THE LAST MAN: Part Thirty-five

We round a corner at a run, at least as much as we can muster. I want to put the greatest distance between us and the Reclamation Center, but every step and every heart beat seems an eternity. If it is to be destroyed, and the fighting a diversion to draw in the greatest number of Section Twenty-one troops for slaughter, then I can only conclude that as the battle wanes that the end is near. The gunfire comes in wild spasms, with pauses coming longer and longer.

Desiree holds weakly to my side. If not for me her legs would not be enough to hold her. Her bare feet slip and trip as she fights ground over glass and the refuse of war. The narcotic is wearing off slowly, awakening pain from her battered and burned body. She shouts and slips from my arms, tumbling heavily to the street.

“We have to keep moving,” I draw her into my arms. Desiree presses her face into my chest.

“I can’t go any farther.”

“You must.”

“To where?”

I help her to stand again then lift her partially into my arms. There are troops around the next corner. Down another street there are still more. Section Twenty-one has sealed off the area around the Reclamation Center. Desiree and I take refuge in a deep doorway as I try to figure an escape.

“The sewers!” I exclaim, keeping my voice low to avoid attracting the troops. “We have to find a way to the sewers.”

“I can’t go any father,” Desiree gasps, slumping to the door.

I look up and down the street. We have barely gone more than a few blocks from the Reclamation Center. It rises monstrous and large at the end of the street. The entrance is crowded with Corporation troops. There is no particular urgency to their movements. In the doorway Desiree is huddled beneath the trooper’s jacket, shivering terribly.

“There has to be an entrance nearby,” I return to Desiree, rubbing her arms to warm her.

“I’m freezing,” she moans.

“We have to keep moving,” I urge, wiping dust and sweat from her face.

“Please,” she begs.

I take the trousers and boots from a dead soldier. Desiree dresses quickly, cinching the waist with a simple knot. She falls into my arms, her eyes alive with uncertainty. I know at that moment we have run out of time. Some reflective echo of the unfolding universe betrays the upheaval a moment before it happens. My gut tightens and the air freezes in my throat. Not that knowing offers any greater advantage. No king or general or messiah could confront this moment any better or any worse…