After the End Trilogy Box Set

by Mark Gillespie

  “That was an airplane,” Eda said, taking a seat opposite Goldman. Her heart was thumping. Part of her mind was still out there on the highway, staring up at the big machine bird that might as well have jumped out of a history book.

  “It was an observation aircraft,” Goldman said. His voice was surprisingly calm now. “Right now it’s undertaking a spying mission on the mainland. Going downtown by the looks of it. Probably seeing if there any survivors.”

  “Is it friendly?” Eda said.

  “Nope,” Goldman said without hesitation.

  “Let’s back up a minute,” Eda said. “Mr. China is real, I can accept that and I’m sorry as hell for doubting you Goldman. But that…that wasn’t supposed to happen. I haven’t seen an airplane in the sky for twenty years or more. Who the hell flies an airplane in this country anymore?”

  “Somebody who isn’t from this country,” Goldman said.

  “What?”

  “You weren’t supposed to see that,” Goldman said, fanning his beetroot red face with the army cap. “It’s my fault for keeping you on the beach too long this morning. Truth be told, I was enjoying myself and time ran away. You should have been gone by now. Long gone.”

  “What exactly wasn’t I supposed to see?” Eda said.

  “The scouts.”

  “Scouts? You said that already. What does that mean Goldman? Where the hell did that airplane come from just now?”

  “From the water,” Goldman said. He had the look of a guilty man in the midst of a profound confession. “It came from the water because well, that’s where the ships are.”

  “Ships?”

  Goldman pushed one of the overflowing ashtrays away like it was radioactive. “Looks like I’ve got some explaining to do.”

  “Yeah you do.”

  The dry musty odor inside the hut forced its way up Eda’s nostrils, an intrusion she paid little attention to.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Goldman put his cap back on despite the fact it was soaking wet. He lowered it so that his eyes were buried within the shade. Then he placed his large hands flat on the table and sighed.

  “What do you know about the End War?” he said.

  Eda thought it over for a second, wondering if it was a trick question. “The basic facts,” she said. “What most people know I guess.”

  “Most people don’t know jack shit,” Goldman said. “How about this for starters? What if I told you that the thing people keep calling the End War wasn’t really the End War?”

  “Huh?” Eda said, leaning forward. “Are you having one of your blackouts right now?”

  “No.”

  “So what are you talking about then?”

  Goldman’s eyes stared into emptiness, contemplating the past.

  “Russia, the United Kingdom, Germany, Australia, Japan, just to name a few – all those powerful nations, they chose sides during the pre-conflict stage. They pledged their support, moral and military, to either America or China. Big mistake. They all became host battlegrounds in the end and all the people who lived there were chewed up. What a waste right? But…”

  His voice trailed off into silence.

  “But what?” Eda said.

  Goldman coughed and wiped the spit off his lips. “Just because it was World War Three,” he said, “that doesn’t mean the whole world was involved.”

  “Quiet Frankie,” Eda said. Behind her, Frankie Boy’s shiny black nose was probing the corner of the hut. He was sniffing too loudly, distracting her.

  “We called them the pauper nations,” Goldman said. “None of the giants called on them to fight during the war because they didn’t have much to offer in terms of military firepower. They were poor, third world countries. They were insignificant. Of no interest or value.”

  Eda jerked a thumb to the window. “Are you telling me that…?”

  Goldman nodded.

  “Who are they?” Eda asked.

  “Don’t know exactly what part of the globe they come from,” Goldman said. “But wherever it is, they’ve spent decades in a world devoid of superpower bullies. And in the absence of superpowers, not to mention the absence of billions of people competing for resources, these backward nations began to grow strong.”

  Goldman stared out of the window.

  “Look at them now,” he said. “From beggars to conquering scavengers. They’ve come all this way to feast on the carcass of the dead giant.”

  The old man shivered and pulled the collar of his uniform in tight. He’d gone from sweating buckets to shaking like a leaf in a matter of minutes.

  “Me and some of the boys in the unit,” he said, “we used to speculate about it. Especially near the end when it was obvious the game was up. What would happen if the pauper nations survived? They’d bide their time, build up their armies and navies and come after us. It didn’t feel too far-fetched at the time. Doesn’t feel too far-fetched now.”

  Eda fell back in her seat. “So that’s the End War out there?”

  “Yes it is,” Goldman said. “As far as you, me and all the other surviving Americans are concerned, this is the End War. Because it’s our end. These invaders, they’re strong. And smart too – the fact they’ve been using scouts for months tells you that they’re patient about this conquering thing. And patience is a sign of wisdom in my book. But boy when they get out there…they’re going to kill everyone and everything that moves. The rivers will run red with the blood of Americans. They’ll kill all of us because that’s how it works. A new nation is about to be born. And as far as they’re concerned it’s God’s work. It’s manifest destiny all over again.”

  8

  “What do we do now?” Eda asked.

  She was trying to digest the enormity of what Goldman had just told her, while at the same time realizing that they couldn’t stay in the hut forever and bury their heads in the ashtrays.

  “We stick to the plan,” Goldman said without hesitation. “You go west. Nothing’s changed except now you know the why of it.”

  “What does it matter if I run?” Eda said. “If this thing, this invasion, is as big as you say it is they’ll catch up with me sooner or later. They’ll catch up with everyone. Right?”

  “There’s more to you going west than just running,” Goldman said.

  “What do you mean?”

  The old man’s eyes lit up. The intensity poured out of him, flowing across the table to Eda.

  “Now that you know,” he said. “Are you willing to put that knowledge to good use?”

  “How?” Eda asked.

  “We need someone to take this to the survivors,” Goldman said. His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “I didn’t want it to be you because it’s a hell of a task and you’ve been through more than enough. But maybe it was destiny that brought you to Boston on the eve of the invasion. You probably didn’t think of it like that of course.”

  Goldman paused all of a sudden, as if on the verge of another blackout. To Eda’s relief, he kept talking.

  “Men, women and children,” he said. “At the very least they deserve a head start and the chance to organize some kind of armed resistance. Or if they can’t fight, they need time to find somewhere remote where the invaders won’t catch up with them. There has to be somewhere, it’s a big world you know? We need a messenger. I’m too old and slow for the job and have been for a long time.”

  Eda felt like Goldman had just dropped a great weight on her shoulders.

  “I’m beginning to think life was easier in New York,” she said. “I had a nice room there and it was warm. I had my books.”

  Goldman didn’t miss a beat. “New York won’t escape this either.”

  There was a loud bellowing noise above their heads. Eda jumped to her feet and rushed over to the tiny window on the wall of the hut. Pressing her face against the glass, she caught a brief glimpse of two jet planes shooting across the sky. One of them was a fraction ahead of the other, but they were stagg
eringly close. They were flying at an incredible speed towards downtown Boston.

  “How many?” Goldman asked. He was still sitting down, one hand slipping under the cap to wipe his forehead dry.

  “Two,” Eda said. “I think.”

  “Shit,” Goldman said. “Never seen more than one myself.”

  Eda walked back over to the table and sat down. She didn’t like the worried look on Goldman’s face. “What does that mean?”

  But Goldman didn’t answer. He was lost in thought, so much so that he looked like the Thinker, a bronze sculpture Eda had seen photographs of in an art book a long time ago. When Goldman didn’t answer, Eda decided not to push.

  They sat in silence for a long time.

  After a while, Goldman sat bolt upright. His wispy, snow-colored eyebrows stood to attention as the rest of his face creased up in concentration. Without a word, he slowly got to his feet, then moved towards the door like a man treading on razor thin ice.

  “Hear that?” he whispered.

  Eda heard it. It was a faint mechanical purring noise. Sort of like the airplanes but not as powerful or as loud.

  “Cars,” Goldman said.

  “Cars?”

  “Yep.”

  Eda hadn’t seen or heard a working car in decades. The dead ones were everywhere, lying around like metal trash, clogging up every street in the country. But the constant chirping of human technology had long been silent. Now Eda had heard airplanes and cars all in the course of one morning. It was an unwelcome window back to the wild years.

  The old man’s face was chalk white.

  “Oh God, they’ve made landing somewhere,” he said. “This is it. It’s happening.”

  Goldman leaned his head against the door. As he did, something small and black crawled away from the hinge and scurried towards the roof. Eda wasn’t sure if Goldman was trying to listen to what was going on outside or if he was using the door to stay upright.

  “You’re right,” Eda said. “We stick to the plan with one change – you’re coming with me and Frankie Boy. I’m not leaving you here to face this thing alone. God knows what sort of people these are. We don’t know anything about them, which means you have no idea what they’ll do to you if they find you.”

  “I can’t run,” Goldman said, his eyes closed.

  “You have to try,” Eda said.

  The old soldier shook his head. He opened his eyes and turned to face her.

  “I don’t want to run,” he said. “When I die it’ll be right here in Boston. If I’m lucky it’ll happen in my apartment, surrounded by my family. And if I’m really lucky that chink son of a bitch will be dead before me.”

  “Forget about him for God’s sake,” Eda snapped. “There are bigger things to worry about.”

  Goldman shot her a furious look.

  “Forget about him?” he said, his lip curling into a snarl. His voice was shaking and his neck turned reddish-purple. “Did you just say forget about him?”

  Eda was shocked at how fast Goldman went from zero to raging basket case.

  “Okay,” she said, hands up in surrender. “I just meant…”

  She was cut off by something outside.

  Footsteps. Close to the hut.

  Eda’s body went stiff. She looked at the old man and without a word, pointed a finger to the window. Her face must have said the rest. Whatever outburst had been coming her way it would have to wait.

  Finally Goldman caught on. He pressed a finger to his lips.

  They listened as someone opened the door to the first hut. It was only a short distance from where they were standing. After that initial creak of the door swinging open, Eda heard the faint thud of feet walking back and forth in a slow, deliberate manner. Eda imagined someone inside the other hut, pacing around.

  Looking for what?

  Frankie Boy’s ears had pricked up at the disturbance. Eda crept over beside him, dropped onto one knee and whispered.

  “Quiet boy. Quiet now.”

  She stroked his back gently. Frankie Boy’s low-pitched growl was building up to something momentous.

  The door to the first hut clicked shut. Eda heard somebody walking down the metal stairs.

  Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

  The footsteps got louder. Closer.

  Eda and Goldman exchanged horrified expressions.

  Goldman raised his rifle to shooting position. He took a couple of slow, quiet steps back, the barrel pointing at the doorway. There was no way he could miss if someone came in. It should have offered some hope and yet, the old man’s hands were shaking.

  There was a rattling noise outside.

  Eda looked at the door handle. Waiting for it to move.

  Another rattle, louder this time.

  But it wasn’t coming from the door.

  Eda glanced towards the window, just in time to catch a flash of movement outside. Her back and shoulders were rigid with tension.

  Outside, a pale-brown hand came into view. Long, crooked fingers gripped onto the edge of the metal frame and pulled softly. To Eda’s horror, the catch on the inside was loose. It only took the slightest of effort to pull the window open.

  It shifted about six inches.

  The hand retreated, disappearing out of sight.

  Eda gripped the handle of the katana. If whoever was out there dared to show their hand again they’d be going home without their fingers.

  The hand did appear. But this time it was a blur – it was there and then it was gone again. The hand’s sudden appearance was followed a series of light thuds. Eda looked to the floor. A tiny, ball-like object rolled ominously towards the corner of the hut.

  Goldman’s voice bellowed in Eda’s ear.

  “RUN!” he yelled.

  Goldman yanked the hut door open, his aching bones drawing on the last reserves of energy.

  “Move it!”

  Eda hurled herself at the door, fueled by a primal fear of oblivion.

  “Frankie!” she yelled. “C’MON!”

  In a split second, Frankie Boy was galloping through the door ahead of her. Goldman waited as Eda charged outside. The old man’s face was bright red, his eyes bulging with terror.

  Eda grabbed Goldman by the arm, hoping that his paper legs wouldn’t betray him. With little delicacy, she dragged him outside, down the stairs, and towards the road.

  Everything was a blur after that.

  The earth shook underneath Eda and it was like being catapulted into an altered state of consciousness. At the moment of the explosion, Eda felt as if she was experiencing the sensation of her body being torn apart. Her internal organs rattled violently. She remained on her feet for a matter of seconds after the blast, then she was knocked off balance, crashing hard onto a soaking dirt patch near the edge of the highway.

  She’d never been so close to an explosion, not even during the height of the wild years. It was like pressing her face up against a supersonic wave of hot air. The energy was so intense that it felt like the world had flipped upside down. Had she and Goldman reacted a moment slower they surely would have been cut in half.

  On the ground, Eda peered out from behind the shield of her forearm. Black smoke plumes gushed out of the wreckage. The deadly shock waves lingered, wafting an angry heat that raked her skin.

  Eda rolled over onto her back, her body throbbing and yet strangely numb at the same time. As she looked up at the gray sky she saw more jets flying overhead in a procession. One, two, three, four – five of them!

  Whoooooosh…

  Eda heard movement to her left. She flipped back over and saw that Goldman was, miraculously, back on his feet already. He was staggering towards the road, his legs shaky and yet a determined expression on his face. There was a small cut at the side of his lips but apart from that he looked unharmed by the blast.

  Eda glanced over at the road, trying to see what Goldman was running at.

  The man in red.

  He was standing on the highway. Waiting
for Goldman.

  “You slanty-eyed bastard!” Goldman yelled over and over again. His voice cracked with the hottest rage. “I’m going to cut off your head and when I’m done I’m going to spit and shit down your neck.”

  The planes kept flying overhead. Eda counted five, six, seven of them – small, silver and black jets of a similar size to the first one they’d seen. She wondered if they’d seen the explosion.

  Of course they had. There was no way they could miss it.

  The air was filled with an almighty roar.

  Goldman opened fire on Mr. China. A tornado of bullets sprayed onto the highway and Mr. China, with slick reflexes, dove out of the way. As the gunfire chased him he rolled out of range with incredible agility for an older man. He came up on one knee, his rifle pointing at Goldman.

  Mr. China squeezed the trigger and forced Goldman to take cover behind one of several metallic drums that lay scattered around the abandoned work site. It was just enough to shield Goldman’s body from the volley of gunfire.

  In between shots, Mr. China ducked behind an abandoned station wagon parked on the highway. He opened fire again and then took cover.

  Goldman looked over at Eda. She was lying flat on the dirt, trying to stay invisible. Goldman made a pushing gesture with one hand, indicating that she was to stay put. Eda nodded her understanding and as quietly as she could, flipped onto her belly. She looked to her right, further down the work site to where a row of three white vans with faded purple logos on the side were parked. She’d seen Frankie Boy run off in that direction when the shooting started.

  She hoped he wouldn’t come back.

  Goldman jumped out and peppered the station wagon with lead. Eda covered her ears, still reeling after the explosion. Goldman’s M4 hit the frame of the car, smashing what little was left of the passenger side window.

  Mr. China yelled something from behind the station wagon.

  “Fuck you too!” Goldman said, cupping a hand over his mouth.

  The tip of Mr. China’s cap appeared over the top of the mangled station wagon. It was like a red shark fin breaking the surface of the water. The rifle came up too.

  Rat-a-tat-a-tat.