Just minutes ago he had only sensed. Now he could see pictures of a sort. Not real pictures, not like that, more like a hazy red image of what was in front of and behind him, as well as to the sides. Like a snowy picture on a very old television set, only shades of red, instead of gray, and it seemed to be improving by the second. Becoming defined, sharper. It was still tinted red, but it was more of an actual picture now. It made him wonder what other thing's might be revealed to him as his body continued to deteriorate. Just what was the mind capable of, if it wasn't strictly dependent on the body for support? In fact, since he had no brain left, what did he think with? And, whatever it was, why was it still attached to this body? If it wasn't the brain that made you who you were then what was it?
He almost wished he were completely dead right now, as he was sure in that state he would know. Then there would be no secrets at all, he realized, the big mystery would be over.
He had never liked life all that much anyway. The fear he possessed of death, was not out of greed to go on living. It was simply, and only, a fear, total and unrelenting, of what he didn't know.
As for life itself, he would be more than happy to give it over to death. Life had never given him any comfort at all.
In life he had always wondered, as a child anyhow, why he had been born black. He loved being black. He loved the way his brown skin looked, and he had no wish to be white, at least once he had grown older. But when he had still been a child, and was learning what it meant to be black, to be different, to be called a Nigger, a Jungle bunny, a Coon, he had wished to be white.
Not forever. Even then he had loved what he was, and had felt special in spite of the way life had treated him. Even honored to be black, in a way. But, what did it feel like to be white? Did they think differently? Was there a big factory, he had wondered with a child's logic, in the sky? And did God stand there and pick and choose who would be black, or yellow, or any color besides white? Had he angered God somehow, and ended up in the part of the factory that produced only black people? Why wasn't he white, and why wasn't some white kid made to be black? Made to feel what it was like to be black? To be all of those names, all of those hurtful things?
Growing older had changed his perception, as well as his belief in God. No one that loved you could be that mean, or cruel, so he could not exist, and if he did, he was only for white people, not him. But now that belief had changed. Now he was sure God did exist, and after a life time of giving back as much hate as he had received, he realized it had been for nothing. He had allowed that hate to drive him. When everything that should have been able to drive him had failed him, the hate had taken over. He had allowed it to take over. Hate for hate, it had always seemed fair, even until he died it had seemed fair. Even after he had died, he had held on to it. It had still been his driving force.
It wasn't now, he realized as he walked along, grimly lifting his legs and pumping them down again. Now it was hope that drove him, and maybe just a little, a small amount, of hate. But that hate wasn't a bad hate, he knew. That hate was a good hate, maybe even a healing hate. It was a hatred of evil. That was really too simple, he told himself, it was a hatred of evil things. Of color. That there had to be color or maybe more correctly put, that there was a need to hate color, or hate anyone, or hurt anyone, or hate at all. Everything that he himself had once been, everything that nearly everyone he had ever met had been.
He supposed that if he had ever been able to overcome his own hatred that he might have found some good in the world. He never had, and now the only chance to find some good, was in doing some good.
He was surprised by his own thoughts, even momentarily wondered, if maybe he wasn't himself any longer, but something else. Something else that just happened to know about him. Something that could make him feel as though he were still doing all of his own thinking, yet was not him. Being undead was confusing, he decided.
Being deprived of all his senses hadn't helped either, and he still had no idea whether he was doomed to stay with his body, or would be released in the end. Thinking about it was making him panic, making him wish that he could still feel with his body. That he could hear, or see, or smell, or taste, or anything. Wishing helped not at all though. It restored nothing, and after a few minutes he managed to wrench his attention away from his past life and focus on now.
Now was where he needed to be. Now was where he had to stay focused.
He stopped in the middle of one of the long steel air-ducts he had turned into. He had arrived.
The radar-like picture had become much clearer as he walked, and he could clearly see the welded seam before him. A very small overlapping gap, just wide enough to wriggle his fingers into was before him, where the two sections of pipe had been sloppily fitted together and welded on the outside. He focused his attention as he wriggled his fingers into the crack, and began to peel the ducting apart.
Rochester
Bess was not afraid to speak her mind. She had marched calmly to the front of the huge stage, walked up the narrow steps, and turned to face the people. She had not been entirely sure how to start, or even what she would say, but the words had come to her as she mounted the steps. Connie had walked onto the wide stage with her, and stood beside her as she spoke.
Utopia
The control room was empty as Luther watched the bank of screens. Well, not precisely empty, but empty of living beings. It was however strewn with bodies, or body parts. One by one he had killed the remaining programmers. It had done no good to do so; none of them had been able to do anything about the countdown, but he no longer cared as deeply as he had about the launch of the missiles. They would launch, and really, that was all that was important. That and killing.
Killing was something he had found that he enjoyed a great deal. Something he had been deprived of forever, and he now was able to do, and there was something about that computer ...Something important. Something he would have to explore much more fully at a later date. Other than those very few nagging things, he felt good. Really good, he corrected himself.
There was a trade-off though. He was no longer deceiving himself about it either. He was becoming human. He had never been human, he had never wanted to be human it was just a shape that could be recognized. Something that humans could understand, something visually like them, but now he was stuck with it. He could no longer assume any shape he wished, he could no longer send the mind-eye out, and, he had hurt himself, and now knew what pain felt like, and he didn't like that at all.
He glanced down at his swollen hands. They had never fully healed as they should have, and they had begun to bleed, and now they actually hurt, and wasn't that a real bitch, and unfair as well?
The old bastard had gotten him, he had gotten him good, and that pissed him off, it really pissed him off.
He also could do no magic. No more little tricks, no sparks from the finger tips, or jumping through the air from the ends of his hair. Nothing, none at all, and that more than pissed him off, it scared him.
Now it might matter, if he was still in the caves when the missiles were launched. It shouldn't. It wasn't supposed to, but it might anyway. Because it just might amuse that old bastard to see him suffer. He couldn't kill him, could he, he asked himself. Nothing was for sure now. But he was pretty sure he wouldn't, even if he could. He wasn't entirely stupid, he reasoned, and taking me away would not leave a choice for his precious people, and choice, Luther knew, was something the old man had promised to give them.
So, he reasoned, if he killed me, they wouldn't have a choice at all. It was a convincing argument, he supposed, but it didn't entirely convince him. After all, the old bastard had lied already, what was to say that choice wasn't a lie also? And, why had he forced him into this human body, if he didn't intend to kill him? If he was to go on, then why the trickery, why the sudden change from the old ways? Nothing made much sense anymore, except that he was hungry.
Hunger was a peculiar sensation, one that he had never be
fore experienced. It included taste, and the taste of blood was sweet, and there might still be some tasty morsels left here to gnaw on, he thought, as he gazed around the control room.
Rochester
Bess was short and to the point.
"We can't stay here." That had been the first thing out of her mouth, and the statement had surprised even her when it had come out. She had known though, just known somehow, after she had spoken the words, that they would have to leave soon, and with that knowledge had come a flood of related knowledge, and she had allowed that to roll out of her as well.
"We have to be ready to leave when the others get back. I don't know when they'll get back, but I do know they'll get back and probably soon. When they do, they aren't going to be expecting us to be sitting on our duffs waiting for them to call the shots either. If you ain't got the feeling in you right now, to stay on this side and fight if need be, then maybe you better get out now."
Bess spoke with a stern conviction in her voice that was not feigned. She felt it, she knew what she was saying was true, and she knew the time had come to make ready. Leaving would not be easy, and delaying the leaving would not make it any easier.
As she spoke many in the crowd seemed to come to life, and the graveyard silence was pushed out. They didn't need to wonder if what she said was true, they knew it, and those among them that did not know it, did not belong among them. Their hope was based elsewhere, and had very little to do with God.
Even as the majority of them seemed to come out of the dark well they had cast themselves into, others stood and left in search of their hope. What they believed would save them.
Bess waited, as those that wished to left, and then she began to speak again. "We need trucks, four wheel drive trucks, and lots of them. Not cars don't come back with cars, they won't cut it where we're going, trucks are all that will. I don't know how much time we have, enough, I believe, but none to waste talking a whole lot about it. It's gonna take some walking to get 'em. You gotta stay away from the north side, so you'll need to head out to Henrietta, out to the west road, if you don't know where that is stick with someone who does. There're a load of car lots out there, so you shouldn't come back empty handed," she paused and stared out at them before she continued. "The rest of you are needed here. We're going to need weapons, whatever you find, whatever you can get a hold of will do. I pray we won't need 'em, but I ain't sure the folks on the north side intend to let us go...Just let us walk out of here, I mean. So we'll probably need 'em. That's it," she finished, "lets’ get to it."
The former silence was completely swept away as she finished speaking, replaced by the voices of the people, organizing into two groups and setting off into the night.
"I can't believe you did that," Connie said, "I didn't know any of what you said, until you said it."
"I didn't either," Bess replied truthfully. "Feel like walking out to the west road with me?"
"Sure. What's the west road?"
"Just what we call West Henrietta Road, is all," she replied, "maybe they'll be back by the time we get back."
"Frank and the others?"
"And, Jessie, I think she's with them now, somehow," Bess said, as they walked toward the group that was leaving for the west road. "Yeah, I think she is. Ain't it good to be doing something?"
"Yeah, it is," Connie said, as they walked out into the night.
Utopia
Luther came awake toward early morning. 3:00 AM in fact, according to one of the many clocks that dotted the walls of the control room. He shook his head, and wondered for a second where he really was.
Here? Or in the dream control room?
He decided that he was probably in the real control room. In the dream control room there had been no carnage as there was here. This control room smelled thickly of coppery blood, and that was odd, Luther thought, because it was of course, the first time he had ever smelled anything, and the smells in the room were intoxicating, mysterious, grand, and great. The sensation of smell was a wonderful gift, he realized, and he hoped it was one he could keep. He shook his head once more, still unsure where he really was.
The other odd thing he had realized once he had fully awakened was that he had awakened, which implied that he had also slept. He had never required sleep. He had never needed it. Apparently he did now, and that was something he did not like, did not want, because sleep could not be controlled, at least not on this planet. Sleep meant giving up all control, and that was a risky proposition, no matter how you looked at it.
He had also dreamed. He had heard of dreaming, had known about dreams, but had never dreamed himself. He had been in dreams many times, manipulating them, here, and elsewhere. But he had always been real. The dream not the dreamer. He didn't like dreaming any more than he liked sleeping, he decided.
The dream had been so realistic, that he had assumed, until he had awakened, that it was real. It was a logical assumption, since he had no idea he was asleep, or that he was, this time, the dreamer.
He had been here, in the control room, and had been watching the clock count down the final seconds of the launch sequence. He had held his breath as the final second had ticked off which was also strange, because he hadn't been aware that he did breath and once the final second had slipped by, a new screen had appeared. He recalled the final screen in his mind.
MISSILES LAUNCHED.
30 SECONDS TO IMPACT.
00:00:29
And that had been just fine, except, once the final thirty seconds had run out, and he had felt the concrete below him begin to tremble, shift, and then buckle, he had suddenly realized that he was trapped in a human body, and had known he would surely die. Had known that the concrete walls of the facility would not hold up, and that he had made a grave mistake. A huge error, and as the walls did begin to crumble and rend themselves apart, he had come awake, with all the new sensations he had not known he possessed assaulting him at once.
He looked fearfully up at the banks of screens, and was relieved to see that there was still better than twenty-three hours left before the missiles did launch. More than enough time...
Enough time for what? he asked himself.
"To leave, vamoose, skedaddle, get the fuck out of Dodge," he whispered aloud in the still control room. Because, he thought, that's exactly what I have to do. Because I'm afraid to stay, and that's another new sensation, fear, and not one I like either. He had never been afraid of anything, had he? Maybe that old bastard, once, a long time ago, but that was before this, way before this, and before he had realized he could not be killed, that he was as immortal as the old man himself, and because of choice, as necessary as the old man as well.
Now the rules seemed to be changing. He had to breath, his heart had to beat, it wasn't the trappings of a human body, it was now a real human body, and that sucked. That was... Unfair, at least unfair, and probably more than unfair, and it was also cheating, it was against the rules, and... And maybe it was a joke! Maybe the old man was simply toying with him, or making him believe he was trapped, when he really wasn't. It wouldn't be above him. He had done it before.
He could not convince himself that it was true though, and he suspected that this time, what he saw, what he perceived to be true, really was true, and that sucked even more, and if he just sat here and thought about it, and didn't do something about it, he probably would die, and that was probably exactly what that old bastard wanted him to do.
He stood up from the floor, aware of the muscles in his body, and which were required to perform to allow him to stand. It was a strange sensation, not unpleasant but sensual, he decided. Either way it only confirmed what he knew. He was human. At least in body, and all the power and magic he had once possessed to make him inhuman were gone, and he couldn't pull them back no matter how hard he tried.
He looked around the control room. Every cement block was still in place, there were no cracks in the concrete floor nothing was lost yet. There was time, not much time, but
there was time to get away before the missiles launched, and... get away to where? And how would he get there, once he decided where there was?
He decided that there, wasn't important, so long as it wasn't near here. But how far was far enough?
As far as you can get in the remaining time, he told himself. That'll be far enough. With his mind made up, he left the control room and headed for the service tunnels.
He was aware of the air ducting, and from there he was sure he could get outside. But he had no sooner stepped into the wide service tunnel, than the monster had fallen upon him.
Frank
Jeremiah eased the boat up to the Fairport village docks, and shut it down. Frank was still fussing over the nasty-looking wound Jessie had sustained to the back of her head, and fussed even more as she climbed up onto the dock.
"Easy, Frank," she chided, "I'm a big girl. It hurts, but it won't kill me, okay?" They had all been treating her as though she were so fragile that she might fall apart at any minute, and it was beginning to irritate her, she hadn't meant to snap though, and she fumbled through an apology of sorts, once she gained the security of the dock.
"I do appreciate that you're all worried. I do. But I really am okay. I suppose it looks really bad, but it really doesn't hurt that much anymore, okay? I'll be fine," she finished.
Frank seemed to be riding an emotional roller-coaster. He knew he was trying too hard, and he knew it was because he had come close to losing her without even being fully aware of what it was that he had almost lost, until he had almost lost it. Being possessive was not the right way to address his fears, and he knew that too.
"Sorry," he mumbled, looking properly chastised, and feeling so as well. He resolved to try harder to understand that she was able to take care of herself, and that it was he who had the problem, not her. It amazed him that he could even consider that, and it was a strong indication of how much he had changed in such a short amount of time.
Earth's Survivors: box set Page 201