The Core

by Jack Robuck

  Matthew picked up his head. He couldn't free his arms. He pressed his chin against the radio call button on his shoulder as hard as he could, and he screamed, "Jimmy, turn up the gravity! Turn it all the way up now!"

  Trague jumped, responding to the sound. He was hurt, and the water lapped at his mouth and nose. He was trying to breathe through the side of his mouth and one nostril. Matthew tried to hold the man's head down with his own face; his eyes squinted shut, hoping that Jimmy had heard him.

  Trague's skin was slippery. Matthew felt him turning his face up, away from the water. Trague's lip brushed Matthew's own and he flinched back. Trague looked up at him, mad; thrashing in a flash of realization. He opened his mouth in a primal, silent scream and bared his teeth. He reached out, trying to bite Matthew. Matthew pulled back as far as he could, but Sean's head was pressed firmly into the nape of his neck.

  Trague's teeth were millimeters away from Matthew's face with every lunge. He felt the wet flick of Trague's tongue across his nose. Trague was slamming his head back into the water, splashing the salty surf into Matthew's face, and then snapping up, again and again in an insane attack.

  Matthew held his head back as far as he could, but his neck was aching, burning. His whole spine was twisted, and all of his nerves were screaming for release. Just when he thought he couldn't hold his head up, he felt Sean's weight press down on him even harder; the big man crushing him into Trague's bony rib cage and pelvis. Jimmy was turning up the gravity from the console in the tower, and Matthew couldn't hold his head up any longer. He was pulling the gun up as hard as he could, but it was wedged between Trague's shoulder and his own.

  He felt his head lowering, the incredible pull of gravity quadrupling their weight, or more. In a final lunge, Trague's mouth reached him, his teeth slipped off the bony edge of Matthew's jaw with a snap. Matthew pulled back as far as he could, and slammed his forehead into Trague's cheek bone. He hoped he had done some damage, but he couldn't worry about that. He had to try to hold his head against Trague's face as hard as he could.

  He could hear it now. Water running in rivulets. Twisting his head, he could see foamy fingers climbing the filthy shore under the catwalk, further than they had reached before. He felt gravity crushing down on him, he could barely breathe.

  Sean was like a hangar mech on top of him. He pressed his head against Trague's writhing bald head as hard as he could. It kept slipping past him, left and right, but he wouldn't let it up, and the had the advantage now because everything on the entire planet was being pulled down, down, at a dozen times its weight, the people, the ships and even the moons, and the tide was slowly running in.

  He could feel the water rising around him, his clothes soaking up the cold wet in an even, rising line around his body that made him twitch. Trague was shaking his head, spluttering, trying to keep his mouth above the surface. Matthew ground his forehead into Trague's temple as hard as he could.

  The water was at his eyelashes now, lapping up the bony thrust of Trague's cheekbone on all sides like a fleshy island. The sting of salt was in Matthew's nose. He pulled his lips wide into a tight smile. The center of his mouth was in the water. He sucked in air from the corners. He could tell he'd be covered soon too, and he could barely keep Trague underwater.

  How long could the mad man last? He heard a gurgle. Trague blew out water in a huge blast that broke the surface. For a moment, Matthew saw him clearly again. Trague sucked in air and water together in the fountain wash of his exhalation, and he coughed, spluttered and the water was over him again. Matthew pressed his head tighter against Trague, but he felt something give. Sean's increasing weight was shifting, sliding slowly down his right side, away, and he could feel the pressure as Trague tried to push against the huge force of gravity.

  Suddenly, Matthew's face was underwater. He pried open his lashes and felt the salt burn right into his eyes. Blurry, through the sand, grime and oil, he could see Trague's mindless wide eye searching. Sean was sliding. Trague's hand found Matthew's rib cage, and he was slapping against him, just above the surface, in weak little pats. The end was near, but Matthew wasn't sure he'd be able to make it, and Sean was sliding off him completely.

  Something shifted. Sean slid down and away from him. He could feel the man's big head resting on his back, out of the water. The gun felt like it weighed forty pounds. Matthew screamed, through the water, his eyes and every muscle in his body clenched as he dragged the pistol up over Trague's shoulder and slid it towards their faces.

  The side of the gun was lying on Trague's collar bone, the top of the slide pressed against Matthew's chin. He could only try to align the barrel in the direction of Trague's head by feel, and he was losing consciousness from holding his breath.

  The underwater blast of the weapon shocked Matthew, the incredible sound of the shot exploding into his ear, and as his eyes opened involuntarily, the blurry water flooded dark with Trague's blood.

  He wrenched back his head, free of Sean's weight, and pressed the radio button with his chin again.

  He yelled, his voice husky with the weight of the air in his lungs, “Jimmy, blow the chalice. Just do it now!”

  As he felt gravity's pull recede, he craned his head up to see Charlie crawling forward, his head sticking out over the edge of the grating, looking down at him.

  Chapter 22

  Ella sat in the big square window, her head leaned back against the bamboo frame. It was night and raining, and Luna was herself again. She looked out over the terrace, smoking a thin piati cigar Charlie had given her. The distant neon flickered over a stall where soaps hung by string; they twisted in the breeze. Rain tap-tap-tapped on clay tiles, in clay gutters, stormed through clay pipes, tip-tip-tip-tipped from where it gathered in a broken joint, dripping big drops into an empty plant pot, frothing, and rumbled ancient on the corrugated tin overhead.

  In the puddles, Luna was happy; in the womb-like darkness, safe. Carts swished through the mud below, glowing moss on the tall walls of windows that soared up the canyon heights, paper lanterns through green-shuttered balconies, rooms glowing blue, yellow, red. Broken, crooked stairs, climbing comically; the combined half-effort of generations.

  She blew smoke out into the night to join the fry-grease and steam that poured up from the alleys and sitting, she turned her head to Matthew as he lay, half-covered, in her sleeping nook, his pale young skin over a man's strong jawline. The blue-cream veins in his elbow just above the muscle line of his forearm. Light stubble grew on his cheeks, his head tilted back asleep, his mouth slightly open. She smiled.

  She inhaled again and blew out smoke through her big pursed lips, relaxed. Her eyes landed on The Hook, empty, and then the little clay jar, now full to the top with sand dollars. Other sea shells were scattered on nearly every horizontal surface, and she smiled. She stood, quietly pulling on her shawl. She exited onto the terrace and turned the corner onto the gritty concrete steps. A man paced toward her through the amber shafts of light from the Silver Lady. They met eyes and he paused, one foot on the first step up to her room.

  It was Peter. She looked down at him, and they soaked together for a moment.

  “Ella.”

  She took a few steps down the stairs and tilted her head. She looked at his deep-set eyes, dark in the soft blue light. "Hi, Peter."

  He wiped rain from his forehead and put a foot on another step. "You working?"

  Her big rosebud mouth unfurled into a smile. "No."

  He squinted at her, looked up to the room, across the courtyard into the distant quiet and back to her damp, freckled face. "When can I come and see you again?"

  She shook her head. "Not today." She paused. "Not tomorrow. I'm not working anymore. Not like that."

  Peter nodded, stepped away, paused and turned, hurrying off.

  Her steps carried her over to the Silver Lady. Her eyes struggled to adjust as she passed the blinding windows, the blackened wall, and she paused as she stepped up onto the stone terrace, by th
e bevel curve of the wicker arch. She looked straight up at the statue, the great figure, naked, unashamed.

  She put a hand to the tight wicker weave just below the hip, where something from the attack had burned a hole. Already little green dots of moss were forming over the black charred stubs of cane sticking out into space around the wound. Some were dark green and some pale like old copper, but they were stippled over the black, and soon the black would be gone.

  Inside, a few quiet locals perched near the old bar, and she stood at the doorway for a moment watching Sean, in rolled up dirty sleeves, leaning back with one elbow on the cabinet behind him. He was staring into a cold, sweating glass half-filled with a glowing cocktail.

  After a long moment, he looked up at her. He gave her a tight, sad little smile and nodded. She smiled at him in return. She padded slowly through the room and up the steps of the old stage.

  Where the painting had been, the big hole in the wall remained, and the hallway behind it glowed. A low throbbing bass beckoned and Ella headed toward it, drawn to the vibration in her chest.

  The brick dome of the round house was a strobing purple and red concert hall. Boys in overalls worked sparking lights from the high catwalks, spotlighting the mossy red brick walls, the dance floor, the vast sea of tables, chairs, couches, and cushions where people smoked, and drank, spilled, kissed, and spanked, ate and laughed. The locomotive of the Silver Lady sat shining in the tunnel mouth, behind a new stage where a band was blasting away into the vast brick dome.

  Charlie sat just inside the door, and looked up as she entered. “Welcome. I didn't think I'd be seeing you here this time of night.”

  “Can't sleep.” She raised a hand in the direction of the crowd. “Looks like Luna's still drawing a lot of new faces.”

  Charlie nodded. “The Fleet's scattered. The people are joining together. They're finding strength. They're feeling free. Good stuff."

  Charlie picked up the nozzle of the hookah sitting on the table in front of him and took a long pull, blowing smoke up toward the high dark brick dome.

  Ella wandered over to the edge of the catwalk. She pulled her shawl together in one hand and reached out to grasp the cool steel railing with the other. She spotted Jimmy and Natalie sitting at a table on a far catwalk near a raised bar across the dome, laughing together.

  She could smell the wafting smoke from Charlie's hookah. Down in the bowl of the roundhouse where the tracks had been, she saw Stephen at a table holding some young woman's hand in both of his own and leaning far out onto the edge of his chair. They were both laughing.

  She thought about the brilliant wash of the sun. The beauty of its slanty rays peeking at you through the blue and white clouds and the huge blue ocean, which had turned out to be true. She would miss those sights, if not what had happened there, but here, in the dark and the rain, and the smoky glow of Luna, she felt at home.

  Thank you for reading The Core

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  Also by Jack Robuck:

  The Restless Risen

  A young special needs boy clings to his favorite comic book, "The Restless Risen" as a coping mechanism during the apocalypse. But the zombies he reads about in his comic are nothing compared to the brutal, rage infected monsters that hunt Tommy and his brother Ian in the night.

  The Rage Virus has infected billions across the planet, turning them into mindless killers who don't feel pain or empathy. Civilization has collapsed, and those who survive do so by staying on the road.

  Ian and Tommy's zombie apocalypse compares to the comic book like a horror film to a Saturday morning cartoon. When the two brothers search an abandoned factory for spare parts, they find a lot more than they bargained for.

  ____________________

  S L I T H E R

  Lt. Carrie Pace is a combat medic in a war that humanity is losing. The toll of war on the front lines has burnt her to a crisp. The brutality of her shipmates has convinced her that all monsters are human. Unfortunately, she's wrong.

  The Slithers evolved under water, and they have one tactic: breach the hull and fill the ship with water so they can swim aboard. Guns jam, men drown, and the Slithers always win. Against overwhelming odds, Carrie's fight for survival helps her discover a reason to live.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jack Robuck is the author of frontier sci-fi novel The Core, as well as numerous short stories, including The Restless Risen, a zombie apocalypse short, and Slither, a dark sci-fi horror story. He has several new works under way.

  Born in Richmond, VA, Jack has lived and worked in Manhattan since 2005. His artistic work includes visual design, sculpture, and painting.

  Visit jackrobuck.com for more info!