Spore Series | Book 4 | Exist

by Soward, Kenny

  The words fungal meningitis came to mind once more, and Kim leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed at the road. “AMI, are you reading anything ahead?”

  “She’s correct. Long range video detects three vehicles approaching on this side of the highway.”

  “Are you getting this, Bishop?”

  “I heard. Should we turn around and find another way? Does she know a back road?”

  “I don’t--”

  “The vehicles are approaching fast,” AMI chimed.

  Kim saw them. Three sedans cruising fast toward them. “Let’s find a way around, Bish,” she said, already putting the bus into reverse.

  “Hurry,” Karen said.

  “Please, Mom. Hurry.” Riley was nodding her head, hands gripping the arm rests as the vehicles approached.

  The woman walked toward her even as Kim backed the long bus up, eyes darting frantically to her mirrors and the rear camera screen. Her hands shook on the wheel as she knocked into a stalled car on the side of the road and shoved it off the shoulder. While the kids had fallen silent, a few cried out at the small bumps and bangs.

  Kim caught sight of the Stryker sitting off to the right. The big, armored vehicle gave her some comfort, but it hadn’t moved, and she doubted she’d make the turn with it in the way.

  Still, she put the bus into drive and moved forward but slammed her foot on the brake at the last second. The woman stood in front of the bus with her hands pressed together as if in prayer.

  “What are you doing?” Kim asked, her voice rising with annoyance and panic. “Please get out of the way. I don’t want to hit you, but I will.”

  “She’s stalling you,” Karen said. “She’s full of tricks.”

  “I’m begging you,” the woman countered the little girl’s accusation. “Take me with you. They’ll kill me if you don’t.”

  Kim left her foot on the break. She pressed her lips together and made the split-second decision. “I’m sorry, but I can’t trust you. Not with all the children in here. I know you understand.”

  The woman stared into Kim’s eyes a moment before she broke down. A sob burst from her lips. More dark spittle dripped from her chin. She glanced at Riley and Karen and the rest of the kids who’d dared to stand. Something warm flashed across her expression before it fell back to its anguished twist.

  The woman nodded, backed away, and shoved her jacket aside to reveal a big gun tucked into her waistband. She grabbed the grip and whipped it free.

  Karen cried out and hit the floor, followed by Riley.

  Grinding her teeth, Kim glanced at the Stryker. “Bishop. You have to move--”

  “Go!” the woman shouted. Then she raised the pistol and whipped her body to the right as the Ugly Eight vehicles screeched to a halt twenty yards away.

  The people in the cars leapt out with weapons drawn and madness in their eyes. The sick woman opened fire on one car, chasing a man back inside. She kept on firing, crossing her feet as she moved toward the median.

  The other four leapt out of their cars and shot at her. A bullet hit her, and she spun and spilled to the concrete.

  “Mom!” Riley shouted, pointing through the window.

  A man and woman sprinted up with bottles in their hands and long floppy cloth wicks sprouting from the top. Kim wasn’t an explosives expert, though she’d seen them in news reports before. Gasoline-soaked rags stuffed into fuel-filled bottles.

  Molotov Cocktails.

  Kim started to hit the gas, but the Stryker pulled in front of her. The gun turret shifted back and forth as if seeking a target. It pointed at the people holding the cocktails and fired off a burst.

  The tracers flew over the attackers’ heads, and they fell into defensive crouches. Then they turned to one another and nodded. With a flick of lighters, they lit the cloth wicks and hurled the bombs at the Stryker.

  Glass shattered, and liquid exploded in fiery tongues of light. It clung to the sides of the armored car and kept burning.

  Kim’s heart leapt into her throat, certain the fires would cook her husband, son, and all the children alive. “Trevor! Bishop!”

  “We’re fine,” Bishop said through the earpiece. And then, “Lower, son. Aim lower.”

  The barrel of the weapon whipped down, this time in a smoother motion. It zipped across the two people in the road, spitting a burst of bullets. The powerful round struck them and cut them into ribbons, making a bloody mess on the pavement.

  The turret whipped toward an empty vehicle and fired a point-blank barrage. The massive rounds rocked the car. The engine block smoked, tires popped, and the car expired in a hiss of steam.

  The gun rotated again and focused at the car on the right. The three remaining men sprinted toward it. Bullets flew, hitting one man while the other two dove to the concrete. A moment later, the second car surrendered to the onslaught.

  The last two members of the Ugly Eight dove over the median and disappeared from sight.

  “Now, we’re leaving,” Bishop announced, boldly. “Follow me.”

  The Stryker moved forward and slammed into the first shot-up vehicle, knocking it aside to leave a big gap in the road. Kim turned the bus in a short arc, pulling past the sick, shot-up woman lying near the median. Kim stopped the bus with a lurch. She leaned back and watched the prone woman through the starboard camera view.

  “Don’t, lady,” Karen said, her smart lips pressed firmly together, eyes staring holes in her.

  Riley sat stiff in her seat, angled to the side where she’d ducked back from the people with the Molotov's. Eyes wide, she blinked at her mother. Kim wanted to teach her kids to make decisions based on good information, and what she’d seen so far gave her no reason to leave her bleeding in the street.

  “She tried to warn us,” Kim said with a shake of her head. “She took a bullet for us. She deserves a chance. AMI, open the back door.”

  “Opening.”

  Kim watched as the door slid open, but the woman didn’t move from her position on the concrete. She raised her voice, offering once more, making sure she could live with herself after she pulled away and left the woman behind.

  “We have to go,” she said, “I can’t come out and get you. But if you can walk, or crawl, you’re welcome inside.” Then she remembered something. “Drop your weapon first.”

  Still, the figure didn’t move.

  Kim placed her forehead against the steering wheel. She closed her eyes and sighed. Raising, she sighted Bishop waiting for her a hundred yards down the road, remnants of fire still burning across the Stryker’s carapace.

  “Let’s go, Mom,” Riley begged. “She’s not coming. She’s--”

  Kim caught the change in her daughter’s voice, and she looked at the starboard screen in time to see the woman’s boot as she hauled herself inside the bus.

  Chapter 24

  Randy, Indianapolis, Indiana

  The van sped silently along the highway with its lights off and a silky smooth suspension.

  Randy sat up from where the medic attended him, noticing the silence. John and the rest of the raiding party sat or kneeled quietly in the back. They gathered their thoughts, stretched, and checked their weapons with soft clicking noises.

  “Is this a--”

  The camp leader squatted across from him, his back resting against the side.

  “It’s an electric van,” John nodded. “Like Dodger’s. But this one is a Mercedes Tesla hybrid. They had a dealership north of the city. Now we own the fleet.”

  “Are we going to the Colony?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Little help.” The medic raised up from where she’d been prodding at him with a pair of forceps and a pen-sized light. A helper huddled next to her, reached in, and held gauze on the wound to stem the leaking.

  “This guy has a bullet in his chest.” The medic cast her eyes on John before slipping back to Randy. She was a chestnut complected woman with a round face and sharp, darting eyes. “I wouldn’t advise do
ing any running.”

  “Too late,” Randy winced.

  “Or raiding,” the medic emphasized.

  “Where’s it lodged?” John asked.

  “Between his second and third rib, lodged in the intercostal muscle,” she replied. “It’s pressing against the diaphragm. I could pop it, but not in this van. Not while it’s moving.”

  John looked at Randy and nodded grimly. “When we stop, you’ve got four minutes to remove it. Prep him. Unless he wants to wait in here while we have all the fun?”

  “Take it out,” Randy said, knowing he would likely regret the decision.

  “Okey dokey.” The medic shook her head doubtfully but pulled her bag closer. She retrieved some sharp-looking tools and dumped several into a jar of what Randy assumed was alcohol. She shook it and placed it next to her. Then she situated fresh rolls of gauze, a suction cup, and medical tape.

  Then she turned to Randy. “All I’ve got is a topical anesthetic, so...” She left the implications hanging, twisting her lips as if trying to scare him into copping out.

  “That’s fine,” he said, not wanting to be a baby about it. “How far is it in me? About an inch?”

  “Two. And it’s twisted up at an angle. I’m going to have to dig a bit. You might have a broken rib, too. It’s a miracle that thing didn’t blow a hole in your chest.”

  Randy chuckled. “I was turned sideways when he fired, so I didn’t take it straight on.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Almost there,” the driver said, but all Randy saw was pitch black outside the window.

  The medic cleaned the wound for the fifth time and rubbed the topical anesthetic on his skin. Her helper quickly dabbed it with gauze.

  Two more minutes passed before the van pulled to a stop.

  John turned to the medic and pointed. She pushed Randy back with her left elbow while two others leaned their weight on his arms, pinning him down. The camp leader offered him the rubber hilt of a knife. It took him a minute to understand what John meant him to do, then he nodded and opened his mouth, accepting the soft part and clenching his teeth.

  He’d seen them do it a hundred times in movies, and he always thought it was a ridiculous concept. But sitting in the back of a quiet van with a young woman about to dig into his chest with a pair of forceps, he understood the concept.

  She raised her eyebrows at him in a questioning look.

  Randy grimaced around the knife and nodded his consent.

  The medic dove in. The first minute was an exploratory mission in pain. She spread the wound, tugged at his flesh, and peered inside with the light. She asked for help to hold it open and then mined deep for the errant lead.

  The first time she touched bone, Randy’s eyes lit up and his jaw clenched tight. His body involuntarily flexed, and he lifted the two men off the van floor before they could press him down again.

  A hard, ruthless, dirty pain radiated from the area in waves every time she touched him. Sweat poured off his brow, his teeth punctured the soft handle. The four minutes seemed to take forever, and he cursed himself a thousand times for agreeing to it.

  “Almost got it,” the medic announced. “But I’m going to have to cut a little.”

  Before he could protest, she took a scalpel out of the alcohol jar, homed in on the spot, and made two minuscule cuts that nearly sent Randy through the roof. His skin turned cold, and his body shook and shivered.

  The medic reached in one last time with a pair of curved forceps, digging deep until she pulled something out and held it up triumphantly.

  “I got it,” she grinned.

  “Patch him up,” John said. “Hurry. We’re losing time.”

  Randy lay back exhausted as she pulled out a stitch kit and expertly worked the needle in and out of his skin five quick times. The sewing was a breeze compared to the digging. Once done, she put the stitch kit away, wiped at the wound, pressed gauze against it, and taped it down.

  The weight lifted from his arms. The medic raised her elbow off his shoulder, and Randy opened his mouth to give John back his blade.

  John gently lifted the blade from between his teeth, inspected the hilt, and handed it back to him. “Keep it as a souvenir.”

  Randy accepted it and swooned backwards. He put his fingers to his chest and prodded the patch. It hurt on the surface, but the deep ache was gone.

  “I can breathe better,” he nodded to the medic. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” She packed her kit into a larger backpack, swung it onto her shoulder, and lifted her rifle. The van door popped open and ten figures filed past Randy to step outside.

  John left last, and he turned and held out the rifle Randy had taken from David. “Coming?”

  Randy tried to raise himself, but he swooned back with dizziness. Images of home, his parents, Jenny, and Tricia raced through his mind. Tricia. Her deep hazel eyes had captured his soul.

  If she were in Randy’s place, she wouldn’t let a stupid injury stop her from hitting back at the Colony.

  “We need to go, boss,” someone said. “Leave the kid. He’s just going to weigh us down.”

  “No,” Randy growled. “I’m...coming.”

  He forced himself up, rolled to his knees, and snatched the rifle out of John’s hand. “Ammo?” he asked, holding his hand out. Someone leaned in and checked his weapon before handing him a pouch bearing the weight of several full magazines.

  He slung the pouch over his shoulder and gripped his rifle to his chest.

  *

  They slipped through the night like ghosts, John using hand signals to keep the group in a tight formation. Seventh in line, Randy kept seven yards behind the person in front of him, striding in a heal-to-toe fashion so his boots wouldn’t clop on the concrete. He kept his wits sharp and his eyes glued to their back.

  They were in what must be a massive hanger. They stalked beneath the bellies of Boeings and an awe-inspiring Airbus, looming over them like sleeping giants. The hangar held smaller private jets Randy recognized as Gulfstreams and even a Cessna or two. He couldn’t imagine what the place must look like fully illuminated.

  A faint light drew them to an office section near the last hangar door. A wide window stretched across the front. Randy figured it must be a guard house, but he kept the assumption to himself. The team gathered behind a stack of crates near the room.

  Three team members shouldered their rifles and broke off from the pack, moving toward the entrance. Two stopped at the door while the third crawled beneath the window to another access point on the other side.

  Acting on a silent count, the raiders kicked the doors open and charged in. The sounds of a scuffle followed, grunts and something crashed inside. Randy held his breath, waiting for an alarm to ring out or a dozen Humvees to come zipping in.

  Thirty seconds later, the three returned, chests panting from the struggle he hadn’t seen. They must have overwhelmed and killed whoever was inside. Randy swallowed the lump in his throat. Death followed him now, and there would likely be more to come.

  They reported to John, and he nodded satisfactorily. Then they all moved to the hangar doors and peered outside. The surrounding space loomed dark and empty, a vast blackness that lay in all directions.

  But at the end of that darkness, a quarter mile away, loomed the lights of the terminal. A breeze gusted up, blowing Randy’s hair across the top of his mask.

  No helicopters lit the air, and only a pair of vehicles patrolled the grounds in the distance, their headlights far out of reach. John’s team must have parked the Tesla-Mercedes hybrid at the most distant hangar and planned to sprint the rest of the way.

  While the ache in his chest brought never-ending tears to his eyes, Randy was happy the medic had removed the bullet. He wouldn’t have made the quarter mile run with that lead in him.

  John peered across the distance and then turned and pressed his way back through the group to stand in front of Randy, grabbing h
is arm. The leader stared hard into eyes, estimating his toughness. Randy clenched his jaw to show the man he could hack it.

  John gave Randy’s arm a firm shake, then he nodded and returned to the front of the line to address the group.

  “This is our defining moment,” he said in a hushed whisper. “This is our chance to cripple them and show them they can’t attack innocent people. It’s not retribution. It’s simply the cost they must pay. Stay tight. Follow your team leads. Let’s do our jobs and get home safe.”

  They nodded collectively. Taking that as his queue, John turned and scanned the grounds again. He lifted his radio to his lips and spoke one word. There came a soft reply, and less than ten seconds later, hell broke loose on the north side of the field.

  Headlights flashed in the distance, followed by the sound of machine gun fire and an explosion. Randy watched as three Jeeps rolled out of the motor pool and headed toward the action.

  John raised his hand and broke into a jog toward the terminal, putting swiftness over stealth. The team moved out behind him, the clomping of their boots obscured by the gun battle to the north.

  The wind gusted across the open tarmac where planes once roared, and a sense of justice gave strength to his legs. What John said was true. He didn’t know why the Colony troops had attacked them, other than spite and Odom’s taste for power. Randy didn’t care. This was their chance to take the jerk out.

  He jogged lightly, holding his rifle strap so the weapon didn’t clatter against his back. They approached the terminal at a good clip, closing the distance in the darkness, and watching the glow from the second-floor windows of the place he used to call home.

  He imagined groups of scavenger teams, sitting in the bookstore or having a meal in the food court. Or maybe the sounds of the fighting had drawn them to the north windows.

  They slid beneath the overhanging floor and put their shoulders to the wall, stalking along until they reached a motor pool door. John grabbed the handle and pulled the door open, slipping inside with the rest of the team right behind him.