AntiBio: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by Bible, Jake

  “So what’s in that bend?” Ton asks.

  “Ambush?” Milo asks.

  “They have to know we’ve spotted them,” Ton says, “which has me thinking they are nothing more than a distraction meant to keep us from paying attention to the real danger.”

  “Satellite imaging shows the route is clear all the way to Control,” Worm says. “I cannot find any obstructions. The original group is no longer visible.”

  “Where’d it go?” Ton asks. “Scan the time logs.”

  “I have, Lieutenant,” Worm responds. “The group was there exactly five minutes ago and now is not.”

  “Are you catching any heat signatures at all?” Paulo asks. “They can’t just disappear.”

  “I am not,” Worm says. “Interesting.”

  “What do you have, Worm?” Ton asks.

  “The temperature reading of the route itself for the next three clicks is uniform,” Worm replies. “That is most peculiar since even the terrain should have slight differences in thermo readings.”

  “Are the Cooties fucking cloaking the route?” Milo asks, slowing the transport down to 30cph. “I know they’ve figured out how to cloak their hides, but three clicks of a route? That’s never been done before.”

  “Yeah, it has,” Ton says. “Take us closer, but stop before we hit the area.”

  “Proceed for another five hundred yards, Sergeant Kailua,” Worm says. “You can slow to 20cph now. Good. 10cph. Now, please come to a full stop. This is the last spot on the route with normal readings.”

  “Real eyes,” Ton says. All information and variations in the view screens throughout the transport disappear and it is as if the squad is looking through plastiglass windows. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing,” Blaze says. “Clear back here.”

  “Nothing,” Paulo echoes.

  “Same here,” Hoagie adds.

  “Milo?” Ton asks. “You notice anything except for rock and dirt?”

  Milo focuses on the image before him. The route ahead looks like the rest of the Sicklands with plenty of craters, mist, and ash. He’s about to agree with the rest of the squad when he notices a slight flicker to the image in the bottom left corner of his view screen.

  “I think we need boots on the ground to really know,” Milo says.

  As soon as he says the words, “boots on the ground” all five dogs perk up and get to their feet.

  “What do you see?” Ton asks.

  “Worm?” Milo asks. “Go through view screen diagnostics, please.”

  “That’ll leave us blind, Sergeant,” Ton says. “Not liking that.”

  “Trust me, LT,” Milo responds. “The three seconds we are down will be worth it.”

  “Lieutenant?” Worm asks. “Is the order to perform view screen diagnostics?”

  “I guess so,” Ton says, looking over at Milo. “Go ahead, Worm.”

  The transport view screens instantly disappear and the squad is left staring at blank metal walls.

  “Anyone want to play I-spy?” Paulo asks. “I spy with my little eye a whole shit ton of nothing.”

  “Is it the shit ton of nothing in front of me?” Blaze asks, grateful that he is looking at metal instead of the intensity of Dr. DeBeers’s gaze. Then the diagnostics are over and the cargo hold wall returns to its artificial transparency, but the doctor is not looking at Blaze, instead she’s staring straight ahead at the fore view screen, her eyes wide with surprise.

  “Guns hot!” Ton shouts as he watches a mass of people run towards the transport. “We have company!”

  16

  The apocalypse, any apocalypse, seems to have a uniform. Rags.

  That is what the men and women are wearing as they rush the transport. Dozens and dozens of rag wearing, scab covered, flesh rotted, snot dripping, survivors of the world post-antibiotics.

  Cooties.

  A sad and simple name that the Clean Nation cities call those that have been left to fend for themselves in a landscape that would make Dante crap his robes. Afflicted by multiple diseases, the men and women clutch weapons of various design; cobbled together from anything that could be remotely lethal.

  They charge.

  “I have a lock on the front wave,” Ton says. “Stun burst first. If they don’t back off then we get serious.”

  “More coming port side,” Hoagie says.

  “Same with starboard,” Paulo says.

  “I could speed through them,” Milo suggests. “Run the fuckers down. It’ll mean an extra washing of the undercarriage, but what the hell, right?”

  “We subdue and negotiate first,” Ton says. “That’s the regulation. We go lethal only as a last resort.” The squad laughs.

  The sound of rocks pelting the transport can barely be heard and Blaze turns his attention back to his vid screen.

  “We have a group coming up from the rear,” Blaze says. “Less than twenty it looks like. But…”

  He zooms in on the image, frowning at something that several of them struggle to carry.

  “What the hell is that?” he mutters. “Worm? I need that weapon identified.”

  The transport is silent.

  “Worm? I need that info now!”

  Still silent.

  The operators turn and look at each other, worry clouding their features.

  “AiSP Zebra, please respond,” Ton orders. “Worm? We need your annoying ass active, right now!”

  The transport’s lights flickers slightly.

  “My apologies, Lieutenant,” Worm says. “There was a server malfunction when the view screen diagnostics completed. I was able to fix the issue, but the glitch looped to other systems. The transport should be 100% operational now, though. Again, my apologies.”

  “You can say sorry later,” Blaze snaps. “I need to know what that is they are setting up.”

  The people on the view screen have stopped and are scrambling to stabilize a large tripod while a new group came up behind them with a large case in hand.

  “That, Sergeant, is known as a Spike anti-tank guided missile system,” Worm says. “A relic of military weaponry pre-Unseen Wars. If they are able to launch that at the transport then we will be destroyed. Unless the missile is no longer operational.”

  “Not taking that chance,” Milo says as he engages the transport drive and speeds towards the oncoming mob of Cooties. “We need some distance between us and that thing.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Ton swears as he begins firing on the mob. “Where the fuck did the Cooties get a fucking missile system?”

  Bright flashes of light illuminate the dreary landscape and row after row of the diseased people drop, their bodies flailing about for a few seconds before becoming still. The transport bears down on them and the squad barely feels the thumps and bumps as reinforced rubber and steel meet flesh.

  “I do not trust the security of our route,” Worm replies. “I believe that the area has been compromised by technology we were not aware of.”

  “Ya think?” Hoagie asks. “What clued you in to that? The million of crazy Cooties that didn’t show up on sensors perhaps?”

  “The number of hostiles doesn’t come close to a million, Sergeant Menendez,” Worm responds. “It is closer to one hundred and fifty, by my calculations. What I was stating is that the forward route is giving off random signals. There is technology ahead of us where there shouldn’t be.”

  “That explains why we didn’t see these fucks until it was too late,” Paulo says. “And why the satellites thought the mob was still a ways off.”

  “Tech that can trick the sats?” Ton asks. “And mess with our vid screens so we have to run diagnostics? Cooties don’t have those skills.”

  “Apparently they do, Lieutenant,” Dr. DeBeers says. “The facts are plainly in front of you.” She holds up her hands as she receives a withering stare from Ton. “I’ll stay quiet.”

  The transport slams into more and more hostiles as they refuse to get out of the vehicle’s way. Chunks
of wood, rocks, steel bars, bang against the transport’s hull, doing nothing more than scratch the surface. The vehicle is designed to take several explosive impacts without failing, so weapons that are less than a step up from caveman tech don’t have much effect.

  “I think their targeting system is up,” Blaze says.

  “You think?” Ton shouts as he moves from the stun strategy to lethal force. The attackers begin to scream as they are vaporized by static bursts that cook them where they stand. “Give me answers, Sergeant!”

  Blaze tries to make sense of the readings on his screen, but the sensors cannot lock onto the missile system with any accuracy. As soon as he gets one reading the data changes and he is forced to ignore the information. His screen flickers a couple of times and then goes blank.

  “Fuck!” Blaze shouts. “I don’t know what they are using, but it is messing with everything!”

  “I have perfect visual,” Milo says. “Whatever is screwing with you must be directed back there.”

  “Worm? What could do this?” Blaze asks, trying to reboot his station. “Worm?”

  “I…can…what you will…data…fire…” Worm’s voice stutters and stumbles, interrupted by long spaces of white noise.

  “Worm?” Blaze shouts. “Shit! Lieutenant, I have nothing back here.”

  “Switching starboard view,” Paulo says. “I have a lock on their location. Ready to fire counter- What the fuck?”

  His station glitches as well and the wall goes blank.

  “I’m going down,” Hoagie yells. “Can’t keep my station stable.”

  “I’m flickering in and out,” Milo states. “But we’re still rolling. LT?”

  “I have visuals still also. Unloading ordinance,” Ton announces. “Going to scorch protocol.”

  “You will be killing so many,” Dr. DeBeers says. “Such a shame.”

  Blaze looks at her, almost as worried by the look of peaceful resignation on her face as by the breakdown of the transport’s systems. She locks eyes with him and smiles.

  “Proto….evac…known stability…suits,” Worm’s voice falters. “Recommend…hostiles…foot.”

  “Jesus,” Hoagie says. “Is Worm suggesting we ditch the transport and go out in that shit?”

  “Caldicott City command, this is Transport Eighteen requesting assistance,” Ton says. “Caldicott City command, please come in. This is GenSOF Zebra squad reporting. We are under attack by hostiles and expect artillery engagement shortly. Do you read me, Caldicott City command?”

  There is no response, not even the crackling of white noise or interference. The com to CC command is dead.

  “Try Control,” Dr. DeBeers suggests. “Our systems are considerably more robust so that we can communicate with all Clean Nation cities without worry.”

  “We use the same sats,” Ton says. “There shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Then I’ll try,” Dr. DeBeers says, bringing up her vid screen again. “If you’ll grant me access to the com system.”

  “Granted, doctor,” Ton says. He watches the people in front of the transport burst apart as he fires static charge after static charge into the still thick mob. “Do what you can.”

  “Control, this is Doctor Mona DeBeers,” she says as she swipes her hand across her screen. “Control, please come in. This is Doctor Mona DeBeers aboard the GenSOF Transport number Eighteen. We are under attack by Sicklands hostiles and need immediate assistance. Control, do you read me?”

  A piercing shriek fills everyone’s ears and a far off voice can barely be heard.

  “Dr. DeBeers, we read you,” the voice replies. “Can you give us your location?”

  “Lieutenant?” Dr. DeBeers asks. “Our coordinates?”

  “Ten clicks from route marker ninety-four,” Ton says. “I have activated the emergency beacon, but I don’t know if it is operational or not. We’re working blind here.”

  “Not me,” Milo says as he swerves to avoid a large boulder that has been shoved in their path. “I’ve still got the pedal to the metal.”

  If the windshield Milo looks out of were physical glass instead of a digital representation, he would be blinded by gore and blood as the transport mows down the hostiles. But the screen system removes that part of the visual, leaving his view unobstructed by the constant barrage of offal and fluids.

  “Beacon has been detected,” the voice says. “Do you need extraction, Dr. DeBeers?”

  “Do we, Lieutenant?” Dr. DeBeers asks. “I can have the Clean Guard come to our aid.”

  “Milo?” Ton asks. “Can you get us through?”

  “If it all holds together, I can,” Milo says. The Transport shudders, causing Milo to wince and frown. “Ugh. We shouldn’t have felt that.”

  “They have more than large rocks,” Paulo says. “I don’t know where these fucks got it, but we are dealing with military tech here.”

  “Missile launchers, jamming tech, what else do they have?” Hoagie asks.

  “Who cares?” Blaze says, standing up from his station and grabbing his pack. “But we should be suited fully in case that missile actually launches.”

  He taps his wrist and his helmet’s face screen turns to a full shield, sealing his head completely. He snaps and nods and Gorge is at his side, alert and ready.

  Hoagie and Paulo follow suit, as does Ton. The dogs each give a quiet bark then line up by the side hatch, ready to move out when ordered.

  “Don’t give up on me yet,” Milo says. “I can see the end of it all. Look.”

  Their attention is pulled to the windshield view screen and they see the mob thinning, thinning, then they are through.

  “Bam!” Milo shouts, grinning from ear to ear. “That was a whole lot of panic for absolutely no-”

  His words are drowned out by the sound of a massive explosion. The aft end of the transport is lifted high into the air. Blaze sees the look of shock on Dr. DeBeers’s face just before the cargo wall goes solid again. Everything is plunged into darkness as Zebra squad find themselves suddenly upside down, the missile impact flipping the transport end over end.

  The shouts of the men, a dog’s yelp, and then silence.

  17

  Even with the filtering that Blaze’s suit provides, the smell of charred metal and burnt hair is strong.

  “Worm?” he croaks, his throat raw. “Worm? You back?”

  No answer.

  “Zebra, report,” Ton’s voice calls, shaky and filled with pain. “Operators? Let me know you’re breathing.”

  “Alive,” Blaze says as he opens his eyes to an upside down world of chaos. Emergency systems must have not gone offline because Blaze finds himself strapped safely to his chair. He has no idea how he got back in it since the last memory he has is of standing up and prepping to evacuate the transport if needed. He’s even more troubled by the fact he’s upside down.

  “Yep,” Hoagie says from his chair. “Still breathing.”

  “All fingers and toes,” Paulo says. “Milo?”

  “Just a bruised ego,” Milo says. “I should have been able to get us away.”

  “How the hell did we get strapped back in?” Hoagie asks.

  “…able to…suits…safety…,” Worm’s voice replies, scattered and distant in their ears. “…canines…well…”

  Blaze is able to wiggle free of his straps and falls to the ceiling of the transport. He stands on shaky legs and looks up; glad Gorge is safely secured next to his seat.

  “Thanks, Worm,” Blaze says as he reaches up and frees his dog.

  The other operators follow his lead and drop to the ceiling of the transport. After some checking to make sure no one is seriously injured, the squad moves to the side hatch, bruised, battered, but functional.

  “Plan?” Milo asks, snapping his baton into its rifle form. He presses the butt to his shoulder and glances at Ton. “LT?”

  “Shhh,” Ton warns. “Listen.”

  Their attention turns to a muted thudding. The operators frown and rif
les are formed and shouldered. All five dogs tense, their dense muscles ready for violence, as their hackles rise and they bare their teeth.

  The thudding stops and the squad waits. Nothing.

  Then a faint tapping is heard and Blaze turns to the aft end of the transport.

  “Cargo hold,” Blaze whispers. “The doctor is still alive.”

  The tapping continues, grows slower and fainter, then stops and Ton shakes his head.

  “Maybe not anymore,” he says, looking about the transport. “Take the fight outside?”

  “I’m game,” Milo says.

  “Same here,” Hoagie replies.

  Paulo gives a thumbs up and Blaze nods.

  “Worm? Can you open the hatch?” Ton asks, but there is no response.

  He nods to Hoagie and the man moves forward, rifle switching into a pistol as he grabs onto the hatch’s emergency release handle. Ton holds up three fingers then folds them one by one until there are none left and Hoagie pops the hatch.

  The metal door flies open and the operators rush out into the Sicklands, rifles at the ready. They each turn in a different direction, surveying the area as fast as possible. There isn’t time to take in too much information before they are set upon by hostiles.

  Five come at Blaze and he drops three with his rifle, frying holes into their chests before he has to duck under the swipe of an axe. He jams the butt of his rifle into the belly of one of the attackers then brings it up hard, snapping the man’s jaw in half, nearly ripping it from his face.

  The other attacker, a skinny woman missing her entire nose and most of her left cheek, raises a piece of burning wood over her head, but she’s taken down by an angry mass of fur and muscle. Gorge rips into the woman’s throat, shaking her head back and forth, sawing the flesh until her teeth hit bone. With a loud crunch, Gorge snaps the woman’s neck.

  “Good dog,” Blaze says as he rolls to his left and comes up on one knee, his rifle barking static into a dozen attackers.

  Flesh sizzles and they cry out in pain as half drop to the ash coated ground. Blaze fires again and again, taking them out one by one until all that is left standing is a man that manages to get within three feet of Blaze, a sharpened spear of rebar clutched in his hands. He eyes Blaze then looks down at the smoking hole in his midsection. Blaze fires once more, obliterating the man’s head.