Mabe (Earth Resistance Book 5)

by Theresa Beachman

  The usual depressing dereliction and absence of life. But the ground of the lot was something else.

  Fuck.

  Mabe’s grip tightened on his weapon.

  Bones.

  The entire lot was a graveyard, every square foot littered with bleached bones. Smashed skulls and elongated femurs vied for space with bony ribcages, devoid of heart and lungs.

  Sawyer exhaled. “Fucking hell.”

  Foster prodded a skull with the toe of his boot. “Fucking critters had a field day here.” He pointed at scorch marks decorating the pale stone of the building. “Maybe we got a few in return?”

  “Place has been torn apart.” Mabe swallowed acid.

  Foster whistled. “This is fucking annihilation.”

  Sawyer scanned the lot, his grip on the Sweeper fluid and ready. “Mabe?”

  Mabe ran a hand across his mouth. He tasted dirt, the grit rough on the tip of his tongue. “Could be a trap.”

  “Only one way to find out.” Sawyer’s face was serious. “I’ll go in with Foster as bait. If any Chittrix are near, they’ll hear his peg leg limp from miles away. If the thought of a juicy bomb expert doesn’t get them going, I don’t know what will.”

  “Fuck you, Sawyer.” Foster shot him the bird, his grin white against his grimy face. He lifted his pulse rifle up to his eyes. “Not a bad fucking plan though.”

  Mabe shook his head in disbelief. Nothing would ever slow Foster down. “We haven’t got the luxury of not checking this place out. We’re living too close to the wire.”

  “Agreed.” Foster patted the pockets of his bulky jacket. Mabe glimpsed sleek black metal. A one-man arsenal with enough explosives to raze the entire WHO building to the ground.

  “It’s not a suicide mission, Foster.”

  Foster winked. “Fucking know that. But when I die, it’s gonna be with my ladies. Fact.”

  “Okay. Let’s do this. Eyes and ears open.” Mabe exhaled a long breath and stepped inside the boundary of the parking lot. He adjusted the wedge of protective body armor around his chest. The last time his heart had raced this fast had been when he’d found Rachel and Lissy…

  Focus.

  He blocked out the thought. Memories slowed him down and that was dangerous.

  Foster followed close on his right-hand side, pulse rifle now snug against his back, SIG raised in his hands. “Any leggy critters, I’m going in up close and personal.”

  Sawyer tracked to Mabe’s left, his steps cautious and light despite his size.

  Mabe nudged one long femur with his foot. Deep gouges marked the bone as if carved from soft butter.

  Foster shook his head. “Whatever happened here wasn’t pretty.” He lifted his head and licked his lips as if tasting for Chittrix. “And it’ll be dark soon. Let’s get our skates on.”

  Mabe’s stomach tightened. His body armor chafed at his neck. Above the clouds still raced but now the setting sun tinged them bloody. He halted in the middle of the lot, his ears straining against the thud of his heart battering his ribs. Chittrix were sly fuckers.

  Patience.

  He studied the expanse of parking lot they had yet to cross to reach the broken entrance doors.

  Scrub parking lot. This was a killing floor.

  “Something’s wrong.” The entrance ahead gaped. One door was missing. Nothing unusual, bog standard apocalyptic wreckage. But an alert still pinged in his brain.

  Foster ground dirt under his heels, pivoting three-sixty as he covered Mabe from behind. “I’m not seeing anything.”

  “Sawyer?”

  Sawyer’s reply was a low mutter. “Clear. Mabe, what’s up?”

  Fuck.

  “What?” Sawyer drew level with him.

  Had he said that aloud? “I’m not sure—” Mabe bent, an icy wave crashing through him before he had even touched the ground. He pressed his fingertips into the red-stained dirt. His fingers came away wet.

  Fresh blood.

  6

  Twenty minutes after disappearing underground, Sarah stalled at the entrance to the main lab.

  Zoe turned, gripping the chipped doorframe, silhouetted in the light. “What’s wrong?”

  Sarah patted her shoulders with damp hands. No backpack. Shit. “I dropped my backpack.” Her voice wavered as she processed her mistake. “The vine samples are in the bone yard.”

  The samples they’d risked their lives to collect.

  She clamped her jaw, forcing herself to breathe more slowly and dragged a hand through the mess of her hair, wincing at the pull on the wound on her arm. Today just went from bad to worse.“I need to go back for them.”

  “That’s crazy talk. The Chittrix will still be there.”

  Sarah chewed on her lip. “Maybe.” A shadow shifted behind Zoe. Diana? “I can’t go in there without the samples. Diana will crucify me.”

  Zoe let the door click closed. “You can’t go back either.” Her voice dropped an octave. “Leave it.”

  But Sarah was already retreating into the shadowy tunnel, seeking the safety of darkness. “I can’t. Sorry.” She raised one finger. “I’ll be right back. Cover for me.”

  “Sarah.” A raised whisper from Zoe. “Take my pulse rifle. Yours is fried.”

  Sarah grinned and swapped weapons. “Thanks.”

  “And here.” Zoe pushed through the door to Jacob’s small chem lab. Sarah tapped her foot impatiently as Zoe collected a sweep of small glass vials. The longer she hung around, the more likely Diana was to see them.

  Zoe emptied her backpack and carefully placed the vials inside. She tugged it close. “Jacob’s been working on the Devil acid.” She handed the clinking backpack to Sarah. “Just in case.”

  “You’re too good to me.” Sarah shrugged the pack on.

  “You’re insane.”

  “It helps.” Sarah hugged her tight.

  Once she was past the exterior door that sealed the labs from the underground tunnel, Sarah increased her pace, hurrying through the dank passages that led to the world above, clutching her injured arm protectively to her side. No way in hell she was going to leave her backpack up there.

  The Chittrix would be gone and she would just collect her stuff and Diana would be none the wiser. Easy. She arrived at the foot of the ladder ten minutes later, her mouth sour and a stitch jabbing at her side.

  She rested her head on a rung for a second, catching her breath. Her forehead ached as the metal sapped heat from her skin. Then she raised her head and planted one boot firmly on the first rung. Let’s do this.

  She climbed the ladder, pressing the tips of her fingers against the drain cover at the top to lift it an inch. Tiny iridescent beetles scurried away; their home disturbed. Dark blood had dried under her fingernails, and stained her cuff a dark maroon-red. The lacerations still throbbed in time with her pulse. She held her breath, not wanting to cough, tears welling. How could she have been so stupid?

  The small courtyard was empty. Dusk had settled, grey and pink, softening the harsh edges of the world. She slid the drain lid to the side and hoisted herself up, wincing as her arm protested. A breeze whispered against her skin, but she was alone. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and then double-checking the safety was off on her pulse rifle, she hurried across forlorn grass to the side entrance.

  She eased the door open and peered in. Dim light blurred the corners of the building, but it was silent and bug free.

  Okay. This was good.

  Heart thumping, she hurried along the hallway to the main foyer, a wide hexagonal space, once beautiful with patterned art deco floor tiles. Now they were shrouded in dead leaves and faded litter that left the floor treacherous. She skidded, leaving a patchwork trail, but caught the doorjamb in time with her injured arm and slid to her backside before she shot out into the doorway for all the Chittrix to see. Fireworks of pain detonated in her brain. When she checked her arm, it was bright with fresh blood.

  Dammit.

  Her breath was tight in her throat as
she surveyed the lot through a splintered gap between the doorjamb and wall. Dusky light lay heavy in the bone yard, giving the space a surreal hue.

  Her chest cramped.

  Three men were in the middle of the bone yard. One crouched, studying his hand and speaking to his companions. The other two circled him with easy efficiency and long-limbed strides. No one had survived this long without honed survival skills, but all three looked steely and muscled, their chests protected by unique body armor that soaked up the fading light, drawing darkness to them.

  Her mind spun. Where the hell had these men come from? Had they been tracking her and Zoe? Shadows flickered on her right, but the men appeared unaware. Her fingers tightened on the doorframe, her fingernails gouging wood.

  The tallest and leanest took the left. His sleeves were rolled up revealing swirling ink that marked every inch of his bare arms. He looked like trouble, a confident gangster who lived on the street. And the bulk of his body armor? A tight band settled across her lungs. He was carrying a lot more weaponry than was visible. A lot. Images from previous violent run-ins with scavengers flooded her mind, increasing her heart rate.

  The man to the right was almost the same height but heavier built, a beaten baseball cap pulled low over striking eyes. He carried a thick snub-nosed weapon in his hands, the like of which Sarah had never seen before.

  The third man was back on his feet, turning a slow circle of patient observation. He was huge, an absolute bear of a man, his powerfully muscled body carrying chunky body armor with ease, wild hair and the scruff of a beard covering his face. He moved with the grace of an athlete as he led the small group, his gaze fierce and searching. Black cargo pants hugged his legs, showcasing muscled thighs, his handgun holstered on lean hips.

  A rush of unexpected awareness rushed through Sarah, accelerating her heart rate and forcing her to take a steadying breath. What the hell? With an effort, she dragged her gaze from him and forced herself to focus on the situation.

  What were they looking at? Her arm throbbed red on the periphery of her vision. They’d found her blood. The bear-man was searching for the source. The blood was probably still wet.

  They were looking for her.

  She gritted her jaw. Carven House had provided a safe refuge, but only because they’d evaded scrutiny. The bombed out remains of the upper floors, camouflaging the secure lower levels.

  The derelict disguise wouldn’t work with these men. Their considered walk and alert survey reminded her of warriors she’d read about in fairytales as a child. They wouldn’t miss a thing. She bit down on her lip. Everything kept changing, even though she didn’t want it to. And this was her fault; her blood had alerted the men that there might be something going on here. Diana’s meltdown if the men discovered the lower levels would be a piece of cake compared to evading the Chittrix.

  A dark shadow flickered again on her right. There. Behind the overturned bus. A Chittrix. The underside of the vehicle blocked the men’s view. They couldn’t see it uncoiling, stretching barbed limbs in hungry anticipation.

  The argument with herself was brief. She couldn’t leave them out there.

  As if sensing her thoughts, the Chittrix emerged from the shelter of the bus in a stalking march, its pointed pincers scraping dirt. Faceted wings stretched and vibrated with excitement as it approached the men, wings snapping taut with a cracking noise that hurt her ears.

  With shaking hands, she pulled the Devil acid vials from her backpack and pocketed them in her cargos. She wiped her hands against her thighs and raised her pulse rifle.

  I should leave them. I mean, they haven’t even seen me.

  The bear-man stared right at her. He couldn’t possibly see her, she was hidden behind the reflection of the glass, but electricity danced over her skin in response. She swallowed; her mind made up.

  Fuck. She was going to help them.

  7

  Mabe rose to his feet in slow motion, his knees popping with tension. Human blood on his fingers. Evidence of a fight. There must be more. His eyes found the disintegrating remains of a Chittrix twenty feet away. He jerked his weapon toward the dead alien.

  Sawyer crooked an eyebrow and raised a finger to his lips.

  Foster stilled, tension vibrating in his gaze as he tilted his head in the building's direction. Closest cover.

  Sawyer backed off from Mabe, pacing toward the building, his gaze scouring the sky.

  The soft breeze was no longer a reminder of summer’s past, now it was an omen. The whisper in Mabe’s ear he should have listened to as it carried the creak of metal.

  His gaze snapped left. A mini bus was tipped on its side, the hood warped, tires sagging in deflated loops. The bus shifted, heavy weight moving within or behind.

  Mabe swallowed, his trigger finger tightening in anticipation. “Gentlemen, we have company.”

  Foster bumped his shoulder, pressing his back against Mabe’s as they eased toward the gaping double doors. “Easy now.”

  How far? Fifty feet? It might as well have been a mile.

  Two glossy, jointed legs extended from behind the bus, sensing the air, a crackle of chittering rising in volume.

  More creaks.

  Mabe’s voice was low and measured. “On my left. Foster, you got a clear path?”

  “Clear. Forty-five feet. Everyone got your running shoes on?”

  “I have another at three o’clock.” Sawyer’s voice didn’t waver.

  The Chittrix emerged from behind the bus, forcing Mabe to crane upwards as it stretched to its full height, exposing an abdomen marked by orange striations. It was wounded, an ugly hole marring the smooth exoskeleton. Someone had hurt it badly. Mabe tightened his grip on his pulse rifle, taking comfort from the cold press of metal against his cheek. “These fuckers are getting bigger.”

  Despite the injury, the Chittrix advanced a pace, its legs working in methodical synchrony, its oval head tilting as it expanded its wings with a whipping motion.

  Mabe stepped backward, his foot sliding through grit. “They think they have us.”

  “Yeah, what are we waiting for?” Sawyer’s voice was a low mutter.

  Foster grunted. “Nothing. Just checking they got the memo.”

  Another step. Sweat stung Mabe’s eyes, blurring the distance to the building’s double doors on the edge of his vision. “I think now is a good time to send it.”

  “Delete this, fuckers.” Foster howled, throwing something black and compact at the orange-striped Chittrix. “Run!”

  The air shimmered between Mabe and the Chittrix for an excruciatingly long second, then Foster’s missile slammed at its feet and the world detonated in a fury of noise and fire.

  Mabe ducked and sprinted, his ears ringing, dampening out the world. Foster was already ahead, Sawyer hot on his tail, firing his hand gun at a second Chittrix approaching from the opposite side. It was an ugly fucker, blue-black shell and spindly jointed legs like a spider.

  They were too close. Mabe’s heart seized as the spider-like Chittrix, its spiky forelimbs a blur of piercing death, stabbed at Foster. Foster ducked, stumbled, crashing to the ground in an ungainly roll.

  A flash of movement blurred between Foster and the Chittrix—a figure. Black liquid spattered in a wide arc, hitting the ground at Mabe’s feet in a hot sizzle as his hearing came back online. The spider-Chittrix recoiled, its jointed legs careening backward as it shook its head in a mad frenzy.

  The interloper reached Foster on long slender legs, a loose gray hood obscuring their face. A bloody hand reached for Foster, scooping a grip under his arm. Without hesitation, Mabe grasped Foster’s other arm to pull him upward, back onto his feet.

  “This way,” the youth screamed and then Foster was running again, shaking free of Mabe, bolting for the safety of the building.

  The black Chittrix keened, a searing noise that burrowed deep into Mabe’s brain. It jackknifed forward, beating its head against the ground in a futile attempt to remove the hissing liquid.
Vibration pounded up through Mabe’s boots and in the background, the orange-bellied Chittrix screamed and roared from behind Foster’s wall of flames.

  Fucking hell.

  Mabe turned and ran as the orange-streaked Chittrix charged toward them, canted to one side through the raging fire. His gut contracted. Fuck, it’s still moving.

  The youth steered Foster by the elbow, and Mabe’s heart skipped a beat.

  Fine bone structure, slender body, wide eyes, bright with fear.

  A woman.

  8

  Sarah charged out of Carven House toward the inked man who’d fallen to the ground.

  Dirt ground under the soles of her boots and her heart accelerated, working her lungs too hard as her brain caught on a bloody loop, replaying the previous carnage in this same lot.

  It’s not happening again, not on my watch.

  The streaked Chittrix screamed from behind a wall of fire, rallying the spider-Chittrix to the kill. It shrieked in reply, bristled fangs flexing.

  She shoved her hands into her pockets, her fingers closing around the smooth glass. She yanked them free and hurled them at the spider-Chittrix, swerving past it to avoid the amped Devil acid melting her skin.

  An explosive hiss hit her ears, confirming a successful target as she reached for the inked man. Dark eyes assessed her in a split second from a lean face, and then his hand locked around her forearm and she rocked him to his feet with the help of bear-man.

  “This way,” she screamed, jerking her head toward Carven House, releasing the inked man as he aimed and fired at the writhing spider-Chittrix.

  Boom. Boom.

  The report of his weapon smacked against her eardrums and the Chittrix screeched, bucking in a mist of smoke as the Devil acid ate through its exoskeleton. Its convulsions spattered the ground with bone-dissolving fluid, and she grabbed the inked man’s elbow, dragging him back from the caustic spray.