He shrugged his indifference, taking a page from the book of Abramson and Perlo. Didn’t matter.
“Over here, we have the command center,” he continued, his narration of his daily routine, a smooth and practiced recitation by now. “You may remember its purpose. The missiles are monitored from here. All of them, all over the United States. All those that haven’t already been dispatched to their intended targets.” He grinned knowingly. “The launch switches are kept under lock and key, even if there’s no one but me left to launch them. Kind of silly at this point, when you think about it. I mean, why monitor all this when there’s really no reason. You know, before we had a world to be concerned about. When we had people and animals and cities and towns and hope. When we had a working civilization. All gone now. All you have to do is look at the monitoring screens and you can tell. There’s nothing out there. Nothing that matters, anyway. A few people, sure. A few monsters, too. But nothing of importance. Nothing that is going to change what’s happened. We let it go too far for that. We let it decay like a set of bad teeth. We didn’t brush. We didn’t floss or rinse.”
His grin widened. Excellent analogy, he told himself. He had gone away from his usual narration, but he didn’t care. It felt good.
“You think about it a moment, you’ll see I’m right. We just ignored what was right in front of our eyes. We didn’t take care of business. Not the business that really mattered. We were too busy living our lives to do that. So now what do we have?”
He paused, considering. “I’ll tell you what we have. We have what we deserve.”
He saw both Abramson and Perlo nod in agreement and was encouraged. They understood. They knew he was right. That was a part of why they stayed with him. They liked listening to what he had to say. It helped pass the time for them, too.
Impulsively, he walked over to the command console and seated himself at the launch board. A faint memory surfaced of that time, now long past, when the last general strike had been called in from the National Command Authority, and he and the other key holder, Graves or whatever—now, that was an appropriate name—had activated the triggers to missiles housed in launch silos all over the country.
How long ago had that been, anyway?
He could do that again right now, if he chose. It was a thought that crossed his mind at least several times a day. His retinal scan and the keys slung around his neck were all that was needed. Once, he would have needed authority from farther up the chain of command, a direct order come down from the general. But there wasn’t any chain of command left. There wasn’t anyone left but himself. He had to accept that. All his efforts at communication with the outside world had failed. He still tried, now and then. He still kept an open channel on the broadband. He still scanned the surrounding countryside through the monitors. He still hoped.
But he knew it was pointless.
Why don’t you just do it?
He jumped at the sound of the voice. It was Perlo who had spoken. But Perlo never spoke! None of his buddies did. He wheeled his chair around and stared at the other’s face, shocked.
Really, I mean it. Why don’t you just do it?
He knew what Perlo was talking about, and he was vaguely resentful that the other man thought he had a right to make such a suggestion. It wasn’t up to him. He was dead, a ghost. What did he know?
But then he saw Abramson nodding in agreement. Abramson, for whom he had more respect, thought Perlo was right!
Wills stared at them for a moment and then turned back to the console, studying the blinking lights and the bright empty screens as if they had something to tell him. He thought about it for a long time, and the prospect became a faint buzzing in his brain that teased at him with feathery touches, causing him to itch all over.
Why not? He could launch just one, see what happened. Just one.
What difference could it possibly make?
Once, not that long ago, such an act would have been unthinkable. But he had become increasingly convinced that no one deserved to live once he was gone. After all, what had they done to help look after things? He had seen what was out there, and it wasn’t human. Or not human enough to matter.
Even so, he still required a better reason than that. He had that much discipline left in him.
You launch one, you might attract attention. Someone might come for you, get you out.
Perlo again. He glared over his shoulder at the other man, wanting him to mind his own business. The command center was his responsibility. The missiles were in his care. No one had the right to tell him what to do with them. Certainly not a ghost.