That left two possibilities: the Apocalypse Machine or the Scion. I suspect it’s both, the former using all that energy as fuel, the latter using it to kick start mutations and rapid evolution. Previous mass extinctions might have taken thousands of years to complete, wiping out one ecosystem and seeding the next. Thanks to the nuclear age, we super-charged the process, expediting our own demise and fertilizing our replacements’ growth.
That’s the theory anyway. None of my mental projections have come to fruition. Not only is the world not radioactive, it’s also not in the grips of a renewed ice age. New York is the farthest north I’ve been in fifteen years, and the weather is tropical. While I’m sure the Arctic Circle is still choked by atmospheric ash, sea levels suggest that both ice caps have melted. That means that the North Pole is not frozen. In fact, it’s probably warm. New ocean and wind currents circulating warmth from the southern hemisphere could make that happen, a result of higher concentrations of greenhouse gases. From volcanoes. From new life. From the destruction of mankind. The planet has become a veritable greenhouse, with more oxygen in the atmosphere than at any time in human history—but not high enough to be toxic.
And all of that, the oxygen, the radioactivity, the warmer and wetter climates, has given rise to Scion, like the one behind us.
Its two lines of eight dorsal fins are the most normal thing about it. Two bulbous eyes are mounted atop its broad, flat, head. While its skin is dark, like an Orca’s, the eyes look more like two translucent peeled oranges, crisscrossed with white veins and filled with liquid. The strange sacks seem to be a feature that unite most of the Scion, though it’s entirely possible that some have evolved without them. The twin orbs bobble about with each vertical thrust of the creature’s wide, shelled tail. Although parts of it are whale-like, some features smack of shellfish—lobster or shrimp. But it’s the jaws at the front of the long, undulating sea worm-like body that hold my attention. With each surge through the water, twin pairs of mandibles spring open to reveal what looks like a wide, smiling mouth—full of teeth that look human. Bobbit worm on the outside, Cheshire Cat on the inside. Topped with those large, bobbing eyes, the thing looks maniacal. At the very least, the way it’s pursuing us, lunging up and down like sea serpents are supposed to, suggests that its ravenous.
“Halfway there,” Graham calls down to us.
Judging by the rate the Scion is closing in, it’s going to reach us a good minute before we plow into the shoreline.
“We’re going to need the go-packs on the forward deck,” Graham says. His view from the helm is higher than the ceiling above Mayer and me. That means he has a clear view of the monster. And that he’s the least protected of us. Leaving the aft deck will give him one less protector, but without the go-packs, we might not last long on land.
If we make it that far.
“I’m on it,” I say, wedging my speargun down between the back rail and a support beam. If Mayer needs to take two quick shots, she can use my weapon. She’s a better shot than me anyway, but reloading will take her a long time without my help.
I nearly crash through the sliding door leading to the galley, but manage to recover and shove the door open. I descend the staircase into the port hull, turning into the aft cabin, which has been converted into a storage area. I sleep in the forward port cabin, while Graham and Mayer have the starboard side to themselves. Technically, the boat is always ‘a-rockin,’ but I don’t need to know why. Being alone for fifteen years has been hard enough. I don’t need to know when they’re enjoying the pleasures of marriage.
The three go-packs are at the foot of the unused bed. Each one contains food, clothing, survival gear and ammunition. Attached to the outside of each pack are sound-suppressed firearms—noise attracts hungry attention—and blades. Each pack weighs in at eighty pounds, with half the weight being dedicated to weaponry.
I pick up one of the packs and nearly topple over backward when the ship surges over a wave and crashes back down. I’d hoped to do this in two trips, but it’s better to do three and not break a leg in the process. Taking one pack at a time, I bounce my way up to the forward deck and back down, three times, making each trip in about forty seconds.
The third pack lands with a thud at my feet. My muscles burn for just a moment, but quickly recover. I’m not the out-of-shape science-nerd I used to be. I’m not even breathing hard, but that has more to do with the higher concentrations of oxygen in the atmosphere.
I look up from the go-pack and flinch at what lies ahead.
It’s the coast, but it doesn’t look like the northeast American coastline I remember. Granted, the entire coast has been redefined by a massive rise in sea level caused by melting ice and the rise of Antarctica, once freed from said ice—another pet theory, but the swath of green earth, polka-dotted with splotches of red is not something I could have predicted, or even imagined.
What the hell is that?
The strange terrain stretches along the coast for as far as I can see in either direction, rising up out of the ocean and coating the land for a few hundred yards inland, where a mix of old ruined homes and new tree growth form a border. Despite the strangeness of the land, it’s the ruined homes that surprise me most. While New York City’s skyscrapers were designed to withstand a beating, especially One World Trade Center, I didn’t expect to see homes here. My last view of the wave, propelled by Greenland’s freed ice and cascading over continents, showed it moving steadily south.
It must have lost its destructive energy moving over all that land, I think. Or maybe the flow was diverted by New Hampshire’s White Mountain range. I’m sure some of that water reached the area, scouring it clean of life, but maybe some remnant of civilization remains intact here.
Maybe my home?
“Abraham!” Graham shouts. “We have incoming!”
Funny, how after all these years, Graham’s language is still so very military. Then again, there’s never really been a time it didn’t feel appropriate. We’ve been at war for a long time now.
I arrive on the aft deck in time to watch the sea Scion rise up out of the water behind us. While its spreading mandibles are blocked by the ceiling, I get a clear view of its underside. Most sea creatures on Earth have sleek bodies designed for sliding through the water with as little resistance as possible, but this thing has several bulging sacks lining the bottom of its body. They’re similar to the eyes atop its head, but I can’t guess at what they’re for.
Then it shows me.
The two lines of liquid-filled sacks compress. Jets of water shoot out, spraying down into the water, propelling the creature higher and faster. It’s combining the pulsing tail motion used by whales with the jet propulsion utilized by squid. This thing is clearly a Scion, but its various parts reflect adaptations to sea life acquired by many different species that took millions of years to evolve.
It’s borrowing, I think, acquiring genes from its meals—squid, shrimp, lobster, whales. Is that how they’re adapting so quickly? Is that why life on Earth, throughout history, has common links despite extinction events, and without many obvious transitional species in the fossil record?
I pick up my speargun and raise it to fire, but never get the chance.
Mayer tackles me to the floor. “Down!”
On my back, I see four mandibles snap closed on the ceiling above us. The thick white plastic sheet doesn’t stand a chance against the massive jaws, which must be packing an unimaginable amount of pressure. The ceiling is crushed and then yanked away, leaving us with a clear view of the blue sky overhead. As we pull away, the creature gives the plastic panel a shake and then discards it. With a spray of water from its ventral jets, the Scion continues the chase.
“Sixty seconds,” Graham shouts.
Aiming at the Scion is a lot easier now that the roof is gone, so that’s good, but the monster is a flurry of movement, rising and falling as it charges through the water. Hitting it at all is going to be a challenge. Hitting something
it cares about is going to be impossible…unless we wait until it’s nearly on top of us.
As though to prove me wrong, Mayer leans forward, braces herself and fires a spear. She’s nearly flung off her feet by the force of it, but takes the impact without complaint. The spear is nearly invisible as it launches out over the water, slipping past the opening mandibles and shattering one of the Cheshire teeth.
The monster doesn’t falter.
Mayer sets about loading a second spear, while I take aim and wait.
The tip of my speargun rises and falls with the Scion’s motion, my gaze locked on the bulging right eye. One of the easiest ways to deter a Scion is to pop one of its eyes. It doesn’t kill the creature, or even blind it—the eyes heal and inflate anew—but the pain, or sudden disorientation from the limp orb, stops most Scions in their tracks. The questions are, will my slender spear be enough, and can I hit the creature before it crashes down on top of us.
The monster disappears beneath the wave for a moment. Going deep for a jump, I think, and then I watch as the creature explodes out of the water right behind us, jets of water streaming from its underside, filling the air with a fishy stench. It arcs high above us, mandibles split wider than the catamaran, poised to grasp and puncture our hull.
We’re out of time.
I pull the speargun’s trigger with no time to brace myself against the high angle. The spear soars upward, while I’m slammed down onto the deck, the air shoved from my lungs. Coughing, I watch the spear punch into the flat space between the creature’s eyes. The spear went deep, but it’s either not deep enough, or too fine a wound to garner any real reaction.
The Scion descends.
The Cheshire smile parts, revealing a second and then a third, each one opening in sequence, powerful enough to reduce human and boat alike into a fine pulp.
Mayer lifts her reloaded speargun and fires, off balance. The force spins her around and casts her sprawling onto the deck’s tabletop, but the spear, aimed and fired by an expert warrior, finds its target.
The eye seems to fold in on itself for a moment. Then liquid sprays from the two small holes made by the spear as it punched in one side and out the other. The small holes give way to pressure from within, tearing and letting loose a deluge of clear and red gore. The Scion coils its body as the once balloon-like eye falls limp and flat against its head.
As the creature crashes back to the sea, one of its retracting mandibles catches the starboard hull, punching through wood and fiberglass. The boat pulls away, listing slightly, but not enough to stop us. As long as we keep moving forward, physics will keep us from sinking.
Graham leaps down from the helm station. “Let’s go!” I look up at the steering wheel, now held in place with a belt, the throttle still pegged all the way forward. Mayer peels herself from the table top and chases after Graham, moving to the forward deck. By the time I catch up, they’ve both got their go-packs on and are standing at the bow. I sling my heavy pack over one shoulder and then slide in the other, buckling it tight around my waist and chest. Feeling like I’ve just stepped onto the surface of a planet twice the size of Earth, its increased gravity tugging me toward the ground, I head for the bow in time to see the green shore with red polka dots rushing at us. The incline looks smooth. We might just slip up onto the smooth surface and glide to a stop.
But nothing is that easy. Not anymore.
Twenty feet from the shore, the now very angry Scion strikes again. None of us see it coming, and as the boat twists counterclockwise beneath us, I stumble backward and slam into the starboard rail. Then, pulled by the weight of my go-pack, I tumble over the side just as the ship collides with the shore. As I fall, I see Mayer and Graham leap away, landing in waist deep water. Then I plunge into the frigid ocean, and sink.
I hit the bottom on my hands and knees. There’s a moment of indecision about whether or not to open my eyes. There’s no way to know which direction I’m facing, so I have no choice. Salt water burns my eyes when I open them, and my view is hazy, but I can see the surface eight feet above me. The sloping shore is ahead, which is sandy until the water is shallow. I try to swim, but my pack pushes me down into the sand, sending crabs scurrying away. Then I crawl on my hands and knees. I move in slow motion, the drag from the pack slowing me down. I think about shedding it, knowing this is how a large number of soldiers perished while storming the beaches of Normandy during World War II, but I don’t give up yet. We’ll need the gear to survive on land. Survive now to survive later.
I’m pushed back down by a sudden blast of water. I twist around and see the warbling underside of the sea-Scion. Water jets from its underside, pushing me away. Its head slams down into the water, thrashing back and forth. I slide across the ocean floor on my stomach, lungs burning as my muscles eat up the oxygen in my veins. A scream carries away the air in my lungs, but I hardly notice as the Scion curls over my body and surges back into the deep, dragging Hope along with it.
Light from above draws my attention back to the surface. So close. I plant my feet in the sand, tilt my body forward and shove, one step after another. Half of my effort goes to pushing small mounds into the loose sand, but I move forward.
My body aches.
I trudge on.
Then I feel myself about to inhale.
The top of my head clears the surface, but I’m still unable to breathe. I can’t even jump up for a quick breath. My hands fumble with the pack. I need to set it free.
Need to breathe!
My mouth opens.
Water rushes in, sucked down into my lungs, flooding my oxygen-deprived body with salt.
34
Ike
Master Sergeant Ike Wright watched the approaching wave of Fobs through the lens of the high powered telescope, but he knew it wouldn’t be necessary soon. He didn’t think the creatures knew about the five men keeping a vigil from the top of Mount Hood, but they were certainly going to pass by close enough to pick up the scent. If the Fobs had been of the more docile variety found on the plains, competing with bison that had made a comeback, he wouldn’t be worried. But the creatures, racing through the forest thirty miles out, had the look of predators.
He’d never seen this sub-species of Fob before, but that wasn’t unusual either. The creatures were ever evolving and migrating, searching out a niche to call home. The bulky four-limbed creatures, with their squat heads, long tusks and bulging eyes, could have come north from Central America, or south out of Canada. Hell, they could have come out of the ocean, for all he knew. It didn’t really matter where they came from.
His job, right now, was to keep his men alive. And that meant making a choice. Dig in and fight, or abandon the outpost. Loyalty to his men and a dedication to the job were at odds for the first time in his military career.
We’ve already served our purpose, he thought. There’s nothing more we can do.
His military training countered. I swore to defend this outpost with my life. I knew I’d probably die here. So did my men.
Call it in. Report the situation. Let someone else make the call.
But give the men a fighting chance.
“Edwards,” Ike said. “You’re on point. Back to the Lodge, double time. Prep for a fight.”
The young man’s voice quivered as he said, “Yes, sir.”
“Felder.” The four men stopped by the hatch, eyes expectant and nervous. They had seen action before. They’d fought and killed Fob packs. But not this many. No one had faced this many and survived. “Prep the chopper for evac. I want both options ready to go when I get there.”
Hope sprang into the faces of all four men, and Ike prayed it was justified. He was putting their lives, all of their lives, in the hands of someone more than two thousand miles away.
He waited for all four men to start down the ladder before closing the hatch and sitting down at the radio. He raised the mic to his mouth, pausing for a moment. Katelin was on the other end. Hearing her voice after nearly a year
away from Raven Rock was hard enough, but knowing she still loved him after all that time made it painful, too. Clouded his judgement.
He wondered if his thoughts of retreat stemmed from speaking to her. He couldn’t discount the possibility. But he also didn’t want to sacrifice the lives of his men if they’d already fulfilled their duty to the fullest. If the aberration really was headed for Yellowstone, there really wasn’t a good reason to stick around.
He pushed the call button. “Raven Rock, this is Sergeant Major Ike Wright. Do you copy? Over.”
“I’m here, Ike,” Katelin replied. “Over.”
Ike shook his head and smiled. She wasn’t very good at her job, but he was glad to hear her again. “Katelin, I need you to listen, and I need you to act on your training. Forget about us. Forget about how you might feel. There are protocols to follow for a reason. Okay? Can you do that? Over.”
“Y-yeah, Ike. I’ve been doing this for a while. But it’s you, so you know, I figured I could be myself.” She sounded annoyed, but that wouldn’t last long. “Over.”
“I need to speak to General Lorenti. ASAP. Over.”
“I need a sitrep. Over. Has the aberration’s trajectory or speed changed?” She was trying to sound detached and professional, but he could still hear the worry in her voice, masked slightly by annoyance. “Over.”
“Please, just put him on the line. Over.”
“Protocols. Over.”
Ike didn’t curse often, reserving what his stepmother had once called ‘harsh language’ for special occasions. He had never once sworn at Katelin, but he came close now. With no time to waste, he followed his own advice and obeyed the protocols, which said that any request for communication with the higher ups—who were undeniably busy trying to organize the salvation of the human race—be made along with a situation report. “Outpost Hood is in imminent danger of being overrun. We have incoming Fobs. A new species. Too many to count. ETA…” He closed his eyes, running the calculations he should have before making the call. “One hour.”
Apocalypse Machine Page 23
