Feast

by Jeremiah Knight

Mason grinned. “A riveting speech.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Perhaps,” Mason said. “Perhaps not. Either way, my earlier offer still stands.”

  “Oh my God, are you serious?” Ella gripped the potato tightly, lowering it back toward the soil. “Don’t you get it? Whether or not I degrade myself for you, they know where you are. You are going to die.”

  He sighed, but it sounded more like a growl—exasperation mixed with primal desire. “And what are you suggesting we do?”

  “Fight!” she shouted, and lobbed the massive potato at him.

  18

  Peter swerved hard to the left, tires squealing as he nearly drove headlong into the swamp on the left side of the road. He cut the wheel back before plunging into the inky black waters, and since they were still on the road, and not being crushed by monstrous jaws, he assumed his last ditch maneuver had worked, pulling them just out of the creature’s reach.

  He looked in the rearview and saw the last of it careen over the far side of the road. The massive beast was a blur one moment, and then concealed by an enormous splash that hid its dark body from view the next. Peter didn’t see much of it, but what he did see urged his foot to push on the gas pedal a little harder. Not that it did much good. He already had the pedal pushed against the floor.

  “What in the name of St. Peter’s shit was that?” Boone shouted, eyes wide with surprise, a hint of a grin on his lips. Peter understood that the smile wasn’t some kind of mania or psychotic thrill-seeking rush, but a genuine delight at still being alive.

  Peter was smiling, too. A brush with death, and the adrenaline that brings, can leave survivors feeling elated for a bit. The numbing shock, body shakes and sleepless nights of fear-induced sweat would come later. “Apex.”

  “That worse than those hairy things?” Boone looked up over the seat through the rear window. “Which, by the way, are still on our tail.”

  Peter looked in the rearview again. Four of the six Woolies and two of the Riders had already passed the creature in the swamp, cloaked in shadow. If the Riders were operating under the normal guiding force that drove most ExoGenetic species—insatiable hunger—they would have turned on the newcomer. Instead, they’d continued pursuing Peter and Boone, which meant they had objectives. They were coordinated. Thinking. Evolving intelligence that could guide their hunger. But more than all of that, it meant the attack was something else. Something that confirmed Peter’s fears.

  It was personal.

  This wasn’t random.

  Wasn’t hunger-driven.

  This was revenge. Against him. Against his family.

  He pushed the pedal even harder, but it still did nothing to help. The Dodge Ram was a powerful vehicle, but weighed down with armor, weapons and ammunition, it was closer to a tank than a dragster. Acceleration was a slog, but once it got going, there wasn’t much that could stand in its way. Unfortunately, both a Woolie and whatever had lunged across the road, were big enough to stand up to the truck. Fortunately, they were all still in the rearview. But Peter suspected there would be more between them and the camp.

  That’s where Ella is, he thought, that’s where Kenyon will be.

  “There it is!” Boone shouted. “I see it in the swamp! Keeping pace with the stragglers!”

  Peter glanced from the rearview to the side-view mirror. He flinched when a massive shape exploded from the swamp, clutched the last Woolie and Rider in its jaws and plunged back into the water on the far side of the road. The fifty-foot-long creature was easy to identify this time. The long body and ridged tail were familiar to anyone who had spent time in the swamps of the South.

  “Gall dang, that’s a croc!” Boone’s smile had faded. He’d spent enough time in the swamps to have a healthy fear of the average American alligator, which grew to a maximum length of fifteen feet and weighed five hundred pounds. They were man-eaters capable of dismembering, consuming and crapping out even the largest and strongest human male. But this thing...it was worse. And not just because it was larger.

  “It’s coming back!” Boone shouted.

  Peter watched the action in the mirror. Trees burst and toppled over, giving way to the largest ExoGen Apex he had ever seen, larger and more intimidating than even the matriarch Stalker. It didn’t have a pack to add to its strength, but it didn’t need one. The jaws were large enough and powerful enough to snatch up a Woolie the size of Beastmaster and kill it with a quick squeeze. Alligators can bite down with the force of 2125 pounds per square inch, strong enough to flatten a human skull or shatter the intensely strong shell of a snapping turtle. The Nile Crocodile can take down even tougher prey with its 5000 PSI bite, but even that monster, at 20 feet long was dwarfed by the Apex surging back onto the road. It probably could crush down with 30,000 PSI—more than enough to mash the armored truck, but that, at least, would be a merciful end. Anything human caught in those jaws would be instantly reduced to paste. There would be no pain, just an immediate lack of existence.

  The ExoGator hit the pavement running.

  Not running, Peter thought, galloping.

  Alligators were one of the most perfectly evolved species on the planet. They’d been around for a hundred and fifty million years without needing to evolve. While other species came and went, alligators and crocodiles, dominated their habitats. They were already Apex predators when the Change began, and even with RC-714 unlocking their genetic potential, they didn’t have much need to evolve. That was, until food became scarce and they had to move over land. So this alligator reached back into its past, found an ancestor with long limbs, and evolved to run. Fast.

  The second Woolie was snatched up from behind, mewling briefly as its backside was flattened inside the mighty jaws. When the hairy beast fell limp, the alligator gave two shakes of its head, severing its prey in two. While still running, the creature tipped its head back and swallowed the Woolie’s ass-end whole. Then it set its sights on the rest of them.

  “Here!” Boone shouted. “Here, here, here! Turn left!”

  Peter slammed the brakes and turned the wheels. Tires squealed out a high-pitched staccato rhythm as they bounced over the pavement. A lighter vehicle would have flipped. Facing the wide dirt road, Peter accelerated, kicking up a cloud of dust that would let their pursuers know exactly where they’d fled.

  The cabin filled with the grinding rumble of loose rocks beneath the tires. Peter’s hands tingled as the steering wheel shook in his iron grip. He twitched the wheel back and forth, eyes glued to the winding dirt road, delicately balancing between speed and control. One wrong move and they’d slam into a tree or plunge into the swampy waters. Whether or not they perished on impact, stopping would be a death sentence.

  When Boone climbed into the back seat, Peter tried his hardest to not look at the man. “What are you doing?”

  “Manning the big gun, right?”

  Peter’s instinct was to argue. To call it what it was: too dangerous. But Boone wasn’t his family. The man was a fighter and, if Peter was honest, expendable. They had bonded as warriors in the heat of battle, but family still came first, and a hail of 5.56 X 44mm bullets spraying from the backside of Beastmaster would increase his odds of reaching them. “Do it.”

  The rear window slid open just in time to allow a pain-wracked bellow to fully permeate the cabin. They’d just rounded a bend and couldn’t see the ExoGator or the Woolies, but it sounded like the alligator was continuing its mobile smorgasbord. On one hand, Peter was glad for the help, on the other, he knew the line of entrées ended with him and Boone.

  Peter focused on the wheel, slowing a bit as they approached a sharp turn. Boone was half way through the small opening in the back window, worming his way into the truck bed. If the truck turned too hard, the man might fly off the side. Peter wished he’d had time to explain the rubber band system he’d repaired with Jakob. Once strapped in, the machine-gunner could be jounced around without fear of falling away. But there wasn’t time.

&nb
sp; Peter heard Boone chamber the first round. A few seconds after rounding the bend, the machine gun beat a rhythm in the air, keeping time with a frenetic metronome. Fifteen rounds later, the weapon went quiet, replaced by a string of curses.

  “What’s happening?” Peter asked. The side-view mirror revealed three Woolies still in pursuit, two with riders. They were a hundred feet back and gaining with each thunderous foot fall.

  “I can’t hit shit while we’re moving around,” Boone called, his voice nearly inaudible as wind whipped the words away.

  “You want me to stop?” Peter asked with a grin.

  “You shitt’n me? Fuck no!”

  Soldiers joked. In the quiet times. In the face of bullets. Even in the face of death. Humor kept them human. Kept them sane. At least until they went home. Humor tended to stay behind, on the battlefield.

  A second blast of machine gun fire ripped through the air. The lead Woolie twitched, stumbled and then kept on coming. But its rider, flailed back in a burst of red, toppled through the air and rolled to a ragdoll stop in the dirt road. The man-thing lay still for just a moment before the last thunderous shaggy beast crushed him beneath its feet, leaving a trail of gooey red in its wake.

  Peter shouted in surprise as the alligator catapulted out of the swamp beside the road and snapped at the Woolie, which leaned to the side, evading the bite. Then, instead of continuing the pursuit, the Woolie turned to face its adversary and charged, its deadly, scooped horn leading the way. The horn was no doubt sharp enough to pierce the gator’s thick flesh, and the Woolie powerful enough to drive it deep, but would it be enough to kill the monster?

  Not even close.

  The ExoGator twisted its head around toward the Woolie. Instead of plunging the horn into the gator’s side, it ran headlong into those gaping jaws. Teeth impaled flesh. Blood sprayed. And with a quick upward snap, the Woolie was sent cartwheeling through the air, dropping back down far out of sight.

  Boone adjusted his aim.

  Puffs of dirt raced up the road, making a line toward the gator and then striking it. The struck flesh rippled like water, but there were no holes. No spurts of red. No explosions of gore from the far side. The gator flinched, but was not injured. It clamped its empty jaws together, the clomp loud enough to hurt Peter’s ears. Then it was up, resuming its horrible gallop.

  As Peter followed the bending road to the left, he saw the ExoGator run straight, plunging back into the swamp. While Beastmaster and the short-legged, hairy Woolies were confined to the road, the gator moved freely through the swamp, instinct guiding it to follow the old adage: the fastest route between two points is a straight line.

  “Hang on!” Peter said, pushing the truck toward unsafe speeds and then beyond. The curving road took them directly into the gator’s path, and he didn’t want to be there when it arrived.

  The roadside crumbled as the truck skirted the edge. The rear tire slipped over the side for a moment before jouncing back up, nearly knocking Boone from his post. He shouted a string of Southern obscenities, most of which Peter didn’t understand, but he held on. When the road straightened out, they picked up speed, and just in time.

  “Here it comes!” Boone shouted. His voice was followed by the machine gun’s roar. Peter looked out the side window. The gator was lunging toward them, mouth open, loping through the four foot water like it was a road. Small red spots pocked its pink tongue, the bullets punching through, but doing nothing to slow the behemoth.

  Movement in the side-view got Peter’s attention. Two Woolies and a single Rider were right behind them. The Rider was on his feet, legs bent, clutching handfuls of clumpy hair.

  He’s going to jump, Peter thought.

  But then the view became a mass of tangled and tumbling limbs. The croc missed the truck and slammed into the two Woolies. All three beasts went down in a writhing mass of angry limbs. The impact and subsequent battle would give Peter and Boone time to escape, or at least increase their lead. Peter focused once more on the road ahead, until he heard thumping in the back.

  “You okay?” Peter shouted back over his shoulder.

  There was a thump and a gasped shout. “H-help!”

  The rearview showed Boone in the clutches of a Rider, its arms wrapped around his back, squeezing him tight. The hairy man-thing had its mouth open so wide that it looked dislocated, the hooked four-inch-long spears it had for lower teeth just inches from Boone’s neck. The only reason it hadn’t taken a bite was because Boone had both hands on the creature’s face, holding it back, but inch by inch, he was losing ground with each beat of his heart. The man had just seconds to live, and then Peter would be next.

  19

  Eddie Kenyon was impressed. After seeing the number of still-human men at the gas station, he suspected one of Ella’s biodomes would be nearby. Sure, the swamps could be scavenged for food, but the men had looked well fed. And he’d seen some of their stomach contents spilled out on the floor of the moving truck. The men were eating vegetables, and not the kind that could be foraged. His suspicions were soon confirmed when the men spilled their guts, literally and figuratively. He learned the location of the camp, known as Hellhole, and that Peter, Ella and the kids had been taken there as captives. Easy pickings.

  After leaving a contingent of male Chunta and their steeds behind to watch the gas station, Kenyon, Feesa and the other female warriors had trudged through the swamps, moving slowly and quietly, until they spotted the twenty-foot-tall wall that looked like it could take a beating. They wouldn’t be forcing their way inside, though he suspected the large gates might eventually give way to a persistent assault from their steeds.

  But the wall wasn’t what had him on edge. From his perch in a tall tree, he looked out at what might be the last vestige of civilization outside San Francisco.

  The camp was vast. More like a small town. There were five biodomes. He could see the lush plant life growing within them. Enough to feed dozens of people. The shanty town surrounding the farmhouse at the camp’s core looked like it could house a hundred people. And there were signs of activity everywhere he looked. Everything was maintained. Footprints were scattered about the barren earth. And the land itself was completely clear of ExoGenetic crops, a feat that could only be accomplished through persistent and daily labor, the evidence of which could be seen in the form of ash. There was a layer of it mixing with the brown soil beneath. The place looked like it should be a beehive of activity.

  But there was no one in sight.

  No workers.

  No guards.

  No Ella.

  Were we spotted at the gas station? Kenyon wondered. Did they evacuate? Are they hiding inside?

  He could tell Feesa wanted to leap the wall and find out for herself, but she didn’t fully understand the strength of mankind. The men they’d attacked earlier were unsuspecting, caught out in the open. It had hardly been a fight. But here, with a wall separating them, if the occupants of Hellhole were ready for a fight, the Chunta could be mowed down in a hail of gunfire before reaching the shanty town. For all he knew, there was a minefield between them and the house.

  He placed his hand on her hairy arm and felt the muscles beneath quivering with anticipation. Her mind was primitive, but she understood that this was the place they’d been told Peter Crane had been taken. “Patience.”

  Her hand squeezed and crushed the branch to which she clung. They were in the trees again, just high enough to spy inside the camp, but not close enough to leap over the wall. The trees had been cleared away, thirty feet back. The space between the tree line and the wall had been filled in by densely packed cauliflower plants. The bulbous white heads would provide firm enough footing, but each step would let out a rubbery crunch. They wouldn’t be able to approach without announcing it. And leaping over would be impossible from this distance, even for Feesa. Whoever built this place had planned its defenses well.

  They’re in there, he thought. Waiting. And with those biodomes, starving them
out isn’t an option. Damn.

  “We go,” Feesa said, pointing at the farmhouse. “Revenge inside.”

  “We wait,” Kenyon replied, then repeated the mantra that had carried the Chunta this far and helped them overcome a myriad of deadly encounters. “Watch. Listen. Think. Plan. Attack.”

  “Just attack,” Feesa said.

  “Then Chunta die.”

  Feesa looked about ready to tackle him out of the tree and rip out his throat. The female warrior had bonded with him in more ways than one, but the Chunta, like all ExoGenetic creatures, were guided by instinct first and intellect only on rare occasions. Luckily for Kenyon, Feesa was one of the most rare ExoGenetic creatures, capable of rational thought, and at times, restraint. She opened her mouth, sliding the long hooked teeth from their cheek pockets, and hissed at him. But she didn’t attack.

  Kenyon wasn’t sure if Feesa had simply retained a portion of her human intelligence, or if she’d lost it and then evolved a new primitive intelligence. That she could still speak limited English suggested the former, but if she had any memory of her life before the Change, she never spoke of it, nor seemed disturbed by what she had become. Smart enough to understand revenge, Kenyon believed, but not emotionally complex enough to experience regret.

  Kenyon on the other hand... Regret fueled his need for revenge. He’d put his trust—his love—in a woman who betrayed him. Who might have planned to betray him from the very start. He’d been a tool. Nothing more. And even after several weeks, his chest still burned with a newfound fury. Not because he’d never really had her, or lost her to another man, but because despite all of that, he still loved her. And he hated her all the more for it.

  Sloshing water revealed the return of their scouts. They’d sent two of the females around the wall’s perimeter, searching for weak points or signs of life. Feesa exchanged words in the Chunta’s ape-like language, which was composed of grunts, a few actual words and a good number of hand gestures. The returning females scaled the trees as the conversation came to a close, joining the fifteen other warriors waiting to attack. Their steeds were positioned deeper in the swamp, tended to by a handful of smaller males, all waiting to be called to action.