by Rick Jones
Tin Man’s skin was blue and white, the color of ice, with eyes glazed with frost but fully functional. It raised a hand to him, moaned, and articulated to the pilot its most primal need.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
Before the pilot could utter a scream, Tin Man drove the ends of its fingertips through the pilot’s eyes and into his skull, pulled the man from his chair, and began to feed.
Chapter Fifty-One
“They were part of my old unit,” Eriq told Sheena as they hurried down the corridors toward the comm center. “They’re called the Force Elite, a Special Ops group, one of many, under the sole control of the president of the FFE, which is Michelin.”
They rounded the bend. Skully must have moved the president along quickly, he thought, because they were nowhere in sight.
“There’s obvious tension between you and them, especially with Michelin,” Sheena said.
“Yeah, well, that’s because the son-of-a-bitch demoted me due to insubordination.”
“Insubordination? You?”
He nodded. “When I managed the team we were a respected unit. We operated under the guidelines of ‘loyalty above all else, except honor.’ But when President Michelin took over as Commander-in-Chief, he perverted everything we stood for. He turned us into a kill squad with strict orders to kill anybody outside the walls of the Fields.”
“Genocide?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps the beginning of one. I was taken immediately out of the loop after I was demoted.”
“Did you—” She cut herself off.
“What? Kill? Only when I had to for the defense of the cities. But I refused to kill for the sake of carrying out a protocol to promote Michelin’s genocide. So I refused, which is why I was relegated to the mausoleum. One night I failed to carry out a mission after we were called to duty to suppress a gathering of Wasteland savages who were allegedly conspiring to charge the walls of New DC.”
“And?”
His face dropped. “They weren’t conspiring at all,” he told her. “They were people who were starving and defeated. You could see it in their faces. All they wanted was something to eat. They weren’t a threat to anyone. Anyone could see that they didn’t have a vicious bone in their bodies.” Then he thought about the little girl waving to him, such a beautiful child, but he didn’t tell Sheena about her because the memory was too painful.
“And?” She felt like she was pulling teeth, but she also knew that an admission was also a catharsis for the human soul.
“I dropped my weapon,” he said, “and any member of the Force Elite who lays down his weapon is considered a coward because he’s surrendering his duty. I wanted no part in executing people who couldn’t defend themselves, let alone conspire against an established community.”
“And Skully took over,” she said, intuiting.
Eriq nodded. “He was my second-in-command. The moment I dropped my weapon he took immediate control of the team, and he didn’t waste the moment of opportunity, either,” he said. “I just closed my eyes, and to this day, I can still see the muzzle flashes through my eyelids and smell the cordite in the air. It never goes away.”
“Was there anything you could have done to save them?”
“No. Nothing. The command to terminate the hostiles was issued with zero tolerance. The moment I dropped my weapon I knew I was facing two outcomes: either a court martial, which I received given my past actions as a soldier, or execution. But the moment my weapon hit the ground I had already accepted my fate either way. I was not going to murder people. That’s not the way of the Force Elite. At least not back then. There’s no honor in wanton killing, and there certainly was no ‘loyalty above all else, except honor’ since there was no honor involved.”
She could hear the pain in his voice. “You knew you could have been executed?”
“Yeah. But at least my conscience would have been clean. More so, I would have died as a true soldier of the Force Elite. One who believed that loyalty was above all else, except honor. They’re just assassins now, and Michelin is their guiding hand.”
They rounded the last bend without difficulty.
“You’re a good man, Eriq,” she told him.
He wanted to believe that, but he had allowed evil to prevail by laying his weapon low when he could have issued an order of retreat, even if it went unheeded. Or to fire against his own unit, only to end up dead inside of a mass grave along with others he never met or knew, becoming a man forgotten.
No matter how he looked at it, there was no answer for a peaceable outcome.
Skully had seen to that.
“So now I’m labeled a coward in their eyes,” he added.
“I know you,” she told him with no uncertainty. “You’re no coward.”
He just harrumphed and continued on.
When they reached the comm center they saw Schott leaning against the console holding a wrench he’d taken from the toolbox, a weapon for defense. The man was obviously scared.
Eriq looked around the area. Then to Schott, “The president?”
“They took off about a minute ago,” he said. “They said I couldn’t board the Banshee. Said that I had to stay here.” His shoulders began to fall in relief. “I thought you were one of those things out there.”
“Where were they headed?’
“Down the portside stairwell to the bay holding the Banshee.”
“The stairwell? Isn’t it congested?”
“Sure it is,” he told him.
Eriq leaned back against the wall, his mind obviously working. Then: “We have to get to the Banshee before they do,” he finally said.
“The pilot won’t just hand you the keys,” Schott told him.
Eriq displayed his firearm. “He won’t have a choice other than the one I give him.”
“There’s only one way down, Eriq, but it’s not a feasible route. You know what I’m talking about, right?”
Eriq did. Feasible or not, it was the only way left to them other than the stairwell, which was just as risky. On the port and starboard sides are heated ventilation shafts that pump warm air into the mausoleum that floats freely in space that has a mean temperature of -454°F. The shafts, even at a minimal level of tolerance, was 147°F. But if the boilers fired off, then flames would shoot up the valve and burn them alive, which is about as pleasant of a way to die as if they’d taken by one of the undead. Neither scenario was a seriously pleasant option to consider.
“Is there any other way?” Sheena asked Schott. “Any way at all?”
“Not without running into those creatures.” Schott pointed to Eriq’s firearm. “And I don’t think that peashooter of yours is going to see us through, either.”
Eriq looked at them both, going from face to face, from one set of eyes to another. “Then there’s no choice, but the only choice. We take the port side valve all the way down to the bay.”
“Are you out of your mind?” said Schott.
“You have two choices: you can burn to death or get eaten alive.”
“So hard to choose from, since they’re both so appealing,” Schott returned sarcastically.
Then more diplomatically. “We have to try, Jim,” Eriq told him. “We can’t stay here and just watch that Banshee fly away knowing that we didn’t at least try.”
Schott sighed, his shoulders dropping even more.
“Is there a way you can shut down the boilers?” asked Sheena.
Jim Schott shook his head. “No, but I can lower the temperature to its barest minimum,” he said. “That way the boilers won’t fire up as often.”
“How much of a window would that give us to climb down?’ asked Eriq.
“Three, maybe four minutes.”
“To go down four levels? It’s doable.”
Schott considered this. “Sure, it’s doable. But it’s also 162 degrees in there. By the time we get there with the boilers lowered, it’ll about 155. The rungs will be scorching hot.”
“But it’s a ch
ance,” Eriq said. “We wrap our hands heavily on our descent.”
“That’s if the heat doesn’t make you pass out.”
“Then provide me with another option and not a complaint.”
Schott couldn’t.
So Eriq pointed to the comm center console. “Lower the boilers,” he ordered Schott.
Schott did.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Skully managed his team and the president to the portside stairwell of the fourth level with no difficulty, to a steel door at the end of the corridor. A keypad was to its left.
“What’s the code?” Skully asked Meade.
Meade fed Skully the code numbers he downloaded from the comm center’s banks.
When Skully tapped the numbers on the keypad, and then the hashtag sign, the bolts locking the door in place retracted with a metallic sound, and the door parted about an inch.
“Mr. President, you stand behind Meade as he takes point. Funboy and I will cover the rear as we work our way down.”
“You’ll guarantee my safety?” asked Michelin.
“The only thing I can guarantee, Mr. President, is that my team will do their best to get you through.”
It wasn’t the answer Michelin was looking for.
“All right, people,” said Skully. “Let’s get this party started.”
Meade opened the door.
And everyone stepped into the stairwell on high alert, knowing that they were not alone.
#
Schott had turned the boilers down to the minimum standards. Immediately the temperature started to decline, but when Schott opened the thick, metal hatch leading into the boiler’s shaft, it was like opening an oven door as a battery of heat hit them like something palpable, which knocked them back a few feet.
“There’s no way we can do this,” said Schott.
“Jim, you gotta try.” Eriq stared at the entryway as the heat shimmered into the corridor. He had his pistol caught within the belt around the waistline of his jumpsuit, and his hands were completely wrapped with heavy-duty cloth as makeshift gloves, as were everyone else’s.
“Eriq, it’s over 150 degrees in there.” Schott sounded like he was vacillating between his decision-making—to go or not.
“I’ll lead,” said Eriq. “Sheena, you’re behind me, and, Jim, you’re behind her.” As soon as Eriq looked over the edge, a wave of intense heat blasted his face. This was going to be a slow burn, he told himself. Then he spoke to Schott without looking at him. “How long until the next flare up?”
“Four minutes, give or take twenty seconds or so.”
Four minutes to climb four levels—a minute a level, which is doable, he considered.
Eriq laid his heavily clothed hands on the rim of the hatchway, leaned inside to grab a rung, and quickly dove into the opening. The heat was immense, and he could already feel it sapping him dry as his body reacted immediately. His skin began to sweat, and he could feel the heat beneath the material of his gloved hands since the rungs were molten hot.
Suddenly the edges around his sight began to close in like tunnel vision, the contraction of his eyesight slowly growing to a pinpoint, the beginnings of someone blacking out.
Hang on, he told himself.
Hang . . . on.
He continued to descend one rung at a time.
Level 3.
The heat seemed to be growing more intense as he neared the boilers.
Level 2.
His chest began to feel heavy, his breathing labored. Now his routine started to falter, his motions slowing as the world around him seemed to dim from view.
“Eriq!” It was Schott, the call snapping him back to lucidity.
Level 1.
The entryway was in front of him.
And now the gloves on his hand were beginning to become ineffectual as the heat started to burn its way through to his hands.
The lever was before him, ready and waiting to be pulled.
Eriq’s mind was starting to go numb.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Skully, the president, and the rest of his team entered the stairwell with their weapons held at the ready position, which was at eye-level.
From the upper tiers they could hear a high amount of whispers and moans, a slithering of syllables and consonants rolling over each other.
And then silence that was absolute followed. The quiet was usually the calm before the storm as senses were suddenly alerted.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
A multitude of footfalls began to move the downward journey from the top levels.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
“They know we’re here!” yelled Skully. “Get ready to light them up!”
On the levels below, a horde of undead looked up the stairwell to see the living begin to descend. So they began to race up the stairs moving with simian agility, the undead flanking the living from both ends of the staircase.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
Meade removed a Semtex grenade from his ammo belt, looped a finger through the pull ring, and held it there until the undead on the levels below closed the gap. When they were two levels down, Meade popped the pin and released the grenade. Four seconds later the grenade went off, the explosion a ripping force that tore limbs from body. Meade quickly followed up with a second grenade, his last, the subsequent blast destroying those missed on the first attack, the concussive wave and flying shrapnel decimating the entire pack as body parts and gelatinous glue covered the walls and stairs of the lower levels.
But others remained. A small group. Hungry and savage.
Meade raised his weapon, put the skulls of the undead within the crosshairs of his scope, and pulled the trigger in quick succession, the bullets finding their marks as heads exploded like ripe melons.
“We have a path, people!” he informed the others by calling over his shoulder.
They moved downward through the slick sludge of greasy innards and internal juices that layered the steps.
The undead above them were making incredible strides to close the divide between them.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
Skully and Funboy, who took rear, began to apply pressure to the triggers and waited for the precise moment.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
As soon as the undead rounded the bend of the stairwell, they fired off their weapons. The stairwell lit up like a blinking strobe light as the smell of cordite filled the air. Bullets hit their targets with pinpoint accuracy, causing skulls to erupt with gray matter.
Bodies began to stack up, creating a barrier to those behind them. Hands and talons raked at the flesh of the dead, ripping apart the obstruction to gain access.
Level 2.
They had one level to go before reaching the Portside Bay.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
Limbs and pieces were being cast aside, creating an opening. Then the undead came at them in a second wave.
Another volley of gunfire. All headshots that reduced skulls to stumps on their shoulders.
Bodies fell, compiling, those having been immobilized with fatal head wounds created another obstacle on the stairwell.
Portside Bay.
Meade played with the keypad, misfiring on the first pass. Then tried again.
More gunfire behind him, giving him another small window of time to work with.
Meade hit the buttons again, then the hashtag symbol.
Then the door to the Portside Bay opened.
Chapter Fifty-Four
The behemoth took the stairwell and followed the pull and instinct of its olfactory senses, which acted very much like internal radar. The living were inside the stairwell that led to the Portside Bay.
It didn’t just take the stairs, it leapt down them—five, six stairs at a time, the behemoth closing the distance between them, but not fast enough.
It could hear the firefight—could see the muzzle flares coming up from below.
And then it bellowed, both in anger and as a call to let those beneath it know that it was king and would not be denied.
The cry resonated off the walls.
#
The undead upon the stairwell had fallen into silence when they heard the cry from above. That which sat at the top of the hierarchy was making its way to them.
After it cried out, they became idle and stood riveted as they watched the living open the bay door.
“It coooooooooooomeeeeees,” a few whispered.
Then in concert: “It coooooooooooomeeeeees.”
They stood.
And waited.
“It coooooooooooomeeeeees.”
#
As soon as the door opened, Meade stepped inside the bay and waved the rest in. Michelin was right behind him with Skully and Funboy on his heels, the two still firing rounds.
Once everyone was gathered, Meade pressed the keypad code and the door, which had a solid steel thickness of two inches, closed with a whisper with the bolts locking in place.
And then a smile came to President Michelin’s face. “We did it,” he said. “We actually did it.”
But they weren’t there yet, thought Skully.
They still had to get to the Winged Banshee.
#
The undead had parted and made a path for the behemoth as it made its way down to the Portside Bay door.
“It coooooooooooomeeeeees.”
When the massive creature stood before the door, it found it to be a major obstacle. So it raised its closed fists to resemble the heads of sledgehammers, and brought them down against the door again . . . .
. . . and again . . .
. . . and again.
#
Dents appeared against the portside door, which galvanized the team to move. The Banshee was in their sight, but the pilot had yet to start the engines.
Meade called to the pilot through his lip mic.
No response.
Another attempt.
Still no answer.
They neared the Winged Banshee.
#
When Tin Man heard the hammering against the Portside Bay door, it caught its attention from its moment of feeding. It raised its head, cocked it to the side, and sniffed the air. The living had entered the bay.
