Edge of Survival Box Set 1

by William Oday

  Beth staggered to a stop and swallowed hard to keep from retching.

  A human corpse lay on the floor. A rivulet of congealed blood and feces stretched from between its legs to the drain in the center of the floor. Its face was frozen in hollow-cheeked agony. The lips peeled back to reveal large teeth. Black boils dotted its skin. They left a hundred tiny trails down to the drain. The skin hung flaccidly from the bones like melted candle wax.

  The walls were splattered with viscera unfit for closer inspection. A label next to the door read MT-1 Variant 3A.

  What was MT-1?

  Beth choked down the lump in her throat and continued on. The next several doors revealed revolting variations on the same scene and had the same label next to each door.

  She kept moving, not lingering as soon as she could be certain the tragedy inside wasn’t her daughter. She looked away and hurried to the next door.

  She froze.

  “Clyde!” she yelled as her heart nearly burst with joy. The little Bili chimp looked to the glass and grinned. His large brown eyes sparkled. He jumped and rolled around, screeching and hooting with pleasure.

  Beth swiped the card and barely had the door open before Clyde leaped onto her leg and climbed up into her arms. He nuzzled his moist nose into her neck and cooed like a baby. He was a baby.

  Her baby.

  The one that lived.

  She placed him on her back. He wrapped his long arms around her neck and held on as easily as a creature does that has evolved for such behavior.

  She’d found one baby, but that still left another to be found.

  71

  Beth rushed by an empty room. The wing only had three more doors before it ended. Doubt twisted in her gut. Maybe this wasn’t the right place. She was about to pass the next door when the figure inside moved. It was an elderly man wearing a filthy medical gown. He lay on the ground touching a lower lip that appeared more detached than attached. An empty wheelchair sat next to the bunk.

  What misery must he have endured?

  What torture at the hands of that madman Anton?

  Her heart ached for the injustice, the misery. She had just about decided to check on him when a scream froze her heart.

  She recognized the voice.

  Theresa.

  She bolted past another door with an unspeakable scene inside and arrived at the last door.

  Theresa was there, huddled in the corner, shaking and screaming.

  Beth swiped the card and rushed to Theresa’s side and took her daughter’s face in her hands.

  Theresa’s eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. Her skin was dotted with bruises. One arm a network of black veins.

  “Baby,” Beth cried out. “Oh my baby!” She stroked her hair. “It’s okay, honey. I’m here. It’s okay.”

  She said it but knew it wasn’t true. It wasn’t okay. The infection was getting worse. How long did Theresa have left? She had to find the serum!

  Beth tried to help Theresa stand but she couldn’t. The wheelchair. She sprinted back to the cell with it and the old man. She swiped the door open and grabbed the wheelchair.

  “I’ll come back for you if I can,” she said as she wheeled it out into the hall. The elderly man didn’t react.

  She helped Theresa up into the chair and then wheeled her down the hall. She passed the open door with the old man and said a silent prayer for his future as she went.

  An intercom hidden somewhere in the ceiling crackled to life. “Deltas have entered the building. Deltas have entered the building.”

  Oh no.

  Beth crashed through the door to the patient wing and back into the main corridor. She raced along and found a glass door that looked promising. Unlike all the departments she’d run across thus far, this glass was tinted black and so concealed the interior.

  Immunology.

  She swiped through, rounded a corner, and then skidded to a stop.

  A large lab of sparkling white and steel. An advanced array of imaging equipment occupied the surfaces of numerous tables. It wasn’t the hi-tech look of the place that stopped her cold.

  It was the large fluid-filled, clear glass cylinders lining the far wall that did. Each held the preserved corpse of a primate.

  A knot choked Beth’s throat closed.

  She recognized them. Each and every one.

  The missing Bili chimpanzees. The ones her boss Diana had lied about saying they’d been transferred away to non-existent, third world country zoos. Lies. All lies.

  She scanned down the line and almost broke down when she saw the last one. A sob spasmed in her chest but couldn’t escape the blockage in her throat.

  Jane.

  Clyde’s mother that had died on the operating table even as Beth saved one of her babies by emergency Cesarean section.

  Her dear Jane.

  Frozen in fluid. Her arms floating with empty eyes staring out at nothing. The incision through her abdomen still present.

  Theresa coughed and a tendril of blood spilled out onto her shirt.

  Black despair tried to pull Beth under. It dragged at her feet, demanding she surrender to the suffering.

  But she didn’t.

  Because Theresa needed her.

  And she’d suffer a million times over for one of her children.

  Beth turned away from the display tanks. She would accept that pain, deal with it, but not right now. She ran to a line of small refrigerators along the wall to the right. The first couple didn’t contain anything that might be helpful.

  But the third one did.

  She pulled out a rack of four vials. The front of the rack had a printed sticker attached.

  MT-1 Antiviral Doses.

  This had to be it!

  She pocketed the vials and looked around. She found a nearby cabinet of medical supplies and tore through it until she found a sealed bag containing a sterilized syringe. She ripped it open and loaded the dose.

  She hurried back to Theresa and lifted the arm of her daughter’s shirt. She poked the needle in and injected the dose. Theresa didn’t react.

  Beth withdrew the needle and tossed the syringe on a counter.

  Had the infection progressed too far for the dose to work?

  If not, how long for it to take effect?

  If it did work, would there be any lasting damage?

  She had more questions than answers. All questions and no answers was more like it. She was about to leave when she noticed a door on the far wall.

  Antiviral Serum Production.

  She had to get back to Iridia, and who knew where the deltas had broken in. But this was important. It could be the thing to change everything. Wasn’t this what the world was waiting for?

  She rolled Theresa over and set the wheelchair to the side. She swiped a card reader. It blinked green and she opened the door.

  This museum of horrors had a Mona Lisa.

  Jack, the Bili chimps’ pack leader and Jane’s mate, was inside. He was alive. And that was the only good thing Beth could see about his situation.

  And even that was questionable.

  72

  MASON pinched his eyes shut. No, that wasn’t right because they were already shut. He squeezed them tighter. A sharp pain jabbing his cheek rose above the complaints emanating from numerous other places in his body. The sensation focused his mind, surprising him because it was a valid indicator that he was still alive. The memory of the final few minutes of consciousness flooded into his brain.

  An uncomfortable weight pressed onto his chest. Was it the knowledge of what had happened?

  His eyes snapped open.

  Mr. Piddles sat on his chest staring down. So it wasn’t only the knowledge.

  Mason looked around the bathroom.

  He was alone.

  Rather, he was the only one alive.

  He tried scooting the cat off, but it resisted, leaning against his hand. He picked it up and moved it, which didn’t go over well.

  Mr. Piddles hissed
and darted out of the bathroom.

  Stupid cat.

  Mason pushed himself up into a seated position. His head spun and a wave of nausea clenched his gut and made his mouth water. He concentrated on simply existing. That alone was nearly impossible.

  Several inert bodies lay around him. He scanned each one and was relieved to confirm that none of them were of his group. He searched the floor looking for the dropped Glocks. None were present. The assault team had scavenged the weapons. At a time when there was no obvious resupply, it was smart to grab weapons when you could. He would’ve done the same thing.

  Unfortunately, the absence of firearms meant he was extremely vulnerable to any threats that might arise.

  He found the Bonowi baton partially concealed under a delta’s body. He pulled it free and snapped it to full extension. It wasn’t a pistol, but it was a whole lot better than nothing. He looked around for his knife but didn’t see it. Maybe it was underneath one of these bodies, but Mason didn’t know if he had the strength to dig through the carnage.

  First things first. He had to get up.

  He gripped the vanity and pulled himself to his feet. A sharp pain flared in his cheek making his legs wobble. He sat on the vanity to stay upright. He picked up a fragment of mirror from the countertop and peered at his reflection.

  He knew there wouldn’t be a bright-eyed, cheery faced image staring back at him. But what he saw was almost unrecognizable. On a disturbing and profound level, his psyche refused to admit that it was him. White bone peeked out from a deep gash running diagonally down his cheek. Dark blue patches surrounded both eyes. He reached up to touch the open wound and winced as a stabbing pain in his forearm briefly rose above the other stimuli.

  A three inch jagged splinter of wood protruded from the muscle. Mason gritted his teeth and yanked it out. The intensity of the wound faded leaving the gash in his cheek to once again command his attention. It needed stitches. A couple dozen by the looks of it. He spent a few seconds inventorying the countless cuts and scrapes.

  He felt more dead than alive, but he’d make it. He’d been worse off before.

  With the quick self-assessment complete, the next thought that jumped into his mind was how to get to his family.

  The chopper had presumably returned to Milagro Tower, as Anton had mentioned in the broadcasts during the assault on Juice’s bunker. But the tower in downtown Los Angeles was twenty miles away. And there was no such thing as easy-driving miles anymore.

  He had the Bronco. It could handle jumping curbs and bulldozing over small piles of debris no problem. But the news reports had shown that the roads in and around downtown were jammed with abandoned vehicles. It had been nearly a week since the media went silent, but there was no reason to think the roads had magically cleared.

  As heavy and strong as the Bronco was, it was no Abrams tank. He wasn’t going to be able to point it at a block of densely packed cars and roll through it.

  The electric cargo bike was likely still down the street, but the battery was dead. He had no doubt he could maneuver it through the maze of cars, but it might take half a day to get there. He still had Spock, Beth’s Vulcan 750. It was small enough that he could probably wind his way through the jam-packed streets while also picking up speed in any open areas along the way. With a combination of speed and maneuverability, he should be able to get there in a couple of hours if things went well.

  It would have to do.

  He took a number of deep breaths while listening for movement or other clues about who or what might remain in the house. The only sound was the slow inhale and exhale of his own breath. There didn’t appear to be any immediate threat. He nudged bodies around looking for his lost knife. The third body revealed its location. It was still stuck in the corpse’s torso. Mason tugged it free and wiped the crimson stain on a fragment of clothing clinging to the delta’s waist.

  Mason worked his way out into the hallway, stepping over lifeless limbs. His heart wanted to grieve for them. These people likely led ordinary, comfortable lives just ten days ago. The intervening days had taken away everything, starting with the mind that made them human, and ending with the blood that kept them alive.

  They didn’t deserve this end.

  His family had been taken by a maniac. Juice and Linda had been murdered by the same man.

  Mason had only one objective, though it came in two parts.

  Save his family.

  And kill Anton Reshenko.

  73

  He crept down the hallway toward the stairs. What next? The house. Clear the house to ensure no one else got left behind. Deal with threats if any arose.

  The air reeked of human excrement mixed with the sharp scent of blood. He longed for a gulp of whiskey to burn away the foul taste coating his mouth.

  The rooms upstairs were empty and the rooms downstairs turned out to be the same. The front door had been blown off its hinges and lay on top of a body on the floor. The body lay perpendicular to the door underneath its center. Both ends of the door balanced in the air like some kind of twisted playground seesaw.

  Was this the new world? Would children ever be free to play outside again?

  Mason skirted around the macabre arrangement and stopped beside the open doorway. He listened and heard a commotion outside. He raised the baton, preparing to strike down whatever was coming.

  Nothing came.

  He listened again. The sounds appeared to be coming from beyond the courtyard, out in the street. He quietly slipped outside and surveyed the bodies in the courtyard.

  These used to be people. People with families and lives and dreams.

  Mason threw a stick of dynamite on that train of thought. It would take him nowhere useful right now.

  He saw Beth’s motorcycle over by the gate where they’d left it. A tiny spark of hope flickered in his chest. Movement created optimism. If he was doing something, going somewhere, then he still had a chance. He crept over and was about to throw a leg over the seat when he stopped.

  There was a puddle of shiny, black liquid below the engine. A viscous drop hit the surface as he watched. He knelt down and took a closer look.

  A large caliber bullet had punched a ragged hole in the engine. Mason didn’t know if the assault team had purposely spiked the vehicle or if it had been hit by a loose round, but it didn’t much matter. The bike was going nowhere fast. He was tempted to try to start it anyway to see what happened but with the odds leaning toward a fiery explosion, he decided against it.

  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 him and his wife killed. His old friend was exactly what this changed world needed most. An inventive problem solver that knew how to get things 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 th
e 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.

  74

  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. 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. Besides, what about Linda? Was there something there that could be saved?

  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.