by Joe Hart
But what if they stumble on Ian’s cabin while crossing the Cascades? What if Tyee sees the lies in your face? What then?
He needs to think of a way to defuse the problem before it becomes something he can’t handle. He’ll go over it tonight at the apartment after his shift. Maybe he’ll even tell Ray the truth. He knows Ray won’t judge him or say anything to anyone else. All the man has been to him is gentle and kind. Someone who’s filled the void left by his father’s gaping absence.
Lee feels tears rise around the borders of his eyes and closes his mind to everything except the pattern of his breathing and the steady slap of his falling feet as he begins to run.
Several minutes later the port comes into view, the wide expanses of concrete marred here and there by crumbling edges where massive steel cranes once were mounted to load and unload cargo. In the years since the Dearth they’ve been sabotaged, dismantled, destroyed, fallen into the sea. Immediately he begins diagramming the broken areas in his mind, adding supports and re-forming the concrete borders as well as envisioning a new row of cranes, compact and versatile in their movements and function.
As he nears the lower platforms closest to the water, Lee gazes out at the thick veil of fog. It’s solidified even more in the past hour so that now it resembles a starched bedsheet hung from the roiling clouds above, all the way down to the ocean.
“Look what we have here!” a gruff voice yells. Lee drops his eyes from the blankness of the fog, searching for the man who spoke.
Gibson Weller stands beside a length of coiled rope as thick as Lee’s thigh. Weller’s bald pate shines with moisture. His close-set eyes are two piercing beads that study him, hands like pieces of rawhide set on his hips, arms knotted with muscles that bulge beneath his long-sleeved shirt. Lee’s never seen a gorilla outside a book, but if there is a person he would liken to one, it’s Weller.
Lee jogs closer and stops, digging for the note Tyee gave him. “Good morning, sir.”
Weller pulls a blunt cigar from behind his ear and lights it, drawing hard until a thin coil of smoke wafts from the end. “What the hell’s good about it?”
Lee can’t help but smile. Weller’s brusque exterior is plating like a machine with a delicate interior. The dock foreman’s temper is the stuff of legend, but his ability to forgive and offer a kind word is well known among the workers. Lee manages to draw out the folded note and hands it over just as Connor comes strolling from between a tottering pile of pallets.
“What’s this shit?” Weller says, reading. Lee glances at his approaching friend and Connor jerks his chin in his direction.
“Needed your help a minute ago, but you’re like a blister. You show up after the work’s done,” Connor says, slugging him in the arm. The lanky man gives him a lopsided grin revealing crooked teeth.
“I’m sure you could handle it,” Lee says.
“That’s not the point. As assistant dock foreman I expect service and respect from a lowly engineering lackey.”
“Shut it, McKay,” Weller growls. He puffs on his cigar and refolds the note before looking at Lee. “Tell Loring when you see him we need a different design for the equipment ramp in the north sector; some of the supports folded under the last shipment.”
“Sure thing.”
“Note from the mayor’s office?” Connor asks. He reaches for the paper and Weller slaps his hand away with surprising quickness.
“Try it again and you’ll lose a finger. And how many times do I have to tell you you’re not assistant foreman?”
“I might as well be. I’ve been here the longest besides you.”
Weller ignores him and focuses on Lee. “Also, if we could get another cargo ladder built, it would help with unloading; we’re two short as it is.”
“Absolutely.”
“You should come down here and do some real work sometime,” Connor says, grinning again. “Get your hands dirty. Strengthen that wobbly back of yours. God knows we could use a few more men on the docks.”
“Shut it, McKay,” Weller interrupts. “Lee’s got his job. You’ve got yours. And if you had any brains in your skull you wouldn’t be rucking supplies up from a hold.” To Lee he says, “One other thing, when I saw Loring last night, he said he was going to be undertaking the retrofit of a few machines over at the munitions factory. When you see him, tell him . . .” Weller’s words trail off as he glances past Lee toward the encroaching fog. He stands like a statue, squinting into the murk of the harbor.
“What is it?” Lee asks.
“Something out there.” Weller takes a couple steps in the direction of the water and stops. Lee follows, searching the impenetrable curtain that swirls and shifts.
“I don’t see anything,” Connor says.
“It’s there. Beyond the mist,” Weller says, voice soft. Seagulls wheel overhead, their cries mournful and muted.
Lee stares at the fog, listening. Faintly there is the shush of water against a hull, quiet but steady. “A ship,” he says.
“Yeah, I hear it too,” Connor says. “Just a ship, sir.”
“That’s what bothers me,” Weller replies. “There’s no arrivals scheduled for the next two days.”
Weller walks farther out on the pier, slow controlled movements. Lee follows. Something moves through the veil, a darker shadow in the heavy, swirling air. All three men stand side by side at the edge of the broken concrete. Waiting.
The gulls scream.
Water laps below.
The hush of the approaching vessel grows louder.
The shadow Lee’s been watching darkens, begins to take on definition and detail. But something isn’t right. The top of the ship is . . . strange. Too pointed and long. It doesn’t look like anything . . .
His eyes widen.
What at first he’d thought was the very top of a cabin or superstructure breaks free of the fog. It isn’t the cabin at all but the bow of an enormous ship, much bigger than he’s ever seen in the harbor. Its prow is narrow and curved slightly upward in a predatory fashion that immediately sets off a warning bell in his mind. More of the ship glides free of the mist and several faded numbers appear on the portside. But what’s mounted on the top of the deck is what holds his attention.
Turrets supporting enormous barrels point directly at the shoreline, a massive tower rising above them lined with satellite dishes and antennas.
“God Almighty,” Weller whispers.
The ship glides fully into view with disturbing silence.
Everything seems to hang on the edge of a second.
Motionless.
Crystalline.
Then there is a blast of fire from one of the enormous barrels followed by a sound so loud it’s nearly inconceivable. The boom reverberates in Lee’s chest and he feels himself rock backward on his heels.
A drilling whistle fills the air, followed by an explosion almost as loud as the first, and the mortar station three hundred yards to the north detonates in a shower of sandbags and a mist of vaporized cinder block and men.
Lee staggers back, nearly losing his balance. His ears ring and he can feel the heat of the shell but can’t get past the vision of men he knew disappearing in a fragmented wash of blood and debris.
Weller is yelling something over and over, swinging one arm around in a pinwheel motion. Lee’s mind whirs. What was the protocol for being attacked? What had Ray told him? Assist any clerics with securing the women. Then help distribute arms and ammunition to the guards. After that run extra rounds to the snipers on the walls.
He blinks and shakes his head, the whining from the first shell still blocking out all sound. No. He’s not in the ARC anymore. Not behind the walls. He’s in the city.
Another flash of fire bursts from the ship’s guns. Then two more. The sound is immense, beyond hearing anymore. He feels the shells, their targets destroyed so suddenly and completely it’s like they were never there at all.
Then a hand grasps him by the collar and spins him around. Connor
. The other man drags him back toward the city and it takes his legs several seconds to remember their job. When he begins to run, Connor lets him go and motions to a reinforced bunker built on a slight rise overlooking the harbor. There are weapons there, rocket-propelled grenades and mortars they can fight back with.
Lee runs as fast as he can but Connor pulls away from him easily, his long legs outdistancing him with each stride. The guns bellow again and something explodes a half block away in a shower of brick. Screams start to filter through the tinny whining in his ears, unearthly yells that aren’t sounds human beings should make.
They near the bunker along with several other men, Connor leading the pack as he sprints through the open door and out of sight. Two more dockworkers follow before there is a terrific vibration along the side of Lee’s head and he sprawls to the ground but not before he sees the bunker vanish in an eruption of concrete and rebar. It’s as if the ground has rejected the structure, shoving it up in the air while pulverizing it at the same time.
Lee’s head feels as if it’s going to follow the bunker’s example. His ribs throb from where he landed on a curb, and he’s bleeding from the side of his head. He can feel the blood dripping off his chin like tears. Rubble rains down, pattering like hailstones around him. The bunker is gone; all that’s left is a two-foot-high wall at the rear. Something mangled and red slides down a twisted door frame and it takes him nearly five seconds to realize it’s the majority of a right arm still encased in its sleeve.
He pushes himself up, a bout of dizziness coming in layers, each worse than the last. He vomits, almost unaware of doing so as the ground jostles below him. Another shell he’s sure, though he can’t hear it or anything else. His ears pick up only a faint buzzing as he works his jaw, willing his hearing to come back.
Something snags the collar of his jacket and he’s hauled to his feet, Weller’s bloodied face inches from his own. The older man yells something, but Lee doesn’t understand until he’s shoved forward and Weller points up the hill.
Run.
Lee moves up the street, pausing numbly and looking back as soon as Weller’s hand leaves his coat.
The space between the pier and the first street lining the dockyard is gone.
The land itself is there but it is a muddled, ruined waste without anything truly identifiable. Several men climb and crawl through the ruin. Beyond the pier the massive gunship has come to a stop and there is a flurry of activity on its deck. Things being lowered over the side. Boats.
“Come on!” The words are muted but distinguishable. Lee looks at Weller, whose face is again inches from his own. “Run! Let’s go!” Weller slaps him, a stinging pop that sends a jolt of pain down his neck and makes his eyes water. But it does the trick. His feet move again and he realizes that if Weller hadn’t hit him he would’ve stood rooted in place forever, completely captivated by the violence.
The streets are alive with running men. Some take positions behind fences or guardrails, rifles pointed down at the ship and the boats that stream away from its side, while others simply flee up and into the city, disappearing inside buildings and down alleyways.
Lee runs for several blocks before realizing he doesn’t know where he’s going. He’s simply running blind. His heart hammers so hard and fast it feels like one long beat. Faint gunshots ring out behind him and to the left, their pops like the quiet crackle of gravel beneath a boot. Sweat pours off him and he swipes at his face, his hand coming away partially bloody. And all at once he realizes what he’s got to do.
The streets leading up to Skid Row are total chaos. Men stream from buildings, wide eyed and stricken. Some race past him in the direction of the harbor where the first sounds of battle trickle through his battered eardrums.
“What is it? What’s happening?” someone yells as he passes, and an answer comes from the opposite side of the street.
“Invasion! There’s a ship! Get your gun!”
Of course. An invasion. But why? Why now? Why did Connor go into that bunker? Why did the shirtsleeve with the arm in it look so familiar?
Lee slows, lungs full of acid, and bends over, placing his hands on his knees. He sucks in deep breaths of air, trying to force away the darkness encroaching on the corners of his vision. There are more screams coming from the north now and weakly he wonders why that would be. But there’s no time. He has to get to Ray, get him up and move him back somewhere safer away from the fighting.
With an effort he gets going again, the many mornings of running the stairs in the Space Needle coming to his aid. He covers the last blocks quickly and rounds the corner, ready to jog into the apartment’s alley, when he freezes.
To the south, a horde of men travel through the streets.
From this distance Lee can’t tell how many or exactly what weapons they carry; all he knows is that they’re armed and organized. They move quickly and efficiently, several peeling off the main group to enter buildings along the street. Near the rear of the cavalcade are two pickup trucks, men in the beds, weapons pointed forward over the cabs. As he watches, a few city residents enter the street only two blocks down, hurrying in the direction of the larger horde.
There are shouts that are cut off in a hail of gunfire from both sides, but those who just entered the street don’t have a chance. They’re cut down in a matter of seconds and the larger group continues its steady pace. Directly toward Lee.
He forces himself to overpower the fear that grips him. Thoughts whirl through his head. This must be a coordinated attack. First the shock of the ship entering the harbor and now this encroaching army from the south. The screams he heard earlier now make sense. There must be another similar faction moving in from the north, like two waves washing on either side of an island to meet in the middle.
He jumps over a bucket that’s fallen into the alleyway and skids to a stop before Ray’s door. He bursts inside and finds himself looking down the twin barrels of a shotgun.
“Damn it, boy! Could’ve killed you!”
“Ray, we have to go.” Lee moves past the old man, noting it’s the first time he’s seen him out of bed in days and that he looks much thinner than before the sickness descended upon him.
“What do you mean, go? What the hell’s happening out there?”
“An army, a ship. I don’t know. They’re coming down the street, shooting people. We have to hurry.” He snags a burlap bag from the floor and begins tossing in food from the pantry. “Get some warm clothes on, we have to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Lee turns to face the old man. “What? We have to. They’re going to kill us.”
“I’ve lived here for over thirty-five years, son. I’m not leaving now. This is my home.”
“We don’t have a choice. They’re going door to door.”
“Then they’ll be damned surprised when they come through mine.”
“Don’t be stupid, they’ll kill you.”
“Then I’ll die.” Ray’s words are hard as granite, forceful enough for Lee to pause in packing the bag. Ray’s face softens some and he glances at the floor. “Wouldn’t make it farther than the city limits. Not with what’s in my lungs now. But you go. Take that bag and a pistol and go.”
“I’m not leaving you. Not again.” Lee frowns, the memory of his father lying on the infirmary floor lit in flickers of lightning, there and gone.
“You don’t have a choice, son. Get moving. If what you say is true you don’t have more’n a minute.”
Lee’s vision begins to blur. “Please try.”
“Don’t make me force you out. I’m not young, but I’m still strong.” Ray’s voice cracks on the last word and Lee goes to him, embraces the man who brought him back from the point of no return, made him laugh and want to live again. Ray claps him on the back once and pushes him away, gently but with enough force Lee has to take several steps toward the door.
“Go,” Ray says. “I can hear their boots. Go!”
Lee
nods and throws the bag’s strap over his shoulder. He doesn’t look back as he leaves—if he were to, he’d never step out the door.
The air is laced with soft rain when he enters the alley. Judging by the light it’s not even mid-morning yet. Could everything have happened in that short a time? His thoughts are cut off as he hears footsteps echoing from the far end of the alley. He doesn’t wait to see if the men will appear there or not. There’s one direction he can run.
So he does, not looking back at only the second home he’s ever known in his life.
Ray settles himself into his favorite chair and lays the shotgun across his lap. With shaking hands, he uncaps the whiskey and takes two long swallows before setting the bottle on the floor.
So strange to think of things in beginnings and ends. It feels like only the other day he was driving his route, in a hurry to get home and see his wife, who’s been gone now for over twenty years. He tries to remember the sound of her voice, how she said his name and ran her fingers through his hair when they fell asleep together. He tries and can’t quite summon the memory.
The steady plod of boots brings him back to the little apartment that was once a real home. He’d lied to Lee, saying that it still was. And there’s a part of him that had hoped it would become one again since Lee had appeared at the checkpoint. But people get foolish as they age and he should’ve known some things never come twice. Not even in a lifetime.
Soft voices discuss something outside his door and he reaches down, drinking the last of the whiskey. He nods at the empty bottle before tossing it away, then brings the shotgun to bear on the door as it bursts open, and pulls both triggers.
10
Lee trips and nearly falls at the sound of the gunfire two streets over.
He braces himself on a nearby wall and looks back in the direction of Ray’s apartment, throat closing so tight it won’t let the anguished cry out of his chest. He hunches over and wheezes a sob out before slowly straightening, wiping his eyes clear once again. The yells and rumble of trucks are closer now; he can almost smell the army, their scent much like that of the men in the mountains who tried to rape him: briny sweat and body odor that speaks of violence and terrible things done away from the light.
