Project Terminus: Destiny

by Nathan Combs

  Tyler called Wade and updated him, then asked, “What now, boss?”

  “Kirilov will have patrols heading your way, but it’s doubtful they can catch you. How are you doing on gas?”

  “There’s no shortage of fuel in Corpus. Well, there wasn’t yesterday. We’re topped off.”

  “Good. You’re roughly three hours out of Beaumont. Hole up there where you can watch I-10.”

  “Roger.”

  “Can the guys all hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hell of a job, boys.”

  McNulty would live, but he wouldn’t be juggling anytime soon. The doctor advised against talking to him, but Kirilov pushed him aside and entered the room. McNulty lay on the hospital bed like a beached whale, tubes protruding from his left arm and neck. He was heavily sedated as he stared groggily up at Kirilov and attempted to speak.

  Kirilov held up his hand. “Not now. Rest and recover. We will talk later.” He turned and left.

  Standing outside the front door of the medical facility, Kirilov stared at the black cloud hanging over what used to be the refinery. He contemplated his options for several minutes, then headed for Shelton’s office. As he approached, he considered what he would say. He knew it would be a waste of time to try and convince the man that an invasion of Florida would be a mistake, because Shelton’s ego and megalomania would never allow him to accept that fact. He was positive Shelton would want him to proceed with the invasion, regardless of the consequences, and while Kirilov felt no particular allegiance to the citizens of the Texas Nation, he also harbored them no ill will. He decided the only way to avoid total catastrophe was to take out Sir Gabriel Shelton. He knocked on the door and waited for the red light to blink and the lock to click open.

  Shelton lounged in his chair, feet crossed in the middle of the desk. A half-empty/half-full bottle of Jim Beam Black took up desk space to his right. A nearly empty tumbler hung limply in his left hand, while his lower right arm moved slowly and methodically somewhere below the desk.

  “How nice of you to visit, General. Now that we have limited fuel supplies and no operational helicopters, what is your revised battle plan?”

  Disgusted, Kirilov watched Shelton’s hand moving as he said, “The choppers can be repaired, but the lack of fuel will present a problem. Given what just happened, I thought it best to advise against the wisdom of continuing with the Florida offensive.”

  “The wisdom?”

  “Yes. I know you do not wish to hear it, but I must inform you that an invasion of Florida will end in catastrophe. For us.”

  “You don’t think today was a catastrophe?”

  “Yes, of course it was. But I cannot, in good conscience, continue with the invasion plan.”

  Shelton smiled. “That’s what I thought you’d say, General.”

  Kirilov started to draw his Glock, but before it cleared the holster, a Colt Commander materialized in Shelton’s hand and two rounds made their way through Kirilov’s chest. He fell to his knees and toppled to his side.

  As the Russian general lay gasping, struggling to continue with his life, Shelton rose and stood over him. “I knew you wouldn’t feel threatened by what you thought I had in my hand. What’s that old saying? If you assume, it makes an ass out of you and me? Something like that. In this case, I had the big gun in my hand while you assumed that I was holding the little gun.” Shelton spat on him and said, “I cannot abide your failure, General—or your cowardice. You are now stripped of your rank and sentenced to death.”

  The Colt barked again.

  Shelton spat on him, kicked him in the nuts, then shot him two more times, returned to his desk, sat, and poured another two fingers of whiskey.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Great Unknown

  After one day at sea, Chen decided to cross the Pacific in two stages. He would make port in Honolulu to replenish and perform maintenance on his ship. The break would provide a welcome respite from the sea for both the people and the animals.

  Ten days out of Macau, 5147 kilometers, or 3200 nautical miles, from Honolulu, Ya pulled Chen aside. “We have another sickness, Chen.”

  Chen’s forehead furrowed with concern. “Who is it, Grandmother?”

  “Chan Heng.”

  “He is not an elder.”

  “No. Chan is forty-nine. He cannot breathe and exhibits the same symptoms as the others. He has great difficulty swallowing and suffers from chills and a high fever. It does not look promising. I have him isolated from the others, but everyone knows.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. But I am fearful that we are heading into the great unknown.”

  The next morning, Chan Heng passed and they remanded his body to the sea.

  Ya stared at the horizon. “This is very troublesome, Chen.”

  The next thirteen days were uneventful. The sea was calm, and although the winds were light, they were strong enough to push Leguan eastward at a steady ten knots.

  Thirty-two kilometers out of Honolulu, the Geiger counter on the main mast emitted one click. Then two. Minutes later, the sinister ticking was continuous. Chen brought the junk about and unfurled the sails. He checked the reading. 200 CPM. Nearly double the average standard.

  Before they’d sailed, Chen had rigged a forty-power, nautical big-eye binocular he had found in the Macau Maritime Museum, and as Leguan rode the gentle swells, he removed the protective covers and looked at Honolulu for thirty seconds.

  The concerned faces of the people stared expectantly at him.

  He consulted his map and turned to face them. “Honolulu is poisoned. We shall go to Kahului on the island of Maui. It is 117 kilometers. We will be there before nightfall.”

  Kahului glittered like a jewel in the rays of the setting sun, and Ya said, “How beautiful it is. How peaceful and serene. It is always thus when humans are absent. Is that not true, Chen?”

  Chen smiled. “Unfortunately, Grandmother, it is. We will be docked in twenty minutes. I will go ashore and locate a suitable shelter. Please keep the people on Leguan until I return.”

  An hour later, they disembarked, and in soft tropical twilight, a parade of villagers and livestock followed Chen to a seaside motel with an adjacent park. He decided they would stay for two days. Perhaps three. After sending search parties, Chen returned to Leguan with three people to perform cleaning and maintenance.

  Jiang hid the fact that he was terrified from Chen and that he was not confident that he could sail his junk safely to England. But he knew there was little choice, and because he admired Chen more than any man he had ever known, he was determined not to let him down. The first segment of the voyage went well, and as he passed the Parcells, his confidence soared. Thirty miles out of Singapore, his Geiger counter came to life. 400 CPM. Transiting the Malacca Straits was out of the question, and after consulting his map, he came about and set sail for Jakarta, 904 kilometers, or 561 miles, to the south.

  Five days later, the Geiger counter indicated the radiation around Jakarta was worse than Singapore. He would be unable to enter the Indian Ocean. Once more, he consulted his map, and within five minutes, the junk was sailing south toward Bali.

  Six days later, Jiang sailed through the narrow strait between East Java and Bali and made port in Banyuwangi. The city was as dead as every other area in Asia, and as a grim reminder of the lethality of the plague, piles of blackened, burned, human skeletons littered the streets of the city. The silence of the world and the lack of smells and sound, especially in the cities, was very disconcerting. It made him jumpy, and he was always on guard when searching buildings, half expecting someone to jump out and ask what he was doing there.

  They spent the next two days cleaning the ship, grazing and caring for the livestock, and searching for supplies. On the morning of the third day, Jiang consulted his ma
ps and determined that his lengthy detour south would add an additional month to the voyage. He stared at the endless ocean and thought about Singapore and Jakarta. They were nuclear wastelands. Was it reasonable to believe Sri Lanka would be any different? He examined his proposed route into the Red Sea through the Suez Canal and into the Mediterranean.

  He thought for thirty minutes, then concluded the likelihood of safe passage through the Middle East was a fantasy. He spent several more minutes entertaining the possibility of sailing around South Africa, then north along the African coastline, into the North Atlantic, and finally, into Liverpool. He finally decided it was the only safe option he had.

  Unable to contact Chen or hear anyone else on the ham radio for several weeks, he opted to try again and was rewarded with static. He replaced the mic and stood to look at it for several seconds.

  I am truly on my own.

  The thought was depressing and made him feel small and fragile.

  Four hours later, Jiang set sail across the Indian Ocean for Madagascar, twenty days and 7,421 kilometers/4,500 miles west.

  Chen liked Kahului. He theorized they could stay forever. There was adequate shelter available, the opportunity to grow food and to feed the livestock was outstanding, and fishing was good. Additionally, the weather was temperate, and there was no radiation present.

  Under normal circumstances, he would have considered the little city a small slice of paradise, but the remains of plague victims gave him pause. Human skeletons were everywhere.

  One vision stayed with him. He assumed it was an adult female lying in the gutter on her side, her arm around a tiny human skeleton. Everywhere he looked, it appeared people sat or lay down and went to sleep, never to awaken. He also thought it was strange that there was not a single animal alive in the town. He thought about the differences between Macau and Kahului. Human skeletons were everywhere here, but there were no animal skeletons. In Macau, there were no human skeletons, but the skeletal remains of dogs and cats abounded.

  He knew his fear of the plague was irrational since it was relegated to history long ago, but he worried about its reappearance. And while Kahului was an ideal place to settle, it was spooky.

  Spooky won, and after ten days, Leguan’s sails were full as she headed east to San Diego.

  Jiang made port in Fort Dolphin, Madagascar, eighteen days later.

  Nothing lived.

  They stayed for three days, then sailed for South Africa. Jiang theorized that Cape Town would be radioactive and he would be forced to sail well south of the city. But he had to stop somewhere before he rounded the Cape of Good Hope. After pouring over the map for several moments, he opted to enter Port Elizabeth. His intent was to stay for a full week, but the city was in shambles. A battle had obviously taken place. Burned-out tanks and vehicles littered the streets. Human skeletons were everywhere.

  He shuddered, and after a one-day respite, he sailed again.

  He had not encountered a significant storm since leaving Macau and worried that the Atlantic would be more treacherous than the Indian Ocean. Trying to stay positive and belie his fears, he decided, It is past typhoon season, so perhaps my luck will hold.

  Cape Town was indeed destroyed and radioactive, so he gave it a wide berth and went north along the South African coast. When he reached the southern tip of Angola, he turned west, cut across the Gulf of Guinea, and ten days later, made port in Freetown, Sierra Leone.

  Something was terribly wrong in Freetown. The air smelled of rotting meat. It was overpowering, and he was reluctant to leave the safety of the ship. He checked his map. He still had 6,500 kilometers or about 4,000 miles to travel. He had not used the engine once during the journey, but he had enough fuel to travel about half the distance. He estimated the junk could make eighteen knots under power, and if he alternated the engines and the sails, he could be in England in three weeks.

  He checked the food stores, believed he had enough, so gathered the people.

  Standing at the edge of the ship’s steering deck, he looked out across their worn and worried faces as he addressed them. “We cannot go ashore because of the odor. I do not know what it is, but it cannot be good. I have calculated we can make it to England in three weeks, perhaps less if the winds are favorable. We have enough food. I am sorry. I know you were anticipating time ashore, but we must leave at once.”

  His first mate, Ai Donghai, motioned Jiang to the side. “We have the sickness aboard, Jiang.”

  “The sickness?”

  “Yes, the same sickness we experienced in Macau. It is one of the elders. I fear she will not last the night. And one of the swine died this morning.”

  “How did it die?”

  “I do not know. It just died. We have butchered it. We will have fresh pork for the evening meal.”

  Chen watched a big storm building to the east. Tacking north, he thought, Perhaps l should use the engines and outrun it. He pondered returning to Hawaii, knowing he was 2,100 kilometers or 1,300 miles east of San Diego. I am halfway between. It will take as much time to return as it will to go forward. He paid close attention to the storm for another hour, then took a deep breath of the salt air, started the engines, and steamed north at eighteen knots.

  Sunrise revealed choppy seas and swells of eight feet though the storm was well to the south, so he brought the ship back on course.

  An hour later, Ya moved silently to Chen’s side. She looked straight ahead and said, “Ming Flow has died, Chen. We must perform the ceremony.”

  Chen’s face fell grim. “That is number four, Ya. Do you believe we are in trouble?”

  “Of course, we are in trouble, Chen. The world is dead.”

  “You know what I meant, Ya.”

  “It has been my experience that communications are enhanced by people saying what they mean instead of forcing others to guess the meaning of what they say.”

  Chen’s brow furrowed farther, and she regretted her choice of words. “Forgive me, dear Chen. I am being too harsh. Yes, we have a problem. One death could be within the realm of normality. Two could be coincidence. Four, with the same symptoms, is a contagious disease.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I am not a virologist, Chen. Neither are you. We can speculate, but that is all. It would be a guess. Nothing more.”

  “What is your guess, then?”

  “There is nothing we can do about it, but I believe it is a new type of bing yuan-ti.”

  Chen was incredulous. “A pathogen? Caused by?”

  “Ah. That is the question. I do not know. Perhaps it is something we picked up in Macau.”

  Chen nodded somberly, then brightened. “You will be happy to know we should be in San Diego in three days.”

  “So, our journey ends?”

  “No, Grandmother. San Diego will be the end of one journey and the beginning of another.”

  The voyage north from Cape Town had been harsh for Jiang. The seas were rough, and he slept little. He was exhausted, and the food stores were dangerously low. He needed a break. He needed to replenish the stores, and the people needed to feel land beneath their feet. He was beginning to worry about the silent and mysterious disease that had taken two more lives. He did not believe they were related, but three birds had also died, a duck and two chickens. He did not want to lose any more.

  As the ship approached the coastline of Portugal, the crisp, clean, smell of the ocean was replaced with the myriad aromas of land. Jiang breathed deeply, at once savoring and repulsed by the odor. He sailed into a radiation-free Cascais, forty-two kilometers west of Lisbon, and tied up at the Marina de Cascais. It was cold. He did not know what the temperature should have been, but he doubted that nine degrees C was the norm for this time of year.

  Jiang and Ai stood on the dock watching the villagers leave the ship, and Jiang turned to him. “It is remarkable tha
t you have never been to sea, Ai. You have become a skillful sailor and first mate. While you search for food, I will find a suitable location for the night. We are five days from our destination. You have done well.”

  “I had an excellent teacher, Jiang.”

  Jiang smiled. “l am lucky more than good, Ai.”

  Ai returned the grin. “Luck or not, I do not believe anyone in history has ever accomplished such a voyage.”

  As Chen approached the coastline of California, the Geiger counter began to click and he brought the ship about, heading farther out to sea. At twenty miles distant, he throttled back the engines, drifted, and consulted the map.

  Eight hours later, Leguan berthed for the last time at a slip in Ensenada, Mexico.

  Moments after leaving the ship, Ya asked, “Why is it always necessary to learn to walk again when you leave the sea, Chen?”

  Chen smiled. “Because you have to trade your sea legs for land legs, Grandmother. It has been that way since antiquity.” Ecstatic the voyage was over, he teased her. “At least you were not fed to the fish.”

  “They would have spit me out at once, Chen. I grow sour. When will we arrive in Texas?”

  “If we can find transportation, perhaps three or four days. If not…” He shrugged. “I would have to think about it to give you an approximate time, Ya.”

  After two days of searching, they found three cars, four pickups, and a U-Haul van that functioned. Siphoning fuel from hundreds of vehicles produced a total of 200 gallons of questionable gasoline, and with tanks full and cans of gas stored, they prepared to leave for Texas. Chen studied the maps and came to the conclusion that even with vehicles, this would not be an easy trip. There were barren mountainous and desert areas to cross before they reached Corpus Christi.