by Trevor Hoyle
“I don’t see how they can, do you? This part of Florida and the states bordering the Gulf have been designated Official Devastated Areas. They say that pollution in the Gulf is even worse than on this coast.”
“I wanted to visit New Orleans,” Dan sighed. “I suppose there’s no chance of that, is there?”
“Not if you were hoping to see the Old French Quarter,” Cheryl said. “Most of what you’ve seen in movies and photographs isn’t there anymore. Downtown New Orleans is one solid algae bloom feeding off industrial sludge, and the rest of Louisiana is buried in protozoic slime. You can forget Basin Street, Dan.”
“Everything I want to see isn’t there anymore,” the boy complained. “I suppose the Grand Canyon has been filled up with junked cars and Yellowstone Park is a refugee camp!”
It was too uncomfortably near the truth to be taken as a joke, and neither Chase nor Cheryl cracked a smile.
From the highest point on the beach they paused and looked out to sea. There was no horizon. The turgid ocean merged into a milky mist through which the blurred disk of the sun shone blindingly, diffused in a blanket of white. Chase shaded his eyes and wondered which presented the greater menace: the foul ocean, the toxic atmosphere, or the raw sunlight. As the atmosphere’s oxygen content thinned, so too did the ozone layer in the ionosphere, allowing cosmic rays and the more virulent forms of ultraviolet radiation through. Unchecked by the ozone, they could cause skin cancer and genetic damage.
Back on Collins Avenue, the main thoroughfare that ran parallel with the beach, they walked past the broken shop windows and looted debris that covered the pavements. Grass and weeds flourished in the crumbling concrete. Their yellow half-track with the Earth Foundation symbol, green letters in a white oval, was in the parking lot of a shopping mall on Twenty-ninth Street. The vehicle was electrically operated by solar-powered batteries. This far south the internal-combustion engine couldn’t be relied upon; in the new subtropical atmosphere it had become necessary to use rocket-propelled aircraft because of the number of jet- and piston-engined aircraft that had crashed on take-off and landing.
Chase reached up to the recessed handle of the driving cab and a shiny crease appeared in the body panel inches away from his hand. The crack of a rifle shot echoed between the buildings.
Another shot gouged up a chunk of asphalt as they scuttled into the protecting cover of the half-track. Chase released the safety on his eight-cylinder automatic and peered cautiously over the streamlined nacelle of the vehicle.
“Anybody see where the shots came from?” he asked, trying to decide whether it was one sniper or more.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Cheryl said laconically. “I was too busy to notice.”
“Why didn’t they take the half-track while we were on the beach?” Dan said. “We were away nearly an hour.”
Chase wondered about that too. He could only suppose their attackers hadn’t spotted it before—had seen the three of them on the beach and waited for them to return. But that still left an even more puzzling question unanswered. Who could possibly survive in this environment? There might be sufficient food stashed away in the abandoned hotels to last decades, but what the hell did they breathe?
He ought never to have exposed Cheryl and Dan to this danger. Cursing himself for being such an idiot, he glanced over his shoulder and was taken aback to find his son grinning behind his mask. “I’m glad you think it’s funny.”
“You kept promising me an interesting trip, Dad. This is the best bit so far.”
“Getting your head blown off is interesting. I see. Pity they haven’t a nuke warhead handy and then we could really enjoy ourselves.” Chase tapped the metal bodywork with the barrel of the automatic. “You do realize this isn’t armor-plated, don’t you? If they hit something vital we could be here for quite some time. Like forever.”
Cheryl had another fear. She was examining the gauge on the end of the rubber tube that was clipped to her harness. “We’ve got twenty minutes supply left, Gavin. Do we climb in and take the chance we can get far enough away before getting hit?”
The half-track was equipped with a regeneration system that filtered the outside air and extracted the oxygen from it. Thus concentrated, this self-contained atmosphere could sustain them indefinitely. But first they had to get inside and seal the doors under the eyes of at least one marksman with a high-powered rifle.
Chase said, “You two climb in while I draw their fire. I’m going to run for that corner—there, by the bank. As soon as I get there, be ready to move. I’ll keep them occupied while you drive the half-track up the avenue. Take one of the streets off to the left, out of their line of sight.”
“Where do we pick you up?” Cheryl said, watching him steadily through the curved faceplate.
“Sound the horn every thirty seconds. I’ll cut down the side streets as soon as you’re clear.”
“If we sound the horn they’ll know where we are,” Dan said. “Then you’ll have to hope I get there first,” Chase said grimly. To Cheryl he said, “Let Dan have your gun. He can keep lookout while you drive.”
Cheryl unbuckled the holster flap and handed over the automatic. “Keep it on safety until—unless we need it,” she ordered.
Dan’s dark eyebrows arched. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Do as Cheryl says and don’t play the hero!” Chase snapped. He saw Dan drop his eyes and felt perhaps he’d been too harsh. But dammit, this wasn’t a schoolboy game. Had he been as flippant at Dan’s age? No, there were significant differences between father and son, the casual irresponsibility of youth aside.
“I thought the National Guard was supposed to keep law and order in the Official Devastated Areas,” Cheryl said, craning around the vehicle to get a view of the upper windows on the opposite side of the street.
Chase smiled weakly. “They are, in theory,” he said. “They can’t be everywhere at once, I suppose.”
“Who are they, do you think?” Dan asked.
“I’ve no idea.” Chase checked the magazine and practiced sighting along the burnished barrel. “Cubans maybe. When the rest of the population evacuated the Cubans moved in. There could still be a settlement in one of the hotels. Don’t ask me how they managed to survive because I haven’t the faintest.” He looked up, trying to quell the flutter of panic in his chest. “All right, you two. Ready?”
Cheryl touched his arm with her gloved hand. “Please don’t get shot.”
“That’s odd,” Chase said. “My sentiments exactly.” He crawled on all fours to the rear of the vehicle and crouched next to the links of the half-track. Taking a few deep breaths, he prepared himself to leap and run. The distance was about twenty yards. He glanced over his shoulder. “Get ready.”
Cheryl reached up at arm’s length and gripped the handle. She nodded and Chase sprang out. He ran as swiftly as he could, encumbered by the one-piece coverall and the air tank, swerving and ducking, leaping over piles of congealed rubbish. He was glad he couldn’t smell the stench, which was probably rife with typhus and assorted deadly germs.
Two shots boomed out and reverberated along the street. He didn’t see them strike, but thanked God it wasn’t him. The decomposing corpse of an unidentifiable animal lay in the gutter. He saw a staring yellow eyeball filled with maggots, almost lost his footing as he skidded around the corpse, and staggered the last few yards before flattening himself against the rough stucco wall. The rifle barked again and the plate-glass window on the front of the bank, miraculously preserved until now, shattered and fell with a tremendous crash.
One sniper or more? He still didn’t know. Looking back, he saw that Cheryl had opened the cab door. Once she and Dan were inside the sniper would have a clear shot through the windshield, so now it was up to him to act as decoy. The upper-story windows were his best bet, Chase decided, and stepped into full view, both arms extended, left hand gripping his right wrist, and fired twice. Keep the bastard occupied and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate
on the vehicle. Cheryl and Dan needed those few vital minutes to start up and drive away.
Chase ducked back out of sight. There had been no return of fire and it occurred to him that the sniper wasn’t all that hot. Four—five?— shots and wide of the mark every time. Could be his weapon was old and in poor condition.
Even so, an imbecile with a blunderbuss would have the corner of the bank fixed in his sights by now. He’d be waiting, finger curled lightly on the trigger, for Chase’s next appearance. Time for the old B-movie routine.
He scoured around and found a splintered strut of timber and a piece of checkered material that might once have been on a cafe table. He draped the cloth over the end and poked it out. The bastard was ready and waiting all right—the strut jerked in his hand as a bullet ripped through the cloth and whined away.
Chase dropped to his knees, braced his right shoulder against the wall, and fired twice, then whipped his arm back. As he did so he heard the rattle and clank of the half-track moving away. The electric motor was virtually silent, just a soft pulsing hum. Picking up speed, the vehicle trundled up Collins Avenue, and the sniper reacted with a fusillade of shots. Chase had been expecting it, waiting and watching, and he saw the flare of the rifle in the darkened window directly above the curly x in Roxy’s 101 Varieties Pizza Parlor.
With deliberation he took aim and fired three times. The cry brought gooseflesh to his upper arms and across his shoulders. Not human, surely? More like the screech of a wounded animal.
Sweating and yet cold, Chase flattened himself against the wall and watched the half-track, now a good thirty yards away, turn off at an intersection and disappear from view. He moved off along the side street, staying close to the protective lee of the buildings in case sniping was a popular pastime in the district. Crossing the street at a brisk jog, he turned right into the one parallel with Collins Avenue, glancing into every doorway and shattered shopfront, shoulders hunched as if anticipating at any second a shot zinging out from the ruined buildings.
He didn’t have fond memories of Miami from his previous visit and this trip had done nothing to modify his opinion.
Distantly the horn sounded and he ran gratefully toward it. His heart hammered in his chest and his rapid breathing fogged the faceplate. He wasn’t in shape, Chase realized, even for someone in his mid-forties. But that strange guttural cry, he guessed, had done as much to make his heart race as the physical exertion. What the hell was it?
Nearing the corner he slowed to a walk and buckled the automatic into its holster. Glass crunched underfoot, making him stop dead in his tracks. There was a queer dragging sound and he spun on his heel, seeing a childhood terror made real, lurching toward him from a doorway with reaching arms and dead eyes staring straight ahead. The outer layer of flesh had peeled away, leaving a drab pasty white. There were eyes but no eyelids. There was a gash of a mouth and two raw holes in place of nostrils. The bone of the skull showed through the peeling strips of skin, and in his stricken terror, when the mind seizes on irrelevant details, Chase saw that the fingernails on the outstretched hands had fallen off leaving red tatters of flesh.
If this thing had once been human it was human no more.
Then the most remarkable thing about it struck him like a blow. It wasn’t wearing a mask! It was breathing the denuded atmosphere and surviving.
Chase’s hand fumbled with the holster flap and gripped the butt of the automatic. He stepped backward as the nonhuman thing shambled toward him. A moment later Chase dropped through a trapdoor as his foot slid from beneath him and he hit the slimy pavement with a jarring thump that dug the air tank into the small of his back as if he’d been rabbit-punched.
Chase gasped with pain. Frantically he tried to squirm away as the nonhuman thing stooped over him, its face looming nearer like a rotting skull. The mouth opened. A few jagged pegs of black teeth remained in the red weeping gums. A string of brackish brown saliva leaked from its mouth and dribbled onto his faceplate.
The groping hands reached for him. Tugging desperately at the automatic, Chase at last got it free. But the nonhuman thing now had hold of his mask. One quick wrench and he was as good as dead: The toxic mix of gases would kill him even if oxygen starvation didn’t.
In his panic Chase thought he was blacking out. The nonhuman thing’s head had vanished. Huge dark spots obscured his vision. He couldn’t see—just as he hadn’t heard the explosion as Dan’s shot smashed the thing between the eyes and scattered shards of bone and red-speckled brain matter ten yards across the street.
Cheryl helped Dan remove the headless body, but even without its weight Chase was unable to stand. They got him to his feet, one supporting each arm. His mouth was clamped shut. He gagged and vomit spurted from his nostrils.
“Hurry, for God’s sake!” Cheryl started dragging him along the street. “If he’s sick inside the mask he’ll suffocate!”
Chase was bent forward, gagging and choking, the mask filling up. Drowning in his own vomit, he was led blindly up the street.
A few miles north of Fort Pierce they encountered civilization again: the pitted and pockmarked two-lane blacktop that was all that remained of the Florida turnpike. Regular patrols by the National Guard made the road reasonably safe.
Above the old 55 mph speed limit signs a warning had been added in large red capitals: DON’T BREATHE THE AIR!
Some people still lived this far south, surviving in isolated communities. Like bacteria and insects, it seemed, the human race could adapt to the most adverse and hostile conditions. Chilling to think, Chase brooded, that in time they might adapt to the point of actual mutation—was the creature with which he’d come face-to-face in Miami Beach the portent of things to come?
Ten years ago even the gloomiest of doom-laden prophecies hadn’t prepared them for the catastrophic decline they were now experiencing. Maybe Bill Inchcape had known, based on DELFI’s predictions, but if so he’d kept tight-lipped about it. There was a sick irony in the fact that Theo Detrick’s prognosis had been vindicated by events and the man himself raised to the misty heights of prophet in the popular imagination.
Chase bore some of the responsibility for that. His book One Minute to Midnight, published in 2000, had drawn extensively on Theo’s research, quoting whole chunks from his treatise “Back to the Precambrian.” He’d also included information passed on to him by Boris Stanovnik concerning the Project Arrow scheme, and—the real clincher, which had given the book number-one spot in Time’s list for thirty-four consecutive weeks—sensational revelations about the top-secret U.S. military plan code-named DEPARTMENT STORE. To this day Chase didn’t know the identity of the person who had sent the dossier to Cheryl; but rumor had it that heads had rolled like ninepins in the Defense Department when the facts were revealed. General “Blindeye” Wolfe had taken the brunt of it. Stripped of his rank and dishonorably discharged, he committed suicide one year to the day following the book’s publication, which, symbolic gesture or pure coincidence nobody knew, served to fan speculation to white heat and did nothing to harm sales either.
The theme of One Minute to Midnight, encapsulated in its title, was that the superpowers were deliberately engineering global catastrophe by means of the so-called environmental war, and that this wanton tampering with the forces of nature had brought the planet to within sixty seconds—following Chase’s analogy of a hand sweeping around a twelve-hour clockface—of ultimate disaster. Then he hit them with the killer punch. Crazy and criminal as this military strategy was, the planet had beaten the superpowers to it and was already, thanks to man’s two centuries of unchecked industrial growth, on a steep downward path and possibly already past the point of no return.
What the military sought to bring about, the factory furnace and the automobile had already accomplished.
The book polarized opinion in both the lay and scientific press. It was accused of being “paranoid fantasy.” Other critics dismissed it as a piece of trashy sensationalism—panic-monge
ring at its worst to get onto the best-seller lists—and the author’s bid to become the “ecology guru” of the twenty-first century. Chase had expected this. He had been less prepared for the abuse and vilification heaped upon his head by many leading scientists who, in a positive fury (or envy?), leveled the charge that he was “betraying” science.
All the fuss and controversy had the predictable effect of boosting sales and making Chase an internationally known figure. In the eighteen months after publication he was hardly off the television screen. He achieved the respect and notoriety, in pretty well equal measure, that many commentators could only compare to how Ralph Nader had been regarded thirty years before.
The success of the book and his subsequent fame served another useful purpose too—they saved his life.
He had returned from New York with the unshakable conviction that powerful vested interests were determined to silence him. Precisely who these interests were he could only guess at. But the man at JFK (who Chase had belatedly recognized as the same man who had threatened Cheryl in Geneva) was in the pay of a multinational or a government agency or a military group; it was immaterial which, to Chase at least, because the end result was clearly to shut him up at all costs. Dead journalists tell no tales.
For fourteen months Chase worked solidly on the book, living with Dan in a remote croft near the small town of Dornoch on the east coast of Scotland. There they settled down in the tiny two-room dwelling with its whitewashed walls and red corrugated iron roof, with not a neighbor in sight. No electricity, no phone, no TV. Oil lamps, a camping gas stove, and a log fire for when the bleak and bitterly cold northern winter closed in.
In the spring of 2000 he delivered the typescript, and seven months later it was published. Prior to its publication Sentinel had run three long extracts from it, which to John Ware’s delight lifted the circulation past the million mark. By that time Chase’s fame was as good as life insurance. In any case, silencing the author when the articles and book were in print would have been a somewhat futile gesture, particularly when One Minute to Midnight, with its damning indictment of what the Americans and Russians were secretly up to, was available in every bookstore throughout the developed world.