A Dark World: The Complete SpaceMan Chronicles (Books 1-3)

by Tom Abrahams

  Gus waved to Rick, calling him over. “Come here, big fella,” he said with a chuckle. “Got a question for ya.”

  Rick reluctantly sauntered over to the table, positioning himself behind Kenny, who was sitting next to his mother. He put his hands on his son’s shoulders.

  Gus pointed at Rick with a well-chewed ear of corn. “So we were talking,” he said, “and Mumphrey here says you ran into some trouble.”

  Rick smirked and glanced over at Mumphrey. “Which time? There was the cult, the bad truckers, the good trucker who helped us with some thieving gas station clerks, the roadblock with fake cops, and the roadblocks with the real military.”

  “What cult?” asked Karen. She elbowed Kenny. “You never said anything about a cult. Where was the cult?”

  Kenny shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t think about mentioning it.”

  Gus sucked a piece of corn from his teeth and adjusted the faded red, sweat-stained Mahindra ball cap on his head. “That’s a lot more than Mumphrey let on,” he said. “We got time for the other stories, which I’m guessing Karen here might want to hear, but I’m talking about the roadblocks. The real ones.”

  Rick shot Mumphrey a look and shrugged. “Not much to it,” he said. “They said they were trying to control the flow of people in and out of big cities.”

  Gus’s eyebrows arched high enough on his forehead they disappeared behind the brim of his cap. “You believe that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” Rick said. “Seems odd. Then again, all of this does.”

  “There was that huge convoy,” said Mumphrey, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “That’s what I mentioned to Gus here. Looked like they were fully loaded, ready to go.”

  Gus aimed the corncob at Mumphrey. “See, that’s what I don’t get. You’ve got police and fire in every city. You’ve got sheriff’s deputies, constables, jailers, federal agents all living in the big cities. Not sure why you roll in the cavalry, so to speak. Know what I mean?”

  Reggie Buck, sitting next to Gus and opposite Karen, cleared his throat and swallowed. “I’m not as fast to rush to conspiracies,” he said. “We’ve suffered what is essentially a natural disaster. The military frequently responds to disasters. Maybe they’re slow. Like after Katrina in New Orleans.”

  Gus took a swig of tea from a big plastic cup and shook his head. “It ain’t a conspiracy, brother, if it’s happening. It’s the real deal. There’s something bigger going on here. I heard rumors of FEMA camps.”

  Reggie shook his head. “Those rumors always pop up. Remember the whole Jade Helm thing five years ago? Everyone thought the government was training to round people up. It never happened.”

  “Yet,” said Gus. “It hasn’t happened yet. I mean, look at that sky. It’s blood red. You think that ain’t got the government freaked a zombie apocalypse is coming? You think they won’t do drastic things to keep control, to put their thumbs on us?”

  Mumphrey laughed. “You’re funny,” he said, toasting Gus with his plastic cup. “I like you.”

  “Nothing funny about it,” said Gus with a smile. “I worked for the government, albeit local, for the better part of my life. I know how power corrupts. I know about politics, brother. I built this place exactly because of government exercises like Jade Helm. You never know what’s coming around the bend.”

  Rick scanned the table, his eyes moving from one person to the next, Lana and Reggie Buck, Gus, Mumphrey, Candace, Kenny, and his ex-wife, Karen. He looked at the near empty bowls of food, the plastic pitcher of tea, and then beyond the table to the garden and elevated chicken pens. His gaze drifted from the scrub oaks that hid the fencing on the eastern edge of the property to the red sky above them. The longer he stared at it, the more he saw it pulsating, like a beating heart.

  There were so many things wrong with the picture in front of him, but one thing was right. And Gus, the firefighting prepper skeptic, was absolutely correct in saying it.

  You never know what’s coming around the bend.

  CHAPTER 33

  MISSION ELAPSED TIME

  74 DAYS, 22 HOURS, 22 MINUTES, 12 SECONDS

  Clayton opened his eyes to a confusing sea of red.

  What am I looking at? Where am I? Why does my head hurt?

  The answers came one at a time as he regained consciousness and his wits. He was on his back, staring at the aurora-soaked sky. He was in a field near Denver after having crashed his plane. His head throbbed because he was on his back in a field after having crashed his plane.

  He sat up and a sharp, breathtaking pain shot from his side and he remembered. His ribs.

  Carefully he pushed himself onto one foot and then the other. He was squatting, catching his breath. His vision, though not crystal clear, was more focused than it had been when he opened his eyes. His survival pack was a couple of feet in front of him.

  Rather than stand and risk passing out again, he lowered himself onto his knees and crawled through the high grass to the pack. He sat again and pulled it into his lap, the weight of it resting on his injured leg.

  Clayton cried out in pain and pushed the pack back onto the ground next to him. He grabbed his leg as if that might do anything to ease the thick ache throbbing from his ankle to his thigh.

  He took shallow breaths to cope with the sting, reaching into the pack to find a painkiller. He needed something or he’d be stuck in the field forever. He ripped open the package and popped the medicine, swallowing it without water. It was chalky and bitter and he smacked his tongue, trying to get rid of the taste.

  As he sat there, pitying himself, trying to gather the strength to get to his feet and find shelter and think positive thoughts, he recalled the decision that had changed the course of his life, the day that had him connect with Ben and, at his suggestion, apply for the astronaut corps. All of it seemed like destiny. Then the ISS went dark.

  That decision had come prior to meeting Ben at an engineering conference in Houston and before he’d attended the astronaut’s lecture on mechanical dynamics in low Earth orbit. His first stop at the conference that day was a question and answer session with Henry Petroski, an engineering professor at Duke who specialized in failure analysis. He’d said two things that always stuck with Clayton.

  “Science is about knowing,” he’d told the capacity crowd. “Engineering is about doing. Successful engineering is understanding how things break and fail.”

  Petroski was brilliant. Understanding how something failed was the key to understanding how to make it work. Moreover, engineering was about applying science. It was about acting, not passively watching. As Petroski answered questions, Clayton had focused on what the engineer had already said.

  Engineering is about doing.

  Clayton wanted to do something. He wanted to apply his adrenaline-inducing hobbies, the things that made him feel alive, to his work. Only then could he be successful. Only then could he push past the limitations he’d set on himself, on his life.

  As he sat there, thinking about Petroski’s unwitting challenge, Clayton scanned the speaker’s list. He saw Greenwood’s lecture on the agenda.

  Astronaut. That’s about doing.

  So Clayton left Petroski’s Q&A early to find a spot at the front of the room for Greenwood’s lecture. He went out of his way to speak with the astronaut afterward and to exchange information. Whether it was a conscious decision or not, whether he could truly admit it to himself, Clayton knew that day he wanted to be an astronaut.

  Instead of orbiting the Earth on day seventy-four of his mission and doing, he was back on Earth failing. He cursed himself. He cursed Greenwood. But most of all he cursed Petroski. If that genius hadn’t said what he’d said, if he hadn’t talked about doing, Clayton might never have strapped himself into a rocket.

  “Petroski,” he said. “Henry freaking Petroski.”

  Clayton sighed, which hurt his ribs. He hitched and coughed, which only exacerbated the pain. Of course, Clayton knew the Du
ke professor had nothing to do with where he found himself. He knew that. It was easier to blame someone else though.

  After cleaning the wound and applying a new bandage to his leg wound, he swallowed another pain killer and reached over to zip the survival pack. Gingerly he rose to his feet. A head rush blurred his vision for an instant, but it subsided and he rubbed his eyes clean of the fog.

  He picked up the pack and slid it onto his shoulders. Clayton was determined to stop feeling sorry for himself. Only by being broken could he understand how to fix himself.

  For the first time since scouting the landing area, Clayton took a good look at his surroundings. To the west, the mountains rose toward the red sky. To the east, his junked plane sat alone in the wide field. Straight in front of him, however, was something familiar.

  “How did I not see that?” He tucked his thumbs underneath the pack straps and started limping toward the landmark. “I’m totally blind.”

  With renewed enthusiasm, he moved south. There was hope of a night indoors and alternative transportation. It was a long shot. Then again, everything he’d survived in the last four days had been a long shot. What was one more lucky happenstance?

  Clayton tried to figure the distance between where he was and the landmark. It was too hard to tell. A mile? Two? Less? He pushed on his good leg and dragged his bad one through the knee-high grass.

  He looked again toward the mountains. The sun had moved lower. It appeared larger as it grew closer to the late afternoon. Clayton hoped he could reach his destination before it dipped beneath the peaks. He didn’t want to risk tripping in the dark.

  He picked up his pace, using shorter strides. The painkiller was starting to take effect, the pain dulled. He could make it.

  Ahead of him, framed against the red sky, were a series of clustered white peaks. Clayton knew the peaks weren’t mountains, nor were they intended to represent them. Rather, they were an homage to Native American teepees.

  Clayton was walking toward the Denver International Airport. He was convinced he would find something there that would propel him closer to Jackie and his children. He was convinced something there would get him home.

  Go back to Contents page

  RETROGRADE

  A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller

  Part Three of The SpaceMan Chronicles

  Tom Abrahams

  For Courtney, Sam, & Luke:

  The stars at the center of my universe.

  “The family is one of nature’s masterpieces.”

  —George Santyana

  CHAPTER 1

  MISSION ELAPSED TIME

  74 DAYS, 22 HOURS, 22 MINUTES, 12 SECONDS

  DENVER, COLORADO

  Clayton Shepard would have thought he was dreaming if the pain coursing through his body weren’t so acute. Dreams, even nightmares, didn’t hurt.

  His quick but faltering pace toward the airport had slowed considerably since he’d begun, his path less than direct. His only assurance he was still headed in the right direction was the collection of artificial white peaks directly ahead. The sun was dropping fast and the cold air was harder to breathe. He pulled short, shallow breaths to lessen the sting.

  “The glacier was easier,” he slurred the moment before someone yelled at him.

  The call echoed around him, but Clayton dismissed it. He thought he was hearing things.

  He scanned the ground around him and then searched the horizon, working to focus on the grassy, rolling field between him and his destination. He kept walking until he heard the muffled, unintelligible command again. He didn’t obey until a shot from an M4 zipped past his aching head.

  “Stop right there!” the man barked. “Don’t move. Raise your hands above your head.”

  Clayton stopped, his boots cementing themselves in the soft mud. He looked down at his chest and saw a half-dozen crimson dots dancing at what shooters called center mass. He touched his chest, the laser beams painting his hand. Through the throbbing in his head, the exhaustion, and the searing heat radiating from his injured leg, he couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t.

  The ringing in his ears was getting worse. He mumbled, “Why are—”

  The man repeated his order with less patience. “Raise your hands above your head!”

  Clayton blinked, trying to find the source of the commands. He raised his hands but couldn’t get them much past his shoulders. The stitch in his side wouldn’t allow it.

  “I’m trying,” he said. “I think I’ve got broken ribs.”

  “Keep them as high as you can,” said the man. “Do not react when my men approach you. They will shoot you.”

  Clayton winced against the sharp pain in his side, but he kept his hands as high as he could. Five men covered in shaggy green and brown camouflage ghillie suits materialized from the ground. With their weapons pulled to their shoulders and eyes they crouch-walked toward him. They stopped a few feet from him, weapons trained on his chest, forming a semicircle around him. The leader of the group rose from the ground and marched to join them. He halved the distance between Clayton and his men and lowered his weapon.

  The man’s face was painted with alternating stripes of green, tan, and brown. Only the whites of his eyes and teeth made him distinguishable from his outfit. Clayton still wasn’t certain he was real.

  “I’m going to pull the pack from your shoulders,” he said. “Don’t resist. Just relax and let me remove it. Is that understood?”

  Clayton nodded.

  The man walked around Clayton, circling him like an animal about to pounce, and grabbed the pack from behind. He wasn’t gentle.

  He grunted and walked around to face Clayton, holding up the pack. “What’s this?”

  The ringing softened for a moment and Clayton glanced past the alpha male and his team to the row of white peaks stretching skyward from the Denver International Airport Jeppesen Terminal. He couldn’t be more than two hundred yards from it. He was so close. At least he thought he was. Was it a mirage? Was all of this a dream? His eyes strained to focus and look the soldier in the eyes.

  “Survival gear.”

  The soldier’s breath smelled like licorice. Strong black licorice. “For what?”

  The ringing was worse. Clayton could barely hear himself speak. “Surviving.”

  The soldier leaned in, his face inches from Clayton. He shook the pack. “This is Russian. What are you doing with Russian survival gear?”

  Clayton looked at the Cyrillic lettering on the pack. “I’m an astronaut,” he said. “Do I smell licorice?”

  The man narrowed his gaze before stepping back. A smile spread across his face. He tossed the heavy pack to one of his men.

  “All right,” he said. “You want to be coy. That’s your prerogative. We’ll let them handle you.”

  Clayton coughed and clenched his teeth against the bolt of pain in his side. He bent over and grabbed at his rib cage before dropping onto his knees. Each successive breath stung more than the last. The cold, dry mountain air didn’t help. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  The leader snapped another order. “Leigh, Turner, go check the aircraft. See if there are any survivors. Pull anything of value. They’ll want to see it.”

  “Roger that,” one of the men said. They marched past Clayton in the direction of the downed RV-8 he’d crashed.

  “Who are you?” Clayton asked. “Who are they?”

  The leader grabbed Clayton’s elbow and forced him to his feet. “The real question here,” he said, “is who you are.”

  Clayton leaned on the man and gripped a handful of the fabric strips at his shoulder. He leaned on his good leg and tried opening his eyes. A wave of nausea crashed through his body and he retched. The man let go and Clayton dropped to the ground on all fours.

  “Sergeant,” said the man holding the pack, “I think he’s got a concussion.”

  “Could be,” said the sergeant. “Looks like his leg is injured too. He’s bleeding.”

  Clayton wipe
d the vomit from his chin with the back of his wrist. All of this seemed surreal. He tried to concentrate, tried to focus on what was happening, but couldn’t. All that filtered through the sticky web of confusion was the realization that he couldn’t concentrate or focus.

  The world was spinning. Its gravity weighed heavy. Clayton choked back the sour bile that coated his tongue and throat and took as deep a breath as his lungs would allow. He leaned forward on his palms and grabbed at the grass.

  “My name,” he sputtered, “my name is Clayton Shepard. I’m an astronaut. I’m an astronaut.”

  Through the dog-whistle tone in his ears, he heard the men talking. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. Everything was muddied. Only occasional words poked through.

  “Gasoline.”

  “Maps.”

  “Russia.”

  “Transfer corral.”

  “Building four.”

  Building four? Transfer corral?

  As Clayton slipped from consciousness someone lifted him from the ground and he felt the toes of his boots dragging in the mud. The men were taking him somewhere. Clayton tried protesting. He knew he needed to be somewhere else. He was late. He was running behind schedule. That much he remembered.

  ***

  MISSION ELAPSED TIME

  75 DAYS, 0 HOURS, 04 MINUTES, 45 SECONDS

  DENVER, COLORADO

  Clayton could see the bright artificial light before he blinked open his eyes. It was piercingly white and aggravated the thick ache in the back of his head and at his temples. He was so focused on adjusting his vision to the blinding glow it wasn’t until he tried blocking it with his hands that he realized he was bound at the wrists and ankles.

  He tugged at the nylon straps holding him flat against a bed. As his vision gradually returned, he noticed the plastic tubing running from an infusion pole into an intravenous catheter taped to his forearm just above the nylon bind.