Partholon

by D Krauss

  Of course, that created the same issue as the Coleman fumes, but venting them out of the top of the house seemed to spread them to the point where no one could get a quick bead on him, especially on windy nights. During the summer inversions, the diesel hung like a cloud over both houses and he’d go a couple of days on the Colemans until it finally broke. Irritating, but it beat fending off Vandals.

  The second Magnum, buried next to the pool, was an even bigger epic of installation because John had no idea how to operate the backhoe he borrowed to dig the hole. Hell, he had no idea how to drive the 18-wheeler he also borrowed to get the borrowed backhoe to the house in the first place.

  Both had been sitting in the same VDOT lot as the Magnums, the backhoe on a flatbed already hooked up to the tractor and raring to go; that is, after he recharged the battery and figured out how to start the damn thing, all of which did stead when he went back for the diesel tanker. OJT in gear shifting, driving a hinged and way-too-big truck down a highway crowded with wrecks. Actually didn’t do too bad, hit maybe four or five cars, one or two guardrails. Didn’t get hung up. Then, OJT on starting the backhoe, shifting its gears, driving down the trailer ramp without putting it on its side, maneuvering it through the fence (which meant spending the next day putting the fence back up), figuring out how to place the braces, and then digging the necessary eight-foot hole.

  Oh, don’t forget lifting the Magnum with the backhoe and placing it in the hole. Never had he cursed so much, been reduced to frustrated tears so much, and hurt so much afterwards.

  He wished his brother, Mr. Fixit, Mr. I-Can-Drive-Anything, had been here. Woulda taken Art what, an hour, two, to do all that? Took John four very frustrating days. Embarrassing. Art would have laughed his ass off – big brothers are supposed to be All Powerful, not blithering incompetents.

  Hey, what could he say, Art had inherited all those handyman genes from Dad. All John got was a penchant for alcohol and moroseness. And beatings, yes, lots of beatings. So had Art, for that matter.

  He remembered their last conversation. “Art, look, this is bad, real bad, you’ve got to get out.”

  “Shit, John, don’t I know it? Wurrmi gonna go?”

  “Go north, take 295 up to 17 then the Thruway, go up where it’s real cold, where I was stationed once, Plattsburgh, remember? You can hide there.”

  “I hate the cold.”

  “So fuckin’ what? Jesus, man! You gotta save Belinda and Chris.”

  “How the fuck do I do that? 295, the Parkway, the Turnpike are already jammed. And I’m already coughing. So are they.”

  “Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “Yeah, man. We’re fucked.” He’d paused. “So are you,” and he hung up.

  Oh, Art, man, you were always the master of understatement. Respected you, man, always, even when I was giving you Indian burns. One day, he knew, he’d have to make his way up to Pemberton and bury them all.

  He sat still, fingering the Observations and suddenly feeling very, very small. He tossed them with a flicker of contempt and stood. Fuck this. He grabbed his rifle, slapped his backups and strode to the door. He took in a breath, deep, exploring. Yes, the ever-present mustiness of moldy bodies, moldy buildings, but underneath, the coolness. Spring. He remained in silhouette, stupid, but daring the bullet.

  Kill me, motherfuckers.

  Please.

  He shook himself and stalked up the bridge, dodging barrels.

  Time to patrol.

  7

  “All right,” Colonel West stood at the front, resplendent in his dress uniform, his black eye patch more baleful than his good eye. Collier thrilled. Loved this class. “Someone tell me, what was the purpose of the Saudi invasion?”

  “Payback,” Litton snarled.

  You got that right, Collier thought.

  “Ah,” Colonel West raised both eyebrows, which was a bit comical, “but Mr. Litton, didn’t the nuclear destruction of Mecca serve that purpose?”

  “Not enough,” Litton snarled again and there was a murmur of agreement throughout the room, which Collier joined.

  “I see,” Colonel West stepped around the desk, head lowered, a sure sign they were getting it wrong and he was about to lead them to a West Truth, one of those rare gems of knowledge that often altered the course of history. Collier thrilled again. “You’re saying the massive logistical nightmare and expense of withdrawing from the Korean peninsula and assaulting the Red Sea was motivated by mere,” and he turned a patrician hand upwards, “revenge?”

  “Couldn’t stay in Korea, anyway,” Hardesty piped up, “it was nuked.”

  “Well, yes, Mr. Hardesty, that is true, neutron radiation has the effect of making large areas of land somewhat uninhabitable. A very unfortunate aspect of the Pusan perimeter defense strategy, even more unfortunate for the Koreans,” here the class snickered, “but, the wholesale abandonment of Japan, the Philippines,” he paused, “Taiwan?”

  “They can take care of themselves,” Booker muttered from the back where he was playing with a paper airplane.

  “Can they? And, Mr. Booker, please put that away. Japan might beg to differ, what with China consolidating Taiwan, insurgency or no. Facing the Dragon themselves, tsk,” Colonel West shook a mournful head, “abandoning allies is not a thing done for light reasons, and revenge, gentlemen, is a light reason. Could there be another one?”

  They all looked at each other and Collier considered challenging the Colonel’s assertion about revenge. Pretty good motive to him, but the Colonel was a master of debate and Collier didn’t particularly feel like a humiliation, especially after the compliments about his marching. He kept silent, always wise.

  “What is Saudi Arabia famous for, gentlemen?” Colonel West idly examined his fingernails or, given his eye patch, half-examined. Collier giggled inwardly. He’d have to tell Davis that one.

  “Sand,” Litton snapped.

  “Oil,” Collier said over the laughs.

  Colonel West pointed at him, “Exactly, Mr. Rashkil, exactly.”

  Collier felt satisfied, even when Hardesty whispered, “Suck up,” in his ear.

  “Think of it, gentlemen,” the Colonel whipped the map down from its roll, slapping a scaly hand over the boot of Arabia, “almost one-third of our refining capacity, all on the East Coast, suddenly gone. Of course, one-third of the population is gone, too, but among those remaining are the people with the intelligence and training to compensate for the lost capacity. With Israel down to its last breath and a ravening Russian bear looming over the oil fields, what else could we do but assure a future supply? It is the one thing,” and the Colonel raised an emphatic finger, “the only one, this ever-changing and forever-reorganizing government of ours,” said with much contempt, “has done right.”

  “Who’s the president this week?” Hardesty asked brightly.

  As one, they all, including the Colonel, turned and pointed at him. “You are!” in unison and they all laughed and high-fived, the Colonel making it a point to slap-hand Collier. They never tired of that joke.

  “All right,” the Colonel brought them back, “so we have a tenuous toehold around the major oil fields, a meat grinder, our dwindling technology against the screaming Muslim hordes. The nuclear barrier keeps the Iranians off us, but for how much longer? They are sinking more of our tankers than we can replace, and the French have a half-ass blockade on our Florida ports, citing the ‘fear,’” and here the Colonel made finger quote marks, “‘of worldwide contamination’ but it is, after all, the French.”

  He let the laughter die down. “All these things pile up, though, gentlemen. So, I ask, how long can we maintain the toehold?”

  It was perfectly timed. The silence his question evoked let them hear the far-off rumble, the slight tremor of the floor emphasizing it. As one, they all looked at the picture windows framing the distant Blue Ridge, all of their brows furrowed in curiosity. As if on command, they all walked to the windows and peered out, but at first saw nothing.
Slowly, a smoke cloud formed over the mountains, malevolent, roiling.

  “What the heck is that?” Hardesty asked.

  “Mr. Rashkil?” Colonel West said from his position on the center window, straining with his one good eye to make out distance. “Would you kindly go down to CQ and find out?”

  He didn’t need telling twice and bolted out of the door, evading Hardesty’s clumsy tripping attempt. Get him later. He ran down the concrete steps, so expert at it by now he never stumbled, and launched himself toward the portal. Several agitated privates were running back and forth. Collier grabbed one of them, young, maybe 13, Beamis, yeah, that was his name, dressed in parade whites, so he must be the Duty Orderly. “What happened?” Collier barked.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, why aren’t you on the radio finding out?”

  “Sir?” Beamis looked stupefied.

  “Ach,” Collier threw him aside and stalked into the Duty Room. Another baby private in whites, Dole, yeah, that was his name, was at the radio, headphones on. Well, at least this one had some presence of mind. He looked pale, shaken.

  Collier thumped him on the head. “Well?”

  Dole goggled at him. “It’s hard to tell, there’s a lot of calling back and forth, but—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, it sounds like...” Dole stopped, his eyes widening.

  Collier lost his patience and shook him. “Tell me, dammit!”

  “They just blew up downtown Charlottesville!”

  Collier’s jaw dropped, “What?”

  Dole stared at him, pale, trembling; a kid, just a kid. “It sounds like... like it’s all gone!” he sobbed.

  Collier stepped back, letting Dole go.

  Oh my God.

  8

  John stood on the hill behind Watkins, gazing over the ball field. It didn’t look like a ball field; it looked like an archaeological dig, an abandoned archaeological dig at that. Most of the yellow tape marking the place off fell down long ago but through entropy, not intrusion. Bundys, Vandals, even Raiders, were afraid of this field. John had to admit it gave him the willies, too. Arsenic piles and cyanide tended to do that.

  During WWI, AU tested chemical weapons for the army and, well, in those days, you just threw your leavings out the window. Fifty years later, college kids were traipsing across the dumpsites and, every other month or so, stumbled across something noxious out here. One time, an officer picked up a canister sticking out of the ground near the soccer goals and brought it back to Dispatch, setting it right up on the counter as a paperweight. John diddlybopped in, took one look and said “Evacuate.” Mustard gas grenade. Bomb Squad said it was inert but imagine!

  A bit trivial now.

  At some point, the Army Corps of Engineers got wind of these shenanigans and showed up and started poking around the field and went, “Oh my God!” and shut the field down in 2000 and then went absolutely nuts digging it up. Everybody flipped out.

  The always-sensitive students shrieked and implied the long-buried and now forgotten chemicals had somehow seeped into their bloodstreams, damaging fragile, very precious internal systems. Children of trial lawyers, no doubt.

  The faculty got up in their usual high dudgeon, aghast that a place so venerated, so filled with love and peace and the spirit of learning, could have once – gasp! – worked for the Aaaarmy! The student newspaper wrote a lot of self-righteous and quite revisionist editorials about AU’s Responsibility to the Community. Everybody felt very noble. If you’re a bleeding heart screaming leftist pinko, that’s all you need. No facts. Just sincerity. Tinged with irony.

  Speaking of which... John grinned. He wondered how many of those emotionally damaged students, given the choice, would prefer Arsenic Field over the Event. They’d probably wallow in the dirt in gratitude. One-hundred-year-old cyanide deposits ain’t so bad now, are they?

  Arsenic Field’s fearsome reputation was an advantage – no one was going to mess around out here. John had taken advantage of that. He peered hard at his stashes, but they looked undisturbed. No need to walk over and verify, nothing was out of place and Raiders weren’t too concerned about him discovering their handiwork.

  Riches, Collier. Your future assured. Not cash or something stupid like that, but old rare books, sealed and buried, quasi-famous paintings by dead up-and-coming artists, William Faulkner’s papers – all absolutely priceless. AU had some rather good stuff in the Archives, didn’t they? And, at home, a map inside John’s quick-release handgun safe; fireproof, Flu proof, and theft proof; well, as long as no enterprising Raider found it.

  “Collier, I gotta tell you something.” A conversation a year or so ago.

  “I thought you were.”

  “Yeah, but I’m only going to tell you this once, and you are to listen and remember and never ask me anything about it again. Understand?”

  “What?”

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, I understand! Geez, you think I’m stupid?”

  “Stop that,” John had gotten mad. Collier was too damn sensitive, like all teenagers. “Listen. Do you remember where we used to roast chestnuts?”

  “Yeah, in the—”

  “Don’t say it, don’t say it. You know people are listening.”

  “All right, all right, what?”

  “You know where I’m talking about?”

  “Yes, yes, okay, I get it. What?”

  “If you ever get back here. If your children ever do, or your grandchildren—”

  “Gotta have a girlfriend for that to happen, Dad.”

  “Stop interrupting,” John said, irritated, “this is important. You have to look in there. You have to look real good.”

  “Where? In the—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  “All right! What am I looking for?”

  “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “Okay. Great. That’s real mysterious.”

  “Also, remember this. Two times at two and four, once at three. Say it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Say it.”

  “All right! Two times at two and four, once at three. What does that mean?”

  “You’ll know when you see it. Don’t ever forget it. Ever. It’s really important.”

  “Okay, okay, you know we’re coming up on curfew. So, two times at two and what?”

  “Four! Two times at two and four, once at three. Remember that, dammit! Christ, Coll! You memorized every scene of Ghostbusters! This should be easy!”

  “All right, all right, all right! I’ve got it! Would help if you’d tell me what it was about!”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Fine. Be Dr. Strange.”

  “And Coll?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When you get back here, when your kids do, bury me next to Mom. In the front yard.”

  A long silence. “It’s curfew, Dad. I gotta go.” And he hung up. Even though it wasn’t curfew.

  So Coll, if the Flu mutates into something else, or if immunities develop, come on back, dig through the wreckage and find the safe on the inner ledge of the downstairs chimney. Hit the quick-release combination and you’ll not only have the map but your Mom’s jewelry, including her one-carat antique diamond, and some of Grandpop’s gold coins. And the book.

  Legacy.

  Find it, Collier, otherwise the only legacy is pain and sorrow, war and death. The future is shrouded in a long, pale winding-sheet and if you, Collier, can fight your way out of it, if you can find a safe place, then you stand a chance. Live free, but do it in some unknown place because, Collier, freedom stirs envy and others want to take it from you.

  Take it from you.

  John stood for a moment. A spring breeze searched him, chilled him, but he wasn’t so sure if it was the cold or a premonition. He shook himself.

  Time to patrol.

  9

  John stood outside the Cassell Center, frowning. The breeze shifted and there was that smell ag
ain. Great. Things have a geometric ability to get worse, and only a linear ability to get better. Cop’s motto.

  He shook his head. Trying to keep up with the overnight thefts, trying to keep most of the buildings from being torched, not trying to shoot a perfectly innocent Loner, all that was hard enough. This, he didn’t need.

  Obviously, someone had croaked inside the building. What the hell was someone doing inside this craphole in the first place? Cassell was condemned even before the Event, a dark, dreary and musty confusion of warped rooms and rickety stairwells and sudden alcoves that made just the perfect deathtrap. AU had, unbelievably, insisted on using it for classes, night classes at that. Daft.

  Cassell was out of sight and out of mind, across the street from the main campus, isolated and dilapidated, the perfect place for rape or murder. That rape and murder had not happened there was beside the point; the place was too scary even for rapists and murderers. Not for artists, though. The campus poseurs and wannabes set up their personal studios in the abandoned moldy rooms, even, in a few cases, moving in. Public Safety left them alone. They were all crazy.

  And so was whoever had died in there. Or maybe he was just curious why a university had actually spent time and money to keep such an obviously awful building viable. Had to be something real valuable or interesting inside, right?

  Dumb Loner or, if John was lucky, dumb Bundy. Suffered the cat’s fate. Probably fell in the legendary half-filled-with-algae pool in the legendary basement filled with legendary rats. John had never gone down there, even Before, the legends sufficient for him. This schlub had never heard them, obviously.

  Okay. Get this done. John unholstered the Ruger and pressed it forward from the doorjamb, ready to shoot. Cassel was the perfect ambush site, so he let his eyes adjust before snapping through the doorway and settling against a corner wall in the foyer, sweeping the gloom with the barrel.

  Oh. Good. Lord. John gagged and then frowned. He had become quite the connoisseur of the various rotted-body smells, having received initial training at autopsies and crime scenes Before. Breaking into the neighbors’ houses and dragging out the corpses for a decent front yard burial After, had truly honed his palate, so to speak. This wasn’t the sickly sweet, cloying smell of the naturally dead, gasses vented and flesh drying, wormfood. This was the sharp metallic smell of rotted blood.