Mother Ship

by Scott Bartlett

  Thompson. Had she been compromised by the enemy?

  He decided it was wisest not to find out.

  On the edge of the clearing where they’d made their camp, Jimmy still lay against Ollie’s saddle, clearly trying to put off rising for as long as possible.

  Chambers crossed to him and placed the toe of his boot against Jimmy’s ribcage.

  “Up.”

  Wincing, Jimmy pushed himself off the ground. Clearly, he doubted Chambers would actually kick him about as much as Max did—that was, he didn’t doubt it at all.

  Despite Jimmy’s lifelong experience riding horses, of the three of them, he seemed to be in the worst shape after their days in the saddle. That surprised Max. I guess the PT at the academy was good for more than escaping the drill instructor’s attention.

  “Who said you could use a saddle for a pillow?” Chambers demanded as Jimmy carried the leather seat to heave onto Ollie’s back.

  “No one,” Jimmy muttered, sounding sullen. “I just did it.”

  “I know you did. I watched you do it, after you thought Max and I were asleep. You were sneaking, like a snake. A snake who knows it’s doing something it shouldn’t.”

  “Then why didn’t you say anything about it, Principal Chambers?”

  Chambers shrugged. “I was tired. Don’t do it again. We need the horses saddled and ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

  “Shouldn’t we start setting a watch or something?” Max said. “If you think there’s a risk of them coming upon us in the night…”

  “Don’t worry about that. If someone approaches, I’ll hear them. I sleep light.”

  Max nodded, then took hold of Yago’s reins to lead him through the trees, till they reached a place open enough to safely mount.

  The agent had said he’d wake if someone approached their camp, but Max sensed there was more to it than that. There were black bags under Chambers' eyes, and almost every time Max’s nightmares had woken him, he’d found Chambers already awake and sitting up, alert.

  Something told him “sleep” wasn’t something his old principal was getting a lot of.

  It made sense. If he really thinks I’m the one who can defeat the aliens, then he’d want me as rested as possible for that, wouldn’t he?

  Either way, now that he’d figured out what the agent was doing, he intended to start taking his turn to stand watch.

  He and Yago broke from the trees, and Max led the steed a few meters forward, so that Chambers and Jimmy would have room to mount as well. With that, he stepped into the left stirrup and swung his right leg over Yago’s back. Behind him, his traveling companions did the same.

  Chambers brought Daisy forward, so that he rode level with Max as Jimmy lagged behind. “We need to resupply today.”

  They transitioned from a walk to a trot—terms he’d learned from Jimmy in the past few days—and Max stayed quiet, since he had nothing to contribute on the subject. Chambers was the one who seemed to have a detailed map of Oklahoma and the surrounding states in his head.

  “The closest town is Medicine Lodge, south of us,” Chambers continued. Yesterday they’d actually passed into Kansas, shortly before stopping for the night. “But the place is sure to be crawling with Berserkers. There’s a little shack of a gas station about six kilometers west of the community, on 160. The food won’t be very nutritious, but we’re better off going there.”

  “How long to get there?”

  “Less than an hour. We’ll need to cross a river, but we can do that off Reutlinger Road. Stay off the highway for as long as we can.”

  “Of course.” Max found himself smiling faintly. The man may have conspired to deceive and manipulate him, but Max’s old affection for the former SEAL was creeping back in, despite his best efforts to hate him.

  Dawn was just beginning as they left their camp behind them. They’d stayed the night in what Chambers had said was the Barber State Fishing Lake and Wildlife Area. Now, the sun made a strong showing, the heat seeming to ratchet up with every passing minute. They’d probably be lucky to find a hat wide enough to keep off the worst of the rays at this gas station, but if they did, Max intended to snatch it.

  A little sunscreen wouldn’t hurt, either. He used to scoff at the idea of slathering his skin with lotion, since he’d never burned easily. But a year at the academy had made him much more pragmatic.

  They tied up the horses north of the gas station, hidden from the road by a loose smattering of trees. That would limit their ability to make a quick getaway, but it was a measured risk: three horses tied up outside a gas station would also be a dead giveaway to Janet’s men.

  When they arrived at the hole-in-the-wall station, they found a Range Rover parked at one of the two pumps, with the nozzle still inserted through the vehicle’s filler neck. Its owner was nowhere to be found.

  Probably roaming the countryside, looking for his next kill.

  The thought made Max glance behind his back, past the gas station, but he saw only trees and gentle inclines.

  Chambers rounded the front of the station first, his suppressor-fitted FNX Tactical held low, ready to snap up at the first sign of life. From the corner of the station, Max kept one eye on the agent and the other on the road. He had his Ruger out and ready to cover Chambers if needed.

  He stole another glance behind him, at the trees and hills, which were still empty. His gaze met his friend’s briefly, who stood behind him with his rifle dangling at his side and a blank look on his face.

  “Clear,” Chambers hissed, and Max came forward, Jimmy trailing him. They followed the agent inside, a bell over the door jingling as they entered.

  Chambers shook his head at Jimmy. “You stay outside and keep watch. You’ll have your turn after.”

  Wordlessly, Jimmy turned and went outside, his gait rigid. Max didn’t like the tension growing between his friend and their old principal, but what could he do about it? It was probably better to let them sort it out on their own.

  His stomach growled as his eyes crawled over the racks of salty and sugary snacks on display. Exactly the sort of fare travelers craved on a long, boring drive.

  Or a horseback trek with a shadowy government agency hot on your heels.

  He reached for a big bag of Ketchup chips.

  “Keep to one bag of junk, if you have to have it,” Chambers said. “A small bag. We’re running from a highly-trained military outfit, not taking a road trip to Disneyland. We need to keep our energy up.”

  So, the agent’s rebukes weren’t only reserved for Jimmy. Fair enough. Max returned the big bag of chips to the shelf and slid a pack of sunflower seeds from its hook instead.

  They filled their packs with the food that seemed the most nourishing, as limited as the station’s selection was. Max got his sunscreen, though there wasn’t any headgear to snag.

  His hand hovered over a bottle of fly dope as he tried to decide whether it was worth the space in his bag. He snatched it and stuffed it in. Waking up every morning to newly raised red bumps was getting old.

  The door swung open in a storm of jingling, and Jimmy staggered in, cursing breathlessly, his face pasty. “They’re here. They’re here.”

  Max looked out through the streaked front window, expecting to see black Escalades parked along the road. Instead, a spread-out crowd of around fifty people stalked toward the gas station on foot, some of them gripping blunt objects, others empty-handed.

  None of them attacked each other. Instead, they strode toward the station with unified purpose.

  Ravagers. That’s what Chambers had called them.

  “How’d they get so close?” the agent snapped. “What were you doing out there?” He grabbed Jimmy’s hand to study it, and even from where he was standing, Max could see the marijuana dust flecking his hand. “God damn it.” Chambers let Jimmy’s hand fall and unholstered his pistol once more.

  “Bar the door.” Max paired his words with action, grabbing a snack rack and hauling it toward the ent
rance, the metal screeching across the linoleum. “Come on. Help me!”

  “That’s not going to do it,” Chambers said, his voice flat.

  Max glanced through the window. They were almost here. “We can wait them out. Eventually they’ll get bored and move on. Help me, Chambers!”

  “Max, the door opens outward.”

  He studied the door for a second, then snapped the deadbolt into place. “There. Now, take hold of the other side of this rack.”

  Jaw clenched, the agent grabbed it, helping to slide it across the door. That done, they grabbed a table display of magazines and used books, dragging that over to add it to the barricade.

  The first Ravager reached the door and seized the handle, jerking it, rattling it in its frame. Max hadn’t been sure the automatons would even remember how such doors worked, but apparently they retained the information, probably as muscle memory.

  He added a rotating rack of greeting cards to the barricade, though he wasn’t sure how much it would actually add. Then he cast about for something else to put there.

  A baseball bat slammed against the door, wielded by a woman with dead eyes. The blow splintered the glass, and the next one shattered it.

  “Get behind the counter. Now!”

  Jimmy moved instantly, as though Chambers’ voice was a marionette string. He vaulted over the store counter and shifted to the left to make room for the others.

  “Max.”

  He nodded, then followed Jimmy up and over. Chambers came next.

  A thrown rock punched through the largest window, between the door and the counter. It hit the opposite wall, tumbling to the floor amidst tinkling glass.

  “Look,” Chambers hissed, his eyes locked on Max’s. “I know you don’t want to kill them. But in the next few minutes, someone’s going to have to die. Us, or them.” With that, he started laying out boxes of ammo on the long shelf that ran below the counter, along with two already-loaded magazines. Hands shaking, Jimmy followed suit, hauling boxes of cartridges from his pack and lining them up.

  Max’s heart hammered against his chest, his sternum a knot of tension and dread. His hand brushed his Ruger, then leapt away.

  No.

  A crowbar took out the window next to the counter, showering them with glass. Next, a stocky, muscular man thrust himself through the new entrance he’d made. Grimy fingers seized Jimmy’s shirt and hauled him close.

  20

  5 days to extinction

  Chambers pulled Jimmy back with one hand and grabbed his assailant’s hand with the other. He ripped them apart. That done, he shoved the man roughly onto a glass stalagmite, which tore apart his esophagus, causing blood to spurt.

  Like someone on pure epinephrine, the man still struggled to advance, and Chambers shot him point-blank in the forehead. A back-spatter of bone and blood hit Max in the face.

  With that, the agent dragged the dead man over the glass, flesh ripping audibly, and positioned him across the jagged window lip so he could fire over his corpse into the attackers crowding behind him, trying to get in.

  More glass shattered—the bottom section of the door. A teenager tried to crawl through, came up short against the snack rack, then slammed his head into it. Once, twice. Ravagers crowded behind him, pushing him farther in. The makeshift barricade teetered and groaned.

  Max turned back to the nearby window in time to see Chambers plant two rounds into a large woman’s torso. She barely slowed, thick hands scrabbling at the glass, shredding themselves as she tried to gain enough purchase to pull herself up.

  Chambers put a round into her frontal cortex, and she slumped to the ground. Another attacker took her place, his pale face contorted in a rictus of rage, his eyes empty.

  The agent hit him center-chest—in his heart, Max was pretty sure. It certainly slowed the man considerably, and now he seemed to lack the strength to attempt entry. Chambers switched to a new target.

  “This is about survival, now,” he shouted over his suppressor-muted firing. Max knew he was talking to him. “You don’t have to shoot them, but it would help.”

  Jimmy had his hunting rifle laid atop the cash register, apparently ready to shoot the first person to make it through their hastily constructed barrier. But Max saw how his hands shook.

  Then someone went to work on the center window with a hammer, creating a gap big enough for Ravagers to start climbing through. The first hit the floor, torso running red from fresh wounds torn by the glass, then regained his feet to charge the counter.

  Jimmy fired, yelping as he did. Mere feet from the cash register, the man’s head exploded.

  Max realized he was hyperventilating, and he tried to calm himself down. Cold sweat was trickling down his back, and his hands were clammy. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to hold his Ruger, even if he could make himself draw it.

  More people clambered through the hole in the center window. The jagged glass slowed their progress some, but more and more of the transparent daggers were knocked away as Ravagers pushed through.

  Jimmy fired, reloaded, and fired again, felling them as though shooting deer in the woods. But there were too many, and he couldn’t reload fast enough. Three Ravagers were inside now, trampling the bodies of their companions to get to the counter. Jimmy blew one of them back with a center-mass round, but his second shot found an arm, and it didn’t slow the man it belonged to.

  The next shot blew apart the third intruder’s jaw, but he staggered onward too, and the man in front grabbed Chambers with his good arm, jerking him, and throwing off his aim. The agent missed his next shot as he struggled to shake off the man.

  The Ravager lost his grip, but just as quick his hand darted out again, ripping bloody gouges at the base of Chambers’ neck with his nails. Another attacker was coming in through the window in front of Chambers, but he was too preoccupied to deal with him.

  Probing fingers reached for Chambers’ eyes, but the Ruger was in Max’s hands now, and he breathed out as everything seemed to slow. The handgun roared, and the Ravager crawling in through the window was tossed back into those behind him.

  At that moment, Chambers managed to dislodge the man who’d been gripping his neck, shoving him back. His arms cartwheeled, and Max shot him in the stomach, then the top of his head.

  For the slimmest instant, his gaze met the agent’s, whose eyes seemed to hold a glimmer of sadness. But he nodded, and they each turned back to their killing.

  The barrier was falling apart, now, as attackers crawled between and under the displays. Jimmy covered it while Max took the center window, sending the infiltrators back as fast as they tried to enter. The Ruger’s stopping power was shocking in its finality, and when it clicked in his hands, he looked down at it, momentarily stupefied.

  Then his hands were scrabbling at his pack, trembling as he unbuckled the clasps and pulled out a fresh box of ammo.

  It was a conversation that had come up a few times with other cadets, during his year at the Air Force Academy. Mostly during boot camp.

  If it came down to it, could you do it?

  They said killing was easier from a fighter jet, where you couldn’t even see the people whose lives you ended. The statistics backed that up. PTSD rates were much lower among fighter pilots than, say, the infantry.

  This, though…this was much more personal. The rage-drunk people came and came, and Max killed and killed. Reloaded, and killed again.

  Clearly, the answer was yes: he was able to do it. He killed and killed.

  He could see why Chambers used words like Berserker and Ravager to describe them. Calling them that made them seem savage—inhuman. Which made it easier to rationalize what you might have to do to them. But Max couldn’t shake the thought of who his targets actually were: people who, days ago, might have been his neighbors.

  He’d originally estimated fifty attackers, but clearly more had come since the start of the battle. It felt like they’d killed hundreds already, but still more came, drawn from
the surrounding woods and road. Their ammo wouldn’t last forever.

  Max felt contaminated by what he’d spent the last several minutes doing—or several hours, he honestly didn’t know. And now, it seemed, he would die anyway. Even after he’d allowed his soul to blacken in his own defense.

  Out of nowhere, a feminine voice spoke, audible over the gunfire even though she whispered. Audible, because the voice came from inside his own head.

  Max. Let me in.

  It was the same voice as before.

  He shook himself, steadied his aim, and the Ruger coughed. His next target was thrown back.

  Let me in, Max.

  Maybe he was going crazy. Either way, right then it seemed vitally important to him that he not let the voice’s owner in. That he muster every ounce of will to keep her out.

  And so he did. And the horde pressed ever-inward.

  The chatter of automatic gunfire sounded outside, from beyond the mob. Jimmy stopped shooting for a second, his head cocked, but Max and Chambers never wavered, and soon his friend returned to defending the door.

  Janet. Her men had found them, drawn by the commotion. The thought came as a strange sort of relief. They’d spent the last several days desperately trying to evade her, but now her arrival dangled like a lifeline.

  At this point, it didn’t matter much to Max either way. He just wanted to put down his weapon and never hold it again. He wanted to stop doing this.

  Outflanked, the mob was picked apart. None of them retreated, but the flanking parties were armed with guns, not blunt objects, and so they exerted outsized force.

  Once it was finally over, and the last Ravager had fallen, ten men and one woman slowly crossed the gas station parking lot, their progress impeded by the carnage that littered the asphalt.

  It’s not Janet.

  They weren’t even soldiers—not professional ones, anyway. They wore coveralls, jeans, shorts, t-shirts. Closer to farmers than the sort of special operatives who Max imagined worked for Janet.