Ruins of the Fall (The Remants Trilogy #2)

by Nicholas Erik

  But first, I gotta reach the HIVE failsafe. Because as it expands and grows in consciousness, time runs out. And if the NAS reaches Matt’s failsafe, we’re all very screwed. That type of power cannot be wielded by men like Blackstone or Slick.

  I curl up, making sure my alarm is set for tomorrow.

  Whatever the plan is, one thing’s certain.

  After seven, nothing will ever quite be the same.

  18 | Ancient Trucks

  I hobble out of the high-rise into the gray morning light. After a final glance back at the shattered entrance, I put my head down to guard against the stiff wind. I’m not fully recovered, but escape plans don’t wait for perfect circumstances.

  And staying here, I’ll die. If not by a bullet, in a very real, yet slightly less tangible way. Maybe I’m already dying because of this place and what I’ve seen. We all know that illness isn’t caused by cold. Perhaps it’s guilt.

  The ground crinkles beneath my boots as I trek through the fresh snowfall. There’s two pairs of recent tracks leading towards the vehicles parked a couple hundred yards outside the waystation’s gates. The sun fights against the white-gray horizon. It’s too early in the day to know if its efforts will prove futile.

  A low whistle catches my attention near the first row of dirt bikes.

  “Over here,” Evelyn calls. Her soft voice carries on the empty plains so loudly that it might as well be an air horn. I weave in and out of the bikes and head towards the diesel cargo trucks. After the third row, I find her and Carina leaning up against a pickup.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “There’s food in the back,” Evelyn says. “We’ve been stealing it for the past few days.”

  Carina nods—or maybe it’s just a shiver from the bone-numbing cold.

  “You got the keys?”

  “That’s where you can help,” Evelyn says. “You know how to hotwire a truck, right?”

  I give her a slightly offended look. “Me?”

  “You can, right?” Anxiety flashes over Evelyn’s face. If this was her plan, I don’t know why she couldn’t have told me yesterday. So I let her simmer for a little while.

  Then I say, “Yeah, I can handle it.”

  “Asshole.”

  I look at Carina, but her eyes are shut tightly. “It’s gonna be all right.” I touch her arm, but she just shakes. Whatever she’s seeing, hopefully we can find a cure for that in the west.

  Using the knife and one of Evelyn’s bobby-pins, I manage to pick the truck’s driver-side lock. An alarm begins to howl.

  “Why didn’t you steal the keys?” I yell over the din, beckoning for them to climb in before me. “I could’ve just stolen the fucking keys.”

  “You were about to die until yesterday,” Evelyn says, helping Carina over the gear shift in the center of the front seat. “Didn’t think you were up for it.”

  Despite the cold, a fierce sweat starts forming on my brow. If our voices sound like gunshots, the alarm is like detonating a nuclear bomb. No chance the Remnants sleep through it. I check the high-rise. Lights flicker on across every story of the building. We’ve woken the demon.

  “I didn’t want you to have everything on your shoulders,” Evelyn says. She rubs my wrist, but I tear it away and begin to work on the ignition. It’s a push button starter, which requires the key. “For once, I wanted to let you rest.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “You have to,” Evelyn says. “You can.”

  “I need the key, Ev.”

  “This truck is ancient,” she says. “That’s why we chose it.”

  Remnants are already beginning to filter through the building’s broken entrance, snow crunching beneath their boots. We have maybe thirty seconds to make it happen.

  “You need to try,” Carina says. A shot rings out, missing the truck.

  Without another word, I take the knife from my waistband and plunge it into the underside of the steering column. Wires spill out. Voices and footsteps crash over the empty air, reminding us that we’re living on borrowed time.

  A rifle barks, and the front windshield cracks. My forehead bounces off the wheel when I duck.

  “Shit!” I yank the wires, trying to separate the right ones. Hopefully this truck is as ancient as Evelyn thinks. Otherwise we’re all dead. More bullets pepper the truck’s chassis. Then Jana’s amplified voice sends my blood cold.

  “If you steal from us, you will be executed without trial.” I try to tune it out, but her words boom across the plains. “You cannot be allowed to leave.”

  A blue spark bursts from the wires, blackening my fingertips. I lick the wound, and get back in for another try.

  “Twenty yards, Luke,” Evelyn says. “They’re running—

  The engine roars to life just as a thunderous boom rocks the truck. The passenger side window vaporizes into a shower of glass. A spatter of blood splashes across the worn leather interior. With all the adrenaline pumping through my veins, I can’t be sure it’s not me.

  I throw the truck into reverse and jam the accelerator to the floor. Too late, I actually check what’s behind me—a massive eighteen wheeler, ten tons of immovable metal. I slam on the brake, softening the impact. We still scream into the front fender in a torrid crash of metal.

  There’s no time to inspect the damage. Almost breaking the shifter off, I throw the truck into drive. We separate from the other vehicle with a metal-on-metal shriek, and then we’re roaring forward.

  A Remnant sits directly in front of us, steadying his rifle against his bike’s handlebars. I mash the accelerator, and the bike crunches underneath the truck’s wheels. He flies over, his bones shattering as he bounces off the windshield and tumbles back into the ruined soil.

  Shots pepper the truck as I peel out, running parallel to the waystation’s gates.

  Jana screams orders at her loyal subjects. “You cannot let him leave. He cannot leave.”

  Remnants frantically kickstart their bikes to give chase. I lean forward and shake the rifle off my back.

  She’s more concerned about the open sign of defiance than anything I can offer. She wasn’t ever really on board with the western push. The only reason we even found this “paradise” was because I forced her hand. Now that she has the power, she’s just a less vicious version of her father.

  “Can you shoot ‘em if they get close?”

  There’s no answer, and I remember the blood. Icy dread gripping my chest, I turn my head slowly to look in the passenger seat. Evelyn cradles Carina, trying to stop the bleeding. An open wound spits and sputters around Carina’s chest.

  “How bad is it?”

  Still no answer.

  I check the mirrors. The bikes are finally running at a decent clip, but they’re a good quarter mile behind. Still, on the endless open plains, they can give chase for however long it takes. The truck’s tires kick up chunks of frozen soil, making it hard to get a good read on how many are behind us. I check on Evelyn, who clutches Carina tighter.

  “Tell me what you need,” I say.

  “The supplies in the back.”

  I check our pursuers and try to assess the situation. How many bikes can Jana afford for vengeance? A half dozen? Each one is precious, and get too far out, without refueling…

  It’s a gamble, but glancing at Carina’s ashen face, we’re out of options. After another three miles, I pull the truck into a screeching stop.

  “Put both doors out,” I say, getting down from the cab. “And stay low.”

  Evelyn hurries out to search the truck bed for medical supplies. From the back tailgate, I aim and fire, blowing one of the pursuers straight off his bike. The errant vehicle acts like a missile, taking out two of his companions as the other bikes swerve around the wreckage. Our pursuers slow down when they realize the game has changed. The riders dismount, using their vehicles for cover. With everything stationary, I finally manage a good count: three more.

  A gunshot cracks over my head and rips through
the door’s window. Realizing I’m completely exposed, I hurry towards the front of the truck. My breath is heavy, freezing almost on contact with the atmosphere. In the distance, I hear more bikes.

  Reinforcements.

  A hail of gunfire rings out across the plains.

  I realize they’re shooting at Evelyn. She hasn’t returned with her medical supplies.

  “Fuck.” I spring around the open driver’s-side door. I squeeze off shot after shot, chunk-chunk-chunk, spent shell casings spitting past my frozen cheeks. The Rems stays behind their bikes as I continue the salvo.

  Evelyn pops out from beneath the canvas and slides over the edge of the truck bed. Not a moment too soon, because my clip goes empty, the hollow click easily audible across the still plains. I dive beneath the truck as they return fire. Red glass showers into the snow as they spray us with bullets.

  I roll over, and for the first time I’m reminded how sick I was a few days before. Stifling a cough, I stare at the broken taillight and wait for everything to stop. The red glass reminds me of the blood inside the cab.

  I check my pockets and find that I’m out of bullets. All the same, when there’s a brief break in the gunfire, I click the clip back into place, giving the impression that I’m ready for another firefight. With a deep breath, I roll out from beneath the truck and pop up, rifle scope at eye-level, like I’m about to unleash hellfire on them.

  Then, I instead turn and sprint the five feet to the cab, hopping in just as they realize my bluff. Angry shouts and curses flood across the plains. I don’t even shut the door—the engine is idling, and I just floor it.

  They make the wrong move and try to take us out. Bullets chase our battered vehicle, but I’m swerving like a drunk, and we’re quickly too far away to hit. The sounds of our pursuers are swallowed by the growl of the engine and the harsh whistle of the wind. Reaching out to grab the flapping door, I breathe a minor sigh of relief. With the broken window, though, the cab doesn’t get much warmer.

  I listen carefully, trying to discern whether two people are breathing. Finally, unable to tell, I venture a look at the passenger side.

  Carina’s eyes are closed.

  “She sleeping?”

  Evelyn just shakes her head.

  And the ice in my stomach turns into something much chillier.

  19 | Frozen Wastes

  The only words Evelyn and I share for the next thousand miles involve where we should head next. We both agree that the Lost Plains are still the Remnants’ domain, despite the march of the NAS. If we stay, they have a good chance of tracking us down. Now seems like a good time to go where no one can find us.

  Heading directly towards the Gray Desert is one option. But with Blackstone’s search party already coming through the wreckage—and maybe a new faction lying in wait—we can’t just waltz across the border. And after what happened, we need time to regroup and plan our next move.

  So me and Evelyn agree on the destination. Then I drive straight through. We only stop when the fuel light comes on. Evelyn’s plan wasn’t perfect, but she did the best she could under the circumstances. Still, the guilt is clearly etched into her face. It might never go away.

  Periodically, I’ll look over at Carina’s pale face. She looks peaceful, like she’s just taking a nap. Her silver chain rattles with a gentle clink every time we hit a pothole or tree branch—which is pretty often. The sound makes a lump form in my throat.

  Eventually, we coax the bullet-riddled truck to a dilapidated border station with rows of tollbooths. A sign announces that we should have our passports ready. But as we pass through the ruined gates, no one tries to stop us. Supposedly the only place in the world with any human survivors is the North American Circle—excuse me, the New Allied States.

  Which makes the Frozen Wastes as good a place to hide out as any. The place has earned its name. The weather around the waystation high-rise resembled a tropical retreat in comparison to the permafrost chill that passes for weather here. The truck’s temperature sensor stopped working fifty miles ago, but last I checked, it was thirty below. Translucent white ice coats everything.

  Once we’re clear of the tollbooths, I pull off a few miles ahead, at an abandon rest stop. Rows and rows of battery pods—to charge electric cars—sit dormant, ready to service vehicles that will never come again.

  “I need to patch this window,” I say, teeth chattering as I open the door. I almost slip when I step down from the cab. Evelyn follows me towards the cargo bed, lifting up the canvas so that I can search through our supplies.

  “She was a nice girl,” I say. “Carina.”

  “That’s all you can say?”

  “She wasn’t a church mouse between the sheets.”

  Evelyn laughs, although it’s tinged with sadness. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

  “Life’s a bitch.”

  “Nice philosophy.”

  “It’s not all bad,” I say, rummaging through a toolbox. Finding nothing, I slam it against the side. “It’s not your fault.”

  Her gloved hands squeeze my shoulders. “We’ll have to let it go.”

  “I don’t even want to kill Jana,” I say, emerging from beneath the canvas. I’ve found nothing that will help patch the windows. “I should, but—everyone’s just trying to survive. In their own way.”

  I glance back at the cab, where Carina’s brown hair, slightly matted with blood, presses against the rear windshield.

  “We’re almost out of fuel,” Evelyn says, her voice choked up. “We won’t reach the Gray Desert with what we have.”

  “Add it to the list of supplies,” I say. “Some big guns would be nice, too.”

  I rub my face and look at the rest stop. It’s covered in graffiti—French, from what I can tell—and doesn’t look particularly inviting. Ramses walks along the frozen concrete, urging me to follow him inside.

  “At least she won’t have to see these visions,” I say. “I don’t know how much longer I got, Ev.”

  “It’ll be all right.”

  But neither of us really believe that. Eventually, we settle on cutting up the canvas. Evelyn lines it with Carina’s parka before we set out on the road again.

  I find myself worrying that she’ll be cold.

  It’s gonna be hard to let things go.

  Two consecutive nights of driving straight through is an unpleasant proposition. With a wordless conversation, Evelyn and I decide to set up camp in an abandoned country house. I pull the truck around back, hiding it behind the skeletal remains of the ruined garage.

  After I check to make sure the house is empty, we unload the few things we’ll need for the night.

  On our last trip, Evelyn stops before we reach the stairs.

  “We have to bury her.”

  I wipe my nose and let out a long sigh. It’s a few moments before I can form words. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “She loved you, Luke.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” I can’t face her. But from the words, I realize that, over the past month, Carina and Evelyn got close. True friendship, despite their differences. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I’ll start a fire,” Evelyn says. “There’s a wood stove inside.”

  “Keep it small.”

  She nods, then walks up the stairs without another word. I head towards the cargo bed and grab a shovel. After trekking into the middle of a ruined field that once bore crops, I slam the shovel against the hard ground.

  I might as well be trying to dig a hole through concrete. Two minutes later, the tip of the shovel is bent beyond repair. Unleashing a disgusted stream of expletives, I fling it across the barren landscape.

  Despair might not be helpful in a moment like this, but it’s hard to have hope. My last ally has turned against me, killed one of the only friends I had left in this word. A bitter grin creases my cracked lips.

  Was Carina a friend?

  Is Evelyn my friend?

  Perhaps a constr
uct like friendship is antiquated. The modern world is like mercury—it slithers away the moment you think you have it corralled. Alliances between entire factions change with quicksilver ease. What that says about the bonds between individuals, I don’t know.

  The pale moon claws through the cloudy sky, casting forlorn slivers of light across the field. As I stare into nothingness, the smell of wood smoke from the house gives me an idea. I return to the truck and rummage through our remaining supplies. This might be a waste of things we’ll need later, but maybe holding on to a piece of your humanity is more important.

  Or we could’ve been fooling ourselves all along—maybe we were always savages.

  My fingers locate a box of shotgun shells buried in one of the food satchels. These will do.

  I return to the middle of the field, shells, a rope soaked in diesel fuel and a book of matches clutched in my hands. Using the ruined shovel, I managed to etch out a divot in the frozen ground. It’s no more than a quarter foot deep, but it feels like a major accomplishment.

  In this hole, I pile the shells over the end of the fuel covered rope. Then I unfurl the rope until I’m a safe distance away. After a few false starts with the matches, I manage to get one lit. I drop it onto the rope. An orange flame greedily sprints across the fuel-soaked fibers. It’s not long after that before a small explosion erupts.

  Evelyn rushes out of the house without her jacket. She’s holding a .38.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I stare at the dying orange flame. “Burying her.”

  It takes a moment for her to put everything together. Then she simply says, “Dinner’s waiting when you’re done.”

  The soil isn’t forgiving, but the explosion has widened a hole and warmed the ground just enough for me to actually dig. It’s a shallow grave, but it’s the best I can do. Deeper down, the cold earth simply won’t give at all.