was a chopper. A goddamn chopper. What the fuck is going on?

  It was true; FEMA had set up camp here, sheltering the shelterless and vaccinating people before they got sick and helped them if they were among the unfortunate ill. But on one condition….. They had to accept certain terms. Certain unconstitutional terms. Terms like: surrender your guns so we can keep everyone safe. Terms like: no more currency. Accept this implanted microchip so you may buy and sell. ‘It’s more secure,’ they said. ‘You can never be robbed,’ they said. ‘Though what has happened is terrible, we will make the best of it and rebuild America, a better America.’

  Terry wasn’t so sure. Was all of this planned out? It sure was fitting into place nicely. Suddenly, some of the conspiracy wackos were making a lot more sense. Not that he could step right in line with those types, but man, oh man. If Orwell could see us now.

  He had to find Kat, and he looked first at home, the duplex they shared, but she wasn’t there. No one was. The place was literally burned to the ground. Just a pile of ash, charcoal, and nails in the middle of an asphalt parking lot. Jesus, man. Please, let them be all right.

  Terry followed the signs to the FEMA shelter and hoped he would find them there. It was being put on in Seattle’s Key Arena. When Terry approached the doors, he was surprised to see them guarded by two men in flak jackets donning fully automatic rifles. They informed him that no weapons were allowed and frisked him thoroughly. Terry had already stashed the wheelbarrow with his other guns, but they confiscated his revolver. They emptied the contents of his backpack onto the sidewalk. Finding only his personal effects and a change of clothes, they allowed him to re-gather his items and put them back in his pack

  “Am I going to get that gun back?” Terry asked.

  “I’m sorry, sir. No civilian firearms are permitted.” The whole scene made him feel uneasy. Granted, things were bad, and people had to be careful, but this just seemed—thuggish.

  After a thorough pat down, a wave with a wand, like at the airport, and an ear thermometer reading, they let him in, but not before clamping some sort of metal bracelet on his wrist that blinked a dim, red light every five-seconds or so.

  “What’s this?”

  “A visitor’s pass, sir.”

  Terry walked away, then turned back. “Say, how do you guys have power?… And vehicles that still run?”

  “The government is always prepared, sir.”

  * * *

  Aisles and aisles of cots lined the hardwood floor, which just a few weeks ago, had hosted a WNBA game. Seattle Storm had punished the Phoenix Mercury. The scene was much different today. And forever?

  Half of the gym was sectioned off with heavy plastic. They kept the sickies behind the opaque curtain. Six foot tall, light frame canvas walls sectioned off other areas, such as men’s and women’s dressing areas and lavatory areas. The lavs were actually five-gallon buckets with a toilet seat—the kind you might take camping. There were probably a couple of thousand refugees here—maybe more.

  “Hey, man—get out of here while you still can,” a voice rang out behind him.

  Terry turned to see a man in a wheelchair, dressed in an olive drab jacket, adorned with Semper Fi, POW, and American flag patches. The man reminded him of Tom Cruise in Born on the Fourth of July. “Excuse me?”

  “This place is the death of America, get out while you still can.”

  “What are you talking about?” Terry began to suspect this fella had ingested too much Agent Orange and LSD in his time.

  “Before they inject you with the chip. Once you get the chip, it’s too late.”

  The chip? Oh, fuck…. Terry wondered if Dean was right, but mostly he tried to cast doubt on this man’s sanity. “Um, okay. Thanks, man. I’ve got to find my sister now, so I’ll talk to you later.” And Terry began to walk away.

  “Don’t let them give you the chip!” the old vet cried out behind him, “Don’t do it!”

  Terry waved and tried to smile. This isn’t happening….

  * * *

  “Excuse me, sir?” Terry said.

  The tall, stalky man (a guard?) turned slowly toward Terry and stared blankly. He was looking right at Terry, but not in the eyes. It was more like he was staring at the bridge of his nose or maybe between his eyebrows. “Hi…how would I find someone that I think might be here?”

  The man looked off to his left without a word. When he saw this subtle gesture didn’t properly communicate whatever it was he was trying to say, he motioned with the tip of his rifle. He seemed to be indicating toward a door, a plain slab of mahogany with no label or sign.

  Terry turned to look then back again. “That door over there? Wha—,” but the man was already gone. “Thanks, you’ve been very helpful,” Terry said to himself.

  His bracelet flashed again and caught his eye. He spun it around his wrist and found it curious that it could not be removed without some sort of special tool. It reminded him of the anti-theft tags on clothing that would blast ink if improperly removed. Or something worse.

  “Hey, man. Where are you going? Don’t go in there.” It was the man in the wheelchair again. “If you go in there, they own you.”

  “Listen, man. I just need to find my sister.”

  “Your sister? Jesus! The last thing you want to do is tell them you have a sister in here. Don’t tell them anything.”

  “Okay….” Maybe Terry would get further by humoring this guy, even if he was a little short in the sanity department. “Then, what would you suggest?”

  “I would suggest you turn around and leave while you still can.”

  “That's not an option,” Terry said. “Not without my sister.”

  “If your sister's even here,” the man said. “If you go in there and talk to them right now, they’ll talk you into the chip. Once you’ve got the chip, it’s GAME OVER, pal. Do not pass GO, do not collect $200. You understand?”

  “No. I don’t understand. Nothing you’re saying is making any sense at all.”

  The old vet pressed his index finger to his forehead, his jaw tightened, and his eyes nearly protruded out from his face staring at Terry.

  “Yeah well, I’ve never been too keen on charades,” Terry said, “So what is it?”

  “Jesus, man, you are a dense one. If you get the chip, you are owned. Get it? They tell you where to go, what to do—what your job is and you can’t leave.”

  “Why couldn’t I leave? And why would I get the chip if it’s what you say it is?”

  The vet shook his head like he was talking to an idiot. “You can’t leave because the chip will explode if you do. The chip gives you your work assignment and your zone. You leave the zone—BOOM! You try and take your chip out—KERPLEWY!”

  “So, why get it?”

  “Cuz you can’t get the vaccine if you don’t!”

  “The—flu vaccine?”

  “Good God, man! What else?”

  “What if I’m not sick? I mean, what if I’m immune?”

  “Then you can’t buy, or sell, or work without the chip. You’re fucked either way.”

  “Well, all right, sunshine. Good talk, excuse me,” And Terry stepped around him.

  “Wait! I can help you.”

  Terry slowed, then stopped and turned. He didn’t speak, he only looked at the man in the wheelchair and waited for it.

  “Your sister—if she’s here, but not here,” he said, as he did a cursory glance around the center, “Then she’s on work assignment.”

  “Work assignment? Where? How do I find her?” Terry took a few steps back toward the goofy bastard.

  “If you don’t see her h
ere, then I would look for her in Infrastructure,” the man said.

  “Infrastructure?” Terry said. “And what does that mean?”

  “Infrastructure Division is power, water, heat...that kinda thing. They’ve got most all the able bodies working there. If not there, then maybe in sanitation or scavenging. I don’t know, but most people are working at getting the power going. Sure, it’s on here, thanks to the solar panels and generators outside, but it’s still off everywhere else.”

  “So, how do I find her?” Terry asked.

  “I would bet my chips on the transfer station. They’ve got some big generators over there that FEMA brought in. They’re trying to get everything patched up and start pumping power into Seattle again.”

  “Which is…where?”

  “That’s the kicker,” the old vet said, “you’ll never even get close to the place if you don’t get chipped yourself. Can you see the conundrum?” Apparently this was funny because he started laughing. Not just chuckling, but laughing. Apocalypse humor?

  “Hilarious. So how do I get the chip?”

  “Slow down there—name? What’s your name?”

  “It’s Terry.”

  “Well, slow down there, Terry. My name’s Thomas. Thomas Collins.” He extended a put ‘er there hand. Terry shook, then looked at him—WELL??

  “The first thing you need to be doing before volunteering for the goddamn chip is figure out how you’re gonna get rid of the damn thing.” Terry could hardly wait to hear this one.

  “I suppose you’ve got some ideas on the matter?”

  “Oh, you know it, brother.”

  * * *

  Terry tested the lever on the door—locked, so he began to pound on it. Another man bearing a fully automatic rifle opened the door, pointing it at Terry’s chest. Jesus, what is it with these fucking guys?