by Tom Abrahams
His voice was loud but controlled. The others kept chanting. It was like a scene straight out of a horror movie.
Rick reached down to crank open his window.
“Dad,” Kenny said, his voice trembling, “don’t.”
“It’s okay,” he assured his son and opened the window. He leaned his head out. “Could you please let us pass? We need to get home.”
“Where did they come from?” asked Nikki. “I don’t see any cars. Did they all walk here? Are they with the museum?”
The tall man with the bird nose glared at Rick but didn’t respond. He blinked and took a step forward. He held up his hands to silence the throng. The chanting stopped and all of their eyes focused on the Jeep.
Rick muttered under his breath, “What the hell?”
“We might want to get a move on,” said Mumphrey. “These folks look like they got bad intentions. They ain’t got nothin’ to do with that museum.”
Through clenched lips, Rick said, “I can’t go anywhere. Ichabod Crane and his minions are blocking me.”
A broad smile wormed its way across the tall man’s thin lips, drawing his nose downward. His eyes narrowed, crow’s-feet deepening on either side.
The man pointed past the Jeep with a long, bony finger. “You came from the dinosaur park?” he asked through the creepy smile.
Rick nodded.
“So you know the lies of that place,” the man said. “You saw them in the sky. You saw what the true creator has wrought.”
Nobody in the Jeep responded.
“We have said for so long that He would show Himself,” said the man to the murmured agreement of his flock. “We have believed He would elevate the righteous and cast down the wicked, the purveyors and consumers of lies.”
“Nikki,” Rick said without moving his lips, “do not react to what I am going to tell you.” He kept his eyes on the tall man. “I want you to reach under my seat. There is a gun.”
Nikki gasped and opened her mouth to protest.
“Nikki,” Rick grunted, doing his best impersonation of a ventriloquist, “get me the gun. I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
“That time is upon us,” said the tall man to a growing chorus of support. “The color of the heavens is proof.”
Rick was stalling while Nikki fumbled underneath his seat. “Proof of what?” he called out of his window.
“We cannot let the nonbelievers pass,” the tall man said. “We are sent here to meet those who would deny our Lord’s dominion, His omnipotence.”
The man stepped closer and the flock followed him.
“We’re not denying anything,” Rick called through the open window. Then he lowered his voice. “Nikki, hurry up.”
“The Creator has given us the light in the sky. He has made useless our worldly possessions and devices.”
The crowd inched closer. Rick furiously cranked up the window.
“We cannot let you pass. You have forsaken Him at this unholy place.”
“Dad!” Kenny squealed.
Rick snapped, “Lock your doors, everyone.”
“They’re getting closer,” Chris said nervously.
Mumphrey shook his head. “They’re out of their ever-loving minds.”
“We have awaited this day!” the tall man bellowed, his nose curling down over his smiling lips. He planted his hands on the hood of the Jeep.
“Nikki!” said Rick. “Where is it?”
Nikki handed the 9mm to Rick. “Here!”
Mumphrey looked over at Rick. “You got a license for that?”
“Really, Mumphrey? This is Texas. Of course I have a concealed handgun license. Everybody has a license. Plus, I don’t need it to have it in my car.”
The crowd surrounded the vehicle and started rhythmically thumping on the hood with their fists. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The Jeep was swaying now.
“Dad,” said Kenny, “do something.”
Rick revved the engine. It did nothing to deter the swarm. It only agitated them like bees and they thumped against the hood faster and faster, chanting.
“These people are psycho,” said Nikki. “Like Branch Davidian psycho.”
Rick held the titanium-colored 9mm in his lap. It was a TP9 and held eighteen rounds. It had a double-action striker mechanism and was Century International’s version of a Smith and Wesson 99.
“Get out of the vehicle,” said the thin man above the din of the chanting. “We cannot let you pass.”
“There must be sixty of them,” said Mumphrey. “At least. We can’t—”
“Step away from my Jeep,” said Rick. He was glaring into the unflinching eyes of the tall man. He leveled the four-inch barrel of the TP9 directly at him. “Do it now. Tell your people to do the same.”
The man raised his hands in surrender, his unnerving smile stretching his face. “They are not my people.” He pointed a finger upward. “They are His people.” The chanting grew louder—Latin, Rick recognized now—and a chill ran along his spine.
“This is like the freaking Omen,” said Nikki. She braced herself, planting her hands on the inside edges of both front seat backs.
Kenny and Chris whimpered. Rick felt Kenny gripping his headrest, catching strands of his hair with his fingers.
“Kids, get down,” Rick said.
The Jeep rocked harder, like it was caught in a raging river. The flock had them surrounded. The looks in their eyes were vacant, as if they weren’t even aware of what they were doing. It was the most frighteningly bizarre thing Rick had ever seen, and he’d gone through a divorce with a woman he’d scorned.
Rick leaned forward in his seat, emphasizing his aim. “Get them off the car and let us pass,” he said. “I will use this.”
The man’s smile dissolved into a sneer. His fingers pressed down on the hood of the Jeep as though he were playing piano. “We cannot let you leave,” said the tall man. “You have failed the Creator. Now is our time. The skies tell us so.”
“These are doomsdayers, no doubt,” Mumphrey said. “We gotta get away.”
“That’s it,” Rick said.
“Wait!” urged Nikki. “Don’t shoot them.”
Rick caught her worried eyes in the rearview mirror. A deep crease cut across her forehead. Keeping the gun aimed at the tall man, he used his left hand to crack open the window.
“What are you doing?” Nikki barked. “Why—”
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Rick had the barrel wedged between the glass and the frame. Aiming into the sky, he quickly pulled the trigger again.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
The percussive rounds echoed in the cloudless sky, cracking across the rolling terrain like thunder. The rocking stopped. Most of the flock was running. The gunshots had awakened them from their trance. Some were stumbling head over heels down the grassy embankment that led to the museum. Others were backing away, their hands pressed flat against their ears.
One of the boys was crying in the backseat. Rick wasn’t sure which one. “It’s okay, boys. We’ll be out of here in a second.”
The tall man, though, was unmoved. He stood there, his fingers planted on the Jeep and his eyes affixed to Rick. The man tilted his head from one side to the other, flexing his neck. The smile returned. He pulled his hands from the Jeep and balled them into tight fists, whitening his knuckles.
“Back away,” Rick said. He pulled the 9mm through the window and then shouldered open the door.
Nikki reached for his arm. “Rick, just back up. Go around. There’s room.”
He was already out of the Jeep, standing behind the half-open door, adrenaline coursing through him. He held the 9mm with both hands and aimed it at the man’s head, his finger pressed against the trigger. He wanted to blow the smug, nasty glare off the man’s face. The man recognized Rick’s resolve. Or perhaps he wasn’t quite as ready to meet his Creator as he professed to be. Whatever the reason, he took two steps away from the Jeep. Then two more.
The man sn
eered. “He sees you,” he growled. “He knows what you’ve done. He is here and will have His vengeance.”
Rick lowered the weapon, dropped back into his seat, and pulled the door shut. He put his foot on the brake, ripped the Jeep into gear, and hit the accelerator, swinging the Jeep around the tall man with a screech of the tires.
“He sees you!” the man shouted. “He knows your transgressions.”
Rick blinked past the sting of salt in his eyes. “He sees me when I’m sleeping,” he said. “He knows when I’m awake. He knows when I’ve—”
“Sheesh,” Nikki cut in. “That was ridiculous.”
Rick barreled past the red traffic light on Highway 67. He swung the wheel hard to the left without decelerating enough and fishtailed the Jeep. Then he punched the gas again to head east.
“Boys? You guys okay back there?”
Kenny and Chris climbed from the floorboard and into their seats. Neither of them said anything; both buckled their seatbelts.
“Boys,” Rick said, “you were both brave. Really brave.”
Kenny shook his head. “I wasn’t. I cried.”
Rick searched his son’s face in the rearview mirror. Kenny’s eyes were red and swollen and his nose was running.
“That doesn’t mean you weren’t brave, son,” said Rick. “Brave people cry.”
Kenny took a deep, ragged breath and exhaled, nodding at his dad.
Mumphrey looked like he’d seen a ghost. He had a death grip on the dash, beads of sweat blooming across his bald head.
Still holding the TP9 in his right hand, Rick offered it to Mumphrey. “Could you take care of this?”
Mumphrey took the gun without saying anything. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “Doomsdayers,” he said, shaking his head. “That ain’t good.”
Nikki put her hand on Mumphrey’s shoulder. “What do you mean?”
“I’m just thinking out loud here,” he said, finding a place for the TP9 in the glove box. “I gotta think those folks were just a sign of a bigger problem. Something more widespread.”
“How so?” Nikki sat back and patted her hand on Kenny’s leg, obviously trying to reassure him they were safe now, despite the direction of the conversation. “Those were just creationist freaks. They were a cult or something. I don’t get how that means anything.”
The old man shrugged, drawing his shoulders close to his ears. “I’m just thinking out loud. But if they weren’t at the camp and they got some idea, somehow, that cars and phones and whatever else isn’t working anymore, then they think the end of the world is coming.”
“I don’t know about that,” Rick said. “They walked there. They were close. This could be isolated and they’re just predisposed to want to see the end of the world in anything out of the normal.”
“The aurora wasn’t isolated,” said Mumphrey. “I’m telling you, and I don’t mean to frighten the boys or nothing, but like I said, I think there’s a bigger issue. I think we might run into—”
“Holy—” Rick instinctively extended his arm across Mumphrey’s chest as he slammed on the brakes. “Hold on.” The Jeep’s tires screamed to a stop inches from the back of a Toyota minivan.
Ahead of them, blocking both lanes of traffic, was a parade of stalled vehicles. Some of them were stopped dead in the right of way, others in the steep culverts framing both sides of the highway. Some had crashed into each other.
“Maybe you were right,” said Nikki.
Mumphrey sighed.
CHAPTER 7
MISSION ELAPSED TIME:
72 DAYS, 10 HOURS, 55 MINUTES, 32 SECONDS
249 MILES ABOVE EARTH
The Orlan felt tighter with every passing minute. Clayton wanted nothing more than to rip it off and throw it through the airlock.
When he’d first put on the suit hours earlier, he’d felt a rush of claustrophobia that washed over him and then was gone as quickly as it came. During the entirety of his spacewalk, he’d felt comfortable in the suit, relatively speaking. It was different now.
He was in the airlock. Two dead men were floating alongside him in their suits. He’d failed to save them, but at least he’d recovered their bodies. If all went well, he’d be able to return them to their families. “If all went well” seemed like a pipe dream given his current circumstances.
Clayton fixated on Ben’s reflective visor. Heat coursed through him at the memory of Ben’s lifeless eyes glaring back it him from behind the gold-coated plastic bubble of the Extravehicular Visor Assembly.
A familiar knot swelled at the base of Clayton’s throat. “I’m so sorry,” he said for himself as much as to Ben.
Ben Greenwood was single and never married, though both of his parents were alive. They’d want to bury their son. He was sure of it. He’d met them once. They were from Nebraska and seemed like kind people. They’d raised a brilliant son.
It was Ben who’d first given Clayton the confidence to apply for the astronaut corps. Clayton met him at an engineering conference in Houston. Ben had given a brilliant speech about mechanical dynamics in low Earth orbit. Clayton approached him with some questions after the presentation. They’d grabbed overpriced cups of coffee, exchanged emails, and kept in touch.
Ben was among the senior astronauts. He’d flown on the shuttle before it was decommissioned. He was a fantastic ambassador for the program. He was an old-school astronaut: fearless and cocky, sharp and methodical.
Jackie had often teased Clayton he was “fangirling” over Ben. “Ben this, Ben that,” she would say. “He’s your hero, isn’t he? He’s Superman and you’re Jimmy Olsen.”
The truth was Ben was Clayton’s hero as far as space exploration was concerned. He practically idolized him.
So when an email titled “Wanna be an astronaut?” popped up in Clayton’s inbox, he’d opened it with ridiculous excitement. His fingers fumbled to click it open, his eyes darted wildly, searching the message for the key words.
Ben had forwarded a link to a NASA press release with the note, “You should do this.” Clayton had clicked the URL and a fresh page had opened in his browser:
BE AN ASTRONAUT: NASA ACCEPTING APPLICATIONS FOR FUTURE EXPLORERS
NASA is looking for the best candidates to work in the best job on or off the planet. The astronaut candidate application is now live. Those chosen may fly on any of four different US spacecraft during their careers: the International Space Station, two commercial crew spacecraft currently in development by US companies, and NASA’s Orion deep-space exploration vehicle.
That was all it had taken. That and a long conversation with Jackie. That, a long conversation with Jackie, and a rigorous selection process. It had been a nerve-racking twenty months.
First there was the application. NASA pored through them, weeding out those who weren’t serious from those who were, selecting those deemed highly qualified. Questionnaires went out to Clayton’s supervisors and references. Ben had been one of those references.
Clayton waited another three months until the highly qualified applicants were winnowed to the smaller pool of interviewees. Clayton went to JSC for the initial interview, a thorough medical evaluation, and an orientation.
The questions a panel of astronauts had asked him during the interview were simple and complex at the same time.
Why do you want to be an astronaut?
Can you fix things?
Who are you as a person?
Are you a team player?
The medical examination was thorough. They’d checked his sight, hearing, teeth, and his heart. He’d undergone MRIs and a VO2 max stress test.
Two months later finalists had been announced.
From that incredibly elite group, NASA selected its class. More than eighteen thousand people had applied. Half of one percent made the final cut. Clayton had been at the gym when he’d gotten the call. His Apple watch had buzzed against his wrist and displayed a blocked number.
He had stopped mid leg press and answe
red with his wrist, holding the watch close to his mouth.
“Yes?”
“You’re in, brother,” Ben had said with no preamble. “You’re in. You’re an astronaut. You’re an explorer. You’re part of the most select club on or off the planet.”
Clayton had thought he was joking. “Riiiight,” he’d said. “You’re not supposed to have that info. The head of the corps is the one who tells me.”
“Seriously,” Ben had said. “I got some inside intel. Not a joke. You’re in. Just act surprised when you get the official call.”
Clayton had thanked Ben, still not quite believing him, and finished his set. His legs had felt like rubber. He thought back to that moment. He was never sure whether the weakness was from the set of presses or the phone call.
It had taken years to become flight certified, learn enough Russian to keep his job, earn an assignment, and then train for it. It had been years of work and stress and strain for him and for his reluctantly supportive family.
Now Clayton wondered if he ever should have applied. He wondered if he should have opened the email offering him the chance. He wondered if he should have even approached Ben at the engineering conference in the first place. If he hadn’t done some or all of those things, Ben Greenwood and Boris Voin would somehow be alive. Another, better astronaut would have saved them. A better astronaut would have known what to do or would have fought harder to prevent or stop the EVA.
If he hadn’t done any of those things, he’d be home right now. He’d be with Jackie and the kids. They wouldn’t be alone coping with whatever the CME had done to their part of the Earth. He wouldn’t be alone in an airlock, contemplating what he could have done differently, how his need for the ultimate rush had put everything that really mattered at extreme risk.
Clayton checked the pressure. It was getting close. He’d be able to leave the airlock and start the process of getting off the ISS. He closed his eyes and went through a checklist of things that would need to happen before he undocked and separated from the station in the Soyuz.
It was a long list and Clayton had no idea how long the computer systems would continue to function. He couldn’t be sure how much time he had to do what he needed to do.
