Terminus: A Novella of the Apocalypse by Stephen Donald Huff

Author:Stephen Donald Huff [Huff, Stephen Donald]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Post-Apocalyptic | Infected
Publisher: Capital Ideations LLC
Published: 2016-03-31T04:00:00+00:00

AREA-51

“The way I see it,” I announce authoritatively, “we have a choice.”

Our truck idles at the top of a low hill looking down on the abandoned military installation that can only be the mysterious and officially unnamed Groom Lake Base. We have already passed through a series of gates, all of them rather flimsy and previously breached by other visitors, and now our front bumper points along an unnamed road and directly into the installation with no more obstacles apparent. Clearly, when functional Pre-Terminus, the site relied more on active security than barricades, since the chain-link fences and gates never posed a significant deterrent to entry.

“What sort of choice?” counters The Engineer softly.

“It’s getting dark,” I say, stating the obvious. “We can spend the night here in the truck, or we can keep going to find shelter inside one of those buildings. If we can get inside.”

As though responding to the same cue, we all rotate our heads to glance back the way we have come, memories of those giant spider-lobsters still fresh in our thoughts. Then we return our attention to the monitors, which swim in the shadows of early evening and all the sinister, windowless buildings awaiting us inside Area-51.

“Some choice,” murmurs Chief. “You omitted the third option. We could return to The Village.”

“Actually,” drawls Guide, “it’s less of a choice than you might think. Before we go much further, we have to find diesel.”

Engineer groans, “What is with you and the fuel supply? First its fuzzy bunnies with meat cleavers and now giant insects. Did you hope to find a convenience store out here? Why didn’t we stop in Warm Springs when we had the opportunity?”

Our Asian host shrugs. “I figured it would be more interesting this way. Besides, who cares? I’m not afraid. Are you?”

For a moment, the diminutive man’s mustache twitches angrily, and then he relents. “Right. Sometimes, I… I forget.”

“We all do,” I console on a whisper. “Maybe it’s not so bad, though. Look.”

I point to one of the forward-looking camera views. It focuses on the first set of buildings guarding the road into the wider installation.

“Well, son of a gun,” spouts Chief.

“See? I told you! A convenience store! Like I said, I’m A god, not THE god. Yet.”

“You didn’t know it would be there,” accuses The Engineer. “So just shut up!”

Guide punches keys and the last battered truck of the once mighty Clan of the Immaculate Strangulation rolls forward, down the slight grade, and into the parking lot of the modestly-sized store. It bears no signage and no windows. Not even the fuel pumps are marked.

Without further instruction, his or her hooded head turning warily on the watch for giant spider monsters, the driver exits the truck’s cab to start the fueling process. Cautious and nervous, we exit the cargo bay office and spread out around the truck to admire our surroundings. Even for late fall and early evening, the weather is warm. We all begin to sweat almost immediately. Around us, the landscape is eerily quiet and pastoral.

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