AntiBio: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by Bible, Jake

  “Just discussing the possible afflictions of the Cooties we took down,” Blaze says. “The doctor seems to think we can eventually take back the Sicklands.”

  “Why would we want to?” Paulo asks. “Have you seen the place? Not exactly prime real estate.”

  “I don’t know,” Blaze grins. “I could see a nice summer home up on that ridge over there. Think of the view. Nothing but ash and crap for miles and miles.”

  “The schools are probably great in his area too,” Paulo says. “Maybe we could put in a dog park close by.”

  “You two laugh now,” Dr. DeBeers says. “But one day we will prevail. It is Control’s mission to end the bacterial apocalypse.”

  “Can you end an apocalypse?” Blaze asks. “I always thought that once it starts then that’s it. Apocalypse forever.”

  “Apocalypse now,” Paulo smiles.

  ‘Good one,” Blaze chuckles.

  “Mind if I come back in, doctor?” Paulo asks. “I’ll stay clear of you, just need to pry open the walls and see if I can’t get us some grub.”

  “By all means, Sergeant,” Dr. DeBeers replies and removes herself to the far corner.

  Blaze leans down and scratches Gorge’s head between her ears. Her mouth opens and her tongue lolls out as her lips pull back in a smile. He keeps at it for a while, ignoring the banging and cursing coming from inside the transport.

  “Finally!” Paulo shouts. “You’d think they’d design these things for better access when you get flipped over and stranded in the Sicklands.”

  “What’s for dinner?” Blaze asks.

  “Pink, green, blue, and red,” Paulo says. “I was hoping for yellow for dessert, but looks like that was damaged.”

  “You will want to load up on pink then green,” Dr. DeBeers says. “It will help maintain your bacterial loads while also addressing the lactic acid build up in your muscles and the eventual adrenaline crash you will experience.”

  “Never had one of those,” Paulo says, tossing a pouch of pink to Blaze. “That’s normal people stuff. We’re GenSOF operators. I don’t think our adrenaline stops flowing.”

  “It does and you will eventually crash,” Dr. DeBeers says. “But your training allows you to push through it. I have studied many an operator post-mortem and their endocrine systems are quite remarkable.”

  Paulo and Blaze share a look.

  “Post-mortem?” Blaze asks. “You’ve studied dead operators? I thought we were incinerated ASAP to avoid our bacterial load from migrating to a new host.”

  “Not all corpses are disposed of immediately,” Dr. DeBeers says. “There is a lot to learn from operators. Some more than others.” She looks right at Blaze.

  Blaze pulls his eyes from hers and lets them drift to the cylinders. “What’s in those, doc? They have a very specific size and shape. Wouldn’t be too hard to stash a body in there.”

  “Very perceptive, Sergeant,” Dr. DeBeers says. “They are in fact stasis cylinders.”

  “Dude, you were right,” Paulo says. “You called it back in the transport bay.”

  “Did you?” Dr. DeBeers asks, her voice losing its conversational tone. “How did you call it, Sergeant?”

  “Just a lucky guess,” Blaze says, hearing the difference in her tone. It reminds him of when Gorge goes from her warning growl to her attack growl. “Like I said, the shape fits.”

  The doctor is silent for a good long time.

  “Is there any other food in there?” she asks finally. “Beyond the shakes? I could use something to eat, but I don’t find the color shakes to be very palatable.”

  “Neither do we,” Paulo says. “But nothing we can do about it. Curse of our bacterial loads; can’t keep solids down.”

  “Unfortunate,” Dr. DeBeers says. “The synthetics created these days are almost perfect analogs to the animal proteins and vegetables society used to feast on. How they grow them in those subterranean vats is beyond me. I’ll stick with culturing bacteria and leave the culturing of vat crops to someone else.”

  “Sorry, doctor,” Paulo says. “We weren’t expecting an overnight. All we have are the shakes.”

  “Fine,” Dr. DeBeers sighs. “I’ll have a blue.”

  “Really?” Blaze says. “Blue?”

  “It will cause the least distress with my digestive system,” Dr. DeBeers says. “And since the facilities are less than optimal I will have to make my choice based on that factor.”

  “I hear that,” Paulo says. “Never fun to get the squirts in the Sicklands.”

  19

  The ridge is a click away from the transport, but still within Ton and Hoagie’s view as they crouch down and survey the area.

  “We would have been fine if the transport hadn’t glitched,” Hoagie says.

  “I know,” Ton replies.

  “Or hadn’t have driven right into that ambush,” Hoagie continues.

  “I know,” Ton says again.

  “It doesn’t bother you, LT? The transport getting all messed up, losing Worm, sat com down, all that shit?”

  “It does,” Ton says. “But it is what it is. The situation has presented itself and we will deal with it accordingly. Can’t cry over spilt milk.”

  “I’ve never understood what that means,” Hoagie says.

  “Old saying from back when there were cows,” Ton says. “Ancient history.”

  “Extinct history,” Hoagie says. “Can’t grow cows now, even if they still existed. They are nothing but bacteria generators.”

  “Raise,” Ton says.

  “What?”

  “You raise cows and livestock, you don’t grow them.”

  “Huh. I always thought they were grown in vats like the synthmeat the civvies eat,” Hoagie shrugs. “Learn something new every day.”

  Ton holds up his hand and Hoagie goes quiet. The two men tap their helmets and bring up their visor displays. Ton points to a spot thirty yards off from the disabled transport. Hoagie dials in his visor and the image zooms close, showing him a person creeping from rock cover to rock cover, getting increasingly closer to the transport.

  Snapping his baton into a rifle, Hoagie waits until a target display comes up on his visor. He shoulders the rifle and adjusts his aim until the targeting crosshairs are centered on the person.

  “Just say the word,” Hoagie whispers even though they are well out of earshot of the target.

  “Hold,” Ton says, studying the person in his visor. It stops and watches the transport for a while then slowly backs off, staying low until it is far enough away to stand and sprint off into the Sicklands.

  “Cooties are sending in recon scouts,” Hoagie says. “You think they’ll attack again?”

  “I don’t know,” Ton says. “But we should keep someone up here on overwatch until the Clean Guard arrives. I like this vantage point; good cover and visibility.”

  “I have a feeling I’m volunteering for the first shift,” Hoagie grins. “No prob. Just let me take a piss before you hike back down.”

  “Go for it,” Ton says. “Can’t have you squirming in your armor.”

  “Thanks, LT, you’re a giver,” Hoagie laughs as he slowly moves away and ducks behind a boulder to piss.

  Ton watches the land below, waiting for another sign they are being observed, but he sees nothing. The scenery holds only bleakness, a depressing expanse of emptiness. No matter how many times he travels into the Sicklands, Ton never gets used to the lack of life. In any form. He reaches over and touches the rock next to him, remembering back to his youth when even the most remote location at least had lichens and fungus growing.

  Not the Sicklands. The Clean Nation made sure of that. Life leads to bacterial growth and the Clean Nation philosophy is that nothing can be allowed to grow in the Sicklands. Nothing.

  “Good to go,” Hoagie says. “You should walk on down and get yourself some chow, LT.”

  “Yay,” Ton says ironically. “Looking forward to that.”

  “Maybe ask the good
doctor down there when the eggheads at Control will develop a meal that doesn’t taste like dog puke,” Hoagie says.

  Belly and Snorts both lift their heads from where they lay a few feet off.

  “I think Belly would argue with you on that one,” Ton smiles as he stands. “That bug hound is a connoisseur of vomit.”

  The dog gives a low huff and lays his head back down. Snorts doesn’t need to be called, she just stands, gives a farewell nudge to Belly, then moves next to Ton.

  “Stay cool, operator,” Ton says.

  “Will do,” Hoagie replies as the lieutenant starts to make his way down from the ridge.

  It’s a treacherous descent and Ton has to be careful not to lose his footing on the loose shale that is scattered everywhere. He moves from rock to rock, trying to keep as much cover as possible, but most of the hillside is nothing but open space. With his rifle up, and eyes looking everywhere, he lets Snorts take point, her senses far better than his.

  He’d activate his visor again, but just like with everyone else, he doesn’t want to run the power down. Better to have it when it’s really needed. Plus, observation without enhancement keeps an operator’s skills sharp. Dull skills make for a dead operator in the Sicklands.

  “Huh,” he mutters as he reaches the large crater about twenty yards from the transport. He kneels and studies the impact the missile made, his brow furrowed. “Interesting.”

  He snaps his rifle into a baton and uses it to prod and poke about the crater, moving chunks of rock and dirt to the side so he can get a better look at the results of the initial explosion.

  “What ya got there, LT?” Blaze asks.

  “I have an operator away from his post,” Ton replies.

  “Paulo has it covered,” Blaze says. “Was just relieving myself when I saw you over here. That where the missile hit?”

  “Yeah,” Ton replies.

  The two operators stare at the hole in the ground for a god minute or so.

  “It wasn’t aimed right for us, was it?” Blaze finally asks.

  “I don’t think so,” Ton says. “At the range it was fired from there’s no way they could have missed.”

  “It was a disabling shot then,” Blaze says. “Not meant to kill us.”

  “I don’t know,” Ton says. “Why keep us alive?”

  Blaze crouches next to the lieutenant. His eyes narrow as he studies the hole then looks up and glances around the area.

  “What?” Ton asks.

  “Where’s the shrapnel?” Blaze asks. “Bits and pieces of missile?”

  “The blast vaporized the pieces,” Ton says, but he doesn’t sound like he believes his own answer.

  “This wasn’t from a missile or rocket,” Blaze says as he stands up and circles around the hole. Gorge follows him closely, her nose to the ground, sniffing the edge of the crater. “Look hard, LT. See the blast pattern at the bottom?”

  “It goes down pretty deep,” Ton says, standing also. “The trajectory of a missile would have created a trench, not a deep hole.”

  “Yeah,” Blaze nods. “This was a booby trap. Whatever blew up was already here when we drove over it.”

  “Missile was a red herring?”

  “I think so. We never did see it fire since my view screen was down,” Blaze says. “And with no shrapnel then this was only meant to flip us and not destroy the transport.”

  “Why?” Ton asks. “Why risk keeping us alive? They had to know it was a GenSOF squad in the transport. Nobody else except for Clean Guard travels this route and they’d want to avoid messing with Clean Guard as much as avoiding messing with us.”

  “The risk is only worth it if there’s a pretty big reward to be had,” Blaze says, looking back towards the upside down transport. “Which means that reward is inside Tranny Eighteen.”

  “Blaze starts to walk away, but Ton moves quickly and grabs his arm. “No.”

  “No what?” Blaze asks. “I was just going to ask the doctor a couple of questions. Maybe she knows what they wanted.”

  “Or maybe she’s what they want?” Ton says.

  “Maybe,” Blaze says.

  “We had a watcher for a short while,” Ton says. “Came up pretty close, but didn’t stay long.”

  “The Cooties are sending forward observers?” Blaze laughs. “They can bring it on.”

  “Careful what you wish for,” Ton warns. “We’re down one squad member already.”

  “Lucky hit,” Blaze says. “They won’t be so lucky next time.”

  “Probably not,” Ton says. “But I’d rather not find out.”

  “So why send an FO?” Blaze asks. “Why not just attack again?”

  “I don’t know,” Ton says. “But keep this between us. Maybe the doctor will open up a bit more if she thinks we aren’t sniffing what really happened. Just act like the dumb operators everyone thinks we are.”

  Blaze cocks his head and grins at the lieutenant. “You don’t trust her, do you?”

  “Do you?”

  “No. But I mean that you think she’s involved in this somehow,” Blaze says. “I do too.”

  “Dangerous words,” Ton says. “Wrong ears hear them and we end up incinerated.”

  “Or on a slab in Control,” Blaze says.

  “Pardon?”

  “Just something the doctor said about performing post-mortems on GenSOF operators to study what makes our genes and bacteria parties tick.”

  “Interesting,” Ton muses, scratching his chin. His hand is nudged and he looks down to see Snorts giving him hungry eyes. “What’s for chow?”

  “The usual colors,” Blaze says. “Doctor Suspicious suggests pink then green for optimal health.”

  “Optimal health,” Ton nods. “Makes me miss Worm.”

  “He’ll come back on when the Clean Guard gets here and we can reestablish sat com,” Blaze says.

  “Let’s hope so,” Ton says. “I don’t like being in the dark out here. Having his access to data and surveillance is handy.”

  “Yet annoying at the same time,” Blaze laughs. “Come on, let’s get you and your bug hound some tasty pink slop.”

  Snorts gives a huff and shoots a look up at Blaze.

  “Don’t blame me, pup, I don’t make the stuff.”

  Part Two

  Nightmare

  The cough is small, at first. Barely noticeable.

  Could be a bit of dust or just some mucous. Everybody coughs, right?

  But that’s not how the dream turns out. Not at all.

  My wife starts to cough harder and then harder until she is doubled over, the crook of her arm covering her mouth while her hand rests against the wall, keeping her from falling over.

  The kids grip me, their hugs turning from ones of comfort to ones of security. Their innocent eyes look up at me, pleading with me to help their mother.

  But I can’t. No one can.

  Not anymore…

  20

  The grey light of the Sicklands washes over the crisp white of the Clean Guard vehicles.

  Two Slides in front, a Slide on each side, and two Slides in back, with a CG transport in the middle, makes up the convoy racing across the dismal terrain. The Slides –single occupant hover bikes that look like a hammerhead shark with a driver on its back, the entire front end sharpened like a fine blade- keep their positions with exact precision. No matter what twists and turns the route brings, they do not stray more than a cubic inch from where they are supposed to be.

  Anything less would be considered incompetence in the Clean Guard.

  Devoid of all markings, except for the holographic CG emblazoned on the front of each vehicle, the convoy is a scalpel of pure white, slicing through the dead flesh of the Sicklands, cutting a path to their stranded target.

  “Sixty clicks until contact,” the Clean Guard AiSP announces. The same information is displayed on each of the Slide rider, plus transport occupants’ visors. “Estimated time to arrival is one hour.”

  None of the Cle
an Guard present in the transport responds, nor do the Slide riders, as they mentally prepare for their mission.

  Locate, secure, and extract Dr. Mona DeBeers and her cargo. The mission parameters allow for extraction of the GenSOF squad, but only at Dr. DeBeers’s discretion. If she feels they are a liability better left to the Sicklands then they will be subdued or eliminated at the extraction site.

  Sensors ring out in all visors, alerting the men and woman of the CG that they are being observed along the route.

  “Hold all positions,” the AiSP orders. “Do not engage hostiles unless engaged. Dr. DeBeers is the mission, not the abominations.”

  More than a few of the members of the CG smile at the term: abominations. It is a word being thrown around more and more as Clean Guard missions go from Control security to test subject procurement and elimination. In years past, the Clean Guard would never leave the confines of Control unless for secure escort duty.

  These days the job has gotten considerably more interesting.

  “Stat weapons detected,” a Slide rider announces. “One click south by southeast.”

  “See it,” another rider replies. “Do transport orders remain the same with the new information?”

  “Hold positions, riders,” the AiSP says. “No distractions. Keep to the route for maximum time efficiency. Deviation will delay the extraction of Dr. DeBeers and the cargo. Do not engage unless engaged. No more discussion of subject will be tolerated.”

  The riders stay silent, not wanting to be known as intolerant of AiSP orders.

  None wants to be left behind in the Sicklands.

  21

  “Worm?” Hoagie says. “Worm? Are you in there?”

  “Hold on,” Paulo says, his hands deep inside one of the transport’s inverted walls, lengths of fiber optic cable strewn about him. He pulls one cable free and replaces it with a different cable. “Try it now.”

  “Worm?” Hoagie asks, tapping his wrist at the point where his PSC is embedded. “Come in, buddy. Worm? You there?”