Spore Series | Book 4 | Exist

by Soward, Kenny

  On cue, the radio squelched. “Ant, this is Hive. Do you read me?”

  David raised his eyebrow at Randy. Then he removed the radio from his belt while holding the rifle by its grip, keeping the barrel level.

  He put the device to his mouth. “I read you.”

  “What’s your status?”

  “Cheese Whiz is all clear. I repeat, all clear.”

  “Roger that, Ant. Be safe out there.”

  David grinned as the low rumble of more engines filled the street behind him.

  Randy’s chest tightened, his breathing in short gasps. Anxiety gnawed at his belly, fight or flight having a war in his head. Just when he thought he might break, a simple truth forced its way forward.

  What would the world be like without John and Dodger? What about Tricia and Jenny? He’d promised to protect his sister. He’d promised to think about the camp before making rash decisions. He couldn’t live if the rest of them perished.

  “Come on, man,” he implored. “Just warn them.”

  David shook his head firmly. “It’s done, man. It’s set. It’s going to happen. The attack is on.”

  The big engines crept inexorably toward them. Randy glanced back to see that two more vehicles had joined the first. Tank tracks clacked on the pavement. Tires squeaked. The sounds echoed through the night like a dark herald.

  He turned back to David. “My sister is in there, man. I thought you said you liked her. They’ll blow her to bits, or worse. What if they catch her? You know what’ll happen?”

  David shook his head. “I made her part of the deal. She won’t be harmed in the raid, and we’ll go back to the Colony together. I promise I won’t let anything happen to her. She’ll be mine. I’ll tell her you died in the fighting. That you were brave...” He raised his rifle to his shoulder.

  Hands already in the air, Randy made his move. He snatched off his mask, half-cocked it back, and whipped it at David.

  He’d been a high school quarterback with an accuracy rating of ninety-five percent at fifteen yards. It was a standard hot pass. A play they’d practiced over and over until it was driven into his mind and muscles like a creed.

  Short and snappy, that’s how coach always wanted him to throw them.

  The mask zipped across the space in the blink of an eye, striking David in the chest. The rifle went off. The bullet streaking at Randy. He staggered but stayed on his feet, driving his shoulder into David’s skinny torso. He wrapped an arm around his waist, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him hard into the table.

  It tipped over. Chairs scattered. The rifle and Randy’s pistol clattered to the concrete. He rose to his knees to where David’s mask had been shoved up so the bottom rim covered his eyes. Randy cocked his fist back and punched him in the chin. Then he hit him again, harder, square in the nose, enjoying the satisfying crunch of knuckle on cartilage.

  David’s arms fell limp at his side, a low groan seeping between his bloody lip.

  Randy could have struck the man a thousand times, but he had something more important to do. He stopped swinging and reached back for the radio. It wasn’t there.

  He looked around, eyes searching the glum shadows for the device. He spotted David’s rifle six feet in front of him and to his left. His pistol was missing and so was the radio.

  The traitor suddenly bucked his hips and tossed Randy off. He flew forward with a surprised gasp, landing on his chest with his arms thrown out.

  He started to push himself up when David’s boot flew out of nowhere and kicked him in the side of the head.

  Randy rocked to the side, but the pain only made him madder. He growled and rose, swinging with a backhanded fist that caught David in the gut. The man doubled over, and Randy threw a right elbow that connected with his temple and sent him staggering into the upturned chairs.

  Figuring the pistol and radio must be close, Randy followed David as he reeled from the elbow shot. The skinny man turned and confronted him on wobbly legs. His mask had flown off, and his nose bled freely down his chin.

  “It’s too late,” David gasped. Then he wiped his arm across his nose with his jacket sleeve. He stared at the blood for a moment before he clutched at his face. He glared. “You knocked my mask off. We’re both dead, you idiot.”

  “Shut up,” Randy said as he tossed an overturned chair aside, looking for the radio. It should be right there! How far could it have gone?

  “You killed us both!” David sniveled and slouched, snot and blood dripping from his chin. “We’re infected!”

  Randy glanced at him to make sure he wasn’t going for the rifle as he lifted another table and flipped it back the other way. The radio and gun sat there, side-by-side. He picked them both up and turned to face David. The man’s legs wobbled beneath him, and he sobbed miserably as the repercussions of his failing hit home.

  Randy put the radio to his lips and pressed the talk button. “Hive, this is Ant. Hive, this is Ant. The Colony is coming right now. Warn John, immediately. This is a code five red alert, or whatever you guys use. Do you read me? Evacuate now!” When silence greeted him, Randy hit the button again and shouted into the microphone. “This is a red alert! I’m standing by Cheese Whiz and watching three, no five Colony military vehicles approach the camp! If you don’t do something, they’ll slaughter you. Do you read me!”

  This time the response came quick. “We read you, Ant. Evacuation protocols activated. Come on home.”

  Randy let the radio drop to his side. Past David’s sniveling form, the Colony forces moved slow. They didn’t need speed. Not when they planned on flattening John’s camp to the ground.

  “I should kill you.” David spat, furious at Randy. “Now my brother won’t have anyone! And... neither will Jenny. She’s going to be devastated. She’s--”

  Randy lifted the pistol and calmly fired twice into David’s face. The bullets cut off his voice as his body dropped to the patio.

  He glanced at the approaching Colony forces again. The shadowy shapes of soldiers jogged next to the slow-moving vehicles. Two had heard the pistol fire and were angling in his direction.

  He stuck the gun in its holster and clipped it on his belt. Then he found his mask and slid it back over his head. He didn’t know how many spores it would take to kill him, but limiting the exposure seemed like a good idea.

  David was right. Randy was probably already dead.

  Chapter 17

  Jessie, Yellow Springs, Ohio

  “That should do it.”

  Bryant backed down the turret stairs, rolling cabling as he came. His boots hit the floor, and he turned to the communication table they’d set up on the landing. The Jeep’s receiver rested on top with a rack filtering hardware salvaged from Paul’s closet of old stereo equipment.

  The soldier put on a pair of thick earphones, leaned over the radio, and plugged cables into their proper jacks. Then he circled around to a chair they’d set up for the operator. He turned everything on and fiddled with the filters.

  He sat back and raised his eyes to Jessie with an apologetic expression. “Just a disclaimer. I’m not a communications expert.”

  “You’re the best we got,” Jessie assured him.

  Bryant continued working. “Dex is a communication guy? We could really use him here.”

  Jessie shot a sad glance toward the stairs. “Maybe he’ll be okay soon.” Dex and Price had both gone to sleep the previous night, but Price hadn’t woken up. She, Bryant and Weissman had lifted him up the stairs and placed him next to the dead mercenary in the backyard.

  Garcia and Weissman were about dead on their feet, keeping guard at the front and rear of the house. Both soldiers had gotten infected later than the others. They had some hours to go before the fungus threatened their lives.

  Bryant shook his head. “We need that serum. We all need a shot.”

  Jessie felt it, too. Her throat was scratchy and dry. Her lungs felt tight. Her breath came short and raspy.

  “I’ll go c
heck and see where Paul is on it.”

  The soldier nodded. “I’ll keep working on things up here. I’ll let you know as soon as I reach Kim.”

  Jessie wordlessly descended the stairs to the first floor. She’d wiped away the small bit of fungal intrusion beneath the doorway and tested the air quality again. At last check, the spore count was less than three hundred per square meter. It had weakened considerably, though much more study had to happen before they could say it was survivable without Paul’s serum.

  Jessie descended to the basement and looked in on Dex.

  The soldier sat propped up in his bed, gasping, eyes open and staring straight ahead. She rushed to him and sat down at his bedside. Sweat poured from his body. His cheeks were sunken, his face thin. He seemed weightless where he rested on the cot.

  “Are you thirsty? Do you want some water?”

  Dex shook his head and swallowed dry, grimacing in pain.

  “Price is gone?” His eyes twitched.

  She shook her head. “He didn’t make it.”

  He turned his face away, eyes shut against the inevitable. “It’s going to be my time soon.”

  “Not if we can help it.” Jessie picked up a rag, dipped it in a basin of water at his bedside, and wiped his brow. She glanced toward the door where Paul worked. “I’m about to check on the serum. I know he’s almost done with a dose. Do you want something for the pain?”

  He nodded.

  Jessie took a bottle of Toradol off the dresser, brought it close to her right hand in its sling, and unscrewed the cap. “I’ll give you a bigger dose. It’s probably not good for you, but I don’t think--”

  Dex’s hand drifted out and slapped weakly at the table’s edge. “No. Give me the good stuff. A lot of it. I mean, just put me down.”

  Jessie paused, her breathing steady as anxiety spun in her chest. She’d known this moment might come, and she’d been dreading it. Here was a man, a soldier, asking her to put him out of his misery. To end his life.

  Tears swelled over the rims of her eyes and streaked down her cheeks. “Sorry. I thought I could handle it.”

  “It’s okay.” Dex said with a smile. His black-speckled eyes had a glazed look to them. “I’m okay with it. I...” He leaned to the side and coughed in a fit that lasted less than ten seconds. After it had passed, he settled back into his pillows. “I’ve made my peace with God and this cr... crazy world.”

  Jessie leaned closer, swallowing hard. “If Paul doesn’t have a dose of serum ready, I’ll get Weissman--”

  “No, I want you to do it.” The soldier stretched his arm out and touched her cheek. His eyes held a warm, adoring light like he drifted in a dream.

  She started to draw back, but that would have been cold. She forced herself still as his fingers explored the shape of her face. His thumb traced gently over her chin, lips, and nose. She relaxed and leaned into it, her eyelids falling half shut. It had been a long time since a man had touched her that way, and the feeling rooted her to the chair.

  “The last thing I want to see before I die is your beautiful face.” Dex gave her a dreamy grin as he settled back into the pillows. “Just one last...” His voice faded as he fell asleep, head lolling to the side as his breath rattled in his fungus-infested lungs.

  Jessie’s eyes grew wide for a moment before tears raced unbidden down her cheeks. All the emotions she’d had penned up for days came rocketing up. The pain of her physical injuries. The frustration of their situation. The fear of Lexi. The feeling of the mercenary’s hand around her throat, strangling the life out of her.

  And now Dex. A scrappy young man, a dutiful soldier with his whole life ahead of him. In another few hours, the fungus would rob the world of his easy smile and dry sense of humor.

  Jessie’s left hand curled into a fist at her side. Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding. She stood and walked briskly to the lab door, pausing with her ear to the wood. Her heart bumped in her chest. Emotion gripped her by the back of her neck and squeezed. If she opened it, and Paul didn’t have a dose of serum ready, she’d have to put a man to sleep forever.

  Jessie turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Please tell me you did it.”

  Paul stood at a lab table across from her. Beakers, syringes, and tools covered its surface. The mycologist twisted and held up a syringe filled with a dark-colored liquid.

  His eyes were bleary, bloodshot, and distant. The circles beneath them were almost pitch black. His shoulders slumped, his posture giving him a decrepit look.

  “Is that it?” Jessie asked, nodding at the syringe.

  “It’s raw stuff,” Paul said, his voice gruff. “But it should be enough to do the trick. Price didn’t make it, did he?”

  Jessie shook her head.

  “I should have worked faster.” Paul squeezed his eyes shut as he shivered with self-defeat. “I should have done more.”

  “Shut up.” She fixed him with a stern look. “You finished early, like you said you would. Now shut up and come save Dex’s life.”

  Paul nodded and followed her back into their makeshift barracks. He crossed the room and dropped to the stool at the soldier’s bedside.

  He took Dex’s arm and flipped it over. Then he cleaned a spot right below his elbow with a cotton ball dipped in alcohol. He tied a rubber strap around his upper arm slapped it to pop a vein. Scooping up the syringe, he injected the man, the dark liquid disappearing into his body.

  Dex shifted, his eyes opening to stare at Paul.

  “Hey, you’re not Jessie.”

  “No, sorry.”

  “I’m here, Dex,” she said. “And we’re not going to have to...” She shook off the terrible thought of killing the man and found her voice. “Paul just injected you with serum. Hang in there, okay?”

  The soldier smiled and drifted off once more.

  Paul leaned back and turned his face up to Jessie. “Now we wait.”

  Jessie nodded. Anger, frustration, and weariness still roiled inside her. She glared toward the storeroom. One person was responsible for all their misery. One person had caused all their pain and anguish.

  She turned on her heel, stormed over, and threw open the door. She stalked down the clean hall without putting on a Tyvek suit. Instead, she passed the coveralls and disinfectants and entered the storeroom.

  Her blood boiled, and her nostrils flared with rage.

  Burke sat against the wall near the generator room door. His feet and hands were bound together with duct tape. He wore leather wrist cuffs fixed to a ceiling beam by a chain to limit his motion.

  His head jerked up when Jessie burst in, eyes flying wide when he read her cold, hateful expression.

  *

  She stomped across the room and stood over the man. He was helpless, staring up at her through his visor. His hands rested in his lap, cuffed tight.

  She could tear his mask off his face if she wanted. Expose him to whatever spores lingered in the basement air. Or have Bryant drag him outside and do it. He deserved a slow and painful death, gagging and choking, muscles aching as Asphyxia destroyed his blood and bones.

  “Go ahead,” Burke said, sensing her intent. “You know you want to do it. Seal my fate like I sealed yours. At least that’s what you’ll tell yourself to help you sleep at night. That I deserved it. That my company was the only one working on the type of anti-fungal agents that caused Asphyxia. And you’ll always wonder if you got the right guy.”

  Jessie couldn’t keep the sneer off her face. “I don’t want to kill you. I just want to hurt you real bad.”

  Punching him wouldn’t be effective, not with her weak off hand. And a knife or gun was out of the question.

  There was nothing in the storeroom she could use, so she strode to the generator and entered to the sounds of the puttering engine. Four five-gallon jerry cans sat lined up in the far-right corner. Next to those stood a shelf full of air filters, oil cans, and a small toolbox.

  The generator rested in a floor nook with an exhaust p
ipe leading out through the concrete wall. On the left-hand side of the room were more shelves with odds and ends.

  An old broom leaned in the corner, and Jessie strode over and lifted it up. She inspected the handle and hefted it to test its weight. Satisfied, she placed the bristle part on the floor and smashed her boot on the handle near the base.

  At first it only cracked, so she crashed down again, breaking the wood with a brisk snap. She straightened with the long part in her hand, staring at its jagged end.

  Part of her hoped her anger would fade by the time she’d found a weapon. But it didn’t. It only grew worse as images and memories circled through her brain.

  She remembered New York City, overflowing with death. Bodies lying in the streets or crammed into apartment buildings, eyes bulging, and throats bloated from suffocation. Then she recalled the helicopter crash and the pilot who’d died soon after, and the old couple she’d found dead in their garden behind the barn.

  All those deaths caused by Burke.

  Not only that, but he continued to deny plausibility, destroy evidence, and take pleasure in others’ misery. Jessie wasn’t a psychologist, but she bet Burke had a range of psychotic tendencies.

  She imagined what redemption might look like through his pain. Was it her duty to hurt him? To kill him, even? For everyone who’d suffered and died. For the future generations more deserving than what they’d inherited from him.

  She gripped the weapon tightly in her left hand and returned to the storeroom. Burke still leaned against the wall. His eyes moved from Jessie to the sharp broom handle, sliding half shut with suspicion.

  “What are you going to do with that?” He laughed. “Do you really think you can hurt me with that thing? It’s a stupid--”

  She crossed the room in a handful of strides, cocked the makeshift spear, and jabbed the end toward his ribs. Burke was too late to respond, and the sharp point struck him hard, drawing a yowl.

  Jessie stabbed at him again and again. The tip missed more often than not, but it hit home, too. Burke wrenched and twisted as she assailed him, crying out in pain, finally grabbing at the shaft with his bound hands.