by Joshua Guess
The force of the hit threw it off balance. Mason dipped to the outside of its reach and tagged its other arm just above the wrist. He continued this pattern for several more hits, beating on the dead thing like a drum and watching the New Breed out of the corner of his eye. When it became clear the more efficient predator wasn’t going to attack until Mason was done, he hit the injured zombie in the back of the knee. Without working arms to catch itself, its face slammed against the floor. Mason brought a baton down on its head.
“Come on then, big fella,” Mason said to the remaining dead man.
It didn’t rush him, choosing instead to circle Mason as best it could in the small space. It feinted twice, clawed hands darting forward. Mason swung at them with a baton lightly both times. The thing was smart enough to test the waters, but not smart enough to fake an attack with the right body language. Only the arms moved, no involvement of the hips or legs. Mason smiled at the thought that this walking corpse existed in a liminal space where it was almost but not quite clever enough to match a living human. Not because it was funny so much as a bright spot in an otherwise dreary situation.
They continued circling each other for a short while before the zombie tried to strike again. This time it was a genuine, if restrained, effort. Mason stepped back with one leg to brace himself.
He tripped. The zombie managed to steer him back in front of its dead brother and Mason let himself get overconfident. He didn’t fall, but the New Breed used the half second he needed to catch his balance to its advantage. Mason’s left arm went wide to keep him standing, and the zombie surged forward.
It only had a hold of him for a few seconds, but they were bad seconds. The New Breed was strong, at least as much as a living man, and untempered by things like pain. One clawed hand dug into Mason’s jacket while the other made sure his left wrist stayed far away. Its head lurched forward, teeth snapping on the sensitive flesh of his upper arm. Even through the thick sleeve, it hurt like a son of a bitch.
“MOTHERFUCKER!” Mason screamed.
He had seen this kind of attack many times. People often tried to pry away the head, a perfectly understandable reaction even if it was a bad idea. Mason did not, thanks to his training and a lifetime of mental discipline. Instead he whipped the baton in his right hand up as high as it could go and slapped the tip of the weapon into the top of the zombie’s head.
Once, twice, eventually five times. Damn New Breed and their protective subcutaneous layers of armor. Mason felt something in his arm tear. Hot warmth flowed down his sleeve as the zombie fell.
The second cage, whose door served as the back wall of the first, slid open.
“Goddammit,” Mason said. “This is getting annoying.”
Three zombies moved forward this time, and he decided to stop playing around. His left arm didn’t have the loose feeling of shredded muscle, a sensation his temporary death intimately familiarized him with, but it wasn’t a spring picnic, either. It moved well enough to get the job done, so Mason buckled down and did it.
He kicked the first one in the hip hard enough to send it spinning. A hollow gonging sound echoed through the room when it slammed into the metal wall. Mason put his shoulder into the gut of the zombie behind it, bending and throwing himself forward so suddenly that it barely had time to do more than graze his back with its fingers.
His fist tightened as hard as he could grip when he slid in front of the third zombie. His left arm wrapped around its neck, hand snaking onto its forehead to force its jaw toward the ceiling. Remnant human instinct caused the thing to try to pull the hand free. With its arms safely out of the way, Mason rammed the baton in his right hand into the roof of its mouth. Mason’s upper body made this a dance with two parts, his arms working in unison to push the weapon with as much power as he could muster while also contracting his left arm with precise timing to push the zombie’s skull down onto the weapon.
It wasn’t a movement Mason would have tried without a good deal of practice. Thankfully, it worked. Something inside the skull gave way with a crunchy pop and the baton slid into the brain. The zombie jerked and seized before going limp.
Mason tried to pull the baton free and found it torqued into place. A glance showed him one of the other zombies was on its feet again and coming for him. Still holding onto the dead zombie, he threw a kick at it. The zombie dodged sideways, just out of reach.
“Fuck it,” Mason said. He redoubled his grip on the baton, crouched, and slung the dead body onto his shoulder. It remained only long enough for him to pump his legs and reach a standing position, shifting his hips and flexing his back while tugging hard on the baton.
The baton became a temporary axis, conserving the angular momentum of the body as Mason chucked it like a bale of hay. It spun around the baton, floppy legs crashing into its still-mobile brother with enough force to drive it flat onto its back.
Mason abandoned the stuck baton and slid toward the other zombie he’d knocked down, now rising as well. He snatched its hand and yanked, spinning it in a tight circle to face him before whipping his remaining baton across its face like a slap. The hit wasn’t meant to kill, only damage and distract. That was a key most people didn’t think about. You had to manage every situation, combat or otherwise. Going right for the kill—or the solution to any problem—without doing careful work could lead to disaster.
In this case, the work involved a broken cheekbone. The crater made by the baton did unspeakable damage to the zombie’s right eye socket and staggered the beast. That was what he wanted—distraction, reduction in capability. It made the follow-up easier to aim and land.
Two hard blows to the neck did the job. The zombie was still going, but the crushed vertebrae and shredded spinal column made all but random twitches of its limbs impossible.
When he stepped away and turned back to see if the zombie he’d crushed beneath the dead body was standing, he found that it wasn’t. Somehow during the fall, the two had become turned around and tangled in such a way that the baton, still jammed through the skull of a dead zombie, was shoved between the ribs of the living one.
Mason considered ending it there, and then gave a little shrug. There weren’t any other threats, unless another gate opened. Surely the doctors had plenty of readings to drool over. If he was being honest with himself, Mason was a bit interested to see what they found.
“That’s plenty, thank you,” said a voice from a speaker Mason couldn’t find. “Please come down to the lab and we’ll patch you up.”
Mason cocked his head. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” said the disembodied voice.
Choosing his words carefully, Mason declined. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather Kell take care of it. Unless you have a scientific reason for wanting to check me over.”
A pause. “No, that’s fine. We’ll send some medical supplies to you.”
That confirmed a suspicion Mason had about how these people had managed to take control. It wasn’t just with their insane, grand plan. They were the only doctors here and unless he missed his mark, most of them weren’t even physicians. They were biologists and geneticists. They controlled access to high-end medical care. Otherwise they’d have sent him off to whatever served as a clinic here.
“Will you need help getting back?”
Mason shook his head. “Nah. I think Bobby will be able to help me with anything I need.”
“That’s fine,” the voice said. “Please remove the backpack and sensors. We will be in touch soon.”
He did as asked, and saw the little microphone sewn into the chest strap. Good. Mason didn’t need directional mics aimed at him from hidden corners.
When Bobby came over to help him, it was a rare moment where they were out of earshot of any listening guards. The first such moment since Kell’s meeting earlier in the day.
Mason allowed the man to help him up—he’d taken a seat to pull off the sensors—and kept the movement going to pull Bobby into a close embrace.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Bobby said with a pleased laugh.
“We won’t have much time,” Mason said into his ear, mouth nearly pressed against it. “In my right pocket is something that can save a lot of lives. We’re trusting you with it. We need your help.”
It was a risk, but one Mason believed was worth it. Better be, as the genie was now well and truly out of the bottle.
Kell
Timing. Life was all about it.
Bad timing, good timing, not having the ability to do it at all. There were few elements of human experience or history unaffected by it. Time was, after all, the fourth spatial dimension. The measure by which all things were judged and recorded. It was dynamic and nowhere was this as obvious as in the scurrying of people since the dawn—and eventual fall—of civilization. Time itself does not concern itself with people. Timing, the intersection of events with no greater significance than people ascribe to them, seems to have a bad sense of humor.
Mason’s second trial was put off for a few days so his wound had time to start healing. Bobby, after a halting conversation on the way back to the suite, left for the surface. Kell didn’t have the same faith in the man as Mason, and so when he found himself sitting in the lab with the council of doctors the next day around lunch time, no part of him expected anything but a quiet meal and more work trying to convince these people they were nuts to try modifying Chimera again.
When the speakers in the room crackled to life, everyone jumped. It was not the usual gentle hum of background noise that accompanied prepared announcements. This was more jagged, sounding like a police radio more than an expensive PA system.
“My name is Bobby Willis,” said the voice. “A lot of you know me. If you don’t, you’ve probably seen me. I’m the guy who runs from the bunker to all the towns and communities. I’m your liaison with the leadership.”
The line buzzed for a second. Ian appeared from one of the doorways dotting the walls, openly furious. He looked around wildly for a few seconds until his eyes locked onto Kell.
“If things were fair, I wouldn’t be the one sending this message,” Bobby continued. “Problem is, the man who has the right is the one person you’d never believe. We all know who Kell McDonald is, or think we do. I’m here to tell you—no, to prove to you—that what we’ve been told is a lie. McDonald did work on what would eventually become the plague, but he’s not the one who made it happen. His work was stolen from him. The bastards who did this to the world are the ones tucked safely away at Rebound, giving orders.”
Ian froze in place, the color draining from him. Logical Kell noted idly that the likelihood of his death had just gone up significantly.
Bobby continued on. “Even if he thought you’d listen, Doctor McDonald can’t speak to you. Right now he’s being kept prisoner in Rebound’s bunker. As I found out last night, the scientists in charge of our lives are trying to force him to create a new version of the plague.”
Ian’s trance broke and he ran like death itself was chasing him. Kell thought he was going for the guards at first, but no. Ian slid to a halt in front of a public address terminal. A small, petty, and satisfying stream of satisfaction coursed through Kell as the other man tried and failed to access the communications system. Kell also noted the faces of the guards and felt some of his tension ease. Those men looked conflicted and supremely unhappy.
In one of those moments where the universe conspires to pause all things in preparation for what follows, the room was silent. Not a word, not a breath. The quiet lasted for all of half a second, but it was long enough for Bobby’s next statement to shatter it.
“You don’t have to take my word for it. We have a recording.”
Then he began to play Kell’s meeting with the scientists now gathering around him. In his years surviving there was no shortage of dumbstruck horror to be found. He had seen men lose loved ones and stand in shock as the same swarm of zombies did the same to them. That was what he witnessed on their faces as the words rolled out around them. It was the awful realization that their house of cards had just met a mighty wind.
“Why?” Ian asked in a surprisingly normal voice. “You sat right there and told us you didn’t want a war. Even a civil war. Why the hell would you do this?”
Kell scratched at the stubble on his chin, the movement eliciting fearful shifting from the gathered people. It was a small reminder that no matter their shared academic pursuits, he was almost a different species altogether. Years of living in a cave, knowing about the horrors of the outside world but never experiencing them firsthand, had bred a sort of hyper survival instinct in them. One that went in the other direction from those on the surface. Rather than learn to normalize and live with the madness, these people were primed for flight at all times.
“I’m hoping there won’t be civil war,” Kell said. “I thought about the consequences of recording you. I thought about it very hard. My hands shook when I taped the recorder to my prosthetic, I was so worried this might lead to a terrible outcome for your people. Because most of them are just like me. Regular folks trying to get by. They don’t deserve to be herded into conflict with the Union. But then I reminded myself that if you get your way, you’ll unleash something on them that will probably kill everyone here and god knows how many outside your borders.”
Kell tilted his head toward the quietly furious guards. “I don’t know if those two are pissed at me or you, but it doesn’t really matter. If I die in this room, at least I’ll know we broke your ability to release another version of Chimera. That’s a good fucking trade, one I’d make any day of the week.”
The recording continued to play, but only the guards were listening. Everyone else in the room had heard it before.
“How did you do this?” asked one of the scientists, the older woman who had spoken out of turn the day before. “We captured the people you sent to infiltrate us.”
Kell held up a finger. “You captured some of them. And yes, we knew you knew. The ones in your cell were meant to be front line combatants. The first couple we sent here were engineers in their old lives. One was an electrical specialist who used to work on cellular communications systems. He’s even been down here a couple times to do repairs for you. Under guard, of course. I wonder if the guards understood all the work he was doing?”
The woman’s frown widened. “Well, that was at least clever. Cutting off lines of communication, is that it?”
Kell nodded. “You can’t call for reinforcements if you can’t call. I don’t know how it works, really. Just that when a particular receiver inside this structure gets a message on just the right frequency, it prioritizes that transmission and pipes it through the system. Originally we were going to use it to drown you in sirens. Make it impossible to concentrate while also cutting off your ability to give orders over the air.”
He didn’t quite smile at them. Instead the look on his face was fierce, tinged with a little pride. “In case you’re wondering, I’m telling you all this because no matter what happens from here on out, we won. There will be enough people inside Rebound who believe this recording to break your bullshit council. Thanks to your long-range radio repeater system, the rest of New America is getting this broadcast right to them.”
With a sudden surge of furious speed, Ian rushed across the room. Something shiny and metallic was in his hand, and Kell raise his own arm to ward off the strike. Ian wasn’t a small man, but Kell was huge. The attack would have taken him right over the heart. Instead Kell felt a flash of pain as the weapon was driven clean through his forearm.
“Scissors?” Kell asked, bewildered despite the pain. “You stabbed me with goddamn scissors?”
The guards seemed to appear, then, rifles not far from ready. Kell didn’t shy away from them. What would be the point? If they wanted him dead, chances were excellent they’d get their way. Ian deflated, and then pointed at Kell. “Kill him.”
The guards shared a glance. The rest of the council move
d swiftly away. The older of the two guards faced Kell, an earnest expression on her face. “Sir? Is that recording true? Did they really cause all this?”
Despite everything, his conscience gave one final rallying cry. Kell despised the very idea of the people in this room collaborating with whoever among them caused the plague, but black and white mentalities were simply not how he chose to see the world.
“Some of them did,” Kell said. “I don’t know who for sure, or how many. As someone who was accused of the same for years, I can tell you that being painted with that brush isn’t a fun time. I’m not going to get in the way of whatever it is you think you have to do, but I’d like to ask you to be diligent. Look for the truth and make the right decision from there.”
Ian used the distraction to sidle over to a work station. No one in the room noticed until the rapid clatter of keystrokes echoed through the room. One of the guards snapped his rifle to shoulder, aiming for his boss. “What are you doing? Step away from the computer.”
“Oh, my god,” the older woman said. She was at an angle allowing her to see the screen. “Oh, Jesus. He’s thawing them.”
“Make more sense,” Kell said.
“The zombies we keep in cool storage,” she said, dry-washing her hands nervously. “We go through a lot of them in our experiments, so we use the empty refrigeration units all over the bunker to hold them. They’re all modified to be controlled from here. Only from here. He just flipped off the cooling and unlocked the doors.”
Ian smiled. “You might think you’re safe down here with us, but your friends—”
Whatever else Ian was about to say was cut off by the trio of 5.56mm rounds which exploded his head like an overripe melon. In the relatively closed space of the lab, the sound was beyond thunderous.
“Fucking hell, a little warning,” Kell shouted over the intense ringing in his ears.