by Jim Stark
They drifted off into separate wonderings and worryings for the next several minutes. At long last, Dr. Valcourt emerged from the open door, looking exhausted, beaten. “He's awake,” he said as Michael and Lilly stood up. “But you'd better hurry. I'll—uh—keep the rest out, if you think it's best.” Michael nodded agreement. He took Lilly's hand, and didn't let go as Becky came out of the mini-hospital, red-eyed.
Victor's bed was surrounded by life-support technology; he was joined to machines by tubes and wires. A monitor was beeping out the last frail convulsions of his failing heart, counting down the seconds to the telltale monotone that would match the flat line on the EEG's digital display. He was now lying on his side facing the door, and he was breathing though his mouth, gulping at the air. His eyes were open wide, and they were blinking, repeatedly.
Lilly walked over, reached through the protective chrome bars and took his cold, white hand in hers. Everybody should have a hand to hold at the end, she thought. “Hi,” she began. “There's ... a question that the monks ... that we want to ask you,” she said, bearing in mind the doctor's warning that time was short. Victor nodded slightly, and Lilly glanced briefly at Michael, hoping that he would forgive her haste to get business out of the way ... and hoping he'd pick up from there, carry the ball the last few inches.
Michael resented the unspoken invitation ... but then ... why shouldn't it be me? he asked himself. Somebody has to speak for the world. “Do you have any ... any awareness of being ... of being the—uh—the actual savior, the Messiah, the reincarnation of ... you know ... Jesus?” he asked. He wanted to launch into an apoplectic apologia for the truly dumb-assed question, but he knew that would keep for later ... if there was a “later."
Victor started breathing quickly, seeming to rev up what little was left of his strength. “Of course ... not,” he whispered hoarsely.
The two-second pause between the words “course” and “not” sent a bolt of adrenalin through the two budding Human Threes who stood quietly by the side of the bed. Lilly felt Victor's hand squeeze, and she returned the fragile signal. It seemed that he wasn't finished, that he wanted to say more, but couldn't.
"Use your...” he began, but his mouth just wouldn't oblige his will. He winced as a mild cough sent intense pain careening through his entire body. “Use...” he tried again. Michael and Lilly leaned in to hear what seemed to be his very final words. “Use your ... fuckin’ ... head,” he gasped with his last three shallow breaths. His eyes closed gently, and a blob of pink saliva oozed from the corner of his mouth, settling on the white sheet.
Lilly looked abruptly at Michael, and pointed at her ear with her free hand. “When people die, they can hear for several seconds after they stop breathing,” the doctor had told them earlier, when it was clear the end was near.
"Say ... hello to my dad for me,” said Michael spontaneously, wishing he'd made a plan for this most disturbing sliver of time.
"And say hi ... to Jesus,” added Lilly, with absolutely no understanding of how those words had escaped her mouth, or why. She let go of the lifeless hand, wrapped her hands around Michael's arm and leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Bye, old friend,” said Michael.
With that, they just stood there, looking down at the remains of a man whose life had transformed a world he'd hidden from.
"He was a son-of-a-bitch to the end,” said Lilly, as a tear slipped down the side of her nose.
Michael found himself hoping that Victor's hearing had gone the way of his spirit when Lilly offered that blunt appraisal, and he almost expected to see the famous hermit break into a big, fat grin. “Yeah,” Michael said in his best comforting voice, “but ... he was our son-of-a-bitch."
Chapter 84
KEYS TO HEAVEN
Saturday, May 14, 2033—3:50 p.m.
Victor's body was put into two plastic garbage bags, one over the feet end and one over the head, fastened together at the middle with four turns of white adhesive tape from the medical stocks. Then, after foodstuffs were rearranged to make room, he was propped up in a sitting position at the back of the walk-in freezer. Lilly and Randy did the dirty work, tenderly overseen by the smiling monks. Lilly knew that they considered Victor to be the Son of God, the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. She couldn't imagine why they were so happy, and then she remembered the mythology. They probably figure that about three days from now, Victor will pop out of those garbage bags, fit as a fiddle, ready to thrill and amaze the masses with new and better miracles, she said to herself. She made sure Victor's head wouldn't flop over. Randy made a quick exit from the freezer, and almost bowled over Gil Henderson, whose journalistic instincts had compelled him to peek in.
When Lilly was finished, she found most of the others assembled in the largest area, the kitchen-dining room. Doreen, Randy's grandmother, had been kept in the dark about Victor's death and given a mild tranquillizer pill. Now, she was in one of the bedrooms, being “interviewed” by Venice with the old analog camcorder that Michael had brought into the shelter—the interview would be a contribution to Venice's life profile, a project she planned to work at throughout her life, until her own death.
Julia was in another bedroom singing songs with the Roy children. Good ... we can talk, thought Lilly.
Sébastien Roy was at the table with Michael, Becky, Lucky, Gil Henderson and Noel, and sitting on the floor, all in a row, were the six mute monks, still smiling senselessly. The group at the table was discussing sleeping arrangements and shifts, and Lilly felt that whatever they decided was fine with her. She asked Lucky where Doctor Valcourt was.
"In the bathroom,” said Lucky.
Lilly turned in that direction, and watched him come out as Randy went in to use it next. He's just a boy, really. He probably feels like he wants to throw up. When Randy re-joined the table, the talk turned away from the sleeping schedule.
"Thanks,” said Michael to Lilly and to his son. He really did not want the job of moving Victor's body, and he felt grateful that it was two people that he cared about who had relieved him of the responsibility. “We'll—uh—have a little ceremony for him later, but for now we've really got to take stock.” He looked at Lilly for support, even though he felt certain there could be none forthcoming.
Lilly had chatted earlier with Gil Henderson, and she'd learned that he had left a note for his secretary in New York, saying where he was going. From the way he described his friendship with Fiona Bledsoe, it seemed unlikely that Fiona was a mole. Still, the WDA had its ways, and who would have guessed that Lars was a mole?
The bottom line was that that WDA probably knew that Gil Henderson was here, and that was one more magnet, one more reason for the world body to direct the full force of its venom on the lodge. Lilly didn't want the job that Michael was silently inviting her to accept, but she took over anyway. Somebody had to sum things up, and she figured she was likely best suited to the role, now that Annette and Lars were gone.
"With the outside electric power being shut off,” she began, “we have to assume that the WDA is closing in on us, so ... escaping out the road is not an option, nor is escaping through the bush or across the lake. I'd say there's a good chance that they catch Lars and Annette with the evidence, and—” She choked on the continuation of that thought. She wasn't sure how much she cared about Annette, but she cared a lot about Lars—he had, after all, saved her life when he had been ordered to take it away. Maybe he intends to get caught, to sacrifice himself to save us! “But even if that happens,” she carried on, “I can't imagine them stopping at that point. Assuming the WDA is corrupt, and that the criminal element within the WDA is aware of where we are, who's here, what we know, then—"
Again, she felt herself slam into the wall full force. They'll get it out of Lars if he's alive, she realized. That's why he took the gun, to kill himself if he gets caught! Oh God! “Then ... then they'll—uh—nuke the lodge,” she said with as little emotion as she could manage. “Now this is only a fallout s
helter,” she heard herself saying. “So ... unless their aim screws up big-time ... well, I'm ... afraid we're not going to make it. Which brings us to the only realistic option I can see...” Lilly didn't want to say the obvious next few words, but ... well, Michael had reached the same conclusion, independently, as things turned out. “We have to surrender,” she said despondently. “There's ... no other way!"
There followed a heated debate as to Lilly Petrosian's motive and intent, her loyalties. Doctor Valcourt just wanted to get the hell out of the shelter. Noel started to cry. Becky stayed out of it. Lilly asked for the one LieDeck they had in their midst—the prototype device that Victor had made back in twenty fourteen—and she used it to prove for the benefit of all that she was no longer loyal to the WDA, and was actually in transition to become Human Three.
Then it became a discussion—at times a shouting match—over the wisdom of that option. There were some good arguments for and against surrender. The phrase that kept coming back was: “At least we get out of here alive.” The recurrent rebuttal was: “Yeah, but for how long?"
"The Lord will provide,” thundered the monk who had driven the lead car. He was smiling, as were all the berobed monks, smiling broadly, as if God the Father had just tossed them the keys to heaven. “If I may say a few words,” he said as he stood up. And then, inexplicably, he started stamping his right foot on the kitchen floor, repeatedly, and hard! Thump thump thump ... thump ... thump ... thump ... thump thump thump.
Chapter 85
BOOM!
Saturday, May 14, 2033—4:35 p.m.
Time itself seemed to warp both ways for Annette. On the one hand, with every second threatening to bring them into the cross hairs of an assassin's scope, minutes seemed to be endless. On the other hand, as she carved turn after turn along quiet Dora's Creek and nothing violent happened, it seemed all too soon that 4:35 p.m. arrived. She wondered about her calculations, but in the absence of farmland, there was no way to see very far ahead. After the Bristol Line, it would be a mixture of farmland and bush, and while moving through open fields offered advantages in terms of being able to see ahead and assess the setting, it also meant the WDA could more easily spot the boat! The chances of actually making it to the hunting shack were ... piss poor, Annette figured silently. But going back to Wilson Lake was not an option. Waiting for dark where they were now, however ... well, that was an option.
Annette cut the engine and grabbed a branch of a nearby bush that jutted out over the water. She listened attentively to this forested world, but the only alien sound was coming from under the tarpaulin, from Lars. He was snoring! While she had been dancing on an emotional knife-edge, he had tuned out. It had to be the drugs, she knew, and it was just as well. She hoped he hadn't taken one of the remaining morphine pills that he had in his pocket. Surely not!
She let the lazy current ease the boat backwards a few feet, where she stepped out into the shallows and tied the prow to a tree-trunk. Then she sat down on the shore, on a rounded boulder, to think ... and listen to Lars. She wondered whether he was dreaming, and if so, she wondered what he might be dreaming about.
She tried to calm herself down, but all of the hallucinatory adventures she had known when she was in hospital in ‘14 came flooding back to her, and not with any pleasure. As she swatted at mosquitoes on her face and neck, she remembered her N.D.E., her near-death experience—the tunnel, the so-cool white light, the sensation of all-encompassing love. She knew she would almost certainly die today, perhaps in minutes, perhaps in an hour or three. Will I go to that wondrous place again? she asked herself. Or does life just “fade-to-black,” like a twentieth-century movie? Or will there turn out to be a God and a heaven after all? She found it strange, to be at peace with the idea of facing her death, especially now that she knew truths about the WDA which...
At that moment, the whole world went pure white before her eyes—not the mystical, rapturous light of an N.D.E. in a place that existed only in her mind, but the acidy, brittle, blinding white of a sulphur fire! After less than two seconds, the light was gone! “What the hell was that!?” she muttered as she stood up and blinked her eyes.
And then the sound wave hit her. It seemed like a moon-sized mallet was crashing into the Earth. It was so loud, it seemed to break up, like the effect of heavy rock ‘n’ roll music on the tinny speaker of a cheap Sniffer. Her hands flew to her ears instinctively, and she dropped to her knees on the sopping shore of Dora's Creek. Her mouth was open ... an unhearable scream issued forth. And then the thunder began to abate.
Lars shot upright in the bow of the boat, throwing off the tarpaulin. “What the fuck was that?” he shouted. “Jesus H. Christ, Annette, I—"
"Quick,” she screamed as the deafening clap shrank to a distant rumble. “Get out on shore!” Lars got one foot into the water and stumbled out of the boat. Annette grabbed his good hand. “Hurry up!” she shouted as she pulled him towards a rock outcropping a few feet inshore. She forced him down onto his stomach, and suddenly, where there had been no wind at all, there was a hurricane! Annette fell beside him and held him down with one arm strapped across his shoulders and one leg splayed over his buttocks. “Shock wave,” she shouted over the screaming gale.
The ground beneath rumbled and shook, like a distant earthquake. The air howled for several seconds, and treetops bent like a well-trained army, in unison, and all in the same direction. Some trunks cracked and some branches snapped right off, but most didn't, and suddenly ... it was over ... as abruptly as it had begun.
"You okay?” asked Annette.
"They ... they nuked the fucking lodge!” said Lars. The side of his face was flat on the wet dirt, and the new white cast was covered with mud.
"How come we ... survived?” asked Annette. “We're only ... what? Maybe four or five kilometers from ground zero!?"
"Backpack nuke,” said Lars as he tried to push up with his good hand. “They got nuclear warheads up to any size—a gazillion megatons or whatever.” Lilly was sitting up now, and she helped him into a sitting position. “But that one was just a peanut ... even smaller than the Hiroshima bomb,” he continued. “The delivery agents must have put it near the lodge on a timer-fuse, and then given themselves twenty minutes or half an hour to escape ... lucky for us."
They stood up and wiped themselves off as best they could, then they walked back to the shore of Dora's Creek. Fortunately, the light boat hadn't been overturned or ripped from its rope by the gale. Through the trees, to the southeast, they could see a fat white mushroom cloud rising silently into the womb of an innocent blue sky.
Neither of them said another word. They both knew the new reality. All those in the shelter at the lodge were dead! The WDA had used its ultimate power, and for evil. Now, Annette and Lars were truly alone in their enterprise.
Still, there was one helpful aspect to this horror. The WDA would now assume that she and Lars were dead! There would be no perimeter of armed agents surrounding the estate, or on the Bristol Line, or up further, on the Picanoc. Annette and Lars could leave, and purr their way along the creek without fear of apprehension. Their tactical problems were over ... at least until they showed up someplace, alive!
Annette helped Lars get back into the bow of the boat, and covered him with the tarp. Neither of them spoke ... there were no words. Annette wondered if he would drop off to sleep again; she hoped he would. The engine fired, and Annette resumed the trek towards their first destination, now at a higher speed than before. The analog videotapes were still in her jacket pockets, unbroken ... and hopefully unaffected by the NEMP.
That thought worried her as she steered the boat around many bends. “NEMP,” she whispered, as her numb mind flew back to a high school physics class. Nuclear electro-magnetic pulse, she remembered. Besides light, heat, radiation and blast, nuclear bombs also emitted an electro-magnetic pulse, or NEMP, and it could knock planes out of the sky and screw up satellites. But can it mangle the configured fragments of steel dust on
the surface of an analog tape? She didn't know, but she didn't think so, at least not when they weren't in a direct line of sight from the source ... which we were not, she assured herself.
All those people ... dead! she thought, over and over. Michael ... Lilly ... Becky ... Julia ... Victor ... that Roy fellow and his two kids ... Venice ... Doreen, Michael's mom ... Randy and Lucky ... Dr. Valcourt ... Noel ... the six monks ... all gone! Every nerve ending begged her to weep, but she refused. That will have to wait ... until we're out of danger, she thought, although she was quite unsure if she herself would survive all this.
Lars did fall asleep again ... well, he passed out. Annette could see cars careening in both directions on the Bristol Line as she approached the bridge. After she had passed underneath and was gliding away on the other side of the road, she saw a police car zip by behind her, its bubble flashing and the siren blaring. The commotion of the aftermath, she thought as the aluminum boat carried its refugees past another farm and back into dense bushland.
When they reached the point nearest the hunting shack, Annette tied up the boat, and sat on the shore for a minute. She remembered the time just a week ago when she'd been here with Lars, laughing, crying, running naked through the trees, getting scratched by stray branches, getting stared at by unbelieving squirrels and birds, taking a crazy, frigid dip in the creek, right where she now sat, and finally spreading out their jackets on the bare wooden floor in the shack and having sex. I doubt if we'll live to do that again, she thought as she absently fondled the rope that was hooked to the boat.
* * * *
Time to move! Annette realized. She tied the rope to the base of a birch and then pulled the tarp away from Lars’ head and torso. He groaned, and covered his eyes with his left hand. “We made it,” she said. “C'mon, get up."