Douglas James McGowan, J H Royal
2025
In the early pre-dawn light, a convoy of military vehicles crawled slowly into the blast zone, their tracks cutting deeply into the fallen ash. The lead vehicle, its treads clacking, approached the edge of a deep crater and stopped. Ash drifted out of the sky like dirty snow. The passenger doors of the lead vehicle unsealed and slid upwards with a hydraulic whine. A figure stepped out of each door and stood on top of the vehicle’s caterpillar tracks. Biohazard suits made the figures shapeless and indiscernible. Both figures studied the area around them through curved face plates set into shapeless hoods. The driver raised his forearm to check a reading on a wrist chrono. He tapped the display a few times, studied it for a moment, and then let his arm drop. The figure at the passenger side retrieved a metal box, toggled some switches, watched a display screen, nodded to the driver, and dropped to the ground. They climbed over the broken ridge of concrete and made their way carefully down the slope. The driver raised his right hand and depressed his throat mic. “The tracker is still pointing northwest. Radiation levels are off the chart. Most likely, it’s the ash producing the increased concentration. We have less time than we thought, Doctor.” The man’s voice had an English accent. The remaining convoy vehicle’s doors opened, and soldiers in matching dark-green radiation suits exited and formed themselves into extended lines. A gravelly voice carried over the comms channel, “Correct, sir. It’s the ash. Emitting its own radiation not accounted for in the sensor sweeps. We have fallen in behind you and the doctor.” The driver glanced over his shoulder. Twin headlamps of each soldier swept metronome arcs through the falling ash. “How accurate is that thing, Doctor?” The driver switched off his throat mic and spoke to her over external speakers. His voice startled him. He wasn’t used to the amplification. He looked towards the doctor, who continued northwest as if he had
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