Collected

Collected

A Selection of Works by Vaughan Stephenson

Collected,

By Vaughan Stephenson

Table of Contents ARTIST STATEMENT POETRY “Ain’t Seen No Light” “Hail to the Thief” “Crystal/Death Night” “My Pittsburgh” “Pittsburgh” “Swamp Man” “The Heavenly Archipelago” “The Illuminative Box” “Clandestine” “You” “The Absence of Color” FICTION Antarctic, a novella Piecemeal Of Love The Old Man Excerpt from The Cracked Shadow Excerpt from Depths and Madness Excerpt form The Station A Silent Requiem Homecoming NONFICTION “Religion” SCREENPLAYS AND PLAYS “Hüertgen” “Terror”

Artist Statement I think therefore I am. I am therefore I write. Writing comes naturally to me, as natural as breathing. I won’t say I’m a great or even a good writer. It isn’t up to me to make that decision. But I will say that what I write is genuine; it’s important to me, it is some kind of indication of who I am. Each piece alone doesn’t add up to the whole, but when put together, I hope that my writing defines me in such a way that you could paint a picture of my mind.

When I write, my intention isn’t to force upon someone some deep theme or greater message hidden in a poem or story, I simply just write what I see and what I think of. That of course doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be interpreted, I want people to come away from my writing with some kind of message, but I don’t want the meaning of my story to be the same for everyone. I want my stories to have many meanings and nuances, and for each person’s experience to be slightly different.

This selection of my work, in my opinion, gives the best example of my writing because the pieces are form different periods in my writing career. T pieces are able to show the different stages I have gone through, and maybe can give a broader sense of how I have developed and how I have turned into the person I am today.

That being said, anyone who reads this, please enjoy what I wrote. Please read what you want and only what you want. Maybe you’ll come away from it with something.

POETRY

Ain’t Seen No Light I ain’t seen no daylight, ain’t seen in many years, Oh Lord I ain’t seen no daylight, ain’t seen in many years, Oh if I don’t ever see no light again I will cry away all my tears.

When I was just a little boy, my eyes took in all the world, I said when I was just a little boy, oh yes, my eyes took in all the world, but those eyes done failed me, left me in that lonesome dark.

All I see is shadows, wraiths moving somewhere out there, All I see is shadows, them wraiths moving around out there, I live alone in my world of blindness, don’t seem that nobody cares.

My hands are rough and worn, calloused by my sight, my hands are rough and worn, lord, done calloused by my sight, I look upon things with a fairness, cause, lord, I don’t see no spite.

There’s nothing out there no more, the world is all but bare, there’s nothing out there no more, oh yes, the world is all but bare, I live alone in my world of blindness, don’t seem that nobody cares.

One day I’ll shed my darkness, walk proud up to them gates, yes one day I’ll shed my darkness, walk proud up to them gates, with that light just falling ‘round me, I’ll see forever more, with that light just falling ‘round me, I will see what’s yet in store.

Hail To The Thief We should blindly follow, like sheep, all hail (to the thief).

Life running from a rent, seeping blood… serotonin… life… dreams… education… a smile… a loving touch…

Endorphin drip snaking through your mouth, lungs, heart, into your brain, it keeps you moving, you’d rather not see or feel.

We need to see but we can’t, you can’t, I… can’t it’s all cant… lies, hypocrisy, false piety.

Opening your eyes is harder when you’ve been drugged on fear while a many tongued monologue runs in the back of your mind and in the marble halls.

A three faced man (forged hope, veiled threat, covered lie) spins his skull faster to keep you down.

Funeral procession of rage and banners swung, and gas, and rubber hail (to the thief), Man woman and child standing in that same quiet acquiescence as a searing white flash erases past, present, and future.

Kristall/Tod Nacht (Crystal/Death Night) I Showers of glass fall like rain onto the cobbled street below, the shattered panes come together, splinters of glass

run into shards of glass run into fragments of glass and they come together in the gutter and form a river of sparkling crystal. Running in rivulets, winding past firewashed buildings, trampled under the polished leather heel of a boot, grinding the stream into the sand from whence it came.

II Spires of red brickwork spilling out ash, a grimy dust that falls heavy and oily onto skin, where as hard as one rubs at the flakes they only are smeared deeper and deeper into hands and arms, staining clothing and hair, dusting windows and chimneys.

A winterless snowfall, hazing the crystal day into an ungodly evening.

Devoid of laughter and play, devoid of all things save the roar of flame…

My Pittsburgh Walking the street filled with ghosts of the past, a history of fire and forgery, cobbled ways made dark with ash and smoke. Rank and file of men queue down hills and around corners, passing through the gates to belching pyres of smog and flame. A city built of steel and coal, built on the shoulders of a tired and huddled mass. Nested as in the folds and wrinkles of a child’s blanket, his thigh a mountain, his chest farther east. His rhythmic breathing the rising and falling of families in America, in Pittsburgh, my Pittsburgh. Sheer cliffs of metal and glass, plummeting dizzyingly downward,

to the rush of machinery down below, the clicking and clacking of city life, my city life, the turning of inevitable cogs in the ticking clock of Pittsburgh, my Pittsburgh.

Pittsburgh is a one horse town filled with horses, stuffed to the edges, filled to the brim with kindly faces and handshakes.

Pittsburgh is a one season (winter) town with sticky sun blaring sidewalk hazing egg frying shimmering heat summers, when the sweat of sixty thousand runs into its own rivers, perspiration driven downstream past derelict mills and furnaces.

Pittsburgh is the kind of town you want to leave but you can feel it pulling at your navel when you leave, tugging you slowly back until you realize you never left, like Joyce never left Ireland or the dead never leave the ground.

Pittsburgh is green and concrete and

steel and black and gold and blue, tired eyes and tired streets, cracked asphalt running down to the infinitesimal end.

Swamp Man So, says the swamp man, out swimming one night.

With me and my tail, we’ll cause quite a fright.

About the town, he says, I’ll gallivant, for I despise every single sycophant in that town which they call home, for they hate me and they hate my watery home.

And so swims the swamp man to that small town, by the fringes of humanity, by the sandy downs.

And so storms the Swamp Man into that sad village, and proceeds to kill, and destroy and pillage.

So, says the swamp man, out swimming one night.

El Archipiélago Celestial El archipiélago, construido por el Mano de Dios, ascendió de los Mares infinitos y oscures, Los islas han golpeado Por tiempo, Por amor y odio, Codicia, Miedo, Pensativo.

Habian sobrevivido para eternidad, Eternidad creaba un fuego, Un fuego creaba eternidad.

Un mano en gloria Da forma, Y nada, Nada, Nada.

Lo crea y duda En vida y muerte, Lo dudo que el fin exista, Extendiendo un brazo a infinidad Y espera, Espera,

Espera...

Translation The Heavenly Archipelago The Archipelago, constructed by the Hand of god, rose from the Infinite dark seas The islands were battered By time and weather By love and hate Greed, Fear, Thought.

It would have lasted eternity, Eternity crafted a flame, The flame crafted eternity.

A hand in heaven Shapes form and Nothing.

It believes and doubts In life and death, Extending a hand Towards infinity And waiting, Waiting, Waiting.

The Illuminative Box

By Vaughan Stephenson Do you remember me at all? I once lived on a gilded pedestal, high in your living room.

I was the bringer of light and warmth.

I thought you loved me. I loved you. What happened?

I gave you reruns of Gilligan’s Island, The Honeymooners, Bowling for Dollars. gave you everything. What did you give me?

I now live in a vast field full of cans, boxes, broken bats. Thousands of lost socks, grime encrusted tissues.

If you can believe it, I rest just over a pile of blown out tires from that beautiful plinth that held me aloft like atlas, for I was your world.

Until you stepped through the door one day with a package that was long and flat.

I watched you drive nails into the wall above me; dust and flakes of paint drifting onto my head. I was placed

onto the couch, while I watched you hang and adjust your new love: a flat screen wonder whose face stretched like a placid lake, waiting to shine other worlds and places into the backs of your eyes.

I was the box that illuminated your life. Now I sit here in the dump, cold and hungry. I wait for the day, the glorious day, when I can look up, and see a truck dumping a new heap of filth, and there, tumbling down from the heavens comes the High-Definition Rectangle that replaced me.

Clandestine I turn my other cheek, begin an idle conversation with someone else while you sit there singing like a linnet.

My avoidance seems not to phase you, leaves no dent, and you sit fast in your chair, a tense look spreading across your face and get up to dance, screaming for my attention. You slide across the tiles, flailing your white linen arms but to no avail, I still don’t see you there, in your ridiculous stance, but to please you, I cast a passing glance in your direction, and decide to acknowledge you instead.

You You glide across the room, a transparent wight, leaving a trail of black residue in a line along the polished white tile. Outside the breeze bends the boughs of the elms in the intrinsic ebb and flow of time. The bark peels and falls to the ground, you tiptoe through across the lawn and pluck each piece from its resting place and push it into its negative space on the tree.

You are barefoot, your ash-colored feet nimble even though the temperature is quite low, you are barefoot and in shorts.

The world moves on in its own way even though you give it no notice, no nod of the head, you are alive in your own world, your own rhythms and clicks and clacks.

Take one more step and you would fall off the edge of the Earth, if your feet were not so nimble.

The Absence of Color.

A human being is not defined, Cannot be defined, shall not Be defined… but is, was and will Be. The human eye can be color blind, But even with the absence of color Color still defines, has defined, shall be Defining. Human is invisible, Black and white are stark.

The things that we see and we don’t see Define the way we act, the way we interact, the way We classify a community, group, a race.

I never had an occasion to question color, I only saw myself as a human being.

If only, if only, I was seen by others in this Same light, in the absence of color and the Absence of race, a human being, Another man, a friend, A neighbor, I am just another man, not black, not white, No color, the absence of color.

I am a human being.

FICTION

Antarctic A novella

CHAPTER 1 The cold would kill you within minutes if you weren’t covered up. I’d never seen it, but I’ve heard the stories about people freezing right there where they stood, bluing over and splintering while you watched, little fissures spreading over their exposed skin like ice cracking across a pond. They said that if you were watching, it looked like they were moving in slow motion. Their last moments a struggle to overthrow the biting gnawing air, slowly crystallizing your blood, turning your cells into steel, making you forever a statue in the endless fields of ice. The thought always struck me. Standing there, hard as rock, like a Neanderthal that they find in caves. Just standing there waiting for God knows who to come and find you someday. ***

He trudged on stiffly, layered in every scrap of clothing he could find. Thermal underwear first, followed by tee-shirts followed by windbreakers followed by heavy jackets. He’d cut apart coats and sewed three of them together, making one large, misshapen thing that could fit over the bulk of everthing else. He’d topped it all off by wrapping in a patchwork quilt; a bulky mass of ratty cloth hanging in tatters, dragging his feet over the ice, a beaten sled piled with supplies was attached by a rope tied to his waist. He grunted furiously, his breath creating a fine mist that found its way through his head wrapping and ski-masks. He swore at the ground and looked towards the horizon.

There was nothing. A jagged and ghostly expanse of ice, rolling out in front of him for hundreds of miles in every direction. To his east, he could detect the hint of a mountain range. Which one he couldn’t say. He’d been wandering for about five days through Wilkes Land, after his snowmobile had broken down. Trying to make it to Cape Goodenough. He muttered to himself quietly, cursing every damned person he’d left behind in Corona.

The sun was sagging low over the horizon. He slowed down and stopped, pulling a heavy bundle of tarps and poles from the sled, and threw a white tarpaulin over everything else. He could feel the tendrils of cold probing through his jackets, piercing into his skin like needles. His hands were growing numb, and he began to set up his thermal tent, made out of thickly layered sheets of cloth and plastic to keep the thing insulated during the bitter nights.

By the time the sun had set, the tent was sitting like a squat mound of ice in the center of the tundra. The wind ripped across the tent, the whole thing shook when he crawled inside. He lit his tiny kerosene stove and warmed his hands. He had a package of frozen beans, which he pressed down on with a slight pop. Inside the little package, little packets of chemicals collided and began to heat and cook the frozen beans.

The little flame from the stove cast the grotto in a pale blue light, and in the ethereal glow he fished around in his pockets for a small hand mirror and studied his broken face. He was unshaven; he had no razor nor shaving cream. He didn’t even have soap. Dried blood was caked on his lower cheeks and chin, the upper part of his face and head covered in blood stained gauze. His eyes peered out of a slit in the wrappings, the right one still red and swollen from Leonid Kit’s fist. He unwound the gauze and laid it on the icy floor, but set aside the mirror.

He sterilized the gauze with alcohol and dabbed at his wounds with a antiseptic wipe, flinching as he worked around the long gashes. He took the small vial of rubbing alcohol and emptied onto his lacerated skull. He ran a comb through his matted hair in an attempt to work out some of the dried blood, the comb only caught in the strands and pulled viciously at his scalp. He took the gauze, which had been drying next to the flame and rewrapped his head.

He turned down the stove, the flame shrinking away into nothingness. There were no sounds save his breathing and the howling of the wind, whistling over the tarp. He clutched his hands in between his thighs and tucked his feet as close to his body as possible. His teeth chattered and his breathing was sharp and jagged. In those cold wastes under the swimming Aurora Austraulis he slipped into sleep, cold and bloodied and broken.

*** The Snow Crawler roared along the trail. Dex had been piloting for nearly sixteen hours straight, and had no intentions of stopping until they reached Lansing. He looked in the back cabin at the others, all of them still asleep. He checked his watch and realized how early it was. He gunned the motor and bounced over a mound of ice. The Snow Crawler came down heavily, rattling the occupants awake in the back.

“For God’s sake, Dexter. Be careful. I’m still sleeping here. Park her and take a rest.” Marcell laid back into the bed and was silent. Dex grunted and continued driving.

Marcell climbed from his bunk and sat in the copilot’s seat, and stared at Dex. “You really ought to get some sleep, Dex.” He pulled out a chart from under the dashboard and spread the map out on his lap. He traced the route with his finger, calculating distances in his head.

Dex turned and looked down at the map. “Where are we?”

“About to cross marker three eighty two. Just near the intersection with the Corona trail.” Dex nodded, and peered at the map.

“Dex!” Dex looked up and saw a man out over the ice, dragging his feet. He pulled a sled along behind him.

“What the hell?”

Dex slowed the Snow Crawler down and they watched the lone man struggling forward. He took a few more steps and then crumpled forward in what looked like slow motion. When he hit the ground both Dex and Marcell stood and rushed for the hatch, throwing on their snowsuits and parkas.

Dex ran across the ice to the to the fallen man and shook him. “Hey, buddy, are you alright?”

Marcell dropped to his knees. “He’s still breathing.”

“Marcell, radio in to Starkweather Station. We need an ambulance.”

Marcell jogged back towards the Snow Crawler. Dex stood back. The man on the ground was clad in every sort of coat. Shuster pulled back his parka hood to get a look at his face, but his head was wrapped in bloodied gauze and a terrible stench came off of him.

“Holy shit,” Dex said.

They dragged him back to the Snow Crawler and put him on one of the bunks.

They crowded around the man, Marcell finishing his radio call. They took some of the man’s jackets off and propped his head up on a pillow.

“Can you hear me?” Dex moved closer to the man’s veiled face. “Can you hear me?” He touched the man’s arm.

“Yes. I can—” he paused, “I can hear you.” He clenched his jaw and breathed deeply.

“Are you alright? We sent for an ambulance.”

The man sat up. “No, no I don’t need an ambulance. Make another call, cancel it.”

“Alright, it’s up to you.”

“Thanks.” The man looked around the cabin. “So… what are your names?”

“I’m Dex. This is Chip, Marcell, Hans and Schuster.” Dex pointed out the four other men in the cabin.

“What were you doing out there?”

“I’m lost.”

“What’s your name?”

The man was silent for a moment. He carefully said, “Silas… Manfield. Where am I?” “We’re at marker three eighty two. About a hundred miles from Starkweather.”

“Ok… ok.” Silas nodded.

“Where were you heading?”

“Cape Goodenough. But if you could take me to… you’re heading to Lansing?”

“Yeah. We’re on our way to Lansing, but you need to get to a hospital.”

“No. Really, I’m fine. I just have the wind knocked out of me.”

“Alright. I suppose you need a ride?”

Silas nodded.

“You can ride on with us. We only have four bunks, but you could sleep on the floor.” Dex paused. “You smell awful.”

“I’ve been lost for two weeks. I haven’t had a chance to wash.”

“You can clean up in our shower unit. And I’ll give you some clothes.”

“Thanks.” Silas swung his legs from the bunk and stood up. He looked at the men, and began wringing his hands awkwardly. He opened his mouth to speak, but he limped back to the rear of the cabin, sliding the door shut behind him.

“So do you guys think this is a bizarre as I do?” Dex looked around at the rest of the group, who were all nodding in agreement. *** Silas stepped out from the bath and found the cabin empty. Fresh clothing had been set out on one of the bunks, along with clean bandages for his head. His wounds had nearly healed, but he wrapped his face nonetheless. He went out into the living quarters and found a pot of soup on the stove and a half loaf of bread. He ate voraciously, the first real food in days. He suited up and stepped into the wind-blasted tundra.

The five men were setting up a signal beacon. Silas went over to them.

“Why are you putting that up?”

Dex turned to him and shook his head. “Bad news. The Crawler won’t turn over.

Nice bit of luck, huh?”

Silas swallowed. “You called for a rig?”

“Yeah, from Starkweather. Should take about a day or two, though.”

“Alright.” He turned and looked back over the ice, saw that his sled was still there. “I’m going to go get my sled.” Dex nodded and turned back to the beacon.

Silas walked past them and went out on the ice. He looked over his shoulder and took a pistol from under the tarpaulin and stuffed it in his coat pocket. He took a small knapsack and threw in a box of ammunition and a few small personal things. He shouldered the bag and left the rest on the sled.

Back inside the Snow Crawler the men settled around a small table. Marcell pulled out a pack of cards and began to shuffle them.

“So, Silas. What happened to your head?” He motioned towards the bandages.

Silas looked at his hands and quickly lied. “I was getting out of Corona. In a hurry. I was probably fifty miles out and I wrecked my half-track. Bashed my head off

the dash. I wrapped her up and tried to fix my Crawler but the engine block was shot to hell.”

“You must have bad luck, my friend.”

“Worse than you would believe.” Silas and Marcell looked hard at each other, their gazes full of mutual distrust.

Marcell said: “What is it, if you don’t mind my asking, that you did? In Corona.”

Marcell stared at him.

Silas shifted in his seat. He said: “May I ask all of you a personal question, then?”

They looked at him and shrugged. “Are you supporters of the new order, or the old Presidency?”

The groups leader, Dex, a dark haired man in his thirties, spoke up. “We’re supporters of Darvey. I don’t trust Spetzer and the rest of the nationalists.”

Silas nodded to himself and finally said, “I worked for the government. Before Spetzer came in the picture. When Darvey was overthrown all of the republicans were rounded up and thrown in the State Jail. Political offenders. I got out while I had the chance.”

Dex nodded. “Yes. There hasn’t been much news getting through lately. Spetzer shut down the media and the roads. The roads were just opened three days ago. I guess that’s changed now.”

“Any word of what happened to President Darvey? I mean, do they have any idea where he is?”

“No. Everyone’s basically assuming Spetzer got him. And if so, he’s probably dead by now. Auckland Buckhannon’s the leader of Republican Antarctica now.”

Silas nodded his head. He seemed shocked. He said: “I guess that’s what it is.”

“I guess so.” There was a long pause.

“Why are you heading towards Lansing?”

Marcell wrapped his knuckles on the table. “The nationalists came in about a week ago. Rounded up any republicans they could find. They’ve gotten as far as Rostraver.”

“Hold on. Has this turned into open war?”

Dex nodded gravely. “Coatsland, Queen Maud, Enderby, and Corona. They’ve formed the Nationalist States of Antarctica. Then there’s the Democratic Republic, which is everyone else. We’re on our way to Lansing before the nationalists take Minna. I guess it doesn’t matter much anyways. The republicans are already on the run. There are rumors that some European countries sent troops.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I know. This is all so fucked up.” Dex lit a cigarette. “It could be worse I suppose. We could be living in the Northern Hemisphere.”

Silas laughed. “True.” The smile faded quickly, and the radio up front began to beep. Marcell got up and played the message. “All roads are hereby closed by order of President Spetzer. Any vehicles found to be in transit, in Republican territory or Nationalist territory is subject to seizure and all passengers shall be incarcerated. Thank you for your patience.”

They all looked around at each other grimly. They said nothing, and they silently began to play a hand of cards.

*** The roads remained closed for much longer than any of them thought they would.

After five days, they began to worry about how much longer they would be able to remain on the ice without losing their sanity. The fuel cells depleted, and the solar panels on the roof of the Crawler struggled to keep enough electricity to run the heaters.

On the twelfth day there was a tremendous pounding noise from outside and they rushed to the window and watched as a thick military helicopter circled overhead. They couldn’t make out whether it was nationalist or republican, but after it passed over a few more times, the crewmembers craning their necks to look at the stranded Snow Crawler below, it rose into the crystal air above, and soon disappeared into the distance. A few minutes after the helicopter had gone, their radio crackled to life.

“All roads are now open. Repeat, all roads now open. All vehicles are now free to travel. President Spetzer would like to thank the citizens of Antarctica for their patience.”

The men looked at each other, astounded. They quickly radioed in to Starkweather and were told the rig would arrive in the afternoon the next day.

On the thirteenth day of being stranded on the tundra the men went out to mend the radio antenna. Silas stayed back inside, and once they had all left the Snow Crawler he went into the bathroom and took off his head wrappings. The gash across his cheek and nose was healing nicely, and his head wound was also on it’s way.

He heard the clack of boot heel, the door behind him swung open and he immediately threw his hands over his face in futility. He spun around and peered between his fingers. Marcell was standing stone still, Silas’ pistol in hand. Silas cursed himself; he hadn’t even noticed Marcell was still in the Snow Crawler.

“Take your hands from your face.” Silas ebbed away. Marcell raised the pistol and trained it between Silas’ eyes. “Drop your hands.”

Silas, staring at the pale metal of his own gun, let his arms fall to his side. Marcell stared into his face for a moment before he too backed up and gasped. The pistol fell to the ground.

“Darvey...” Marcell said.

Silas could no longer feign being Silas. He was done. The president lashed forward, grabbing Marcell by the hair and tumbling with him onto the floor. *** Dex and the others rushed back into the Snow Crawler when they heard the yelling. Dex found Darvey over Marcell’s unconscious body.

“What the fuck is going on—” Dex stopped. “Jesus Christ. President Darvey…”

Darvey raised the pistol. He said: “All of you. On the floor. Now!” The men put their hands up. They sat next to Marcell. Dex could see that Darvey had broken Marcell’s nose, and he was unconscious.

“What do you want from—” “Shut up.”

“Just tell us what—” “I said shut up… Really. Truly. I didn’t want to do this. I just wanted to get away from here. Once I got to the coast I would have been gone. No one would have ever heard from me again. And all you had to do was let me on this little fucking halftrack and leave

me the fuck alone. But this son of a bitch couldn’t do it.” He pointed the gun towards the stirring Marcell. “He pulled my own gun on me. My own gun.” They looked up at the man. The same man they had been seeing for years, but it seemed he was no longer the young president they had known. He paced anxiously. He was dark. His skin tight and sallow, his eyes cold.

Dex said: “Listen. If you want to get to the Lansing you put that gun away.”

“No. Who do you think I am? You’ve screwed me over—” “Listen to me” Dex bit his lip. “If you want to get out of here alive, you put the gun away. Wrap your head up. We’ll take you Lansing. I promise we will get you there.

But there’s a rig on its way right now. When they get here, and they find everyone dead and a set of footprints leading over the ice, they aren’t going to let that go. Be cool.”

Darvey flinched and pulled at his hair. “Goddammit.”

“Calm down. Just be cool.”

“Is this what I wanted? Is this what I asked for?” He tucked the pistol into his belt.

“This mess…”

Marcell sat up and touched his hand to his nose. “The motherfucker broke my nose. He broke my fucking nose.” He winced with the pain.

Dex stood up. He said: “Listen, we’re taking President Darvey to Lansing. That’s final.”

“There’s no need to call me ‘president.’” Darvey slumped into a seat and put his face in his hands.

“He broke my fucking nose and he would have probably killed us all and you’re taking him where he wants to go?”

“No. We are taking him. I’ll leave you out there if you think otherwise.”

“He had a gun. He was hiding a gun from us. He would have killed—” “Everyone just be quiet,” Darvey yelled. He sat back and kneaded his chin. *** Years and years ago, mankind had foolishly let its guard down. Our new Golden Age. Everything was perfect, and what could break perfection? How naïve. Populations around the world grew year by year. It was all so easy to see in hindsight, what would happen next. Everything was bound to come crashing down. And when it finally did, it came down hard. The frantic search for a new home for billions. Antarctica was the only option. The best option. All I can do now is laugh at their stupidity. They built a nation in a land where no one is meant to live, no one should ever want to live. And I was elected President of that land. A divine joke, perhaps, if I believed in God. *** The rig trundled along the road and stopped behind the Snow Crawler. The men were all standing waiting for rescue, bundled in their thermal suits, standing around awkwardly, not one saying a word.

“Hey there. You guys ready to get going?” The rig captain smiled but the men remained silent. “You guys alright? You sure been stuck in there long enough.” They just stared.

Darvey shifted uncomfortably in the snow. The mechanics had gotten down and were converging on the crippled half-track while the captain exchanged hellos with Dex. He invited the captain inside for a cup of coffee.

They all sat around the small pressed metal table, still silent and sullen. One man had a broken nose, and another had bandages wrapped around his head.

The captain motioned toward Darvey. “You get those in the accident? It must’ve been pretty bad. Tore this thing up real good.”

“Yeah. I hit my head off of the floor—I mean I was falling and hit my face off of the bed and then I hit the floor. You know. I got pretty cut up off of the bed. The edge I mean. It’s pretty sharp.” The captain nodded slowly.

“Yeah… you, uh, look pretty beat up.” He furrowed his brow and looked around at Marcell. “I see that one’s fresh. How’d you do that.”

Marcell said: “Keep out of my fucking business. How about that?”

Dex’s eyes widened. Marcell looked at him indifferently and got up from the table and disappeared into the back. The men sat there quietly again.

Dex said quietly: “Look, I’m really sorry about that. We’ve been cooped up in here for too long. Everyone’s at edge. They had a little scuffle, that’s all. Marcell’s touchy.”

The captain waved his hand. “No, no. That’s fine.” He looked around the table and stood up. “I, uh, best be getting back outside then. I need to… you know, just check on how things are… are going there.” He forced a smile and shuffle sideways out the hatch.

Once the captain was gone, Darvey said, “Jesus Christ. Could we be any more conspicuous?” Darvey stood up and rummaged through a cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of brandy and went to the front of the Snow Crawler and sat alone in the pilot’s cabin.

“I don’t like this, Dex. Not one bit. This is not a good idea.” Chip was obviously worried.

“I don’t think that taking Darvey with us is a good idea. If we get stopped or God forbid Lansing is already captured by the nationalists we’re as good as dead with this guy —” he jabbed a thumb towards the cockpit “—riding with us.”

Dex said: “What do you want me to do? Leave him out there? This is my halftrack. I get the final say in things. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

“Yeah, it’s your halftrack. But we all paid you to take us to Lansing. We paid for a safe passage. With Darvey on board that changes everything. Either give me my money back or kick Darvey off the Crawler.”

Dex rocked backward. He mumbled to himself and stood up. He disappeared into the back, exchanged heated words with Marcell, then came back up. Hans, Chip, and Schuster watched as he strode to the table. He threw down three thick rolls of paper money. They sat staring at it.

“Take it. Take it back,” Dex said. “You obviously gave away your morality along with the money.” The men didn’t touch it. “Take it.” Dex picked up a roll and put it in Chip’s face. “You want it, don’t you?”

“No.” “Then you all shut up about Darvey, and I mean not another word about it. I don’t care how much you don’t want him on board. He’s here and he’s going to stay.” He took the money and returned to the back, again they heard him argue with Marcell. He came

back out, zipped up his parka, and left.

Marcell sat at the table with the three others. “What do you think? Eh? This mess?” He eyed the money on the table. “You’re all for it, aren’t you?”

“There isn’t much of a choice, is there?”

“No choice. No choice. Of course there’s a choice. You always have a choice.

Why should we listen to Dex? There is no reason we don’t have a say in this.”

“Marcell, what is your problem?”

“My problem? My problem? My problem is that we’re harboring a fugitive. A man the entire government is looking for, and when they find him, and us along with him, we’ll all end up in Brace Hill. Or we’ll be executed for treason. A rock and a hard place.”

Chip leaned in and whispered, “I’m not all for it, alright. It’s just that Dex won’t have it any other way, and what are we supposed to say about it? What do we have to say about it. This is his Snow Crawler. Money or not, we have to honor that. He didn’t have to take us in the first place, you know. We were lucky. We could have all been rounded up by now, sitting in some detention center. For all we know we might have already wound up in Brace Hill. This is just the chance we have to take in order to get out of here.

The way I see it, picking up Darvey or staying back in Saint Cloud may have had the same repercussions.”

Marcell scoffed. “Then you should have stayed there.”

“As much as you don’t want to end in sitting in some cell, Dex is right about Darvey. He doesn’t deserve to be picked up by Spetzer when he hasn’t done a damn thing. He’s a good man and he was a good leader. Have a little compassion.”

“I can hear what you’re saying,” Darvey shouted. “Keep it down. I’m trying to drink.” *** “How’s the situation, then?”

The captain shook his head. “Not all too good, I’m afraid. The nationalists are close to Starkweather. Twelve miles maybe. You’re just ahead of them. Who knows.

They might already be there by now.”

Dex nodded. He said: “It’s a mess. Anything from Lansing?”

“All long range communications have been jammed. Nothing but the short-wave radios work anymore. And there isn’t too much traffic along the roads these days. People are too scared to travel. So for all I know Lansing’s wiped clean off the maps.”

Dex nodded again. “Well, thanks. You’ve been a great help.”

“It’s my job and pleasure.” The captain shook Dex’s hand. “And I hope you all make it to Lansing safely.”

“Thank you.” Dex took a fold of bills from his pocket and handed them over to the rig captain. “I hope things go over okay in Starkweather.”

“We’ll be fine.” The captain tipped his head at the men and left the Snow Crawler. They watched through the windows as the rig fired up and lumbered away.

Dex said nothing, but stared at the floor thinking. He was troubled. “We need to get moving, and stay moving. If the nationalists are right behind us then we can’t afford to stick around any longer, and we sure as hell can’t afford another breakdown.” He

turned to Darvey. “We’ll get you out of this okay. I promise you.”

Darvey swigged the last dregs of brandy and swayed slightly. “Promises,” he said, “mean this… fucking… much.” He formed an “O” with his hand and held it up. “The only thing that means anything in this world is the fact that we all end up in the same place.” He pointed to the ground. He staggered past Dex and took another bottle of liquor from the cabinet and lurched into the bunk room. “Oh, and do you want to hear a laugh?” he called up, “Today’s my birthday. I’m forty.” Marcell grunted disgustingly at the sight.

“We’ve picked up a drunk,” he said. Dex looked at his feet and went to the cockpit. The Snow Crawler shuddered to life and took off across the frozen wastes. The sun was sagging low in the sky and a cold wind blew across the highlands, whistling against the ice. *** Darvey had drank every last bottle on the Snow Crawler. For the three days since they had been repaired, Darvey remained in a drunken haze. He rarely left his bunk and on the few occasions he found it in himself to venture to the front of the Snow Crawler he would sit silently, carefully evading the others’ eyes. Dex would attempt to talk with him, but Darvey showed no signs of wanting any human contact. When he finally did run out of liquor he became irritable. The men learned to give him space.

They drove almost non stop, piloting in shifts. They were seeing more helicopters in the air; they were sure they were nationalist. They were starting to suspect that the helicopters were following them, and they reasoned that they couldn’t be more than twenty miles ahead of the nationalist advance.

On the fifth day they hit the hundred mile marker, Lansing laying northeast over the ice fields. They tried their short-waves but received no response from Lansing, only being able to pick up short bits of radio chatter veiled behind crackling static.

Thirty miles out from Lansing they saw about a mile off the road a cluster of dark objects laying in the snow. Dex was piloting and Chip pointed the anomaly out. Dex reached for his binoculars and peered out. He couldn’t be sure at such a distance, but he had a bad feeling that they were bodies.

“We’re checking it out.” Dex turned the Snow Crawler off the road and drove out over the ice. They all got out of the half-track except Darvey, who insisted on staying at the little metal table.

There were forty of them; a thin layer of ice had formed over their bodies, their limbs jutting at skewed angles, forever to be sculptures of the tundra. They had all been shot through the head, their viscera staining the ground they laid on.

“They’re republicans,” Dex said.

“Not a good sign.”

“Not at all.” Dex bent down and studied one of the soldiers.

“The nationalists can’t be very far off.” Chip started for the Snow Crawler. “Let’s go.” He had only taken a few steps when he cried out and fell against the vehicle, feathers from his parka taken up by the breeze. A moment later they heard the shot, slowly rolling over the tundra until it reached them with a crack. Chip slowly buckled. He let out a raspy breath and let go, tried to take a few steps but fell onto the ice.

“Nobody move.” Dex raised his hands in the air. Chip was moaning and writhing

on the ground, blood slowly pouring out of the small ragged hole left by the bullet.

“There’s someone out on the ice.”

Marcell shifted. “Fuck. It’s the nationalists.”

Dex said: “They set up an ambush. They were probably waiting for a republican unit. They’ll let us go.”

Marcell shook his head. “They’ve probably been following us. The helicopters.”

He looked around again then nearly fell over. “Shit, Darvey.”

They all realized it at the same time. Darvey was on board and when he was found they all knew what would come next.

They stood absolutely still, waiting for the next shot, but all they heard was the wind and Chip whimpering on the ground. They scanned the ice, but saw nothing.

“There’s nowhere out there to hide. Where is the sniper?”

“There.”

In the distance they saw him rise up, suited in snow camouflage. He had his rifle raised and was cantering towards them.

“No one move. No one say anything. I’ll get us out of this. He might have mistaken us for republican soldiers.”

“Or the nationalists are killing anyone they find.”

Dex looked at the frozen bodies on the ground and contemplated this. The creaky moan of half-track treads came from behind them, and they turned and saw a military Snow Crawler rolling over a rise in the ice.

“Oh god dammit.”

The halftrack stopped and three soldiers got out, the sniper coming up and stopping beside them. An officer got out of the half-track and walked over to Chip, still bleeding and crying on the ground. He knelt beside Chip and swiped back his hood, grabbing him by the hair and lifted him up a few feet, staring him in the face. He pulled out a pistol and put it to Chip’s temple.

Chip tried to raised his hands to shield his face but was too weak. “No,” he whispered weakly. The officer turned his head and shot Chip, a mist of blood spraying out onto the ice. He let go of Chip’s hair, and his body fell limply to the ground.

One of the soldiers raised his rifle. “On the ground, all of you.”

“We aren’t soldiers. We’re just on our way—” The soldier came up to Dex and pushed him onto the ground.

The officer watched indifferently. “I don’t believe,” he began, “that we asked who you are. Rather, the sergeant ordered you onto the ground.” The others dropped down next to Dex. “Now… who are you?”

“We’re just traveling. We’re on our way to Lansing.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“I-I’m Dexter Schoetter.” Dex had his face against the ice, too afraid to look up.

“I live in Saint Cloud.”

“You are the pilot of this half-track.?”

“It’s mine. Yeah.” The officer paced around the men.

“What business do you have in Lansing?” Dex shut his eyes and thought for something to say, but wasn’t fast enough. “Are you republicans? Running from us, are you?”

“No. We all have relatives in Lansing. We wanted to be with them.”

“Lansing is a republican city.”

“That doesn’t mean we are. We… we… we’re just on our way. We’re just travelers.”

The officer scoffed. “Where are your papers?”

“My identification is in the front pocket of my parka.”

“Not your identification. Your transit papers.”

“I… we don’t have transit papers. I didn’t realize we needed transit papers.”

“If you’re traveling in Nationalist territory you need transit papers.”

“But we weren’t in Nationalist territory when we left. We didn’t need transit papers.”

The officer knelt down next to Dex. He looked out over the ice took a deep breath. Without turning to face Dex, he said: “Want to know a little secret?” He turned to Dex and raised his eyebrows. Dex simply groaned. “Right over the fill from where you were broken down, we found a little sled, and we found these.” He pulled from his coat a small wallet. He flipped it open and Dex saw Darvey’s identification badge. He swore to himself silently. “It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. He’s with you.

“Check inside their half-track. Miggs, Hutch, get to it.” The two soldiers saluted and went to the Snow Crawler. They disappeared inside, and Dex for the first time looked up. Marcell, Hans and Schuster were all on their elbows, staring into the distance, eyes wide and jaws locked. The officer looked down at them, then back at the Snow Crawler.

“A bit worried, are you?” He laughed. One of the soldiers came back.

“Empty, sir.” The officer raised his eyebrows. A silence followed, stiff and severe. Dex dropped his head onto the ice.

“Very well,” said the officer. He pulled a cigarette carton out from his jacket and lit himself one. He sucked in a drag and turned to the other soldiers, tendrils of smoke rising over his face. “Kill them.” *** Did I do it? Did I drive Spetzer to this? I look back at my life, how cold I was, how unloving. I thought of him as a brother and treated him like a leper. A criminal. Like he was worthless. Do I have a dirty hand in all of this? Do I? Have I actually changed? I don’t know the answers. I’ve realized this about myself, just recently, although I’ve realized it far too late. And now I’m running. From Spetzer. From Antarctica. From myself. The only thing I want is to leave all this behind me. *** Darvey was sitting at the table, a throbbing ache in his head when he heard a gunshot in the distance. He instinctively dropped to the floor and crouched beneath the window. He raised himself up and peered out. His senses stopped full; rolling across the ice was a military halftrack. It came closer and drove right past, the treads shaking the ground. Darvey looked about quickly, his head pounding, he couldn’t catch his breath.

He crawled to the opposite window and saw Chip on the ground, lying in a pool of blood, soldiers pouring from the halftrack. Darvey ran to the pilot’s seat and made to turn the

Snow Crawler over, but his fingers brushed over the empty ignition.

“Damn it. God damn it.”

He pushed away from the dashboard and rushed towards the hatch. He eased it open silently, a quick blast of freezing air hit his face. He stepped onto the ice and closed the hatch behind him. Voices rose from the other side of the Snow Crawler, pleading, then there was the sharp crack of a gun. Darvey realized he hadn’t put on a jacket, and already he could feel sharp stabbings of cold all over his body, every time he inhaled he could feel the freezing air lacerating his lungs. He wrapped his arms around him and began to stumble towards the back of the Snow Crawler. Darvey quickly un-tethered the snowmobile and hopped on. He heard the sound of boots in the Snow Crawler. He heard a voice call out, “Empty, sir.”

He pushed the ignition button and the snowmobile purred to life. He revved the engine and the machine began to slide across the ice. He turned and looked over his shoulder, couldn’t hear a thing over the rush of the wind. Behind him the soldiers were skittering over the ice, falling on their knees and aiming their rifles. Darvey reached into his belt, and pulled out his pistol. He could already feel his muscles cramping in the bitter cold. He knew he shouldn’t have run like this, he would freeze to death before he had traveled a mile.

He pushed the snowmobile to as fast as it would go, the occasional whirring zip of a bullet passing by him. He turned and look back again, the soldiers growing smaller in the distance. Darvey aimed the pistol in the direction of the soldiers and fired two shots.

The cold was winding its way through him, tugging at his organs, whispering in his ears.

He looked back again and saw Hans push himself to his knees. Hans darted away from the Snow Crawler, as pointless an escape as Darvey’s was. It was now so far away that as Darvey watched, he felt an odd detachment from this peculiar specimen of humanity. It seemed unreal, like he were watching a film of the murder of five men. The officer, miniscule and unintimidating, turned and saw Hans running away. Darvey slowed the snowmobile and watched with his mouth agape.

The soldiers had given up firing at Darvey and were now watching Hans jog across the icy waste. He tripped and fell face forward, rolling head over heels. Darvey could see the soldiers shaking with laughter. Hans struggled to his feet again, but stumbled and fell once more. A third time he pushed himself to his feet, but Darvey could see him limping. The wind had stopped blowing and the entire world was perfectly still, perfectly silent. The office jogged to catch up with Hans, who was still struggling over the ice.

The officer turned back to his soldiers, said something, laughed, then shot Hans in the back of the head. Hans fell forward; the binding on his hands splitting, he landed spread eagle on the ice. The crack of the gunshot swept past Darvey. He brought the snowmobile around and darted full speed back towards the Snow Crawler. The wind lashed against his face, sending tears streaming towards his ears, where they froze in jagged lines. The cold was getting to him, his mind was rolling, he couldn’t feel his arms or legs.

As he came closer, the soldiers realized he was coming back at them. He hugged himself close to the snowmobile as their bullets whipped left and right and over top of him. He sat up and fired his pistol at the soldiers, one of them fell. As he sped closer still, he saw Dex lunge for the fallen man’s rifle. Darvey felt a searing heat in his chest, then a

sharp throbbing. He looked down and saw he had been shot, blood spilling out down his shirt. While his gaze was transfixed on the wound, a second bullet pierced just below the first. He watched as the fabric of his shirt tore apart, felt again the searing heat and a second throbbing pain. All thoughts of the cold dropped from his mind. He looked up, and crashed into the Snow Crawler. *** A cold place. I’m lying here, bleeding, watching as that crystal blue sky fades into black. This darkness is like a blanket, a shroud so thick and heavy that I can’t see or hear from under it. It presses down on me. Harder and harder yet. And all I can feel is that cold. Cold as ice. Cold enough to shatter steel. Is this what hell will be when I get there?

Blackness and that cold? Am I already dead? I am that Neanderthal, frozen in a cave, primitive, violent. Frozen and waiting for someone to dig me up. *** Dex knelt over Darvey, bleeding and nearly lifeless on the ground. Darvey was whispering, just barely audible, he looked as if he were just moving his lips.

“Don’t worry, Darvey. You’ll be ok. Don’t worry.” Darvey whispered still. Dex bent closer, put his ear nearly to Darvey’s mouth. He stayed there for a second. Then sat back up. Marcell clutched his arm, a bullet wound above his elbow bleeding.

“What’d he say.” He stared down at Darvey without emotion.

“He just keeps saying ‘Get me out of here,’ over and over.”

“We should have left him…” Marcell stepped over Darvey and walked out past the Snow Crawler. Dex touched Darvey’s arm.

“I’ll get you out of here.” Dex looked up, the sun just beginning to sink towards the horizon. The world was soundless and empty.

15 Years Prior…

The plane dipped and rocked in the wind, shuddering and creaking with each burst of air. It was an old jet, loose and rickety. An hour ago they had flown from Delphon, and now they were skimming over an expanse of ice. There were only a dozen or so on the plane, Darvey and Spetzer sat in the back, Darvey peering out through the small window. Spetzer was doubled over, sick, clutching onto an airsickness bag.

“I’ve got to get off this piece of shit.” Spetzer moaned and fumbled for a bottle of motion sickness pills.

Darvey looked over at him. “You’re going to start hallucinating if you keep swallowing that stuff.”

“Blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet, mad as a hatter, and hot as a hare, right?" He forced a chuckle, his forehead dripping with sweat.

“I’m not joking. You don’t want to be hallucinating your first day on the seat.

How would that look?” Spetzer merely shrugged. “You’ll regret it.”

They went back to their solitary silence, Darvey staring out the window at the rushing ice and Spetzer retching into the bag. The jet swayed and rocked and Spetzer would moan and take another pill. Darvey closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the pane of glass, very cold despite its thickness.

The other passengers on the plane were older, tired looking and ruffled. They were blind to the young men in the back, the one lost deep in thought and the other’s face buried into a small bag, swallowing pills. *** The plane descended upon the tarmac of smoothed ice, just on the edge of the city. The place was a vast sprawl of steel and aluminum blocks. Snow Crawlers trawling through the unpaved iced streets, a sporadic few people walking stiffly to their personal destinations. At the center of the city stood seven tall, polished aluminum skyscrapers, reflecting the bright rising sun. They were the centers of government for the whole continent, and although he city looked lifeless and frozen, it was a frenzy of politicking.

Darvey helped Spetzer stumble from the plane. Spetzer mumbled, holding out his hands.

“You shouldn’t’ have taken those.” Darvey said. “You are hallucinating. Spetz, are you ok?”

“No. I can’t see and I’m seeing things.”

“Which is it then? Are you blind or can you see.”

“I can’t see what’s in front of me but I’m seeing things in my head.” Spetzer was whimpering.

“Pull it together. Don’t do this now.”

“Addison, please.”

Darvey lowered his voice and asked said, sharply, “What? What do you want me to do?”

“Take me to the hospital. Please.”

“We don’t have time for that.”

A man rushed forward from across the runway. It was Auckland Buckhannon, the Speaker for the House, a congressman from Delphon. “Addison!” He waved them over.

“Come over here. We have a Snow Crawler waiting for you.” Darvey met Buckhannon with a friendly embrace. Darvey and Buckhannon walked briskly to the waiting black halftrack, sleek and new. Spetzer followed them blindly. Darvey turned and caught Spetzer’s attention and ushered him forward.

“Wait, Spetzer doesn’t have his own crawler?”

Buckhannon shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. We couldn’t get another on short

notice.”

“Son of a bitch.” Darvey chewed on his lip.

“What’s the matter? Why can’t Spetzer just ride with us?”

Darvey shook his head and then turned to Spetzer “Spetzer, let’s go!” They all climbed into the Snow Crawler and settled into the cushioned leather seats. Spetzer was breathing rapidly.

“Addison, is he alright?”

Darvey looked Spetzer over. “I’m really not sure. He thinks we should take him to the hospital.” Darvey checked his watch. “We don’t have time for that, though. He’s been taking motion sickness pills.”

“What should we do?”

“We’ll just take him along. He’ll be fine.”

“Addison, please.” Spetzer’s skin was draining of color.

“Listen to me, Florian, you’ll get through this. Just focus on looking natural.

Nobody will notice. You’ll come down off it and be fine. Ok?” “Darvey, please. If you could just—” “No! This is my first day in Congress and I will not spend it taking a fellow Senator to the hospital because he’s under the influence. It wouldn’t look good.”

Spetzer began to cry. Darvey pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned.

Buckhannon spoke up. “Addison, we can just take him to the hospital, drop him off.”

“No. I warned him on the plane and we won’t take him. That’s final. When we get to the Senate Building he can request an ambulance but I refuse to take him.”

Buckhannon looked at Darvey and frowned. *** Now it all comes back to me. Not really coming back to me, but perhaps it is shown to myself in a new light. So this is hell. I see things of my past without my regular shroud of apathy, and I see how I treated Spetzer. Will I have to relive this for eternity, seeing myself repeatedly make a man who I called my best friend into nothing more than a vermin? Constantly undermining him, setting him up for failure. He had no one else, no close friends. He saw me as his best friend, his only friend. He was well liked and everyone enjoyed him but there was not a man in Antarctica who wanted to be his friend.

And I took him on and treated him like shit. I’m as guilty as the rest.

CHAPTER 2 His eyes opened and the darkness was thrown back. The room was small. A single fluorescent light hung from the ceiling, buzzing and flickering. He moved his body, carefully testing his strength. He sat up. A dull pain ran through his chest and he could see that he had been bandaged over the two bullet wounds, the gauze clean and white.

Tubes and needles were attached to his arms, and a wire ran from his temple to a whirring machine at the edge of the bed. He brushed away the wire and pulled the intravenous

tubes from his wrists, wincing.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his body aching. The room was tiled from floor to ceiling, dingy white squares. A thin line of blood dripped from the needle hole down his wrist. He wiped at it with his hand. He stood and for a moment the room swayed, a swoop of nausea hit his stomach but he regained his balance.

The door to the room stood slightly ajar and he pulled it open and stuck his head out. The hallway was empty and dark, rows of identical doors stretched on and on.

Hanging on the outside of his door was a single blue hospital gown, which he slipped into and tied.

“Hello?” he called. From the far end of the hall he heard a faint clattering and the shuffle of feet. With an electric thump, the lights in the hall all turned on and a woman came around the corner.

“I’ll be right there, Mr. President.” She walked briskly, wearing the white coat of a doctor. “I’m Doctor Halmstead.” She stopped in front of him. She frowned and said, “I see you removed the I.V.s. And your heart-rate monitor.”

“I… I woke up and there wasn’t anyone so I just…” She nodded.

“Let me bring you your clothes, sir.” There was a boom, and the hallway shook, loose bits of plaster falling to the floor. “That would be the nationalists,” she said gravely.

“Where am I?” Darvey asked.

“The Lansing Medical Center. We have you in the bottom sub level, to protect you from the artillery. Let me go get your clothes.” She went into the room and pulled open a drawer in a white medical cabinet. “Here you are, sir.” She handed him the clothes and switched off the heart-rate monitor. “I’ll wait right outside for you, sir.” She closed the door behind her.

Darvey removed the gown and pulled on his clothes. When he stepped out into the hall, the nurse said: “Let’s go phone Mr. Buckhannon. He ordered me to call him as soon as you woke. He’ll be wanting to see you.”

“Auckland Buckhannon?”

“Yes, sir. He took over after you went missing. He’ll be wanting to see you.”

She led him down the hall to a reception area which had only a few chairs and an elevator door. The doctor picked up the phone and dialed. “Mr. Brice? Inform Mr. Buckhannon the patient is waiting for him. Yes, thank you.” She hung up and smiled.

“They’ll be only a minute or two. Mr. Buckhannon is on the ground floor.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“We’ve had you in an induced coma for six days since you were brought in.”

Darvey sat in one of the chairs. The elevator clanked down from the floors above, and he heard the doors slide open. Another boom shook the floor, one of the fluorescent lights shattered and fell to the ground. The elevator door slid open and Auckland Buckhannon stepped out, followed by two men.

“Addison,” he said, shaking Darvey’s hand.

“Auckland.” Darvey stood.

“You look fantastic. When I got the call you had rescued I nearly fell over. Of course I was worried, too. When they said you were injured. But you’re here now and that’s what counts, right?” Buckhannon put on a phony smile. “A tremendous boost of morale, you know. I’ve heard reports that it sparked an uprising in Saint Cloud.”

Auckland looked at Darvey, waiting for him to speak. He simply nodded. Auckland said:

“Well, there’s a lot we need to go over, Addison. Naturally the first thing will be to get you out of the city. The Nationalists are closing in and we can’t hold them off much longer.”

“The sooner the better.” Darvey stood. “Do you have a snow suit for me?”

“Yes. We can get you one.” Buckhannon turned to the two men in suits.

“Gentlemen, could you ready the helicopter and get Darvey some thermal gear?” The two men nodded. “Oh, and Doctor, could you please give me and Darvey a moment alone?”

“As you wish, sir.” The doctor followed the men onto the elevator, which slid closed.

Buckhannon turned to Darvey and stared. “Things aren’t looking so good.”

“You didn’t have to tell me that.” Darvey turned away and walked to the reception desk. “I’ve seen it first hand.”

“We have a lot to talk about. Now isn’t the best time, though.”

Darvey was silent. He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow.

“So what did you want this moment alone for?” Darvey asked.

“I don’t know if it means anything to you, maybe it changes something, maybe not, but those aren’t regular Nationalist troops. They’re Leonid Kit’s personal army.

They’re after you.” Darvey bit his lip. Leonid Kit. Spetzer’s second in command. A ruthless man.

“He’s after me?”

“Yes. That’s why I thought you should know. It isn’t a secret that you’re here.” *** The elevator door slid open and they stepped out into the lobby. Wounded soldiers filled the cavernous hall. They were standing and sitting on benches and lying all over the floor, medics going from one to the other. Darvey stepped out and looked around him. Somewhere someone said his name. A few of the men propped themselves up and stared. The room was quiet, the men’s reverent silence pounding in Darvey’s ears.

Darvey looked about, seemed unsure of himself.

Buckhannon led him to a smaller antechamber off of the lobby where two men were waiting with a thermal suit. Darvey pulled it on, the dull pain in his chest growing slightly with all the movement. He winced.

“Ok?” Buckhannon asked.

“I’m fine.”

Darvey sweated in the heavy jacket, feared walking past the soldiers again. There was another explosion, this time much closer, just outside. The whole building trembled.

There was another quick boom, and the ceiling cracked and buckled, Darvey heard windows shatter and men yelling. The door opened and a man slid in.

“The hospital just took a direct hit. We need to get Darvey out of here, now.”

They ushered Darvey forward and pushed him out of the room. The medics were dragging the wounded towards the elevators and stairwells, frantically trying to get them to a lower level. Auckland, Darvey and the three men ran through the two sets of heavy double doors and out into the freezing arctic night. The city was on fire.

Tracers streaked across the sky, arcing and fading into the distance. There was a sickening wail and a missile streaked low overhead and disappeared behind the buildings

across the street.

“Come on, move.” Darvey was staring at the destruction. Up and down the avenue buildings lay toppled into the street. Soldiers darted from alleys, all running past the hospital towards the battle, close enough that Darvey could hear each individual gunshot.

There was a shrill noise above them, the screaming of artillery. A shell crashed through the roof of the hospital and detonated a few floors down, fire and rubble blasting through the walls and crashing to the street. Darvey and Auckland dashed away from the hospital, brickwork and twisted steel falling all around them. Darvey covered his head as he was peppered with searing white phosphorous, sizzling and burning the raw flesh of his ungloved hands. His ears rung and the screaming noises and yelling and everything was too much. He shouted, the artillery unyielding to his faint cry. The explosions were so many that Darvey was briefly reminded of the rapid thumping of some kind of machine. As if a blanket was lifted from his ears, the din of the artillery barrage stopped.

An armored car at the corner had been hit, and it was burning. There was a series of thumps and the car blasted apart, hot metal falling on the ice with wisps of steam.

Darvey stumbled to his feet as Buckhannon grabbed onto his arm. The hospital shivered and slowly buckled inward upon itself, dust and wreckage floating through the air. The building collapsed level by level, slowly descending into the ground. Darvey could hear the screams of soldiers and patients being locked inside the hillock of twisted steel and broken concrete. Buckhannon yelled for him to run, and they rushed to the Snow Crawler, still parked and waiting. The driver jumped out and opened the door for them. Darvey tripped into the crawler and it began to move, Darvey on the floor and Buckhannon clinging to the wall as the driver muscled around corners and over debris.

Darvey brought himself up and forced himself into a hard seat. He breathed hard, his head spinning. He checked himself quickly, making sure he was uninjured. He looked up and realized Buckhannon was speaking at him.

“What?” Darvey said.

“Were you listening?”

“No.” “We’re on our way to the helipad. It’s farther back from the frontline, so it should be safer. We just need to get out of the artillery shelling.” Darvey nodded. “I think Lansing is lost.”

“I think the war is lost.” Darvey said.

“Don’t give up hope yet.”

“I’m just preparing for the worst.” *** The helicopter lifted off from the ground tentatively, the powerful throbbing of its rotors drowning out the clamor of a city torn by battle. Davey pulled his hood down and stared out of the window, the spreading fires bathing the city in an ominous orange glow.

The fighting had become fever pitched on the ground, no longer a planned and executed military action, but it now rather resembled a barbaric dance of epic proportions. Soldiers stabbed and beat one another, clubbing to death their opponents with the butts of their rifles. Darvey saw no order, just chaos.

The helicopter skimmed low over the rooftops, to avoid antiaircraft fire, the pilot had explained. Occasionally a round would hit the helicopter with a loud cracking noise, and Buckhannon would inch farther away from the windows. Darvey look at him, saw for the first time how harried he seemed, how much he had aged since Darvey had least seen him, just a few short weeks before. Buckhannon had been away, making a speech about healthcare in Berkner when Spetzer had attacked Corona. The assault came so quickly, so powerfully, and so unexpected that nothing could have been done to stop it.

Darvey too had aged. A thousand years it seemed to himself. He had caught a glimpse of his face while still in the hospital, and he had felt an odd sense of shock and fright at the creased, tired face tinged with worry and guilt. The guilt. That’s what he saw the most of. The guilt of a lifetime of apathy.

A building they were flying over blossomed into flame, the helicopter windshield cracked and shattered and a rush of cold air burned against Darvey’s face. They rocked and swayed, but the pilot regained control. The pilot called back.

“We’re almost at Quay Base. ETA five minutes. Hold tight.”

Buckhannon moved closer to Darvey and yelled over the sound of the rushing air and the pulsing rotors. “There’s something important we need to consider.”

“What is that?”

“Your return to the presidency. Now that you’re back, I’m ready and willing and eager to step aside and let you take your rightful position back.”

There was a pause, and Darvey said, “We should discuss everything at a better time. I feel like getting the hell out of here is our first priority.”

“Ok. We’ll finish this talk once we’re out of Lansing.” *** Everything is fucked up. Every single thing. This country, Spetzer, me, the people.

I think about and I think about it the guilt is killing me, absolutely ripping me into pieces.

And nobody knows. That’s what is killing me the most; I’m dying here but no one know it or sees and I need to get away from this. I’m surrounded by men who think they are my friends, but they aren’t. I have no friends. I can think of no man I can trust but Dex. For some reason that I can’t explain, he may prove to be my only hope. I need to find him… *** The helicopter settled down onto the helipad at Quay and Darvey and Buckhannon were ushered quickly away. The base was farther from the fighting, along the coast next to the ice covered sea. It was warmer here, snowing. Darvey did not normally see snow; Corona was too far inland, too cold for snow, the coldest desert in the world.

The base was in a frenzied state, soldiers were dashing about, carrying supplies and loading into helicopters and halftracks, being ferried off towards the battle. Darvey and Buckhannon were taken by a nameless sergeant into the headquarters, a concrete block sitting on the top of a hill which the base was wrapped around. From the top, Darvey looked back towards the city, distant now. It was glowing red, he could see the pinpricks of explosions and could faintly detect their low rumbles.

“Inside, please, Mr. President, Mr. Buckhannon.” Darvey turned away from the city.’

“I’m not the President. Mr. Buckhannon is still the current president.” The soldier was taken aback.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’ either—never mind. Forget it.” He pushed past the soldier and opened the steel door.

The room was dark and bare, concrete walls and floors, bright white lights in the ceiling. There was no comfort here. A older man came forward, he wore the grey uniform of an officer. He held out his hand to Darvey.

“Sir, Colonel Zephyr Shrikes. I’m commanding the operation here at Lansing.”

Darvey wasn’t listening. Buckhannon spoke up.

“Colonel, what chances are there of saving Lansing? Intact, I mean.”

“Mr. Vice President, from a strategic standpoint, there is no real hope of saving the city. The battle is essentially lost for us by now. We’ve just sent out our last battalion.

My objective is currently to slow the advance long enough to get you two out of here.”

Buckhannon pursed his lips. “We can’t stay here?”

“I’m afraid not. This base is going to be overrun by sunrise. I can guarantee it. We have a jet at the airstrip fueling up to depart. We’re taking you to the Ross Military complex in Marie Byrd Land. It’s well hidden in the mountains and the best option currently.”

“We’re retreating from the city?”

“We have no other choice. We must—” Darvey suddenly looked up. “Dex. Where is Dex?” “Sorry, sir?”

“Auckland, the guy who brought me to the city. The one whose Snow Crawler I was on. What happened to him?”

“Dexter Stowe?”

“Yes, do you know what happened to him?”

Auckland turned to the colonel. “Where are the civilians?”

“Most of them are in a refugee camp, about three miles east of the city. But we can’t be sure if this man is even there.”

Darvey ran his hand through his hair. “I need to find him.”

The colonel seemed on the verge of laughter. “Pardon me, Mr. President, sir—” “Auckland is president. Christ.” The colonel shifted.

“Sir, the nationalists have nearly captured Lansing. The refugee camp is on their way to this base. First off, there is no way of knowing if that man is even at the camp, let alone alive. Second, the risk of taking you there would be extreme. There is no way that —” “Excuse me sir,” a young officer standing behind the colonel said, “if the man had a licensed Snow Crawler, then he’ll be at the motor pool.”

Buckhannon grabbed onto Darvey’s arm. “Addison, this isn’t the time for this.

Please, just get on the jet.”

“Hold on,” Darvey said to the officer, “you can find him then?”

“If he had a Snow Crawler, then yes.”

“He brought me in on his.” The officer looked at the colonel.

“Sir, may I run the check? If he’s at the motor pool, we can easily track him down.”

The colonel looked from Darvey to Buckhannon, his mouth slightly agape. “Mr. Darvey, you can’t be serious…”

“I am. I will go alone, just give me a Snow Crawler. Give me a snowmobile. I need to find him.”

“Why?” Buckhannon was shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m not explaining it.” Darvey was chewing on his lip. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Goddammit Addison.” Buckhannon stamped his boot on the floor and turned away.

“Sir, this is lunacy.” The colonel looked to Buckhannon, who had taken several paces towards the wall, head in hand. “Mr. President, if he insists you are in command, then what is your decision?”

Buckhannon waved his hand. “Addison, I won’t stand in your way. Colonel, just arrange for the Snow Crawler. You can’t reason with him.”

“Alright.” The colonel walked away. Buckhannon turned on Darvey.

“What is this bullshit? What the fuck is going on?” he said quietly.

“Auckland, I can’t explain it now. Just trust me. Eventually you’ll understand.”

“Is this some ridiculous noble cause? He saved your life and now you’ll risk yours?”

“This isn’t some noble cause, it isn’t at all. Auckland, you’re my closest… friend.

You’re my closest confidante. You know I would tell you if I could. This is just something that I can’t talk about now. I promise you that I’ll tell you eventually. And then you’ll understand me.”

“Addison, if he isn’t there, will you please board the jet. I don’t control you, but I implore you come with us.”

Darvey thought for a few moments. “If he isn’t at the motor pool I’ll get on the plane.”

“My God, thank you.” Darvey turned and left the building, not bothering to hoist his hood up. He could detect the first inklings of dawn, the ice and snow thinly glowing like amethyst. The battle was still far off, the rumblings still distant. He shoved his hands into his pockets. Jets tore overhead; he watched them, they were needle nosed fighters, screaming towards Lansing. They hugged the ground, and he lost them against the inky sky. A moment later, great flames erupted from the city, firebombs.

What is this madness, he thought. The world is tearing itself apart.

Buckhannon and the colonel emerged from the headquarters.

“Addison, we found Dexter. But we need to hurry. The nationalists are moving fast. They aren’t about to let you get away.”

“Auckland, you board the jet. Wait for me and I’ll be there. Don’t worry.” *** Darvey rode in a small Snow Crawler, just large enough for five or so passengers.

Behind their halftrack was a larger one, carrying two squads of soldiers. The Crawlers were racing as fast as they could, jumping and bucking as they went over the uneven

ground. Occasionally, a stray shot from the firefight would find its way to the convoy, smacking into the metal hulls. Darvey was tossed about, he clung to a handlebar fixed to the ceiling. From what he could see through the pilot’s windshield, the situation looked grim. The sun was beginning to rise, the orange morning light dousing the darkness.

Soldiers ran across the ice in small groups, firing towards any targets they could find. The nationalists were streaming from the fringes of Lansing, turning corners from buildings and setting off across the ice. The battle had been lost.

Darvey and the convoy were some two miles from the city, the pilot was cursing the quickly diminishing time frame that they had. The motor pool had been ordered to set off, but the colonel had halted it until Dex could be found. The cluster of civilian Snow Crawlers grew in the distance. It seemed to be taking fire from the nationalists, an artillery round would burst into flame by one of the crawlers, a few tracers swept past here and there.

“Mr. Darvey, I have his listing on the computer. If he’s where he’s supposed to be he won’t be hard to find.” The halftrack’s pilot tapped onto the computer screen a few times; a listing of all the Snow Crawlers came up. Darvey saw Dex’s name. “We’re in business.”

“We’ve found him?”

“If he’s there.” The pilot pointed at the map. “If he’s there then we’ll be on our way back to the jet in ten minutes.”

“Good, good.”

The halftrack came into the motor pool. The pilot drove through rows and rows of parked Snow Crawlers, thousands of them. There was a commotion outside; hundred of citizens were dashing about, dodging bullets and artillery, ducking away from the machinegun fire of helicopters. Darvey’s halftrack came to a stop.

“This is him.” The pilot called out. Darvey jumped down from the halftrack.

There was Dex’s halftrack, exactly as it had been when he first saw it, albeit the few pockmarks left from gunfire. The two other halftracks that had been following Darvey came to a stop and the soldiers assigned to Darvey’s defense all poured out.

Darvey walked up to the hatch of the Snow Crawler and rapped at the window.

There was no reply. He rapped harder and heard someone stirring inside. Dex pulled open the hatch, hugging himself against the cold.

“Darvey! Oh my God, what the hell are you doing here?” In that moment Darvey looked at him and realized the absurdity of this all.

“I’m here to take save you,” he said, embarrassed with the way it had sounded.

Dex furrowed his brows and shrugged. Why?” he asked. Darvey looked over his shoulder at the soldiers. He looked back up at Dex. “Can I step inside for a second?” he asked Dex. Dex shrugged. “Sure.” Darvey climbed up inside shut the door. He unzipped his parka and turned to Dex. “There isn’t really time for me to tell you now. Alright?” Dex nodded gravely.

“But we’re evacuating and I’m taking a jet to a bunker complex in the mountains. Me, Buckhannon, the major military leaders. We’re going into hiding. The war is basically lost, Dex. And I need your help for something. Something that I’ve been thinking about for a while, and… I’ve just been taking my time about it and you right now seem to be my best hope for some reason.” Darvey stopped himself from rambling.

“You can’t tell me what it is?”

Darvey put his hand on Dex’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry, no. I promise I’ll tell you, I just need—” The door to the back of the crawler slid open and Marcell stepped out. He obviously hadn’t heard them, because when he saw Darvey he looked shocked.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Darvey said.

“I’m with Dex.” “I’m taking Dex.” “What?” Marcell was taken aback. “You’re taking him?”

“With me. Out of here,” Darvey said.

Marcell said to Dex: “What is he talking about?” Dex didn’t answer, just looked from Darvey to Marcell with a look of guilt.

“Darvey, I had promised Marcell that I would help him get out of the city. I can’t… I mean, it would be wrong if I left him.”

“Leave him you Snow Cat.” Darvey nodded at his own idea and looked to Marcell for a sign of his approval.

“Fuck no,” Marcell said. “If you’re taking Dex out of here, then you’re taking me.

If I stay here, I die.”

Darvey balled his fists. “We don’t have time for this. Dex, let’s go.”

Marcell protested. “No, take me too. I’m not joking around, you’re fucking taking me.”

“Darvey, can we take Marcell?”

Darvey groaned. Outside, he heard the rapid bursts of gunfire. He knew the nationalists were closing in.

“Dammit.” Darvey looked at Marcell threw up his hands. “Fine. We don’t have time to argue about this. We need to get the hell out of here. Now.” Dex went to grab a jacket but Darvey stopped him. “When I said no time, I meant no time. The nationalists are here.” *** Darvey, Dex, And Marcell ran from the Snow Crawler and dove into Darvey’s.

The pilot had sped away, not bothering to wait for the soldiers to get into their halftracks as well. The motor pool grew smaller in the distance, the sounds of battle once again grew dim. They were all silent, Darvey ignored Marcell and Dex looked lost in thought.

The whole thing was beginning to take shape for Darvey, the war was lost, they were all now on the run. He had no place on Antarctica anymore. *** The plane was a small personal jet, long and sleek. It roared away from Lansing and within twenty minutes they were crossing the Ross Ice Shelf, six hundred miles of ice covering what would otherwise be a gulf between Lansing and Marie Byrd Land. There were only ten passengers on board, Darvey, Buckhannon, Dex, Marcell, and six military officers of higher echelons, none of them who Darvey personally knew, and none of them Darvey cared to know.

Marcell had been, since they had fled the motor pool, becoming more of an intense pain in Darvey’s side. Marcell had not actually spoken in some time, but his presence was far more than Darvey needed. Since Dex had rescued him on the ice, Darvey had taken an immediate disliking to Marcell; he saw him as being arrogant and untrustworthy. It had been Marcell who had forced Darvey to reveal himself in the first place, an event which had not had any particular terrible effects, but it nonetheless angered Darvey to think about it. A man who can’t keep himself from meddling in another man’s business is the type of man Darvey had always despised.

Darvey forced himself to not think about these things, and he instead focused on finding a bit of sleep. He had realized after the jet had taken off how truly tired he actually was, funny he thought that the six day rest he had in the hospital had really done nothing to quench his thirst for some shuteye. He reclined his seat and tried his best to turn on his side, pushing out the sound of the generals and Buckhannon talking about the next step that needed to be taken. Darvey wanted none of it, and it also hit him that Buckhannon would soon relentless about returning Darvey to his presidency. Sitting now on the jet, moments away from much needed and welcomed rest, Darvey thought about how irritating the past few weeks now seemed; he was no longer fearful nor worried, he was just tired of it all. He tossed around a little, trying to find a position of comfort, and finally drifted into a deep, though unsound sleep. *** The jet landed on a tarmac in the center of the Whitmore Mountains. Darvey was immediately surprised at the operation, at how such an operation could be kept secret.

There was absolutely nothing around, three mountains rising around them and jagged nunataks as far as the eye could see. There were no buildings, but waiting at the edge of the tarmac, which was little more than an area of smoothed ice, was a small maglev, ridiculous looking in the vast emptiness. The passengers were sent off of the jet and were ferried to the train, which began to race along magnetic tracks hidden beneath the ice.

They approached the mountains, growing larger and larger in the distance. The train began to gradually incline, and Darvey knew they were heading up. Dex sat next to him.

“I know there’s something you wanted to talk to me about.” He said quietly.

“Just wait. We’ll talk to it once we actually have an opportunity to be alone.” He didn’t look at Dex, just focused his gaze out the window. Dex nodded and sat by himself in the back of the train. Darvey seemed shaken, more tired than usual, far guiltier.

Buckhannon noted these things, and had been keeping an eye on him since they left Lansing. He couldn’t say what his problem had been, and why he had acted the way he did, but there was something wrong, and he was sure of that much. Buckhannon was certainly bothered when Darvey had not told him everything; he and Darvey had been closer than most friends for near on fifteen years. There was certainly something strange happening, and he would figure it out yet… *** The train, reaching some considerable altitude, had slowed and stopped. It sat in front of a giant steel door, sixty feet tall and half as wide. They were the entrance to the

bunker. Slowly, the door halved and slid apart, opening to a deep tunnel which went straight off into the mountain. The train inched forward. Inside, Darvey could see that the bunker was hewn into the rock, unfinished stone that dripped and reflected the daylight, while the steel doors lumbered back into position.

For what seemed like hours the train went farther and farther into the bedrock, until finally it stopped at a brightly lit platform that looked oddly like any subway station.

From what Darvey could see, this was the end of the line. The train would have to be turned around in order to leave again. The doors hissed open and they were hit with a blast of hot air. The inside of the tunnel was extremely warm, and they all took off their jackets and their thermal suits and stepped out into the bunker.

They were greeted by a general, old and graying. Darvey recognized him at once as Elias Munz, the commander of the Antarctican army. He came first to Darvey.

“Good to see you, Mr. Darvey.” He took Darvey’s hand into his own and squeezed it lightly.

Darvey said: “You’re the first who hasn’t called me President.” Munz smiled.

“Well, I heard that you haven’t yet taken back that position. But hopefully soon we can fix that.” Darvey bit his lip and quickly looked beyond Munz.

One of the colonels who had been in Darvey’s entourage stepped forward. “General Munz, shall we proceed?” Munz let out a slight “aha” and motioned towards a second, smaller set of bunker doors behind him. “The complex is through here. This base is unknown to no virtually no one except a few generals of the highest echelon. I daresay that Darvey himself knew of its existence.” Darvey nodded. “It was built by the Russians before the Colonization, as a missile base. They abandoned it, and more than likely it fell out of knowledge of the rest of the world. When we discovered it was in disrepair, but we’ve refitted it, strengthened the defenses. Its secrecy was kept just for this sort of thing.”

The group followed the General, who went to the blast doors and placed his palm on an electronic scanner. The machine read his finger and palm prints and beeped, the doors swinging inwards. The base proper was far more furnished that the tunnel. The walls were plastered and reinforced, light strips across the ceiling kept the place bright and white. Darvey learned that the base rose into the mountain twelve levels above the train platform, and also seven levels deeper into the earth.

It seemed to Darvey that the place was impenetrable, utterly invincible. The only way in was through that tunnel, hidden behind the massive five foot thick steel doors.

Each of the four silos held one missile, which would launch and smash through the layer of ice covering the holes, opening up the shafts up to an emergency escape route. The bunker, too, held four hundred soldiers, all of whom Munz noted were elite special forces. Darvey felt relieved to be here, felt safer, but at the same time worried about being locked inside.

The general took Darvey, Buckhannon, Dex and Marcell to their quarters on the tenth level. Darvey walked into his room and was immediately surprised. The floors were covered with thick, dark red carpeting; he had a four post bed and a mahogany dresser. In fact, there was wood lining the entire room, which stunned Darvey because of the rarity of finding good quality wood anymore. Upon closer inspection, he saw the cherry wood mantle was engraved with Russian characters, and he realized these must have been the commanders’ quarters when the Russians were still here.

He stood in awe for a moment; it was rare that any connections to the north half could be made anymore, especially before the series of great wars and the influenza pandemics. Such preserved history made Darvey shiver. He brushed the wood with his hand. He turned around quickly and saw Dex standing there.

“Is this a good time,” Dex asked.

“As good a time as any,” Darvey said. “Come in, and shut the door.” Dex obeyed.

He walked over to Darvey, who stood by the mantle with his arms folded over his chest.

“Some place, huh?” Darvey nodded in agreement. “So, you wanted to talk with me?”

“Yeah.” He lowered his voice. “This conversation cannot leave the room, you understand?”

“Of course.” Dex’s face grew more serious.

“What… I’m about to tell you is, well, is slightly difficult. It’s something that I’ve been thinking over for a few weeks…” He trailed off. Dex cocked his head. “There are a lot of things, in my life, that I’ve come to grips with. There’s a lot of things in my life, that… I haven’t and I just am not able to deal with. I was born into the Antarctic, I was raised here, I truly, truly loved my country. This was my home and would never in a thousand years think of it as anything else, okay?”

“Alright…” Darvey moved closer to Dex and spoke even quieter.

“But there are some things that I regret doing, some things that have been eating at my conscience for a long time now, and I have this feeling in my chest that, that I just need to, to get away.” He looked at Dex, searching in his eyes for some understanding.

“Dex, what I’m trying to say is that… I need someone to help me with something. I need someone and I have this feeling that you are the man who would help me, you are someone I can trust. Can I trust you?”

Dex himself was leaning closer to Darvey with frightened anticipation of what would come next. “Certainly,” he stammered in a hushed whisper.

“You can promise me that you won’t turn your back on me and you won’t ever let anyone know that me and you have made a pact?”

“I promise.”

“Dexter, I need your help to leave Antarctica.”

Dex’s knees gave slightly and his jaw dropped. “Why?” “There are so many reasons, if I could just—” The door opened and Buckhannon stepped in. He made a quizzical face when he saw Darvey and Dex so close.

“Addison, the General wants you present at the meeting.”

“Now?” “Yeah. Come on, let’s go.” Buckhannon embarrassedly stepped out of the room.

Darvey turned back to Dex. “Listen to me. This never leaves the room. We’ll talk more later. I need to go.” Dex stood there silently, thinking deeply. Darvey left him in the room and met Buckhannon outside. Buckhannon immediately questioned Darvey.

“What was that about?”

Darvey could not help but look guilty. “It was nothing. We were talking about Marcell, he’s problematic. That’s all.”

Auckland was silent for a moment, but then said, “Of course. As long as you aren’t going to do anything to… injure yourself or something.”

“I’ll be fine. And, thank you.” Darvey gave a weak smile. *** The meeting took place in a long room, furnished much the same way as Darvey’s. The table held enough places for at least forty people, and Darvey guessed that that many were there now. The general stood.

“Gentlemen, I’ve called this meeting as a briefing for Mr. Darvey. He has, unfortunately, been out of the know for the past few weeks, and I though it necessary to bring him up to speed.” The men at the table all turned and stared at Darvey with the mention of his name. “I apologize, Mr. Darvey, for the men’s surprise. As of yet not too many people know you’re still alive. And I had not informed the garrison of your arrival.

I thought it would be better the less people knew of your coming.” Darvey gave him a quick nod of understanding.

“Now let me continue.” The General for a moment looked over some papers he had sitting on the table in front of him. “I think it would be safe now, to assume, that the war has officially ended. The Nationalist assault came quickly, and they came in far greater strength than I think anyone would have ever expected. As of now, we are the Republican government in exile.”

Buckhannon interjected. “General, there’s something that’s been on my mind since we arrived. May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, Sir.” “What is your strategy from this point on? Do plan on holing up in this bunker for the rest of our lives?”

The General shook his head. “That of course is not our strategy. I admit that our options are few, but we’re pursuing every lead we currently have. Our best option, it would seem right now, is the possibility of an uprising of the antinationalist faction. We have several hundred operatives in the field, and they all report the same thing: hatred of Spetzer runs high. As of now, there are few actual supporters of the new regime, and already we have initial reports of resistance movements in the works. We would be able to monitor, coordinate, and eventually control these sleeper cells.”

Buckhannon said: “You plan on overthrowing Spetzer?”

“His government is new, and weak, and the people don’t fully trust him yet. As of now, his greatest weapon of oppression is the media. The people think Darvey’s dead; they think that he was captured and executed. Darvey’s death really seems to be the one thing that has the people controlled.

“As far as they see it, with Darvey dead, they have no hope and no will to fight.

It’s essential that we make public the fact that Darvey is certainly not dead, and in fact at the helm.” The General turned to Darvey. “That is why I said you would hopefully return to your Presidency as soon as possible.”

Darvey shook his head. “I’m not ready yet.”

“No matter. As long as we give the appearance you’re in charge, for now, we think this will greatly charge the people’s rebellious spirit. In order for this to work, though, we need to take action within the next two or three months, before he’s replaced most of the governments officials and his regime grows stronger. Spetzer’s government is based on appearances. Addison must appear to be dead. Spetzer must appear to have

more popularity than he actually does. The Nationalists must appear to be much stronger than they actually are, in order to instill fear.”

Darvey stood, appearing ill. “I’m willing to help out in any way I can. If you want me to make a video statement, I will. As far as strategizing and planning and carrying out black-bag, black-ops, you can count on Buckhannon. If you’ll excuse me…” With that Darvey skirted from the room, closing the heavy oak doors behind him. Buckhannon stared at his hands, his head bowed. He said: “I’m very sorry, about all that. Addison hasn’t been himself lately.”

The General nodded. “I’ve known him a very long time. These past months have been hard on him, surely. And then the coup… Stressing beyond a point I could have endured. He’ll come around eventually.”

Buckhannon lowered his voice, saying to himself, “I’m not so sure…”

10 Years Prior…

“Addison, can I have a word with you?” Spetzer leaned into Darvey’s office. He held up a thick stack of papers. Darvey looked up from his desk, where he had been furiously typing into his computer. He sighed. He was tired, the past couple months had been hectic. Chaotic even. President Combes had proved to be far more incompetent than even his worst enemies in the Senate had ever thought. He had nothing to offer, and his policies had caused so much damage that now the country was in the process of collapsing. There had been a surge of ultra-nationalism, decrying the pitiful state of affairs. They were calling for the dissolution of the current government and the complete construction from the ground up of a new one. The senate was split down the middle and there seemed to be no hope of fixing anything. Darvey had been, along with any Senator with mind enough to try and preserve the union, spending many sleepless nights trying to put together some sort of resolution.

“Addison, I said can I have a word with you?” Spetzer shook the papers in his hand.

Darvey jumped slightly. “What? Oh, oh. Um, yeah, I’m busy but I have a couple of minutes.” He leaned back in his chair and Spetzer came in and sat on the corner of Darvey’s desk. “What do you got?” Darvey asked.

“It’s this little thing I put together. I’ve been wanting to show it to someone, so I can get an idea of how it looks. You know, get an honest opinion.”

Darvey sighed. “Florian, I am really busy with this resolution. I have a meeting in

ten minutes with the Speaker of the House and then after that I’m meeting with the Minister of the Interior.” He nodded and looked up at Spetzer.

“This is a resolution. I’ve been working on it for a while; I think it might be good if we introduced it on the floor. You know there really isn’t any sort of draft that’s been written up from anyone else, and by the looks of things there probably won’t be for some time. So I think it might be good sense to circulate this around.” Spetzer paused, but Darvey only furrowed his brow. “If you could take a look at it, make notes. I’ve been talking to a lot of other Senators on both sides of the issue, and I’ve been gathering consensus. It may not be perfect but it’s a start.”

Darvey rocked slightly in his chair, and stroked his chin. “You wrote this up all yourself? It looks like a couple hundred pages.”

“It’s three hundred forty four. Double sided. I’ve been thorough.” Spetzer smiled, he was pleased with himself.

“Well, I’ll take a look at it. If it is anything like you say it is then it’s worth looking at.” Darvey smiled and held out his hand. Spetzer handed him the ream. Darvey flipped through the first through pages nonchalantly. He set the stack on his desk and stood up. “I don’t have the time for this now, but I’ll look over it tonight. I have that meeting—“ he checked his watch, “—and I really got to be going.”

Spetzer nodded, slightly hurt. Darvey clapped his back and led him to the door.

“I’ll look at this, write up a… you know. The uh… recommendations for how to improve it. I’ll send one of my aides down to your office when I’m finished.” Spetzer smiled and Darvey walked with him into the hall, clerks and Senators alike rushing back and forth, heading off to votes.

“Alright, Florian. I’ll see you later, I have to call Abramhoff.” Spetzer waved back at Darvey, who immediately flung his office door shut and locked it behind him. He swiftly went to his desk and sat down, Spetzer’s resolution proposal in hand. Darvey picked up his phone. “Terry, call Buckhannon and tell him that I won’t be able to make the meeting… Yes… Tell him that I’m working on something important… Uh huh….

And cancel my meeting with the minister, too.” *** Darvey walked onto the Senate floor five days later and held up Spetzer’s resolution above his head. Spetzer, seated in the back, wondering why Darvey’s seat was empty, felt all the blood drain from his face. Darvey approached the stand and took the microphone.

“Senators of Antarctica, men and woman who represent the last great nation on Earth, we have for these past few months been stricken by the most severe illness that we have ever dealt with since our great nation was founded. We have been on the verge of total destruction, on the precipice of disaster, mere inches away from crumbling into total wreckage. We have for months now been seeking a diplomatic solution, some way that we may preserve this sacred union. ‘War’ is a word that has been said repeatedly of late, that war is the only option left to us. That war will solve this great calamity that we may all again live in peace.

“A great man once said, ‘Fellow-citizens, we cannot escape history. We of this Congress and this administration will be remembered in spite of ourselves. No personal

significance, or insignificance, can spare one or another of us. The fiery trial through which we pass, will light us down, in honor or dishonor, to the latest generation. We say we are for the Union. The world will not forget that we say this. We know how to save the Union. The world knows we do know how to save it. We -- even we here -- hold the power, and bear the responsibility. We shall nobly save, or meanly lose, the last best hope of earth. Other means may succeed; this could not fail. The way is plain, peaceful, generous, just -- a way which, if followed, the world will forever applaud, and God must forever bless.’

“Abraham Lincoln spoke those words, many years ago. When that once great nation faced its dark hour, the path was chosen towards war. Let us not make this same mistake twice, let us not veer down the path of total destruction—“ Darvey’s voice had risen into a great passionate roar, every senator was silent, all eyes were on him now, Spetzer’s in particular, “—let us walk down the path that will bring us peace and justice, that we will not have to dissolve into anarchy. My fellow Senators, my friends, let us come together and sort out our differences, lest our ignorance bring us all to our knees.”

The room was silent, absolutely still. Spetzer felt sick to his stomach.

“I hold in my hands a proposal, thorough and well detailed. Most importantly, it is a fluid document, one that we as a Senate may work together on to perfect. For some reason or another, we haven’t been able to come up with such a document yet, but with work this may be the hope we need. I’ve sent copies to the House, the Ministry of the Interior, a copy is on its way to every senator. Let us leave this conflict behind us, and end the struggle, the bickering, the fighting. Admit it, this has just been a tug of war that neither side could have won without either side giving a little up. The separatists and the unionists will both lose a bit, but the shared victory will be great, far greater than we could understand.” *** They called me the man who single handedly saved Antarctica. The young hero who did what no one else could have ever done. I was ambitious then, overly so. I saved Antarctica, yes, but I also crushed a man. This was the moment, the moment when he started on his downward path. Our entire relationship had been a pot of water on a stove, just waiting to boil over. That day is the day our friendship, if I could call it that, ended. He never spoke to me again and I don’t blame him at all. I clipped him off of my life like a growth, the truly sick thing is that I never cared. I looked at him like dead weight, expendable. In my life I have truly loved many, and I think I have enough friends who would agree, but for some reason I never kept Spetzer close.

I never found him to be a disagreeable person, he was never the type of man I couldn’t befriend. But whenever he was around me, I viewed him as a stepping stone, someone I could easily use when the time came. He looked up to me, he truly did. I was the quicker, the smarter, I always had more friends. Thinking back to my childhood Spetzer, though two years older, always did look up to me, and I was always looking down on him.

CHAPTER 3

Life in the bunker for Darvey went from being a pleasant coziness to stifling and oppressive. He was given the authority to go where he pleased, but he stayed in his room for the most part. He wanted no dealings with the seemingly endless number of meetings that Buckhannon had with the military brass. After only a week, Darvey felt immensely claustrophobic, like the wood paneled walls and crimson shag carpet were smothering him. Since their first talk when the arrived, he had not spoken Dex, and rarely seen him.

It became apparent to Darvey that while still in the bunker, there was no chance at all for him to leave the Antarctic. He truly was a prisoner by his own allies.

After several days he discovered that along with the food stores, the bunker had its own share of liquor. Staff soon found themselves being summoned to Darvey’s room repeatedly, bottle in hands, and for the first time in weeks Darvey found life to be bearable. The bottles stacked up in his room, a place of increasing squalor, and he carried around with him a stench of pure alcohol.

A man arrived at the door one day and told him that he was requested to make a statement that would be recorded and sent to the resistance leaders. It was time to mark his return. Darvey stood at his open door, clutching the jamb for support. The man looked Darvey over; his soiled shirt, his unshaven face. He told him to wait there and that he would be back with Auckland. Darvey shut the door in his face and staggered to his private bathroom. He turned the knobs on the faucet, intending to splash his face with water, but the only thing that came out was a rattling noise.

He cursed the thing and reeled out into the hallway, heading for the public bath a few doors down, and immediately smashed into Marcell, who fell over. Darvey stumbled backwards and fell over as well, crashing into the wall. Marcell pushed himself up.

“Watch where you’re fucking going. I swear to fucking God…” Darvey laughed. “You can go… screw yourself.”

Marcell’s face hardened. And he grabbed Darvey by the collar. “Listen to me, I don’t give a shit if you are the president, you’ve already got three different men’s blood on your hands. You broke my nose, you nearly got me killed as well. You fuck with me and I swear to God I will kill you.”

Darvey formed words in his head but instead of rebutting he just spat in Marcell’s face. Marcell cried out and struck Darvey in the jaw, his head whipping back and cracking against the wall. He moaned.

“Fuck you Darvey.” Marcell began to walk away. Darvey nursed the back of his head, rubbing the large sore spot where his head had crashed against the wall. He focused his senses and stood up, rushing at Marcell with all his might. He connected with Marcell’s back and the two went tumbling forward. Darvey grabbed Marcell by the hair and knocked his head off of the floor.

“You… never… say… I killed them. You take it back.” Darvey seemed crazed. He flipped Marcell onto his side and punched at his face over and over again. Darvey felt his fingers crack, his hand break, but he continued to attack. Marcell feebly threw his hands up, trying to push Darvey away. Dex walked out of his room, having heard the disturbance. He ran and grabbed Darvey from behind and hoisted him away from Marcell. He forced Darvey into the wall.

“Calm down! Darvey, calm the fuck down.” He shook Darvey, who slumped down and sat quietly on the floor. Marcell was dragging himself away, slowly, limply. Darvey looked over at him.

“You crawl away, because I’ll be gone. I’m leaving Antarctica and I’m not looking back so you can crawl away.” Dex looked down at Darvey, his eyes wide.

“Darvey shut the fuck up.”

Marcell stopped moving, and sat himself up. He stared at Darvey and Dex. “What?

What was that?”

Dex quickly said, “Nothing. He’s drunk.”

“No, no. I heard him. So this is what it is, huh? Buddies, are you? This asshole isn’t going anywhere, I promise you that.”

“Marcell, what are you talking about?” Dex shifted uncomfortably on the spot.

“Like I just said, he’s never going to leave Antarctica. I don’t give a shit about him and I never did.” Marcell’s eyes were furious, full of revenge. Dex felt like they would have stared at each other for eternity if Buckhannon had not at that moment come around the corner. He cried out in surprise at the situation, Darvey bleeding freely from his nose, smelling of alcohol, Marcell sitting on the ground, his eyes swollen and bruised, clutching his ribs.

“What the hell is going on here?” he howled.

“They were fighting,” Dex said, “I walked into the hall and they were already going at it. Darvey’s drunk.” Buckhannon for the first time since Dex had met him seemed outraged. His face grew red and he strode right to Darvey. He pulled him up off the ground and slapped him in the face. “What in the fuck do you think you’re doing, Addison? What?”

Darvey said nothing, but looked ashamed. He looked down at his feet and bit his lip. He refused to make eye contact with Buckhannon.

“Listen to me, Addison, you need to get your shit straight, and really fucking soon.

I don’t know what your problem is but I’m not putting up with this anymore. Go lie down and sober up.” Darvey stumbled and went back into his room, quietly shutting the door behind him. Buckhannon was fuming. He reached out to help Marcell off the ground, but Marcell shook off his hand.

“I don’t need your help,” he said as he returned to his room.

“Mr. Stowe,” Buckhannon said to Dex, “thank you for your help. I’ll take it from here.” Dex disappeared into his room and Buckhannon opened Darvey’s door and walked in. Darvey sat at the edge of his bed, head hanging low and hands dangling between his legs. He didn’t look up when Buckhannon entered.

“Excuse me,” Buckhannon said to the man who was with him, “but I need to chat with Mr. Darvey, if you could wait downstairs for me.” The man nodded subserviently and flitted away.

“So, Addison, is this how you live your life now? Getting drunk and fighting strangers?”

“No.” “Are you proud of yourself?”

“Far from it.”

“What the hell were you thinking? What the hell were you doing?” Buckhannon calmed down slightly and sat next to Darvey at the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know, Buck. I’ve just been stressed out about a lot of things. And Marcell instigates. I just lost my temper.”

“What are you stressed about?”

Darvey huffed. “How many times are we going to do this? Stop asking because you won’t get an answer.”

“Alright.” There was a pause and Buckhannon surveyed the room. “You need to do something about yourself, Addison. You never were a drinker, and look at you now.”

Darvey laid back on the bed and put his hands on his face. “God, I know. I know. I just… don’t know what to do anymore. I’m trapped in here all the time and I can’t stand to see all these people staring at me and call me ‘Mr. President’ and asking me how I am and saying they’re sorry. I’m going insane.”

Buckhannon said: “I didn’t realize how much the whole presidency thing was getting to you.”

“Yeah.” Darvey wanted to remain neutral on the subject, but at the same time wished he could tell Buckhannon.

“You know, you don’t need to reclaim your presidency until your ready. If Munz’s plan works out, which, by the way, things are looking in our favor, then you shouldn’t have to take up office again until after everything’s over.”

“Yeah,” Darvey said.

“They wanted you to make the statement today. You know, saying you’re still alive and not to lose hope. Maybe we should do that tomorrow, though.”

“Yeah,” Darvey said, sitting up. Buckhannon clapped him on the back and searched for some words to say to encourage Darvey, but his mind was blank. He stood up and left. Darvey picked up a half drank bottle of gin that was lying on the bed. He held it for a few moments then pitched it against the wall; the bottle shattered and the gin soaked into the wallpapering. *** He still thinks it’s about me not being ready, that I’m not prepared emotionally to return to office. It’s my feelings I can’t talk about. In a strange way, he may be right. My guilt is why I’m leaving. Maybe it would have done me good to have talked about my feelings years ago, before I lost faith in myself and before I began to hate this place. In a way, I’m not running from Antarctica, I’m running from myself, my guilt, my burden, my sin. *** Darvey woke at three in the morning to a quick urgent knocking on his door. He rose slowly, his head slitting and his hand throbbing with pain. He felt sick to his stomach. Buckhannon was standing on the other side, a concerned look on his face.

“We need to talk,” Buckhannon said.

Darvey pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. “Now?” “Right now. Follow me.” Buckhannon didn’t wait for Darvey to reply, for he turned that instant and walked down the hall. Darvey followed groggily.

“Where are we going?”

“To the meeting room. Something’s come up.” Darvey roused slightly when Buckhannon said this. He picked up his pace.

“What’s that?”

Buckhannon looked over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be listening in. “I can’t say right now. They told me to keep quiet until we were somewhere safe.”

Five soldiers rounded the corner and stopped the two men. One of them said, “We’re here for Mr. Darvey’s security.” Buckhannon said ‘Of course.’ They walked alongside on Darvey’s flanks. They carried long black automatic rifles.

“I’ve never needed security since I’ve gotten here,” Darvey said nervously.

“Things have changed.” *** The meeting room was full, men packed in and already sitting at the table. There were two seats left at the head for Darvey and Buckhannon. Munz sat directly opposite along the length, facing them. He no longer had his friendly smile, his grandfatherly disposition that Darvey had come to expect. He was sullen, the wrinkles in his face seemed deeper and sinister in the poor lighting. He held a cigarette, the smoke floating in fine layers before his eyes. He seemed at this moment to be dark, evil. Darvey shuddered.

“Thank you for being here,” he said to Darvey and Buckhannon. “Let’s begin.

Colonel Renfield.” The colonel stood.

“Three hours ago our intelligence officers caught a burst transmission attached to the beam from a low orbital telecommunications making its way over the Falkland Islands. The transmission refracted off of the satellite and was received, from our best estimations, somewhere within a five hundred mile radius of the geographic South Pole, Corona being the only city within those limits. Moreover, the transmission was coming from somewhere inside this base.” The colonel paused and frowned. “We didn’t have enough time to jam the signal, but we were able to bounce it back, and immediately sent the data to decryption. So far they haven’t been able to make any headway.

“They described the data packet like it being a giant ball of twine. They get through one layer of encryption and find another layer tied to the last. I ordered a trace of any transmissions from that satellite and any other satellites following a similar course, and so far we have found a total of eight transmissions outwards and six received, all sent to or originating from Corona. The first was sent one day after the arrival of President Buckhannon and Mr. Darvey.” The room was silent, painfully silent. Darvey was speechless. Buckhannon rocked slightly in his chair.

“We have no idea what these transmissions contained, but judging by the level of sophistication with the encryption we are pretty sure this is professional, experienced work being done.” The colonel sat down again and was silent.

General Munz stood. “Gentlemen, everyone in this room should understand the gravity of this situation. These secret transmissions may be anything, but judging from current events and their destination, we know full well that they may probably be messages sent to Spetzer. In that case, this base has a mole and we must take immediate action to lock down on all activities, and we will surely be monitoring all transmissions.

If in fact our position has been compromised, we must prepare for the worst. Our agents in the field are vigorously looking for any signs of Spetzer’s awareness of the bases’ existence, but for the past few weeks they haven’t noted anything strange. But this does not rule out anything. I think we must all be diligent and be on the lookout for any odd behavior and suspicious activity. Meeting adjourned.” Munz stood and swept from the

room, not pausing to speak to anyone. Slowly the room emptied, leaving Darvey sitting alone, hands flat on the table, head pounding.

Darvey made his recording later that day. He was given a speech telling the Antarctican people not to lose hope, that he would soon return, that Spetzer’s dictatorship would be short lived. He spoke of Spetzer’s peddling off of Antarctica to Europe. After he finished, the message was sent to someone outside the bunker, to be duplicated and distributed. Darvey found making the speech to be the most tiring and trying thing he had done in many weeks. The more he spoke of his glorious return, the more he felt like he was digging himself into a pit. The more lies he told he could feel a growing weight on his chest. *** Darvey was again awoken two days later at four o’clock in the morning. He laid in his bed for a moment, not quite sure what had woken him. It was pitch black, and there was no sound save his breathing. He got out of bed and felt his way to the light switch.

Still he was not sure what had roused him, but he was torn awake so abruptly that he was sure there was something. He dressed quickly into a pair of pants and he put on a buttondown. He stuck his head out into the hall to see if anyone had knocked on his door, but the long corridor was completely empty, the lights on a low setting.

He was shutting his door when he heard a wail. At first he thought it was someone crying down the hall, but the noise picked up and he realized it was purely mechanical, the screaming of an air-raid siren. Darvey knew then what had woken him: there had been a boom that shook the bunker, a muffled explosion from somewhere below. Spetzer had come for him. *** This is it. My past has finally caught up with me. I had been wondering how long you can cheat fate before you knocks on your door. I just never realized fate would be Leonid Kit. Three times now he’s come knocking and twice I prevailed. Third time’s a charm, correct? But a charm for who… *** Darvey heard the faint clatter of gunfire, which seemed miles away but he knew it could not be more than a few thousand feet. He slipped on his shoes and tossed on his parka. Stepping out into the hall again, he found himself face to face with the barrel of a pistol. Marcell stood there, smiling, his eyes still black and blue and his nose swollen.

“Not so fast, mate.” Marcell advanced, and Darvey backed into his room. “You’d better follow me, if you know what’s good for you.” Darvey didn’t budge. “If you don’t move I swear I will kill you on the spot.”

“I’m dead either way.”

“Then you have yourself in quite and existential predicament. Let’s move.” He pulled down the hammer of the gun and Darvey instinctively submitted. Marcell and he moved through the corridors, the gun in Darvey’s back all the while. Whenever they

passed someone, Marcell moved in a little closer and hissed “Don’t think about it,” to Darvey. They arrived in front of a series of elevators. They entered the first one that arrived and Spetzer pushed Darvey inside. He pressed the button for the bottom level.

“Everyone’s going to be using the stairwells. Don’t worry about someone coming along and finding you.”

“You sent the transmissions?”

“All along.” Marcell seemed overly pleased at his work. “How do you think Kit found you at Lansing? Why do you think I insisted on coming along for the ride to here?”

He laughed. Darvey’s blood boiled. How had he been so stupid. “When I realized who you were back on the ice, I knew there were big things in store for me. I’ve got some big promotions in store. You’re my ticket.”

Darvey tried to wrap his head around this, the whole thing was absurdly simple, made so much sense. He cursed himself for not realizing it beforehand. Marcell’s smugness cut into Darvey like a knife. The elevator hissed to a full stop and the doors opened. Marcell prodded Darvey out into a dimly lit service area. The place was a warren of long, dank hallways, rusted doors and puddles of condensation on the floor. “The Russians,” Marcell said, “haven’t completely forgotten about this place. Once I informed Corona of where we are, they got in contact with the Russians; we got a copy of the blueprints… I got a copy of the blueprints… and found this.” Marcell opened the last door in the hall, literally hidden in the shadows, and pushed Darvey through.

They stood in an empty room, save for a heavy cabinet pushed against the back wall. The room was very cold, which surprised Darvey; the rest of the base had been so warm. Marcell moved to the back wall. He set the pistol on one of the cabinet’s shelves.

Darvey thought about trying to seize it, but he was still standing by the door; he would be dead on the floor by the time he made it there.

Marcell braced himself against the side of the cabinet and pushed with all his might. The cabinet scraped against the damp floor and slid away. Marcell pushed it farther and revealed a second door. Marcell swung it open picked up his gun. A gust of frigid wind hit Darvey, and he immediately zipped his parka. Marcell motioned towards the dark doorway.

“You first,” he said to Darvey.

Darvey stepped into the dark space behind the hidden door, and found a long, rough stone passageway, the walls were the bare rock of the mountain, unpolished and jagged.

“Do you have a torch?” Darvey asked. Marcell, prepared, pulled a small light from his pocket and handed him the flashlight. Darvey clicked it on and shined it on the darkness ahead. The tunnel was long, too long for Darvey to see the end, and it sloped upward at a moderate angle.

“Move it,” Marcell said. Darvey started forward, his mind racing, he knew there was no escape. *** The passageway went on for what seemed like miles. Darvey trudged slowly in front of Marcell the whole time, could feel the heat of the gun trained somewhere near the back of his head. Neither of them spoke, just walked. Darvey checked his watch every

now and again to find that the hours were no more than forty-five minutes. The forty-five minutes, though, soon turned into an hour and a half, and then two hours.

The passage finally began to level off, and abruptly ended altogether. A ladder was bolted into the bedrock, and Marcell motioned for Darvey to ascend. Marcell followed behind him, trying to keep the pistol trained on Darvey while at the same time handling the rungs. They went up for about forty meters and finally Darvey found himself standing in a small, rectangular room. Marcell came up behind him and pulled a small handheld radio out of his parka.

“We’re inside,” he said. Marcell walked to the other end of the room and opened the heavy looking metal door. For the first time in weeks Darvey saw natural light. It was nearly sunrise. He followed Marcell outside. The room and entrance to the tunnel had been cut into a nunatak, about four miles from the base of the mountain.

Nationalist soldiers stood in a semi-circle around the doorway, guns raised at Darvey. Kit stood in the middle of the group, by far the tallest and most muscular, the most intimidating man Darvey had ever seen. Kit had dangling from his left arm a riot stick on a lanyard. Marcell moved forward and shook Kit’s hand, they exchanged quick words. Kit returned his attention to Darvey.

“Long time, Addison,” he said.

“Not long enough.”

“Still such an insolent little bastard,” Kit said. He shook his head. Darvey remained silent. “Are you ready for a little meeting with your old friend? Florian is very excited to see you.” He spoke to Darvey as a parent speaks to a disobedient child.

Darvey’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his ears pounded and head spun. Kit advanced and Darvey balked. “You stand right there. You’ve caused some trouble, you know that?

Something about a little video you made. It’s caused quite a stir in the cities.” Darvey felt faint. “Last time I saw you I didn’t get to finish this.” Kit swung out with his club and caught Darvey in the face, sending him reeling backwards in pain.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Darvey clutched his now profusely bleeding face. “I haven’t been hit enough lately. Fuck.” He was on his knees, Kit standing above him.

“We need to get you in a helicopter. Spetzer wished to see you before the day was out.” He laughed lightly and had his soldiers grab hold of Darvey’s arms and jerk him up off the ground. Darvey let his hands fall away from his face, the blood leaving a trail of red dots along the ice and snow. He tried to walk along with the soldiers, but his legs were weak and gave out, his feeble stride couldn’t support his weight and he finally let the soldiers drag him, holding him up by his elbows.

Kit walked closely behind, laughing and talking with Marcell. Darvey’s head hung limply, and he stared out at the ground below him, contemplating his quickly deteriorating world. *** In my office, back in Corona, the entire back wall of the room was glass. Floor to ceiling windows across the entire forty-foot space. The view was exceptional. The day of my inauguration, when I first walked into that room, the first thing I noticed was that window. The office was at the top of the Capitol Building, fifty stories of gleaming steel, and my office was at least fifteen stories higher than any other building in the city.

Standing in front of that window you could see the whole sprawl of Corona, and a thousand miles of snow and ice beyond. I swear you could see the curve of the Earth. I loved that window, it was the single most magnificent thing I had ever seen. I would spend hours just staring at the never-ending whiteness, like someone dropped a bleached linen. I could spend hours just looking out at that view. That was the one true love in my life.

4 Years Prior “Addison, I have something for you.” Darvey looked up, saw Buckhannon.

There’s a message from Kiefer Jenksy. It’s for your eyes only.” Buckhannon handed the slim envelope to Darvey, who set it on his desk and gestured for Buckhannon to leave.

Darvey opened the message.

“Mr. President, “It is my duty to report to you a pending crisis. Recently the ultranationalist wing has made a resurgence, and I thought it wise to let you know of the grave consequences of leaving such a situation unattended. It seems to me that this administration’s, as well as the Antarctican people’s policy of leaving the nationalist movement much to their own work. I fear that their influence is far greater than anyone has anticipated.

“Another perhaps startling fact is that I found Florian Spetzer to have some close association with some of the more radical movements. I urge you to schedule a meeting very soon, this pressing matter won’t wait forever.

“Mr. Kiefer Jensky Minister of the Interior” Darvey read the note quickly but set it aside. His tolerance of this whole affair was already beginning to fall apart. He thought it lunacy the ultranationalists would be able to some how garner enough support to anything that could be remotely damaging.

No one sided with them anymore, the present public sentiment was far cooler than it have been six years ago. Darvey was exhausted with the matter, to be precise. He could no longer devote any lengthy period of time to such an aggravating topic.

But this new note, Spetzer, somehow hit a nerve. He hadn’t spoken to him for years, hadn’t seen him since he forfeited his post. He’d basically disappeared. The fact he was now involved in a group intent on the nation’s destruction made no sense at all to Darvey. The matter simply couldn’t be true.

Buckhannon knocked on the door and Darvey let him enter. Immediately Buckhannon noticed something was bothering Darvey.

“What’s wrong? That letter?” Buckhannon sat down opposite the desk from

Darvey.

“No,” he lied, “no I’m fine. Are you taking the trip to Clipper’s Head?”

“Yes. I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Alright. Alright. Oh, when you see him next, could you tell Mr. Jensky that I’ll be down to see him sometime soon.’”

“Can do. I’ll swing by his office when I go to meet the commerce director.”

Buckhannon still looked at Darvey, who was rubbing his chin.

“Come on, I know something is bothering you.”

“No, I’m actually fine.”

“Suit yourself. I’m just looking out for you.” There was an awkward moment of silence.

“Spetzer is working with the nationalists.”

“What?”

“You heard me. That son of a bitch went and turned his back on me.”

“It isn’t just you who he turned his back on.” Buckhannon’s face seemed lax and placid.

“No, it’s all me.” Darvey was growing angry at the very thought of it.

“May I say something, Addison?”

“Sure.”

“Have you ever thought about the way you treated him?”

“What do you mean?” Darvey snapped.

“You know what I mean,” Buckhannon said forcefully. “You’re my friend, Addison, but he was, too. I’ve never said anything, never once, but I’ve always hated the way you treated him. You were so callous towards Spetzer and I could never figure out why.”

“This conversation is over.” Darvey refused to look at Buckhannon.

“Addison, please—“ “This conversation is over!” Darvey was standing, he had knocked over his coffee and already a few aides were peering in through the office door. Darvey sat down and took a deep breath.

“I’ll run that memo to Jensky.” Buckhannon left the room and Darvey pulled a sheet of paper from his desk drawer. He wrote: “Mr. Jensky, “The issue of the nationalists is not of great concern to me. It is my opinion, as well as public opinion that the ultranationalist faction is no longer of any discernable importance. Six years ago the threat was for the most part laid to rest with the resolution that I proposed to congress. The nationalists that exist now are only the conservative minority left over from their heyday. I greatly wish that we may let this matter rest. As of the involvement of Florian Spetzer, this matter is also of little importance to me. I should wish that this whole topic will now remain closed.

“Addison Darvey” Darvey sealed the letter and slipped it into his desk.

*** Darvey shook hands with Jensky and the two sat down on the divan in Jensky’s office. Darvey took the letter he had written Jensky and set it on the glass coffee table.

“So, Jen, what’s this all about?”

“You’ve ready my letter?”

“Yeah. Something about ultranationalists.” Darvey checked his watch. “I’m really pressed for time, so could we maybe speed this up?”

Jenksy faltered. “Um, of course. In essence, these new rising factions are beyond anything we’ve seen. They make the nationalist movement six years ago look like child’s play. They’re arming themselves, they’re angry. They won’t stop until—” “Kiefer, the last time we had this issue, the Antarctican people reacted the same way they will to this new group of nuts: they’ll shrug their shoulders and ignore it. The people wouldn’t let this type of thing go on any longer than it needs to, and they certainly won’t be swayed by a group of radicals. The only reason the last crisis made any difference was because it was political, now it’s just ideological.”

“Sir, I have experts in the field. They are talking to a lot of people. Six years isn’t that long, there are still a lot of nationalistic sentiments out there.”

“Kiefer, I swear it, leave the thing alone. No one wants to hear about it and no one will care what you have to say. Don’t write me again. You can close your door.” Darvey pointed at the envelope sitting on the coffee table. “Read that. Take care.” *** I do blame myself for all of this. If it weren’t for me, Florian wouldn’t have gone down the path he had. And I hate myself for why I did it. Because I was afraid of him. I knew he had the potential of being better than me at anything he tried. I knew that he would outshine me any day of the week. When we both started getting into politics, I knew that he would be brilliant, a great leader. I knew that I could appear that way, but never truly be. So I systematically cut him apart. As nice of a man I have always liked to think myself as, I have this drive in me top make sure that absolutely no one else can win, no one else betters me. That’s why I made the politician that I did, that’s why I rose so quickly. I had never met another man who I thought could be some sort of a threat, except for Spetzer.

CHAPTER 4 Darvey looked out of the office window at the hideous grey city and the endless tundra beyond. When Kit had thrown him into the room to await Spetzer’s arrival,

Darvey felt an eerie feeling of déjà vu that he knew was because he had only been there not two months before, sitting in that chair, but it now felt like this room existed on another planet. The office had always been spacious, just a desk and a few chairs, but it seemed vacant of any humanity right now. His desk had been cleared. There was no new placard, as he expected there would be, reading Spetzer’s name. There was only the polished chrome of the desktop.

On the way to Corona, Darvey realized that his life was essentially over, his time now on Earth had suddenly come to an end. He had an odd mingling of fear and relief at the thought that he would no longer have to cope with his guilt. Soon enough there would only be eternity left, whatever that eternity would hold.

In Darvey’s moment of epiphany, he realized that he must confront the man who had proven to be the raison d'être of his life. Darvey would not die and find himself somewhere beautiful, he was sure of it, but he decided that if he could at least make some sort of amends with Spetzer, his damnation would be ever so much easier, eternity would seem so much shorter. He must clean his conscience, find whatever solace was left for him in this cold world.

Behind him, the door opened. Spetzer looked much the same as he had the last time Darvey had seen him, almost fourteen years ago. His black hair was still pressed against his forehead, still short and thin with his glasses ever perched on the tip of his nose. If Darvey had not personally known his great political genius and his ability to mesmerize a crowd, he would have had no idea as to how such an unimposing man could be the leader of a coup and a military dictator.

“Hello, Addison.”

“Hello.”

“It’s been some time, truly.”

“Yes.” Every emotion in Darvey seemed absent. He had thought of what he was going to say to Spetzer; he wanted to apologize, to beg for his forgiveness, but now he couldn’t even think of how he would go about doing that.

“Would you like to know, Addison, why I’ve brought you here?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself.”

“Firstly, I wanted to let you know how much trouble you’ve caused me. That little video you made has caused a world of trouble. I was forced to admit your continuing existence, something which I now wish I would have remedied when I had the chance. I also have a question for you, one I’ve wanted to ask for a very long time.”

“Ask away.”

Spetzer had been smiling the entire time, a great, toothy smile. His smile never faded.

“Wanted to ask you what you thought of me now.” Spetzer’s eyes narrowed.

“What… what I thought of you?”

“Yes. Now.” “I—I’m not sure what you want me to say.” Darvey felt uneasy.

Spetzer moved closer. Their noses practically touched. “I want you to say what you think,” he said coolly, but Darvey could hear the malicious tone in his voice.

“I think… that you deserve what you have. You deserve it.”

“Liar!” Spetzer sunk his fist into Darvey’s chest. Darvey stumbled backwards, but the blow was not all that powerful.

“Please, I don’t want this!”

“This is all that you’ve got.”

“Florian, please listen to me, please, please just hear me out.”

Spetzer sat at the desk. “Stop groveling. Sit down.” Darvey flexed his fingers and sat in the chair opposite of Spetzer. Spetzer put his hands together, as if folded in prayer.

He leaned forward. “I’m listening.”

Darvey collected his thoughts for a long moment, his eyes heavy and full of exhaustion.

“I… this may be hard for you to understand. The things that happened, everything that’s happened in our past and over the years… this is difficult for me.”

Spetzer’s eyes, unblinking, stared emotionless at Darvey. Spetzer did not nod, nor show any sign of acknowledgement.

“If I can just sum all of this up,” Darvey said, “and it shouldn’t be summed, up, I should explain it all in full, but to make it short and to the point I’m sorry for everything.”

Spetzer burst out with laughter. “Sorry. Sorry is all you can come up with?”

“No, listen to me, I am truly sorry. I don’t know any other words for it but that’s what it is; I’m so sorry. Something in me has changed, and I don’t know what but I realized all the ways I hurt you and wronged you, and it really does kill me inside.”

Darvey’s eyes welled. “The fact of the matter is I don’t have much will left anymore. I’m going to Hell and I’m not coming back. I’ve already made my mistakes and there’s no fixing them, but all I can do is ask for your forgiveness.”

“Why did you do it?” Spetzer’s eyes were so full of hatred.

“Because you intimidated me. I always was intimidated by you. And it killed me that someone who was never popular and someone that close to me could be so much smarter and sharper and—” “Enough.” Spetzer waved his hand. “To tell you the truth, Addison, I don’t want to hear your apology.” He sat back. “The only reason I asked for you to be here is so that I could have the satisfaction of telling you that you’re going to Brace Hill.”

“Wait, Spetzer, please hear me out, send to me Brace Hill but please listen to what I want to say. I don’t care what happens to me anymore, I just want to apologize.”

“Apologies don’t erase what happened. I’m only sorry that your conscience has just caught up with you now.”

“Florian…”

Two guards grabbed Darvey from behind and pulled him up out of the chair.

Spetzer slowly nodded his head. “What drives man kind to do this to itself?” The question was directed towards Darvey, but Spetzer seemingly wanted no answer. “Get rid of him.” The guards began to drag Darvey from the room.

“Florian!”

Spetzer sat quietly at his desk, slightly turned away from Darvey, staring out the window. That was the last time he would ever see Spetzer, him sitting there at the desk, ignoring Darvey’s cries and just staring out that window. *** I’m not exactly sure what I had expected. Did I really think he was going to accept my request for forgiveness with a handshake and a hug, say that what happened

in the past was in the past. I know now that I am going to die, very soon. I knew that from the time Marcell got me. And until now I was hoping that when I am executed, I would be able to die free of guilt. I destroyed a man’s life unintentionally; I chipped away at him for years and years, until there was nothing left but dust. A special district in Hell is reserved just for me, but now I won’t even have the satisfaction of knowing I was able to right any wrongs before I died.

Two Months Prior The day of the coup happened so fast, it was all over so god damned fast. My door was kicked in and there was Kit, standing there all-triumphant. He told me that it was all over but the minute I saw him there I knew what was going on and what was in store for me. He walked right up and struck me squarely in the face. While I was on the ground he hit me over the head with his truncheon. I was taken from my office and led from the building, When we got to street level I saw the chaos. People were being rounded up left and right, running from the invading horde. I was in a state of shock.

They were loading me into a Snow Crawler to be taken to God knows where when a group of Republicans came around the corner. I broke free in the confusion and just ran as fast as I could. I went into the first house I came across and the family inside hid me in their basement, broke my shackles and gave me their Snow Crawler. That was the beginning of my exodus, my journey, my tale. It’s come full circle, and now I face my end.

EPILOGUE He had been handed his death sentence in a large room filled with cameras and the media. Darvey sat alone, on a raised plinth in the center of the hall, a mass of people seated all around him. The judgment was handed down by a panel of men Darvey had never seen before, just another set of anonymous faces who blended in with the rest of the room. He remained silent for the whole affair, when asked if he had any words, he simply shook his head. ‘Death by hanging,’ the judge said with a smirk. A buzz went about the room. Darvey was escorted away and thrown into his cell; small, cold, and empty. He wore nothing but a thin prisoner’s uniform, a solid grey, the color of soiled snow. In the shadows of the small room Darvey saw two others, dressed the same way,

hunched over with the same weary look. They were Buckhannon and Dex. Neither of them looked up nor did neither of them acknowledge Darvey. They sat apart from each other, both quietly contemplating their rapidly advancing deaths.

After several minutes, Buckhannon said: “So, Addison. Dex told me about your plan.”

Darvey was ashamed. “I was going to tell you. Eventually I was. Nothing worked out so I never got around to it.”

“You’re right about that. Nothing worked out.”

“I’m sorry about all of this. It’s my fault.”

Buckhannon put his hand on Darvey’s shoulder. “No, it isn’t your fault. These things happen.”

“No,” Darvey said, “it is my fault.” He paused. “Someone asked me why man does this to itself, why we just can’t help fucking up. Do you know why?”

Buckhannon looked at Darvey sadly and shook his head.

“I thought about that and I now know that it’s because that’s our nature. We’re a flawed race. We’re sick, all of us. Right now, us dying, is the best thing that could possibly happen. I promise.” *** One hour later the three were escorted from their cell, taken into a room with three ropes hanging from the ceiling, three trap doors directly below. The room was full of cameras and suited men. No words were spoken, the ordeal went forward without any fanfare.

The rope tightened around Darvey’s neck, the fall was short and sudden. The doctor announced that his death had been almost instant. In that brief moment before he did die, though, Darvey imagined that the white country outside had bloomed into its first spring, fields of golden grass stretching as far as the eye could see. He could feel the breeze carrying over his body, the heat from the sun sending prickling beads of sweat rolling down his face. He closed his eyes and smiled with relief, took all of it in. Then, slowly, the fields and the warmth began to fade and fall away. He could feel himself being coaxed away from his vision, he could feel himself tumbling backwards into the waiting oblivion; darkness enshrouded him and whispered riddles in his ears...

Eternity was calling.

Piecemeal A light snow began to fall outside. The crisp, clean flakes powdered mailboxes, tops of cars, passing peoples heads. They swirled and eddied in the passing wake of each automobile, and as the streetlights finally flickered on in the semi-conscious sleepy twilight, the snowfall gradually turned to rain. The white linen sheet was erased and replaced with a still pool of rainwater. The rain fell harder and lashed against the windows of the café, blurring the lights outside.

Cecil picked up his mug and let hot coffee warm his hands. He sipped it slowly, staring out into the night with a certain sadness in his eyes. Passerby shuffled quickly past the café window, but if they were to look inside, they would see Cecil, alone in his regular corner. They would take note of the fact he looked longingly outside towards them, wanting to be with them, to be one of them.

That was Cecil’s defining characteristic, the terribly noticeable fact that he was distant form everyone else, physically there but mentally distant. Perhaps not mentally, but, as others were to say, emotionally distant. He was a quiet man, who never seemed to be interested in having friendship. He went about his daily business, everyone ignored him, and that was the way it always had been. His colleagues assumed he wanted none of their life, they wanted none of his. But, in fact, Cecil had never wanted anything more than to be in any circle of friendship, but he had never managed to find a way to gain entry.

He was nearing forty, a tall, wispy man who wore glasses and ill-fitting clothes.

His knees were weak and he was slightly duck-footed. His dark-brown, messy hair was

swept to the side. When he walked he shuffled, his shoulders bent forward and he kept his eyes to the ground. And so he sat in his quiet corner of the café, sipping coffee and watching the pedestrians hurry home to escape the chilling rain. He sniffled a bit and took out a handkerchief, poised to blow his nose, but folded it and tucked it back into his breast pocket.

Cecil looked at his watch. It was 9:30. He stood up slowly, breathing deeply. He slipped on his coat and picked up his briefcase. He went to the register, and handed the money to the cashier.

“It’s a cold one, tonight,” she said.

“It is.” Cecil wrung his hands.

“But it’s supposed to be warmer tomorrow.” Cecil made a confirming grunt. “It seems like it’s never cold anymore, though. I think it’s the global warming. A lot of people say that that’s not true, but I think so. What do you think?”

Cecil bit his tongue. “Oh, I don’t really know.”

“Hmm… well, I think global warming’s real.”

Cecil opened his mouth and bounced on his heels.

“Well, see you tomorrow Cecil.”

“Night, Laura.” Cecil smiled weakly, and walked out.

The next day, as she had predicted, was unseasonably warm. Cecil left his apartment wearing a light jacket. His walk to work was brisk and quiet. He was a file clerk, one of a dying breed, at the headquarters of Grant’s Insurance in downtown Schenectady. The building was the largest in the city, seven stories, red brick and plate glass. Cecil worked in a shoved-aside corner of the basement, a dark expansive room that echoed with the sharp click of a heel.

He, all day, went back and forth from his filing cabinets marked “In” to the rows and rows of shelves, holding fifty-five years of claimants, policyholders, names, addresses, births, deaths, spending and earnings. His job was to hide the past in neat filefolders, and keep it catalogued away until, for some mysterious purpose, it must be exhumed.

His work went uninterrupted, for the most part. The files slid down a chute and landed in a bin, where he filed them where they were to await their final destination.

Occasionally, his boss would come down to check on his progress, which was for the most part good, but other than that, he barely saw other human contact. He had lunch in the basement, and took his breaks in the basement, most of which he just worked through.

But on this day, his boss’ boss showed up at his door. Edmund Grant, the CEO and namesake of the company. His father had started the business, and when he passed on, the company passed on to his son. Mr. Grant had a general dislike of Cecil, for Edmund was a glitzy man who liked big talk, big people, and big parties. He flaunted his wealth around, throwing extravagant get-togethers at his estate. He disliked quiet men, and men who seemed to be withdrawn from the rest of the crowd. Cecil was obviously one of his least favorite employees. So when Mr. Grant came to the basement, Cecil was immediately surprised.

“Cecil.” Mr. Grant checked his watch with an exaggerated flourish of his arm.

“Mr. Grant, sir.” Cecil’s shoulders bowed down; his self-confidence dropped in the presence of Mr. Grant” “Um, yes. Cecil, there was something I wanted to ask you…” Mr. Grant ran his

hand along Cecil’s desk. He scowled with distasted and brushed the dust from his fingers.

“Christ, Cecil, do you think you could bring some light into this place?”

“Mr. Grant, sir, I— well, I put in a request for the ceiling lamps, you know, the fluorescent kind, and—” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never gotten any requests for lights down here.”

“Well, Mr. Grant, sir, I… There was something you wanted to ask me, sir?” Cecil bit his lip and began to wring his hands.

“Oh, yes. Indeed.” Mr. Grant nodded approvingly at Cecil. “Well, my wife was planning this little get-together at our home tomorrow, at about six. And I’ve noticed that you’ve never actually come to any of my parties. So I wanted to ask you, or implore you, rather, to show up this time.”

Cecil cocked his head. He wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly. “Your… your… party, sir?”

“Do I mumble?”

“No, no sir, not once. It’s just that, I’ve never received an invitation before.”

“Oh. Surely not! I’ve sent along, well, more than I can count.”

Cecil somewhat disbelieved this.

“Well, Cecil,” Mr. Grant again checked his watch, “regardless, you should come.

And, I’d like to… apologize about the other invitations. I’m sure that it was simply an error in communications.” Mr Grant added on a false smile and a forced laugh.

“Well, I’d very much appreciate to be there.”

“You’d ‘be happy.’”

“What?”

“You said ‘appreciate to be there.’ You meant you’d ‘like to be there,’ or something.”

“Oh, yes. I…” “Well, I need to be off.” Mr. Grant walked towards the door. He stopped and wheeled around on his heels. “Cecil, get some light down here.” He pushed through the door and disappeared down the hall. Cecil let out a ‘huh,’ and ran his fingers through his hair.

As he walked to the café, he barely noticed anything around him. His mind was affixed on the whole business of the party. He knew very well that he was no social butterfly, and he had a difficult time grasping the concept of anyone inviting him to a party, let alone a boss who made it plainly known that he had a disliking for Cecil. Even as a child, Cecil had never been invited to a party, and he had never really had any friends for that matter. No, he thought, he had been invited to one party in all his life.

A boy in a grade up from him had a Halloween party once. Cecil had dressed in a cowboy outfit and arrived at the party ten minutes early, eager to find some sort of friendship. But instead, Cecil was quick to realize that he had been invited as a joke. The other children made fun of little Cecil, and he ran directly from the house. He went to a park, and sat alone in the dark. A few hours later, he returned home, and when his mother asked him how the party had been, Cecil smiled and said “Terrific.”

Cecil had a pang of grief at the thought. He marveled at how terribly torturous small children could be. The single party he had ever been to was a disaster, true, but he figured juvenile pranks like that were just that: juvenile. Cecil had always had his guards

up, and he never let them down.

He turned the corner and could see the café glowing down the street. He entered the café, still lost deep in his thoughts. He walked past the register, the smiling cashier, people sipping coffee and reading pretentious poetry, towards his table in the back. When he went to sit down, he was immediately shaken by the fact that his table was already occupied by a strange woman sitting in his seat. He blinked and stood still for a moment, completely in shock at the situation. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He started to turn away, slightly dazed, but the woman looked up from her book and smiled.

Her eyes caught his, and he couldn’t continue turning away. She was really very pretty, he thought, deep brown hair, large brown eyes, a slightly bohemian aura about her. She smiled again, and he turned red.

“Do you want to sit here?” Her eyebrows shot up. She had a New York accent, which Cecil usually felt sounded harsh and course, but attached to her, Cecil couldn’t help but feel it was soft and melodic.

“Oh… no… really. You can sit here. I just—I mean, I wouldn’t want to make you get up or anything.” He trailed off, still looking for words. He wasn’t at all unfamiliar with being at a loss for words, but this time it felt different.

“Because, if this is your regular seat, I’ll move. I understand.”

Cecil rubbed the back of his neck. “No—I mean yes. It is my normal seat, but you don’t have to move, I’ll just find somewhere else to sit, it really isn’t any—” “You could sit with me, if you’d like.” She nodded approvingly. “This place is a little crowded, and, it might be kind of hard to… find another place to… to sit.” She blushed too.

“Ok. I guess.” Cecil felt a flood of embarrassment; the café was far from full, or even half-capacity. There were three other people in the whole place. Cecil set his briefcase on the floor and sat down.

“So, what’s your name?” the woman said.

“Cecil. My name is Cecil.”

“I’ll take a wild guess and say that you have a last name, too?”

“Roberts.”

“My name’s Felicity. Graham. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cecil Roberts.”

“Pleasure to meet you too.”

Cecil was surprised to find that he didn’t feel at all shy with her. They talked about politics, food, books, movies, and then they moved onto their personal stories. He learned that she had just recently moved to Schenectady from New York City, where she had come to find the city life enormously oppressive. She was an aspiring artist, and hoped that a quiet little-city life would give comfort and help fuel her creativity.

They made easy conversation all night, and he was more than surprised to find that it was 11:30 when he looked at his watch, and already hours past when he should have left.

“Oh, look at the time. I really ought to be off.”

“Well, it’s been really nice. You’re the first person I’ve met here who’s been so kind to me.”

“Well…”

“How about we get together tomorrow. Same place, same time?”

“Sure, that sounds great. But, oh, wait. I have this party I have to go to. Kind of a

big thing. I can’t just skip over it. But afterwards, I’d love to.”

“So, after the party. What time?”

“How about 10? Later than I’m usually out, but, hey, I need to live a little.”

“Sure. That sounds great.”

They said their goodbyes and she left with a quick glance at Cecil over her shoulder. He picked up his briefcase and walked towards the door. He felt exhilarated for the first time in his life. Every step had a bounce to it. He realized that it seemed foolish, falling head over heels for the first woman who would even talk to him, but somehow he didn’t want to let that realization take hold too much.

He woke up around noon, the beautiful thing about a Saturday, and slowly got moving. He showered, dressed, and made some food. He looked out his window, surprised at the weather. It was sunny, without a cloud for as far as the sky stretched.

Down below his apartment, people walked by in t-shirts and light jackets.

He took a quick jog and returned to his apartment. He spent the rest of the day slowly getting ready for the party. He spent two hours alone creating the prefect combination of suit, dress shirts, and ties. He would lay the suit out on his bed, lay a shirt on top of it, then wrap a tie around the whole thing. He would step back, carefully sizing up the situation. He did it over and over again, exhausting his entire closet. He finally set on one suit. It was black silk, the nicest he owned. He chose the whitest white dress shirt he had, and a dark gold neck tie. Putting it all on, he felt like a king being robed. He stood in his mirror, making tiny adjustments here and there. He finally was satisfied with his tie and cufflinks and realized it was almost time for the party.

He took his car from the building’s garage, and quickly ran it through a car-wash.

He cruised the streets, for the first time feeling somewhat cool. He entered Mr. Grant’s gated community of the wealthy and fabulous. He drove past mansion after mansion after mansion, each one seeming a little bigger and a little more glamorous than the last. He finally found Mr. Grant’s house; a palatial manor squatting on a low hill. He sped up the curving drive, and stopped in front of the valet.

The valet took his car and wrapped around the building. Cecil strode towards the huge oaken doors. He moved with confidence and poise. As he neared the doors, they seemed to swing open magically, and he found himself standing in a cavernous foyer, at the far end of which stood a door thrown open with music emanating from inside. A small ornate table stood to one side, and a butler wearing white gloves was checking names.

“Cecil Roberts, please.”

The butler flipped through the guest list, running a linen-gloved finger down over the names. He ran over the last name and looked up at Cecil.

“I’m sorry sir, but your name is not on the list.”

“Excuse me?” Cecil cocked his head and furrowed his brow.

“I said, sir, that your name is not in the guest list. I’ll have to ask you to step out of Mr. Grant’s residence.”

“But—but… Mr. Grant asked me himself to be here. He came to the—the office and my files. He asked me.” Cecil felt a rising sense of regret and embarrassment.

The butler took this information and quickly stepped into the party. A moment later, Mr. Grant poked his head through the doors. He looked at Cecil with the most absent, hateful look on his face that Cecil had ever seen. “No” was all he said.

The butler gestured to the front doors, but Cecil remained rooted to the spot. He watched Mr. Grant weave and bob through the party, finding some workers from the firm. He leaned in, and they all looked like they were sharing some kind of inside joke.

They all threw back their heads and laughed, and then a few of them turned and looked out at Cecil.

He understood what was happening, and immediately ran from the room. He ran past the valet and ran straight to his car. He jumped in and started the engine. He raced down the hill, through the houses, and finally pulled to a stop on a quiet suburban road.

He was crying, and pounded his fists against the steering wheel.

Sometime later, he pulled up in front of the café. It had started raining heavily.

Through the downpour outside, Cecil could make out the humid café interior. In the back corner sat Felicity. She checked her watch, apprehensively. Cecil checked his own watch and realized it was almost 11:15. He put his car in park, but somehow couldn’t make himself get out.

He hated rejection, as most people do, but he couldn’t deal with any more in his life. He was so afraid of her realizing he was nothing more than a sad little man who worked a poor job and who had no social abilities. He sat in his car, watching Felicity.

She stayed until almost 12:30, when she got up with a flourish of anger and walked briskly from the building. Only then did Cecil drive slowly away.

Of Love He was a young man, distanced from life and never really interested in the close huddles of friends, the timid embraces of lovers. He would walk home in the dark evenings, sliding through the puddles and whispering sheets of leaves watching the vast intricacies of the world. He would sit in his house and eat a meal alone. He would sit on his settee and watch a movie alone. He would lay awake for hours at night before he would turn over and sleep. He was a young man, distanced from life and the close huddles of friends and the timid embraces of lovers, he lived quietly, and he went unnoticed. He grew old and tired, and one day he slipped from the world without a sound; no one really missed him, he left no enduring marks. He had once been a young man, distanced from all, and the life he had lived was more beautiful than any life ever lived in the measureless world.

The Old Man The group of kids was on the corner every night a six o’clock. You could count on it. There were twelve of them, all around seventeen, big and intimidating. The old man tried to ignore them when he happened to walk past; he’d sniff, take a brief interest in his left shoe, maybe, but keep he’d walking. And as much as he ignored them, they couldn’t help but notice him.

He walked in a slow elderly manner, intent on his destination, but in no real hurry to get there. He wore a brown flat-cap which he had owned since before the war, and carried with him a cane at all times, never for use, but he had always seemed to like the look of an old gentleman with a cane.

“Hey old man, waddya got, eh? Somethin’ for me?” They’d grab at his parcels, or knock his cap off. He would never blush; never show weakness. He would simply pick up his dropped item, or curtly pull away and continue down the street. At his apartment he’d hang his coat up and set his things down, then quietly sit in his den and read, throwing furtive looks at the browning, crackled photograph of his wife on the mantle.

He lived a quiet life, not without friends, but more or less alone.

One day, as he walked home from a long sit in the park, he came up to the corner.

The mob was there, loud and raucous as ever, possibly even more so. As he drew closer, he saw them pass around a bottle. When they caught sight of him, the tall one turned around and stared at the old man, the youth’s eyes ablaze with drunkenness.

“Look, look, look,” he cried, swaying so much that the old man wondered if he would fall into the gutter. The old man looked at the ground, denying eye contact.

He walked closer and by now, the whole group was standing and swaying and reeking of alcohol. He’d never knew them to be violent, other than a tap on his head

maybe, but now they were drunk.

When he got to the corner, he thought maybe they wouldn’t do anything, and he made to walk right past them. He cut through the middle of their group and kept on going. He smiled slightly to himself, when suddenly he felt two hands pushing on his back. He fell forward and nearly fell, but he caught himself on the street sign. He held on for a second, trying to regain his balance. From behind him, he heard vicious laughter.

He looked at his right arm, and saw that his sleeve was bunched up to his elbow.

He saw the black number etched into flesh, and hurriedly grabbed the sleeve and forced it down. He turned to see if anyone had noticed the tattoo, and saw that all but one was laughing. He was looking a the old man with a face tinged with sadness, but the old man turned away and moved faster, ashamed at himself and his arm.

When he locked his front door, he shuffled to his chair in the den and sat in it, eyes battling tears. He tried and tried to forget it, but the numbers were still there, black and sinister. He brought a fist to his mouth and bit into his finger.

Over the next few weeks, the kids seemed to leave the man alone, more than usual. They almost kept to themselves. Basically, life had returned to normal, they poked fun, and he ignored.

One day, the old man was in the park, admiring the trees and the sky. He smiled at the young couples and nodded to the old gentlemen. He flexed his fingers; they had tightened while he sat with his hands folded, and he stood up slowly, ready to get back home.

He started to shuffle away when he saw on of the kids coming toward him. It was the one who had noticed the tattoo. He saw the old man and started to walk towards him.

The old man could see how intent this teenager was, and he exasperatedly stood his ground.

“What? What do you want? Please, could you let an old gentleman alone?” The old man finally let it out.

The boy just stood there. Eyed the old man up, calculating.

“Where… where were you?” the teenager asked.

“I’ve been a lot of places. Where? Where?”

The teen opened his mouth, looking for words. “Where were y— what camp?”

The old man looked back into the youth’s eyes. He had unearthed, a thousand buried memories. A thousand pains and a thousand… a thousand what? The old man swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Bergen-Belsen.”

The kid stood there. His face was difficult to read, but the old man could see regret. He didn’t say anything, just shifted on his feet. The teen opened his mouth but no words came.

“I have no time for this,” the old man said. He continued shuffling down the walk.

He left the kid back by the benches, and hurried o his apartment. He walked past the mob, they just glared. He closed his apartment door and went to his sitting room.

On the mantle, his wife’s dusty portrait sat in its gilded frame. He gently lifted it up and brushed the dust away. He looked tenderly at her; she was so young in the picture.

So young. He aged, aged so much. Aged without her. He envied her for this. She would forever be youthful, her beauty forever captured in a brief, smiling moment in Poland. He had never remarried, or even looked at another woman in all these long years.

“Bergen-Belsen,” he said quietly. He began to cry.

The very next day, he walked past the group of kids on the corner. The tall one looked at him, and smirked.

“Juden,” he said. German for “Jew.” The old man stopped in his tracks and turned around. He looked into the tall ones eyes. He looked at him in disbelief. The old man felt a cold, shameful pressure on his heart.

“You don’t know. You don’t know,” he said.

The tall one smiled. He took a step forward but the kid from the park stopped him.

“Come on, Vince, just give him a break,” he said.

Vince pushed his hands away. “Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?

Huh, Jimmy?” The old man didn’t want to see the rest, and he rushed off, fearing for himself and for Jimmy.

He sat on the park bench and looked at the sky. It was funny, no matter where you are, the sky’s always the same. He could have been back in Poland, for all he knew. He took a deep breath.

Why was the world so cruel? He asked himself this question thousands of times, but he still had no answer. Only God knew the answer.

He felt someone sit next him on the bench. Jimmy sitting there. He had a bruise on his face and his lip was bleeding. He didn’t look at the old man or even acknowledge him.

Finally, Jimmy said “How was it… in the… during the war.”

“How do you think it was?”

Jimmy said nothing again. He was embarrassed for asking the question.

“Where, were you from?”

“Krakow. Poland. Long ago. My wife and I lived there together.”

“Where’s you wife?”

The old man’s face strained with lines. “She was…She never left the camp.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. It was so long ago. You didn’t cause it.

Nothing to be sorry about.”

They dropped into silence again, but this time it was a bearable silence, out of respect.

“Why do you loiter with those kids, eh?” the old man said. “They’re nothing but trouble for you.”

“It’s ok, it’s happened before. I just-” “Nothing. You seem to be better than them. Look what they did to you.”

“I gotta go.” Jimmy stood up. He walked away slowly. The old man watched him closely. He felt terrible for him, the way his friends treated him. It was a shame. Why is the world so cruel, the old man thought.

Over the next few days, he didn’t see Jimmy anymore with the kids. The kids were there, but Jimmy wasn’t. They let the old man alone; they didn’t do much more than stare at him. He relished the peace that ensued the confrontation between Jimmy and Vince. He often wondered what happened to Jimmy. His life fell into a peaceful routine; he ventured to the park and around his neighborhood without a worry.

The weeks drew on and on, and he saw less of the group of kids. Maybe they

were growing up, he ventured to think. There were days at a time when they weren’t anywhere to be found.

At the park one day, to his surprise, he saw Jimmy walking up the path towards him.

“Hello, Jimmy.”

“Hi,” Jimmy said. He looked different. He was clean cut and looked like a gentleman.

“I haven’t seen your friends around lately.”

“We’re kind of split up, the group of us.” Jimmy said it in an offhand sort of way, but the Old Man could see his relief.

“Well, maybe you’re growing up.”

“Maybe.”

The old man and Jimmy sat for a second in an uncomfortable silence, then Jimmy stood up.

“I just wanted to say sorry again, for the way we treated you. It went on for entirely too long.”

“I forgive you. Mistakes are made in this world, and a man who’s unable to forgive and forget is… he’s no man at all.”

Jimmy smiled at the old man, then turned and walked away. The old man sat there and looked after Jimmy. Jimmy slowly walked out of the park, leaving the old man alone with his thoughts.

The old man sat on the bench for a long time, thinking about his life. He realized, that in his old age, he had no time left. Everything he wanted to be, wanted to know and feel, he would forever be without. Any accomplishment left undone would remain nonexistent for infinity. For the first time in his life, and this pained him beyond anything else, he wanted to be young again. When he got home (it took him far longer than usual; he became winded after walking a short distance), he went immediately to the picture of his wife, and looked at it tenderly. He envied her youthfulness, envied her unchanging joy. He wanted to be with her once more, to touch the nape of her neck, stroke her hair.

“Every day I miss you,” he said. “Every day… every day until now. I can’t go on with pain any longer. I just… can’t.”

The old man sat into his chair, exhausted of the world. He still held the photograph. He let out a long sigh. He felt a lifetime of pain lifting from his shoulders; a crushing weight vanishing. His fingers brushed his wife’s face in the portrait, and slowly, ever so slowly, his tired eyes closed.

Excerpt from The Cracked Shadow Templeton knew already that everything was going all to hell; each day the bread lines got longer, more and more people he knew lost their employment, their homes, their money, and every single day of this downward plummet, Templeton grew a little more bushed. He had always thought he had some kind of a grasp on reality, but as time bore on, he was quickly coming to understand that that clasp was rusting and rotting around the edges. When he woke in the mornings to the scuffling of worn boots and clattering waste pails in the alley and he looked out onto the street and saw gaggles of transients and tramps combing the gutters for a loose dime, he couldn’t help but feel his fingers slip just a bit more.

At nights, when the world outside his window was fading into the ethereal night, Templeton lay awake, his apprehensions gnawing away at the inside of his head like a mouse at a baseboard. Everything worried him. He lived in constant fear that what he had he would lose. His job, his deteriorating home, his mother, who lived in his den because she was too feeble to live alone. He couldn’t help but think the world was becoming as dark and grim as the twilight outside trickling in through closed shudders.

There was one thing, though, that Templeton relished each day. Paradoxical as it was, Templeton yearned for, at the end of each day, the sleep he wasn’t able to attain. For when he finally slipped loose from the bonds of a depressing and bleak life by day and fell past the limits of reality, he was in a place where he need not worry about the world he would wake up in.

This morning in particular was already quite blistering, and as Templeton roused slowly from a deep sleep he could feel his body was sticky with heat. He moved out of bed slowly, the sheets clinging to his damp skin. His hair fell across his forehead, plastered down and slick with sweat. A bead of perspiration rolled from his hairline and slowly pushed on towards his jaw. He dabbed at his face with a corner of his white linens

and he brushed the hair from his eyes, perching on the edge of his mattress for a minute or two, staring at the floor. He watched a single carpenter ant meander across the naked linoleum; it wound around the legs of his desk chair and slipped through a crack in the wall.

Templeton rose and gingerly tread across the floor and pushed open the washroom door. He fumbled in the darkness for the light switch, groping the wall off to his right. He never was able, he figured, after living in that house for years, to find any of the light switches with any amount of ease. His fingers finally brushed the switch and he bathed the room in the harsh, artificial glow that poured from the bare bulb hanging overhead. The room was small, containing just enough space for a bath, a washbasin and a commode.

He looked into the wall mirror, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He was trying in vain to hold onto the vanishing images of the dream he had had. He had been walking through a field of wheat. Everything was golden and beautiful; the sun hung overhead like a brass ornament, the stalks swaying lightly in the breeze. The trees were green and ripe with fruit. Everywhere there was singing, not some somber field song but a beautiful, cheery, kind of old-timey tune.

There was a house, whitewashed set against a swaying orchard and as Templeton got closer, he saw the singing was coming from a jubilant crowd all sitting around the front porch. As Templeton got closer still, he could see that all the people were gathered around a man, standing up on the porch, and just by the way he stood there, Templeton knew he was a good man. He stopped in front of the porch and he looked up at the man but he couldn’t see him; there was this bright light streaming down from where that man was standing. Templeton’s hand reached out, his fingertip inches away from the ethereal hand descending from the porch…

There was a sharp rap on the bathroom door and the dream vanished. Templeton straightened up with surprise.

Yes? he called.

Templeton, is that you in there? His mother called back at him.

Well, who the hell else would I be?

Now, have I told you about cursin in this household? This may be your home, but first and foremost it is a house of God, and I will not tolerate any more of that tongue of yours.

Mother, what do you want? he asked exasperatedly. There was a pause, as if his mother had forgotten her purpose for knocking.

Why, yes. There’s a man downstairs.

What? What’s he want?

I let him in.

What does he want? Get him out of the house.

Well! His mother was appalled. I can’t just go about refusin a poor man a good meal, can I? He’s a hobo?

Yes. You just… just set him down at the kitchen table and tell him I’ll be about to fix him something to eat, you hear?

Yes.

And he ain’t dangerous?

He hasn’t more than three teeth in his head.

That don’t got nothin to do with danger, Templeton muttered.

I’m going to get him a glass of water, his mother called through the door, and then he heard her shuffle away.

Templeton turned back to the mirror, trying to get back to his dream, but it was too late. It was fragmented and quickly washing away. He peered into his own eyes, as if to find the memory hidden back somewhere behind his striking blue irises, but he found nothing. He extended his hand and touched his reflection in the mirror. The glass was spotted with evaporated beads of water, and the silver was peeling back around the cracked and chipped edges. The gilding on the frame had long since vanished, leaving the mirror framed by wood brittle with dry-rot. And such was most everything in the house, stricken by poverty and worn with age. *** The man quietly at the table, his hand clasped in front of him, his head.

Templeton walked into the room and the man lifted his gaze from the floor and met Templeton’s eyes. The clothing he wore was a patchwork amalgam of various cloths, dirt staining deeply along the folds around his knees and elbows. His hands were covered in gloves cut at the fingers, his nails brown. He smiled, and needless to say he was as toothless as a newborn.

I reckon I’d like to thank ya kindly, sir. Now I ain’t eat in almost three days and I surely do ‘preciate yer generosity. The man bowed his head again like he finished a prayer.

It ain’t too grand a favor I’m doing you. Any man with a heart’d give you food.

Templeton opened the ice box. We don’t got much. I’m sorry, but there ain’t a lot I can fix you.

The man put his hand up. Oh no, sir, any scrap ya got I would be more’n thankful for.

Well, we got bread and I could fix you a bowl of. I got a can a soup somwheres in here.

That sounds mighty fine. Templeton dug around in a cupboard for the can of soup and he took a loaf of bread and sliced a few pieces for the man. Once the soup sat bubbling on the range, Templeton sat opposite the man at the table.

I’m sorry, but I haven’t caught your name, Templeton said.

Name’s Edward, but friends know me as Mott. Ain’t caught yer name neither.

Templeton. Where you from?

Oh, well. Here and there I guess ya’d say. I been on the road for quite a while now. ‘Fore all this business with the economy. I just weren’t born for a static like life, if ya know what I mean.

I understand. Templeton shifted in his seat.

But I was brought into this here world in Memphis. Some fifty odd years back, I hafta reckon. My mother was a school teacher. My daddy was a policeman. As a little child I always looked at my daddy and I says to myself that I want to be just like ‘im. The man trailed off and looked up at the sunlight coming in through the window. He took a deep breath. But nothin makes any sense at all nomore. I seen men beaten to death over table scraps. A penny. A damn blanket. Times like these that makes a man want to just

rid hisself of it all.

Do you want to?

Rid myself of it? Templeton nodded. No sir. As much as it’s a tryin to make me, I ain’t gonna let win me over. Cause everthing’ll get better. Mark my words.

Templeton poured the man some soup into a metal coffee mug and handed it to him. Bless your heart.

It ain’t too grand a favor.

It’s grander than ya’d know.

Excerpt from Depths and Madness A Crime “There was once a time when man could walk unattended through the limitless conjuncture between the surreal and the ethereal, toes gingerly tapping along the unseen fault line that lies between existence and mortality, what began and what begot, a flashing quota beyond the turntables and beyond the mix of things into a quietly dying gloam.

Swift sunsets brought about an uneasiness amongst the filtered thoughts of rarest wrought metals and beasts filing past a queue of barren trees.

“And the things that they thought and sung, down into the deepest caves of the Earth and the quietest corners of existence. And I knew it all. And I saw it all. And it was there and it was beautiful and it was mine. Mine in the Everafter. I owned it. Made it my own. Raised it from the ashes and brought it back again with a thunderous crash and God be my witness I threw it into the dust!”

Sitting there; chest heaving. Hair slick with sweat, a dank smell rising from the mattress. Flies droning near the ceiling. A cat wailed in the twilight outside a leaden window. A cacophonous orchestral piece clanged from the old steam radiators. Awoken from a dream of madness.

Cold light flowing in from the part in the yellowed lace of the curtains. On the bed across the room she slept now and would now continue her sleep eternal. Blood stained his pants and his hands. The whisper of some voice in his ear. Fading away quickly.

A knife rose from her chest, abruptly canceling the fluid course of her silken night dress. For minutes he sat there, unaware of himself, only seeing and feeling and knowing the corpse on the bed. The cogs of his mind slowly clanked out the logic of the situation; like a fogged car window slowly clearing up. He looked at his hands and he knew he had killed her.

A Fire In the street he shuffled quickly past the darkened windows of homes and shrank away from the pillars of light flooding from the streetlamps. He walked without aim or purpose, simply walking away from that room. The moon hung low over the rooftops, a large white disk, almost a sickly color, pockmarked from millennia of existence. His breathing had yet to slow, his heart still raced in his chest.

He had nowhere to go, no recognition of where he was, had no idea who was now laying dead on a mattress in the small brick cottage down the street. He delved into his memory, yet found nothing. He could bring up nothing beyond the past twenty minutes.

And the dream. Just a voice, howling in the darkness. He stopped suddenly, as if he had some divine choreography running through him, and wheeled around towards the house.

He took off at a jog.

He was barely aware of what he was doing. He walked back inside, the bare walls, the overwhelmingly whiteness of the place, white sofa, white counters, white carpets. He went under the kitchen sink and dug through all the drawers and went through the basement till he found a small bottle of lighter fluid.

He felt his pockets and extracted a small green lighter with faded letters on the side. He went back into the attic and doused the corpse and the mattress and the walls with the lighter fluid until the bottle was empty. He crouched down and touched the lighter to her dress and watched as the flame spread across her body and in fiery tendrils up the wall.

His Getaway He jogged down the street, the night glowing orange behind him. He heard shouts, the distant wailing of a siren. He turned down an alley and crouched in the shadows. He breathed deeply and a pain throbbed in his temple. It run up his spine, across his cheek, and buried itself in his brain. Over and over.

He fell to the ground, the pain so severe. He moaned and screeched. From down the street a series of yelps and the howling of a fire engine. He pushed himself shakily to his feet, thick tears running down his face. His shirt clung to his body, damp with sweat.

The blood on his trousers was slowly darkening and turning into a viscous paste. He stumbled towards the other end of the alley, away from the horrible racket somewhere behind him.

A loud muffled explosion rang out in the night, followed quickly by a concussive roar. He heard glass hitting the pavement as the windows of all the houses were quickly blown out. Over the rooftops he could see a plume of smoke, blacker than the night sky, rise until it was lost among the stars.

He moved faster. He came out onto another sleepy suburban street, suddenly woken from the combined din of the blast and the still arriving firemen and police.

People groggily stepped through their doorways, peering in wonder at the smoke and the fire just over the rooftops. A few ran down the street towards the source of the hellish

glow, on their cell phones, trying to making reason out of the chaos that was quickly arising.

As he mounted the sidewalk he passed a man and woman who were slowly making their way down the street. Both were in their nightgowns and slippers. As he passed, the man peered at him, his hands, his face, his pants. He must have been able to see the blood. The slightly singed brow. He held his wife closer. The man watched him the entire way down the street.

Cochran’s In the bitter dawn he stepped from the doorway where he had been standing for hours and washed his hands in a murky puddle on the side of the street. The blood tinted the water a sickly brown, and he splashed it also up onto his trouser legs. The blood had since browned over and he decided to leave it.

He set off down the street, trying with every bit of will to remember where he was and how he had come to wake in the attic. He fished into his back pocket, hoping to find a wallet but he pulled out only a pinch of dust. He took the lighter from his breast pocket and turned it over in his palm, the flaking gilt lettering just barely legible.

Cochran’s, 113th & 5th. He stared at it for a moment, felt some fraction of a memory being turned over in his mind. Almost automatically he began walking, not quite sure where he was heading towards but somehow he knew it was in the right direction.

He stood in front of a dingy bar. Cochran’s. There was an air of familiarity about the place, and he knew he had been here many times. The windows were covered on the inside by black construction paper, the bricks painted a dull steel color. An airconditioning unit hung from a side window, incessantly rattling and dripping drops of something into a small pool on the pavement below. A cat sidled forth from behind some cans and dipped its tongue to the puddle.

He walked inside, the room was dark and he couldn’t see much of anything. A glowing neon sign hung on the back wall advertised some brand of cheap whiskey, and save for that there was little other light. A jukebox spewed out a rockabilly tune and he heard the rattle of pool balls from an unseen back room.

“Mackie! Come here.” Mackie. He felt a sensation in his gut as he recognized his own name.

He peered into the gloom and saw a hand beckoning him forth. He sat down in the booth opposite a small man with ferret eyes and a thing moustache.

“I haven’t seen you for like two weeks, Christ. Two weeks, Mackie. Everyone was wondering where you been.”

“I’ve… been…” He had no notion of what to tell the man. He was obviously a friend. He couldn’t be sure though.

“Why don’t you have a drink on me, how about it?”

“No… I’d really like to get home.”

“Shit, man. It looks like you’ve been through hell.”

“You know where I live?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Can you get me home?”

The man looked at Mackie for a second, then, “Yeah. Sure. Let me grab my car.”

A Friend The car wound its way through the city past tenement after tenement. Mackie looked out the window and continued his silence. The little man driving the car had not yet ceased talking. He talked and Mackie gave no effort to even pretend to listen.

“So, I mean, where you been for the past couple weeks? I called a few times, called your sister. You haven’t been answering your cell. What’s up with you?”

“Just some things.”

“Then you walk into the bar looking like a huge mess. Come on, Mackie.”

“Some things.”

The man was about to say something else when his cell phone chirped.

“Paulie speaking…” Paulie. A friend.

Paulie continued his conversation with the tinny voice in the phone and left Mackie to continue staring out the window. The world was a dull gray, rain clouds hanging low over the tops of the buildings. He rode for blocks through small streets seedy with cage covered windows, dirty short order diners, an abandoned lot here and there.

The whole place had an air of familiarity about it. Like stepping into a place you knew as a child, then many years later returning, only to find an unpleasant jolt in your stomach once you realize you had been there before. He could bring up no real recollections of where or when he had lived in the city, but he somehow knew he had spent his whole life here.

Paulie drove farther into the city; street after street of mostly derelict factories and tenement high rises.

“So really, Mackie, where you been?”

“Around.”

“Around where?”

“Around here.”

Paulie snorted. “Suit yourself.”

Excerpt from The Station Chapter 1 It was hot. 113° hot. In the shade. Inside the damn station. It was hot. On top of that, possibly even worse, it was slow day. Not one single person had stopped to fill up, or even buy some water since he got there.

“Johnny,” Maude cried from her back office, “get me something cool to drink.”

Johnny made a sobbing noise somewhere between misery and exhaustion. He stood up and a bead of sweat rolled down the his long nose, quivered frightfully at the tip, and finally dripped onto the newspaper sitting in front of him. “SCORCHER!” read the headline.

I’da never realized, he thought.

He sidled out of from behind the counter and lazily made his way to the fridge in the back of the shop. He picked up a chocolate bar from the rack, but miserably put it back down when the chocolate oozed around inside.

He pulled the fridge door open, and immediately felt the cool rush of air. He moaned. He rested his head on a two liter and nearly cried.

“Johnny,” Maude screech, “close the fridge for Crissakes or all the soda’ll get warm. Who wants to buy hot soda?”

“Please shut your face, Maude,” Johnny whispered. He pulled a Coke from the shelf and got himself a bottle of water. He slunk back through the store, and went into Maude’s office.

Maude was most readily described by friends and acquaintances as “something else.” She was an aging has-been oil empire heiress, still dressing with an attempted sexy-cowgirl flair which was repulsive to say the least. She went a step beyond, bleaching her hair platinum to enhance her “girlish” features.

When she was young and less reptilian in appearance, Maude married Kyle Carter

Kincaid, (he had changed it from Kyle Karter Kincaid) the millionaire oil tycoon. The deciding factor in the arrangement, for her, was that Kincaid was eighty, and she was judging that he didn’t have much long anyways. Ironically, Kincaid lived to be one hundred and one. Maude had finagled name written into the will, and with some finagling, she had the rest of his family written out. Oddly, they didn’t sit pretty with that and took her to court. As it would go, she got jack shit and ended up managing her recently expired uncle’s gas station in the Utah desert, trading in and oil tycoon for the station’s sole mechanic.

“Who said you could have a water?” Maude’s eyes bored into Johnny like drills.

Johnny looked at the water, trying his best to fabricate something.

“I said. Who said you could have a soda?”

“You want a water, you gotta pay. I’m fifty three, I’m old. Your almost twenty years old, and you can’t put a dollar thirty into the register to get yourself a water?”

“Who says I didn’t?”

“I know you too well, now put that water back or give me a buck fifty.”

“They’re a dollar thirty, Maude.” He could cry.

“For you they’re a buck fifty. They’re a dollar thirty for customers. Now put it back.” Maude glared back up at him.

“Buck fifty or get out!” Johnny tossed her her Coke walked back to the fridge. He opened the door and rattled some bottles around to please Maude, then returned to the register with his water. He flicked on the radio, tuned past a dozen or so Mexican stations and flicked the radio back off. God was it hot.

He looked out of the front window. Miles and miles and miles of desert. Far as the eye could see. Every once in a while, a big-rig would flash by on the highway, and even more sparingly would a car go past. The heat rose off of the asphalt in thick, almost sticky undulations. Johnny wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then wiped the sweat soaked back of his hand on his pants.

He pressed his eyes shut, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of the refrigerator.

“You’d better hand me two dollars if you want that water!”

“Screw your two dollars,” Johnny yelled back. He cracked open the lid and nearly emptied the plastic bottle in one motion. He sighed long and hard. He walked to the front of the shop and looked back out of the front window. The highway was bare, except for one car way out on the horizon, the clichéd dust cloud.

He watched it with fascination egged on by boredom. As it came closer, he saw the tire shred completely off of the rim. The driver nearly lost control, but brought it back and slowed the car down to a crawl.

“Blown out tire,” Johnny called to Maude.

“Well, go get Ed.” Johnny nodded to himself and pushed through the screen door out into the direct sunlight. He could feel the sun’s rays baking his skin alive. As the car

crept closer to the station, he could see the couple inside embedded in an argument.

Johnny walked around back of the station to the service garage; a cinder block cube with a few toolboxes and an air compressor. He walked into the office and banged on the counter. He took quick glance at the pin-ups on the wall and snorted in disgust at the filthy mess the place was. He banged on the counter again.

“Ed, where are you?” Johnny clanged the bell. “Jesus, Ed. Come on, there’s a blown tire.” Ed didn’t respond. Johnny went into the back room. Ed was asleep in his battered recliner; grease stains covering his work pants, which clashed terribly with his Hawaiian t-shirt.

“Ed.” Ed still wouldn’t rouse. Johnny looked around and found a half drank cup of water. He picked the cup up and poured it on Ed’s face.

“Jes- What the…” Ed jumped out of the chair. “What the hell you doin’ son?”

“Blow out. Coming down the highway.”

“You should’ve told me.” Ed pushed past Johnny and hurried to the front of the station. Johnny took his time.

When he got out front, he saw that Maude was already hovering around the couple. The man was about forty, the woman a few years older than Johnny. He wore an expensive looking shirt, opened at the collar. The woman wore short-shorts and a billowy blouse. She had a map in her clenched fist and looked like she was ready to claw the man’s eyes out.

“32. Take 32. Straight to Salt Lake. Perfect. Perfect.” The woman threw the balled up map at the man.

“Excuse me Ma’am,” the man asked to Maude, “um… where are we?”

“You’re in the middle of the desert, son.”

“Ha, that’s a real good one. But I’d like-” Maude looked ready to hit him, “-to know what’s the closest town. If it isn’t an inconvenience to you.”

“You’re about thirty miles south-east of Wendover, right on the state line.”

“How far to Salt Lake?”

“Y’all have a map.” Maude nodded to the wadded paper in the woman’s hand then turned away from the man, who looked absolutely thunderstruck. He turned to the woman.

“Can you believe these people?” He pointed towards Ed, Maude and Johnny.

“Well,” Ed said, “you got yourselves a blow out.”

“Incredible.” The man laughed sarcastically.

“Bruce, please.” The woman looked at the man exasperatedly. She had a Texan accent to compliment her shrill voice.

“Well, can you fix it?” Bruce asked.

“No.” “Why not?”

“Because I don’t have any tires. You wouldn’t have a spare, now would you?”

“No. I don’t have a spare.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and walked away from the car.

“Now I can order you a spare, understand,” Ed said, “but it’ll take a few hours to get ‘em in from my friend in Salt Lake.”

“A few hours?” Bruce stared at Ed incredulously. He looked at the woman. She walked to him and started to rub his shoulders. “Would you mind.” He shook her hands

off and leaned against the gas pump.

“You know, Bruce.” The woman seemed annoyed. “You don’t always have to be rude.”

“What? Polly, did you just tell me not to be rude? I’ll show you rude. How many times did I say we should’ve taken 82, and you said no? How many? We would be there by now. Jesus Christ. You were holding the map upside down. You’re a goddamn moron, Polly.”

“I… Bruce.” Polly fought back tears.

Johnny went back into the store and took his seat behind the counter. Out on the lot, Bruce and Polly were still tearing at each other. Maude and Ed stood by, enthralled in the action.

Johnny turned the radio back on.

“Hey everybody out there. Whoa, you all’d better get inside before your skin melts off! It’s a toasty one out there today, National Weather Service says it is One Hundred and Fourteen! I’m glad I have air-conditioning in the studio. You bet. Okay, I’m gonna throw a little Buster Poindexter at you during our one o’clock “Heat Hour.” So listen up for “HOT! HOT! HOT!,” on The Lewwis Lex Show, where you, the listener, matter. Forty-one Three, WKPB.” “What are you doing out here, kid?” Johnny looked up and saw Bruce leaning against the counter.

“What do you mean?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Working.”

“No, I mean why the hell would you be out here. Living out here. There’s nothing for nobody out here. Nothing.”

“I was born here. It makes sense that I live here.”

“You don’t want to be out here the rest of your life, do you? Come on.”

“I don’t suppose I’ve thought much about it.”

“Pshhh…”

“If you don’t mind me asking, Bruce, is it? Why are you out here?”

Bruce, looked down at his feet and took a deep breath. “I’m trying to get away from my old life.” Johnny looked him in the eye inquisitively. “Polly, the broad. I’m running away with her to Salt Lake. Hoping from there I can get out East.”

“You seem like a perfectly happy couple,” Johnny said. He looked at Bruce to see if he’d caught the sarcasm.

“We got our moments.”

“You two married?”

Bruce cleared his throat and hesitated. “My wife’s still in L.A.” “And I take it she’s gonna stay there?”

Bruce was silent. Johnny turned away from him and looked back out the window.

Polly was sitting on the hood of their car. Maude was animatedly waving her arms at the sun and back towards the Station. Polly threw her hands up in exasperation. She handed Maude a few dollars and Maude smiled and walked away.

Johnny turned back to Bruce but he was already stepping out the door. Maude pushed past him and hustled to the register.

She held up the money and said, “That’s how ya’ sell things.” She reached across

the counter and opened the cash register, throwing in a crisp five-dollar bill. She flew to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water.

“I thought waters were a buck thirty?” Johnny asked incredulously.

“Again, Johnny, that, is how you sell things.” She tipped her hat and pushed through the screen door.

She walked to the pumps and thrust the water at Polly. Johnny tried the radio again, sighed, then walked out of the store and into the heat.

Polly limply held the water in her hand and stared blindly toward the low buttes in the distance. Ed came around from the garage and walked over to Bruce.

“Well, I ordered your tire, it’ll be at least forty-eight hours.”

Bruce’s eyes bulged. “Two days?”

“At least.” Johnny could sense a little smugness in Ed’s voice. Bruce sat down next to Polly on the hood of the car. “They’re extra busy on account of the heat, so you’re lucky that they penciled you in for sometime this week. But since I knows the guy who schedules, I got you all set up.”

“Where are we going to stay for two days? There’s nothing out here.” Bruce swept his hand toward the highway, across the vast emptiness that stretched on to Idaho.

“Where d’you think we all live, in mud huts? There is a town, you know.”

“I… yeah. There a place that lets rooms?”

“Jack Farnsworth maybe can give you someplace to sleep.”

“Can you give us a ride?”

“You’ll have to wait till the day’s over. When we close, we can give you a ride to town.”

Bruce scowled and nodded his head in agreement. “Sure. Thanks.”

A Silent Requiem

Yves drummed his fingers down on the cabinet, each thud echoed lightly around the room. He pushed his feet off the floor and floated towards the radio. He passed the portal; a silent Earth floated below. He reached out and caught the radio receiver.

“Lieutenant Yves Greneaux, International Space Station. Do you copy?”

Silence. Agonizing silence. Yves, though, was accustomed to it. It had been nearly three months since he last heard another human voice, and nearly eight since the last shuttle. He had been given three months worth of supplies, and he had been warned that there may not be another visit, not if the Sickness couldn’t be slowed. He had carefully rationed his food supply, stretching it to its limits.

They aren’t going to answer, Yves. Yves shook the voice away.

“You don’t think I know that?”

You’ve become disillusioned, Yves. I worry. I’m afraid you’ll lose your mind if you aren’t careful.

Yves laughed. “Lose my mind? Do I have a mind left to lose?”

You’re talking to me, Yves.

“Oh, yes. I’m speaking to the voice inside my head. I’m the very essence of sanity.”

You’re a pessimist, Yves.

“You’re a sadist.”

In that case, you are too.

“You’ve got me on that one, then.” Silence. Wonderful silence. He savored the silences following a conversation with himself, if they could be considered conversations anymore. It didn’t seem he could carry on a conversation any longer. It always broke down into an argument, and neither would talk to the other for hours; they would go to opposite corners of their skull, sit down, cross their arms, and sulk.

Yves floated through the base unit, past the docking ports, and into the cargo hold. He peered into his last crate of food and quickly thought it over in his head.

“I’ve got… three weeks.” It had been biting at him for some time, and he had always just pushed it into the back of his mind but he couldn’t ignore the fact that he had almost no food left. Starving to death wasn’t what he wanted, but it seemed he had no choice. Four, maybe five weeks from now, Yves would be dead. He began to sweat.

Wish you’d’ve taken the gun, then? Yves refused to respond. On the last shuttle mission to the station, the shuttle commander offered Yves a small pocket revolver with a one-word explanation, though an explanation was not needed. Yves declined; he was still an optimist then. The commander left the revolver loaded with one bullet in the docking unit, and after the shuttle pulled away, Yves jettisoned the pistol out of the space station.

You wish you still had it.

“Don’t mock me.”

I’m not mocking you. Just saying what I know has to be on your mind. Yves rubbed his chin. You need a shave.

“I don’t wish I had it, you know.”

What?

“The pistol. I’m glad I don’t have it. If I did, I think I’d have ended up shooting you.”

What would that accomplished, Yves?

“I would have shut you up.”

You’d’ve shut yourself up, too. The logic was inescapable.

Yves pushed out of the cargo bay and floated back into the base unit.

You know, it’s a nasty way to die, starving to death. Painful.

“Stop following me. God, leave me alone.” Yves pulled on a computer console,

and he zipped forward. He stopped himself at the portal, and looked down again at Earth.

“It’s beautiful, you know. It’s really a shame what happened. I wish I could have found out if the animal life survived, though. A beautiful concept. Earth going back to the wild.”

Yes. It is.

“It’s funny. When you look down there, and you see all this green and blue, you can’t help drawing these little imaginary lines all over the place, separating Canada from America, dividing Europe. But then, I guess none of that really exists anymore. Not to the deer or birds or anything.”

No, I guess it doesn’t.

“But it never did, though. To the animals. They didn’t care, they just live without thinking about those kinds of things.”

That is, if there are still animals down there.

“Yes, if they survived.” Yves couldn’t imagine a truly barren earth. “But I wish with all my heart that there still are.”

Silence…

“Look, there’s a hurricane over Florida.” The spiraling clouds hung over the peninsula, hundreds of miles below, tearing the roofs off of buildings and smashing in windows; slowly and meticulously grinding the last signs of humanity back into the elements. “It looks like the eye might be over Miami.”

Yes, it might be.

“What I wouldn’t give to be back on Earth. I wouldn’t even care where.”

Back in France?

Yves thought about that, such a simple question. He didn’t have an answer.

After a moment, he said, “You know, I don’t think I would. After living in America for so long… I’d feel strange and out of place in France. It would be uncomfortable.”

You wouldn’t feel that way with just being on Earth? After being cooped up in this can for so long, you don’t think you’d feel unprotected with all that open space down there?

“No.” Yves shook his head. “I don’t think I would.”

I don’t want to look any more, Yves. It’s depressing. Yves pulled himself away from the glass, and pushed off toward the living quarters. He dimmed the lights.

“I just feel so strange… about death, I mean. I feel like I’d be tainting the memory of humanity by putting a bullet through my head. Mankind shouldn’t be extinguished by a bullet.”

It’s come close enough.

“It has, but it’s always slogged through. I’ve been trying to persevere as long as possible, to show that mankind wasn’t paper in the wind, you know. It’s my… noble cause.” He clung to the though of his noble cause, and he slowly drifted into sleep.

He dreamt of New York, too long ago. He was with his wife, sharing a candle-lit dinner in their brownstone. The sound slowly muffled and feathered out until it was silent; his wife’s mouth would move but no words would come out. A gradual humming began. The humming built into a pulsing roar, pressing down on Yves from all sides, until he was forced to open his eyes.

He couldn’t speak; he let out a low, wailing moan. Every muscle in his body

screamed in pain. His eardrums were close to rupturing. He frantically tore the straps away and kicked off towards the instrument panel. The cabin’s depressurizing. Yves attempted to speak, but he could only grunt. He mashed buttons and pulled levers. The station was closing in on him, and he couldn’t breath and he could barely move.

With one last desperate jerk of his arm, he clutched onto an emergency oxygen tank velcroed to the wall. He threw the mouthpiece to his face, and was able to struggle a few breaths. His muscles began to ache. He knew what was happening; his blood was bubbling in his veins, he was getting the bends. With as much precision he could muster, Yves launched himself towards the airlocks.

He checked them one by one, getting dizzier by the moment. Yves could barely believe it, but he found one cracked open, just slightly. He could hear the air rushing out.

He tried to push it shut, but it wouldn’t budge. He began to panic. He retreated back into the control module, his only option would be sealing himself off inside. He shut the hatch, and began pressurizing the chamber. Slowly, the weight lifted off his chest and he could breath.

We’re out of food now, Yves. What are we going to do?

“Would three more weeks have made such a difference?”

Three more weeks is an eternity when you are alone.

“I don’t understand what happened. How the air lock cracked open like that.”

Without maintenance for nine months, I’m not surprised.

“You’re being disagreeable again.”

Why shouldn’t I? You’ve killed us.

“We were dead before this even happened.”

We may have been dead, Yves, but we weren’t dead yet.

“Are you afraid to die? You can admit it, you know.”

What do I have to fear in death? The true final frontier. The wildest blue yonder.

“You aren’t the adventuring type.”

Then you aren’t, either.

In a matter of minutes, Yves’ world had shriveled to a single room. It was clear to Yves, now more than ever, that his death was inescapable. He had tried to avoid it; he had juked and camouflaged himself from death, but it found him in the end.

Starvation, Yves. Our sentence. If you would have had the pistol. If you hadn’t been so pompous and arrogant to reject it, we could have gone quietly into that black night. But you must be the martyr for mankind. Yves Greneaux, the second Christ.

“You’re inconsistent, you are. ‘You’ve killed us.’ ‘If only you’d’ve had the gun.’

Make up your mind, for God’s sake, make it up. Do you want death or do you want to live?”

No one wants death, Yves, not naturally. But given the circumstances, I’d prefer to have died swiftly rather than digest myself from the inside out.

Yves screamed. He flung himself through the air; he crashed against a computer screen, shattering it. He thrashed his arms, and he came to rest against the computer’s memory bank, sobbing. Droplets of blood floated in perfect spheres around the smashed computer, interspersed with shining crystals of glass.

“Keep out of my head. Keep out of my head. Please keep out of my head.”

Silence…

Yves lay there sobbing for hours. A tiny voice would periodically rise in the back

of his head, but it would shrink away, afraid or embarrassed to reveal itself fully.

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

Yves could feel the hunger beginning. It was a discomfort, not unbearable but still wholly unpleasant. And the silence. The silence bore into his skin, his heart, his soul. The insides of his head echoed deeply, the room twisted and shrank, boxing him in, slowly and surely. His heart raced. He knew, now truly knew, he was alone.

Half conscious, he saw his wife, New York, his mother and father and his childhood home in Reims; he saw his first kiss, the first woman he ever loved, friends and family. His trials and tribulations. The memories were faded and sepia, like an old photograph. They were hazy around the edges, slowly drifting away from him. He sobbed harder.

“Where are you. Please, don’t leave me here like this. I can’t die alone. Where are you at?” Yves waited. “Please, come back.”

Finally, What was that you were dreaming of.

“What?” Relief spread over Yves like never before.

The dream you were having. When the pressure woke you up. It was a bad dream, no? You were fussing in you sleep.

“It… it wasn’t a dream, really. It was a memory. Of my wife the day before I left for this mission. That was the very last time… the last time I saw her.”

You, my dear friend, are hopeless. Yves smiled weakly.

“Hopeless indeed.”

Yves knew that he had days before starvation would kill him off, a long, agonizing wound that wouldn’t heal.

“You know, it really was a pointless effort, saving myself from the airlock. Had I have died, would fate’s plan for me be altered that drastically?”

Please, Yves, stop talking this way.

Yves pulled himself to the porthole; a pristine Earth lay below, oblivious to mankind poised on the brink just above.

“It makes no difference to them,” Yves said in a hushed voice, almost a whisper.

“No difference.”

What?

“To whatever’s still alive down there. Plants and animals or bacteria, whatever it is, it could care less about us. I wonder where my wife died. Where she is down there.”

Is that something you’d really like to know?

“No. Let the dead rest, I suppose.” Yves said nothing more, and there was a long silence. It was neither pleasing nor excruciating, just… a silence. His forehead pressed longingly against the glass, unable to take his eyes off Earth.

“So close, it is so close. I could reach out and touch it.” He brushed the glass with his fingers. “That’s it. That’s all of it. Everything that ever was, every accomplishment since the first human took their first step. It all happened right there… right there… on that little… rock.” He was overcome by the pure thought of it, and he slowly began to weep. *** The reality of everything became painfully clear to Yves. Just like all traces of

humanity would eventually be erased, the space station would eventually be pulled down by gravity; the sun would eventually burn out; Earth turn into a desert; the universe would collapse; infinity would turn into nothingness and it would all just be a memory.

That’s all it ever was. All it was ever destined to be; an old sepia memory, crumbling and yellowing and fading into darkness and Yves felt this and he knew how pointless life really was. He knew that existence was egotistical, and had come into being only for itself. He knew that the tremendous ego that had thrived for that blink of an eye on Earth was never meant to be anything more than a blip in the annals of the cosmos.

He knew he wanted no more of it. “This isn’t how we have to go.”

What do you mean?

“This isn’t how I want to go.”

What do you mean?

“I won’t be a victim of my own frailty.”

What, Yves, are you talking about?

“I am saying, dear friend, that I intend to die, now.”

Why? Why do you want to die now?

“Because I can’t bear to think that all has been for naught. I’ll open the airlocks, and that will be the end of this thing.”

Thing? Mankind?

“Mankind, the human race. Surviving till the last minute isn’t dignity. It’s pathetic. Clinging like a rat to a sinking ship. I’ve gone numb. I’m tired and I need the rest.”

Yves, you don’t need to do this yet. It isn’t the right time.

“I could not think of a better time. What reason is there left, could you tell me? Is there any at all? Everything will be over within weeks anyhow, so what matter is it if I go now?”

Yves pushed himself away from the portal and floated with purpose to the control panels. The button was near the ceiling, bright red, covered with a plastic cap.

Yves, be rational… please. Listen to me. Live, live for the week or so you have left. There isn’t anything else for you to do. Just accept it. What if they’re still down there, waiting to get you? What if they’re coming, right now?

Yves didn’t force the voice away, he let it plead, but it was Yves who had the power in his hands. It was his mission, to kill off humanity with whatever shred of distinction he could carry along with it. He flipped the cap open, and poised his finger above the red circle. “Warning,” it cautioned.

Don’t press it, Yves. Please don’t press it. For the love of God, don’t press the button.

“Did you ever wonder what the first man in space thought? Did you wonder what he felt? The heavens opened before him; he was the true master of his universe. And what did he find? He was alone, he always had been and forever would be; there is no God.” Yves pressed the button with the knowledge that mankind had just filled its lungs for the final time. The whole chamber hissed, oxygen escaped, leaving only silent, empty space inside. ***

In three minutes, the human race was no more. Yves twitched in rigor mortis, a smile spread across his face. The cassette player played on; soundlessly in the void of space, the orchestra crashed into the climax of the piece. His wife’s photograph hung loosely in his hand; in the last moments, his arms thrashed out, the cold fumblings of his fingers flitting for the portrait.

The space station slowly wound its way around a wild and newly virgin Earth.

Mankind would never know if it had achieved the shred of dignity that Yves hoped for, nor would it ever actually matter.

On Earth though, the second that Yves opened the airlocks, the second he felt that mankind maybe had some purpose after all, everything seemed to go still, if only for a barely noticeable second. The treetops paused in the wind, the birds became silent, the waves held back for a brief moment. And then, as discretely as it had given its instant of reverence, the natural world continued…

Homecoming A wind blew cold over the empty, frozen earth that stretched on for miles. The fields had been plowed and forgotten, the furrowed soil a testament to the fact that someone had once lived here. Crystalline clots of dirt crunched under a boot-clad foot. It was getting darker; the winter sun simmered halfway between the horizon and twilight, and the cold air stung his lungs with every breath.

In the distance, hundreds of yards off, a dark square stood firmly in the middle of the barren tract of land. His heart beat faster when he saw it. His memory jogged, a peculiar and familiar feeling rose in his chest. He closed one eye and raised up his thumb, his nail neatly obstructing the distant object from his view. It was unimpressive, the house of his youth. It was all so unimpressive. And to be returning to it, empty, cold, and quiet. After many years separated, he would be back in his old home.

His hair showed the first hints of graying, his clothes were shabby, his beard long and unkempt. His coat was as thin as gauze. His hands were rough with hardships and his skin creased with sadness. He was cold, but he was always cold and he shook the feeling away and wrapped his arms tighter around himself.

As he got closer still, he could see that it was no longer a house, nor a home, but a skeletal thing, rotted from years of neglect, roofless, empty. He stopped in front of the porch. Two low, grassy mounds to his right each bore a cross. The graves pulled at him.

He crouched in front of them, uneasily laid a hand on each, and said nothing. For in fact he had nothing to say after so long, or he had no idea how he could say it. He bit down on his lip, and the harder he tried to keep from crying the harder he bit.

He walked into the house, or what was left of it. Four bare, peeling walls. For a roof there was the open sky. He sat down in the splintered wood. He could feel his childhood, close by but far off. He could see his father’s face, blurred with the passing of time, but still there. And his mothers voice singing to him. He ran through corn and wheat and tall grass. The sun shone.

He sifted the bits of wood through his fingers, memories fell to the floor. He pushed himself off the ground with his hand, and a sliver of broken window pane dug into his palm; a painful reminder of the past. Blood trickled out and down to his wrist. He

pulled the shard out of his hand.

The moon was now framed in the sky through the empty window. He went onto the porch, his mother’s rocking chair still sitting where it had sat for as far back as he remembered. It was left nearly pristine, untouched by the unforgiving hands of time. He carried it from the porch and set it clumsily down on the hard ground in front of the graves. He sat down in her chair, and he was overwhelmed of the feeling of being loved, having a family, a life. He was new again. He was home.

In the rocking chair, he began to sing, a quiet, slow song he had heard years before. A wind blew cold over the brown, frozen earth that stretched on for miles, picking up his music and carrying it high, higher into the night sky.

NONFICTION

Religion Throughout history, man has been persecuted for religious and cultural differences. The Crusades, the Holocaust, the colonization of the Americas. I often wonder if so many Native Americans would have been slaughtered had they believed in Jesus and his teachings. We as Americans are here today because our ancestors sought religious freedoms. I hear ignorant people say “Dirty Muslim” as much as I hear them say Arabs. In Rwanda and Darfur, Iraq’s Sunnis and Shiites, race is not the chasm that is in serious need of a bridge, it’s religion and culture.

For me, living in “The City of Bridges,” bridging that religious and cultural gap has been a construction work in progress for nearly 16 years. Growing up with a flurry of different religions and cultures, I never knew which way to turn.

I was basically “unaffiliated” with organized religion until I was around eight, when my mother and stepfather began their first forays into Judaism. Before then, I would causally receive candy on Easter, and on Christmas, heck… who cares? I’m getting gifts. Yet, with the prospect of Hanukah and matzo ball soup, I was soon won over.

But alas, what may that be on yonder horizon? It’s Christianity! By Jove, what is this new and wondrous concept? Oho! Meaning behind the candy and gifts? Jesus? While I learned to read the Torah and heard the stories of my rabbi, my stepmother began to regularly go to church It was confusing to me at first, which one was better. They didn’t mean that much to me at first, they were just things to do on weekends, a fun little activity. But then as I went to church and synagogue more, I realized I had barely scratched the surface of the true meaning of religion. It is a lifestyle, a whole belief system on how to act and how to be happy.

But the clincher, by far, was the prospect of the afterlife. I became more aware of that little thing we hide away in the corner called “death.” The thought of nothingness after death was just too much to bear, so I adopted heaven out of necessity. And I was content with that, for a while. But then I began to see the differences between a Christian

afterlife, and a Jewish one. The pros and cons were far too heavy to weigh in my weak arms. Jews don’t have a hell, hmmmm… but Christian heaven sounds a tad nicer.

I began to sweat. Which one is the right one? And then a more terrifying prospect slowly dawned on me: There are more than two religions. Buddhism, Islam, Hinduism and Sikhs. And there are sub-religions too. Baptists and Episcopalians and Methodists and Catholics on and on and on. There are Conservative Jews, Reform, and Orthodox.

Then there spiritualists. And of course tucked away in the back is atheism. No God? It was a scramble. If there are so many religions to choose from, which one is right? Which “God” knows best? Is Jesus my savior, or has my Messiah not yet come?

What about Buddha? Who and what is this Pope that everyone talks about? It was all so confusing.

A panic set in. Which one? Oh my God! No, wait, which one is my God? I wanted to pray, here and there. For a friend or family member or even more superficial prayers for and “A” on my report card or the new thing that everyone has except me. But whenever I needed to pray, I was stuck on whom to pray to. A twelve year old, imagine, kneeling by his bed debating on whether or not Jesus would retrieve this prayer.

I found myself sending out a handful of the same prayer a night, one to each religious figure. Or attaching an all-inclusive heading at the begging.

“Dear God/Hashem/Jesus/Allah/Buddha/Mother Earth/Vāhigurū/Brahman… and maybe the Pope, Blah blah blah…”

It was pure insanity. I was becoming backed into a corner by organized religion. I found myself testing lightly the effects of different ones. I’d put on a Hindu mindset for a day, give it a test-drive, see how the engine purred. If I didn’t like it, I’d return it to the dealer and pull out a new one.

Slowly, I began to wonder if maybe religion was right at all. Maybe none of them are right. Maybe there is no heaven, no afterlife, and there is no point to existence. If there are so many conflicting theories on god, maybe he’s just made up. That was my Atheist stage.

I found that there were many aspects of each religion that I found engaging and intriguing, but that religion as a whole just wasn’t right for me. Even Judaism and Christianity became less and less appealing. Who says that God is this, and isn’t this, or God’s that, but certainly not that. The Bible was written by man, right?

Religion seemed nearly superficial. Every day, thousands of people are discriminated against because of religion. I faced discrimination for being Jewish and Christian alike. I listen to people in the streets, hear their bigoted remarks, and I realize many things have less to do with the color of your skin than they do with where your faith lies.

Race is a struggle that we as a people are overcoming slowly by slowly, bit by bit every day. This struggle to overcome racial differences has been a work in progress for years and years, but barely begun is the struggle to overcome the breach between religions and cultures.

Through my wanderings and experiments with religion, I have found myself floating away from the concepts of organized religion. I have become estranged with

Judaism. I eat pepperoni pizzas and I haven’t been to synagogue in years. My mother and sister keep a shaky friendship with Judaism, too.

Christianity is still there in the background, an old friend whose name I have forgotten. We shake hands on Christmas and Easter, but in the long spans in between, we really don’t keep in touch.

I believe in a God, or maybe I want to believe in a God. An all-encompassing God who is everything that organized religion thinks he is; who doesn’t scorn us for believing in different things or believing different things about him.

I think there’s an afterlife; maybe it isn’t a glorious white shining city in the sky.

Maybe there is a hell. I want to believe that if there is, it’s a place to work off your penance, not suffer for eternity.

I’ve come to understand that you don’t need religion in your life to have peace and contentment. You need to look at the more material things you have in life, family, friends, a home, to really live your life with peace and contentment.

Finding religion is a life-long journey. No religion perfectly fits the beliefs of any single person, and no person fits perfectly into that religion’s creeds. We all need to stand back and take a good long look at what we stand for, and maybe, by the grace of God, someday we will all be able to find a way to live in spiritual happiness.

Screenplays and Plays

Hüertgen

FADE IN: EXT. FOREST—DAY The forest is dense. The trees’ branches block out much of the sun. The environment is extremely wet; the ground is mostly churned up mud and water drips from the pines. ANGLE ON a group of crude crosses marking a burial site. Soldiers march up a trail, and finally the shot favors ANDREW HOLLISTER. He is caked with mud and tired looking. He stumbles on the uneven ground.

DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DIVISIONAL BASE—DAY

Andrew Hollister’s column marches into the base. The soldiers march past a field hospital, and they stare in horror at the dead and wounded men laying everywhere. Another group comes staggering towards Hollister and the others. They look dazed, with vacant expressions.

Someone says “Shell-shocked.” Hollister’s column is halted, and COLONEL GRAHAM addresses them.

COLONEL GRAHAM Men, welcome to the Hüertgen Forest. I am Colonel Graham, the 112th regiment’s CO. You are the replacements for the 112th and 110th. Numbers 1 through 113, you are going with me, and 114 through 212, you are reinforcing the 110th. You have one hour to rest and gather supplies and ammo before you will report to your new commanding officers.

The soldiers slowly disperse, and Hollister walks away. Hollister looks down at a number crudely drawn on his hand: 104.

CUT TO: EXT. SUPPLY TENT—DAY Hollister waits in line, and when he gets to the front, he is issued an old, battered M-1 rifle. He is also given a small amount of ammunition. He looks at the bullets then says: HOLLISTER This is all we get?

SUPPLY OFFICER Take it up with Ike. Supplies are so low, you’ll be lucky to eat three times a week. If you last it a week.

HOLLISTER But I mean, there are twenty rounds here.

SUPPLY OFFICER Look, kid. I don’t know where the hell you came from, but this ain’t there. You’d best wise-up, and soon.

Hollister stares at the supply officer, then turns away, and walks toward a group of men in Hollister’s unit.

MURPHY Someone gimme a cigarette. Christ, I’m dyin’ here.

COOPER fumbles through his satchel, and produces a pack of cigarettes. He hands one to Murphy.

MURPHY That’s a good man, Nick.

NICHOLS Well, Hollister, are you ready for some real combat?

HOLLISTER (laughing nervously) I’m scared out of my mind.

NICHOLS Don’t worry about it. I landed on D-Day. Got shot through my stomach. Didn’t hurt that bad, and it kept me out of combat till now. Maybe you’ll be that lucky.

HOLLISTER You’re real comforting, Nichols.

Hollister walks away from the men and lights a cigarette.

CUT TO: EXT. FIELD HOSPITAL—DAY He walks to the field hospital. A doctor comes out of the entrance, soaked in blood. An aide comes out.

DOCTOR (pointing to man on the ground) He’s priority. Head and stomach wound. On the stretcher.

The wounded man is put onto a stretcher, and is carried inside. Out of curiosity, Hollister sheepishly goes toward the entrance of the hospital, but a man pushing a cart comes out.

MAN Excuse me.

Andrew looks at the cart, and sees that it is piled with amputated limbs.

He covers his mouth and turns around before he is sick. He hurriedly walks away.

FADE TO: EXT. FOREST—DAY A long line of GIs are marching through the forest. Hollister is near the middle. He is very scared, and looks like he might be sick.

MURPHY Hey, Holly. Calm down, alright? It ain’t that bad. I know what you’re thinking about.

You think you’ll get out there and freeze up; you ain’t the stuff that generals are made of, huh?

Hollister nods.

MURPHY I know what you’re feeling. Oran, Operation Torch. That’s all I could think about. Being a coward. You don’t even think about that in combat. It’s survival. That’s all.

HOLLISTER Thanks.

MURPHY That one’s on the house.

CUT TO: EXT. REGIMENTAL BASE—DUSK Hollister’s column enters regimental base. Colonel Graham is holding a clipboard calling names and assigning them to companies and platoons.

GRAHAM Lieutenant Marsch, Jonathon. Baker Company. Report to Captain Jackson.

The colonel points to a group of soldiers huddled near the edge of the forest. As the men are called, they fall out of line and report to their new units.

GRAHAM Private Hollister, Andrew. Able Company. Platoon 3.

The colonel points to his right at a group of soldiers standing near the Command tent. Hollister walks over to his new CO, Captain Waits.

CAPT. WAITS I’m Captain Waits. Welcome to Able. You’re the last one, then. Come one.

The captain walks toward the forest, and the men follow him.

CAPT. WAITS You’re all lucky. Able’s off the line till tomorrow, so you’ll have one last real night of sleep.

DISSOLVE TO: EXT. FOREST—NIGHT Hollister arrives at his platoon. GUNFIRE and EXPLOSIONS are close by. The platoon is severely depleted; there are only ten men: SGT MACKAY, CPL HAIRSTEN, PVT REMINGTON, PFC NIXON, PFC DWIGHT, PFC SANDERSON, PVT GRAY, PVT NILLSON, PVT TOMLIN and PVT O’TOOLE. They are huddled around a small fire, and they turn to look at Hollister indifferently.

HOLLISTER Private Andrew Hollister, I’m your… your replacement.

SGT MACKAY We only get one today?

The other men laugh.

HOLLISTER I don’t understand.

MACKAY The Hüertgen grinds through replacements like Patton uses gasoline. We usually need about thirteen a day to keep reinforced.

Hollister looks embarrassed. He stands looking at the hardened battle veterans.

MACKAY Come on, sit down.

Hollister sets his pack onto the ground and leans his rifle against a tree.

He sits down with the other soldiers quietly. They look at him, trying to sum him up.

PVT REMINGTON Were you ever in combat?

HOLLISTER No, ILaughter.

PVT TOMLIN You ain’t going to last two days out here kid.

CPL HAIRSTEN Are you straight over from the States, kid?

HOLLISTER No, I’ve been here since July.

PVT O’TOOLE You’ve been in Europe for four months, and you still ain’t seen no combat?

HOLLISTER I was in a liaison unit. We ran messages back and forth between divisional headquarters, companies, SHAEF. Whatever.

PVT NILLSON And you never saw any action?

HOLLISTER You think a colonel’s going to risk his life by having his HQ at the front?

PVT REMINGTON Christ no.

Laughter.

HOLLISTER I don’t…

MACKAY We haven’t gotten a field visit from an officer for weeks.

PFC NIXON No, there was a British officer.

HOLLISTER You haven’t had a visit from one of your own officers, but from a Brit?

NIXON Yeah. He showed up one day out of nowhere, took one look at the conditions and nearly cried. He swore that he’d fix up our living conditions. And make our officers come and visit once in a while.

HOLLISTER What came of that?

NIXON Absolutely nothing.

HOLLISTER Your officers still don’t make field inspections?

NIXON What’d I just tell ya?

REMINGTON I’ll tell you what, though, the old crew, when we had Randleman, none of this would be happening right now.

HOLLISTER Who’s Randleman?

REMINGTON Our old sergeant. Before Mackay.

HOLLISTER Good guy?

REMINGTON Good guy? He was the greatest soldier I’ve ever seen. He’d do anything, anything if we needed it.

GRAY In Normandy, he walked from Saint-Mer-Eglise… he didn’t even walk, he ran from Saint-Mer all the way to Foucarville just to tell Graham that our food rations were terrible. Our mess-officer was so lazy, he was throwing together cold water and some vegetables then callin’ it soup.

REMINGTON It was never that bad.

GRAY Irregardless, Randleman went all that way just to tell Graham to can the cook, and the beautiful thing is, Graham loved Randleman so much that our cook was gone by that evening.

REMINGTON Think what could’ve been different if he was still around.

GRAY That man was a saint. I’ve never met another soldier like him. ‘Cept you Mackay.

The soldiers all chortle.

HOLLISTER What happened to him?

REMINGTON Was hit in his shoulder outside Chambois. Trying to carry a wounded man out of German fire. Last time we saw him he was being taken to a hospital near St Lô. He got comfy there, bonded with the injured men. Decided he should stay.

The rest of the men just sit in their own disbelief. They fall into an awkward silence. Mackay shifts and turns to Hollister.

MACKAY Where were you?

HOLLISTER Pardon?

MACKAY Where were you in the ETO? HOLLISTER Oh… I worked as a liaison member, up until the breakout. Things were going so smooth that they didn’t need me really, so I was stationed in Paris.

DWIGHT They stationed you in Paris? God this kid’s lucky.

HAIRSTEN Ain’t lucky no more. They dropped him here.

MACKAY Cut him some slack, come on.

HOLLISTER Can it really be as bad as I hear?

REMINGTON It’s worse.

DWIGHT I swear to God, I thought D-Day was the worst day of my life. My first five minutes in this mess proved that wrong.

HAIRSTEN Then ten of us are all that’s left. We’ve had more replacements than you could count.

NIXON We’ve had three different lieutenants for our Company alone, so far.

DWIGHT None of the replacements last more than a day.

PVT GRAY Our last lieutenant, he came out to the front, right…

DWIGHT So we’re under fire from this MG, and this poor bastard comes moseying up the road…

GRAY All of a sudden, these mortars start coming down all over the place, right…

DWIGHT Classic saturation GRAY And he dives in his hole, right…

DWIGHT So he’s scared out of his mind…

GRAY And right when he jumps up to about-face it to the company HQ, this 88 shell, a dud, mind you, buries into his back.

REMINGTON God, the way he looked afterwards, you’d’ve thought the shell went off, cause he was tore apart.

Hollister is visibly shaken by the gruesome account. He is speechless.

MACKAY That’s nothing. That doesn’t even begin to cover what it’s like to be here.

Mackay stands and reaches for his musette bag hanging from a tree limb.

He pulls out a cigarette and takes a long, shaky drag.

REMINGTON This war is going all to hell. We had a clear, defined goal in the beginning: Drive to Berlin. Everything’s in a gray area now.

DWIGHT

We’ve been here for two weeks, and gained no ground. For what?

HOLLISTER The Captain, he said our objective was Schmidt.

DWIGHT It was our objective in the first days of the battle, too. But we took it, and then no one knows what to do.

MACKAY The forest has no strategic value whatsoever. None.

HOLLISTER Then what are we doing here?

MACKAY You tell me. High command’s become so blinded by glory. You have Patton and Monty butting heads, the Canucks want to take this hill, the Poles this valley… it’s not war, it’s a madhouse. Some Generals way up in the chain vying to take this forest when they will have gained nothing.

DWIGHT Now it’s down to who can get out of the battle with the least caskets to juggle with.

MACKAY There’s going to be a lot more before the Germans are done, believe you me.

HOLLISTER Look, I’ve been marching all day. I’m real tired. Is there anywhere to sleep?

MACKAY Oh, don’t go to sleep yet.

HOLLISTER Okay.

MACKAY Where you from, anyway?

HOLLISTER Upstate New York. My family owns a farm.

MACKAY Farm boy, okay.

REMINGTON

Have any siblings?

HOLLISTER Two brothers. There’s John, and my twin brother Robert.

REMINGTON They’re in the service?

HOLLISTER Yeah. John’s in the Pacific, and Robert’s a paratrooper. Me and Rob joined the same day, and we wanted to both join the paratroopers, but I broke my knees when I was younger, so I couldn’t get my wings.

MACKAY Well, you did the next best thing: joined the Fighting 28th!

Laughter. Hollister laughs and looks around.

HOLLISTER Really, though. I’m tired. Where can I sleep.

MACKAY Over that embankment. It’ll protect you from shrapnel.

Hollister stands. He puts on his pack and gathers his things. He walks toward the short embankment.

TOMLIN Get some rest, tiger. Tomorrows gonna be your last day.

Hollister acts like he doesn’t hear Tomlin, and continues walking. Tomlin laughs maliciously.

FADE TO: EXT. FRONT LINES—MORNING Hollister is curled up in a shallow foxhole. There is intense gunfire.

Hollister begins to whimper. Mackay runs up.

MACKAY Hollister, get up for Chrissakes. You’re gonna get hit! (Pause, while Hollister still cowers in the ditch.) Come on.

Mackay pulls Hollister up and he runs with him.

MACKAY

It’s like a whole German Division is coming down on the Battalion.

Mackay and Hollister dive into a trench. The other men from the platoon are in it.

REMINGTON How is Hollister? How’s Hollister?

GRAY Fine.

MACKAY We need some artillery. Jesus.

REMINGTON We have artillery, sir, it’s fallin’ straight down on us.

MACKAY Radio in to the artillery, tell them to move the barrage forward forty meters.

REMIGNTON Sir, we don’t have a radio. Zapata’s gone again. He took off into the woods.

MACKAY I swear to God this is the fourth time. (Pause) Alright, then. I need a runner.

The men look at each other grimly; none of them want to be the runner.

Tomlin wipes his face with his hand, slowly.

TOMLIN I’ll do it.

MACKAY Good man. Get that artillery off my ass.

TOMLIN (Handing Mackay a letter from inside his jacket) Get it to my father.

Mackay stares dumbfounded at Tomlin, unable to believe what he has just said and handed him. Tomlin jumps up and takes off away from the front.

All eyes are on him. Suddenly, a burst from a machinegun tears through his back and he stumbles to the ground. He tries to get up again, but he is shot once more, and he falls forward. Mackay has a look on his face like he has just sent Tomlin off to his death.

NIXON That sonofabitch is still alive.

Nixon jumps up and runs through gunfire to Tomlin’s side. Hollister stands up but hesitates. A bullet ricochets off his helmet with a PING, ushering him forward. He runs to Tomlin and Nixon.

TOMLIN They shot me through my- my- my lung, I can f-f-feel it.

NIXON Shhh… Tomlin, quiet, we’re gonna take you to an aid station, you’ll be okay. Come on, Hollister, help me here.

Nixon grabs Tomlin by his arms and Hollister grabs his legs. They pick him up and carry him through the trees. Tomlin starts to cry, and Nixon tries to calm him.

NIXON Hold on, Tom. It’s just over the ridge. Hold on!

A shell hits near them, throwing Nixon into a tree and knocking Hollister onto Tomlin. Hollister stumbles to the ground, then grabs Tomlin. He starts to drag him but falls down. Nixon runs to them and pulls Tomlin and Hollister into a shell hole.

NIXON (Taking Tomlin’s pulse) He’s dead. God damn it. (Pause) That’s a hell of thing you just did, Hollister.

HOLLISTER I don’t know what made me do it.

NIXON It’s the mark of a good soldier, concerned about your fellow man.

Nixon and Hollister sit quietly looking at Tomlin. Nixon rips Tomlin’s dog tags from his neck.

FADE TO: EXT. FOREST—EARLY MORNING Subtitle reads Three Days Later. Andrew is crouched in a foxhole. It is raining moderately. In the foxhole next to Hollister is Remington.

Hollister is noticeably tired and dirty. His expression is distant.

HOLLISTER Line’s quiet today.

REMINGTON There’s never a quiet day. Shhh!

Remington slowly turns, and lifts his head up from the foxhole. He lifts his Thompson then begins to fire. Hollister jumps up too and sees a group of Germans sneaking towards the line. They shoot the Germans, then and MG opens up. An intense firefight follows. As the gunfire slows, Mackay is heard yelling. Hollister and Remington run to Mackay.

MACKAY They finally got Zapata. Hollister, you’re a corpse carrier, you and Gray take him.

Without saying anything, Hollister and Gray pick Zapata up and carry him away.

CUT TO: EXT. COMPANY BASE—MIDMORNING Hollister and Gray drop Zapata off at the field hospital.

GRAY There you go, you sorry bastard.

CAPTAIN WAITS, the Company CO spots the two men.

WAITS Corporal Remington Gray, Private Hollister. I have a dispatch for the front line men. I was going to take it down, but you could do it for me.

REMINGTON Gladly, sir.

WAITS It’s good news. You’re old sergeant, Randleman, is on his way to the front.

REMINGTON Randleman coming back? Are you kidding me?

WAITS Yes, we hoped to raise the morale of the front line men.

REMINGTON

(joyfully) Shit, boost the morale. We may just have a party.

WAITS I knew you all’d be thrilled. He should be arriving tomorrow. Around noon.

REMINGTON Is that all, sir?

WAITS Yes, that’s all. Dismissed.

Waits turns and walks back into his tent.

REMINGTON I tell you what, Waits is an asshole but I love him man for that. Come on Hollister, let’s go tell the others.

Remington starts to run, and Hollister jogs after him HOLLISTER Randleman, you mean your old sergeant?

REMINGTON The one and only.

CUT TO: EXT. FRONT LINE—MIDMORNING Remington and Hollister come running up to the men.

REMINGTON Hey, hey, hey! Randleman’s coming back!

GRAY What?

REMINGTON You heard me, dumb-ass. Randleman’s on his way back to the line.

MACKAY You serious?

REMINGTON Afraid of being kicked out of the job?

COOPER Oh my God, I can’t believe it.

NIXON When’s he getting here?

REMINGTON Tomorrow, apparently.

NIXON God, it’s been so long. Since Chambois.

HOLLISTER He must be some man. All I’m hearing about him.

NIXON Before he was with us, he won the Medal of Honor in Sicily. Fought back three companies of Italians while the rest of his men pulled back.

REMINGTON He landed with us on D-Day, took a bunker by himself. I saw the whole thing.

COOPER Like hell you saw that, you got shot through the foot crossing from England. That whole bunker story’s a myth.

NIXON No, I was there. Riley got it through the chest, so I stayed with him, but Randleman kept going and by God he kicked every one of those Nazis in their asses.

COOPER Irregardless, Randleman’s coming back.

PVT MARLOW runs up the path.

MARLOW Private Marlow, radioman. Reporting, sir.

MACKAY You the new radioman? Good, you stick with Hollister here. He’s a rookie too. He’ll show you how we work in 3rd platoon.

Mackay heads down the path, and Hollister and Marlow get into a trench down the line.

HOLLISTER Been here long?

MARLOW First day.

HOLLISTER Been in combat before?

MARLOW No, first day.

HOLLISTER It’s hell.

MARLOW You’ve been here for how long?

HOLLISTER A few days.

MARLOW A few days and you can make that statement?

HOLLISTER This forest in unreal. I swear to God. Marlow looks scared.

HOLLISTER Just stick with me and Remington. I’m not the expert, but Remington’ll take care of you.

Down!

An artillery barrage begins. Hollister and Marlow take cover in the trench.

DISSOLVE TO: EXT. TRENCH—MORNING Hollister and Marlow still are crouched in the trench. The artillery POUNDS away like it did when it started. A man can be heard SCREAMING, injured, somewhere in the distance. Farther down the trench is Gray, obviously shaken by the intense bombardment. Every time a shell hits, Gray quivers.

GRAY God damn! I can’t take it anymore.

MACKAY What’s the matter, Gray?

GRAY This artillery. This forest. This Goddamn war.

Gray tries to run from the trench, but Mackay and O’Toole grab him.

MACKAY Calm down, Gray.

Suddenly, the whole barrage stops. Everything is silent. The silence is so incredible, several soldiers stand up. O’Toole stands, dumbfounded, but he is sent reeling when the German’s open up with their machineguns.

Gray screams, and jumps out of the trench, heading for the German positions. Mackay tries to grab his legs as he gets out of the trench, but he misses. Gray tears between the trees screaming. The platoon watches in horror as Gray is shot repeatedly. He hits the ground, but is still being shot at.

MACKAY No! Mackay goes to jump out of the trench too, but is pinned to the ground by Remington.

REMINGTON There’s nothing you can do. We’ll go get him when it’s dark.

Mackay sits back into the trench. He throws his head into his hands.

Marlow watches the whole scene unfold in utter horror. He slowly turns to Hollister.

MARLOW Did you know him?

HOLLISTER Gray? I haven’t been here long enough to know him. He seemed like a good man.

MARLOW They’re all good men. Fighting for a good cause.

HOLLISTER Do you believe that?

MARLOW Don’t you have to?

HOLLISTER I’d never seen any real fighting, through Normandy till now. This is beyond what I imagined. They’re good men, but I’m yet to see a good cause.

FADE TO: EXT. FOREST—MORNING RANDLEMAN rides on the back of a Willys Jeep. He is young and physically fit. He wears the Medal of Honor around his neck. Pinned to his lapel are a number of medals.

CUT TO: EXT. REGIMENTAL BASE—MORNING Hollister, Remington, and Marlow are loading supplies onto a small wagon.

REMINGTON Alright, let’s get this back to the platoon ‘fore they eat each other. Hollister, have you read All Quiet?

HOLLISTER On the Western Front? No, but I saw the picture.

They begin pulling the rickety wooden wagon towards the path leading to Able Company.

REMINGTON There’s a good line in it. Give ‘em all the same grub and all the same pay, the war will be over and won in a day.

HOLLISTER Ain’t that the truth. Even in Paris I knew that.

REMINGTON Wait. There’s a jeep coming.

Remington stops pulling the wagon and turns and looks toward the small muddy road leading into the base.

REMINGTON There’s never any traffic coming through here.

Remington stands and looks toward the trail in anticipation. Hollister and Marlow stand around without much interest. Finally, the jeep pulls into the camp.

REMINGTON (Upon seeing Randleman) There he is.

Remington runs over the jeep as Randleman steps out. Marlow and Hollister sidle over.

REMINGTON Thought you were all done with us, eh?

Randleman doesn’t smile or say hello. He looks Remington up and down.

RANDLEMAN (Sternly) At attention, Privates.

Marlow and Hollister tense up, but Remington remains at ease.

Randleman remains stern-looking for a second, then he and Remington laugh and then shake hands.

RANDLEMAN Never thought I’d be back to see your sorry face, Rem. REMINGTON Then you can go straight back, Sarge.

RANDLEMAN Oh, no no. (fingers gold bar on his lapel, insignia for a Lieutenant) I’m a Lieutenant now.

REMINGTON I’ll be. Hey, how’d that shoulder of yours clean up, then?

RANDLEMAN I was back pitching 98 mile-an-hour fast balls two days later.

REMINGTON You couldn’t pitch 98 miles-an-hour if your life depended on it.

Randleman laughs, then looks to Marlow and Hollister.

RANDLEMAN Who’re the babies, Rem? REMINGTON Private Marlow, and Private Hollister, respectively.

Randleman reaches out and shakes Hollister’s hand, then Marlow.

RANDLEMAN Hollister, Marlow. Nice to meet you. As you surely know, I’m Randleman.

HOLLISTER+MARLOW Lieutenant.

RANDLEMAN Let’s go, Remmy, get me back to the Platoon.

REMINGTON Come on.

Remington, Marlow and Hollister grab the cart and continue dragging it down the path.

FADE TO: EXT. FOREST—NOON Randleman arrives with Hollister and Marlow at the platoon’s encampment. All the veterans let out a cheer as he comes into the small clearing with a fire.

NIXON The prodigal old boy has returned.

RANDLEMAN You all missed me, then?

NIXON Like nothing else, Randy.

DWIGHT Oho! Lieutenant now, eh?

RANDLEMAN Hey, watch that.

Randleman’s smile fades as he notices that there are so few men.

RANDLEMAN Where’s everyone at?

The soldiers look at each other guiltily. None of them want to tell Randleman that so many of his old friends are gone.

REMINGTON Well, you see, things got real hard after the breakout.

RANDLEMAN What, they’re dead? All of them? How’d they die?

NIXON Most of ‘em here.

Randleman sits down in shock. He stares at the ground.

RANDLEMAN Richardson?

COOPER Last week.

RANDLEMAN Sosabowski?

NIXON He took shrapnel to the head trying to save Brooke.

RANDLEMAN (bitterly sarcastic) Need I ask what happened to Brooke?

REMINGTON Hey, come on Randleman.

RANDLEMAN I’ve been gone too long. What’s happened?

Everyone falls silent. Randleman stands slowly. The men remain silent, crushed by Randleman’s ruined return.

RANDLEMAN I’m sorry. It’s war. I’m back now, I’ll straighten things out… here. Tru- trust me.

FADE TO: EXT. PLATOON’S ENCAPMENT—MORNING The men sit around a small campfire. Absent is Randleman. Sanderson throws down his bread ration in disgust.

SANDERSON There’s maggots all through the bread.

MACKAY Protein.

Mackay picks the bread up off the ground. He brushes it off and continues eating.

SANDERSON Where’s Randleman, he can fix this.

MACKAY They called him to Regiment. I hear there’s an assault today.

HAIRSTEN Goddammit…

The men continue eating, but Marlow is visibly shaken.

MARLOW We’re leading an attack?

MACKAY Don’t worry kid… It ain’t as terrifying as it would seem.

SANDERSON You just don’t got the front line experience, kid. After a few minutes, you’ll be good as new.

Randleman walks into the camp carrying a sheaf of papers.

RANDLEMAN The 112th’s going to capture Vossenack. Able company is going to provide support on the southern flank of the regiment. It looks like after we capture Vossenack, we’ll be moving in on Schmidt. This isn’t going to be easy. We expect heavy resistance. I know that a few of you have never seen a real attack. This isn’t a time for cowardice. Stay with your squad leaders, they’ll keep you safe and out of harm’s way.

MACKAY When are we jumping off?

RANDLEMAN Two hours. Which means you better get your asses to Regimental and stock up on supplies and ammo.

The men stand and shuffle off toward the supply dump.

FADE TO: EXT. FRONT LINE—DAY Randleman, Mackay, Hairsten, Remington, Nixon, Dwight, Sanderson, Nillson, Marlow, and Hollister are in a slit trench. About thirty yards in front of them, an artillery barrage starts pounding German positions. The men shift uneasily in the trench with the pre-combat jitters. The barrage lasts about a minute, the altogether stops.

RANDLEMAN That’s it! Follow me!

Randleman jumps from the trench and begins making his way toward the German positions. The men follow him closely. Down the front line, the other companies are attacking also. GUNFIRE grows immensely.

RANDLEMAN Mackay, take your squad and head for that creek bed!

Mackay, Hairsten, Nillson, Dwight and Nixon break off from the group and head right, toward a dried creek bed. Randleman and his squad continue forward. An MG concealed in a log dugout about twenty yard in front of them opens up.

RANDLEMAN Cover! Cover!

They dive for any cover available. Hollister grabs Marlow and forces him behind a downed tree. Remington jumps into a shell hole.

REMINGTON We need to flank it!

RANDLEMAN Remington, take Hollister and Sanderson and take that sonofabitch out!

Remington runs for Hollister and dives on the ground next to him.

Sanderson crawls over.

HOLLISTER I-I don’t…

REMINGTON Just follow me.

Remington peeks over the fallen tree. He assesses the situation, then comes back down.

REMINGTON Okay, there’s defilade over there. A slit trench and some shell holes. Follow me.

RANDLEMAN Marlow, provide covering fire…

Remington readies himself.

RANDLEMAN Now! Randleman fires at the dugout, but Marlow is cowering behind the tree.

Remington jumps over the log with Hollister and Sanderson in tow. They runs through the MG fire and lunge into the slit trench.

REMINGTON Come on.

They crawl down the trench avoiding the MG fire. At the end of the trench they stop.

REMINGTON Put some fire on the trench when I say “go.”

Remington waits until the gun crew reloads.

REMINGTON Go! Hollister and Sanderson pop jump up and fire into the dugout. The dugout is about ten yards away. It’s entrance comes out into a series of trenches running between the trees. Remington jumps out of the trench and rolls into the shell hole. He pulls a grenade out of his side-pouch and pulls the pin. He waits three seconds then lobs the grenade into the dugout’s entrance.

REMINGTON Let’s go!

Hollister and Sanderson climb out of the trench and follow Remington towards the dugout. When they are about five yards from the dugout, the grenade goes off.

CUT TO: INT. DUGOUT—Day Remington, Hollister and Sanderson rush into the dugout. There are five Germans inside: two are dead at the gun, one is dying on the floor, and two are staggering to their feet.

REMINGTON Get down!

One German reaches for his pistol, and Remington shoots him. The other one throws up his hands.

GERMAN SOLDIER Niekgiezhen!

Sanderson grabs the German and forces him onto the floor. Randleman comes through the entranceway.

RANDLEMAN We can’t take him.

HOLLISTER Here.

Hollister takes a length of cord from a shelf on the wall of the dugout.

HOLLISTER We can tie him up.

RANDLEMAN We can’t stop. We need to keep moving.

Nixon comes through the door.

NIXON What’s the holdup?

He looks to the German on the floor, and back up to Randleman. He raises his rifle at the German.

GERMAN SOLDIER Nein! Nein!

Nixon fires the gun right as Randleman reaches to grab him. The German soldier is killed.

RANDLEMAN What is wrong with you?

NIXON We don’t have time for this, Sergeant.

RANDLEMAN You ever shoot another prisoner and I’ll kill you myself.

Randleman and Nixon stare at each other intensely, then Mackay enters the dugout.

MACKAY Whatever the hell’s going on, end it. First platoon’s on the radio.

CUT TO: EXT. TRENCH—DAY Marlow is crouched in the trench and is writing a message down from the radio. Randleman comes out of the dugout, followed by the others.

MARLOW (Reading from paper) Pinned by Falschirmjager MG team in two storied stone house, half mile up trail. Captain Waits KIA. Need support.

COOPER Jesus. They got Waits?

RANDLEMAN We need to get to 1st platoon.

CUT TO: EXT. TRAIL—NOON 1st platoon is pinned down by German fire from a two storied stone house.

There is an MG-42 in the upstairs window. Randleman and his platoon

come up the trail behind 1st. The squad leader, SGT. CLINTON is behind a destroyed halftrack.

RANDLEMAN Situation?

CLINTON We can’t move past this goddamn house. Jerry’s been reinforcing that bastard for the past hour.

RANDLEMAN All right. We’ll try and flank it. If you could give some covering fire.

CLINTON Whatever you need.

RANDLEMAN Alright, Rem and Hollister, you’re with me.

REMINGTON Sure thing.

CUT TO: EXT. FOREST—NOON Randleman moves out from behind the halftrack and starts moving cautiously towards the woods to the right of the house. Remington and Hollister follow closely. They move through the brush.

RANDLEMAN (quietly) There’s some Krauts by that stone fence.

Four German are crouched behind a stone wall sniping at 1st platoon.

Randleman throws a grenade, instantly killing the four Germans.

RANDLEMAN Okay, we’re gonna move through that back door. Put a grenade through the window and we’ll bust in.

Remington sneaks up to the open window next to the back door and shoves a grenade through the opening and then quickly throws himself on the ground. As soon as it goes off, the back door falls out and Randleman rushes in.

CUT TO: INT. HOUSE—NOON The room is smoky from the grenade and there are a few Germans laying dead on the ground. The rapid fire of the MG-42 can be heard from upstairs. Randleman bursts in and takes cover behind a toppled table.

Remington and Hollister stealthily enter and cover the room.

RANDLEMAN We need to find the stairs.

He gets up and moves through the sitting room. Suddenly a German lunges from the corner of the room and crashes into Randleman, knocking his machinegun from his hands. Remington yells and fires pointblank at the German, throwing him off of Randleman. The German rises swiftly and jumps at Hollister, who hits him in the head with the butt of his rifle. The German finally falls to the floor.

RANDLEMAN Holy hell.

Move up staircase. MG-42 is louder still. The reach the top floor; a long hallway with two doors on either side.

RANDLEMAN (pulls grenade pin) Stay quiet. It’s in that room. (throws grenade into room) The grenade goes off, and a few quick screams are heard.

RANDLEMAN Rem, go!

Remington rushes into the room and yells “Clear.” He comes out again.

RANDLEMAN We need to clear the last three rooms. Hollister, the one on the right, Rem, on the left. I’ll get that one. At the same time.

Remington and Randleman go to their doors and get ready to break through. Hollister grudgingly moves to his door.

RANDLEMAN Go! Remington and Randleman rush the rooms and gunfire is heard. Hollister

hesitates then smashes into the room. He blindly fires off a few rounds then stops. He stares in horror. A woman and her two children lay on the floor. They were the house’s original occupants. He stares at what he has just done, when Remington comes up behind him.

REMINGTON Oh God. Hollister stares unblinkingly at the dead woman and children.

REMINGTON No… Hollister, come on. It’s not your fault, come on.

He tugs on Hollister to try and get him out of the room.

REMINGTON Come on, Hollister, come on.

Hollister still won’t move. Remington turns suddenly when he hears the closet creek open, and a German soldier jumps out, smashing Hollister in the head with a table leg. Hollister is knocked unconscious, and Remington shoots the German. Randleman runs into the room.

RANDLEMAN (Looking at Hollister, darkly) What goes around comes around, I guess. Come on, Rem, we need to find a medic.

FADE TO: EXT. OUTSIDE THE HOUSE—AFTERNOON. Hollister is still unconscious, and a medic is crouched over him.

Randleman and Remington watch on uneasily.

MEDIC He’ll be okay, it must have got him pretty hard.

REMINGTON He’s been out for a long time, doc.

MEDIC He’ll survive, I assure you.

REMINGTON When’ll he wake up?

MEDIC Christ… I have no idea. Not long. There are wounded men who actually need me, if you don’t mind.

The medic gets up and heads around the house.

RANDLEMAN Come on, Hollister.

Randleman opens his canteen and pours it on Hollister’s face. Hollister rouses slightly. He opens his eyes, then winces as he grabs his head.

REMINGTON You had us real worried back there, Holly. Don’t scare us like that no more.

CLOSE UP Hollister’s face. INSERT image of the dead woman and her two children.

HOLLISTER What’ve I done?

REMINGTON What is it?

HOLLISTER I killed them.

REMINGTON (With a look of realization on his face) Oh, no, no no no. Hollister. It wasn’t your fault. It could’ve happened to anybody.

HOLLISTER I should’ve looked before I fired.

REMINGTON No, you did the right thing. What if they weren’t in there, and that Jerry was waiting?

Huh? Hollister rolls onto his hands and knees and throws up. He shakily stands and has to have Remington support him.

REMINGTON Come on Hollister, you’ll be okay. Trust me.

RANDLEMAN

Breathe. We don’t need you out again.

HOLLISTER (weakly) Where’s everyone at?

RANDLEMAN They went with 1st platoon. I didn’t want to leave you here, and 1st platoon could use al the help they can get.

REMINGTON They’re just up the road. We need to get to them. You alright now?

HOLLISTER (dismissively) Yeah, I’m fine.

Hollister shakes Remington off and Starts walking towards the trail.

Remington and Randleman exchange worried looks.

FADE TO: EXT. FOREST—DUSK 3rd and 1st platoon are making an encampment to stay the night in. Marlow is on the radio.

MARLOW Sir, 110th apparently hit a huge minefield. They can’t move and they got mortars dropping all over ‘em. They only got about a half mile.

RANDLEMAN We aren’t doing much better.

MARLOW Charlie and Baker’ve taken Vossenack and they’re nearing Schmidt.

RANDLEMAN The Kall trail?

MARLOW It still isn’t open.

RANDLEMAN We’re going to have a hell of a time if we don’t open it up.

Remington walks over.

REMINGTON Have you seen Hollister.

RANDLEMAN Not for a little while. No. REMINGTON We need to find him, a Jerry scout could get him.

RANDLEMAN Here he comes.

Hollister walks into the encampment form the dark woods.

RANDLEMAN Are you okay, Hollister? Do you need to talk about it?

HOLLISTER I’m fine. I… I needed some time alone.

REMINGTON Sure?

HOLLISTER Sure.

RANDLEMAN You need to get some rest, Hollister.

HOLLISTER Thank you, sir.

Hollister walks away towards the edge of the camp. Marlow turns the radio set off and follows Andrew, who sits on the ground against a tree.

MARLOW What happened today in the house?

Hollister doesn’t say anything then: HOLLISTER I killed a woman and her children.

Marlow remains silent, just looking at Hollister.

HOLLISTER I walked into the room… and… and I just fired, I didn’t look. Just fired.

MARLOW It wasn’t your fault, Hollister. It was a mistake. Things happen in battle.

HOLLISTER It was just so… terrible. I don’t know what I was thinking. I burst through the door. I saw them…but, I-I didn’t. I fired and they fell.

MARLOW You don’t have to talk about it.

RANDLEMAN (loudly) I want everyone to get some shut-eye. Tomorrow we’re moving in on Schmidt. We’ll take the right flank through the forest. Be ready at dawn.

Hollister shifts to get more comfortable, and Marlow gets up and head back to the radio.

FADE TO: EXT. FOREST—NOON The platoon is under heavy fire from both German machineguns and German artillery. The artillery rounds are bursting everywhere.

Randleman calls out to Marlow.

RANDLEMAN Radio in to Regiment. Tell them we are being saturated by enemy fire. We cannot advance. Say again: we cannot advance.

Marlow jumps on the radio set and sends the message out to Regiment.

Hollister and Remington are in a shallow foxhole.

REMINGTON Marlow! Keep your head down.

Marlow, still on the radio, practically buries his face into the mud.

MARLOW Randleman, Baker’s in Schmidt!

RANDLEMAN Maybe this’ll end soon…

As German artillery is redirected towards Schmidt, the barrage lets up.

RANDLEMAN Advance!

CUT TO: EXT. SCMIDT—DUSK The town is nearly reduced to rubble from the difficult fighting earlier that day. Gunfire can still be heard close by. Randleman is walking with COLONEL GRAHAM, the 110th’s Commanding Officer. Trailing behind them are Remington and Hollister.

RANDLEMAN You’re saying we could be cut off?

COLONEL GRAHAM I’m afraid unless we can open up the Kall Trail, that may be the case.

RANDLEMAN You’ll need a fire brigade to open the trail up.

GRAHAM I’m weighing that option. The 110th is trying like hell to break through, but they just can’t get the momentum. Maybe if we squeeze the Germans from both ends, they’ll loosen up.

RANDLEMAN It’s a risk, Sir. GRAHAM A necessary risk, in my opinion. I’ll need some tough boys, and a good leader.

RANDLEMAN Sir? GRAHAM I’m sending you. Tonight.

RANDLEMAN Tonight, Sir? GRAHAM We need to catch ‘em with their pants down.

RANDLEMAN Yes, Sir. GRAHAM

You can take 1st and 2nd platoon. I can throw some extra men your way, too. You’re a good soldier, I know you can get the job done. If you need pulled out, radio in. You sure you want to take it?

RANDLEMAN Yes sir.

Graham salutes him, and enters his field HQ. Hollister and Remington walk over to Randleman.

REMINGTON What was that about?

RANDLEMAN We’re being sent to open up the Kall Trail.

REMINGTON Us? What, 3rd platoon?

RANDLEMAN 1st, 2nd, and 3rd.

HOLLISTER That’s not nearly enough.

RANDLEMAN You think I don’t know that?

REMINGTON It’ll be a massacre. You need to object. Tell the Colonel. Tell him no.

Randleman is debating whether he should object to the order.

RANDLEMAN You know Graham as well as I do. He’s bull headed, a glory monger no less.

REMINGTON You’ll lose your men, Randleman, if you don’t object.

RANDLEMAN It won’t make a goddamn difference. Graham’s told General Cota. You bet your ass he wants the glory and’ll do anything to get.

REMINGTON What can he do to you? A court marshal?

RANDLEMAN He threatened me with a transfer.

REMINGTON He threatened you?

RANDLEMAN Yeah.

REMINGTON Let me ask you a question, would you rather lose your men to German bullets, or to a new unit?

Randleman is shaken by the choice he has to make. On one hand, he can’t leave his men, but on the other, he knows what will happen on the trail.

RANDLEMAN I have my orders. I need to clear the trail. I won’t let anything happen.

Randleman pushes past Hollister and Remington and walks down the street.

REMINGTON Is it getting to him already?

HOLLISTER What?

REMINGTON (walking away) The Hüertgen.

Hollister is left standing in the on the sidewalk by himself. After a moment, he too walks off.

FADE TO: EXT. KALL TRAIL—NIGHT Randleman is leading his fire brigade down the Kall trail.

RANDLEMAN (hushed) Clark, redeploy that Thirty to the other side of the trail.

Hollister and Remington come up to Randleman.

REMINGTON I don’t like this, Sarge. Where the Krauts at?

RANDLEMAN I don’t know. We’re gonna be ambushed.

HOLLISTER Call it off.

Randleman thinks about it then calls Marlow up.

RANDLEMAN Marlow, front and center.

Marlow kneels next to Randleman, who picks up the receiver and sends his message.

RANDLEMAN Red 32, red 32. Request evac. Over.

They sit in silence and wait for the answer.

RANDLEMAN Martielli and Simms, vanguard, now.

Martielli and Simms run past Randleman and continue up the pitch-black trail. They wait another few seconds and the radio crackles to life. It is Colonel Graham.

GRAHAM Request denied, dammit. Cota is expecting action. What are you giving me? Are you even under fire?

RANDLEMAN No Sir, but…

GRAHAM (yelling) Then what the Hell are you requesting evac for? You will open that trail. Over and out.

Randleman sets down the radio, defeated. He stares at his men, for the first time unsure of what to do.

RANDLEMAN We need to keep moving.

REMINGTON What do you mean? We’ll getRANDLEMAN (yelling) I know! I can’t stop it! What do you want from me?

Everyone is silent, shocked by Randleman’s outburst. Randleman, fighting tears, continues down the trail. No one moves at first, but then they finally move, in groups of ones and two, heading into their known deaths.

FADE TO: EXT. FOREST—NIGHT The fire brigade continues up the trail. Some are moving in a crouched position, and others are prone. Randleman, Hollister, and Remington take up the lead of the brigade.

REMINGTON Where the Jerries at?

HOLLISTER Where are Martielli and Simms?

RANDLEMAN They’re only supposed to go about a hundred meters.

Randleman suddenly stops in his tracks. Hollister and Remington freeze, too. Randleman looks around for a second then cries out.

RANDLEMAN Cover! Cover!

The brigade immediately jumps to the ground and hides by whatever cover is available. Randleman, at the head of the column, looks at into the night. They all look for Randleman’s cause of alarm, but nothing can be seen, but they finally hear the hiss of a flare. The flare rises slowly above the forest, bathing the trail in a hellish red hue. The whole trail is silent but for the burning of the flare and the distant sound of gunfire. A low moaning drifts from up the trail. It is quiet at first, then turns into screams of pain. The sound echoes off trees, giving the trail an even more terrifying atmosphere.

REMINGTON What the hell is going on, Randleman?

Randleman looks unsure of himself now. The screaming continues for a few seconds, then subsides and cannot be heard at all. As the flare loses fuel, another is sent up into the sky, bathing the trail in a similar red light.

Randleman rises from the ground and signals the brigade to continue forward.

HOLLISTER There’s something not right, here.

RANDLEMAN Keep moving.

REMINGTON Turn around, Lieutenant, right now. Just turn around, what can they do? You might lose your post, but is it worth the risk?

RANDLEMAN (sternly) Just keep moving.

Remington and Hollister fall back away from Randleman a bit.

REMINGTON He’s had it.

Hollister looks darkly from Remington to Randleman.

RANDLEMAN Ahead!

Randleman rushes forward. The brigade picks up it’s pace to keep up with him.

HOLLISTER What’s going on?

REMINGTON Look!

Randleman slows and stops in front of a tall cross-like frame sticking out of the ground. They can see a dark figure hanging from the top with rope.

As they get closer, Hollister sees it is Martielli. He has been disemboweled, then pulled up the wooden frame by a noose. Marlow stares at the scene in utter horror before he vomits. Another dark red flare goes up into the sky. As the rest of the brigade arrives at the cross, Randleman steps up.

RANDLEMAN Somebody… somebody h-help get him down.

REMINGTON Here, I’ll cut him down.

The corpse drops to the ground and Randleman starts to drag it away.

The flare overhead goes out. Randleman drags it another few seconds, then a final flare rockets up. As the flare bursts into light, the German ambush starts.

RANDLEMAN Find cover!

The brigade runs for cover, but the Germans are on both sides of the trail and the men are cut down.

HOLLISTER Marlow!

Marlow is standing in the middle of the trail, shell-shocked. Hollister dives for him, and is knocked out by a mortar round.

CUT TO: INT. GERMAN BLOCKHOUSE—NIGHT Hollister, unconscious, wakes up. GUNFIRE is still right outside of the bunker.

HOLLISTER What’s happening?

RANDLEMAN A mortar shell went off right by your ear.

HOLLISTER How did…?

Hollister notices Marlow curled up against the wall, bleeding from his stomach.

HOLLISTER Is he alright?

RANDLEMAN I’m not sure. I tried to radio in, but there’s a bullet hole straight through the damn thing.

Hollister stands. Remington, bleeding from his bandaged arm, is watching for Germans through the murder hole.

HOLLISTER What’s happening?

RANDLEMAN We’re cut off. And I don’t have any way of contacting Colonel Graham.

HOLLISTER How are we going to get out?

RANDLEMAN I have no idea.

Hollister sits back against the wall of the bunker. Marlow, laying bleeding on the floor convulses.

REMINGTON Damn it.

RANDLEMAN Marlow, hold on there, come on, Marlow. Stay with me. Stay with me!

MARLOW (weakly) I’m… still… here.

RANDLEMAN Come on, we’re gonna get you out. I swear to God if it’s the last thing I do.

Randleman eases Marlow back onto the floor.

RANDLEMAN We’re going to get out of this. I’ll get you out.

REMINGTON We can’t go out. There’s too many Krauts. We’ll get cut down like the rest of them.

HOLLISTER Can’t we surrender?

RANDLEMAN No, under no circumstances will I surrender my men and myself. It’s out of the question.

HOLLISTER Why? RANDLEMAN You don’t know what it’s like to have a command position. Everyone underneath you, they’re like your children. You’re there to protect them. That’s why… When I accepted the mission, I did it because I… I couldn’t risk losing my command. I’d be put in a desk somewhere. I can’t do that.

HOLLISTER I… I understand.

RANDLEMAN No you don’t. You’re a good soldier, Hollister. Someday when you get some bars, you’ll know what I mean.

HOLLISTER Yes, sir.

RANDLEMAN I thought I was gone so long, that my men would’ve forgotten me. I was trying to prove myself. By staying on the trail.

REMINGTON You know you didn’t need to prove yourself.

Randleman’s head hangs.

FADE TO: INT. BUNKER—NIGHT Randleman shakes Hollister awake.

RANDLEMAN Hey, Hollister. Wake up. Me and Remington are gonna go scout everything out. It’s real quiet. You need to stay here with Marlow. We’ll try and find help. Okay?

HOLLISTER Yeah. Sure, I can handle it.

RANDLEMAN Good man. That’s what I like to hear.

Randleman and Remington leave the bunker. Hollister sits up and looks at Marlow, who is breathing shallowly.

HOLLISTER Stay in there, Marlow.

Long silence.

MARLOW (weakly) A helluva way to go. Good God. HOLLISTER What?

MARLOW A helluva way to go. Lying here in the dark.

HOLLISTER You’re not going anywhere, Marlow. You’ll be fine. Randleman and Remington just went to get help. They’ll be back and everything’s going to be just fine.

MARLOW I can feel it. It’s coming.

HOLLISTER Don’t talk like that, Marlow.

Silence. Marlow continues to breathe shallowly.

MARLOW Why do we do this?

HOLLISTER Do what?

MARLOW Make wars. Kill each other. It’s so… senseless.

HOLLISTER I can’t… I can’t answer... I don’t know.

MARLOW

Is this punishment? Did God put this hate in us… did he see the evil in us?

Long pause.

MARLOW Hollister?

HOLLISTER Yes? MARLOW Thanks.

HOLLISTER Thanks for what?

MARLOW Sitting here with me. I wouldn’t have wanted to be by myself.

HOLLISTER Please stop talking like that.

MARLOW (for the first time emotional) I don’t want to die. I don’t want to.

HOLLISTER Does it hurt anywhere?

MARLOW I can’t feel anything. Please, God… HOLLISTER Marlow, come on Marlow. Look at me. Look at me!

MARLOW Hold my hand.

HOLLISTER What?

Marlow doesn’t answer, and his breathing seems labored. Hollister takes his hand.

MARLOW This is he last thing I’ll see…

Marlow looks around at the interior of the bunker. He coughs and starts to convulse. After a while, his body relaxes and his hand slips out of Hollister’s. Hollister cries.

FADE TO: INT. BUNKER—MORNING Hollister is asleep, sitting up next to Marlow’s body. Hollister opens his eyes and sees a pair of jackboots in front of his face.

GERMAN SOLDIER Raus! Get up!

Hollister is torn out of sleep, and he immediately surrenders himself. The Germans drag him from the bunker.

HOLLISTER Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Please…

One of the German soldiers shakes him to keep him quiet. They lead him to the Kall trail. They take him to a group of other soldiers from the firebrigade. They push him to the ground, and he spots Randleman and Remington. He moves over to them, and he can see that Randleman is badly wounded in his chest.

HOLLISTER Randleman, what happened?

RANDLEMAN (pained) A Jerry jumped out of nowhere and stuck a bayonet through my chest.

REMINGTON (quietly) These are SS. They’re not Wermacht. We need to be careful, they’ll kill us as soon as take us to a camp.

RANDLEMAN What happened to Marlow?

HOLLISTER He…

GERMAN SOLDIER Everyone up! Raus!

Everyone stands, but Randleman can’t get off the ground.

REMINGTON Help him up, Hollister.

Remington and Hollister help Randleman to his feet. The German’s prod the group forward. After walking some distance, Hollister, Remington, and Randleman fall behind because of Randleman’s weakness. The Germans see this and grab Randleman.

REMINGTON No! Remington jumps to grab hold of Randleman RANDLEMAN Rem, don’t do it!

Remington grabs the SS soldier. The soldier throws Remington onto the ground and shoots him.

RANDLEMAN Remington, no!

The soldiers let go of Randleman, who stands unsteadily. He stares the German soldier in the eye. Randleman raises his hand in salute just as the German shoots him. Hollister makes to run forward, but stops as the Germans raise their rifles at him.

GERMAN SOLDIER Keep moving!

In the moment of confusion, Hollister breaks away from the group and runs full speed towards the forest. The Germans fire at him, but none of them hit him. He runs into the dense forest and is quickly out of the view of the Germans.

DISSOLVE TO: EXT. FOREST—NOON Hollister is still moving through the forest cautiously. He runs into an American patrol.

SOLDIER Don’t move!

HOLLISTER Friendly fire!

The patrol moves closer.

SOLDIER Are you from the missing fire-brigade?

Hollister nods.

SOLDIER We’ve been looking for you. Where’s everyone else?

HOLLISTER They’re either dead or surrendered.

The patrol looks at each other.

SOLDIER All of them?

HOLLISTER As far as I know.

FADE TO: INT. REGIMENTAL HQ—LATE AFTERNOON Hollister and Graham, along with a few other officers are in the HQ briefing room. Hollister has just finished telling the officers what happened to the fire-brigade.

GRAHAM That’s all? You don’t know what happened to the other prisoners?

HOLLISTER No, Sir. GRAHAM Very well. Schreiber, write up a report on this. I want you and Hollister to sit down and get as detailed as possible.

SCHREIBER

Yes, Sir. GRAHAM This is a major blow. 112 men. As many as forty still alive. Jesus Christ.

A captain comes in the room.

CAPTAIN Colonel Graham, sir.

GRAHAM Yes, Captain?

CAPTAIN I Company found what appears to be the last of the fire brigade.

GRAHAM And? CAPTAIN Well, Sir… it was a massacre. They’re all dead. There are soldiers all up and down the trail, presumably from the fighting, then we found about thirty-five men in creek bed a half mile from the trail. We encountered a company of Waffen SS, we took some prisoners. We believe they were the ones responsible.

GRAHAM Lord help us.

HOLLISTER All dead?

CAPTAIN I’m afraid so.

GRAHAM Thank— Thank you Captain. You’re dismissed.

The captain leaves the room. The officers are stone faced and Hollister is in shock.

GRAHAM (pacing) They’re all dead.

CAPTAIN WALKER What should we do, sir?

GRAHAM We need to issue a statement. Get on that.

Graham turns to Hollister.

GRAHAM Son, I’d like to give you a chance to return home for a while. You’ve been through a lot.

I’d also like to give you a promotion. Sergeant?

HOLLISTER I can’t go home sir.

GRAHAM Why not? You have a chance to get away from this for a few months.

HOLLISTER It wouldn’t feel right, sir.

GRAHAM (disappointed) Very well. But you’ll accept the stripes, I hope?

Hollister looks at his hands.

HOLLISTER Yes, sir, I’d appreciate that very much.

GRAHAM Good, then if you won’t be returning home, I’m sure that we can find you a platoon to lead in Ida Company. Are you ready for a position of command?

HOLLISTER I… I believe I’m ready.

GRAHAM Good, good then. You can see Captain Larson, he’ll show you the ropes. Dismissed.

Hollister is still dismayed from the news of the brigade’s massacre. He slowly stands and exits the HQ. Out in the street, he lights a cigarette. He walks off towards the forest, and is soon enveloped in a mass of replacements marching through the streets.

THE END

Terror (SAHIB sits on a park bench. He reads a newspaper. He looks apprehensive, and keeps glancing around. CARTER enters from left and slowly walks towards stage right. When Sahib sees him, he freezes and returns to the paper. Carter takes a seat at the end of the bench, far away from Sahib.)

CARTER (Not looking at Sahib) Nice day today.

SAHIB (Nervously) Yes, it’s very nice.

CARTER It’s been hot lately. But it’s supposed to— SAHIB (Interrupting Carter) Are you the one who contacted me?

(Sahib moves closer to Carter.)

CARTER (Calmly) Move away from me. Don’t look at me. We’re making casual conversation.

(Sahib slides back down the bench.)

CARTER Yes, I contacted you. Do you know why?

SAHIB I… well… I assumed— CARTER (Interrupting Sahib)

You assumed nothing. I never contacted you, we were never here, you’ve never seen me in your life. I will deny this entire thing. I have no name as far as you’re concerned.

SAHIB (Confused) Yes. I… uh… yes, of course.

CARTER Do you understand the gravity of the situation I’m putting myself in? Contacting you, meeting you? If my superiors were to find out…

SAHIB What situation? Who? CARTER As of now, my friend, you are a major liability. My job, not saying I enjoy my job, I hate my job, I can’t stand the bureaucracy, but if anyone sees me with you, my job, and my status as a law abiding citizen, are erased. I’d rather not be labeled a double agent.

(Beat) That is the situation.

SAHIB But why am I liability?

CARTER Don’t you understand what I just told you?

SAHIB No. Not entirely. What did I—? I’ve been minding my business and— CARTER (Looking at Sahib for the first time) Sahib, stop talking. And listen.

SAHIB You know my name?

(Beat) CARTER Yes, I know your name. I also know you were born in Tehran, and you immigrated here when you were seventeen. You’re a college professor. You teach Middle Eastern Literature.

SAHIB Who are you?

CARTER I am either your best friend or your worst enemy. Depending on which way you look at it…

SAHIB (Forcefully) Who are you?

CARTER That isn’t all I know, either. I know the secret you’ve tried to keep since you left Iran. I know about your friends.

SAHIB (Draws back angrily) They were no friends of mine. I got in, and I realized that I was out of my league. And I got out.

CARTER I know that.

SAHIB If you know this, why are we here? You know I’m an innocent man.

CARTER No, I believe you’re an innocent man. And just because I believe that you’re innocent doesn’t mean the rest of my Agency does.

SAHIB What are you saying?

CARTER I’m saying that you’re in danger.

(Long pause) SAHIB I’ve guessed that much. I’ve been noticing things. Little things. The same car driving in a loop around the block. I’ll pick up my phone and hear someone listening in on the other end. Things like that. Your agency isn’t very discreet.

CARTER They’re too pompous to realize they can make mistakes.

SAHIB How did you single me out?

CARTER We received a field report, and your name came up in some registry from a certain militant organization. They trained and supplied… some very questionable individuals, but then again, you know this. They were your people.

SAHIB They were not my people. They were radicals. That isn’t me.

CARTER That isn’t you? Then why were you such close friends with them?

SAHIB Do you believe I am innocent or not?

CARTER You’re innocent of the charges, I believe. But you are guilty of being a young idealist.

But I need to know, Sahib, I need to know before I risk everything for you, that you are not a terrorist.

SAHIB When I was young I was a radical, but isn’t every young person? I wanted to change things. But I realized that I won’t change things by becoming a martyr. If you want to create change you must first create understanding. So I tried to back my way out, but they refused. I fled Iran. I had no other choices.

CARTER Ok. That’s all I need to know.

SAHIB If you understand, why can’t you make the rest of them understand?

CARTER My superiors. You can’t make them understand anything. There is no gray area; you either are or you are not a threat to national security. And if you aren’t, you’d better have a squeaky fucking clean slate, and I’m sorry my friend, but you are dirty as sin. You’re already screwed sideways.

SAHIB Then why are you trying to help me?

CARTER (Aggressive) Who said I’m helping you? As far as you know, we’re waiting around the corner with a black van and a hood.

(Beat) Is my point taken?

SAHIB You’re risking everything for me, for no reason.

CARTER No reason? Because I’m a plucky idealist trying to help the innocent.

SAHIB It seems to me that you are the radical here.

(Beat) CARTER I prefer avant-garde. Radical has negative implications.

(Sahib snorts) SAHIB How do you intend to help me, then? If I’m already, as you colorfully put it, “screwed sideways?”

CARTER You need to leave.

SAHIB Leave?

CARTER The country. You need to leave the country.

SAHIB You don’t understand, this isn’t any country. This is my home. My whole life is here. I’ve spent fifteen years here. My daughters have grown up here. This is their home, more so than mine.

CARTER

They won’t be able to go with you, Sahib SAHIB Why not?

CARTER If they go, then they look as guilty as you will. If they stay here, they can continue their lives.

SAHIB And your people will simply leave them be?

CARTER Of course not. They’ll be questioned.

SAHIB If they harm them— CARTER They won’t harm your family, Sahib. Trust me, you can’t butt heads here. They will make you disappear. There will be no trace that you ever existed.

SAHIB How can the government get away with this?

CARTER Times have changed.

SAHIB (Sits back, pause) Times have changed indeed. I remember when I could walk down the street and not have every person on the block follow me with their eyes.

CARTER So wouldn’t you be happier elsewhere?

SAHIB I can’t leave the country, I can’t leave my family here. What will I tell them?

CARTER That’s the thing. You can’t tell them. They can’t know anything. When they’re being interrogated, you can’t afford them letting something slip.

SAHIB

So I have to leave and have my family think I’m a terrorist?

CARTER Not forever, mind you. Once everything’s cleared up, I’ll tell them everything. I can get you in touch with them. Carefully, though. They could even go to wherever you are.

(Beat) SAHIB You know, my daughter, Shirin, just wrote this beautiful essay for school. About how this nation is the greatest country in the world. It was naïve, innocently so. But, still touching.

She loves her country, you know that? I showed my students during a lecture. I don’t want to be the one to tell her that her childish beliefs are false. Children are supposed to find that out themselves.

(Beat) SAHIB Aren’t you in danger of being caught? If I’m being followed, won’t they see you too?

CARTER I may not hold much power, but I can get useful things done here and there. Throwing off a tail, for instance. We have— (Checks watch.)

—about five minutes before they realize I threw them a bad lead.

SAHIB And then?

CARTER Then they start following you again, and I have paperwork to fill out.

SAHIB Why are you so vehement in my leaving? What do you have to gain?

CARTER I’m trying to right my wrongs.

SAHIB Your wrongs?

CARTER I’ve played my role in destroying lives. I wasn’t just a witness to the kidnappings. I’m not proud of it. Once you’re an agent, greed rears its head and the rat race begins. You’d do anything to get a scrap of validation from your superiors. You’d lick the shit off their shoes. But can I make up for the things I’ve already done?

SAHIB That’s a question I cannot answer.

CARTER It’s a question that I’d rather not know the answer to.

SAHIB Well?

CARTER Well…

SAHIB I’ll leave. Where will I go?

CARTER Europe? Africa. The South Pacific. The choice is yours. Mostly.

SAHIB How about Spain? I’ve always wanted to see Spain.

CARTER I’ll look into it.

SAHIB So, will I be seeing you again?

CARTER We’ll meet again. I’ll contact you… arrangements will be made.

SAHIB And what will you be doing in the meantime?

CARTER Serving my country.

SAHIB That’s a new one.

CARTER No. It’s an old one. It just isn’t funny anymore.

SAHIB Can you tell me your name?

CARTER (Hesitates) You can call me Carter. Just Carter.

SAHIB Well, Carter, I really don’t know what to say now.

CARTER You can say goodbye to the land you’ve come to know and love.

SAHIB Goodbyes are always the hardest.

CARTER It’s good you have a cool head about this.

SAHIB I can be terrified… is that more suitable?

CARTER Depends on the person.

SAHIB It’s disappointing.

CARTER I’m sorry.

(Beat) SAHIB Carter, can just I ask one thing of you?

CARTER That depends on what you ask me.

SAHIB Can you not tell my family about all of this?

CARTER What? Why? SAHIB Because it would be too painful for them.

CARTER

How? SAHIB Because this is their whole life. My children truly love this country. They’re supposed to find these things out on her own.

(Sahib stands. Carter remains sitting and looks up at him.)

SAHIB The land of freedom and opportunity.

CARTER Welcome to America.

(Sahib exits. Lights down.)

The End