He glanced up... and swerved left, barely avoiding a pedestrian who'd jumped in front of the erratic scooter. The woman shouted a string of profanities at him. Wesley rolled his eyes briefly before spotting something else: a small decorative tree planted in the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road.
Change of plans.
Wesley shifted the small gas can back to his right hand and reattached it to the hook before gripping both handles. He swerved and changed course, aligning himself with the tree before twisting the throttle and urging every bit of acceleration possible from the scooter.
The man's hands slipped as Wesley swerved, but the man quickly reformed his grip and reached higher. He was trying to reach his belt, Wesley knew, trying to use the leather strap to dislodge Wesley from the vehicle.
Wesley gritted his teeth, and just before impact, he twisted the handlebars just a bit to the right and then back to the left as the handlebars cleared the tree. The bike avoided the collision.
His attacker didn't.
Wesley felt the bike lurch and heard the man's screams of pain. The loud cracking sound told him the impact had cracked the man's skull or ribs. He felt a breeze on his leg as the fabric tore free, left behind in the grip of the injured man. The force of the impact yanked the scooter hard to the left, and Wesley let off the throttle as he stabilized the scooter. Once fully upright and under control, he turned the throttle back to full speed and raced down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians who'd left their buildings to stare at the unfathomable damage to buildings to the west, behind Wesley.
He didn't care about the curious looks. He worried now about the Ravagers. The machines wouldn't stop. The replication feature... they'd gotten it working, enhanced it. The rate of growth he'd seen in the stairwell shouldn't be possible. But he'd seen it. He couldn't do the math in his head, but the numbers were growing at a geometric rate. He had to get to safety, before, before...
The images sprang from another repressed memory, and it took every ounce of control to restrain the bile rising up his throat. Images of animals encountering test batches of Ravagers, dissolved into dust, their silent cries of agony shouted forth from soulful eyes. He had to get away. The sweat rose once more, dripping down his face and back, and he struggled to maintain his grip with the excess moisture growing on his hands.
Moisture.
Water. He had to get to water. He'd remembered enough before to douse himself before making his run. Now he needed something surrounded by water. Unknown voices rose in his head, arguing about treating water as a repellant, noting the criticality in that case of ensuring island fortresses for those Phoenix Project members left behind in the initial wave.
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. What was the Phoenix Project, and why did he know about it? Why were some of their number being left behind? And what did that mean, anyway? Left behind from what? From where?
What else didn't he remember?
He needed his memories back, all of them, even the unpleasant ones. He didn't know how to trigger all of them. He could get to safety, somewhere with lots of water, and then worry about it. He hoped he wouldn't need more of the repressed memories just to survive.
Right now, he didn't have a choice. He just had to get to water.
He knew where to go. The river ran just south of his home. And he had a canoe docked on the shore, hidden in the brush not far from his home.
He swerved right, then left, then right again, following the signs to the nearest exit portal.
The portals were city gates guarded by members of the military. No one entered or exited the walled city without guards confirming the security of the area outside the gates. They carried powerful rifles with sufficient firepower to ward off the beasts of the Hinterlands.
He worked on calming his face and demeanor as he pulled up to the portal.
The guard held up a hand, and Wesley coasted to a stop. The guard frowned in Wesley's direction. “Do you wish to depart?”
“I do.”
She studied him, then nodded toward his shredded pant leg. “What happened there?”
“Fell off the scooter. My home's outside the walls. I'll clean up the injury once I get there.” He offered a brief chuckle. “But the pants, I fear, are a total loss.”
She studied the leg more closely, ignoring his attempted humor, and frowned. “I don't see any blood.”
Damn. Now she'd be suspicious. There was little need to lie to the guards; they weren't there in an effort to block human entry and egress. If he was caught lying, though, she might suspect him of running from the scene of a crime. “I'm grateful for that. Thankfully, I've only got some minor scrapes and bruising.”
She studied him again. Wesley did his best to look bored and casual. He reached down and touched the skin showing through the shredded clothing, wincing slightly at the contact. He made no effort to hide the genuine pain, pain he'd forgotten until now after the adrenaline rush of his escape.
The sympathy ploy worked, and her face softened. She nodded at him. “I'm glad to hear that. Good luck to you out there, then. I hope your home is--”
He knew what she meant. “I've installed plenty of security against the beasts. Mostly sonar, but a few others of my own creation.”
The guard nodded her approval. She tapped a few keys on a keypad embedded in the wall before she gripped her rifle. “Stay here until I wave you out.”
She held her weapon at the ready, pointing the barrel at the widening gap in the wall as they both watched the gate doors opened. The doors completed their paths and locked in place with a hollow thud, and a wisp of dust blew in from the outside. The guard waited a few seconds, ready to fire at anything that moved, and then marched out through the opening.
Wesley watched as she pivoted around in a predefined pattern, looking for any signs of the deadly Hinterlands beasts. After a few minutes, she caught his eye and beckoned him out.
Wesley twisted the throttle and lifted his feet as the scooter gathered speed. He rolled past the wall and eased outside the city. After offering a courteous nod to the guard, he veered to his left along an unpaved path that ran parallel to the city walls.
Twenty seconds later, he heard a reverberating thud.
He didn't know if it was the sound of the gate doors closing or the Ravagers toppling another building.
He took a spur road to his right that took him on a southeasterly path, a direction meant to intersect with his home, his sole stopping point before the rendezvous at the river. He listened intently, eyes flicking side-to-side, alert to any sound or movement suggesting that the Hinterlands beasts tracked him. He'd not seen one of the beasts himself, but the few reports each year of attacks on humans kept him wary. The creatures hated high-pitched sounds, tones inaudible to humans, and thus he'd set up a sonic barrier around his home, rigging a ring of speakers and projecting high-pitched sounds from each. The noise would drive the beasts away far better than any gun.
Movement to his right caught his attention and he tensed, looking frantically side to side.
They were coming.
A branch snapped to his left. He heard a low, rumbling growl.
He'd not made it to the security of his home, and had few weapons capable of stopping the beasts. Survival was now far from certain.
The hairs on the back of Wesley's neck rose as the bushes to his right began shaking. A loud, shrieking howl filled the air.
He knew his fate now.
The few people surviving attacks by the Hinterlands beasts reported that the creatures sounded howls like the one he'd just heard.
And then they attacked.
—————
DEIRDRE SILVER-LIGHT
—————
THE SUIT MATERIAL ABSORBED A great deal of force, but it failed to provide additional balance to prevent falls. The impact knocked Deirdre to the ground, temporarily jarring her. The suit's exterior was nearly an inch thick, formed from a specialized “liquid” form of the strongest kn
own material in the world. The fall didn't hurt her; the surprise of the impact was the only effect of the blow.
Her attacker wasn't so lucky. She heard a grunt of pain from her attacker, and she winced.
She recognized that voice.
Stephen.
“Where you going, Dee?” He tried for a singsong, jaunty tone, but still sounded menacing. She cringed slightly. His confusion over her intentions wasn't unreasonable, but maddening. He was angry now because she'd knocked him out. She'd heard enough of his commentary--when he thought she wasn't listening--to know that Stephen Clarke was the kind of man who thought he was stronger than any woman.
She'd taught him otherwise. And he wasn't happy about it.
“I'm getting out of here before the building collapses.” The helmet was clear but the entire suit was sealed shut. Her words echoed strangely inside, and she heard the sound of her voice in a way she'd never heard before. It didn't even sound like recordings of presentations or news conferences she'd held. She knew there were microphones and speakers implanted in the material, knew that he could hear her without issue, knew that she was hearing him solely because of the built-in sound system. It still felt like she was talking underwater.
He rolled his eyes and shook his head as he climbed to his knees, paused, and then stood. “The building's not going to collapse, Deirdre. I'm really not sure why you're playing this game.” His face twitched, and he held his hand up to the side of his head, then massaged his temple. “That hurt, by the way.”
“I was trying to talk sense into you, Stephen.” She shrugged as best she could in the bulky suit. “You apparently needed an extra set of ears.”
He stared at her. “You really think the building's going to collapse?”
“I don't think it. I know.”
“Then why'd you come here? Why come to a building that's going to collapse?”
She stared at him. “There's far more going on than a building collapse. I was trying to save your life, but you were too busy gawking at me to listen!” He smirked, confirming once more that he was beyond reach. “You need to get the suit on. Now. It's your only chance to survive what's coming.”
“Very touching that you came here to save my life, Dee.” He tapped his chin. “So I'm supposed to put the suit on?”
“Yes.” Good grief, how could her top researcher be so stupid?
He nodded. “I think I'll need some help with that.”
Without a bulky metallic suit of armor, Stephen could move far faster than she could. And he'd learned from the earlier blow to the head. Before she could react, he'd bent down, seized her around her suit-inflated ankles, and pushed his shoulder into her legs.
She fell. He stood and rolled her over so that she faced the ground while maintaining his grip on her feet, and began dragging her across the carpeted hallway back toward her apartment. She tried wriggling free, but the enhancements to the suit--allowing her to generate more force than usual with her own muscles to compensate for the extra weight of the suit--didn't work well with her legs pinned together. She couldn't sit up and try to reach him either.
He'd rendered her helpless, at least for the time being.
He pulled her through the apartment door, panting heavily. The extra weight strained him. She tried to grab the longer carpet fibers in the apartment, but she couldn't get a sufficient grip to make a difference. The carpet pulled up slightly, but the fibers either slipped through her fingers or pulled free.
She wasn't sure what he intended to do. He couldn't hurt her. Well, not unless he threw her out of the window. Or got her out of the suit first...
Her mind flashed back to his obvious desire before she'd knocked him out cold and his lingering interest in removing her clothing.
That could be a problem. It would be best to get free now before he had the chance to do anything regrettable.
She tried kicking her feet, a difficult task with her back facing up. The exercises she'd done at Roddy's direction helped, though, and she could feel Stephen's grip loosen slightly. As he pulled her down the hall toward the bedroom, she scissor-kicked her legs once more, breaking his grip. Her feet fell to the floor, and the heavy suit created a notable thud and reverberation. Deirdre rolled over just as Stephen dove atop her, straddling her hips and pushing both of her shoulders back to the ground. His eyes were calm.
She couldn't help but think, though, that his thoughts were anything but.
“Why are you playing hard to get, Dee? The game playing has worked, but now it's time to... celebrate.” He smiled that same dashing smile that had first attracted her attention, and she remembered the desire that once filled her each time he gave her that look.
She couldn't feel him or sense what his hands were doing, but suspected he'd be hunting for the protective flap and zipper, trying to open the suit to begin his idea of celebration. Her efforts to communicate to him the imminent end of the world were lost to his mind in the throes of his carnal desire.
She felt a lump in her throat. In many ways, she'd not saved him, then. She'd killed him. She'd still try to save him, but by the time he recognized the threat, it would likely be too late. Somewhere, she'd find someone else. Stephen was beyond saving... and beyond being worth saving.
She didn't answer his invitation as he'd expected. She rolled her hips to the left so that her right hip faced up, and then shifted her hips upward with great force, thrusting the heavy metal of the suit directly into his groin.
If it had been her regular hips, it would have hurt a lot.
When the impact came from a specialized metal alloy able to resist bullets?
She figured if they survived this he'd never have interest in her again, and that was fine.
Stephen's scream of pain reached her ears through the external microphones and internal speakers. The shrillness and volume left her temporarily deaf. He rolled off her, grabbing himself, unable to squelch the immense pain ripping him apart. The brief glance he shot at her spoke of the murder--the very painful murder--he had planned for her.
Yes, the affair was definitely over now.
She'd not make the same mistake twice, not now that she knew he'd do everything he could to thwart her escape. As he bent in half in a futile effort to dull the pain, she lifted the heavy metal boot and kicked him in the head.
The screams stopped instantly. Stephen went limp on the floor.
Deirdre gulped. She'd underestimated the power in the suit and how it magnified any motion initiated. Once she'd gotten her leg moving, the mechanics of the suit aided the momentum she'd generated. She'd meant only to knock him out cold so as to end his efforts at thwarting her attempts to escape the doomed building.
She stared down at him, and felt sickness. The face that once charmed and seduced her now filled her with loathing. If she was honest with herself, she'd known exactly what her kick might accomplish. And she'd done it anyway. She truly had meant to kill him.
But was he dead? She looked down at him. She couldn't tell if she saw a blood vessel pulsing in his neck, or if it was merely an effect of the light. She didn't dare extract a hand from the suit to check for his pulse. She wanted to be certain this time, though. How could she quickly verify if the man on the ground was dead?
She had a sudden thought, and leaned down so that her face was directly above his. If he were still alive, if he had even the slightest respiratory rate, his warm breath would fog--
Stephen's eyes snapped open.
Deirdre screamed.
Stephen's hands wrapped around her head, and she felt her whole body move while he tried to wrench the helmet off the suit. She suspected in that instant that he'd be fine if her head came off in the process.
While she was flipping over in the air, the building shuddered violently once more.
Stephen's grip loosened and she went rolling along the ground, landing face down on the carpet. She saw ants scurrying around in the carpet, eating the individual fibers, and...
She jolted back in horror
.
Those weren't ants.
Stephen had gotten to his feet and moved drunkenly at her. She had no idea how he still moved, let alone lived. But he charged her again, grunting with the effort, as he dove atop her once more, mad beyond reason to once more hurl his body at the very solid metal. Deirdre kicked her legs out, sending the crazed man flying heels-over-head down the hallway closer to the bedroom. The sight of the first Ravagers in her apartment gave Deirdre a burst of adrenaline, and she moved to her feet and lumbered down the hall past Stephen, stopping only to grab his leg. He screamed in protest as the carpet fibers rubbed his skin raw, but she had no time to stop and less time for empathy. She dropped his leg once they reached the bedroom. She pulled his suit from the hidden closet and toppled the heavy structure next to him, pulling the helmet off and unzipping the body as quickly as she could. Stephen, startled by the frenetic activity and still hurting from the various collisions, could do little to stop her as she tore off his shoes and began stuffing him inside the suit. It was a race against time, against the unknown rate of replication of the machines, against an onslaught she knew she couldn't stop. And she had no idea if any Ravagers had reached him even now, making her efforts futile.
She'd gotten both legs into the suit when she experienced a sense of weightlessness, and knew she was too late.
The floor beneath her dissolved away, and she fell, screaming, into the abyss below.
—————
MICAH JAMISON
—————
MICAH JAMISON'S EYES REMAINED CLOSED, cutting off visual input to his mind. He focused full attention on his hands, shifting the left back to the neutral position. With the wheels on the left now motionless, the car performed a sharp turn to the right. With the motion commenced and the car nearing a ninety degree angle to its previous path, Jamison moved the right panel to its neutral position, activating the car's braking system.
The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3 Page 19
