After that, he pulled on one of the suits himself. With no one to check his work, it took him longer to get fully suited up than he would have liked. He did take a full respirator assembly, which would give him three hours of canned air, hopefully enough to get him to the house. After that, he’d pitch the tank and use the filter, or share the remainder with Tess and girls. Still a combat soldier, he checked the weapons locker. It was empty. Mulligan despaired slightly at that, since there could be trouble on the way to or from the house—survivors would be able to clearly tell Mulligan was well-equipped, and they might get some ideas. He had no way to actively repel them, so he would just have to hope for the best, and improvise if shit hit the fan again.
Finally satisfied that he was as prepared as he could be, he did one last sweep through the SCEV. He had everything he needed. It was time to get going.
With no power, he had to use the manual overrides to open the inner airlock door. It squeaked in its track, which was a troubling sign—clearly, it had been damaged in the rollover, but it closed firmly behind him when he pushed inside the airlock. The battery-powered emergency light snapped on as soon as the door closed, and he was able to find the emergency evacuation handle for the outer clamshell doors. He pulled it, but it didn’t budge. Pressing his left palm against the bulkhead, he pulled harder. When it refused to move, he threw all his weight backwards, adding his almost 230-pound frame to the game. The handle moved then, slowly sliding into the open position.
The outer airlock doors did not move. Mulligan pushed on them, groaning from the pain the exertion caused. He couldn’t get the doors to open, or to even move in the slightest. After a few moments, he decided it was obvious they had been damaged in the rollover, crushed into place. That plus the squeak of the inner airlock door proved that the rig had suffered some substantial frame damage. To his relief, he found the inner door still worked, and he reentered the rig’s second compartment. He walked to the sleeping compartment and, in the spasmodic illumination caused by the flickering light there, tried to open the rig’s tailgate. It popped open less than two inches before it stopped, and a battery-powered alarm sounded, indicating that the sensors there had detected contaminants entering the rig. Mulligan pushed and kicked at the bottom-hinged door, swearing behind his full-face mask and sweating inside the protective suit. But like the airlock doors, the tailgate was also damaged, and there was no way to open it enough to slip outside. Even if he stripped off everything and oiled himself up, there was no way he could possibly fit through the gap between the door and the thick frame. He tried levering it open with a crow bar, but that got him nowhere.
You’re wasting your strength, he told himself. He grabbed the handle in the door’s center and pulled it closed. It slammed shut, and he locked the latches in place. The alarm continued to shriek until he slapped its reset button, and then it only chirped every thirty seconds.
Mulligan slogged back to the cockpit. The side ports next to the pilot and copilot seats were also emergency exits. Both were impassable; the pilot’s exit was jammed completely shut, and the copilot’s would only open halfway, not even enough for Mulligan to shove the bag through. He tried to force the port open with the crowbar, but couldn’t get any traction on it. In frustration, he tried to shatter the tough polycarbonate viewport itself, but no matter how hard he tried, he could do nothing more than nick its surface.
Exhausted, Mulligan collapsed beside CJ’s body, the crowbar clanging to the deck beside him. He was trapped in a totaled SCEV, with two dead people for company.
His family was out there.
And he couldn’t get to them.
Embrace the suck, he told himself, before he began screaming.
***
HOURS PASSED. Mulligan pulled himself together long enough to haul CJ’s body from the copilot’s seat. He dragged it to where Peter lay, rested a few minutes, then dragged both of them to the sleeping compartment. He found he didn’t have the strength to put them in the racks, so he left them on the floor. Their final resting place had beds, but he couldn’t get them into one.
Life’s tough.
He went back to the cockpit and hammered on the viewport some more. The crowbar made dull, metallic twangs every time it struck the polycarbonate viewport. His arms were killing him, so he choked down some pain reliever and went back to work. Bang. Bang. Bang. Every now and then, he’d be rewarded as a tiny, almost microscopic sliver of transparent armor broke off, leaving another dimple in the viewport’s surface. He needed a demo charge to blow the port off, and he didn’t happen to have anything like that on him.
The unprepared Green Beret. What would the boys at Bragg say?
There was nothing else to do. Mulligan continued battering at the window, popping painkillers when the agony in his back and shoulders became too much to handle. Not that he couldn’t take the pain; it simply made him slower, less able to act. So he continued swinging the crowbar, again and again and again, continuing on even when his muscles were so exhausted that he was just barely tapping it. The damned poly viewport took everything he could throw at it.
Eventually, the exertion, his injuries, and the mental duress he felt were too much. Mulligan passed out.
***
THE RIG MOVED.
Mulligan came to, sprawled across the cockpit deck. The chamber was vaguely illuminated by a dim emergency light in the overhead. Outside the viewports, there was only a deep gloom, which told him the sun had set on the first day of global nuclear war. The shadows outside could have been a twin of the darkness that had settled across his heart, for as he peered out through the dust-covered viewports, he knew that his family was dead.
And soon, he would join them. It was hot in the SCEV, which told him the battery-driven CO2 scrubbers were failing. In a few hours, Mulligan would succumb to carbon dioxide poisoning. There were still oxygen canisters aboard that he could use to prolong his life, but to what end? He already knew that polycarbonate viewports would last far longer than he would, and there was no way to shatter them and make his escape. Better to just let nature take its course, and surrender to what would be. At his core, that rankled him a bit. Mulligan was no quitter. Giving up wasn’t a primary trait of his, and despite the circumstances, the notion of quitting was abhorrent to a small part of him. But everyone had their limits, and for Mulligan, losing his family and two of his best friends in one day was enough to carry him across the I Give Up line.
Take the easy way out, for once.
The shattered SCEV rocked again. Mulligan felt it sway slightly on the remains of its suspension, and he couldn’t figure out what was going on. Looking out the viewports didn’t offer any clues, and with the destruction of the rig’s external sensor packages, that was all he had left. He heard the squeal of parting metal, and the rattle of…a saw, maybe?
“What the fuck,” he said to himself. He found the energy to clamber to his feet, his stiff, battered body crying out with every movement as abused muscles and inflamed tendons stretched and contracted across his skeleton. He hurt everywhere, including inside his head. He knew headaches were a symptom of carbon dioxide poisoning, but he didn’t particularly care about that, at the moment. After the day he had been through, a headache was a logical result. Moving stiffly, he stepped out of the cockpit and into the second compartment. He grabbed another handhold and stood there, listening.
The noises were coming from the other side of the cockpit door. Mulligan didn’t know what to make of that. Was someone trying to get into the rig?
He had no idea if it was a rescue mission from Harmony, which he doubted, or merely survivors of the war looking for shelter. Neither mattered to him. All that was important was that if someone was trying to get in, he should give a hand if he could, simply because that meant he could get out.
He dragged out a fresh air tank from the EVA locker and plugged his respirator’s hose into it, then slipped the respirator mask over his face. Cool oxygen flooded his lungs, and he inhaled deeply. He fe
lt suddenly more alert, more vital, as the deep lassitude which had settled over him began to lift. Not that he was happy. He still probably had a long overland walk ahead of him. He had left the duffel bag on the pilot’s seat in the cockpit, and he pulled it into the next compartment. Slinging it over his shoulder was an exercise in exquisite agony, but he suffered through it and worked the emergency bypass for the inner airlock door. It slowly eased open, shrieking in its track as it did so.
Light flooded the compartment, dazzling Mulligan, making him feel momentarily dizzy. He stumbled backward into the canted chair at the engineering station as shadows moved before him. He felt hands latch onto his shoulders, steadying him.
“Scott! Scott, can you hear me, man?”
The words were muffled by the respirator mask. Somewhere inside the compartment, a contamination alarm peeped, loud and urgent, warning the occupants of the rig that toxic particles were entering the rig. Mulligan shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
A hand touched his belt, and something crackled in Mulligan’s ears. Static, over the suit’s headphones. His suit radio had been switched on, something Mulligan hadn’t done, because there hadn’t been anyone to talk to. The suit transceiver didn’t have the range to contact Harmony, so why bother?
“Mulligan!” the voice said again, and this time he recognized it as none other than that of The Scowl, First Sergeant Bob Randell.
“Hey, Bobby,” was all Mulligan could say.
“Where are the Lopezes?” Randell asked. Behind him, more shapes moved in the gloom, their flashlights illuminating One Truck’s ravaged airlock. The light allowed Mulligan to see that they had removed the outer clamshell doors. They lay on the ground just outside, horribly twisted and dented. It was a wonder their seals hadn’t popped during the rollover.
Mulligan pointed vaguely toward the sleeping compartment. “Back there.”
“They have suits on?”
“They’re dead, Bobby,” Mulligan said.
Randell looked at Mulligan for a long moment, his eyes glittering behind his facemask’s visor. “Seven, this is Randell. I have the sergeant major, and he informs me the rest of the occupants are dead. This is unverified. Over,” he said over the radio.
A voice came over Mulligan’s earphones, marred by bursts of erratic, wild static. “Roger that, Randell. Bring Mulligan to the rig, then we’ll see about retrieving the bodies. Over.” The respondent’s voice was none other than Martin Benchley’s. Mulligan was impressed. The Old Man had actually come out into the nuclear wasteland that only hours ago were the plains of western Kansas.
“Let’s go, man,” Randell said. He tugged at Mulligan’s arm, then noticed the duffel bag. “What’s in that?”
“MOPP gear, for my family,” Mulligan said.
“Ah…they won’t be needing that, guy. The sievert level is through the roof. We’re all getting exposed right now, and MOPP gear isn’t going to protect us for very long. We gotta boogie.”
“I’ve got to get to my family,” Mulligan said, and he heard the renewed desperation in his voice. “You’ve got a rig?”
“Yeah, Seven’s right outside,” Randell said.
“You can take me to them.”
“Not happening, brother. Come on, we’ve got to go!” With that, Randell tugged on Mulligan’s arm and yanked him forward. Mulligan stumbled into the airlock with a groan. He turned to face Randell, but the first sergeant wasn’t having any of that. He pushed Mulligan outside, and the big man fairly fell into the waiting arms of two other suited figures outside.
“My family!” he shouted.
One of the figures there reached up and grabbed Mulligan’s head, holding it in place. Mulligan found himself visor-to-visor with Major General Benchley. Mulligan was even more impressed, if just for a second. Not only had Benchley ventured out into the field in an SCEV, Harmony Base’s commanding general had even dismounted and apparently helped crack One Truck open.
“Your family is dead, Sergeant Major,” Benchley said evenly. “You need to understand that right here, right now. We’ve all risked our lives to come out here and drag your ass out of One Truck, and while I’m sorry for your loss, you need to get with the program, soldier.” He released Mulligan and pointed at the bulk of SCEV Seven, sitting some twenty meters away.
“If it’s all the same to you, sir, then I’d rather walk. Thanks for cutting me loose.” Mulligan hitched up the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Sergeant Lopez and her husband didn’t survive the rollover. You’ll find them in the rig’s sleeping compartment.”
“Mulligan,” there was a warning tone to Benchley’s voice, and for the first time, Mulligan realized the general was armed with a shotgun, of all things. “Get in that rig. Now.”
Mulligan ignored it. “Have a nice life, Martin. The world’s ended—time to get on with the mission.”
Benchley sighed over the transceiver built into his respirator facemask. He pulled the slung shotgun off his shoulder and pointed it directly at Mulligan.
Mulligan chuckled dryly. “Came all the way out there to shoot me, sir?”
“Looks like it,” Benchley said, and pulled the trigger.
The blast was surprising loud, even over the idling whine of SCEV Seven. Something struck Mulligan in the chest like a hammer, and as he was flung backward, he realized he’d just been hit with a bean bag round. It was a non-lethal projectile designed to subdue noncompliant subjects before they could become a possible risk to themselves or others. Inside Harmony Base, where vital and rather expensive life support components could be found behind every wall and bulkhead, bullets could do much more harm than good. Non-lethal devices like the bean bag round or the more popular Taser, were a less destructive alternative. Standing maybe six feet away, Mulligan didn’t have a chance to evade. He could only grunt in surprise as he collapsed to the grassy, dusty plain.
Tessie…Chastity…Erica…oh girls, please forgive me
Mulligan blacked out when his head hit a rock.
***
WHEN HE CAME TO, he was in the sleeping area of what he presumed was SCEV Seven. The rig was mostly silent, the only noises being the distant hum of the auxiliary power unit as it droned on beneath the deck. Mulligan blinked against the compartment’s bright overhead lights. He was stretched out on one of the too-small bunks, bunks that had been designed for a six foot frame, not one that measured six foot six. In the bunk across from him was a dark body bag, itself wrapped up in clear plastic wrap that was airtight. Mulligan knew the exterior of the bag had been exposed to the elements, which is why it had been further secured after airlock decon. His shoulder stung where the Taser probes had sunk their barbs after passing through his MOPP suit and multicam combat blouse. That was the bad thing about MOPP gear. It protected the wearer from all sorts of contaminants, but it was about as ballistically resilient as a roll of toilet paper. The stinging was nothing compared to the pain he felt everywhere else, however. Especially in his upper body, mostly in his shoulders and neck. Mulligan ignored it as best as he could and regarded the body bag for a long moment. He didn’t know which of the Lopezes was in there.
Sorry, guys.
There was movement in the compartment, and he slowly looked away from the bag. Two enlisted men came in and grimly removed the body bag. Mulligan made to sit up in the bunk, but found he couldn’t. He had been handcuffed to the bunk’s frame. He looked at his restrained wrist. The steel cuff gleamed in the light. He chuckled at that.
“What’s so funny, Sergeant Major?”
Mulligan looked up again, and found Benchley standing next to the compartment exit. He moved aside as the enlisted men returned. They avoided Mulligan’s gaze as they reached above him and removed a second body bag. This one was a little smaller. That would definitely be CJ. Mulligan watched them leave, carrying the wrapped body between them. For some reason, he didn’t feel any grief, or regret. He mostly just felt empty, right n
ow. Benchley also watched the small procession, then turned back to Mulligan once it had passed him. The general looked pale and wrung out. His cheeks seemed more hollow than usual, and the white-flecked five o’clock shadow on his chin made him look almost a decade older.
“So I guess I’m going to get charged for disobeying orders, dereliction of duty, and what else, misappropriation of government equipment, right?” Mulligan asked Benchley. “Tell you what, let’s make it easy. I want the death penalty. I’m responsible for the Lopezes, so it seems like a fair trade. I’ll take the hard road out.”
“Enough people have died today, Mulligan.”
“Then one more shouldn’t make a difference, General.”
Benchley stepped into the compartment and slowly bent over. He produced a key and unlocked the handcuffs. “You were restrained only for your own safety,” he said, straightening. “I’m not filing any disciplinary action against you, Scott. If I could have left to get my son in San Francisco, I would have.” Benchley paused for a moment. “The wind changed. The fallout from that bomb rolled right over Scott City. The entire place is way too hot for anyone to survive—we’re talking substantial numbers, Mulligan. Even if your family was in a root cellar or something, there was no chance for them. I’m sorry, Sergeant Major. But they are positively dead.”
Mulligan looked up at Benchley for a long moment. “Then I guess I am, too,” he said, finally.
“I hope not. We need you. We need your skills. Harmony has a mission, and it’s one you signed on for.”
“That was before.”
“Before doesn’t matter, any longer. We’re here. And we need you, Mulligan.” Benchley looked away then. He put his hands in the pockets of his uniform trousers. He looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, and if Harmony was the last installation left if the United States, then he probably did.
The Last Run: A Novella Page 7