Useless missiles trace lines across the sky above us.
The jets follow, not peeling away. They’re trying to buy time again. But for another MOAB? Or something worse? Seeing our flight-path through the North End is a perfectly straight line, I nearly ask Woodstock to fly us backwards again, but then I notice a tall building, beyond the North End, at the end of the street, still has most of its reflective windows. Looking at the reflection, I can see behind us into the harbor, all the way to Nemesis. The jets close in.
They’re too close…
And then it happens. Nemesis stands tall and spins around. Her chest heaves a few times, expanding. Her neck flexes like a dog about to puke.
I have no expletives to express how I feel at this moment.
So I just watch as Nemesis performs the super-sized equivalent of hocking a loogie. But the wad that comes out isn’t mucus. It’s a bright orange globule—her explosive fluid contained in some kind of clear viscous film. It arcs through the air, heading for the jets. For a moment I think it’s actually going to strike one of the jets, but the pilots are accustomed to thinking fast, and their planes are even faster. The problem is that the glowing projectile, if left unhindered, will sail clear over the North End and land smack dab in Boston’s heart, erasing all of what’s left of the city.
Of the thirty-plus pilots in the sky, one of them must realize this, too, because a missile launches from an F-22 before it turns away and kicks on its afterburners.
The missile strikes home as we clear the North End and emerge over the lower buildings in Boston’s downtown. “Stay low!”
The light from the resulting explosion turns my eyes away from the reflective windows. To the left, I see the green swath of grass that is the Boston Common, just beyond the Beacon Hill neighborhood. If we have to land rough, that’s the place to do it.
As the initial blast of light fades, I turn back toward the reflection of the North End, already a mile away. An orange glow chases us. Gaining. It slips through the North End like the buildings were made of air. The already stressed ruins just shatter. The metal glows yellow and melts away. What was left of the North End, is reduced to dust. It’s the last thing I see before the reflective windows providing my view shatter and fall to the ground, tiny twinkling lights.
The pressure wave strikes us hard, pitching us forward, while the concussive sound of the explosion pounds against our ears and cracks Betty’s windshield. Then we’re out of it, cruising low over the Commons and a string of swan boats.
While everyone catches their breath, I say, “Bring us up and around. I want to see.”
We quickly top out at two thousand feet, high enough to see the harbor from a safe distance. The North End is gone. It’s not just ruins now, it’s totally obliterated. Wiped off the map. A flattened swatch of scorched earth.
I need to have a chat with President Colossal Fuck-Up.
Just as soon as I go to the hospital, have surgery and begin physical therapy. My only consolations are that Boston was empty, so no one died, and that Endo looks as shitty as I do.
“Woodstock,” I say, leaning back and closing my eyes. “Hospital. Rapido.”
30
Chris Marshal’s vacation had finally turned a corner. He’d traveled to Thailand from New York City, where he worked as a day trader. His life was loud and chaotic and focused on things he wasn’t sure he cared about any more. Like money. Sure, he understood and appreciated what money could do for him, but the daily act of gathering and hoarding numbers like a squirrel preparing for winter had become a hollow act. At least the squirrel worked for its survival. He toiled for what? More. That’s it. More. So he fled to Thailand for a week of mind clearing, and maybe the comfort of a woman. Or two. But Bangkok didn’t feel very different from New York. Sure, it smelled, looked and sounded different, but the vibe was the same. All eyes turned inward, seeing only what the self desired.
So he fled again, this time taking the train south to Thailand’s mountainous Pak Song region, where a carpet of green rainforest covered everything. There were no tourists and the locals spoke only Thai, which he got around using the translation app on his smart phone. Despite the communication barrier, he was greeted with smiles everywhere he went. After a week of lounging around, trying new foods and making new friends, he felt a little more human. A little less dirty in his soul. But he also felt restless.