AntiBio: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by Bible, Jake

  It’s not the white of the Clean Guard he expected, but the dirty browns and greys of Sicklands rags. Covered from head to toe in a variety of materials, a man stares down at Hoagie, his eyes obscured by thick, black goggles. In his hands is a long rifle, a model Hoagie hasn’t seen in years. The muzzle of the rifle starts to glow blue and Hoagie closes his eyes.

  When the blast comes, Hoagie is ready. He has said his goodbyes to the world many times before heading out on missions, and this one was no exception. His conscience is clear and despite the fucked up nature of everything, he knows he’s going to die with honor.

  A second blast and a third is heard and Hoagie wonders why he can’t feel them. Did he break his neck or back in the crash? Is he paralyzed?

  No, no, he can feel his broken arm and leg pretty fucking well.

  He cracks open an eye and sees the man standing over him, rifle to his shoulder, firing blast after blast. Then Hoagie realizes those aren’t the only blasts he’s hearing. He watches the man calmly keep firing until he at last lowers the rifle.

  “Clear!” he shouts, throwing up his hand and giving a thumbs up. “Marco?”

  “Clear, boss!” someone shouts.

  “Collette?”

  “Clear here, Red!”

  “Nick?”

  “We are covered, boss! What now?”

  The man crouches by Hoagie’s head and lifts up his goggles, he pulls the rags away from his face and smiles down at the operator.

  “What’s your name, operator?” the man asks.

  “Uh…GenSOF Sergeant Courier Class Hogarth Menendez,” Hoagie replies.

  “Good to meet you, operator,” the man says, patting Hoagie on the shoulder. “I’m Red. How’s about we get you clear of that rock and try to fix that arm and leg up for ya?”

  “Yeah, uh, that would be great,” Hoagie says. “But…who the fuck are you?”

  “Who do I look like?” Red asks.

  “A Cootie,” Hoagie replies.

  “Good,” Red smiles. “That’s the look I was going for.” He puts his fingers to his lips and whistles loud. A bug hound trots up next to him and sits, waiting for orders. “Zeus? This is GenSOF Sergeant Courier Class Hogarth Menendez.” He looks down at Hoagie again. “You got a nickname, son? I don’t think you like being called Hogarth.”

  “Hoagie,” Hoagie replies. “I go by Hoagie.”

  “Zeus, this is Hoagie,” Red tells the dog who is normal sized and clean, not like the massive animals that attacked Zebra squad back at the transport. “He’s good people, got it? No eating.”

  Zeus barks once then licks Hoagie’s face.

  “Good boy,” Red says as he stands and whistles again. “Coffin squad! Let’s get this operator free and hoof it back to that transport! There are still two Slides to deal with!”

  Boots hurry towards them and Hoagie is soon staring up at three more rag-covered people, each holding a different type of rifle with their own healthy looking bug hounds standing at their sides. One of the people nods and kneels down next to the rock that has Hoagie pinned.

  “Should be easy enough,” the man says, placing his shoulder against the rock. “Squad ready?”

  “We got him,” a woman says as she grabs Hoagie’s good leg while Red grabs his shoulders. The third man stands over them, his rifle up, covering the area while they work.

  “Hey, hey, wait!” Hoagie shouts.

  But they don’t.

  He screams as he’s pulled free and his broken limbs bounce across the ground.

  “Sorry about that,” Red says. “But we’re in a hurry.”

  “Yeah…” Hoagie gasps. Despite being trained to swallow levels of pain that would kill others, Hoagie stays conscious for approximately two seconds.

  “He held out longer than I thought,” Marco says.

  “GenSOF all the way,” Red smiles. “Get him up and let’s go.”

  30

  The two Slides lay on the ground, their riders between them, using the vehicles for cover as one rider shoots at Paulo hiding behind the pile of bug hound corpses and the other shoots at the transport where Milo I shooting from the hatch, using the cylinder for cover.

  “Eventually you’ll run out of charge on those pistols!” Paulo shouts.

  “You will too!” a rider yells at him.

  “But can you kill me with your bare hands?” Paulo asks.

  “We’re Clean Guard!” the other rider shouts, firing at Milo.

  “That doesn’t answer the question!” Milo yells, returning the fire.

  He ducks down as three successive blasts nail the cylinder. A loud hissing is heard and the cylinder control lights turn from green to red. Seams appear on the side and the top slides away.

  “What the hell?” Jersey asks, her voice groggy. She starts to sit up, but Milo shoves her back in the cylinder. “Hey!”

  “You want to get your head blown off, lady?” Milo asks. “Stay down!”

  The two riders look at each other, check their weapons, and decide to make a move towards Paulo since he has the least cover. They leap from behind the Slides and rush forward, pistols up and firing.

  But they only get a couple steps before they go flying, their bodies knocked to the ground by several static blasts.

  “Clear!” Marco shouts, kneeling by the corner of the transport. “Operators! Do you hear me?”

  “We hear you,” Milo replies. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Coffin squad,” Marco says. “We’re the cavalry.”

  “There is no Coffin squad in GenSOF!” Paulo yells. “Nice try, you Clean Guard fucks!”

  “That’s because we aren’t GenSOF,” Red says from behind Paulo. His rifle is up, but his hand is out in a placating gesture. “Don’t shoot, okay?”

  Munch is at Paulo’s side and he starts to growl, but stops when Zeus steps next to Red. The two bug hounds watch each other then Munch sits, his mouth open, tongue hanging out. Zeus matches the behavior.

  “See?” Red says. “All cool, operator.”

  Paulo looks at the way the man carries himself and holds his weapon, realizing even if he can turn and shoot fast enough to hit the man, he doubts he’ll live through it, even with Munch’s help. Who doesn’t look like he’ll be much help at all. Paulo sets his rifle aside and it snaps back into short baton form. Munch whines a little, but stays by his operator’s side, still casually watching Zeus.

  “That’s new,” Red says, looking at the baton. “How does it change mass like that?”

  “Not a clue,” Paulo says. “Been trying to work that out myself for years now.”

  “Years?” Red asks, kneeling down, trying to look less threatening, but staying out of striking range. “That means they must have been in development just as I got out. Bummer I didn’t have a chance to take one with me. Sure would beat lugging this around.”

  He pats his rifle and Paulo studies the weapon.

  “Horstein LK-92?” Paulo asks. “Those have been out of use since before I became Courier Class.” He looks into Red’s eyes. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Red,” Red smiles, offering his hand then pulling it back. “Not going to try anything, are you?”

  “I wouldn’t admit it if I was,” Paulo says. “But pieces are falling into place, so no, I don’t think I will.”

  Red offers his hand again and Paulo takes it. Red stands and helps Paulo to his feet as Munch watches them both closely.

  “Good dog,” Red says.

  “Yeah, he is,” Paulo says. “So’s yours.”

  “Thanks,” Red says. “You injured?”

  “Nope, just took a tumble,” Paulo says. “I got lucky.”

  “That you did,” Red nods. “Let’s check on the rest of your squad. Care to tell your friend in the transport not to shoot?”

  “Milo? Chill,” Paulo calls out. “Friendlies, not hostiles.”

  “And you confirmed that how?” Milo yells.

  “Because I’m still alive to say they are friendlies and not ho
stiles!” Paulo yells back.

  “Makes sense,” Milo says. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “My people have Hoagie,” Red nods as Collette and Nick carry the unconscious sergeant from around the transport, Marco leading the way, rifle up and watching everything. Their bug hounds follow behind then split up, setting a perimeter around the area. Zeus goes and joins them. “He had a spill fighting off Slide riders. Won’t be using that arm or leg for a while.”

  “If the transport was working we could get him patched up,” Paulo says, waving at the upside down vehicle. “But that ain’t happening soon.” Munch trots off and picks a spot in the bug hound perimeter. The other dogs spread themselves out so they are evenly spaced. “Hey! Seriously, dog? Oh, never mind.”

  “What’s wrong with the transport?” Jersey asks, sitting up from the cylinder. She looks at Milo. “I’m assuming it’s all safe?”

  “We’re in the Sicklands, lady,” Milo says. “Nothing is safe out here.”

  “What the hell?” Red asks, stopping where he stands. “Why are you here? Jersey? What is going on?”

  She looks over and her eyes go wide. “Red?” She looks around her. “Wait? What’s happening?”

  “We got word it was going down,” Red says. “Tracked the signal as soon as the transport left Caldicott City. I have three squads waiting about forty clicks ahead, ready to pounce. When the transport didn’t show as scheduled I grabbed my squad and hiked it this way.”

  “Crap,” Jersey says, rubbing her forehead. “I must have been tagged somehow. Last thing I remember was getting my day’s quota ready for pick up. The bell rang, I opened the door, and that’s it.”

  “Jesus,” Red says. “If they know about you then others may be compromised.”

  “No shit,” Jersey says. “You just figuring that out?”

  Red raises a finger and frowns at her. She holds up her hands apologetically.

  “Sorry, sorry, getting human trafficked makes me grumpy,” Jersey says. She studies the transport and matches Red’s frown. “You know this should be the other side up, right?”

  “Someone, tell me what’s going on,” Paulo says as he kneels next to Ton’s body. Snorts lies next to her operator, her eyes studying everything carefully.

  “Good girl,” Paulo says and pats Snorts’ head.

  “He alive?” Milo asks.

  “He’s breathing,” Paulo says. “But pretty banged up. That doctor went all ape shit on him.”

  “Doctor Mona DeBeers,” Red spits. “Ape shit doesn’t begin to describe her. That woman has some loose screws up top.”

  Jersey gasps and scrambles up out of the cylinder. She stumbles past Milo and wedges herself into a corner of the transport.

  “She’s that scary?” Milo asks.

  “No, no, my StatShield is off,” she says. “This is the Sicklands. You are all GenSOF. I’m fucking dead.”

  “Oh,” Milo says. “Yeah, that is not good.”

  Red appears at the transport hatch, but backs off when Tequila stands and raises his hackles, a low rumble coming from his throat as he blocks Red’s way.

  “Tequila, calm,” Milo says. The bug hound lies down, but doesn’t move from the hatch opening.

  “Thanks,” Red says and nods at Milo then looks over at Jersey. “Press your wrist. Just calm down and press your wrist. It was taken offline when you were put into stasis.”

  Jersey nods, her bottom lip trembling. “Oh, right, yeah. I’m not supposed to leave CC. That’s not my job, not part of the plan. I’m intel and tech, not get sick and die.” She presses her wrist and blue static shimmers over her. “Let’s hope I haven’t already been exposed to anything lethal.”

  “You can StatMist when we get the transport up and running,” Red says. “Think you are up for that?”

  Jersey looks around and studies the condition the vehicle is in. She sees the cables sticking out from the wall. “Yeah, if that isn’t too much of a mess. Who just starts yanking cables out?”

  “Me! And again, will someone tell us what is going on?” Paulo asks, leaving Ton and walking over to check on Hoagie as Nick and Collette set him down. “You people are obviously trained, but you said you weren’t GenSOF.”

  “Not anymore,” Marco says. “Not after what they did to us.”

  “I wish Ton were awake,” Red says. “He’d be useful as I try to explain.”

  “Wait, you know LT?” Milo asks. “Jesus…are you-”

  He’s cut off as the line of dogs start to make quiet woofing sounds. Not barks, but loud enough to get everyone’s attention.

  Red, Marco, Nick, Collette, and Paulo all spin and raise their rifles as someone walks out of the darkness.

  “Just me,” the boy says. “Can someone cut me loose?”

  The kid walks closer and the dogs part, letting him through. They close ranks on Gorge, who is trailing the boy, but after some butt sniffing, they decide she’s good and let her through. She trots up and sits next to the kid, her eyes on Red, then sniffs the air and looks towards the transport. She runs to it and hurries inside, stopping right next to Jersey. She sniffs again and then gives a low whine, her tail wagging slightly.

  “She knows you? How?” Milo asks. “Who the hell are you, lady?”

  “Long story,” Jersey says, carefully reaching out and patting Gorge on the head. “Hey, girl. You know my smell, don’t you? Smelled it on your daddy? Where is your daddy?”

  “Uh, we don’t really consider ourselves bug hound daddies,” Milo says.

  “Well, you should,” Jersey snaps.

  Outside, Red smiles down at the boy.

  “Hey, son,” Red says. “You okay, Jude?”

  “As always, Pop,” the boy replies, turning to show his wrists. “Cut me?”

  Red pulls a knife from his belt and slits the binding, freeing Jude’s wrist.

  “Pop? Jude?” Paulo asks. “Will someone tell me who you are before I lose my freaking mind?” He stops and takes a step back. “Wait…you’re GenWrecks, aren’t you?”

  “GenWrecks?” Jude grins, rubbing his wrists. He wipes his forehead and the “sores” come right off. He flicks the gunk to the ground and wipes his hand on his clothes. “I hate that name.”

  “We’re the resistance,” Jersey calls out.

  “Part of it,” Red says. “And we won’t be for much longer unless we can get the transport up and going.”

  “On it,” Jersey says. “Think you big strong soldiers can flip this thing?”

  “Not without the hover skids at least partially operational,” Red says.

  “We can use the Slides,” Marco says.

  “Good call. Make that happen,” Red responds then looks at Paulo. “You cool, operator? You look a little green.”

  “I’m solid, man,” Paulo says. “Just confused as hell.”

  “We get the transport up and Worm will explain it all,” Red says. “But right now, we need to flip this bitch and get moving. They get Blaze to Control and shit is going to get a lot harder.”

  “Blaze is at Control?” Jersey cries. “No! They’ll slice and dice him up!”

  “Exactly, so you better hustle your ass with the fixing,” Red says.

  “On it,” Jersey nods.

  31

  “Static weapon signatures previously detected are moving closer,” the AiSP announces. “Engagement in fifteen seconds.”

  Four Clean Guard troopers spin about in their seats, hands integrating into the transport’s weapons control ports.

  “IRIS up,” Dr. DeBeers says. “AiSP? Assign each trooper a target and open ports. We do not have time to stop, and need to take out these things right now.”

  The troopers’ eyes all go black and they stand and turn to the walls as small portholes open wide enough to slide their rifles through. The image of the landscape is superimposed across their retinas and they are each assigned a static weapon signature to target.

  “AiSP? Take control of the Clean Guard,” Dr. DeBeers orders. “They are
yours.”

  “Yes, doctor,” the AiSP replies.

  “Hold on now,” the driver protests. “You can’t take over an entire transport of Clean Guard! AiSPs are not allowed-”

  He goes quiet, as his eyes turn black.

  “Thank you, AiSP,” Dr. DeBeers says. “I do not brook dissension of that sort. Activate full view on my ISIS.”

  “Done, doctor,” the AiSP says. “Engagement in one second.”

  The transport begins to shake and shudder as blast after blast hits it. The troopers all respond in kind and soon the attack is over. Fifty yards of travel and the battle is done.

  “Any survivors?” Dr. DeBeers asks.

  “No, doctor,” the AiSP replies. “Shall I relinquish control of the Clean Guard?”

  “No, there could be more along the route,” Dr. DeBeers says. “It’ll be easier if you maintain control over the troopers during the duration of the trip.”

  “Understood, doctor,” the AiSP says. “Would you care for an update on Sergeant Crouch?”

  “No,” Dr. DeBeers replies. “I will examine him myself.”

  She moves to the seat next to where Blaze is strapped in, shoving two troopers out of the way. When a hard slap to the cheek doesn’t rouse him, she pulls a baton, adjusts the charge, and jams it against his ribs. One shock and his eyes are wide open, his hands and feet struggling against his bonds.

  “What the fuck?” he shouts. “What the hell?”

  “Hello, Sergeant Crouch,” Dr. DeBeers says. “May I call you Simon? Or do you prefer your squad nickname of Blaze? I believe that is what your traitor of a girlfriend calls you as well.”

  Blaze studies his surroundings, taking in the details of the Clean Guard transport. He quickly realizes the troopers are all under AiSP control. Easy to spot if you know the body language.

  “Did you kill my squad?” Blaze asks. “Are they dead?”

  “They will be,” Dr. DeBeers says. “Although I haven’t heard from the Slides yet. AiSP? Have any riders reported?”

  “No, doctor,” the AiSP responds in the doctor’s com only. “I do show Slides still operational, but not moving. Unfortunately, my control of the troopers is limiting my ability to check vital signs on the riders. However, I am detecting-”