by Tom Abrahams
An excuse for what? A New World Order?
Chandra stood from the plaque and backed away. He wove his way through the crowd mindlessly, leaving his group behind, until he spotted an unusual painting on the terminal wall. It wasn’t new to him. He’d passed by the mural-sized artwork countless times, but like the capstone, he’d never taken the time to give it attention.
It was titled In Peace and Harmony With Nature and at first blush was a brightly colored celebration of children and animals interacting with one another. When viewed alongside its companion pieces, however, it took on a much more sinister interpretation.
Together, the three pieces, painted by artist Leo Tanguma, offered a fiery glimpse into an apocalyptic future rife with bio warfare, armed Nazi-esque soldiers, and reminders of the Holocaust. Chandra felt as though his eyes were open for the first time, as if a veil was lifted and he was seeing clearly the clues hidden in plain sight.
He stumbled back through the crowd and found his way to Treadgold. His boss was talking with the security specialist Bert Martin.
“Excuse me,” he said, tugging on Treadgold’s sleeve. “I need to speak with you. Sorry, Bert.”
“No worries,” said Bert, adjusting the backpack strap and tugging on the tail of his barn jacket. “Our conversation wasn’t worth a Zack. Have at it.”
Treadgold’s eyes popped wide and his jaw dropped. He put his hands on the scientist’s shoulders. “Are you okay, Chandra? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Chandra looked at Treadgold’s hand on his shoulder, focusing on the large ring he’d often seen his boss twisting in a nervous habit. He nodded blankly, and as Treadgold moved his hands away, Chandra saw the detail of the ring. At its center was the masonic logo he’d seen on the granite dedication marker.
Treadgold looked at the ring himself and dipped his hands into his pockets. He stepped back from Chandra. “What’s wrong, Vihaan?”
Chandra looked over both shoulders, scanning the crowd for anyone watching him. He lowered his voice. “This is what you were talking about, isn’t it? This place.”
“What do you mean?”
Chandra hesitated and scanned the room again. He spoke through his teeth like a ventriloquist. “This place,” he stressed. “The airport. This was built with the end of the world in mind.”
Treadgold stepped forward. “Yes,” he whispered. “It was.”
“Who built it?”
Treadgold pulled his hands from his pockets, clasping them together and rubbing one thumb with the other. “The US government…and other interested parties.”
Chandra’s eyes flashed at the ring. “Like the Masons?”
Treadgold looked at his hands. “Like the Masons. And others who have an interest in seeing society continue beyond an irreparable disaster.”
“So there’s always been a plan to provide for the few and leave the rest of the world to cannibalize itself?”
“Not always. I told you, Vihaan, the CME that hit and the one only hours away now were an excuse to activate the protocol. We’ve been waiting for something to trigger…”
“Trigger what?”
“A renewal.”
Chandra was trembling. The numbness in his feet had spread up his legs. He was wobbly. “What does that mean?” he asked, leaning on a nearby pillar. “And how do you know all of this?”
“It means the world is getting too crowded. If Mother Nature hadn’t taken care of the problem, we’d have done it mechanically or virally. Thankfully it didn’t come to that.”
Tears welled in Chandra’s eyes. The realization that the world he knew and the one in which he was about to live were under the influence of Oz made him nauseous. He tasted bile in the back of his throat. “Virally?”
Treadgold gently took Chandra’s arm above the elbow and steadied him. He took another step closer to the scientist. “You asked me how I know this.”
Chandra nodded. His tears spilled from his eyes and raced down his cheeks.
“I know because I’m an employee of one of those interested parties,” he said. “There are many of us sprinkled throughout the traditional government. We’re placed in spots from which we observe and react.”
“Many of you?”
Treadgold smiled. “I should correct myself. There were many of us. The government doesn’t really exist in its same form anymore. Not as of the initiation of the Descent Protocol.”
Chandra’s eyes drifted up toward the ground level and the main concourse. “So what happens up there?”
Treadgold shrugged. “Who knows? My pay grade only allows me so much information. I’m not at a level where I have all of the answers.”
“Guess.”
“Guess? Okay.” Treadgold chuckled. “The military will enforce some semblance of order for as long as necessary, which I imagine will quickly disintegrate. Then, as I’ve said and you’ve suggested, it’s every man, woman, and child for himself.”
“Why are you telling me this? Why me? I’m not anybody.”
Treadgold looked at the scientist incredulously. “That’s an odd question. I’m telling you, Vihaan, because you asked. And because there’s nothing you can do about it now anyway. You’re here. I picked you because you’re smart. Until recently I found you levelheaded, and you have no familial attachments. I can always change my mind and send you back to the surface if you’d prefer.”
Chandra’s mind swam with questions and visions of Dante’s Inferno. Then Van Cleaf was on the loudspeaker. She stood on a security conveyor belt and spoke directly into a megaphone.
“Attention, please.” She waited for the crowd to quiet. “The train is arriving in a moment. I need everyone from my bus aboard the train. You’ll enter the cars, find an open seat or handrail, and await further instructions.”
“Where are the trains taking us?” Chandra asked Treadgold.
The boss tilted his head to one side. “I’ve answered enough questions for now, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER 22
MISSION ELAPSED TIME
73 DAYS, 22 HOURS, 2 MINUTES, 37 SECONDS
JASPER, ALBERTA, CANADA
Clayton emerged from the bathroom, tugging at his waistband. His pants felt decidedly more comfortable than they did when he’d entered the dark stall. It was the first time in ten and a half weeks he’d relieved himself aided by gravity.
For all its technical marvel, the ISS wasn’t designed by Kohler. The toilets, one on the American side and one on the Russian side, were crude at best. The only privacy was a thin partition, which did virtually nothing to contain the noise and odor of nature’s most basic functions.
The toilet, while brilliantly designed, lacked comfort. To urinate, both men and women used a vacuum with a suction attachment that looked like a fighter pilot’s oxygen mask. They’d apply the mask to the appropriate location and hope that everything went where it was supposed to go. The toilet seat contained a relatively small hole, also with vacuum suction, that also provided its challenges. There were a lot of cleaning supplies for mishaps. Using an earthbound bathroom was a treat in the midst of the hellish adversity in which he found himself.
Clayton limped toward the windows. He pressed his nose to the cold glass and scanned the red-hued darkness outside. The aurora was undulating in the sky and the cloud cover gave it the appearance of strawberry-flavored milk swirling in a glass. He cupped his hands around his eyes and looked as far in each direction as he could. There was no sign of anyone or anything. A gust of wind howled outside and the windows flexed in response. Clayton stepped back and leaned on his good leg.
Steve Kremer couldn’t be far now. They’d spoken twice since Steve had left his home. Both times, Steve had indicated he was making good progress toward Jasper and the Columbia Icefield visitors’ center.
“The roads are dotted with dead cars and trucks,” Steve had said. “It’s as if time stopped.”
“Have you seen any people?” Clayton had asked.
“A couple. They w
ere at a filling station I passed. Nobody on the roads. You ever read those Left Behind books? The ones about the rapture?”
“I never did. I know what you’re talking about though. They were bestsellers.”
“This reminds me of that. All the believers disappeared, planes and cars crashed, and the nonbelievers were left behind to live through Armageddon.”
Clayton had ended the first conversation at that. He didn’t like the idea of a Hell on Earth, of his wife and children by themselves without protection. He also didn’t want to think about his own salvation. Not right now. Considering whether or not he’d done enough to earn entry into Heaven was too much.
He’d promised his father he’d meet him there. When he’d envisioned his twin sister, eternally an eighth-grade math whiz and select soccer star, he saw her in a beautifully pristine, carefree place best described as Heaven.
He and Jackie were what people at their church called twice-a-year Christians. They went to services on Easter and Christmas Eve. That was the extent of it.
Clayton thought about their casual approach to religion and how that might affect their survival in this new world. He didn’t doubt the existence of a higher power. He’d seen proof of it from the cupola, looking back at the blue, green, and white sphere that spun beneath him. Still, facing his mortality wasn’t something he was prepared to do. There were more pressing concerns.
The second conversation with Steve had been shorter. It was a status check and gave Clayton hope he wouldn’t be stuck in Jasper much longer. His radio was nearly dead, precluding him from having a long chat with Steve or from scanning frequencies to try to contact anyone else.
Finally, as he was about to give up his sentry at the window, a pale white light cut a wide path through the darkness. It was moving and was, without a doubt, his new best friend.
Clayton pumped his fists with excitement, sighed with relief, and limped to the entrance. A blast of wickedly cold air unexpectedly hit him in the face as he opened the door. He winced, zipped his jacket up to his chin, and pulled on the hood. Using the flashlight, he descended the wooden stairs and crunched through the snow on the way to Steve’s pickup truck.
Steve left the engine running and the lights on as he hopped from his truck and trudged around the front of it to greet Clayton. He extended a hand and offered a wide, warm smile.
Steve was tall and thin. He had gray hair and carried a quiet confidence. “Mr. Livingstone, I presume?”
Clayton laughed as much at the historical reference as he did that Steve had no idea how apropos it was. He took Steve’s hand and pulled him close for a one-armed hug.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Clayton said. “You risked your life for mine.”
Steve stepped back and sniffed. He rubbed his nose with the back of his wrist. “Not really,” he said with a wink. “I needed to get out and stretch my legs.”
“Let’s get out of the cold for a second,” said Clayton, his eyes watering from a gust of wind blowing from the glacier across the highway. He waved Steve the short distance from his truck to the steps and into the building. Once inside, Clayton pulled off his hood.
“It’s not much warmer in here, is it?” Steve asked, following Clayton toward the service desk in the middle of the space.
“Not really, but at least there’s no wind.”
They stopped at the desk, and Steve, who was wearing an oversized red parka that stretched to his knees, planted his hands on his hips. He surveyed the packs on the floor and then looked back toward the truck.
“We should have plenty of room in the bed for your things. No problem there. Anything else you got? We can start loading up lickety-split.”
Clayton hesitated before answering. “There is something else.”
Steve scanned the space around him, narrowing his eyes to see in the relative dark. “Sure. What is it?”
“I told you I crashed,” said Clayton, “and while that is true, it’s not entirely forthcoming.”
Steve cocked his head like a bird in anticipation. “Okay…?”
“I’m an astronaut,” said Clayton, exhaling as he spoke. “And I was on the International Space Station.”
Steve chuckled until apparently realizing Clayton wasn’t kidding. “Oh?”
“We lost power an instant before you did here on Earth,” Clayton explained. “I had to figure out how to deploy the Soyuz. I did. But I didn’t have any real guidance. That’s why when I landed, I had no clue where I was.”
Steve folded his arms across his chest. He took a step away from Clayton but kept his eyes focused on the astronaut. His eyes danced between the packs stamped with Russian Cyrillic lettering and the most earnest expression Clayton could muster. “An astronaut?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “On the ISS?”
Clayton nodded and swallowed hard. “I wasn’t the only one aboard.”
Steve’s brow furrowed. He unfolded his arms, scratched his temples, and looked over his shoulder toward the building entrance.
“I am the only one who survived,” Clayton said. “Boris Voin, a cosmonaut, and Ben Greenwood, an astro—”
Steve’s eyes widened. “Ben Greenwood? He died?”
“You know him?”
“I know of him,” said Steve. “I did talk with him once. I accidentally caught him on the HAM up there.” Steve pointed up. His eyes followed, looking past the ceiling and toward the orbit of the dying ISS. “He answered a couple of my questions. I’ve watched some of his YouTube videos. He did one a few years ago that explained how you sleep up there. He’s dead?”
Clayton blinked back a surprising well of tears. “Yes. He and Boris were on a spacewalk when a coronal mass ejection hit the station. I tried to save them.”
“So they’re still…up there?”
Clayton shifted his weight to his bad leg and then back to his good one. Looking at the floor, he shook his head. “I brought them with me. I couldn’t leave them.”
The color drained from Steve’s face and he gasped. Again, he spun around, looking for signs of Clayton’s crewmates. His complexion morphed from ghostly white to aurora green.
Clayton ended the unnecessary suspense. His lips quivered. “They’re outside.”
Steve took another step away from Clayton. “Did you bury them?”
Clayton shook his head. “I know it sounds morbid and strange, but I can’t leave them. I feel a real sense of responsibility to get them home. I can’t really explain it.”
Steve drew a hand to his face, covering his nose and mouth. Clayton wasn’t sure what more to say to him. He knew how crazy he sounded. He knew it would have been better to have given Steve a heads-up that he intended to commandeer his truck as a hearse, but if he had, what were the chances the benevolent Canadian would have risked his own safety to come get him? It was a lose-lose proposition.
“Look,” Clayton said, “I get that you’re probably freaked out. You don’t know me. You can’t verify what I’m telling you. Google doesn’t work. But you are my only salvation here, and if you’re okay with it, I’d like to put their bodies in the truck bed and take them with us back to Red Deer.”
Steve pointed at the packs on the floor. “One condition,” he said. “I get to keep that thing.”
“It’s yours,” said Clayton. “Thank you.”
Steve crouched down and picked up his trinket, turning it over in his hands. “What is it exactly?”
“It’s a TP-82,” said Clayton, “a combination pistol and axe. Boris brought it up with him. I found it in his stuff.”
Steve held up the relic. “You know I’d help you even if you didn’t give me this,” he said. “I came all this way and, the truth of the matter is, your story is way too wacky to be a lie.”
Clayton wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and grabbed one of the packs. Steve picked up the other and the two of them marched to the exit.
“No offense intended here,” said Steve as he lugged the heavy pack over one shoulder while gri
pping the TP-82 in the other, “but something smells a little rank.”
Clayton looked over his shoulder at Steve and kept limping along. “Russian space food. It tastes better than it smells, except for the fish Veracruz.”
Steve rushed ahead of Clayton to get to the door first. He spun around and walked the last few steps backwards. He pushed his backside into the door and nudged it open. A violent gust of wind blew through the opening and knocked Steve off-balance. He managed to keep his footing and held the door ajar as Clayton thanked him and moved gingerly onto the icy wooden platform leading to the stairs. The wind speeding off the edge of the glacier was icy and virtually blinding.
“You’re limping,” Steve said loudly above the wail.
Clayton lowered his head to avoid the ice-laced wind. It felt like a sandblaster. “Wolves,” he said. “Up on the ice field.”
“Wolves?” Steve let the door slap closed behind him and shuffled his boots to the first step.
“Yes, wolves.”
“Huh,” said Steve. “Usually they’ll stay away from people. “What did you say?”
Clayton reached the first landing and stopped. He faced Steve. It was too hard to hear him otherwise. Steve plodded down another pair of steps and drew even with Clayton on the landing. “I said wolves usually stay away from people. They don’t like to engage. They’d much prefer to go after easy kills. Things that are already dead.”
Clayton adjusted the pack on his shoulder and stepped with his good leg first down another flight of steps. Steve was right next to him. The truck was only twenty feet from the bottom steps. Clayton tightened his grip on the pack and navigated the final steps. His legs and lower back burned. His neck and shoulders ached. He managed one last feat of strength and heaved the pack from his shoulder and into the truck bed. Steve did the same and moved close to Clayton, their backs to the wind.
“This wind really picked up,” Steve said. “It wasn’t this bad when I got here. Gusty, sure, but not like this.”
“I’m sorry,” Clayton said distractedly. His mind had already moved to the next, even more undesirable task.
