Three A.M.
Page 29
Water gently lapped at my face. It was frigid but welcome. I smiled weakly at the water. I could not see. Then my arms knew the water and my legs and my fingers. It was all around me, gently flowing and gurgling. I was on my back in the water. Not floating, but I could feel nothing but its cold embrace. I tried to bring my hands to my face. After what seemed like an eternity, they got there and I explored my face, hardly comprehending what it meant to have one. All the parts seemed like they were there. All the parts of my hands were there.
Slowly I began to feel the pain. It crept in out of the icy water and wrapped around me. All around me. I was not dead. The idea seemed absurd to me. Foolish. But as I lay there slowly reintroducing myself to life, I quickly became convinced of it. I was alive. My thoughts coalesced. The water … the absolute darkness … There was no power. I smiled faintly to myself. It hurt to smile, but I could not stop.
I lay there in the darkened turbine room, aching and groaning, for perhaps ten minutes, maybe more. Finally I pulled myself up to my knees. The water was slowly rising. I could barely move my legs, so I half swam, half crawled around the room until I found a wall. I picked a direction and drift-crawled along it until finally I found the large space that led to the outer tunnel.
It took me more than twenty minutes to work my way toward the pale silver aura at the corridor’s end. Water was flowing out of the tunnel and down across the land. There was no sound of the four crashing waterfalls from the far side of the dam. The red truck sat patiently in what looked like hazy twilight or morning. I crawled to the pickup and slumped against one tire, finally looking down at myself. My hands were blistered and burned. My pants were shredded, as was the skin beneath. My chest was riddled with lacerations caused by bits of metal and concrete. My palms came away from my face stained with blood. I was growing weaker. Tired. I wanted to just rest there, beside the dead giant.
But there was something I needed to see. I set my jaw and heaved myself up and into the truck. The engine rumbled to life and I set off. Sure enough, the sun was rising, not setting.
17
The city’s skyline was perfect. It was exactly as I remembered it. Backlit by dawn, the tall buildings cut sharp, crisp patterns into the sky. The thin, towering fog stacks glinted in the sunlight like a crown atop the city. All the buildings were dark; not a single light shone in any window. I was passing through the shattered suburbs.
It was a strain to keep my eyes focused, and my head dipped forward frequently. The steering wheel was slick with blood.
I could hardly feel my fingers or toes.
I thought I saw people peering out from the shadows along the road.
I was fading.
I kept my foot pressed firmly down on the accelerator even as I crossed the river into town. There was a massive concrete bunker at either end of the bridge and a series of gates, but they were all raised and unmanned. A thick metal door, easily fifteen feet in height and double that across, was swung wide open at the far side. It was the last barrier before the city. Or first for those within. I slowed as I entered town and rolled down a wide open boulevard. Getting my bearings, I turned onto a side street. I desperately wanted to get to the cathedral … to see its wondrous facade one more time.
I turned down what I figured was River Street and had to abandon the truck. Orb columns ran down the center of the road. They looked absurd now in the light of a clear day. I laughed breathlessly to myself as I climbed out of the cab, wincing immediately afterwards.
I was home. As much as I had ever felt at home anywhere.
My legs gave out after less than a block. I crawled for maybe a hundred yards and then pulled myself along with just my elbows for a few feet more. The pavement behind me was streaked with blood. I figured I was in the last few moments of my life, so what the hell—stop crawling.
Rolling onto my back, I looked up at the sky … the blue sky. There were a few clouds and the sun was bright, warming. I lay there staring upward for a long time. The buildings around me were all dilapidated above their first few floors—cracked paint, boarded-up windows, old signs, and bare flagpoles that no one had seen in years.
It was warm and bright in the sun, and there wasn’t a soul around. Everyone was terrified and hiding. So I had the street and the sky to myself and I lay there, bleeding and broken and probably moribund, and I was happy as hell. I had never felt such joy, in fact. Ever. I was … satisfied.
TOR BOOKS BY STEVEN JOHN
Three A.M.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEVEN JOHN and his wife, an elementary school teacher, live in Los Angeles by way of Washington, D.C., and New York, respectively. He splits his time between many things, most of which involve words. Three A.M. is his first novel.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THREE A.M.
Copyright © 2012 by Steven John
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
e-ISBN 9781429987646
First Edition: March 2012