TimeRiders: The Infinity Cage (book 9)

by Alex Scarrow

  Signs of life hanging on here and there. People holding on to hope like those living among the Manhattan skyscrapers. Holding on and hoping that the tide that had crept relentlessly upwards, biting chunks inland, would eventually stop and perhaps recede.

  And it’s all so frikkin’ futile, she mused. Because in three months’ time most of you poor wretches will be wiped out by the Kosong-ni virus.

  A solemn mood had settled on her and Rashim as the launch chugged stoically westwards towards where the last New York cabbie had said the inland tidal surge finally gave way to the soaked edge of dry land: a place called Orange City, sitting right on the cusp of the as yet unsubmerged portion of New Jersey.

  Four hours after they’d bid a fond farewell to Walt and Charm, waving them off from their improvised jetty, the cabbie finally pointed ahead. ‘There ya go. That’s where your troubles begin!’

  Maddy looked back at him from the prow. ‘Troubles?’

  ‘Sure. Many of the folks who abandoned the east coast are mostly hangin’ on there. Waiting for the sea to go back out again.’ He shrugged. ‘Then there are those who figure the sea ain’t going nowhere, so they’re heading inland, west towards the FSA. Where supposedly there’s some kinda law and order still.’

  As the water beneath them grew shallower, it was more than just rooftops breaking the surface; now the flat tops of e-Cars emerged, slick with tufts of algae and ribbon-like kelp. Then the wet green humps of seagrass-covered bollards and trash cans gradually came into view.

  The cabbie eased back on the throttle. The laboured drone of the outboard dropped in pitch to a long-suffering grumble and the launch slowed down to little more than a cautious drift as he carefully weaved his way towards where the tide lapped against sodden tarmac.

  They drifted beneath an overpass. Maddy looked up at a row of faces staring down at them, lining the railing, curious about the new arrivals. They emerged out the other side from the shadow it cast, towards the wet tarmac ahead.

  ‘That road dipping into the water there? You’re looking at the end of what used to be Interstate 280,’ he said, pointing. ‘Heads west if that’s where you’re goin’.’ He finally cut the engine and the boat slid slowly to a halt, with the rasp of weeds and kelp against the hull softening her gentle grounding.

  ‘That’s yer ride, folks.’

  Becks hopped over the side into knee-deep water and took their backpacks with her as she waded ashore. Maddy and Rashim splashed over the side and joined her on the empty interstate, warily looking up at the people gathered on the overpass.

  Maddy turned round and thanked the last cab driver in New York. He shrugged a No problem at them. ‘Good luck,’ he called out. ‘It’s frontier land from here on in. You watch yer backs.’

  He jumped off the prow into the water, gave his boat a shove backwards and clambered aboard, started up the outboard and gunned the throttle. He waved one more time at them, then turned his launch round in a lazy arc and puttered back the way they’d come, back under the overpass, heading eastwards, back to the drowned wilderness of New Jersey and New York beyond.

  ‘Frontier land?’ Maddy looked at Rashim. ‘Like … like one of those western movies?’

  ‘Lawless,’ replied Rashim. ‘He means lawless. We are on our own.’

  Maddy nodded. Either side of the abandoned interstate was a shanty town of improvised shelters and lean-tos. Homes made from scavenged materials, cannibalized from buildings. Twists of smoke emerged from cluttered corrugated rooftops and narrow, muddy rat runs. The stillness and calm of Manhattan and New Jersey was replaced with a hubbub of activity: the barking of dogs, the wail and cry of babies and children, the clang of scaffolding poles being dropped somewhere, the rasp of a grinder cutting through metal, the call of bartering voices, the buzz of a distant chainsaw.

  Everyday life eked out precariously, temporarily, hopefully, on the dirty leading edge of a mean-spirited flood tide that was busy teasing them with its intentions to advance or recede.

  CHAPTER 13

  2070, New Jersey

  87 days to Kosong-ni

  ‘Denver, Colorado?’ The man laughed at them like that was just about the oldest joke in the book. Maddy watched him as his narrow shoulders hitched up and down. He turned the faded and threadbare khaki-green baseball cap on his head round so that the peak covered his wrinkled beef-jerky neck and busied himself with the task of slowly rolling a cigarette.

  ‘That’ll kill you, you know,’ said Maddy, ‘smoking.’

  His grin widened, revealing an uneven, gappy row of tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Not before the guddamn toxic rain does. Or some other hungry punk stabs me for a tin of food. Or I drink tainted water.’ He finished rolling a few meagre threads of tobacco in the creased paper. Licked down its length and finished up with a twist at the end. ‘In these times … live long enough to die of smokin’, then I guess you doin’ pretty damn well.’

  ‘So, anyway, what’s so hilarious about us wanting to make our way across to Denver?’ asked Maddy.

  The old man looked around the bar, then back at Maddy. ‘Bar’ was a generous name for it. That’s what it had been called by the person who’d directed them here. McReady’s Bar – several freight containers welded together and filled with scavenged bucket chairs and oil drums for tables. They sold some kind of foul-smelling hooch brewed out the back.

  ‘You for real, miss?’

  ‘Look, we’ve been out of the country for a while.’

  ‘Out of the country for a while, huh?’ The old man looked at her like he didn’t buy that, but let it go with a lazy shrug. ‘Not many folks find their way safely across to the Median Line these days, miss.’

  ‘What’s that? What’s the Median Line?’

  ‘Seriously?’ He smiled, bemused. ‘You had your head in the guddamn ground these last ten years?’

  ‘I guess you could say that.’

  ‘’S the border between the abandoned states and what’s left of this nation. The FSA. Border that runs from Lake Michigan all way down to the Gulf of Mexico.’ He pulled a thread of tobacco from his teeth. ‘Reinforced barricade they been buildin’ up the last ten years along the border states of Illinois, Missouri, Mississippi. Some places we talkin’ a guddamn concrete wall. And guarded by the military. I’m talkin’ not just soldiers, but mechanized units, automated drones … air an’ ground, barbed wire, mines. The whole kit an’ caboodle.’

  He grinned a mouthful of brown teeth at her. ‘It’s the thin line in the sand. The last thing that divides what’s left of this piecemeal nation with the wild east coast and the half of the population they just abandoned.’ He shook his head. ‘And not many get through that border, unless they’re let through, miss.’

  ‘Well, that’s where we need to go. The Median Line.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He sucked air through his teeth with a whistling sound. ‘You headin’ west, then you wanna avoid all the big roads.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You gotta watch out for all kinds of bad types. They’ll rob you bare soon as look at you. More likely worse than that.’

  ‘We’ll be OK.’ She nodded at Becks and Rashim sitting on chairs at an oil-drum table in the far corner of the bar. A string of neon-blue Christmas lights winked on and off on the rusting wall beside them, while a small holographic projector played the flickering image of an old black-and-white movie. Their faces were largely in shadow, but every now and then Becks’s steel-grey watchful eyes glinted a reflection.

  ‘Those two over there with you?’

  Maddy nodded. ‘The young woman’s called Becks; she’s a … well, a trained bodyguard. The other one, he’s called Rashim; he’s a pretty important scientist. He’s got connections over there. He’ll get us through the border.’

  The old man turned to look at them, studied them carefully. Then his eyes suddenly flickered, widened. He swore under his breath. ‘That … the female! The lady … can’t be!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She … she
one of ’em guddamn military-clone units?’

  Maddy was taken aback. ‘What? … Uh, no. She’s just a normal –’

  ‘Damn.’ The old man narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Looks a helluva lot like one of them fifties recon models. Looks like a real pretty lady, but deadly underneath. Guddamn lethal killin’ machine!’

  ‘What? No!’ Maddy shook her head. ‘No, she’s just a human!’

  The man lit his cigarette, sucked in a cloud of foul-smelling smoke then blew it out. ‘Look, miss, I fought in the Pacific War. Forty-fifth Mobiles had a squad of those organics. The recon ones like her and the real big ones, like guddamn tanks. Seen ’em up real close plenty of times and I’ll tell you, miss … One thing you never forget is them grey killer’s eyes.’ The old man pulled the crinkled cigarette from his lips. ‘Those old big ones stood out a guddamn mile too. ’S why they started designin’ ones that looked more like normal.’ He pulled on his cigarette again. ‘I served five years with a squad of those things … Know one when I see one.’

  ‘She’s human,’ said Maddy. ‘Honestly.’

  He sat back in his chair. ‘You want to hire me as a guide westwards?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Then don’t try blowin’ smoke in my face, OK?’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘That thing over there … where’d you get her? She some kinda army surplus? Ex-private military?’

  Maddy sighed. This old guy wasn’t going to buy anything she said. If, like he’d said, he’d served alongside a batch of Bobs and Beckses … then he’d know one, no matter how disguised. He’d know.

  ‘OK. All right. Yes, she’s … a unit.’

  ‘Knew it.’ The old man sucked a hissed breath through his teeth. ‘See, that makes me kinda twitchy. Them early fifties models, computer-linked with a real brain? That’s an unpredictable mix going on right inside that thick skull. You must remember about the squad of organics that turned on their regiment? Somethin’ went wrong an’ misfired in their heads an’ they practically wiped out an entire division. I heard their software was hacked or somethin’.’

  ‘Look, Becks has been entirely reliable,’ said Maddy.

  ‘Becks? You actually given that thing a guddamn name?’ He shook his head. ‘Thing like that is as dangerous and unpredictable as a wild animal.’

  ‘She’s perfectly safe.’

  ‘Until she ain’t … then you got yerself a killin’ machine busy rippin’ your head off.’

  ‘Her AI is a hundred per cent stable. She’s never been a problem. I’d trust her with my life.’

  The old man narrowed his eyes. ‘So how come you got yourself one? You rich? You some billionaire? You buy her off the black market or somethin’?’

  Maddy shrugged. ‘We kind of inherited her.’

  The old man shook his head again, clearly not believing her story. His rheumy eyes passed from her to Rashim. ‘Just who the hell are you people?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Yeah?’ he said, pulling slowly on his uneven cigarette. It crackled and burned fiercely. In the gloom of the bar, the amber glow of the tip reflected in his watery eyes. ‘Everyone’s story’s a long story these days, miss.’

  Maddy was getting impatient. ‘Look … you going to guide us west or not? I’m sure I can find someone else to –’

  ‘If that girl organic of yours is truly safe, like you say –’ he shrugged – ‘then we’ll sure as hell need her. Right up to the Median Line, it’s a cursed guddamn wilderness. We make it as far as the Median, then you say your friend over there with the nice beard and dandy hair can talk us through?’

  Maddy nodded. ‘He’s a senior research scientist. He knows some important people. They’ll let him through. They need him.’

  ‘And let us in too … just cos we’re with him, huh?’

  ‘Of course. That’s the plan.’

  He sat back in his chair. ‘And you want me to show you the way? Guess I can do that.’

  ‘So what’s your price?’

  He looked across at Rashim and Becks sitting in the far corner. Becks’s grey eyes locked on his unflinchingly. ‘Reckon your organic will come in handy, as long as she’s tame, like you say. And your science friend? If he can talk us through the line … then that’s my guddamn price, miss. Get me into the F-S-of-guddamn-A an’ we’re all square.’

  She smiled. ‘Great, then I guess we’ve got a deal.’

  He nodded. ‘A deal.’ He offered her a hand. ‘The name’s T. S. Heywood, by the way. The “T” and the “S” stand for Technical Sergeant Heywood. But you just call me Heywood seeing as how I ain’t been in the army for near on twenty years.’

  She gripped his hand. ‘Maddy.’

  ‘An’ since as I’m the one doin’ the guidin’ … that makes me the one in charge, OK? What I say goes, right up until your science friend talks us through the golden gates into the land of milk ’n’ honey … I’m the boss.’

  ‘Fine.’ She shook his hand. ‘Deal, Heywood.’

  ‘Now … if you got any decent barter on you, then you can go buy me a long glass of GoGo Juice, cos I’m all dry an’ thirsty from this negotiatin’ thing.’

  It took Heywood a couple of days to gather what supplies he could lay his hands on in the shanty town. Not a great deal in the way of food; there seemed to be little spare of that going around. However, in almost every direction Maddy looked as she and the others accompanied Heywood, she noted lines of squirrel carcasses dangling by their tied feet from swinging loops of rope, often strung beneath the shelter of a rustling canvas awning. In many cases they hung above oil-drum fires being smoked and dried. Squirrel. She’d never actually eaten squirrel before. Heywood assured her it was like rabbit, except that there was less meat. He also assured her it wasn’t that dissimilar to rat. She drew the line right there.

  ‘I’m not eating rats!’

  ‘Dried rat is just as good as squirrel, an’ a damn sight cheaper to barter.’

  ‘We’re NOT eating rats!’

  He shrugged. ‘Fair enough. But we’ll have less on us to eat.’

  ‘Surely we can find more food along the way?’

  ‘Millions have already traipsed west, miss. You ain’t gonna find some abandoned Walmart stuffed with untouched tinnies, you understand? It’s what we carry and what wildlife there is left out there to hunt is the food we’re gonna be livin’ on for the next coupla weeks.’

  She shook her head, resolute. ‘I’m not eating a rat.’

  The old man traded away all their luxury barter – the chocolate, the soap, several packets of sugar – for twenty dried squirrel carcasses and four old and battered but perfectly functional water-filtration flasks, which were stamped with an old UN Disaster Relief logo. He also managed to procure three antique assault rifles. ‘Rack-’em-’n’-fire bangers,’ he called them. ‘We don’t want to be packin’ any of them stupid modern firearms that need to have a power cell charged up or run a nightly systems diagnostic. Just good ol’ honest-to-God mechanics and ballistics.’

  Rashim studied the battered weapon cradled in Heywood’s arms, army-green paint flaking off.

  ‘What yer lookin’ at there, my friend, is an ex-US army M17A1 assault rifle. Army stopped issuin’ these beauties back in the thirties when they switched to energy-assisted weapons.’ Heywood nodded his head and clucked approvingly at the old gun. ‘Beauty like this don’t need a software engineer and a technical team to keep it firin’. Just keep her oiled and she’ll do you just fine.’

  Heywood was keen they set off as soon as possible. Now they each had a gun and between them enough drinking water and dried meat to last them a week, he considered they were good to go. When Rashim asked why the big rush, he replied, ‘Word spreads fast, sir.’

  They set off at dusk, just three days after they’d been dropped off by the cab driver. They trudged from the thinning outskirts of the shanty town into the abandoned edges of Orange City in setting darkness. Becks was up front, taking point, then Heywood and,
behind him, Maddy and Rashim side by side.

  Half an hour after leaving the shanty town behind, Maddy piped up. ‘Heywood, why the hell are we walking out in the dark? Surely it’d be less dangerous to go in the day –’

  ‘Back where we just set off from, everyone knows everyone else’s business. Everyone knows we’ve been kittin’ up to leave, miss,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘An’ they’ll ’spect us to leave at first light tomorrow. So we’re gettin’ eight hours steal on ’em.’

  ‘Steal on them? Who’s them?’ She looked at his dark hunched form walking in front of her. ‘You make it sound like someone’s going to be chasing us.’

  ‘Groups of migrants, people who’ve had enough of toughing it out here, settin’ off to cross the wilderness an’ try their luck gettin’ into the FSA. People like us? We’re gonna be alone out there in the badlands … alone an’ vulnerable. There used to be parties settin’ off all the time. Not so much recently, though. Many of them parties didn’t make it across.’

  Heywood left that hanging as they trudged quietly along the highway, clearly waiting for one of them to ask why.

  ‘OK, I’ll do it,’ muttered Maddy to Rashim. ‘So … why didn’t they make it across?’

  ‘Many of ’em weren’t gettin’ to the Median Line, that much’s for sure.’ He hacked up some phlegm then snorted it back down again. ‘No … most of them people weren’t even gettin’ halfway across.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Truth is, miss, between the Flood Line in the east and the Median Line in the west, it’s pretty much all abandoned. Nowadays, between the two, it’s dangerous wilderness populated by crazies and shoot-happy hermits. Worse than that, though, you got gangs of jackers.’