by J D Stone
THE VAGABOND CODES
J.D. Stone
Copyright © 2018 J.D. Stone
All rights reserved.
To my students.
PART ONE
World of Shadows
CHAPTER ONE
Lights of Betrayal
AT THREE O’CLOCK in the morning, the fog finally rolled in from the coast. Silently, oppressively, it smothered the desolated city in a blanket of pale mist. For the last three nights the fog had descended at midnight, but yesterday’s setting sun stirred up a chill wind that kept the dark clouds hovering gloomily over the ocean.
Benedict Knight had prepared for a weather delay, but he didn’t expect one this long. He was kneeling behind a self-driving Tesla; its windows were smeared with the bloody handprints of a small child, dried and flaking after a year exposed to sun and heat. He didn't bother looking inside.
He glanced over at Danna, crouched twenty feet to his right behind an overturned ambulance. Half-shrouded in the mist, her eyes glinted as she nodded her head.
It was now or never.
Bracing himself, Ben pressed the handheld radio and whispered: “Alex, it’s showtime — over.”
Two blips in response. Five seconds later a shrill blast of music pierced the silence. One-and-a-quarter miles west to be exact. The range needed to be perfect. And so did the timing: two minutes, not a second later.
Old McDonald had a farm, e-i-e-i-o. . . .
Ben cringed. He pictured Alex snickering as he pressed the play button. He remembered singing that song in first grade, but now it gave him the creeps.
And on his farm he had a pig, e-i-e-i-o. . . .
A minute passed.
Even with the far-off music, the silence was suffocating. Ben ran a hand through his hair and frowned. He felt Danna staring at him, but he kept his eyes ahead, watching for the slightest movement in the murk—and fighting off the reasons racing through his mind why this mission was a terrible idea. Even though it was his.
His stomach growled. He had a Power Bar in his tactical vest, but he knew it'd make him thirsty, and his tongue was already sticking to the roof of his mouth. He reached for his canteen then pulled back: if he dropped the cap he’d never hear the end of it.
He ventured a quick look around the headlights, wishing that those Things would show up or that time would just freeze altogether—or at least long enough for them to get in. And hopefully get out.
But the hands on his watch ticked onwards second-by-second until it tocked at his decision point — two minutes.
Time had run out. Mission abort.
Ben wiped his palms on his vest then raised the radio to his mouth.
Then he heard it.
Faintly at first but growing louder. The mechanical joints grating like rusted bicycle chains; the pneumatic actuators hissing like dry bursts from an aerosol can.
So familiar, that sound, and yet so alien. Ben couldn’t help but shudder.
He peered around the front of the car. Three dark shapes emerged on the street, shuffling toward the music as if called by the Pied Piper. Within the minute, they were joined by three more.
Ben turned his head away and pressed himself against the car harder than before. He felt his heartbeat reverberating off the fender.
After counting to sixty, he crossed his fingers and peeked around one last time.
All clear.
“Alex, I’ve got visuals on six vagabonds,” he whispered into the radio. “They’re on their way. Looks like this is gonna work — over.”
Blip, blip.
During his scouting expedition last week, Alex had spotted six vagabonds wandering around a two-block radius of the Carmel Hills Shopping Plaza. Now all six plodded toward the music, their metal boots scraping the pavement in near unison.
Ben pumped his fist. Today is gonna be a good day.
He heard Ron fidget behind him. The seventeen-year-old boy was sitting cross-legged on the damp concrete, clutching an empty black duffel bag like it was his teddy bear.
Ron had a round and pasty freckled face with a small, moist mouth and dewy, shifty eyes. He wore a large olive-green canvas coat, camouflage pants several inches too short, and a grimy pair of rubber boots he’d found several weeks ago while scavenging an abandoned dairy farm.
Ben studied Ron skeptically. Three years older than me, he thought, yet he’s like a child. Rolling his eyes, he crawled over to Ron and said flatly, “Ron, you’re not ready.”
Ron didn’t respond. His ragged breaths were huffing and puffing into the chill air.
“Hey,” Ben said, gently shaking the boy’s shoulders. “You’re gonna wait here, okay?”
Ron stared at the ground and nodded.
Ben darted a quick glance at Danna, who motioned to him to hurry up. He mouthed “I know!” and turned back to Ron.
“Do you have your radio?” he asked.
The boy fumbled around in his duffel bag and pulled it out.
“We need you to keep an eye out,” Ben said firmly. “If you see anything, let us know. Channel four. Don’t say a word; three clicks, that’s all.”
Ron licked his lips and nodded eagerly. He was relaxed now as if he’d been pardoned from a death sentence still pronounced for two others.
“Ron, which channel?”
“Ch-channel four,” Ron finally replied. He took a deep breath and swallowed. “Three clicks. I got it. I’ll keep an eye out.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. “If we’re not back in thirty minutes, take the car and get back to the retreat as fast as you can. Don’t come looking for us.”
He had a feeling that Ron wouldn’t anyway.
Ron scuttled underneath a U-Haul truck that had a picture of Mt. Rushmore on its side. He positioned himself to face Ben, who nodded approvingly. It’d be a good spot for Ron to keep watch, or at least to hide. It was also a straight shot to their car, which was parked behind a burnt-down 7-11 a quarter-mile back.
Ben tried to give him a reassuring smile, but he could only manage a thumbs-up. He’d better not fall asleep. . . .
He turned to Danna, who was strangling an imaginary neck with her hands. Ron had cost them precious time.
Scanning the street one last time, Ben gave the forward arm signal. They slipped across the street, spread twenty feet apart. Their target was a Rite Aid pharmacy supposedly unscathed by looters.
Within seconds, they reached the door and flattened themselves on opposite sides of it.
Crouching low, Ben inched his way to the edge of the doorway and peered in through the glass. Empty like a tomb. He pointed to his eyes with two fingers and motioned Danna to look. She saw nothing too.
Time to get to work.
Danna pulled out a tension wrench from her bag and — rather theatrically — a bobby pin from behind her ear. She noticed Ben looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” she whispered wryly. “Just like the movies, you know?”
Ben rolled his eyes. With his back against the wall, he scanned the street for any sign of movement. Except for knives, they were unarmed. This mission required absolute stealth and silence. A firearm would be too tempting to use if things went south; the noise from a gunshot would be more dangerous than that which would assail them.
Besides, no firearm smaller than a two-gauge punt gun could incapacitate a vagabond.
Ben cupped his ears. Not a sound except for the distant music and the slight scrape of the tension tool as Danna inserted it into the lock cylinder. Among her other skills once useless in that old safe and happy world, she liked picking locks.
Danna was slight of build for a girl of fifteen. She had shimmering jet-black hair, presently tucked inside a baseball cap except for a high ponytail that gently bobbed
as she moved. Her remarkably pale skin contrasted with her raven hair; and the only blemishes on her porcelain face were a dime-sized birthmark under her left ear and natural, slightly dark circles under her large hazel eyes, which her mother said she got from her Italian side.
She moved gracefully like a ballet dancer, which contrasted with her fiery spirit and flair for the dramatic. Indeed, the group back at the retreat learned quickly not to get on her bad side. In fact, a few of the younger kids were terrified of her, and she showered them with her wrath whenever they got in her way.
She always acted dumbfounded when told of her intimidating reputation, but Ben knew deep down she enjoyed it.
“We’re super lucky,” she whispered with a slight smile. “If this wasn’t a five-pin tumbler lock, we’d have to break the glass.”
Holding the tension tool with her left hand, she slid in the bobby pin and pressed her ear next to the lock. Listening carefully, she moved each lock pin one-by-one by rocking the pick until the pins finally clipped upwards in an unlocked position. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and grinned.
With a slight push, the door creaked open, and a faint whoosh of dry, musty air greeted them.
They peered into the empty expanse.
“Holy smokes,” Ben whispered in awe. It was as if they stood on the threshold of a forgotten vault of unsurpassable riches. When the looting had started, the pharmacies were the first to be hit. He shook his head in disbelief.
“People in this neighborhood sure got outta here quick,” Danna said softly, with a slight tone of gratitude.
“Can we lock the door?”
Danna shook her head. “Any lock that’s picked open must be picked to lock again. And don’t forget that Alex said the back door was chained.”
Ben nodded and took out a length of paracord, tied the door handles together, and gave them a sharp tug. Satisfied, he said, “Let’s sweep.”
They moved slowly, inch-by-inch, crisscrossing flashlight beams up each aisle. Not an item was moved; everything was stacked neatly as if the pharmacy was merely closed for the night. Only a fine layer of dust covered the flat surfaces.
As they walked past the holiday decorations, Ben shone his light upward. A hideous witch leered at him with beady black eyes and a vacant, sinister smile. He jerked backward, and his flashlight slipped from his sweaty palm, but he caught it with his other hand before it clattered to the floor.
He let out a deep breath and shone the light up again. Halloween decorations were still up for sale. How fitting for a haunted town, he thought. He darted a look in Danna’s direction, who was standing there with a mocking half-smile on her face.
“Don’t worry,” she teased; “I won’t tell anyone.”
Ben’s cheeks flushed, and pursing his lips, he made an exaggerated motion to continue moving toward the back of the store.
“It’s pretty ironic,” Danna said softly, breaking the awkward silence, “that sick people had to walk all the way to the back of the pharmacy to get their medicine, but others could buy their cigarettes at the front counter.”
“Yeah,” Ben muttered under his breath. “Crazy world, wasn’t it?”
The pharmacy’s shutter window was open; and shining the light through it, Ben saw shelves of white pill bottles labeled and arranged neatly.
“Let’s split up,” he said. “I’ll look for antibiotics in the back room; you find the medicine aisles. Grab as many ibuprofen and cold medicine as you can. Stuff your bag. We also need toothpaste . . . and toilet paper!”
He set his bag on the dusty pharmacy counter and hoisted himself through the window. Holding the flashlight with his teeth, he unfolded Katie’s medication list and checked it over. He’d already memorized it two days ago, but he knew there’d be no coming back here. Not for a long time, at least.
Searching alphabetically, he plucked bottles off the shelves and dropped them into the bag. He smiled. Today’s a good day.
A sudden crash of boxes coming from Danna’s direction jolted him upward. He pulled out his knife and rushed to the pharmacy window.
Danna’s head popped up two aisles over.
“Sorry!” she whispered. “Somebody didn’t do a good job stocking this shelf.”
Ben shook his head, set his knife on the counter, and got back to work.
Ten minutes later, he’d mentally checked off every item except for the two he couldn’t find. He hopped through the window and jogged toward the food aisle. More than anything, they needed protein. He knew what to get: beef jerky, pistachios, and trail mix. Especially the beef jerky — that was his favorite.
Danna met him in the center aisle.
“We good?” he asked, shining his light on the giant wall of refrigerators. The windows were stained with green mold. He could imagine the smell inside.
Danna shook her bags, which were stuffed full. “I even got gummy bear vitamins for Izzy.”
“Okay, now we should—”
A thunderous crash rocked the front door.
For a moment they stood there, frozen. An item fell off a shelf and shattered.
“Could that be Ron?” Danna whispered.
Another booming crash.
“Is Ron wearing a coat of armor?” Ben asked, flinging his bags to the ground. “Wait here.”
“Yeah, right. I’m coming with you.”
Ben shrugged and tip-toed his way to the front. He pressed himself against the wall and peered around the edge. Metal head, neon green eyes, that freakish metallic grin.
A vagabond.
And it knew they were in there.
Then Ben realized his mistake: it’d seen their flashlight beams. He should’ve covered the lenses with red filters, which would’ve given them infrared vision without the bright beams. It was a stupid and costly mistake.
Ben rubbed his temples. Today was supposed to be a good day.
He pulled out his radio. “Ron, you copy?” he asked softly.
Static.
“Ron, are you there? Over.”
No response.
“Why didn’t Ron warn us on the radio?” Danna hissed. She grabbed Ben’s radio. “Ron, do you—”
“You’re wasting your time,” Ben snapped. “He went AWOL.” He shone his light on the aisle signs. “We need to find the tool section.”
“I’ll do it,” Danna said. “Stay here and watch the door.” She darted into the depths of the store, pacing the aisles once stocked by a high-school student just like her but long since dead.
“Toys, party stuff, school supplies, hardware — Ben, aisle seven!”
Ben snatched a Kodak disposable camera off a shelf and sprinted toward Danna. He dropped to his knees and tore the camera out of the box.
Another blow at the door. More items toppled to the floor. The door was smash-resistant, but the new guest was three hundred pounds of solid metal and well aware of its strength.
“It’s coming through!” Danna cried.
Ben nodded his head, all but ignoring her. He flipped open the battery casing and popped out the battery. Then he pressed the flash button three times.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m draining the capacitor of any stored electricity,” Ben replied flatly, trying his darndest to sound calm.
“That’s not what I meant,” Danna replied, stomping her foot. “Ben, we have got to go.”
“Yes, we do. But the back door is chained shut, remember? We’re not getting outta here unless we take down that vagabond.” He held up the camera. “This is gonna make that happen.”
He wiped his fingers on his pants and cracked open the camera. Piece-by-piece he removed the circuit board, the flashbulb, and finally the film. His hands shook. He clenched his jaw and told himself to concentrate.
Boom! Crack!
Ben reached for a box of small screws and took out two. “Get me that electrical tape over there,” he said. “And that roll of wire right next to it.”
Danna handed him the wire, a
nd he cut it into two four-inch lengths and stripped both ends with his pocketknife. He wrapped the wire around the screws and inserted them carefully into the slot that housed the film roll, with both screws sticking out like small, twisted spikes. He then wrapped the wire around the capacitor posts and mounted the circuit board back into the housing.
“How much longer?” Danna asked, rubbing her face with both of her hands.
Ben didn’t respond. He popped the battery in place and slid in a piece of film to keep the pack from touching the battery terminal post. That would prevent premature charging and keep the screws in place. He snapped the cover pieces together, leaving the film divider sticking out.
He held up the device and grinned. “Taser.”
Slinging the duffel bags over their shoulders, they ran to the front, dropped the bags, and backed themselves against the wall next to the door.
“We need a diversion,” Ben said as he tried to catch his breath. “Your turn.”
“I’m on it.” Danna reached up and grabbed a pack of Bic lighters from a rack next to a cash register.
She took out her knife, ripped open the pack, and popped open the plastic cover of one of the lighters. Working quickly, she removed the striker wheel, flint, and the flint spring. She handed Ben the casing filled with the lighter fluid. Biting her bottom lip, she twisted the spring then wrapped it around the flint.
Ben was about to venture a glance when a metal fist punched through the door and began to rip off pieces of glass. He turned to Danna. “How much longer?”
“Toss me the casing.” She took out the other lighter, flicked it on, and began to heat the flint that was wrapped with the spring.
Not thirty seconds later there was a resounding smash. The vagabond burst through the door, sending shards of glass in every direction. Ben winced as a piece stung his cheek.
The machine was an early version android: six-foot-five with a fully exposed metal skeleton, unlike the recent models that had synthetic skin. Its rusted cranium was human-sized except for a long protruding jaw. The mouth was shaped into a gaping grin that stretched the entire width of its face like a demented clown from a gearhead’s nightmare. Above its jaws were hollow, skull-like “nostrils” and beady green eyes that flickered like two trapped neon fireflies. And somehow stuck or glued to the top of its head was either a shredded blonde wig or the scalp of an unsuspecting victim left alive or for dead.