Which left the Bronco.
It could get him closer, but he’d get bogged down at some point. And he wasn't in any kind of shape to walk for miles and miles.
Anger burned in his chest. He had to get to his family and yet had no way to do it. They wouldn’t survive for long. Anton had killed Juice and Linda in cold blood. He was more than capable of doing the same to Mason’s family.
Juice and Linda.
They'd been murdered, and the knife that twisted in Mason’s gut was that he was partly to blame. They’d gotten involved by helping him. Juice’s generosity had gotten he and his wife killed. His old friend was exactly what this changed world needed most. An inventive problem solver that knew how to get shit done.
Mason listened again to the movement somewhere beyond the perimeter wall. He climbed up on the bike and peeked over.
In the middle of the street, a small group of deltas surrounded the body of one of the assault team members. They’d managed to tear through his tactical gear and expose the flesh below.
Mason wondered how long he’d been out because the corpse was utterly ravaged. The leg bones looked like they’d been cleaned with a scrub brush. A large delta gnawed meat off a small bone. Maybe from the hand or foot.
The operator’s HK MP7 lay a couple feet from his body. The deltas ignored it, not understanding its value. Mason knew better, but he also knew they wouldn’t ignore him. And a baton wasn’t enough offense to take on the eight deltas picking the corpse clean.
He dropped back down off the bike and made his way around the back of the house. He found a trashcan and used it to hike up over the wall and drop down into his own backyard. He strode toward the Bronco, still thinking about his part in Juice’s death. About the injustice of cutting down a man with so much to give.
He jolted to a stop mid-stride. A memory flashed into focus. Maybe Juice wasn't done helping.
Maybe it was time to reveal his latest and greatest invention.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Mason shook his head. It was insanity, of course. But he couldn't think of a better option. He hopped in the Bronco and fired it up. The throaty old bruiser growled to life, the rumbling an assertion that it was ready for anything.
He pulled out on to the street and revved the engine at the group of deltas. They screamed and shouted. Half of them cowered in terror and the other half glared, ready to charge him. He could run them down and try to recover the rifle, but could he live with himself having done it?
No.
These people, or creatures, or whatever, were not enemy combatants. They hadn’t willingly entered a war zone to fight and possibly die if the vagaries of war turned against them.
Mason hit the gas, weaving around bodies where he could and rolling over them where he couldn't. The wet crunch under the tires only vaguely distressed him. The weary numbness in his mind kept it somewhat at a distance. He remembered the feeling well. He and his men had felt it in Fallujah. It was a survival mechanism. The mind closing in on itself when the horrors of the outside world threatened to unravel it.
Compassion required comfort, to some degree at least. When all comfort was stripped away, when only suffering remained, it was a rare soul that could still hold onto both compassion and sanity at the same time.
Mason left the group to their grisly business and headed toward Juice’s house. He turned south and headed toward the canals.
Movement up ahead caught his attention. Five people sitting in a front yard. Numerous large planters had replaced the usual turf. They sat huddled together in one of the aisles between planters.
Were they crazy?
As he got closer, he saw the truth of it. Not people. Deltas. A family with three kids. All of them either naked or wearing fragments of tattered clothing.
Mason slowed as he got closer.
The mother plucked a tomato from a tall plant and handed it to one of the young boys. The boy accepted it and popped it into his mouth. He crunched down and juice dribbled down his chin. The other two held their hands up asking for their fair share.
The father stood up and faced the Bronco as Mason stopped in the street. He stepped in between his family and stared at Mason. His eyes narrowed and his body tensed.
They seemed so normal. And yet, the differences made the scene all the more surreal.
Clearly, they weren’t all aggressive. Why were some more aggressive and others, like these people, almost normal?
Mason didn’t want to scare them or start a confrontation, so he eased off the brake and continued on.
He was a few blocks away when an enormous, muscled delta loped out into the street. It must’ve been a bodybuilder in its previous life.
It stood in the middle of the street staring at the approaching Bronco. No stitch of clothing remained. The creature didn't flinch as Mason drove closer. Did it not recognize the danger of getting run over? Did it not understand what happened when flesh collided with steel at twenty miles per hour?
Mason scanned both sides of the road and didn't see a clear path. It would've been easier to drive straight through the unfortunate creature. There was no threat of damage to his vehicle. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. With less than thirty feet remaining between them, Mason steered left and hopped over the curb. He smashed through a black wrought iron fence and demolished what had once been a meticulously manicured front yard. He stomped on the brake as the next yard had a concrete retaining wall a couple of feet high.
The Bronco could get over it but attempting the feat at speed was asking to get the front axle ripped off. The huge tires locked up and gouged trenches through the yellowing grass. In a city that required so much water and had very little supply of its own, Mason never understood why so many people had enormous green lawns.
Used to anyway.
With the constant supply of water shut off days ago, this yard, like countless others, was already starting to fade. Mason edged the Bronco up to the retaining wall until the tires touched. Movement in the corner of his eye caused him to glance to the right. The large delta in the street was no longer alone. A small pack surrounded him, all watching intently. The leader tilted his head back and shouted.
Mason looked around in alarm. More deltas streamed out from between houses and joined the growing pack in the street.
It was way past time to go.
Mason let the Bronco drift back a little and then gunned it. The front tire slammed into the retaining wall and bounced up. Unfortunately, it then crashed back to the grass. Having it in four-wheel-drive would've been a big help, but there was no chance in hell he was gonna jump out and set about locking the hubs while deltas stared at his back.
The largest delta, the one he should've run over, screamed and the press of bodies around him, now maybe two dozen strong, broke as one for the Bronco.
Mason let the Bronco roll back a little further and then gave it more gas this time. It hit the retaining wall and bounced up, but again dropped back down before the tires could catch on the lip.
The mass of bodies smashed into his vehicle like a wave breaking on a rock. The Bronco leaned to the side before dropping back onto all four tires. The leader of the deltas scrambled up onto the hood and started pounding on the windshield.
Mason threw it in reverse and the delta slipped, crashing onto the hood like a bull with its legs cut off. He threw it in drive and floored it. The Bronco lunged forward and the hood jerked up as the tires clawed up the retaining wall. The delta on the hood launched off into the air like he was shot from a catapult.
The front tires rounded the edge and Mason hit the gas again. The rear tires bounced over and he was clear of the obstacle. He jerked the steering wheel to the right and tore through the raised yard. He didn’t slow down as the Bronco flew off the elevated terrain and dropped hard to the street level. The impact shook free the last couple of deltas clinging to the side of the vehicle.
Mason gave it some gas and got back up to speed. He glanced in the rearvi
ew mirror and watched as the hunting pack reassembled. The hulk one appeared out front. He shouted in rage and then took off in pursuit. The pack followed.
With only three blocks and one turn to go, he doubted he’d be able to shake them.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
The Bronco skidded to a stop. Mason glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the deltas about a block back. He hadn't been able to go fast enough or far enough to completely lose them. He turned to the house outside and wondered if he was in the right place.
Juice’s house looked more like it belonged in Fallujah than on the once prestigious canal streets of Venice. Whereas the smooth concrete, glass, and metal construction had once looked sleek and modern, it now looked decrepit and ancient. The concrete exterior was pocked and crumbling, evidence of a chopper’s M230 chain gun in action.
Jesus.
The bastards had unloaded on the place.
Leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine on, Mason eased down onto the street. His jumping days would not be back for quite some time. He made sure the door lock was up and not engaged before closing the door. If this insane idea didn't work out for whatever the million reasons were why it shouldn't, maybe he could make it back for a quick escape. He didn't think the deltas would understand how to open the door to get in and even if one did, he was absolutely certain they wouldn't know how to operate a vehicle.
He looked down the street and the approaching deltas exploded in roars and hoots, thinking they’d cornered their prey. If his escape plan worked out, they’d be in for a big surprise. He ran around to the side of the house, still in shock at the amount of damage the building had sustained. He stepped through a gaping window and crunched on the carpet of glass inside. He headed through the living room toward the back hallway with the Bonowi baton raised and ready to strike.
The hum of the deltas outside grew louder, closer. Their individual voices began to separate and become distinct.
Mason hurried to the bathroom and discovered a huge hole in the shower floor. The assault team had used explosives to breach the basement bunker.
He carefully stepped over the crumbling subfloor and held onto the sides to lower himself into the room below. Signs of the ferocious battle were everywhere. Chunks of plaster torn out of walls. White dust covered the floor. Bits and pieces of metal and plastic everywhere. Shell casings like popcorn littering a movie theater.
He turned and found Juice on the floor with his back against the wall. His head tilted to the side at a grotesque angle. His chest was a ruin of pulverized flesh and bone. The lights in the ceiling above flickered and Mason half expected the body to get up and lunge at him like a cheesy Halloween haunted house. He scanned further right and found Linda. She was no better off.
He had no idea how Juice had planned to continue a relationship with a delta, but he understood the commitment to try. He would do the same thing if Beth got infected and changed. He’d never give up on her. But now it didn’t matter because Juice and Linda would never get a chance to fight for their future together.
All because of one man.
A man that needed killing.
A shriek from somewhere above cut short the eulogy in Mason's mind. It would have to wait. He hurried to the workshop wondering if it still contained Juice’s latest invention.
The Personal Aerial Transport. PAT.
His friend had a thing for acronyms. He’d once claimed that the perfect acronym made an invention ten times more valuable. It was all about the branding.
He opened the door and found it in the center of the workshop just as before. Looking just as crazy and unreasonable as before. How could eight million people fly their own PAT around? The logistics of moving roadways from the 2D world up into the 3D world where things could move in all three axes seemed impossible. Mason hadn't said it to Juice earlier because there was no point in raining on his parade.
This future wouldn’t have eight million PATs flying around. At this point, just one would be enough. He walked to the corner of the room and punched the button to open the bay roof. A long crack appeared in the ceiling. The two panels slid apart spilling dirt and whirling clouds of dust.
Mason stepped up into the half-cage that all too closely resembled a coffin or some kind of medieval torture device. He hoped its appearance wasn’t indicative of what was about to happen. He slipped into the harness and surveyed the controls.
Not complicated. A left joystick with a white decal that said POWER. A small digital screen behind that. A right joystick with a white decal that said NAVIGATION.
Okay.
He tapped the dark screen and it blinked to life. He zipped through a series of menus about FAA disclaimers, legal waivers, and operational instructions.
He wasn't a read-the-manual-first kind of guy, even when he had the time for it to be an option.
A crash outside in the main basement room briefly grabbed his attention. The deltas had found the way down. He turned back to the screen.
Come on.
Come on.
He tapped yet another I AGREE button and finally found what he was looking for.
START
A round, green button. He tapped it.
Both turbines spun up as deltas appeared in the doorway. They didn’t hesitate.
The two roof panels continued to slide open. Now about three feet apart. PAT was probably six feet across at its widest point—the outside of each propeller housing. Mason took hold of the left joystick and eased it forward. The whirring rush of the propellers increased. The vehicle lifted half an inch off the ground and skidded to the left before Mason dropped it back to the floor.
The first delta jumped straight at him.
Mason caught it in the chest with a hard kick that sent it sprawling backward into the one behind.
Mason glanced up. Just one more foot of clearance.
Another delta lunged for his arm but tripped on the two hitting the floor. Its hand instead clipped the power joystick. The turbines roared and PAT jumped up a couple of feet and then dropped back to the floor. Mason’s neck popped and his teeth slammed together with the impact.
Another delta grabbed Mason's leg and tried to pull him back toward the others behind. The harness securing his torso held him in place.
With the other foot, Mason landed a hard kick to the delta’s temple and it stumbled back in a daze. More deltas entered the room. He kicked and kneed as many as came within range.
Clearance be damned. It was now or never.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
He shoved the power joystick forward and again the propellers whooshed into high gear. The PAT jumped off the ground and tilted forward as the weight of a delta clawing at Mason dragged it down. He kicked it in the solar plexus and it fell back. The vehicle righted itself and began to rise through the opening above.
Deltas surrounded the gaping hole that was once the front yard. They reached out trying to grab at him as he ascended. One reached too far and fell into the workshop and smacked the concrete floor twelve feet below.
Another leaped across the empty space. It misjudged the distance and slammed into a skid, doubling its body around the metal pole. The additional weight dragged the PAT lower. It dropped back down into the bay.
Above him, surrounding the square aperture, the frenzied deltas clawed at empty air. And now the room below held more of the same. A tall one jumped up and grabbed the feet of the one clinging to the skid.
The roof panels clanged to a stop in the fully opened position.
Mason slammed the power joystick all the way forward. The turbines howled as they blasted air over the deltas below. The cowlings shook as they edged toward the operational limits. The descent halted but full power wasn’t getting it moving up again.
The delta attached to the skid popped up as the weight on his feet unwrapped him from the metal pole.
Mason kicked it square in the face. Its head snapped back and the one clinging to its feet pulled them both down.
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PAT vaulted into the air. It zipped past the ring of deltas outside and rose higher until it jerked to a stop about fifteen feet in the air.
What the hell?
Mason looked down. A taught, thick black cord stretched from the battery compartment on the bottom of the vehicle down into the workshop below.
The power cord.
Seriously?
As brilliant as Juice was, why didn't he make it like the magnetic adapter on Apple laptops? The kind that yanked free if you pulled too hard. That would've been a really nice feature just then.
A small lever locked the adaptor in place on PAT. He stretched down with his right hand making sure to keep his left hand pouring on the power. It was just out of reach.
Dammit.
He scrambled to unlock the harness. As the final clasp came free, PAT lurched to the right. Mason slipped and the world seemed to click into slow-motion. He tried to grab anything that would halt the fall. His fingers slipped over the control arms. He fell away from the vehicle. A fingertip scraped the landing skid on the way down.
He was a dead man.
Only he landed on the cord, one leg straddling each side. His hands clamped down and arrested the descent.
He glanced around. What a fucking insane situation.
Above, PAT self-stabilized doing its best to maintain position and altitude. Surrounding him on all sides with barely six feet of clearance, deltas screamed for his blood. Below, more howled and shrieked, expecting him to fall at any second.
The cable jerked in his hands as the muscled delta he’d confronted on the way over pulled himself up.
Mason scrambled up the cable and hooked a leg over a landing skid. He smacked the release lever open with the side of his hand.
The adaptor didn’t break free. The damn thing was stuck in there due to the strain!
The delta’s ripped arms bulged as it pulled higher. It glared up at Mason with burning eyes.
The Last Peak (Book 2): The Darwin Collapse Page 28