Free Terminus: A Novella of the Apocalypse by Stephen Donald Huff Page A

clear.  Send the kid out to fetch the bag and their footwear.”
    Without opening the gate, a young man of approximately twenty-five scrambles through the tumble of wire and obstructions.  In the half-light of evening and the glare of electrics, we see he is horribly disfigured by excessive scar tissue, which contorts his face and scrawls his neck to his shoulders and beyond.  Fire, I think, or acid.
    Silently, he collects The Girl’s bag and both pair of shoes.  He retreats behind the barricade again.
    For several long minutes, we stand there uncomfortably with our hands raised, flatfooted and expectant.  Behind us, we hear the Clan stirring restlessly, which forces us both to keep our heads on swivels, wary of what The Guide called “pastime happenstance”.
    When the process takes too long, I demand, “Hey, just give us back the shoes and the bag and we’ll leave.  Okay?  Anybody in there?  Yo!”
    They continue to ignore me until a female voice calls gently without the bullhorn, “Are you the one they call ‘The Scientist’?”
    I shrug.  “I suppose I am, though I never picked the name.”
    “Are you scientifically educated?”
    Another shrug, “I was.  Then the world fell apart and I murdered my wife and three children in their sleep.   Now, I just am.  That’s all.”
    “What discipline?”
    “Biology.  Chemistry.  Computer science.  A bit of mathematics.”  Without lowering my hands, since I can still look directly into the black holes of half a dozen rifle bores, I snap my fingers and add, “Oh, and I have an MBA, too.  Does that do anything for you?”
    “Do you have a terminal degree?”
    I know what she means, but I find this question humorous.  Nobody has asked me about my doctorate for five years or so, and I have not previously juxtaposed that sense of the word ‘terminal’ with its newer connotation.  “Give me a break, huh, lady?  It’s getting cold out here, we need a touch-up, and The Girl keeps her makeup in that piece of luggage she calls a purse.”
    She exchanges a sharp glance with me.  Again, I shrug.
    Abruptly, the mobile barricade rolls open.  Those rifle barrels retract into the darkness on the far side of the gate.
    Glancing backward at the brilliantly painted convoy of circus trucks and the small army of crows meandering through the landscaping abutting the road, I am grateful to get inside the camp, whatever it might contain.  Nothing these days is more uncertain than the fickle will of a hundred lunatics and their psychologically damaged keepers.
    Standing in front of the gatehouse situated between the twinned set of double lanes as the gate closes behind us, I spy a well-made middle aged woman, her hair gone prematurely gray, her mocha eyes deeply troubled, her face careworn, and the corners of her lips laced by fine lines of sorrow, as though she has spent the last five years continuously frowning.  Haven’t we all?
    She stares us up and down as we approach.  Once the barricade rolls shut again, she asks, “Who’s the girl?”
    “Just that.  The Girl.”
    “Is she useful?”
    Smiling ruefully, lowering my arms at last, I reply, “Lady, you have no idea.”
    Pointing to a pair of benches positioned along the broad sidewalk that surrounds the guardhouse, where we find our shoes and her purse waiting, the woman instructs, “Get dressed.  We searched the bag.”  Upon seeing The Girl’s body stiffen anxiously, our host assures her, “Don’t worry, child.  We left the machete, or whatever that huge thing is.  And everything else.  The only contraband that concerns us are machine guns and explosives.”
    Sitting to pull up my boots, I grunt, “I suppose garrotes cause you no concern.”
    “Perhaps you think I should apologize for sending a Clan to fetch you,” returns the older woman, “but I won’t.  He offered.  We accepted.  As you can probably guess, nobody much cares how things turn out, anymore.  Nevertheless, we thought