Sixth Cycle

by Darren Wearmouth

  Skye briefed the drivers that they would move at pace and only stop for blockages in the road. They happened more often in the last few months and were usually a thinly veiled warning sign of a wastelander ambush. A smarter enemy would change tactics, but they never learned.

  She grabbed the handheld radio off the dashboard and gave the order to move out. Her driver started the SUV’s low rumbling engine. It often amazed Skye that no matter how much they lost during World War Three, society still managed to pick up the broken pieces and start over. The SUV, built in the factories out in Omicron stronghold, was a testament to the human ability to survive and flourish, no matter how bad things got.

  The siren began to intermittently bleep, signaling an arrival. The two large iron main gates cranked open.

  A hard-top SUV with tinted windows sped through the gap, closely followed by five more and two trucks. The lead vehicle stopped alongside her, and its passenger window lowered.

  The weather-beaten face of an old man wearing sunglasses peered out. He flicked a cigarette end out of his window and smoothed back his shaggy gray hair. “You’re leaving just as I’ve got here, Skye. Where are you heading on this mighty fine day?”

  Skye tried to act as naturally as possible. “We were attacked this morning. I’m taking three casualties to Zeta.”

  The old man removed his glasses and stared at her with his opaque blue eyes. “Finch shouldn’t be giving you the boring jobs. When are you gonna come work for me and have a real adventure?”

  She forced a smile. “You would be so lucky.”

  “Do you know why he’s called me here? Ross told me it was urgent.”

  “I found Captain Phillips outside our wall this morning. I’m guessing they want you to return him to Epsilon.”

  His eyes widened slightly, not by much, but enough for Skye to notice. Conscious of the fact that she had contraband in her convoy, she gestured the driver to move forward. “These men aren’t going to heal themselves. I’ll see you again sometime.”

  The old man nodded and closed his window.

  Skye breathed a sigh of relief. It was just her luck that Trader arrived at the moment her vehicles lined up to leave. Thankfully he didn’t inspect the truck, and the convoy headed for the gates.

  Chapter Seven

  Jake estimated that an hour had passed since the guards cuffed him and locked him up. Omega’s cells consisted of three six-by-eight empty spaces built out of concrete blocks with a rusty sheet-metal roof and barred entrances. They faced a small pigpen and a rotting shed filled with the noise of clucking chickens.

  A pungent mix of dried urine and animal dung invaded his nostrils. That was nothing compared to the bad taste Finch left in his mouth. His only interest in Jake seemed to be what he could get in return for him. He guessed that when the Trader showed up, he would broker a deal between Finch and Epsilon for Jake’s return to his former captors.

  He leaned in the corner of the middle cell and rubbed his hand against the dry crumbly cement, which oozed out of the gaps between the blocks. Jake doubted the shoddy construction housed long-term residents. One hefty shove would probably bring the whole thing down on top of him. Not the smartest escape plan in the world. He would just have to wait for a better opportunity to present itself.

  The time for reflection about his family, friends and the state of the world would have to remain on ice until he dug himself out of his current hole. He needed to remain focused. In his experience, people who saw a glass half full rather than empty invariably got a better result. It served him well throughout his life. When he struggled with school, he knuckled down and put in extra hours. He captained the academy football team through support and encouragement, and quickly made a name for himself in the Fleet by thinking on his feet and taking the initiative.

  Footsteps squashed through the mud outside.

  The same two guards appeared. The friendlier one from before twisted a metal key in the lock and creaked the door open.

  “Governor Finch wants to meet you by the Trader’s convoy.”

  That explained the intermittent siren half an hour ago. Jake expected gunfire to crackle along the walls but instead heard the rumble of vehicles.

  The guard gently held his arm and pushed him forward.

  “Can you tell me anything about the Trader?” Jake said.

  “He’s a good man from what I can tell. Governor Finch gets annoyed with the value he places on our produce, but I guess it’s the same for everyone.”

  “Do you know what they’ve got planned for me?”

  “They’ve been arguing about it for the last fifteen minutes. Please don’t drop me in the shit by talking. I don’t want to follow you into that cell or lose my tags.”

  “I thought you had those tags for life?” Jake asked.

  The guard grunted. “If Finch makes you an outlaw, any citizen is entitled to kill you on the spot. If you make it out of the gates, what life do you have?”

  “Doesn’t sound like the green shoots of Utopia he described?”

  “My advice is don’t scratch the surface, Captain, you won’t like what you see beneath, and it might get you killed.”

  “I thought you said Finch was all right?”

  “He is if you toe the line. You’re only a number as long as he allows it.”

  He gripped Jake’s arm a little tighter. A clear signal to stop talking as they passed the humming base of a wind turbine and joined the main paved road that ran through the stronghold.

  Eight vehicles lined the road between the shabby bungalows. Three gun-metal-colored SUVs at the front, two green five-ton trucks with chunky wheels in the center, and three more SUVs at the rear. All had a basic angular design, and their exhaust pipes belched out thin black, gritty gasoline-smelling smoke that drifted away on the breeze.

  Twenty men and women, dressed in dark brown cargo pants and matching long-sleeve shirts, stood at the side of the convoy chatting amongst themselves. Each had a rifle over their shoulder and a pistol in a plastic thigh holster. One spotted Jake and nudged a couple of the others. They all turned and stared. He returned a nod.

  Finch and a man with a gray ponytail and goatee, dressed like the rest of the convoy crew, walked between the front two vehicles. He stopped a yard short of Jake, raised his sunglasses and smiled.

  “Now will you agree to make the trade?” Finch said from behind him.

  The man ignored him and faced Jake. “Nice to meet you, Captain Phillips. I’m the Trader. Just call me Trader, it’s less formal,” he said and extended his hand. “You must be terribly confused.”

  Any sign of friendship was welcome. Jake gave the man's hand a firm shake. “You can say that again. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”

  Trader sighed and replaced his glasses. “Unfortunately, I would. This is the world we live in. But it won’t be like this forever.”

  He had a disarming upbeat warmth although Jake kept his guard up. Trader’s next actions would be a better publication of his real thoughts.

  “Do we have a deal or not?” Finch asked.

  Trader spun to face him. “I’ll take him to Epsilon after we’ve visited both bunkers. I’ll give you a twenty percent cut of our finds and make sure Epsilon gives you thirty of their best rifles.”

  It seemed he was no better than Finch, apart from one subtle difference. Rather than being overt about his callous functionality, he preferred the wolf in sheep’s clothing approach.

  “Which bunker are you visiting first?” Finch said.

  “Does it matter?”

  Finch stepped closer to him. A distance Jake felt would invade Trader’s personal space, although the older man stood his ground.

  “You probably watch a butterfly thinking it’s aimlessly fluttering around,” Finch said while twirling his finger. “The reality is that they follow strict flightpaths. I believe you are the same, Trader. What is your flightpath?”

  Trader shook his head. “You really need to loosen up, Finch. If
it really bothers you, I’m going west, refueling at Sigma, and heading east. I’ll deliver Captain Phillips in two days.”

  “Thank you. I’ll have the guards open the gates.”

  Finch turned and walked away. Jake found the whole exchange odd, but it left him in no doubts about his fate. He just hoped the leader of Epsilon would see sense when he explained that stasis was no longer possible, due to the energy cell availability.

  Trader waved the Omega guards over. “Take off the cuffs.”

  The younger one felt for the keys on his belt. “Are you sure?”

  “Are you telling me how to do my job, boy?”

  “No, sir.”

  He released both cuffs and took a step back.

  Trader turned to his team. “Saddle up, guys. We’re heading west.”

  They moved for their respective vehicles. Trader headed for the front SUV, leaving Jake standing by the side of the road. As much as Jake wanted to escape everything, being with this man appealed a lot more than staying in Omega.

  “Forgetting someone?” he said.

  “You’re riding shotgun with me,” Trader said. “Move your ass, or I’ll leave you here.”

  Jake headed immediately for the passenger door.

  * * *

  Trader spread an old faded map of Oregon over the steering wheel. He overlaid a transparent piece of plastic with eight blue crosses drawn in a rough circle and two red ones either side of it. He tilted them toward Jake.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  Jake nodded. “Oregon. Are those eight crosses the strongholds?”

  “Thought you’d pick it up quickly. Do you know the locations of the two red ones?”

  Jake squinted at the map, but the locations didn’t ring any bells. One was located in the middle of a national park, the other just south of a small town.

  “Can’t say I do. Should I?”

  “These are two of your Fleet’s bunkers. I located them a few years ago, but we can’t get through the blast-proof doors. There’s a protected keypad in the entry tunnel. Do you know the access code?”

  Jake checked the map again. He remembered that a system of lockdown facilities were set up around the country, in case of nuclear war. Some were designed to last for centuries and were packed with supplies. The tantalizing prospect also existed that he might actually find a group of his colleagues in hibernation. Collectively they wouldn’t bow to any mini-dictators, their clocks or threats. The access codes were issued to captain and above. As long as they hadn’t changed after the war, Jake could get in.

  “If I open the blast doors, what’s in it for me?”

  A broad grin stretched across Trader’s face. “Didn’t take you long to get used to this world. Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not taking you back to Epsilon. Consider yourself a free man. Open the glove box.”

  The comment took Jake by surprise, but he didn’t question it. He clicked open the latch, the compartment fell open, and he stared at the contents.

  “It’s yours. Go on.”

  Jake took out a holstered gun attached to a webbing belt. He drew it and inspected the weapon from different angles. The mechanism looked fairly standard for a semiautomatic. He released the magazine out of the grip, checked it contained rounds, and slid it back home. It locked in place with a light click, and he put one in the chamber.

  Omega’s siren warbled intermittently. Trader crunched the SUV into gear, looped around a parallel street, and headed for the stronghold’s main entrance. Jake looked in the rearview mirror. The rest of the convoy followed, splashing through the water-filled potholes that peppered the road.

  “If I’m a free man, which I assume is conditional on me opening the bunkers, can I go my own way?”

  “You can go your own way, Jake. May I call you Jake?”

  “Sure. I would ask how you know my first name, but that’s kind of a stupid question.”

  “It is. As I was saying, it’s a dangerous world out there. Trouble is coming. Wastelanders are appearing more frequently, and we don’t know why. Maybe because supplies outside of the strongholds are limited. You would be making a mistake if you think running would improve your situation.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  The stiff suspension made every loose fitting of the sparse black plastic interior rattle as the SUV bumped along the paved road. The iron front gates opened, presumably from a winding mechanism in the stone gatehouse. Two men in royal blue jackets stood on the rampart on either side and waved them out.

  “I’m suggesting that you join my team. I’ll smooth things over with Finch and Epsilon. I can show you how this world works. How I keep things in check. You can be a part of improving it.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re professionally trained and pure. You haven’t been raised to hold the same prejudices and hang-ups that exist today. In order to maintain harmony and parity between the strongholds, I have to take a step back and take a high-level view. It doesn’t make me popular, but it avoids our society making the same mistakes that got us here in the first place.”

  “You mean the mistakes my generation made?”

  Trader smiled and shook his head. “I doubt anyone holds you responsible for political decisions on a global scale. If we treat the eight strongholds as a microcosm of our previously failed civilization and ensure limited arms, equal trade and sensible expansion programs, we’ve got a chance.”

  Jake gazed out of the window and considered Trader’s proposal. He appeared genuine, and although a lot of unanswered questions remained about his world, the choice of going back into the wild and fighting wastelanders, returning to Epsilon, or living under Finch’s control were far less appealing. He decided to go along with the offer for the time being. The bunkers might provide an alternative option.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “Excellent. You’ve made the right choice. Mind if I smoke?”

  “That’s a rhetorical question, right?”

  “You’re working me out quickly.”

  A mile outside Omega, the dirt road changed into a former highway. Weeds and trees, growing through cracks in the asphalt, reclaimed the outside lanes, almost fully concealing a dark red rusting barrier in the median strip. Two tracks ran the length of the inside lane. Constant usage must have kept nature from reclaiming the whole road.

  Trader pulled onto the moss and weed covered shoulder. A single SUV roared past. He wound his window down, pulled a plain white box out of his trousers, flipped it open, and offered a cigarette to Jake.

  “No, thanks. I’m not about to start after avoiding them for 157 years. Where’s that vehicle heading?”

  He lit a cigarette and blew smoke out of his window.

  “It’s our forlorn hope. I always send a vehicle a few hundred yards ahead. If there’s wastelanders in the area, it will flush them out. They usually attack on sight, so it avoids them hitting the main convoy. We’re always quickly on top of them.”

  Jake remembered the name forlorn hope from when he studied historical military tactics at the academy. He thought that those who were ignorant of the past would make the same blunders. Trader was in tune with the idea, and Jake wondered where the man acquired his knowledge.

  “Where did you read about the forlorn hope?”

  “I took a Bernard Cornwall book out of Theta library, and it seemed to fit with our lead vehicle’s situation. Leading part of an operation and greater risk of becoming a casualty. Our tactics are evolving to deal with the increasing threat. Fifteen years ago, I could drive this road with little fear. Now we run the gauntlet on a daily basis.”

  The lead vehicle disappeared through a dusty haze. He took two more drags of his cigarette and flicked it into the weeds. “Better get going.”

  Trader held his arm out of the window and waved the vehicles forward. He pulled in front of the procession and punched the accelerator. Cool wind rushed through the gap in his window, clearing the stench of tobacco smok
e.

  “How did the wastelanders evolve? I’m surprised they’re not all dead?” Jake said.

  “Trader four, my old boss, told me radiation is energy. Populations in the heavily concentrated areas died. The energy still passed through the molecules of people on the edge of the zones, ionizing or reducing them, thus altering their chemistry. The change affected DNA, which is what caused the mutations. Their offspring are much worse.”

  “Everyone in those areas turned like that?”

  “I doubt it, but you can imagine how they quickly dominated a landscape.”

  Jake couldn’t fathom whether the technical detail provided a solid explanation or if the theory evolved through the sands of time. Whatever the cause, he’d witnessed their aggressive and uncharacteristic human behavior first hand.

  A continuous horn blast sounded in front.

  Trader drew his pistol from out of his holster.

  Jake tensed and peered through the windshield. They approached two faint red glows through the dust. The lead vehicle's taillights. Its horn continued to wail.

  Trader stopped. An SUV pulled alongside their vehicle. The five-ton trucks’ air brakes hissed.

  The lead vehicle’s white reverse light flicked on, and it shot backward with a high-pitched whine.

  “Let’s roll,” Trader said and kicked his door open.

  Jake jumped out and ran to join him at the lead vehicle driver's window. A woman wound it down. “The road’s blocked by a tree trunk.”

  “Fallen or placed?” Trader said.

  “Placed. It’s been chopped at the top and bottom.”

  Trader looked along the dust-shrouded road. “They’re learning. We need to be careful with this one.”

  Boots thudded along the road surface. Ten of his team surrounded him and aimed either side of the highway.

  “We’ve got a trunk ahead that needs moving,” Trader said. “It looks like a trap. Four of you clear it; the other six organize yourselves in all-round defense. Jake and I will patrol between you.”