Adam Baker - Terminus

May God have mercy on his soul.

An unreadable signature at the foot of the note.

David crumpled the paper in his hand. He hung his head and sobbed.

Galloway handed Lupe a similar death notice. She scrunched it unread and threw it at his face.

‘I’ve got pen and paper,’ said Galloway. ‘If you folks have any last words, I can take them down.’

David continued to sob. Lupe kicked his leg.

‘Hey. Suck it up. Don’t give him the satisfaction.’

Galloway took a last long drag on his cigarette and stubbed it beneath his boot.

‘No final message for the world?’

‘Fuck you all,’ said Lupe.

They marched through tall grass to the hanging tree. Rain beat down. David stumbled and sobbed.

‘Keep it together,’ said Lupe. ‘They want you to beg.’

They reached the tree.

‘Stop,’ ordered Galloway.

His SWAT buddy checked wrists, made sure they were securely bound.

Lupe looked up. Three corpses hung from a thick branch, necks broken, flesh pecked by crows.

‘Pretty, aren’t they?’ smiled Galloway.

Lupe stared him out.

He wound a noose and threw the rope over a branch. He stood on a rusted chair and tied off. He tugged the rope, made sure it was secure.

He turned to David.

‘Anything you want to say?’

David stared at his feet. He stifled sobs, tried to regain composure.

‘Want a blindfold?’

No reply.

‘All right. Get on the chair.’

David climbed up. Galloway looped the noose over David’s head and tightened the coiled knot round his throat.

‘Sure you’ve got nothing to say?’

He didn’t reply.

‘Hey,’ said Lupe. ‘David. Look at me. Don’t look at him. Look at me.’

David looked at Lupe.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s a shitty world. You’re going to a better place.’

He nodded.

Galloway kicked the chair from under him.

Jerk. Neck-snap.

David hung limp. The rope creaked. He spun and swayed. Piss darkened his pants.

Galloway knotted a second noose. He turned to Lupe.

‘Didn’t think you were the religious type.’

She ignored him. She closed her eyes, tipped back her head and savoured the rain.

‘Get on the chair.’

‘Go to hell.’

He punched her in the gut with the butt of his shotgun. She doubled up and fell to her knees.

He hung the noose round her neck and pulled it taut. He threw the rope over a branch. He and the SWAT got ready to pull.

A voice echoed across the airfield. An indistinct shout.

They looked towards the hangar. A figure ran through bracken, waving his arms.

‘Wait. Hold on. Just wait.’

They led Lupe to a hangar. An old Lockheed Jetstar, minus engine pods. A government plane. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA blurred by mildew and corrosion. Pooled sump-oil on the hangar floor.

Galloway nudged her up the steps. She ducked through the low doorway and entered the executive jet.

Eighties decor: white leather and chrome trim gave the place a coke-snorting, last-days-of-disco vibe.

‘Release her hands.’

A small guy wearing the dress uniform and single collar star of a Deputy Chief of Police. He sat in one of the padded flight chairs, papers spread over the table in front of him.

‘I said release her hands.’

Galloway reluctantly flicked open a knife and cut the tuff-tie binding her wrists. Lupe massaged deep skin welts.

‘Take a seat.’

Lupe looked around. Galloway and his SWAT buddy flanked the door. An army guy and a woman in civilian clothes sat across the aisle from the Chief.

‘Please. Sit down.’

Lupe took a seat opposite the Chief. The woman cracked a Coke and set it on the table in front of her.

Lupe massaged the rope burn at her throat.

‘My name is Jefferson.’ He pointed to the army guy. Fifties, pale blue eyes. ‘This gentleman is Lieutenant Cloke. He’s with the Institute of Infectious Diseases.’ He pointed to the woman. Thirties, lean. ‘And this is Captain Nariko. She was, until recent events, with the Fire Department.’ He examined a mug shot. Lupe holding her inmate number, mouth twisted in a defiant sneer. ‘You are Lucretia Guadalupe Villaseñor, am I right?’

‘Where did you get that?’

Jefferson ignored the question.

‘You were under observation at Bellevue’s secure psychiatric facility, correct? You were under the care of Doctor Conrad Ekks?’

Lupe feigned boredom. She looked out the window. Cops stood in the corner of the hangar, warming their hands over an oil drum fire.

‘Your life is in my hands, Ms Villaseñor.’

‘Yeah. I’ve seen your handiwork.’

‘I’ve got sixty men living by candlelight. Rationed food, rationed water. It’s a miserable existence. We average two suicides a week. I try to keep the men busy because if they think further than sundown, if they think about all they’ve lost, they blow their brains out. There is a place here for honest folk, people willing to work, people willing to contribute. But I’ve got no time for junkies and gangbangers. Can’t have them running around.’

Lupe sipped Coke.

‘You fled along with Ekks and the Bellevue team when the hospital was overrun, am I right? You took refuge underground.’

‘I was held prisoner,’ said Lupe.

‘At Fenwick Street. The disused subway station.’

‘Yes.’

‘There is reason to believe Doctor Ekks and his team may still be alive. We have been ordered by the continuity government based at NORAD to send a rescue party.’

Lupe sat back.

‘Why are you so anxious to find this guy?’

‘You need to understand the context of your time below ground. As soon as this disease took hold, medical teams across the country, across the world, started looking for a cure. Every virologist, haematologist, got to work trying to figure out this disease. Ekks and his team at Bellevue were studying the neurology of infection, trying to understand how the virus attacks the central nervous system.’

‘We were lab rats,’ said Lupe. ‘Me and a bunch of other poor fucks. That’s the only reason they kept us alive.’

‘How did you escape?’

‘We broke out. Me and two other guys. We fled into the tunnels. We split up. No idea what happened to them.’

‘What was the status of the Bellevue Team when you left?’

Lupe shrugged.

‘Scared. Fighting amongst themselves. Who gives a shit? They’re dead. Nobody could survive the bomb.’

Jefferson glanced at Nariko; her cue to speak. She sat forwards.

‘There was a transmission,’ said Nariko. ‘Just before detonation. A voice. Very weak.’

She took a digital recorder from her pocket. She pressed Play.

A mournful wind-howl of static and feedback. A faint ghost-voice carried on the ether.

‘…Mayday, mayday. Can anyone hear me, over? Hello? Is anyone out there? This is Bellevue Research Team broadcasting on emergency frequency one-two-one point five megahertz. We have a solution. We have a cure. If anyone can hear me, please respond…’

‘Is that him?’ asked Jefferson. ‘Ekks. You met the man. Is that him?’

‘No,’ said Lupe. ‘That’s Ivanek. A young guy. A radio operator.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Ekks has a southern accent. Very distinct.’

Nariko gestured to a dossier in her lap.

‘The file says he is from Ukraine.’

‘Not any more,’ said Lupe. ‘When he opens his mouth, it’s pure Tennessee. Hypnotic son of a bitch.’

More static. Churning electromagnetic interference. The desperate voice battled fast-dying signal strength, shouted to be heard over a desolate static-storm.