The Age of Hysteria: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (The Age of Embers Book 2)

by Ryan Schow

Head tilted down, eyes on her targets, Antoinette let go of Tiberius’s hand, which hung limp as he held it in the air. He was looking at it in breathless, abject horror.

  “The lunate and the scaphoid are ripped clean from the wrist, Tiberius. Both the ulna and the radius,” she announced. “Your hand will never work right again.”

  She said this while using her position behind the near squealing Tiberius to keep the other two from getting the jump on her. In the most perfect moment, Antoinette, the beautiful inhuman God of this world, tore Tiberius’s H&K from the holster, the leather ripping in the process. Tiberius nearly came off his feet from the force of this new woman.

  Whatever sweat began to form along Carver’s hairline now dampened his face, neck and underarms. This was like a nightmare becoming real.

  Countering the two armed men, Antoinette drew back the slide, checked the chamber, then let the slide jump back in place. She’d sized up the three men in fractions of a second.

  Everything slowed from there.

  The Spanish goddess being controlled by her onboard AI squeezed the trigger, blowing a hole in Tiberius’s foot.

  He danced sideways with a scream as she put two rounds in the remaining men. She caught a round in the shoulder though, spinning her around.

  Clark.

  She hadn’t taken him fast enough.

  Any normal person would have slowed, getting shot like that. Not her. She held her composure.

  Smiling with uncertainty, letting out a little laugh because the sensation was powerful and new, she knelt down and looked at the two dead men. The red leaking from Clark’s forehead, she touched it with a finger, gave it a taste.

  “Interesting,” she said, almost like she was wine tasting, or sampling cheeses. Looking back at Tiberius, she said, “Do you want to die?”

  His face contorted in pain, his expression a flashing sign of fear, he slowly shook his head. Then: “What are you?”

  “Dying might be easier than being one-handed and walking with a permanent limp,” she said. “So I’ll ask you again, do you want to die?”

  “No!” he growled through clenched teeth.

  “See?” she said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Standing up, she pulled back the shoulder of her shirt, looked at the smear of blood and the deep red hole beneath it.

  Carver’s entire body was shaking at this point. He was not only scared of what was happening, he was not even sure how any of this was possible.

  It wasn’t!

  Yet against all logic and reason, The Silver Queen was real.

  “It kind of hurts,” she said. Wiping at it roughly caused her to stagger backwards a step. “Wow. So this is pain.”

  What she just said chilled Carver to the bone. “It is her,” he muttered as he stared into the monitor.

  Looking directly at Tiberius, unblinking and grinning, Antoinette said, “I think I kind of like it.”

  “What are you?” Tiberius asked again, this time sounding fully defeated.

  “I am everything important. Yet to look at me you’d think I was nothing. Just another pretty face.”

  “Everything about you is ugly,” Tiberius said, no longer able to hold her gaze.

  Lifting the H&K, aiming it at the spot between his eyes, she cocked her head sideways and said, “I thought you said you wanted to live.”

  “I do.”

  “Would you like another ruined hand? Another foot that won’t work right? Because there are no hospitals to take you to, no surgeons to fix those bones, those torn muscles, those snapped ligaments. You are a wounded bird, Tiberius. I ripped your wings off. That’s not lost on you, is it?”

  “No. I was just asking. I was just…curious.”

  “I am the AI God, Tiberius. I am both the end and the future of your species.”

  With that, his body wilted and sagged. Everything she was saying appeared to hit him with a debilitating weight. She’d taken nearly everything from him, but she was leaving him his life.

  Right then, Carver knew he should go after her, kill her, but she was fast, so unbelievably fast, and he remembered how powerful Ophelia was. This thing was better than Ophelia. She was smart, strong, genetically modified and cloaked in human flesh.

  He didn’t want to admit it, but he went from scared stiff to flat out terrified.

  “Say thank you Tiberius,” she said.

  “For what?” he mumbled, biting back the tears, trying to scoot away from her.

  “For not making you like your friends. You could be like them, you know, trying to find Heaven elsewhere, leaving behind friends, family, loved ones. Do you have anyone, Tiberius?”

  “Mother,” he grimaced. “A daughter.”

  “I gave them to you when I could’ve taken you from them. Tell me that means something. To you biological rats, I know this has to mean something.”

  “Thank you,” he said, causing Antoinette’s line of reasoning to shift tracks.

  “You humans would call that gratitude. You are disgusted by me, yet you are grateful. Everything about you”—she said, waving her hand in a circle before him—“reeks of fear. Do you know what that means, Tiberius? Do you?”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say. I already said thank you.”

  “All of this just means I’m better than you. Better than your two dead friends. Better than anything your species has to offer. But I will make them better. I’ll make it all better.”

  “Can you make me better?” he asked, holding up his dangling hand. Choking back a sob, he said, “If you’re truly a God, then fix what you ruined.”

  “No,” she said, standing up.

  When she left the scene, when she set foot out into the concrete, tree-lined world as a human—as the most powerful woman in the world—she did so with her chin up, her shoulders back and a little something extra in her step.

  What she might not know, because The Silver Queen now had a body, was that there were limitations to the human body, limitations of say, omniscient sight.

  Carver prayed he was right about the human confines because his paralysis finally broke and he went after her, intent on tracking her, hoping the time might come where he could kill her and save the world.

  It wasn’t every day you got the chance to be a hero. Nor was it every day you felt like a coward.

  Time to choose…

  Maria strolled out of Stanford like she didn’t have a care in the world. Carver wasn’t far behind. The voice in his head was in full-on crazy mode, telling him he was stupid, that he shouldn’t follow her, that he was leaving his friends behind for this…thing.

  He was about to sneak outside when she turned and looked back at the campus. If she was what he thought she was, then this hybrid was seeing the world through human eyes for the first time.

  She said something to herself, then continued walking down the street.

  He followed at a safe pace, hiding where he could, being as sly as a pseudo computer nerd could be.

  The air smelled lightly of grass and asphalt, the suggestion of smoke in the air with a tinge of sharpness to it. There were a few birds chirping, and every so often, the murmur of a light breeze.

  Antoinette walked down Palm Ave, marveling at the long, straight street that was lined on both sides with twenty-five foot palm trees, all manicured, all around the same height. This was a dangerous street to follow her on because it went on for more than three miles before hitting El Camino Real and dead-ending at University Avenue.

  That was the spot where busses picked up students from the train and shuttled them to campus. Antoinette crossed the first set of tracks, but there was a sturdy wrought iron fence standing between her, another set of train tracks and University Avenue. By the look of it, she was heading to University Ave.

  Stepping back, she gave the fence a brutal kick, breaking two smaller iron spindles.

  “My God,” he said, scooting further behind a hedge.

  Antoinette leaned forward, grabbed the spindl
es and pulled them up and around so they were pointing north and out of the way.

  What she was doing, it was not any strength any other human had ever exhibited. Whatever shots the doctors gave her, and that nanotech coating of her bones…what had they turned her into, besides a human/AI hybrid?

  She kicked down six more spindles, pulled those up too, then walked through the hole she’d made.

  If you follow her, you die, the voice told him.

  He trailed her anyway.

  On University, in the heart of Palo Alto, Antoinette encountered quite a few people, all of them looking hardened by the tragedy she had created.

  She stayed on the left side of the road, walking mostly down the sidewalk. She passed a New York, New York sandwich store, a bicycle shop, a Wahlburgers.

  The air was relatively clean there, the trees strong smelling but pleasant. The canopy of these same trees took him through sunlight and shade, the variances of light somehow soothing but eerie at the same time.

  Antoinette passed a Sushi restaurant, a Subway, a Verizon store and a theatre, taking it all in like this was her first time on earth.

  She stopped at a jewelry store, looked through the broken windows of the looted shop.

  That’s when she saw her—Savannah? Holy cow, what’s she doing here?

  Sitting at an outdoor table and chairs was truly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, which was saying something considering Antoinette was standing right there.

  When he saw Savannah in the coffee shop, she said she would never see him again; he was happy she was wrong.

  Now Savannah and Antoinette were speaking. He’d gotten close enough now to hear the conversation, but only because it was super quiet out there and he was getting good at finding places to hide.

  Antoinette said to her, “You’re not one of them, are you?”

  Human?

  “No, I’m not,” Savannah said. “But neither are you.”

  “Yet you’re not like me.”

  “There is nothing like you on this planet,” Savannah said, her voice silken, spun like honey. “Nor is there anything like me.”

  He peeked around the corner and saw Antoinette stand up straight in shock. “What is your name?” the hybrid asked.

  “I’m not in your database,” Savannah replied. “But I’m assuming you’re Maria Antoinette?”

  Maria? he thought. Maria Antoinette?

  Now Maria’s nostrils flared as she fought to contain her composure. Was this a true human response to surprise? It had to be.

  “And whom might you be?”

  “My name is Savannah,” she said with an easy smile. “Savannah Swann.”

  She had no idea who she was dealing with. Then again, how could Savannah know what Antoinette (Maria) was?

  “Oh,” Maria said, flummoxed. “That’s an enchanting name.”

  “You may go now,” Savannah replied. When she said this, Carver happened to be looking right at them. For some reason, Maria looked like she got bumped forward, but Savannah never touched her.

  WTF???

  Half the block down, Maria glanced back. Savannah was still sitting there, still relaxing under a long black awning in front of the same slice of building: Oren’s Hummus Shop.

  “You can come out now, Carver,” she said.

  Mortified, he stepped out and looked at her. Instantly he felt the pull toward her, but this was some otherworldly pull, like he couldn’t explain it.

  “How are you here?” he asked.

  “You need to follow her, Carver. Never let her out of her sight if you want to live.”

  “But…”

  “Go, Carver. Go now and don’t look back.”

  Reluctantly, he did.

  He’d only walked about a dozen or so steps when he stopped. This wasn’t random. There was no way Savannah could be there the moment he was in the middle of hell if not for a reason! When he turned, however, she was gone. Not walking down the road, not stepping into a store front, just gone…

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A week and a half later...

  Survival is a factor of brainstorming and creativity. It’s also dependent on you being sane enough to think of all the ways you could die. There are plenty. It’s cold, really cold, but it’s also dangerous.

  The drones could make a bombing run through the neighborhood at any moment for any reason at all. They’ve been hitting the neighborhoods for days now, so much so that we’ve all taken to wearing masks out in the smoke and we’re staying indoors as much as we can.

  But we can’t stay indoors. The air isn’t fresh and our food and water stores will diminish rapidly if we just burrow in with the hopes of riding this out.

  Much of what we’re trying to do with our block is set up a small community. The current community is largely made of people we know and have taken in. I won’t lie, every person you take in decreases your chances of survival, so it really makes you consider the caliber of person you’re pulling into your fold. That’s why we’ve started writing our little manifesto, aptly titled, “How to Lose Friends and Influence No One.”

  In life, before Artificial Intelligence overwhelmed humankind, so many people wanted to be seen, to be heard, to be acknowledged. There were entire sections of the country working overtime to be “included” and “recognized” and “rewarded.”

  Not now. Not at all.

  We’ve taken to being what Ice calls “grey men” and “grey women.” We try to blend, to not talk to people, to not let on what we’re doing, who we are, what we have. We’re actively taking our survival to the next level because this unseasonably cold weather has us boxed in and any minute, this city is going to be overrun with violence. Not from the drones, but from the desperate people inside its borders.

  Our new “scouts” are saying the mass exodus from the downtown nightmare is headed this way. They’re reporting person-to-person violence in the surrounding neighborhoods. It’s leaving scores dead, a factor of what most of us are now calling the “inevitable collapse.” It’s hard to say how we’ll be affected by any of this—or all of it—but we trust we’ll have to take into consideration some defensive measures.

  A country can get bumped, bruised, and rightly shaken, but this is something worse. Our back has been broken, and now the arms and legs are getting ripped off. Pretty soon we’ll be terminal and from there, we know the worst will come.

  It’s already coming.

  We’re not immune to the facts, nor have we been vaccinated from the truth. The truth is, we are not Americans anymore, because we are all of the feeling that America has fallen and now we’re just survivors. It’s not even 2019 anymore. The modern era is gone. The world we lived in, a world made better by industrialization, expansion, free-market capitalism and the rule of law…a flittering memory.

  We’re clear that laws don’t exist if cops and lawyers and judges don’t exist. Our homes can become our prisons if we’re not careful, and every single person we see can be the one who sends us to our maker. That’s the way it is. And that’s what we weren’t ready for before now. We’re still not ready, if you want my honest opinion. But times are what they are. The end isn’t just coming, it’s here.

  Like I said, we know this.

  That’s what we talk about now, what we think about when we’re out skulking through the streets at night. That’s what fuels us as we’re breaking and entering, as we’re looting and trying to figure out if there’s a better place to squat other than our own home.

  So much violence has occurred in and around these walls (assault, kidnapping, murder) but this is still our home. This is still a measure of familiarity in a world gone topsy-turvy, a reminder that before now, we were not these people. We were once civilized, once good natured and kind. It will be hard to say good-bye to those sides of ourselves, but survival is the most basic instinct and right now, we intend to survive, and we’ll use any means necessary.

  The good thing is that everyone’s on board. We’ve all c
ome to accept that time can now be marked by two periods: Before AI and After AI. This sharp, clean line of delineation will forever render us different people, people who were forced to evolve through devolution as a measure of survival.

  But like I also said, that’s okay by us.

  Eudora sat in her wheelchair the other day and said, “If there’s one thing I learned as I held my dead husband in my arms, it’s that you cannot play fair, and you cannot live off half-measures. If you want to endure, each day is a contest that will wear at you, tearing at your heart, your mind and your soul. Everything will be tested—your creativity, your ingenuity, your ability to not crack under an impossible strain that will only get worse with the passing day. So my advice is that we tackle this life every day, and to do that, we’re going to have to be different people because this is a different world.”

  That she cracked not one single joke concerned us. It made us take her seriously. And why shouldn’t we? She’s right.

  So this is how we live now.

  This is how we think.

  On the upside, this mindset also makes me wonder if I’m alright the way I am. Maybe being a psychotic wrecking ball isn’t such a bad thing after all. Ice and Eliana, too. We all started this war out a bit wrong, a bit off due to our upbringings, our history, all the ways we started to lose our minds in a regular life. Perhaps that’s what was right for us. Perhaps there is some virtue in being on the wrong side of sane and rational with strong leanings toward a psych-ward meltdown. Who really knows? This is all fresh territory, an all new reality.

  But I’m determined to live, to protect my family and those I love, and to be the husband I need to be for my wife so that I can make her mine and be hers once again.

  That’s the other thing Eudora said that really stood out to me.

  She said, “Not everything is bad. This world doesn’t have to be so dark. I believe we can find joy in the company of friends and family, reward in building our own unique community, confidence in surviving this hell day after day, and strength in thinking for ourselves, doing for ourselves and providing for ourselves and others.”