Humanity's Edge- The Complete Trilogy

by Paul B. Kohler

  Daniels guided them to the staircase, down one long flight, and then another. It felt like they were being swallowed by the Earth. As they descended, the noise from the battle above diminished, leaving them in silence.

  “Is this the same as it was when you were stationed here?” Clay asked, glancing around at the cement walls and floors.

  “We had a bit more light back then,” Daniels said, reaching for the wall. He slid his hand against it, searching for a switch. “I still remember the way, though. The buildings are interconnected. We can circle the entire base without seeing daylight. It just takes a bit longer.”

  “I just don’t think we know what we’ll run into down here,” Agnes said nervously. “I mean, since the general took over, who knows what he’s using this for.”

  Sam scoffed, “It’s clear he doesn’t use it for anything. Otherwise, there’d be, I don’t know … more light?”

  Daniels increased his speed, hurrying them down the dark corridor. He nearly slammed his head against a wall at the turn and grunted. The rest of them were breathing hard, trying to keep up. Clay continued to glance back, counting them—reassured that Sam was still at the rear.

  Daniels skidded to a halt, and Clay nearly ran into him. When he stopped, he realized they’d come to an intersection of five different tunnels. Each tunnel was like a black hole of probability. Clay wondered how on Earth Daniels could possibly remember which path led where.

  “What now? Rex asked.

  Daniels tipped his feet first down one path, then another. He shifted his weight from side to side, looking childish. And then realizing he was losing their confidence he started himself down his first choice. They hurried after him, no one saying a thing, but everyone alarmed by his hesitation.

  Finally, they saw a light at the end of the tunnel. It felt like more than a metaphor. They began to speed up, Alayna muttering, “About time. This has to be a way out …”

  But as they drew closer, Clay began to feel dizzy. His brain filled with the voices again. They cried out in confusion and pain. FLESH. FEED ME. GOD, I’M SO HUNGRY. I HAVE SO MUCH PAIN…

  Clay staggered, gripping THE SIDES OF HIS HEAD. As he slowed, THEY entered into A cavern-like arena, with a strange, ghoulish-green light overhead. The voices continued, bouncing around his skull. Alayna covered mouth, and Megan gasped. Around them were dozens of cages, each occupied by screeching and wide-eyed members of the crazed army. Their tongues lolled from their mouths; blood oozed from their eyes. And they ached with hunger—their minds filling Clay’s, telling him, over and over again—

  FEED US. GOD, I WANT THE FLESH.

  Clay fell to his knees. Another wave of dizziness surged through him, making his forehead burn. He couldn’t fight through their thoughts. As the others gathered around, he lost consciousness.

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  “Jesus Christ,” Daniels muttered, taking several steps toward the caged crazed.

  Clay blinked back to life moments later and staggered from his crouch. Daniels paced around the cages, disbelief on his face. The crazed continued to slam against the bars. Slowly, Clay recognized something a bit different about them. Each of them wore similar clothing. Military garb.

  “All of them …” Daniels gasped, “are wearing fatigues. Goddamn.”

  “They’re part of the general’s undead army, now,” Clay said. The hundred-or-so soldiers, all scrambled over one another—their arms stretching out from behind the bars.

  Daniels was speechless. Clay was about to ask if he was okay when he spun back toward the tunnel. He pointed. “If this is the old barracks, then I know where the armory is. It’s not far. Come on.”

  Clay and Sam exchanged a glance, as Daniels led the group back into the tunnels. He ran almost too quickly, trying perhaps to outrun the memory of what they’d just seen. Clay stayed with him, forcing the others to play catch-up. As they moved, the sound of the crazed’s voices in Clay’s head got fainter, and he was able to think clearly once more. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  Five minutes later, Daniels skirted around a final corner and into the armory. They arrived breathless. Daniels rummaged through the many containers, throwing open cabinets and revealing row upon row of rifles, handguns, and grenades.

  But after scouring through everything, Daniels wasn’t happy. “It’s mostly depleted,” he said, opening a completely empty container and kicking at it. “Shit.”

  “There’s enough for us here,” Clay said, trying to up the morale. He scanned their faces, seeing the exhaustion. “There’s enough for us to destroy them all.”

  Daniels wasn’t listening. He crossed the armory to a smaller cabinet and yanked it open to reveal several earwigs. He began to pass them out, instructing them, “Put these in your ears. We’ll have hands-free communication. Better to pay attention and keep your hands on your rifles at all times, you understand? No more of this walkie-talkie bullshit.”

  Clay slipped his in, watching the others do the same. Alayna, Megan, and Rex chose weapons. Rex looked at them with a tenderness most reserved for children. He holstered a handgun, and then held a rifle across his chest, tapping it with his forefinger. The exhaustion was gone.

  “All right, team,” Sam said. “I think we should separate into three groups. Two of us, maybe hang back. This could be a safe space. A place to come back to; a place they don’t know we know about. Understand?”

  Nods of understanding bounced around the room, while they adjusted their weapons in their hands. Clay divided them up, feeling like he was preparing to slide a knife into the “beast.” He put himself with Sherman and Sam, recognizing they’d be the strongest team—a team to tackle the bigger fighters, up top. Then, there was Daniels, Quintin, and Agnes, with Alayna, Megan, and Rex in the final grouping.

  “Hank and Lois, you two hang back,” Clay instructed. He couldn’t imagine that Lois could run quickly, at her age. And Hank seemed to be a bit too wild to avenge Walt’s death.

  Daniels found maps of the underground tunnel network. “Yes, yes, yes,” he muttered. “This is perfect …” He started to trace out three separate routes to the command center.

  “This is where the general has to be. It’s the safest place in the entire compound.” He made an X at the command center. “This is where we have to go if we want to take him down.”

  “And what about Maia?” Clay demanded, assessing the map of the compound. “Where would she be? Where would he take her?”

  “And Brandon!” Agnes piped up.

  “Right. Where are they?” Clay asked. “I can’t—I can’t lose her again …”

  Daniels rapped his knuckle against the command center once more. “Naw, I reckon she’s right there, too. In the general’s quarters, right above the command center.”

  “You really think so?” Clay asked.

  “I’m sure,” Daniels said. He began to roll up the maps, his motions quick. “Now, let’s roll. We’re losing time.”

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  Clay, Sam, and Sherman retraced their steps through the darkness, their boots echoing on the cement. There was only the occasional bark from Sam, who managed to watch the map and tell them their turns: left, right, then another right, as they raced toward the command center. Clay’s heart pounded rhythmically inside his ribcage, his muscles were firm—strong from the weeks of the nanites coursing through his system. He was more “them” than himself, now, he thought.

  “Another left up here. Twenty feet!” Sam called.

  “Here!” Sam muttered, making her voice quieter. “We’ve got to go up these steps. And we’ll be just outside the command center.”

  They stopped, blinking up into a small staircase. Imagining Maia at the top, Clay led the way, taking two and then three steps at a time, until he reached a hulking door. It had a single, metal knob in the center, which Clay twisted to the left, cracking the door open. A burst of fresh air rushed over them, along with the sounds of the battle raging outside. From here, he could feel the thoughts of the crazed
outside, in their “mechanical” army bodies. FEED. FLESH. HELP. HELP. The words were clearer and clearer, despite the horrible noise: gunfire, explosions, the cries and screams of the men on the field, drawing their last breaths.

  It was war.

  “Clay. Don’t,” Sam whispered into his ear. Her voice was softer than he’d ever heard it. As if she comprehended the weight of this moment.

  Clay shoved open the metal door, allowing them to see the command center door just across the corridor. Clay activated his communications. He muttered, “Daniels. This is Clay. Do you read me?”

  He cut his head to the right, suddenly realizing there was something very wrong. Daniels sounded panicky. “We’re under fire, Clay,” he howled. “We should be able to handle them—damn, have you seen Agnes with a rifle? But we won’t make it to the command center, no sir,” he continued. “The others, they’ll find you. Rex? Megan? Alayna?”

  “That’s a no for us, Clay,” Alayna replied, making Clay feel momentarily grim.

  “Don’t tell me you’re under fire, too?” Clay asked, feeling the panic inch into his own psyche.

  “No. It’s not that. I think the maps are a bit outdated,” Alayna replied. “Because we followed it exactly and ended up back at the armory with Lois and Hank, here.”

  “Fuck!” Clay cried, feeling fear rise within him. “We’re losing time. I can’t wait for both teams to get over here. The battle’s getting closer, and Maia—I have to get to her—”

  Sam touched Clay’s arm, looking at him with hard eyes. Clay turned off his communications.

  “We can’t wait. You’re right,” Sam told him. “I say, we charge in there. We fucking kill him before Malcolm does. That way, we won’t have to handle both of them at once.”

  As if in slow motion, Clay felt himself nod. Something in his brain clicked into place, telling him that this was it. The end, or the beginning. The next few minutes would settle it forever.

  “All right,” Clay agreed. “Here goes nothing.”

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  Clay rammed into the door, breaking the latch clean off. He tipped his head to the side, indicating that Sam and Sherman should enter first. They barreled into a shadowy corridor at the edge of the command center. Clay followed, his rifle ready, his ears attuned for any possible noise. Down the dark hallway, A beam of light cut the gloom. They raced toward it—like stragglers toward heaven. And as they neared, they began to hear the general barking orders.

  “What the hell do you mean, they’re coming up fast? I thought you said the minute we had control over these dead assholes—” the general shouted.

  Clay crept toward one side of the open doorway, watching as the light was cast across his forearm, glistening against his rifle. Sam ducked to the other side. They waited, their eyes locked on each other.

  “I mean, what good was all the effort? The whole project, if these bleeding monsters can’t destroy the very thing they’ve been engineered to destroy—other humans? This should have been an incredibly big recruiting day for us, men. Each and every human out there? Should have been a new soldier by the end of this. And yet—”

  Clay gave Sam a sharp nod. It was time. Without speaking, they burst into the room, dropping to a crouching position on either side of the doorway. A long oak table gave them some cover. The general was pacing beside a wall of monitors. His goons burst up from their chairs, reaching for their weapons. Clay and Sam sprayed bullets at their ankles from beneath the table.

  Sherman burst into the room, attempting to drop down to his knees as well. But the soldiers were too quick, putting a bullet into his chest. He fell back like a tree being cut down. He dropped his rifle, shoving it toward Clay’s feet.

  But Clay and Sam didn’t react. They were machines now: knowing only that if they made a single misstep, their lives were over. Clay crept around, coming up on the right side of the table and peppering bullets one of the soldiers. The general ducked and cowered, while nearly a dozen of his men continued to return fire.

  Within seconds, only four of the general’s soldiers remained standing, and two of them had dropped their rifles to their sides. One howled, sounding forlorn. But seconds after his cry, Sam lifted her rifle and put a bullet in his skull.

  Clay was oddly impressed with Sam’s lack of empathy. With her chill.

  Clay and Sam burst up from either side of the table, aiming at the three remaining men. Clay felt murderous, wild—his blood bursting against his eardrums. As they advanced, the soldiers retreated, their own rifles at their sides. Clay’s fingers twitched, yearning to finish off every last one of them.

  From the hallway that they’d entered through mere moments before, a powerful explosion filled the room with roiling smoke and debris, making Sam and Clay leap out of the way. One of the general’s soldiers cried out. Through the smoke, Clay could make out the large, dark shapes of six men.

  “Shit,” Sam muttered, edging her elbow into Clay’s side. “Shit, shit shit—”

  As the smoke cleared, Clay recognized Malcolm, with five of his men. Malcolm was staring intently at Clay and Sam with a kind of revere. An almost childlike joy.

  “Well!” he said, clucking his tongue. “I never thought I’d get the pleasure of killing you, Sam. And Clay—well. What a pleasure to be able to kill you twice!”

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  Three of Malcolm’s men closed in on them. Clay scanned the room for options. All the while, he could feel Malcolm’s eyes boring into him. Assessing him. He was smirking.

  “Sam, Sam, Sam,” Malcolm said. He loomed over her, nearly a foot taller than she was. His nose was mere inches from hers. But Sam didn’t cower or show fear, she smirked back at him.

  “Fuck off, Malcolm,” Sam said and raised her rifle.

  Malcolm reached over and pushed the barrel down, shaking his head. “I don’t think I need to tell you your manners need some work, do I, Samantha?” he said.

  Malcolm’s entourage had total control now. One of them circled the room, putting the end of his gun into the back of the general. He eased up from his crouching position, his hands quaking in the air. He stared at Malcolm, aghast.

  As the general stood, shaking like a child, Alex and a few other of Malcolm’s men swept in. Alex glanced at Clay and cackled to himself. He crossed the room and disappeared up a set of steps. Several of Malcolm’s men followed.

  Clay felt sure he knew where Alex was going. Maia.

  “Come now, Sam,” Malcolm said, almost whispering. His voice was loving and tender, making it all the more maniacal. “Tell me. How’d you get little Clay out of that jam, back there? How did you get all the way here? You can tell me. I’m your old pal. Isn’t it mature of us to try to stay friends after the relationship falls apart? Isn’t it?”

  “Don’t tell him anything, Sam,” Clay said.

  Robotically, Malcolm turned to Clay, assessed him, dismissed him and moved on to the general, who quivered—the gun still lodged into his back.

  “General! Greetings,” Malcolm exclaimed. “I can’t imagine a worse rival, really. Look at you. So frightened by just a little poke in the back!”

  Shamed, the general stood straighter, bringing his shoulders back. He glared at Malcolm, his shaking subsiding. “What kind of shoddy army do you have behind you? It’s clear you’ve got no real plan beyond this. As if you could have the creativity for it. For taking over the world—”

  “I’m going to stop you right there, General,” Malcolm said. His hand remained on Sam’s gun—clearly not trusting her. “General, whatever you think you had planned with those monsters out there … well, whatever it was is now canceled. Great idea, though. Until it all fell apart.”

  Wallace glanced at the three remaining soldiers, all of whom had their hands raised. “I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about. My army will tear you apart. They’ve been trained for this. And I have them at my will—”

  “Oh yeah?” Malcolm said. He reached into his backpack and drew out a rifle-sized mecha
nical device.

  It was the very device he’d stolen the day before. Clay’s stomach clenched. He imagined all of them: the army of the crazed, blasted—dead and lax, soulless, now—across the field. Malcolm looked endlessly impressed with himself.

  “What the hell is that?” Wallace asked, tilting his head. “What the hell—”

  “I stole it from our mutual friend Clay here,” Malcolm said. “How funny that it would come in so handy. It really is the luck of the draw, isn’t it? This apocalypse?” He chuckled. “Although, I like to think I have a bit more smarts than others. And certainly, a big enough army to support me. Although you call them shoddy—they’re pretty fucking powerful, General. And they’re out there, slaughtering your army as we speak.”

  One of the general’s soldiers broke toward the staircase, trying to grab a weapon that had fallen earlier. As he dove, performing a kind of horrible “Hail Mary,” Malcolm pulled Sam’s gun from her arms and dropped him with a bullet through the temple.

  He collapsed to the floor, blood pouring from his head. The entire room gaped at the casual violence. Clay’s nose filled with the smell of blood.

  Malcolm turned his attention back to General Wallace. “I’m sorry. What was it we were talking about?” he asked.

  There was a commotion on the steps. Brandon and Maia appeared, with Alex behind them—his gun against their backs. Maia’s eyes were red-tinged and fearful. Brandon’s arms shook with rage. They were unarmed, completely at Alex’s mercy.

  “Son!” Malcolm called, gleeful. “My, I didn’t think you had it in you. You’ve brought my girl back to me!” He turned his eyes toward Clay. “Really, you never know what to expect from a child. Will they be like you? Or will they disappoint you? Or—I suppose in this case, will you live to see them die?”

  Chapter 77