Selected Scenes from the End of the World, page 6
Terry worked the bolt and fired a second shot, sheering away the side of Karnes’s face. Beckham and the women, armed only with bats and pipes, ducked below decks. The last man standing, armed with a pistol, fired back. Staying low, Terry exchanged gunfire with him. The man ducked behind a drum of rainwater.
“Wait,” Terry shouted. “End this now and I’ll let you guys leave unharmed.”
“You shot Earl in the chest,” the man yelled. “He’s whistling through the bullet hole!”
“Put down your weapon and you can leave. Maybe save his life.”
“You swear you’ll let us go?”
“I promise.”
The man crawled out from behind the barrel with his hands held high.
Terry shot him in the head.
Then he boarded the vessel and hunted down the rest, one by one. Food was scarce, after all. He didn’t butcher the girl with the weird fungus growing on her, though. Instead, he threw her corpse over the side. Later, after he’d moved his belongings onto the boat, Terry and Woody lay back in their new bunks and listened to the waves.
“Yes indeed,” he said, scratching Woody behind the ears. “This is the life. Nice, dry beds and plenty to eat.”
He raised a warm can of Fosters and toasted their new home as they drifted into the night.
11
THE FIRST PRINCIPLE
Boston, Massachusetts
“It’s like God’s pissing on us.”
Mark Sylva grinned. “So the rain’s a wicked pissah?”
“What?” O’Neill frowned.
“Pisser,” Mark said, switching from his native Boston tongue to his more recently adopted Ohio accent.
Wilson cleared his throat. “Since both Mr. O’Neill and I are from out of town, we’re fortunate that you’re bi-lingual, Mr. Sylva. We’d be lost without your translations.”
Mark blinked the rain from his eyes. Water dripped from the brim of his Red Sox cap, and his glasses kept fogging, making it hard for him to splice the wires.
“Old habits die hard,” he said. “I lost some of my accent after moving to Ohio, but I fall back into it pretty easy every time I visit Bahstin.”
While they laughed at his exaggerated pronunciation, Mark focused on rigging up a way to broadcast their distress signal. The three men stood atop the Prudential Building. Once, it had towered almost eight hundred feet above the city’s skyline. Now, all but the top four floors were submerged beneath the Atlantic Ocean. The only other visible island was the John Hancock Tower. Everything else, including Mark’s beloved Fenway Park, was at the bottom of the sea. So far, they hadn’t spotted any survivors on the Hancock Tower’s roof.
Mark knelt beneath the Pru’s two-hundred foot radio tower. As a kid, he’d always thought the top of the Prudential Building looked like a ship. The array of radio antennas reminded him of masts. Now, here he was as an adult-onboard the ship he’d always thought it resembled. Him and the other castaways.
There were six of them left-Mark, O’Neill, Wilson, and the three Boston natives: Mason, Rebecca, and Herndon. The latter had been the Prudential Building’s maintenance manager, and his knowledge of the structure had come in handy when Mark got the idea to record the distress signal. O’Neill was from Indiana, visiting Boston for a conference. Wilson was from Charleston, in town to deliver a speech. Both men were stranded in the city after the government-imposed travel restrictions due to the havoc created by the storms-and what came with the rain.
The same thing had happened to Mark. He’d been in town to visit old friends. His wife, Lisa, and two-year old son, Alexander, stayed home in Ohio. He didn’t know where they were now. He liked to imagine that they might somehow hear his broadcast and know that he loved them and was still alive-if indeed he got it to work. If not, there was still the journal. When Alexander was born, Mark began keeping a journal for him. It had a leather cover and was written in pencil, so the ink wouldn’t smear no matter how wet it got. Mark kept a log of Alex’s accomplishments and how he felt about them. In addition to containing pictures and his son’s first lock of hair, Mark had also written down wisdom and advice. That way, if something ever happened to him…
Mark still wrote in the journal every night.
There had been more survivors at first, but over time, they’d succumbed to illness and injury. Except for Norris, who’d been killed by something that resembled a human shark. Growing up, Mark had always wanted to be a marine biologist. He loved the ocean, spent hours in the tide pools searching for crabs, clams, and sea horses. Read dozens of books on marine biology and memorized the names of every fish he could. But he’d never seen anything like the monster that bit Norris in half.
Shuddering, Mark returned his attention to the electrical box.
“You sure this is gonna work?” O’Neill asked.
“It should,” Mark said. “We’ve got plenty of diesel for the generator. I can broadcast just like a radio station. With all these radio masts and dishes, anyone with a working radio or television should hear it. Maybe even CB radio. Television signals will only carry in the Massachusetts area, but the radio signals should hit tower after tower. They could go pretty far.”
Maybe all the way to Ohio, he thought.
“And,” he continued, “if I can figure out how to rewire the satellite dishes into the public broadcast system equipment, and the satellites out in space are still operational, I can transmit even farther.”
“What if someone responds?” Wilson shivered beneath his umbrella.
Mark sighed. “I can only transmit. We won’t know if anyone hears us unless a helicopter shows up to haul our asses out of here.
He handed a pair of needle-nose pliers to O’Neill.
“Hold those for me?”
Mark’s shirtsleeve stretched as he handed O’Neill the tool, revealing his forearm.
“That’s an interesting tattoo,” Wilson observed.
“I’ve got a bunch. Chinese dragon on my leg. A tribal fire design with the Chinese symbol for a phoenix. A Celtic knot band around my upper arm, and the Chi symbol.”
“Spiritual energy,” Wilson said.
“Yeah!” Mark was surprised the old man knew what Chi meant. “And then I’ve got The Crow-you know, the comic book character? And a shark jaw with Tolkien runes of good and evil. Inside that is a symbol for balance and harmony.”
“You are a very esoteric individual. I suppose you are well read?”
Mark nodded. “I think so.”
“Are you familiar with Thales, the pre-Socratic Greek philosopher?”
“No,” Mark admitted. “Don’t think I ever Googled him.”
Wilson grinned. “Thales proposed the foundational principles of existence-a cosmological doctrine. He believed that the world originated from water. Indeed, the universe was nothing more than a giant ocean that he referred to as the Great Deep. Earth formed by solidifying from the water on which it floated. One day, it would return to such. Thales called this the First Principle.”
Mark glanced out at the ocean. “He thought the whole planet was gonna turn into water?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds to me like he wasn’t that far off.”
“Indeed.”
A low, mournful howl echoed across the water. It sounded like a whale call-if the whale was part wolf. All three men jumped at the sound. O’Neill dropped the pliers into a puddle.
“Never get used to that,” he muttered. “Damned things.”
“One of the first laws of physics,” Wilson continued after the cry had faded, “is that matter can neither be created nor destroyed. It can only change form. So, all this extra water around us has to be accounted for from the existing matter on the planet.”
Mark fished the pliers out of the puddle. “What are you suggesting?”
“Perhaps the Earth itself is turning into liquid. That liquid is then evaporated and subsequently falls back down. Maybe the water around us isn’t getting higher, but the ground is actually liquefying.”
Mark frowned. “Earth is turning into a big water ball?”
“Possibly.”
“So if the planet turns into water,” O’Neill asked, “what keeps all that water from floating out into space?”
“Well,” Wilson said, “the earth still has a core and is rotating on its axis, thus producing the centrifugal force necessary to maintain gravity. Plus, if only solid matter is being turned into water, the atmosphere won’t be degraded. Think of it like a snow globe, or better yet, a bucket of water. If you put it on its side the water rushes out. If you spin it, the bucket can stay on its side and the water remains inside because of the force. The big question here is, what happens when the degradation hits the core?”
“Unless we freeze solid first,” Mark said. “Winter’s coming, after all.”
“I don’t think that will happen. If my theory is correct, all of that transforming matter is generating heat, raising the earth’s temperature. Plus, it churns up warm water, the very kind necessary for the creation of hurricanes. That would explain all of the super storms we saw across the globe.”
The pliers slipped in Mark’s wet grasp, cutting his hand. Wincing, he sucked blood.
“It might explain the weather,” he said. “But it doesn’t explain those fucking things out there in the water.”
“No,” Wilson admitted. “I suppose it doesn’t. I have no theory for the changes in our marine life.”
“I do,” O’Neill said. “Black magic.”
“There’s no such thing,” Wilson scoffed.
“There was no such thing as half-human sharks, either,” Mark said. “Until that one killed Norris.”
Thunder rolled across the sky.
“You guys should get inside,” Mark said. “Looks like more of that weird lightning is on the way. No sense in all three of us getting electrocuted.”
“You sure?” O’Neill asked.
“Yeah, go on in. Grab something to eat. I’ll be okay.”
“No, I meant are you sure this thing will work.”
Mark nodded. “It has to.”
“Why?”
“Because people have always said I was lucky or blessed. Good things seem to happen to me. Why would that change now?”
After a moment, O’Neill returned his smile.
Wilson turned towards the stairwell. “We’ll check on Mason and Rebecca-see if they are feeling better.”
In the last few days, both Mason and Rebecca had contracted a fungal infection. Whitish fuzz sprouted on their extremities. Removing it had no effect. The sub-stance just grew back. Both castaways were weak and thirsty.
After Wilson and O’Neill were gone, Mark finished his wiring. Then he retreated to the maintenance shed and shut the door behind him. He dried off with some shop rags and stripped down to his boxers. He hung his wet clothes up to dry and put on another pair. Then he powered up the generator and crossed his fingers.
Mark had grown up Catholic, just like the rest of Massachusetts. As an adult, his faith had faltered.
But now he prayed.
“Please. Please let this work.”
He keyed the microphone and looked at the transmitter, both of which were perched precariously on a card table. The transmitter’s needle bobbed into the red. Mark cheered.
“Fifteen years as a telephone technician, baby!”
Grinning, Mark took a deep breath. He didn’t know who was listening, but he didn’t want to sound like an idiot in any case. He sat down behind the small card table and pulled the microphone closer. While he collected his thoughts, his ankle began to itch. Mark scratched it, but that only made the irritation worse.
He exhaled, pulled the microphone closer, and began to speak.
“My name is Mark Sylva. I’m coming to you live- that’s right, still alive-from the roof of the Pru’ Building in lovely, downtown Bahstin.”
The itching grew worse. Mark scratched it vigorously. His fingernails drew blood.
“Please stand-by. We’re already experiencing technical difficulties.”
Cringing, he let go of the mike and rolled up his pants leg. Then he pulled down his sock. Fungus-the same as on Mason and Rebecca-was growing on his ankle; the spot was about the size of a half-dollar.
Mark turned his attention back to the radio.
“The first thing I want to say is this-Lisa and Alex, I love you.”
He scratched again.
“Anyway, here I am. Hope somebody is listening. I always figured that when I died, I’d go out with a fight, getting back up to attack one more time, like Boromir in Lord of the Rings or Willem Dafoe in Platoon. I’m a sucker for those great last stands. But lately, I’ve been wondering. A friend of mine just told me about the First Principle. Maybe we should talk about that.”
The itching grew worse.
The fuzz spread.
“Damn,” Mark said. “I’m really thirsty.”
12
IN THE SHADOW OF TARANAKI
Hawera, New Zealand
The Maori had a saying about Mount Egmont (or Mount Taranaki, as it was called in the Maori tongue): “If you can see the mountain it’s going to rain. If you can’t see it, then it’s already raining.”
Mean considered this as he trudged through the downpour, and tried not to laugh. He was afraid that if he started laughing, he might not be able to stop.
The dormant volcano had always loomed over Hawera, dominating the horizon. But the Maori had been right. Since the rains began, the mountain had been shrouded in mist and no longer visible. But it was still there. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t, then Mean was fucked.
And in truth, he was probably fucked anyway.
Hawera was a sleepy little town, and its ten-thousand residents didn’t worry about much. When the global mega-storms started, the townspeople watched it all on television, annoyed that the coverage preempted their rugby matches. Mean had just returned from a trip to the U.K.-attending a comic book convention in Birmingham-and was grateful to be home and away from all that adolescent body odor. But soon, he wished he was back in England, or anywhere else for that matter.
Hawera had numerous streams, lakes and ponds, and was close to the sea. All of this combined into a recipe for disaster. Powerful storm surges took out Waihi beach and then rushed inland, smashing over the towering cliffs and eroding the countryside. At the same time, the rain-swollen streams and ponds overflowed their banks, flooding the town and surrounding communities. The deluge wiped out Hawera within hours. Those not killed in the flash flooding had evacuated to Ohawe, nearly nine kilometers away. Then came word that Ohawe was gone, too.
That was when Mean decided to head for Mount Egmont. He went alone, armed with his.22 semi-auto and a backpack filled with medicine, water and canned goods. He wrapped a plastic bag around the backpack to keep its contents dry. The muddy terrain sucked at his boots. Trees and other vegetation were starting to collapse, their roots unable to keep purchase in the wet soil.
At times, the water reached his knees. Mean wasn’t worried. He could swim. If things got worse, he could build a raft. He’d grown up on a farm, breeding race-horses. It had a stream out back; the Maori name for the stream was long and unpronounceable. Mean and his friends had always referred to it as “The River.” As a kid, he’d spent many hours floating down the stream with rafts made from oil drums and a few planks tied together with baling twine.
He got a lump in his throat at the memory. The stream was gone now, like the rest of the waterways in the region-all part of something much bigger.
Mean pulled his coat tighter around himself and continued on his way, following a steep goat track that wound up between the cliffs. His feet were cold and wet, and night was coming. There wasn’t really daylight anymore. There was only varying shades of grey. With no lights or stars for illumination, night-time was pitch black now. Primordial. He’d have to find shelter soon, here in the foothills at the base of the mountain, and continue his ascent tomorrow. If he fumbled around in the dark, he could fall off a cliff. Worse, if he didn’t get dry and warm soon, he could catch hypothermia.
Through the swirling fog, he spotted a cave ahead, and made for it. The opening was a narrow fissure, leading downward at a sharp angle. Water trickled into the opening. Mean unslung his backpack, ducked his head, and crept inside. After a few feet, the tunnel straightened. The water pooled on the floor. Mean pressed onward, until he found a dry section.
He rummaged through the backpack, found his flash-light, and surveyed the interior. He was alone, and more importantly, dry.
Sitting with his back against the cave wall, Mean closed his eyes and sighed.
His eyes snapped open when he heard the shrieks.
They didn’t sound human. After a brief moment, he recognized them. As a boy, Mean had shot rabbits with an old single-action.22 rifle. He’d never forget the sound the rabbits made when wounded. They screamed. The sound had sent shivers down his spine.
That was what he heard now.
Curious, Mean crept to the cave entrance, carrying his flashlight and the gun. When he got outside, the screams grew louder, echoing over the constant drum of the falling rain.
A mass exodus of animals charged out of the under-growth and scampered up the mountain. He saw rabbits, flightless kiwi birds, kiore rats, deer, wild goats and pigs, and even a runaway cow. Birds and pekapeka bats fluttered overhead. Mean wondered what had disturbed them all. They were obviously distressed, ignoring each other as well as the human in their midst, in an effort to flee. Deep within the mist, he heard a squelching sound.
Then the predator-the cause of the wildlife’s fright-slithered forth, driving another wave of panicked animals before it. It was a giant worm, roughly the size of a small compact car, and of undetermined length. The monster’s tail-end was still shrouded in mist. As Mean gaped, it surged forth and swallowed a rabbit whole. It never slowed, targeting the next morsel as it wriggled through the mud. Amazingly, smaller worms clung to its hide-New Zealand flatworms, normally found on South Island. Carnivorous and predatory, they fed on other worms by lying on top of them and excreting acidic digestive juices. Then they sucked up the soup. Apparently, their presence had little effect on the bigger worm.
