by Ric Beard
They’re spooky like that.
He peeked over the rocks and then back at his display. The men were out of view of the camera, which meant they were on the hill. He scanned the area around the truck just to make sure. Nothing moved. He reached for the yellow plastic device leaning against the rocks and flipped up a plastic guard, revealing what he saw as a cliché red button. He lowered his head instinctively and pushed it. An uproarious explosion filled the air as the oil truck disintegrated above the explosive buried beneath the road’s gravel surface. Reynolds felt the shockwave from the explosion push a warm breeze around his cover. He peeked over the rock and held up his Tab to snap a picture before turning and running to the tree line. As he ran, using the black smoke from the tanker as cover from the men on the opposite ridge, he checked the display. They’d all hit the ground when the truck exploded but were recovering. He heard Miles Copeland’s voice echoing in his head.
Zero casualties. Kade smiled.
“Mission accomplished boss,” he muttered to himself.
Kade ran 200 yards into the trees and looked around. He pulled the green tarp off his hover bike, brought up his Tab, and entered the chatroom he’d used for two years when Miles had been in charge. He posted the picture and typed his message to Labyrinth so that the mayor would eventually see it:
Citizens for Change - 1
Labyrinth – Nil
Part Eight
The Badlands
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lifeforms Detected
Day 5
Saturday, Mar 23, 2137
Somewhere on Old I-40
The only sensible name Sean could give the vehicle was “The Beast.” Throughout the first night, The Beast cruised over the broken asphalt as if it were level ground. Sean found the operations manual in a cubby under the passenger seat, but it was so heavily redacted and surprisingly jumbled, he’d decided instead to learn The Beast’s systems through the onboard computer’s voice system. Just like in the science fiction movies of old, the voice was female, albeit a little harsher than those sensual rhythms found in fiction.
Impressed by the machine’s ability to work through the night and keep its charge beneath the stormy sky, he pulled The Beast over to allow for a recharge cycle when the clouds cleared on the morning sun rose. He made notes on his new handheld as the voice he’d designated as Sara walked him through the seemingly endless capabilities of the machine. He read through the list and organized the items from most important to least. If he ran into a shit storm, he had the most crucial voice commands at the ready.
Since one mission parameter was absolute avoidance of contact with anyone between the cities, it only made sense that the Optical Camouflage feature was at the top of the list. According to Sara, who was more than happy to explain the function to him, cameras embedded in either side of the vehicle could project three dimensional holograms on the other side of the vehicle, allowing the tank to appear invisible. Of course, as with any emerging technology, it had its drawbacks. Rain could hamper the effect if it got the camera lenses wet.
There was an onboard radio scanner and radar. Though there was a feature that allowed him to link to drones for topological mapping, Sean couldn’t seem to make a connection. He also couldn’t pick up any long-range radio from OK City via the stringer network, which used the drones; so, it only made sense it was a connectivity issue. It was a safe assumption that Bingham didn’t want him communicating with anyone, especially since the system wasn’t forthcoming in giving him an explanation as to why he couldn’t connect, who built it, or any details as to its origins. Someone had done some programming to lock Sean out of the details.
As to weapon systems—Man! Did it have weapons systems! There was a—
“Lifeforms detected.” Sean nearly dropped his handheld as Sara’s voice burst into the cockpit
He swiped at his handheld, scrolled through pages, and came to the list of voice commands.
“Distance?”
“Three-quarters-of-one-mile,” Sara said.
He looked through the windshield and out the side windows but saw nothing but grass as far as his eyes could see and a few rusted-out masses piled on the side of the road. He spun around to look out the back. Nothing.
“How did they get that close?” Sean asked. “If the radar—”
“Radar is set for hourly pulses in energy conservation mode. Would you like to alter the radar pulse interval?”
“Yes! Well, no! Not right now. Remind me later.”
“Yes, Sean. I will remind you to reset the radar pulse intervals.”
Sean flipped through the commands.
“Optical Camouflage.”
“Optical Camouflage command routine. Shall I engage?”
“Yes. Engage, Number One.” He snickered.
“Would you like this system to be designated, number one, Sean?”
“No.”
Gene Roddenberry would roll over in his grave.
There was a short humming noise from the right side of The Beast. It lasted for a few seconds before Sara spoke.
“Scan complete. Projecting.” The hum stopped and Sean heard whirring on the other side of the tank, which also lasted a few seconds.
“Optical Camouflage engaged.”
Nothing inside the cabin had changed. Sean peeked out the side window to see if he could tell it was engaged, but there was no way to tell because the projection was outside his view. But then he realized that the projectors were lined along the entire hull and the terrain on the other side of The Beast was projected about an inch from the hull. He could see the thin green line representing grass redrawn from the cameras on the passenger side. Raising his head to look out the windshield, he saw silhouettes coming over the crest of a hill, heads bobbing up and down as they marched on the asphalt from the east.
They’re going to pass right by me.
He took a paranoid glance out the back for storm clouds. It would be a bad time for it to start raining on the cameras. Nothing but azure appeared in the cloudless sky all the way to the horizon.
Sean started to sweat. It had taken him all night to get used to the space inside the cabin, but now he felt The Beast closing in from all sides again. He hooked a finger through the collar of his t-shirt and pulled it in a semicircle away from his neck, reminding himself to breathe. He pushed his back into the backrest of the chair, popped open the electronic door of the console, and retrieved the pulse weapon stored there. He clicked the safety off and watched.
He counted ten figures carrying rifles across their chests instead of having them slung over their backs
Did they detect me before they came over the ridge, or do they always carry their weapons at the ready?
As they meandered down the hill, he saw two were women and eight, men. They wore body armor and battle helmets, along with thick green goggles wrapped over their eyes, though the sun had risen and night vision was no longer necessary.
Defense Forces Patrol.
It would’ve been just his luck if they were scanning for heat signatures through those goggles. He had no idea if The Beast could mask them. The sweat thickened on his forehead. He cringed and bore his back into the seat as he lowered himself. They disappeared behind one of the rusted-out cars before emerging again, right next to The Beast.
His sweaty grip on the pistol convinced him to remove his finger from the trigger, lest he slip, stun himself, and alert them to his presence. Thinking even better of it, he dropped the pistol back into the storage compartment and peeked above the door and out the window.
I can’t take them all with one pistol, anyway.
They’d come to a complete stop and were looking north, toward the grassy fields. Sean was on the south side of the road. The two women and a man were pointing toward the horizon, the man shaking his head.
A man to the right turned his head and looked directly at Sean. Sean’s heart thumped as he ducked his head below the window, realized he was being an idiot, and sat
back up. The man turned away.
“I’ll be a son of a bitch.”
The crew turned north and walked off the road, their high boots stomping wet grass as they trudged toward the horizon. Sean let out a long, cleansing breath.
Two minutes later, Sara spoke, scaring Sean almost out of his pants.
“Would you like to reset the radar pulse interval now, Sean?”
“Fuck! You scared the shit out of me!”
“Apologies, Sean. Would you like to reset the pulse interval now?”
Chapter Thirty
A Sparkling Glaze
Triangle City
A breeze mingled with her skirt, cooling her legs as Catherine strolled down Brinkley Avenue beneath the midday sun, a block from the main strip in Triangle City. She was oblivious to the weight of three shopping bag straps bouncing on her shoulder.
She’d gone all out. One bag held pork chops, a fresh shipment having just arrived at the grocery from the hog farm down east. There was corn and a bundle of string beans from another farm in the agriculture blocks on the other side of town. She even had a batch of home-brewed cider waiting at the apartment. Brian would be so pleased to have a real meal waiting for him after his six-week stint at the refinery. She would feed him well, rub the sore muscles in his back in the shower, and let nature run its course.
There was a fresh smell in the air, like lilacs, but not quite. She looked around for the source but was distracted by the reflection of her face in the shop window on her right. Her mirror wore the smile of a child who’d had her first kiss.
A teenager who’d had her first rub job.
She grinned. Where had that thought come from? She looked around again.
Had the day suddenly become brighter?
A row of azaleas in a brick planter built across the street by the Triangle City Beautification Project was the lovely pink of a young nipple. Her lips spread wider and she giggled at herself. But the azaleas had changed. The pink was now a surreal glow, so vibrant in the midday sun, and the green leaves that surrounded them were so alive. The branches began a synchronized dance in the wind and Catherine’s smile morphed into an all-out grin that felt wonderful on her face. A breeze rushed upward into her denim skirt, and she looked down. The skirt danced in the same fashion as the grass: a strange, rhythmic beating from back to front. But it was like the blue was covered in a sparkling glaze that made it more reflective beneath the high, bright sun. She looked down the street and saw tiny, dancing, golden stars across her vision.
A fleeting wonderment danced into her mind. Was she having some sort of brain episode? And why didn’t she care? She felt a topical numbness wash across her face and the top of her head when the breeze blew, but when she reached to touch her cheeks, her fingers felt so soft she couldn’t stop stroking them around. She stopped walking as she crossed from the sidewalk into the street and froze in place, absorbing the numbness as it crawled throughout her body. Closing her eyes, she allowed the breeze to assault her senses. What was happening to her? Where had this—
“Hello?”
Her eyes blinked open and Catherine gazed down the alley, her body wavering slightly. Standing close to her at the alley’s mouth was a man wearing a chambray shirt made of dancing golden stars with white cotton pants. Thick, lemon-colored hair covered in a surreal glaze of liquid glass danced upon his shoulders as his sea green eyes pierced her and awakened a place inside her that was primal and dark, but soothing and right.
She dropped the bags.
“Hello,” she said.
She stepped closer until their faces were inches apart. His breath tickled her face. She took his hand. Their mouths met, their tongues met. They embraced. She felt his warmth rush throughout her body, and she longed to stay there forever. She looked over his shoulder as he kissed her neck. Outside the alley, across the streets and sidewalks, people emerged from doorways to embrace each other.
Chapter Thirty-One
Definitely a Rib
Day 5
Saturday, Mar 23, 2137
Asheville Township
Lucian made it to Asheville and slipped into an unoccupied building to get a reprieve from the constrained interior of the Black Cat. The township where he’d traded his inventions in technology for three generations, the only place where people knew about his special gift outside The Foundation’s mountain compound, was his worst nightmare come to life.
The streets looked like a slaughterhouse floor. If it hadn’t been for the rain, Lucian knew the rivers flowing down the gutters would instead be of blood, dried to the cracked asphalt surface. The world he’d been born into had died in scenes like this and Lucian had seen more than his share of carnage en route to the compound in Asheville as he fled the implosion of human nature across the state. Now, over 100 years later in a city the old world had known as a bastion of peace and acceptance, he relived the old nightmares like they were newly-formed memories.
The Chain hadn’t bothered to so much as drag the murdered citizens of the Asheville Township into a ditch. They hadn’t bothered covering their bodies with cloth, tarps, or whatever else they could’ve found lying around. They’d instead tied them upright to whatever they could scrounge up, cut their bellies open so they would bleed out slowly, and left them for the buzzards, crows, and—from what he was seeing down the steep main road in the township’s center—bears.
This particular hulk was Ursus americanus, a black bear. Its attention was locked onto a small figure who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old when The Chain decapitated it. He watched in spite of himself as the bear flipped the child over and sniffed at it. Mercifully, the bear turned and started walking downhill without mistreating the corpse. Lucian imagined the bear had plenty of natural food in the wild and need not bother itself with a human corpse. From what he knew of the species, he shouldn’t expect it to eat meat anyway. His temperament was just conjuring the worst imagery in everything.
Anger surged as he clinched his fists, in spite of the pain radiating wildly in his burnt left hand.
The streets were empty, other than the hundreds of corpses he could see from the fifth story window. They were scattered about with their faces on the pavement, like they’d been mowed down as they ran from the incoming threat of the badlander army. He imagined wild men with their swords or machetes held high overhead as they screamed to incite terror in their fleeing victims. It looked like the runners had the easier time and the ones who surrendered, they got tied to poles, ancient street signs, water hydrants, and rusty trash receptacles to bleed out and be eaten.
Above a grassy field—Lucian thought perhaps it had been a park—he eyed the brick tower in the distance that housed a well-kept, shining bell. Maybe the sounds of that bell signaled the citizens to run when the threat was spotted. If so, it had been too late.
These people were my friends, you mother fuckers. Why couldn’t you just leave them be?
A tear ran down his face and he quickly brushed it away, trying to force his anger atop his anguish, wanting to turn sorrow into vengeance.
The badlanders set up camp on the eastern side of town after they had brought their wall of destruction down on these peaceful people. Lucian spied them on his way here. When he saw the size of the camp, at least twice the population of the one he had seen in Statesville the previous day, his heart sank, part of his mind telling him to expect what he saw here. It was how his mind worked; he prepared for the worst and hoped for the better. There had been no way to prepare for this image.
He’d spent time here with Miranda as a teenager, before their researcher parents had been killed when the building that had stood a few hundred miles away from this spot had exploded and the vacations had stopped. When the world fell, he retreated with Marie to the compound purchased from the tobacco companies when marijuana legalization had not progressed as hoped by the late 90s. The Graves, Miranda’s parents, had purchased the property, though none of the kids had ever known their intent for it, other than
a vacation paradise in the mountains. Now that hundreds of people called the underground compound home, trade jaunts to the Asheville township to visit with the people whose bloody corpses now littered the streets were common. He took one last look down the long, steep asphalt-covered hill, knowing the odds were good that many of the people lying face down on the asphalt and tied upright with their arms splayed were people he’d called friends.
Turning from the window, he swiped another tear of rage from his eye and paced down the stairs. A sliver of sunlight lay a yellow line on the concrete floor and against the side wall as he approached the rear door with a rusted crossbar and pushed it open, flooding light into the space.
Lucian had just registered motion to his right and heard a grunt when his torso exploded in pain. Doubled over, he rolled to the ground and writhed as he cradled his midsection in his arms.
That’s a rib. Definitely a rib!
“Where you been hidin’?” the man standing above him with a thick, knotted stick in his hand asked. His beard was full, as was common with these assholes. A wide, wiry scar ran down the center of his face, his right eye a colorless ball of gelatin in its socket. He patted the palm of his other hand with the end of the stick as he hovered over Lucian. “Who’s with you? Where are the others?”
