by Jake Bible
“Divisions are fine,” the Pope continued. “They are natural. Not all can agree at all times. But for the Archbishop to align with the UDC? Those sworn to wipe Disciples from the face of the wasteland? That was blasphemy.”
“And you couldn’t rein them in?” the Great Maker asked as he stretched his legs and tested the hydraulics. “You are the Pope.”
“A title, a name,” the Pope shrugged. “Who am I to force them to go against what they felt was right? We all have our own path. I had no interest fighting my Brothers and Sisters. And it seems I didn’t need to as they all came to the end God chose for them.”
“That they did,” the Great Maker agreed. “And what end do you think your God has planned for me?”
“My God?” the Pope asked. “He is all of ours’ God. And his will is a mystery even to me, his chosen voice upon this scorched earth.”
“Don’t exactly hold the power in an iron grip, do you?” the Great Maker laughed as he leaned back. “Maybe that is why the Archbishop aligned with the UDC.”
“I hold more power than any man in the wasteland,” the Pope replied, his eyes cold, dangerous. “Do not be fooled by my gentle nature.”
“Oh, I have not been,” the Great Maker said. “Not in the least.”
The Pope stood there and watched the Great Maker for a time. The cyborg let himself be studied and waited through the observation.
“Would you like to see them?” the Pope finally asked.
“See whom?”
“The Disciples,” the Pope grinned. “The true power of the wasteland.”
***
“Quite a sight,” the Great Maker said as he stood on the edge of the ridge overlooking the deep canyon below.
“A life’s work, Colonel,” the Pope said. He watched the creatures try to scramble about each other, but they were packed in so close most could barely turn around. “For those below are the hands of God. And the teeth. And the claws. And the Hunger.”
“And the Hunger,” all of the Brothers and Sisters repeated as they stood a respectful distance behind the Pope and the Great Maker.
“The Hunger?” the Great Maker asked. “I do not know this part of your canon.”
“It is not, as they say, main streamed,” the Pope said. “Another reason for the split amongst the Rancher fold. The Archbishop, and the ones before him, did not believe in the Hunger. They believed only in the True Disciple. That one day, one of the Disciples would unfetter themselves from their undead curse and become as one with humanity and deader.”
“The zombie messiah,” the Great Maker chuckled.
“Yes, the zombie messiah,” the Pope said, joining in the laughter. “Which is rubbish. Once a man or woman has Changed they are a Disciple and that is all. There is no True Disciple as the more aggressive branch of our faith would have liked to believe.”
“And with Archbishop Wyble’s death that branch does not exist anymore,” the Great Maker stated.
“Precisely,” the Pope said, turning from the writhing view below to take in the cyborg that was the Great Maker. “You have an innate grasp of this, Colonel. Are you sure your spirit lies with the machines?” The Pope waved his hand towards the creatures in the canyons. “And not with the Changed Flesh?”
The Great Maker just smiled. “You still haven’t told me what the Hunger is.”
“That is the Hunger!” the Pope cried, his finger pointing at the mass of deaders. “That is the power of the wasteland! That is the true reason that God created the wasteland! Look upon them! See what they are!”
“You are telling me that you consider the undead to be God’s ultimate plan?”
“I am telling you, Colonel,” the Pope replied. “That everything is God’s ultimate plan. And the Hunger is fuel, the fire, the spirit of his plan. Think about it, Colonel. Would we be who we are, would the world be what it is, without the Disciples? No. And would the Disciples be what they are without the Hunger? Again, no.”
The Great Maker thought about the Pope’s words as he surveyed what was below him. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of deaders, all packed tight into a massive canyon that was easily half a mile across and three miles long. The undead stretched as far as the Great Maker could see.
“How many exactly?” the Great Maker asked as his red eyes scanned the numbers, trying to calculate on his own.
“Brother Reynaldo?” the Pope asked.
The man stepped forward from the group behind the two men.
“At last count, JP, there are exactly 680,753 Disciples in the canyon,” Brother Reynaldo replied.
“680,000?” Colonel Maker exclaimed. “And you aren’t worried about them escaping? That amount could wipe out nearly any settlement in the wasteland. It could even take on the Stronghold.”
“Yes,” the Pope beamed. “It could take on the Stronghold.”
“But there would be no way to control those numbers,” the Great Maker said. “Even with your skills as Ranchers, even you could not keep them all wrangled.”
“Brother Reynaldo?” the Pope asked again. “If you please.”
The man walked to the edge of the canyon and placed a thin tube to his mouth. He blew hard and the Great Maker cringed, his ears shrieking in pain at the high-pitched whistle.
“Stop!” the Great Maker cried. “I beg of you!”
Brother Reynaldo did and looked back at the Great Maker, joining the Pope’s puzzled look.
“Interesting,” the Pope said. “I did not know you would be so sensitive. My apologies.”
The Great Maker rubbed at his ears and shook his head. “No apology needed. I have specialized senses. But I fail to see what that accomplished.”
“Then you fail to see,” the Pope said as he pointed down into the canyon.
Every deader, every single putrid, decayed, undead body, stood at attention, their faces pointed up at the Pope that stood hundreds of feet above them. The Pope raised his arms to the heavens.
And so did the deaders.
Twenty-Eight
The grav-sled thumped and bounced off the uneven ground of the wasteland, the dogs pulling as hard and fast as they could. Campbell leaned her body over the sled, trying to make the vehicle as wind resistant as possible. LaFrance, strapped to the bed of the sled, winced with every jolt.
“How far back are they?” LaFrance shouted at Shiner who was keeping pace with them easily as he ran along side the sled.
“Fifteen clicks,” Shiner stated. “They are not aware of us yet. Their pace is not increasing or decreasing.”
“But will they catch up?” Campbell asked. “The dogs don’t have endless energy like you.”
“When they expire I will take the sled on myself,” Shiner stated.
“What?!” Campbell screamed. “I am not letting my dogs die!”
“That was a joke,” Shiner said. “A bad attempt at humor to do what you humans call ‘lighten the mood’.”
“You need to work on your timing!” Campbell yelled.
“Or just not joke,” LaFrance suggested.
“Understood,” Shiner replied.
He pushed his scans as far out as possible, searching the wasteland for a place they could hide. He knew he could find somewhere that Campbell, LaFrance and the dogs could hole up in, but as for himself, that was another issue. The Canadian mechs that had come through the tunnel and into the wasteland would pick up his tech easily with their scanners. Even if he tried to shield his signal he couldn’t guarantee that an aware mech pilot wouldn’t notice the dead spot in his scans.
He made a choice that he didn’t like, but was the only one he could come up with.
“A mile ahead,” Shiner said. “There is a bluff. I am reading that a small creek runs below it, starting from the top and then winding down into the base. There should be a cave you can hide in there.”
“Wait, you aren’t hiding with us?” LaFrance asked, not missing the implication of the wording. “What the hell are you thinking of doing, Shiner?”
“I will be the distraction,” Shiner said. “It will give you cover as they pass so you are not discovered. Once the mechs are out of range you will need to head southeast. You will find refuge there.”
Shiner reached out and touched the grav-sled, instantly relaying the Stronghold’s coordinates.
“They’ll rip you apart,” Campbell said. “You are one talented hunk of BC, but not against that many machines.”
“I will only engage for as long as needed,” Shiner said. “Then I will follow.”
“What if they are headed for the Stronghold too?” LaFrance asked. “What do we do then?”
Shiner processed for a minute, but couldn’t come up with an answer. “If they turn to go that way then stay where you are. I will send help.”
“Not if you’re destroyed!” Campbell yelled. “Jesus Christ, Shiner! This is one fucked up plan!”
“It is a plan nonetheless,” Shiner said as he pointed towards the bluff that was quickly approaching. “Hide there. You will know by nightfall what your plan of action is.”
“And if you do survive you’ll meet back up with us, yes?” LaFrance asked.
“I cannot say,” Shiner answered, his thoughts on another part of the wasteland. “I may be needed elsewhere.”
“Fucking hell,” Campbell swore. “This place really does suck shit. All the stories are true. The wasteland blows.”
***
“You still have them?” Norton asked over the com. “That fucking thinking BC pile of shit hasn’t figured out how to dodge the sensors, has it?”
“No, sir,” Canadian Mech Pilot Gail Esther responded. “I still have him dead on.”
“Good,” Norton said. “As long as he is still on your path then feel free to engage at anytime.”
“Sir?” CMP Esther asked. “May I ask a question?”
“What, CMP?” Norton snapped.
“Our mechs, they’re BC,” CMP Esther started.
“That’s a statement, not a question,” Norton growled. “You’re wasting my time.”
“My question, sir, is whether the Shiner machine will be able to morph our BC if he comes in contact with it, sir,” CMP Esther finished.
Norton didn’t respond.
***
“FUCK!” Norton shouted as he muted his com. “Son of a fucking bitch!”
Those with him in the command center tried to keep their attention focused on their work and away from their commander.
“Fucking BC!” Norton screamed. “Had to fucking be malleable, huh? Had to be organic? Fucking BC!”
“Sir, we have-,” a tech started bravely.
“Shut the fuck up!” Norton roared. “We have a serious fucking problem and I need some serious fucking answers! Everyone that is not essential to mech operations at this moment needs to come up with a way to block Shiner from controlling BC! NOW!”
The command center personnel scrambled.
***
He knew that he would still be visible on scanners, but he changed the color of his skin to match the drab tans and browns of the wasteland anyway. For those relying on their eyes, they’d see nothing but a small cloud of dust making its way across the landscape.
But in that cloud of dust was a BC machine ready to die. Shiner knew that Campbell and LaFrance had a slim chance of survival, but he would do everything he could to widen that chance. Even with the assertion that he could not “feel” he knew what was inside him. He wouldn’t let the humans die without a fight.
The Canadian mechs saw him coming and several of them split off from the pack to turn their attention on his attack. Shiner’s sensors told him that multiple weapons systems were online and directed right at him. He shifted his form and brought his own weapons systems up.
Small RPGs, forearm guns and blades, Shiner was set to destroy as many mechs as possible.
He intercepted the pilots’ conversation and realized they hadn’t designed the mechs to handle his BC control abilities. He momentarily thought about shifting his face plate to include a smile, but decided that was too much human ego even for him.
“Ten,” Shiner said to himself. “Ten mechs. They fear me.”
And as the mechs started to fire, well away from Shiner’s reach, he realized just how much they feared him. He leapt from one spot to another, springing nimbly across the wasteland, avoiding the incoming missiles and RPGs sent to destroy him. If the mechs kept it up they’d be out of heavy weapons in minutes leaving only their machine guns.
The machine guns. Loaded with BC bullets.
When the last missile landed just past him, and he launched himself as high into the air as possible to avoid the explosion, the battlefield went silent. He had expected them to start firing, but someone, one of their techs, must have clued them into the folly of shooting him with BC bullets.
The ten mechs stood there, their systems hot, waiting for his move. He had a distinct feeling that if he yelled boo a couple would have turned and ran. But instead he just walked casually towards them.
“AI Shiner!” a voice boomed from one of the mech’s loudspeakers. “You will stop where you are and surrender to the Council’s forces! You are Canadian property and subject to all laws and regulations as such! If you surrender you will not be terminated and your AI will be allowed to live in suspension within a secure mainframe!”
Shiner chuckled. He had been born a mech, turned into a dead mech with a zombie pilot, then freed by Mech Pilot Mathew Jespers to become a fully functioning AI. There was no way he would surrender to a life of confinement. Being stuck at Outpost Tango Charlie had been hard enough. He was a mech at heart and he needed space, ground to cover, open skies and raw elements.
“Please disembark from your mechs,” Shiner responded. “I do not want to harm or kill you. If you leave your mechs I will allow you to walk away and return to your country unmolested.”
“AI Shiner you have been warned! Surrender now or you will be destroyed!”
“With what?” Shiner said as he stepped forward. “You cannot touch me and you cannot shoot me. My proposal is the only way you can survive this fight.”
The mechs opened fire and Shiner was riddled with thousands of rounds. His form shuddered and he felt one arm separate from his body. He was knocked to the dirt, his torso a shredded mess, his systems slow and crippled. He had underestimated what their attack would do to him.
***
“Follow through!” Norton shouted. “Fucking get in there and secure that mother fucking AI!”
Norton watched on the vid screens as the mech group converged on the twitching form of Shiner. Their weapons blazed red hot as they continued to fire into his subdued body.
“Get on the ground!” Norton said. “Keep your mechs at a safe distance and secure him by hand, dammit!”
“Sir,” one of the CMPs responded. “His readings are flat. Scans are not showing any energy levels coming off of him.”
“Did I say to fucking report back, asshole?!” Norton spat. “No, I said to get your FUCKING FEET ON THE GROUND!”
Two mechs kept their weapons trained on Shiner as the rest of the CMPs opened their cockpits and descended to the wasteland dirt.
Norton’s eyes never left the still form of Shiner as he paced before one of the vid screens.
“The rest of you fucking mechs need to step it up! Put as much distance between yourselves and this mess as possible!” Norton ordered.
***
A hint, a connection, a slow trickle of thought and presence. He was still there, hidden in the chunks, the pieces, the shrapnel of BC that was strewn across the wasteland.
The CMPs had checked and double checked Shiner’s broken form and decided he’d been destroyed. Just to be safe they tossed most of him for yards in every direction. They even buried some of him. None of them knew how to completely destroy him, so they did what they thought might work. They didn’t dare ask Norton.
Each piece of biochrome held Shiner’s consciousness, enrobed him in bioo
rganic metal, secured him, waited for him to become whole again. Yet despite the physicality of his shattered self, Shiner did not feel torn apart. The BC communicated and processed as one piece even though he was spread out across the wasteland.
Slowly, carefully, pieces of BC morphed, melted and began to search each other out. They rolled, flowed, tumbled towards each other until contact was made and the reassembly process began. When Shiner was whole enough to function he dug up the remaining pieces of himself and was complete.
Shiner scanned the wasteland and saw that the mechs that had attacked him rejoined their battle convoy. He couldn’t let them reach their target. He’d learned a lot from his near destruction and didn’t plan on making the same mistakes again. The next time he would make sure no mech touched him.
He began to jog then run then sprint full out after them.
Twenty-Nine
“Submarine formations are changing, sir,” a tech announced as Colonel Blue Masterson stood on the bridge of the Silverthorn. “They are targeting our ships.”
“Unfortunately, that’s what we want them to do,” Blue stated. He turned and looked at Beth as she stared out across the bright blue water of what was once the California coast. “You sure those suits can handle this?”
“The suits are as perfect as they can get,” Beth replied. “It’s up to the troopers to do their thing.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call ‘do their thing’ a military term,” Blue smiled. “But I get what you mean.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call myself military,” Beth said in return. “I’m just here to help keep us all alive.”
“I’m glad for that,” Blue said. “I’d hate for you to be on the other side.”
***
“Sir?” Ensign Ballard asked as he looked over his sonar scans. “We have incoming, sir!”
Captain Hollis McNalley tapped at his tablet and brought up the readings. “What are those?”
“They aren’t torpedoes,” a second ensign replied. “They look like…people, sir.”
