Falling Sky

by Rajan Khanna

  I think the Ferals might be able to climb this frame.

  I look around at the remaining boffin ship, wondering if I could get to that, take it around to the Cherub, when one of the raiders with a gondola-mounted machine gun rakes the ship and the whole thing erupts in a blossom of fire.

  A moment later I’m tossed to the ground. Hard. And thought disappears under a wave of silence and shock.

  My hand closes on nothing, the rifle fallen from my hand. My eyes refuse to focus. I see movement, but I’m not sure what it is.

  Get up, the voice in my head says.

  I push myself to my knees. I can’t see the rifle, but I feel the weight of the automatic in my waistband and I reach for it. A flurry of legs out of the corner of my eye. I turn to face it. Almost fire. But it’s one of the boffins. She’s bleeding. Her face twisted in fear. And I don’t know if she’s been infected. And there’s nothing I can do for her.

  The raider ships start to descend. They’ll be in the Core soon. And I can’t stop them.

  I run for the Cherub, knowing that it’s the only thing that can keep me safe. It’s the only thing I can depend on.

  My ears are filled with an insistent ringing, and sounds are still beyond me.

  I throw open the door to the inner corridor, the automatic out, my finger pressed up against the trigger, as close as I can without actually pulling it.

  No movement. The corridor is clean.

  I’m halfway to the exit when I see the Feral. It’s lying on the floor, blood pooling around it. But it’s not dead. It’s squirming, weak from the loss of blood, its eyes wild. I don’t need to kill it. Nature will do that for it. But I can’t risk it lashing out at me or shaking a drop of blood at me, so I stop and fire three bullets into its head, knowing that the gunshots will likely alert any raiders nearby.

  I move as fast as I can, while skirting the Feral blood, pressing myself against the wall, feeling it scrape against my cheek.

  Then I’m at the door, then out of it, and I look up to see the Cherub.

  Flying away.

  I see the Cherub flying away without me, and my fists clench and I want to raise the gun and shoot at everyone and everything. My ship. My home. Gone.

  And I have no way to get to it.

  And there are raiders in the Core. And if they find me they will kill me. Or worse.

  And I need to get away.

  And I’m mad at myself because my rage is fighting against my survival instincts. The instincts win. Because I can rage all I want if I survive this.

  My mind races. I need to get away. I need to move quickly. And I need to avoid running into Ferals. All this noise is liable to attract any that are hungry.

  I think about the only other vehicle in the Core. I run for the Ferrari.

  I keep the automatic down at my side, ready to raise it and fire at any raiders that come across my path. I get near the dead Feral and leap over it, desperate to get past it. My foot comes down at the edge of the blood slick. Too close. And I slip. And slam into the floor and my skin is crawling as I imagine the Feral blood all over me.

  But when I turn myself around, I’ve missed it. All except my boot, and I can deal with that later. I push away the fear. Push away the anxiety. And get back to my feet.

  The door at the end of the hallway opens.

  I raise the automatic.

  A man comes through, large, carrying a rifle of some sort. He doesn’t look like one of the boffins. I sight down at the central mass of him and pull the trigger three times, mindful that I’m down to three bullets. The bullets throw him back, but I don’t stop to see if he’s down for good. Instead I’m running through a different door into the place the boffins call the Garage.

  The “Ferrari” is a modified jeep the boffins—Sergei and a few of the others—have been converting for use on rough terrain. It’s an ugly beast and nothing like a Ferrari at all. Did I mention that their sense of humor is awful? But one of them had this picture from the Clean, this sleek, shiny red car. A Ferrari. And they had it pinned up while they were working on it. Inspiration from a machine that even I had to admit dripped of power and sex (and I’m deeply committed to the Cherub).

  I used to give them shit for working on it, hell, I thought it was stupid. Why rig a ground car when we had all these airships at our disposal? Why get any closer to the Ferals than you have to? But now I’m grateful for it because I can no longer take to the sky.

  I’ve watched Sergei enough to know how the Ferrari operates. He hooked it up with an ignition button to make it easier to operate. And it’s fueled up for the road tests they’ve been doing on it.

  I throw up the door that leads outside, then jump in and toss the automatic on the seat next to me. Slam the door shut. And hit the button.

  Nothing.

  I slam it again. And again.

  With a lurch the engine fires up and coughs a few times. But it catches and I feel it rev beneath me when I hit the pedal. Then the cart is bursting forward and I’ve cleared the doors and hit the top of the hill. The wheels catch fresh earth and then I’m barreling down the hill.

  I turn the wheel back toward the Core, hoping I can get one or two other people out with me, but as the Ferrari crests the hill, the building nearest me erupts in fire and I can feel the shockwave from where I sit inside the cart.

  Above me the raider ships are swarming. And the Cherub is gone.

  I slam the steering wheel in anger and turn the wheel back around, racing down the hill. The loss of the Core hollows me out, but the loss of the Cherub is a keen, cutting ache. I’ve lost my parents. Lost my father’s Star of David. Lost the Cherub that used to be his airship. His home.

  My home.

  All I have left of Dad, aside from my genes, is his revolver. All I’ve held on to from him is a weapon.

  I push it all away. No time to lose my shit now. Get free, get clear. Then lose your shit.

  A problem with the Ferrari, aside from the fact that it’s stuck on the ground, is that it’s not airtight. It’s covered on all sides, but there are gaps. There’s open space for the engine, for ventilation. And that’s space the Bug can get in. Don’t get me wrong; I’d be more than happy to take this thing on a joyride to see how many Ferals I could take out by slamming full speed into them. But all it would take is one drop of blood, sucked up into the cart and onto me for my joyride to end.

  And don’t tell me I’m paranoid. Not unless you’ve seen your own father Fade right in front of your eyes. Not until you’ve seen the reason dim in a loved one’s eyes.

  But these wheels are all I have right now, and I need to put as much space between me and the raiders.

  I think of the boffins who didn’t get out in time. I hope the raiders were told to keep them alive. Because they would be useful to anyone. And if the boffins are smart, they’ll do what the raiders tell them to do.

  But something uncomfortable squirms in my belly. I know that if I were the raiders, if I wasn’t sure whether the boffins had come into contact with Feral blood or not, I would kill them all. I’m not happy about that, but it’s what they’ll probably do.

  I have no idea where I’m going. Away is all I can think of. It’s not like I can get the Cherub back.

  I drive until my heart stops pounding. I drive until the acid taste in the back of my mouth has subsided. Then I find a shaded spot beside a hill and park the Ferrari. And slam the wheel a few times.

  And I mourn the loss of my airship.

  I mourn the loss of my home.

  People often ask me where the Cherub came from. They ask me how I came by her because she’s a fine ship and because I’m an independent operator.

  I don’t always tell these people the truth.

  The truth is that the ship belonged to my grandfather. More or less. I told Miranda this when she asked. “Was he a pilot?” she asked.

  “No. A mechanic. Back in the Clean. When the Bug hit, and the shit went down, he stole a ship. One of the best and newest his co
mpany had.” He stole the Cherub and saved a bunch of people, and I am so damned proud of him for doing that. But most importantly, he saved his own life and ensured that I would be here today.

  He obviously wasn’t the only one. Lots of people realized that taking to the sky would be the logical thing to do and they all did it.

  So granddad stole it and took it, and his family, up into the air. When he died, my father inherited the ship, patching her up and making additions where necessary. After Mom died, it was me and him in the ship up until the time he Faded. So it’s something of a family legacy. Stolen, originally, to be sure, but made our own. A Gold family artifact.

  Since it fell to me, I had poured all my time that wasn’t spend foraging or eating or defending myself into that ship. Into making her faster and better. Into making her my home. Into making her safe.

  Now she’s gone.

  Not to mention everything that was on the ship. The food. The water. The alcohol. The ammunition and weapons. The memories.

  Fuck.

  I used to hate gravity when I was younger. Always waiting to pull you to the ground. Yet we sailed through the sky, able to evade it. But it was like a demon waiting below. Just waiting to get its claws on us.

  Now it had grabbed me. And there was no escaping it now.

  It’s somewhere during my pity party that I realize that while I may be sheltered from the view of any wandering Ferals, I’m still visible from the air, and I’m sure one of the raiders must have seen me drive away. So I start up the Ferrari again and keep driving, aiming to put as much distance between me and them as I can. Of course an airship could easily outpace me. So I head for nearby trees, hoping they’ll shield me.

  The fuel gauge is already showing a drop in the tank, and I realize with a sinking sensation that this vehicle isn’t going to last long. Not without another supply of Serge’s special fuel.

  But I get under the cover of the trees and kill the engine to save fuel and I just sit for a while. Safe for the moment within the chassis of the cart.

  I think about what my plan should be. I think about driving straight through to the coast. Where I can put my back up against the ocean, maybe take shelter in some cave down by the beach. Lay it up with traps and the like. Go native for a while.

  It’s not a prospect that fills me with joy.

  But getting back into the air is going to be a problem. And there are no rendezvous points nearby.

  I think about Diego and Rosie. I won’t be able to make it out to them either.

  I’m royally fucked is what I am.

  Christ.

  Exhausted and depressed, I put my head back against the seat and close my eyes. And fall asleep.

  I awake with my bladder throbbing. This is a problem that doesn’t happen on airships. Your typical airship is equipped with at least a chemical toilet that we use (and then dump) for most basic biological needs.

  In the Ferrari I have two choices: open the door and brave the ground, or piss in the car and deal with the aftermath.

  It gives me pause.

  Normally I would piss in the car with abandon. Happily mark the thing as my own in the most basic, animalistic way. But not only does that remind of the Ferals and the things they do, but I may very well be living in this thing for the near future, and I don’t relish the thought of soiling my new home.

  So instead I ready my guns and prepare to face the ground. I open the door with the automatic out, moving it slowly, pausing after each push to make sure nothing is going to run for me.

  When nothing does, I slide out of the car and scan the area around me.

  It’s lightly wooded, with nothing moving. I wait a few moments more and when nothing happens, a few more.

  And here’s the thing about the ground. You start out thinking that the longer you take checking, the safer you’ll be. But you end up thinking that the sooner you get your business done, the quicker you can get back to safety.

  There’s no winning.

  Especially when you’re out in the open, with only one hand free to protect you.

  It’s one of the most vulnerable situations I’ve ever experienced.

  I have the gun out, my eyes scanning, as I finish and get everything covered again. Then it’s a quick scurry back into the cart and a long exhalation that nothing went wrong.

  I know it’s silly to think, but I’m glad a Feral didn’t get to me with my cock out. I have envisioned myself dying a number of ways. That’s not one I’d like to even consider.

  So it’s off to the coast, then, I think. Park the cart on the beach, with plenty of room to piss, a clear line of sight in front of me, and fresh seafood when I need it. Yes, the coast sounds mighty good right now.

  Only my fuel runs out before I get there.

  I drive as far as I can manage, even letting the car coast down a hill until it butts into a tree (softly, though, as the brakes still work). Then I stay in the car as long as I can. I’m in strange territory, lightly wooded, the kind of place Ferals love to nest in. I have my revolver, a tiny bit of water, and the clothes on my body. And the night comes on cold, the way it sometimes does at this time of year.

  Again, I force myself out of the car to relieve myself. I have a new system now. I climb on top of the car, which gets me off the ground and able to see around the area better. It’s times like this that I thank God I am a man and can do this easily. I don’t even want to imagine squatting somewhere.

  It’s as I’m scanning the area around the cart that I see the lights up on the hill. It almost makes me spray all over the cart.

  Lights. That means people. Ferals can’t make fire. I can’t imagine they can use electricity. Someone is living nearby. Someone who feels comfortable enough to advertise their presence to the world.

  Someone who might have food. Shelter. Fuel. Water.

  Someone who might have friends. With guns. And bad attitudes.

  This is the world we live in. For every good possibility there are at least three bad.

  But I can’t stay where I am forever. And I have to move.

  I decide to sleep on it, returning to the cart and curling up in a shivering heap. My dreams are filled with horrific images. Ferals on hooks. People running, scared. Blood. Screams.

  I’m awake before dawn hits, but when it does, I’m ready to move. Already my stomach is growling and I figure braving the place on the hill is better than slowly starving in the cart.

  Moving on the ground is scary. It’s been a long time since I’ve done it this way. Sure, working with Miranda required me to be on the ground, but I always had the Cherub at my back—there was always somewhere to retreat to. Now . . .

  I try not to think about it.

  I move over open ground, which means I’m more likely to be seen, but it also means it’s easier for me to see anyone coming at me. Besides, Ferals are just as likely to smell or hear me moving, so evening the score works just fine for me.

  The revolver is heavy reassurance in my hand. It’s my only security and I’m glad for it. I only wish I had more ammunition. I have six bullets in the gun itself and another thirty bullets in my jacket. And the three in the automatic. Then I’m out. If I get swarmed, those could go in a few minutes.

  I pray that I don’t get swarmed.

  The hill starts off as a gentle slope that grows more wooded as I climb it, but then I break through the trees and the incline gets steeper. It’s another frustration—Ferals can climb better than I can. I’ll be slower than them, and that’s never a good thing.

  With all this shit going round in my head, it’s like phantom Ferals are already pursuing me.

  I try to keep my focus on the top of the hill. And I push my legs as hard as they will go.

  I’m sweating as the slope lessens, but I can see the structure where the light must have been coming from. Some kind of house. I quicken my pace.

  And then I hear it.

  The Feral howl.

  I’ve heard many creatures howl—I’ve hear
d the occasional wolf, or mountain lion, or even, once, a pack of wild dogs—but none of those is quite as chilling as a Feral. Animals at least sound natural; they were meant to sound like that. But Ferals—their vocal cords should be used for speech. Their cries have the hint of that. Just enough to be unnerving, but not enough to seem human.

  I sometimes have nightmares about them.

  I scan the area I think the noise is coming from and see a few dark shadows moving toward me. I crouch and aim my pistol. But then I hear sounds behind me and I turn, quickly, to see another few.

  They’re surrounding me.

  I fire off three quick shots at the closest Ferals, hoping the noise will scare them off, but they keep coming on.

  All of them keep coming on.

  I can’t shoot them all. And I can’t outrun them.

  So I shoot and I shoot and I shoot again, not thinking, barely breathing, just jamming my finger back on the trigger. The automatic goes dry quickly, so I throw it at them, not thinking, just needing to keep them back.

  I’m strangely calm. It’s like the world slows and shrinks and it’s just me and the revolver, one machine, shooting at the Ferals.

  But there are too many of them.

  And they’re getting closer.

  And panic starts to set in as I realize they’re going to get me.

  And bite me.

  And I can’t Fade. I won’t.

  I hold the revolver up to my head. My last friend in the world. My last connection to the past. Give me a kiss, friend, I think.

  Then I hear a scream unlike any I’ve ever heard before. No Feral could scream like that. What possibly could?

  And the Ferals’ feet are pounding the ground around me, so strong I can feel the hits reverberating through my body.

  Something large, some monstrosity that shouldn’t exist, bursts through the Ferals and, as if by magic, they fall back from it, their bodies breaking and tearing.

  “Get on,” a voice says loudly in my ear, and I’m pulled up, toward the beast.

  Rationality asserts itself again and I realize that this is some kind of animal, with a rider, and he’s trying to get me to safety. And seeing all the blood that’s flying around, I think that must be a good idea.