Ever Onward

by Wayne Mee

  Just then the plain banked sharply to the right and Waterson bumped into Fetti. Both of them went down. Several of the Germ Warfare boys also fell. Equipment tipped and shattered. Waterson scrambled to his feet. Fetti didn’t. Waterson staggered towards the cockpit. He didn’t notice that the others still lay where they had fallen, or that Colonel Carter now sat slumped over his blinking console.

  What he found in the cockpit did little to ease his troubled mind. Squadron Leader Ben Hymus sat half in, half out of the pilot’s seat, his gloved hands still on the controls as the plane began to spiral downward. Leaping into the co-pilot’s seat, Waterson righted the plane, got it back on course and flipped the Auto Pilot switch. Then he turned to check on Hymus. What he saw filled him with terror. Where the body of his friend had been just moments before there now remained only a sagging Contamination suit. Through the faceplate Waterson saw what looked like a crumbling wasps nest.

  Someone screamed. A long, piercing wail that chilled him to the bone. A part of his mind knew it had come from himself, another part kept right on screaming. For an undetermined length of time Lieutenant Sam Waterson just sat there, silently screaming into the wild blue yonder.

  Jocco walked out of the Officer’s Mess and watched as the heavy B-17 came around for its final approach. China Lake had a lot of runways, the only problem was that precious few of them were clear. Besides various planes, most runways had an assortment of trucks, jeeps and cargo loaders scattered about like giant Fisher Price toys after an especially hard day in the sandbox.

  Jocco’s cruel smile creased his handsome face. Whoever was flying that baby was going to have to really shuck and jive to make it down in one piece. Jocco didn’t much care one way or the other.

  Lieutenant Walter J. Pinkton of Personnel however, seemed to care one hell of a lot. Walter J. sat in his jeep, his hands white on the steering wheel, his eyes glued on the plane, a half-remembered prayer on his pale lips.

  Seconds after the B-17’s wheels touched down, smoke trailed out behind as the brakes were applied. The massive bird slowed, swerved to the left, straightened, and clipped the top of a cargo loader with its right wing. Metal screamed. Fuel began to spill out. The plane spun thirty degrees to the right, passed over a jeep, plowed through two parked trucks and proceeded on, at least two of the three vehicles now wedged under the fuselage. More metal screamed. Sparks flew. The trail of aviation fuel pouring out the right wing caught fire. Flames raced alongside like a hungry beast. The front wheel missed a parked truck but not the jeep just behind it. The tire blew, dropping the nose down on the runway. More screams. More sparks. Then the entire right wing exploded. The force of the blast shook the B-17 like a rag doll in a dog’s mouth. In what seemed slow motion, the remains slid directly towards the Officer’s Mess.

  Pinkton, his eyes wide, sat in his idling jeep as a wet stain spread rapidly over his crotch. A small part of his brain told him to react, to do something! The larger part, the part that had been forced to cope with a morning filled with horror upon horror, wanted only to curl up and die --- like the hundreds of brittle, gray bodies that reminded him of the pages of a burnt bible.

  Jocco, however, was a creature cut from a different cloth. Years of fighting and scrounging on the sharp, knife-edge of existence, had honed his senses. Reacting with a predator’s swiftness, he leapt into Pinkton’s jeep, shoved his .45 in the startled man’s ear and stepped down hard on the accelerator.

  “Clutch!”, Jocco screamed.

  Walter J. may not have been as street-wise as his saintly mother might have liked, but neither was he as stupid as his unsaintly father had thought. He popped the clutch and the jeep peeled away, just as the nose of the B-17 slammed into the Officer’s Mess. The plane demolished the right side of the building, continued lazily on its way, finally coming to rest alongside an empty hanger.

  “Stop!”, Jocco said, smiling.

  Brakes squealed. Jocco lowered the .45 and looked back at the demolished building. Private George Sampson, still holding his bottle of Scotch, staggered out onto the runway, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a wall had just been removed.

  “Hey, man! What’s going down?”

  Just then the eject-bomb on the B-17 blew the cockpit cover sky high. The pilot, a very shaken Lieutenant Waterson, still wearing his plague suit, scrambled out. Jocco motioned for Pinkton to drive over.

  “Who ARE you?”, Pinkton asked the handsome soldier sitting beside him. “And where is General Bremen? He told me to meet him here.” Walter’s voice was a strange mixture of indignant-whine.

  The .45 and the smile were back. “I’m God’s little helper. As for the General, he’s like all the others --- gone. Now move it, asshole, we’ve got to pick these two boys up before the rest of that plane blows!”

  Lieutenant Walter J. Pinkton’s momma had always told him to listen to ‘God’s little helpers’ --- especially if they whispered in your year while holding a Colt .45.

  Moments later, with both Lieutenant Waterson and Private Sampson bundled in the back, the jeep tore down the runway. They’d gotten about two thousand yards when the remaining tanks on the B-17 exploded. The blast rocked the speeding jeep.

  “Sheee-it!”, Sampson yelled. Grinning from ear to ear, he passed the bottle around. After taking a long pull, Lieutenant Waterson looked at Jocco. “What the Christ happened here?!”

  Jocco’s broad smile flashed. “Welcome to the end of the world, soldier. Ain’t life a bitch?”

  Chapter 5: A SAD AWAKENING

  High Peaks Region

  New York. June 23

  (2 days after C.D. let loose)

  Josh Williams lay in his mummy bag looking up towards Haystack’s rounded, rocky summit. Still almost a thousand feet above him, all he saw was a blanket of wet, white mist. He hoped the sun would burn it away by the time they reached it.

  Unzipping his sleeping bag, he glanced at the other two members of the tiny party. His seventeen year old son, Jessie, was curled up in a ball, his tousled blond head sticking out of the down-filled bag.

  Bob’s bag, still in the shadows, appeared rumpled and empty. Frowning, Josh looked around for his brother-in-law. It was not like Bob to rise early, especially after lugging a heavy pack up four thousand feet.

  Answering the call of the wild? No. The toilet paper was still on the branch. A walk? Maybe catch the sunrise? Josh swore. One of the first rules about hiking the High Peaks was never go anywhere alone. Bob could be a real asshole at times, but he wasn’t stupid. As Josh pulled on his boots, a shiver of fear coursed up his spine. His son’s voice made him jump.

  “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

  “Probably nothing, Jess, but Uncle Bob’s gone off somewhere.” He then called out loudly. The only reply came from a chattering squirrel.

  While Jessie scrambled into his clothes, Josh walked over to his brother-in-law’s bag. Now that the light was better, he could see that there was something in there. Too small to be Bob. A raccoon? He poked it with his walking stick and heard a faint crunching sound. Nothing moved. Whatever it was, it was dead. Pulling back the cover, Josh saw what looked like a squashed wasps nest spilling out of Bob’s red longjohns.

  Father and son stood in the early morning light looking down at the remains of Robert Fuller. Jessie turned to his father. “It’s a joke, right? Uncle Bob’s idea of a joke?” The hopeful tone of his young voice was overlaid with fear.

  “I hope so, son, but I don’t find it very funny.” They both called out, then began searching around the camp, yet all the while Robert Fuller lay where they had found him. Twenty minutes later, Jessie went back to his uncle’s bag and stirred the remains with a stick. What he saw caused his to jump back screaming. Shaking like a leaf in the wind, Jessie began to cry. Josh held him tightly, saw what had so startled his son and choked back tears of his own.

  By the time they were packed, the sun had indeed burnt off the mist surrounding Haystack, yet neither father nor son had any interest now in climbi
ng. One of their group was dead. Not only dead, but gone as well! All that remained of Uncle Bob was his deflated thermal underwear and dental bridge Jessie had found in crumpled gray ashes.

  Jessie moved about like a robot long overdue for a tune-up, his movement stiffs, his expression blank. The boy was in shock. His father wasn’t a hell of a lot better.

  While Jessie silently packed their gear, Josh disposed of the body by rolling the remains in the sleeping bag and placing several large rocks on top. Jessie joined his father at the make-shift grave. As he looked away, he spied something glittering in the morning light. A gold band. Robert Fuller’s wedding ring. Picking it up, Jessie handed it to his father.

  “Aunt Doris will want this.” The boy’s voice was distant and dream-like.

  Josh handed slipped the ring in his pocket, then hugged his son. Several minutes later they were on the long trail back down to the lodge.

  John’s Brook Lodge was well over a hundred years old. Over the decades it had been added to and refurbished many times, but for the most part it still looked like what it was, a rambling old log cabin beside a gurgling stream, nestled between the High Peaks, some three and a half miles from the nearest road.

  When Josh and his son reached it, the sun was a little past noon. The trek down had been a silent one. Josh had tried to get Jessie to open up, but the boy had only retreated further into himself. Josh decided not to press him for now, believing that time would work its slow but sure healing process. Once they were home, things would somehow sort themselves out. Heart attacks happened. People died.

  Neither of them wanted to discuss the fact that Uncle Bob’s body had somehow turned to brittle, gray ashes.

  Lost in his own thoughts, Josh paid little heed to the fact that they hadn’t met any other hikers on the trail. When no-one answered his call as he entered the lodge, however, his guts did another flip flop. Where was the pretty young girl who was usually baking bread? Where was the grizzled old coot who always greeted them from his rocking chair on the front porch? Where the hell were the other hikers who had either spent the night or stopped in for tea or warm lemonade before going on to the various trails?

  Josh, his head suddenly pounding, went into the back room. Row upon row of rough but sturdy bunkbeds greeted him. Most were still made, the top of a faded sheet folded neatly over a warm blanket. Some, however, were occupied. Several packs leaned against walls. Clothes and raingear hung from pegs. Pairs of boots sat patiently waiting for their owners to awake.

  Now they would wait forever. All the occupied bunks held the same dry, brittle remains that had spilled out of Robert Fuller’s bag.

  Josh staggered and would have fallen if Jessie hadn’t caught him. Shaken, Josh looked at his son. The youth’s expression might have been set in granite.

  “They’re all dead. Just like Uncle Bob.”

  Josh could only nod, his mind racing. What was going on? It must be a bloody dream! That’s it! I’m having a nightmare --- a terrible nightmare. I’ll wake up soon and find myself back at camp; or better yet, in my own bed with my wife beside him. Oh, God! Let it be a dream!

  But a part of Josh’s mind knew that this was no dream. Things were just too damn real. The smells, the sounds. Even the light seemed real. He squeezed Jessie’s hand. There were tears in the boy’s eyes. Taking a deep breath, Josh walked both of them back into the main room.

  “Sit down, Jess. We’ve got to talk.”

  The boy did as he was told, silent tears still flowing. Josh hugged him, his own tears mingling with his son’s. After a while, they faced each other, hands still touching.

  “I don’t know what has happened, Jess. I...I’m not even sure what to say. Something has has ---”

  “Murdered Uncle Bob and all these other people,” Jessie put in.

  The idea struck Josh like a blow. Until now he had thought of this as some kind of accident; some crazy, insane mistake. A disease or plague of some kind. The idea that it might have been man-made turned his stomach. He pushed the thought aside. That way led to madness. He rushed outside, the crisp mountain air helping to clear his head.

  Jessie followed, offering his water bottle. Josh accepted it with a sigh. Part of him wanted to scream; part of him still wanted to throw-up. He settled for a grunt.

  “Tough little bugger, aren’t you?”

  “Can’t help it,” Jessie replied. “I take after my old man.”

  “Ya?”, Jessie said. “Tell that to your mother.”

  That one word froze them both. ‘Mother’. What about her? Everyone they’d seen in the mountains was dead. What about the world outside?

  Both father and son made it back to their camper in record time.

  On the way back to the parking lot they’d past several tents. After calling out, Josh had looked inside. More of the same; brittle gray-brown parchment spilling out of sleeping bags.

  Whatever it was, it had come in the night, somehow sparing only himself and his son. Thank God for small wonders!

  Except for the cars, the parking lot was empty. No gangs of eager hikers chatted as they checked their gear. No trail weary trekkers sat resting their aching feet. The gravel lot looked like a four-wheel graveyard.

  Josh unlocked the Westfalia and tossed their packs inside. Jessie climbed into the front seat, a worried expression on his young face.

  “Dad? Do you think Mom’s O.K.?”

  The Volkswagen engine roared as Josh swung the camper around. “I hope so, Jess, but...” He stopped himself from speaking his fears. “We’ll soon see.”

  Ten minutes later they were in the small town of Keen Valley. Little more than a cluster of stores and houses perched on the stony banks of the East Ausable River, its claim to fame was a paper mill, a post office and first rate camping store. All were empty, all were silent, all held the remains of what just hours ago had been living beings.

  After that Josh barely slowed down. Taking the 9N east, he pushed the aging camper up the rolling hills between Jay Mountain on the left and nearly mile high Giant on the right.

  Jessie peered out the window as the slightly larger village of Elizabethtown flashed by. “Nothing moving here either, Dad. Maybe we should stop and check it out?”

  Josh’s answer was to slam the gearshift down into third and floor the gas peddle.

  He did stop as they neared the overpass to Interstate 87. To almost everyone in the world the words ‘New York’ conjured up in the mind’s eye a vast, sprawling city, teaming with cars, trucks and most of all, people. Known worldwide as the Big Apple --- the City that Never Sleeps. To those living in upstate New York however, those two ‘magic words’ meant something completely different --- green forests, blue lakes and tumbling streams, all punctuated by the majestic towering peaks of Adirondack Mountains. Interstate 87 was the Northlands lifeline. At any time of the day or night you could hear the traffic humming along; from the Canadian border just an hour south of Montreal, all the way south to the Big Apple itself. I-87 was the major artery into the heart of the beast.

  Only this day the beast was silent.

  Looking up through the bug-splattered windshield, both father and son listened for a sign that the world as they knew it was still there. The only sound came from the pounding of their hearts and the screaming of their souls.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Josh looked at his watch. Five minutes had passed. A bubble of frightened laughter threatened to escaped into the silence. Takes a lickin’ ‘n keeps on tickin’! Sweet Christ! an anguished voice inside him wailed. The whole damned world is gone! Panic threatened to carry him away.

  “Dad? Hey, Dad! You all right?!”

  “Ya, son, I’m fine. Hey, how about we try to call Mom on the cell? Reception’s poor in the mountains, but it’s worth a try.”

  Jessie rummaged around in his pack and finally found his cell phone. His fingers shaking as they glided over the small buttons, a half hopeful, half frightened look on his pale face. Frustration soon waged with fear in hi
s blue eyes. “Nothing! Only static! No ‘roaming’ sign --- nothing.

  Jessie’s voice was high and strident, fear lurking on every word. And who could blame him? He was young, but not stupid. His universe had just done a swift and deadly about turn, and by the looks of it, the party had only just begun.

  “It’s fine, Jess. Let’s just get home.” The youth attempted a smile and failed. Gears ground and the camper sped headlong into a dead world.

  Chapter 6: PUSSBAG

  China Lake

  Naval Weapons Center,

  California. June 22

  Private Theodore Smith, alias Pussbag Smitty, had been a busy boy since seeing Jocco drive by. Scuttling about like a spider, he had followed the jeep, keeping always in the shadows. As a child he had been afraid of the dark. The dark was where the ‘bad things’ happened; where his mother locked him after he had been naughty. Oh, how she had loved that word.

  ‘Theodore, you’ve been naughty again. If you’re not careful the Dark Stranger will come for you. Mommy is going to have to lock her naughty little boy in the closet. Mommy is going to have to spank her naughty little boy’s bum. Mommy is going to have to beat the living shit out of her Goddamned little snot-nosed naughty kid till he cries blood-fucking red tears!’

  Oh my yes, Pussbag thought. Mommy had dearly loved THAT word!

  But time had passed and so had Mommy Dearest’s physical power over her naughty little boy. The threat of the Dark Stranger however, had only increased. As the years rolled by, naughty little Theodore Smith grew to be very naughty indeed.

  Pussbag Smitty, the terror of his terrible neighborhood. His list of sins had been long and horrible, yet torturing pets had been his specialty. Then, just as his mother had predicted, one fateful day the Dark Stranger had indeed come for him, only instead of dragging him screaming off to Hell, the dreaded Dark Stranger had looked into Pussbag’s tattered heart and offered him the one thing little Theodore would have gladly sold his very soul for --- friendship.