AntiBio: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by Bible, Jake

  “Not here,” Jude says. “Not where we’re going. You’ll see.”

  “Listen, kid, I’m not appreciating the ominous tone. Just tell it to me straight.”

  “You’ll see,” Jude says again. He stays quiet as he gets Milo secured, double checks the cables training the Slides together, and hops on the front Slide. “Ready?”

  “Good to go, little creeper,” Milo says. “Drive on.”

  Jude moves the Slide forward and finds the safest speed that keeps them moving at a good pace, but doesn’t risk the stability of the rear Slide. They drive on for a good few hundred yards before the terrain starts to descend sharply. Milo tries to look over his shoulder and up towards Jude, but even that movement rocks the Slide.

  “You aren’t going to drive us off a mountain, are you kid?” Milo calls out.

  “I’ll try not to,” Jude says as he takes a sharp right along the hillside.

  This changes Milo’s view and he gasps.

  “Holy shit,” he says. “How far down is that? It’s so dark I can’t even make out the bottom?”

  “About a thousand feet,” Jude says. “To the next ledge. It’s only five hundred feet after that before you hit bottom. I like to throw rocks off this during the daytime. Ajax will run down and get them.”

  “You have got to be shitting me,” Milo says. “What kind of fucked up childhood do you have, kid?”

  “A free one,” Jude says. “Can you say the same about yours?”

  “You’re comparing synthapples and synthoranges, kid,” Milo says. “Not sure if I’d want to trade with you, to be honest.”

  “Whatever,” Jude says. “Hang on. We’re getting to the steep part of the trail.”

  “The steep part?” Milo cries. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You’ll see,” Jude laughs.

  “Stop saying that!” Milo shouts, his voice echoing back up to him from the darkness below.

  36

  Pus drips from the open sores on the dog’s muzzle as it sniffs the ground, trailing its prey. Behind it, careful not to antagonize the alpha, follow six other dogs, similarly afflicted with sores, lesions, hair matted with blood, piss, and feces. The pack moves forward over the terrain, stopping only where their prey had stopped, then pushes on, eager for the possible meal that moves ahead of them.

  “Find fast,” a man says, his voice a mucous choked, guttural growl.

  “Get hungry now,” a woman responds, her voice only a higher pitched version of the man’s.

  “Muck lug foot pound,” another man says and the dozen others behind him all nod, as if his gibberish makes perfect sense.

  The fifteen men and women stay near the pack of massive dogs, but don’t get too close for fear of being attacked. The relationship they have developed is tenuous at best, far from symbiotic. In the end, it all comes down to a matter of resources. If the dogs can lead the men and women to the resources, and are willing to share, then that is good. If not, then they deal with that later.

  They all have ways of dealing with that, their gnarled, scabbed knuckles clenched into fists that grip crude weapons of stone and old wood, violent proof.

  The alpha dog stops and raises his head, torn ears turning this way and that. The wind has picked up considerably, a sure sign of a grit storm, and the men and women shuffle from one foot to another, anxious to keep moving and catch their prey before they themselves are caught out in the open by the impending storm.

  Finding food doesn’t matter if your face is torn off by sand and dirt being hurled at a hundred miles an hour.

  Dog ears twitch, a nose snuffles, then the alpha is off, leaping over the side of the mountain and down onto the narrow trail below. His body lowers and the powerful, diseased muscles in his legs flex and contract, again and again, as it picks up speed. For the dog, ancient instincts kick in and the endorphins start to pump, making the thrill of the hunt almost as nourishing as the promised meal.

  Having adapted to the nightmare that is the Sicklands, the rest, dog and human alike, have no problem chasing after the alpha along the narrow, treacherous trail, their own instincts kicking in too. Drool begins to join the wind as all of them salivate in anticipation of what is to come. Day in and day out, they live off the dregs of subsistence the Sicklands provide. So to have a chance at actual meat –sweet, tender meat- is almost too much for them to handle. Forgetting their need for stealth, they all start to whoop and howl, bark and yip, in eagerness of what they have not tasted in so very long.

  The alpha dog barks loudly and they all quiet, but don’t completely fall silent.

  The scent is almost too much. It is carried on the strong winds, blowing into the nostrils of the Cooties and Sicklands hounds; the smell of life from so many dogs, and more than just one human. The smell of youth is like an olfactory elixir, clearing the sick brains of the Cooties, pushing them forward, making them take physical risks when usually they are so cautious not to test the perils of the Sicklands.

  To survive out in the great territory of Hell is not something one deals with day by day, but minute by minute, second by second, as the landscape can change instantly. A friend becomes an enemy at a growl; a favorite hiding space becomes a death trap. The Cooties and grotesque dogs learn that to beat back the shroud of death that constantly floats over them, they must use every last bit of their diminished capacities. They must know the turn of the wind, shift in the gravel, and change in the seasons from dreary to malignant.

  For denizens of the Sicklands, all that keeps them going is the hope for a chance at a hunt.

  And that chance is before them, only yards ahead, and they have no intention of letting it escape.

  37

  “Hey…what…the fuck…man?” Hoagie asks, coming to with Milo strapped to him. “Get the…fuck…off me.”

  “No can do, brother,” Milo says. “We’re joined at the hips for this trip. The kid is steering us to some bolt hole where we can ride out the coming storm. And hopefully avoid the Cooties he says are on our tail.”

  Hoagie tries to shake the grogginess from his head, but just ends up shooting daggers of pain through his body as the movement jostles his arm and leg.

  “Aaaaaah,” he hisses. “What the hell are you talking about? Last thing I remember is some Cooties standing over me. But I don’t think they were Cooties.”

  “Quiet,” Jude warns from up front. “Your voices carry on the wind. You’ll draw them right to us.”

  The wind turns from a strong breeze into a clear and present danger, buffeting the Slides this way and that, forcing Jude to use all of his skills to keep them from hovering off the trail and right over the mountainside.

  Milo burps and struggles not to vomit as the constant back and forth motion, coupled with the fatigue from his wound, makes his stomach churn. It’s a struggle he loses. He tips his head to the right and throws up the dregs of the last meal he drank, sending it flying in the wind.

  “Nice,” Hoagie says. “You keep doing that and you’ll make me puke. And I can’t really turn my head, so it’ll be all over you.”

  “Don’t.” Burp. “You.” Burp. “Dare.” Burp.

  “Hush,” Jude snaps.

  While he can make out the trail from the glow of the hover skids, the boy’s eyes are really following the dark outlines of the dogs ahead, trusting that they will keep them on track and not tumbling off into oblivion. The bug hounds move swiftly and silently, never slowing, never wavering from their constant pace. Jude smiles at their grace and efficiency in a world that inspires none.

  It’s one reason he couldn’t live in a Clean Nation city even if he was allowed to; too many people, not enough dogs.

  After a few more yards, the GenWreck dogs pull up and the GenSOF ones follow suit, stopping close to a large boulder that is precariously perched on the side of the mountain.

  “We’re here,” Jude says. “I have to get you inside quickly. They are close now.”

  “How the hell can you tell that?” Milo
asks, wishing he had something to wash the taste of bile from his mouth. He’d even go for a pink or green shake. Shit, he’d choke down the blue if he had it.

  “I just can,” Jude says. “This won’t be easy. You’ll hurt a lot. Try not to cry too much, okay?”

  “We’re GenSOF, kid,” Milo says. “We can take it.”

  “Speak for yourself, asshole,” Hoagie says. “You don’t have a broken arm and shattered leg.”

  “Nope, just a knife wound to the gut,” Milo says. “And despite assurances it’s been cleaned, I’m pretty sure whatever was on the blade is rotting me from the inside out.”

  “That’s lunch doing that,” Hoagie says.

  “Oh, yeah, you’re probably right,” Milo laughs.

  “City folk,” Jude says, shaking his head as he helps undo the cables holding Milo and Hoagie to the Slide. “You have to crawl inside. Go ten feet and then you can stand. Just keep moving. I’ll be close behind.”

  “Close? How close?” Milo asks. “Don’t bail on us now, kid.”

  “I have to get them off our trail,” Jude says. “If they followed us this far then they aren’t going to quit. Too many scents for them not to find the bolt hole.”

  “Do what ya gotta do,” Hoagie says. “If LT trusts you to watch over us then I trust you to keep whatever is after us from catching up.”

  “Good way to look at it,” Milo says, crouching on his hands and knees before the barely visible opening under the boulder, his belly feeling like a hot iron is pressed against it. “You want to go first?”

  “You go,” Hoagie says. “I may have to have you drag me part of the way.”

  “You good, operator?” Milo asks.

  “Solid,” Hoagie replies.

  Jude watches Milo crawl inside first and then Hoagie follow after him. As City as they may be, he is impressed with how they handle the obvious agony they are both under. He has no illusions they’d survive long in the Sicklands on their own, but he thinks, with his help, he can keep them from getting themselves caught and killed.

  Or he hopes he can.

  Jude waits until the men are out of sight then kneels in front of Ajax.

  “In, boy,” he says. “You watch the entrance. No one but me, okay?”

  The dog gives a quick woof then turns to the other dogs and barks twice sharply, bobbing his head towards the bolt hole. The bug hounds turn quickly and scoot in after Milo and Hoagie, each waiting until the one in front is completely out of the way before taking its turn. Ajax is the last to follow, and even though Jude knows he’s waiting right there, the dog is completely lost from sight, camouflaged by its pitch black appearance.

  Jude studies the Slides for a minute and realizes there isn’t enough room on the trail for him to turn them around like he wants. Instead, he undoes the cables holding one to the other and pushes the rear Slide back along the way they came. He starts picking up speed, running faster and faster, until he knows he has enough momentum and then lets go. The Slide continues on, the hover skid keeping it a steady three feet off the ground.

  The boy hurries back to the other Slide and repeats the motion, but doesn’t let go this time, instead he grabs on and pulls himself up, riding the Slide backwards. He reaches down and grabs the baton that had been secured against the side and snaps it into rifle form. He smiles at the ease in which it fits in his grip and nestles against his shoulder. A far cry from the older, more solid weaponry he has been raised to use.

  He watches the Slide in front of him hurry along, hoping its proximity sensors keep it from straying from the trail. He knows they are designed to do that, but has never been able to test the theory. Learn something new in the Sicklands every day.

  Within seconds, even with the wind that has turned into a low howl, Jude hears the Sicklands hounds and Cooties coming. He takes a deep breath and sights down the length of the rifle, his aim focused on the lead Slide.

  38

  The alpha stops, feeling the vibrations in the air from the hover skids. Even though the vehicles don’t make contact with the ground, their static drives still exert a force upon the ground. It’s that force that the alpha feels and causes him to pull up short, his matted hackles raised, chipped and broken teeth bared.

  The others stop behind him, the dogs on his heels, the humans a safer distance back. They wait and wait then all start to screech and jump, moving from foot to foot at the oncoming Slide. To their diseased brains, it’s as if a monster has come for them, hurtling on with a glowing fury. Some start to throw rocks at it while others crouch down, crude spears ready to stab and gut the thing.

  Once in range, the dogs, as a pack, leap and pounce on the Slide, their jaws trying to find purchase so their teeth can tear open the Slide’s throat. But, of course, the machine has no throat and the dogs are carried along, back towards the group of Cooties that rail at the Slide. The impact is almost comical, as the humans just stand there, confused by what is happening. Half of them are sent flying into the mountainside while the other half are flung from the trail, their screams lost as they plunge below.

  Its momentum thwarted by the impact, and by the dogs’ weight, the Slide comes to a stop, hovering shakily in place while the Sicklands hounds continue their search for a soft underbelly, but only finding a glowing discharge of static energy.

  The alpha dog realizes the futility of its attack and jumps from the Slide, turns, and pisses by the front of it. Once it’s done relieving itself, it whips around, instantly aware of the second Slide coming towards it. Its teeth showing and greenish saliva dripping from its mouth, the dog lunges forward and races at the second Slide. It smells the meat on this one, knows this time it won’t be fooled.

  Anger and hunger drive it on, fueling its muscles with a new desire to rip something open and eat, eat, eat its flesh and juices.

  The alpha is feet from the Slide when it leaps, its eyes seeing the boy. Its mouth opens wide and for a split second it believes it has won, that it will take this thing down and feast like it hasn’t in so very long.

  Then that split second is over as one of the beta dogs decides to make a play and leaps at the alpha, shouldering it out of the way. The alpha falls to the ground and tumbles over the side of the ledge.

  Before the beta soars another few inches, it is ripped apart by a static blast. Fur and flesh fly every which way, the smell of burning dog meat carried by the wind back to the dogs and humans that weren’t forced off the trail.

  Cooties stand and shout, screeching their unintelligible threats. Dogs bark and snarl, their threats very clear.

  Jude doesn’t care. He fires the rifle again, his aim sending the blast at the first Slide, ripping the front of it right off. He centers himself on his own Slide, fires again, and then leaps off, flipping backwards over the front and landing hard on the trail. His feet go out from under him as he hits the loose gravel, but he manages to fall against the mountain and not off of it.

  He doesn’t miss a beat, kneels, and fires blast after blast at the Slide that continues speeding towards the other and the group of Cooties and dogs. The vehicle reels from the attack and then bursts into a blinding explosion of brilliant blue light. Jude shields his eyes, seeing stars and spots behind his eyelids, and flattens himself against the trail as debris rains down on him.

  After waiting a few minutes, his ears tuned to even the slightest drag of a foot or scrape of a hand, Jude finally picks himself up and stands looking at the carnage before him. A huge swath of trail is completely missing from the mountainside and there is no sign of a single dog or person. He raises the rifle, actually surprised it hasn’t sustained any damage, and sends a couple blasts across the divide, lighting up the area.

  Nothing.

  Except for a stray scrap of rotten rags and a tuft of dog hair here and there, but those are all lost to the wind in seconds.

  Jude snaps the rifle back into a baton and tucks it into his belt, wrapping his ragged clothing tight around him as he turns into the wind and hikes his way
back to the bolt hole.

  39

  “I apologize, doctor,” the AiSP says. “But we have arrived at Control.”

  Dr. DeBeers stretches and looks out the windshield screen. “I said to wake me thirty minutes out.”

  “Yes, but it was apparent you needed as much rest as possible,” the AiSP says. “Again, my apologies, but it was for your own health and well-being. The new bacteria are working their way through your system at an alarming rate. I would seriously suggest-”

  “Shut up,” Dr. DeBeers replies, her head feverish and chest constricted. She sniffs, but her sinuses are clogged. “Has Management completed the facility wide lockdown?”

  “No, doctor,” the AiSP responds. “You will need to remain in the bay for approximately twenty minutes before lockdown is complete.”

  “Twenty minutes?” Dr. DeBeers snaps. “Unacceptable! Tell them to have the lockdown complete now!”

  “Doctor? Dr. Benz is requesting communication, as is Dr. Charter,” the AiSP states. “Shall I patch them through?”

  “No,” Dr. DeBeers snarls. “They just want the subject for themselves. They want the credit for what I have found. Communications block in place now. Tell them that I expect Management to comply with my orders and be in full lockdown. This is my project and I will handle it from here.”

  “Doctor, I have-”

  “SHUT UP!” Dr. DeBeers roars then succumbs to a fit of harsh coughing. She puts her white gloved hand to her mouth and it comes away spattered with drops of black and red. Instead of alarm, she feels warmth and satisfaction.

  “Management can kiss my ass,” Dr. DeBeers mumbles. “I’m in charge. I’m the Chairperson. They can go suck a Cootie dick, for all I care.”

  “Doctor? Is that a message you want me to relay?” the AiSP asks.

  She doesn’t respond, just watches as the gleaming white dome of Control looms before the Clean Guard transport. No matter how many times she leaves and comes back, it is always awe inspiring what has survived and been built in the Sicklands. To think at one point the doctors and researchers that came before her only had thick layers of redundant plastic and concrete to keep out the contagions that plague the Earth. Now there is the dome of Control, a swirling mix of static electricity and an ever constant spray of chemicals and solvents that keep anything and everything from penetrating the sterile environment.