FROM THE FIRE

^{AN EPISODIC NOVEL OF THE NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST}

EPISODE VI: AND THE ASHES

by

Kent David Kelly

VI-1

The Judgment of the Fates

Splinters of umber and scarlet evening sky flickered in and out of focus over the highway, coruscating haze and glimmers of crystal-clear horror — dead and twisted bodies, garbage, spinning wheels and bloodstained metal panels. The black wind gusted clumps of ashes off the road and into the air, breaking the remnants of lost souls into powder and withering them all away. East, forever east they flowed afar, to where their endless graves would lie for centuries.

The gusts tore and pulled down fragments of greater light, one last flare of radiance before the ultimate darkness. She could see the obsidian wasteland of highway wreckage, silhouettes of overpasses and fallen columns. She smeared the girl’s blood out of her eyelashes and re-gripped the wheel with radiation-burned and poisoned hands, the woman pursued and haunted, Sophia Ingrid St.-Germain.

* * *

Under the glare of the racing H4’s three un-shattered high beams, the blurring car and pickup wrecks seemed to animate in garish frames of flickering light, a lurid spectacle of melted engines with people fused inside of them. The debris seemed endless — puddles of glass, rubble piles, trash heaps, crumbled barricades, the silhouettes of half-crushed bodies dangling from splinter-frame door and windshield.

Forty miles an hour, forty-five. The H4’s damaged engine growled, fuel blurted out of the still-open gas valve. The wind swirled up more gouts of powdered glass, and in the tiny whirlwinds garbage bags and scoured trash rebounded and billowed up to either side.

The black rain was falling thickly, a sap-like mess of dusty water, flesh motes and foamy ash. Greasy smears whorled back and forth over the cracked and bullet-holed windshield as the wipers juddered beneath their sodden burden.

Sophie yanked the wheel and rounded her way around the wreck of a side-tumbled, articulated Caterpillar truck. She heard the squeal of brakes perhaps fifty yards behind her as the lead pickup truck in pursuit was forced to slow, with the H4’s muddy dust plume wrapping around its shattered windshield. More vehicles farther on behind the pickup slammed on their brakes, each forced to navigate their way through the narrow gap in a single constricted line. But the motorcycles raced on ahead.

The men of Pearson’s Corner had lost much in underestimating their prey. At least a dozen were dead, their already-imprisoned women had staged a revolt, and there could be no doubt that one side was massacring the other even as Sophie and Silas raced away. Sophie had counted at least two of the pickup trucks, several cars and a dozen motorcycles as she bolted her way down the on-ramp and back onto I-25. As she shot another glance back and hit the accelerator, the rains thickened in her mirror and smeared all the pursuing vehicles’ silhouettes and headlights away. The trucks and buses and RVs, however few of them might still be running, were far too slow to give chase. Many of the men had already abandoned the pursuit, likely ordered back to deal with the insurrection. But as Sophie was forced to slow and circle her way around another smashup in the breakdown lane, she caught a glimpse of the lead pickup there behind her once again, and the glowing Cyclopean eyes of six of the motorcycles as well.

Relentless.

Not only was her stash of medicine and food and machinery a treasure trove, but she had bested Zachary and the others, had stolen fuel, killed and gotten away. Worst of all, she had left one priceless gift behind for the imprisoned girls and women, the many fighting victims she could not save: Hope.

She would pray for the prisoners’ victory if she could. This night, if I survive, she promised. There was no time. She stole one glance back into the interior via the rearview mirror, looking for Silas’ face, before she was forced to look away. More wreckage spun by. She gunned the Hummer down the clearway, racing beyond another steely hillock made of fused-together wrecks. But she had only seen Silas’ unmoving and shadowed hand, the fingers spread as if longing to touch in death upon something beyond the H4’s ceiling.

Faster again, fifty. The rains were clearing the dust down from the air, the high beams could pick out the silhouettes of still more wrecks some sixty yards out. She was traveling about seventy-five feet a second, and the H4 was threatening to hydroplane with every rapid correction as she wove around ever thicker piles of debris. If she went any faster, she would never have enough time to react to one of the big wrecks, or a crater, and then it would all be over.

She nudged the HK submachine gun, still stuck down in her torn hazmat suit, with the tensing plane of her muscled thigh. She wondered if she would still be able to draw it out if she suddenly found herself reeling from the force of a head-on collision. And deeper, a more reptilian part of her mind mused about what it would feel like when Zachary walked around to her window and raised the double-barreled shotgun at her face and…

No.

Faster, fifty-five. Practically suicide. The lead pickup truck with the overburdened window wipers was losing ground, she could hear its engine fading. But at least six of the motorcycles were fast approaching.

Something sharp and tumbling, maybe a piece of heavy garbage, winged by and knocked the Hummer’s side mirror askew. Sophie could barely see as the rains went angling there in the wild wind, pelting across her windshield. And now I’m almost blind. She strained to listen to the motorcycles’ engines over the H4’s own, trying to discern which side the cycle gunmen were going to mount their assault from. The rearview — due to all of the remaining piled supplies — could only show her Silas’ hand, garbage and ammo boxes, the swirl of blood-speckled candy wrappers. The most crucial of the side mirrors had been scraped off long ago, and the driver’s mirror was now tilted and filthy with syrupy globs of rain.

Can’t see anything! She bit the inside of her mouth, heard a strange keening in the back of her throat. A guttural sound, a trapped and hunted animal coming to terms with an inevitable death. What? she thought. What more can I do?

In gauging the chase, Sophie was forced to listen more intently to the echoing engines, to decode the beams of headlights bouncing off the wrecks and signs around her, to estimate the distance of the riders and gunmen by their hooting catcalls and shouted orders.

A shot cracked out and Silas gasped, torn for a moment from the riptide depths of his own oblivion.

He’s still alive!

Sophie lifted one of her blood-spattered hands up off the wheel for just a moment, hoping to adjust her mirror to see either Silas or the cycles, but there were two puddle-filled craters up ahead she needed to deal with in two seconds’ time. She spat a curse as she forced the H4 in a sagging course around them.

No, too hard. Too far!

There was a delirious, panic-slickened moment of swirling weightlessness as the Hummer lurched and then slid at an angle across the lanes, hydroplaning. An eerie fluid whirr and the squealing of disrupted water sheets sang out as the vehicle’s tires completely lost contact with the surface of the road. She clenched the wheel with both fists once again, practically yanking the leather wheel-cover off in her white-knuckled grip. With slow and deliberate movements, she forced herself to turn the wheel gently not against but rather along with the vehicle’s angling momentum. Every instinct screamed at her to overreact, to yank the wheel in the other direction to immediately stop the slide.

And if you do, she knew, you’ll upend this entire thing and go flipping end over end into the ditch. Do you want to die?

She heard a grinding screech as the tires reconnected with the asphalt, spitting sheets of water out through the tires’ muddy treads. There was a horrible lurch, steamers of parallel and reflected lights from off of a toppled road sign, a scream and a jangle of shattering metal as one of the motorcycles behind her hit the puddle-craters at sixty miles an hour.

Un-aimed gunshots, screamed curses. Sophie ducked down and dared one more look into the side mirror, gauging how much faster she could go. Too fast already. The mirror winked blue droplets of light back toward her face as the lead pickup truck behind her lurched over the wreckage and body from the motorcycle. More shots, one connected with the H4’s rear bumper and ricocheted off into the asphalt, sending little gouts of black powder up over the road just ahead.

The pickup hit the last of the wreckage coming down. It had gone airborne for almost two seconds, Sophie could no longer see its reflected headlights but she could hear its racing engine rev as it lost contact with the road. It came down hard, and someone on one of the other motorcycles yelled out a warning. A rifleman flew out of the back of the pickup and was gone. There were the sounds of slammed-on breaks, skidding, more shouts of alarm. Something huge and heavy crunched into the divider wall thirty yards out behind the H4. Sophie did not have time to wonder what it might have been.

There were still distant engine sounds then, for a few seconds longer. The other cars were jumbled up behind the wrecked vehicle, and at least four of the motorcycles had slowed to a halt as well. Time! A few more precious seconds in which to live. If Sophie was going to do anything, she needed to do it now. She could not slow down, she couldn’t shoot, visibility out in front of her was scraping away to fifty yards or less and the rains were growing worse. But if Silas could manage one shot out the window, perhaps, perhaps…

He needs to get up. I can’t do this, not alone. He needs to help me. Sophie was close to terror, trembling. If she lost it, her reactions would slow as the death-terror took hold. She almost prayed that the vengeance of the men behind her would be swift, if not merciless.

No! Do this now! She could not give up, not for anything. Because no one was going to help her.

She screamed out over the engine’s roar, “Silas! You need to get up! Help me!” And nothing. Not even a groan. Another jagged line of wrecks ahead, she could not look behind her to see if Silas was alive, or — clang! Crunch. The H4’s front right corner caught on an axle spar jutting out of this nearest car wreck, sparks flew up and Sophie cried out as the H4’s speed lurched down another ten miles an hour. She straightened her course and hit the gas again.

“Silas, what do I do?”

Never an answer.

She was certain then that she was going to die alone, and if that were to be so, she was going to choose the circumstances while she still had the power to do so. She would slam on the brakes, shoot herself in the head before she had more time to question or to think. If she had any lingering doubt rise up, any hesitation to twist her fatal resolve at all, if she delayed for a moment after stopping, the men would —

And in a deep and broken voice she could not recognize as her own, she cried out, “No!”

She was not going to kill herself, not after surviving everything, after Silas had given his own life to get her this far. She had sworn to Lacie that she would make it, she —

Too late. There was no more time. She realized in one grim instant that the reason the shots had stopped was because all of the men on the remaining motorcycles were taking careful aim. Planning. Their engines were much closer, at least three to either side. They were moving in.

More wrecks in the road. Sophie was going forty again, forty-five, but the back and forth lurching of the H4 was torturing the suspension and loosening the entire rack of supplies upon the roof. Soon, the entire load was going to break off and go scattering out behind. Would that be so nightmarish, after all? Would it slow any of the oncoming motorcycles in time for her to save herself?

No. You can’t rely on randomness to save you. This was it. In twenty-five seconds or less, she would need to make a decisive feint and attack all on her own, or she would be shot in the head. It really was that simple.

Headlights were flickering in the side mirror again. This time, she managed to raise a hand off the wheel long enough to press the electric lever that lifted the mirror up a little higher. Two pairs of motorcycles were only ten yards behind her to left and right. Without large windshields, the riders were all wearing helmets, and they were certain to be suffering more in the rain than Sophie was in the H4’s sheltering interior. The motorcycles might be more maneuverable but the rain was taking its toll on control and traction, and the cycles needed to draw in very close to have a clear shot at the Hummer’s driver. If only there would be a straightaway, another swathe of mud and asphalt clear of wrecks, where Sophie could maneuver one last time, force one more twist of fate to barely defy her certain death. Please…

And there it was. Fifteen yards out in front and beyond a toppled school bus, where Sophie would soon be forced to drive all the way over to the right with the motorcycles following after her. There was a clear but lethally narrow straightaway to the very limit of her high beams’ glare.

Best chance, last chance. Silas could not save her, and she had only two choices and seconds to decide. She could either hit the brakes and fire to one flank, trying to kill the nearest rider before any of the gunmen managed to kill her; or, she could gun the engine as fast as possible and try to make an escape. And then what? You think they’re all going to give up and stop hunting you?

But there was no time for any strategic decision. The last four motorcycles had just navigated their way around the burned-out school bus, and Sophie could hear the shouts, commands for a synchronized assault on the H4. She could have sworn that the loudest voice, that fury, was Zachary’s. Life. Not exactly precious, darling, he had said to her.  Not any longer. Even if he had to risk everything, he was going to have her.

The straightaway widened a little, the two pairs of motorcycles were forced to run side by side into the narrow. The front two cycles were accelerating rapidly as they shot out of the narrow’s confines, with the other two cycles still stuck ten yards behind them.

This is the only chance, Sophie knew as she carefully drifted the H4 off to the right to restrict the already-tight clearance on that side. But she could not close the space off in time. Almost, but no. Not to deny the passage of something as small as a motorcycle. She was going to be shot, and very soon.

After everything, the nothing now. She touched upon a lilting, almost tranquil moment of final perception. Try this last, then embrace the nothing. This is where I die.

She slowed so she could drive with one hand, picked up the submachine gun. She could only fire to one side. The riders knew, or at least suspected, that she was still armed, and that it would be much easier for Sophie to fire out the driver’s side. So the fatal pincer of the attack would almost certainly come from the narrow right, where Sophie would barely be able to get off a clear shot firing through the closed passenger window. The motorcycle gunmen, however, would have almost point blank shots once they caught their first sight of her.

It was going to be quick.

And so on they came. The two motorcycles on the left were coming up fast, almost certainly to cry out or flash light in Sophie’s face or something, a distraction so that those on the right could secure the kill. Their kill plan was transparent, simple, but that was only because they had the ultimate advantage now and there was no way for Sophie to coordinate an elaborate ruse with which to counter them. Their allies to the right were simply going to accelerate by, and kill her.

At the last seconds ticked off, one of the riders back to the left caught sight of Sophie’s mirror-reflected submachine gun. Sophie, gauging the sound of the shouting voices, seeing a rider in her mirror waving two fingers in a signal off to the right, estimated that she had another three seconds to live.

She was not going to make it easy for them. With nothing to lose, she floored the gas, swerving the H4 into the clear half of the debris-spattered right lane. She left only a four-foot gap to the H4’s right side, and sure enough, the motorcycles on the left side backed away. They were certain she was going to fire on them. But instead, Sophie dropped the SMG back into her passenger’s suit and steered perfectly with both hands, a little to the left, opening up a highly vulnerable yet wider aisle of space to the H4’s right-hand side.

The men on the left shouted a warning to their companions, but it was too late. Sophie powered the passenger window down so she could see. Rain flew in, pieces of greasy trash. Some helmeted fool, steering his crimson Kawasaki up on the right, was steering with only his left hand, bringing up a huge revolver in his right. He took aim at Sophie’s head.

She screamed, slammed the brakes, swerved hard to the right, even closed her eyes. She heard the young gunman’s wild scream through his helmet, “Oh shit—”

Crunch. Pinned between the H4 and the guard rail, the man on the Kawasaki almost tumbled out of his seat. Screams, sparks flying, the horrible screech of metal as the H4’s right side was ruined. Pinned, his ribs crushed and left leg broken, the man took that crucial kill shot at Sophie’s face, and even managed another a second after.

The paired detonations from the gun were almost deafening. The first slug burned its way through the H4’s roof, the other was level and aimed almost perfectly at Sophie’s forehead. She had opened her eyes again and smashed her body back in the seat as the pinned cycle’s second ruining impact shook the Hummer and threatened to overturn it, when the shot went inches wide and out the driver’s window.

There was an angry droning buzz as the unseen second bullet went past Sophie’s nose. The spiraling of the rifled round created a streamer of misted water, burning the air in front of Sophie’s face. She swore that she could see it, smell it. She didn’t even have time to scream and the bullet was already gone.

She hit the brakes harder, swerved left. Somehow, the ruined Kawasaki’s leather-clad rider had dropped his gun and was reaching down, was still above the seat, he was standing over it on his one un-ruined leg. As Sophie pulled away, his ravaged cycle was released to go wobbling out in front of the H4. Sophie hit the gas again, the transmission groaned. As the Kawasaki tilted down to the right, disintegrating, the rider screamed, flailed, almost knocked his own helmet off. He was bleeding and falling, hovering for a fraction of an instant nine inches above the pavement, when Sophie ran him over at forty-five miles an hour.

The body rebounded low to the H4’s right, twisting under the axle. There was a horrible squelch and shattering pop as the rider’s head and helmet went under the tire and turned into splintered mush. Wet blood-and-bone chunks flew up over the H4’s windshield, and the wipers gurgled some of it away. Far more liquefied remains flew up through the open passenger window and spattered up against the headrest.

Silas groaned behind Sophie’s seat, trying to scream his way out of unconsciousness.

The H4 lost more speed, lurched and almost crashed when the dead man’s legs tangled with the back axle, but the weight of the Hummer sucked the almost-naked man and his shredded leathers under the back right wheel, spun the mutilated body out under the back and kept on moving.

Oh, God. Sophie laughed in abject, horrified relief. She could not believe that she was still alive.

Screams of fury, some far behind. It sounded as if most of the pursuers had finally given up. But at least two more motorcycles were gaining distance and joining the others, veering around the gore-smear and smoking wreckage along the road, and the clear straightaway was disappearing as rain-driven mist and darkness closed in once again. A huge maze of wrecked cars and trucks loomed up from the H4’s high beams at Sophie’s edge of sight.

She bit her lip, shook sweaty locks of hair out from her eyes. She was shivering uncontrollably. A wild, unnoticed thrill of adrenaline had stabbed through her like a rack of razor-sharp icicles and now it had left her hollowed. She eyed the wrecks and noted two more gaps in all the ruin, aimed for the widest. She tapped the gas again to gain some distance. There were wild shots now from behind her, there would not be another calculated assault but only rage. The boom of shotgun shells, the crack of pistols. Two rounds hit the carryall atop the H4 and sparks reflected in the side mirror. Water bottles shattered, plastic-wrapped boxes full of them went tumbling off the back. There was a clang, a rebound, a scatter that sounded like hailstones as more supplies fell off and bounced off the H4’s rear bumper. Sophie caught a glimpse of the stretcher she had once used to lift Silas out of the shelter, and off went all of the supplies bundled atop it, the camping stove, a crate of canned food and then another and another.

Some of the cycles slowed. A station wagon was pulling up. She saw for an instant the rain-misted silhouettes of crouching men, over what must have been the motorcyclist’s mangled body. Still other men had left their own cycles tilted upon the road, were running and picking…

What?

She couldn’t believe it. Most of the riders, even the men from one of the just-arrived pickup trucks, had all stopped to squabble and yell and scurry after the cans of food spilled out over the highway. Someone on one of the still-running motorcycles was raging at them as he flew by.

There were four motorcycles then, swerving around the chaos. They kept on coming, and Sophie saw with certainty who was in the lead. Those broad shoulders, the shotgun slung to his back, the long-barreled pistol balanced in his hand.

Zachary.

She had seen enough. She had a good distancing lead for the first time in the chase, and she intended to make the most of it before any more of her attackers regained their courage. She swerved around a pair of wrecked subcompacts, around the spliced-open front end of a delivery truck, and aimed the H4 at the farther gap. She only barely made it through, scraping the right side of the Hummer again, at forty miles an hour just as the four motorcycles approached in a single-file line, Zachary’s black Harley to the front.

Beyond that last gap in the wrecks, the shattered surface of I-25 was filled with tilted wrecks and pools of standing water. Seeing an opportunity that would never come again, Sophie quickly hit the brakes and slowed, maneuvering the H4 to a halt to face back the way she’d come, facing the gap where the first of the oncoming motorcycles would soon appear. She opened the driver’s door as she unbuckled herself.

Come on! She was biting her lip, trying not to scream at herself. She had practiced moving almost as quickly as this in the shelter when she’d been training with all of the different guns, the hazmat suit. Almost. Move faster. Faster!

Making certain the high beams were pointing at the gap, she slammed the H4 into park and shoved open the driver’s door. She yanked out the submachine gun and braced it in both hands.

Seven seconds later, the first motorcycle came cruising through the gap. Zachary had just enough time to see the stopped H4, Sophie in ambush, the cover of wrecks and the deep pools of water. Then he must have gone blind in the high beams’ glare. He slammed his brakes, tilted his body as his Harley was forced into a right-hand tilt and he tried to bring his pistol around, but the combination of frantic movements was too much for anyone to deal with. Especially, it seemed, a rider who had been following taillights, a man almost blinded by the rain. The Harley’s front tire caught a crater-puddle’s edge, lurched at a twisting angle and tilted down into water, sending the cycle’s back end up into the air. Zachary’s arms pin-wheeled as he stumbled off the fallen bike, his legs pumping and wrenching in mad swirls as he spun over his falling Harley, trying to run at forty-five miles an hour.

He went down hard, his shins cracking and one leg popping open, sending a bright white shard of blood-laced bone out through his sodden jeans. There was a loud crack over the sound of thunder as his helmeted forehead slammed down into the asphalt. The three other riders, getting their first glimpse beyond the wrecks then going blind, hitting the brakes of their own cycles, each came to wobbling halts just on the other side of the wreck-gap. They could not yet see Sophie’s from that vantage, but they must have seen their leader’s broken body tumbling out over the spinning Harley, skidding across the road in a bloody funnel of mud and water.

Zachary raised his head, just as the other riders parked their cycles and were creeping through the wreck-gap with pistols raised. Very soon, their helmet tints would adjust, or visors would be raised, and they would be in range to shoot at Sophie, but they were still marveling at Zachary’s shattered leg and frantically pumping arms as he tried to raise himself out of a filthy puddle.

Sophie had been taking aim as Zachary was falling. As he raised his head, she could see that one side of his tilted helmet had fractured off of his face in that first impact. There was exposed skull, and a rain-spattered flap of skin hanging into his bloodied eye socket. He could not see his allies raising their guns behind him, he could barely see Sophie but he was staring at her with one rolling and terror-filled eye. The shotgun was gone. He had a gloved hand clutched up in a broken fist, holding his shattered nose together, and the other hand’s fingers were splayed up shivering in the air, reaching out for her.

He had time to cry out only: “Mercy!”

There was none. Sophie, knowing she would need every bullet, had already adjusted the SMG’s trigger configuration from full automatic to burst. She took careful aim at Zachary’s face, and gunned him down.

The clutching hand and then the face behind it ruptured and exploded. Zachary’s left broken leg twitched up in a spasm of a kick, and Sophie was instantly reminded of the face-caged girl whose blood and gore she was wearing still. Zachary’s gloved hands flopped down, his ruined face hit hard and splashed up a scarlet dash from the pooling rain. Behind him, some twenty yards farther on, the other three riders were standing in front of their motorcycles, helmets open, mouths wide open in disbelief and horror. One of the young men had two automatic pistols out, but they were pointed at the ground while he looked down on Zachary’s shattered body. Another had dropped his gun and raised his arms in a shielding pantomime of abject surrender, and the third was staring directly at Sophie in the light, with a sopping trash bag partially wrapped around his shoulders. The wind-blown plastic was flapping in his face. Sophie selected this man next, and with a rising scream of fury she crouched down further in her seat behind the H4’s open door, aiming the SMG at the man’s leather-clad panting chest as he was firing almost blind.

His first shot went over Sophie’s head. Sophie fired a burst at the same time, but only kicked up spurts of water near the gunman’s feet. The man’s second shot hit the carryall ten inches above Sophie’s head.

She fired again, another two-shot burst that dashed smoking jets of sparks off the wreck of a Buick, but still to the left of the man’s now-crouching silhouette. She hadn’t meant to give any warning shots, only to kill. He dove and went crawling away, and the other two men ran off in the other direction behind the wrecks, back the way they’d come. The youngest one of them gave a last frantic signal of submission, then all three ran back to their cycles.

No cycle headlights. No more shots, no shadows. Sophie waited, switching the SMG’s fire configuration back to full automatic. I can’t believe I missed. I…  If she had fired full auto from the very first and missed, she would have emptied out her magazine in three or four seconds and would probably be dead by now. She waited, ready to spend her entire clip if the three surviving men dared to charge out at her again. Very likely, at least two of the men and she herself would die.

But after a few more seconds engines rumbled, headlights fumed on in reflected and turning jets of amber and bluish light, and there were only the sounds of rain, and thunder, and then three motorcycle engines fading far away. Sophie waited there for another full and tortuous minute, staring numbly at the growing crimson pool draining out of the jagged top of Zachary’s shrapnel- and hair-draped skull.

A dart of lightning, distant thunder. After the rumbling had cleared, there was only the sound of distant engines.  Even that was more a memory than anything real. She rummaged for the loaded hunting rifles, brought them both into the front. She waited a little longer, taking cover on the other side of the Hummer’s hood, but the men did not return.

Gone. She sobbed a breath of sheer relief. I can’t believe it.

And so it ended.

It seemed to Sophie as if the Fates themselves had judged the relentless chieftain of Pearson’s Corner, and found him wanting. Young master Rollins — for Sophie had recognized the man who had given the signal to retreat, it was the first cowardly boy she had almost killed back in the fuel bay, a very brave and reckless boy until she had pointed her gun into his face — would perhaps ensure that none of the other fools would chase after the crazed and deadly Sophie ever again. Not that night, at least. The ruinous thirst of hatred had already exacted a terrible price from the men of Pearson’s Corner, and nothing had been gained but freedom from Zachary, two further men’s deaths and a few scraps and cans of food. And the food would last longer, with so many dead. What else was there to fight for?

In disbelief, sopping wet and listening between growls of thunder to the ringing in her ears, Sophie finally got back into the H4. She secured the rifles, stashed the SMG. It was time to drive a little farther to be sure, to hide the Hummer between the looming shadows of two or more enormous wrecks, to crawl into the back and to see if she could save her Silas’ life.

“How?” she whispered to no one. She burrowed behind her seat for a bottle of water. “How am I alive?”

Deep inside her, a distant girl was laughing, in terror and in pain and breathless ecstasy. The spirit of Patrice, having at last beheld the death of many men through her still-living sister’s eyes, began to exhale illusory clots of darkness into Sophie’s mind, like almost-carnal sighs of satisfaction. It felt to Sophie as if Patrice St.-Germain was at last crawling from off her throne, a bulbous spider, sated of blood and gore. You did it, sister mine. I knew you could kill in the name of love. I knew!

Sophie swallowed. The taste of coppery blood where she had bitten the inside of her mouth, the water, the bittersweet lingering of horror scarcely fallen into the past.

“Alone,” Sophie whispered. “Leave me alone.”

She expected the spider-voice, the laughter, but the ghost once deep inside of her had nothing else to say.

VI-2

The Crossing of the War Ground

Darkest hour, the deep of night. There were no stars to behold, no moon that she could find. There was only the endless purple-gray, an untraceable radiance of lingering twilight that seemed to be nothing more than afterimages caused by the high-speed ghosting of the H4’s high beams. Rising in the mist, the windborne streams of ashes turned to gluey swirls, spattering the fractured windshield.

Much more fuel had been lost, despite Sophie’s closing of the gas valve before she got moving again. She wasn’t sure how much longer the engine could keep her and Silas moving. She coasted through fog banks, and whenever the wind rose and thinned all the mist away, she would race on at sixty miles an hour. This far north of Denver and Loveland and Pearson’s Corner, toward Wyoming, there were fewer wrecks and many more straight-aways. Once, even, the terrifying glimpse of a sodden and limping horse crossing over the road. But after that, nothing and no one. Far beyond the wreck-clog of death of Colorado’s major cities, the northern wasteland seemed to be a dead zone.

When she had halted, finally convinced that the men of Pearson’s Corner had given up their pursuit, she had not only cared for Silas. She had finally wiped the last of the girl’s blood and bone chips off the front of her suit, had thrown the gore-stained rags out of the window. She wondered if there was any brain matter still in her hair, decided not to search for it. Every time now she looked in the rearview back at Silas, making certain he was still breathing, she absolutely refused to meet her own gaze.

What if I still have that girl all over my hair, my face?

She armed the sweat off her brow, her cheeks, and kept on driving.

Silas had regained consciousness perhaps an hour after she had re-bandaged him, had even spoke and begged for water. But he could not open his eyes. Sophie had cleaned and cared for him as best she could, but he was losing blood he could not afford to spare. She had forced a little water down his parched and eager throat, had cleaned his face, had touched his hands as he reached blindly out for her. One of his hands was almost fine, though trembling; the other had been clutched behind his back with a nasty sprain, almost broken.

“Go, naw, go.  Don’t wait on me,” he had managed to whisper. She had kissed his brow, shifted him (and he had almost screamed), supported his back with a pillow so that his breathing would be less ragged. A sickly sweet smell had emerged from his back when she had lifted him to put a cleaner blanket underneath. The one she pulled out was sodden with pus and sweat and the stains of bloody feces.

She had allowed herself perhaps thirty more minutes to clean him, then had gotten out, sealed the gas cap, and made one pacing circuit around the H4 looking at all the battle damage (and it was bad, and the blood, the blood), and then gotten back in.

The endless driving. Sophie did not even know what exhaustion was any longer, it was simply the unbroken and almost senseless mode of lingering existence. Silas’ groans of pain, the sound of him coughing up water from the straw and trying again to drink all on his own, these sounds were gratefully received and reassuring. He might not last another day beyond this night, but for now, he was somehow still alive.

“Tough old bird,” she whispered.

Somehow, he had heard her.

“Damn right, this bird in hand be far, far better than any two weaklings down in the bush,” he had murmured back to her. “So don’t you let me go, Mrs. S.-G. Not just yet.”

And she laughed, more in relief than joy. “That’s my Silas.”

He told her to keep moving, before the fuel leak could run them dry. She reached back and took his faltering hand. She even sat up straighter, craned her neck and managed to smile at him. But he could not see her. His barely-opened eyes were white with the first glimmerings of radiation cataracts, he knew or at least suspected that he was going blind. But Sophie, letting his fingers go, said only, “Rest, my sweet. Rest.” She decided not to tell him that what little was left of his silver hair had fallen out.

* * *

She was able to drive faster as he slept again, crossing over I-25 at a turnaround gap in the mid-wall and using the near lane of southbound where the wrecks were fewer. Toward the end, it seemed, no one had been driving toward Loveland or Boulder or Denver. Almost everyone had been driving north.

But many of the wrecks were in the middle, hugging either side of the guard rail, heaped high in the water-filled ditches. There in the sunken ground, it appeared that people had parked their cars in the final moments and crawled under them. Those bodies were floating in grisly masses. The middle of the morass had turned into a kind of haphazard floating wall of trash, and the rain-driven debris gathered there as well. That left the southbound lanes of I-25 as the fastest way north and into the unknown. There were bodies here and there sprawled out in the gravel, fetal figures and some still eerily sitting up, crumpled along the divider wall. But the road itself was almost clear.

Sophie dared to edge the H4 up to fifty, and the engine complained loudly. Sometimes, even, it sputtered and slowed before it powered its way through again with a delayed and guttering roar. It would not ever go much faster now. She drank water, let it splash over her cheek, shook her head to stay awake. She wondered what would happen to Pearson’s Corner, now that the women had staged their revolts and Zachary was left dead on the highway. Who could be left alive? Perhaps, with so many of the men having departed to chase after Sophie, the women had managed to take over the truck stop, or even to escape. Perhaps they had holed themselves up in one of the outbuildings, or reached a hostage-truce in which they could finally leave the accursed place.

And go where?

She sighed. She wondered if there would ever be a time when people would be able to band together once again in any numbers without violence, or without dominance, or threats of torment. The women. She wished she could have saved them all. But she was one person, a mother who had sworn herself to her daughter. Or at least, to her daughter’s memory.

You can’t control what the Fates shall will for them. Not any of that, not for anyone. Hopefully in the future, there would be a time when she could save others. She had killed, endured, survived. She still feared death, but somehow not nearly as much as she had even three days and nights ago.

Days. Those mere, predictable units of measured and fading time now seemed impossible. She wanted to believe that someday, she would be able to help other men, shelter children, men like Silas, girls like the caged one, families like the peaceful and dying survivors she had met briefly near Calvary Chapel outside of the ruined town of Ward. But that was only a hazy future, one that she might never touch.

In the deeper night the rains began to thin, turning to low curls of mist that glided along the road, pooling and even revealing with furtive circles where the potholes and craters were. This, along with the spread of distance as the slowing winds grew clearer, allowed her to drive even faster. But the engine could not hold fifty for very long.

She could not stop and care for Silas again. Not yet. It was time for her to whisper soundlessly to herself, saying nothing but forcing her mind to stay awake, time to put as much distance between the ravaged Hummer and Pearson’s Corner as she could.

* * *

Perhaps half an hour later, there was a sudden and drastic change in the very nature of the road. It was not lightly littered, or barely warped, or speckled by only occasional human remains. Gashes of it were clear, perfectly. There were furrowed lines of sodden ash, grease streaks, piles of rubble and melted tires compressed together in blob-like heaps along the center guard rail, yes. But everything large, entire wrecks, dunes, the corpses and skeletons of cattle and of people, had all been crushed and pushed off to one side. By what? Bulldozers? There were snakes of wispy ash spreading across the still-dampened road, but they were faint there beneath the mist, like teasing and ghostly fingers. Entire stretches and narrows within the road had been cleared, perhaps only a night before.

A little further on, concrete barriers had been set up to keep the ruin crushed more firmly off to the side, funneling down the warped highway to a single widened lane. Someone, she thought, no. Many someones. The people who did this are still alive.

It had taken many men to do this. The only thing she could think of was the military. Sophie doubted an invading force, however cautious, would have bothered to take such drastic steps to clear a portion of the highway. If Americans had done this, it meant they were not hunkered down under fire. Yet. But if they were fortifying a stretch of road, forcing entry through only a narrow path, securing a perimeter…

She knew she needed to go off the road.  She drove under an overpass, and there in the distance with unbelieving eyes she saw the first tease of almost-lights, fluorescent illuminations threaded across the interstate perhaps a mile or two away.

How bright did those lights have to be, and how many of them were there, for her to almost discern the shapes of vehicles and crane towers through the gloom?

Get off the road Sophie, she was telling herself. Get off. Go around somehow. Now.

She turned her high beams down to normal brightness, and all at once the dark crush of night seemed to engulf her. Three frail beams pierced the shadows. She slowed drastically, a little too quickly, then steadied and considered her dwindling options.

The land to either side of I-25 was clear pasture, filled with debris and ash but almost untouched. There were dunes of wet ash, yes, but dead grasses dominated the spaces between. Could she get across the center and back to the northbound lanes? They did not seem to have been bulldozed, many more wrecks were standing there. But where was she going to drive off of the highway and onto the frontage road? And even that would not be enough. To avoid being spotted, she would need to four-wheel out over open ground, risking getting stuck in mud or on the ruins of a fence or something worse. And if the H4 ever became mired, she would never make it to Kersey.

You’ve got to try. You have no choice.

She slowed, looked to the center with more care. There was a gap up ahead, a connecting dirt road of the kind once used for speed traps by patrol cars. There were piles of trash there, but the way looked relatively clear. She drove off there, made her way into the northbound lanes, found a smoother slope of rain-slickened grasses beyond that. She forced the Hummer into four-wheel, and the gears did not transition easily. The entire frame shuddered and the engine threatened to gutter to a halt. She eased off the gas, coasting down off the highway at ten miles an hour, and jumped in her seat as the tires caught wet ground and began to spin.

She tapped the gas again, forced the H4 down into the ditch, through standing black water and up the other side. The resulting jolt shook another crate of water bottles off the roof, more supplies gone she refused to stop for. What if the H4 got stuck here, if she was stupid enough to park it in the mud and get out? She kept on moving.

A sudden voice cried out from the back: “Jenny!”

She gasped, swallowed. “Silas?”

He stirred, his body moving with the H4’s sluggish crawl over mud and the grassy earth. He murmured something more.

“Silas, are you awake?”

“Wish…” he moaned. Sophie waited. “Wish… I wasn’t,” he said then. He grunted as the H4 bumped around. “Hell are we?”

“Off road,” Sophie answered. She did not tell him about the road block, the silvery line of lights up ahead and now almost out of sight off to the northwest.

Silas did not reply. Sophie drove on for a few minutes longer, struggling to keep both hands on the wheel. She feared the Hummer would not be able to take this rough handling for very long, with all the damage it had suffered and the uneven and shaky load. How far off would she have to go, to go around the light-barrier over I-25 and make her way back onto the highway unseen? She guessed that the best she could do would be to keep driving until she could not see the line of crane-lights at all. Then she would need to guess at a northwest angle and slurry her way back to the northbound interstate on the farther side.

But it’s a miracle you haven’t run into any fences yet, she chided herself. You’re not going to be able to keep this up. Not for long.

Should she dare put on the high beams again? No. She could barely see, but it was safer to be shrouded. In the near distance off to the right loomed a fenced-in border-wild of churning cornfield, to the left a grass-lost remnant of some dirt pasture road. Sophie headed toward this. Once she was past the cornfield, she would need to go further out east until she could not see the lights at all, then find her way north again.

As she neared the road, Silas scrabbled fingernails up the back of Sophie’s seat. He said something she could not discern. She let her foot off the gas, and heard him again, “… you hear that?”

She let the H4 coast on, down to almost nothing. She thought she had heard something upon the wind, a gathering rumble. Thunder? But should couldn’t hear it any longer over the H4’s own tortured engine.

The H4 coasted to a halt. “Silas?” Sophie turned in her seat. “What did you hear?” She released her safety belt, looked back at him. He was parched, eyes pale and blinded, his hand was out searching. “Your water,” she said, “it’s empty, let me—”

“Soph. Keep. Moving.”

“I will, I just want to see if I can get you—”

“No, keep moving,” he insisted. “Now. Something. Ain’t right.”

“Okay. Okay.”

She turned and buckled herself in again, just in time to see the looming black shape of some military vehicle now parked not even twenty out in front of her. A gas-masked and camouflaged soldier riding up on the back had a swivel-mount machine gun pointed at her. She had time to say only, “Oh my God,” and then there was a violent glare of green light as a searchlight flooded the entire H4 with violent illumination, and the window tinting kicked in.

Another man’s voice crackled in over the static cry of an amplified bullhorn: “Stop your vehicle! Raise your hands!”

VI-3

The Honor of Silence

The burst-glare coming in from the rear-mounted spotlight on the Oshkosh Special Purpose All-Terrain Vehicle burned a greenish sun through the H4’s windshield, flooding over Sophie’s skin and bathing her in a sickly emerald glow. A US Army Sergeant in full combat gear and a chromium-visored helmet, carrying a holographic sight-mounted M4 carbine, stalked up to the H4 and tapped on the now-locked door beneath Sophie’s window.

“Ma’am? Put this window down. Now, or I’ll do it for you.” The Sergeant signaled across his neck, and the corporal at the S-ATV’s machine gun raised the searchlight arc into the air. The Sergeant raised his visor as Sophie lowered her window by several inches. “Please,” she said, “I’m just finding my way through, a citizen, I don’t want—”

“Hands off the wheel, ma’am. And all the way down. There. Why are you off the road? You’re in no man’s land.” The Sergeant gave another finger-signal, never taking his eyes off Sophie, her face, her throat, the pink traces of bloodstain on her armor. In response, some other soldier slammed the S-ATV’s door. Sophie heard boot-steps, someone stalking around the Hummer’s muddy circumference. “We’ve got a block zone,” said the Sergeant, “just up 25. Are you trying to avoid it?”

“No, I just—”

“Where did you come from?”

“Do I need to tell you?” Sophie lowered one of her hands, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the glare. The Sergeant shook his head in a curt and silent warning, and she lifted her hand off the wheel again. “I mean, here? Isn’t there a place where—”

“We can do this here,” he interrupted her, “or you can tell me the same things from an overcrowded mort cell back in HQ.” The grimy and stubble-muzzled Sergeant sighed at Sophie and then called out over his shoulder, “Smelling ammonia and gun oil, captain.” He turned back to Sophie, raised his weapon toward her and she flinched away. “Glove compartment. Is that a pistol magazine?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It’s empty.”

“What is that submachine gun down there, HK? Hands front I said, lady. Eyes to me.”

“It is.” Sophie frowned, her nose twitched. She could smell cigarette smoke from somewhere. “Do you think I’d survive this long without one?”

“Who the Hell are you?”

“Sergeant, enough.” Another taller and gaunter man came up, put his molded black Nomex glove on the Sergeant’s shoulder. He exhaled smoke out of his nostrils, gave his second a weary smile. “Enough. I’m going to be asking the questions here.”

The Sergeant stiffened his shoulders, and Sophie could see his glistening jaw clench. His teeth were grinding. But he relented nonetheless. “Captain,” he said to the gaunt man, “you’re covered and clear.” He scowled at Sophie. “Ma’am, and you in the back seat, keep your hands out and still. Park the vehicle out of four-wheel. Ma’am, ma’am, with one hand. Put the vehicle out of four.” He waited until she did so and then finally turned away.

The wry and exhausted Captain looked up and down at Sophie, her hazmat, her taped-in water straw, her burned fingers, as if he was trying to figure out how an almost middle-aged woman and a nearly-dead black man could possibly have made it more than twenty feet out of shelter without getting themselves killed. But after a few agonizing seconds, he smiled a little, arched his eyebrow, and carefully put his cigarette out in the palm of his glove. He pocketed the stub away for later.

“Now,” he said to her. “Hal has a way, and I’m sorry for that. Just don’t make any sudden moves and you can put your hands down and be at ease. Where did you come from?”

She had been expecting this question again, had decided precisely how she was going to lie. If she swallowed at the same time to keep the Captain’s eyes off of her own, lowered her hands while she was talking, hopefully he wouldn’t notice the partial lie and that would be all. For now.

“We came down from Lyons,” she said. “Past Loveland. There was authority in Lyons, for a time. We worked there. We fled when everything collapsed.”

The Captain tensed, put one gloved hand on the lowered window so Sophie could not raise it. She saw his other hand drift down to his holstered combat pistol. “Ma’am,” he said slowly, “you do not lie to me. I don’t think anyone’s come out of Lyons for seven nights or days. We lost radio eight nights ago. You try again.”

Hal had been listening. He took a few steps forward, stood at the H4’s bumper. “Captain Raaen, you haven’t given me notice to call this in yet. You want me to start handling the back end of this?”

“No,” said the Captain, his unblinking eyes searching Sophie’s own. “You’re on guard, Sergeant. Remember?”

Hal murmured, “Yes, sir.” The man raised a knee, put a booted foot on the H4’s bumper, and stared at Sophie through the windshield.

“All right,” said Sophie. She did not break her gaze with the Captain, so he could see she that this time, she was telling him the truth. Or at least the beginning of it. “We just now came, some hours ago, from Pearson’s Corner.”

Captain Raaen frowned, but he brought up his other hand. “Really, now.” His fingers tapped at the lowered window in contemplation. “Strange, but maybe not. I could see it. I thought our last south patrol heard more than one set of engines earlier on. You alone?”

“We are.”

“Pearson’s… we’ve been wondering about some things down there.” He licked his lips, tilted his head. Sophie knew he was nervous, yet trying to feign a casual air. “Anyone else alive you might have seen?”

“Yes,” she answered, “but not anyone whom I’m befriended to.”

That brought a genuine smile. He might have been handsome once, he had a look about him that instantly said Married With Children in Sophie’s mind. His grin was a little too much like Tom’s and it hurt her heart to see it. He said: “No one who… whom?… you’re befriended to. I see. Could you de-formalize that a bit? As in, give me a little more of the simple truth?”

“There’s hundreds of trucks down there,” said Sophie. “In the FEMA fortifications. Buses, tow trucks, even tankers at the old truck stop. Some are still running. And fuel. And there’s men, armed men, at least sixty. But they’ve…”

She trailed off. Captain Raaen coaxed her gently. “Yes?”

Sophie relented. “They’ve taken many women hostage. Torture. One died that I could see, at least three others were… dying when I left. I tried to save her. Just outside of my SUV.”

The Captain did not blink. But his smile had faded as he had been listening intently. “She died. To gunshots?”

“Yes.”

“Explaining this cranial blood spatter up your runner and wheel guard.”

She cringed. “I… yes.”

The Captain’s fingers tapped again. Sophie waited, certain that her heart had missed a beat. He thinks I’m a looter, a murderer. It’s over. She slowly moved a lock of hair out of her eyes, trying to show no further emotion. He’ll want answers. Where will they take me? Fort Morgan? It doesn’t matter. My freedom has just been taken from me.

But the Captain said only, “I’m sorry you had to see that.” Hal cursed audibly under his breath, and the Captain shot him a deadly glare before returning his attention to Sophie. “And these… sixty men? All were hostile?”

“We tried to stop for help,” said Sophie, “for fuel, to barter and they fired on us. I ran over some wreckage on the way out as we fled.”

“Explaining these bullet holes,” said the Captain, “and all your fender damage. And perhaps your windshield. And you’re scorched in the back and leaking fuel underneath, you know.”

“Yes.”

“But not explaining, I’m afraid,” continued the Captain, and one of his hands was resting on the butt of his pistol once again, “the two shreds of flannel shirt, or the scalp and hair and brain matter, currently trailing down from the torn mesh and billet of your H4’s lower grill.”

Sophie flushed with alarm. Brain matter? The motorcycle rider… Now she was a murderess, a potential insurgent, and a second-time liar. Her head was shaking back and forth, she felt a tremor of shame, her hands came up trembling. “I…”

“Ma’am,” said Hal from the front of the H4, “do not move.”

Sophie heard a nearby sound of metal and metal, a clicking that sounded like oiled ball bearings. She realized the unseen third man had dimmed down the searchlight to half and was training the swivel machine gun, aiming at a spot just above her head.

Oh, shit.

“No,” the Captain said to Hal and the other someone, “Ease up a little. I’ve got this.”

Sophie pressed her open palms together, hid her mouth behind the tips of her shaking fingers. She looked to the Captain without moving her head. He’s trying to buy me time, she realized. A chance for some more truthful alibi. He doesn’t want to take me in. But if I tell them about the shelter…

Nevertheless, he was trying both to do his duty and to protect her. She had no idea why that might be, but there it was.

But the Captain was running out of reasons not to apprehend her, or at least not to order her out of the vehicle. Scratching his nose with the back of his glove, he said to the Sergeant, “All right. Let’s get the back end going. You get a clean transmission, you go crank that call.”

The Sergeant, looking excited and pleased for the first time, gave the Captain a curt salute and went back to the S-ATV. He crawled in and slammed the door.

“Listen to me,” said the Captain to Sophie when he was certain Hal was out of earshot, “we’re under wartime orders, we’re probably going to have to take you in. I believe you to a point, and I’m sorry. But this… doesn’t look good.”

Sophie nodded, pressed her hands more tightly together. She wanted to shrivel behind her fingers, fade away, for this entire night to be erased. She didn’t know what to say.

The Captain tapped one of her power window buttons, lowered the passenger side window behind Sophie’s head. He grimaced as he caught a fuller whiff of Silas’ filth and decay.

He moved to the back door, and Sophie could hear him say, “You. Hands away from that Ruger. You’ve been hearing me?”

“Indeed I am,” murmured Silas, his voice feeble yet very clear. “And good to hear you, sir. I’m almost blind.” Soothing. Sophie smiled a little, despite herself, relieved. She thought he might be delirious.

Silas, she prayed, please. Help me.

“No worries here,” Silas was saying to the Captain who loomed above him. “I hear you fine.”

The Captain said coldly, “What are you doing with this woman?”

“Me?” Silas’ voice was smooth, almost perfectly relaxed. And Sophie knew: He’s even more scared than I am. “Oh, I’m just a warrior lost out from an elder war,” Silas was saying. “Fine overseas marks you’ve got there on your helmet, Captain Raaen. Afghanistan?”

Sophie frowned. Silas? Can you see? She heard the Captain shifting, covering something. He was regarding Silas with more care. As Sophie listened and her eyes adjusted more, she could see two silhouettes inside the S-ATV parked in front of her H4. One was Hal, on some kind of radio, the set of his body telling Sophie that he was still glaring out at her. The other was a young kid up top, with the huge swivel gun pointed nonchalantly at her face. She wished she could read his expression, know what her chances were.

Next to nothing, she decided.

The Captain was asking Silas, “And who might you be?”

“Just and old war dog, I fear. Call me Colson. You and me we’re equal measure, O-3, NATO OF-2, you know how it is. Me now, I’m just opting out from my sleeping through my last hurrah.”

There was silence again as the Captain and Silas considered one another. Sophie began to hope that there was a way out of this, when the door of the S-ATV ratcheted open and Hal called out, “Captain, can we at least disarm and search them now? Jal’s on the horn, he wants to know what we found that’s making us late for—”

“You tell Jal all clear,” barked the Captain, “and to cool his fucking jets for fifteen.”

“Sir?” The Sergeant sounded more than merely confused. He was flat-footed, absolutely baffled by his superior.

Captain Raaen puffed up to his full height as he walked back toward the S-ATV. Sophie could not hear what was being said, but if two men had ever found a way to shout whispers at one another, it would look and sound very much like the hushed-up conversation ten feet in front of her.

Then Hal asked, “Support?”

“No.” The Captain sighed. “They’ve civvies. Not yet.”

“ETA back to Crucis?”

“Investigating. None at this time.”

Hal said, “Okay…”

And the Captain’s patience finally flared out. He looked down on his Sergeant and said, “‘Okay?’”

“… Yes, sir.”

The Captain strode back to the H4, ignoring Sophie and going back to Silas’ open window. “Where did you say you were from, Captain?” It took Sophie a moment to realize that Silas was being addressed by his former rank.

“Can’t recall that I did,” said Silas. “First Division then later Fort Carson, is what I think you’re asking.”

“Can you tell me a little about one of your assigns?”

“My first taste of combat,” said Silas, “was Operation Bushmaster, November ’65. Third Brigade, First Infantry, search and destroy in deep Binh Duong. Rubber plantation. If you can call being shot at out of nowhere with no chance to return fire combat, you understand.”

“I can and do indeed,” said Captain Raaen. “I’m sure you saw much more thereafter.”

“Hell yes, Tet and back again. By Bien Hoa, me and Melly Gee were marksmen. I was fool enough to volunteer. Twice, different units, I went in eyes wide shut. Nam was a white man’s war and a black man’s fight, believe someone called it. As an American boy, Shreveport through and through, I didn’t quite feel that way. Was honor’s call. You know what I’m saying?”

“Martin Luther said that, my father once told me,” said Captain Raaen. “I understand.” There was the sound of drinking, groaning. Sophie realized that Captain Raaen was helping Silas with his water. “Lot of materiel you got up back and top here.”

“Aw, you know how women are.” Silas laughed a little, not even trying to hide his affection and his reverence for Sophie. “It’s mostly evening wear between combat runs. She’s quite the packer.”

Captain Raaen gave a dry chuckle despite himself. “If you were originally packed that way to the roof, you’ve come hundreds of miles. She must be quite an incredible woman.”

“She saved my life today. Twice.” Silas’ voice was failing as he strove for urgency. “God and you willing, she’ll… she’ll be saving more.”

“Have no fear.” Captain Raaen whispered something indecipherable to Silas, then: “Listen, Captain Colson. If you can play almost dead here for my racist bonehead Sergeant, I’ll take your word of honor. You think I should be calling this in?”

“No,” whispered Silas. “Please.”

“I hear you. Two units, eh? Some retirement.” Captain Raaen’s voice gave a little. “Looks like you’re on a hell of a last mission, Captain.”

“That I am.”

“And who am I to delay or deny you?” Captain Raaen patted the seat behind Silas’ head. “Godspeed, Colson.” He walked back up to Sophie’s window. “Say nothing until I give my orders,” he said to her. His demeanor had entirely changed, from suspicion to grave and almost hopeless camaraderie. “If I read my man, ma’am, half a prayer and we’ll have you leaving soon.”

Sophie let out a ragged breath that she had been holding for at least sixty seconds.

Captain Raaen wiped his mouth, tapped his helmet. He shook a fist at the S-ATV, first at his ear and then in front of his face. “Sergeant Rickson, you end that chatter? Like now? Good. Get Petey out of the back, you tell him that’s no fucking way to point a 12.7 M.G. in bad light. We’re setting up shop for a little while, going to try some risky welds. Too soft to jack here, I’ll go under. Going to get a little dangerous, we’ve got fuel to deal with. Gear it for tungsten on stainless. I’m going to do some epoxy and tape on two of these leaks directly. Then after I do a fuel vapor and spark check, get leather blankets, both you help me patch a box far as possible around this H4’s leaks and we’ll get these people underway.”

A flabbergasted Sergeant Hal Rickson had stumbled out of the S-ATV during these orders, a com-set still dangling under his helmet’s chinstrap. His mouth worked a few times toward the end and when he finally managed to say something, it was, “What? Captain, fuck’s sake, welding on this will be suicide, and she’s packed to the gills with materiel, our strict orders are to bring them in for process—”

“Whose orders are you taking tonight, Sergeant?”

“Captain Murphy’s. Sir. He told us twice, until we’re back on—”

“My colleague Murphy’s orders,” said Captain Raaen, “amended by the Colonel’s superior understanding, is that we are all to exhibit sound judgment in the field pertaining to our advancing perimeter, potential hostiles, and discretionary interception of friendly or neutral disease carriers, correct?”

“Well, yeah. Yes, sir. But—”

“And this elderly black man back here is clearly diseased. Can’t you smell him? Hal, you know damn well, we can’t yet admit Asian civvies or even officers of any kind without Bryce’s face-to-face approval at gate HQ.”

“Asian?” Hal looked in at Sophie again, did not even notice Petey behind him, hopping off the back of the S-ATV and unbundling supplies as a matter of urgency. “This woman ain’t Asian, all respect. She’s whiter than—”

“You been drinking again?” Captain Raaen took half a step forward, Hal took three backward and ended up backed against his armored vehicle’s hood. “We need to talk to Murphy one last time about your little eyesight problem? She’s clearly the most Asian woman I’ve ever seen. Surely even you can see it? That pallor is nothing but the glare of our headlights, man.”

“Of… course,” Hal offered in reply.

“You seem doubtful, Sergeant. Do I need an officer? Some Ranger Lieutenant? You’re almost making me question my choice of field second for patrol and special procurement.”

“No, Captain,” said the Sergeant. “No. I’m not doubtful.”

“And I think,” Captain Raaen continued, “we have a serious re-procure and rescue to mount down south with a hundred of Murphy’s men, Pearson’s Corner, tomorrow A.M. if not sooner. The Colonel will be dying to hear about what you and you alone discovered about our ‘lost’ fuel bays down there without ever risking a life. Assuming, of course, you can show a modicum of discretionary silence here to justify my faith in you. Two go loose, sixty are ours. Pearson’s, that’s materiel. I’m making this call.”

“Of course I’m your man. Sir. She’s… he… at least, you can’t weld on this mess, it’s just—”

“It’s what?”

“It’s nothing,” Hal answered. “Sir.”

“That’s what I thought myself,” said Captain Raaen, “five fucking minutes ago. And so again, Sergeant, now that you’ve wasted all of our time, get back to Jal, tell him we got lost chasing headlights, but managed some questioning on Asian civvies and got semi-reliable recon on Pearson’s. And that’s all you say, the rest will be mine tonight. If you manage to do that, then let’s you and Petey patch some of the safer welds and get this unclassifiable Asian civvie and her Typhoid Mary colored friend on their way. If we ever see them a second time in the next 48, we re-procure by force, with you on point. Got all that?”

“Sir, yes, yes sir,” the Sergeant said at once. It was not comfortable, watching a man of Hal’s strength and stature swallowing his Adam’s apple like a drunken car-totaling freshman, thrown up against a wall and about to get pummeled by his uncle. But Sophie regarded him all the same.

“Well don’t just stand there,” said the Captain. “Get on the fucking horn with Jal again. This, Hal, is what happens when you form cross-units out of scraps. We’re already late back to the junction. God damn.”

And Hal scurried back into the S-ATV and slammed the door.

Captain Raaen turned and said to Sophie quickly, “Ma’am, I’m afraid we can’t take you in for questioning at this time due to the nature of a superior order. So we can fix you up a little, but no medicine and no physical contact. We cannot resupply you. And we can’t disclose our HQ location, nor the nature of our mission at the interstate junction. But you’re almost in contested Chinese territory so you stop for no one, get yourself back northbound on I-25 after ten miles more out here in the grass and you cannot, under any circumstances, drive east on your way out of here. I’m certain you understand me?”

“I do,” said Sophie, smiling and almost crying. “Thank you. Yes. Of course.”

“Don’t smile. Don’t even thank me. Make certain you never see me again.” The sternness, the paranoid cruelty in his voice, was being cast in grit and gravel for Petey’s sake — and for that of Hal, if he was stupid enough to be eavesdropping. But Captain Raaen then gave Sophie a wink so subtle she questioned its existence the moment he turned away.

He turned and pounded on the roof over the back door, then tested one of the last secured bungees. He looked down, Sophie watched him in the mirror. “And Captain?” He scowled down at Silas, in case Petey was watching, and then he whispered: “To you as well. Don’t let me ever see you again. Good luck.”

Silas was too weak to answer.

Sophie whispered back, “Captain Raaen?” He turned to scowl at her, but said nothing. “If you…” she leaned her head away from the glare of the S-ATV’s headlights, turning away from Petey and Hal who were still rummaging in the back. “If you know of anyone, named… named Chris? Who works communications? A NOAA intern. Nineteen. Please tell him I’m very sorry I never said goodbye.”

Captain Raaen halted. His eyes went wide, his chin trembled. Tears almost came but he turned away and growled, “Ma’am, our little Christopher passed away three nights ago. He insisted on trying to help in exterior med and triage before we got holed up, we had next to no nurses, no surgeons, and none of those boys survived. But I do thank you. No more words, now. You take care of yourself and you go.”

The Captain checked his cigarettes, threw something away. He walked from the H4 to the S-ATV, ready to work on calibrating his welding equipment, yelling something at Petey about the proper handling of oxygen tanks on a black and windy night.

Bless these men. We never would have made it. You saved me, Silas, Sophie thought and closed her eyes. How you managed to say so much I’ll never know. You saved me. One last time.

After that hour, the welding, Sophie never did see Captain Raaen again.

VI-4

Beyond the Road of Dawn

All the rest of that night, Sophie drove northward on I-25 until she was far from Loveland. She finally found a passable way east on something called Crossroads Boulevard, passing a warehouse yard of endless and sand-filled wrecks, Caterpillar dozers, RVs and Wal-Mart cargo trailers, until she found a strange, sapphire-hazed roundabout in the middle of nowhere. Some developer in recent years must have vainly tried to recreate suburbia in the middle of nowhere, and the misty roundabout was the only evidence.

The after-midnight air following the storm was much clearer, purged of the evening’s greater poison. Far off to the north, the ashen earth was actually glowing. Sophie did not want to know the source of this ghastly illumination, the roundabout’s glowing haze. With the last of her nigh-exhausted will, she continued east past a pristine sign which read, “Coming Soon 2015, Journey Homes:  Starting At $319,900.”

Dust clouds from the murky and blackened south threatened to overtake the H4 a few miles on, and so she made her way north around the glow-laced dunes just beyond a mud-washed railroad crossing and there onto 257. There, seeking Colorado Road 64, several miles beyond a tangled line of flatbed railcars and spilled piles of ransacked cargo containers, she discovered a huge and seemingly ancient barn with only one of its narrow sides collapsed out into the fields. Unable to continue any farther, she off-roaded the H4 into the barn, cared for the unconscious Silas, and even dared to turn the engine off. Gas was still leaking, but not nearly as badly as before. The field repairs — despite many of the hoped-for welds being too dangerous to perform — had quieted the damaged H4’s struggles to a stubborn, erratic squeal and the hashing of grit-filled belts.

In some unknowable hour before the dawn, Sophie cared for her burned hands as best she could and the finally collapsed across the console in a deep and suffocating sleep.

* * *

She awoke with a start, shook her head, felt around for the SMG and found its handgrip jutting up from beside the passenger door. Forcing Silas awake — he was delirious, blind, he tried to speak but could not and he did not know her — she gave him water, a re-bandaging, and morphine.

It’s not going to be long now. She stroked his hand, followed the impacted tracers of hollowed veins running beneath his skin like enormous, pruning wrinkles. Dying. She had no idea how she was going to go on without him.

This close to Kersey, she compelled her mind into a contorted semblance of calm rigidity, focusing only on the miles. She backed out of the barn and back onto 257. She had been driving for several miles before she realized there had been just been another miracle, three minutes earlier on: the H4, despite almost failing to turn over and thereby ushering disaster, had started again on only the second try.

A road of dancing tumbleweeds and painted scraps of dawn enticed her on. She found herself on the verge of a nearly undamaged, more ashen wild, which she could almost believe had endured the cataclysm without even being touched by war or the farther seething fingers of the White Fire. There were still the ubiquitous monuments of random death every few miles to remind her, an overturned Greyhound charter bus, a heap of swollen cattle whose skulls were beginning to show through from parched and angular piles of collapsing skin. But as she teased a path along unnamed dirt roads, weaving her way between the ruins of Windsor and Greeley, she beheld the glorious sun in its sickly rising. It was nothing more than a bleary line of orange that wavered strangely close and yet untouchably far away, painted up against the haze-truncated horizon like an inadvertent masterpiece.

She made her way to 392 East, but there were many more tractor-trailer and pickup wrecks along its blighted course, and once even the echo of distant gunfire. And so, relinquishing the maps, she made her way on bleaker roads once again. She peeled more of the lead linings away from the windshields, marveling as the orange elliptic smear of sun became a radiant streak of gray. It was like beholding the pale and distant day-star through the wild blear of a winter storm. Twice, the H4’s windshield was speckled with fleeting bird shadows, frail survivors lost from a world afar, crying music and darting on the wing.

Somewhere east of Greeley she drove through what had once been a sparse and cottony forest, an unnatural and spidery landscape now rendered in black and leafless branches, branches all wreathed by streamers of black plastic and curlicue strips of desiccated bark. Near the shell of a blown-out tanker truck, a few of the greener trees still standing revealed many stranger tentacles dangling from them, wavering in the tease of wind: strands of gluey solidifying ash, of molten and cooled steel, the telltale pinkish strings of incinerated people. A little farther, she drove over a shallow river — she had no idea if this muddied course had ever once known a name — and down there were clogs and dams made of decaying cattle, carcasses floating down over sandbars from somewhere far away.

She siphoned gas from a station wagon once, stopped and rested twice, put Silas at his ease. He could not rise, his blind eyes were flickering but never closed. Regardless of the few and distant un-toppled signs, she was very near to Kersey now. She could feel it.

Beyond a swathe of ashen dunes, she drove the last of the way and saw the telltale lines of trailer park horizons, gutted warehouses, and grain silos standing like broken sentinels against the sky.

At last!

She found to her surprise that she had actually crossed into the undamaged nexus with 34 East in the last of that evening, having somehow approached the ruin of Kersey from the north.

“Oh, my Lacie,” she whispered. “Oh my Lacie I am so close, if only I can remember, Auntie Jemm’s house, the memory…”

With her return in that twilight to the drying husks of civilization, there was much more of death for her to behold. Just beyond 34 Junction and the remnants of a burned-down Conoco station stood a collapsed liquor store, strangled by the remains of its own fencing, with a ruined bus sticking halfway out of the pile of lumber and clump-filled mounds of drifting ash. Atop the roofless bus was an incredible layer of human corpses, at least twenty people stacked on top of one another, burned planks made of sundered ribcage and tangled leg bone. Hands were sticking out of every shattered window, black hands, red hands, dripping hands and fingerless stumps with still-congealing chunky pools on the roads beneath them. There was one head sticking out, perhaps a woman’s. It had no eyes and the teeth had been blasted out, leaving a huge hole that had blossomed over half of its tilted face.

You don’t see, she was chanting to herself in silence, you drive, you breathe, you search for your remembrance, there is nothing more, you do not see…

She drove along the frontage road east, Hill Street it was named, skirting the dune-swallowed ruins of Kersey on their northern fringe. At one point there was an intact billboard swathed in tangles of peeling vinyl, and when the wind subsided the torn sheaves all fell down to read in spray-painted crimson capitals: SAVE DMITRI ALTUKHOV.

The name was vaguely familiar. She realized after she had passed that it was the name of the last Russian ambassador, the man at the United Nations riot. An age ago, an entire world ago.

And who started the war? Sophie wondered. Does it matter any longer? Will it ever? With dread, she realized that it might. Centuries from now, if there were survivors enough to forge themselves into vernal nations, there would be superstition, and skeletal constructs of religion, and vengeance.

She looked to the south and marveled at just how much ash from the Rocky Mountains’ incinerated forests had fallen over Kersey and the eastern horizon’s fields. The few standing houses were half-buried in gray and umber sand. Street signs, jutting out at angles, appeared to be only three or four feet tall. Many were already wind-scoured, others were perfectly readable. She drove her way past Kersey’s tiny street-grid, seeking something, anything, that looked like the way to Jemm’s house of long ago.

4th, 5th, 9th…

The town was ending. Clustered at an unnamed and oversized garage, there were protective circles of bumper-locked cars with the remains of the dead inside of them. There, perhaps in a fuel explosion or the edge of an after-flash fire, people had burned to death in their seats — but not so quickly that they hadn’t tried to escape. There were dried strings dripping down from fingers, cheekbones, even toes where feet had kicked out car windows and the soles of work boots and sneakers were still crumbling off.

Sophie murmured a prayer of peace. She had little else, she drove on by. She tried to feel grief, at least some fragmentary tincture of remorse, but her reserves were gutted. There was nothing there. I’ve nothing left to give, she thought. I am emptied.

Driving the last of Hill Street before Kersey was behind her, she looked to the north and discerned that the traffic-wrecks which had been clustered at 1st and 34 were thinning out. She off-roaded over a narrow strip of sandy field, forcing the H4 over the fractured remnants of a telephone pole, and looked out beyond the clearer highway, into the fading haze of sand-worn smog and sunset.

And there, perhaps two miles farther north, or three, stood a wind-dancing line of great oaks. Silhouetted beyond them, almost impossible to discern, was a bleached Victorian mansion of the Gilded Age.

It’s real! It is!

It was not a mirage. There it stood, the forlorn palace, the only of its kind. Auntie Jemm’s house.

Sophie whooped in elation, victory, a wild cry which turned almost into a scream. She caught her breath, stilled her trembling hands, maneuvered down 34 East until she found the nameless dirt turnoff with its rusted cattle grid and swinging gate. She banged into the gate at a little over five miles an hour, shunting it aside with a hollow, tolling clang.

The rutted road beyond led through tall, unburned grasses toward the eleven oaks, first straight on but then tortuously lingering away in a descending curve off to the left, past the mud-baked hollow of a scorched-away pond, then through higher grasses and back again. The oaks of the old mansion’s windbreak line grew into massive and solemn meshes of branch and shedding bark, screening the house from the highway which was now glowing in the day’s last light. The house was only a smear of blackening haze. Three of the great trees behind it had been felled, two with their trunks in splinters and another with its blighted roots touching up into the fading sky. Before they swept over the gingerbread porch of the house itself, the H4’s headlights caught upon a half-collapsed picket fence, a stubbornly standing mailbox with its flag still up, and a hand-painted porcelain plaque which bore a blessed pattern of flowing sigils upon its scoured face:

J. CHRISTIANA ST.-GERMAIN.

VI-5

The House upon the Borderland

Heart pounding, shivering, Sophie drove nearer to the house and around into the wind-spun shadows of the enormous trees. There beneath one of the fallen oak trunks was an old ’77 Vega, just like the one Mitch used to drive.

Is it? It had to be. Whatever had happened, Mitch had at least made it this far. And he had Lacie with him! Sophie wanted to honk the horn, run out, scream and wave her arms. But the house appeared to be abandoned, bearded in strings of dust, striped with tired last-of-sun reflections in every window. What if someone had killed Mitch, or driven him away, or had taken over this place entirely?

The Vega had been impaled by the tree, crushed and cratered with its wheel remnants splattered out in a ring with only a pathetic twist of axle still standing high. Rains had pelted into the ashen dunes around the oaks, and the heat flash of distant thermonuclear impacts had re-baked and hardened the mud until the Vega’s ruin had sunk all the way down to its bumpers. Sophie had one more terrible thought: What if Mitch is still inside his car…

But no. That didn’t make any sense.

Sophie decided she would drive as far around the house as she could, park in the back, and go in through the rear door if she could not find anything else to give her a safer sign. Perhaps there was a storm shelter door in the back down into a cellar, or a barn. She could not remember.

She four-wheeled through the ash around the corner, and there were no such promising signs of any shelter or habitation. But her headlights’ glare caught on something at the opposite back corner of the house, a frail cross fashioned from two white fence pickets and some awkwardly knotted bundles of frittered twine. The left side of the cross was hand-painted ANNABEL, and the right, as BROCKAWAY.

Sophie’s maiden name. Mama? Of course, yes. The story of Mitch’s own journey to Kersey began to decrypt itself from the house’s bleak surroundings. Sophie’s mother had made it this far, she must have been riding with Mitch and Lacie in the Vega. And she was buried here.

Sophie did not feel anything decipherable at first, no shock, nor grief, nor even comprehension. There was only an innate physical sensation, a tingling numbness, which began in her pained fingers, coursed up through the fine hairs upon her forearms, up over her back, around onto her belly. And there, the tingling pierced its way inside of her and she began to sob.

* * *

Mother had almost never spoken, not ever again, to high and mighty Miss Sophia, not after Miss Patrice had passed and mother had gone to the morgue to identify the pallid and bloodless cleaned remains of her youngest, her hollowed, her shattered and cherished one whom she had failed to nurture into a woman’s life. She had failed, Patrice had died in horror and in agony. And after her eternal beloved, youngest daughter, had gone unto her glory, high into the silent and halcyon halls of those unknowable and angel-shadowed pillars which carve away an unseen firmament from God’s own opalescent sky, what then? Mother’s own beloved spouse, Sophia’s father, had gone away as well, embraced into a reaping of his own. He left her all alone.

When only mother and elder daughter remained, two drained and shattered pallid women too alike and unlike one another to ever share of anything but the coldest and politest of familial bond, there had been nothing true left to say. Mother lived alone.

But then in later years, Sophie had actually managed at last to have a child, a daughter of her own who did not die in the scarlet blossom of the womb, who emerged and was so beautiful oh this daughter she Became, oh, Lacie Anna, so much like Patrice, how lovely you are to me, Sophia, can you see? Can you see the miracle of her face? That smile, those dimples. Our Patrice, she is returned to us, her spirit inhabits the innocent flesh remade by the love of Tom for you, in you, of you. Emergence, blossoming. Oh, she is a miracle. An omen.

Yes, mother always longed to babysit precious, precocious Lacie. Lacie and grandmamma, they shared whispered secrets every time Miss Sophia had a social sciences conference to attend in Boston or in San Francisco, or when Sophia suffered a breakdown (Honestly answer me, daughter, why do you insist on driving him away?), or when Sophia failed utterly and invited another incident with those emerald poison pills, Lucifer’s pills each with the hollow letter V drilled through their powdery cores. Always, grandmamma was there to catch the fall of Lacie.

Grandmamma always ushered Lacie into that cocoon of an old house in Colorado Springs, at Del Norte and Alamo (wasn’t it?), where father had crawled out over the lawn with a burst heart and blood foaming from his jaws, but that was another life, my daughter, was it not? Always ushered Lacie in, one of the few places left in the elder world where black licorice and horehound lozenges and other antiquated bittersweets still sat in sea-green mason jars, time-imprisoned family heirlooms which Sophie had never desired to inherit. Whenever Sophie dropped Lacie off in that claustrophobic, slightly-tilted house, it was always dark yet bright with candle flame, always smelled of that disturbingly entrancing mixture of lilac perfume, old woman’s hair, potpourri and singed gingerbread, an overwhelming fragrance, a sorceress melange of twined and unmentionable spice.

Even in her late thirties, every time Sophie would creep back and spend sixty seconds in that house where she had grown up in a lovely and doll-filled attic nook, it was an irresistible thought: This is what a witch’s house would smell like.  And then, No, that’s terrible. She’s not a witch. She’s your mother.

Fear of the strap (Now Sophie, how long ago did she ever hit you? How very long?), and a politely declined hot cup of tea, with only a sprinkle of guilt left to savor in its place. I must be going, mama. Thank you. Thank you. Sophie would dread the one deserved and silently-transmitted barb her mother would always send toward her on its blithe unerring course, straight to the heart: You’re not still taking those Valiums, are you? Or perhaps, It’s so good you have dear Tom. Me, I only have our family traditions, traditions you never cared for and left behind. Or even, You didn’t leave dear Tom out waiting in that enormous truck again, did you?

Sometimes pleasantries would lilt along the silent thorn’s wing as well, or only a moment of emphatic, magnetic judgment, pulling Sophie back into the gravity well of her living in the attic with Patrice, her eternal child-past. Then a smile, a genuine smile from Sophie’s ailing mother which was meant, yes, for daughter but only for a fraction of a second, before it became a beaming and wholesome grin for Darling Granddaughter.

And Sophie would set Lacie down, and Lacie would squeal out her battle cry with supreme enthusiasm, Grandmamma! And charge. And she would almost knock the poor old woman down. But there was love there, real love between child and matriarch, and there would be cookies for them to bake, and crochet stitch-steps to learn, and glassed-away antique dolls to marvel over, porcelain German things with their eyes forever closed, their perfect cherubic faces framed by thousands of little ringlets made of century-old horsehair.

And before her mother could stare her down one last time, truly critique her, be disappointed with her overpriced coffee or urbane and mannish mannerisms which had certainly been cultivated in the sin-towers of Black Hawk, before mother could deconstruct her entire successful adult life with razor words (Come, Sophia, let us sit in the parlor for only an hour’s quarter before you must go), Sophie would leave. And she would go far north, shopping in Cherry Creek, to Starbucks, Whole Foods, Jolynn would be on a crusade for Egyptian cotton sheets, it was all so inane, so pleasant and vaguely horrifying to remember… and none of those moments would ever live again. For mama Annabel and Miss Sophia, there would never be a reconciliation.

* * *

Here in a heap of solidified concrete ash was mother’s grave, a mounded hollow, made into a petrified black hole filled up with memory. Mitch must certainly have buried her, few other people even knew the woman’s name. And when Mitch himself had died? Who had been here to hold him until the end, and to bury him?

No! Sophie forced herself to look away. She backed up the H4, back around to the front of the house, where the fallen trees gave shelter and the nightmares of yesterday could not seem to extend their own tenebrous crossing. Mitch cannot be dead!

And Patrice, her whispers frail and sated and rarely heard now that Sophie had killed men and been covered in the unholy warmth of others’ blood, asked only: No? Then where is he, Sophie? Where is he? Go and smell the air outside, tell me it is not the stench of death.

Enough. I didn’t come this far to fall to fear.

Sophie parked the H4, turned off the engine without a second thought. If she never drove again, she would revel in that fatal actuality. She slipped on her gloves, her damaged helmet, began to pressurize the suit.

“Silas,” she said, looking into the mirror, “I’m going inside.”

She waited. He was unconscious, very near to death. His lips moved but nothing meaningful came out. She wanted to make certain the house was (Empty? Please, no, please) safe, and then carry Silas in, to rest his meager frame upon Aunt Jemm’s ancient canopy bed, to…

To die. You can say it. He is not going to make it through the night. She looked back at the darkened H4, listened to the ticking of its exhausted and cooling engine.

I can’t just leave him…

You must, sang Patrice, emboldened by Sophie’s terror of what she might find in the deep of the house’s tombs. Go see, go see all the dead people stacked inside, did you really believe your daughter would be here? Watching Disney? Reading storybooks perhaps, snuggling with Uncle Itchy, playing dollies, nibbling cookies? Oh, it is time for you to die, sister Sophie. Go inside and see, and see, and see…

“Fuck you,” whispered Sophie. She grabbed the flashlight and then the HK SMG, checked its ammo feed, its half-depleted magazine, clicked off the safety. She was going inside, through the front door no less, and nothing was going to stop her.

* * *

She flexed her fingers, took off and straightened her glove to be certain that she could fire accurately. A nervous gesture, she turned her wedding ring once, twice then with her thumb, trying to stop her numbed hand from shaking. The radiation burns between her fingers were like spidery white tendrils meshing between her veins, beneath the surface, and the more she stared, the more the burning began to itch.

She ignored this. She tugged the glove back on, took the gun in hand and walked up the ancient steps which creaked out ghostly whispers beneath her weight. Three rises led to a tilted, paint-blistered porch where withered flowers crumbled away along a corner-spun gust of wind. Once, in another age (Has it really been so long? Were Tom and I ever so young?), a young Boulder college girl had marveled at this stained glass and mahogany door straight out of the Gilded Age. A gold rush fantasy had forged a single impossible mansion here upon the plains, in the name of Conrad St.-Germain. And then the sepia glory died, choked by its own folly and the Coal Strikes and unions and machine guns, the more sensible dreams dragged into Colorado by steel mill and ranch and butcher’s hovel, aching dreams which thrummed upon the bolted and girder-bridged lines of the Union Pacific Railroad. Now, the mansion’s once-inviting door was a black smear suffocated by nailed-over ply-board, a single surviving pane of shattered glass.

Ghosts. Ghosts are in there.

Sophie tested the door. It was not locked, but it was stuck. She paused, decided not to wear the helmet inside after all. It was too restrictive, too narrowing of her peripheral vision, and she believed — hoped — that the stale air inside would be at least a little purer than the poisoned and dusting wind.

Unless there are bodies in there.

She opened one of the suit’s hip pockets, donned the simple elastic-banded filtration mask she knew of and found therein. She pushed against the door, it creaked but did not give way. And what if Mitch was not to be found at all? What if there inside lurked the utter nightmare, finding his body, Lacie’s body? No. There would be no “and then” if that were the end to be. She would kill herself.

Ignoring this, refusing grief, she focused on only the now. There was this moment solely, then only the next, the next, the present was all that existed anymore. Get through this. Keep moving.

She shoved the door open with her shoulder, the glass pane’s fragments crunched out and tinkled in splintered gouts upon the inner floor.

The hall inside was impossibly narrow by modern standards, yet very tall of ceiling. Black paneling, peeling wallpaper. A moldering tapestry to the left gave a glimpse of a black-night stairway which led on high above. In front of Sophie appeared a way into a porcelain-tiled kitchen, and to her right the sitting room where Aunt Jemm had once called her “sweet patoo” when she had spilled her tea.

For the first time in decades Sophie crept into that sitting room, clicked on the flashlight, and was startled by the wildly-angled shadows brought spinning up by the piece of nylon mesh snagged over the flashlight’s lens. She pulled the plastic off and tilted the light’s cleansed beam into shelf-filled corners, and she followed the arc of light with the SMG’s shaking barrel. The room was desolate, the once-beautiful hardwood floors were scraped down to deep pale gouts of sawdust and shavings, where the room’s furniture had been hacked apart and dragged into the back dining room for… what? Kindling? Coffins? Cover from armed invasion? The only true features of the room, beyond the ominously tall and boarded-over windows, were an ornate tile-and-stone fireplace, the one huge shard of mounted looking-glass above it, and a pile of gilt-framed portraits tumbled down into the ashes of a recent fire, mounded behind a sooty and rusted screen.

Sophie winced as her flashlight’s beam coursed over the broken mirror’s triangle and reflected back in her face. For long seconds, she was blinded. She lowered her light in silence, barely breathing, listening. No one. She stepped further into the room, winced as another mirror shard she had not seen crackled under her suit’s boot.

She approached the fireplace. Only one thing had not been swept off of the mantle, an almost-antique Polaroid camera of the same vintage as Mitch’s Vega. Sophie peered at the camera, hoping to find some clue to her loved ones’ whereabouts, but the contraption was old and poorly cared for, covered in a layer of dust beneath the fresher sawdust. It had been there for a very long time.

She put the flashlight on the floor and knelt, lifted up the nearest picture which glinted beneath the light’s yellow beam. There, frozen in frame, sat the old eccentric cat lady with her widow’s peak and obvious glass eye, Auntie Jemm. Behind her in solemn profile brooded her husband and third cousin, Caleb — an overall-suited man seemingly plucked straight out of American Gothic, scowling off to one side, perhaps looking out of picture for his pitchfork.

Sophie smiled, letting her guard down ever so slightly for the first time. It was then, gazing down in wonder at this old portrait, that she saw the dust motes in the air cease their hovering and beginning to race over her fingers, billowing upon a dank and earthy current of rising air. There was a reflection in the picture, of a curtained alcove far behind her, a curtain puffing out with a rush of air, But no one was there…

The ghosts.

The bang of a door, echoing from some entombed level of rooms beneath her feet, the creak of hinges deep underground. The foreboding abrupt and echoing horror-sound of urgent and heavy footsteps, thumping up cellar stairs. The voice of Patrice shrieked in Sophie’s mind, Don’t turn around, run run run now and never look back, you’ll die, you’ll die!

She did look back. She crawled away from the flashlight, readied the gun, and crouched down in a corner, ready to kill.

VI-6

The Rising of Souls

A tall and thin white humanoid shape surged into the room, wielding a crowbar like a club. It fixated on the flashlight, then turned with a jolt as it discerned the crouching Sophie in the shadows.

“Don’t move!” Both of them, the man in the helmeted and vapor-tight DuPont Plasmesh hazmat suit, and Sophie — her voice muffled by the breathing filter — shouted the words together all at once.

The gaunt-framed man faltered but clutched the crowbar higher, a batter choking up on a bulky mallet and ready for one final swing. Staring up into his under-lit faceplate, Sophie saw the haze of a wiry and grizzled beard bunched up against the bottom of his visor. The bearded man saw the gun held by the woman and he froze. Something in his silhouette, the way he held himself with uneven shoulders and elbows askew, that curious air of grace despite the constricting hazmat suit, a scarecrow hollow of greater darkness pinned inside the gloom, it was all uncannily familiar.

The man whispered, “You?” His arms fell to his sides, the half-gripped crowbar dangled and chopped down into the hardwood floor like a dull and weighty chisel. He stared, swaying from side to side, shielding his gloved hands against the glare. “Is it you?”

There was a patter of footsteps, a second spirit both small and frail tripped its way up the stairs, scuffing at the steps with duct-taped boots too large for rapid movement. The curtain tangled out again and a young person emerged, floundering for balance with waving and shaky arms. The sleeves and legs of an adult DuPont suit had been carefully shortened and re-bonded with duct tape, leaving the suit torso ridiculously long and the helmet huge. But underneath the dusty transparent visor, lit by the fleeting blue-and-amber glow of digital readouts, that face, That face…

Very slowly, unblinking, Sophie put down her gun. She began to crawl out of the corner.

The little person punched her visor up, pressurized air puffed out, swirling dust down to the floor in dwindling circlets. A lock of fine blonde hair spilled out of the helmet’s illumination and the little person sloppily tugged her own hair out of the way with a hugely-gloved bumbling hand.

The little girl ran across the room, tripping into the man and rebounding off, shrieking, screaming and weeping even as she fell into Sophie’s arms.

“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”

She was sobbing so hard, collapsing at Sophie’s feet, her face puffed and streaked with oily grime, that Sophie at first wondered if she had journeyed back in time and somehow found a seven-year-old Patrice. But oh, it was Lacie. Sophie lifted off her breathing filter. She clutched at her daughter’s helmet in both hands, hushing her, kissing the wispy fleece of gold, her hair, until she could find her daughter’s tear-moistened cheek.

“Oh,” Sophie gasped as she swept the girl up in her arms, her legs giving way and slumping down against the wall, bearing the tiny burden with her. “Am I so blessed, my Lacie love? Am I? Am I?”

And Lacie went perfectly still. Her wide and tragic eyes were scarlet-rimmed and tearless then, the pupils widening. She had that strange, poetic, almost tragic smile of Patrice on her petulant lips, but her lips were spread in a smile of wonder. To Sophie’s eyes, her six- then seven-year-old daughter (Happy birthday, love, sorry I’m very late) had aged at least a year.

“Mommy,” Lacie breathed, “I dreamed. I dreamed you here.” She blinked, gave her mother a savage bear hug, then suddenly let go. She was looking up at the tall man, who had pushed the gun away toward the fireplace and picked up Sophie’s flashlight, which now was hovering its shaky haloes over the spectacle of mother and daughter.

Lacie backed away. The man dropped the crowbar down the rest of the way and held out his hand, and he hoisted the fallen Sophie to her feet. Through his voice-com, the clack of his metallic and static voice buzzed with a lilting hum: “Sophie Ingrid? It’s you. Oh God, it’s you! Ingri!”

The embrace, that bony frame felt through both their suits, that hollow and infectious laugh. Mitch, Sophie tried to breathe, thank God it’s you. But she couldn’t speak, couldn’t even inhale. She was laughing. Mitch was laughing too. And tears, crying. “Oh, God Sophie, when you killed the radio, I thought, I thought…”

Sophie felt herself being tugged away.  Lacie was hyperventilating, trying to scramble back into her arms. Sophie opened her hands, lifted her daughter, and asked of Mitch, “Is Lacie? Is, is she…”

She could not finish. Mitch spread his hands before Sophie’s trembling face. “She’s okay,” he said, static crackling.  “She’s going to be okay.”

* * *

Lacie would not let go. She was shaking so hard it was as if she were having a seizure, or locked in the throes of nightmare. No, Sophie thought. Locked away so far from me, and now released. Oh, my daughter. Sophie carried her into the front hall, followed by Mitch. She could not stop babbling, about the H4, the supplies, the military, and Silas.

Silas!

Sophie carried her daughter to the Hummer, limping through the ash. Mitch reached out and steadied Sophie from behind. She opened the passenger door, and gasped as Silas’ skeletal arm jumbled off the seat and dangled there, stretching knobby fingers toward her face. Lacie whispered, “Is that a man?” And Silas’ eyes opened, lunar white, glowing with blood-haloed cusps of silver-blue.

“Shh,” said Sophie. She tried to hand Lacie over to Mitch, but Lacie struggled until Sophie relented and put her daughter’s feet upon the ground. At once Lacie stood on tiptoe, peering into the Hummer’s darkness, and pushing Mitch’s hand away as she crawled into the back seat under Sophie’s grasp. She wanted to see this stranger mommy trusted so, to know.

Sophie moved in. She gently lifted Silas’ head, tried not to cry out in misery as he vainly strove to focus on her face. His mouth moved, he was parched. Mitch unzipped his outer mitts and managed to give Silas most of a dribbling bottle of water. Lacie had poised herself in upon the center console, her hands upon her knees, marveling at Silas and the tenderness of her mother’s ministrations.

“Don’t move, Silas,” Sophie whispered. “You’ve protected me long enough, you’ve been the strong one forever on. Rest. Now let me hold you.”

Silas, spitting a little water, tried again to speak. He said, “Who?”

“I’m right here,” said Sophie. “And Uncle Mitch is here. And Lacie.”

“Cie?” Silas murmured. He reached out a hand, tapped Sophie’s cheek, and Sophie gently moved his searching fingers down to Lacie’s knee. Lacie took up the withered hand in both her own in reverence, without any hesitation, moving as if she were carrying the burden of a feather. She brought the old man’s fingertips to her chin.

“Thank you,” said Lacie. “Thank you, mister, for saving my mommy.” She lowered her face, her expression lost in a fall of hair of gold, and kissed Silas upon the brow.

She lifted her head and Silas took in a ragged breath. A sap-thick string of blood fell from the corner of his mouth.

Mitch tried to reach in for Lacie, he was saying, “Go, go back inside, honey.” But Lacie would not move.

Silas whispered, “Oh, little angel. It was all for you. So, so worth it all of gold, song of gentle and here you are. Mabelie, turn that down. Jenny, do you see? Look who is come, look who is come to us. Lacie of Sophie, just look at you.”

He never saw anything again, he never beheld her. But he believed that he did, the absolute conviction and wonderment in his voice made Sophie know that this was true. And for Mitch and Sophie and especially for Lacie, the fact that Silas believed he could see the child’s beauty was enough.

“Just look at you.”

Sophie lifted Silas’ head higher into her lap. She kissed him, very gently, upon the mouth. And he died there in her arms.

VI-7

Echoes Underground

Lacie cried for her mother, because her mother could not cry for herself. Sophie had no more tears. Daughter and mother cared for one another that deep night, kisses and laughter and touching hands of simple awe, while Mitch worked to dig Silas’ grave beside that of grandmamma Brockaway in the ash-loam dune still building behind the house.

When he was done, he poured pure water over the grave, so that it would seal itself from scavengers, from memory, from sorrow. Sophie would later see that Mitch had pushed Silas’ blackthorn fox-head cane into the petrifying earth, and its glinting eyes marked where the sacred grave of the One would be until the end of time.

* * *

The blanket- and tarp-lined cellar was filled with fumes, the glow of lantern light, dripping water from three survivors’ exhaled moisture. Taking advantage of heating and rising air, Sophie and Mitch took turns fanning fresher air down from the pipe-holes which crossed into the dining room. Lacie slept in the converted coal bin behind the enormous furnace, at peace for the first time in many weeks. Despite her sobbing for Silas, now, she was at ease. She was even smiling in her sleep.

“He saved me,” Sophie whispered when she had finished her tale. She couldn’t sleep, she didn’t want to. Mitch had had to guide her gently down the stairs because she had insisted on starting the unpacking, and he didn’t want her to see the cleanup he had done to the Hummer’s stained back seat.

“I…” Mitch didn’t know what to do with his folded hands. Sophie took them both in one of her own, gripped them. “I know,” he said. “I understand.” He coughed a little, balling his fist to muffle the sound so as not to awaken Lacie. “Ingri… Sophie… you need to sleep. You can bathe if you want. The cistern, there’s so much water down here. And I’ve barrels. The upstairs, the Geiger counter, after the storm? Most of the ash is gone. It’s almost safe. The lead curtains you brought, I could…”

“No,” Sophie said. “Thank you. So, so very much Mitchell, for everything. Everything. But not tonight. I don’t want her to leave my sight.”

Mitch smiled. Sophie stopped fanning. She brought his hands up to her cheeks, pressed her face into them in wonder. Tom’s brother, until now an affectionate acquaintance of many years, he was here. Alive. He had saved her daughter, and now he would do anything for her.

A miracle. She tried not to think of Silas, but she thought with a serene tinge of adoration, Yeah, that Mitchell, funny lookin’ much like me, but he’s a good man, already now. Me? I am knowing that for sure. Woah-damn. And she smiled. Don’t cry. Never again, don’t cry for sorrow. You have too many reasons not to, now. She looked up at Mitch, he had caught the pure reflection of her smile and mirrored it, shared it. But he did not understand it.

Sophie let his hands go, turning to fan the pipe hollows once again, and she said, “I don’t know how I’m going to live without him.”

“Hey, hey. You have us, now.”  Mitch scratched at his silver-and-strawberry bearded chin. She had forgotten that about him. Always scratching. Lacie loved to call you Uncle Itchy. Truly shared emotion to him was an enchanting riddle, worthy of veneration, because of the way he and his brother Tom had been raised and shared with in decades of long ago. But he did not understand his awe of others’ love. He shared it, if only from a fretful distance. But it still clearly made him uncomfortable. “Ingri,” he said, “Sophie, I’m so sorry he—”

“No, I know,” said Sophie. She tapped her cheek, palmed a smile. She was remembering, repositioning the fragments of another life whose darkest moments now seemed like twilit reflections of some unrecoverable and ancient earthly paradise. Mitch, you’d never believe this because you two were such black-and-white reversals of one another, she thought. But to the gold of your heart? You’re so, so much like my Tom. Too much. This is so hard.

He gave her that awkward, soulful smile, his over-generous outpouring of empathic reception. Sophie was still taking him in, marveling at the fact that he was actually there. He was so much like Tom, but forty pounds lighter and three inches taller, with that charming, somehow gullible and cadaverous face. He had the same gold hair as Tom’s, yet tinged with auburn, and almost all his thinning crown chased away by grizzled silver. She knew he grew his beard out to give himself some substance, for whenever he had been forced to let the world look in at him. And now?

She shrugged a little at Mitch and said, “You know, when I was so much younger, the night after I met you? Did you know Tom almost broke up with me? For telling him that joining the NSA would probably make him feel in later years not like a patriot, but like a defector to our dreams. I was a spitfire back then. I had no place, but can you believe that? In bed, no less, he said he was seriously ‘mulling it over.’ And I quote. Oh, he was just barely joking and mostly serious, he was even a bigger shit than I was.”

She laughed, when it was out there. It was so off-hand, private and random, almost gauche. But it had been an eternity since she had felt so comfortable in a place, another’s presence. Lacie shifted in her sleep, gave a contented sigh. Mitch tried not to laugh along with Sophie, mostly succeeded, but his thin shoulders were shaking and it was a very near thing.

“And then there was the other time you saw,” she said. “After our engagement. That horrible time when I was drinking.”

“I remember. It’s nothing now. Ingri, you don’t need to—”

“I do. Do you know he actually did break it off with me that time, until I swallowed my pride, almost choked on it, and begged him to take me back?”

“I thought it was your idea,” said Mitch. “To end it before it began.”

“No. But do you know why he wanted to?”

Mitch shook his head. He waited.

“It was because whenever we went out in downtown, or gambling in Black Hawk, I kept talking down to people, like, the homeless people. Old people. Waiters, even.  The disabled. Poor people. Whatever. Anyone who was too messed up to be sensible, anyone who slowed me on my merry and spiteful way. In Tom, I had finally found someone I could be vulnerable enough with to talk to about mother, about Patrice, and that was a good thing, yes. But every night I shared, when Tom was asleep I started drinking, and then when I really thought about how much I had bottled up inside of me, I got… I…” She realized she was rushing through this without a breath, almost babbling. She forced herself to slow down. “Damaged people, you understand. Or people I never even knew. Or people who were good, like, like Silas.  People who looked useless to me. I can’t believe what I used to be like. That’s hate, Mitch. Hate you don’t let out until it’s almost too late, it blackens everything.”

She had more to say. But nothing else would come.

“Silas. He was your dear friend, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, yes.” She stopped fanning with the cardboard-taped broom for a few moments longer, touched the skin beneath her eyes with numb white fingers. “Silas Colson was a wonderful, wonderful man.  I owe him everything.”

“Then honor him,” said Mitch. He gave a fretful tug to his beard, a nervous flinching that didn’t even register with him.

“How?”

“By loving your daughter who’s been aching for you every night. By living.”

* * *

She and Mitch spent nearly an hour going through the pictures which he had salvaged from the upstairs during his first supply run after the strikes at Greeley and Loveland and Cheyenne. Sophie’s favorite so far was a picture of their father, a shortwave radio man in Vietnam. She immediately thought of the Grundig, Tom’s instructions in the binder. And Chris… no. Don’t think of that.

Thomas Senior had taught Tom all about the shortwave, and the boys had their love of radio and Walkie Talkies chronicled there in almost every one of Aunt Jemm’s album pictures. Because of Tom’s love for that one hobby he could genuinely share with his traumatized and crippled father, Tommy Junior had put a radio in the shelter and had even built a war-ready communications lattice above the canyon cave. Indirectly, this unknowable man whom Sophie had barely known, except through her husband’s grief which had bonded man and wife, this distant yet present soul saved her and her daughter’s lives.

Mitch bandaged Sophie’s free hand, she always insisted on sifting pictures with the other one, back and forth she went as he cleansed, treated, injected. There were pictures of Tom’s mom, Mitch holding Tom as a baby, two boys running down Kersey’s Main Street in bright orange hunting vests, their freeze-framed Auntie yelling and laughing as she chased after them. These eternal photo-glimpses were treasures for the people who would come into the world, sacred treasures of the elder age. How else would anyone understand? She almost felt guilty touching them.

She stroked the thumbprint-sized blot of a blurry profile in oak-leaf sun and shadow, her dead and gone husband’s face at thirteen or fourteen years of age.

Oh, Tom. Lacie is beginning to look so much like you.

As Mitch prepared treatments and prioritized the binders, he and Sophie began to plan. They had both agreed almost at once on trying for Yellowstone, if the H4 could be repaired. Mitch was worried that serious fighting would soon begin as the Chinese were scattered and weakening in Colorado, and that the U.S. Army might soon attempt a triangulation of the territory between I-25, Fort Morgan and the artillery silos at the Cheyenne bombing range. That triangle’s interior included Kersey.

As Sophie described the road conditions and sorted pictures, Mitch crunched away at strange pieces of food. After he munched and swallowed each one, he gasped, and Sophie had demanded to see just what he was eating. She was bemused to find that Mitch, recently hoping to see his brother and to mend some aging fences, had stocked up on limited edition Dr. Pepper flavors, as well as Tom’s cherished cellophane bags of Hapi wasabi peas.

Sophie smelled the bag of the odd-looking stinky clusters, crinkled up her nose. “I almost had some of those in the shelter. Are they any good?”

“They’re pretty terrible.” Mitch gave her a guilty grin. “I can’t stop. Want some?”

She declined.

Mitch told her then almost casually about his shortwave eavesdropping, the telegraph signals that had erupted in a clatter over the airwaves when the missiles had been falling. He was certain it was the Russians who had launched first, a miscommunication over disasters along the border of Kazakhstan and the China. Everything had begun at a place called the Alashankou Railway Station, and American agents might well have been to blame.

Sophie wanted to say that she believed the Americans had indeed forced the catastrophe with their denials and then the Wikileaks intelligence breach about the black market uranium assassinations in Alashankou, which led to the U.N. crisis meeting with Russian and China in New York, which led to everything.

But no. Let Mitch do his own reading of Tom’s top secret printouts, let him decide. The trigger, the flashpoint, it might be something entirely different. She said only, “Everyone was to blame. To some degree. Does it really matter now?”

He did not answer.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For burying my… for taking care. Of Lacie’s grandmamma. For taking care of her,” said Sophie. “Until the end.”

He nodded, looked away as his own tears began to come. He could not yet speak of this. It would be years before he could.

Instead, he chattered about Yellowstone, the Shoshone Geyser Basin and more obscure caves up in that area, caves which he had explored many times up in the back country: Hayden Valley, Upper Firehole, the Stygian Caves (explored for a few seconds while using a gas mask and re-breather, no less) the geyser cysts and their dangerous poisons. But most of the caves were habitable. Mitch had even made emergency contact, before the radio had died, with one of his cousins and her father who were in Yellowstone during the impacts. As recently as a week ago, they had been alive. There would be hot water there (if they could make it before the fighting began), geothermal energy, perhaps even fishing and hunting.

And only because she had promised to finally sleep if he told her, he had spoken of the final call with Tom.

* * *

“I couldn’t believe it,” Mitch was whispering. He had Sophie’s rapt attention. She leaned in, took his hands, sat him down with her on the overturned plastic crates. “I mean, Tommy was in NORAD, for Christ’s sake. How on earth had he managed to make a phone call out of there? And I could tell he had been crying. First thing he said to me when I picked up, ‘I already talked to Lacie’s grandmamma.’ Who? But he just kept going. ‘I told her and she thinks I’ve gone crazy.’ I got him to slow down a little.”

Mitch ran his fingers through his thinning hair, shaking his head, staring down as if the dirt of the cellar floor was some kind of mathematical conundrum requiring a life-and-death solution. Whatever it was he saw there, he did not have the answer.

“It’s okay,” said Sophie. “I heard his last words for my own. You don’t need to tell me.”

“No. I do. I must.” Mitch glared at her, and she backed an inch away. He only realized then that she believed he was angry with her for some reason. “Sorry,” he said then. “He, he told me — demanded — that I go to her house in the Springs, until then I never even knew where your mother lived. He said I needed to go over to her house, get Lacie, and that she would fight me.”

“Fight you?” Sophie asked. But already, she understood.

“You know, like I was crazy or something. But I went in and I told her a — a secret, that only Tom knew about her treatment of you as a child, like Tom had told me to, and that it was life and death now, and to do it for Patrice. Give me Lacie for Patrice, who had asked her mother only to take care of you, Sophie, and any children you might have. And I begged your mother to come with me. And she came. Tom had said, and I could hear yelled orders and even sobbing in the background on his end by that time so I… I was guessing, I guess I knew, he said, ‘Take grandmamma if you can, punch her if you have to. I’m dead serious.’ And I said, ‘Tom, you’re frightening me What the fuck is going on?’ And he said, “The thing.’ See, we used to talk about this all the time, when I was thinking about joining the NSA instead of him, and then again when I was taking the job at Rocky Flats, and I…”

Sophie did not dare say anything, she did not want to hear this, and yet she did. Her spirit, if nothing else, demanded it of her.

And Mitch was able at last to continue. “And I just lost it. That was the last thing I ever said to my little brother before he died. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ And he said, ‘Look, they’re going to find me. You saved my life once, you swore you’d let me one day make it up to you. This is that, right now. I am begging you to save my daughter. No time. I love you, big brother. Believe that. I always have.’ And I was like, “Tom, no, God, what am I supposed to say?’ But he’d already hung up, you know? He was going to hide, find a place for another call. He tried one more call to me but it never came through to me. And the sentries? The soldiers? How he eluded them all, I’ll never know. He had about another three hours left to live.”

She knew.

“They were hunting him down,” said Mitch. “My baby brother. He was already dead. He hung up on me, he’d never told me he loved me since daddy died, he hung up just so that he’d have a little more time to call you.”

VI-8

Of Lacie Anna St.-Germain

The coal bin was piled high with country quilts and scalloped pillows, every one a masterpiece, each crocheted, knitted or woven by Auntie Jemm over the many years. Mitch had once told Sophie that Jemm owned a mean antique spinning wheel, and knew how to use it. At the time, she had thought it was the funniest and quirkiest joke the charming Mitch had told her yet. But now, she could see that the wheel was real. It was sitting enthroned upon a table and haloed in hovering strings of coal dust, protected by a yellowing plastic sheet.

Sophie crawled into the coal bin, and as she did so it became another world. The pillow-crowded space seemed enormous. More than that, it felt perfectly safe. She felt like she was sneaking into her daughter’s sleepover and breaking a promise by doing so. She crawled over, looked down on Lacie sleeping. Her nose was running, the tip of her nose was scabbed, and one knee that was peeking out from a big hole in her jeans was scraped and bruised. But that was all.

Lacie was nuzzling in sheepskin, the inner lining of Tom’s old leather bomber jacket. Sophie had taken it from the shelter on a whim, and yes, because it was the one thing that smelled the most like Tom… his cologne, his sweat, amber and sandalwood, his tears, if tears could be said to hold a scent, a scent of salt and memory. And here now was her daughter, Tom’s daughter, resting with a little smile and inhaling, nodding, fighting sleep and trying to wake. Lacie sensed her mother was very near.

Sophie crawled in further, nudged her daughter awake. She rested her head in the palm of one aching hand, stretching her entire form out and waiting. As Lacie woke, her fingers began to trace the old patches that Tom had stitched into the jacket during his nights in the half-built shelter. There were granddaddy’s Vietnam patches, some kind of radio interest insignia, mountaineering and ski patches too. The jacket had passed from father to son, son to wife, wife to beloved child. To see Lacie lying there, the floppy bulk of the jacket framed around her shoulders like the hug of a big man possessed of gentle might and grace, it was a miracle.

Lacie opened her eyes. “Hi, mommy,” she whispered.

Sophie grinned. “How’s my little princess?”

“I think, I’m going to be okay,” said Lacie, sitting up a little and crossing her legs. “Really.” Her bare feet stuck out of the jeans’ legs, and so did her shins. She was going to be a very tall girl. She would grow strong. “Don’t talk about daddy, or anything, okay? Not yet. Don’t make me remember. Please.”

“Okay,” said Sophie. And Lacie did not so much hug her, as turn her back and flop down into her mom’s embrace. They looked out together up at the last lit lantern, listening to the drip of water and Mitch’s methodical snoring.

“We’re going to Grand Teton and Yellowstone soon,” said Sophie. “Remember? Remember how I always said you’d love it there?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then. We’ll go when it’s safe, I promise.”

“Wyoming, right? Are the big and little bears there?”

“What?”

“Bears,” said Lacie. “You know, like in cartoons, or in the movies.”

“Yes, more like in the movies,” Sophie agreed. “There certainly are. But I’ll protect you. Mostly they stay in the back country, I think.”

“Oh. Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“What is the world like?”

Sophie did not know how to answer this. She hugged her daughter closer, kissed her hair. But she could not yet speak. When she opened her mouth and was almost ready to try, to say something simple and profound, Lacie turned in her arms. Mother and daughter stared at one another, noses almost touching. Lacie frowned and nuzzled Sophie’s free and bandaged hand.

“I miss Silas already,” said Lacie.  “I felt him, knew him, it was like he was amazing. I could tell, mommy, he loved you.”

And that was when Sophie began to cry.

Lacie brushed the tears away with her fingertips, drawing them off and drying them in her own hair. It was the most adult, almost ancient, gesture that Sophie had ever seen in a seven-year-old child.

“You loved him, too,” said Lacie, dropping her eyes from Sophie’s to study the tears, the proof that her mother was truly there. “Didn’t you? Like grandmamma.”

“Yes, Lacie,” said Sophie, her voice on the verge of breaking open. She took in a deep breath. “I loved Silas so very much, just like grandmamma.”

“I miss daddy so much,” Lacie whispered. There were no tears. Her face took on a serene cast as she pulled away, tilting her head, considering Sophie lying there. To Sophie, her daughter appeared to be trying on some big spirit-thing she’d inherited and didn’t know quite what to do with, like she was trying on adulthood to see what it might feel like. Then young-ancient-timeless Lacie smiled, Tom’s lopsided and mischievous smile, and ruffled her mother’s hair. “I’ll protect you, too,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And mommy?”

“Yes?”

Lacie beamed. “Will you get me a glass of water?”

Sophie kissed her daughter upon the cheek, catching mostly blonde ringlets as she rose. She brought back a bottle of water, of course, not a glass. The cistern water was somewhat gray, with little flecks floating down inside it. But that didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered but those eyes, that mouth, that unbreakable radiant spirit in gaze and smile. Oh, Tom. If only you could see her now, she is a wonder. “Here you go.”

A sip, a pout. A one-handed hug of practiced ease, the sensation of girl fingers on mother’s neck and cheek. A kiss, that endless joy which Sophie had believed she would never feel again. “Don’t cry, mommy.”

“I can’t stop,” whispered Sophie. “I’m so happy.”

VI-9

Canticle of the Matriarch

(Sophie closed her diary in elder years with this cryptic, unknowable yet poignant poem addressed to Lacie.)

VI-10

The Chronicle of the Storm Years

(Although inscribed well over a century after the passing of Sophia Ingrid St.-Germain, the reader may find the following words which were etched upon the inner metal “cover” plate of the preserved diary materials — a chronicle cut directly into the metal by some varying series of sharp implements — to be of considerable interest. It appears that the line of Shoshone Geyser Clan matriarchs continued unbroken, almost to within a century of the present day. What transpired to sweep the Clan from history in the 2200s is still unknown to us at this time, and this is one of the key mysteries which has caused me to break for the only time in my life with the sacred Covenant and to urge the UTAS Loremasters to bless, to purify and to aid the next year’s oversea expedition to U.S. Province 44, “Wyoming.”)

(I, for one, prefer to believe that the Shoshone people spread far across the Americas during the Age of Resurgence in exodus over the endless grasses, harvesting the power of the wind, relearning the secrets of earthly energy as a direct result of their geyser religion; and, I pray, that they forsook the black lore of the Weapons of White Fire forevermore. I realize that this theory has by many been branded as a heresy to our people, due to its obvious conflicts with the Orthodox Chronicle, and the resultant questions which must assail the Lore-Mastery Bloodline as portrayed in our own holy histories. Nevertheless, the preliminary evidence of the Yellowstone matriarchy recovered from Shoshone dig site 84 is compelling.)

(There must be so much more to learn, and I pray that I may offer my own life to the further discovery of this serendipity, in revelation. For I know now who I am. ~A. S.-G. C.)

~

The inscription upon the mantle of the Shoshone holy book is as follows:

STORM YEARS AND ON

WIND IN CHRONICLE

~

(I) For seven years: Sophie of the High Shelter, daughter of Annabel, who by her own courage and the power of the One came to us from the fire, and the ashes. She who created the Wind Echo of the Second Shelter, our home.

~

(II) For nine years: Gracie Mae of the Houston, daughter of Lakesha, whose eyes were kind and whose hands were filled with healing.

~

(III) For one and fifty years: Lacie, daughter of Sophie of the Poisoned Hands, who shared with us the last revelations of the Lost World of the light machines, who by brave heart and silver tongue allowed us to make peace and to befriend the Jackson Lake Clan, our warriors.

~

(IV) For four years only: Rica of the Rosarito Beach, daughter of Juanita, who brought us the power of the waterfall, who was lost in valorous bloodshed ere the Sun Mission to the Northlands.

~

(V) For four years once again: Snow Deer, daughter of Sun-in-Stream, who would rather die in torment than ever reveal our secret sanctum to the Feeding Mouths who dwell in the Valley of Weeping.

~

(VI) For nine and forty years: Sage, daughter of Lacie, who journeyed into the Utter East in search of the Grail of Wonders.

~

(VII) For seven and twenty years: Daeli Choi, daughter of…

(Due to the extreme damage suffered by the lower panel, the Chronicle of the Storm Years ends here.)

~

(And that is all that now remains. The very rarity and now resonance of my own name, I believe, is proof enough that the bloodline of Sophia Ingrid St.-Germain lives on. The matriarchs gave down the names not of their husbands, but of themselves. The women’s family names have been preserved for centuries. Am I not of the one bloodline? Will deeper and hopefully un-irradiated physical remains which we might recover from the Geyser Basin, bones and DNA, offer the final proof? Let me go there to dig with our warriors and the delvers, I beseech you.)

(I submit these true and now sacrosanct records for publication, to be followed by mine own judgment for my betrayal, my revealing of these words to our own people.  I submit and bequeath these remnants to the Loremaster in all sincerity,)

(A. S.-G. C.) Alexandria St.-Germain Choi, Professor Emeritus of Holocaust Studies, Tasmania, UTAS 2319.

THE END.

Author’s Afterword

And so we come to the end. I would like to express my love for my wife Michelle, and my son Liam, who I now dedicate this work to.

To my ever-encouraging and helpful readers, thank you for sharing this journey with me. My continuing works of fiction live and thrive only through your appreciation. If you have enjoyed this story, I humbly ask that you please consider spreading the word to your friends, and lend this work, and consider leaving an online review for me.

For those who are having difficulty letting Sophie and Lacie and their descendant Alexandria go (and I count myself among you), be assured that another series of From the Fire books revolving around Lacie and her daughter Sage will follow in the future, if there is interest.

I hope that we, and our nations, will all in time come to carefully reconsider our future history. I ask only this: If someone ever tells you that you must hate, consider not only what they stand to gain, but what you might stand to lose.

Be good to one another, Kent David Kelly Aurora, Colorado August 2013

http://www.amazon.com/Kent-Kelly/e/B004AO4O36

Copyright

Copyright © 2013 Kent David Kelly

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