The Black Seas of Infinity

by Dan Henk

  As I close in on Washington, DC the scenery improves almost immediately. Large two-storey houses and verdant lawns are nestled among neatly trimmed overhanging trees, the yards flaunting well-tended bushes and manicured lawns. The cars anchoring the driveways are few and far between, but the handful that remain are all expensive, or at least in good repair. River Road becomes Wisconsin Avenue, and I forge ahead into a broad thoroughfare that looks too tame and pedestrian to be the Washington, DC I remember. Perfectly coiffed granite structures mingle with dapperly adorned small establishments, the sidewalks broad and level, the crisp edges lovingly maintained. This must be the upper reaches of North West; no one in the other seven boroughs lives like this. And lo and behold, who are the first to flee when the shit hits the fan but the fickle wealthy. Not that I blame them. DC has way more poor than it has well to do—it’s a class riot just waiting to happen. I wonder how long it’ll take the other wards to make it up here?

  The street slowly blooms into a quaint cluster of historical buildings, all whitewashed wood and stone. Sharply painted black light-posts and trash receptacles dot the brick sidewalks. It’s like a deserted colonial city, the illusion only slightly upset by the cheeky signs advertising “The Gap” or “Ralph Lauren.” Wisconsin leads to M Street, and the periphery slowly denigrates into a less antique bluster of red brick buildings, the tame storefronts neat and polished, yet utterly forsaken.

  Turning down Pennsylvania Avenue, I pass over a small bridge, the huddle of buildings clearing into a wide tract of lonesome overpasses. The cluster of downtown draws me in. The buildings grow taller and more modern as I circle around Washington Circle Park and onto New Hampshire Avenue. I’ve so far managed to avoid the major cities. With the ongoing political chaos, the last thing I need is to be trapped in some imploding metropolis. Washington, DC has a peculiar, segmented quality to it. As long as I stick to the pocket-sized affluent section, I might just be able to avoid any unwanted attention. This is why I planned to take the expressways. The deserted streets are unobtrusive so far, but the tight confines, the roads littered with a labyrinth of barriers and concealed strongholds, entail a potential powder keg. I don’t see anyone around, but there has to be some fortification of security sealing off this area. It was easy enough to enter. I think the real test will be the Virginia border. The smaller residential avenue opens up into a sprawling confluence of grassy islands and twisting roads, the mammoth bulk of the Watergate Hotel rising up in curving layers of glass. The chime of breaking glass resonates behind me, followed quickly by a snap of gunfire and a thud that sounds right next to me. A spray of asphalt assaults my passenger window. I speed through the vacant intersection, pushing the gas pedal to the floor as I swerve around the grassy triangle and surge toward the hotel. That was one of two things, and neither is good.

  Either the mob has finally had it and is invading the grounds, or more likely, order is being maintained with summary executions.

  It could just be a domestic disturbance, a lack of constraint bringing out the worst in the population, except for the fact no one in this area legally owns a firearm. Then again, a heavy hand would explain the complete absence of looting or rioting.

  I roll down an embankment, through an industrial park populated by crisply groomed trees and inane modern art sculptures, past a balustraded manor of white granite and lofty American flags, and up onto Route 66.

  Rounding the tree-choked corner, the white stretch of highway flows out into a lengthy span that crosses the Potomac. A dark mass barely crests the horizon, straddling the opposite bank. Grinding to a halt, I peer ahead, amplifying my vision several fold.

  Fuck! It’s blocked as well!

  I yank the lever into reverse and spin the truck around. Rolling back down the road, I look desperately for some break. All I see are small, manicured plots of grass, carefully enfolded by stone sidewalls. The crisscrossing stretches of asphalt are empty of traffic, but buffered by white hedges and difficult to access. Driving slowly down the ramp, the intervening field grows ever wider, blazing autumn trees cropping up in small groves and blocking the view. This is the privileged side of Washington, DC, and I have no idea how to navigate here. Popping into four-wheel drive, I bounce up over the curb. I roll through the high grass and edge between trees in a downward slide and bound through another small road. I finally grind to a squealing halt on what I think is Route 66. If I follow this I should hit the Key Bridge. In all likelihood it’s barricaded as well, but it’s worth a try. It’s a smaller bridge, and if there is a roadblock, it’s probably more manageable than the last one.

  Sailing past the Watergate again, I ascend onto the Whitehurst Freeway and head toward the bridge. The road extends in a wide loop, rising upwards as it flows past tall stone buildings and onto the rampart. I squeal to a halt, pull up the emergency brake, and climb out. I don’t think the concrete sidewall ends at any point before the bridge, and hiding in the overhanging shadows of buildings is probably a better bet than trying to break the barrier anywhere more open. Strolling over to the stone wall, I scan up and down the street. Empty. With a swift kick, I plow my foot into the concrete. The mortar rips apart with a submissive crack and flurry of dust. Grabbing the jagged end, I scuffle forward, dragging the long slab in a shrieking grate across the tarmac. This should be wide enough.

  A quick look around, and all I see is the cool drift of the Potomac in front, a cluster of forsaken industrial structures behind. The flowing expanse of lifeless roadway hugging it, its dusky sweep curling up and around an abandoned city. Clambering back into the Land Rover, I roll through the gap and into the opposing lane. Rounding the curve, the bridge comes into view. Its stocky pillars fan out into an arch of beveled tiers supporting a level span. As I draw in, a thin line on the opposite bank materializes into a full- blown wall of sandbags.

  As I ascend the ramp, the outlook sharpens. I don’t see any tanks, and resistance appears light, just soldiers and HMMWVs, the military version of a Humvee. I decide to try and run it. Not that I have many other options.

  I don’t want to venture back into DC. I roll across the oncoming lane and onto the correct side, casually traversing the roadway. There is a sudden crashing sound, and the vehicle lurches violently. I’m engulfed in flames, and my equilibrium is thrown off, the shallow hull of metal rotating around me in a bizarre slow motion spin of impending doom. The truck is torn apart in a violent impact and thrown onto its roof, continuing to slide forward. The metal shrieks as the soft top wears away. If this thing didn’t have a full roll cage, I’d be buried head first in the pavement. I must have hit a mine! That didn’t even occur to me!

  The mangled wreck grinds to a halt, the front windshield smashed into small shards that encircle the bent windshield frame. The seatbelt holds, leaving me hanging upside down. I can see the shining pavement, the base of sandbags a few feet ahead. I pop the buckle and crash into the asphalt. Kicking open the metal door, I roll out. A .50-caliber bullet slams into my leg, shoving me backwards. I crawl upright amid a torrent of gunfire, and run for the side of the bridge. The force of the barrage keeps knocking me about, twisting my lunge over the wall into an awkward sideways sprawl. I land headfirst, the clap of the impact followed by a tremendous splash, and I sink like a rock. Projectiles whiz past me in bulbous trajectories, my descent slowing as I drift toward the bottom. I pirouette, landing softly on my feet in the muck, and try to gain a sense of direction. It’s practically opaque down here, a smattering of light filtering down through the olive green haze. The water hampers my progress, retarding my movements, but the ground is sloping up, so I follow it, the water slowly distorting to brown as I stir up the muck underfoot. My head breaks the surface of the water, and I see the DC side. Fuck! Wrong way. Not even a minute passes, and the back of my head is peppered with a flurry of high caliber rounds. I jerk forward, my feet slip, and I lose my balance as I fall. Bullets continue to fly past me, burying themselves in filmy spirals as they impact the bank. At least I know the rig
ht direction now.

  It’s like a dream, in which I’m trying desperately to escape, but can’t move normally. Then it hits me! I will never dream again!

  Doesn’t that drive people crazy? Maybe not right away, but over time? It might not be such a great thing to be deranged and in this body, but I will be past the point of caring.

  The water lightens and my head breaks the surface. A short, muddy bank precedes a rising strip of grass, followed immediately by a wall of stones. To my right the facade of the bridge shoots straight up, the giant arches sheltering me from the bright morning sunlight. The bleached out silhouettes of soldiers are visible beyond the sidewalls.

  I’m half-submerged in the water, and move slowly toward the overhanging bridge, trying not to draw attention by disrupting the surface. I step out and hug the wall, following it up over the hedge and toward the road beyond. Slipping under the overhang, I creep across the pavement, surmount a small, grassy hill, and make it to the thicket of trees hugging the sidewall. Crawling up the slope, the wall shortens as it rises, forcing me to duck. I peek above the apex and can make out a few soldiers, their vision trained on the opposite shore. I see a Humvee, angled toward downtown, skirting the small grove of trees I’m hiding in. Not far in front, a .50- caliber gun is mounted on a tripod behind the sandbags, the barrel angled straight up. It’s unmanned, but recently used, the surrounding premises littered with shells.

  That’s probably what I felt the bite of in the water. About six infantrymen are milling about, guns hung at waist level, fingers on triggers. They’re probably still looking for me. I make a dash for the Humvee. There must have been more troops I didn’t see! About halfway there I’m engulfed in a torrent of bullets. Slugs crater the ground around me, punching holes in the asphalt and smacking me about like a puppet. I keep running for the Humveee, my body contorting as rounds catch me off balance.

  There are no doors, and I dive in, bouncing through the passenger side and into the driver’s seat. The keys are in the ignition. I flip them up and the engine roars to life. Bullets tear through the soft-top and sidewalls. A few break the windshield. I shift into reverse, spin around, and head out. A couple of nearby soldiers try to circle in front of me, their hands a blur of gunfire. More rounds punch through the windshield, striking me in the chest and ricocheting into the dashboard. The speedometer goes, the Plexiglas rupturing as a round tears through the center. Stomping on the gas, I fly straight toward them. It’s Death Race 2000 for a minute, the GIs jumping out of the way as I threaten to run them down. The air is filled with quick bursts of gunfire, followed immediately by the shredding of metal. I’ll bet they’ve hit something in the engine by now, and I wonder how much longer this truck has. I pick up speed as I head into downtown Arlington.

  I hear the sounds of pursuit in the background, vehicles firing up and tires squealing. Swerving off the main road and into North Moor, the street mutates into a tunnel of concrete, the pavement wrapping up into sky-spanning buildings, an overhanging walkway cresting the road.

  The lumbering box of a vehicle I’m driving maneuvers like shit, sliding out as I skid around corners and grumbling as I stumble over curbs. My back end drifts into parking meters with a jarring bash. I’m sure at least one of the tires has been shot out, but fortunately the HWWMV is well prepared for that.

  The cars usually parked on the sides of the street are absent, which is a good thing as I bolt through, drifting in and out of lanes with all the finesse of a drunk driver. I don’t know what my pursuers think I am, but in this heightened atmosphere of tension, it’s clear no one is taking any chances. They won’t catch up with me—those military vehicles are no faster than this Humvee… and I have a head start—but I’m sure there will be more on the way to cut off my path. Probably helicopters as well. This truck sticks out like a sore thumb. I should pick up another car soon.

  A thumping cuts through the roar of the motor. That sounds like a helicopter. I should ditch this thing now!

  I decide to run it straight into a building. Hopefully the smoke and fire of the wreckage will throw them off long enough for me to slip out through the back.

  I twist the wheel sharply to the right, the wheels squealing as they slide sideways across the asphalt. If this were my Jeep it would have flipped, but this Humvee is sufficiently wider.

  At least all that defense spending wasn’t a total waste! I fly through a couple of uphill blocks and am greeted by a sprawling corporate building off to my left. I think it’s AT&T, the sign buried amidst untrimmed bushes.

  I crush the pedal to the floor, jerk the wheel to the left, and bounce violently up the short concrete steps. The Humvee goes airborne for a minute and comes crashing down onto a small patio. The shocks bottom out with a wrenching jolt. A glass double-door spreads out before me. The wheels skid on the pavement, and the Humvee flies forward. I aim at the wall to the left side of the portal.

  A blinding crash, and the front of the Humvee crumples like an accordion. The forward momentum throws me chest first into the steering wheel, which instantly collapses into the dash. My forehead smashes into the windshield, the spider-web cracks showering outward in a cascade of broken glass.

  I bounce back into an upright position, the dust of shattered stone rising in a fog around me. The canvas top emits a moan as the fabric tears then bursts inwards, dumping a load of crushed rock on my head.

  Then, as if to top it all off, the engine catches fire. Stepping out, my foot slips on the debris. I quickly catch myself, my hand clutching the mangled doorframe so hard my fingers punch through the metal. Straightening up, I venture out more slowly, carefully navigating the mess of broken stone.

  Stretching before me is a hallway, its polished white tiles littered with rubble and powder. The building looks deserted. The aperture streams in rays of sunlight, the luminescence contorted into thin beams by the rising dust. I step over the rocks and break into a sprint. After a short stretch I turn right, and the corridor ends in a closed white door. I kick it, and it ruptures forward, wrenching off the hinges. The metal retainers yank the screws from the wall, carrying them in frozen flight as it soars into a carpet-coated domicile. The wall caves inwards, diving into a white desk topped by a computer monitor. The whole glorious monstrosity crumbles with a helpless groan in a mutilated heap.

  Office hell... The whole room is a maze of Dilbert-esque workspaces. Small cubicles cluster around a giant rectangle in the center. Light filters in from a window behind the maze, flooding the room with the crisp blue of early morn.

  I wonder where everyone went? The middle-class suburbanites who have lost all stability in their lives. If you call that a life—toiling for the man until you’re so old you drop out and decay slowly in some retirement home. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. This whole corporate setup would represent mundane drudgery in any other situation, but now it’s like a piece of history. Something that won’t come to pass again anytime soon. At least not under the same atmosphere of a monolithic industrial culture.

  I circle around the central block of cubicles and approach the large glass window. The parted slat blinds dole out long strips of daylight, the beams cutting crisply organized stripes into the carpet.

  I step back a few feet, nestling up against the half-wall. Falling into a slight crouch, I run forward, balling myself up as I leap toward the window.

  I burst through with an explosion of glass and roll into the lawn, the momentum spinning me down across the pavement and into the road.

  I stand up and glance around. The streets are deserted. Tidily outfitted rivers of concrete sidewalk, winding through a labyrinth of residential homes and small commercial buildings. Neatly trimmed trees and bushes accouter immaculately adorned lawns. This place is soulless.

  Just as I hear the thumping of a helicopter in the distance, a dragging screech emits from the opposite side of the building. Probably pursuing vehicles. I glance down at my clothes, hanging off me in tatters. Ripping them off, I ball them up and to
ss them across the street. No point in hiding anything now. The scraps of cotton will only slow me down, and besides that, I feel liberated.

  Free from contrived restraints that I no longer need!

  Sprinting down the avenue, I pick the side heading in the opposite direction of the bridge. A few feet, and I’m at a four-way stop. Darting left, the buildings branch out into red brick apartments sheltered by expansive lawns, the trees edging toward the roadways in a stab at suburbia. The road splits off to the right and I follow it, the austere condos giving way to eclectic two-storey homes. Small colonnades and porches adorn the facades in an obviously failed attempt at antiquity.

  Some of the houses have cars parked in front. Probably a secondary trophy vehicle. The house coming up on my left has a bright red Camaro in the driveway. The car looks old, maybe a ’60s model. At least they have good taste! The house itself looks recently abandoned. The windowpanes offer a glimpse into a vacant living room, the furniture forsaken under a growing carpet of dust. The lawns are tainted with a conspicuous husk of leaves, the well-groomed bushes and grass burdened by unaccustomed neglect. I wonder how long the area has been like this. The residents probably got in their SUV and retreated to a more rural sanctuary.

  I stroll over to the Camaro and try the driver’s side door. Locked. Smashing the window, I open the door and climb in. I grip the lock cylinder and break it off. What with the recent practice I make quick work of the hotwiring, and the engine roars to life. I glance up at the gas gauge. Bonus! Almost a full tank! Slamming the door, I push the lever into reverse and peel out backwards and onto the road.