Hive

by Griffin Hayes

  “And is it catching?” I ask, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible. “Like a disease?”

  “Almost. The chemical that mutated their genes festers in their saliva. That was how it circled the globe. Once the chemicals were introduced into the bloodstream, the changes started almost at once.”

  I swallow hard and suddenly I’m feeling a surge of anger, most of it directed at him. “You seem to know a hell of a lot for a guy who didn’t know anything a few minutes ago.” He’s looking at me strangely and I try to relax. “So, is there a cure?”

  His eyes darken and somehow I know exactly what he’s about to say.

  “The only cure I know is death.”

  -15-

  Oleg turns his gaze in my direction and I'm not crazy about the way he’s looking at me. He’d seen me favoring my leg earlier and he knows. Knows I’ve been bitten; knows I’m changing. I'm sure of it. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down. I'm just being paranoid. The old man isn't suspicious at all. Why should he be? I just saved his ass from being a zombie hors d'oeuvre.

  We need to get moving again. I order a sweep of the Food Court, and we learn that anything and everything edible has been consumed long ago. It's unnerving and reinforces the idea that these freaks have been starving for centuries. And what’s worse, they’re desperately looking for a way out.

  My mind returns to the two Prospectors we've found, scattered at different places in the complex. I’m starting to wonder if they’d been running away when they died. If so, then the first one we found in the boiler room was probably the last one alive. Damn bugger nearly made it out, too. And then I’m struck by a thought that chills me to the core. If he had gotten out, imagine what would have followed him home.

  Before long, the Food Court falls behind and we come to what looks like a blast door, hanging half way open. According to Oleg, the sign above reads ‘Living Quarters.’

  “The name is just strange,” Oleg says. “Living Quarters is a military term.”

  “Maybe we're on some type of military base,” Jinx says.

  Deep lines crease Oleg’s brow. "There’s a good chance the horde that attacked us earlier once called these living quarters home."

  Ret chimes in. “Maybe this place was built special for the stinkin’ rich. Their own private hideaway while the world around them went to hell in a hand basket. I wouldn’t put it past ‘em.”

  “It was built into the base of a mountain,” Pennies says. He’s holstered his gun and he looks calmer. “Fact, this very spot is probably right under Mount Kepler.”

  Bron is looking impatient with all this talking. “Is there anything in there the Prospectors might’ve been after, or is this another dead-end?”

  “Maybe it's not the living quarters they were interested in,” Oleg says, “but something on the other side.”

  We press on. I clear the doorway, hoping that as we climb deeper inside this hellhole, we're moving one step closer to home.

  -16-

  The living quarters are anything but. Skeletons everywhere, frozen in a gruesome tableau of death. The dead are decked out in their finest clothes, awash with jewels. I see piles of worthless money, scattered about like confetti. Even Pennies is too sickened to care.

  “They locked themselves away from a dying world,” Ret says. “And once the Zees got in, all their money and shiny jewels couldn't save ‘em.”

  We pass a room with yet another body and I don't think anything of it. It isn't until I hear the gurgling behind us that I remember thinking the corpse lying on that bed somehow seemed fuller than the others. But the truth is, there’s more to it than that. Somehow, I knew she was there.

  I spin around in time to see her stumbling out of the room. The glow from her eyes fills the entire hallway. Her movements are stiff and awkward and, because of that, I’m sure she’s only recently been turned. Her head hits the wall, and the sound of bones breaking is unmistakable. She rights herself, her head snapping back into place with a grotesque series of cracks, and I know without a doubt she's a Zee. Judging by the outfit she's wearing, I can also tell she’s Glave's wife.

  I try to push through, but the corridor is far too narrow. Glave sees the Zee and jumps with fright. Then I see him freeze. His face is turned from me, but I know he's just recognized his wife and he can't help the urge to run to her. I shout, but he takes a step toward her. That’s when she lunges.

  A shot rings out.

  But not from Glave. It's Pennies. He's right behind Glave and a trail of smoke snakes up from the barrel of his pistol. The bullet grazes Rosaline’s neck and a thin stream of blood paints the wall. Her eyes release Glave and lock onto Pennies. Pennies tries to move, but there's nowhere to go. Ret raises his shotgun, but I can already tell he doesn't have a clear shot. She lunges at Pennies, knocking him to the ground, her teeth tearing at the flesh on his face. I'm almost there but he’s screaming. She's bitten his lower lip off and the eerie quality of his lipless yell echoes in my ears.

  Ret takes the shot anyway and Glave's wife flies back five feet. She tries to prop herself up but Ret keeps firing. The buckshot turns her head into a bloody soup. She collapses in a heap.

  I become aware of an invisible hand pushing me forward. I look behind me and wonder if I'm just in shock.

  Pennies is shrieking now. Ret and the others move him onto the bed where I’d first seen Glave’s zombified wife. Pennies must’ve gotten a dose right in the mouth because his body starts shaking. And I feel it again, like being shoved, only no one's there. A thought forms in my mind and it's as clear and bright like a sun-filled day. They know we’re here. I'm not sure how they could possibly know, but they do and a big group is heading our way.

  -17-

  Every muscle in Pennies’ body is bunching up like taught cords. There aren’t any clean bandages, so Ret’s using the bed sheet to soak up the blood from his wound. Pennies’ lower lip is gone and the upper one is dangling by a small piece of flesh. The inside of his mouth is starting to darken, and I know he’s turning. There isn’t much time left for Pennies - or for us.

  “We need to get out of here,” I say urgently.

  The shock on Ret’s face is clear. “And just leave him?”

  Sneak’s watching all of this, and I can tell that, in spite of her burning hatred for Traders, she knows this is no way for someone to go.

  Pennies is kicking harder and Jinx is having trouble holding him down.

  I have no idea which way the Zees are coming from, but somehow I know they’re getting closer. There’s a bend in the corridor not far from where we are, and I’m taking a chance the Zees won’t come from the other direction. I send Sneak into the hall to act as lookout. She darts past Glave, who’s on the ground, holding the shredded body of his dead wife and for a moment the sight makes me want to cry.

  I duck back into the room and look at Pennies. His face is already about three shades darker.

  “There isn’t much we can do for him,” Ret says.

  I thought my conversations with Oleg had been quiet and inconspicuous, but it’s clear everyone knows what’s happening. “We’ll take him with us,” I say.

  Jinx glares at me. “You heard Ret, he’s gone. The best he can hope for at this point is a bullet in the brain. Fast and easy.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right.” This time it’s Oleg, but the prospect of losing someone I’m responsible for is a tough pill to swallow. I also know we don’t have more than a few more minutes before we’re overrun.

  “It might not be fatal,” I say.

  Jinx slams the wall with the palm of his hand and it makes a hollow, booming sound. “Azina, you saw what happened to that Prospector who tried to rip your face off.”

  “We don’t know what the fatality rate is, all I’m sayin’. He could have a fever and pull out of it.”

  “I can do it quick and painless,” Ret whispers. He reaches into his vest, pulls out a morphine injector, and shows it to me.

  Pennies sudd
enly springs forward, gnashing with a mouthful of blackened teeth. He’s going for the exposed flesh on Ret’s arm. Bron snatches Pennies’ head, less than an inch from his target. One of Bron’s titanium fingers slips inside Pennies’ mouth and the Trader chomps down. I recoil at the sight and sound of Pennies’ shattering teeth. A ten-inch, spring-loaded blade whips out from the palm of Bron’s right hand and pierces Pennies’ right temple. The glow in Pennies’ eyes dims and goes out. Bron retracts the blade and Pennies’ body falls back onto the bed.

  Bron’s hand is covered in dark blood and shards of broken teeth. He uses Pennies’ tunic to wipe it off and inspects his gleaming index finger. “Not even a dent,” he boasts.

  And this time I don’t find Bron’s little crack one bit funny.

  -18-

  I feel them coming a few seconds before I hear Sneak running toward us, banging on the wall. Glave looks like he’s ready to sit this one out and accept a quick death, and I know he’s fooling himself. There’s no such thing as a quick death when you’re being eaten alive. He’d be better off using that pistol on himself.

  “Glave! Get on your feet.” I slap him across the face. He doesn’t respond, not even a flinch. I grab him by the collar and the crotch of his pants and haul him to his feet. He doesn’t seem to appreciate that I’m saving his life.

  “If you want to kill yourself, do it when we get home. Right now, I need you to move your ass!” This seems to do the trick.

  The entire exchange lasts less than sixty seconds, but any delay is bad when a bunch of Zees are after you. The first one ambles into the hallway and spots us right away. The stilted walk seems strange at first until I realize how many years they’ve been standing around.

  I aim my repeater and squeeze off a three-round burst. He’s just outside of my weapon’s effective range, but a shot catches him square in the forehead, his body goes limp, and he skids a half dozen feet before he stops.

  The others are behind me. I signal for Ret and Jinx to hold them off while we retreat.

  The hallway is filling with dark, half-dressed shapes, surging forward with pure, unfiltered rage. Jinx lobs a grenade and the whole building shudders, and all but a handful of them drop. Entrails and clumps of flesh ooze down the walls like some macabre painting. Ret picks the crawlers off one-by-one. But no sooner are a dozen killed than two dozen take their place.

  The rest of us race ahead to a sign with faded letters and an arrow pointing forward, but there’s no time for Oleg to decipher its exact meaning. We come to a pair of rusted doors. I’m up front and Bron is watching our rear. I give each handle a healthy pull but neither budges an inch. Even a kick with my good leg doesn’t rattle them loose.

  “Bron,” I call out. I can hear Ret and Jinx down the hall, around the corner, out of breath and cursing. They’re running this way, and by the sounds of it they have a massive swarm of Zees right behind them.

  Bron yanks the doors and nothing happens. He pulls with everything he’s got and the veins in his neck bulge. I hear the sound of twisting metal, and I hope it isn’t one of his arms giving way.

  Ret and Jinx come scrambling around the corner. Just a few feet behind them are the Zees. They sound like a basket full of snakes, but their faces are contorted with rage and caked in that tarry, blood-like substance. Running at full tilt, Ret raises his automatic shotgun behind him and pulls the trigger. The gun kicks wildly. The buckshot fans out and cuts down a handful of Zees. The rest are unfazed as they trample over the fallen.

  Ret and Jinx are ten yards away when Bron finally pries open the doors. A terrifying thought flashes through my mind: that we’ll run inside this new sanctuary and find it filled with Zees. I hope to hell I’m wrong, or we’ll all be dead in a matter of seconds.

  -19-

  Oleg, Glave and Sneak run in and gather behind us. Bron’s holding one of the doors open. Jinx and Ret are hightailing it down the hallway. There’s a Zee reaching for Ret, barely an arm’s length behind him. Jinx is the first one in, followed by Ret. Bron slams the door shut, but that Zee is too fast, and the next thing we know he’s inside. Ret doesn’t have a chance to turn around when the Zee crashes into him, sending them both tumbling.

  I know right then and there that if I’m not fast enough, Ret’s going to die. I leap over a row of seats and come down with the Katana. If I put too much into the swing, the blade will slice right through the Zee’s flesh and into Ret. I pull up at the last moment. The sword’s edge enters the back of the Zee’s brain box and kisses the front of his skull. A millisecond from closing down on the back of Ret’s neck, it dies with its jaws wrenched open.

  That’s the second time in less than ten minutes he’s nearly become Zee-steak, and I almost thank one of Oleg’s gods that nothing but a set of old chairs was in my way. I don’t know what I’d do without him. Ret takes my hand and I help him up. He’s heavier than I am, and my leg starts burning like I’m being branded with a hot iron poker. I grit my teeth and try not to let on I’m having trouble.

  “Thank you.” He smiles, and I feel my cheeks flush. I’d lie to myself and say it’s because I feel like crap, but I suck at lying and I know the truth anyway. And besides, I can’t help thinking about rule number two: Mercs don’t date Mercs. Especially when you’re a woman in charge of a bunch of reprobates.

  I turn away and slide the Katana into the sheath on my back. “If the tables were turned, you’d do the same.”

  He nods, and he quickly turns and shoves the tip of his boot into the Zee’s prone torso, and it goes skidding into darkness.

  I finally get a good look around us and my jaw nearly drops. The room we’re in is impressive. Rectangular. Hundred-foot ceiling. Rows of seats facing a screen that I’m willing to bet was once white, but is now torn and coated with grime. The seats are plush, and far more inviting than anything in my dump back in Sotercity.

  Bron’s still holding the set of double doors closed. “Ret, you ungrateful bastard,” he says. “Pennies would have eaten you for dinner if Bron hadn’t saved your scrawny ass.”

  Oh boy. Bron’s talking in the third person again. He needs a lot of reassurance, and maybe under different circumstances I’d be happy to give it to him. But now is not the time.

  Outside, the Zees are kicking up a racket throwing themselves against the doors. We’re lucky those doors open outward, or we’d have a hell of a time keeping them shut. I find a closet with cleaning supplies, and bring back an armful of mops and brooms to shove between the door handles. “That won’t last forever,” I say.

  I can tell Bron is miffed about Ret’s lack of acknowledgement because the big man is ripping out rows of seats and stacking them against the door. After a few minutes, he claps the dirt off his hands. “That should hold ‘em.”

  I nudge Ret. “Good work, Bron,” he says, with all the grace of a newborn calf.

  The subtle frown on Bron’s face morphs into a childlike smile. “Maybe you’re not such an asshole after all, Ret.”

  “Listen,” I say, looking for any obvious exits. “We need to find out where this assembly hall leads to.”

  Oleg reclines in one of the dusty seats and half-turns to look back at us. “This isn’t an assembly hall, I’m afraid. It was called a movie theater.” He pauses. I can tell he’s disgusted with us. “Have none of you heard of a movie theater before? Moving images projected onto a blank screen? They were all the rage.”

  For a moment, I wonder if Oleg really thinks we’re idiots. What he’s forgetting is that The Order keeps most of the technology they’ve recovered in their own greedy, little hands. Then I see Bron’s gleaming, metal arms and realize I’m looking at the exception to the rule. There’s probably only one person on the planet who can replicate those. Bron’s father was a wealthy Trader who pulled an enormous amount of strings to have his son outfitted that way. I’ve seen the prototypes, and they were sleek and utilitarian. At least utilitarian, if loading and unloading carts all day long sounds like a promising career path. It was Bron
who convinced the engineer to alter his initial plans into something far more deadly. Bron’s father somehow got his head stuck on the idea that his son would carry on the family business, not become a hired gun.

  My mind snaps back to Oleg in the middle of his history lesson. “I dare say, at one time, this dead civilization you see around you had inventions that would make the very idea of this movie theater seem like child’s play.”

  The Zees aren’t banging on the door nearly as much and the thought of what that might mean is making me nervous. I’m also starting to hear things. It began as a low, ringing noise after Bron decided to fire his 20mm cannons a foot from my head. But since about the time we entered Oleg’s movie theater, I’ve started to realize the noise isn’t a ringing at all. It’s a voice I’m hearing, low and muffled, like someone talking into the sleeve of their tunic, but every once in a while I can almost make out what it’s saying, and I swear it’s calling my name.

  The sound gets louder, and I feel an overwhelming and inexplicable urge to tear down Bron’s makeshift barricade and let the doors swing open. Not so much to let the Zees in, but it’s more like I’m being... summoned.

  Behind me, Oleg is still blabbing away.

  “The wondrous, ancient Romans and Greeks. Yes, both long gone, I know, but each in their own time built empires that spanned the known world. They were masters of art and engineering. They were the light of the civilized world.”

  While the others are distracted by Oleg’s oration, I hike up my pant leg and survey the damage. I crack a new glow stick and hold it over the wound. It’s almost impossible to make out any of the details, but I can tell that the skin around the bite is bubbling. If that weren’t bad enough, most of my leg below the knee has become a dark patchwork of intersecting lines. I run my finger along the flesh, and it feels rough and leathery, like deer hide.

  “In the fifth century, hordes of barbarians overran an empire already weakened by decadence and laziness. After the collapse, centuries of learning were lost. Western Europe was thrust into darkness for a thousand years. During the Dark Ages–”