by Rick Jones
“Get to your feet, soldier.”
Juggler waved his hand dismissively. “Not this time,” he told him. “I’m too weak. Too tired.”
Skully crouched down beside him. “Jug,” he said demurely. He wasn’t sure what to say since the Force Elite had never left one of their own behind before.
Juggler swallowed, then heaved a batch of black and foul-smelling bile. After wiping his forearm across bluing lips, he looked at Skully with a feigned smile. “This isn’t about me,” he stated weakly. “This is about the mission. I’d only slow you down. You know that. So take my weapon, find the president, and complete the primary objective. Don’t allow your emotions to lose sight of the purpose as to why we’re inside this mausoleum.”
Juggler’s eyes suddenly began to roll back, and then he began to convulse.
Within thirty seconds his final breath escaped his lungs, a very lengthy sigh.
“Skully.” It was Funboy. “He’s right. We gotta go.”
Skully grabbed Juggler’s weapon and removed the ammo clips, as well as Juggler’s stash of ammunition.
“Skully.”
“Yeah, Meade.”
“You need to haul ass. They’re coming from all points now. Take the corridor ahead of you for forty meters, bear left, and then right for approximately ten meters. There you’ll find the supply elevator.”
“Copy that.” But Skully didn’t move until Funboy finally escorted him away.
As they headed down the corridor, the burning itch in Juggler’s arm continued to spread throughout the man’s entire body. His system was rejuvenating dead cells. When Juggler finally came to be, the memories of what it used to be were quite vague—its mind’s eye seeing nothing but images and snippets of a past that made no sense to it at all.
When it opened its eyes they were filmed over with a frosty sheen. Its skin had turned the color of dirty ice as its heart no longer beat within its chest. Getting to its feet, the thing that used to be Juggler sniffed the air. When its primal senses picked up the scent of the living, its hunger waxed.
Its prey had left a trail along the corridor.
And then it gave chase.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee,” it hissed.
“Coooooooooooome tooooooooooo meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”
#
Skully and Funboy made it to the service elevator uncontested, but the factions were closing in. They could hear them coming.
Skully lifted the hatch to the elevator, but the platform was only big enough to carry one person at a time.
“Meade, how quick is this thing?” Skully asked through his lip mic.
“Schott says it fairly quick. About ten seconds a level.”
“That’s forty seconds up and forty back. That’s a buck twenty. How far are the tangos?”
“You gotta get going now, Skully. You’re cutting it close. You really are.”
Skully turned to Funboy. “Hold the fort,” he told him. “When it comes back down, get inside, lock the hatch, and you’re good.”
“Move!” Meade sounded as if time was critical.
Skully folded himself into the tight space, gave a thumbs up, and pressed the button, the elevator lifting. Even though he passed the levels quickly, it appeared that the time moved with the slowness of a bad dream.
When it neared the ninth level, he called to Meade. “Am I clear?”
“You’re good. Now—” Meade cut himself short, then: “Oh no.”
“What?”
“Get that lift to Funboy. Now!”
Skully hit the button for the lift’s return trip. “What’s going on, Meade? What’s going on down there?”
“I’m sorry, Skully,” he said. “You may have to go it alone.”
“Why? What are you talking about?”
“Something’s almost on top of him. It’s . . . Oh no.”
“Meade . . . what is it?”
His answer came in the form of absolute silence.
#
Juggler had closed the gap with Funboy by the time the elevator was on its way down.
Funboy turned his weapon on Juggler, who was standing before him bending his knees as if getting ready to spring. His face was blue-gray with tracks of purple lines from idle blood flow running across it like scars. His eyes had filmed over, and when he opened his mouth, black bile as thick as syrup dripped onto the front of his uniform.
Funboy was caught off guard, his senses delayed as Juggler swung his hand diagonally and knocked the assault weapon free from Funboy’s grasp. As the weapon took flight, Funboy grabbed his combat knife and slid it neatly from its sheath, then held the point directly at Juggler as the two squared off.
The corridor was thin, providing minimal room to maneuver.
Funboy juked, feinted a jab, then came around in a sweeping arc to slice the blade across Juggler’s throat, but missed. He then thrust out his foot in a straight kick to its abdomen, but the undead remains of Juggler grabbed Funboy’s leg and pulled, sending Funboy off balance and to the floor.
Juggler was quick, leaping and landing on top of Funboy and pinning him to the floor with a hand to his chest. As Juggler raised a hand above his head and primed itself to drive the fingers through Funboy’s face, Funboy reacted by slicing his Ka-Bar across Juggler’s throat, the wound paring into lips to create a horrible second mouth. Juggler reared back with both hands clutching his throat, the blow stunning him. Funboy bucked him off and rolled out from under his weight, then gained his feet. But Juggler was already standing and waiting, the laceration bleeding out a foul-smelling ooze as black as pitch.
Juggler raised his hand and beckoned to him. “Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee,” it hissed.
Funboy raised his Ka-Bar and held it tight in his hand while they circled each other, the two looking for an opening.
Whereas Juggler now operated by savageness, Funboy still functioned by honed instinct.
So when Juggler slashed at him with a vertical blow, Funboy countered with a hacking blow that neatly severed the fingers from Juggler’s hand at the line of the first set of knuckles, but Juggler didn’t appear to feel the effects or notice them missing
When Funboy took a step back to access the situation, Juggler moved in for the kill.
In a bum-rush effort to tackle its prey, Funboy stepped to the side like a matador and brought the point of his knife straight down into the cap of Juggler’s skull. The point of the Ka-Bar passed through his brain with the same sound of stabbing a melon, with the tip of the knife exiting through the soft underside of Juggler’s chin.
When he extracted the blade, Juggler fell limp to the floor.
Funboy was taken aback as he looked at the knife, at the black thickness that clung to its blade, and shook the knife’s edge several times to shake off the gummy substance.
In the distance and closing fast from what seemed to be all points, were the undead.
Behind him, the supply elevator arrived and the door opened.
After grabbing his assault weapon, Funboy clambered inside, brought his knees up in acute angles to fit, and pressed the button.
Hands and bony talons reached inside as the door began to slide and lock into position, but Funboy batted them away with the stock of his weapon.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
“Kiss my ass!” He continued to strike at them as the hatchway pinched close, the door taking off a few lingering fingers that were unable to clear in time.
As the elevator went up, Funboy let out a sigh of relief. He had been in many battles in many situations, but none of the clashes had come close to this. This type of warfare was new ground.
When the elevator reached the ninth level, the door opened. Skully was waiting with his assault weapon directed into the chute at Funboy. But when he saw who it was, he lowered the gun.
“Are you all right?” Skully asked, offering Funboy a helping hand.
Funboy worked his way out of the cramped space, got to his feet, and offered Skull
y a beaming smile. “You miss me?”
“What the Hell happened down there?”
The smile was gone. “Juggler,” he said.
“What about him?”
“He came after me.”
Skully cocked his head questioningly. “Juggler?”
Funboy nodded. “He became one of those things. An undead.”
Skully gave him a quick once over. “And what about you? You OK?”
“Yeah. I’m fine,” he said.
“And Juggler?”
Funboy ran a finger across his neck in a cutthroat gesture.
“Are you sure?” asked Skully.
Funboy nodded. “He’s at peace. I made sure of it.”
Skully nodded, then lowered his lip mic. “Meade.”
There was no response.
Then louder: “Meade!”
“Sorry, Skully. I’m right here.”
“Where the Hell were you?”
“I’m here. I see Funboy’s all right?”
“Yeah. He’s fine. Now where do we go from here?”
“Four more levels,” said Meade. “Schott’s found a way to bypass the corridors by going up the shaft of the freight elevator.”
Skully picked up the lack of confidence in Meade’s voice. “But?”
“But in order for you to get there, you’d have to fight your way through a large group of these things that stand between you and the primary mark.”
“How many are we talking about?’ When Meade didn’t answer right away, Skully became incensed. “C’mon, Meade! How many are we talking about here?”
Then the answer came: “Fifty.”
“Fifty! Is there another way?”
“No, sir. This is the only way to the top tier. One route, one corridor. And the matter of time is becoming critical.”
Skully checked his watch. They were running behind. “Do you have an eye on the prize?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. They’re still on the thirteenth level—still alive. But they have pursuers. Schott says that they’re running to a place they call the Chem Lab. The elevator shaft is just beyond the room’s wall. If the wall between the shaft and the chamber can be breached, then you can access the chamber. You can do this.”
Again, the lack of confidence in Meade’s voice: “But?”
There was a pregnant pause on Meade’s end. “The wall’s made of one-inch steel.”
Skully pointed to Funboy’s cargo pocket, where he kept a compressed pad of high-grade Semtex. “Can that blow through an inch of steel?” he asked him.
“The Semtex?”
“Yeah.”
Funboy shrugged. “That’s asking a lot.”
Then into his lip mic. “Meade, can the primary target move his location to a different intercept point?”
“That’s negative. That level is completely congested. There’s just nowhere for them to go. They’ve been forced into a corner.”
“Dammit,” he whispered. Then: “All right, direct us to our next set of coordinates.”
“Copy.”
Skully trained his vision on Funboy. “This is gonna be a battle,” he told him. “One we might not come back from.”
“We’re members of the Force Elite. It’s always about the mission, never about us.”
Skully concurred with a slight nod. Then: “Ammo check.”
“I’ve got plenty.”
Skully nodded. “Remember, headshots are—”
“—dead shots. I know.”
“Then let’s get this show on the road.” Then into his lip mic: “Meade.”
“Yeah, boss.”
“Start guiding us to our point of intercept.”
Meade did.
Chapter Forty-Four
The Chem Lab was not a laboratory at all, but a storage area for chemicals such as hydrochloric and muriatic acids used to clean the insides of pipes and boiler tanks by removing alkaline-scale buildup.
As soon as everyone in Eriq’s group entered the chamber, he closed the vault-like door and locked them inside.
“You think that will hold them?” asked Eldridge. The man was visibly shaken.
Eriq leaned his forehead against the cool steel door. “I can only hope,” he returned. Then he closed his eyes, knowing that they’d been purposely herded into a corner by the undead. These things were calculating hunters, he thought, with mental capacities to reason.
President Michelin moved beside Eriq. “Mr. Wyman, must I remind you that this vehicle continues to drift in space, and the longer we drift, the shorter our window of escape.”
“I understand that,” he said, sounding beaten.
“Then may I remind you—”
“No you may not,” he stated firmly, turning on Michelin. “I know very well what the stakes are, Mr. President. I know that we’ve been painted into a corner, and I know that time is running thin, but we’re being hunted. Those things outside this door are coordinating efforts to drive us into a path of no escape. I can only do so much with the hand they’re dealing me.”
Michelin looked around the room. There was no second door. “So what you’re saying, Mr. Wyman, is that you backed us into a corner. Is that correct?”
“I did what I had to do to keep us alive.”
“Alive? For how long? Until we starve to death? Or until those things break through?”
“This door is solid. It’ll hold.”
“So I guess the answer is . . . until we starve to death.” The president turned and began to walk away, but not without a parting shot. “It’s no wonder why you were demoted as unit leader of the Force Elite,” he dug in. “You couldn’t lead a dog on a leash. That is, if dogs still existed.”
Eriq couldn’t refute the statement since it had merit. He failed to lead his group to safety, but he also had the blood of the Force Elite within him. Their attitude: There was a solution for everything.
He pushed away from the door.
And he looked for that solution.
#
John Eldridge didn’t know if President Michelin was terrified or angry as he sat beside Eldridge with their backs to the wall.
It was a long moment before anyone spoke, each taking in the gravity of their situation with absorption.
But it was Eldridge who broke the ice. “I’m a hypocrite,” he said.
Michelin turned to him. “What?”
“I said, I’m a hypocrite. Do as I say, not as I do.”
“What the Hell are you talking about?”
“I was hoping that I wouldn’t see something like this in my lifetime, always hoping that the end would be the problem for somebody else. Not mine. Not yours. Not anyone that I hold dear to me.” Eldridge removed his glasses, huffed a warm breath against the lenses, and then wiped them clean with the tail of his soiled shirt. “We’re going to die here, you know.”
“We’re going to do no such thing,” said Michelin. But deep down he knew that Eldridge was right. They were all going to die inside this ship.
Eldridge offered a low chuckle, one that said I know you’re lying. “Yup,” he went on. “No more Bertucci suits for you. No more clean shirts for me.”
“You need to get ahold of yourself,” Michelin returned sharply.
But Eldridge didn’t appear to hear him. “I didn’t care if we slaughtered the Wasteland savages as long as we lived in relative comfort,” he said. “Hunt them down, and then process their meat to keep going what is undeniably the beginning of the end of the Fields of Elysium.”
“Shut up before someone hears you, you idiot.”
“Not only have we been lying to the people, but we’ve been lying to ourselves, as well. These little pockets of utopia have been on life support for a long time now, when they’ve been Hell in disguise. Don’t you think?”
Michelin sighed. “Our intentions were good,” he commented. “I had to choose between the lesser of the evils necessary to keep the Fields going. We both did.”
Eldridge smirked. “And you know what they
say about good intentions.”
Michelin did. The road to Hell was paved with them.
Eldridge looked at the low-level ceiling and stared at nothing in particular. “I didn’t care what happened to those outside the walls,” he said evenly. “But now that I’ve become one of the hunted and know what it feels like, I can’t commit myself to follow through with that protocol.”
“You’ll feel differently once we get out of here,” Michelin responded.
“Yeah. Maybe. But that’s the key phrase, isn’t it? Once we get out of here.” He turned to the president with a look of someone who was absolutely crestfallen. “But we’re never getting out of here,” he said. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not ever. And do you want to know why, even if we do happen to get out of this room?”
Michelin looked directly at him, but offered no response because he knew the question to be a rhetorical one.
“Because we’ve drifted too far from base,” he answered. “The window of opportunity has closed. Air Force Six could never make the distance with limited capabilities.”
“You’ve got to have faith.”
“My faith was turning a blind eye to the reality of what’s been truly going on. Earth is a dead planet. It has been for a while. We simply created hope when there really wasn’t any. All hope died on the very day the last plankton died in the ocean—when every creature on the food chain above them died, and so on, leaving us to feed on each other because there’s nothing left. We did this to ourselves. And those things out there,” he pointed to the door with his chin, “are the forerunners of a new race.”
“You’re talking in circles, man. Get a hold of yourself.”
“They’re the new Order,” Eldridge continued. “The new kings who sit on top of the food chain all by themselves. And when they eventually break through that door,” he faced Michelin, “they’re going to prove my point.”
The muscles in the back of Michelin’s jaw began to work as anger started to seethe. “We will get out of here,” he said, fighting for calm.
