"I need to go home. Can you take me home?" Ryan Miller was being worked on by one of the doctors that George didn't know. The man's face was a ruin, but he didn't seem to be noticing the agonizing pain. George thought the man must be in shock.
"Sure thing buddy. You know what?" George stood up and turned to face the assembled remainder of the staff on the base. They had pretty much all assembled to watch the remains of B-142 burn. "Everybody listen up. I'm getting the fuck out of here in, lets say," George looked at an imaginary watch, "ten minutes. If you want to get the fuck out of here too, get your stuff and meet me over by the Bell. I've got enough room for everyone."
The staff looked fairly confused at the statement. One of the group stepped forward.
"What the hell is going on George?"
"I don't bloody know do I? Best I can tell, Donaghue went bananas, killed a bunch of people, and blew himself up. I got Miller out. Wasn't in time to save Molly or anyone else though."
Jennifer, the only other woman on the base spoke. "Was John in there?"
"Which one is John?"
"The one with the red hair."
"Oh, yes. Dead." George thought back. He seemed to remember that Jennifer and John came to the base on the same day. The memory was confirmed when Jennifer opened up her mouth in shock, squeaked once, and then collapsed into a sobbing heap. He almost rolled his eyes. "Any more questions? Nine minutes."
***
Near enough everyone had climbed into the back of the helicopter. He tried to think if there were any faces missing. He realised that the skinny, nervous kid with the obviously fake accent who had been working with Donaghue was missing. That said, he had been working with Donaghue, so he was probably dead.
"Fuck him," George thought to himself. He turned around to face his passengers. "Everyone alright back there?" He made eye contact with Miller. There was something off about him, besides the wounds he'd sustained; an emptiness behind his stare. "Miller, you good?"
"Yes, Mr. Shipley. I'm good."
"That's Captain Shipley, Miller." Satisfied, George cycled up the engine, and the group left the base."
***
Before heading home, which for George was a base a couple of hundred miles south of where they currently were, but for everyone else would be several thousand miles in several directions, George headed west to satisfy his curiosity. Donaghue had said there was a Russian submarine out here. There was no harm in looking.
He circled the area a couple of times. In the back, the staff seemed confused, but George ignored them. He didn't see anything. No submarine. No nothing. He started to head south, plotting a wide arc so as to avoid Markham if at all possible. A few minutes later he saw them. Two groups of figures down in the snow engaged in a gunfight.
The first group were military, equipped in full arctic gear. He didn't recognize the garb. They were attempting to make a tactical retreat from the second group.
"They're here for me. We must go, now." Ryan Miller was standing, leaning over the back of George's seat. It was like he was talking inside George's head, just like that female voice had back at B-142. George obeyed. He turned away from the pitched battle and pushed the helicopter hard towards the south-east. He didn't intend to take the action. It just happened, as if his arms, his hands, his mind were not his own.
"Do not submit George Shipley," the female voice said, joining Miller's. "The Miller is no longer the man you know. He is Xyctexyct; destroyer. You must not take him from this place."
"Who are you?" George said aloud.
"Ignore the heretic. We must go."
"Don't you recognize my voice Georgie?" Her face appeared in his head as he had last seen it; eyes wide and desperate as she dumped Donaghue into the back of the Bell-212. Shaking her head and running back towards the Markham base, and certain death.
"Holness? I never... you're deaf. You didn't..."
"Ah, yes. That's right. Sorry. I haven't been..."
"HERETIC! BEGONE, YOU FOUL WASTE OF FLESH."
"Oh, shut up. God, he's such a child. If you take him back to the mainland, he'll enslave everyone. You have to stop him."
"How?" George asked. No reply came. No more voices. George realised his arms were his own again. He glanced over his shoulder. All of the staff in the back of the chopper sat mouths agape, eyes rolled back into their heads. Miller stood, writhing against some invisible force. Something was moving under his flesh.
Well shit, thought George to himself. He pushed the helicopter into an ascent. He wondered to himself if this was the purpose in life that had eluded him since he'd left the military. He wondered if all that sadness and loneliness and the occasional cold blooded act was justified by these final moments. He realized that he would be killing everyone aboard, but that was fine. It wasn't like he'd feel guilty about it.
He turned hard to the right and then cut the engines. The Bell-212 started to tumble. Miller, the only person in the vehicle not strapped into his seat, slammed into the left side bank of seats, smashing into a couple of passengers and waking them from whatever had been keeping them docile. They started to scream. George saw the ground beneath him, and then the sky, and then the ground again. He smiled and closed his eyes.
Peace at last.
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