The Once and Future Kings

Urban Decay-5

“Jesus,” said Lazaro, before the overheads had even finished flickering on. “I mean ... Who was this thing even built for, Godzilla?”

I stared at the vehicle, which was the length of a small yacht, say, 50 feet. “Well, not to put too fine a point on it, it was built for us. Or whoever survived whatever apocalypse Dannon had dreamed up.”

I approached the rover and slid my hand up one of the tires—which was taller than I was, by about a foot. “Welcome to the world of big tech billionaires and their passion projects.” The rubber felt stiff, unyielding, like polished wood. “His was to build a fully self-contained armored expedition vehicle—a kind of mini-Noah’s Ark—something that could not only sustain life but go about exploring what was left of the world—if and when the s**t ever hit the fan.”

I circled the big rig while gazing up at its slanted cab and wide, black grill, its array of lights, its giant push and roll bars. The thing was like a van-version of the Cybertruck but on f*****g steroids. “Reckon he was like Mr. Musk—in need of a challenge, but also a moral imperative to justify it. For him that was this apocalypse he saw coming.” I paused to examine the roof turret and what appeared to be a .50-caliber machine gun. “A virus, maybe. Or a war. Dinosaurs probably weren’t in his game plan.”

“Looks they were getting ready to test it,” said Sam. “Look.”

I looked to where a massive steel ramp (we’d descended stairs to get to the production floor) ended at an equally massive door. “Good. Looks like this might be easier than we—”

There was a rattle of weapons followed by Lazaro shouting, “Stop! Get on the ground!” —and I hurried to see what the commotion was; at which instant I saw a man in a blue shop-coat standing by a huge sphere and holding what looked like a small, olive-colored ball over his head—a ball with a ring attached, through which he’d looped a trembling finger.

“He’s got a bomb!” I shouted—but resisted raising my rifle. “Everyone just chill! Okay?”

No one did—chill, that is—but no one fired either, and a moment or two passed in silence.

At last the man said, “See this big tank here, this round monstrosity?” He indicated the white metal container next to him, which was taller even than he was. “That would be propylene gas—enough to level this entire floor, maybe the building itself. See this?” He nodded at the olive-colored ball. “That’s your standard military-issue hand grenade, courtesy of the kids who were stationed here before they and the city fell. See those?” He nodded at some handles and hoses near the floor. “Those are the valves I loosened as you were making your way here. If you don’t smell it yet, you will. It’s strong. Now. Any questions?”

“Only one,” I said, and pushed up my glasses. “What do you want?”

He shifted his footing as though preparing for a long standoff. “I want you to lower your weapons,” he said, and wiggled his fingers near the pin—keeping himself on his toes. “Lower them and kick them toward me, all of you. Then we’ll talk.”

Nobody said anything.

At last I set down my rifle and motioned for the others to do the same. “Do it,” I said, and slowly raised my arms. “You too, Lazaro. Let’s go.”

The weapons clattered as they were placed on the floor and punted toward him.

He lowered his arms cautiously. “There, see? We’re still capable of it—rational thought. It hasn’t gone the way of the dinosaur.” He laughed at that, but kept the grenade close to his chest. “Yet.”

He looked at our weapons as though running calculations through his head. “There’s Neanderthals roaming the streets, did you know that? Real ones—not supporters of President Tucker.” He paused, seeming to size us all up. “Remember them? With their little red hats and faces all puffed in rage?” He chuckled. “Fell off the flat earth, I guess. No, these are genuine Homo sapiens neanderthalensis—right beside modern man and triceratops; right beside honkers from the Jurassic and Cretaceous and Triassic. Just sort of one big medley—like Time itself was put in a blender, or a concrete mixer, or a cream separator, and churned.”

He seemed to relax a little and even lowered the grenade.

“I’m Ewan, by the way. Ewan Homes. I—I was Gargantua’s chief engineer. Before life put us all in the blender.”

“Jamie,” I said. “Jamie Klein. This is Sam.” I indicated the others. “That’s Lazaro, Nigel, and Joan. We—we’re from Issa—”

“Jamie, don’t,” interrupted Sam.

“It’s all right,” I said—and meant it. I trusted him; I don’t know why. “We’re from Issaquah. Got a camp there in what used to be a drive-in theater; it’s got walls, vegetable gardens, some chickens and goats—there’s even some generators, if you want to watch a movie. The thing is—Ewan—it’s not overcrowded. And what I’m going to suggest just now is that—"

“Nothing leaves this facility,” he snapped—simply, with finality. “That includes me.” He raised the grenade tentatively and reached for the pin—then hesitated, his eyes searching mine, or seeming to. “No ... no, I don’t hear it. It’s not there.” He lowered the olive-colored explosive slowly, tentatively. “The guile of the predator, the cunning of the fox. It’s not there. You speak ... earnestly.”

I let down my arms carefully, incrementally, maintaining eye contact. “I speak as someone who has sought Gargantua while not knowing it had a guardian, a sentinel, which is yourself, or at least how you see yourself. I speak as someone who has faced the Big Empty alone just as you have—and knows it is not for lack of bread that a man dies, but lack of purpose, and that you have found yours in the guarding of this machine, this vehicle—a vehicle that, for whatever reason, you cannot even drive yourself, or you would have done so already. And I’ll offer you another way—Ewan, chief engineer at Austin Dynamics and Land Systems, whose budget was 8.5 million per fiscal year and who’s assistant was named Roman Daystrom, your best friend—if you’ll just turn off that f*****g gas.”

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