“Nothing,” I say. The land had been scoured clean. The only living things in that part of the world were Scions, plant and animal alike. A new world, promised to no one.
“Nothing.”
“You have a point?”
“The Old World is dead, Abraham. All that remains of humanity is scattered across the globe, pockets of survivors like us. Fighters. Most people…most normal people…perished in the waves and in the mad years that followed. Your wife, and your lover—”
“Mina and Bell,” I correct.
“They were strong?”
“Strong-willed.”
“We both know that is not enough, just as we know that you would not have survived this long without us.”
“Thanks.”
“Your boys,” she says, and I don’t have the heart to say their names. “They were young. Too young.”
I start taking apart my AK-47, handling the parts a little more roughly than I should. “Again. Are you trying to make a point?”
She stops cleaning her weapon and looks me in the eyes. “They have been gone for a long time. You were a husband and a father for far less time than you have been a survivor and a warrior.” She places her palm down on the disassembled rifle. “This is who you are now. But you still need us to survive. You won’t become the man you need to be until you let them go. I hope visiting your home provides that for you, but I also hope you find nothing there. Graham is the strongest of us, but he needs us both. Heart and brains. We need you, okay. That’s what I’m trying to say.”
She throws herself back into her work, avoiding my eyes.
Her words sting, but she’s also right.
No matter what I find at the house, I need to stay strong. For Graham, and for Mayer, and for all of humanity. We are humanity now. And when we’re done here, we’ll find a tribe of our own, push back the Machine’s spawn, and begin to reclaim the planet. It might be a losing fight. Some evolved Scions, millions of years from now, might dig up our fossils and theorize about how our primitive species lived before going extinct. But we’ll at least try to survive.
It’s all we have left.
36
Ike
Ike raced east, toward the sound of suppressed automatic gunfire, flinching when the noise of a flashbang grenade boomed. Most Fobs had acute senses, and flashbangs worked better on them than they did on people. But the thunderous boom was akin to ringing a dinner bell.
The lodge was a long building that looked one-part ski resort, one-part castle. The entire first floor was stone, built to resist the mountainous cold, heavy snowfalls and occasional avalanches. Despite being at an elevation of 6000 feet, it still appeared to be at the foot of Mount Hood, surrounded by open space, thinning grass and short pine trees that disappeared from the mountainside a few hundred feet higher.
Rounding the corner, the lodge’s vast, open parking lot—now serving as a supply drop-zone and helicopter pad—came into view.
As did the monsters invading it.
Like most living things in the Old and New World, the Fobs had followed the path of least resistance when scaling the mountainside. In this case, it was the old, winding road that led directly to the lodge.
There were three of them. They stood twice the size of men and four times the girth. They exuded power, like gorillas, but they were hairless, their bodies covered in striking patterns of green and brown. It was natural camouflage, perfect for the forest. He suspected that these creatures had been living in Washington’s lush forests all along, but had been flushed out by the aberration’s arrival. Separated from the giant at birth, now evolved into their own species. Perhaps the behemoth had no more allegiance to the Fobs than it did to humanity? That was how they beat him here. These Fobs weren’t part of the larger incoming army, they were already nearby, living below the timberline.
But now they were here.
And that made them the enemy.
Ike lifted his SOPMOD M4 assault rifle, but held his fire. Felder and Gutshall, aiming over a sandbag wall facing the lot’s entryway, were between him and the Fobs, two of which were still charging. The third had been shot by a large number of rounds. Blood oozed from the wounds. It was staggering, but was that because of a mortal wound, or the flashbang?
Ike dropped to one knee between the two men and raised his weapon over the wall. His instinct was to pull the trigger and hold it down. But winning wars wasn’t about unleashing some ancient berserker rage of uncontrolled violence. He squeezed off a three-round burst. Two of the three bullets struck the nearest creature’s left kneecap. It let out a deep whooping sound and nearly collapsed, but rather than fall, it continued running on three limbs, falling behind the new pack leader.
The Fobs had broad heads and long, tusk-like incisors, as if an ape had mated with a sabretooth cat—and a jelly fish. The forelimbs, coiled with twitching muscles, ended in what looked like three-fingered hands and no thumbs.
Ike adjusted his aim a little higher and pulled the trigger again, this time striking the creature’s bulging eye, splattering its face with gore. The Fob coughed out a bark, but didn’t slow. Ike pulled the trigger three more times, putting nine rounds into the creature’s face. Its charge slowed and then stopped. The Fob sat and pawed at its face, suddenly looking pitiful. The bullets had apparently punctured skin, but not skull. Not deep enough to hit its brain…if its brain was in its head at all.
The three-legged Fob was still incoming, but moving slow and still a hundred feet off.
“Where’s Wittman and Edwards?” Ike asked.
“Edwards is in the lodge,” Felder said. “Wittman…” He nodded his head at the chopper, a long range Black Hawk armed with a machine gun and packing enough fuel to get them home. It was their lifeline, and the only means for Ike to ever see his sons.
Sons…
Between their position and the chopper was a fourth Fob, its face and a portion of its upper body missing. What the hell did that? Ike wondered, and then he saw a mash of red gore, identifiable as human because of the coiled entrails and the legs attached to them. Wittman. It hadn’t been a flashbang grenade that he’d heard, but a frag grenade, the sound of it muffled by the two bodies it tore through.
“It was headed for the helo,” Gutshall said. “Kid saved us.”
Not yet, Ike thought, and then he drained the rest of his magazine into the third Fob, center mass. One of the rounds must have hit something vital, because the monster twitched and fell to the side, its legs pawing at the air and then going still. Its body seemed to deflate a bit, and then fluids leaked from its backside and four nostrils.
“Felder, fire up the Black Hawk. I want us in the air in three minutes.”
Felder’s eyes went wide. “We’re bugging out?”
“That’s the plan.”
Relief oozed off the two men, but it was short lived. Deep, resounding calls began echoing through the forest. The crack of branches snapping filled the air with a crackle that sounded like a gun battle.
“Go!” Ike shouted, and the younger man sprinted for the chopper. He swapped out his magazine for a fresh one and then toggled his radio. “Edwards, we are leaving in three mikes. Drop what you are doing and get out here. Over.”
“Copy that,” Edwards’s crackling reply came. He sounded out of breath, probably already on his way. “En route to you now.”
“Should we take them out?” Gutshell asked, motioning to the two still-living Fobs.
Ike wanted to kill them. He might have been a religious goody two-shoes, but he wasn’t above putting down a pair of Fobs. Still, he shook his head and said, “Save your ammo.”
The helicopter engine coughed and then started whining as the rotors spun up. It would take a few minutes for the whipping blades to reach lift-off speed. Felder climbed out of the cockpit, something he would never do under normal circumstances, and opened the sliding side door. He climbed inside and slid the mounted M-240H machine gun into position. The weapon could fire a large number of hea
vy hitting 7.62×51mm NATO rounds, with a one mile effective range. While the M4’s smaller caliber bullets struggled to penetrate the big Fobs’ hides, the machine gun would punch dime-sized holes in one side and Frisbee-sized holes in the other. Felder chambered a round, gave a thumbs up and then climbed back into the cockpit. The big weapon would help, but it was currently facing the wrong direction.
Ike resisted the urge to make for the chopper yet. He wouldn’t move until Edwards was with him, or there was no other option. So he stayed in position, behind the wall, eyes south on the entry road and the forest surrounding it. When the first Fob broke from the trees, beating a large branch into the ground, Ike opened fire.
“Go down,” he mumbled to himself, as the creature took round after round. It flinched and thrashed, but it didn’t fall. Instead, it got angry, beating the ten-foot-long branch into the ground until it shattered into splinters. It raised its head and let out a bass-thumping chortle. A cacophony of voices replied to the call, rolling up the mountainside like the cries of lost souls, wounded and angry.
Ike let out his breath, aimed at the target that had just been revealed, and fired a single round. The Fob’s thick throat, bubbling like a frog’s, burst. The monster tried to cry out, but the air flowed through its ruined throat without making a sound. And then, finally, the beast fell.
But it was replaced by another.
And another.
The big Fob was dead, or dying, but too late. Its battle cry had gone out, and was already being answered.
Trees shook. Some toppled over. The sheer mass of the approaching Fob horde was more than the five—now four—men could ever hope to repel, even from within the castle-like lodge walls. They didn’t have enough ammunition. One by one, the army of new lifeforms rolled out of the forest. Some looked at the Fob at the edge of the parking lot, its ruined throat quivering with each labored breath. Some looked at the two injured Fobs in the parking lot. But they all reacted the same way.
With rage.
Many of the beasts stood on their hind legs, like bears or apes, letting out uproarious hoots from the air-filled sacks beneath their chins.
The rest…charged.
Ike put the radio to his mouth and shouted over the now chopping rotor blades and the even louder Fob calls. “Edwards, we are leaving! Now!” He grabbed Gutshall’s arm, yanked him up and shoved him toward the Black Hawk. “Get on the 240!”
Gutshell ran for the chopper, while Ike shouted into the radio once more. “Edwards!”
“Right behind you!” The reply didn’t come from the radio. Ike spun around to find Edwards, carrying two heavy packs and an M3 Carl Gustav recoilless rifle—what Ike had called a bazooka when he was a child. The 84 mm anti-tank weapon packed the kind of punch they needed, but they’d only get one shot.
And it was his to take. Not because he had a macho need to fire the big gun, but because he’d be damned before leaving a man behind. He’d be the last one in the chopper, sons or not. He took the weapon from Edwards, and pointed him to the helicopter. “Go, go, go!”
The man obeyed, and Ike spun around to face the oncoming wall of Fob death. “Fucking fuck-jobs,” he grumbled, letting the words fuel his last stand. Then he raised the weapon atop his shoulder and looked through the sights, targeting the lead creature.
He pulled the trigger.
He barely felt the recoil, but he heard it. The boom beside his head was followed by an even louder one two hundred feet away. The lead Fob disappeared in a ball of flame. The resulting shockwave sent five of the nearest creatures sprawling away. The sound set off several more, shrieking and thrashing their hands against their heads. Blood and gore from the disintegrated target sprayed over a large area, coating the bodies and faces of a dozen more Fobs, throwing them into further chaos. But still they came. Hundreds of them rushed from the forest, drawn by the sounds of battle and the pained cries of the injured.
Ike dropped the big gun and sprinted for the Black Hawk.
He could feel the paved lot shaking beneath him.
The chopper rotated toward him. At first he thought the others were giving him an easy entrance into the vehicle, but then he saw Edwards behind the machine gun and read his lips. “Get down!”
Ike dove to the ground.
The machine gun roared.
Bullets zipped past overhead.
Ike rolled onto his back in time to see a large Fob, just twenty feet away, bucking and thrashing as high caliber rounds chewed through its body.
When the gunfire came to a stop, Ike launched to his feet and threw himself into the chopper beside Edwards, just as the machine gun roared again. Three Fobs took the rounds head on, flinching back as their bodies were shredded, but still moving.
Still reaching.
Then the chopper canted to the side and peeled away, lifting out of reach and swinging east.
Ike’s momentary relief was short lived. They had survived the Fob assault, but the view from the still climbing chopper robbed him of any sense of victory. The aberration moved at the horizon, plowing across the landscape, heading steadily east, toward Yellowstone, and the super volcano that could end modern man’s last hope of survival.
37
Abraham
“Does any of this look familiar?” Graham stops in the center of what used to be a paved street. It’s still mostly clear, but foliage, both Old World and New World, rises through the cracks. Broken down homes still line both sides of the road, slanted, crumbling and rotting. Some have trees growing from their roofs. Some appear to have been hollowed out and turned into nests for creatures that are either gone, hiding or hunting us. I’m impressed that the buildings are still here at all, but they won’t be much longer. Scionic life has what’s left of human civilization in a sleeper hold and is tightening its grip.
“Some,” I admit. “We’re just a few blocks away now.”
The neighborhood is nearly unrecognizable, but some distinct features remain. The hot pink mailbox. The arching tunnel formed by old oak trees growing on both sides of the road, untrimmed for fifteen years. The blue mailbox the boys dumped their sodas in.
“You’re on point,” Graham says. “Lead the way.”
I head down the street, maintaining the even pace that got us here in two days. Once upon a time, I would have had nothing but complaints after walking back-to-back marathons, but now it’s just another day. We’ve gone further, and faster, in the past. And nothing has tried to eat us in 48 hours, which is always a bonus.
I keep my now clean AK-47 in my hand, the barrel pointed at the ground to my left, safe, but ready to snap up and fire, the way Graham taught me. Despite my even pace, I find myself breathing faster, each inhalation bringing back familiar smells. Igniting memories. There is new growth all around, but so much smells the same. Lilacs, I think, and then I spot the purple flower. Their distinct, flowery scent used to fill the neighborhood. I listen for the sounds of children, but I hear only the forest and its denizens. Bird calls. Chattering squirrels. And things I can’t identify.
I stop at an intersection, looking at the canted-over, vine-covered, green sign reading ‘Desert Spring St.’
“This is it.”
My voice cracks around the lump in my throat, and I flinch when Graham pats my shoulder.
“We’re doing this togeth—”
I glance at Graham and see concern in his eyes, as he looks down my street, something I have yet to do.
I raise my eyes and take a step back, lifting the AK-47 a bit.
“I’m assuming it didn’t always look like this?” Mayer asks.
The street is littered with flowing tan sheets that ruffle in the breeze, like living things. Some are tangled in the trees, dangling cut ropes. Others are wrapped around the remains of crates, strewn about the street.
“What are they?”
“Supply drops,” Graham says. “Military.”
I point into what once was a neighbor’s yard, but is now a forest of sapling oaks and faster g
rowing Scionic trees. Resting atop a few crushed limbs is a supply crate, still in one piece. Smaller boxes are spilled out around it. The parachute was stuck in the trees above, ropes cut. Someone went to a lot of trouble to free the crate, but they haven’t taken the supplies.
A growl turns Graham and me around to Mayer. “Stomach,” she says. “I’m thinking about MREs.”
MREs were the U.S. military’s prepackaged food for soldiers in the field. They contain everything needed for a hot meal, reminiscent of what we once enjoyed. Main courses, side dishes, desserts. My favorite part is the moist towelette. The lemon scent—like the Pledge furniture polish my mother used to use—brings back memories, and I enjoy how clean my hands feel after rubbing the gunk off. It has been years since we found an MRE, and that one had spoiled.
“I’ll check it out,” Graham says. Hunting for food is how we survive, but all of us would much rather scavenge it. And the promise of Old World food, real food with all its glorious spices and preservatives, would be a welcome change, perhaps even a feast to say goodbye, once and for all, to my past.
Mayer and I take up positions, weapons shouldered, ready to fire, our backs to Graham. We call this the ‘triangular watch,’ providing a broad defense for the person whose back is turned and whose guard is down. We use it while hunting, scavenging and sometimes while going to the bathroom in a particularly unfriendly environment.
I scan back and forth, looking over the barrel of my weapon, searching for movement and listening for aberrant sounds. Behind me, Graham pushes through the flexible, young trees. He grunts and shoves, slipping further into the new forest. Then I hear him cutting through plastic, shifting things about.
“What is it?” Mayer asks. “What did you find?”
I grin. She really is hoping for an MRE.
“Mother-lode,” Graham says. “Food, water, survival gear. There’s no ammunition, but…arrows.”
“What?” Mayer asks.
“There are arrows. Metal ones. The kind hunters use.”
Apocalypse Machine Page 25
