The Omnivore Wars

by Duncan McGeary

  The woman’s voice deepened, as if she was channeling the bottomless hate of her Tusker master.

  “The Kinfolk will survive. I have sent my people everywhere, generation after generation of them. Today the last of us will leave this place, and everywhere we go, we will be your enemy. If one enclave is destroyed, another will take its place. In time, our superior intellect and numbers will defeat you. And when we win this struggle, we will not treat the lesser creatures as mankind did. This I promise.”

  The Great One became more worked up the longer he spoke. The Kinfolk were hanging on his every word.

  The prisoner saw his chance. He leapt forward. The Tuskers surrounding Genghis surged forward and blocked his way. The man screamed, pushing his hands into the Tuskers’ snouts, slicing his wrists on their tusks.

  Genghis loomed over the human, furious, and lowered his tusks, catching the man under the chin. From the other side of the chamber, Napoleon heard the human’s skin rip and saw a spray of blood shoot over the dais. The roar of the Tuskers became deafening.

  Napoleon felt a shiver down his spine. The Holy Sacrifice has been made, he thought. A new religion has begun.

  Napoleon pushed his way to the dais in time to catch the human’s last moments. Chillingly, it seemed to Napoleon that the man was smiling as he died.

  “Take him away,” Genghis grunted to his guards. “Do not eat him or any of the others. There is something wrong with them.”

  Genghis turned to the assembled Tuskers.

  “Today we have become equal to men. Without their machines, mankind will starve. They will be helpless before our onslaught. Be fruitful, my children, and when the time comes, destroy the humans so that they never again feed upon our kind, never again lock us in cages to milk us and use us and degrade us. They will not believe it is mere pigs killing them. They will deny their senses, for they consider us dumb animals. They will not understand that we are smarter than them, more pitiless than them, until it is too late. Mankind will become extinct.”

  The Tuskers were squealing in approval, milling about, and the floor seemed to shake from their excitement. Genghis’s voice rose, audible even above the bedlam he was creating amongst his followers.

  “Kill every human, wherever you find them, until the Tuskers rule this land, for we will not eat that which we need not eat; we will not enslave any animal, nor will we kill without cause. A righteous people will take the place of these savages, and all the land will rejoice.

  “Go forth, my children. Be fruitful and multiply. For we are nature’s true inheritors.”

  The Tuskers squealed and grunted in approval and eagerness, shaking the very ground, but when Genghis said no more, one by one they approached the dais, bowing their heads and then leaving, still talking excitedly among themselves. It took a long time, but finally the hall emptied out. The last few Tuskers appeared almost unable to move, but even they managed to pay their respects and stagger out of the hall.

  Genghis collapsed back onto his chair and tiredly motioned for Napoleon and Marie to join him. As Napoleon got near, he got a whiff of something, not just from Genghis, but also from the Tusker guards surrounding his throne. It was an odor Napoleon had never smelled before, sweet, but sickly, like rotting fruit. He stopped several yards away. He glanced uneasily at Marie and saw that she too was unwilling to get too close to their leader.

  “The army we sent to Genesis Valley has failed,” Genghis informed them quietly, so no one could overhear. He coughed, and once he started, he couldn’t seem to quit. The clear voice that he had used in his speech was now clogged, and he seemed to be struggling for breath.

  “They were ready for us,” Napoleon said.

  Genghis frowned. “Come closer. I can barely hear you.”

  What about my thoughts? Napoleon answered. There was no awareness in his leader’s eyes that he’d read Napoleon’s mind.

  Something is very wrong here, Napoleon thought.

  “I want you take command, Napoleon.” Genghis said. “I was holding you in reserve, but now I need you. The next attack must not fail. We must regain the valley of our birth.”

  It was bad enough that a small group of humans had defeated Razorback and the first generation of Tuskers. It was truly alarming that they’d managed to beat the Tuskers a second time.

  Napoleon thought it best not to remind his superior that he’d advised against the expedition. Genesis Valley may have been their place of origin, but it held no strategic value. The Tuskers may have been humiliated in that valley, but vengeance was a useless emotion.

  “It is a holy place,” Genghis continued. He stopped, and his mouth moved from side to side, and then he spit something out onto the floor. Napoleon looked down at the glistening mass, which looked like something that had come from deep in his leader’s gut.

  Marie backed away again, involuntarily. Fortunately, Genghis didn’t seem to notice.

  “Our ancestors will make pilgrimages there, and lay down offerings.” Genghis’s voice finally cleared, and it took on the tone of a prophet. Once again, Napoleon was uncomfortable with the zealotry, but hid his thoughts.

  “Genesis Valley must be taken back!” Genghis’s eyes burned into him. Napoleon felt his leader trying to take control of his mind, and he instinctively fought him off. And for once, it worked.

  Genghis grunted, as if both frustrated and gratified by Napoleon’s strength of will. “Take whatever troops you need to finish it.”

  Napoleon bowed his head. “It will be done.”

  He retreated as quickly as he could, giving a Marie an urgent look.

  “Don’t touch anyone,” he whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was easy to forget how big the desert was. Because he was alone, Enrique noticed it in a way he never had before. Mile after mile of the same terrain, sagebrush and sand and jagged rocks. Those who trekked across this barren basin during the early part of the country’s history called it the Great American Desert, and it extended over much of the western half of the United States. Truckers and a few others traveled through this desolation because they had to. Only those who wished to witness the natural wonders that lay within, the wild places and the tamed national parks, visited this wasteland voluntarily.

  Trying to find a single person—or the body of that person—in this landscape was like trying to find a specific grain of sand in an ocean made of sand.

  But as hopeless a task as finding Flaco’s body was, Enrique knew he had to try. He would not return home and face Alicia again until he’d done everything he could.

  He wasn’t sure where he was. When he’d tried to go around the original band of zombies, he’d followed a road that appeared to curve around to the other side of the valley. But it hadn’t been that simple. He’d had to take detour after detour as he ran into packs of zombies.

  It was impossible.

  He hadn’t seen a living soul for hundreds of miles.

  Reluctantly, he decided to head back home. GPS was down, so he was resorting to his compass—and the problem was that the roads didn’t necessarily continue in the same direction they started out in. Twice now, he’d started driving down a road that led due south only to have it turn east or west, or even north—the opposite of where he wanted to go. He was pretty sure he was trending in a southern direction. It was possible he was already back in Arizona, maybe not even that far from home.

  In Afghanistan, he’d been in the middle of firefights with half of his men killed or wounded, and it hadn’t frightened him. He’d discovered the ability to stay calm and steady, operating at a high level of effectiveness.

  After the battle, the danger of what he’d been through would sometimes get to him; in the darkness of the barracks, he’d start shivering uncontrollably, unable to sleep, but unable to get up and do something else. But when it came time to make decisions in the heat of battle, he’d always been cool and collected.

  These zombies were some
thing else altogether. He could barely function when he saw them—especially the human versions. The thing he’d always told himself about war was that if he was killed, it would all be over. And hopefully, he’d never even know it. But the possibility that he might come back as one of these creatures frightened him almost to the point of paralysis. He had already decided that if they ever cornered him, he’d put a bullet in his own brain.

  Enrique stopped even looking to the sides of the road. He was lost anyway, and had no idea where Flaco had left the trail. Instead, every time he saw a pack of the zombies, he drove a safe distance away, stopped the car, and scrutinized each of the human ones through the sights of his hunting rifle.

  He was looking for Flaco among the packs, he realized, and the guilt struck him twice as hard as before.

  He sighted a particularly large group made up mostly of humans. He pulled over and turned off the car. He was going to need to head back to the barn soon, before he ran out of gas.

  He got out to examine the shuffling horde of zombies. The blank look in their eyes: that’s what frightened Enrique more than anything. No, that wasn’t it. It was that he could sometimes see something behind those blank eyes, as if there was a soul behind them, trapped, helpless, and in eternal torment. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he wondered if there wasn’t still a small spark of the human inside these creatures.

  He sighted in on a woman who looked almost normal—whatever had killed her wasn’t apparent on the outside. She was dressed like a businesswoman, in a black skirt and vest, white frilly shirt, and faux bowtie. Her hair was still coiffed nicely, and her makeup was only slightly smeared.

  Enrique focused on her dull blue eyes, and she blinked, and for a moment—just the tiniest moment—he thought he saw the human within, screaming. He fired without thinking, blowing away the nice hair and pleasant face, turning the thing into something dead. Dead like a human would be dead.

  After that, he kept firing every time he saw a human zombie, until he was down to his last few bullets. He hadn’t made a dent in the numbers, and there were more all the time, wandering away from the cities where they had once congregated for safety and comfort and into the desert, where no comfort or safety was needed or available.

  Enrique got back in the truck and tried to drive away. It wouldn’t start. There was a strange smell in the air.

  Checking around for zombies, he opened the hood. A wave of black smoke washed over him, and too late, he held his breath. He inhaled some of the toxic fumes and stumbled away, coughing. When he finally felt like he was breathing clean air again, he went back to take a look.

  The battery looked as if it had melted; the wires were dripping from the melted plastic coating. Other parts of the engine had fused together, as if in an oven.

  He left the hood open, slung the rifle over one shoulder and his backpack over the other, and grabbed the bicycle out of the back.

  He started peddling back the way he’d come, remembering that the road forked in the right direction about half a mile back. He’d done all he could—more than he should have tried to do. He needed to get home.

  The road was packed-down dirt. The bicycle had fat tires, but when he swerved to avoid some rocks, the sand slowed him down so much it was as if hands were reaching out from the ground to stop him. He stopped, put the backpack fully over both shoulders, grasped the rifle, and continued on.

  The zombies had seen him and were coming his way. He wasn’t as worried about those that had once been human: they moved slowly, haltingly. But the ones that had once been Tuskers or coyotes were coming after him nearly as fast as he could move on his bike.

  If I can get back to asphalt, I can gain some ground, he thought.

  Soon after, he reached a county road that, though in bad repair, was smooth enough that he could gain some speed. Twice, he saw clumps of zombies on the road in the distance and had to detour into the desert to avoid them, even walking the bike at times.

  As darkness started falling, he spotted a building in the distance with flickering lights in the windows. Not electric lights, but something softer, like candles: something only a living human would have burning.

  The building was farther away than it looked, but when Enrique finally reached the outskirts of what turned out to be a small town, a huge sense of relief washed over him. He recognized the place. It wasn’t really a town, just an outpost. Some old prospector had tried to make it a tourist destination, and named it Gold Flats.

  By a quirk of geography, even though it was only an afternoon’s walk over a high, flat plateau from Saguaro. Enrique had been there only twice; once as a day hike with some friends, and once by way of the road. Ironically, because it was so far out off the beaten track, the car trip had taken almost as long as the hike.

  There was just nothing in Gold Flats worth visiting; a clump of trailers, a small store/post office, and a rundown roadside attraction featuring gold nuggets that were suspiciously tarnished.

  The store was brightly lit by what appeared to be hundreds of candles, and Enrique could hear excited voices from inside. It was dark enough outside that he suspected they could see him through the windows.

  The vehicles parked out front all had their hoods up. No help there. But tied to a hitching post in front of the tourist trap were two horses, saddled and ready to go.

  Welcome to the future, Enrique thought. Candles and horses. And the hanging of horse thieves, no doubt.

  Enrique took the reins of the biggest horse and mounted it. He rode away without looking back. He galloped up the short road to the top of the plateau, expecting a bullet in the back the whole way. Then he slowed the horse to a bone-jarring trot and headed toward where he guessed Saguaro lay.

  He was saddle sore within an hour, but he made good progress. He’d never liked horses much—he thought they were cold-eyed bastards—but he’d learned to ride at a very young age.

  There was a faint glow on the horizon, and he spurred the horse to a gallop, despite the danger of unseen gopher holes and rocks.

  A dread fell over him; he was suddenly certain something terrible had happened while he was gone.

  I should never have left the ranch.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  No one would look Alicia in the eye. She knew they thought it was her fault that Enrique had left, that she’d driven him to search for her father despite the hopelessness of the mission, despite the danger.

  Maybe they were right. Alicia wasn’t sure. She just knew she wanted her father back.

  She’d known when she married Enrique that he didn’t have the same closeness with his own family that she had with hers. He’d teased her about her extended “clan” and how they were always congregating together, insulated from the outside world. His father was of Irish heritage, and Enrique grew up with a Hispanic first name but with the very white last name of Flannigan. It apparently made all the difference in how he looked upon the world.

  Enrique’s family, outside of Alicia and Felix, was his fellow soldiers. So she’d played on his guilt over leaving a fellow combatant behind, adding to the already overwhelming shame of abandoning his father-in-law.

  But she only realized what she’d done after he was gone.

  She still wasn’t sure if she was ashamed or proud of herself. She paced the barn, avoiding the other inhabitants as much as possible. In return, they left her alone.

  Felix was playing with the wood blocks that Barry Hunter had made from spare two-by-fours. He could play like that for hours, she knew. He was like his father that way, completely self-sufficient.

  No one noticed when Alicia left the barn. At the last second, she grabbed one of the rifles that was propped near the door. She walked aimlessly toward the hill above the barn.

  It was covered in dead coyotes, ravens, and javelinas, interspersed here and there with one of the larger Tuskers. Ravens were feeding on their erstwhile allies, and complained loudly as Alicia picked her way through th
e rotting remains. The bodies were starting to smell, but that didn’t deter her from her climb. She needed to get away from the barn. She needed to see the other side of the hill, to look down into the Morrow Valley that had always been her home. Her father owned most of the bottomlands, near the river. He’d wavered a few years ago, thinking he should sell some of the ancestral property to take care of Alicia and Felix. She had talked him out of it.

  “We don’t need money,” she’d said. “I make more than enough to live on with my teacher’s salary.”

  Flaco had sold one useless acre to a shady local real estate agent who had thought he was going to be able to talk the Morales family into giving up more land later. They’d used the money from that sale to take a long-deferred vacation to Hawaii—and thus they had missed the first attack by the Tuskers. Flaco had admitted later that he suspected that there was something going on and wanted to be out of town when it happened.

  The shady real estate agent hadn’t survived the Aporkcalypse.

  Alicia had never been comfortable with Flaco making an alliance with the Hunters. But she had to admit that it had saved Enrique. Her husband had come back from his deployments in the Middle East lost and aimless. He’d started drinking and staying out late at night. Even though she knew he loved her and Felix, she suspected that some of those late nights had ended in the bed of another woman.

  So when the Hunters had asked Enrique if he could assemble some of his former comrades-in-arms for a small private army, he’d jumped at the chance. Alicia suspected her husband had never really believed in the Aporkcalypse, but he wasn’t averse to being prepared for whatever danger might come along. If the Hunters had the money—and apparently they had more money than God—then he was more than willing to go along with the charade.

  No, she wasn’t worried about his physical safety. Enrique knew how to take care of himself. His mental state was something different, and because of that, Alicia was feeling an ever-increasing uneasiness about her behavior.