Feast

by Jeremiah Knight

  “Wall all around,” Feesa told Kenyon, tracing a circle in the air with her black, claw-tipped finger. “No people.” She snarled, her embedded teeth stretching the skin of her face. It was a horrifying sight, but one he’d grown accustomed to. “No revenge.”

  “They’re here,” he assured her, pointing at the biodomes. “Inside. Hiding.”

  Had the residents of Hellhole fled, the two scouts would have picked up their scent.

  “Think,” Feesa said.

  Kenyon nodded.

  “Plan.” Before Kenyon could agree, she added. “My plan.” Then she turned to one of the females perched in a nearby tree and let out a deep huff, a few barks and a finger pointed at the house.

  The female Chunta obeyed immediately, leaping down from the tree. She landed in the cauliflower with a crunch that was far from stealthy. Then she charged across the gap toward the wall, leaving a mangled path of vegetation in her wake that anyone would spot.

  He wanted to chide Feesa, to tell her she didn’t think hard enough, but he knew better. Not only did she have the patience of a ball-clamped bull at a rodeo, but he understood the Chunta. They weren’t the disciplined surgical strike team Viper Squad had been. They were a brute force instrument of destruction that was made more effective when they were guided. Right now, Feesa was at the helm. If the female’s fact-finding mission bore fruit, he had no doubt that Feesa would consult him before taking action. They’d built up that trust, though he was aware seeing Peter, her hated enemy, might send her into a primal rage. And that could undo his own plans for a protracted revenge, but he could live with that. As long as Peter Crane and his brood didn’t.

  He watched the female leap to the top of the wall. She clung to the carved spikes that had been hardened by fire. When she hoisted herself up into clear view of anyone on the other side, Kenyon expected a bullet to tear into her. But nothing happened. The female looked back to Feesa, who urged her onward with a bark and waved hand. The female jumped down and loped toward the house. When she reached several feet in without being blown to bits, Kenyon was convinced there was no mine field. When she strolled through the shanty town without incident, he felt positive the residents were holed up inside the house. But when she stepped onto the steps of the farmer’s porch without being gunned down, he began to doubt every scenario he’d imagined so far.

  The distant female took one step at a time, her body language shifting as she did. What the hell? Kenyon thought. The female normally stood hunched over, but by the time she reached the top step, she was standing tall again. Like a human. Is she trying to trick the people inside? Kenyon nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of it. And when the female rapped her knuckles against the door, all casual, like a neighbor just stopping by to say ‘hello,’ Kenyon did laugh.

  Feesa grunted at him. Was this all part of her plan? Had all this been transmitted during the grunting exchange? If so, the Chunta might be more intelligent than he gave them credit for. That meant they’d been holding back, hiding their true selves from him all along.

  Not trusting him.

  And for the first time in weeks, Kenyon wondered if he should so fully trust these...monsters.

  He shook his head, unable to consider the idea of being betrayed by another woman, especially one as devolved as Feesa. She might be able to come up with a plan that involved knocking on a door, like people used to, but she lacked the subtlety to string him along for weeks.

  He glanced at her, watching her yellow eyes track the movement of her scout.

  How smart are you? he wondered.

  Her eyes shifted toward him, meeting his gaze. She squinted.

  Too smart, he decided.

  Then Feesa beat her chest twice and coughed a series of low chuffs. In response, the Chunta warriors shook branches, getting geared up like ancient soldiers about to charge the field of battle. “Go,” Feesa commanded, and the horde descended from the trees as one, charging the wall.

  Feesa reached a hand out for Kenyon, and he understood the unspoken request. At times like this, when the tribe was on the move, Feesa would carry him. It was degrading, but he couldn’t move as fast as the Chunta, and he certainly couldn’t scale a twenty-foot wall without help. He hesitated for just a moment and then moved toward her arms.

  But before they could leap down together, a male Chunta sprang into the tree. His sudden arrival startled Feesa, and she nearly bit his face off. The male reeled back, but then barked a few words, one of which Kenyon recognized. “Petah.” The male pointed behind them, toward the dirt road approaching the camp’s gate. “Petah.”

  Feesa gave a nod and chuffed a few commands. She then turned to Kenyon and said, “Peter.” She pointed toward the road. Then she said, “Ella,” and pointed at the farmhouse.

  Before Kenyon could respond, the large leader of the Chunta sprang from the tree and headed for the road, leaping between trunks and calling out to the nearby males gathered with the steeds. Then Kenyon was scooped up in the male’s arms. He was smaller than Kenyon, but far stronger. The male dropped down to the ground and followed the other warriors’ path to the wall, which he scaled with ease, even while carrying Kenyon. Just seconds after Feesa’s departure, Kenyon found himself deposited inside the compound. Ducking low, he brought his assault rifle around from his back and scanned the house, looking over the barrel. He’d taken the AR-15 from one of the dead men at the gas station. It wasn’t a long range weapon, but in his practiced hands, it would do the trick. Seeing no immediate threat, and knowing this would be his one and only chance to breech Hellhole’s defenses, he joined the charge.

  20

  The hurled potato missed its mark—Mason’s nose—but struck his forehead and sent the Ascot hat fluttering away. The blow did daze him, though, and as he stumbled back wiping at his eyes, Ella realized some of the soil clinging to the root vegetable had sprayed into his eyes.

  A growl escaped her lips as she got her feet underneath her and sprang toward the man. She drove her fist into his gut. He doubled over, clutching his stomach with one hand while still pawing at his eyes with the other.

  “Bitch,” he hissed.

  Ella hooked her fingers and swiped at his face. She was aiming for his eyes, hoping to make his temporary vision problems permanent. Instead, she struck his cheek, digging three troughs through his skin. He screamed in pain, reeling back.

  I’ve got him, she thought, eyeing the bulging jugular vein on his neck.

  Her stomach churned. Survival in a post ExoGenetic world meant sometimes devolving into something like the beasts that now populated it. Occasionally, savagery was the only way to survive. And if it meant saving her family and ridding the world of one of its worst monsters, she would go down that path and deal with the ramifications to her soul another time.

  Hooked fingers reached out, ready to latch on.

  She opened her mouth, teeth bared. She lacked the sharp canines of a true predator, but the human jaw was strong enough to bite through raw human skin, muscles and veins. One bite. One bite and he’s done.

  Ella dove for his neck.

  And missed.

  Mason’s heel slapped into a raised garden bed and he toppled backward. Ella sailed over his body, and when her shin struck the same bed, she sprawled onto the concrete floor, tumbling into a collection of hard metal gardening shovels, which collapsed atop her with a loud clanging.

  Wounded, but not defeated, Ella shrugged off the shovels with an angry shout and leapt to her feet. She turned to continue her assault, but Mason was already up and facing her, standing in the garden bed. He had one eye squeezed shut, his left hand on his gut, and rivulets of blood running down his cheek, but his right hand clutched a handgun. He leveled the weapon at her chest. Then he moved it lower.

  “How long will it take you to die, if I shoot you in the stomach?” he asked. “Hours, I imagine. Of course, shock will set in long before that. You won’t struggle much then, will you? No, you’ll be as docile as a bunny.” His face lit up wit
h a grin. “Oh that’s good. Bunny. That’s going to be your name. I’ll even get you ears and a little fluffy tail to wear.” He frowned. “Or not. You won’t be any fun when you’re dead. My tastes aren’t that aberrant.”

  “You need me alive,” Ella said, trying hard to hide her anger. “ExoGen—”

  “Will believe whatever I tell them. You tried to escape. I had no choice.” He motioned to his bloody cheek. “I’ve got the wounds to prove it. And it’s your daughter they really want.”

  He stepped out of the raised garden bed. “I wonder why that is. Why are they more interested in a little girl than in the great Ella Masse, architect of the apocalypse? Of course, maybe I’ll say she escaped. Let them head off into the wilderness in search of your precious daughter. She could be my Bunny. She’d look precious in a set of ears.”

  Ella took a step toward him, fingers hooked once more.

  He stepped back and raised the gun at her head. “Not another inch.”

  “They’re going to kill you,” she said. “You know that, right?”

  “Words of a desperate woman.”

  “Hellhole is a direct threat to their plans.”

  “And what plans might that be?”

  Ella wasn’t entirely sure. She’d never been let in on that secret. But she had her suspicions, and she decided to share them with Mason. “They’re rebooting the human race. On their terms. With the creation of RC-714, ExoGen stopped mucking with the genomes of plants and turned their attention toward other forms of life, including humanity. They’re building better people. Better animals. And when the ExoGenetic world eats itself into oblivion, ExoGen would repopulate the world. Humanity as we know it is nearly extinct. It’s ExoGen’s creations that will inherit the Earth.”

  Mason stood silent for a moment, and then said, “Why would they doom themselves by creating a replacement species?”

  “They’re changing themselves, too,” Ella said. “You’ve seen what RC-714 can do. Imagine if you could select the adaptations. What kind of person could you build? What kind of person could you become? And for their plan to work, humanity—all of it—needs to perish.”

  She motioned to the dome around them. “This place wasn’t supposed to exist. You and everyone else here should be dead. The only reason you’re not, is because of me. Because of the good people you locked up in a cage.” She pointed at the vegetation growing all around them. “People who could have helped undo the damage ExoGen did...with my help. And now...you naïve, pitiful man, you’re going to die.”

  Mason grinned. “Perhaps. But I still have something they want. I still have you. And Anne.” He squinted. “She’s one of them, isn’t she? A new kind of person. What’s different about her?”

  Ella didn’t move. Didn’t talk.

  “Tell me!” Mason stepped closer, leveling the gun at her head, finger on the trigger.

  The decontamination chamber hissed and opened.

  Mason didn’t flinch. Didn’t take his eyes off of her. He’d learned how dangerous she could be.

  “If this is not a matter of life and death, I will cut out your tongue and have it cooked in a pot pie.” Mason didn’t know to whom he was speaking. Ella didn’t think it mattered. But when a man replied, Mason looked thrown.

  “Uh, sir. I’m sorry, but—”

  Mason gave a quick glance toward the door. Too fast for Ella to attack, but she had no intention of attacking. While Mason felt afraid to take his eyes off of Ella, she was free to look at the newcomer. He looked like one of the good ol’ boys from the swamps outside the compound, but she didn’t recognize him. What she did recognize was the terrified expression on his face.

  “What the fuck are you doing in here!” Mason shouted, and he squeezed off a round toward the door. The bullet ricocheted off the wall just below the glass dome and punched a hole into a raised garden. The man ducked back behind the door, but he didn’t fully retreat. Just as fast as he’d taken the shot, Mason pointed the gun back at Ella.

  “They’re gone, sir!” the man shouted.

  “Who is gone?”

  “E-everyone.”

  The coiled muscles wrinkling Mason’s face flattened a bit. “What do you mean, everyone?”

  “The captives. The wall guards. The workers. Even your girls. They’re not in the house.”

  “Shawna, Charlotte and Sabine are missing?”

  “They’re not here. I checked. They’re all, just...gone.”

  “You’re the lookout, Chad. You can see the whole compound from the third floor. How can they just be gone without you seeing?”

  “I-I...”

  Even Ella could guess that the man had fallen asleep on the job. Probably had many times before. Life in Hellhole had gotten too safe. Too comfortable.

  Mason fired off two more shots toward the door, shouting in anger. Ella took a step toward him, but stopped when the gun swiveled back in her direction.

  “There’s just me and Dave left. He’s watching the front door.”

  A hissing filled the air behind Chad. It was followed by a buzz and a flashing red light. The airlock had been overridden and the system was flashing a warning. Whoever was coming in might be contaminating all this food. And whoever it was likely knew that. Something was seriously wrong in Hellhole.

  Chad ducked back inside the decontamination chamber and partly closed the door behind him. She could hear two men whispering in a rapid fire verbal sparring match that ended with, “Shit...shit!”

  The door reopened and Chad’s head poked out. “Sir...someone is at the door.”

  “One of the missing people?” Mason asked.

  “Uh...no. A big, hairy lady. She’s knocking on the door.”

  Ella snapped her head toward Chad and took a few steps in his direction.

  “Hey!” Mason said, stepping in front of her, gun raised.

  She looked around him. “Describe her face.”

  After a few hushed words with the second man, who could only be Dave, Chad leaned back out. “Long teeth coming out of her lower jaw, poking into her cheeks. Real gnarly looking.”

  “Do you have any weapons in the house?” Ella asked Mason. “Bigger than that?” She motioned to the gun in his hand.

  His face twitched with confusion.

  “You’re going to need them,” she said.

  He said nothing. Just stared at her.

  “If you stay here, you’re fucked. We’re all fucked.”

  “What’s out there?” he asked. “Who is the hairy woman?”

  “Friends of Peter’s wife.” She looked Mason in the eyes. “Who he killed five weeks ago...in front of them.”

  21

  During his life, formerly as a Marine, and recently as a survivor of the ExoGenetic apocalypse, Peter had made a good number of tough calls. Sometimes people died as a result. Sometimes at his hands. Most often the dead were his enemies, occasionally an ally, and once...his wife. And now he was faced with another tough call.

  Option one: he could keep driving and give the wheel a quick twist, flinging both Boone and the Rider from the back of the truck. It was the safest and fastest option. The Rider probably wouldn’t be killed, but Boone certainly would be, by the impact, or the Rider.

  Option two: he could stop the truck and join the fight, helping Boone defeat the Rider. Boone had a better chance of survival, but would risk the Woolies, or the gator catching up. And if that happened, they were all going to die.

  Option three: he could try something reckless without stopping and maybe save Boone’s life in the process, or maybe screw up and crash, which would bring the outcome back to option two.

  The crux of this internal struggle was Boone.

  Was the man an ally?

  Was he an enemy?

  They had fought side by side. Had saved each other’s lives. That meant something among warriors. But was there a difference between trained soldiers and weekend warriors? Could he trust Boone, who had revealed himself to have a questionable moral compass? But
maybe the man just needed redirection. If too much time under Mason’s influence had brought out Boone’s baser instincts, perhaps some solid redirection could bring out his best? Like Luke did with Vader, Peter sensed some good left in the man.

  Convinced there was a chance, even if just a small one, that Boone could be redeemed, Peter’s mind was made up for him.

  It was time to get reckless.

  With one hand on the wheel, his foot on the gas and his eyes on the road, Peter leaned forward and reached under the driver’s side seat. He felt nothing at first, and he worried that Boone’s men had already discovered the hidden weapon. Then his fingers grazed something solid. It had been jostled deeper under the seat. Had one of the kids been in the truck, they probably would have had an easier time retrieving it from the back.

  He leaned a bit further and found himself stopped by the steering wheel. His shoulder felt about ready to pop from his socket as he stretched out. The bumpy rubber grip tickled his fingertips, but it clung to the carpeted floor, pressed down by the weapon’s four and a half pounds. He needed a few more inches.

  A shout of pain twisted him around. The Rider’s long, hooked teeth had punctured Boone’s neck. Without thought, Peter twitched the wheel to the left, kicking the truck’s back end out just a bit. The sudden movement nearly toppled the two combatants in the truck bed, but the Rider adjusted its body and remained upright, slipping its teeth out of Boone’s flesh.

  With a shout of rage, Boone took advantage of the distraction and slipped his thumbs into the Rider’s eyes. The creature howled in pain, but what might drop a man to the ground had the opposite effect on the Rider. Instead of reeling away from the thumbs about to burst its eyeballs, the Rider leaned into it, mouth open, ready to exchange its eyesight for blood.

  Peter wasn’t sure if the creature was just in a mindless rage, or if it understood that its body could evolve the ability to regrow eyes, or develop another sense to replace its eyes. It didn’t really matter. Either way, Boone was outclassed. And soon, he’d be dead.