by Tom Abrahams
He flexed his hand against the building stiffness in his knuckles and fisted another icy handful to stuff into his mouth. His fingers were red and cold. His knees creaked as he pushed himself back to his feet and pulled on his glove. He was about thirty feet or so from the bottom of the wide wooden steps. He noticed a gap on the side of the vertical planking that decorated the side of the staircase, beneath the steps themselves, and ran the length of the staircase’s rise to the center’s entrance. Two of the planks, which resembled fence boards, were split. It left an opening to a relatively protected space underneath the stairwell.
Clayton looked at the gap and tried to gauge its width. Could he fit the bodies through the space? He twisted his body to look at them. It was worth a try.
He edged next to the first of the two bodies, opened one of the packs, and pulled out the one tool he knew would help him with both hiding the bodies and getting inside the building. His gloved hand gripped the barrel of the TP-82, the Russian pistol whose buttstock was attached to an axe. He held it in one hand while disconnecting Boris’s body from Ben’s and painfully dragged Voin in his chair to the side of the stairs, a couple of feet from the slim opening. Up close, it was likely too narrow a squeeze for either corpse.
Clayton was winded, his breathing shallow and ragged. He removed the pistol’s barrel from the buttstock and stepped to the gap in the boards. A couple of quick chops and he could cleanly separate the boards giving him more than enough room to maneuver the bodies into the protected space under the steps.
He pressed on one of the boards with the hand holding the barrel, steadying himself to swing downward onto the board next to it and widen the opening. As he raised the axe, the board on which he was leaning gave way and Clayton tumbled forward, landing hard on his chest. His chin slammed into the board and his jaw chomped shut with such force he thought he’d broken it.
He rolled onto his side and lay there for a moment, trying to blink the fuzzy blur from his vision. He worked his mouth open and closed, gulping a shallow breath of cold air.
“So much for being an engineer. That was an epic mechanical failure.”
Only when he sat up did he realize he’d lost the TP-82. It had flown from his hand when he fell. He twisted to one side and then the other and found the weapon, the buttstock handle sticking out of the icy dirt at a forty-five-degree angle. He crawled over to it, yanked it from the ice, and reattached the barrel.
There was virtually no snow underneath the steps. The ground was blackish brown dirt buried under ice. It was a large space, plenty big for two bodies, and it was enclosed except for the opening Clayton inadvertently created. He looked back at the mess he’d made. There was the one board on the ice, now split in two. The board next to it was broken in half. The bottom half lay on the ice. The top half was still attached to the horizontal beam that ran perpendicular to the fence-like wooden wall.
Clayton crawled back through the opening, his jaw throbbing such that the searing pain in his leg wasn’t noticeable. He grabbed the cord attached to Boris Voin’s seat and dragged it, still on his knees, through the ragged opening and under the wooden steps. Letting go of the cord, he pressed his gloved hands onto his thighs.
His sore jaw was chattering. His chest felt heavy. Everything felt heavy. His muscles ached. Every breath was becoming more and more difficult to execute. If he didn’t know better, Clayton would have thought he was dying.
“I’m not dying in Canada,” he muttered to himself. “No way I’m surviving a CME, a ballistic descent, a pack of wolves, and a hike down a glacier only to die in the land of Nickelback. Not gonna happen.”
Grunting, he crawled back through the opening into the snow. He took as deep a breath as his lungs would allow and exhaled, the thick humid puff of air clouding the air in front of his face. He adjusted the cap on his head and marched back to Ben Greenwood. He repeated the same task as he had with Boris and again was on his knees under the relative shelter of the steps.
“All right,” he said to his crewmates, “this will have to do for now. I’ll come back for you. I promise.”
Clayton looked at the bodies, gray and grotesquely hardened into their seats, and without warning his chest heaved. A wave of emotion overcame him and a cry he didn’t recognize as his own leaked from his mouth, and tears pooled in his eyes. He pressed his hands flat against the icy ground and sobbed. For the first time in months’ tears didn’t float, they didn’t form a sphere and stick to his eyes. They fell. They streamed down his cheeks, the salt keeping them from freezing.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, trying to regain his composure. “I am so sorry.”
His apology, however, wasn’t to the dead men next to him. It was to Jackie and Marie and Chris. He saw himself in those dead astronauts.
The emotion subsided as quickly as it had overtaken him, and Clayton got back to work. He removed his packs from the chairs and used the broken boards to seal up as much of the gap as possible.
With the packs over his shoulders, Clayton climbed the steps once more to the locked door. His original plan was to use the axe to gain entry, but that hadn’t worked so well on the fence. Given that he was a mechanical engineer, Clayton figured he could find a less violent way to break in to the visitors’ center.
How tough could it be? It was basic mechanics.
He eyeballed the lock up close. It looked like the keyed deadbolt on his garage door back home. A pin tumbler. It was a simple lock mechanism with pins of varying lengths.
He’d never picked a lock, but figured it couldn’t be that difficult if he understood the mechanics of it. He rubbed his hand on his chin and winced from the pain. He worked his jaw open and closed. It wasn’t broken, but it was badly bruised.
“All right,” he said. “If I had a key, I’d slide it into the lock. It would alter the depth of the pins and they’d line up along a gap inside the lock. That lets the key turn. So, I just need to manipulate the pins into thinking I’ve used a key.”
From one of his packs he pulled a pair of multi-tools. He took off his gloves and found the tool that most closely resembled a tension wrench. He opened the thinnest tool, which was essentially a miniature awl.
Clayton inserted the tension wrench into the bottom of the key hole and applied slight pressure, turning the wrench as he would a key. It wasn’t easy with his fingers mostly numb. He was able to maintain the pressure, which applied tension to the plug inside the lock. He took the second tool and slid the awl into the top of the keyhole. He moved the awl back and forth, raking it against the inside of the lock and lifting it slightly as he pulled back.
Five minutes later, the lock was picked and Clayton was inside the building, using his backside to close the door behind him. He sank to the floor, his back to the door, and exhaled. He’d gotten himself out of the elements; he’d secured his friends’ bodies for the time being. Now it was time to formulate a plan. Step one was getting back on the radio. His newfound Canadian friend Steve had said he was in Alberta. Maybe Steve could help.
CHAPTER 15
SUNDAY, JANUARY 26, 2020, 4:22 PM CST
CLEAR LAKE, TEXAS
Justin’s girlfriend was peering through the misshapen aluminum blinds drawn across the window above the kitchen sink. She was holding the baby with one arm, her hips swaying.
“Justin,” she called over her shoulder without taking her eyes from the window, “come here. This is weird.”
He was in the bedroom at the opposite end of the apartment. He didn’t respond.
“Justin!”
Palero slinked into the kitchen. “What is it?”
She glanced at Palero and shook her head. “Could you go get him, please?”
Palero eased next to her and tried looking out the window. She shouldered him away and motioned her head toward the bedroom.
“He ain’t gonna want me to wake him,” Palero protested, but backed away. “I’m just saying…”
Five minutes later, a bleary-eyed Justin shuffled into the kitchen. He
was shirtless, revealing a myriad of tattoos. The monochromatic ink was a mix of symbols and quotations. At the center of it was his girlfriend’s name in gothic print.
He rubbed the top of his head and yawned. “What do you want? I finally fell asleep and I got work to do tonight.”
She shifted the baby from one hip to the other. “I figured you’d want to see what’s going on outside.”
Justin slid past her, his hand trailing across the baby’s back as he moved. He stepped to the window and yanked up the blinds. They clanked and swung back and forth once he let go of the cord. He looked out the window and twisted his knuckles into his eyes, thinking that might erase what he was seeing. It didn’t.
“What the—?” he asked. “How long has this been going on?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I saw it right before Palero woke you up.”
There was a parade of military vehicles moving along the main street that ran in front of Justin’s apartment complex. They rolled one after the other, escorted by armed soldiers on foot.
Palero joined Justin at the window. “What do you think it means?”
“It means things are gonna get a lot worse,” Justin replied. “It means we do have to take care of our own. No doubt.”
“Where are they coming from?” asked Palero.
Justin shook his head. “I dunno. Doesn’t matter. They’re here and they look serious.”
“Go find out what they’re doing,” Wanda said. “Run out there and ask them.”
Justin looked over his shoulder at his woman. Again, with the orders. He elbowed Palero. “Go ask.”
Palero squinted. “Seriously?”
Justin stood motionless, his facial expression unchanged. Palero apparently got the hint. He huffed and marched out the front door like a pouting toddler, yanked up his jeans, and jogged to the open gate at the front of the complex. He waved at one of the men on foot and then started walking alongside him, stepping out of view. An armored personnel carrier rumbled past, a flower vase on the sill between the sink and the window rattling from the low vibration of the vehicle. Justin cracked his neck to one side and then the other. The soldiers were carrying serious weaponry. The rifles looked like the kinds he’d seen in action movies or on CNN.
He needed more sleep. His body was sore and he knew from experience that his neck and shoulders carried his tension.
Palero reappeared with his hands in his belt loops. He pulled up his pants and jogged back to the apartment. He was panting when he shut the door behind him and rejoined Justin in the kitchen.
“You’re out of breath?” asked Justin. “From that?”
Palero wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his index finger. “I ran, dude. I had to catch up with someone who could talk. Everybody kept saying to ask someone else.”
“So?”
“So I ran until somebody would talk to me.”
“What did they say?”
“They have orders to secure the primary arteries surrounding NASA.”
“Arteries?”
“The main streets,” Wanda explained. “They’re controlling the main streets. What else did they tell you?”
Palero shrugged. “That’s it, except they told me to stay off the streets at night, that it’s too dangerous.”
“It doesn’t make sense, really,” Wanda said. “The power’s been out a couple days and the army is moving in and shutting down streets?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Justin stressed. “This is getting worse. The government’s not telling us something. They’re keeping secrets. That’s why we gotta handle our business.”
Wanda rocked, keeping the child on her hip quiet against her shoulder. She glanced at Palero and then at Justin. She nodded. “You’re right.”
Justin cupped her face in his hands. He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs and looked her in the eyes. “I’m gonna provide. If I gotta kill, I gotta kill. You understand?”
She nodded.
He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m checking this out,” he said and led Palero through the front door. “I wanna see this up close.”
He marched deliberately through the parking lot and beyond the open wrought-iron gate. The gate was useless. It hadn’t worked in months. It was the illusion of security. The gate couldn’t do anything to protect him. Neither could the soldiers. Whatever had happened was so big and so bad, it had the government spooked. It had the army marching down his street, looking to protect NASA. Justin doubted that was really what they were doing anyhow. It was probably a cover. He wasn’t book smart, but he typically had common sense, even if he hadn’t demonstrated it at that dead woman’s house earlier in the day. He knew a ruse when he saw it.
He folded his arms across his chest and watched the caravan roll past. The weight of the machinery vibrated in his bones as it moved past him. It was impressive. “You know what this reminds me of?” he asked Palero, who was standing beside him. “Those shots you see of the Chinese or Koreans or whatever, and how they march. They’ve got their tanks and their flags and they get all serious. They march and they salute their president or whatever. That’s what this looks like.”
“Yeah,” said Palero. “I get it. Kinda looks like that.”
Justin pointed at a soldier as he passed. “I’d like to get one of those guns. Those could do some serious damage.”
“I bet,” said Palero. “They look like it.”
“I gotta wonder though,” said Justin. “How are there Jeeps and trucks and tanks all moving? How come they ain’t stalled like all of the other cars?”
“I don’t see any tanks.”
“You know what I mean,” said Justin. “How come their trucks ain’t dead?”
Palero shrugged. “It’s the army, J. I bet they got some special hi-tech military engines or something.”
Justin rubbed his head with his hand, considering Palero’s theory. There was a part of him that was terrified at the idea of a new world, one without power or structure. There was another part of him, the part that guided his misdeeds that relished the thought of relative anarchy.
The government was protecting itself. It was turning inward instead of reaching out to help its people. It was a clear sign that the power outage wasn’t temporary.
“All right,” he said to Palero. “Let’s head back. I’ve seen enough.”
CHAPTER 16
SUNDAY, JANUARY 26, 2020, 4:54 PM CST
CLEAR LAKE, TEXAS
Rick stood at the end of Jackie’s driveway, sniffing the stale smoke in the air. It was pungent and stung his nostrils, but he couldn’t stop inhaling the aroma. There was an odd odor mixed in the ashy scent. It was sour. Rick recognized it as decay.
He folded his arms across his chest and stared at the char across the cul-de-sac. Only the driveways told him how many houses had once stood opposite Jackie’s. There was a trio of airplane seats dangling from a large oak tree in one of the yards. The tree was torched at its trunk and the leaves that hadn’t succumbed to the faint chill of a southeast Texas winter were dying.
“You busy?”
Nikki was walking toward him. Her wet hair was pulled back against her head in a ponytail, her face clean of makeup. Her eyes were bright, despite the dark circles framing them.
He shook his head. “Not for you,” he said. He couldn’t help himself. Flirting was reflexive.
Nikki sidled up next to him. She smelled like soap. “What are you doing out here?”
Rick shrugged. “Just thinking. The world is going to be different.”
“You said that already,” Nikki said. She grabbed her ponytail and squeezed some excess water from it. “I still don’t agree with you.”
Rick’s eyebrows arched and he tucked his hands into his pockets. . “Why’s that?”
Nikki licked her lips. In the fading light of the sinking sun and the pink aura that cast a rosy glow on everyone and everything, she was striking. Rick looked at his feet to avoid staring at her.
�
��I ultimately think this is a glitch,” she said. “I’m not saying it’s not serious, but I think people tend to overreact. They think the worst and then behave accordingly.”
“A glitch, huh?”
“Yes,” she said. “A glitch.”
“For a badass, you’re sounding incredibly naïve.”
Nikki put her fingertips on Rick’s chin and raised his eyes to hers. “That’s a backhanded compliment,” she said with the hint of a smile. “And I can honestly say nobody has ever called Deep Six Nikki naïve.”
Rick chuckled. “Now you’re referring to yourself in the third person? That’s gotta be a sign that this is the apocalypse.”
“I did that for your benefit.”
Tingling warmth radiated across Rick’s body. It was the kind of feeling he got when a woman caught his lingering gaze or the moment before he moved in for a kiss. He stepped back from Nikki and cleared his throat.
“No. That’s why I wanted to come out here and talk to you.”
Rick took another step away from her and tightened his arms across his chest again. His eyes narrowed, his jaw set. He swallowed hard. The warmth in his body had given way to the chilly breeze that swirled past.
“After I cleaned up,” she said, “I asked Jackie if it was okay if I stayed with her.”
Rick swallowed again and eked out a reply as if he’d been gut punched. “Why?”
“She needs me more than you do,” said Nikki. “You can take care of yourself if you run into anything.”
Rick’s brow crinkled with an epiphany. “It’s Karen, isn’t it? My ex. She spooked you.”
Nikki shook her head. “No, not really. I mean, I don’t want to be a distraction. Your son and his mom should be your priority. I’d be—”
“You wouldn’t be in the way,” said Rick. “I don’t…I don’t even know what we are, you and me, so how could that be a distraction?”
Nikki blushed. “I like you, Rick,” she said. “It’s probably amplified by the nonstop adrenaline rushes we’ve experienced together over the last day and a half. Still, you’re good-looking and funny. You’re a bit of a player for my liking, but that’s not it.”
