AntiBio: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by Bible, Jake

  “I think you all know,” Dr. Lopez says.

  Dr. Benz sighs. “Not this again, Shamus.”

  “The data is there,” Dr. Lopez snaps, waving at his screen. “There is a pattern with the bacterial cultures in the Sicklands’ samples. I will stake my reputation on it.”

  “I agree,” Dr. Whittaker says.

  “You do?” Dr. Benz says. “Why the change of heart, Gordon? You never believed there was some mysterious other controlling things out in the Sicklands before. Why now?”

  “I have spent some time studying the Sicklands samples’ behavior,” Dr. Whittaker says. “And Dr. DeBeers’s behavior is strikingly similar. Those diseased creatures come to us with some notion that they are beholden to someone. Dr. DeBeers’ speech and actions showed she was under the same delusion. Until we know for sure, she should be isolated and studied.”

  “Studied?” Dr. Benz gasps. “Like one of the Sicklands’ creatures?”

  “More like one of the GenSOF operators,” Dr. Lopez says. “We treat her like an asset. A valuable one until her worth is deemed otherwise.”

  “Or she recovers,” Dr. Charter says. “Are we noted on this?”

  “I am,” Dr. Lopez says. “If mine and Dr. Whittaker’s suggestions have been heard.”

  “They are heard and noted,” Dr. Charter says.

  “Noted,” Dr. Benz replies.

  “Yes, noted,” Dr. Whittaker says.

  “Let’s continue to Sergeant Crouch,” Dr. Charter says. “Were we able to get enough bacterial culture harvested from him?”

  “We have ample supply,” Dr. Sheffield responds. “It is currently being replicated under various conditions. If this culture proves to be the one we have been looking for then we could start field trials within the Clean Nation cities starting next quarter.”

  “Nationwide or just select cities?” Dr. Lopez asks.

  “We’ll start with Rainier and MorganTown,” Dr. Sheffield says. “They have diversely different genetic general populations. If results are favorable with each then we’ll proceed Nationwide.”

  “And the Sergeant himself?” Dr. Charter says. “Having him escape the facility sterilization with the others is unfortunate.”

  “I disagree,” Dr. Benz says. “It could turn out to be advantageous.”

  “Explain, please, doctor,” Dr. Charter says.

  “He was a variable,” Dr. Benz says. “We won’t be able to assess his impact on Caldicott City for a long while. His excursions from the GenSOF tower could have a myriad of unknown effects. That Clean Nation city is no longer part of the Control group. We’ll monitor the genpop and use its GenSOF as a strike force into the Sicklands, but as of right now, it is off Courier Class duty. They won’t know that, of course.”

  “Of course,” Dr. Lopez smiles. “Happy rats running in their happy maze looking for their happy cheese.”

  “We’re all rats, Shamus,” Dr. Whittaker says. “Some of us just know we are in the maze.”

  “I still do not agree with that analogy, Gordon,” Dr. Lopez snaps. “I have an IQ of 237. That is averaged over three dozen different tests. Calling me a rat-”

  “Would you prefer whale?” Dr. Benz asks. “I swear, Shamus, I don’t know how you maintain that trim figure with the synth diet we are all forced to eat.”

  “My metabolism does not process the carbohydrates properly,” Dr. Lopez says. “It is a genetic affliction that both of my parents suffered from.”

  “Are we finished with personal barbs?” Dr. Charter asks. “Can we return to the matter at hand? Dr. Benz, you were saying?”

  “Having Sergeant Crouch out in the Sicklands could be one way to prove or disprove the Other Theory,” Dr. Benz explains, using air quotes.

  “Please do not do that,” Dr. Whittaker says. “It is condescending and rude.”

  “Noted,” Dr. Benz sneers. “As I was saying, Sergeant Crouch’s bacteria is singular. If there is no pattern then it will start showing up in new samples. If there is a pattern, an other behind this, then I suspect we will not see the new bacteria as this other will have removed it to keep his or her subjects pure.”

  “There is nothing pure in the Sicklands,” Dr. Lopez snorts.

  “That I can agree with,” Dr. Benz smiles.

  “Are we noted?” Dr. Charter asks.

  The rest look at each other for a moment then nod.

  “Noted,” they all say.

  “Good,” Dr. Charter frowns. “Now to this messy business with the canines?”

  “I want to know how the hell that happened,” Dr. Lopez snaps. “Do you know how long I spent working on that formula? To have to butcher every single specimen is heartbreaking, simply heartbreaking!”

  “It was,” Dr. Sheffield says. “For the dogs too, I’m sure.”

  “The kennel can produce more,” Dr. Charter says. “It is a setback, but not devastating. The protocol with the canines is a side trial and not part of our main mission of combating the Strains.”

  “But having direct observation within the Sicklands is imperative!” Dr. Lopez shouts. “To think one day we can use their cerebral cortexes as organic uplinks to the satellites. The way the samples, despite their fear, seem to follow the mutated canines, is invaluable.”

  “I hate to agree with Dr. Lopez again, but he is right,” Dr. Benz says. “Machines do not function for long in the Sicklands and even the ones that do, the samples shy away from them. It’s like they can feel the technology.” Dr. Sheffield snorts. “Care to share something, Louis?”

  “No, no, sorry,” Dr. Sheffield says.

  He brings up an image of the intake process going on as they speak. The diseased people are being herded and lined up by Clean Guard troopers, their eyes wide with fear. He turns up the sound and everyone frowns at the cacophony of utterances that barely resemble speech.

  “No disrespect meant for the samples, it’s just hard to imagine a people that can barely master basic communication skills can ‘feel’ technology,” Dr. Sheffield says.

  “Yet, they can,” Dr. Benz says, giving Dr. Sheffield a withering stare. “Every monitoring array we build in the Sicklands ends up catching nothing. But we know the samples are present. Satellite imaging shows their groupings clearly. And yet they avoid the arrays.”

  “Coincidence,” Dr. Whittaker says.

  “Doubtful,” Dr. Benz says. “Regardless, the canine research needs to continue. How soon will the kennel have new subjects?”

  “Within the month,” Dr. Charter says. “Are we satisfied with this subject?”

  “Noted,” Dr. Lopez says.

  “Noted,” the others repeat.

  “Then let’s move to our final item,” Dr. Charter says. “One not previously scheduled. The Morgenfeld 325.”

  “Dear Lord, that thing again?” Dr. Lopez says, throwing his hands up in the air. “How hard is it to catch and destroy an assistance orb? I do not understand why that thing is still floating around Control.”

  “It isn’t,” Dr. Charter says. “The orb left control onboard the GenSOF transport.”

  “It did? Show me,” Dr. Benz says. The image of the squads’ flight replays on his screen. “What the hell?”

  “How did this happen?” Dr. Lopez asks. “That little piece of shit led that Burn girl right to my canines! And to Sergeant Crouch!”

  “Yes, yes, we know,” Dr. Sheffield says. “We just went through that.”

  “It is unfortunate,” Dr. Whittaker says. “But luckily the main objective was not compromised.”

  “Dr. Benz?” Dr. Charter asks, looking over as the man studies his screen intently. “Do you see something worth noting?”

  “If the orb hadn’t led the squads to the bay then they would have been sterilized,” Dr. Benz says. “It took them right to the vats.”

  The others watch the scene play out on their screens.

  “It saved them?” Dr. Whittaker asks. “Interesting.”

  A chime sounds and Dr. Charter looks at her checkl
ist. “Research wing 1312 is about to be revived,” she says, standing from the table. “Can we table this discussion for tomorrow’s meeting?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Benz says. “I want to study the secfeed of the orb more. Maybe I’ll have some insight I can share tomorrow.”

  “Then meeting is adjourned,” Dr. Charter says. “Gentlemen.”

  She walks casually from the Conference Room and makes her way back up to the main levels. It takes her several minutes before she reaches Research wing 1312, but when she does, she finds a large group of sleepy researchers all holding their noses as they drink down purple and orange swirled shakes.

  After a few minutes of conversation with the researchers, Dr. Charter excuses herself. She looks over her checklist and realizes she has exactly eight minutes before her next duty. She rushes, without looking like she is in a hurry, to her personal quarters, where she had been quarantined during the facility lockdown.

  Making sure the door slides securely shut, she walks to her bed and reaches underneath the frame. She presses her hand to the bottom and a small click sounds behind her. Part of the wall separates and she hurries over, pulls it open, and steps inside a space barely bigger than a small closet.

  Inside the space is bank after bank of video screens. Not digital projections, but actual physical monitors. Each shows a different view within Control as well as several views of the Sicklands. On the top left monitor is a view different form the others: the inside of Tranny Eighteen.

  Working an ancient joystick, Dr. Charter manipulates the image until she is able to see Red seated at his station intently watching the view of the Sicklands on the screen before him. Dr. Charter kisses two fingers and then places the wet fingertips to the monitor.

  “Take care of yourself, please,” she says. “And our son.”

  A chime sounds and she sighs, her shoulders lowering considerably as she looks at her checklist. One minute and she’ll be late for her next duty. She leaves the room and presses the wall firmly in place then taps at her checklist and waits as a bright blue shake is dispensed from the wall. With the chaos of the day, she knows sleep will be a long way off, so she downs the shake, shuddering as the stim surges through her system. She has to remind herself that she can only take two more of those within the next 24 hours or she could do serious damage to her endocrine system.

  “Dr. Charter?” the AiSP voice echoes in her quarters. “Are you feeling alright?”

  “Yes, AiSP,” Dr. Charter replies. “Why do you ask?”

  “There was a brief interruption of your vital signs,” the AiSP says. “I assume it is because of the heavy load on the Control network while personnel are being revived, so I wanted to make sure.”

  “I’m fine, AiSP,” Dr. Charter says. “Can you inform Dr. Whittaker that I am running thirty seconds behind?”

  “I have done so, doctor,” the AiSP says. “He has responded that he is running three minutes behind.”

  “Of course,” Dr. Charter smiles.

  She smoothes her white uniform and walks to the wall, waits for the door to slide open, then steps out into the brilliant white of the Control hallway.

  Her quarters fill with mist once she is gone and the lights dim to black.

  Read on for a free sample of Origins

  Author’s Note-

  As you can guess, this novel is part of a much larger narrative, one that can’t fit inside 75,000 or even 150,000 words. When I first started playing with the world AntiBio is set in, I had an idea it would be a quick chase style novel and wrap up all neatly. Then ideas started to emerge and I found I was world building something that would incorporate so much more than a post-apocalyptic shoot ‘em up. From the Clean nation to Control, GenSOF operators to GenWrecks, AiSPS to Cooties, AntiBio threw me into a strange mix of Blade Runner and Damnation Alley with a healthy dose of WTF in between. There was just no way it was all going to fit into one novel.

  So, my faithful fans and readers, be assured there is plenty more to come! This series, as it is planned, will span at least another two books if not three. I have all kinds of areas I want to explore and show you. What’s really up with Control? What Other is out in the Sicklands? Who are the GenWrecks really? And let’s not forget about the other Clean Nation cities. So much to tell!

  Hope you dug AntiBio enough to continue on the journey with me. I see it as my Dark Tower series, in a way, just without the interminable wait between books!

  Cheers,

  Jake

  March 2014

  Jake Bible lives in Asheville, NC with his wife and two kids.

  A professional writer since 2009, Jake has a record of innovation, invention and creativity. Novelist, short story writer, independent screenwriter, podcaster, and inventor of the Drabble Novel, Jake is able to switch between or mash-up genres with ease to create new and exciting storyscapes that have captivated and built an audience of thousands.

  He is the author of the bestselling Z-Burbia series for Severed Press as well as the Apex Trilogy (DEAD MECH, The Americans, Metal and Ash).

  Find him at jakebible.com. Join him on Twitter and Facebook.

  One of the worst things for humanity about finally adopting the FTL drive was the realization that, once they were in the endless black sea, all of their nightmares existed much closer than they thought. All kinds of spirits, monsters, diseases, depravity, and madness, available for the sampling on some planet or another.

  BARU SHEEN

  Conor Stasik shut down the computer systems on his fighter and adjusted his suit for the atmosphere.

  “Get to as many of them as you can, Stasik,” Commander Chalmers instructed him over the comm line. “But only if you can. No point making things worse. We’ll send ships to help within the hour. Just stay wired and wait to hear from us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Conor said. He couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t try getting into the compound, though, regardless of the risk.

  The prospect of danger didn’t bother him. The fleet had made it perfectly clear to everyone aboard their warship, the Doorway, that their lives were forfeit the moment they enlisted. It was just the way of things out in deep space. Ever since humans encountered extraterrestrials and war had broken out with species from beyond their solar system, none of the astronauts expected to return home in one piece. So, as far as Conor was concerned, he was already on borrowed time, and dying in an attempt to rescue his captive brothers and sisters from the Doorway was just as good as dying anywhere else in the far reaches of the Milky Way. Maybe better.

  It wasn’t all death wishes and resigned recklessness for him, though. He loved his shipmates. A handful of them especially. Life at sea (the navy still referred to the vacuum as water, a habit that refused to die), along with the intense training regimen on the Doorway, had forged a bond between Conor and a few of his crewmates greater than he’d ever felt with his real family. If he could find a way to break even one of them out of captivity, his death would be worth it.

  Exhaling deeply, he finished calibrating the gravity equalizers on his boots and headed for the exit hatch at the back of his vessel.

  “Doorway, this is Ensign Stasik. I’m ready to scout the perimeter of the compound on your mark,” he said into his comm link.

  There was a long pause while the transmission reached from the planet’s rocky surface to the other side of its second moon, where the Doorway hid beyond the range of Kalak scanners. Or so they hoped.

  “Proceed, Ensign Stasik.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He pushed a button on the control panel beside the hatch and it gasped open.

  The wind drove him back into the ship.

  Damn.

  Conor grimaced. It was going to be a long walk.

  Especially in this god-awful place.

  Baru Sheen was a miserable planet inside and out. He’d known about the strong winds and dust swirls that made visibility difficult a meter or two above the surface, but he hadn’t been prepared for the iron in the air. The s
mell was so strong that it soaked through his suit and made the oxygen in his glass-domed helmet taste like blood.

  “Cutting communications, Doorway. I’ll report back once I’m inside.”

  “Understood,” the commanding officer responded. Conor couldn’t tell who the C.O. was over the howling wind, but it couldn’t have been Chalmers because there was no warning or objection to his plan of entering the compound. He supposed that was one upside to radio silence. There weren’t many others.

  But as nice as it would have been to stay wired all the way to the base, it wasn’t worth the risk. If he tried connecting close to the compound, the Kalak sensors would pick up on his comm link almost immediately. And it wouldn’t do him much good to be in contact with the ship, anyway. The fleet was already assembling whatever backup they could spare for a rescue operation. There was no point calling for help. The Doorway hadn’t even been able to get Conor’s small fighter off planet.

  Could be worse.

  He could have been inside the facility already with the rest of the humans. After all, he’d been a part of the same mission team that had been overrun. By pure luck, he’d narrowly avoided capture. If he’d been any closer to the front of the line or even a ship or two farther back, he would have been taken along with the rest of his team.

  Now, though, it appeared his luck had run out. The higher-ups in the fleet had decided it was too risky for him to try slipping past the Kalak surface-to-air defense cannons, and they were probably right. He wouldn’t have made it ten kilometers from the base before his ship was blown to hell, and then the Kalak would have a lock on the Doorway’s position, too.

  So, Conor was alone. The entirety of the rescue party for the unfortunate captives, and an inexperienced one at that. He wasn’t even close to being out of the woods yet.

  Just before he severed communications, Commander Chalmers cut in. “Good luck, Stasik. We’ll get you out of there as soon as we can.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The line clicked and, this time, Conor was truly cut off from humanity. Back in the howling wind with a strange, purple and blue sky above, and the canyons rolling away from the acidic sea. Back in Hell, in other words.