Half Life: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Next Book 6)

by Scott Nicholson

  “My eye’s a little warm but not doing anything too freaky,” DeVontay said. “I’m guessing if any robots or metal things were around, it would let me know.”

  “I’d let you know, too,” Squeak said. “I’d scream really, really loud.”

  Rachel laughed. “We’re all pretending to be brave just like Franklin pretends to be mean. Can you do that, too? Like a game?”

  Squeak nodded. “I wouldn’t really scream. My mom taught me not to.”

  Franklin didn’t want the girl to think about her abusive mom. But the woman had sacrificed for her child, and Squeak was alive today. That was more than Franklin could say about some of the young people who’d entered his life since the solar storms.

  “If it gets bad enough, we all have permission to scream,” Franklin said. “Deal?”

  “Yeah!” The girl danced forward with her doll in one arm and reached her other up to high-five Franklin. After their palms slapped, they all turned to catch up with Cone, who was already crossing the highway shoulder and entering the woods. She’d switched her lantern back on and its dim, hazy ball of light bobbed between the black tree trunks.

  Franklin lagged behind so he could walk with K.C. He took a last look up and down the highway to make sure nothing was following them, and then entered the trees. The forest was a mix of pine and hardwood, with little scrub vegetation, so passage was relatively easy. The biggest obstacles were the occasional low branch or toe-catching root. He made sure to keep Rachel’s radiant gaze in sight, keeping him oriented.

  “We’re crazy to do this,” K.C. said, her rifle nesting in the crook of her elbow.

  “We already talked about it,” he said. “I wanted to head west and hide out. But the situation changed on me.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Besides, there’s more to this than just you.”

  “I know. I was a fool to lose you all those years ago, but somehow it seems like we didn’t miss a day. Like our lives just kind of fit together at the right time. Even if it’s probably the absolute worst time.”

  “We’re not crazy to go up to a Zap city, knock on the door, and ask to see the Wizard,” K.C. said. “We’re crazy to be doing this.”

  She caught Franklin’s arm and pulled him toward her. He felt her breath on his face and her eyes swam with the watery light of aurora. She looked thirty years younger somehow. He closed his eyes and kissed her, head swimming with the fragrance of pine and dirt and damp leaves and whatever soap she’d found in Ziminski’s camp.

  “Mmm,” Franklin murmured. “If you keep that up, we might have to break out that tent.”

  “We can’t miss all the fun,” K.C. whispered.

  “Oh, that would be fun, honey, I promise you.”

  “Save it,” she said, giving him another kiss. “After this is all over, we’ll stay in bed for a week.”

  Neither of them mentioned the nuclear Sword of Damocles hanging over their heads. Such a thing would spoil even the most magical of romantic moods. They hurried to catch up, a bough of pine needles slapping Franklin in the face and nearly unseating his watch cap.

  As he paused to adjust it, Franklin heard a low grating panting, almost a growl.

  “Did you hear that?” he whispered to K.C., who’d gone on a few steps ahead.

  “No, what?” she asked.

  The creature burst out of the brush with such blinding speed that Franklin barely had time to react. It was the size of a wild pig but was built more like a bear, with muscular legs that propelled it forward. Its curved tusks glinted in depraved ivory.

  “Beastadon!” he yelled in warning, but it was already on K.C., butting her hard enough to make an audible thump, like a giant fist striking mud. The impact drove K.C. against a tree trunk, knocking her rifle from her grasp. She slid to a sitting position on the ground. The beastadon’s little red eyes were like pools of boiled blood as it lowered its head and readied for another lunge.

  Franklin raised his 30-30, but even as panicked as he was, he realized a gunshot might alert the city to their presence. He hesitated just long enough for the furry monster to charge. K.C. raised her boots and smacked the soles against the monster’s head. One tusk pierced the rubber and K.C. cried out in pain as the beastadon shook its head, twisting her ankle. Franklin jabbed the barrel of his rifle into the thing’s ribs, hoping to draw its attention. It pulled free of K.C. and turned toward Franklin, emitting a series of wet snorts.

  “Come on, you hairy son of a bitch,” Franklin said. “Let’s have a party.”

  The beastadon let out a squeal and raked its front hooves in the dirt, tossing up pine needles and leaves. Franklin had a hunting knife in a holster strapped to his instep, but if he bent down to retrieve it, those tusks might tilt up and hook him under the chin.

  “Climb if you can,” Franklin said to K.C.

  “No way, mister,” she said, rolling over and fumbling with her pack. Franklin thought she was retrieving a pistol, since her M16 was out of reach.

  “We can’t shoot,” Franklin said as the beastadon whirled back around at K.C.’s movement.

  “I know.” She tapped the ground with something, and then slapped at the mutant animal. It grunted and snorted and charged her again.

  K.C. crouched on her knees and stabbed forward with the object. It flashed in the aurora leaking through the autumn canopy and then the beastadon let out a high, frantic squeal. Dark fluid gushed from its face, arcing onto K.C., but she leaned toward the wounded animal and applied pressure. Franklin drew his knife and climbed onto the creature’s back, sliding the blade around until it was beneath the throat. He sliced deep, like he was carving a watermelon, and hung on while the beastadon bucked and gurgled.

  Finally, it dropped, a thick wet pool expanding around its head. K.C. withdrew the long, thin implement and held it up like a bent weenie-roasting stick. “I knew that tent would come in handy,” she said.

  “Ruined your pole,” Franklin said. “Guess we’ll have to sleep under the stars.”

  “We’ll get all the sleep we want in three days,” K.C. said as Franklin helped her up. He glimpsed darting lights behind him and turned with the knife gripped in his slick fist, ready to fight again.

  “Whoa,” Rachel said. “We’re family.”

  “Sorry we fell behind,” he said, giving their prey a kick. “Scored us a little bacon, but I don’t think we can stick around for breakfast.”

  “You guys all right?” she asked.

  “We’re just having one of those boring dates old couples have,” K.C. said. “A little stroll, a little chat, a little fight with a mutant monster from hell.”

  “Where are the others?” Franklin asked, wiping his knife on the corrugated bark of a pine tree.

  “Waiting up ahead. They reached the road. You can see the city from there.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At first glance, the blue city was similar to the one President Murray had destroyed—an ethereal dome covered by jagged skeins of flickering lightning, silver architecture laid out with geometric precision, and a massive column of glowing light funneling electromagnetic energy into the center of the city where a plasma sink would power the entire operation.

  But as they drew nearer, Rachel observed subtle differences that she shared with the others. These buildings were low and squat, with none of the monumental edifices that Kokona and her fellow infant Zaps had preferred. Their walls bore none of the features that mimicked human construction—no etched windows, doors, or signage. This wasn’t a city built to impress or mock humans. Indeed, it looked minimally functional.

  The plasma sink appeared to be located deep within the ground, as if the city had grown from a seed rather than piled atop an existing township like Kokona’s city. Rachel noted how the Zap’s plasma sinks had become increasingly sophisticated—in Wilkesboro, the sink sat at street level amid rubble where it was easily sabotaged; in Winston-Salem, it had been on the equivalent of a basement level, with a series of complex manufacturing processes
that forged the organic metal; and here, the sink seemed to be the sole reason for the city, well protected and driving some powerful engines beneath the planet’s surface.

  “This could be easy,” Cone said. “The road leads right up to it.”

  “Too easy,” DeVontay said. “I don’t like it.”

  “I’m still not picking up any Zaps,” Rachel said. “But that’s not a guarantee. Zap babies have some ability to block their thoughts, depending on whatever else engages their attention.”

  “But no regular Zaps?” Franklin asked.

  “I don’t think so. No savages, either.”

  “If it wasn’t so scary, it would be pretty,” Squeak said.

  Rachel wondered again if bringing Squeak was wrong. Maybe one of them should wait with Squeak here while the others explored. But Rachel didn’t think she could get a volunteer. Cone was itching for action, Franklin was stubborn, K.C. was committed to Franklin, DeVontay wanted to learn about his connection to the sentient metal, and she was essential to making contact with whatever entity ruled the city.

  Besides, Franklin was right. After being scattered so many times, and losing Stephen and Marina and all their friends, they should stick together until the bitter end.

  “Maybe we should break into two groups,” Cone said. “I’ll take DeVontay and circle around that hill and see if we can see any movement inside.”

  “No,” Rachel said. “We need each other. We don’t know which talent or perspective will come in handy. Besides, we don’t have an easy way to communicate.”

  Franklin gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah, too bad only one of us has ESP.”

  “But maybe a scouting run isn’t a bad idea,” Rachel added. “We’ll trust Private Cone’s training on that.”

  They all, except of course Squeak, probably had more combat experience than Cone, but Rachel wanted to encourage the younger woman. She was more physically fit than any of them, and her endurance might prove critical. Cone might end up being the one who’d have to get a message back to Ziminski with the doomsday clock ticking toward midnight.

  K.C. and Franklin were both spattered with blood, and here on the open road the stains were wet and black. The group decided to stash some of their packs in a roadside produce stand, keeping only ammo, the lantern, the radio, and enough food for one meal. A shallow river ran alongside the road, but none of them trusted the water. The horse stables Cone had mentioned covered a long, sloping hill, some of the fence posts fallen and the pastures gone to scraggly weed that swayed in the breeze. The huge barn sat tall and dark, its tin roof collecting the eerie green light like an outdoor motion picture screen. There were no animals in sight, but Rachel couldn’t help wondering if some of the magnificent horses might be standing asleep in the stalls, living out their lives in the shadow of a mutant city.

  The terrain around the dome was mostly hilly, aside from a flat stretch where the road ran in a crumbling black ribbon. The ghost town of Arrowood stood some distance from the city’s “entrance,” featuring a brick post office with large plate glass, a white wooden church whose paint was flecked and peeling, a BP gas station whose modern sign didn’t blend with the rustic rural character, and clusters of Victorian-style houses stacked along the mildest slopes.

  Cone admitted she hadn’t been here in at least a decade when an aunt moved away from Arrowood, so she wasn’t familiar with the entire layout. Still, as she led them through the town, she pointed out a few places and shared memories, including the fishing hole where Tommie Hanratty stuck a salamander down her dress. She’d punched him and later he gave her a candy bar to make up for it, only he’d secretly opened the package, eaten the candy, and put a stick in the wrapper instead. So she punched him again.

  The silly stories were a welcome escape from their grim task, but soon enough they were again in the forest, climbing in elevation until they were maybe a hundred feet above the city. It was still a quarter of a mile in the distance, and therefore few features were visible. Cone brought out a pair of binoculars and glassed the city, but the curve of the liquid-looking dome distorted the lenses. They’d still seen no sign of movement—no drone-birds, no robots, no Zap armies, not even a solitary Zap wandering the silver streets.

  Rachel wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad sign. The devil you knew was often better than the devil you had yet to meet, and the post-apocalyptic Earth seemed capable of manufacturing astonishingly vile forms of evil. But that was a matter of perspective—to Zaps, humans were the most obscene creation to ever grace the universe.

  The mutant part of her understood the loathing. For a race that had evolved so rapidly, aside from those savages who never left their mindless, violent states, Zaps couldn’t help considering humans as irrational, inefficient, and dangerous. Yet Zaps also overlooked their own destructive impulses. Genocide always had a reason, and also manufactured its own blind spots.

  “Maybe this is a wild goose chase,” Cone said. “The place looks dead.”

  “The plasma’s cranking,” Franklin said. “Unless the system’s running by itself, somebody’s using that energy.”

  “Maybe the metal is sentient enough to operate the city,” Rachel said. “It could’ve evolved past the point of needing Zaps.”

  “And it killed them off?” Cone said. “That would be sweet.”

  “Don’t be so happy about it,” Franklin said. “You saw what it did to those rednecks at the DQ.”

  Rachel turned to DeVontay, studying his metal eye. It was bright, but mostly due to the reflected glow of the city. “Getting any vibes, honey?”

  “I don’t feel it,” he said. “There’s a faint background hum, like some kind of electrical circuit, but nothing like when those robots showed up. I don’t hear no thoughts or anything crazy. But I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be listening for.”

  Rachel took his hand and squeezed. “If it’s anything like Zaps getting in your head, you’ll know it when it happens.”

  “Well, the bombs aren’t going to wait,” Franklin said. “Time to shit or get off the pot.”

  “Don’t cuss in front of the child, Franklin,” K.C. admonished.

  Franklin knelt in front of the girl and looked her in the face, grinning. “I meant, ‘Time to poop or get off the potty.’”

  Squeak giggled and turned away, embarrassed. K.C. swatted Franklin’s cap, spinning it cockeyed atop his head. Again, the forced levity faded quickly, and Cone said to Rachel, “Your call. Do we hit it?”

  Rachel nodded. “Let’s do this. I’ll go first and make the initial contact. Give me room in case anything bad happens.”

  “We know something bad will happen,” Franklin said. “We just don’t know what flavor of bad yet.”

  “Lock and load,” Cone said, and everyone checked their weapons except Rachel.

  She handed her rifle to DeVontay and said, “I don’t think this will do me any good. Bullets won’t hurt whatever’s in there.”

  He slung her M16 across his shoulder and checked his own magazine. “Well, if you get in trouble, I’m going to shoot something anyway.”

  Rachel led the way down a washed-out gully that had carried storm debris to the base of the dome. Like the Zap city in Winston-Salem, the dome appeared to be constituted of a thick kind of glass yet with a watery, permeable aspect. If it was organic like the metal, then they could likely penetrate it. But Kokona and the Zaps had allowed them entry in Winston-Salem, and this city’s occupants might not be so welcoming.

  As she drew closer, the yellow-green lightning that crawled over the dome’s surface retreated and advanced, seeking new paths with every flickering tendril of light. As Rachel had explained to Ziminski and his research team, the lightning appeared to be both a byproduct of the plasma sink and a force field that helped sustain the dome. She had no doubt the excess energy could be used as a weapon. If the city’s rulers knew she and the group were approaching, they could be incinerated where they stood, leaving only a palm full of ashes in each of th
eir boots.

  The faint hum that DeVontay had mentioned grew in intensity and pitch as she approached. The trees around this side of the dome were gray and withered, the hardwoods bare and the pines drooping in diseased surrender. The air carried that familiar smell of molten slag and chemicals, but it wasn’t as pungent as the previous plasma sinks she’d encountered.

  There was still no sign of life in the city. Indeed, there was little reason to even label it a city. The squat box-like shapes that had looked like buildings from a distance were just that, squares and rectangles arranged in some kind of undetermined order, like a puzzle of some kind. The entire surface area beneath the dome was metal, with no hint of soil, vegetation, or human architecture.

  Whoever built this has no interest in imitating humans. As if they’ve made a leap forward and adapted the city to their own needs.

  “See anything?” DeVontay called from some distance behind her. She hadn’t really expected the others to hang back, but she was glad they’d listened. She could be struck down at any second, whether by some gargantuan heat ray, the sudden appearance of a flock of drone birds, or a horde of screaming, savage Zaps.

  “Only what you see,” she responded. “Metal blocks and plasma.”

  She was at the edge of the forest now, the gully providing only minimal cover. A swath of fifty feet of open ground separated her from the dome, its grass and weeds brittle and dead, a few stumps dark with rot. The dead zone appeared to circle the entire perimeter of the dome. It was difficult to tell under the dizzying lights and colors, but the turf looked silver-gray, as if it, too, was turning to metal or was somehow bleached by the dome’s toxic secretions.

  The dead zone was mirrored in the city’s interior as well, a belt of smooth metal that lay like water. The lightning reflected off its surface, further adding to the coruscation that cast unusual shadows and made shapes appear to move among the big, strange boxes. Whereas Kokona’s city had been laid out with streets organized in a symmetrical grid, there were no broad avenues here, only narrow gaps between the structures. This city—if indeed it was even inhabited—wasn’t designed for heavy traffic.