by L. E. Howel
He would get him.
Birch clenched his teeth angrily, shouldered his backpack and rifle, and started running hard to the south. His progress was swift, but his eyes were watching, hawk-like, for any sign of his prey as he ran. He missed nothing. He was hungry with such a desire for revenge that all that he saw seemed to be bathed in a red hue that stung his watery eyes.
Not once did he look back. He would remember that place well enough for the rest of his life. It was forever fixed in his memory. It was a part of him now and it seemed that the only way to make the pain go away was to make a good end to this, to give a sense of justice, and to wash the page clean with this man’s blood. Then at least he would look back and know that something had been done. He wanted Karla, but if he couldn’t have her then her killer wouldn’t have life. This was the essence of revenge, and if there was any flaw in his logic his mind was too clouded with it to see anything else. He would get this man in the name of true justice and make him pay for what had done, then Karla would be at rest, and so would he.
He knew all the time that his chances were slim, but somehow luck did seem to be with him, for as he ran he caught sight of a trail of trampled grass. It was the path the horsemen had beaten down the previous day in their rush to the battle. It was left now as a muddy highway that Birch could easily follow. In his mind it seemed right that whoever had attacked him would be seeking to join again with their colleagues, and for this reason it appeared to be his best chance of catching him. He would follow the trail.
This was the only chance he needed. He would pursue this killer until he was in his hand, and then he would make him feel some of what he was feeling right now. Birch was aware of the danger, that he might meet up with the riders he had avoided yesterday, but he didn’t care. His mind was filled with passionate rage, and he would die if that was what was required to set this record straight.
He ran along the muddy track, but as he ran he watched for his quarry or any sign that would lead to him. He had expected a long chase. His hours with Karla had cost him time and surely given his enemy ample chance for escape. Therefore it was a surprise moments later when Birch saw a body lying beside the track, not dead, but shivering in the cool morning sun. His back was to him and he seemed oblivious to his presence, or to anything else around. He just lay there and shivered in the mud with no precaution for concealment or thought for safety. This was going to be easy.
Birch strode furiously toward the prostrate form, curled as it was into a fetal ball, so sad and alone. It was only a matter of a few steps before he had reached the figure, and with one swift kick of his foot he had lifted him over to see him. The face he saw surprised him. It was the boy from the mountains, the one who he had fought in the tree and who had led them into the trap. It was a sad, bitter, mud-streaked face. Those piercing eyes bore into Birch’s flesh. There was something in that look that seemed to warrant pity, though they certainly did not ask for it, for though the face was pitiful, it was also proud.
As he looked into the eyes Birch’s heart almost changed. They looked nothing like Karla’s, hers were blue and his were brown, but something was the same. Perhaps it was just because her memory was so fresh, he could see her in everything, but still it struck him that these hurt, angry eyes had a look he’d seen in Karla before she died, but then he saw the gun. The rifle had been lying next to the boy all the time, but it had only just caught Birch’s attention now. The boy followed his gaze and instinctively reached for it. In that moment all thought was gone.
Birch snatched at the gun and quickly leveled it at the Ares youth. The boy’s face blanched but he remained uncowed. His bravery only served to fuel Birch’s rage. He looked down at the gun. It was the gun; he knew it by the feel of it. He knew it by the sullen, guilty look on the boy’s face, and it was all he could do to resist pulling the trigger there and make the circle of death complete. Instead he brought the heavy butt of the rifle down in the youth’s stomach. The boy writhed but Birch was merciless. Again he did it. Again and again, he brought the wooden end of the rifle down until it was stained red and the Ares boy had stopped moving, but Birch couldn’t stop. This wasn’t a boy any more. He wasn’t a man anymore.
This was something primitive, something within himself that, once he had let it out, all the will in the world couldn’t put it back in. But then, he didn’t want to put it back. He had every right to this rage and so he pummeled the limp figure until he too collapsed in exhausted rage.
When he finally stopped he fell to the ground beside his bloody victim. He looked down at his own hands and the scarlet butt of the rifle and shuddered. It seemed that the weapon had grown hot in his hands, it almost scalded them now with its power, and as he lay there he felt its weight pushing against his chest, burning into him. With great effort he stood and hurled it beyond him, out into the open fields where it could harm no other soul again.
The boy next to him moved weakly and with the fire of his rage extinguished he looked down at what he had done. Like a blast of rancid air his face was met with what he had truly done, and with a sudden impulse towards mercy he stooped to cradle the young man. His blood mingled with the stains already present as a part of Birch’s garment. He tried to bandage him as best he could, but the blood continued to seep through, whatever he placed over it. All he could do was sit with him, and that is what he did. Perhaps it was for an hour. Perhaps it was longer, but he sat with him as a second life now slipped from him.
Birch had no thought of the future now. It had all been destroyed in a matter of a day, and now all he did was sit with this boy and live in this moment. He was watching him die and he knew that he had killed him. His hands were red. He couldn’t think of anything but that, and as a line of four vehicles approached him he didn’t notice. They existed in another world, a world with a future, he existed only in this point in time, and so even the bang of doors, the shout of voices, and the stamp of heavy feet registered as nothing to him as he gazed down at what he had done.
“Get him up,” a voice was saying as rough hands grabbed at Birch. He didn’t resist, he had nothing left to resist with. He didn’t deserve to resist.
“This one’s wounded,” another voice was saying, “pretty bad. Get medical quick.” Birch and the boy were separated and for the first time he resisted, but he was weak and was swiftly pulled into a separate vehicle.
The line of trucks quickly started off again toward the south. As they rode on Birch’s mind began to clear. This was a military car, like the ones they had ridden in at the beginning of their journey. He had been rescued. One day too late they had been rescued. Wearily he slumped against the window and watched the distance speeding by.
It seemed very little time before they were stopping again among a larger group of vehicles and equipment. Soon Birch was being pulled out. His tired eyes looked about him. He strained for any sight of the Ares youth, but he couldn’t see him. All he could see were military personnel and trucks, and guns, lots of guns. Everywhere there were guns and cannons and missiles and their launchers. This was their version of security. If you had more firepower than anyone else then you were safe. Birch was pretty sure they were safe.
Birch trudged through the camp on the guiding arm of a medical orderly. As they passed one truck Jane and Lauren rushed to his side, but stopped short as they caught sight of his bloodstained face, uniform, and hands. His dirty disheveled form limped past them without acknowledgement.
“Major,” Jane’s voice called after him. He turned to face her. “Karla? Carlos?” Single word questions that carried such weight, such a heavy weight. Slowly he shook his head.
Jane blinked away her emotion and cast her eyes downwards. Birch thought she would cry, but when she looked up again he saw instead a fiery anger that had evaporated any tears she might have had for them. Instead she had anger, and all of it was directed at him.
“You’ve done it again,” she spat furiously, “first the Colonel, now Karla and Carlos. You just seem to g
et better every time. How did you manage to lose them this time? You know, the amazing thing is, you always make it back safe-and-sound. How do you do that? How is it that you lose everyone who depends on you, but you always manage to make it back safe-and-sound?”
Birch took two limping steps toward Jane and looked into her face before punching her hard in the mouth. She rocked on her heels and fell backward, sitting on the dirt with a thump. Her mouth was bleeding and she snarled at Birch as she struggled to get up.
Birch shook his head. “Nobody made it back safely this time, Gray,” he muttered and followed the orderly toward the medical tent.
THIRTY-NINE
The next week seemed to prove Edwards’ prediction that things would be easier now. The entire convoy, when the patrols had all returned, numbered over a hundred vehicles including troop carriers, missile launch systems, and other armored transports. It was an impressive display and would have inspired Birch with greater confidence if it hadn’t made him wonder all the more about their mission and what it meant for them. Something important was happening here. He just wished he could figure out what it was..
Obviously recent events had caused their protectors to reevaluate their tactics. The former method of a lightly protected, but speedier convoy was gone. They had abandoned stealth in favor of overwhelming and obvious force to dissuade any further attacks. Indeed, it was assured that they would make it now. They were safe. The army had told them they would make it. He only hoped they were taking them somewhere they really wanted to go.
These had been lonely days for Birch. His thoughts were dark and narrow as memories played and replayed in his unwilling mind. Snippets of conversation or things they had done. Butterfly moments flitted through his mind. He would suppress them, bury them, but, light as air, Karla’s spirit, her words, her face would rise again. The memories hurt. Like something dead, he wished he could bury them. He wanted to leave the pain out here, but at the same time he knew that he had finally been caught. He hadn’t run fast enough, and they had become a part of him. He could never leave her behind.
In those few days Birch hadn’t seen much of Jane or Lauren. Jane was probably off nursing her broken lip, and Lauren was just being Lauren. It wasn’t much of a crew anymore. The thought of it filled him with a great emptiness. He had lost the best and now he was left with this. It was a thought that included himself. He knew enough to be honest in that. Karla had gone, DeSante had gone, even the loss of Ratliff seemed to take on a greater resonance in his mind as he looked back at all they had suffered. Now they three alone were all that was left and he couldn’t have imagined a less united, less hopeful band than theirs. Whatever was ahead they weren’t ready for it.
As the days passed Birch saw the countryside around them gradually changing from the barren prairie to the wooded hills and lush green of the eastern states. The Mississippi seemed to mark this change most notably. It was the mighty dividing line between a bitter past and the hopeful future. Its heavily fortified, imposing bridges were a gateway that returned them to the tranquility and safety of civilization.
The feeling washed over him even as they reached the eastern side of the river. It was the work of an instant and seemed to transform the world around them. It wasn’t anything he could explain, but it was something like walking out of the cold air and into the balmy atmosphere of the greenhouse. Once again Birch was bathed in a feeling of order and peaceful beauty that he had tried to understand in his time in the west. Here, in the eastern half of the country it seemed even stronger, as though it had taken deeper root and had become more truly ingrained into the landscape. It reminded him again of what people like Edwards, and Konik, and Gibbs had talked about, this idea of changing the earth, and making it into a paradise. It almost felt real here.
The fortifications that met them as they traveled were similar to what they had seen in the west. The bases nearest to the river were formidable, but as they moved farther east, so their scale diminished. Yet, as with the western region, Birch noticed that the bases continued to exist deep into their own territory. Apparently they also had been unable to free them-selves entirely of the Ares threat, even this close to their own capital. Despite this he noticed no visible sign of the battles that had raged across the country recently. If they had fought here then the Ares hadn’t even made a dent in the defenses. Birch guessed that there could be more to it than this though. If there had been fighting on this side of the river, their convoy could simply be avoiding the sites of the devastation. Birch knew that he really had no way of knowing what truly happened here.
This was certainly the down side of being back under the protective power of the military. He felt helpless. He wasn’t in control anymore and, as usual, he wasn’t being told anything. Sometimes it was hard to imagine that they were supposed to be the center of this whole rescue operation, because they were ignored. He hadn’t seen Edwards or Linkhorn, and his requests to see the Ares boy were flatly denied. The boy was alive, he was told that much, but they wouldn’t let him near him. Perhaps that was wise.
The convoy hardly stopped in that week, except at night. Even then it was only for a scant six hours rest before they moved on. Unlike before there were no attempts at hiding or disguise as they camped. The reflective shield was not used. Instead the cordon of vehicles was encircled by stony faced guards and smaller search vehicles that zoomed about seeking for any sign of an enemy to destroy. The mood was much more aggressive and seemed to demonstrate the greater power and security of these forces in the east compared to those in the west. On this ground the Ares were the hunted again.
Finally his frustrating week came to a close. It was then that Birch had seen it. The first sign had been the glimmering tower shining in the sun. It had seemed like a good sign, climbing loftily over the landscape. These were not the dwarfed structures of Denver, the maimed remains of a proud past. This was a vibrant present and a hopeful future. Whatever had the power to destroy the cities of the plains had not been able to achieve the same result here. Perhaps here, he hoped, the nobler aspirations of humanity had stood proudly and had not been bowed or destroyed.
Finally they arrived. This was Washington, and as he looked on its beautiful form he was taken by its appearance. It was not like the cities he had known, the dirty places where the jumble of life had thrown the pieces together in a confusion of rich and poor, stylish and ugly, happy and sad, good and bad. The place seemed like a single unit, like one voice calling out in harmonious melody to the surrounding land to say that all was well. It was mesmerizing.
Birch still had his doubts. He knew they were still in there somewhere, in his mind, but they were strangely distant to him now as they drew closer to the city. All he could see was the great contrast between the empty plains they had left far behind and the fullness of the land about him now. This was a place to live.
“I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Birch muttered ironically as they approached the city gate.
FORTY
Little evidence remained of the Washington Birch had once known. It was as though some great galactic eraser had swept over the land and obliterated even the memory of what had once been there. Things that had seemed so permanent, like a tribute to the good things in humanity, were gone. The natural features were still there, the Potomac still glugged wearily through the city, but this single thread of continuity was hard to grasp and gave him little comfort. He felt much as an ancient Greek, Roman, or Babylonian might have if they could have seen the modern outcome of their great cultures. Everything he had believed was gone, washed away by time and the natural course of human events. Nothing lasted forever, however well you tried to build it. Every eternal flame must eventually be snuffed out. Most, however, were fortunate enough never to see that truth laid out on this scale. Their tired little lives, their four-score-years-and-ten, were never forced to see beyond that pitiful little range, and so their reality is only the comfortable normalities that had built up around them. They never had
to see below that thin veneer. Birch envied them.
It was beautiful, Birch had to admit that. Before they had entered the city he had been struck by the way everything just seemed ‘right’. Now, though, he mourned for the loss of those great stone monuments and the history they represented. They had been replaced by an almost Eden-like natural grandeur that was both alluring and alarming. So beautiful it stung your eyes. This was like the center of goodness that radiated out into the surrounding country. It was an epicenter of the order and peace that seemed to fill the eastern half of the nation. He had felt it gradually increasing as they had crossed the Mississippi, like ripples that became more pronounced the closer you got to the disturbance. The western outposts were a pale reflection of what had happened here and the rugged prairies had somehow escaped the effect altogether, but here it was clear to see what their final goal for the world was. It was hard to escape the desire to see this fulfilled everywhere. Now he knew what they fought for.
The city was gardenlike. Where dead stone had once existed life had replaced it with greenery of amazing variety. The buildings were no longer imposing masters of the landscape, but blended features, living as a part of the place. The single tower in center of city was its only structure above the level of the nature that surrounded it. Concrete and asphalt no longer smothered the earth, as the usual infrastructure of the city seemed to have melted away into something more natural. It all made Birch wonder. How could a metropolis like this exist without the roads and buildings that had once been such an integral part of it?
It seemed likely that population levels must have decreased significantly for this to work at all, but that left him with more questions about what happened to everyone else. As he looked now he could see very few people. The city was incredible, but almost empty, like a beautiful ghost town for their own personal enjoyment.