The Black Seas of Infinity by Dan Henk Page A

The last
thing I needed was a visit by a good Samaritan.
    I arrived at the dirt road leading up to the
cabin before the sun had fully risen. Jerking the Mustang onto the
trail, I was enveloped by shadows. The blanket of leaves tempered
the brightening sky, the foliage parting in rifts to let through
dusky rays of sunlight. The trees seemed thicker and older here, as
if New York had ancient secrets hidden in its shadows. A carpet of
fallen leaves covered everything in sight, venturing out onto the
road in small peninsulas, the landscape of organic debris sprinkled
with drops of early morning dew. Small rocks and detritus pounded a
constant drumbeat against the walls of the Mustang, the heavily
pitted trail pitching the car about and forcing me to slow down.
The cabin came into view, a darkly wooded log chalet set atop a
slight hill. The woods surrounding it cast long shadows over the
roof, the winter shedding burying the lodge in a patchwork blanket
of yellow and orange. The roof extended over a wooden porch, a
hammock hanging lank under the shade. The whole lodge looked turn
of the century, with its portico and balustrade made of aged wood
and its sidewalls rows of trunks, the bark still clinging to the
timber. I wondered how much history this place had known. It seemed
to exude an aura, not so much evil as ancient and faintly cryptic,
as if the premises had a story to tell. I had only been here a few
times, but already this cabin felt like home, a refuge from the
stressful anxiety of the past few days.
    I circled around, climbing up the slight hill
and following the overgrown path of cobblestones to the red
generator hugging the back porch. The rear deck was less
substantial than the front, consisting of a small outcropping of
wooden planks shouldered by a few steps. The machine should be
full—all of this followed a blueprint I had formulated months ago.
I braced my foot on the tank and pulled the cord. Nothing. I pulled
again and it sputtered to life. Ascending the steps, I pulled open
the torn screen door and tried the knob, unable to remember if I
had locked it. No point out here. It opened with a creak, and I
stepped into a gloomy kitchen. Drifting particles of dust floated
in a yellow haze, caught in the shaft of light pouring through the
window over the sink. They seemed frozen in midair, flecks of white
inhabiting the empty space. I rounded the oak dinner table,
strolled down the hallway to the living room, and slowly lowered
myself onto the dark brown couch. It was seven in the morning, but
this body never seemed to tire. Even though I was sitting, the pose
seemed more an instinct. No slack was involved—that actually seemed
to involve more work.
    I had what I’d always desired, but now came
the tricky part. How to use it. There was plenty I wanted to do. To
explore. But it would be difficult without a human face. I had
killed several government agents, so there would be people looking
for me. Although if any government got its hands on me, they’d
probably want to study me, not destroy me outright. That could be
an even worse predicament. I needed to get out of the US and into a
second or third world country, where the surveillance technology
wasn’t as sophisticated. I might be able to get away with more if I
had less hindrance. It seemed half the advantage to being in a more
developed country was the ubiquitous convenience. Stores on every
block catering to each individual need, advanced technology in
everything from medicine to electronics. But none of that was an
issue for me anymore. If I could get to South America, I would have
much more freedom.
    I wanted to explore the vanished
civilizations down there. In my current state, it would be easy. I
just needed to make a little road trip and cross the border without
being noticed. By the time I was finished, the heat on me should
have died down, and I could conduct myself a little more openly. I
decided that would be the best course of action. I would take