Nadine had been right, excepting for the occasional Meta-mammal—all of these small and shy, and they sailed out of the park with no further trouble. The route was scenic and took them almost an hour and a half; the group came out just west of Hot Springs. The city was buttoned down tight, but there was a small town just northwest of it called Piney and this had been abandoned. Matt supposed they had moved into the larger neighbour. The good news here was that several cars and trucks had been left in driveways, garages, and dealerships. Once they’d traded up; then replenished their food and ordnance they could be on their way. What Matt always loved about America was how seriously they took home defence. No RPGs or P90s were found, but there were plenty of shot guns—sans exotic rounds, rifles, and AR-15s. Once re-established, they gave the Hot Springs barricades a wide birth.
Matt was wondering, as the team turned south, what China had been on about, or whether it was her at all, when he got another call from Jonah. “Great, you’re still alive. What happened?” Matt put the phone on speaker and handed this to Coral.
“Jonathan Swift.” Which was all Salt got by way of an answer.
“I don’t follow.”
“There are Meta-horses in there that believe they’re Houyhnhnms—or maybe they were humans at one time. I don’t known. Nonetheless, mark the parks a no-go for the time being. Also, there is a village of humans and Metas living not far from them—they seem alright.”
“But nothing that would explain why China sent you there?”
“No, and I’m wondering if it was China.” That raised Coral’s eyebrows and earned an extended silence from Salt, before he began again.
“We have,” voice cautious, “been found out by our partners.”
“Warned you.”
“Whatever—they know what’s going on around about Monterrey and are expecting to be included. So...”
“We’ve partners whether or not we want them.”
“Seems so.”
“Since you are still in the North, the Security Council would like you to look into what happened in Toronto—you have heard about the town?”
“Found out in the second village—they’ve got a satellite hook-up powered by wind and solar.” Ignoring the observation, Salt continued.
“So you know half the city has been destroyed by a weapon of unknown origin or nature? It’s not nuclear or Meta—fear is that this is a new hybrid.”
“That’s not...” Matt paused. What was the point? If he wants them to take any notice of Leonor and China then taking care to participate would be necessary. “Okay.”
“Good man, turn on your GPS, and hook the phone into the lighter so the power doesn’t die, then head up to Kansas City.”
“Who’s looking for me?” Less suspicious than concerned.
“National Guard and Federal Troops; the Americans will not have Blue Helmets on their territory.” The last unsurprising—the political reality of their nation could be crumbling around them and they still wouldn’t allow that.
“Okay, but let’s get a conference call on the cell—I want to talk to the Council about who’s doing what and what guarantees will be offered.”
“That may take a little bit—few hours, maybe—in the meantime could you start north?”
“As long as it is by the end of the day—otherwise I’m turning south.” Once Salt agreed to his terms he turned the column north. Some were getting whiplash over the directions this last road-trip had taken, but once the objectives were explained everyone was on-board. Even the Conway DPs were onside, as far as Kansas City. Matt didn’t expect them to go further—as long as they found a measure of safety there. The concept was, increasingly, alien to him, but he could sympathise with the impulse.
The call happened in record time—in less than half an hour they were all sharing a mostly stable connection. If the Council had been upset by the demand none demonstrated this. For a moment Feargal assumed something was going on behind the amiable nature of the call, but then knew something was always going on; no matter what he did to dissuade or threaten compliance this would not stop them. All any of them might reasonably do is to attempt an understanding of the other’s position and imagine what they may do under a similar set of circumstances. This Matt did, and once the suppressed panic attack passed he accepted what they wanted, but was prepared to slip away at the first sign of duplicity, or shift in political topography. His sensibilities were at last adapting to the nature of political alliances.
If there was a single sticking point, it was the insistence that Jonah was to remain in charge of the search for Leonor. That this meant Salt was to continue in charge of all troops involved, both US and UN, was a point of some concern on the part of US Ambassador Skiff. However, prodding by other members of the Council managed to sway him. This, however, did not mean the US troops would actually submit to this—in itself a new concern—but with his nascent political sensibility Matt felt this was, more than likely, the best he could do. This also meant he would have to dispense with the business across the border as quickly as possible; then locate fast transport south.
It was not lost on him this simply could be, and probably was, a diversionary strategy on the Council’s part—yet this wasn’t a theory he could prove. Even if he could, the acknowledgement would inspire a more direct approach, and that was one he would not be able to win. So, north it was.
***
One more road trip in a life, for the past five years, that had become one long road trip. But here they were in the South and Midwest, Matt wasn’t certain where the one ended and the other began since the landscape of flat fields, scrub, and squat trees was, for the most part, unremitting. Trying not to think of this he cycled through Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, My Chemical Romance, Chopin—Nocturnes was a bad choice, Clit-Rock—in homage to Coral, and a variety of Jazz. Distraction was possible but not more than this. It didn’t help they were now little more than skirting winter and the trees and scrub had been mostly stripped bare, and the grass was a brown-green, which moved with a brittle recalcitrance in the wind.
The wind was always what he’d been told to expect—hard, cold, incisive, and unrelenting. Whenever they stopped to stretch their legs, Feargal spent as little time out of the truck as possible. This place was about as drab and lifeless as anything he’d seen between the coasts. Of the coasts he preferred New England, the Southwest, and the Northwest—in the end though he was of the Great Lakes and preferred the aesthetic sensibilities and geography of these rather than any other, no matter the dramatic postures. Even the Painted Desert or the Grand Canyon could not compare—though they had the greater claim. Still, the Lakes were home and he’d come to miss them—if not Dilmun precisely, then that part of the world.
Would he return to the Lakes given a chance—almost certainly. However, on drives like this the idea that would ever be possible began to fade, as with hope of any kind. Was that was the flatlands took from you—hope? Perhaps, given there were no rolling hills or mountains past which one could not see and wonder about. Here, as with the Prairies, there was only the stark reality of continuity—unrelenting, brutal, banal, and soul-destroying. Cohen wasn’t helping.
“You okay?” Coral asked.
“Fine.” Through teeth all but gritted.
“You look like your about to put your head through the windshield.”
“Sorry, hate the prairies.”
“There kind of beautiful in their own way.” He looked at her askance. “You can always see what’s coming at you.”
“Soul of a poet.”
“Survivor.” Feargal blew out a short, tight bark of laughter.
“People.” Pointing with a finger on the steering wheel.
“DPs—shit.” Refugees didn’t always mean trouble but the larger the group the more the indication that something had gone wrong behind them and if desperate enough they could attack. Given the next town was Nevada, Matt assumed this their origin. From the look of the column they numbered in the thousan
ds—which seemed on the large size. Checking his phone it appeared he was right. Nevada was under 10K. Little Rock was in for a nasty surprise.
“We best pull over—find out what’s up.” Always the team leader and tactician, he was less certain of the woman’s diplomatic skills.
“You sure about this?”
“No, but we should know what we’re heading into.” It was a bad idea, but when Coral got an idea there wasn’t much changing her mind, unless you wanted a fight. Feargal was at a deeper disadvantage in that his choices—information—had not turned out well on this trip. For a moment he suspected this would be the best way to balance the ledger—allow Coral to take a bad decision. The moment gave way, when it became obvious that a bad decision here could put them all in the ground. Still he pulled to the opposite shoulder from the ragged column.
“Take a shotgun.” Prester said handing the weapon up from the backseat. Coral had been reluctant, but gave in and took this and a belt of ammunition. Matt took another and left Prester behind the vehicle with a rifle.
“Hello.” Coral waved toward the lead of the winding snake—much as Feargal had seen over and again in the Northwest. Though she had slung the belt over her shoulder and cradled the weapon, the column edged away from her with its great saurian superstructure. Once the woman had cornered the leadership of the column she learned that they weren’t from Nevada exclusively, but Fort Scott, Mine Creek, Paola, Louisburg, Iola, and even Ottawa—though not the one Matt had thought. Something had happened north of Ottawa and aftershocks of this had been sweeping south once it broke against the walls of Kansas City. As a result many of the towns north had either thoroughly walled themselves off, allowing no one in, or they’d joined the column. Coral and Matt were warned several times not to go further.
Doing so, elements of the leadership and members of what looked to be shock troops with makeshift weapons began to eye the Sansa team greedily—food, transportation, weapons, and phones. Behind the truck, Prester had been checking the news on his phone. There were, at first, polite requests for food and perhaps a weapon. But this quickly degenerated into demands. When a man with a homemade machete lunged forward Matt fired as Coral, uncharacteristically, hesitated. The saurian mass, instinctively, spread out and the wings of this threatened to engulf the small party. By this time, though, the remainder the team and the Conway inductees were out and firing into the mob.
Things looked to be going badly when a rumble of heavy machinery echoed lightly down the empty space and above the roar of the column. Then there was the fire of what Prester was calling a 50 calibre machine gun. The great tail of the beast broke to either side of the road in a panic and the mouth, enfolding the Sansa, shattered; then dissolved into the scrub along the shoulders. It was the National Guard in heavy transports. If not the cavalry, it was close to this.
***
The roar of the trucks made listening difficult and Matt had to ask several times for Captain Koolup to repeat himself. What he was hearing did not, however, come as a surprise. The Captain had been sent to find Feargal on the chance they may run into some trouble. Many cities and towns, between Little Rock and Kansas City, had become fortified against all incursions—occasionally, they’d been known to fire on the Guard and Federal Troops. This, though, had been only mirroring what had been happening around the length and breadth of the Republic—the world, as well. Koolup was of the opinion that something had to be done quickly or the edifice would collapse. The Captain had no idea whom Feargal was or the centrality of their position to that enterprise, still Matt had to agree—a breaking point was coming, but not here.
He needed to get down there, to deal with Leonor and Zakara, but there was nothing for that—not for the moment. Still, a new world order needed to be embraced once Zakara had been sorted. What this would be was unclear, but a new covenant would be needed. Not the first time he’d made the observation to himself and argued both for and against it. With another twang on the side of the vehicle he came back to his senses. The reflexive duck which followed hadn’t been necessary, Koolup repeated—the sides were hardened against small arms. The Captain seemed certain this would be the most the people would be able to throw at them. Matt was not so certain, but he returned to his fatalism and this buoyed him.
***
For the next several hours they proceeded in silence. Even inside the truck the night was cold and the howl of the wind unrelenting. When they had to débouché to evacuate their meals the wind was a knife in their light winter gear. The blackness of the prairie was not helping either. There remained hints of civilisation in the distance—bleak, flat, and inconstant lights—yet these were weak and pitifully few and far between. Then it was back into the truck and a few more jarring hours on the road. On the last leg of the trip Matt managed to persuade the Captain to let him ride up front in the lead vehicle. As a purplish-pink haze of light reached across the flat eastern horizon and Matt was dozing against the steady hum and vibration of the truck he was pulled from the edges of Hypnos by a guttural, if muted, curse.
Sitting up from the bowed slouch, held in place less by seatbelt than harness, his hand reached after the P250. “Wha...”
“Sorry, sir.” The young driver answered. And he did look young—even to Matt whose 22nd birthday had flown by without notice—not much more than 19, if that. “Something up ahead.” And he called back to the Captain. Koolup had him pull over and sent a fire team to check it out. Meanwhile, the Captain had come up from the second truck. Matt climbed out and waited with him. After a moment the Captain was called forward, though Koolup objected Feargal went with him. Whatever was going on did not seem to be dangerous and since he would not be getting any more sleep because of the way he was woken, he thought it a better use of his time.
What they found had not been unexpected. What with all the DPs on the road some more weren’t worth much of a comment, yet these were Metahumans—with a strange, worrisome story. The Metas were pretty typical human transformations for the most part—primary colours, slightly modified arms and legs, elongated faces, squelched, stretched eyes, and the obligatory seam—but there were some elements of a few which did not fit the type: flowers which appeared to grow straight from their scalps—now withering in the cold, but not long since were faring as though it were high summer—eyes opened in cheeks, hands fumbling out of chests and clothing, vestigial, inert and half-formed tentacles, tails, wide simianesque feet which appeared capable of grasping—if clumsily, and a variety of lesser eccentricities. Most notable of the latter were whorls of flesh that might have been, in another time, the by-product of scarification.
These were what Matt had come to expect of Thin Man. It made no difference that he was dead in Birmingham, this was his work and the work signified a high level operation was located somewhere—or it had been so only recently. Their story only managed to convince Feargal what was going on had something to do with the dead terrorist. If linguistic designation mattered any longer this had the virtue of being popular—much travelled at least. They were coming from Clinton State Park, southwest of Lawrence. Their response to Matt’s questions were just as typical. What was going on? Something weird. Difficult to explain because the laws of physics were no longer functioning as these raggedy DPs understood them. With some prodding it appeared that energy was not dissipating from high to low; the Newtonian laws of motion had taken a longish coffee break; mass and energy had been involved in a bit of dyadic S&M. That the moorings of the group had come loose seemed obvious to all. But to Matt the drift was an important indicator.
“I’m going to need to speak with the Security Council.”
“We’re almost back—could you speak to them from our compound?” The Captain was obviously trying to get rid of the troublesome charge as quickly as he could.
“Feel for your concern about your people, but what they are talking about needs immediate attention. I could be wrong, but this may be some left over business of Thin Man.” The name was all the magi
c needed to persuade Koolup.
***
While he waited for the Captain to set up another call with the Council Matt called Jonah; the phone rang several times before he picked up and when it did the Meta seemed to have been pulled from a deep sleep. “Come along, Jonah. Wake up, we need to talk.” The elder took a drink of what Matt hoped was water and cleared his throat.
“Who’s dead?” It was only halfway a joke.
“Unless he’s risen, which I’d not be surprised of, Wilson.” There was an uncomfortable pause.
“The body’s been destroyed.”
“But the work goes on.” As Feargal related both mutations and story the Meta became first interested; then panicked. Where Jonah was worried about some fifth column movement, Matt saw the outlines of a plan which China had set in motion.
Could she be prescient? Could she have seen the number of intersections that would have had to occur to get him here at this time in order to meet these DPs? The possibilities seemed, at best, remote; at worst, fantasy. For a moment he supposed the latter—it was by far the most plausible. Most, in the post-Dilmun world, wasn’t very convincing. Matt almost told Jonah about the idea, but would that have helped? He was already anxious about the pair, what would this do to that? What if this escaped into the Security Council? It wasn’t that Feargal believed Jonah would have given him up, but he assumed some level of surveillance. Best way to avoid anyone from hearing was not to speak. Silence was golden.
Having decided, with Jonah, looking into this would be necessary before continuing on to Toronto, Matt was privately of the opinion whatever was happening around Lawrence was more significant than the death of over a million people—both Archaic and Meta—as it was assumed by the UN and Canadian government. The Toronto disaster had been large, but was little different, in the end, than the Blaine Incident. That opinion he’d kept to himself, but this seemed the only way to read the tragedy. Outside of Lawrence, with a little luck, they may discover the mechanism Thin Man had been deploying and undermine it.
End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity) Page 30