The Black Seas of Infinity (17 page)

I’m half-submerged in the water, and move
slowly toward the overhanging bridge, trying not to draw attention
by disrupting the surface. I step out and hug the wall, following
it up over the hedge and toward the road beyond. Slipping under the
overhang, I creep across the pavement, surmount a small, grassy
hill, and make it to the thicket of trees hugging the sidewall.
Crawling up the slope, the wall shortens as it rises, forcing me to
duck. I peek above the apex and can make out a few soldiers, their
vision trained on the opposite shore. I see a Humvee, angled toward
downtown, skirting the small grove of trees I’m hiding in. Not far
in front, a .50- caliber gun is mounted on a tripod behind the
sandbags, the barrel angled straight up. It’s unmanned, but
recently used, the surrounding premises littered with shells.

That’s probably what I felt the bite of in
the water. About six infantrymen are milling about, guns hung at
waist level, fingers on triggers. They’re probably still looking
for me. I make a dash for the Humvee. There must have been more
troops I didn’t see! About halfway there I’m engulfed in a torrent
of bullets. Slugs crater the ground around me, punching holes in
the asphalt and smacking me about like a puppet. I keep running for
the Humveee, my body contorting as rounds catch me off balance.

There are no doors, and I dive in, bouncing
through the passenger side and into the driver’s seat. The keys are
in the ignition. I flip them up and the engine roars to life.
Bullets tear through the soft-top and sidewalls. A few break the
windshield. I shift into reverse, spin around, and head out. A
couple of nearby soldiers try to circle in front of me, their hands
a blur of gunfire. More rounds punch through the windshield,
striking me in the chest and ricocheting into the dashboard. The
speedometer goes, the Plexiglas rupturing as a round tears through
the center. Stomping on the gas, I fly straight toward them. It’s
Death Race 2000 for a minute, the GIs jumping out of the way as I
threaten to run them down. The air is filled with quick bursts of
gunfire, followed immediately by the shredding of metal. I’ll bet
they’ve hit something in the engine by now, and I wonder how much
longer this truck has. I pick up speed as I head into downtown
Arlington.

I hear the sounds of pursuit in the
background, vehicles firing up and tires squealing. Swerving off
the main road and into North Moor, the street mutates into a tunnel
of concrete, the pavement wrapping up into sky-spanning buildings,
an overhanging walkway cresting the road.

The lumbering box of a vehicle I’m driving
maneuvers like shit, sliding out as I skid around corners and
grumbling as I stumble over curbs. My back end drifts into parking
meters with a jarring bash. I’m sure at least one of the tires has
been shot out, but fortunately the HWWMV is well prepared for
that.

The cars usually parked on the sides of the
street are absent, which is a good thing as I bolt through,
drifting in and out of lanes with all the finesse of a drunk
driver. I don’t know what my pursuers think I am, but in this
heightened atmosphere of tension, it’s clear no one is taking any
chances. They won’t catch up with me—those military vehicles are no
faster than this Humvee… and I have a head start—but I’m sure there
will be more on the way to cut off my path. Probably helicopters as
well. This truck sticks out like a sore thumb. I should pick up
another car soon.

A thumping cuts through the roar of the
motor. That sounds like a helicopter. I should ditch this thing
now!

I decide to run it straight into a building.
Hopefully the smoke and fire of the wreckage will throw them off
long enough for me to slip out through the back.

I twist the wheel sharply to the right, the
wheels squealing as they slide sideways across the asphalt. If this
were my Jeep it would have flipped, but this Humvee is sufficiently
wider.

At least all that defense spending wasn’t a
total waste! I fly through a couple of uphill blocks and am greeted
by a sprawling corporate building off to my left. I think it’s
AT&T, the sign buried amidst untrimmed bushes.

I crush the pedal to the floor, jerk the
wheel to the left, and bounce violently up the short concrete
steps. The Humvee goes airborne for a minute and comes crashing
down onto a small patio. The shocks bottom out with a wrenching
jolt. A glass double-door spreads out before me. The wheels skid on
the pavement, and the Humvee flies forward. I aim at the wall to
the left side of the portal.

A blinding crash, and the front of the Humvee
crumples like an accordion. The forward momentum throws me chest
first into the steering wheel, which instantly collapses into the
dash. My forehead smashes into the windshield, the spider-web
cracks showering outward in a cascade of broken glass.

I bounce back into an upright position, the
dust of shattered stone rising in a fog around me. The canvas top
emits a moan as the fabric tears then bursts inwards, dumping a
load of crushed rock on my head.

Then, as if to top it all off, the engine
catches fire. Stepping out, my foot slips on the debris. I quickly
catch myself, my hand clutching the mangled doorframe so hard my
fingers punch through the metal. Straightening up, I venture out
more slowly, carefully navigating the mess of broken stone.

Stretching before me is a hallway, its
polished white tiles littered with rubble and powder. The building
looks deserted. The aperture streams in rays of sunlight, the
luminescence contorted into thin beams by the rising dust. I step
over the rocks and break into a sprint. After a short stretch I
turn right, and the corridor ends in a closed white door. I kick
it, and it ruptures forward, wrenching off the hinges. The metal
retainers yank the screws from the wall, carrying them in frozen
flight as it soars into a carpet-coated domicile. The wall caves
inwards, diving into a white desk topped by a computer monitor. The
whole glorious monstrosity crumbles with a helpless groan in a
mutilated heap.

Office hell... The whole room is a maze of
Dilbert-esque workspaces. Small cubicles cluster around a giant
rectangle in the center. Light filters in from a window behind the
maze, flooding the room with the crisp blue of early morn.

I wonder where everyone went? The
middle-class suburbanites who have lost all stability in their
lives. If you call that a life—toiling for the man until you’re so
old you drop out and decay slowly in some retirement home. It would
be funny if it weren’t so sad. This whole corporate setup would
represent mundane drudgery in any other situation, but now it’s
like a piece of history. Something that won’t come to pass again
anytime soon. At least not under the same atmosphere of a
monolithic industrial culture.

I circle around the central block of cubicles
and approach the large glass window. The parted slat blinds dole
out long strips of daylight, the beams cutting crisply organized
stripes into the carpet.

I step back a few feet, nestling up against
the half-wall. Falling into a slight crouch, I run forward, balling
myself up as I leap toward the window.

I burst through with an explosion of glass
and roll into the lawn, the momentum spinning me down across the
pavement and into the road.

I stand up and glance around. The streets are
deserted. Tidily outfitted rivers of concrete sidewalk, winding
through a labyrinth of residential homes and small commercial
buildings. Neatly trimmed trees and bushes accouter immaculately
adorned lawns. This place is soulless.

Just as I hear the thumping of a helicopter
in the distance, a dragging screech emits from the opposite side of
the building. Probably pursuing vehicles. I glance down at my
clothes, hanging off me in tatters. Ripping them off, I ball them
up and toss them across the street. No point in hiding anything
now. The scraps of cotton will only slow me down, and besides that,
I feel liberated.

Free from contrived restraints that I no
longer need!

Sprinting down the avenue, I pick the side
heading in the opposite direction of the bridge. A few feet, and
I’m at a four-way stop. Darting left, the buildings branch out into
red brick apartments sheltered by expansive lawns, the trees edging
toward the roadways in a stab at suburbia. The road splits off to
the right and I follow it, the austere condos giving way to
eclectic two-storey homes. Small colonnades and porches adorn the
facades in an obviously failed attempt at antiquity.

Some of the houses have cars parked in front.
Probably a secondary trophy vehicle. The house coming up on my left
has a bright red Camaro in the driveway. The car looks old, maybe a
’60s model. At least they have good taste! The house itself looks
recently abandoned. The windowpanes offer a glimpse into a vacant
living room, the furniture forsaken under a growing carpet of dust.
The lawns are tainted with a conspicuous husk of leaves, the
well-groomed bushes and grass burdened by unaccustomed neglect. I
wonder how long the area has been like this. The residents probably
got in their SUV and retreated to a more rural sanctuary.

I stroll over to the Camaro and try the
driver’s side door. Locked. Smashing the window, I open the door
and climb in. I grip the lock cylinder and break it off. What with
the recent practice I make quick work of the hotwiring, and the
engine roars to life. I glance up at the gas gauge. Bonus! Almost a
full tank! Slamming the door, I push the lever into reverse and
peel out backwards and onto the road.

I find myself on a small side street, the
trees breaking their ceiling of shade to form a misshapen expanse
of bleached asphalt. Surrounding me on all sides are the forsaken
shells of suburban homes, the dark windows glowering out like the
eyes of an abandoned pet. The whole neighborhood has an eerie feel
to it, like it’s on the edge of a precipice, gazing back with a mix
of resentment and trepidation. I hear a distant hum in the air.
Time to leave.

Being that I don’t know the area, it will
take some tooling around to find a highway. I don’t want to go back
the way I came. This tree cover might throw off the initial
attempts at pursuit. I’ve made it a few blocks from the
telecommunications building, and they haven’t found me yet.

I roll out onto the entrance road and follow
it as it curves around, ascending a small incline. The trees fall
back and sunshine drenches the rows of tawdry houses, their quality
waning as I venture into the seedier part of town. I see no other
cars on the road. A stop sign at a traffic triangle lets out onto a
more major road, and I find myself driving through downtown
Arlington. The streets are lined with small businesses, the
buildings dilapidated and dirty looking, yet shuttered and locked
tight. There’s been no apparent looting, but everything is dead
silent. Transmission stores are latched and battened down next to
vacant delis.

A car ambles down the road toward me, a red,
mid-80s sedan, going noticeably faster than the speed limit. As the
vehicle passes, I see the driver is a young guy, probably mid
twenties, with short brown hair and an olive green jacket. His gaze
is fixed forward, intent on something. He doesn’t even try to make
eye contact, as if he’s caught up in some nightmarish dream and a
sideways glance might bring in the monsters. This must be like the
end of the world for some people. They go about their insulated
lives, completely unaware of the frail ideology underpinning
society. Empires fall all the time—it’s just a matter of when, not
if. The Egyptian Empire, the Greek Empire, the Roman Empire, the
Mongolian Empire, the French Empire—the US is little more than a
speck compared to what has preceded it.

The stoplights are working, and I slow as I
near a crossroads. But there is nothing, the intersection is dead.
I pause, listening for any distant sounds of pursuit. I hear in the
distance the drone of a helicopter, maybe two, but no heavy
machinery. None of the mechanical grunting of armored vehicles. I
take a left, heading through a queue of small stores toward what I
think is Alexandria and a ramp for the interstate.

The area gets seedier, deteriorating from
somewhat more reputable cafes and small office buildings into
ramshackle dives serving as small shops. I see a few signs that
tell me I’m on Leesburg Pike, but I’m still not sure I’m headed the
right way, and the last thing I need to do is waste all my fuel
tooling around Northern Virginia. The street shifts into King’s
Road, and the buildings start to grow in size and refinement. Just
when I’m convinced I’m lost, I round an expansive bend and spot a
blue shield on an overhanging green metal sign: 395, with the words
“Richmond” and “Washington” stamped in giant white letters beneath.
Mexico, here I come!

CHAPTER XI

THE LONE STAR STATE

It’s a big country—don’t let anyone tell you
otherwise. It feels even bigger when you’re trying to get across it
in a hurry. By virtue of size, each state could qualify as a
country in Europe. Granted, way more bland and boring than a trip
across that continent, but no less time consuming. Maybe I’ve just
had my fill of rural areas, but hour after hour of interstate,
abraded by brief glimpses of industrialization as I pass through a
town, and it all starts to look the same. The same roads, the same
fields, the same indistinguishable clusters of concrete buildings,
bedecked with their gaudy signs. None of the skyscrapers and urban
decay of New York, or the striking architecture mingled with
ancient decrepitude of Europe. It seems like every rural area could
be the inspiration for a Norman Rockwell painting. I know that’s
more the veneer than the crux. The rustic houses more than likely
have cell phones and Internet access and no doubt harbor plenty of
dirty secrets. I think twice about how the whole online access
thing has panned out in this chaos. The Internet is worldwide, but
many service providers are local.