AntiBio: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (18 page)

“He’s playing his own programming against them,” Ton laughs. “Sneaky bastard.”

“Yep,” Red says. “Worm realized that the bacteria inside Sergeant Crouch could be used to heal the Cooties, not kill them.”

“He wants to save the Cooties?” Ton asks. “Why?”

“Because they are people too,” Red says. “Worm can’t separate the Cooties from the GenWrecks, from genpop. If he does he’ll undo his own programming and return as just another piece of the greater program.”

“An altruist by accident,” Ton laughs.

“Exactly,” Red nods. “And the resistance was born. Worm started reaching out to GenWrecks whenever he could, helping to coordinate us. With Jersey’s help inside Caldicott City, and a few choice others I’ll tell you about later, a network inside the wall and outside was created.”

“Worm actually made his smoke screen conspiracy come true,” Ton laughs.

“Yep,” Red smiles. “That AiSP has issues.”

“Do other Clean Nation cities have the same resistance?” Paulo asks.

“I don’t know,” Red replies. “I suspect they do, otherwise what is the point? But I can’t get any information from Worm on that.”

“Plausible deniability,” Ton says. “Control gets hold of anyone in the resistance or a GenWreck and they can’t rat out the whole network.”

“That’s my guess,” Red nods. “He is one smart AiSP despite said issues.”

“But he’s still an
AiSP,” Paulo says. “How can we fully trust him? And why are you here? Why are we heading into Control and not away?”

“Something happened that tipped Worm’s hand,” Red says. “A glitch and Sergeant Crouch was found out. They tracked Jersey down, and whoever those others are in the stasis cylinders, and decided it was time to bring Sergeant Crouch in. We got word from Worm it was all going down and
moved as fast as possible.”

Red looks at the death and destruction around him.

“I guess it wasn’t fast enough,” he says.

“They are taking Blaze in to
isolate his culture,” Ton states. “Understood. That’s why Zebra squad was specifically requested. We get attacked by Cooties as what? A stalling tactic? A diversion?”

“
That I don’t know,” Red replies. “That’s something different. Worm keeps hinting at there being more to everything, but he won’t tell us. Probably has to do with him not hurting his reprogramming.”

“So Control takes Blaze to study him and keep his bacteria from multiplying?” Paulo asks.

“No,” Ton says. “I don’t think that’s right.” He frowns and looks about. His eyes track the GenWrecks. “They don’t want Blaze to stop him. They want him for you. For us.”

“How do you mean?” Red asks.

“The culture in him dominates the cultures in us,” Ton says. “What if it can be tweaked just enough to not only dominate the cultures in us, but destroy us as well?”

“Why would they…?” Red trails off. “Jesus, how did I not see it before? They
toss GenWrecks out to kill off the Cootie population. But who is going to kill us off? Clean Guard? Not a chance. We stay clear, we hunker down, we fight. If they can adapt the culture in Sergeant Crouch to go on the offense, to spread and kill, not just dominate, then all they have to do is expose us to it and we go down.”

“They create a new GenSOF?” Paulo asks.

“No, no,” Red says, shaking his head. “Then they’d have to create a new one to kill the new one and another new one to kill that. It would never stop. Their end game is to change the cultures enough so that the Sicklands are purged. The new bacteria would be deadly to us. All of us.”

“Fuck me,” Paulo says. “That’s some heavy shit.”

“Mostly speculation,” Red says. “It’s possible. We just don’t know.”

“We get into Control and we’ll know for sure,” Ton says.

“Hopefully we can live long enough to use that knowledge,” Red says. “You ever been inside Control?”

“Only the transport bays,” Ton replies.

“Yeah, I’ve seen a lot more,” Red says. “This is not going to be easy.”

“Never is for GenSOF,” Ton smiles. “That’s half the fun.”

35

The cables used to harness the dogs to the Slides continually become tangled as the bug hounds struggle across the rocky terrain of the Sicklands, forcing Jude to stop constantly and free up the knots. The constant stopping slows the group’s progress considerably and the dogs become more and more agitated as they start to detect hostiles closing in on their position.

“Makes me long for a good old sat scan,” Milo says, his pistol up, sweeping the darkness of the landscape, his eyes looking for where the attack will come from. “This waiting to be hit shit is not how I like to operate.”

“It’s the only way I know,” Jude says. “I never had a PSC or access to IRIS. All flesh, all blood here.”

“Sounds scary,” Milo says. “I feel naked without my tech up and running.” He looks at his wrist and the spot where his PSC was removed. It’s sore, but bearable. “No fair that the dogs get to keep theirs.”

“Worm disabled them,” Jude says, working on the final knot as the Slides bob up and down on their hover skids, blown by the increasing wind. “If Control really wants to hunt then they’ll find the dogs, but otherwise they are quiet. No com abilities.”

Finished
freeing the knot he looks around, his face raised, nose smelling the air.

“Grit storm coming,” he says. “We may get hit before we make it to the bolt hole.”

“Grit storm?” Milo asks. “I got caught in one a few years ago. Thought I was going to die. Luckily, I have my visor. Just a tap and…”

“No visor,” Jude says. “No StatShield. No tech to control it. With your PSC
removed, your suit is just armor. We have to get to cover and fast.”

“Fast isn’t how things have been running,” Milo laughs. “We’re just going to have to stop in a hundred yards or so to detangle the cables again.”

“Quitting won’t keep us safe,” Jude says. He looks at Milo then over at Hoagie.

“Thinking of leaving us behind, kid?” Milo asks. “Don’t blame you. Get yourself and the dogs to safety. Don’t worry about us operators, we’re designed to survive. Tuck us up under an outcropping and we’ll huddle
together until the storm passes.”

“If it’s a small one,” Jude says, sniffing the air again. “Doesn’t smell small. A big grit storm will strip your armor off in minutes and your flesh off in seconds. I leave you, you die. Can’t do that.”

“Well, I admire your dedication,” Milo says. “Cheers to you, little brother. Then what’s your thinking?”

“Instead of the dogs pulling, I drive,” Jude says. “I get you and Sergeant Hoagie onto one Slide and train the two together tight with the cables so they can’t get tangled. I drive the front one and we get to the bolt hole a lot faster. Plus the dogs will be free to cover us when the Cooties hit.”

“You think they’re that close?” Milo asks, his eyes trying to pierce the darkness of the night.

“I smell them more than the grit storm,” Jude says. “They’re right behind us.”

“Shit,” Milo says, rolling to his side and swinging his legs over the edge of the Slide. “Then let’s do this.”

Jude helps Milo over to the other Slide. The boy repositions Hoagie, keeping his leg secured and arm tucked in, pressing him up against the front as much as possible. Milo looks at the way Hoagie is laying and frowns.

“You want me to spoon him, don’t you?” Milo asks. “Not sure how he’ll like that.”

“Get between his legs,” Jude says. “Face backwards and I’ll use the extra cables to tie you down so you don’t fall off. That way you have our six when the Cooties hit.”

“You keep saying when,” Milo says. “We can’t outrun them? Even with the Slide?”

“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 g
ood 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.