Minutes later, our eight trucks are parked beside various pumps, and the diesel is flowing. True to The Guide’s instructions, the Rabbit Clan forces us out of the vehicles and into parallel lines of admiration. We stand in ranks to pet the critters they offer up to us.
When I initially refuse to make the requisite smooching noises and kissy faces, the threat becomes real. They all wield boning and flaying knifes that appear to be recently sharpened. I get the message. I smooch. I kiss. I coo. I pet.
Each member of the Rabbit Clan wears a handcrafted animal mask, Terminals and non-Terminals, alike. Only the non-Terminals handle the animals, while the brain-dead types just sort of hobble around after, fumbling to pet and stroke their keepsakes. They all wear dinghy white coveralls, and many of them wear rabbit masks made of papier-mâché or plastic. The rest wear sheep, dog, cat, and rat masks. One of them sports a fairly realistic rendition of a panda mask, which she accompanies with a black-and-white panda costume.
This one appears to be the Clan leader. She parades silently up and down the lines, monitoring the fun, enforcing the kissy-face rule and threatening refusals accordingly. She also expends considerable energy attempting to entice Stranglers over to her side with offers of kittens, puppies, and hyperactive white rats. As The Guide forecast, he loses a handful of foot soldiers to her cause, as they slough the black robes on the spot to exchange these for rabbit masks, white coveralls, and some kind of small animal. The Guide grimaces at the sight, but keeps smooching and petting like nothing has happened.
During the change of clothing, however, I notice something interesting about the crows underneath. They are diseased, gaunt, and generally wasted. The enhanced physiology attributable to the Terminus phenomenon has taxed them heavily. They are all dying, and I suspect this is the primary reason Panda works so hard at recruitment. She appears to have a ready supply of baby animals on hand precisely for that purpose. The crows love the little pets, and, though they are largely inarticulate, they easily enough mumble and mouth the required smooching and kissy noises. We are awash in cuteness.
Behind me, as I pet and fondle, I count the chugs of the siphon pumps. Fifty liters. Seventy. Ninety. Soon, we’ll be full, and I think we might just get out of Panda’s zoo in one piece.
Then it happens. Engineer squeals effeminately and I glance to my left in time to see him kick a fat white rat out of his pants leg, through a high arc into the air, across the parking lot, and then into a plate glass window with the sound of a GONG! For a mad moment, the place falls silent and still. Two hundred bunny masks turn to watch the crumpled rat body slide down the window, twitching and kicking, until it lies on the concrete apron, spasm-wracked and dying
Panda rushes over to aid the stricken animal, lifting it tenderly in her hands and smoothing its rumpled fur gently with a single forefinger. Several of her non-Terminal handlers join her, their heads hung in sorrow.
Looking my way, Engineer shrugs apologetically, whispering, “Sorry. I hate rats.”
At the pumps, Stranglers are already capping the tanks and dropping the nozzles. Every one of us takes advantage of Panda’s distraction to slowly inch backward toward the sanctuary of the trucks, gently lowering a variety of chinchillas, rodents, rabbits, cats and dogs to the ground as we go.
About the time I think we might slink out of there without a fight, I see Panda toss back her head, flex her arms and shoulders with the dead rat dangling from her right fist, and then scream like a banshee. It’s on!
With breathtaking coordination, out pop the various boning, flaying and filleting knifes, and then two hundred crazed rabbits, unicorns, rhinos and et cetera charge into the fray. An overwhelmed Strangler Clan snaps out their garrotes, nooses and whips to defend themselves. From the corner of my eye, I see The Guide toss his hands and flee for his life, so I push my crew rudely in the direction of safety to join him.
Making our way back to those stairs climbing up to our host’s makeshift office, I see the unique style of each Village survivor and I learn how each of them made their way through Terminus. I punch, kick and gouge. The Girl stabs, jabs and slashes. Engineer prefers an extendible baton, which he uses to great effect when bashing skulls and breaking bones. Chief likes brass knuckles tipped on one side by a savage double-edged blade.
The Kid’s style is unique, though. Primarily, he prefers to duck and dodge, avoiding conflict wherever possible. When one of the Rabbit Clan leaves him no choice, however, he makes a quick, decisive motion with either hand, as though simply bonking each aggressor on the head, adding a waggle of his fists for good measure after each strike. For a time, I cannot determine why this should cause all of his opponents to throw an epileptic fit and then crumple to the ground. Then a flash of morning sunlight informs me. In both hands, he wields a kind of stumpy icepick. He uses these to expertly punch through his opponents’ skulls. That waggle of his fists slices up their brains. Problem solved.
Leaving a trail of slain Rabbits and Stranglers behind us, we mount the lead truck and slam its doors. Immediately forgotten in the tumult, through the cameras we watch the combat continue. The Guide’s Clan is definitely getting the sorry end of the stick. Scattered around the parking lot, Rabbits are already cutting away the clothing from fallen Stranglers to skin them, sometimes while yet living. The screams curdle our blood.
As soon as our truck receives a driver, it lurches forward. Several of the non-Terminal Stranglers have already taken the gate to hold it long enough for us to press through when they open it.
We escape. Only two other trucks and perhaps twenty crows follow us.
The remainder will soon be nailed to the barricade with various notes highlighting their abuse of the wildlife. Climbing the hill again, we watch the one-sided struggle continue. While several of The Guide’s people press through the perimeter barricade to high-foot their way through the surrounding fields and groves, most are not so lucky. Many of the escapees may live to strangle another day, but they will do so in the service of another Clan.
To me, speaking over his shoulder, The Guide asks, “See what I mean about diversifying? A good businessman knows when to change business models. I’ll have to get new trucks now. How does the name ‘Clan of the Everlasting Road-Trip’ strike you?”
Marveling at the man’s frozen nerves, I reply flatly, “Needs work.”
“Yeah. Too bad about my people, I guess, but I suppose I can always come and visit them anytime. Some of those older hides look like they’ve been hanging in the weather for years. I bet they’ll still be there next time I stop for diesel.”
“You’re planning to come back?” drawls Chief, using a fistful of paper towels to clean ribbons of flesh and wads of tissue from his spiky knuckledusters.
Our sly Asian host shrugs. “Why not? Clans don’t hold grudges. That’s old-world stupid. We kill when the killing’s good and then get on with our day. No biggie.”
Engineer collapses his baton and we all take notice of him for the first time. Our expressions are not pleased. He grimaces, abashed and embarrassed for himself.
He says, “You’d think after Terminus, I’d be used to anything. But rats… man… I just can’t do rats. Especially when they crawl up my pants leg, unannounced. Those creepy little rat feet… so soft and warm… and those delicate needle claws… like a June bug… but mostly it’s the tails. Like… like… fat, slimy worms. Or snakes. YUCK!”
“We get it,” I growl, “but maybe you should have tried to stomp on the thing and keep it hidden beneath your shoe. You might have escaped notice.”
“Maybe,” offers Engineer, his mustache twitching as his body shudders.
From his cluttered desk, directed toward The Engineer, Guide announces, “You owe me, dude. Big time. Now you got to slap yourself.”
We exchange glances and wonder if the other man will comply. To our delight, he does so, if only to clear his mind of rat-thoughts. The sound is loud and smack-worthy. We laugh. Our tension resolves. Post-Terminus, rampant acts
of violence are not traumatic. Rather, they are… daily.
From there, we push through foothills and then the mountains. Up there, the pre-Terminus population was always sparse, so passage through those high passes is almost serene, relaxing. Then we descend into rugged valleys and pour out onto the windswept deserts of Nevada.
Reno is a catalogue of chaos. Half the city has burned. All of it has been looted, for whatever reason. Bodies litter the streets and spill out from the buildings. All of them desiccated and dried by the desert sun and the rarified air. Our truck drives slowly through town, weaving through the scatter of abandoned vehicles and periodically bouncing over human remains. At the entrance ramp to Interstate 80, someone has piled a small mountain of these corpses with a frontend loader, staking a U.S. flag at the top. As we turn onto the highway, we see a variety of climbing gear scattered around its base, and then we notice a lone figure scaling the mound like a high-altitude climber, tackle, ropes, spiked shoes, ice axe, and all. Like it’s every day for him, the lunatic waves as we drive past his little vacation spot. Weird.
Maybe an hour later, we turn onto State Highway 95 and spend two hours on it. Along the way, we encounter the inevitable scenes of Terminal mayhem.
At one spot, we pass a line of perhaps twenty cars parked along both sides of the road. From the evidence, we gather these vehicles stopped one at a time so the tourist families in each could get out and fight each other to the death along the shoulders. Men. Women. Children. A blackened trail of blood leads away from the wreckage for many miles, until we bounce over the lone survivor, a giant bear of a man who obviously either bled to death or expired from exposure shortly after the fight.
95 turns to 6 in a formerly sleepy little desert town named Tonopah. At the entrance to the main street, which is the business vane of 95, we encounter a ramshackle barricade someone has assembled into a makeshift toll booth spanning the street.
When our lead truck stops and we stop behind it with the third vehicle behind us, a large, disheveled man of perhaps fifty saunters out of a nearby fast-food restaurant, scratching his behind to pull a long-seated wedgy. He wears dirty denim overalls, untied leather hiking boots, is shirtless, and sports a months’ long beard, gone white and shot through with gray. His teeth are brown, stained by the tobacco he incessantly spits in dark streamers across the parking lot.
Through the cameras, we watch him approach his homemade barricade, his right hand raised high. He says something we can’t hear until The Guide ups the gain on his microphones.
Via the truck’s loudspeaker, our host demands to know, “What do you want?”
Gatekeeper shouts cantankerously, “Whiskey!”
The Guide punches his keyboard. The back door of the truck in front of us opens to emit a single black crow, who rounds the vehicle with a pair of bottles, one in either hand. The Strangler offers these to the old man.
The old man examines the first one, and tosses it to shatter on the sidewalk. Then he repeats the same gesture with the second, shaking his grizzled, spotted head.
Through the loudspeaker, Guide protests, “That was thirty year old Scotch! Five hundred dollars a bottle!”
“I said whiskey,” protests Gatekeeper, “and I mean whiskey, god damn you!”
“Scotch IS whiskey! The best!”
“That ain’t no account to me,” returns the old goat, “what I want is Jack Daniels. Black Label. I might accept some Johnny Walker. Red. But I ain’t got no use for decades-stale foreign piss-water!”
Growling impatiently, the Guide punches more keys. He makes an inaudible declaration into his microphone.
This time, a handful of crows pour out of the truck in front of us, each snapping their garrote’s at the ready. When the old man sees them come around the back bumper, his eyes pop wide. Then he spits, drops into a ready stance, turns and bolts around the corner between the fast-food shop and the tire store next door. The first crow with his five brothers and sisters gives chase. They disappear into the township.
Guide shakes his head, leans back in his swivel chair and says, “This will take just a minute. Relax. Have a soda. They’re cold.” He pours himself a double Scotch, neat. “Honestly. I don’t know what gets into these sunbaked locals. To think they can best a city Clan. Stupid.”
Somehow, I’m not so confident. I lean forward in my own seat, propping my elbows atop my knees to watch the camera monitors. Off in the distance behind the closest structures, I think I see movement. Human activity.
Then I whisper, “Shit.”
From perhaps a block down the street, three of the crows come running back to the dubious sanctuary of the convoy, their knees frantically kicking the aprons of their black robes, their hoods billowing backward off desperate faces, and their garrotes flapping forgotten in pumping fists. Behind them, twenty or so overall-clad hillbillies give chase! Each of the yokels carries a pitchfork, pickaxe, shovel, sledgehammer or some other farm implement of destruction!
Without waiting instruction, the first truck surges forward to barrel through the apparently flimsy barricade, fashioned as it is from shopping carts, bicycles, lawnmowers and the like. When the truck rolls through, however, we hear the unmistakable POP-HISS of punctured tires, and through the forward-facing cameras we see its rear wheels churn an accordion-deployed spike-strip.
Through his microphone, Guide bellows, “Right! Right! Right! Onto the sidewalk!”
On flat tires, the first truck rolls down the street, and the one remaining crow tries to climb into its open cargo bay. His two mates lay prone on the pavement behind slathers of their still pulsing brains. The Hillbilly Clan chases after the stricken vehicle, pulling themselves inside through the yet open door, while those who cannot immediately make the leap pound on its doors and side panels with their farm tools. Now one crow after another comes flying through the open doorway to land headfirst on the pavement. The opposing clan begins to quickly mince their bodies, robes and all.
Behind us, the third truck follows. We push through the clamorous crowd and eventually steer onto State Highway 6. To one side of our passage, that first truck coasts to a stop, crashing into a plate glass storefront where it comes to rest, surrounded by bloodthirsty desert rats.
Guide flicks his right hand back and forth across his chest and abdomen in a poor imitation of the Catholic ritual, which he ends by grabbing his crotch, turning his head, and coughing once. “Vios con Dios, amigos! Whatever that means.”
“Go with God,” returns Chief solemnly.
“What’s that you say?”
“It means ‘go with God’.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s stupid. I thought it had something to do with corn-chips! Where is god in this mess? Huh? And what did god have to do with that lopsided showdown?”
“You said it, not me.”
“Yeah, well… I must be stupid. Forget it.” For the first time, our host notices his spilled Scotch, which has run across his blotter to wet his expensive silk suit. “Ah, man! That sucks!” Fetching a wad of paper towels, he blots his slacks and stands, disgusted, “Oh, well. I got to take a dump, anyway. Might as well change clothes while I’m at it.”
Heading for the bathroom installed into the forward passenger-side corner of his office, Guide announces, “Y’all might want to pinch your nostrils or something. This could get ugly.”
We groan. The Engineer hops his chair away from the bathroom door.
By the time the air clears, Guide emerges wearing a fresh silk suit and a shiny new pair of shoes, while the remaining pair of trucks navigate the rugged desert. This is more scrubland than sandy dunes, as the state highway snakes through an endless series of low, rocky hills crowded with sage and hardy cacti. Perhaps three hundred kilometers north of Las Vegas, State Highway 6 turns south onto 375, and the scrubland opens up considerably.
Rolling through this barren landscape in the stilted sunlight of a late autumnal afternoon, we occupy ourselves variously as we please. The Girl sharpens her knife, while Ch
ief polishes his knuckledusters. The Kid and Engineer play cards, slapping the colorful bits of paper onto the butt of an empty chair. The Guide and I keep a bored interest on the cameras and, through them, our surroundings.
Just after we pass through Warm Springs and make the turn south, the wary Asian hisses and sits straighter in his chair. His fingers furious on the controls of his cameras, his disturbance attracts every set of eyes present within the makeshift office.
“What was that?” he demands with a surprised gasp. “Did you see that, Scientist?”
“What?” I hedge uncertainly, my eyes roving the displays with only vaguely alarmed interest.
“Something moving through the draws back there,” he points to an aft-facing camera, where a series of low hills are already receding into the distance.
I shrug. “Probably a deer or tumbleweeds.”
“A deer?” whines Guide. “Come on, dude. Give me some credit. I may be a city boy, but I know a deer when I see it. This was no Bambi.”
“How do you know?” asks Engineer, abandoning his card game to drag his chair closer to the desk.
“Because, it was huge. Freaking huge, man!”
“How big?” from Chief, also joining us before the camera monitors.
The Guide shrugs, “Elephant huge? I don’t know. But big! And scary!”
We exchange glances over Guide’s rapidly moving head. These gazes collectively wonder if the Clansman’s brain has finally cooked-off. Only The Girl remains convinced. Something about the concerned flash of her lustrous green eyes makes me wonder.
Of her, I ask, “Did you see it, too?”
She nods. The rest of us return our attention to the scenery with renewed interest. For several long minutes, nothing happens.
Then Chief stabs a thick, stubby finger at a camera pointed forward-right and declares, “There! Did you see it?”
Though we rapidly fixate on the monitor in question, we see nothing save for arid hillsides, rocks, and pebbly sand. Guide works his controls to make the camera pan right to follow the same focus as we pass. Nothing moves, except the shadows of our trucks.
Terminus: A Novella of the Apocalypse Page 10