by Addison Gunn
Across the water, the RN ship’s machine gun had stopped. Somehow, during the action on the Tevatnoa, they had prised the gigantic squid off their hull and it had slipped below the surface.
About a half-kilometer to the south, a large explosion threw water high into the air. The giant squid came clean out of the river in pieces—a tentacle here, a portion of the head there.
Miller gaped. “What the hell?”
“Mark 44 torpedoes,” Lewis said over the com. “Clark’s idea. They just needed to get the squid far enough away. All right, Cobalt, everyone, well done. Clark is talking with the captain and wants to broker an agreement between the RN ship and us—just for a little while. We’re high-tailing it off this fucking river and meeting up with the rest of the S-Y fleet out at sea. Get cleaned up and rested everyone. You’ve earned it.”
The coms went dead.
27
IT HAD BEEN the worst spell of global warming ever recorded on the planet Earth, and snow pounded the Adirondack Mountains. It was a sick joke. Having missed the window to escape the fort, Samantha and Jan gathered the commune inside the largest log cabin within to discuss the ‘change of plans.’ Once again the fire pit burned almost to the ceiling.
Samantha stared into the blazing fire and scratched at the patch of lichen still covering her ribs. She’d hoped that after a brief discussion about President Frederick’s new decree, the rest of them would be even more eager to vacate the fort and travel west—but to her surprise, Jan had had a change of heart.
“This changes everything,” she argued, sitting beside Sam. “If we go to a main city, we’ll have governmental support. Do you know what that means? Health care, schools, utilities... the Infected are rebuilding America. We have to be a part of that.”
Samantha shook her head. “You have no idea if that’s true. And we both know what will really happen, we’ve seen the pattern. Small groups of Regular Infected can be governed as long as they are kept busy and active, but if we drive into a large city, with thousands upon thousands of them? We might as well turn our group loose now. There will be no stopping the mobs, the violence. That’s how it went in New York City, and it’ll be no different now.”
Jan rubbed her face, making no effort to hide her disapproval. “We’ll have things to keep us busy—rebuilding! As for the Regulars, we’ll find more Archaeans, more Bishops. We’ll assign one to every few dozen Regulars.”
“We’ve tried that,” Samantha snapped. “The moment my farm hit hard times, it unravelled. Bishops died, Jan. Regulars might not harm one another normally, but when pushed... We both saw what almost happened to Binh. Rules we thought applied are irrelevant now. It’ll be a thousand times worse in a big city.”
“New York City happened when Infected were in the minority,” Jan argued.
“That’s not what happened at all.”
“With help from the government, things will be different.”
“What if they organize human hunts and expect us to participate? Is that what you want? President Fredericks has told them to surrender; you know what comes next. That’s the kind of violence we should be running from—not toward.”
Jan waved her hand in the air dismissively. “We should go to Syracuse. Let the commune decide if they stay or go.”
Samantha squinted at the woman. “They’ll do whatever you or I want them to.”
Jan glared at Samantha, then stood from the fire pit. “It’s decided.” To the crowd, she raised her voice. “Get some rest. We leave for Syracuse at first light, regardless of weather.”
The crowd roared their approval.
Samantha listened to their cheers and felt sickened, but stuck.
AT FIVE THE next morning there was a break in the snowfall. With lightning efficiency Jan organised another caravan—this time, destined for the city of Syracuse.
Sam, seeing no option but to follow along, volunteered to drive the second truck, as the stick shift was gummy and they still needed an experienced hand.
By six, the trucks were rolling at a steady pace south on Route 28 away from the old town of Thendara. Once a junction on the Fulton County railway, the town had been listed as a Historic District and served as a tourist destination well before the war between the humans and the Infected had begun. Now, it was a broken ghost town.
Samantha popped the clutch, cranked the transport into third gear and pressed on the accelerator to keep pace with Jan’s van in front.
There were maybe a hundred of them, in four trucks. Armed and on high alert, the energy in the commune felt wild, and expectant—as if waiting for the fuse to be lit. It set Samantha on edge, too.
On her right sat Binh. He’d taken it upon himself to serve as ‘co-pilot,’ which to him meant messing with the radio, continually turning the dial in search of more transmissions from President Fredericks, or anyone else. So far, all he could find was the message from the President they’d already heard, but that didn’t stop him from trying. The static didn’t help Samantha feel any calmer. She knew they were driving straight into trouble, but what choice did she have?
She couldn’t stay at the fort alone. That was a death sentence for sure. She couldn’t leave the group on foot while they were in the middle of the Adirondack forest either. Her best bet was to stick with the group, for the time being—at least until they made it to Syracuse. Perhaps then she would have the chance to grab Binh and a few others and head out on their own before the violence started. She still liked the idea of heading west, and as she drove, she daydreamed about warm Southern California winds and moderate temperatures.
The CB radio spit a burst of static and jarred Samantha from her thoughts. “There’s some debris in the road,” Jan said from the vehicle ahead. “Everybody slow down, but don’t cut the engines. We’re coming to a stop to clear the way. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Copy that,” said the driver behind Sam, echoed by the last transport.
Samantha gripped the CB in her palm and responded in kind.
“How long will this take?” Binh asked. “Suppose there’s time to pee?”
“Why didn’t you go before we left?”
“There was coffee.”
Sam shrugged, looking into her side mirror at the transports behind them. One of them had steam coming from the radiator grill, but that could have just been the cold. Jan’s transport blocked her view of the road ahead and whatever debris needed to be cleared.
On either side of the two-lane highway, trees and mounds of snow surrounded them. With no-one ploughing the roads, Sam had assumed there’d be stops to clear the way, but she had hoped—at least—that it wouldn’t have been this early into their voyage. They’d been on the road for less than an hour.
As the truck idled, Binh wiggled in his seat and continued to play with the radio.
“If you need to go, just go,” she said.
Binh frowned, gave the tuning knob one last twist, then reached for the power. Just then a man’s voice cut through the air and Sam grabbed his wrist, stopping him.
“...They do not have the right to do this,” the man said. “Our research belongs to the whole of the world, and I plead with whoever may be listening—help us. Johns Hopkins Medical School has been one of the leading research hospitals in the world for decades, and we have made an incredible break-through in finding the cure for the Archaean parasite. Additionally, we’ve developed an anti-fungal aerosol solution that not only stops the fungal blooms and lichen skin growths spreading, but in some cases reverses existing growth.
“The United States government doesn’t want you to know about these advancements and has attempted to seize our research facility—and us—by force. We’ve barricaded ourselves into the University Research Center and have a militia protecting us, but we need help to get our research to other world leaders, not under the control of the Archaean parasite. Please, if you’re listening and you can help, come to Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore and stop the United States of Archaean from destroying
us and the only hope for humanity.”
After a brief burst of static, the message began again, “This is Dr. Anthony Wooster of Johns Hopkins Research Hospital, and I lead a team which is now under siege by the United States government. They do not have the right to do this. Our research belongs to the whole of the world, and I plead with whoever may be listening—help us...”
Sam released Binh’s wrist, but neither of them moved. Their eyes widened as they listened.
For a moment, Samantha wasn’t sure what she was feeling. Why was her heart pounding? Why did she have to stop herself from smiling? She should feel horrified—nay, stricken—that the humans had found a cure for the Archaean parasite. This could mean more airdrop bombs, like the ones that had failed in NYC. This could begin another war—one even bloodier than before. Yet, in the depth of her belly, Samantha felt her stomach churn and her palms slick—not from fear—but from something else.
Dare she admit it?
She felt hope.
She was simultaneously disgusted and proud of herself. She was tired of the hive-mind. She was sick to death of the lichen growths and the constant pull of other people’s emotions. Yes, humans were flawed; yes, they had so many destructive tendencies, but as the Archaean people had evolved, so had they—and there were too few Bishops to reel them in.
This was what she had been wanting for months, she realized. A cure. And it was in Baltimore, behind lock and key, about to be destroyed by President Fredericks and the United States Army. Who knew how old that message was, or how long ago it had been recorded? For all she knew, Fredericks had blown up the whole of Baltimore with missiles and bombs weeks ago, and there was nothing left of Dr. Wooster, his militia, or his research. But what if they were still there, hunkered down in the basements of the research center, just waiting to be rescued? What if they could cure the Archaean parasite and end this war?
Sure—there would always be battles. The new Archaean ecology wouldn’t simply cease to exist just because they removed the parasite. Would it? The planet had suffered an immeasurable blow. There was no telling how many generations it would take to repair the damage—how long it would take just to spread the cure. But there was a chance. Not two minutes before, Sam had thought everything was hopeless—but now?
Her fingers hung in the air in front of the radio. The volume had been turned low; the passengers in the back hadn’t heard. Only she and Binh had caught the message. She twisted the power knob and cut the radio, then eyed Binh to gauge his reaction.
He swallowed once, eyes still wide, almost panicked. “What do we do?” he asked.
Sam kept her joy in check and tried to look solemn. “Jan should know,” she said. “I’ll be right back. You should go pee.”
Binh nodded, nostrils flaring. “Yeah. Okay.” He snapped off his seat belt and opened the door, then hopped off the seat and used the step to lower himself into the snow. He closed the door behind him with a gust of frozen air.
Sam took off her own belt, then shot over her shoulder, “Be right back!”
Samantha’s worn leather boots sank into the snow all the way up to her knees. She’d found a winter coat at the fort and a pair of lined leather gloves, but the chill was still enough to make her catch her breath. Ahead, she heard the voices of those who worked to clear the road.
“Grab that end and lift.”
“Got it.”
“Peg, if you could grab the middle? Okay. Toss it to the left. On three: one, two, three!”
As Sam approached she saw a large branch fly through the air, landing on the side of the road. As she rounded the corner, she spotted Jan and four others clearing the way. A tree had cracked clean in half under the weight of the snow, sagging over the road. It would seem Samantha had shown up just in time to see the last limb fly.
Jan frowned at Sam as she trudged through the snow back to her idling van. “I told you it wouldn’t take long. It’s done. Let’s go.”
“There’s been another radio message,” Sam said, trying to keep her voice low.
Jan ran her tongue along her gums. “From the President?”
Sam shook her head. As she relayed the message, she saw with a sinking heart that Jan’s reaction was the exact opposite to hers. Yes, she was excited, nodding with enthusiasm—at the prospect of joining the United States government in battle against the evil researchers in Baltimore.
“This can’t go global,” Jan said. “Not if the Archaeans are to survive.”
Samantha chose her words carefully. “That is true.”
“We must head south,” Jan said. “We’ll skirt by Syracuse and head to Baltimore. We have weapons, trucks, bodies. We can help.”
Sam swallowed the bile burning the back of her throat. “Agreed.” Without another word, she turned and stepped high through the snow back toward her transport. The tips of her boots had soaked through, and her feet had begun to freeze. She felt cold and numb, inside and out.
“Samantha,” Jan called, stopping her.
She turned, saying nothing. What was there left to say? If she spoke too much, she feared her emotions would betray her. Jan was a Bishop, and no doubt sensed Sam’s frustration. Hopefully, Jan took her to be disappointed at the longer haul, but there was no way to be sure.
To her relief, instead of confronting Samantha about her feelings, Jan tilted her head to one side and whispered, “Did you hear that?”
Clumps of snow fell from the branches on Sam’s left. The crack of wood, and the rustle of pine needles; could be the wind—or something else.
The hairs on the back of Samantha’s neck prickled as she scanned the surrounding forest. They’d been stationary for at least five minutes, probably more. They were wasting fuel, and open targets.
“Go,” Sam breathed to Jan. Then, retracing her steps through the snow, she half jumped, half ran to her transport. She got to the door and yanked back the handle, looking up through the cabin to see Binh, running through the forest on the far side, fumbling to zip his fly. Behind him, a pack of three terror-jaws followed through the trees.
He’d left his rifle on the floor of the truck, right beside Sam’s.
Cursing her stupidity, Sam heaved open the cabin’s door and dove inside, snatching up her hunting rifle. Then, closing the door behind her, she flipped around and went feet first out Binh’s door, rifle at the ready.
Even at a full sprint on flat land, Binh didn’t have a chance in hell. As it was, he was knee-deep in snow. The beasts spread out in a half circle around him and started to close.
Sam loaded a shell in her rifle, peered through the scope, found her target, hitched the butt of the rifle tight against her shoulder, fought to control her breathing, and squeezed the trigger.
On Binh’s right, a terror-jaw collapsed mid-step. Another rifle shot rang out from the cabin of the front transport, taking out the ’jaw on the left.
The center terror-jaw, the farthest from him, hesitated just a fraction at the rifle shots, giving Binh the time to clear a fallen tree and make it to the road.
Sam desperately pulled another shell from her pocket and loaded again. She barely had time to put the butt against her shoulder before she fired, hitting the third terror-jaw in the skull. It hit the ground, sinking like a bloody stone into the powder. Binh, pale and sobbing, sprinted to the truck and hugged Samantha, rifle and all, nearly toppling the both of them onto the snowy ground.
“Thank God,” he gasped, coughing at the effort to speak. “Thank you.”
A scream erupted from farther back in the caravan.
Sam propped Binh back onto his feet, loaded her rifle again and turned toward the chaos. At least five more terror-jaws were crawling over the top of the last transport, battering the doors with their bony heads.
As the windows shattered, the pack clawed their way into the back of the truck. Rifles fired, the horn blared, screams filled the air. Sam ran toward the noise.
The rearmost transport, with a hard shell top, carried an extra five people,
freeing up space in the ragtop in front of it for food and supplies. The metal canopy shredded like paper under the terror-jaw’s claws; several holes had already been ripped through.
Taking aim, Samantha took out the terror-jaw on the roof, then plunged through the snow to reach the tear in the side wall. The Infected were spilling out from the hold through the connecting threshold to the cabin and into the road, blocking her shot.
On the other side, Jan shouted, “Move! Where are your rifles?”
Panic had taken hold of the Regulars, who were scattering like sheep from wolves. Most ran off into the forest or up the road to the foreward vehicles. Only a few, including Jan and Samantha, stayed to fend off the terror-jaws.
Sam aimed through the gap and took out one of the terror-jaws inside, then pushed towards the back doors.
Rounding the end of the truck, she saw a terror-jaw holding the limp body of a woman in its mouth. Sam reloaded and took aim, but before she could get the shot off, the beast squeezed backwards out of a hole in the far side, dragging the body along with it. Sam ran after the ’jaw as fast as the snow allowed, but the animal skidded across the forest floor with surprising agility, pulling the limp body over fallen trees and broken branches. Fifty meters out it turned around, as if to check if Sam was still in pursuit.
She stopped and reached for another shell in her pocket. Empty. Instinctively, she reached for her sling in the waist of her pants, but it had been lost months before, and she’d never replaced it.
The terror-jaw somehow sensed her helplessness. It dropped the body into the snow and bared its teeth at her, crouching low. It stalked slowly forward.
Sam’s stomach dropped and she cursed herself. She’d separated herself from the safety of the group and given away any advantage she may have possessed. In the forest, the terror-jaws were in their element.
She could run, like Binh had done, but she was a good distance from the caravan now, and there was no way to alert the others without drawing more of the creatures.
