The Black Seas of Infinity (21 page)

When I’m almost upon him, he turns his head,
and I smack him in the temple with my open hand. Consciousness
leaves almost immediately, and he crumbles in a loose sprawl at my
feet. The whole knocking a guy out happens all the time in movies
and on TV, but I’ve heard it’s actually way more dangerous. But the
alternative is worse—letting him run off to notify someone before I
have a chance to get a head start. Or I’d have to kill him. I
really don’t want to kill anyone. The soldiers had been an
unfortunate necessity.

The keys aren’t in the ignition. I lean over
the kid and roll him. His hat falls off and his head swings
listlessly to the side, a tuft of sandy blond hair tumbling out. I
fumble in his pocket and pull out a ring of keys, one with a large
plastic grip clearly marked “Toyota.” Gently shoving him aside, I
climb in.

The truck looks new. I know the Tacoma is a
fairly recent model to begin with, and the odometer reads
thirty-thousand. I feel bad taking the vehicle. I don’t know why;
maybe because it’s from a young kid and not some redneck shooting
at me. It’s probably insured, but that might not mean a lot in this
political climate. I shouldn’t even think about this now. I’m not
out of the fire yet. I turn the key and the engine roars to life.
Sounds like he even has a performance exhaust on this thing. As a
further bonus, the gas gauge reads almost a full tank! It’s an
automatic, but beggars can’t be choosers. I shift into reverse,
squeal back quickly, and punch it forward. Spinning the wheel
furiously, I circle around the edge of the house, barely missing a
wall of pine bushes. I skid past the residence, nearly sideswiping
a red Chevy truck parked in the driveway. I cut across the lawn
toward the main road, the wheels tearing up sod in trails of
mangled white roots and black soil. Over the roar of the muffler I
hear the front door open. I chance a quick look back and glimpse a
brown-haired woman in her forties, mouth half-open and her face
registering a mixed look of puzzlement and anger. Bouncing forward,
I buck the dirt curb and slam down on the asphalt road, the shocks
complaining with a grating jolt. That was way stiffer than usual.
He must have upgraded the suspension as well. Spinning the wheel
left, I straighten out and shoot forward.

There’s a white house on my left, the screen
door starting to ease open. I must have agitated the whole
neighborhood! A stop sign pops up, the little road intersecting a
slightly larger street. I slow down just enough to look past the
trees on my left, the dust roiling up behind me in a billowing
smog. No traffic. A wide expanse of road shoots off to the left.
That’s more or less the way I came, and it probably dead-ends. I
think the right is what I need. It burrows through a cluster of
trees, probably leading to that thoroughfare I saw earlier.

A brief tunnel of leaves, and the trees open
up into a grassy plain, populated in the distance by squat houses.
The road angles sharply left, and I make a squealing turn. I see a
figure running out of a small green paneled house, his face twisted
in rage. He looks to be in his forties, salty hair and a beer belly
jutting out below a stained wife beater. What does he think he’s
going to do? People are amazing. The road twists, and I screech
around the bend, my rear end drifting out so far I’m almost
sideways. I stomp on the gas, flying by some sort of truck
warehouse, the packed dirt lot harboring a cluster of
eighteen-wheelers. What are they doing out here? This is a small
island in the marshes. The road T-bones, and I swerve to the right.
Wide, shining lawns harboring houses crowd in on both sides.
They’re all decidedly rural, with open stretches of grass and trees
and flaunting way more space than the suburbs. Still far too many
people for my liking. I assume the woman from the house I stole
this truck from has gotten word of it to her neighbors. A couple of
the houses seem to be churning with commotion, the residents
bursting out to stop me as I fly past. I don’t slow down long
enough to see how many people are on my trail, but blazing through
what is apparently the center of town might not have been the best
move.

Amidst the gaps in the trees I see the
sun-drenched asphalt of what looks like an interstate. The last
house falls away, and all that separates me from the highway is a
wide, grassy field. I must be on the edge of town. Unfortunately,
about thirty yards ahead of me is a roadblock of police cars.
Angled so the cruisers face each other, the makeshift barrier seals
off the road. It looks like three officers, sporting tan cowboy
hats and olive uniforms, are crouched behind the wall of vehicles.
Their rifles are pointing straight at me. I train in my vision. A
shotgun, maybe a Remington, and, wow, that looks like an AR-15.
Since when do cops carry that kind of firepower? Ramming that
barricade probably wouldn’t be in my best interest. I want to hold
on to this truck. If the bullets don’t hit something vital to the
engine, the holes will attract way too much attention once I make
it out of here. I slow down. Turning the wheel to the left, I punch
the four-wheel-drive button and bound into the open field. A slug
shatters the passenger window, burying itself in my seat. A line of
trees sprouts up, obscuring the police from sight. Glancing left, I
see the field stretching out in a rolling meadow, breaking in the
distance into a shaded cove harboring a house. Things might not be
perfect, but I feel like the threat of industrialized society has
diminished. An angry throng of homesteaders pursues me, not some
militarist corps with advanced weaponry. Incensed villagers I can
deal with. It’s a far cry from smart bombs and night vision
goggles.

A row of hedges crops up between me and the
interstate, a metal guardrail beyond barring my access. I slow down
and turn right on a small embankment. Edging the vehicle along
slowly, I carefully navigate between a sunken canal on one side and
a wall of trees on the other. A broad oak tree comes into view,
blocking my path. I dip further into the depression, laboriously
toiling around the massive trunk. The Toyota threatens to tip over,
the steep angle rolling me against the door. A few tense moments,
and the truck flops back onto level ground. The woods fall away as
the field widens. With a crunch the front tires catch gravel and I
spin out onto the interstate.

The civilization quickly passes, and I’m
surrounded by the watery marshes again. The mien of a river passes
beneath the road, the tops of the currents catching the rays of the
floats off to the right, the cracking paint and utter silence
attesting to their abandonment. Glancing in the rear view mirror,
the small town now appears a tiny isle of man, pitted against the
encroaching wasteland. It reminds me how small we are in this vast
ecosystem. Not to mention, we’re just one planet in a universe of
billions.

We definitely aren’t alone, and anything that
has made it to Earth is far more advanced than us. Billions of
planets existed long before the Earth was even born. We aren’t even
the first inhabitants on this world. The dinosaurs ruled for
millions of years until they were wiped out. How advanced would we
be with a few million more years under our belts? How many species
are there like us, or even more barbaric but still sentient? It’s
the same array of mysteries that has tied up generations of
explorers and scientists. I’m starting to miss working for the
government. It’s not working for them per se that I miss, but the
exposure to cutting edge technology. The access to new discoveries
and revelations. It’s an opportunity that’s gone forever. I’m not
even out of the frying pan yet and the isolation of an uncivilized,
backwoods existence is already starting to feel like a prison.

As I roll off the bridge, the marshes
progress into firmer rooted pastures. The blurry forms of a village
sprout up on the horizon, drawing into focus as I approach. Small
houses spread out in a mix of spacious lawns and open fields. Short
trees dot the terrain, their autumn-tinged leaves just starting to
expire in a blaze of color. Local streets intersect the highway,
scattered abodes and small businesses besieging the side of the
road in pint-sized clusters. The street widens, splitting into
separate double lanes. Houses and local businesses now crowd
in.

I don’t see any signs of life, although I’m
sure some of the houses are populated. It’s a clear afternoon, and
I stick out like a sore thumb. I want to avoid flying through town
at an excessive speed because it might draw attention. I can’t do
anything about my appearance, and all it takes is for a local to
get one good look at me for all hell to break loose.

I scrutinize the windows of every residence I
pass. The curtains are mostly slack, sheltering a dark interior.
The drawn ones are creepier, granting a brief glimpse into an
abandoned chamber of bucolic Americana. The businesses are all
closed, their doors shut tight, their lots empty.

The frequency increases, the stores
shouldering the road in a husky sprawl of light brown brick and
cheap plastic signs. Gas stations, second rate restaurants, and
gift shops swarm in, the garish silver streamers of a used car
dealer waving across a meager lot of SUVs. It reminds me of those
old proving grounds for atomic bombs, the deserted towns that were
decorated in a masquerade of life, but destined for oblivion. A
sign on my right announces the imminent arrival of Interstate 73.
What luck! Finally I’ll be out of this backwards Twilight Zone of a
landscape and on track to Mexico. The roadway turns into a mired
nest of concrete. Descending ramps and on ramps twist in on both
sides, a looming concrete archway rising to greet me. I roll into
the manmade tunnel. There’s no traffic, no sign of life, only the
gentle whistle of the wind. The asphalt curves, sweeping around in
a wide circle and dumping me onto a huge, multi-lane
interstate.

A few minutes later, and I’m rolling through
wide stretches of savanna, the only sign of humanity the endless
strip of roadway. The terrain grows more varied, clusters of trees
cropping up, swelling into small forests. The interstate ascends in
a slow arc, the dual lanes rising in a concrete passageway that
flows serenely across a writhing mass of water.

In short order, the wilderness is overrun by
the crass contours of humanity. Roadside motels and restaurants,
their empty parking lots festooned with palm trees and power lines.
I’m nearing Houston. A silver Lexus whips by in a rumble of noise
and wind. Sidewalls rise up, segregating the road from the
approaching city. Every few minutes I see a car, mostly sedans and
the occasional SUV. Judging from the number of lanes, I would guess
the traffic is way lighter than normal. It’s still more than I’ve
seen in the past few cities. I slouch in the seat whenever a
vehicle passes. Hopefully most people will be too wrapped up in
their own problems to look closely.

A deep grumble resonates far behind me, the
quaking bass growing steadily louder. I glance in the rear view
mirror. A swarm of Harley-Davidsons is closing in. The bikes are
decked out with a throng of hard-boiled-looking riders, the patches
on their leather jackets testifying to gang affiliation. There must
be at least thirty bikes. A raucous series of bellows and catcalls
breaks out as they draw close. Suddenly, cycles swarm in around me,
the sidewalls of the Toyota weathering a barrage of shattering
bottles and other projectiles. A bike pulls up beside my window.
The worn-looking woman in the backseat leers at me through oily
strands of blond hair, her black roots complimenting her dangling
earrings and gaudy red lipstick. I ignore her for a moment, the
growl of the V-twin pulsating through the open window in a torrent
of noise and wind as the bike keeps stride with my truck. Then I
swivel my head and face her. Her eyes bug out and her jaw drops,
revealing an assortment of yellowed teeth. The Harley pulls ahead,
the mob surging onward in a fading squall of exhaust and
chrome.

The shadows grow longer and the road gloomier
as the sun falls from the sky. Huge clouds sweep by overhead,
mottling the interstate in a writhing monstrosity of darkness. I
roll under a broad sweep of arching roadways, mammoth square
pillars rising up out of the concrete banks on either side. I pass
under the first two spans without incident. Just as I’m exiting the
third, a wallop bludgeons the side of my truck, throwing me into
the next lane in a squeal of rubber. I nudge the brakes and glance
sideways. A prone form lies doubled over, adorned only in white
underwear, an orange burlap sack concealing his face. Blood seeps
from a hole in his chest. Another body crashes into the pavement
beside him, and I peer up. There’s a row of four men lined up on
the bridge, all of them wearing underwear and that fatal shroud. A
crack peals through the air, a wispy plume of blood erupts from one
of the captives, and his body tumbles over the concrete sidewall,
hitting the asphalt with a wet thud. They are executing people! I
don’t know if they are criminals caught by whatever is serving as
the law or vice versa, but I’m out. I hit the gas and fly forward,
skidding around a bend as the road veers from the bridge’s line of
sight. The thoroughfare levels out into a straightaway. Houses fly
by, their occurrence dwindling as the wilderness slowly regains its
hold.

The sun is sinking, the thin wisps of clouds
a brilliant orange as they glide across the sky. The periphery of
trees grows dark, a cooling gloom settling in with the coming of
night. My truck casts a narrow beam before me, the rays trundling
an undulating river of stone. Still ahead of me is San Antonio. One
last major city in the US, and that should be a breeze. I hope.

An hour passes, and night has closed in, the
last vestiges of reflected light dying out in the sky. A whistling
gale buffets the truck, tearing in through the open windows. I
start to hear a buzz in the distance, and I strain my hearing. It’s
a mechanical whine, reminding me of the helicopter that pursued me
in North Carolina.