Road to Abaddon

by Vincent Heeringa

  The airship was now just a tree-height from the ground and the men were preparing to jump. As the blades whipped up a melee of dust, Nassim tested her legs and found that she could crawl away from the wrecked houses towards the goat enclosure. Slithering slowly at first, then faster, she made a few metres without being seen and then crouched and ran. Twenty metres, ten, five – she flung herself over the fence and onto the grass and grabbed two goats for cover. She tried to make sense of what hell had just been unleashed upon her family. Her entire home gone in sixty seconds. She had been warned about the mutant bandits and had seen dust in the distance when they travelled to the trading places – but this?

  Nassim could hear voices. She dared to glance up and picked out three men, weapons cradled in their arms, making their way through the wrecked village towards the goats. She scrambled up the hill, ensuring the goats moved with her, and made it to the upper fence. In their panic they’d damaged the wire so it slung low enough for her to contemplate a quick jump. Beyond was desert. Until now it represented certain death, but in contrast to the chaos behind her, the desert now looked like an escape. Nassim risked a second look behind and saw the men sauntering round the back of the burning buildings. Knowing that she could afford only one jump, she sprang over the broken fence and rolled to a stop in the sand.

  A pair of hands clapped behind her. “Oh, nice moves, good escape,” said a gravelly voice.

  It was a man sitting, rolling a cigarette. His rifle was strung over one shoulder and an open jacket showed a leathery torso. He had large canine teeth and one cheek was distorted, potted with lumps and scar tissue from what must have been botched operations to fix his main mutation, a third nostril that dribbled snot, just below his left eye.

  Nassim shuddered and stood quickly.

  “And I suppose we prefer the desert to me, eh?” he laughed and flicked the cigarette into his mouth. “Well, I have other plans.”

  Nassim turned to run but the mutant was on her, scragging her from the waist down. They fell onto the sand and she spun out of his tackle and landed a solid kick to his face (she aimed for the third nostril, to be exact). It seemed to enrage him, and he punched her hard in the kidney. She doubled over.

  He was preparing for second punch when someone shouted.

  “M’beme!”

  The mutant’s hand hovered.

  “Get away from her, you scum! Boss wants all the prisoners, alive.”

  The man grunted and shoved Nassim away. She scurried backwards and saw a second mutant with fewer obvious facial scars but who had a hunched back. He wore a scruffy biker’s jacket and a chequered neck scarf like a cowboy. Out of his left sleeve extended a small pair of metal shears, as if someone had replaced his hand with a pair of snips.

  “Get up and come with me,” he barked, waving a rusty claw. “Now!”

  The three stumbled down to the airship, which had now been joined by an assortment of desert vehicles. An old Kenworth truck, with inflated tyres and bull-bars, had been modified to become a mobile gun battery. A machine gun was mounted on the bonnet and behind the cab was the upper portion of an old tank, with a barrel and a rotating turret. The rear of the truck was mounted on tank tracks and it towed two trailers, each with the bulbous tyres and wagons. A black flag with a painted eye, fluttered from the mast.

  Behind the truck-train lurked a convoy: a motorised tricycle, festooned with aerials and radio dishes with two riders astride; a dune buggy with a circular roll-cage and two mounted rocket launchers and a small truck with tracks instead of wheels towing a children’s circus wagon with smoke billowing from the roof.

  A group of men huddled nearby and Nassim identified the boss. Short with a goatee beard, he wore a long black coat and round spectacles. The man was drawing shapes in the air as if telling a joke, but no one was laughing.

  “Found sumfing, boss,” said scissor-fingers, and he shoved Nassim towards the group.

  The boss turned and Nassim examined his face for deformities. But there were none – or nothing obvious. His face was chubby and unshaven and he looked bald under his bowler hat.

  The man took his time, staring at her face, then took her chin in his stubby hand and turned her face left and right.

  His hand slipped to her shoulder and he spun her examining her from all angles, as a collector might look at his latest treasure.

  He stepped back and opened his mouth but what came out was not a voice but a guttural wind that rose from his stomach and ended with a flat, mechanical sound.

  “Well, at least you fools didn’t manage to kill this little prize,” said the machine-like voice.

  Nassim almost laughed. This stubby man with his machine-like voice could barely command a conversation, let alone an army of bandits.

  Instead of laughing though she jumped forward yelling: “I’m no one’s prize you mutant freaks!” and she kicked the boss in the kneecap, landing a blow even her brother would be proud of. The little man staggered backwards and at first looked surprised but then burst into laughter. Pulling his coat aside the boss revealed two bare metal legs, his knees a complex array of titanium and electronic circuitry. Half-man, half-machine, the bandit boss was a mutant of the first order, a bionic hybrid reconstructed in some god-forsaken factory with technology Nassim had never seen.

  The boss reached out and grabbed her by the hair, jerking her head sideways and drawing her so close she was inhaling his breath. “Let’s get one thing straight, my lovely,” his flat voice intoned. “You are indeed my precious prize, good for one thing and one thing only. The rest of your stinking family and your rotten excuse of a home have been destroyed because they were good for nothing. But you, young female, you have a new purpose in life. And it’s not about kicking people!”

  The men guffawed.

  He turned to the group, still grasping her hair like she was a trophy. “She’s mine! She will not be touched. Damage her and I will damage you. Or what’s left of you to damage.” He made a coarse laugh as if he’d never made that joke before. “Now into the wagons. Let’s move!”

  He pushed Nassim into the arms of the scissor-hands who bundled her towards the trailers.

  “Up yer get, Missy,” he said and forced her into a long, dark wagon behind the old truck. It had a steel floor and wooden walls and light shone through holes that peppered the sides.

  A single wooden bench was bolted to one wall. She flopped onto it. Outside, engines roared and diesel fumes drifted through the wagon.

  Then a voice from the corner made her jump.

  “Nassim!”

  She peered through the darkness, her heart pounding.

  “Nassim, it’s me Wadid!”

  And there was her little brother, emerging from the gloom of the corner. Nassim threw her arms around his neck. “Wadid!” she whispered “You’re alive! How did you ...”

  “Keep your voice down,” he hissed, but he didn’t push her away. “I saw them get you. I sneaked in while no one was looking. I think we’re the only ones left. They killed everyone.”

  “Yes I know!” She flopped onto the seat. The wagon was now rocking over the stony ground. “It was terrible, I saw the rockets, the explosions. I saw everything.” She buried her face in hands. Wadid, sat on the bench and put his arm around her shoulders. He was two years younger than Nassim and small for his sixteen years, but in some ways he was stronger.

  “We must be brave if we want to escape,” he whispered. “We can’t give in to these thugs. There’ll be time for crying later.”

  “Escape?” she asked incredulously, her head still in her hands.

  “Well, what else do you want to do, join them for a picnic?”

  “But how can we escape? Found a secret door?”

  “No. I don’t know how we’ll get out. But we’re alive, right? And at some point they will need to take us out of here. They didn’t kill you for a reason. Didn’t you hear what he said? You’re his prize. They mean to do something with you.”

  Nassim shu
ddered. She suspected what the mutant had in mind but pushed it out of her head.

  “We have to stay alert and look for the opportunity. And whatever you do, don’t let them know that I’m here!” he said.

  They hugged and Nassim wiped away her tears, reaching inside for the kind of strength that got her through each day in the desert. She tried hard to not think about the horror of what had just happened. She was in shock and trembling. She drew Wadid closer. He was all she had now. They fell into silence and eventually the rocking of the wagon created a strange rhythm.

  ◆◆◆

  The afternoon was turning to dusk and the orange haze was reddening. Wadid was right, she reflected. She was alive for a reason; she may not know it yet but the One didn’t cause suffering without purpose. She closed her eyes and offered a prayer, first of thanks and then of supplication.

  “Save us,” she mouthed.

  Almost immediately they heard voices and the wagon lurched, throwing them into the wall. Nassim offered prayers most days. But even she thought this was a bit unexpected.

  I should pray more often, she thought.

  Wadid and Nassim jumped up to look through one of the largest holes in the wall and saw men pointing at the northern horizon. She followed their arms and saw a jetstream drawing a fuzzy line across the crimson sky. A gleaming object was falling, crashing towards the Earth like a fiery dart. Then it vanished beyond the craggy hills.

  The men shouted and raced back to the seats, engines firing into life. A gift had fallen from heaven, and everyone wanted a piece of it. The caravan was on the move again and this time in haste.

  Chapter 5 - TS Academy

  The old-tek transporter sat heavily on the tarmac, its wings sagging. Rain poured off the tips forming little rivers that steamed across the New Francisco hoverport.

  Jonah shuffled forwards in a queue of two hundred recruits, rain and sweat dribbling inside his uniform. It must be forty degrees! he thought. Madrid never got hot like this, but then New Francisco was in the equatorial zone, where storms brewed in the atmosphere like chicken soup.

  The journey from Nuevo Madrid had been uneventful. Only a handful of local recruits had been selected from the long list of applicants and the flight aboard the supersonic SubOrb was too short to bother making friends. Not that Jonah wanted to. After the funeral, wherever he went, people elbowed each other and pointed, whispering his name. Children would ask for his autograph, or take a holovid and post it to their friends. He’d foolishly given an interview to a reporter and for days afterwards his face appeared across the networks with captions like ‘The dynasty continues’ or ‘Salvatore re-enters the war’. People had even lined the departure lounge waving flags and yelling his name, as if he’d already become a hero. He couldn’t get down the gangplank fast enough and as soon as he sat down he flipped up his headset and disappeared into a holofilm.

  Now, shuffling in this queue, he was one of hundreds of recruits, just a number on someone’s manifest. Which is just how he liked it.

  The queue moved silently through the rain and reached a staircase to the back door of the huge plane. Jonah was soaked and breathless by the time he reached the top. Cool air blew out from the air-conditioned cabin, where dozens of young recruits were already settling in. He shimmied down the aisle, spying an empty seat just five rows ahead and lifted his bag into the overhead locker. Just then a thin, ginger-haired boy slid over from the window. “This seat’s taken,” he said.

  “Oh, okay, sorry,” said Jonah and picked up his bag and moved to another space. He reached for the locker above when a second boy slipped past him and sat down looking up blank-faced. “This seat’s taken too,” he said.

  “So’s this one,” said a third boy, who’d dashed across the aisle and jumped into the space. “And this,” said a fourth. By the fifth attempt, boys all around him started to snigger. They were teasing him.

  “What’s the matter Salvatore?” a nasal voice called after him. “Your daddy ain’t here to find you a seat?” and the group of boys laughed, a bit forced by Jonah’s reckoning.

  So, they already knew who he was. They must have seen the news. He felt sick. It was going to be hard enough to survive the Academy without having to contend with bullies. Jonah didn’t give them the pleasure of turning around, though he knew who’d spoken. It would have been the ring leader. He didn’t know his name yet or what he looked like, but it wouldn’t take long to figure it out. That nasal voice would be a dead giveaway.

  Jonah shuffled up the plane and stopped beside a girl at a window seat. She glanced at him, lifting her nose as if smelling his damp, sweaty clothes and then flicked her head away. She had black hair, cropped short like a soldier’s and narrow eyes, framed by pencil-thin eyebrows. The old Jonah, pre-bomb Jonah, would have been intimidated by that defiant look but now he looked at her coolly.

  Grace King felt Jonah’s eyes on her head and turned back to him.

  “Like what you see?” she said.

  “I’m still deciding,” he replied.

  “Uh-huh. Well, when you’ve reached a decision, be sure to keep it to yourself,” she said, returning the window.

  Jonah was just about to move forward in search of yet more spare seats when a voice behind him said: “Aww, c’mon Gracie, don’t be so hard on the lad.”

  A plump boy with black curly hair was pushing his way up the aisle, clutching a cup of water. He flashed Jonah a grin. “Hugo Tamaki. My friends call me Huge-oh. Not sure why. Come and join us,” and he flopped down next to Grace, clothes squelching.

  “Jonah Salvatore,” said Jonah, offering his hand but still standing.

  “Yep, know who you are. J T Salvatore, son of the great Petreus, hero of Metricia, but now tragically dead. You’re on a mission – of revenge!” He said it dramatically, like it was a movie trailer. Jonah might have been offended but somehow Hugo made it funny. “Your reputation goes before you, my friend,” said Hugo and then glanced at Grace. “And don’t mind Grace King, she’s just a bit jealous.” He guffawed and the little rolls of fat under his chin wobbled.

  “Come on, sit down, man.”

  Jonah obeyed. Hugo was still chuckling when a sergeant with an oval head and a twirled moustache stopped beside them.

  “You like a joke, do you private?” he barked.

  “Um, yessir!” replied Hugo, unsure if that was the right thing to say.

  “I hear that they get even funnier in the brig. Next time save the comedy for the stage. And buckle up, we’re departing.”

  “Yessir!” Hugo replied, and waited for the sergeant to move on before rolling his eyes and relaxing back into the chair.

  “Nice manners! Anyways, got any idea where we’re headed?” he said, glancing from side to side.

  “None. I guess it’s a secret.”

  “Ooooooh, you hear that Gracie, top secret!” said Hugo, but Grace’s lips remained pursed and she slipped the headset over her eyes.

  “I’m guessing it’s somewhere hot or they would’ve given us jackets,” he said, holding up a damp sleeve.

  “Everywhere is hot,” said Jonah.

  “Ha, ha. Yes, I suppose it is. That’s the problem, right?”

  Jonah laughed. Hugo was okay. They chatted while the engines began to whine. Somewhere ahead a door shut with a thud.

  Hugo said that he’d travelled with Grace from Aotearoa, the southern-most hydropolis, near the north island of New Zealand. It sounded much the same as Nuevo Madrid; an elliptical island with tall, straight sides, only cooler and with more frequent contact with the Landers.

  “We’re still fighting them. The old fogeys who built our city misjudged just how many Landers would still be alive. Mostly mutants. They make raids every so often, though it’s kinda pointless. Our fellas just blow them out of the water. That’s if the sharks don’t get them first.”

  “You still got sharks down there?” asked Jonah, surprised. So much fish life had disappeared from Madrid.

  “Heaps, bro! Massi
ve white pointers with fins as big as wings. It’s awesome when they jump out of the water to catch birds. Mutant fish. Mutant birds. Mutant humans. It’s a like a mutant paradise down there, eh? You should come down. Happy huntin’ grounds,” he said and licked his lips.

  Hugo’s great-grandparents were Maori, the indigenous people of New Zealand. Hugo still claimed what he called a whakapapa (lineage) even though it was officially banned. “Once, we were warriors. But not anymore. Just a few of us left. Not that I’m supposed to care. There are no races in Metricia, eh? One people! One race!” Hugo winked at Jonah. Salvatore was a Spanish name, he knew that, but he didn’t know much else about his roots. History began at The Great Escape. The future was all that mattered.

  “What about her?” Jonah asked, nodding his head towards Grace, who was now lost in a holovid.

  “Grace is everything,” replied Hugo. “A bit Chinese, a bit English, a bit Kiwi. She doesn’t care. She’s Metrician through and through, and a tough one too. She’s like you – her parents are dead, killed by Landers. She just wants to carve up those mutants real bad.”

  They’d been so engrossed in conversation that Jonah hadn’t noticed the engines were now screeching. Suddenly the brakes were released and the plane lurched ahead, rain streaking across the windows. The New Francisco holoport was disappearing into a blur. With a groan, the old bird lifted off, her wings trembling under the strain. For a moment, the tar-seal raced beneath them, then the edge of the city dropped away and they were flying over a dark ocean, white tips just visible through the late-afternoon gloom.