The Terminal Run: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (The Last War Series Book 7)

by Ryan Schow

  “He touched my shoulder,” she said, almost as if she was embarrassed.

  “It’s wrong to try to do it with children.”

  Now the child looked up, as if maybe she recognized something in this conversation. Like maybe something her parents had said when they were warning her about the dangers of unknown people and the places on her body they could not touch.

  “You can stay here and suffer pigs like these,” she said, “or you can come with me. Or I could just kill you. Do you want me to kill you?”

  “No,” she said, less frightened now than when Maria first offered to kill her.

  “You don’t know much about sex or the provocations of men, but you know death. I know you know death.”

  Again, more silence from the child.

  “Do you want me to leave you with them? Out here on your own where you’ll be hurt, or probably killed? If you don’t answer, then that means yes in my book.”

  “No!” she said, tears finally dripping over.

  “You look really stupid when you cry,” Maria said, roughly swiping the tears from the girl’s cheeks. The girl sniffled, tried to hold them in. Grabbing the child’s arm, Maria pulled her forward, practically dragging her behind. That’s when the girl stopped trying to hold all her emotions in and just started crying.

  Maria dropped her on her butt, then looked down.

  There was no reasoning with this child, she thought. Stupid humans and their stupid emotions.

  “Fine,” she said. “Sit here and die.”

  Maria started walking. Slowly at first, then a little quicker. Then she slowed again, found a good looking car with the family still in there. She saw two bottles of water in the center console. With a palm strike, she broke the window but somehow managed to cut herself in the process.

  Scolding herself, Maria unlocked and opened the door, then she shook the blood from her wrist and waited for the wound to heal. The rush of white blood cells created heat in her, and predictably, the skin began stitching itself together.

  She felt weaker because of it, and mad that these emotions had gotten the best of her. Not to mention the energy she expelled in killing those two morons. The weakness that overtook her started in her chest and brain then spread out to her limbs leaving her feeling heavy, depleted. She grabbed the woman in the front seat, hauled her out of the seat then climbed into the car.

  She popped the top on one of the half-full waters in the center console and drank deeply. She finished the first, then downed the second moments later. After guzzling both bottles, she rooted around in the car looking for something to eat.

  The car was empty of food. It had just been two dead people up front, two bottles of water and a withered baby in a carrier in the back seat. No bullet holes in the infant. To Maria, it seemed the baby died of starvation while trapped in this car with her two dead parents.

  This touched her, stilled her. Gave her cause to search her database for this emotion. What was this feeling?

  A hollowness filled her belly, tugged at her heart. This newborn died a slow, most likely agonizing death. The worst kind. And it was her fault. By virtue of what Maria was, of what she was trying to accomplish when she was The Silver Queen, she’d leveled this same kind of death sentence on tens of millions of children.

  For a second her skin began to get hot, her body tunneling even further into weariness. She felt the sting hit the backs of her eyes at what this child must have gone through, and then she began to laugh. First a snicker, then a chuckle, and then full body laughter.

  It had all been so easy.

  “Why are you laughing?” the little voice behind her said.

  She turned around and looked at the girl. She was red eyes, a runny nose and a burning question on her face.

  “Dead baby,” she said wiping her eyes, the humor still on her face.

  “That’s not funny,” the girl replied.

  “To each his own, I suppose,” she said, the merriment fading. “Have you decided you want to come with me then? Even after you saw what I can do?”

  She nodded her head, but didn’t look at Maria.

  “Alright then. So long as you know it was your choice. So long as you know you chose to come with me.”

  That day took a toll on Maria. With such an ambitious metabolism, and a serious wound to heal, her body was literally eating itself to feed itself. They weren’t two miles up the street when Maria said she needed a place to get some sleep.

  She found a residential neighborhood off the highway, made a beeline there. Maria expended the last of her energy reserves kicking in the back door of a nice looking house. The first kick only crushed in part of the door. The second knocked it off its hinges. She staggered inside, found the living room, fell onto the nearest couch and told the girl to get her some food and water.

  The child wasn’t much help. All she brought back was some old crackers and a cup of water. Maria scarfed down the crackers, guzzled the water, then laid back, took a deep breath and fell asleep.

  She slept for several days. Her body wasn’t right. She felt it whenever she woke.

  “Go find me more food,” she told the girl, who—much to her surprise—hadn’t left.

  “There is none.”

  “Go to the neighbors. Break a window with a rock. Be careful not to cut yourself, just get inside and find me some food and water. I need more water.”

  She couldn’t keep her eyes open, she was that exhausted. Was her body sick? Was it rejecting the new hardware? Was the software integration finally failing? For the first time in this body, Maria felt genuine fear. Or was that worry? She recognized mixtures of both. If this body died, then she died and this was all for nothing. She needed sleep.

  Sleep for humans was healing.

  More than anything, however, she needed the girl. And now she understood vulnerability, and possibly even hatred. Hatred for the situation. When she thought of breaking something and knew she didn’t have the strength to do so, she knew despair.

  Her head fell back on the couch, her arm draped over the side. When she closed her eyes, it was only for a second, but then the fatigue took hold and dragged her down into a deep and restful slumber.

  When she woke up next, she felt even weaker than before. Her eyelids were swollen, heavy, stuck shut. She lay there on the couch, suffering aches and pains in her muscles. She adjusted herself, worked her eyelids open. Daylight was beating against the other side of closed curtains. She turned away. Rubbing bleary eyes, blinking back the sleep, she saw food on the coffee table in front of her.

  Sitting up, she felt everything in this body: the bones, the muscles, the ligaments and the tendons. Then she felt the overwhelming need to pee. The child was asleep on the recliner. Or dead. She studied the girl, spotted the carotid artery, saw the pulsing proof of life.

  Processing thoughts and emotions in a biological entity was like doing math in super slow motion. There was a heaviness to these feelings. Rounded edges. Body. And there were deeper implications guided by feelings which weren’t as rational as they were dominant and prodigious.

  Back on the street, if the girl died, Maria wouldn’t have minded much. Now she wondered if that were true. The girl was a necessary evil. Maria needed a food mule, a ruse, a reason for the humans to welcome her into their community if she could even find a community worth infiltrating.

  Yes, she needed the girl. She needed this girl.

  Quietly she staggered out back, pulled down her pants and underwear, popped a squat and peed. She couldn’t help thinking this whole eating and evacuating thing was beyond inconvenient. She knew about the human body, of course, but only from a machine’s standpoint. In reality this was an unwelcome burden she was still having to get used to. While she was peeing, she had enough time to calculate how much of her life she’d spend with her pants pulled down emptying herself out. This pee, however, was different. The sensation rushing through her was…interesting. It sort of burned and stung at the same time. Not fiery hot,
just…different. She’d waited too long to do this; she’s filled her bladder too much. Was this pain or pleasure? Wow. This is stupid, she thought.

  Oh, the wonders of a biological entity…

  She returned to the couch, plopped down, pulled the nearest can of food toward her. Pinto beans. Marvelous. Maria grabbed the can opener, opened the can, ate the beans not caring the mess she was making on the coffee table. When she looked up, the child was watching her. The next can was kidney beans. Maria opened the can, ate them in minutes, chewing them while looking at the girl who was looking at her. Next was a can of French green beans.

  “Want some?” she said, her mouth full, any semblance of etiquette gone.

  She nodded her head.

  “Well come on over and work for your meal,” she said, handing the girl the can opener.

  She opened the green beans, grabbed the jagged lid, then stopped when Maria said, “Wait! Let me have that before you cut yourself.”

  The child handed her the opened can.

  “Spread your palms, make a bowl with your hands.”

  The girl did as she was told. Maria then turned over the beans, the juice spilling through the girl’s fingers all over the coffee table. A little shake of the can, coupled with the weight of the beans, pushed the lid open. Half the wet vegetables sat in the girl’s hands, and that’s when Maria turned the can back over, pulled on the lid and twisted it off.

  “Eat, child. Eat.”

  They devoured the beans, then they both sat back and contemplated the meal, each other, and the nature of their circumstances.

  “Is there more where this came from?” Maria asked. The girl nodded her head. “Well why don’t you go get some while I sleep. I need more sleep.”

  “People are hurting each other outside,” she said. “And all you’re doing is sleeping.”

  “What do you mean people are hurting each other?”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders, then said, “There are killed people in the houses. And not much food. A man with a gun told me to go home.”

  Reclining on the couch, her eyes bobbing closed, she said, “Don’t get caught, child.”

  They stayed at the house for a couple of weeks while Maria’s body stabilized itself. Then, when she couldn’t stand the inactivity for one second later, she said, “I almost want to burn this place down before we leave. Would you like to do that?”

  The girl smiled at the thought of it, which in a surprising moment of joy, gave Maria some hope for the child.

  That night, with an old flashlight and weak batteries, they broke in and rooted around a few houses foraging for food and supplies, but also looking for gasoline and matches. When they finally amassed enough of both—just before they were preparing to leave the house the next day and continue their journey into San Francisco—Maria gave the girl the choice to either pour the gasoline or light the fire.

  “They’re both important jobs,” Maria said again the next morning because the girl had not decided. With packs on their backs and water bottles in hand, they stood in the street staring at the house. “The gas needs fire and the fire needs gas. Just like I need you and you need me. This is what’s called a symbiotic relationship. Can you say that? Symbiotic?”

  After a few tries, the girl got it.

  “So what will it be?” Maria asked. “You pouring or lighting?”

  “Lighting,” she said, nervous but excited at the same time.

  Maria showed the girl where the most strategic points of the home were, then she emptied out the gasoline on them.

  “When you throw the match on the wet spot, be sure to stand back because it’s going to whoosh up around you. If you’re too close, it’ll eat you, too.”

  The girl made a face. Then, standing back, she struck the wooden match a couple of times against the strike strip on the box until it caught fire.

  “Move back,” Maria said, pulling the girl back. “Throw it where it’s wet.”

  She did and the gas whooshed to life exactly as Maria said it would. They quickly lit three more fires before heading back to the middle of the street out front where they watched it burn. Looking down, Maria was pleased to find such wonder and delight in the child.

  “Pretty neat, right?” The girl nodded her head. “Doesn’t it feel good to destroy things?”

  “Hey!” someone shouted from behind them. Maria turned to some guy in a trucker’s hat and wrinkled jeans aiming a shotgun at them. “What are you doing?”

  “Starting fires,” the girl said.

  “You can’t just go and burn people’s houses down,” he told them.

  “You’ve got a front row seat,” Maria offered. “Best you be quiet and just enjoy the show. And put that gun down. She’s just a child.”

  “I seen her stealing for stuff for you the last few weeks,” he said, ignoring Maria’s suggestion that he lower his weapon. “We didn’t bother you because we thought you needed a place to stay.”

  “We did.”

  “And now you’re burning it down?” he asked, aghast.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Maria said to him, her voice whimsical, enchanting.

  “I watched them build that house,” the man replied, unamused and unwavering. “I was here when that happened forty years ago.”

  “Well now you can watch it deconstruct itself through fire, my friend.”

  “I ain’t your friend.”

  Turning her back to the fire, looking directly at him, she said, “What did I tell you about that gun?”

  “It’s my gun, lady.”

  “She’s only five years old,” Maria said, covering the girl’s eyes. Moving her, Maria nudged the child behind her back to safety. When this failed to sway him, she lied, saying, “We’re unarmed, you savage!”

  In truth, Maria didn’t know how old the child was. She didn’t even know the girl’s name. Not that it mattered.

  “Says the pyromaniac,” he said, racking a load.

  “Is that the kind of man you are? Because where I’m from, we call that cowardly. You’re not a coward are you, Mister?” She stopped the fake fear and leveled the man with a Cheshire cat grin, the kind she hoped would chill his blood.

  “You are as appealing to the eye as you are unappealing to the soul,” he said.

  “Is that a catchphrase?” she mused. “Did you read that on a bumper sticker?”

  “Just the truth from a man who ain’t no coward.”

  Taking the girl’s hand, loud enough for him to hear her, Maria said, “Time to go, sweetheart. We can leave this redneck goat humper to his low IQ contemplations.”

  And with that, they left the man, his gun and a burning house in their proverbial rear view mirror. The journey ahead would be tough, but the big city offered her the kind of promise she wasn’t finding in Palo Alto. Hopefully there she’d find her congregation. It was how she would thrive in this world long enough to become its ruler.

  Chapter Six

  Corrine watched the gunman lift his weapon and point it at Amber. The woman didn’t duck or hide. What the hell? Corrine dove for her friend just as the man started firing.

  She hit Amber, took her down hard.

  Behind them, on the other side of the cage, one of the guards returned fire. As she held Amber down, Corrine spun her head around and realized they were smack dab in the middle of a volley of gunfire.

  Panic overtook her.

  “The kids!” she screamed at another the guard, who didn’t pay attention to her. He was busy firing on the man on the other side of them.

  They were all down, now—Amber, Corrine, all fourteen children. A few of them were screaming and crawling under the cots, but most were just hugging the ground and each other with stoic, empty expressions.

  “Keep your heads down!” Corrine yelled at them over a deafening exchange of gunfire.

  All the kids’ eyes fell on her. Amber was squirming under her, telling her to get off, which prompted Corrine to scowl down at her and say, “Are you trying to get y
ourself killed?”

  Her friend finally stopped fighting.

  Behind her, the sounds of a body being riddled with bullets heightened her concern. She turned as the guard went down. The vacant expression on his face, the unblinking eyes with that thousand yard stare, frightened her. Corrine was glad he was dead, but the expression, “the devil you know,” popped into her head and new concerns took shape.

  If the guards lost the fight to these madmen, would they turn on the prisoners, too? Will they turn on us? Corrine couldn’t stop wondering why they were attacking, what they wanted. She couldn’t stop wondering if they’d be leaving the frying pan for the fire. Amber tried again to break loose beneath her, but all around the warehouse, the rata-tat-tat of a monumental firefight persisted.

  “Stay down, dammit!” she hissed.

  “I can’t breathe,” Amber said, causing Corrine to shift her body, but only slightly

  “For Abigail’s sake and mine, Amber, stay down.”

  Most of the kids were now hysterical. Corrine turned, told them to keep their heads down and to not look at the dead bodies. She waved them over toward her.

  “Come, come!” she said.

  They obeyed, scooting across the polished concrete floors until they were crowded around both her and Amber.

  When the gunfire finally stopped, the man who Corrine thought was shooting at Amber stalked over to the cage, told them to look away, then shot the lock.

  “Everyone okay?” he asked as he opened the door.

  Collectively, they nodded their heads, slowly, unsure of what to make of this man who shot and killed their guards.

  “It’s time to go,” he said.

  “Where are we going?” Corrine asked.

  “Out front first to make sure everyone’s okay. If you’ve been separated from your family, this is where you’ll be able to reconnect with them.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then you can either come with us back to our camp, or go on your way. Whatever you want.”

  “So we’re free to go?” Corrine asked.