XOM-B

by Jeremy Robinson

  Black slime blinds my vision as I’m freed, but I’m able to scrape the muck away after being placed on my feet.

  Heap stands next to me. “I will not throw you again.”

  I nod. “I will not ask you to.”

  The soldier is exactly where it was when I crashed back into the swamp. But it’s struggling for freedom, which I generally admire, but in this case, I hope the swamp never relinquishes its grasp. The drone’s four remaining eyes glow bright red as it tries to stand, but its ruined leg and the wrecking ball, both held fast by the swamp’s suction, keep it rooted in place.

  “What should we do?” I ask. “Destroying it might use up all our remaining ammo.”

  In reply, Heap just points. Luscious has made her way around the soldier, standing near the still functioning leg. She takes careful aim and unleashes a torrent of railgun rounds at the back of its knee. In seconds, the second joint breaks down and the drone falls to both knees, bowed forward. I suspect it now lacks the leverage to ever free itself, and even if it did, it wouldn’t be going anywhere fast.

  “Good enough,” Heap says.

  “Some assistance would be appreciated!” Harry calls out, filling the air with shotgun rounds. We hurry to his side and the four of us make short work of the slow moving, mud-bound undead blocking our path. The rest, we leave.

  Bones crunch beneath our feet as we slog through the swamp. We’re trying to run, but can’t manage much more than a jog as the mud seems eager to pull us down.

  Heap leads the way, aiming carefully, firing one round at a time, each with deadly effect. We could probably cross the remaining clearing without firing a shot, but Heap dutifully destroys any dead within a twenty-foot radius.

  When we reach the far side, the mud deepens to my waist and pushing through it becomes all but impossible. If not for Heap’s size, we might find ourselves permanent residents of the dead swamp. The mud reaches his thigh, but he’s able to power through. With one foot on solid ground and one hand grasping onto a tree, he reaches back for me, Luscious and Harry as we link our arms to form a human chain. With one long tug, he removes all three of us from the swamp’s grasp.

  Safe on the far shore, I unsuccessfully shake the mud from my legs and look back. A number of undead lie atop the thick mud, and the giant sentinel’s eyes glow red as it continues its struggle against the mire. “So much for not leaving a trail.”

  With a touch of exasperation, Harry adds, “But we are safe.”

  “Not remotely,” Heap says.

  For a moment, I think he’s talking about long-term safety in a world overrun by zombies, but then he says, “I don’t think we have much time,” and I know there is something I’ve missed.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  Heap scans the area, weapon in hand. “Whoever left the dead in the swamp knows we’re here.”

  36.

  “Three more. Up ahead.” I lean back behind the line of trees that mark the end of the woods and the beginning of what once was the suburbs. There are still plenty of trees, and old homes to use for cover, but the number of dead has indeed increased since we left the swamp. They have no discernible target, nor are they headed in any one direction. They’re just … everywhere. Alarmed and searching. Whoever placed the sentries might know we’re nearby, but they don’t know where we are. Not exactly.

  And nature is helping conceal them. Just minutes after leaving the swamp, thick, gray clouds slid across the sky, casting the landscape in deep shadow, lowering the temperature by ten degrees, and finally unleashing a wind-driven torrent of rain, which removed the mud from our clothes, but also reduced our visibility to twenty feet.

  “Can’t we just hide in a house?” Harry asks. “Wait for them to go away?”

  “We can’t do that,” I say, surprised that it would even be suggested.

  Harry and Luscious look at me like I’ve just broken into song and dance.

  “Why not?” Harry asks.

  “The old, abandoned houses are dangerous,” I explain. “That’s why I was never allowed to—” A realization strikes me and I wish Jimbo were still alive to supply me with a new expletive. “They’re not dangerous, are they?”

  Heap shakes his head, confirming my revelation.

  “Mohr was afraid I’d learn something, right?” I ask, perhaps speaking a little too loudly. “What was he afraid of? That I’d learn about children? About all the innocent people that died so the Grind could end? About genocide?”

  Heap just shrugs. “I was given a list of places you could and couldn’t go.”

  “And now?” I ask. “Are we bound to this list?”

  Heap turns to me. “The world as we know it is coming to an end, Freeman. You can go wherever you please.”

  Not exactly a comforting answer, but I appreciate his candor, even if it is eighteen days later than I would have preferred … not that I would have cared eighteen days ago. I was just happy to be alive.

  And what am I now, besides soaking wet? Happier to be alive, I decide, despite the current circumstances. Or perhaps because of them. Maybe being so close to death reveals the wonders of life more sharply?

  “But we’re still not hiding in the houses,” Heap says.

  I agree. “There is no time to hide.”

  “We’ll keep to the backyards,” Heap says. “Out of the streets.” He turns to Harry. “Are the neighborhoods laid out in a grid?”

  Harry nods. “For the most part, yes.”

  “Then we might be able to reach the capped portion of the city by following the houses north. That way, we’ll only be exposed when we traverse cross streets.”

  “And if we’re discovered?” I ask.

  “Avoid shooting if you can.” Heap puts his weapon away. “Any noise we make could draw more of them to us. We need to be as quiet as possible.”

  I pat my holstered weapon. “Right, no shooting.”

  “What should we use for weapons, then?” Harry asks.

  “I’ve found STOP signs to be effective.” I don’t mean it as a joke, but the group chuckles. Even Luscious, who knows from firsthand experience that I’m not joking. “Or anything hard,” I add.

  “Let’s move,” Heap says. He crouches low and starts across the road, which I find humorous because he’s still taller than the rest of us. Staying in the shadows, we cross the street, scurry up a driveway and walk along the side of what was once a nice home, but is now a dilapidated relic, spewing streams of water from its broken gutter system. I’m suddenly struck by the almost sweet smell of the rain, mixed with grass, dirt and pavement, and nearly comment on it, but keep the thought to myself for fear of being overheard and eaten alive.

  The backyard is thick with growth. Tall grass. Several short trees. In another thirty years, this area might not look any different than the forest we just left. A strange metal structure at the back of the yard catches my attention. The bars are mostly rusted and chains hang from one of the horizontal beams. “What is that?”

  “Swing set,” Heap says without slowing.

  “Children used them,” Harry says.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Swinging,” Luscious says. “They would sit on swings and … swing, forward and backward.”

  “And this was entertaining?”

  Luscious shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Stay focused,” Heap says, waiting by the north side of the yard where an old fence is blocking our path. For a moment, I think we’re going to have to climb over, but Heap gives it a gentle push—well, gentle for Heap—and the rotting wood crumbles to the ground.

  We slip through into the next yard and repeat this process for the next ten homes without any problem. I catch glimpses of the lives once lived in these homes, mostly pertaining to children. They really were everywhere. At least in this part of the world.

  When we reach a seven-foot fence bordering a crossroad, Heap pauses. “What do you see?”

  If my ocular upgrades were working, the undead would be re
vealed by their electromagnetic signatures, but I’m still limited to the visual spectrum. I scan the area, zooming in on everything peculiar. “Nothing.”

  “Once the fence is down, run for the other side. Don’t stop for anything.” Heap waits for confirmation from all of us and then puts his hands on the old wood and shoves. The barrier topples over, whacking against the old, cracked concrete of the sidewalk. Heap allows Luscious through first.

  A shadow bolts out from behind Luscious and in front of me.

  “Luscious!” I shout.

  She spins around, catching sight of the undead man as he closes the distance. With a yelp, she stumbles back and falls. The man leans forward, ready to pounce. But he never makes it.

  The zombie seems to register my presence with a grunt, but then I deliver a punch to the side of his head with such force that his neck snaps, his head caves in and then comes free of his body. The head lands in tall grass across the street while his body slams to the ground, landing in a puddle that twitches with pale worms.

  I spin around to Luscious and I lift her off the ground. She smiles at me, assuring me she is unharmed. When I turn around, I find two very different facial expressions. While Heap looks something akin to proud, Harry is astonished, mouth hanging open like one of the dead. “Upgrades,” I say to Harry.

  Harry’s eyes linger on my right hand. “I don’t think you ever needed the STOP sign. You’re quite capable of destruction on your own.”

  I’m not sure if this statement is a judgment of some type, but something in me wants to argue the point. Not because he’s wrong, but because I don’t want him to be right. I abhor the violence of the world, past and present. And I cannot think of a circumstance, beyond a predator needing to consume prey, where such violence is justified. If the history of the world could be reversed back to the very first violent act, and the past changed, I wonder if the building cascade of violence leading to the Masters’ genocide and the current slaughter could be undone. A theory to ponder on another day, I decide, when the prospect of future violence is less likely.

  “Move,” Heap says, motioning to the far side of the street with his head.

  We slip into the next neighborhood unnoticed, pushing through fences, sneaking through yards and avoiding a thickening horde of undead in the streets.

  Unlike the sentinels waiting in the swamp, this horde isn’t lying in wait. They’re active, wandering about with wide eyes and twitching limbs as though already agitated. Maybe it’s the rain?

  No, I decide, they’re definitely looking for us.

  A last line of defense, perhaps. Like Sir’s barricade at the Spire. The difference being that Sir has millions of attackers bearing down on his position, while our mystery enemy has just the four of us with whom to contend.

  Despite the number of dead, they seem content to remain in the streets, and while cross streets become harder to traverse, the dead are easily distracted by tossed rocks and sticks. On the cross streets where just a few dead shamble about, we dispatch them silently. Heap and I are able to do this with just our hands. Harry has taken to using an old aluminum baseball bat with one hand while holding the shotgun in the other. Baseball was some kind of game. A sport. Harry promised to explain it to me later. Luscious carries a heavy metal rod she dug out of the earth beside a home. It had a wire connected to it, so I think it had been used to ground something electrical. Whatever its previous use, it now works well as a spear to impale undead skulls.

  We travel this way, sneaking and striking, for several miles before seeing any change in the terrain. I can tell by the absence of trees that the ground ahead is either clear, or downhill. When we sneak up beside the old stone wall of a rather large home, I discover it’s a little of both. The landscape slopes sharply downward, dropping into a valley that’s at least four miles across and twice as long. But the terrain ends thirty feet below our position, stopping at a sheet of solid black metal that covers the entire valley. A vast puddle blankets the entire surface, shimmering from the ceaseless rain. If not for the world coming to an end, I could sit and watch the rain for hours.

  “The city is under there,” Harry says.

  The black surface looks identical to the streets of Liberty, but it’s perfectly smooth, lacking streets, buildings, vehicles and a population.

  “Is there a way inside?” I ask.

  Harry shakes his head. “I never tried.”

  “Probably a good thing.” I turn to Heap. “So how do we get in?”

  Heap’s eyes linger on the cap. “There should be access points. For drainage or maintenance.”

  “I don’t see anything,” Luscious says.

  Heap looks away from the cap. “You won’t and neither will I. They’re nearly seamless.” He turns to me and I understand; only I will be able to find the entrance.

  I use my only functional ocular upgrade and zoom in, moving through the rain to search the surface. Ignoring the ripples in the two-inch-deep water, I focus on the solid surface below and look for imperfections. It takes just a few seconds to find a line. It’s distorted by the falling rain, but I slowly follow the slice around, completing a square. “Found one,” I say, pointing ahead. “Fifty feet out and about a hundred to the left.”

  “Another upgrade?” Harry asks. When I don’t answer, he assumes correctly. “You must be pretty important.”

  “Some people think so,” I say, “but I’m just another person. Looks like a hatch. Two doors.”

  Heap nods. “Maintenance.”

  “Can you open it?” Harry asks.

  “No,” Heap looks at me. “But he can.”

  “What?” I say. “I don’t—”

  “Later,” Heap says. “We’re going to be exposed out there. We need to go before the rain stops and the shadows fade.”

  He’s right. The clouds are starting to thin and the glow of sunlight behind them is beginning to intensify. The perfect conditions for a rainbow. I’ve never seen one, but would very much like to. Unfortunately, inside twenty minutes the area will be aglow with fresh sunlight.

  As I peer across the wide open space, searching for a glint of color, I notice something else. “There’s no antenna.” I look at my friends. It’s clear they’re not sure what I’m talking about. “To send a radio signal like the one Mohr detected requires an antenna, right? A … broadcast tower.”

  Harry nods in confirmation. “They’re typically quite tall.”

  I continue searching. “When you visited this city before the cap, did you see one?”

  “Never.” Harry furrows his brow in thought. “I searched much of the city and the area surrounding it. I never saw a radio tower.”

  “And we haven’t passed any,” Luscious adds.

  “What is your point?” Heap asks, sounding impatient.

  “That this might be the wrong place.” I feel like I’m stating the obvious, but Heap has other things—like our survival—on his mind.

  “A radio tower could be several miles away in any direction, connected to the city by a cable.”

  “If it’s not—”

  Heap cuts me off. “We still need to check beneath the cap.”

  “It could be a waste of time,” I say. “And we don’t have much left. Every moment we spend chasing false leads is a step closer to oblivion.”

  Heap looks down at me, his body tense. “We’re checking beneath the cap.”

  I flinch internally at what feels like a command from Heap.

  “What makes you so sure?” I ask.

  “You’ve learned a lot. Become a man. But you don’t know everything.” Heap stands and lifts one leg over the stone wall. He pauses and looks back. “You’ll just have to trust me.” With that, he slides down the hillside to the bottom.

  Harry places his hand on my arm. “For what it’s worth, I agree with you.”

  While I appreciate Harry’s support, Heap has a valid point. He has earned my trust and there are many things I still don’t understand about our world.

 
Harry follows Heap over the wall, trying to slide down the hill in the same fashion, but his foot strikes a stone and he spills forward. Heap manages to catch him, but the spill has attracted the attention of a nearby, unseen zombie, whose grunts and shuffling feet announce his approach toward the backyard.

  I take Luscious’s hand in mine. “Let’s go.” We climb atop the stone wall and leap, sliding down together without incident. Congregated at the bottom, we pause for a moment, listening to a rising din at the top of the hill.

  “I fear they heard me,” Harry says.

  The lone zombie appears at the top of the wall. His eyes widen briefly as he sees us. A twang sounds out, quieter than Heap’s or Harry’s weapon, but still sudden enough to startle me. A hole in the undead’s head appears. His eyes freeze in place. Like a rigid log, the twice-dead man topples forward, over the wall and rolls down the hillside, stopping at our feet.

  “What are you waiting for?” Luscious says, charging out onto the flat black city cap, cooling railgun in hand. “They’re coming!”

  37.

  “It sounds like a giant drum!” Luscious shouts, as we run over the hard, black surface of the capped city.

  She’s right. Our charge toward the hatch is almost musical as the fast knocking of Luscious’s, Harry’s and my footfalls are mixed with the heavier thuds of Heap’s.

  “Why is it so loud?” I ask.

  “It’s just a shell,” Heap replies. “No sound dampeners. No shock absorbers.”

  “And no city weighing everything down,” I guess. Also missing is the ambient sound of the city—vehicles, people and machinery.

  “I think it’s safe to assume they know we’re present,” Harry says as we approach the hatch. “Both above and below.”

  If Heap’s confidence is well-founded, I think. Part of me—the selfish portion that is tired of running, and fighting, and zombies—hopes we’ll find the old city below devoid of the living, dead and living dead. But the rest of me truly hopes that this is it, that Heap is right and we’ll find the person responsible for the attack on Liberty, maybe with enough time to save what’s left of civilization.