The Black Seas of Infinity (24 page)

I flip on the Sony stereo. It’s set on CD,
and I’m assaulted by some horrible modern rock. I pound the source
button until it hits AM radio. Hopefully I can find a talk channel.
Pressing down on the scan button, I scroll through static. Dialog
breaks out of the white noise, murmuring briefly as I overshoot the
station. I skim back through the crackling bluster until I home
in.

“I repeat, the real question is, What will be
left? What alliances will form?”

“Well, I don’t see the Southern states
rejoining the Northeastern states under any circumstances. They
have gone too far. The Northern states, that is. You know, a real
distance has grown between the rural and suburban dwellers,
especially those that live in big cities. People in Charlotte,
South Carolina, for instance, don’t feel any connection to those in
New York City. And Texas, we all know, doesn’t feel like they need
anybody.”

“I agree, but there are some bigger
surprises. I didn’t think Virginia even considered themselves a
part of the South anymore, yet they joined with states such as
North Carolina and Georgia!”

“The whole country is falling apart. I don’t
know specifically what did it, but Americans are pretty stubborn,
and aside from a massive defeat or epidemic, I don’t see any side
laying down their weapons.”

“The Federal Government, which has relocated
to Boston, for those listening that didn’t know, still claims they
run the whole country, and that all the errant states are involved
in a massive civil war that essentially amounts to treason. But,
since the splintering has started, I only see it going further.
States such as California and Illinois are already showing signs of
independence, and the Federal Government in its current and
foreseeable state is in no position to do much about it.”

“Well, so much for the president’s sweeping
socialist agenda. I doubt he has any money left for those services
in the midst of a war, what with half his tax base ducking
out.”

“You know, if there wasn’t such political
strife, so much underhanded game playing, if the big dissent hadn’t
been so—”

“Well, that’s neither here nor there. The
point is there is no going back. What happens next?”

“A loose confederacy, not unlike that under
the Articles of Confederation, might spring up. I can’t really see
all the former states joining together. Maybe a split between the
North and the South. Maybe a further split with the western states.
In this age with a lack of superpowers, no nation is really set to
dominate as the US formerly did. Even the current alliance between
the northern states is larger than England, France, and Germany
combined.”

It’s growing dark. The daylight seems to fade
away so quickly in the fall. The sky has deteriorated into a dim
gray, the roadside fallen into a shifting ebony mass. The hard
lines of manmade structures break out of the bucolic gloom. I seem
to be approaching San Antonio. The suburbs, with their loose
clusters of random businesses, start to buffet the road.

Vacant and lightless, the drab industrial
facades sprawl across empty lots, the sidewalks skirted by a jumble
of useless billboards and power lines. Light poles shoulder the
highway at regular intervals, their overarching lamps dormant.
Maybe in the cover of darkness this stretch will be easy to cross.
Glancing at the gauge, I notice the fuel doesn’t appear to have
dwindled much. I can only hope this gets me to the border. I don’t
want to leave a trail of decimated gas stations in my wake.

CHAPTER XIV

THE TROUBLES WITH ILLEGAL
IMMIGRATION

The pass by San Antonio was cake. A long, arcing
highway that rolls through the outskirts of the city, circling
around the metropolis in multi-laned isolation. A blinding flash of
light, and the occasional vehicle would flit by, the passage too
quick for a close look. Better for me... and them. Street signs and
telephone poles are the only consistent roadside markers. A brief
skirmish with civilization, and I’m back on another incarnation of
the same lonely road I’ve been traveling for what feels like
forever. The landscape morphs as I head farther south, everything
grinding down in size as the hot, arid night settles in.

Hours pass as I cruise down the rural
highway. I’ve seen one car this whole time, an ancient station
wagon that passed in a screech of slipping belts. The gas gauge has
fallen steadily, the dim dashboard lights casting a faint glow over
the slumping orange needle. The sky is dotted with pinpricks of
light, the multitude of stars spanning the sky conspicuous in the
cloudless hours of predawn. No street lights. No population. Just
the pure black of isolated wilderness. My headlights pour forward
as a twin volley of brilliance, the interstate flowing like an
endless river.

Everything is in upheaval right now. The body
I currently inhabit, the chaos and anarchy sweeping through the
United States we’ve been seeking visions of the future for
millennium, but nothing ever seems to follow a blueprint. Chaos and
uncertainty are the only constants. I glance out the window in an
attempt to distract myself.

Nothing. Just the twin tunnels of light,
bleaching out all detail in their harsh white glare.

The border is vast, and that’s why it could
never be completely safeguarded. People jump at secluded spots all
the time. I’m hoping I can accomplish the same. The approaching
dawn is lightening the sky, forcing back the shadows of night. A
road sign catches the glare of my headlights, announcing the
impending arrival of Brackettville. Even the name sounds small and
rural. I don’t recall seeing it on maps, but then again I didn’t
examine any of them too closely. It’s a long journey from New York
to Mexico, and I mostly just concentrated on the major cities.

The ambient light glimmers off the tops of
the diminutive trees, their scattered proximity casting the
landscape into a maze of tangled leaf tops, the tips reflecting a
pale blue glow. The town I’m looking for is Del Rio. Route 90 makes
a pass by that municipality, and it should be the last major
outpost before Amistad Reservoir and my shot at a border
crossing.

The sky has blossomed into a rich hue of
purple. The sun has yet to struggle into view, the glow of early
morn casting long shadows across the road. The edges of a house
crop up in the distance, the planks twinkling in the early morning
light. This must be Brackettville. After a few minutes the house
comes into a view as a two-storey white paneled abode, nestled
among the low-lying trees. I can see the shapes of a few more
buildings lying just beyond. The orange needle on the gas gauge has
fallen below half a tank. I briefly consider trying to procure gas
in the local town, and then I remember the fiasco of my last
attempt. I think I’ll push on. I would rather risk running out of
gas and hiking the rest of the way than leaving a trail of carnage.
Bad for my conscience, not to mention perfectly avoidable
publicity. I can only hope I’m traveling under the radar right
now—two gas stations reduced to bubbling infernos and I’ll be very
easy to trace.

The sleepy glow of dormant pickup trucks and
shuttered buildings rolls into view. Trees curl up out of the
morning dew, their slim trunks casting long, thin shadows. A quick
blur of rural domiciles, and I’m back into the wilderness.

The horizon has lightened, the rising sun
burning away the blanket of night. The backwoods spread out as far
as I can see.

I speed through another bucolic village. The
sign I just passed identifies it as “Val Verde Park.” The roadside
unfolds into the dull warehouses and sandy lots of provincial
trucking outlets. The ubiquitous McDonald’s and Chevrons commingle
with palm trees and graffiti-stained walls in a dilapidated train.
The small town blows by quickly, flagging into a small community of
houses.

The road grows into four lanes, a sign
announcing my entry into Del Rio. The gas gauge shows a quarter of
a tank. I’m starting to have a bad feeling about this. Houses and
businesses crowd in on the sidelines. Cars and trucks start to pass
me on the opposite side. This is way more traffic than I’ve
recently become accustomed to. I cross a narrow river. Just beyond,
the outspread lots of small buildings take over in a blanketing
litter of cut-rate franchises. Flagging telephone poles line the
sides of the road in a tattered array of slanted pillars, drooping
bundles of cable that crisscross the highway like an emaciated
canopy. A few vehicles dot the sandy parking lots, and I spy some
citizenry traipsing about. This Chevy is an attention grabber, a
loud, bright blue monster truck snarling through an otherwise
peaceful small town morning. Not good. Route 90 arcs off to the
right, and I swerve to follow, the suspension creaking as the truck
leans dangerously to one side. I need to slow down. This vehicle is
conspicuous enough, and speeding through town is only going to draw
more attention. Which, from the looks of it, has already
happened.

A few of the locals are whipping their heads
around, displaying an unhealthy interest in my presence. I can’t
make out details. I’m trying to stare straight ahead, denying them
the chance to take notice of my lack of a face. I don’t know
whether to slow down or speed up. Going faster would draw more
attention whereas going slower would allow a more thorough
inspection. The sidewalks are small and unpopulated. The citizens
seem to be clustered in small groups occupying the parking lots. I
just need to get through this. I could swear the hairs on the back
of my neck are bristling. Then any luck I might have had runs out
when the light a few yards in front of me changes to yellow.

Damnit! I could stomp on the gas, but running
that light, or even worse, causing an accident, is too big a risk.
I roll to a stop. The light turns red, and a few waiting cars
rumble by. The car throbs, vibrating with a hearty growl. The
windshield has become a quivering sheath of glass, the dashboard
pulsating with the rhythm of the motor. Seconds tick by. I stare
straight ahead, blindly hoping that no one gets a good look at me.
The opposing lights convert to yellow. Then red. Why is it moving
so slowly? My light flashes to green, and I stomp on the gas. A
siren pierces the air. Fucking cops! Glancing in my rear view
mirror, all I see are flashing red and blue lights. I don’t think I
have a choice. I floor the gas pedal. The V8 bellows with the
challenge, pouncing forward in a flourish of horsepower and
exhaust. The wail of blaring sirens trails after me. A slow moving
white sedan squats in my path, rapidly closing in as I speed up.
Swerving in an attempt to avoid it, my cab tips perilously to the
left. I spin the wheel to the right, trying to right the car. For
one hair-raising moment, the vehicle threatens to pitch to the
right, then it bounces back to the left and finally teeters back
into a shaky balance. I mash the gas pedal to the floor again.
Glancing in the rear view mirror, I see the cop car is still right
behind. Fucking A!

I turn back around just in time to see I’m
running a red light. Before I even manage to face forward I’m
thrown sideways into the door. Time slows to a crawl as the cabin
around me whirls clockwise in an exaggerated freefall. The eerie
moment of slow motion comes to an unceremonious close with a
ferocious crash. I fly forward, my head bouncing off the roof as I
tumble around in the deflating compartment. With a loud crack, the
truck smashes into a tree, the impact throwing it into a screaming,
sideways skid across pavement.

A violent crunch into a brick wall hurls me
back into the crumpled roof, the stone barrier extinguishing the
last of the momentum. The truck groans in its final death throes,
and I fall, crashing shoulder first into the passenger door. By now
the wail of multiple sirens pierces the air. Digging my fingers
into the canvas seat, I try to pull myself up. With a screech the
fabric pulls apart, and I fall backwards in a shower of foam.
Tearing in again, I burrow down until I reach a metal frame, and
pull myself erect. Reaching up, I align my fingers and jab into the
seat again, delving through a layer of padding until I hit metal. A
couple more improvised handholds, and I reach the mangled driver’s
side door, which now serves as a roof. The glass has smashed out of
the window, the rubber sill framed in a jagged queue of shards.
Grasping the sill, I pull myself through the mutilated frame. I’m
in a small lot pancaked up against the back of some building.

A white police sedan bounds up into the lot
and screeches to a halt in a spray of sand. A wall of noise hits me
in waves, the shrill racket of the police cruiser commingled with
the sounds of rapidly approaching backup. Just as I hear a door
crack open, a round impacts my head, throwing me from my perch.

I crater the asphalt, tumbling over into a
crouch and springing up into a ready stance. The shadow of the
truck falls over me, hiding me from the patrol car. Glancing
around, I break into a sprint, arcing around the building.

Tromping through a high patch of weeds, I
hurdle a short concrete wall and break out into the blinding
daylight of a sandy lot. To my right is a warehouse, white paint
peeling away in total neglect. To my left is the roadway. I should
follow the road—probably my best chance of escaping this town. I
bolt forward, bounding over the small banks of vegetation. I’ve
only just vaulted the last bank of grass when a thumping noise
erupts beside me. It’s followed by a pelting spurt of sand. I start
to turn my head when a slug impacts my left shoulder, shoving me
into a forward stumble. I lurch upright and spy a middle-aged woman
off to my left. She is standing in the entryway of a Dollar
General, evidently frozen in terror. The brick wall of a hotel
chokes off my path, and I turn toward the highway. A pummeling
sound beside me is followed by a shower of asphalt.