by Addison Gunn
Gray rubbed his chest with the butt of his hand. “There are rumors,” he said. “I hear the Russians are attempting to get back into space. There have been discussions of a colony off-planet.”
“Good God,” Lewis breathed. “Could they even...?”
“And the French have devised plans for some sort of mega-bunkers to house survivors—to try and wait this whole thing out,” Gray added.
“What about us?” Lewis asked.
Gray cocked his head. “First, Boston. Then after that...?” He shrugged.
Miller said nothing, the tightness in his chest making it hard to breathe. He had a feeling the survivors of New York were condemned to a nomadic life, for now. It would be tough, but traveling could buy time for the world to settle down. A new normal would have to be found aboard the ship. Maybe for a generation, perhaps two.
He wasn’t sure what the new beginning was, but Miller tried to feel it like a rebirth. Every expectation of what the world was, or would be, or had been, was now stripped away.
Miller watched the dust cloud of the Astoria Peninsula in the distance and swallowed the lump in his throat.
For here on out, anything was possible.
MILLER STOOD ON the dock in Boston Harbour, the pier swarming with activity around him. Behind him, the Tevatnoa sat moored, creaking like an old rocking chair before its departure.
The trip from New York to Boston had been difficult. Once the survivors had been medically treated, fed from the hydroponic farms aboard, and informed of what had happened to the compound—or a version of what happened—the mood aboard fluctuated between stunned silence, mourning, and cautious hope.
They were the new pioneers, Gray told them. They were the next settlers of the new world, and they would explore this evolved land and find their place with all the strength and tenacity of the first colonists at Plymouth.
“We will rebuild!” Gray had preached, standing on the deck of the Tevatnoa like their savior.
The survivors had cheered, clinging to each other as if their faith would keep the large ship afloat.
Meanwhile, behind Gray and surrounded by du Trieux, Hsiung, and Morland, Miller had hugged his M27 to his chest.
He wanted to believe it would be that easy, but he knew history didn’t always remember the hardships the first colonists had faced. They were in for a battle, the kind his M27 wouldn’t always fix. But at least they weren’t in it wholly alone.
The British Royal Navy, or what was left of it, was rumored to be doing the same thing. Several of their own frigates had been converted into floating cities. Lewis had mentioned there were plans to converge with their vessels and embark together in search of new land—joining forces and resources would be a wise choice. The greater their numbers, the greater their chances for success, Lewis had said.
Before beginning their trans-Atlantic cruise to meet with the Navy and to try and pick up more gear and more ships in other parts of Europe, the Tevatnoa collected supplies and passengers in what was left of Boston.
Some survivors opted to stay there—to try their hand at living on familiar territory. Others never left the ship, concentrating on building infrastructure and living quarters inside the depths of the boat.
Miller wasn’t sure who would fare better. He wasn’t certain of anything anymore.
Now, on the dock, the Tevatnoa waiting for him, Miller’s uncertainty resurfaced. Where did he belong? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even sure of who he was—what he had become.
The old Miller, the bodyguard who had risked his life to protect others—he was long gone. He’d died at the beginning of all this shit; the moment Harris had ordered the attack helicopter to slaughter the Infected during the extraction of Lester Allen.
Even the Miller who had fought against the Charismatics, and teamed up with the Archaeans to liberate the compound’s survivors—even he didn’t exist anymore. He’d died in the mushroom cloud, blown to ash with all the Exiles and Infected of New York City.
How many times had he been reborn? How many versions of himself had he discarded to come this far?
He wasn’t certain someone like him belonged on a ship full of humanity’s hopes and dreams.
The weight of his old phone made his skin itch. He turned it on, flipped through his photos, trying to feel something familiar, something good. His family’s smiling faces stared back at him with such innocence, such life—it made his eyes water. He kept flipping, his calloused thumb scraping across the scratched screen. Photographs of Billy, Samantha, of all the members of Cobalt, many lost and gone forever. The ache in his chest made him look away.
Quickly, he pressed the power button, shutting it down. He pulled his arm back—to toss the phone into the water, be done with his past forever—but he stopped himself.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Turning around, he spotted du Trieux ambling up the dock. She carried a wooden crate of supplies in both her hands, her vest exchanged for a T-shirt and a headband. No gas mask; there weren’t too many wasps here.
She grinned at him, eyeing the phone in his hand and his pitcher’s stance. “Cleaning house?” she asked.
Miller dropped his arm to his side, phone still tight in his palm. “Yes. I mean, no. I—hell, I don’t know.”
She nodded, then skirted past and lugged the crate up a ramp leading to one of the cargo holds. “We disembark in a few minutes. Wouldn’t want to leave without you.” She stopped mid-step then looked at him kindly. “You ready?”
Miller pocketed his phone and wiped his palm against the leg of his pants. “I’ll be up in a few.”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “Okay.” Then, still carting the crate, she disappeared into the ship.
For a moment he just stared after her.
He walked toward the ramp, the phone weighing heavily in his pocket. This was a new beginning for all of them: for all the survivors, for the remains of humanity. For Cobalt, for du Trieux. For him.
Who he was, what he’d done—when the Tevatnoa pulled away from Boston’s docks, that man would be left behind, just like all the others.
As he bounded up the ramp into the cargo hold, he squared his shoulders.
Had to start someplace.
EPILOGUE
SAMANTHA HERNANDEZ LEANED her shoulder into the stilled subway car door and shoved it open the remainder of the way.
Inside the car, the smell of death hung thick, billowing out and filling the station behind her. She pulled her bandana back over her mouth and nose.
She squinted into the darkness, but nothing moved. She reached behind her and was handed a burning torch, then stepped inside the subway car and looked around in the glow of the torchlight. It was a distasteful scene. Bile gathered in the back of her throat.
The support of her friends filled her mind with reassurance. She was protected, there was nothing to fear.
She knew this.
She swallowed the bile and with a calm assurance, stepped further into the subway car, the strength of her people filling her.
The car was full of people, too—but not of the living. Skeletal remains from the Infected lay slumped together in groups, as if connecting with their dying commune had been a source of comfort near the end.
Sidestepping over the bodies, she pulled strength from her family members waiting in the station, and made herself walk deeper into the train, changing cars and slowly making her way toward the front where she knew he would be.
She could smell him.
Anger flooded her mind, but she was experienced enough with the sensation to recognize the anger she felt was not wholly her own. The Archaeans were angry with him—to the point of riot. But allowing a riot would undo the growth the Archaeans had achieved over the last year, so she had made the decision to come alone.
She would handle this.
If anyone could identify their own emotions in the swell of the Infected, it was Samantha. Between the pheromones in the truck, and the emotional turmoil driv
ing the horde of the Infected stampede, it was Samantha who had driven the truck to the compound and picked up the Archaeans, who’d led the caravan to the outskirts of New York and safety.
She hadn’t known what Alex had planned—but she knew him well enough to heed his warning. She was glad they were long clear of the city when the bomb blast hit.
There would be fallout; perhaps for decades. But the Archaeans were used to adapting to a changing environment. If the radiation caused mutations, they would meet them just as they had met every evolution the Archaean parasite had brought them—with love, respect, and acceptance.
It was only because of him that she’d had to return to the city so soon. He was a source of conflict that needed to be quelled—permanently, quickly.
At the head of the train, she found him, just where she knew he would be.
Jimmy Swift looked nothing like the charming, assured newscaster he had once been. Now, he was crouched in the corner of a death-filled subway car like a scared, mangy dog—bald, bleeding, and in tatters.
He’d clearly been topside when the blast had hit: he was covered in radiation sores and breathing in short, hurried, shallow breaths. His eyes were yellowed. His head rested on the floor. His hair, eyebrows, lashes—everything—was gone. His eyes went wide at the sight of her and his breathing increased. He opened his dry, cracked mouth.
She felt the pull of his fear, and the depth of his despair, but she also felt the anger and hostility of the Archaeans back at the station, and she said nothing—only watched Swift struggle for breath. Mixed in with his fear and the crowd’s anger, she felt her own sense of satisfaction.
“H-how you…?” he whispered.
“How are we not covered in radiation sores?” she asked.
He nodded, barely perceptibly.
“Because we knew better.”
He swallowed, lips wide open, although she doubted there was a drop of saliva left in his mouth.
“H-help me,” he begged, panting faster still. “P-please.”
She felt his flicker of hope and her heart swelled at the power of it. It took effort, but she was able to push it down, away from her mind, so that she could concentrate on her own words—her last shard of individuality.
“I can’t help you,” she said, honestly. “But I can’t kill another Infected either, even if I wanted to. All I can do is tell you that you’ve lost. The whole of New York City is lost. You didn’t win the city away from the humans like you fought to. All you did was give them no choice but to destroy it. And now, those of us who are left, we will be better off without either of you.”
“N-no,” Swift gasped, fighting for air.
“You will be dead soon,” she said, enjoying the primal fear that radiated off him in a panicked wave. “And the world will be better for it.”
“N-no, it w-won’t,” he whispered. “Worse,” he added. “M-much, m-much worse.”
With a hiss, his final breath escaped his lips.
She felt his relief like a blow to her gut. There was an instant release of pain from him that flowed through her, and then nothing.
His open eyes gaped at her, his mouth still open as if searching for one last breath or word.
Satisfied, Samantha turned from Jimmy Swift’s body and began the trek back to the subway platform, and to her people.
From deep within, she felt a dull sense of dread, but she pushed it away and fabricated a triumphant bravery, forcing it to the surface. They would be better off, she insisted. They would thrive.
They had to.
When she reached her people on the platform, she vowed—stepping over the bodies of the Infected—she would do so with a conquering smile.
ABOUT THE
AUTHORS
Extinction Biome is the creation of jungle warrior, revolutionary, counter-revolutionary and outdoorsperson Addison Gunn. But who is Addison Gunn? Addison’s too damn busy to answer that. Instead Gunn’s wrangled some of the best new talents in the genre to pen this exciting new series...
After writing for children’s television, Anne Tibbets found her way to writing novels by following what she loves: books, strong female characters, twisted family dynamics, magic, sword fights, quick moving plots, and ferocious and cuddly animals. Anne divides her time between writing, her family, and two furry creatures that she secretly believes are plotting her assassination.