Gaia's Demise

by James Axler

  Then a special face filled his vision, expanding to fill the ocean of blood until the mouth was a door that opened on a dead man hanging by his own belt in a filthy underground cell. Not my fault! The silent words echoed in his head as the beating of his heart changed into the ticking of a clock, the noise building into a deafening crescendo until shattering the universe into a million shards of tinkling glass that fell away in a molten rain.

  There a flash of light, and he was falling through a blue sky with white clouds. Mountains appeared, oceans, forests! A hurricane wind buffeted his form with savage fury, as the world expanded, rushing ever closer. Suddenly, his lungs filled with air and at last he could scream, a raw wail of anguish and absolute terror that lasted forever. With pillow softness, he slammed into the ground and lay there breathing in the sweet earth slightly damp from a summer rain, tufts of grass tickling his face. Alive, he was alive!

  Painfully standing, Silas found himself in a field of green grass under a blue sky dotted with white clouds overhead. But those colors were wrong. The sky was purple, slashed with orange fire. Wasn't it? A low rock wall cut across a field, and a copse of trees stood guard to the west, stout protection against the coming storm. The nuke storm. Skydark, doomsday. Not his fault!

  A town of old buildings was in the distance, a church tower bell ringing the time as a beautiful woman in a flowing dress floated toward him, her hair flowing in the wind. She was carrying a bouquet of flowers that died, withered and blossomed again in an endless cycle of death and rebirth. Not his fault!

  "Why, there you are!" The woman laughed. "But I should introduce myself, my name is Tanner, Emily Tanner."

  Snarling in glee, Silas reached behind his back and drew a small automatic. "Excellent," he cackled. Jacking the slide and leveling the weapon at her face, he pulled the trigger. The gun violently exploded, a fireball engulfing his hand as the weapon detonated blowing off his fingers.

  Emily neither flinched nor frowned as Silas screamed from the pain, staring at the white bones protruding from the ruin of his arm, warm red blood pumping out of the shattered limb.

  "My husband is Dr. Theophilus Tanner," she continued, twirling the flowers like a lace umbrella on her shoulder. "Do you know my husband, by any chance?"

  "Not my fault!" Silas shrieked, dropping to his knees and trying to staunch the flow of blood from the arm with his free hand. But the flesh was too slippery, and he couldn't get a grip on the tattered rags of meat.

  In the distance, a steam locomotive puffed along iron rails, gliding past the black doors of a redoubt, and nearby a child raced across the field, guiding a kite in the sky, the cloth tail dancing merrily. A small dog yipped and barked alongside the child, and Silas vaguely recognized the boy as himself. How could that be? Then a dark shape stepped between them, blotting out the golden sun.

  "Hello, fool," Doc snarled, slowly drawing a blade from the ebony shaft of his walking stick. The needle-sharp tip glistened in the bright sunlight, and it flashed forward.

  Silas could only gasp as the steel slashed across his face, opening the flesh to the bone, his cheek peeling away and rivers of blood gushing forth. He tried to beg for mercy, but no words would come and the blade slashed across his throat, filling his lungs with choking blood. It slashed again, between his naked legs, his penis dropping to the soil. A black wave of ants boiled out of the soil, covering the twitching member and consuming the tender pink flesh.

  Emily laughed gaily and threw flower petals as Doc began to dissect the scientist, his heart falling onto the ground, the gears and pendulums still connected by the major arteries, beating away to force the blood from his countless wounds.

  Suddenly, the sky turned purple, and sheet lighting thundered as Doc peeled off more skin from Silas's naked form, his beating organs splayed on the grass like offerings to some pagan god. The pain was beyond imagination, and the blood was everywhere, now inches deep across the entire field. Then Doc dropped the sword and drew a huge pistol. Silas begged for death, for release from the incredible agony. But Doc pointed the weapon away from Silas and fired, the muzzle-flash igniting the blood into a lake of flame. Tongues of fire filled his mouth and the open cavity of his chest. It crawled up his rectum and inside his belly until it bulged. The bugs swarmed over him, through the crackling flames, endless, eating his flesh, and Silas drew in a lungful of fire and insects as he was consumed alive…

  BOLTING UPRIGHT in bed, Silas Jamaisvous screamed at the darkness, his hands clawing at empty air.

  With a bang, the door to his bedroom slammed open and armed sec men wearing clean blue shirts rushed in, the muzzles of their AK-47 blasters searching for intruders.

  "What is it, sir?" a corporal demanded, his face tense with worry. "Are you hurt? Were you attacked?"

  Silas tried to speak, but his throat was too dry and sore to do much more than squeak.

  "Nobody in the closet," a blue shirt said, closing the door.

  "Window locked tight," another sec man reported, jiggling the steel lattice that covered the huge window overlooking the Great Project. The tiny dots of torches moved in the blackness on the distant ground, the cool fire of orange moonlight bathing the huge satellite dish that dominated the ville by its sheer size.

  "Out of the way, fools," a major commanded, brushing through the sec men. Going to a humming refrigerator, the officer grabbed a frosty bottle of mineral water and crossed the room to thrust it into the elderly man's hands. Silas greedily drank the icy water, savoring every drop as the horrible delusions of his nightly dream faded.

  "Thank you, Sheffield," he whispered, placing the empty bottle on his sweaty blankets.

  Major William Sheffield merely nodded, and returned to the refrigerator for another bottle. The airtight cap was loose, these bottles refilled from a nearby stream, but it was still mineral water. Only weeks ago, the stream had been polluted with acid rain and tox chems to the point it was gelatinous. Now the stream flowed pure and clean again, thanks to the Great Project.

  "Same dream, sir?" Sheffield asked softly, guiding the bottle to the man's pale lips.

  Silas nodded as he drank again, strength and sanity returning with every beat of his heart.

  "The same," he acknowledged as a tremor shook his body and the old wound in his thigh ached deeply. "It has been the same nightmare every night since I tried to force a chron jump! Was I insane? The jump haunts me, chases me through my dreams every night. No escape. There is no escape. How did Tanner survive a chron jump sane? What makes him so special? Was it the redoubt itself? Did the computers malfunction?"

  Sheffield gestured. "Everybody out!" he thundered. "Stat!" Stiffly saluting, the guards shuffled into the corridor and closed the door.

  "I don't think it's wise to be discussing such things in front of the troops, sir," the major said, drawing a chair closer. He took the seat and glanced about. "The fewer people who know the existence of the redoubts, the better."

  "Yes. You are quite correct," Silas agreed, mopping the sweat off his face with the edge of his blankets. The bed was moist beneath him, and there was the unmistakable ammonia stink of urine mixed with the sweat. Damn it, the dream was killing him. He awoke feeling weaker at every dawn, another slice of his sanity gone forever.

  Back at El Morro in San Juan, the scientist had believed he held the key to controlled jumps through the redoubts, and had attempted to go backward through time to slay Tanner—at least he thought that was why he wanted to go back. He assumed there had been good reasons for the gamble, but they were gone, along with most of his memory. At first, Silas thought he had jumped back to the late 1800s of Vermont. But it became clear rather quickly that he had become mired in a jump nightmare. One that would leave him for a few months, and then return in shocking clarity. First no more than once a month, then once a week, now three or four times a week. Soon it would be every night, and after that who knew? Perhaps it would start claiming him during the day, and his brilliant mind would be gone forever, trapped in an endl
ess fantasy of his own creation. From somewhere deep in his childhood the words "as ye sow, so shall ye reap" came unbidden to his mind. Silas shook off the religious nonsense. The dream was merely a forced feedback loop from the electromagnetic field of the mat-trans chambers, probably augmented by his proximity to the high-voltage transformers of the dish. Yes, of course, that was the answer. Once the Great Project was finished and the Kite was operational, he could leave Tennessee and be free from the dream forever.

  "If I don't go mad first," he muttered, plucking nervously at his bushy eyebrows.

  "Sir?" Sheffield asked.

  "Nothing important, Major." Silas wanted to leave the bed and wash, but that would have to wait until the sec chief departed. A wave of shame tightened his chest, and he forced it away by sheer force of will.

  "Has there been any word on Tanner and the others?" Silas asked harshly.

  Sheffield scowled. "Nothing for over a week, sir. They left Front Royal in a repaired LAV-25 and disappeared. But we have sec men watching every drivable road from the north, south and east, with land mines and traps on all major bridges. Ryan will never reach Tennessee alive."

  Rubbing his sore leg, Dr. Silas Jamaisvous stared at the eager young officer sitting rigidly on the small chair. The man was so strong and proud. His blue uniform was spotless, his blasters glistening with oil, boots polished like a mirror.

  "That's what Overton said once," Silas stated coldly.

  "But I'm not playing politics with Cawdor," Sheffield said, standing. "Believe me, as long as they keep to the roads, I'll present you with their heads on a silver plate in only a matter of days, mebbe less!"

  "Perhaps. But isn't the Bradley Light Armored Vehicle, Piranha class, Model 25, amphibious? Isn't the transport also designed to be used as a boat?"

  The sec man was confused. "Is it, sir?"

  "That is unknown to me," Silas scowled. "I think we had better find out very quickly."

  Chapter Six

  A sting-wing darted from the rushes along the basin.

  Standing on the shore, the gentle waves lapping around his combat boots, Ryan saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. He drew his SIG-Sauer and fired. The silenced 9 mm blaster coughed, and the winged mutie exploded in midair, bloody feathers tumbling down onto the beach. There was a disturbance under the sand, and blue-shelled crabs rose into view like ghosts from a grave. They climbed over the tiny corpse, tearing the mutie apart with their sharp pincers and stuffing their mouths full. One large azure crab had a dozen tiny copies on its back and passed morsels of the sting-wing over its quivering antennae to the clicking brood.

  A gray dawn was beginning to break in the fiery sky, and Ryan stood guard over the others as they finished conveying the last of the fresh water and ammo onto the bobbing rafts. Stout ropes moored the crude craft to the stump of a dead tree, a gentle current tugging them away from the shore.

  There had been enough logs from the felled trees to build a dozen rafts, but the companions decided on just two. Lashed together with ropes and chains, the first was small, only ten feet squared, three of the inflated tires from the LAV bolted to the belly of the craft. A small pile of ammo, food and other supplies lay in the middle of the raft. A sheet of canvas covered the goods, and multiple ropes secured the cargo. A tiller made from a door off an ammo locker was at one end, tight between two upright stanchions. J.B. was dubious of the arrangement, but Ryan had assured the man it would work fine.

  The second raft was much bigger, thirty feet squared, with four piles of supplies set between the tires bolted underwater at each corner. This kept the center clear, helped to balance the craft and gave the companions something to crouch behind in case of a fight. Another door served as a tiller. The bobbing craft were attached to each other with stout metal chains, which would keep them together through riptides or fog. But in case of emergency, they could cut the larger raft loose to block pursuit, and shoot the ammo boxes on board to eliminate their pursuers.

  The end of the logs were ragged and full of splinters, and the companions had done nothing to change that. The wild array of jagged kindling made a very good defense against unwanted passengers—man or mutie— climbing on board.

  Ryan studied the rafts with a critical gaze. Tree trunks with the bark still on, old rope, rusty chains and a handful of nails. They didn't look like much, but hopefully they would last long enough to get them to Tennessee.

  Whistling a sea chantey, Doc was on the larger craft, testing the ropes holding down the canvas-covered piles. Jak stood on the other with his back to the shore, taking care of business.

  "Well, that's it for the supplies," Krysty said, wading to shore from the front raft. She stomped the red river mud off her boots, sending the crabs scurrying away, dragging their breakfast along with them.

  "All the fuel's on board?" Ryan asked.

  "Yes." Krysty shook her head, her hair spreading out a corona of fiery glory to rival the coming dawn. "Food, blankets, all six of the rocket launchers. I'm surprised how much the rafts could hold."

  "Just hope it's enough," Ryan said grimly, then glanced at the nearby APC. "Better wake Dean and Mildred, and get going. We can each catch some more sleep once we're far from here."

  "I'll get them, lover," she said, and walked off.

  "Lend me a hand, Ryan?" J.B. grunted, dragging a lumpy duffel bag toward the water.

  "What is it?" Ryan asked, grabbing the rope and helping to lift the bag off the ground.

  "Battery from the APC," J.B. replied as they waded into the cold water and splashed toward the nearer raft. "I'm going to wire a headlight to the thing so we can see at night. Scare a lot of folks and save us a pile of killing."

  With the morning breeze ruffling his silvery mane of long hair, Doc watched the two men approach from the second raft, his .44 LeMat held tight, the hammer cocked back and ready.

  "The halogen bulb will explode," Ryan stated. "Won't be able to take that much direct current."

  "I used different thickness of wires to cut the voltage so the headlight wouldn't blow. I can make it work. Shit!" J.B. shifted his balance, nearly going under as his boot slipped on a smooth rock. "Close call."

  Ryan changed their direction away from the cargo raft. "Then we put this on the lead raft, so we can see where we're going."

  "Sounds good."

  Zipping his pants closed, Jak turned and gave the men a hand hauling the heavy bag over the ring of splinters.

  "Good for fishing," the teenager commented, lacing the bag to the ropes covering the canvas mound. "Fish see light at night, come close, spear all we want."

  "We never made any spears," J.B. said, heading for the cargo raft.

  Jak jerked a thumb. "Doc has. Long ones."

  "You made spears?" Ryan called out, climbing on board. He was dripping wet from the waist down, the water trickling down between the log deck and back into the basin. "Good thinking."

  "These are not spears, my dear Ryan, but poles for punting," Doc replied, trimming small branches off a sapling with his pocketknife.

  "Barge poles," J.B. translated as the older man gave him a boost on board. A thick piece of canvas draped over the splinters gave easy access to the deck of the homemade craft. "We can use them to push the raft along, in case we get stuck on a sandbar."

  "Exactly." Tilting the pole, Doc visually inspected the shaft, rotating it this way and that. "A bit off plumb but nothing serious." He tossed it onto the deck.

  "Punting," Ryan said as he changed into dry clothes and socks. He laid the wet garments on top of the canvas mound to let the sun dry them.

  Trimming another sapling, Doc shrugged. "It is an Old English word, and I disremember its origin. Sorry."

  Sliding on his boots, Ryan saw that Dean was walking backward along the shore, unraveling a greasy length of knotted rags from a slopping bucket. The other end of the line went through the top hatch of the LAV and down inside. Backpacks perched on their heads, Mildred and Krysty were already wading across th
e basin, heading for different rafts. Once the boy played out the length to the end, he lit the end with a butane lighter. The shredded blankets began to burn fiercely, giving off huge volumes of greenish smoke, the fire crawling up the length very slowly.

  Dean waited a moment to make sure the fire had caught, then waded into the river. As soon as he was in the water, the crabs came out of hiding and began to finish the last few scraps of the dead sting-wing, rooting in the sand for every tiny gobbet of flesh.

  "Hate to lose the wag," Krysty commented as she changed her pants.

  "No choice. It's deadweight," Ryan stated. "And with any luck, if some blues find the wag, they'll think we all died the explosion."

  "Can't hurt."

  When Dean was on board, Ryan looked around the beach and ordered a last check of the supplies. It would take the grease fuse hours to reach the APC, but time was still against them. The blues could arrive at any moment, and if they left something important behind there would be no easy way to get it back.

  "We have canned food, MRE packs, seven ammo boxes, a case of grens, bedrolls, blankets," Doc called out from the cargo raft. "Extra rope—"

  "All of the rope," J.B. interrupted.

  "Fuel, fresh water, pots and pans."

  "Med kit," Mildred added, patting the bag at her side.

  "Same," Jak announced, squatting by the mound, looking under the canvas. "Ready go."

  The sun broke the horizon at that moment, flooding the world with its dim light. "All right, then," Ryan decided. "Cast off!"

  At the helm, Krysty snapped the mooring line like a whip, and the knot around the tree stump came undone. Urged on by the gentle currents, the rafts began to leisurely float away from the Carolina shoreline.