Intended Extinction

by Hanks, Greg

  I scanned Water Street as best as I could, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Everything seemed tame; no armored soldiers, no shining motorcycles. We kept close to the south sidewalk, trying to remain as hidden as possible.

  As Tara and I continued at a steady pace, I started to register only our footsteps. Whirling around, I saw Justin standing on his toes, looking inside of a stray sedan.

  “What’re you doing?” I asked.

  “Let’s get some wheels!” Justin exclaimed, checking the door handle one last time before giving up.

  “I think it might just be safer if we go on foot,” I suggested, looking to Tara for support.

  But Tara was looking at the car with cloudy eyes.

  “I don’t know, Mark,” she said. “That bridge is a pretty long.”

  Justin lit up.

  I sighed, checking the street one last time. “All right,” I resigned, “but let’s find one quick.”

  The three of us set out in search of an unlocked, still usable car. Most of these abandoned machines had been sitting here for at least five years; quietly waiting amidst the horrible agony the world was enduring. I wondered if any of them would even start. If we found a newer model, we could be in luck.

  Cars had become useless for most people nowadays. For one, there were only about ten operating gas stations in the world, each in their respective surviving colony. Secondly, there was nowhere to go. No one—except maybe Repik—was going to take a trip cross-country.

  We filtered throughout the quiet street, cupping our hands around our eyes and peering into the windows of parked cars. So far, the ones I tried were keyless and locked. Breaking inside wouldn’t be a problem. I doubted any of us knew how to hot-wire a car, though, so we needed the keys.

  Justin’s undulating voice called across the street.

  “Yo! Let’s get this party rollin’!” he yelled, climbing on top of the trunk and starting to dance.

  Tara and I met up again and tracked down the eleven-year-old. He was standing on a forest green, four-door sedan. It had to be at least a 2030 model, which was great news. I peered through the glass and saw a set of keys dangling from the ignition.

  “Nice job,” I said, admiring the condition of the machine. I wasn’t a car freak, but I knew that this car was pretty advanced, which meant we might have a chance at starting it, even if it had been stagnant for years.

  “It’s hella locked, though,” said Justin, a little deflated.

  “And you know this thing’s got a crazy alarm,” I added, circling the vehicle.

  “Well,” said Tara, “we don’t really want to sit in the open like this, either.”

  I nodded and said, “If more of those soldiers are tracking us, the alarm won’t really matter anyways.” When I finished my statement, I strode up to the driver’s window and plunged my rifle’s stock into the glass. A stinging wail escaped the vehicle and the lights pulsed in duress.

  In one motion I unlatched the lock, swung the creaking door, and planted myself in the driver’s seat. I shoved my foot onto the clutch and rammed the gearshift into first. My eyes closed and I twisted the key.

  Nothing happened.

  “Damn it, come on!” I pleaded, turning the key again.

  The alarm continued to spread its call throughout the city, rebounding off of the skyscrapers like a match of ping-pong. Tara swiveled around, looking for any sign of a threat, while Justin tried mimicking the tone of the siren with his own voice.

  I cranked the started again and again. I didn’t want to search for another freaking car.

  A high-pitched engine sliced the air behind us. The same fear from last night flooded back into my system.

  I jerked my head toward Tara, who was stricken by the approaching motorcycle. Justin stood by her side with a wild look in his eyes.

  “Get in!” I yelled.

  Tara looked at me and then back to the street. Justin followed orders and climbed in the back seat. Tara stood there like a statue, like she was being hypnotized.

  “Tara!” I screamed again, just as the sedan rumbled to a start.

  “Boo-yeah!” exclaimed Justin in a deep voice.

  The car clanked and gurgled for a second. I revved the engine in neutral, getting things warmed up. Tara was still standing there!

  “Tara! Please!”

  This time she backed away, crossed the front of the car, and hopped in the passenger seat.

  As soon as her butt landed, I rammed the clutch to the floor, locked the car into first gear and peeled out. The machine jolted, trying to learn how to work after years of deactivation.

  Tara’s door slammed shut as I accidentally clipped another car, zipping away toward Battery Park. The little four-door proved worthy as I watched the speedometer reach forty, then fifty.

  Justin and Tara were both looking behind us. I kept my eyes forward, carefully switching glances between my mirrors. The lanes peeled away, and State Street was approaching fast.

  As the succulent green trees of Battery Park emerged, I began to see people. I jerked the wheel to the left and we careened down Whitehall Street, nearly smashing into a blue coup.

  “Mark?!” Tara asked. “Ellis Island?”

  “There are people that way!” I responded with annoyance. We couldn’t risk any more lives.

  Two, jet-black bullet bikes shot out onto Whitehall, not far behind. I clenched the wheel harder and pressed the gas more. As we came upon the next turn onto South Street, I pounded the clutch down, switched to third gear and yanked the wheel to the left. The sedan screeched around the bend and we plummeted down South Street like a rocket on steroids.

  Out of nowhere, a bullet pierced the back window, sending pieces of glass all over Justin. He covered his head and yelled, “Holy shaaaa-sha-sha!”

  “Keep your heads down!” I yelled, weaving in and out of parked cars.

  The motorcycles were gaining on us. Tara was holding on to her seatbelt, closing her eyes. More bullets whizzed by, some hitting the car, some deflecting off into the city.

  As Broad Street passed us on the left, I noticed a monstrous semi-truck covering half of the street ahead, hanging off the ramp to FDR Drive. There was only a small gap in between the semi and another parked car.

  A strange, outrageous idea popped into my mind. I tried to think of another option, but the gap was closing fast. There wasn’t time to think, so I took a leap of faith.

  We came down the street like a lightning bolt, screeching around metal obstacles, barely missing collision after collision. The motorcycles were lining up, one behind the other. The opening was only seconds away.

  “Everyone brace yourselves!”

  The little green car cleared the gap with an awful crunching noise. The side mirrors richocheted in either direction. I broke through a storm of second thoughts and slammed on the brake.

  The first motorcycle hit us square in the trunk.

  My head hit the steering wheel. Tara’s airbag pinned her to her seat, while mine malfunctioned. Justin’s body collided with her chair, having disregarded his seat belt. I tried to register what had happened, catching glimpses through blurry vision. The car had died and smoke rose from behind. Outside, a silent body lay in the road ten feet ahead.

  I whirled my head around, seeing Justin looking like he had just come out of a coma. Behind him, the trunk of our car was destroyed. The metal-head hadn’t anticipated my ridiculous idea.

  But we weren’t so lucky with the other one.

  A barrage of bullets pelted our car. I gulped in some air before starting the car again. It sputtered for a few seconds, but then came to a steady hum.

  “Keep your heads down!” I yelled. I flung the shifter into reverse and dropped my foot onto the gas pedal.

  We squealed through the gap again, pushing the totaled motorcycled. It scraped and eventually slid off to the side. I couldn’t see anything behind us, making sure to keep my head down as more bullets tried to penetrate our bodies.

  I yanke
d the wheel and we spun a whole 180 degrees, knocking his bike over. The hailfire stopped as he jumped out of the way, and we took off, leaving him in a trail of gravelly dust.

  My white knuckles gripped the steering wheel. I looked at Tara, seeing her shaking body, pressed into the seat as if she were molding to the leather. My eyes darted to the rear view mirror, seeing Justin looking out the window.

  “Is he coming?” Tara stuttered.

  Justin answered, “Nope! That sucka’s gone!”

  I downshifted as we made the turn back onto Whitehall, this time bound for Ellis Island.

  Battery Park had drastically changed since Edge. When the idea of Sterile Communities started to become a reality, Ellis Island was named a viable option. Battery Park was reconfigured for the new bridge that would link Ellis Island to Manhattan. The Ellis Bridge.

  The Ellis Bridge was a “temporary” causeway that tried to help as many people get to safety before the virus infected the whole city. It wasn’t fancy or fun to look at, but simply a fast way to corral as many people as possible. GenoTec developed the whole project, from the bridge, to the skyscrapers and underground bunkers on the Island itself. The housing units eventually became the homes of nearly 15,000 people.

  We made a sharp turn onto a secondary park road, clear of people. GenoTec’s massive podium and Vax event minutia were still visible only a few yards to our right. We came to the traffic circle near the harbor and cut through the opposite direction. I slowed down and stopped at the entrance to the old bridge.

  As the engine idled, we gazed out into the Hudson River, out to the Island. Everything seemed to be drenched in a bluish haze, overshadowed by thick, puffy gray clouds. Our windows were shattered, letting us hear the crisp breeze flowing through the park behind us.

  “How are we going to do this?” asked Tara, slowly recuperating.

  “Do what?” I answered, not really paying attention, lost in some sort of daydream.

  “The Sterile Community,” she began, leaning her head into view. “Mark, hello?” She positioned herself so that her whole body was facing me.

  “Sorry!” I quickly sprang back into action. “I’m sorry.”

  “What does this person want us to do? We can’t exactly waltz inside.”

  A whizzing noise flew by my nose and Tara yelped in agony.

  Crimson sprayed the passenger door as Tara clutched the right side of her abdomen. She screamed in torture, electrocuting every muscle in my body. The dark blood seeped from behind her fingers, and she writhed against her seat.

  “Tara!”

  Another bullet pierced the dashboard and the adrenaline kicked in. I rammed the gearshift back to first and floored it. We tore across the final part of the harbor and cleared the bridge’s entrance, bouncing like a buoy.

  A few more erratic shots pelted the car, but we were already a quarter of the way across the bridge. I glanced at Tara almost every second, cursing madly in my mind.

  The bridge wobbled a little, causing me to constantly correct our course. I tried to figure out how we were going to get inside, or do whatever this mystery person asked of us. He had to have stuff to help Tara. If that meant breaking inside of the Community, so be it.

  Justin had unlatched himself from the backseat, trying to comfort Tara, which was extremely weird, coming from him. He had one hand wrapped around her upper arm, and the other holding fast to her headrest.

  The Island was approaching rapidly, but I started to notice that something was off.

  The Fabric Shield. Where was the freaking fabric shield?

  Each Sterile Community was equipped with an egg shaped rotunda, crafted out of a dense, lead based material. They called it the Fabric Shield. It was flexible, supported from the inside by a skeleton of impervious columns. It was what separated us from the Sterile’s.

  Usually, you couldn’t see the Fabric Shield from the harbor. The Shield’s exterior was made of reflective panels, creating the illusion of invisibility. Up close, it could be distinguished by a pinkish hue—at least from what I had seen on the Fuse; if any of the infected came within ten feet, we’d probably have been shot.

  But as we approached, there was nothing but humongous, castle-like walls surrounding the Island.

  “Where’s the damn Shield?” I said.

  Tara gasped and clenched her jaw in pain. As time passed, her convulsions became less frequent and her breathing slowed. Her consciousness was slipping.

  “What?” asked Justin.

  “Look at the walls!” I said, a frantic horror slowly entangling me.

  Draped across parts of the retaining wall were flaps of pinkish material. Like pieces of cloth they hung at all lengths, some dropping below the water’s edge. It was indeed the Fabric Shield, rent and flaccid.

  When we flew across the remaining length of the bridge, an enormous, arched opening welcomed us. It started wide, but as we approached the gate, it angled inward like a funnel.

  The fifty-foot barriers brought more than just shade to the bottleneck.

  “This place got messed up!” shouted Justin.

  My astonishment made me stop the car altogether. Before us, the impenetrable gate had been blown away, leaving only bits of shrapnel everywhere. The threshold was lined with smashed piles of concrete. The Community inside looked charred and obliterated.

  It was open. The damn Sterile Community was open. No longer was Edge kept at bay.

  We gawked at the entrance, silent except for the occasional whimper from Tara. I didn’t know what to do next. How could I let this happen? Tara was going to die because of me! I started to enter the dark reaches of my mind, falling into despair. At every turn, there was something new. I couldn’t do this any longer.

  “Uh oh! Homeboy’s back!” shouted Justin, peering out of the rear window.

  I shot my eyes up to the mirror and saw the black motorcycle approaching fast. The metal-head’s visor glinted in the sun as he cleared the threshold.

  “M-Mark?” croaked Tara. “Don’t give up. Don’t . . . “

  She winced and stifled a cry of agony.

  Justin’s shouts were deafened by my clouded, rage-filled mind. I pressed my forehead against my clenched fists, propped upon the steering wheel. Bullets clobbered the car. The heat of my anger escaped through my fingertips.

  I looked up, trying to figure a way around the piles of rubble. In between a giant mound and the wall of the gate, there was a small opening. That had to be it.

  “Okay!” I yelled, with the intensity of an atom bomb. I punched the gearshift into place, drove the clutch to the floor, and engaged the vehicle once more.

  The sedan peeled out and tore across the final stretch of pavement before smashing through a portion of debris. Pieces of concrete and rebar smashed the windshield and flew in every direction. In the chaos, dust blinding me, and I lost control of the wheel. I felt the car jerk to the right and the last thing I saw was a blurry pile of gray and black.

  21

  My leg twitched. A shell of warmth encased my whole body. Thick blankets weighed me down. I didn’t want to open my eyes just yet. I wanted to try and figure out what had happened. The last thing I remembered was feeling the force of a sledgehammer strike my chest.

  The car! Tara! Everything zipped back into place. Was I dead? After everything that had happened, was this the conclusion? I decided to see for myself and unfastened my eyes.

  I was in a small, bland room. Two nightstands were placed on either side of me as I lay nestled in a plush, queen sized bed. The end tables supported identical, vintage lamps with shades that drowned the entire room in a dim, orange haze. The only other thing in the room was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, storing only a few strays. In the left corner was a single door, tarnished in the same fashion as the room’s dilapidated interior.

  I laid still in the comfort of the mysterious bed, pondering where I could be. There were no sounds, no movement. I began to wonder if this is what Heaven was like. No, it had to be Hell.


  If we died in that crash, maybe I could find Tara, or Justin. But they wouldn’t have come to Hell, would they? Justin, probably. I felt so normal, though. Could we really have survived?

  I slid my legs out of the covers and positioned myself on the edge of the cream colored spread. The lavish linen between my fingers brought me back to pre-Edge days. I twisted the fibers, trying to convince myself that this was real.

  I still had my jeans on—thankfully—and my shirt and jacket were folded neatly at the end of the bed. My sneakers had been removed and placed on the odd parquet floor. Blood began to flow into my body again, pouring through the veins in my legs.

  I started coughing. I seized for at least ten seconds, trying to catch my breath. When the coughs finally ceased, I touched my chapped lips and lifted a bloodied finger.

  Yep. This was real.

  I clamped my eyes shut, suddenly being overcome with an inside-out feeling. My bones echoed, my muscles stung. A sharp chill vibrated throughout my skeleton, making me shiver and crave the warmth of the blankets.

  I waited for a moment, letting the sickening feeling run its course.

  After dressing, I sat at the edge of the bed, lacing my shoes. As I finished the second sneaker, the door to my left squeaked open, making me jump and nearly fall off the bed. I stood stiff as a board, readying myself for an attack, when a man emerged from the outside.

  The floor creaked beneath his feet. He wore some kind of stealth suit. It looked like spandex, conforming to every curve and muscle in his body, yet carried a certain weight. The outfit was as dark as a blackberry, with crimson accents, symmetrically placed on his chest, arms, and legs. His boots were sock-like, and his gloves were open-fingered. My first thought pinned him as metal-head, but he wasn’t wearing a helmet.

  A chin cut out of stone, and short, sweat-lined brown hair rimmed his head. He had five o’ clock shadow and charming hazel eyes. He was box-headed and worn, looking at least ten or fifteen years older than me. Regardless of his age, he was extremely built.

  “I see you’re up,” he said in a gruff, low voice. He approached me a little bit, but I backed up, priming myself. Maybe this really was Hell. That, or I was just delusional.