“These walls are concrete,” Boone said. “Safer in here.”
“Against spears maybe,” Peter said, and then as though to prove his unfinished point, the garage’s side wall folded inward, vomiting concrete blocks as something massive plowed through.
Peter and Boone both dove for the pool table, sliding beneath the solid sheet of slate. The table shook as chunks of wall toppled into the room, but it withstood the assault. Before the last blocks hit the floor, Peter poked his head out and saw the ugly face of a Woolie pulling out of the newly formed gap. The creature looked like a cross between a hairy rhino and a buffalo. The single horn on the tip of its nose split like an antler, ending in razor sharp scoops. Tendrils of brown hair hung in clumps, matching the drool dangling from its mouth, sweeping back and forth across the floor, like a lazy janitor’s mop. Its jaundiced eyes twitched toward Peter, but it made no move to attack. It just lumbered back.
Making way, Peter thought. “We’re about to have company!” He pulled himself out from under the table, climbed to his feet and chambered the first round. Before he could aim the weapon at the massive hole in the side wall, the window beside him shattered inward. He twisted toward the sound and caught sight of a male Rider curled up in a ball, unfurling his body as he catapulted through the air.
Peter tried to fire his weapon, but it wasn’t designed for close quarters combat. The Rider struck him in the side. Man and beast went down together, sprawling across the concrete-littered floor.
A spear tip stabbed toward Peter’s throat before he could get back to his feet. He caught the shaft, stopping the blade just an inch from his throat, but he only managed to delay his death. The male Riders, while smaller than Peter, and the females of their ExoGenetic species, had powerful muscles. Like apes, who could out-muscle a man more than twice their size.
When the tip of the spear met Peter’s skin and began slipping through it, he nearly lost his grip. And as a shout of pain and emotional agony at failing his family rose up in his throat, the blade sank deeper.
And then, with a blast of noise, the blade slipped out.
Peter’s chest heaved as he watched the Rider fall to the side, an arc of blood flowing out behind its head, while a plume of gore sprayed out in front of it. He stared at the creature, as its body struck the floor, kicking up a cloud of powdered concrete. Its lifeless eyes looked back at him.
Then a voice cut through the shock. “Get the fuck up, man!”
Peter gasped a deep breath and adrenaline carried the oxygen straight to his brain, sharpening his senses and speeding up his reaction time. The effect, which he’d felt before, was that time had suddenly slowed. In reality, he was simply processing the world around him much faster.
A shadow moved in the open wall. He gripped the spear lying next to him and hurled it toward the opening without fully registering what was there. By the time he saw the Rider, it was already falling back, the spear planted firmly in its sternum, its long-toothed lower jaw slack in surprise.
Thumps echoed down from the ceiling. Shadows shifted in the swamp outside the ruined wall. A Woolie bellowed from the street, its call like a fog horn. That’s going to attract a lot of attention, Peter thought, but maybe that was the idea. If the man accompanying these creatures was who Peter feared it was, they might be calling reinforcements.
Peter hauled himself up, and shouted at Boone. “Keys!”
Boone gave a nod and made for the front office.
Movement outside the garage door spun Peter around. A Rider had leaped down from the roof and was coiled to spring. As the creature dove into the garage, Peter pulled the trigger and held it, putting six rounds into the Rider’s head. The first shot killed it. The force of the remaining five stopped its forward momentum and deposited the body at Peter’s feet.
Boone stumbled back into the garage, stepping over debris and jingling the keys. “This them?”
Peter snatched the keys from Boone’s hand and turned for the ruined door. “The moment we’re out in the open, they’ll be on us.”
“Ayuh.”
“Don’t stand your ground. Don’t even slow down. Just get in Beastmaster and—”
“Beastmaster?”
“The truck.”
Boone flashed a grin. “Well, all right then. Let’s kick this in the nuts and get ’er done.”
“I’ll take point, you cover our six,” Peter said. “Steady pace. Stay close.”
“Copy that.”
Peter stepped through the ruined door, leading with the assault rifle, sweeping back and forth, looking for targets. The lot appeared empty, but he could hear movement just beyond the fence. Riders hiding behind the cars, he guessed. Boone shuffled out behind him, walking backwards, aiming up at the garage roof at first, and then in all directions.
“Don’t see nothing,” Boone said.
Peter ignored him and kept moving. They were fully exposed now. It wouldn’t be long before they proved too irresistible a target.
The attack came just three steps later, but the Riders were done throwing spears and attacking one at a time. A fog-horn blast bellowed from the swamp across the street. It was followed by the rumble of heavy bodies charging across the pavement. Six Woolies, three with Riders, three without, burst from the trees, headed straight for the lot.
“Run!” Peter shouted, tugging on Boone’s shoulder. He pressed the ‘unlock’ button on the key fob and was happy to see the tail lights flash on twice. The doors were unlocked.
As they reached the truck, the first of the Woolies reached the lot, plowed through the chain link fence and slammed into the truck parked there. The smashed vehicle shot across the lot and crashed into a second with tremendous force.
The second Woolie did the same. They were turning the parked vehicles into massive projectiles, while simultaneously blocking off any chance of retreat back to the garage.
Peter put the key in the ignition.
A third truck careened across the lot, followed quickly by another.
The gear shift clunked down into Drive.
A pickup truck whooshed past, directly behind them, clipping one of the spikes welded to the back of Beastmaster. The flung pickup sprang into the air, slamming down on the open moving truck, further violating the corpses.
Peter shoved the gas pedal down. The big Dodge Ram roared forward, striking the chain link fence with a clang and peeling it away from the metal support poles. The fence stretched out, trying to hold them in place like a spider web clinging to a bird. The truck pushed forward until the fence slipped up and over the roof and sprang back toward the lot, just as the last Woolie struck, closing the gap where they had been just moments before.
Peter peeled hard to the left, flinging mud as he avoided a drop off into the swamp. Tires squealed as they reached the road.
“That way!” Boone shouted, pointing to the right.
As its windshield wipers and cleaning fluid attacked the excrement-soiled windshield, the truck roared away from the scene. But it wasn’t alone. The powerful Woolies and their Riders were unfazed by the impacts with the vehicles. Peter and Boone weren’t more than fifty feet away by the time the creatures turned to follow them.
Peter glanced in the rearview, expecting to see the Woolies fading in the distance. No way those big things can keep up, he thought, as the truck moved past fifty miles per hour. But what he saw in the mirror reminded him that making assumptions about creatures who could rapidly evolve and adapt was often a fatal mistake. It had been weeks since he’d seen these things, and while fast and powerful then, they’d obviously evolved some speed since. The Woolies weren’t just keeping up—they were gaining.
“Get back there,” Peter said, hitching his thumb toward the truck bed and the machine gun mounted there.
Boone turned to climb over the seat, but stopped short, head turned out the passenger side window. “What in the—aww shit!”
Peter glanced out the window in time to see a massive pair of jaws, filled with foot
-long conical teeth, explode from the swamp, reaching out for the side of the truck. Before he could take action or even shout in surprise, the open maw snapped closed.
17
Ella saw the incoming attack too late to do much about it. The punch was aimed at her temple. If she tried to lean back, the fist would connect with, and most likely break, her jaw. Dodging Mason’s broad-knuckled fist was impossible. But she could make him regret it.
She turned to face the blow and tilted her head down, shifting the impact from her temple—which would have knocked her out cold, if not killed her—to her forehead.
His fist full of old phalanges struck hard, colliding with the thickest part of her skull.
Two shouts of pain echoed off the curved glass ceiling.
Ella’s was cut short by a flicker of unconsciousness. The solid strike had snapped her head back, mashing her brain into her skull. She toppled backward into a raised garden of potatoes, regaining consciousness on impact.
Mason’s yelp of pain became a hiss. He shook his right hand, and then held his index finger in his left hand. He squeezed hard, unleashing a muffled pop that was followed by another yelp. She didn’t know if he was trying to set a broken bone, or fix a dislocated joint, but when he was done, he didn’t try bending the finger.
Ella blinked and tried to get back to her feet, but she felt like she’d just woken up from a long sleep after a night of binge drinking. Her limbs were not fully obeying her commands yet.
Mason looked down at her, but didn’t take a step closer. “You’re a crafty bitch, aren’t you?”
“At least I’m not a geriatric rapist,” Ella said. Each word sent a pulse of pain through her head. She tried to hide it. To look strong. But she knew her squinting eyes and downturned lips were projecting her vulnerability.
“You are far worse than that,” Mason said. “The Bhagavad-Gita and Oppenheimer both got it wrong. The world wasn’t brought to its knees by a multi-armed Vishnu, or the atomic bomb. Civilization was destroyed by you, Dr. Ella Masse. Seems only fitting that someone bring you to your knees.”
Despite the pain in Mason’s hand, a hungry look returned to his eyes. It lingered on her face for just a moment longer, before traveling down to her skirt, which had been flung up, exposing her legs.
“You were a mess when you first entered the camp. And to be honest, the shaved head still isn’t working for me. But it’s different. And different is fun. Despite the grime and old blood and whatever else you’d been rolling through out there—” He waved his hand toward the wall, indicating the world outside. “—I saw your potential. I’ve been with all manner of women, but they were all...soft. In body, mind and spirit. But not you. You are a hard woman.” He raised his injured hand. “And you have not disappointed.”
He took a step closer, but not too close.
“The problem is, we’re under something of a schedule. Your friends are on their way.”
“Peter will—”
“I’m not speaking about your counterfeit husband.” Mason leaned his head to the side, eyes traveling up Ella’s exposed thigh.
She pulled the skirt down, and shuffled back. Her head throbbed, stopping her short. It hurt like hell, but not quite as bad as she made it seem. She groaned and held her head, rolling her eyes for a moment before gripping the potato bed’s plastic edging.
“I’m talking about your employers.”
Ella held her breath, the shock on her face genuine.
“Yes,” Mason said. “ExoGen is on their way here. Just for you. And your daughter.”
“W-what? How?”
“We installed a HAM radio just a week ago. I’m not sure why, but we never thought to try it before. S’pose we just assumed there was no one else out there to talk to. Imagine my surprise when I heard a message broadcast by the harbingers of doom themselves. They were looking for the one and only Dr. Ella Masse, and her daughter—both of whom were hiding the secrets to preventing the Change from taking place. Tsk, tsk, Ella. I don’t know what your motivation for destroying civilization was, and I can’t even say I don’t appreciate this new world you’ve created, but if turning you over to the company you duped means a future beyond these walls, I have to do my civic duty.”
“They’re trying to stop me from fixing the problem,” Ella argued.
“Says the architect of hell.”
“I tried to warn people,” she said. “I built these domes to save people. And you’ve done that like no one else.”
“My vanity cannot be fluffed, but other things... Well, perhaps we can arrange your escape.”
Ella glared at the man. Was he offering her a chance to escape in exchange for a sexual favor? Was he really that preoccupied by the exploits of his manhood? As the first repulsive notion of considering Mason’s offer entered her thoughts, Ella’s hand felt a large lump just beneath the soil’s surface. She dug her fingers down and lifted a dirty, football-sized potato from the soil. “These are Solamum tuberosum, variant RC-714. They’re ExoGenetic. Is this what you’re eating?”
Mason grinned. “It’s what we’re all eating.”
“For how long?”
Mason took a deep breath and let it out slowly, counting on his fingers and wincing when he moved the injured index digit. “Thirteen months. Are you impressed?”
Ella was impressed, but not with Mason. “The Askews. They did this.”
Mason nodded. “The crops, as you noted, are still ExoGenetic, but the RC-714 gene that unlocks millennia of dormant adaptations, has been blocked. The crop’s adaptations remain intact, but they no longer modify the DNA of those who consume it. Lyn said they had rusted the revolving door shut. The problem, of course, is that these crops can only co-exist with the crops outside. They can’t replace them. Which means that these biodomes are still required. We have more than enough food, but remain prisoners of Hellhole.”
“The Askews fed you, and you repaid them by locking them up? By starving Bob to death?”
“They questioned my authority.”
“Because this was their home.”
He shrugged. “There are no governments. No laws. No land rights. Who is to say what is right and what is wrong? I’m writing history now. Whoever comes next will remember me as humanity’s savior.”
“Did you tell ExoGen?”
“They’re on their way. Were surprisingly close. Tracking you, I suppose.”
“Not about me,” Ella said, shaking the potato at Mason. “About this?”
The trace of doubt on Mason’s face came and went like a Formula 1 race car zipping past, but it was enough to confirm Ella’s fears.
“Mason, listen to me.” She held the potato up. “This is a gift. Not just to you. But to the world. It’s not a solution, but it’s big. You can feed people. Really feed people.”
“I’ve heard similar words come from your mouth before,” Mason said. “That was on TV, and you had nicer hair then, but you were a snake oil salesman then, and you’re a snake oil salesman now.”
“I didn’t know,” she said between clenched teeth.
“Mmm.” Mason took a step closer, leering again.
“Mason, they are going to kill you and everyone here. They told you the truth about my work. I am working on a cure. On a way to alter the human genome, so we can eat any ExoGentic crop without fear of mutation. The human race can have a future. But that’s not what they want. That’s not their design.”
“Why would they want to stop the human race from being able to eat?”
Ella sat up a little straighter, her head clearing. “For the same reason you hold back this bounty from most of the people in this camp.”
That seemed to sink in.
“Control,” he said. “To what purpose?”
She wanted to grill him about his purpose. About his sick preoccupation with having a house full of fantasy maids. His motivations were as base as they come, without unlocking a single prehistoric gene. But that would only incite him and cloud the rational th
ought slowly pushing against his aging, but raging, libido.
“I don’t know yet,” she said, and it was true. She’d never been part of ExoGen’s inner circle. She knew some of them. Even liked some of them. But the reason why they released the ExoGenetic crops, even after they understood what would happen, or perhaps because of it, was still a mystery. She had always assumed it was a more complex version of Hellhole Bay. Mason had remade this small part of the world to suit his every desire. And it was only possible because the old world had died. ExoGen was no doubt doing the same, but on a much larger scale. A worldwide scale. With a longer endgame. And whatever that was, it still required that the remnants of humanity, including Mason and every living soul in his Hellhole, to be changed into monsters or slaughtered. “But they have control. Absolute control.”
She pushed herself up a little higher. “You’re right. There are no governments. No laws. No right and wrong. Society is being rewritten, but by whom? Not you. Have you considered how ExoGen survived the end? How they have helicopters en route? They’re located in San Francisco. You know that, right? And yet, here they are, on the East Coast, looking for me. How many people are living here? A hundred? Do you know how many people, loyal to ExoGen’s future, are alive and well on the far side of the country?”
He just stared back at her. He didn’t know. Hadn’t thought to answer any of these questions.
“Thousands,” she said. “The cradle of humanity’s future isn’t here in Hellhole, it’s in San Francisco. With ExoGen. Unless...unless I can set the rest of us free. They’re coming here for me. And for Anne. That’s true. But once they have us? You and your harem are dead. These domes will be reduced to rubble. You will not be remembered in anyone’s history books.”
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