Project Terminus: Destiny

by Nathan Combs

  Standing in the parking lot near the pier where the loaded vehicles waited, Ya put a hand on Chen’s arm. “The people are ready. How far is it, Chen?”

  He smiled at her. “It’s 2,346 kilometers, Grandmother.”

  “Perhaps we should stop using kilometers as a measurement. After all, we are in a country that calculates the distance by miles, are we not?”

  Chen laughed. “It is nice to see you have not lost your sense of humor, Ya. But perhaps you are right. We would not want to run afoul of their laws.” He calculated it in his head, then said, “It is roughly 1,457 miles.”

  Jiang was elated. “I have made contact with the Englishmen, Ai. They are going to meet us in Liverpool in the morning.”

  Ai was silent.

  “Did you not hear me, Ai?”

  Ai nodded. “Yes, I heard you, Jiang.”

  “What is wrong?”

  He bowed his head. “I do not feel well.”

  Tecate, Mexico, was too close to the wasteland that was once San Diego, so at LaPaz, Chen headed east on barely discernable backroads, picked up Federal Highway 2D, and siphoning gas as they went, followed it to Federal Highway 2, then headed to Ciudad Juarez.

  The next afternoon they approached El Paso. The city was so radioactive Chen could have sworn it would glow in the dark, but the radiation was within safe limits on the southern outskirts of Ciudad Juarez, so he crossed the bridge at Puente Tornillo, Guadalupe, and entered what was once the United States of America.

  I-10 was a superhighway compared to the roads in Mexico, and their speed increased to forty miles per hour. Road blockage was negligible, and three days after docking in Ensenada, the tiny caravan arrived in Alpine, Texas.

  Two hours after they arrived, Ya stood in front of Chen and bowed her head. “Two more people are ill, Chen. And one of the ducks has died.”

  Chen bowed his head and shook it slowly. “I am so sorry, Grandmother. Perhaps they will recover. Perhaps this is not the same illness?”

  “It is the same, Chen. Regardless, we should stop here and allow the livestock to recuperate. The ocean voyage was hard on them.”

  “Yes. It was. We will stay for a day. Perhaps two. We still have over 500 miles to go, and the vehicles are not running well. It will allow us the opportunity to repair or replace them. I would hate to be forced to walk in this land.”

  Ya nodded. “I am hopeful our destination has more greenery. I do not like deserts.”

  At 6:00 a.m., Jiang was one hour out of Liverpool and using the last of his fuel to push the junk the remaining twenty miles. The lock to enter the Brunswick Dock was open, and a contingent from the English colony was waiting at the Royal Marine Reserve Pier.

  Lost in thought, Jiang started when the youngest on his boat, a fifteen-year-old girl named Jiao, placed her hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at her. Her eyes were red, her face pasty white.

  She coughed and hacked phlegm onto the deck. “Jiang, many are sick below. I think that Ai is dead.”

  Jiang throttled the engines back, set the autopilot, and went to the small cabin. Ai was indeed dead. He lay on his back, his mouth open, fingers bent like claws at his chest. Three others were sick, and four said they were not feeling well.

  He turned to the nine healthy people. “We will be docking in an hour. Care for them as best you can. We will receive medical assistance soon.”

  He sat on the deck and thought. If I tell the English that we have sickness aboard, they will not allow me to dock. If I do not tell them, what will be their reaction when they find out?

  He decided to remand Ai’s body to the sea and withhold the sickness from the English. We did not make this journey only to be turned away. The English have medical facilities and doctors. The sick can be cured. He owed it to the people. He owed it to Chen. He owed it to himself.

  Forty-five minutes later, Jiang entered the Mersey River and caught his first glimpse of the English contingent. It was huge. Several hundred people stood on the Royal Marine Pier, smiling and waving little flags.

  The junk touched the pier. Hawsers were thrown, and two men caught them, secured the ship, and placed a gangway.

  Jiang stood at the edge of the pathway to land and hid his anxiety behind a smile. He stepped off the junk, onto the pier, turned and motioned for his people to disembark.

  One by one, they left the junk for the last time.

  The welcoming committee cheered loudly. They shook hands, slapped backs, and the women in the contingent hugged them.

  Jiang was overcome with a combination of fatigue, relief, and emotion and fell to his knees, took a deep breath, and looked toward the heavens. His mouth opened wide. Silent tears began their journey down his cheeks.

  A sudden but respectful silence followed.

  After a moment, Jiang stood and said, “Please forgive me. On behalf of my people, I thank you.”

  The leader of the group, a handsome woman of about fifty years, came forward and took his hand. “My name is Faith Caruthers, and I want to officially welcome you to England. Your journey has ended. You are home. And you are safe.” She placed her hand on the shoulder of a man standing next to her. “This is Arkady Popov. He is visiting us from Russia and will be returning to his settlement this evening, but he wanted to meet you.”

  Popov pumped Jiang’s hand and, in heavily accented English, said, “Your feat of traveling from China to England is an extraordinary event. I want to tell you how pleased we all are”—he waved his arm at the beaming crowd—“to welcome you to England and to what will soon be a united European colony.”

  Jiang bowed.

  Caruthers said, “We should get your people ready. Is there anything special you need before we depart?”

  Jiang cringed inwardly. “We have been at sea for months. It has indeed been an arduous journey. I have people on board who are dehydrated and ill from the lack of nourishment. Do you have a doctor who can see to them?”

  The November temperature in Alpine was eighteen degrees below normal.

  Ya shivered. “Will it be this cold where we are going?”

  “No, Ya. Corpus Christi is by the sea. It should be much warmer.”

  She was silent for nearly a minute, then looked into Chen’s eyes and said, “Chen. I do not feel well.” She grabbed his hand with both of hers. “I am afraid.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “I will make you some tea, Grandmother. You must rest. Two days here is long enough. You will feel better soon. We will depart in the morning.”

  At dawn the next day, Chen found that digging in the hard earth was difficult, and he sweated in the cold Texas air as he dug the grave. Although he had not seen any wild animals, he did not want them unearthing Ya’s body. When the hole was three feet deep, the people brought her corpse wrapped in her finest sashes and gently placed her at the bottom of the grave. The remainder of the villagers stood in respectful, catatonic silence.

  Chen picked up a handful of dirt and put it on the shroud that covered her remains. His face was filthy, streaked with tears, as he said, “Rest in peace, Grandmother.”

  One by one, the people placed a handful of dirt on her remains and silently walked away.

  Chen stood, head bowed, and watched as two younger men shoveled dirt onto the grave and then covered it with stones. When they finished, Chen placed a headstone that read: This is Ya, Grandmother of the village. We will miss you.

  The remainder of the trip to Corpus was uneventful, and Chen arrived with ten healthy and seven sick villagers on what the Americans called Veterans Day.

  The citizens of Texas Nation were not unfriendly toward Chen and his people, they simply ignored them. When the villagers’ numbers decreased by two, three days after arrival, no one seemed to notice or care. It was as though they did not exist.

  Ten days after their arrival, another villager died and was
buried.

  Chen watched the seven remaining members of his village eating their evening meal in silence. A great sadness settled on his psyche. I have brought them here to die in this hostile, foreign land.

  Chen had befriended a young woman from Guatemala who had lived for a month in Reynosa, Mexico, 260 miles south. After the merger, with Texas Nation, she was forced to migrate to Corpus Christi. Her name was Gabriela. She was nineteen years old. Like Chen’s people, Gabriela was invisible to the other citizens of Texas Nation. She was a sexual object. Nothing more.

  A week after meeting, they spoke at a vegetable market. “It is what I must do to survive, Chen.” She stared into his soulful eyes and said, “I do not intend to grow old and useless here. I have decided to return to my home in Guatemala. I do not care if we have electricity or not. You and your people are welcome to come with me. Talk to them.”

  Chen spoke to the seven remaining villagers as soon as he returned from the market. “I believe we must leave this place and travel to Guatemala, but the decision to do so is yours.”

  Chyou Zhao, the oldest remaining villager, said, “I speak for everyone, Chen. We go where you go.”

  After breakfast, Chen visited Gabriela.

  She nodded somberly. “I will secure transportation for eight.” She looked at Chen’s face and said, “Do not be sad, Chen. I do business with a vegetable truck driver who makes weekly deliveries from the farms in Reynosa. I’ve survived this long. One more night will make no difference. I can convince him to take your people, but I’m not sure how much livestock he will allow you to take.”

  Two hours later, Gabriella informed Chen the driver would take the people, four hogs, and eighteen fowl. No more.

  Chen replied, “We will give the extra swine and fowl away. It is a small price to pay, Gabriella.”

  She smiled sadly and touched his hand. “Everyone should be ready to go at sunrise. I must get back.”

  The next morning Gabriella, Chen, the seven remaining members of the Chinese village, and what remained of their livestock were on the way to Guatemala by way of Reynosa.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hostile Intent

  Shelton returned to his chair and stared at Kirilov’s body for several minutes. He grunted, then poured more bourbon and raised the glass toward Kirilov’s remains. “If you were a team player, you wouldn’t be dead on the floor like the dumbass you are, General.” His face scrunched up, and he shrugged. “I mean the dumbass you were.” He stopped talking to himself for a moment, then blurted out, “And just for the record, Misha, I never liked you.”

  He tossed back the bourbon and threw the empty glass at Kirilov’s head, but his throw was wide right. Annoyed, he launched himself from his seat and kicked Kirilov’s corpse in the ribs. “Fuck you, you Russian piece of shit.”

  He fished in Kirilov’s pocket until he found keys, then pushed the door release button, left his office, and went outside. A pall of dense black smoke still shrouded the area where his refinery used to be, but the winds were gradually moving it east, and he realized the only fuel he had left resided in the tankers.

  He gritted his teeth and muttered, “bastards,” then walked to the medical facility. He pushed the doctor’s protestations aside and entered McNulty’s room.

  Shelton thought McNulty looked like death warmed over, and in fact, he was packing for the afterlife, but his ticket hadn’t been punched yet, and the final chapters of his life had yet to be written.

  Shelton pulled a chair close to the bed and said, “David, can you hear me?”

  McNulty’s drug-glazed eyes widened in acknowledgment that his ears were functional, but he didn’t say anything.

  “I have relieved General Kirilov of his command owing to incompetence, malfeasance, and because, frankly, he was a douchebag. I suppose it’s fair to say you aren’t up to speed on what’s happened.” He exhaled slowly and leaned closer. “Those derelicts in Florida assaulted us, but rest assured, David, they are going to pay, and they’re going to pay with their lives. I need your help with the invasion plans, so I would appreciate it if you would take your mega fat, hippo-thick ass back to work as soon as possible.”

  McNulty’s eyes widened.

  A confused look appeared on Shelton’s face. “Wait…what was that?” He pulled his head back. “Well, why would you be offended, David? There’s no denying your ass is huge, but okay, yes…I do acknowledge that you’ll require a few days to get your shit together. No problem there. I also realize you’re missing an appendage. That’s not a problem either since your skillset doesn’t require the use of both arms.” Shelton’s eyes looked like shiny chrome marbles.

  McNulty’s eyes shuttled from side to side at 1,000 rpms while he muttered something unintelligible.

  “I can’t understand a word you’re saying, David.” Shelton cocked his head to the right and scrunched up his face. “What? Wait…yes, yes, you have lost weight, David, and even though it’s only an arm, good for you.” He paused a moment, cocked his head to the left, and said, “Yes. That’s true too, David. You will have to learn to jerk off with your left hand.”

  McNulty’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again as a stream of drool made its way down his chin.

  Shelton clapped his hands and laughed hysterically. “David, that’s hilarious. Strange stuff, indeed.”

  Terror overriding the morphine drip hanging above him, McNulty’s eyes went into full panic mode. He said something, but all that came out was gibberish.

  “I have no idea what ish buh ma tham amma doh means, David. Is that Pashto?” Shelton pushed back the chair, stood, and smirked down at him. “Really, I’d love to stay and continue this little chat, but I much prefer English to whatever bullshit tribal language you’re speaking. Besides, since those whores from Florida— Wait. What? David, David, David, I couldn’t care less about being grammatically correct. But okay, if you insist…the Florida whores.” He stopped talking, pursed his lips, and said, “David, you bloated bastard. You made me forget what I was going to say. Well, fuck it. I have work to do. I’ll check in with you later.”

  Robert Foster was an ex-United States Army Field Artillery officer. He held the rank of lieutenant but had never seen combat. He was articulate and trustworthy, and since Kirilov hadn’t had a vast pool of qualified personnel to choose from, Foster had served the Texas Nation as Kirilov’s adjutant. Four hours after the tankers obliterated northeast Corpus, Foster was summoned to Shelton’s office.

  Shelton lounged nonchalantly in his chair and spoke casually as though nothing untoward had happened. “General Kirilov has been relieved of his command, Robert. You are to assume command of the armed forces immediately. Along with your increased responsibilities comes an increase in pay and benefits, of course. However, you are not to alter the invasion plans without consulting me first. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”

  “It appears that the Floridians want a war, and we’re going to accommodate them. I assume you are familiar with General Kirilov’s plans?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “The plan he devised is still active. Out of necessity, we will launch the invasion sooner since the old timetable is no longer applicable.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, we have to alter the plans because of the unexpected lack of fuel.”

  “I am painfully aware that fuel is now at a premium, Robert. I want you to ascertain exactly how much fuel we have left. We will reconfigure the invasion plans based on that metric. I want gas rationing for the citizenry to take effect immediately. Siphon their gas and put it in storage. They can ride horses again. I also want those helicopters repaired and put back into service.”

  “Yes, sir. May I speak with General Kirilov?”

  “General Kirilov is no longer a citizen of the Texas Nation, Robert. He has been charged with mischief and treason, and appr
opriate action has been taken. I expect your report on my desk within twenty-four hours.” Shelton tossed Kirilov’s keys in Foster’s direction. “Here are the keys to the kingdom. You are dismissed.”

  Foster left Shelton’s office and went to his unexpectedly inherited command center. He mused that the interview with Shelton was an interrogation and that he had just been given an ultimatum. He respected Kirilov both as a leader and as a military tactician. The man knew what he was doing. Shelton made him uneasy, and he was pretty sure the appropriate action the man had mentioned consisted of a bullet in Kirilov’s head.

  He opened the door to the communications center and introduced himself to the radio operator, then asked if there was anything new from the patrols or the drone operator.

  “No, sir. Nothing.”

  “I need you to do something for me, Corporal. Go to the terminal and find the Master Sergeant. Have him come here immediately. I’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone.”

  Twenty minutes later, Raymond Wilcox, former Master Sergeant, US Army, now sergeant of the armed forces of Texas Nation, scribbled instructions in his pocket notebook. “Let’s go over this again, Lieutenant. I want to make sure I have it right.”

  Foster grinned. “It’s not Lieutenant anymore, Ray. It’s General.”

  Wilcox smirked. “Right. General. Let me make sure I have your orders straight.”

  “They’re Shelton’s orders, Ray. Not mine.”

  Wilcox grunted. “Yeah…so, I’m to inventory all fuel stores, separated by type, and come up with total gallons available?”

  “Correct.”

  “Next, I’m to forbid the use of vehicles throughout the nation and confiscate all fuel by siphoning it into a tanker?”

  “Correct.”

  “No problem. That’ll go over really well. Shouldn’t take more than a month to accomplish.”

  “That’s what the man wants.”