Tomorrow Land (3 page)

A realization she had half-suppressed for too long rose up and choked Peyton. Everyone and everything she knew and loved was gone. Her friends, her teachers—everyone had succumbed. Only her father was left. Out there. Waiting for her. Waiting for her assistance in rebuilding the world he’d known would fail.

She focused on her dilemma. How was she going to get to where he was? His destination had been far, hundreds of miles away, and she truly doubted she could get the rusted old car in their driveway to start. Not that she had any idea how to drive; after the Highway Congestion Act of ‘24, you had to be eighteen to take driver’s education in South Carolina, and she’d been way too young when they’d gone into the bunker. Besides, with no working gas stations and the streets filled with debris, it was probably better not to depend on cars. Maybe she could find a bike or something.

First things first, though. She should find supplies. And while it was tempting to just hit a few of the nearby houses to see what they had in their pantries, it was also too morbid an errand for her to face. She didn’t want to see the remnants of her former neighbors tucked into their beds or lying sprawled on the floor, thank you very much. She’d try to find a store instead.

Steeling herself, she stepped from her porch and set off. Something in the middle of the pavement a short distance away made her pause. A small figure, more than half decayed, lay in the street, its skeletal hands clutching something shredded and pink. It was… a teddy bear. Peyton fell to her knees, bent over, and threw up, suddenly glad her mother wasn’t here to see this. Wondering if perhaps she was the smart one after all.

“God, Peyton, get a grip,” she muttered to herself a moment later, wiping her mouth, embarrassed by her weakness. She’d known it was going to be like this, after all. That she’d have to be strong and push all the horrors to the back of her mind. She didn’t have time to mourn humanity. She couldn’t be distracted by the past. What was done was done, and it didn’t do any good to cry about it. After all, as her dad would say, a Razor Girl didn’t cry. When they were sad, they spit.

Peyton did exactly that. She felt a little bit better, wiped her mouth again, this time with her sleeve.

But just as she was about to rise to her feet, her ears caught a sound in the distance. A voice, cutting through the dead air. She froze in her tracks, straining to listen. Was she hearing things? Was it only the wind? Some old holo broadcast set on repeat?

But no. It came again. Real and human and not that far away either.

“Guy! Where’d you go?” the voice cried. “Hey!”

People? Real-life people? Had her father been wrong? Had humanity survived, or at least more than expected? She felt a surge of hope rush through her, then forced herself to temper it. She’d been locked inside for four years. She had no idea what the outside world had become. These people could be savages, rapists, murderers, thieves. Doing whatever it took to survive in their harsh new reality, even if it wasn’t in the best interests of all mankind. Or to her in particular.

Yes, they could be trouble. But then again, they could be able to help her. And Peyton had to admit, at this point she needed all the help she could get. And if they turned out to be no good, well, it wasn’t as if she was incapable of defending herself, thanks to her dad.

Having made her decision, Peyton staggered to her feet and set off down the street as fast as her legs would carry her. Praying for the best, but preparing for the worst.

*

Chase swore under his breath as his brother’s shout filled the otherwise still air, echoing through the neighborhood. “Way to be subtle,” he muttered. “Why not just call them out and invite them to brunch?”

Crouched on the rooftop of a dilapidated garage, he inched forward, careful not to make any sudden movements. As he’d climbed the weather-beaten structure, it groaned in protest, sounding as if it could collapse at any moment. But it was still the best vantage point for seeing any Others wandering the nearby perimeter, and Chase wanted to be sure the coast was clear before making his score. It wasn’t like they saw Others every day, but the creatures always seemed to show up when you least expected them. Whenever you let your guard down,
bam
, that was when they got you.

“Chase! Guy! If you don’t come out now I’m going back without you!”

His brother’s voice again. Louder, more urgent. Did the bungler really think he was lost? That he hadn’t slipped away on purpose? Probably. Tank wasn’t known for his brains. Just his foolhardy protectiveness of those he took under his wing—which was practically anyone and anything these days. Tank never approved of Chase going off on his own, and he certainly wouldn’t have approved of Chase’s intended mission if he’d known it.

Whatever. At the end of the day, a guy had to do what a guy had to do, older brother’s approval or not.

“Hey! Over here! I’m over here!”

Chase’s head jerked around and he almost lost his balance on the roof. What was that? Another voice? And not just any voice. It sounded like a girl. It came from the opposite direction of his brother’s and was still faint. But it was unmistakably human.

He squinted as he peered down the street, the setting sun making it difficult to see. But then his eyes found movement. Something—some
one
—was running down the street with wild abandon.

At first he feared it might be one of the Others, but it didn’t move like one. They could be quick, but he’d never seen one run. And the air didn’t smell like them, either. Their putrid rot often caused a stink that gave plenty of warning—although not always.

Just to be safe, he lowered himself onto his belly, flush with the garage roof, pulled his thick leather gloves over his wrists, and drew the steel blade from the sheath at his waist. Once properly prepared for any potential fight, he peered over the roof edge again.

At first he thought he must be hallucinating. The girl came around the corner and he blinked his eyes a few times, rubbed them, then took another look. She was still there. Wearing a white tank top and jean cutoffs, of all things. Miles of skin—milk-white skin—completely exposed. His first thought was that she must be truly stupid to walk around like that. His second thought was how truly happy he was that she did.

His eyes roved her body, drinking in the first real-life teenage female shape he’d seen in years. The curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. Full breasts, tempting and teasing under the thin fabric of her white tank top. Her long neck, high cheekbones, and beautiful golden hair, pulled up in a casual ponytail. And then there was her eyes—something strange about them—as if they were made of mirrors, reflecting the light in a nearly blinding fashion. He’d never seen anything like it.

He watched as she ran down the street in his direction. She was beautiful, to say the least; it became clearer the closer she came. But there was also something else. Something weirdly familiar about the—

He shook his head.
Impossible. And pay attention
, he told himself.
Distractions will only get you killed.

As if on cue, the breeze shifted and a stench caught his nostrils. A putrid stink. He tensed, shoving all thoughts of lust to the back of his mind. The Others were near. One of them, at least. And this girl was a sitting duck.

Something stirred inside him, some kind of weird, knight-in-shining-armor craziness that compelled him to jump off the roof and try to rescue her. The notion went against his grain, and he didn’t obey it, but he did manage to scramble to his feet and wave his arms. “Hey, up here!” he hissed. “Quick!”

She looked up, surprise mixing with joy on her face. Bouncing over to the garage she cried, “Oh my God. You’re a person. A real person. I was beginning to think I was the only—”

“Behind you!” he cried, realizing he was likely too late. The Other had shown up out of seemingly nowhere, appearing from behind an overturned Smart Volvo, and was inches away from the girl. Dressed like that, with all that skin exposed and perfect for biting, she didn’t have a chance of escaping infection. Or becoming the monster’s dinner. She was a goner for sure and since he’d made himself known, he was likely in for a battle himself.

Shoulda just stayed hidden and let her die
, he berated himself. He knew as well as anyone it did no good these days to help people. Or even animals for that matter. Look what happened to Spud when he’d tried to save that puppy he found in the alley two weeks ago. Picked up the little wiggly thing and
bam!
Zombie gets the jump on him.

Yes, these days, it was every man—and dog—for himself. That was the only way to really survive.

Chapter Three

“Peyton, where have you been? You’re late. And you know how I feel about tardiness.” Ian Anderson raked his hands through his graying hair and scowled as his daughter entered the basement where he had set up their training center. There were two punching bags—one heavy and one speed bag—a weight bench, a treadmill, and some jump ropes. It was all last-century tech, like everything else in their house. Except her dad’s lab. Beyond the gym, a locked door held more equipment than most government research facilities, all illegally firewalled and creatively routed to avoid unwanted scrutiny. All totally off-limits to Peyton.

“Sorry, Dad,” she apologized, setting down her bag and grabbing some workout clothes. She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. “I got tied up.”

“Tied up?” he repeated through the wall. “You wouldn’t happen to be using those sims again, would you? With your friend Avery? You know how I feel about them.”

“They’re just games, Dad.”

“They’re all connected up, linked to the system. Meaning, everything you say in there is monitored by Homeland Security—or worse. We don’t need any trouble with the feds.”

Peyton sighed as she pulled a tank top over her head. “Dad, we’re in there chatting about boys and clothes. I hardly think the government is interested.”

“It’s always better to err on the side of safety,” came the reply as she pulled on her shorts and leaned over to lace her sneakers. “Besides, if nothing else, they’re also a terrific waste of time. Especially when they start interfering with your training. We’ve got a lot to get through and not a lot of time. We need your body strong and fit.”

“I know, I know.” Peyton opened the door. “Because the end of the world is near.”

Her dad handed her a set of boxing gloves. “Go ahead and laugh,” he said, nodding serenely. “Everyone does. But you will all see for yourselves soon enough.”

Oh Dad.
Peyton donned the gloves. It was pointless to argue with him when he got on this track. He didn’t care that the rest of the world thought he was crazy; he believed what he believed. And, at the end of the day, she had to give him some props for that. Even if it was a big pain in the ass to be his daughter sometimes.

Of course, things weren’t always like this. Back in the day, her dad had been a big time medical researcher/scientist, under contract by the government to build special cybernetic implants that would enhance the combat capabilities of human soldiers. The implants had made them stronger, faster, and better at killing. Which they’d proceeded to do for three years, unfortunately.

Deployed by UN to sweep into conflicted territories and murder men, women, and children without effort or remorse, they’d killed and killed and killed until finally those opposing governments waved their white flags and gave in to all demands. They’d been used in the Middle East and Africa, mostly. Wherever they went, things changed. Mission accomplished.

Not exactly what Ian Anderson had had in mind when he first created his super soldiers. And when he learned of the genocide missions and other atrocities, he quit his job and joined a radical militia group, rallying against the government for which he’d once worked. Breaking into his former labs, he’d destroyed all of the prototypes and plans and then set fire to the building itself in order to ensure these creatures could never be built again.

“What had he expected?” one prosecutor had asked at his trial, as well as a number of newspaper reporters. What had he thought would be the purpose of his super-powered soldiers? He hadn’t answered, but Peyton knew that her father had expected his creations to protect people. He’d been trying to help, and the government had turned his inventions against him. He still muttered about it while he was working.

His years in prison hadn’t helped his anger, either. Peyton was embarrassed to admit it, but her father’s cellmate had convinced him that the end of the world was near. Ian talked about it often and had decided he needed to start making arrangements. Armageddon was on its way, and the Andersons would be ready. Not even his wife had been able to dissuade him from preparing. Peyton was torn between admiring her father’s genius and her horror at what her friends at school must think about him.

 “So, what have you been up to today, Dad?” she asked, ready for a subject change. She tossed a few punches at the heavy bag, warming up. She had to admit, she did kind of enjoy their sessions; there was something about breaking a sweat that no one else in her world seemed to understand. Her classmates were too into their injections and surgeries to find any joy in building muscles the old-fashioned way.

“Reading,” her father replied. He walked over to his desk and held up a well-worn paperback book.

Peyton resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Her dad was the only person on earth who didn’t own an e-reader. Even she had one: he’d had to allow it, for the technology was the only way to access school texts. But her dad always claimed he preferred the good old days when books were made of paper and the government couldn’t check up on what you were reading. He hunted flea markets constantly, looking for rare, out-of-print treasures and banned books.

She swung a few times at the speed bag, then glanced at the cover. “
Neuromancer
,” she said. “What’s it about?”

“It’s brilliant,” he replied. “The author completely predicted sims and the Internet and the dangers of artificial intelligence. And this was back in 1984—before most people even had a computer! If you read this book you’d never use a sim again, I bet. At the very least you’d want to know who was controlling it.”