The Lost Castle

by Nick Cole

  The last mile to the epicenter was a horror show beyond comprehension.

  Any normal person would’ve checked out.

  But Tier One Operators never checked out. Even if they wanted to. Even if it got horror show bad.

  Not accomplishing the mission, despite the unreal yawning horror of it all, had been trained out of them.

  No excuses.

  No failures.

  There was, as Yoda had decreed and every hard-as-nails Drill Instructor liked to remind... “Do, or do not.”

  The “Do not” meant death.

  Braddock watched the zekes come and be crushed in the side mirrors as they were sprayed with fuel, crushed by the vehicles and even crushed by their own. It was like the world’s largest, dirtiest, rankest rave, and the music was nothing other than engines and fuel pumps pumping out a Ka-Chunk Ka-Chunk Ka-Chunk backbeat rhythm that really made them wild. Their mouths were open and working, almost drinking the caustic fuel that jetted all over them. He could see Steele in the other hauler. Following him. Jaw set. Head immobile. Nothing to see here, folks. No twenty-three thousand walking dead people to be concerned about. Just an automatic Zen emotionlessness that seemed alien and inhuman in Braddock’s rearview mirror.

  Just another day after the end of the world for “this unit.”

  Then some hoary, scabbed hand knocked the side mirror off. Braddock continued pushing on and over their corpulent press on this hottest of days since the world had ended weeks ago. Dead center of all the dead that could be imagined. And really... much, much more.

  Dead center in a sea of zekes pushing in at you from every direction, he cut the engine and gave two blasts of the massive horn. The sound rang out over the swollen valley of the dead as thousands of corpses surged over each other, building small mountains of themselves to reach the life inside the massive trucks.

  Steele could just drive on now, thought Braddock, and leave him and everyone back at the outpost on the bridge. That had always been the flaw in the plan. With nothing in sight to stop him, the mysterious man known as Mr. Steele, or whatever he was, could just drive on, stranding them all. And if he possessed an ounce of mercy... then Steele might toss a match as he left and burn them all before the zekes got them.

  But Braddock didn’t think there was.

  An ounce of mercy.

  For whatever that was worth.

  Not much after the end of everything.

  Steele pulled alongside and Braddock climbed out the window just above a forest of hands attached to bodies smashed between the closeness of the two vehicles. Though the bodies were pulped and smashed by Steele pulling alongside, necrotic hands still waved and grasped into the air as best they could.

  ...Hands still moving. Clawing. Clutching. Reaching out for Braddock... reaching for life.

  Braddock leapt over the roof of the cab of the hauler with the shotgun and ruck on his back.

  The surface of the roof was hot and it burned as Braddock rolled over on his back. He heard Steele gun the massive hauler’s engine and pull forward, wading into the dead once more.

  If the vehicle suddenly died...

  Braddock uncapped his canteen and drank the last of the water. His hands were trembling.

  Not from fear. But from gripping the steering wheel too tightly as he drove through them. Drove over them.

  Another mile, and they began to climb up toward the toll road. Gallons upon gallons of fuel jetted out after the stumbling-tumbling pursuing-walking corpses. And for a moment Braddock wasn’t sure this would work.

  Because... there were so many of them.

  So many.

  Unbelievable.

  The numbers were incomprehensible when viewed from the ground.

  Halfway up the steep grade leading toward the overpass and the toll road, they were free, and the truck ground down through the gears as it climbed onto the overpass that crossed the top of the highway. In the distance, zekes struggled up its clean concrete lengths for the first time. As though only now aware this was a path open to them. Especially if there was something to tear and eat at the top. At the end of the road.

  The truck halted and Braddock slid down from the top with his weapon ready.

  Steele was already out, capped flare in hand. He shut off the fuel pump they’d jerry-rigged to remain open. The river of fuel ceased and the last of it wandered back down the grooved edges of the overpass and beneath the feet of the struggling zombies.

  The corpses were forever lunging toward them with gnashing black teeth, as though seeking some kind of salvation.

  Steele ignited the flare and threw it into the retreating river of fuel.

  Like someone might toss a ball to a dog. Or a stick into a river.

  Or end twenty-three thousand once-humans.

  Just like that.

  It caught, igniting with a whump, as waves of blue flame quickly rose, then raced down into the crowd. At times the flames would disappear, and it was clear the wave of blue flames racing were far and away and ahead of the damage they were doing. The other tanker was the first explosion. It was massive and it shook the foundations of the overpass. Zekes went flying in every direction as the vehicle went Cracka-BOOOM. Hundreds of them. On fire and rolling away into the air as though suddenly jerked backward.

  And still others stumbled into the apocalyptic bloom, drawn by light, and noise, and heat. Mistaking those things for life instead of death. Melting in the space of seconds as the flames reached the combustion point and escalated into blast furnace temperatures

  Along the river of flame, disappearing over the distant rise they’d come from, other explosions began, sending dark oily clouds into the hot, still air as shimmering waves of heat and invisible flames roasted thousands of once humans all at once. C4 exploded as heat and concussion ignited its primary blast, and a moment later, the vehicles it was attached to suddenly went up in secondary and tertiary explosions. Other nearby vehicles, turning quickly to so much melting plastic, exploded moments later as fuel began to combust inside their superheated tanks. Long strings of det cord ruptured other vehicles, semis, and fuel tankers. Lines of explosions bloomed like sudden stands of fiery red trees, roasting all the rotting bodies nearby. Grenades cooked off, maiming other corpses that wandered mindlessly into the expanding inferno crawling back toward the overpass fort. Toward Gautreaux, Brees and the other survivors.

  For a while, there would be a river of fire.

  A way through.

  “Time to go,” stated Steele, as he looked off to the west. Tracking something.

  Braddock said nothing and only looked at the man. As though seeking an answer, though he already knew what it was. Knew he wouldn’t like it at all.

  “They’re dead already, Captain...” A moment later, Braddock turned to see a Tomahawk missile streak across the horizon, following the terrain, heading straight down the highway. Heading straight for the outpost and the surviving vehicles of the convoy. Probably spotted by another aircraft. A final tactical strike to try and get Mr. Steele by whatever was left of the U.S. government.

  No... Braddock thought, thinking of the survivors and the mercs. Of Brees and Gautreaux and the lady who’d screamed he’d “killed them all.” And a moment later, it was gone over the hill and just seconds from the overpass outpost. Then a distant series of muffled explosions rolling like distant thunder of the dry and wasted terrain.

  Steele turned and looked toward the cleft in the hills where the toll road climbed. The way they’d need to head in order to reach Objective Iron Castle. Alien dark clouds billowed and roiled against the blazing sky.

  It’s true, thought Braddock. I killed them all.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The change in temperature was dramatic. Holiday could feel warmth coming up through the floor at him. He knew it was distant. Knew it was probably nothing more than the he
at of some unseen engine or other machine, radiating out through the bizarre superstructure of this place. But it was heat and it was the opposite of the room of depthless cold through which he’d just passed.

  Holiday’s skin was being stabbed by a million tiny devils, each with a razor-sharp microscopic pitchfork. But he was standing. And moving forward through a shadowy warehouse that was high and long. He passed blue bins, each fronting a row of similar containers, all spaced with a precision that seemed unattainable by mere human hands, all leading up onto tracks climbing the ceiling, where other blue bins waited to be lowered to the floor. A few tentative steps, and Holiday’s rebellious muscles sent him careening into the nearest bin. He clutched its lip for dear life, suddenly aware that dashing his brains out on the concrete floor without the ability to break his fall was an actual possibility.

  Inside the bin were clothes.

  Pants. Jeans. Corduroys. Khakis. It was filled with pants, used and some even brand new, sales tags still attached.

  Holiday stumbled forward to the next bin, his legs only barely complying with his command to move. To move him as far away as possible from the mechanical monster that was surely right behind him. Coming for him even now.

  In the next bin were shorts. Cargo shorts. Swim suits. Shorts of all kinds.

  In the next he found boots. Nothing but boots. Combat boots. Hiking boots. Biker boots.

  He continued down the aisle of containers, going further and further into the shadowy recesses of the long hall ahead. He passed bins that contained shirts and others that contained jackets. Soon he came to bins that contained military gear. Harnesses and helmets. And along the far wall, next to the double doors which swung outward into a gleaming hallway that seemed to be mirrored, he passed bins full of photographs, books, notebooks, and other seemingly personal effects.

  He was almost feeling normal, if not hollowed out from the intense and soul-numbing cold, by the time he entered the hall of mirrors. Mirrored in every way. Floor, walls, ceiling.

  There was a bizarre moment of vertigo mixed with a fear of heights as he took his first step onto the smooth reflective surface of the floor. It was like falling off the edge of the universe, thought Holiday.

  Words appeared in green translucent lettering along the mirrors. Drifting passed him as he walked.

  Infiltrate and Report

  Humans value life

  Terminate their leaders

  Be prepared to be taken prisoner. Once inside their safe zones terminate the virus

  Every human is a combatant

  SILAS is coming

  At the far end of the hall, a door slithered aside and Holiday passed into a dark room.

  The first thing he could detect in the heavy darkness that smelled like brand new machinery was the thick glass. He could barely see it by some dim reflected illumination. He reached his fingers out and tapped on the dense glass. A moment later, an overhead spotlight sprang to life, illuminating racks upon racks of state-of-the-art matte black weapons of all manner and capability.

  Light machine guns.

  Rifles.

  Assault rifles.

  Pistols.

  Sniper rifles.

  Shotguns.

  Another green laser light erupted from somewhere ahead, its light like a wide horizontal knife’s edge. After a moment, it descended along Holiday’s body. Then it flickered out just as suddenly as it had come into existence.

  On one side of the passage, beyond the immensely thick glass, a robot arm selected a gun. A military-grade shotgun just like the one Holiday had used in the video game. Holiday could not hear the servos or articulating hums of the arm beyond the transparent barrier as it carried the shotgun away from the racked weapons and along the length of thick glass, matching Holiday’s progress down the corridor.

  The arm stopped at a polished metal desk, hovering over a gleaming surface devoid of fingerprints, and gently laid the lethal weapon atop the table. A small opening appeared, as a section of the seamless glass smoothly shifted aside enough for the metal desk to egress out into the corridor. In front of Holiday lay the gun. Waiting.

  The AA-12 combat shotgun.

  If it worked like it did in the game, then this was a gun Holiday could use effectively.

  He picked it up.

  It felt cold to the touch.

  It felt heavier than the one in the simulation, and Holiday remembered to treat every gun as if it were loaded. Even though, in fact, he had no idea how to actually load this gun. He was sure it wasn’t as simple as pressing a “reload” button along the side. He turned the weapon over.

  There was no “reload” button. Just Safety. Semi. And Full stamped into the dark metal.

  He felt sudden terror and glanced behind him, back down the length of weapons secured behind thick glass and toward the hall of mirrors. As if expecting to see that mechanical nightmare striding across the room and through the door at the end of the hall.

  Absolutely sure he would see the monster coming for him.

  He pointed the weapon back that way.

  And waited.

  Was it loaded?

  He had no idea.

  Behind him he heard a shushing noise and watched as the desk withdrew back behind the heavy glass. The lights along the weapons racks went off and once again Holiday was alone in the darkness. Waiting.

  He backed up a few steps, then turned, sensing his way along the corridor. A few feet later, a new oblong door opened and he could see a small room beyond. He entered it cautiously.

  Another green laser scanned him. From an unseen seam, another desk slid out. It was more of a deep tray and inside he found a pipe wrench, a small medicine bottle, and a pocket knife. After a moment, Holiday collected these things. He examined the medicine bottle. A label announced that it was Revlex. Take two with headaches. The prescription was from some doctor.

  It was, thought Holiday, as though they, and he was sure there was some “they” behind all this, were outfitting him for some kind of mission. Except it wouldn’t be him. But something that was supposed to look like him.

  Unit Incomplete: Awaiting Skin Harvest/Reclamation and Neural Imaging Download

  It was that thing that would become him.

  Another laser appeared. It ran the length of the automatic matte black shotgun now cradled in Holiday’s hands. Halfway along its length, it switched to red and stopped.

  There was that sudden high-pitched modem hyper-gurgle and then a bass note thump.

  The green laser reappeared and began the scan again. Again it switched to red on that same bass note thump.

  And Holiday suddenly knew that part of the outfitting process was the ammunition this weapon would receive. Some criteria was not being met. And that the door, or drawer, or whatever, that would dispense the ammo, would not open unless...

  Multiple lasers began to crisscross Holiday’s body. Words appeared along the walls...

  Infiltrator Status: Incomplete

  Disguised, Human Male.

  Poison Equipped, variant SuperPlague

  One Hand Weapon, Pipewrench w/ Hidden Semtex Cache.

  Pocketknife/Portable Microframe. HunterKiller Virus installed

  Unarmed

  Neural Download missing

  Unit Incomplete: Awaiting Skin Harvest/Reclamation and Neural Imaging Download prior to Mission Start

  Re-validation in process

  Whoops, thought Holiday, that’s not good. Images of gleaming scalpels appeared in his mind, promising to be part of that “re-validation” process.

  Holiday turned about, searching for a way out of the tiny room, his mind passing over the trick twice before he saw it. Because everything was clean white. Like a sterile laboratory. You couldn’t tell where one wall started and the other ended unless you looked hard. He’d failed in the first
two passes around the room to notice that one section of the wall was closer than its other half. Still cradling the shotgun, he scooped up the items in the drawer and shoved them in his pockets.

  Some distant thought recalled the word... SuperPlague

  He took a few steps toward the optical illusion along the wall. As he neared it, he could see that one half hid a corridor, a small passage that disappeared into a darkness beyond.

  He stepped around the wall and pointed his shotgun into this darkness. He felt his way along the passage. Felt it double back three times and the darkness seemed near complete until a few steps later he saw light bouncing off another turn in the corridor ahead.

  After that turn he emerged into a shadowy area. Ahead, he could see the entrance to the WarWorld simulation across the way. He was standing in a narrow alley along the shopping arcades. Something that was easily missed by passersby here in the shadows between the distractions of shop and banner.

  A cold thought came over him.

  If they had “reclaimed” him, or anyone, this is where the metal skeleton wearing his skin would re-enter the world as the person it had replaced.

  “Oh sorry, honey. I missed you at the exit. Where’re the kids?”

  A killing machine with a neural download full of memories and information would go home with that family. Waiting for the moment to begin its mission...

  Where to go.

  Who to kill.

  Was that even possible? wondered Holiday, and felt his mind swim down into a dark pond called Hysteria. He turned and fought for the surface, reached out for sanity and kicked toward the known as he walked into the sandy light of the hot afternoon where the video game had begun.

  Overhead the sun fell into the west, burning everything under a blazing orange glare of endless fatigue. Farther down the arcade, staring into the depths of the entrance of WarWorld, chubby little Jesus, hands clasped, danced back and forth from booted foot to booted foot.