This Is the End: The Post-Apocalyptic Box Set (7 Book Collection)

by Craig DiLouie

  If anyone had been alive to witness the event, of course.

  ***

  Mulligan sat in the command seat on the left side of the cockpit, the control column in his left hand. He kept his eyes on the instruments, maintaining a watchful position and scanning the radar display that mapped the terrain beyond the pool of light cast by the rig’s floodlights. Leona watched him from the corner of her eye for the first hour of their shift together, then finally just looked at him directly every now and then. If he noticed, Mulligan said nothing. He merely continued to do his job, which was to oversee the rig’s progress across the darkened landscape. Leona had to admire his single-minded determination. It had been years since he’d been out in the field, but he handled the rig like a pro, always skirting barely noticeable breaks in the terrain that might have slowed their progress to a crawl. And he did so without the ham-handed acceleration and braking that someone like Tony Choi would have subjected them to. Mulligan knew how to keep the SCEV on course, and obviously knew the value in making the trek as comfortable as possible.

  Finally, the big sergeant major stirred. He reached inside one of the pockets on his Army combat uniform blouse and pulled out a long, cylindrical tube. Holding one end in his mouth, he unscrewed the cap on the other end, then reversed it and tipped it back. At first, Leona thought it was some sort of beverage in a decidedly unusual-looking container. Instead, it was something she hadn’t seen in years—a cigar.

  “You’re not going to actually smoke that thing, are you?” she asked, a little shocked. “It’s against regulations, you know …”

  “Lieutenant, sometimes the only good regulation is a broken regulation.”

  Leona was properly scandalized. “You’re kidding,” was all she could say. “Do you realize what that will do to the CO2 scrubbers? Not to mention the smell—”

  “Relax, Lieutenant. I know all about the delicate balance of the rig’s environmental systems. Don’t worry, I’m not going to light up. I only do that on special occasions.” Mulligan chewed on the end of the cigar. “If one ever happens to pop up, that is.”

  “God—you actually do smoke those things? How can you stand to do that to your body?”

  Mulligan scanned the instruments, then looked out the viewports. “After everything we’ve been through, ma’am, one might think a little secondhand smoke wouldn’t be high on your list of worries.”

  “Everything’s high on my worry list, Sergeant Major.”

  “Yeah, I remember you always being the high-maintenance sort. Even as a kid in basic, you always wanted to know why things were done one way and not the other. But like I said, you’re safe. I’m not going to light the thing.” Mulligan seemed to think that ended the conversation. He continued to drive and make his instrument scans with a metronomic regularity that Leona actually admired. While Command Sergeant Major Scott Mulligan was a riddle wrapped up in an enigma, she was surprised to see just how disciplined he was.

  “Well … where did you get it?” she asked after a long pause.

  “I grew it.”

  “You did? Where?”

  “I have a small portion of the hydroponics farm allocated to me. I grow a tobacco plant there, and harvest it when the time is right. Then I make my own cigars.” Mulligan switched the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Not as good as a Cohiba Edicion, but they get the job done.”

  Leona nodded and scanned the instruments herself. She had nearly another three hours before she took the left seat and Choi came forward to take the copilot’s seat. “I see.”

  Mulligan said nothing.

  “So … what did you do before the war, Mulligan?”

  “I defended truth, justice, and the American way.”

  She smiled at that. “Why do you always act like such a hard-ass?”

  “It’s no act, Lieutenant.”

  Feeling suddenly bold, Leona pressed on, even though the big man’s body language seemed to indicate he wasn’t particularly interested in chatting. Just the same, this was the first time she’d ever been in close proximity to the mysterious senior NCO of Harmony Base. If he thought he was going to go for a couple of weeks without interacting with the rest of the crew, he was severely mistaken.

  “So other than being a soldier, what else did you do? Were you ever married?”

  Mulligan’s only reaction was to reposition the cigar in his mouth. In the glow of the flat panel displays on the instrument panel, Leona thought she saw a glimmer of a scowl flit across his face.

  “What’s the matter, Sergeant Major—couldn’t get a date?”

  Mulligan finally turned to her. His face was as devoid of emotion as the surface of the moon was absent of air, but his tone was anything but sedate. “Lieutenant, keep this up and the only thing you’ll get out of me is a severe whipping from an enlisted man. We’re not here to get to know each other on a personal level—we’re on a mission. As such, I would respectfully recommend you concentrate on the current mission essentials, which at the moment are backing me up on the instruments and assisting in terrain avoidance, while ensuring the rig’s systems are checked according to schedule. Is that clear, ma’am?”

  Leona clenched her teeth, a little pissed off at his tone. He was perilously close to insubordination.

  So what’re you going to do, try and pull rank on Mulligan? Yeah, do that. It’ll be all sorts of fun.

  “I read you, Sarmajor,” she said.

  “Hooah,” Mulligan said simply, then turned away from her and peered out the viewports. Leona watched him for a moment, then sighed and leaned back in her seat.

  It was going to be one very long mission.

  ***

  “So how’s it going?”

  Rachel’s voice sounded distant and remote over the headset transceiver Andrews wore as he lay stretched out on one of the bunks in the rear of SCEV Four. He had strapped himself into the narrow, slightly bowed bed in a bid to keep from being pitched to the deck should the rig roll over some broken terrain, and he’d asked Rachel to do the same. While it was a small thing, she had no experience with SCEV operations, and ignoring even mundane details like that could get her killed.

  “Everything’s good on this side,” he told her, speaking softly even though he was alone in the compartment. “You getting by over there?”

  “Sure. Jim’s patient with me, and Kelly’s giving me some pointers. Tony’s doing the same, but I think he’d rather be over on your rig than stuck over here.” Rachel paused. “Come to think of it, so would I.”

  “Non-starter, babe. Separation of church and state and all that.”

  “Oh, I’m your church now? Or am I your state?” she asked, a playful lilt in her voice.

  “Well, I do worship you.”

  “Such a sweet talker you are.”

  “Isn’t that why you married me?”

  “Yes. Well, that and the fact that you’re great in the sack.”

  Andrews laughed. “Now, now … keep it clean. The channel’s encrypted, but you can never be sure.”

  Rachel laughed as well. “I know, I know. Besides, I have to start my shift in a few minutes. I’m taking right seat.”

  “Who has left? Jordello?”

  “Yeah. She’s going to show me the ropes for the next few hours.”

  “Well, try not to roll the rig, all right? That’s Choi’s job.”

  Rachel laughed again, then grew serious. “How are things with the asshole?”

  Andrews frowned, put out by her derogatory language. “Mulligan’s been fine. Professional. He’s getting the job done, and he’s keeping to himself. He knows he’s an anachronism out here, so he’s not pushing any buttons.” That last part was a bit of a lie, for he felt that Mulligan was smirking at them on the inside. The senior NCO certainly didn’t try to hide his smug aloofness, and that bugged Andrews quite a bit.

  “Don’t trust him, Mike.”

  “I’ve got my eye on him, babe. Don’t worry about it.”

  She snorted. �
��How can I not worry about it? You’re over there, with him—”

  “Easy, now,” Andrews said, not wanting the conversation to devolve into another one-sided shit-flinging contest. “I know the guy’s history, and we’ve been over this already. He’s not going to screw things up. Take it easy, Rachel.”

  After a long pause, she said, “I’m trying.”

  Andrews was suddenly painfully aware of the distance that separated them, and he found he very much wanted to hold her in his arms—not just to help ease her distress, but because she was so close to him, yet so very far. As much as she worried about him crewing with Mulligan, he found it difficult not to obsess over her being in the field as well. He’d had the training and had volunteered to be inducted into the US Army after the war, so field time was part of what he was all about. For her, it was an entirely accidental occurrence, and he feared for her safety, despite the fact that Jim Laird was as competent at SCEV ops as he was. Kelly Jordello and Tony Choi were able hands, as well. There was no lack of practical experience surrounding Rachel, and Andrews really couldn’t have asked for her to be protected by a better team.

  “Hey, be glad you’re not over here. Seriously,” Andrews said, “you don’t have to smell Spencer’s farts. The guy has no class. He just blows ’em all over the rig. I don’t know what the hell it is he’s eating, but it’s practically chemical warfare over here.”

  Rachel laughed, but it sounded false, forced. Andrews sighed. There wasn’t any way to help her relax, and that made him feel even worse about things.

  The rig slowed suddenly and bumped to a more-or-less gentle halt. It was time to change shifts, which meant Mulligan would be surrendering the left seat to Leona, while Spencer moved forward to occupy the copilot’s seat. Outside, SCEV Five would be rolling to a stop as well, and Rachel would have her first opportunity to act as a rig copilot.

  “Okay, I guess this is it,” Andrews said. “You take care of yourself, babe.”

  “I will. What are you going to do now?”

  “Get some sleep. What else is there to do? In six hours, I’ve got to stand up and prepare for my next shift.”

  “Right. Well, sleep well. Pleasant dreams. I love you, Michael.”

  “I love you too, hon. Take it easy, all right?”

  “I will. Good night.” And with that, the link went dead.

  Andrews leaned back in his bunk and pulled the headset off, listening to the sounds of the crew change. A moment later, the pressure door at the head of the compartment opened, and Mulligan stepped inside the sleeping area. He flipped on one of the overhead lights, and Andrews screwed his eyes shut against the sudden brightness. Mulligan made a brief, apologetic noise, then walked to the rear of the compartment where the head was located. He pulled open the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. Andrews heard the lock click into place.

  A moment later, the SCEV started moving again. Andrews hoped Mulligan didn’t piss all over the place, and if he did, that he’d have the decency to clean up after himself.

  ***

  Hours later, Mulligan awoke in his bunk. The sleeping area had been designed to accommodate persons of average height and weight, and he found the bunks were just a bit too short to comfortably house his six-foot-six-inch frame. Therefore, he was forced to sleep curled up, something that he found unpleasant, given that he needed to be strapped in as well. That alone made for a less than restful sleep. Even though he had long since grown used to the jouncing and bouncing of the SCEV as it plowed across the landscape, he found that his head would invariably strike the side of the bunk’s hard plastic shell, and that always jolted him awake. He moved the thin pillow a bit in a bid to gain some protection, but that could only last for so long. Mulligan consigned himself to being tired and even more grumpy than usual over the next several days.

  And if the lack of sleep wouldn’t to him, then the voyage across the burned-out remains of the United States most certainly would.

  For years, he had been confined to the sterile environment of Harmony Base, with only a few brief sojourns to the surface to maintain currency in his SCEV ratings. He had grown used to the barren wastelands surrounding the base’s training range, and he had never strayed from it, even when the desire to turn to the east and drive all out possessed him with such fury that he feared he might do just that.

  But watching the irradiated world pass by as the SCEV drove mile after mile after mile, Mulligan felt a queer sense of derangement settling over him. For a decade, he had existed as virtually nothing more than a phantasm stalking the corridors and gangways of Harmony, a hollow man whose soul had been laid to waste. But he hadn’t really set eyes on what devastation had been wrought, on the totality of the destruction. It was more than just the detonation of multiple nuclear weapons across a vast swath of the country; it was the long-lasting effects of the fallout, the decimation of the ozone layer—or “ozone process,” he now knew—and the contamination of what seemed to be the entire biosphere. Even beneath the heavy mantle of his despair, Mulligan had still thought—had still hoped—that humanity had managed to persevere. But after laying eyes on the skeletal remains of cities and towns and not seeing so much as a single bird in the cobalt skies, the small ember of hope he carried was virtually extinguished.

  We’re all that’s left, he thought.

  He glanced across the small aisle and saw Eklund lying in the bunk across from him. She was awake, but as soon as he looked in her direction, she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, probably depending on the dim light to hide her indiscretion.

  Mulligan snorted. “Something on your mind, Lieutenant?” he asked, raising his voice over the engine noise.

  She didn’t answer, apparently choosing to believe that if she pretended to be asleep, he would let her be. Mulligan considered pressing it, but settled for twisting over onto his other side and presenting her with his back. Regardless, he felt her gaze on him again and knew she watching him as if he was on display.

  Just another animal in the zoo, he thought.

  “Go to sleep, Lieutenant,” he said. And then he closed his eyes and followed his own order.

  9

  At long last, the two SCEVs made their way across the Sierra Nevada mountain range and into the smaller foothills that surrounded the Santa Clara Valley. Andrews and Mulligan were once again helming SCEV Four, the sixth time they had shared the rotation. Andrews found that the big sergeant major’s disposition hadn’t changed greatly during their time together, though he did continue to restrain himself from engaging in any non-mission discussions. Not that there was a lot to talk about it; even though Andrews was greatly interested in Mulligan’s history with Rachel and her parents, it was clear he wasn’t going to get anything out of the older man. Beyond discussing the vistas outside the rig’s viewports or the texture of the landscape revealed by the terrain-mapping radar, Andrews had little choice but to leave Mulligan to his own devices.

  Early in the afternoon of the sixth day after leaving Harmony Base, the rigs made it to the valley.

  Andrews brought the rig to a halt on the valley’s rim. From the corner of his eye, he saw SCEV Five slowly ease to a stop beside them.

  Below them lay the weathered skeleton of San Jose, California. Parts of the city were mounded over by great dunes of sand; others had been blackened by long-extinguished fires that left almost nothing behind. It was obvious the city had suffered at least one direct ground strike, for they could see a large crater that was ringed by layers of shattered debris that age and weather had made virtually unidentifiable. The rotting husks of cars and trucks lay scattered about and, in the distance, Andrews thought he could see the twisted skeleton of a downed airliner laying in the dusty emptiness of a street from which all structures had been blasted away. To the north, the cities of Santa Clara, Sunnyvale, and Cupertino were vague and indistinct, hidden behind veils of wind-blown dust.

  Andrews took in the vista and let his breath out in one long, drawn-out sigh. Leona sl
ipped into the cockpit and knelt between the seats. She stared out of the viewports, and Andrews glanced at her. Her expression was blank and unreadable, revealing nothing of her internal thoughts. Andrews looked beyond her, to where Mulligan sat in the copilot’s seat. He was surprised to see a glimmer of emotion in the big man’s eyes, which he tried to conceal immediately when he realized Andrews was watching him.

  “Come here before the war, Sergeant Major?”

  Mulligan snorted and turned away, looking out the viewport to his right. “Yeah. Hasn’t changed much, I see.”

  Leona glanced at Mulligan as well, and her brow furrowed. She seemed to sense the man’s internal turmoil and she looked to Andrews, as if seeking guidance. Andrews shrugged and shook his head.

  Don’t bother with it, Lee.

  Leona looked back at Mulligan again, then reached forward and grabbed the control yoke for the forward-looking infrared system. She panned the FLIR from left to right, watching the imagery it returned in a small window on the center display. She stopped the device’s slew suddenly and made a curious sound in her throat. Andrews glanced down at the display as she thumbed the zoom.

  Framed in the small picture was a short, twisted tree with pale green leaves.

  “Life,” Leona said.

  Mulligan looked at the display and cackled suddenly. “My God, is that all we get? That thing’s twice as ugly as Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.”

  “It’ll do, Mulligan,” Andrews said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “It’ll do.”

  ***

  The rigs picked their way down into the valley, pushing the wrecked hulks of dead cars out of their way as they sidled down the remains of a cracked street. On either side of the roadway, the dilapidated remains of tract housing stood silent watch over the vehicles’ progression. Many of them had been flash-burned by the nuclear blast that had hit the area, and the ensuing shockwave had ripped off roof tiles, broken windows, and shattered chimneys, but for the most part, the structures had fared well. They were lifeless and uninhabited, of course. While the instruments indicated the radiation level was substantially lower in this part of California than it was in the Midwest, they would have been absolutely lethal even in the short term for several years after the war. Andrews watched one Mediterranean-style house slip by as the SCEV trundled past, its windows missing, the tattered remnants of what had once been über-expensive drapes flapping about in the mild breeze. The dwelling had likely cost millions of dollars, but its construction was cheap and its walls thin, so there was little doubt it had extended the lives of its occupants by only minutes, if that.