Geoff North - How the World Ends

Tommy was listening and feeling the bandages on his face. “Can I have a mirror?”

“No, you can’t have a fucking mirror. What really pisses me off is guys like you… guys like all the other soldier boys outside, marching up and down the streets like they own the place. It’s bad enough I have to try and treat people for something they didn’t deserve. Now I’ve got a bunch of goddamned macho idiots strutting about, getting into fist fights and having their ribs cracked. I don’t have the time to patch up idiots. I’m too busy looking after people that genuinely need my help. Do you know what I’m saying?”

Tommy’s fingers had settled on his nose. “How bad was it? I’ve heard people say that it’s almost impossible to straighten out a nose once it’s been bust. Will it have one of those stupid looking bends in it?”

Fred Gill wanted to break the nose again. A young soldier entered the medical relief tent before the doctor could do it. “There’s two more coming in from the east. The guards spotted them a few minutes ago maybe a quarter mile out on the highway.”

“They’re driving?” The doctor asked.

“Nope, walking, and sounds like they’re in pretty rough shape.”

Fred wanted to smack the soldier’s face almost as much as he wanted to re-fracture Tommy Boyd’s nose. Half a dozen nuclear warheads had evaporated what remained of Winnipeg and the surrounding area. If survivors were coming in from the east, chances were the injuries would be severe. “And you morons are just watching them? Don’t any of you have any sense of compassion?”

“Our commanding officer has set the rules of engagement clearly, sir; help those in need, but keep the base secure. When they’re close enough, we will bring them to you.”

“Rules of engagement? We’re not at war with the poor souls out there, and the last time I checked, this was still a town , not a goddamned base.”

Gill followed the soldier outside leaving Boyd in his bed to deal with his pains and to ponder over the state of his future appearance. Tommy glanced at the kindergarten teacher again, and looked away quickly. He feared she might wake up and call for help. What the fuck would he do then? What could he do for her, or for any of the other patients lying in their beds? He counted sixteen beds in total. Eight—including his own—were occupied. It must be late, he thought. Everyone was sleeping. This was a good thing. Tommy hated sick people. They were weak, and the longer you hung around them, the better chances were they’d give you whatever it was they were carrying. Is radiation sickness contagious? He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to find out. With considerable effort Tommy stood up. He remained stationary, swaying back and forth. There were no tables or chairs to lean on for support, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to rest against the teacher’s cot. The last thing he wanted to see was that shiny red face opening its eyes. She’d probably start screaming, or crying, or both.

The stabbing pain in his side dulled to a throbbing ache and Tommy moved towards the tent-flap door Dr. Gill had exited through.

The screaming started, but it wasn’t coming from the pink-faced kindergarten teacher.

Hayden was halfway between the broken-down Buick and the east end of town. He stopped dead in his tracks when a scream cut through the night. The binoculars didn’t pick up anything out of the ordinary. The white blobs standing around the barrel fires looked about, but no one seemed overly concerned or motivated to investigate. A few seconds later the repeating crackle of gunfire erupted, and the blobs started moving.

Hayden started to walk backwards. He knew he had been lucky slipping out of the town earlier. He didn’t want to push that luck under a hail of bullets. I don’t need a car… I can head northwest on my feet, make it to that gravel pit by noon tomorrow if I move fast.

He continued watching through the binoculars as he made his retreat. The gunfire stopped, but someone was still screaming. No, it’s more than just one person now. People were shouting to be heard over the wail of others. Orders were being given, and mass panic seemed to be answering. The shooting resumed, and Hayden could see the white blobs merging together, heading for the east end of town.

What the hell’s happening there?

The sensible side of him said to run. Turn around right now and start heading for that gravel pit. The brave side—the lazy part of him that wanted to drive instead of walk—insisted he press on. Keep going. Slip into that vehicle compound and steal a car while everyone’s preoccupied killing each other.

He stopped moving altogether.

What are they shooting at? Why is everyone yelling and crying?

He gripped the binoculars tightly, one of his fingers triggered a button he didn’t realize was there. The white blobs disappeared, and the shapes of human bodies became more defined. He’d inadvertently shut off the binoculars’ heat-seeking feature. Soldiers were gathering together in greater numbers, drawing weapons, and moving east. Bright flashes of white appeared in the moving throng of green and black, and the sound of their weapons firing met Hayden’s ears a few seconds later.

He saw a body torn to shreds. Bullets punched through cloth and flesh, and a black mist of blood trailed out from behind. Another person standing next to it was mowed down in a second hail of fire. My God. They’re killing the survivors… They’re murdering the residents of Brayburne in cold blood.

He had to do something. He needed to help those people. Hayden started stumbling forward, and then he saw the impossible. The first victim started to rise back up, the second one joined it moments later. The soldiers cut them down again. Hayden lowered the binoculars away from his face and stared at them dumbly. His hands were shaking terribly. He closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down. I didn’t see that. No one can rise back up after being shot so many times. Shots continued firing. People kept screaming.

Hayden looked through the lenses again. The green and black shapes of the soldiers came back into view. They were backing up, continuing to fire at the corpses lying on the ground.

The corpses rose again.

“Why are you turning around?” Fred Gill asked. He pressed his left hand against the Jeep’s passenger dashboard and held on to the door with his right as the vehicle turned in the middle of Main Street.

The soldier driving muttered something into the small microphone extending from his helmet and glanced over at Fred quickly. “There’s an incident occurring. I’ve been ordered to take you back to HQ until things have settled.”

“An incident? You mean all that shooting? It sounds like World War III breaking out.”

“That war started weeks ago, sir. This is something entirely different.”

“Then turn this thing back around and take me there. Can’t you hear those people screaming?”

“You’re the only civilian doctor we have on the base. We can’t afford to lose you.” They passed more armed soldiers running towards the east end of town. Most were men and women that had never picked up an assault rifle or saluted a superior officer in their lives. They were volunteers—survivors fitted into military uniforms with the sole purpose of helping other survivors.

“At least take me back to the medical tent. Those people lying in their beds we’ll be terrified listening to all this.”

“Not until the perimeter is secure.”

Fred had lived most of his adult life in Brayburne. He had never once heard the term perimeter applied to its outer edges. The Jeep screeched to a halt in front of the Town Hall. It was the oldest building in Brayburne, constructed decades before Fred Gill had been born. It was shaped like a giant cube with only a few small windows set on each of the four floors. It had always reminded Fred of Uncle Scrooge McDuck’s money bin—a monstrous block of a thing, a fortress made of faded red brick. And it had been just that when it was built in the nineteen-twenties; Brayburne’s town hall had originally been a bank. Now that the world no longer needed money or small-town government, the Bin—as Fred and a few other Brayburne old-timers called it—was the military’s headquarters.