The Last Run: A Novella (8 page)

“I’ll be right back,” Mulligan said. When she didn’t respond, Mulligan grabbed a handhold and slowly pulled himself upright. He returned to the second compartment and stepped over Peter’s body as he had his way back to the medical locker. He rummaged through it, looking for what he might need. He removed the hard plastic Aspen collar there, as well as some extra pads and cold packs in the event CJ might have more blunt trauma impacts that might need attention. He also pulled out an orange shock blanket, still in its cellophane wrapper. As an afterthought, he shoved some painkillers and a bottle of water in his pockets. It was tough for him to carry everything, for he had to move carefully because of his injuries, as well as due to the items that had been scattered across the SCEV’s deck—cushions from the dining settee, the contents of several lockers that had sprung open, even one portion of the decking itself, which had popped upward and formed a hazardous ledge which threatened to trip him up. And, of course, Peter Lopez’s slowly-cooling body.

Mulligan returned to the cockpit. CJ stared out the viewports now, her tears drying on her cheeks. For a moment, he feared she might have died while he was in the second compartment, but he could see the slow rise and fall of her chest as he eased inside the tight space. The mushroom could still loomed overhead, and as he slowly squatted down beside her and dumped the items he carried onto the deck, he found himself staring up at its great bloom. As horrifying as it was, there was something awe-inspiring about the cloud, something that bordered on being beautiful. He had no idea how he could even consider that.

Tess. The kids…

“Are you…you back?” CJ gasped beneath the mask.

“Yeah. Let me help you get squared away.”

“How…did Peter…die?”

Mulligan fussed with the cervical collar, opening it and examining the various tabs that would hold it in place once he had it fitted around CJ’s neck. He would have to move carefully. He had already adjusted her position once, and he didn’t want to cause further injury when he put the collar on her. Thankfully, the copilot’s seat offered a lot of support, so he wouldn’t have to move her all that much.

“I guess we rolled over,” Mulligan said. “I’m sorry. He was already gone when I found him. I did my best, CJ. Really.”

“I know,” CJ whispered.

“I need to put this collar on you. I’m going to try to be as gentle as I can, but if you feel any pain, let me know. All right?”

“Yeah.”

Mulligan removed the oxygen mask from her face. He supported her head as he elevated the seat and slowly raised the back slightly, just enough to tilt CJ forward. He then slipped on the cervical collar and closed it around her neck, pulling the straps as tight as he felt was safe. Gently, he pushed her back into the seat and reclined it a bit, then slipped the O2 mask back onto her face. He tore open the plastic bag wrapped around the shock blanket, then draped the orange fabric over her body.

“How do you feel?”

“Neck hurts,” she said. “Bad.”

“All right. I’ll give you something for that in a bit. Do you hurt anywhere else?”

“No. Can’t…can’t feel…anything else.”

Mulligan lifted the blanket and did a check of her extremities, being as thorough as he could under the circumstances. “Can you breathe any better? Is the oxygen helping?”

“Not really,” CJ said. “My sight…starting to come back. Outside…is that…the cloud?”

“Yeah. The glare is starting to go away?” Mulligan thought that was a good sign. He knew a nuclear flash caused bleaching of the visual pigment in the retina, allowing the optic nerves to overload. He’d been told it would last only for a few minutes, but clearly the clinicians who had made the observations had never had a case study that had been sitting in ringside seats to a nuclear explosion.

“Better.” CJ took a deep, troubling breath. “You should…go.”

Mulligan looked up. “What?”

“Go…your family. Get some suits…you should…hurry.”

Mulligan didn’t know what to say. Leaving CJ was out of the question…but then, so was staying with her. There was practically zero chance that help would ever arrive, and the odds of being able to make it to the house and then back to Harmony in MOPP gear was effectively the same.

“I don’t think I can leave you like this,” he said woodenly, and found he was disgusted with himself when he found a small part of him had already been considering it.

“Scott…you have to…live.” CJ’s eyes moved, as if casting about, hoping to see him, despite her blindness. “Someone has to take care…of Rachel. You…you have to live.”

Mulligan swallowed. “Rachel’s in a safe place, CJ. She’s going to be
fine.
Don’t worry about her.”

“You…need to go,” CJ said, her voice a light murmur beneath the mask. “You…need…to save…them. No chance…for me.”

“CJ…”

She closed her eyes. “Rachel,” she said. “Oh, baby…”

CJ stopped breathing.

“CJ!” Mulligan grabbed one of her hands, and pried one of her eyes open. The pupil there was already dilating, as the muscles in her eye slowly relaxed, growing slack. Mulligan tightened the straps holding the mask in place, then reclined the seat as far back as it would go. It would be better to remove CJ from the copilot’s seat and stretch her out on the deck, but he was afraid to do so—her injuries were obviously severe, and the movement might make the damage irreparable.

He began CPR for the second time that day, and as hot tears burned his eyes, a small voice inside him begged him to let CJ go, and stop wasting time.

***

B
Y THE TIME
he stopped trying to revive CJ, the mushroom cloud had begun to break up, courtesy of the higher winds at altitude. It was just a mass of dirty smoke now, slowly fading away, a black, crooked finger reaching into the sky. His back, neck, and arms were on fire. The oxygen canister had depleted its charge long ago, rendering the mask useless. Mulligan left it on CJ’s face. Her skin was damp from his tears, and his throat was raw from shouting at her to come back. He had worked on her for more than twice as long as he had Peter, and he was exhausted, completely wrung out. He finally collapsed to the deck between the two cockpit seats, his lower back pressed against the center console, its hard metal edge biting into him. He ignored it. Compared to the rest of his pain, it was practically a lover’s kiss.

“I killed my friends,” he said to himself. His voice sounded ragged and hollow inside the silent vehicle. “Oh fuck me, I killed
both
of them.”

He looked down the length of the rig. While large on the outside, SCEVs weren’t exactly cavernous on the inside—all the room was taken up by gear and machinery, leaving just a little over four hundred square feet of living space. From the cockpit, he could look down the entire length of the rig, where lockers had popped open, strewing unsecured articles across the decking. Maintenance panels in the overhead had popped open as well, exposing ductwork and electrical components. In the rear of the rig, the door to the latrine hung crazily on one hinge, and the emergency light back there flickered irregularly, like a faulty heart threatening to quit. From his perspective, Mulligan could see the cabin’s lines were slightly off, as if the rig had been slightly twisted when it rolled over. Judging by the debris field he had seen through the viewports, that didn’t seem like a very farfetched notion. It was a wonder the rig’s pressure seals hadn’t been compromised.

His friends were dead, and there was nothing he could do about that. And their passing had left him with the time to finally consider what to do next. His family was still out there, somewhere. He didn’t know what condition they were in—the house was far enough from the explosion to have probably been spared most of the effects of the shockwave that had raced across the plain and tossed One Truck aside like a child’s toy, but the radiation was all-encompassing. Rationally, he knew that things had progressed past the “they don’t have much time” point. While they might not be dead yet, that condition was certainly going to become a reality, much sooner than any loving God would have arranged.

Not giving up on them. No fucking way.

Ignoring the pain that shot through him, Mulligan hauled himself to his feet. He stepped over Peter’s body without even looking at it, and went to the Extra-Vehicular Activity locker, where the MOPP suits were stored. The white Mission Oriented Protective Posture suits were specially-made, full-body garments constructed specifically for Harmony Base. The exteriors were made from monacrylic fibers, which were in turn reinforced with polyamide fibers, giving each suit a strong, hard-wearing outside surface. The monacrylic fibers ensured high fire-retardance, and a silicone treatment had been applied to make the garment waterproof. This permitted the rapid spreading of liquid chemicals, which would in turn speed up evaporation. The second layer of each suit acted as biological and chemical barrier that would serve to protect the wearer from exposure to non-nuclear threats. Each suit would fit a wide range of anthropomorphic sizes, though Mulligan wondered how effective they would be when it came to his daughters. The SCEV carried nothing suitable for children. All those were back at Harmony, since kids hadn’t been envisioned serving on any of the field teams. He stuffed the suits into a sturdy, weatherproof duffel bag, then threw in several masks and air filters. He couldn’t possibly carry air supplies for everyone, not in his current condition, but if they could make it back to the rig, he could reprovision everyone easily enough. He added medical supplies to the bag—bandages, sterilizers, antibacterial cleansers, combat gauze, cravats, a sling, three flashlights. Then he added pouches of sterile drinking water. It would be a long hike back to Harmony, especially for his kids.

After that, he pulled on one of the suits himself. With no one to check his work, it took him longer to get fully suited up than he would have liked. He did take a full respirator assembly, which would give him three hours of canned air, hopefully enough to get him to the house. After that, he’d pitch the tank and use the filter, or share the remainder with Tess and girls. Still a combat soldier, he checked the weapons locker. It was empty. Mulligan despaired slightly at that, since there could be trouble on the way to or from the house—survivors would be able to clearly tell Mulligan was well-equipped, and they might get some ideas. He had no way to actively repel them, so he would just have to hope for the best, and improvise if shit hit the fan again.

Finally satisfied that he was as prepared as he could be, he did one last sweep through the SCEV. He had everything he needed. It was time to get going.

With no power, he had to use the manual overrides to open the inner airlock door. It squeaked in its track, which was a troubling sign—clearly, it had been damaged in the rollover, but it closed firmly behind him when he pushed inside the airlock. The battery-powered emergency light snapped on as soon as the door closed, and he was able to find the emergency evacuation handle for the outer clamshell doors. He pulled it, but it didn’t budge. Pressing his left palm against the bulkhead, he pulled harder. When it refused to move, he threw all his weight backwards, adding his almost 230-pound frame to the game. The handle moved then, slowly sliding into the open position.

The outer airlock doors did not move. Mulligan pushed on them, groaning from the pain the exertion caused. He couldn’t get the doors to open, or to even move in the slightest. After a few moments, he decided it was obvious they had been damaged in the rollover, crushed into place. That plus the squeak of the inner airlock door proved that the rig had suffered some substantial frame damage. To his relief, he found the inner door still worked, and he reentered the rig’s second compartment. He walked to the sleeping compartment and, in the spasmodic illumination caused by the flickering light there, tried to open the rig’s tailgate. It popped open less than two inches before it stopped, and a battery-powered alarm sounded, indicating that the sensors there had detected contaminants entering the rig. Mulligan pushed and kicked at the bottom-hinged door, swearing behind his full-face mask and sweating inside the protective suit. But like the airlock doors, the tailgate was also damaged, and there was no way to open it enough to slip outside. Even if he stripped off everything and oiled himself up, there was no way he could possibly fit through the gap between the door and the thick frame. He tried levering it open with a crow bar, but that got him nowhere.

You’re wasting your strength,
he told himself. He grabbed the handle in the door’s center and pulled it closed. It slammed shut, and he locked the latches in place. The alarm continued to shriek until he slapped its reset button, and then it only chirped every thirty seconds.

Mulligan slogged back to the cockpit. The side ports next to the pilot and copilot seats were also emergency exits. Both were impassable; the pilot’s exit was jammed completely shut, and the copilot’s would only open halfway, not even enough for Mulligan to shove the bag through. He tried to force the port open with the crowbar, but couldn’t get any traction on it. In frustration, he tried to shatter the tough polycarbonate viewport itself, but no matter how hard he tried, he could do nothing more than nick its surface.

Exhausted, Mulligan collapsed beside CJ’s body, the crowbar clanging to the deck beside him. He was trapped in a totaled SCEV, with two dead people for company.

His family was out there.

And he couldn’t get to them.

Embrace the suck,
he told himself, before he began screaming.

***

H
OURS PASSED.
Mulligan pulled himself together long enough to haul CJ’s body from the copilot’s seat. He dragged it to where Peter lay, rested a few minutes, then dragged both of them to the sleeping compartment. He found he didn’t have the strength to put them in the racks, so he left them on the floor. Their final resting place had beds, but he couldn’t get them into one.

Life’s tough.

He went back to the cockpit and hammered on the viewport some more. The crowbar made dull, metallic twangs every time it struck the polycarbonate viewport. His arms were killing him, so he choked down some pain reliever and went back to work. Bang. Bang. Bang. Every now and then, he’d be rewarded as a tiny, almost microscopic sliver of transparent armor broke off, leaving another dimple in the viewport’s surface. He needed a demo charge to blow the port off, and he didn’t happen to have anything like that on him.