Engines of Desire: Tales of Love and Other Horrors

by Livia Llewellyn

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” Sanders finally speaks. “I know a place—an underground shelter. I can take you there.”

  Kingston keeps calm.

  “A bomb shelter?”

  “No, a real habitat—a place to live, not just survive.”

  What does he care if she lives or dies? “You’re lying,” Kingston says. “You need me to let you go.”

  “I swear on my fucking life I’m telling the truth.” Sanders lowers his weapon a touch. “We’ve been planning it for years.”

  “We?”

  “People—military, civilian. People who knew this was coming. My wife and son are already there.” He’s babbling. “It’s got everything, we can live there for years.”

  “And they’ll let you bring some stranger in? An extra mouth eating your food, stealing your air?”

  “Jesus Christ, Kingston, why are we arguing? We’re out of time!”

  Kingston looks down. Hewitt stares at the ceiling as he bleeds out. He might still be alive in two hours, when the warhead hits. He was a good commander.

  Kingston puts a bullet in his head.

  “Let’s go,” she says. Her lips taste like blood, and she licks them clean. Yeah, she’s going to hell.

  Damned if she’ll go there alone.

  Fire

  War

  Red

  …footprints trail behind them as Kingston and Sanders drag several large duffel bags back through the blast doors, up smoky stairs to the surface. Together they’d stripped Hewitt and Cabrera of their weapons, then proceeded to take anything else that might be of use. Sanders insisted on taking their dog tags, with the launch keys threaded onto the chains. “We owe it to them,” he said as he lowered Hewitt’s tags over her head. It’s a sentimental gesture, one that repels Kingston. She’ll take them off later, when there’s time.

  The sky is black, blazing with stars. The guards have disappeared—no one stops them as they cram the bags into the already packed hummer.

  “You’re driving,” Sanders says, holding out the keys.

  “I don’t know where the shelter is. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to drive?”

  Sanders nods at his wounds. “I can’t shift, and I’ll barely be able to grip the wheel. I need you to drive.”

  “This is why you’re taking me, isn’t it?”

  Sanders says nothing, but she sees the affirmation in his eyes. She’s dead to him. Once she drives him to safety, it won’t be hard for him to finish the job.

  She takes the keys.

  Driving the huge machine gives her focus. She rolls down the window, letting the night air rush in as 904 slips past in a ribbon of slick blacktop. Several campers and trucks loaded with boxes and luggage barrel past her in both directions. This is military country—they know. An ancient Volkswagen camper draws up, and for a moment they race side by side down the empty stretch, each bathed in the other’s lights. In the passenger seat, a woman with a tear-streaked face shoots her a baleful glare. Kingston realizes that the woman sees her uniform. The woman leans toward the glass, and lips spit out two angry words.

  FUCK YOU.

  Kingston presses down on the gas. She shoots ahead, away from the woman’s accusing face. “We did it for you, you fucking bitch,” Kingston mutters. “You paid us to.”

  “What?” Sanders’ head lolls up. “Problem?”

  “No.”

  “What time is it?”

  “04:47. Sunrise should start around 05:15. We’ll be past the town by then.”

  Sanders falls silent again. Kingston takes the exit, navigates the quiet streets. Small ramblers and faded Victorians sit under trees, crowned by telephone wires and stars. Everyone asleep, unaware that everything in their lives has changed, and they’re alone. The town dribbles down into isolated trailers, abandoned shacks. Overhead, the sky grows light blue, with bands of pink and purple pushing up from the horizon. Cloudless, so far. Kingston keeps her eyes fixed on the low brown hills ahead.

  “Time to get off the road,” Sanders says. “You’re going to get off to the left—there’s no road, but it’s drivable. Just past the bend.” As Kingston steers the hummer over the blacktop and into the brush, Sanders flips the radio on. Static fills the space. Kingston waits for a recognizable sound. Nothing. Sanders flicks the radio off.

  Sunrise comes early in this flat part of the world, yet on the western side the sky is still speckled with stars. Kingston steers in sweeping curves between night and day, through the rough and gaping wounds of the scab lands, reminders of the glaciers and floods that once scoured the land. Every hill and shallow looks the same, but Sanders never falters in his directions. At 05:40, he leads her up one of the larger mounds, and she cuts the engine. After close to two hours of driving, the silence is shocking.

  “How’s the arm.”

  “It’s fine. Get out.”

  Is this it? Kingston’s mouth dries up as she walks to the front of the hummer.

  “Where’s the shelter?” She might as well ask, though she knows there won’t be an answer.

  “The large barrow over there.” Sanders gestures southwest. In the morning haze, Kingston makes out a stretch of barrow-like hills at the horizon, dark green with scrub and brush. A couple hundred miles away, but a straight shot through flat land. Easy to get to with just one arm at the wheel.

  “Which larger one? They all look the same from here.”

  No answer.

  “We need to keep moving. Let’s go.” Kingston turns, but Sanders only points at the far horizon, in the direction they came from. To the north and east, dappled patterns of farmlands and towns all lie in peaceful quiet, and birds circle overhead in lazy loops. Another beautiful morning has begun.

  Kingston’s heart slows. She knows what he’s looking for. She looks for it, too.

  They wait.

  The horizon erupts in brilliant white light: this is what they wanted, needed to see. Too many to count, in too many places to see—voluptuous jets of lightning-shot ziggurats unfurling past the cloud line. A metropolis of death, created in an instant. Deep, low booms wash over them, like the thunder of incoming storms. Kingston presses her hand against her chest. They’re safe here. This place is too desolate to destroy.

  The clouds columns keep pluming, faster and higher than any she’s ever seen. “Tsars, maybe—fifty megatons, at least,” Sanders speculates. “Multiple warheads. We did the right thing. They would have done it anyway.”

  Sanders hand creeps down to his holster.

  “We need to go,” Kingston says, turning away.

  She turns again.

  Two shots ring out. Hawks wheel and scatter away.

  Sanders’ weapon hits his foot with a thud. Blood blossoms in the center of his chest. He looks at her, confused. Behind him, the distant clouds spread higher, drift apart. “Bitch.” Blood drivels out of his mouth. “I would have let you go—”

  Another shot rips the air, echoing over the scabby hills.

  “No,” she says. “You couldn’t.”

  Grimacing, she holsters her weapon. He clipped her right thigh, a nice deep slice that’ll keep her limping for weeks. There’s no time for the pain, though. Not today. She puts his tags around her neck with the rest. They smell of hot metal and desperation. As she steers the hummer off the hill, Kingston doesn’t look back at his body. He’s dead, she tells herself. Things won’t get any worse.

  An hour later, when the engine sputters to a halt, Kingston remembers her words. Her cracked lips form a parody of a smile, and bits of dried blood flake down her chin and neck. Did Sanders lie about the shelter, too? She pulls everything out of the back, looking for any clue of where it might be. Not one fucking map or drawing. There’s bottled water and MRI’s, but the rest is weapons and medicine. And a small stuffed bear—for his kid? Kingston runs her fingers over the bear’s soft head. Maybe this is proof enough. He was a cautious man, a planner. He wouldn’t forget to store extra gas. Maybe she ran out when she did, because this i
s where she’s supposed to be. It’s just a hunch, and a shitty one at that, but it’s all she has left to go on.

  Kingston loads two duffel bags, tucking the bear next to the boxes of ammo. She takes the keys, but leaves the windows open. The winds will come, then the rains. Radiation will eat the rest.

  Two hours walking puts her in a small shallow leading to the hills Sanders had pointed to—massive mounds, sitting like beached leviathans, petrified and lost to time. It’s there that she sees a glint of metal halfway up the longer mound—an air intake valve, or exhaust vent. Thick clouds roll overhead, and the winds have picked up speed. Kingston stops, and fishes out a small plastic bottle of KI tablets. She swallows two with a gulp of water, then tosses the bottle back in the bag. As she zips it up, she remembers: and pats at the ripped fabric of her pants, where the bullet tore its path. Her fingers feel the pregnancy stick, wedged in what’s left of the pocket, but the abortion pill is gone. No matter. There are other, older methods. No fucking way is she bringing a child into this world. Not now. Not ever.

  Kingston hoists the bags up again, and limps forward, her face contorted with the weight and pain, with the heat pressing down from above. Big fucking deal, she tells herself. She’s walked down this road of pain before, in other years, for lesser reasons. She can make this one. Never mind the bile burning a trail up your throat, the piss trickling down your legs, the blisters and battered bones. Never mind the dark presence riding up behind you, the whip of fear spurring you on. Take one more step, bitch. No one’s going to help you. You’re alone. Take another.

  Take another.

  Take…

  …

  Kingston stands, legs trembling, on the concrete lip of the bunker entrance. “What,” she says, realizing she’s repeating herself. Dark spots dance in her eyes, and she blinks. How much time did she lose?

  “A man,” an older woman says. “We were expecting a man.” Her face is worn and leathery, but her eyes are bright blue—intelligent, wary. Farmer, or rancher, Kingston thinks. A survivor. Can she be like this woman? Her hand slides into her pocket, a cautious movement under the gaze of the woman and her rifle. Kingston pulls out the pregnancy stick and holds it up. Why not make that unborn bit of flesh work for her survival, just like everyone else.

  “Help me,” she says. “Help us.”

  The woman shakes her head. “We corresponded with a military man—”

  “Sanders. He knew me.”

  “I don’t know you from jack shit.”

  “But his wife and son should be here.” Kingston peers past the woman—all she can see is an industrial-sized conveyor belt leading down into darkness. “Ask her, she’ll know my name.”

  “Really.”

  “We were crew members at Fairchild. He died on the way here.” Kingston points to the duffel bags. “His ID and papers are in there. And I brought weapons, medicine.”

  “We already have weapons and medicine. We weren’t expecting a pregnant woman. This isn’t a hospital or a spa.”

  Kingston bristles. “I’m a technician—a mechanic. I can work with anything you have down there—generators, water, air, electrical systems. You need me.”

  “She can fix things.” A man behind the woman moves forward, speaking up for the first time. “We can use her.”

  “We don’t need a baby.” The woman is emphatic.

  Above their heads, dark clouds roll in an unbroken wave, blotting out the sun. This is her last chance. Kingston keeps her voice devoid of emotion, even though she’s swimming in despair. She thought she couldn’t go lower, deeper, but she can. She always will.

  “Neither do I.”

  The woman doesn’t blink. She’s harder than the ground.

  “All right,” Kingston says. “But you know you can’t just let me walk away. Take me in or fucking shoot me. It’s what I’d do.”

  Kingston and the woman stare at each other. Wind rattles against the entrance, rolling bits of gravel down the ramp. Particles of radiation already float around them, nestling into cells, blooming like flowers in their bones. How surprised they’ll be when they reach her heart, and find it’s already gone.

  The man moves forward, whispers something in the woman’s ear. She sniffs and pulls a frown. “Give him all your weapons,” she says, “then get inside. Hurry.”

  Kingston disarms, handing the four weapons and both duffel bags over to a young Hispanic man. The older man pats her down. Kingston’s breath catches in her throat as the man finds the photo. He steps aside, his dirt-creased fingers still caressing its worn edges. She walks into the corridor, turning to watch as they push the thick door shut. Slowly day fades, reduces to a single line of hot white light, the wind to a thin scream.

  “Why’s he running,” the man says.

  “What?”

  The man holds out the photo. “What was coming after him? He’s riding for his motherfucking life.”

  Kingston takes the photo. And she sees.

  “Oh god,” Kingston says over the screech of metal slamming tight, to the sun, the wind, the world. At her fingertips, the officer rides his pale horse into the unknown.

  Desolation

  Famine

  Black

  …bugs flutter in loops around the ceiling light. They dip and dive away, return and dance again. Kingston watches them from her cot, amazed to see proof that beyond the concrete walls and press of earth, there’s still life in the world. What lies sleeping beside her is too horrible a joke to be proof enough.

  As if reading her thoughts, one tiny hand uncurls and reaches out. Kingston recoils, then tucks the arm back under the blanket—an unkind gesture. The stale air is stifling hot. But Kingston can’t stand to be touched. Especially by the child.

  “Knock, knock.” It’s Ephraim, behind the curtain. There aren’t any doors down here, except on cages and lockers that hold medicine, weapons, and electrical equipment. The rest is all open corridors and rooms, constructed from fifty gutted school buses that were lowered into a hole and covered with concrete. This is the shelter Sanders had spoken of with hope: half-finished, filled with faulty plumbing and wiring, and silence. Sometimes it’s so quiet, Kingston hears the land shift about the ceilings. She hears the far-off boom of thunder storms, the sifting of metal as it rusts and flakes away. She hears herself grow old.

  And that thing they cut out of her womb, that creature, grows old with her.

  “Come in,” Kingston whispers as she sits up. Loud noises and swift movements horrify the girl, send her into fits that last for hours. Not that Kingston has the strength to yell or move quickly, nowadays. Neither of them do. They’re on strict rations, semi-starvation amounts, with most of it going to the girl, at Ephraim’s insistence.

  Kingston watches Ephraim slip his satchel off a bone-thin frame. His hands shake more than usual as he pulls out a carton of soy milk. It’s the one thing they had in abundance—cloying, vanilla soy. Despite her howling stomach, the thought of that taste in her mouth makes Kingston’s gorge rise. She stopped drinking it months ago. Just as well. There’s almost none left.

  “Alice, Uncle Ephraim’s going to stay with you for a while, while Mommy goes for a walk.”

  “Stop calling her that. Stop calling me ‘Mommy’.”

  “Sorry, I forgot. Alice, your monster is going for a walk.”

  “Whatever.”

  Their voices are flat, monotonous. Is this the first or fiftieth time they’ve had this fight? It doesn’t matter. It always ends the same.

  “And I told you, she doesn’t have a name.”

  “She’s your daughter, she’s almost three. She needs a name.”

  “She came out of me. That doesn’t make her my daughter.”

  “That’s exactly why she’s your daughter: she came out of you.” Ephraim’s voice catches. “She is you.”

  “Shit comes out of me, too.”

  Ephraim turns away.

  Kingston watches the girl rub her eyes and yawn. Does she understand a word? H
er face, as always, is a luminous cipher, her mind a mystery. She made a beautiful baby, that’s for sure, her and that Nez Perce. And all fucked up inside, just like her mom.

  “Something funny?” Ephraim glares at her.

  “No.” Kingston turns away, biting her tongue. He doesn’t know she lied to him. She did give the child a name, one she’s never said out loud. It’s what she sees every time she looks at the child, what she wants to draw over her, a sign for the world to remove its mistake. She calls her Ex.

  “Get her off the bed. I need my jacket.” She doesn’t like to touch Ex, if she can help it.

  “Fine.” Despite his diminished strength, Ephraim lifts Ex easily, handing her the teddy bear. As always, Kingston feels a momentary imbalance whenever she watch Ephraim hold Ex, as if some vital part of her has fallen away, never to be found again. She doesn’t know what that feeling is, and it frightens her.

  “Which areas did you check?” Kingston asks as she slips her jacket on, willing the feeling away.

  “Most of the middle section. I gave up after the toilet. I just don’t—” Ephraim breaks off. He’s young enough to be her son, and he’s wrinkled and aged, with sunken eyes. “I’m tired,” he finishes. He sounds just like the woman sounded, after her husband died. Whatever’s eating away at them gnaws at Ephraim more quickly than Kingston. Radiation poisoning, no doubt, although the defective dosimeters can’t confirm it. She knew they couldn’t escape it, even down here.

  “We’re all tired.” Kingston pulls her satchel strap over her shoulders, and a wave of dizzy nausea hits her—low grade, nothing new, she can take it. “Take a nap. You don’t look so good.”

  “You’re no beauty queen.”

  “Never was.” She smiles—a tight-lipped grin that hides the holes left by those loose teeth of long ago. No matter. It’s been months since she’s felt sorrow or self-pity. Years.

  Ephraim sings a Spanish lullaby as Kingston limps into the corridor. Almost immediately, a weight drops from her thin shoulders. Looking in the girl’s face is like looking in a mirror held by a cruel god. After the woman hacked Ex out of Kingston, silent and swollen, Kingston had hobbled out of the room without so much as a glance back, dragging placenta and bloody strands behind her. It wasn’t her fault. Four months in, she knew it was wrong, but the man wouldn’t let her abort it. He’d kept her under close watch, him and the teenage Ephraim, who they’d found wandering the scab lands on their way to the shelter. Maybe it’d have been different, if Sanders’ wife and child had showed up. The man wouldn’t have fixated on that lump in her stomach, “our future” as he put it once. Then again, maybe they did show up. Kingston heard knocking, once, maybe….