Adam Baker - Impact

‘You’re not Early. You’re an echo, reflex. All this talk. It’s like zapping the legs of a dissected frog to make them twitch.’

Long silence.

‘Trenchman was right, wasn’t he? You. The virus. You’re studying us.’

Long silence.

Noble slowly pulled the flashlight from his vest pocket.

‘You could snuff us out in an instant. Me. Frost. Hancock. Why play games? Are you tormenting us, like a kid frying ants with a magnifying glass?’

Noble lunged out of a side window, pistol at the ready. The light-cone of his flashlight lit the empty roof.

He shone the flashlight at surrounding dunes. No tracks.

‘You’re nothing,’ he shouted, bellowing into darkness. ‘A germ. A string of RNA. Come on. Face me, motherfucker.’

The limo shuddered and lurched. Noble fell back inside the vehicle. He dropped his flashlight and gripped the seat. Deafening torsion and metal shriek.

The limo shook like it was taking a series of heavy side-impacts.

He hit the floor.

Another sudden jolt. The front of the Humvee dropped like both front tyres had simultaneously blown out.

Sudden wrench. Explosion of dust beyond the hood of the limo. The vehicle began to tilt nose-down, front fender disappearing beneath the sand as it was dragged below ground.

Noble grabbed his flashlight as it rolled past and trained the beam on the driver’s compartment. Sand pouring through the side windows, the windshield, filling the footwells, engulfing the dash.

Groan and judder. He gripped the stripper pole. Some Herculean force continued to wrench the limo below ground in a series of powerful jerks.

The gradient inside the vehicle grew more precipitous as the nose sank further. Noble hugged the stripper pole. Boots pedalled carpet as he scrambled for a foothold.

The mini-bar flipped open, spilling garbage. He was pelted with snack wrappers, empty cans and plastic vodka bottles.

The Humvee at forty-five degrees. Noble clung tight to stop himself sliding into the streams of dust slowly inundating the body of the limo.

He dropped his flashlight. It tumbled along the limo floor, bounced over the driver partition, beam quickly smothered by cascading sand.

He grabbed his backpack as it slid past.

He clawed towards a side door, kicked at it, desperate to get clear of the vehicle before he got buried alive.

He rammed the door with his shoulder. Jammed.

He climbed towards the rear window, desperate to escape the fast-filling passenger compartment.

Roof glass burst inwards. A stream of sand slammed his head and shoulders like it was jetting from a fire hose. He fought the torrent, pawed dust from his eyes, coughed and spat.

The rear window was cracked and frosted. Noble punched an opening. Glass crumbled to granules as he forced his way through the aperture.

He squirmed out the rear window and tossed his backpack. He jumped and rolled clear.

Shriek of rending metal.

He lay on his side and looked back.

The limo jerked fully vertical, dust streaming from the rear wheels and transmission.

The vehicle was relentlessly hauled beneath the ground. Awful cracks and groans as body panels buckled and the roof collapsed. Windows frosted and shattered. Sand poured into the passenger compartment.

Last glimpse of the trunk, the chromed rear fender and canary yellow SINCITY plate, as it submerged.

Sudden silence.

Noble got to his feet. He stood at the lip of the crater and tried to comprehend what he had seen.

Granules of glass glittered in the sand. Empty whiskey miniatures.

He backed away.

He turned, snatched up his backpack and ran.

Noonday sun.

Frost sat in shadow, back to the fuselage. She kept still as she could, tried to breathe steady and slow. Eyes half closed. Sweat dripped from the tip of her nose. She watched heat ripple from surrounding dunes.

Hancock knelt in full sunlight, head bowed, arms lashed cruciform. He cooked in the heat. Cracked lips, peeling skin.

‘Sure you don’t want some shade?’ said Frost. ‘All you got to do is say please.’

‘Fuck yourself.’

She uncapped her canteen and took a swig.

‘Let me know if you change your mind.’

Movement at the top of a distant ridgeline.

Frost got to her feet and shielded her eyes. A figure stumbling out of thermal haze. Olive green flight suit. Black hair.

Noble.

Frost ran as best she could. She reached the foot of the dune. Noble collapsed and tumbled down the gradient towards her.

Cracked, bleeding lips. Burned and blistered skin. He looked up at Frost slack-faced and blank eyed. He had retreated within himself, no longer aware of his surroundings.

She struggled to get him to his feet.

‘Come on. Couple more yards, then you’re done.’

She put a supporting arm around his shoulder. He showed no reaction as she half-guided/half-carried him to shade and lowered him to the ground beside the fuselage. He didn’t react until she held her canteen to dust-dry lips and let him gulp.

Noble lay in the shade, back propped against the slate hull of the B-52. Heatstroke had set his ears ringing. Hours of sand glare had messed with his sight, made him blink away sunspots like bad concussion.

Frost leant into his field of vision. She waved a hand. She clicked her fingers.

‘Harris. Can you hear me? Can you hear my voice?’

‘Let me rest,’ said Noble, almost inaudible.

‘What happened? How far did you get?’

‘Give me water.’

She held the canteen to his lips and let him drink some more.

‘Did you find anything? Anything at all? Did you make it to the aim point? Did you make contact with anyone?’

Noble wearily shook his head.

‘Bullshit. The entire mission. Nothing but bullshit.’

‘But what did you find?’

‘Death.’

‘Nothing we can use? Nothing at all?’

He shook his head.

Frost fetched the trauma kit. She unzipped it and took out a clear bag of saline.

She stabbed her knife through the aluminium skin of the fuselage and hung the bag. She uncoiled clear tubing, tore open a sterile wrapper and took out a wide bore cannula. She held Noble’s arm and slapped for a vein.

She hesitated, needle poised over skin as she tried to find a trace of blue beneath dust-matted, sunburned skin.

Noble leant forwards. He slowly raised a trembling hand and took the needle. He pumped a fist to boost bloodflow. Needle sunk into a vein. He slumped back against the plane.

Frost lashed the cannula in place with micropore tape and attached the IV tube. She checked the tube for kinks, made sure there was a clear feed.

‘How’s that?’ she asked. ‘Feel better?’

He nodded.

She took a bottle of burn gel from the trauma bag.

‘I’m going to put some of this on your skin, okay? I’ll be gentle.’

She squeezed gel onto her fingers and massaged it into his shoulders and arms.

He held out his hands and let her rub gel onto red-raw fingers.

He tipped his head back and let her wipe gel across his forehead, nose and cheekbones.

She unzipped a side pocket. Saline wash. She held back each lid with a thumb and flushed dust from his eyes.

‘Thanks.’

He blinked away the artificial tears and tried to focus on Hancock. Blurred glimpse of a cruciform figure kneeling, head bowed, in the sand.

‘What’s going on with the AC?’

‘Tell you later,’ said Frost. ‘Rest. Get your strength back.’

He leant his head against the hard metal of the fuselage and closed his eyes.