by Nancy Lieder
just gap jawed.
The antique tractor is slowly plowing a row in the fallow field, the camp folk
to the side along the woods. The wood gas apparatus can be seen stuck to the
side of the tractor engine on one side. A couple camp folks, men, have come
forward to talk to Billy and Big Tom who are squatting on the stool and
upturned pail from the barn, energetically chopping some branches gathered
from the nearby wood into chips with an ax.
_______________________________
Mark and Brian have floated rapidly from the Rockies to an approach to New
York City. The strong wind is obviously dragging them along at a fairly rapid
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clip, the parachutes ahead of them and filled out like a sail. They have been
traveling for days, are dirty with smeared faces where they have wiped the
dust off but not bathed, when landing for some sleep. A week has passed since
they left, and they appear thinner than when they left. Brian has pulled his
legs up and appears to be pulling himself up into a fetal position, his arms
around his knees. We see his long hair floating out in the wind. Mark is
excited.
Brian, there it is, there's the city! We're home,
home! Lets find a good place to bring this down.
Mark is looking up while he positions his hands on the ropes. When he glances
down, to mentally prepare his descent path, a grim look comes over this face.
The Statue of Liberty is seen tilted at a 45 degree angle, with the remnants
of a sailboat caught in and dangling from the flame, seaweed shreds up to her
chin. No high rises remain standing, but the city skyline looks like a rubble
instead, black in outline against the gray skies. Bridges are disconnected
with most sections down. No boats are seen on the water, but a couple large
ocean going vessels can be see floating, bottom up.
Mark's eyes have filled with tears, and he glances upward, not wanting to look
down. Finally he glances down to check on Brian, talking to himself.
At least you're not there to see all this. Time to
say goodby. Nothing left to live for.
Mark points the hot air jet directly at the parachute lines, melting them one
by one. The rig begin to tip to the side, suddenly plunging into the ocean
below.
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-Harms Way-
Colonel Cage is fluffing the bedding he's been given, a cloth bag filled with
straw. He's laid his clothing out across the end of the bed, neatly as a
military man would do, and is down to his underwear, a grimly T-shirt and pair
of boxer shorts. He adjusts the back of his T-shirt collar, and then leans
back into the straw tick bedding, with a sigh. A puzzled look comes over his
face, and he fusses with the back of the T-shirt collar again, this time
getting an alarmed look, pulling the T-shirt over his face and staring at the
collar now in front of his face.
Oh, my God ..
Colonel Cage and Ian are in the council room. The light is dim, only a single
oil lamp burning, placed on the table. Colonel Cage has gotten Ian out of bed.
He's holding his T-shirt in front of him, under Ian's nose, shaking with rage.
Damn them to hell, they've bugged me, they know where
we are, and they'll be coming after us!
Ian looks puzzled and glances up into Colonel CageS’s eyes, staring steadily
by way of asking for an explanation. Colonel Cage sighs and seeing he has to
fill in the pieces, struggles to calm down.
It’s a wire. I didn't know I was carrying it. If it’s
live and I've got no reason to think it’s not, they
can trace me, trace this thing, and it'll lead them
right to where we're at.
A thought crosses his mind and he suddenly drops the T-shirt to the floor and
grinds the shirt collar under his heel until he hears a crunch.
But you don't know how long it’s been there, or even
if it works.
Colonel Cage’s face goes blank, as he realizes that he can't give Ian and the
others all the insight that he has, an impossible education in too short a
time. He finally explains, after struggling with himself over the issue.
Expect the worst.
_______________________________
The fog horn blowing softly again, a signal that some visitors have arrived at
the river bank across the river. Colonel Cage, uneasy from the night before,
jerks and twitches in his sleep, his eyes suddenly opening with a start. The
men's hut is a bunk for over a dozen men, all with similar primitive bedding
arrangements, all out in the open. Colonel Cage slips into his pants and
takes off toward the door, even before his pants are buttoned.
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Ian is standing under a tree where he is barely visible in the shadows.
Colonel Cage walks up to him, his white T-shirt visible as a waving flag as he
moves between the trees. Ian says,
You've been seen.
A sleepy Colonel Cage quickly flattens himself behind a tree.
Too late, they've sighted you.
A group of men is on the shoreline across the river, dressed in dirty casual
clothes. Colonel Cage, his jaw tight and slightly twitching with the tension,
speaks in a soft voice, almost to himself.
I'll bet that's them. They've been killing and eating
families.
Ian glances at Colonel Cage, not shocked as he's suspected as much.
I'll post a watch to make sure they don't cross.
_______________________________
Frank is vigorously chopping at a pile of green chunks, the original
vegetables no longer recognizable, both hands on the chopper and heaving his
shoulders into it. He is chatting away non-stop with Madge, the stocky cook,
who is reaching into her herb jars.
The Death Card came up, and we all knew this was
coming ..
Madge has a grim look on her face, her perpetual expression, and says nothing,
but Frank is not put off. She hands him another handful of roots to chop. The
soft sound of a chopper's blades are barely heard at first, but increase in
volume. Frank stops, mid-chop, to listen intently. A silent black whisper
chopper is coming along the river, in the center of the river, but veers
toward the bluff.
_______________________________
Ian touches each camp member as they hurry past him, their personal belongings
clutched in their arms. All are rushing, single file, into the woods and into
a ravine, out of sight of anyone on the river or in the air. No one is
hysterical or challenging Ian's decision.
In the woman's hut, Danny is pleading with Daisy to come along. She seems
unaware of any danger, is brushing it all off, and is treating him like a
hysteric.
.. You don't understand, people have been killed,
women raped, we just haven't told you!
Daisy says,
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Danny, don't you see how good things are here? I've
gotten my nails to grow out again, and we can bathe
anytime we want to!
Danny looks dismayed, is speechless, a consternated look on his face. He
realizes for the first time how deep her self obsession runs. A tall couple
walks in, picking through the belongings left behind, and Danny
stares at them
with comprehension. She won't be alone!
Well, I'm not staying here to die with you, suit
yourself.
Danny turns away, heading out the door to catch up with the rest.
_______________________________
In a clearing in the woods, Ian is taking a head count as the group silently
passes by him in single file. Ian admonishes.
Stay together now, stay close together!
The stragglers at the end are coming with larger breaks between them. Ian
turns to his assistant, a tall thin woman with her gray hair in a severe bun.
I didn't see the little boy and his granddad, or the
last of that bunch.
The assistant has a clipboard in her hands and has been checking things off as
the group passed.
That young woman and the newspaper man, they're
missing too.
Netty comes trudging into the clearing, trying to keep the end of the group
ahead of her in sight. She sees Ian and his assistant standing there and
smiles broadly, reassured that she hasn't lost them. She looks over her
shoulder as she walks on to the right, keeping track of those behind her.
Billy is some distance behind her on the trail, pausing to pick something up
off the ground, bending over, his boyish curiosity at play. As he does this
there is rustling in the bushes at the side of the path. Billy jerks upright,
his mouth open and eyes wide. The alpha dog in a wild pack, a large boxer so
lean he looks almost skeletal, his ribs showing, snarls.
Netty doesn't hesitate. She turns and returns along the path, breaking into a
strong running stride, covering ground silently with strong legs and broad
hips that have been strengthened through riding English style for many years.
Netty covers the clearing silently, racing toward the frozen Billy standing
like a statue.
The dogs are a mix of former pets - shepherds, boxers, and hounds - all kinds.
The smaller ones hang back and yip from the woods, excited at the possibility
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of a meal ahead but not yet willing to attack humans, still recalling their
former owners. Netty reaches Billy and lifts him off the ground into her arms.
Red and Danny come running up, Red whacking at the retreating alpha dog with
his jacket. Red says,
They’re starving!
Netty says,
Come on, we’d better keep up with the others. Common
Billy, no more dawdling.
Netty takes Billy by the hand and strides off, practically dragging Billy
along. Red and Danny do their best fast walk too, Red’s elbows sticking out
and jerking up and down, Danny breaking into a trot now and then.
The laggards catch up with the rest of Ian’s group, who are standing around on
a river bluff, staring out at the river. Netty and Billy, still being towed
along behind Netty, arrive first, but instead of a welcome from the group,
they are ignored. No one turns to pay attention to them other than a quick
glance, then return to stare at the river. Danny and Red bring up the rear,
huffing and puffing and sweating slightly.
The group hears what sounds like music, various tones, the sound plastic
bottles make when filled with air and forced in close proximity to each other
in a net, or tied together. These tones are various, like some kind of drum
set composed of small plastic drums, almost tinkling rather than booming.
A series of houseboats are moored to the trees of a small island in the middle
of the slow-moving river. These are strung out in a line, a couple rafts
moored to the strong trees on the island, then other rafts moored to these, so
the lot stretches out along the center of the river.
Plastic bottles have been filled with air and either tied together or stuffed
into a net. These form a floatation device for plywood or rafts made of boards
crudely nailed together from the wreckage caused by the earthquakes and
hurricane force winds. The rafts are raised at least a foot out of the water,
more than enough floatation, the obvious consideration being that some of the
plastic bottles might fail, so more is better than less in this regard.
Some of the rafts have tents on them, some have one room structures made from
scrap lumber and tarps, and one is a two story rickety structure that looks
like it might fall over in a strong wind. Laundry is hung out to dry here and
there, on lines tied between boards nailed to the edges of the rafts and
whatever serves as the sleeping quarters in the center of the raft. Most of
the rafts have container gardens of some sort, plastic pots of various size
and colors, growing tomatoes or lettuce or chard.
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Fishing lines are hung from the rafts, trailing off into the river as they
draw downstream. The fishing lines reflects light, and so many of them are
strung out that it looks almost like a spider web with the rafts caught in the
center. A boy comes up to one line and starts drawing it in, pulling up a good
sized fish as he does so, and turns to take it to a wooden box nearby where he
knocks it on the head with a wooden mallet, killing it instantly.
Toddlers can be seen on the decks of some rafts, their watchful mothers
keeping them no more than an arm’s length away. Some are tied in a harness so
they can’t fall into the river. A woman is on her hands and knees at the edge
of one raft, washing her hair. Her hair is full of soap suds as she vigorously
scrubs, then dips a cup into the river to rinse.
Someone on the raft city notices the group on the bluff and points, calling a
notice out to the others, and waves at the group on the bluff. Some calls are
exchanged between the two groups, but the distance precludes anything more
than a vigorous wave and hello. Ian says,
They raided the recycling facility up at Middleton.
Red says,
Well . . they’re safer there than in these woods. . .
And no lack of fresh fish to eat!
Ian is standing beside Colonel Cage, looking directly at him with slight worry
on his face, an unspoken query. Colonel Cage glances quickly at Ian, reading
his mind, then returns his gaze to the raft complex, which is fascinating,
transfixing everyone in the troop.
They won’t be bothered, nor will those we left behind
at Bridgewater. It’s us they’re after, those from the
ranch. We know the location of his headquarters, and
he’s not ready for visitors yet. He means to kill us,
us from the ranch . . and anyone else that gets in the
way.
Colonel Cage motions with a wave of his hand toward the raft city while
looking directly at Ian again.
But this is no threat to him. And no advantage. Just
trash in the river, that’s how he thinks.
_______________________________
Fog is blowing in the very early morning along the river. Ian has just
wakened his traveling group, not letting them have more than a few hours rest
during the night. Ian is seen moving among the members, who are sitting up on
the ground and stretching. He is touching them on the shoulder, rather than
using his voice to announce that the march is to start again. Now that they
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on their feet and moving again.
The group looks bleary eyed, as though they've just wakened and could use a
cup or more likely a full pot of coffee. No one is complaining, however, and
when one stumbles and drops something, the one behind helps them pick it up
and get adjusted with their belongings again. This group assists each other,
in a non-competitive way, and there is never a need to ask for this
assistance.
_______________________________
Ian, in the lead, stops the group behind him by raising his hand. There,
hidden by fog most of the time but visible when the wisps clear momentarily,
is a huge dull gray dome, several stories high. The dome doesn't reach above
the trees, but covers an area as large as a football field. Placed on a ridge
along the river, where there are trees on all sides and no ground above the
ridge, the dome could not be seen unless a plane flew over.
Several of Ian's group crowd around him, coming up behind him and staring at
the dome over his shoulders. They are all silent, staring, taking this in and
trying to place it in their concepts of what goes on.
Ian finally moves forward, the group straggling behind him. There is a large
space in the line between Ian and those following him, his assistants, and an
even larger space before the rest of the group follows. They are clearly
hanging back, not so far that it would be taken to be a lack of faith in Ian,
but far enough back that escape is possible. As Ian nears the entrance, the
entry doors splits open and slide to the side.
