Crucible: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Next Book 5) Page 3

  “They’re here,” Murray said. “And they know we’re here.”

  “I don’t want to see any Zaps,” the little girl said, causing them all to fall silent. They were battle-hardened and had seen plenty of blood, but they also still clung to notions of honor and duty fueled by protection of the innocent.

  Murray’s years at Luray Caverns had been in some ways almost idyllic despite the hardships and danger. Even while the army sent out a continuous series of patrols and attack forces, she’d presided over the organization of a community. At its best, the caverns offered stability and the preservation of family life. But then the savage Zaps—wild, primal offshoots of the technologically advanced Zaps—had infiltrated the caves and reminded them that the old way of life was gone forever.

  “I’m sorry,” Murray said to the girl in her most soothing, politically trained tone. “But Zaps are real and we have to face them.”

  The girl burrowed her face into K.C.’s chest and shook with a suppressed sob. “She was held captive by the Zaps for a few weeks,” K.C. explained. “I can only assume they kept her as a pet.”

  Murray wanted to ask if the girl had been abused, but she figured this wasn’t the time or place to pursue information. Her intel about the genius Zap babies had been corroborated by several different sources, including Gen. Arnold Alexander, the man who now ruled the outpost at Luray Caverns. The babies had the ability to manipulate and direct the other Zaps, either telepathically or through the mastery of the new technologies.

  Murray’s goal was to find one of the babies and take it captive. If she could get the baby to spill some secrets, maybe humans could find a chink in the mighty Zap armor.

  Her mouth creased in a wry smile. Despite the bleak odds and the suicide wish, she couldn’t help but remain an eternal optimist.

  “We’re not going to be pets,” Murray said, loud enough for the entire troop to hear. The scar-faced soldier gave a smirk of defiance. Murray wasn’t sure whether he was mocking her or the Zaps.

  A sharp creaking high above drew their attention. The Zap architecture ended about a hundred yards away from them, with the fabricated landscaping continuing on around the interior of the dome’s base. Both the metal vegetation and the buildings were creeping outward, slowly filling the gap of ruins where the soldiers hid.

  The city was still building itself, proof of the awesome power harnessed by the Zaps. Although the mutants had designed and employed a few offensive weapons such as bird-like drones and small hand-held lasers, they should’ve been capable of developing mighty weapons that could burn cities to the ground.

  Murray had witnessed the destruction wrought when the plasma sink in Wilkesboro had detonated, emitting with all the power of a small nuclear weapon. So why hadn’t the Zaps unleashed such detonations wherever humans still gathered?

  Because the fallout would eventually kill the Zaps, as well.

  Even from Luray Caverns, their Geiger counters had detected elevated levels of radiation. And doubtless many other contaminants oozed from the harvesting of plasma, which had spawned mutations all across the biological spectrum, from bloodthirsty monsters to sickly luminescent weeds.

  Maybe humans wouldn’t have to unleash their nuclear weapons after all. The Earth Zero Initiative, a coalition of the remnants of the world’s governments, adopted mutually assured destruction as a final, desperate measure rather than ceding the planet to the Zaps. But what if the Zaps had already made the decision for all of them?

  “We can’t stay here forever,” said a soldier with a bandana wrapped around his forehead. “That silver stuff’s going to close in on us and turn us into statues.”

  The architecture expanded slowly, inch by inch, concealing the concrete ruins, rusty metal, and broken glass that it built upon. It was as if the Zaps not only wanted to destroy human civilization, but to wallpaper over its very existence.

  “How in the hell do we fight back against that?” The bearded soldier, Lonnie Green, closed a dog-eared bible and slid it into his rucksack. “It’s like the whole city is alive.”

  “We fight like we always do,” Murray said. “Smart, tough, and determined. And we fight dirty if we have to.”

  The bearded soldier stood and slapped his M16 with one palm. “Then why are we sitting here? Let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Franklin Wheeler expected the plumbing chase to end in a concrete wall, but instead the pipe system opened into a larger tunnel, featuring electrical cables, water pipes, and a series of storm drains.

  As he worked his way forward, the drain tributaries leading from each side allowed dim light to suffuse the tunnel. In places, the tunnel had collapsed, leaving large slabs of concrete and pavement through which they had to struggle. Above them where the roof gave way, the shiny organic alloy showed in solid sheets, proof that the mutant architecture was laid over a human town like foil on a casserole.

  The bottom of the tunnel held a couple of inches of dark sludge. As he sloshed through it, Franklin wondered what sorts of toxins might be soaking through his boots.

  Millwood, struggling to keep pace, swatted at thick cobwebs. “Hey, Franklin, I think something’s following me.”

  “Well, maybe you should move a little faster, then.”

  Franklin peered about the gloom for a weapon of some kind. He tried to rip a section of pipe from the wall, but it was clamped firmly to the concrete. Steel rebar poked from a ledge of jagged concrete, but it too was bound firmly in place.

  He tested the sheared edge of the alloy hanging around his neck. It was not very sharp, but the section DeVontay had cut was a little larger than a Frisbee and weighed a couple of pounds. Franklin brought the loop of string over his head, feeling a little foolish as he held the oval disc like a pizza.

  Millwood’s footsteps splashed in the tunnel behind Franklin. “It’s something big,” he wheezed.

  Franklin tried to peer past Millwood, but between the jumble of pipes and cables, the crumbling masonry, and the poor illumination, all he saw was the glinting reflection of the hippie’s glasses.

  “No way out,” Franklin said.

  “And we sure as hell can’t go back.”

  “Then I reckon we better fight.”

  As Millwood caught up with Franklin and turned, the distant splashing and clicking grew louder. Franklin heard a soft squeaking like wet rubber being stretched back and forth. A set of red eyes emerged from the gloom.

  “What the hell?” he asked, a rhetorical question that neither a god nor devil could answer.

  In the contaminated aftermath of the solar storms, he’d witnessed deadly drone-birds, beastadons that looked like overgrown vampire deer, tentacled amphibians that plagued the waterways, and feral dogs that traveled in massive packs.

  But in all those encounters, he’d always had options: a gun, room to flee, a hiding place. Here in this claustrophobic tunnel, all he could do was wait.

  Despite the cool, stagnant air of the passageway, he was sweating, and the approaching thing seemed to create its own foul wind. The stench hit him first, a mix of rot and fecundity and wet fur that rolled like a wave. As the eyes grew larger, Franklin took some comfort in the fact that the creature couldn’t be too big, although the faint rasping noise might be its bristly flanks scratching the concrete walls.

  Millwood continued on down the tunnel, leaving Franklin to face the unknown threat alone.

  I know the damned hippie isn’t a coward. He’s already risked his life for us a dozen times over. But maybe he’s finally reached his breaking point.

  Or maybe Millwood was a genius after all. If Franklin believed an escape route lay ahead, he’d have been running, too.

  So he faced the danger with nothing but the piece of alloy, using the looped string to twirl it like a lariat. The space was too confined for a decent swing, though, and it bounced off a cast-iron pipe, drawing sparks.

  Franklin realized he could’ve used the jagged edge to cut a length of pipe, but now there w
as no time, and the eyes grew large and moist, the color of electric rubies. And now the clicking amplified in sharp harmony—teeth gnashing together.

  Then came the abrasive squeak, and Franklin knew exactly what the sewer tunnel had conjured—a giant rat.

  He backpedaled, flailing against dangling pipes and cables and slipping in the slimy water beneath his boot heels.

  The massive rodent was close enough that Franklin could see its pointy nose, black nostrils glistening with foul mucus. The whiskers were like thick spokes of wire, the fur scruffy and gray.

  It was easily half the size of Franklin. He felt like a fool with only the flimsy sheet of alloy as a weapon. The rat paused ten feet away, awash in a chiaroscuro of light and shadow, lifting its head as it sniffed the air. It was apparently unaccustomed to human prey.

  Its two gleaming front teeth descended over its lower lip, broad and sharp. The nostrils quivered, and Millwood called from some distance away. Franklin couldn’t process anything but those beady, mesmerizing eyes.

  Then it dodged forward with a hiss and Franklin chopped down with the alloy, grazing the side of the rodent’s nose. It squeaked in pain and snapped at him, teeth brushing his cargo pants but not catching any flesh.

  Franklin swung upward with the alloy, using the loop of string to accelerate its speed. The additional force caused the blade to shear a chuck of meat off of the rat’s ears, then the slab of alloy continued up into the tangles above them. It lodged amid the cables and pipes, and Franklin frantically tried to yank it free.

  While his abdomen was exposed, the rat rushed forward and knocked him backwards, driving the wind from his lungs. Franklin fell into the stagnant water and the rat scrabbled atop him, nipping and clawing.

  Millwood unleashed a frightening bellow and burst out of the shadows, punching at the rodent with both fists. Franklin kicked the animal as he scooted backwards, grabbing a downspout to drag himself to his feet.

  One of Millwood’s hands poked the rodent’s eye with a squelching sound, and it snapped its teeth, clacking them together only inches from Millwood’s fingers. Franklin pulled Millwood away from the nasty beast as something snaked across his face.

  He swatted at it. The cable was about a quarter of an inch thick, dangling loose from the ceiling. Franklin must’ve cut it when he swung the piece of alloy.

  He tugged on it, testing the play and pulling another few feet free. When the rodent charged Millwood again, Franklin dodged to the side, nearly stumbling into the thing’s pouch-like jaws. He teased out the slack of the cable, curling it under the rodent’s neck as he crawled atop the furry, humped shoulders.

  Franklin hung there for a moment like a rodeo cowboy sticking to a bucking bronco, and then he leaned to the opposite side. When the mutant rat threw him off, the cable completely encircled the thing’s neck. Franklin tightened the slack as best he could, throwing all his weight behind the motion.

  The makeshift noose clenched the rat’s windpipe. The animal tried to squeak and hiss but could only utter a thin, staccato wheeze.

  Millwood flailed punches at the rat’s nose, screaming vaguely Japanese-sounding gibberish as if he were imitating a fighter in a karate movie.

  Yep, definitely over the edge. But he’s no crazier than you are, Lone Ranger.

  The rodent struggled for another minute, claws raking at the slimy concrete. Its naked tail whipped around like a skinny snake, stroking Franklin’s beard. But soon the wheezes trailed away and the creature fell limp.

  Millwood gave it a final kick in the mouth and Franklin dangled all his weight on the noose for another fifteen seconds just to be sure. Then he let go of the cable and fell with a plop into the muck.

  “No time for resting,” Millwood said.

  “Easy for you to say. You ran off and left me to fight this thing by myself.”

  “You know better than that, Franklin. I was just going to let it bite you, and while its teeth were stuck, I was going to launch a surprise counterattack.”

  Franklin stood with groan, his wet clothes clinging to his skin. “Well, running up ahead wasn’t so smart.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The thing about rats…where there’s one, there’s usually more.”

  “Damn. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask.” Franklin staggered past the rat and retrieved the piece of alloy. The loop of boot string had broken, but Franklin didn’t intend to carry it any farther, since enough alloy now showed in places to imbue the tunnel with soft gray light. He used the edge to saw a length of lead pipe from the wall, making sure to angle one cut so that it resulted in a sharp tip.

  He passed the four-foot length of pipe to Millwood, who practiced a few jabs and swings while Franklin cut a weapon for himself. Then he tossed the alloy into the sewage. His palms were sliced and bloody, and he wiped them on his pants before joining Millwood.

  “Let’s go while we’ve still got some light,” he said.

  “It never gets dark in the Blue City,” Millwood said. “Not with those plasma sinks running nonstop.”

  “Well, maybe so, but I don’t want to be down here if the Zaps cut the lights, do you?”

  Millwood contemplated the claustrophobia of an absolute dark, an endless ebony void that might—just might—be interrupted by a sprinkling of gleaming red specks.

  “After you,” Millwood said, holding his section of pipe like a spear, with both hands across his chest.

  Franklin noticed Millwood had a raw gouge on one forearm. There were a couple of indentions that matched the size of the rodent’s teeth.

  “Bit?” Franklin asked.

  “A little bit of bit,” Millwood said. “Not a lot bit.”

  “Funny guy. If you turn into some kind of were-rat, I’m driving this piece of metal through your heart. Nothing personal.”

  Millwood gave a pained smile. “I’d do the same for you.”

  Without another word, Franklin headed deeper into the tunnel, searching for an access that might lead either outside the city or up into the strange metal streets.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rachel’s descent to the bottom floor of the central building was as strange as her original trip to the top.

  Although the clear vacuum tube ferried her and Kokona down nearly a hundred feet, there were no visible floors or levels along the way. The outside of the tube appeared to be coated with a solid skin of the mutant alloy. She’d paid little attention her first time in the tube, being too overwhelmed by the various stimuli.

  The soldiers with whom she’d infiltrated the city were now dead, but she knew others had made it inside the dome. She didn’t know of their fates, and she had no real reason to trust Kokona’s declaration that DeVontay, Franklin, and Millwood were safe.

  When the tube stopped, the sheet of silver slid away, and then the tube vanished as well. The floor was solid enough beneath her feet, and the layout was like the lobby of a modern commercial building. The designers had imitated paneling, desks, sofas, and coffee tables that looked like wood and plastic but on closer inspection was the same metal material as the buildings, only reflecting different shades of color. There were even potted plants by the doors, as fake as everything else in the Blue City.

  But what was waiting by the entrance chilled her even though she’d seen it before—her replica, complete with glowing eyes, but cast from the burnished organic alloy.

  “Fear not,” Kokona said, taking pleasure at Rachel’s shock. “She won’t hurt you.”

  Kokona’s words seemed to hang in the air, with the unspoken “…unless I tell her so.”

  The replica was motionless, although the eyes simmered and sparked like a combustion engine idling. Rachel studied the lean figure with the unruly hair and frayed jeans jacket, getting an unusual perspective of herself. Aside from its unnatural strangeness, could she honestly say it wasn’t an improvement?

  That’s your Zap half thinking. This statue, or robot, or whatever it is, doesn’t have a m
ind or a will or a soul.

  But could she say that for sure? If the silvery alloy manufactured by the Zaps, drawn from a composite of materials including human flesh and blood, was truly organic, then didn’t that constitute life? Was Rachel any more qualified to say what was worthy of the word “alive” than God or Kokona or whatever omnipotent mind built and ran the city?

  “What is she for?” Rachel asked.

  “The future.”

  “You mean she’s going to replace me?”

  “I hope not,” Kokona said. “Your arms are warmer and softer than hers.”

  Rachel looked around the lobby for a moment, and then up to the stack of levels leading high above. From here, the building appeared to have floors, and she could only imagine what might occupy them—imitation people sitting at desks, waiting to be given directions and their lives to take on meaning?

  “Where are we going?” Rachel asked. The weight of the mutant child in her arms wasn’t tiring. Since Rachel had been infused by the Zap’s mutation, she possessed superlative endurance and stamina. Yet as strong as she was, she couldn’t break from the controlling bond of the eleven-pound infant she carried.

  “You’ll see,” Kokona said with her typical coyness.

  She instructed Rachel to carry her out to the street. As Rachel passed her duplicate, she gave it a wary side-eyed look. She half expected it to spring to life and attack her, or snatch Kokona and dash across the lobby. But would that be so bad? Perhaps her duplicate could accomplish what she couldn’t—to free her of the leeching, dependent mutant.

  But they passed through the doors and entered the street, which was little changed from her discovery of the city. The alloy shone with a slowly shifting luster cast by the massive tubes of plasma flowing from the top of the dome. It was almost as if she were underwater with sun-dappled waves overhead.

  Kokona guided her down the sidewalk between the canyon walls of faceless buildings. Despite the moving bands of color and the accents of light from the flickering lightning that crawled over the surface of the dome, the architecture projected a bleak harshness and homogeny.