by David Wood
It sharpened the senses.
Made him more aware.
And that was how he knew they were coming. He felt the slight pulsing in pressure before the sound actually reached his ears. The helicopters were coming back. Coming for Anne, he thought, glancing back at the girl who still hadn’t heard the approaching choppers.
“Alia,” he said, trying to sound calm. “Is there a town around here?” They needed to get off the road. The trees lining the winding road would provide some cover, but not for long if the choppers were flying high. With nothing else moving on the roads, they would be easy to spot.
Alia leaned forward, looking out the windshield. “Take your next right. Not far after that. Maybe a mile.” She leaned back in her seat, back to watching the passing trees and strips of different crops growing between them.
Anne showed no reaction at all.
But Jakob knew something was up. Peter looked at his son, and feigned a cheek scratch, then he tapped his ear. Jakob didn’t move, but sucked in a quick breath. He heard it, too.
Peter took the right turn and accelerated, pushing the needle past what he thought was a safe limit, but he did it slow enough that it went unnoticed. He was hoping to find a place to hide before the girls knew they were in danger.
But that wasn’t going to be possible.
He glanced in the rearview and saw three dark specks in the distance. The pilots would have already seen them.
Should have stayed straight, he thought, but there was no way to know where the choppers were.
“What’s that?” Anne sat up straight, looking both ways.
“Company,” Peter said, trying to sound nonchalant.
Anne turned around in her seat and looked out the rear window. “It’s Mom.”
“And the men with her,” Peter said. “We’re going to hide.”
“Wait,” Alia said. “The town is to hide in?”
“Yeah,” Peter said, but then he didn’t need to ask why. The trees cleared, and the small town came into view. The word ‘small’ didn’t do it justice. There was a brick town hall, a combined convenience store and gas station, a few storefronts converted from houses lining the street and a small brick church. Corn grew from the flat roofs of the gas station and the city hall. The wooden structures looked ready to crumble, and probably were before the Change. There was only one option: town hall. The building would most likely have a fallout shelter, so it was more of a last-stand location than a place to hide, but it was better than facing them out in the open. And they had enough guns to make it one hell of a last stand.
“Listen up,” he said. “Girls, take the pink backpacks and plastic bags. Jakob, you take the duffle bag. I’m going to—” Peter glanced in the rearview, expecting to see the three helicopters rushing toward him. Instead he found an open pair of long-toothed jaws reaching out for the back of the truck.
“Whoa!” he shouted and crushed his foot down on the gas pedal. The big truck lurched forward as the teeth snapped together behind them. He put them on a course straight through town and accelerated while weaving in and out of abandoned vehicles. A second look back revealed three Stalkers, giving chase, leaping obstacles, their chests expanded and armored plates waving back and forth. But the creatures maintained a safe distance.
When they cruised through the town’s only intersection, where a now-dead yellow light hung, he looked left and right. To the left, a large, lone Stalker kept pace. On the right were two more.
We’re being herded.
But toward what?
Then he saw it. The inevitable structure residing in or near the center of every town. The red brick church with a white steeple looked like the most well maintained building in town...until the walls crumbled out into the road, shoved by a thirty-foot-long Stalker with a broad, powerful chest, wicked teeth and ten foot, rigid sails down its back. It stepped into the road while the steeple crashed down behind it.
Their path had been blocked, with Stalkers on all sides. These things were human once, and it still showed.
The big Stalker stared the truck down and let out a bellow that shook Peter’s insides. He considered ramming the thing’s leg, and probably would have if he were alone, but the moment the truck stopped, he and the kids were screwed.
He slowed the vehicle as the smaller Stalkers closed in. “Windows down!”
Wind blasted into the cab as all four windows descended. “Pick a target!”
Driving while aiming an M-16 across his lap at the Stalker on his left wasn’t easy. It would be even harder once he pulled the trigger. But he didn’t think Alia, who was sitting behind him, would get the job done with her handgun. And he needed the Stalker on their left to be gone in about five seconds, so he could veer away from the big one.
He opened his mouth, then shouted, “Now!” but the word was drowned out by the sudden arrival of the three helicopters and the rattle of their machine guns. The Stalker on the left burst in a cloud of red, cut down from above. He heard bullets rake the ground to the truck’s right, but he didn’t see whether the Stalkers had been hit.
He cut the wheel hard to the left and hit the brakes. Tires squealed as they started to pull off the road into a field of corn that might have once been a park. But a fresh barrage of gunfire pinged against the truck’s bed and struck one of the rear tires. There was a loud hiss, and then a grinding of the rim on pavement. He braked hard, hoping to spare the axel from permanent damage. If the spare was still in one piece, they could have working wheels inside of ten minutes, assuming they survived that long.
The big Stalker charged from the side, head lowered, jaws opened wide enough to engulf a portion of the cab. It would peel back the ceiling like a pistachio and find the meat inside.
Bullets traced a line across its snout, making it wince and pull up short. A helicopter roared past, and the monster leapt at it, snapping at the air. But then it turned and fled as a second barrage of gunfire opened up. Four Stalkers took off running, cutting through the fields that they were now too big to hide in, heading toward the distant woods. Two of the choppers peeled away in pursuit, firing at the creatures, driving them away. The third, the blue Black Hawk holding Kenyon and Ella, was landing behind them.
“What are they doing?” Alia asked. “Are they saving us?”
“They’re here because of me,” Anne said, coming to the same conclusion Peter had.
“We can rush them,” Jakob said, pumping the shotgun. “Hit them before they land.”
It was a simple plan, and it would work. But Ella was in the helicopter, and the moment they opened fire, the other two would swing back around. And there would be no hiding from them.
“You have to give me to them,” Anne said.
“No way,” Jakob said.
“Not going to happen,” Peter added.
“Then what?” Anne asked, indignant. “We’re just going to sit here and see what they do? You know how this is going to end. The only way of avoiding it is to let me go.”
So much like her mother...
When he didn’t reply, she grumbled something, grabbed hold of the ceiling-mounted handle and lifted herself up. She swung out the window, feet first, landed on the pavement and headed for the settling chopper before Peter could reply.
He and Jakob exited the truck in unison, Peter with the M16, Jakob with the shotgun. Both took aim at the chopper, one protecting his daughter, the other his sister. They’d both lost and gained a family member today. Peter was determined not to lose another, and he could see the same determination in his son. Jakob had changed a lot. Was becoming a survivor. But unlike Ella’s breed of survivor, neither of them wanted to let go of the things they loved.
The side of the chopper slid open. Ella climbed out first, followed by Kenyon, who had a knife to her throat. Mackenzie, the Marine, was the last out, looking uncomfortable, but aiming his weapon just the same.
“Same rules as before,” Kenyon said. “I take what I want. You and your boy get to live.” He g
lanced at the corn fields where the choppers were still chasing the Stalkers.
Chasing, but not killing. They’re letting the Stalkers live so they can kill us.
It was a cruel fate. A bullet would be merciful in comparison to being eaten alive.
“Deal,” Anne said, hands raised.
“Stop,” Peter said to her.
“Sometimes, to survive, you have to—”
“Bullshit,” Jakob said.
“Boys,” Kenyon said. “If you don’t play along, everyone dies. Well, maybe not me, but everyone you care about, including yourselves. So, they can come with me, live cushy lives back in San Francisco, and you two can live for however long you manage, or you can all become juicy Rattletail snacks.”
“I said, ‘deal.’” Anne continued forward. “I can speak for myself.”
Ella said nothing. She just watched her daughter, their eye-contact never wavering.
Damn it. Peter couldn’t think of a solution beyond the options Kenyon had laid out. With Anne along for the ride willingly, there was nothing he could do to stop them. If he fired at Kenyon, he might hit Ella. If he fired on Mackenzie, Kenyon still had Ella as a human shield. But if he let them leave, the Stalkers would likely return before he finished changing the truck’s ruined tire. In both scenarios, he, Jakob and Alia died. But in one of them, Ella and Anne lived.
Jakob lowered the shotgun. Even he knew they had no choice.
Anne walked behind Kenyon, stood beside Mackenzie and stood like an at-ease soldier, hands behind her back.
Ella’s eyes met Peter’s. She looked grim, but not without hope. Then she mouthed the words, ‘Get ready.’
Peter fought against his widening eyes when Anne’s right hand came back out from behind her back, clutching a handgun. Jakob must have reacted, though, because Kenyon started to turn around. But he wasn’t fast enough. Anne pulled the trigger twice, both rounds striking Kenyon’s back. He flailed, arms open wide, releasing Ella, who dived away. Peter adjusted his aim, firing a single round near Mackenzie, the Marine diving for the ground, and then turned his weapon on the pilots through the Black Hawk’s glass windshield. Both pairs of hands went up.
Anne stepped away from Kenyon, joining her mother. They retreated together, heading back toward the truck.
Kenyon gasped and pushed himself up, the two rounds stopped by a bulletproof vest.
“Start changing the tire,” Peter said to Jakob, and then to Ella, “Help him.”
While they headed for the truck, Peter approached Kenyon and kicked his arms out, knocking him back down to the pavement. “Stay down, asshole.”
He looked back at Mackenzie, who still had a weapon, but hadn’t tried aiming it again. “Will they follow your orders?”
Mackenzie nodded. “If he’s dead.”
“He’s dead,” Peter said, keeping his weapon trained on the back of Kenyon’s head. “He’s still breathing, but he’s dead.”
Mackenzie pushed himself up with a grunt. He understood the situation. It was a truce. Mackenzie and the pilots would live, and in return, they’d leave with the other choppers. But Kenyon wasn’t going anywhere. The choppers could swing back and finish them, but Mackenzie had proven himself to be an honorable soldier. Peter didn’t exactly trust him to keep his word, but he had no choice. Even if he could hijack the Black Hawk, the other two helicopters would shoot it down.
“Done,” Mackenzie said. “We’ll give you a few minutes to get sorted. But...you know they’ll come back for you.” Peter thought he was talking about the Stalkers until he added, “It might even be me.”
ExoGen would come for them. For Ella and Anne.
“It’s a big country to get lost in,” Peter said.
“Yes, sir,” Mackenzie said.
“Asshole traitor.” Kenyon spat at Mackenzie’s feet. The action drew everyone’s eyes to the fresh wad on the black boot, and it gave Kenyon a fraction of a second to move.
And he did.
One moment, Peter was standing over the man, the next he was flat on his back, coughing, his weapon fallen several feet away. He heard a scuffle and sat up in time to see Kenyon knock Mackenzie down with a solid punch.
Peter climbed to his feet just as Kenyon whirled around toward him, extending his leg for a vicious spinning kick. Peter leaned away from the kick, but Kenyon wasn’t done. The missed kick propelled Kenyon around, and he put the speed into a back kick that Peter managed to avoid, but not without stumbling. The barrage continued, Kenyon throwing kicks and punches with the fluidity of a man who could take on a gang of men and never stop moving. The rounds that had struck his back definitely hurt him, but he was good at ignoring the pain. Peter had been through days of similar punishment.
Physically, Kenyon had the advantage, and he delivered several hard punches, driving Peter back, further out of reach of his weapon.
And then Peter got pissed.
He stepped into a kick, letting Kenyon’s shin snap his rib. Then he locked down the man’s leg with this arm. Kenyon threw a punch, connecting with Peter’s cheek, but the blow left his arm extended long enough for Peter to take hold of it also. As his head pulled back up, recovering from the punch, he put the motion into his neck, while pulling Kenyon with both hands. When his forehead connected with Kenyon’s face, there was a crunch and a whimper. Then Kenyon’s body fell slack, and Peter dropped him on the pavement.
Sometimes all the finesse in the world couldn’t stand up against a good headbutt.
Peter stumbled back as both he and Mackenzie reached for their weapons. But when they stood again, neither took aim.
“Five minutes,” Peter asked.
“We need them alive,” Mackenzie replied. “Right now, letting you go is the only way to make sure that happens.”
Peter took a step back. “You won’t find them.”
Mackenzie climbed into the chopper. “For both our sakes, I hope you’re right.” Then the door slid shut and the rotors spun faster.
Peter hobbled back to the truck. “Jakob!”
“Almost done!” Jakob shouted. He was crouched down by the tire, Ella by his side, spinning the nuts back onto the wheel. The shredded tire was on the road next to him. Peter rounded to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel. He turned the key, and the engine bellowed. He felt the back end lower and then heard the clang of the tire kit landing in the truck bed. Both passenger-side doors opened. Ella climbed in the front. Jakob in the back beside Anne and Alia.
“Next stop Boston,” Peter said, “Or wherever we end up before that.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Anne said.
“Anne,” Ella said, sounding surprised.
Peter shrugged and grinned. “It’s a thing we do now.”
“End of the world lingo,” Jakob added.
“Fuckin’ A,” Alia said, trying it on for size, but sounding fragile and small.
Ella sighed. “Fuckin’ A. Now let’s go.”
As the sound of the helicopters faded, Peter sped away in the opposite direction, leaving the open small town behind them and heading into a maze of roads through a thickly forested area. They’d come close to dying, again, and he hurt even more than he had just ten minutes ago, but they were back together. A family again. And the man who tried to pull them apart... He was in for a rude awakening.
Boston or bust, Peter thought. Fuckin’ A.
Epilogue
Danger, like the odor of a rotting body, can be sensed before its source is seen by the eyes. Kenyon knew that. So when he awoke, his face tacky with congealed blood, he lay still, keeping his breathing shallow and even. He didn’t move his eyes. Even movement below the lids would give him away.
He smelled blood. His own.
But there was something beyond it. Something tangy. An animal musk.
He heard the flow of air, moving in and out of oversized lungs. Felt the tickle of it sliding through his arm hair. Smelled the breath of a predator. Pictured the old meat caught between teeth.
He could fee
l the pressure of the bodies surrounding him. Felt the shifting sun on his skin as they swayed back and forth.
Without opening his eyes, he knew he was surrounded by Rattletails.
That there was no escape.
To open his eyes was to die.
So he remained motionless, hoping that like some predators, the Rattletails would only consume meals they killed. If they believed he was already dead, they might leave him be. But if they were scavengers... The first bite would let them know he was still alive.
He tried to think of ways to fend off the attack, but he was unarmed and he doubted the CSO or that bastard Mackenzie had left him anything. They wouldn’t risk banishing him. This was a death sentence, pure and simple.
They knew it.
He knew it.
And the Rattletails looking down at him knew it.
So why weren’t they attacking?
Without an answer, his thoughts turned to Ella. Like Mackenzie, she had betrayed him. But it was her treachery that really stung. It burned him to the core. Filled him with a rage that was beyond description. He had loved her. Had protected her. Had endured hell and crossed two thirds of the country to bring her back to safety. But she had used him. Maybe from the very beginning. She had taken advantage of his affection, manipulated him to her ends and left with a man who was a stranger to him, but clearly not to her.
How did she know him?
Who was he?
Kenyon ran the man’s face through his mind, inspecting it for some sort of familiarity. Something about him... The eyes. It was his eyes. He knew those eyes.
They were Anne’s eyes.
The realization cut through his fear and sent his mind spiraling toward mania. Lacking any concern for his own safety or future, he shouted, “What the hell are you waiting for?”
When there was no sudden bite, or surprised roar, or any response at all, he slowly opened his eyes. The sun burned his retinas, forcing his eyes nearly shut. Then a silhouette slid into the light.
This is it...
Burn in hell, Ella.
The silhouette resolved slowly, shifting from a large mass, to a distinct shape.
