Lieutenant Wilkes, Tommy, Sammy and Donny finished up the preparations for their stasis. They zipped up their brand-new spacesuits. The Athena’s suits were dark black in color with gold trim. Each craft had different color schemes for its crew members.
“Well, well, look who finally found his way out of the trash bin,” Sammy welcomed the slimy Kennison back to the fold.
“Have you learned your lesson?” Wilkes directed his question to Kennison.
“Which lesson is that Professor?” Kennison smarted.
“Treating others with respect.” Wilkes flexed his fist.
“If you mean, fags as others, then no.” Kennison shook his finger over at Tommy.
“So, what exactly pisses you off about Tommy?” Wilkes questioned the downtrodden solider. “Is it that the young man’s a better solider and person than you will ever be?”
“What?” Kennison countered with sarcasm.
“Do you want the Lieutenant to speak slower so you can understand?” Tommy emerged from the crowd.
“You want to repeat that again?” Kennison was hell-bent on finishing off the fight.
“Do we need really to engage in another pissing contest?” Drake approached the dueling twosome.
“Back off old man.” Kennison swung his arm back and shoved Drake away.
Drake, caught off-guard fell to the floor, landing on his back. His stick skittered across the silver tiled floor.
“Now, was that necessary?” Wilkes motioned for Logan and Sammy to help Drake back up.
The delirious Kennison, extended his left index finger in Tommy’s face, responded. “The only necessity here, is for me to beat this fag to bloody pulp.”
Donny chimed in. “Haven’t you learned your lesson?”
“He caught me off guard.” Kennison sneered.
Tommy shrugged his shoulders.
“What no balls?” Kennison pressed his finger against Tommy’s forehead.
Tommy caught wind of the stink that was attached to Kennison’s clothes. Tommy also seemed to catch a chuckle as Kennison’s caffeine soaked yellow teeth. Tommy looked over at Wilkes. Wilkes gave a simple nod.
“It’s time for the sequel,” Wilkes whispered under his breath.
Tommy timely delivered a hard knee against Kennison’s groin. With cat-like reflexes Tommy bent Kennison’s index finger backwards, breaking it with seamless ease. Before Kennison could engage a single word of degrading discourse, Tommy had Kennison in a choke hold with his purple scarf.
“Who’s got the balls now shit head?” Tommy whispered in Kennison’s ear. “When will you learn your lesson?” Tommy prepared for his final act.
Kennison’s face turned a dark shade of purple from embarrassment.
“What no wise cracks?” Tommy sneered, releasing Kennison with a hard thrust across the room, sending the beaten bully slamming against one of the stasis pods.
“Do you care to change your mind about Tommy?” Logan addressed Drake, helping the scientist back up.
Kennison slid down the front cover of the pod, crumpled in a heap.
“Eh, maybe. I definitely respect the son-of-a-bitch. That’s for sure,” Drake stated. He walked over and bent over and loosened Tommy’s scarf from Kennison’s neck.
“Hey,” Drake called out to Tommy.
“Hey,” Tommy returned the greeting. “Are you our volcano expert?”
“Somewhat.” Drake’s index and middle fingers played with the satin scarf. “Listen, I don’t approve of your lifestyle.”
“Uh,” Tommy was taken aback by Drake’s blunt honesty.
“However, I would have you on my team any day of the week.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Anybody that can send a guy flying across the room with a satin scarf, well, I know to always stay on your good side.”
Tommy waited a moment, appreciating the scientist’s kind words. “Listen, I know my lifestyle perhaps ruffles a few feathers. But, I appreciate your honesty, and I will respect your privacy and personal space.”
“Yeah, that’s always good to know.” Drake rubbed the back of his head, adjusting his cap in a nervous reflex. “Here, this is yours,” he said handing over the scarf. “I’d personally wash it, the stench on it is repulsive.”
“Yeah, I’ll throw it in the nearby washing machine.” Tommy grinned. “So, you’re a Bronco fan?” He asked taking notice of Drake’s faded orange baseball cap.
“Yeah, why? Do you watch the sport?”
“Yeah, but not for the obvious reasons,” Tommy said with a chortle.
“You don’t watch for the guys?” Drake asked trying to be delicate as possible with his insinuation.
“I watch for the game plan. The ongoing chess matches between the coaches and coordinators. The offense versus the defense. It stirs up my drive to get out there and fight for our country.”
“Well, I can certainly respect that,” Drake replied.
“Are we ready?” Wilkes interceded.
“Yeah, everyone pick out a stasis pod.” Logan pointed out the circular pattern of the pods. “They will sustain your vitals for the duration of the trip.”
“For the next four years you will be in a deep sleep, but alive and well,” Wilkes aided Logan in his speech.
“Okay then,” Logan began the process. “Donny, Sammy, and Kennison, choose your pods.”
“What will you do?” Drake asked.
“I’ll make sure everyone’s snug like a bug in a rug.” Logan knew his analogy sounded corny and expected some ribbing from Drake “I won’t even go there,” Drake countered.
“Thank you,” Logan said, walking over to the three pods and set them for the trip. “We okay? Logan asked Sammy.
“Yeah man, let’s do it.” Sammy gave Logan a thumbs up while he finished buckling himself in the pod’s cushioned bed.
“Right.” Logan entered in a code and the pod closed over Sammy. “Next?”
After a few minutes of preparations, Logan had only himself and Drake left to do.
“Okay, now what do I do?” Drake asked. He approached the pod that Kennison was thrown against.
“First, get in the pod.” Logan ushered the scientist into the roomy confines.
“Okay,” Drake said, watching the pod’s glass cover rise allowing him a full view of the interior. “It’s somewhat appeasing,” Drake muttered.
“Mr. Blakely designed everything here, right down to the buttons on the cushioning.” Logan waved his hand about.
“What a relief. So what’s the process?”
“Okay, the pod will encase you in a fine mist that will stabilize your vitals,” Logan encouraged the cranky scientist to relax.
“Got it.”
“You will also have to buckle yourself in firmly,” Logan said, helping Drake get in the pre-formed cushion.
“It even has a pocket for my body?” Drake seemed amazed at the science angle of the pod.
“I told you, Mr. Blakely thought of everything.”
“Buckled in.” Drake finished off the buckle straps.
“Now, once the cover closes, don’t panic. Within a few moments, the mist will enter your system and you will enter a deep sleep. Then, your entire body will be frozen using cryogenics,” Logan hinted at the system’s process.
“Like them?” Drake could see Tommy’s body starting to freeze over.
“Exactly,” Logan said. “Now, are you ready?”
“No.”
“Alright then,” Logan closed the cover.
“And what about you?”
“I will remotely start mine once I am in the pod.”
“I’ll see you on the other side,” Drake replied with a half-hearted grin.
“Definitely. You still have to tell me why you think I’m an addict.” Logan closed the cover and set the code to release the mist.
Drake’s pod began its process. His eyes followed the doctor across the room, noticing Logan withdrawing something from his pocket and placing it in his mouth.
“I knew it.” The mist covered the scientist. Drake felt his legs numbing, and then his torso, until his breathing became shallow. Drake’s eyes eventually closed, and darkness engulfed the entire pod.
Logan lowered his own cover and started his own cryogenic process.
One of the pods in the room developed a small crack that snaked its way down the cover releasing the interior’s mist into the exterior room. A slow deliberate leak impacted the host’s chances of surviving The Athena’s journey to Europa.
Destination: Europa
4 Years Later
January 6, 2050
The Athena’s steady course had hit some rocky turbulence causing some of the random materials on the desk in the Captain’s Quarters to scatter about. One of those items, the final edition of the New York Times, last published on December 24, 2045 detailed the climatic remaining moments on Earth and the President’s elaborate plan to colonize deep space.
December 24, 2045
{AP} New York
Walter Sedah, Beat Reporter
Earth’s demise had sent off four ships in the search and desire for the colonization of either Europa, or the backup plan of ‘New Earth’. New Earth aptly named for its uncanny resemblance to our planet Earth, was curiously located over twenty million light years away.
President Jackson Forsythe, himself a victim of the Christmas Day explosion that left the entire United States wrapped underneath a nuclear winter blanket of ash and lava, ordered four ships to be built by his best friend, the aging philanthropist, Adrian Blakely.
The Apollo, was the son of Zeus and whose powers resided in prophesy, poetry, and healing. Apollo’s also famously known for being the Sun God. President Forsythe had handpicked this name to represent Earth’s rise from the ashes, and for the fortitude of the survivors. The President sent this spacecraft, with the heaviest civilian passenger manifest to New Earth. This manifest includes but is not limited to, Captain James Page, Co-Captain John Clifford, Marine Sergeant Dwight “Bud” Stephens, and Brigadier Kenneth Black. The President still awaits word of their mission at this time.
The Amity, was the second ship in the President’s fleet. It meant friendship and boasted a top-notch crew headed for Europa to continue the colonization of the frozen moon. Its crew is led by Captain Nigel Brody, First Lieutenant Matthew Shaw, geologist Ellen Michaels, and communications expert, Reggie Hooper. Their mission has encountered some minor setbacks and has caused concern for the President, prompting him to send out the third ship in his fleet, The Abagail.
The Abagail, the third ship in the fleet, was Adrian Blakely’s pride and joy. The Abagail’s name stemmed from the definition meaning a father’s joy. This craft carried Adrian Blakely, Commander Thaddeus Kaspar, Ulysses Tarrant, geologist Gillian Shea, communications expert Angela Nestor, medic Seth Padgett, and world renown French archeologist, Dr. Philene Fanchon. This craft was dispatched to aid the Amity in her colonization attempts on Jupiter’s moon Europa.
The fourth ship in the President’s wide arsenal, is The Athena. The ship garners her name from the Goddess of wisdom. This craft will be last one to leave Earth’s orbit, granted there any survivors left to board. Part of the crew has already been assembled and includes the highly decorated Commander Dylan Gordon and his First Lieutenant Henry Wilkes. They are to gather the remaining survivors and head for New Earth. Rumors of several more craft’s have circulated, however, no person has come forward to lay truth to that claim. I wouldn’t deny our President any chance of initiating yet another backup plan to save lives. After all, he was the honorable Senator who tackled the epidemic of ‘36 and saved the country from a deadly viral outbreak.
But, that’s for the history books. The scene here in New York, as well the entire Eastern seaboard is at best, grim. The large cloud from Yellowstone’s eruption has made its way to the streets of Manhattan, choking the very life from her residents. The Mayor has declared a State Of Emergency, although I really don’t know what that will accomplish. Most of the population’s already inhaled the deadly concoction of ash and tiny fragments of debris. My own health has declined rapidly over the last few hours. My lungs are riddled, my mouth constantly filled with blood. I pray for the survivors and for their new chance on either Europa or New Earth.
Some survivors have managed to enter Mexico, South America, and rumors of a Naval Base in Antarctica could harbor last second refugees. The cloud will enter these regions, but not for some time. The weather will drop drastically and those who survived the eruption will no doubt perish in the bitter cold yet to come. Some will migrate further south and enjoy a increase in weather. This surge will not only kill crops and burn fields, and sizzle the skins of any person still alive. I will not be able to make the lengthy trek in my current state of health. I will clasp my pencil and a pad of paper and perhaps write one final entry for the future to read. A New York City like no other. A New York City without life, without energy, and without our patented attitude.
The entire Midwest lays buried underneath sheets of lava, rock, mud, and debris. The last broadcast from Yellowstone depicted a frightful scene. The country’s top scientist, Doctor Nolan Drake had predicted this scenario, only to find it fall on deaf ears. It would prove costly, taking the scientist in its vicious aftermath. President Forsythe, on taking office elected to take Drake seriously {they were good friends}, however, the timing was ill-fated as Yellowstone’s super volcano was already in motion to explode, sending tens of thousands of tons of uranium spewing in the air urging a devastating nuclear winter that will blanket the Earth for many decades to come.
We look up to the diminishing sky and try to catch a glimpse of a shooting star, or perhaps a white streak across the darkening skies. We will share one final glance into the eyes of salvation. One last stare of what will never be again. The last pure blue sky Earth will ever have. That sight suits most of us well. Our last image of our home will not be volcanic destruction and flowing rivers of red lava. It will be that crystal blue sky with the roaming white clouds dancing across the horizon.
Outside the craft, a meteor shower careened by, dancing off the craft’s panels, leaving marks behind in their wake. The Athena was minutes from Europa’s coordinates. Almost on command, Logan and the Lieutenant’s pods began to engage in reanimation. The crew’s hibernation was slowing to an end. Logan took some time to revive, but within fifteen minutes, his senses had returned completely. His joints were numb, and his head swirled with a pounding headache, but no visible side effects.
Lieutenant Wilkes stumbled out of his pod and sprawled out across the cold floor.
“Are you okay Sir?” Logan gingerly walked over to the dazed Lieutenant.
“Yeah,” his teeth chattered the reply. “I’m cold.”
“You will warm up,” Logan said. His eyes had caught the noticeable crack in the nearby pod.
“Is there something wrong Doc?” Wilkes again fumbled for words. His body was slow to regulate an adequate temperature.
“The pod’s cracked!” Logan moved fast, making his way to the damaged pod.
“Shit. That’s not kosher is it?” Wilkes stumbled across to assist Logan.
“We need to get him out, and fast,” Logan’s fingers fumbled across the keypad. “Shit, my fingers are still numb from the freeze. Can you do it?” He motioned for Wilkes to enter the code.
“I’ll try,” Wilkes replied. “Numbers?”
“Ah, shit.” Logan scrambled his brain for the code.
“Fuck it. I ain’t got time for this.” Wilkes shielded his face and raised his right elbow. “Cover your face.” He smashed open the pod’s outer shell, splintering glass all over the floor.
“I would’ve come up with the code.” Logan unlatched the crew member from their buckles.
“I’m not a numbers type of guy.” Wilkes rubbed his elbow.
“Obviously not.” Logan freed the crew member. “Here help me with him.”
“Yeah, sure thing Doc,” Wilkes grabbed hold of the man’s
right elbow, while Logan took the left one.
“Real easy,” Logan said as they gently laid the man down on the floor away from the shattered glass. “I need to find a pulse.” He reached for the man’s neck.
“Will he be okay?” Wilkes looked down at the man. He picked up the well-worn orange hat and played with it between his fingers.
Nolan Drake was unconscious and not responding to Logan’s treatment.
“Can you please go to the cafeteria and get some food and water for him?”
“Yeah, I’ll be right back.” Wilkes placed down Drake’s Denver Broncos hat and slowly walked out of the room.
Logan raised Nolan’s eyes one by one trying to gather any information. Logan was unable to find a pulse and immediately began CPR on Nolan.
Wilkes stumbled throughout the winding corridor. “Now, where’s the damn kitchen in this place?” He looked at the walls trying to fetch a map of some kind.
Faced with a decision, Wilkes approached the corner of the corridor, where he had a choice of left or right. He placed his right hand firmly on the wall to take a breather and turned his head left. The pain in his hands from the underground elevator rescue diminished from the lengthy stay inside the pod. Over the course of the four years, some healing occurred, repairing the small fractures in his fingers.
Wilkes again found his way down the winding corridor, not fully aware of where the hell he was going. A small dim light spurning him along, and finally after a short while of walking, the Lieutenant found the kitchen. His eyes scoured the ransacked kitchen. “What the hell?”
A small click penetrated the Lieutenant’s right eardrum.
He instantly knew the sound of a Glock pistol.
Wilkes mind still fuzzy from the regeneration process, allowed no measure for margin of error.
“Don’t turn around,” the man’s voice echoed the orders. “Don’t fucking turn around.” The man pressed the Glock in between Wilkes’s shoulder blades.
“Hungry?” He asked his attacker.
“I’ve spent the last four fucking years walking around this shit hole,” his voice was irritable to say the least. “My bones ache, and I’ve spent my time scrimmaging through the ship for anything that could enable my survival. “So, hell yeah, I was hungry.”
Wrath of the Carnelians (Europa) Page 6
