by Joe Nobody
“Stow that, Commander,” Ulrich snapped. Then, with a fatherly tone, “We’ll figure this out, Jack. Together. That’s how we solve problems on my boat.”
“Aye, sir. It won’t happen again, Captain.”
Jack remained silent while Ulrich and Daniels discussed various matters. Inside, he was cursing himself for the stupid remark, and wondering what path his brain was taking him down. I’m the one who is supposed to be watching for signs of trouble, not the asshat causing it. What was I thinking? he chided himself.
When the conference finally broke up, the captain asked Jack to stay. “You get some more sleep,” he ordered without even giving Jack a chance to protest or defend his actions. “Seriously, we’ve all been working way too much and recovering far too little. Get some rest.”
“Aye, sir.”
Jack left the communications building and headed back to his quarters aboard Utah. Along the desolate walk, he occasionally crossed paths with fellow crewmembers heading to their assignments. He received the expected crisp salutes, but he noted that most of the sailors weren’t making eye contact with him.
“I wonder if they would salute me if they had heard the stupid comments I just made or knew what I was thinking,” Jack whispered. He then realized his own head was dropping, his shoulders slacking in a very unmilitary posture.
He was about to give himself a good scolding when movement caught the commander’s eye. He was trekking through the section of the base closest to its fence and thought he’d detected movement in the street beyond.
With the constant haze of ash and low-light conditions, Jack couldn’t be sure. The thick atmosphere worked funny tricks with the shadows, and the sailors were all on edge. Still, unless his depression had become serious enough to cause hallucinations, he’d seen something.
Reaching for the .45 caliber pistol he’d been issued from the Marines’ makeshift armory, Jack tensed and waited, his eyes scanning through the dusty background, trying to identify anything that looked out of place.
Just on the other side of the high metal border ran a city street. The commander couldn’t remember its name. An assortment of small stores and shops clustered in a row on the other side of the pavement. The thoroughfare was vacant of vehicles, although he had heard that the area around the front gate was like a parking lot of destroyed, abandoned automobiles.
There it was again! Movement. Between two of the stores.
Jack was in a crouch now, ready to fight or run, but unmoving.
Two men appeared, each toting a rifle and wearing a makeshift mask over his face. Jack observed eye protection like heavy goggles or sunglasses. One of the men brandished a bandolier of ammunition around his chest. The other sported an elongated machete dangling from his belt.
Their movements showed caution. They didn’t expose themselves without scanning right and left, up and down. They always moved from cover to cover, never more than four or five steps at a time.
After a minute, Jack was sure they were heading for the base. Despite making agonizingly slow progress, the two stalkers were maneuvering directly toward the section of fence less than 40 feet from where the commander stood.
The wide motorway posed an obvious dilemma. Jack detected some level of communication between the two masked invaders, along with a lot of hesitation. “Why are you so reluctant to expose yourselves?” he whispered. “There’s no one around. What are you afraid of?”
What was probably a newspaper box concealed one of the mystery men, the other staying put behind a nearby utility pole. Jack could spot their heads moving, their body language indicating some sort of hushed debate was in progress.
Finally, the guy behind the power line rushed the street, his feet kicking up small clouds of ash while he scurried as if he was being chased by demons.
Diving into a low drainage ditch, the fellow rolled hard and snapped his weapon up and ready to fight in a flash.
Again, the two strangers paused. “You’re patient,” Jack observed. “Most people couldn’t hold still that long.”
At least a minute passed before the paper-box guy rose and followed his friend.
Another length of time passed as the two of them lay side by side in the drainage area, both of them scanning for trouble like a tribe of hungry cannibals was hot on their asses.
One of the two removed a pair of wire cutters from his garb while his friend kept a lookout to make sure they weren’t being tailed. It proved to be a wise strategy.
A weapon fired, and then another. Jack saw the shears drop as the cutter turned to help his friend. More gunshots echoed through the abandoned cityscape.
Jack heard a round fly over his head, the cracking bullet making him aware that he was in the line of fire. Now scrambling himself, the commander rushed for the corner of the nearest building.
A full-fledged gunfight erupted on the street outside the base, less than 50 feet from Jack’s position. The two fence-cutters were firing round after round, peppering the shops that only a few minutes ago had provided their cover. “You were right,” Jack whispered in rushed words. “Someone was following you.”
And the trackers wielded their own weapons. A lot of them.
Jack felt several rounds impact the building he was using as cover. Other bullets thwacked the ground around where he’d been standing a few moments before, small puffs of the ash-snow billowing into the air as the incoming lead struck the earth.
Over the nearly constant gunfire, a new sound reached Jack’s ears. For the first second, he thought it was a siren from a police car or some other emergency vehicle. The new noise quickly became human.
A chorus of voices now joined the high-pitched wail, building like a tribe of savages about to rush into a mêlée. Then Jack saw them.
They were dressed in dirty whites and pale shades of grey. Their heads were covered with masks that resembled skeletons, and on top of each man was a crown of high feathers. They charged the drainage area, guns blazing.
The fence-cutters had nowhere to go, no option but to make a stand. When their enemy ventured into the open street, Jack watched the first two men cut into their assailants with mounting fire.
The commander wasn’t a Marine, had never received even basic infantry training. Yet, he knew instantly that the assault across the open parking lot and street was a suicide charge. The ditch-holders had an excellent field of fire. They had good cover. Charging over the bare pavement was just plain crazy.
Still, the feather-people rushed, their throats filled with cries of fury and rage. Jack spied two, then three, then two more fall. It was almost as if they were insane, spurred by outrage, uncaring about life or death.
Then one of the original duo’s body jerked in convulsions, his weapon dropping from his grip. His partner didn’t seem to notice, now firing like a lunatic trying to stop the attack. The tactic didn’t work.
A moment later, the remaining fence-jumper was hit. He tried to crawl away, but the white skulls were on him in a heartbeat, the first two to arrive firing several point-blank rounds into the remaining defender.
Jack counted at least a dozen surviving featherheads now gathered around the two dead men. Weapons were confiscated, as were the wire cutters. The corpses were searched and valuables scavenged.
The apparent leader of the victorious mob shouted something, and then they hurried away … moving silently back into the shops and buildings, stooping to pick up the weapons, ammo, and bodies of their own causalities.
Just like that, the base was silent again.
Jack crouched, stunned, still not believing what he had just seen, trying to convince his heart to slow its hammering in his chest. The clamor of footfalls brought the commander back reality; Daniels and a half-dozen sailors were running toward the source of the gunfire.
“Are you okay, sir?” the chief shouted.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Jack replied. “At least I’m in a hell of a lot better shape than those two guys,” he continued, pointing toward the fence.
The Navy men waited 10 minutes before approaching the two bodies by the enclosure. Less than 20 yards away, one of the sailors discovered a hole already cut through the wire. Daniels sent two of his riflemen through the gap to investigate the bodies.
A few minutes later, one of Utah’s men took a knee and examined the fallen. Shaking his head in puzzlement, he reached down and pulled away the deceased’s mask. “What the hell?” Jack heard the shocked sailor mumble.
He then scooted to the second body and repeated the same process.
Pale in the face, the sailor peered back at his comrades behind the fence and announced, “They’re girls, sir.”
“What?” Jack barked, not believing his ears.
“Yes, sir. Both of them are females … probably 16 or 17 years old.”
Cisco and Daniels had exchanged looks of horror before the commander moved for the hole in the fence. His mind working through a whirlwind of emotions and questions, Jack marched briskly to see for himself. It was just one of those things he couldn’t believe until he confirmed it himself.
Sure enough, he found the dead eyes of a rather attractive teenager staring blankly at the sky. Her limbs produced no jewelry; her pockets were empty. Only a fresh-looking, ratty tattoo adorned her arm. It was a badly drawn representation of a Mexican flag.
An identical mark was found on the other girl. Both of them appeared to be Hispanic.
You should be whispering about boys, filling out college applications and listening to music way too loud, Jack thought, rather than having to defend yourselves in this toxic waste dump.
Daniels, scanning the perimeter, finally announced, “We’d better be getting back to the base. I feel like we’re being watched.”
“What do we do with them, Chief?” one of the sailors asked.
“Leave them,” Jack ordered. “Maybe their people will come looking for the bodies. Maybe they’ll want to bury their own.”
“Aye, sir,” came the response, but Jack could tell the sailors didn’t like it.
Back inside the fence, Jack and Daniels dawdled behind the men. “In what sort of world do high school girls carry weapons and wire cutters?” the chief probed in a low tone.
“I don’t know, Chief. The way they fought, moved, and acted, I thought they might be Marines or Army Rangers trying to reach the base. Is it so bad out there that young ladies learn to fight like Special Forces?”
The chief shook his head, “And the American Indians you described. What was up with that?”
Jack didn’t answer for a few steps, his mind still reeling from the experience. “I suppose gangs are going to do what people in hostile environments have always done. How many cultures around the world put on war paint, pads, feathers, and tall helmets to make themselves look large and ominous? I think I just witnessed evidence that mankind has regressed a few thousand years.”
Daniels scanned their sullen, melancholy surroundings before responding. Reaching to pick up a handful of the ash, he said, “This nightmarish, parallel universe is enough to make anyone resort to primitive ways. Throw in anarchy, hunger, and a pinch of desperation, and we all might start wearing feathers and face paint before it’s over.”
The captain had ordered rest, and Jack tried his best to follow those instructions.
Visions of the firefight continued to fill his head, making REM sleep nearly impossible. Finally, after hours of rolling side to side in his narrow berth, his mind slowed to the point where he began to dream.
He was a bear, mighty and strong – the apex predator. He feared nothing.
Making for the entrance of his cave, hunger filled his core. His head was clearing from the winter’s hibernation. He would find food, devour it, and satisfy the gnawing in his belly.
The light looked odd at the rock-lined opening to his cold-weather home, more resembling the darkness of winter than the crisp sky of spring. The world outside his dwelling smelled unusual as well. There was none of the freshness of a new cycle, a great void of green and new growth.
He emerged into a landscape of grey and black. Where was the budding foliage? Where was the always-welcome aroma of nature and its bounty?
Still fearless, he ambled, the muscles of his girth reassuring, the power in his legs and massive paws having never failed. Nothing in the forest could challenge him. There was no cause for concern.
There, ahead, odd shapes were rising from the grey background. They stood on two legs and were without fur except for the tops of their skulls. Long feathers, like those of the great flyers, were sticking out of the creatures’ heads. They smelled of fire and smoke. Men.
Bear-Jack still wasn’t concerned. Men were frail things. They weren’t fast or strong; their bites carried no poison. He spotted at least 20 of the feeble forms, but that triggered no anxiety. A hundred of the scrawny animals couldn’t harm him.
They stood in a ring, hard eyes staring at him. Did they want his cave? Did they want his food? They seemed aggressive, and it made the bear angry. Why would such slight creatures challenge the king of the forest? He growled a warning.
The men didn’t turn and run, and for a fleeting moment, it bothered the bear. No matter, he resolved. I will growl and frighten them away. I am hungry, and they are becoming a nuisance.
The Jack-bear reared on his hind legs and filled his lungs with rage. He let it go, directing his fury at the weaker animals surrounding him. He swiped with his razor claws, “Get away. Leave, or I will splinter your thin bones.”
But still the men didn’t retreat. Instead, they advanced closer, targeting Jack from all sides. He could detect the details of their painted skin now. He could spot the hatred in their eyes.
The first arrow pierced Jack’s shoulder from behind, the pain shooting through his brain like a bolt of fire. “How dare you!” he screamed. “I will crush you!”
Jack pivoted, intent on cutting the puny human in half with one swing of his paw. The men backed away from the menacing gesture. “Now you understand that I rule the forest!” the dream bear screamed.
They didn’t scatter and run, only moving away enough to avoid his reach. Again, an arrow pierced his body at the same instant a spearhead gouged his ribs. The pain fueled his ferocity.
Now with the frenzied lust of outrage, Jack swung left and right, always just missing the tiny adversaries surrounding him. He dropped and charged, sure he could catch and kill them.
They merely parted, avoiding his ominous thrusts, firing their painful arrows and jabbing with their spears. He didn’t understand the weapons that were sapping his strength. He couldn’t fathom their use or significance.
Jack felt himself tiring. He was strong but didn’t have endurance. The hibernation had weakened him. A new emotion swelled inside his bear chest. Fear. He was losing the fight. He was going to die. He was terrified, and that instigated more agony than the sharp points and flesh-tearing strikes. The ethereal forest grew blurry. He felt himself collapsing, and then he was peering up into a dozen painted faces that expressed nothing but hatred and wrath.
The commander awoke with a start, abruptly swinging to an upright position on his mattress. Sweat poured from his brow, enough perspiration to warrant blotting his temple with a nearby towel.
Jack stepped immediately toward the head, some internal instinct demanding that he splash cool water on his face. He struggled to shake the bad dream’s imagery that still reverberated through his mind.
“Analyze the dream,” he croaked in a hoarse whisper, remembering childhood advice given by his mother after horrors of the darkness found him at her bedside. “There is a reason why your brain conjures up such fantasy. Let’s sit and think it through. Talking about it, along with a glass of milk, will help it all make sense.”
Those comforting actions had always worked. For a brief moment, he wondered if the galley had any ‘moo juice.’
It was obvious to the commander that the bear was Utah, the cave the Pacific. The sub had emerged from its long, underwat
er hibernation to find that the world had changed.
Suddenly, one of the most powerful vessels on earth was helpless. The bear didn’t understand, was confused, and knew nothing more than to do than what it had always done.
The painted humans were easy to diagnose. The commander had watched them attack and kill the two girls just a few hours previous. The attackers had shown no mercy. Ferocious, unrelenting animals who didn’t fear or respect death … or life.
For years, Jack’s security had been vessels like Utah, with all of their power and might. Now, he found himself in the same situation as the bear. His universe had changed, and he no longer commanded the top of the food chain. Jack didn’t understand the weapons and rules than now dominated this altered universe. What he always considered strength and security were now irrelevant. His knowledge of nuclear propulsion systems, grasp of sub-surface tactics, and expertise in naval warfare didn’t mean squat anymore. The US Navy, for all its glory and dominance of the sea, no longer seemed to exist.
Again, his mother’s methods worked, the nightmare slowly vacating the commander’s thoughts. What he couldn’t shake, however, was a growing concern over Mylie and the girls.
His oldest daughter, Callie, was nine and hardheaded like her father. A rambunctious child, Cal was constantly disassembling and reconstructing everything with a moveable part. She was surely destined to be an engineer or physicist.
Sierra was three years younger and was obviously her mother’s child. Soft and pretty on the outside and as solid as a plank of oak inside, she reminded Jack so much of Mylie it was scary at times. More than once, he had accused his bride of having herself cloned.
Jack’s eyes gravitated to the only picture in his quarters, a small 6x8 framed photo of his family’s trip to Disney World last year. It had been the perfect vacation. For a moment, he wondered if the colossal amusement park still existed.
That train of thought led him down what was quickly becoming a well-worn mental path. Had Mylie and the girls made the trip to Texas? Did the Lone Star State still exist? Today’s cerebral journey, however, brought him to an entirely new destination.