He died. He died right in front of you. She barely felt the vibration of the helicopter as she saw the shadow of the dead thing rise up from the grass in her memory.
His eyes...........Damn.........his eyes,
A chill passed over her shoulders. Molly crossed her arms for warmth and comfort. She’d seen so many of them over the years. But, it was always different. They were not a faceless horde. Their faces held individuality, the child on the road on the way to Elkin, the one who had grabbed her in Cleveland and the poor homeless man in Washington. Each face had distinct definition in her eyes. They were something to someone at one point in their lives.
Did they still have souls? Molly looked at the fine point between the landscape and sky on the horizon. The ever defining edge between the Earth and stars offered a clue. There has to be a cutting point between the living and dead. We just haven’t found it. Perhaps we shouldn’t go there just yet. Molly concluded. We might not be ready for what we’d find.
Evening Miss, nice night for a walk. She glanced at the soldier and tried to keep her mouth from wrinkling up in disdain.
When was the last time you had been afraid like that? She asked herself. Always, the answer was quick on the tip of her tongue. You are a woman walking at night through an unknown neighborhood. Fear came with the territory. It just came in varying degrees. But it was always there in the corner of your mind.
Fear......
The things you can’t see, the footsteps of someone behind you or the car passing by slowly. It all amounted to the fear of being a woman. You’ve felt it all the time. You just feel it more now. That’s right, the fear of being a woman. She chanced a casual glance toward the soldier. He seemed to be napping now. Just try to explain that to a man like him, just try to explain living with fear. She watched him now for a long, extended heartbeat.
Would he understand? Could he understand? She exhaled slowly. A closed mind is a closed mind, that’s it. They are the ones who say they never understand women, the thread of thought wound to its’ conclusion. But, we might have some level of understanding now.
These days, we’re both afraid to walk alone at night.
Her thoughts wandered from the star light to the pilot’s compartment as the control panels spoke in equations she could not understand. Molly sat up slightly and watched modern chronometer’s move with the pitch and feel of the machine. Molly’s memory recalled other airborne rides with troops in the last five years of struggle. The control panels had a more retro feel to them. They were basic, simple and straightforward. The odd upgrade had been bolted or cut into the control panel here and there but the feel was always the same, whirling metal blades that reverberated through the entire fabric of the vehicle and into your bones.
Her eyes explored the LED displays over the pilots shoulder. Molly tried to be nonchalant while taking in as much as possible. The smooth symmetry of everything in the cockpit was in a word futuristic. She placed her fingers carefully on the compartment wall and let her fingertips touch the non-metallic surface. The feel was different here. The jarring resonance of older machines had been replaced by an almost pulsing whisper. It was like a magic carpet ride.
In her mind’s eye she saw the machine earlier appear out of the darkness suddenly, barely visible in the night sky. As she came closer Molly saw a hub cap like device above the rotors, a deflector of noise by studious engineering. The roar of the machine had been reduced to a purr. There was the body of the airborne beast to be considered as well. It was sleek and black, like the muscular skin of an athletic race horse. There were no hard edges, just rounded curves wrapped in infinite black.
“This is a stealth helicopter.” Molly whispered suddenly. The soldier she had talked to earlier seemed to prick up his ears when she spoke.
“That is impossible, ma’am.” The co-pilot replied amicably, he was checking a dial or two and tweeking something on the control panel to his right.
“Really?” Molly raised an eyebrow.
“Stealth helicopters don’t officially exist, ma’am.” The co-pilot turned around to face her with a polite smile on his face. “How could we be possibly flying in something that doesn’t officially exist?”
“You’re right,” She followed his train of thought with a half-smile and a nod. “We couldn’t possibly be flying in something that doesn’t officially exist.”
“Exactly my point, ma’am,” The co-pilot replied.
“How silly of me,” Molly almost gave him a wink.
“Not at all, Miss Hunter.”
*
“Coming up on the Dixie, sir,” The lead vehicle spoke briefly into the radio.
The Commander sat up in his hatch and pulled the night vision glasses up to his eyes. The ride had been slow and steady. The lack of road signs on the Gene Snyder Freeway had created a nagging sensation that they were lost. Finally, a green sign had announced:
VALLEY STATION NEXT RIGHT,
Below it, a brown sign added as an afterthought:
PATTON MUSEUM NEXT RIGHT,
They were heading in the right direction. The only other sign of life in the last 30 minutes had been two sentries at Woodbridge Drive who had waved at their column, assuming they were friendlies. The Commander waved back casually and the facade had been maintained.
Terminate with extreme prejudice. The order stuck into his core as a proud man and Commander. All that guy had done was take a picture. Did they really give him that order? The real truth was a few layers deeper inside him. Did you really follow it? He pondered the roadway and its occasional wretched figure among the ruins. What will they ask you to do next? He inhaled and tried to find himself. You need to ask yourself, where will you draw the line?
You could draw a million lines in the sand. But what do you do when they are crossed? An inconclusive sigh was the only answer for now.
They had decided on US Route 31 West because of its relative lack of towns nearby. There were few prying eyes and far less traffic to run into. The rusted wreckage on the highway and in ditches and fields nearby seemed to blend into the landscape. After a while they began to take on the same familiarity of scrub brush and cactus in a desert scene, part of the surroundings, but hardly noticeable.
The vehicles cornered slowly and descended from the Gene Snyder Freeway to the Dixie (US Route 31) below. The Commander allowed his gaze to rest on the freeway’s bridge above the Dixie. An eighteen wheeler and its trailer were suspended almost straight up from the bridge to the highway below. The cabin had been crushed on impact. The trailer was vertical in the air. He allowed himself a moment to marvel at this defiance of all things gravitational.
The Commander had a harder time ignoring the figures that seemed to sway forward at the sound of his convoy. A woman with the same chestnut brown hair color of his wife stood at the side of the road and watched his approach with a hint of curiosity. As he passed by her head swiveled suddenly and she bared her teeth at him and hissed. He had a chance second to look into the pus yellow and black orbs of her eyes. It was like falling into a pit of darkness and forever.
What happened if you looked into those eyes for too long? What would you see? It was a second of vertigo insanity, a dizzying seizure that threatened to spread through his system and take control. He was suddenly very cold.
“Jesus,” he whispered. “I’ll never get used to them.”
“Yes sir.” Someone quietly agreed over the radio. Some chills were universal.
*
“Don’t you think we’ve played this game long