by David Wood
They found Brant in what looked like Alia’s bedroom. The walls were pink and hosted more than a few posters of teen heartthrobs, all better looking and more chiseled than Jakob. He felt a pang of jealousy, but it was quickly squelched by the knowledge that all the airbrushed faces smiling down at them were either dead or monsters.
“What is it?” Alia whispered to her father.
He was crouching by the front window, which had been mostly boarded up with planks of wood painted black. He lowered a pair of binoculars and turned to his daughter. He saw Jakob and looked surprised for a moment, then disappointed, then resigned. “I don’t know. Something in the woods.”
“Did you see them?” Alia asked. There was a trace of doubt in her voice, like maybe her father sometimes saw things that weren’t there. Maybe this kind of alarm was a daily occurrence? Shifting winds moving shadows in the woods could be convincing illusions.
Brant’s response was to hand her the binoculars. He moved aside to let her peek through the opening. As she did, Jakob thought about the sun’s position in the sky. They were facing west and it was still morning, so the sun was still behind them. But in an hour or two, they wouldn’t be able to use the binoculars without risking a reflection.
“Yeah,” Alia said, binoculars raised, voice tense, “something’s out there.”
She silently offered the binoculars to Jakob and moved aside. Brant didn’t look happy about it, like Jakob’s presence was disrupting the normal flow of things, but he didn’t say anything. The brightness of the outside world, amplified through the lens, made Jakob squint. When his pupils adjusted to the light, he found himself looking at a blurry close-up of carrot stalks. He moved the binoculars up, watching the view become more distant, and more in focus. He stopped at the treeline, which was at least two miles off.
The only motion he saw was the gentle sway of the branches. Shadows moved in time with the branches, painting the wheat below with streaks of light and dark. Then, in one of the momentary beams of light, he saw something. It was pale, almost luminous in the flickering sunbeam. And then, it was gone.
Moved, he thought.
He focused on the gap between the top of the four-foot-tall wheat stalks and the lowest tree branches, a good six feet of open space. In that emptiness, the shadows resolved, separating into subtly different hues and shapes.
Shapes that he recognized.
“Woolies,” he whispered.
“Excuse me?” Brant said, his voice a little too loud.
Jakob looked back at the man.
Brant’s face was screwed up in something between shock and revulsion. “You have a name for them?”
“We name everything we come across,” Jakob said. “Well, mostly Anne does, but I—”
“You brought them here,” he said.
“Not on purpose.” Jakob could see the man’s line of reasoning. If the Woolies followed them here, then they were responsible for whatever happened next. Jakob didn’t necessarily disagree, but the look in Brant’s eyes said the man wanted to dole out punishment. The rifle in his hands began to shift toward Jakob.
“We don’t know if they’ve spotted us yet,” Jakob said, making a case for why Brant shouldn’t shoot him without coming right out and saying it. Alia looked oblivious to her father’s intentions, and Jakob wasn’t sure how she’d react. At the same time, Jakob shifted his left hand toward a handgun leaning against the metal table beneath the window. He wasn’t sure if he could shoot lefty, or raise the weapon up in time to defend himself, or even if he could pull the trigger on another human being. But he didn’t want to die.
So he reached.
And never made it.
“They know we’re here,” Peter said, causing everyone to flinch.
Jakob turned around, a pleading look in his eyes, hoping his father would understand the situation.
Peter gave Brant a nod. “We’ll stand with you.” He handed Jakob a Kevlar vest, its pockets loaded with weapon magazines, shotgun shells, a knife, a handgun and other gear, some of which Jakob recognized, some he didn’t. As Jakob took the vest, he noticed his father was wearing identical gear, similarly laden with supplies. He also had several heavy hitting weapons slung over his shoulder. After Jakob slid into the vest, Peter motioned to an automatic rifle leaning nearby. “The magazines I gave you are for the M16. You remember how to switch them out?”
“Yes, sir,” Jakob said, feeling very serious, mentally running through the steps his father had taught him. Magazine out, magazine in, chamber the first round and shoot. And switch from the safe setting to fire, or auto if things get crazy.
Peter turned to Brant. “Don’t suppose you have a sniper rifle? We could stop this before it starts.”
Brant just shook his head.
“You comfortable with holding the second floor?” Peter asked.
“Here for a reason, aren’t I?” Brant’s tone had lost all of its friendliness. Even Alia seemed surprised by it. Then he added, “Can’t leave Misha up here alone.”
“Jakob,” Peter said, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Hold the living room with Anne. Listen for my—”
“Something’s coming out,” Alia said, looking through a crack in the boards.
Still next to the window, holding the binoculars, Jakob looked across the field. Rows of wheat parted as something walked through them, carving a path. Too small to be a Woolie, he thought, which means, “It’s a Rider.”
And then he saw the Rider’s face.
It was her.
The hair was wrong, flowing like a mane from her head and down her back. The teeth were hideous, rising up like a fence to pierce the cheeks. But the eyes, even from this distance, looked familiar. As did the shape of her face.
His mother had followed them.
But it couldn’t really be her.
He turned slowly back toward his father. “You killed her, didn’t you?”
“Killed who?” Peter asked.
“Mom.”
“You killed your wife?” Brant said, his voice far too loud and filled with revulsion. His weapon shifted toward Peter.
“She ate the ExoGen crops,” Peter said quickly, making no move for his own weapon. “She changed.”
“But you killed her?” Brant said. “Killed your own wife?”
Peter looked torn, but then said. “No.”
“What?” Jakob asked. His father had let him live with the idea that his monster-mother was dead and buried. “You shot her. I heard it.”
“I let her go,” Peter said. “She was still intelligent enough to know I could kill her if I had to. The shot you heard got her moving.”
Jakob deflated. “Then she’s alive.”
“Maybe.”
Jakob handed the binoculars to Peter and moved away from the windows. Peter took the lens and looked out the window. After just a moment, he frowned and said, “Yes.” He turned to Jakob. “I didn’t want you to be afraid of her.”
Jakob said nothing. The idea that his mother, the monster, still existed and had all this time, filled him with nausea. Not because he loved her and wanted her back, or held out some kind of hope that their family could be reunited, though. She’d tried to eat him. And worse, when she’d pinned him to the gas station parking lot, she had recognized him.
She was here for him. He knew it.
“You should have shot her,” Jakob said.
Peter just stared at his son for a moment, and then gave a carefully considered nod.
“She’s coming,” Alia said, looking out the window. “By herself.”
Peter took a quick look and then gave Jakob’s shoulder a tap. “To the living room. Same as before. Stay with Anne. Guard Ella.” He turned to Brant and Alia. “You comfortable being overwatch from here?”
“It’s why I’m here,” Brant said again. He moved Alia behind him. “She’ll stay with me.”
“What are you going to do?” Jakob asked.
Peter turned and looked out the window again.
After a moment, he said, “I’m going to go talk to your mom.”
Chapter 37
Shell-shock was a term coined in the wake of World War I to describe what was now known as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, something with which Peter was familiar. But shell-shocked had become part of the general vernacular, applicable to everyday people in the grip of sudden and jarring surprise. After a car accident, an earthquake, a fire. Any traumatic event could leave a person shell-shocked, despite the utter lack of artillery shelling. Out of respect for the warriors who had given their lives during that horrible war, and those who, like him, knew what being shelled felt like, he had never used the term. But now, stepping out the front door of Brant’s house to face his wife-turned-ExoGen-monster, he understood how a person, outside of battle, could feel the full and deeply profound horror of surviving an artillery or mortar bombardment.
His legs grew weak as he took the steps down to the brick walkway, which cut through the carrot greens and led to the long driveway. He stepped past the debris that made the house look dilapidated and abandoned, heading down the driveway and stopping thirty feet from the house. If ExoGen Kristen wanted to talk, she’d have to come to him.
And she did. Confidently. He looked her over, seeing the face he remembered—if he ignored the long teeth poking up into her face and the elongated jaw accommodating them. But the rest of her... The once curvaceous body was slender, wiry and twitching with muscles. Her hips jutted out like an emaciated runway model, but she didn’t appear frail. She looked powerful. Long claws on the tips of her fingers matched the teeth. The last time he’d seen her, the claws had been an inch long. They were now at least four inches. A strong wind swept past her from behind, billowing her mane of hair in every direction, doubling her size and making her look even more wild and dangerous. When the wind reached Peter, he caught a whiff of her scent, earthy and pungent.
In nearly all respects, the woman he once loved was now an animal. A monster. And yet, she was walking out to meet him like two parlaying generals before a battle. Parlay was usually agreed upon with the intention of finding a way to avoid bloodshed, but it was rarely successful. He didn’t hold out hope that this would work out any differently, but if there was a chance, he had to see it through.
She slowed as she neared, eyeing the M16 in his hands. He lowered the weapon and slung it over his shoulder. A sign of good faith.
She stopped ten feet away, still standing in the field of carrots. Though she was completely unclothed, Peter felt naked under her gaze. She looked at him with predatory eyes, evaluating him. He was doing the same to her, but found no weakness. She’d been reformed into an efficient killer, every part of her lithe form hardened for constant life and death struggle. She was still human in appearance, standing straight like a modern biped. She might have been a few inches taller, but unlike the Stalkers, she was still, beneath all the sinews and hair, human.
A Rider, he reminded himself. What the Riders lacked in size, they made up for by forming a predatory symbiotic relationship with the Woolies. He glanced past her, looking for any sign of the lumbering beasts, but they were still hidden within the shadows of the distant forest. The question was, how many were there? And how many Riders? Until he knew that, Kristin had the advantage.
“Want son,” she said, her voice deeper, but still familiar.
“Not a chance,” Peter replied, matching her resolve. He also noticed her stilted language. While she was still clearly more intelligent than the average ExoGen predator, she had lost some of her previous sharpness.
But not her memory, he thought. She knows who I am. Who Jakob is.
He decided to appeal to her motherly instincts, if she had any left. “He wouldn’t be safe with you.”
She crouched down, shoved her fingers into the dirt and lifted a single carrot free. It was covered in soil, but looked thick and orange and delicious. She took a bite, dirt and all, her long, sharp teeth snapping the vegetable with a pop. She worked her jaw open and closed, crunching the carrot. Her teeth slipped in and out of the holes in her face. She swallowed loudly. “Will make son strong.”
He understood the message. Jakob would be fed ExoGenetic crops and turned into a monster, maybe a Rider, or something worse. Or maybe her pals would just eat the boy. In all the infinite parallel universes that might exist, he didn’t think there was a version of himself that would ever let that happen.
“You tried to eat him,” Peter pointed out, though he doubted she would care.
To his surprise, she managed a slight frown that exposed the swollen gums holding her long teeth in place. “Hunger is...strong. But makes us strong. Too.”
She stood up again, stretching out her lean body. “Stronger than soldiers. Stronger than you.”
Peter held up his hands. “That might be true, but stronger is not always better.”
She squinted at him, trying to make sense of his words.
“If I were stronger,” he said, “I would have killed you.”
All her twitching and agitation ceased.
“I would have shot you outside the house. Stopped you from...” He decided not to insult what she had become. “But I didn’t. I showed you mercy. And kindness. Because I love you.”
Her whole face seemed to relax. She dropped the carrot and took a deep, shaky breath. “Pe-ter...” One slow step at a time, she exited the field and stepped onto the pavement, just five feet away. She stopped, just out of arm’s reach. “Still...love?”
“Never stopped,” he said, and it was the truth. He still regretted the decision to let her live, but only because he did love her. He could have spared her from this horrible life. Instead, he’d condemned her to endless savagery and painful adaptations.
“You come, too,” she said, reaching for him.
He stepped back. “I can’t.”
She looked wounded. “You said ‘love.’ You said—” Kristen sucked in a sudden and deep breath like she’d just been sucker punched in the gut. She doubled over, holding herself, stumbling back—and looking past him, toward the house.
Time seemed to slow as Peter turned around, turned his back on his enemy, and looked at the home. The front door was open, framing the small body of a woman whose head had been shaved, but was still easily recognizable to anyone who had met her.
Ella looked groggy and confused for a moment as she looked at Peter, and then beyond him. Then her eyes slowly opened, growing large with recognition. Despite the physical alterations, she still recognized Kristen, just as Kristen recognized her.
Jakob and Anne appeared in the doorway, reaching and grabbing, pulling Ella back and closing the door. But the damage had been done.
The wife he had loved, and spared and wished he had killed, had seen his former lover, the woman who nearly destroyed them, who Kristen loathed with every fiber of her being. He had little doubt, that given the opportunity to kill Ella with no repercussions, Kristen would have done so long ago. And now, with him having just claimed to love her, she had seen Ella again, with her son.
A long string of curses flowed through Peter’s mind as he swung back around, leaping away from Kristen as he did so. The move saved his life. Long claws sliced through the air where his neck had been a moment before. Had he not anticipated the attack, he’d be on his knees, clutching his neck and bleeding out in clear view of his son.
“We can leave in peace,” he blurted, still hoping to avoid killing her in front of Jakob. He might regret letting her live again, but he still wanted to protect his son. “No one needs to get—”
Kristen unleashed a high-pitched scream and threw herself at Peter. As he blocked her first swing, a deep, bellowing roar replied. It was followed by the sound of thunder as massive feet charged over the carrot field.
The Riders were coming.
Kristen struck again, diving in a roll and swiping at the inside of his leg. Kristen hadn’t been a violent person. She’d never been trained in how to fight, yet here she was, trying to sever his femora
l artery.
He leaped back and swatted down, pushing her hands away. When her legs bent to spring, he knew she was about to tackle him, and once they hit the ground, there would be no avoiding all her pointy parts. So he kicked. Hard. A tooth broke in half as his boot connected with the side of her face and sent her sprawling.
His instincts said to go for the kill. Finish her off. But the man in him, who’d said, ‘in sickness and in health,’ who had held her hand while she gave birth, couldn’t bring himself to shoot her where she knelt, like some captive POW.
He stumbled back. “Please. Kristen. Call them off. I’m giving you the chance to live again.”
“Is not chance I want you to have,” she growled, and then she dived to the side, moving on all fours. As soon as she landed, she leapt the other direction, closing the gap between them while keeping him off balance.
“Kristen!” he shouted. “No!”
Then she was upon him, arms and claws outstretched, jaws hung wide open, ready to cleave his face away. There was no avoiding what happened next. In the face of certain death, Peter simply reacted, instinct and training guiding his every move, while things like mercy and love took a back seat. He ducked down while reaching up to his chest. He drew the Glock 17 handgun from its holster, twisted his hand up and pulled the trigger. The 9mm round sliced upward through the air before striking the soft skin beneath Kristen’s chin and continuing on through her tongue, skull and brain. As momentum pulled her up and over his body, the bullet carved a groove through the bone of her skull, following the curve and then ricocheting through the gray matter, shredding the brain and erasing everything that was once Peter’s wife, without ever exiting the body. Once upon a time, Peter would have called it a clean kill. As Kristen fell to the brick walkway behind him, blood dripping from the small hole in her chin, he thought it was tragic.
His wife was dead, by his hand, and their son had seen it happen.
And then, suddenly, Jakob was by his side, shouting, “Dad!”
