It meant the leader would attack him. Kill him. Get to eat the best parts of him. The others would share in those spoils that might remain.
It also meant that if he managed to kill the leader, they'd flee on instinct, certain that the death of their leader meant they'd face certain death as well. They'd escape, rather than face the food that fought back and bested their alpha.
Maybe.
There was no certainty they'd do that. They might attack him in greater numbers instead. But given his predicament, his plan seemed his only choice. It was the best plan he had.
He'd need to fight, difficult though that might be with the scooter atop his battered left leg. He squeezed his toes, relieved that they moved. There'd be no permanent damage if he lived, at least not from his crash. He might not be able to run or walk at the moment, but he'd be able to ride the scooter.
If he escaped. If he lived.
He could hear the panting all around as the beasts began to savor the taste of him on the air, smelling the fear he projected. He wriggled himself into a seated position and used his right hand to try to push the scooter off his leg, but he lacked the necessary leverage. He tried to lift the scooter to allow him to pull the leg free, his motions and movements frantic as he anticipated the strike that would come at any moment. He could only think that, perhaps, the smell of the fuel in the scooter confused the creatures, and they were trying to assess if the bike itself posed a threat. Wesley, lying injured and bleeding on the ground, wouldn't be enough to frighten them.
He could feel them inching closer.
Flustered, he shouted at them. “Get back, you monsters! Stay away!”
Much to his surprise, they hesitated, and then seemed to back up just a bit. Stunned at the temporary good luck, Wesley returned his attention to the scooter. Gritting his teeth, he put his right boot on the seat and pushed, shouting as the scooter moved free of an already damaged leg.
He was free. It had hurt, but he was free.
The sudden movement seemed to awaken the predators. Any temporary restraint, whether from the smell of the fuel or reasons unknown to Wesley, vanished as he moved free of the scooter.
He heard the footfalls of the alpha accelerate as it ran toward him, growling.
—————
DEIRDRE SILVER-LIGHT
—————
THE FALL SEEMED TO LAST an eternity before ending with shocking suddenness. Deirdre's scream ended with a grunt as the sudden stop to her fall briefly knocked the wind from her lungs. Debris fell around and atop her. She saw the chaos but felt nothing. The heavy Diasteel suit protected her from all manner of danger as designed.
She tried to sit up and felt resistance. She lifted her head and noted that in the collapse of the floor the box spring and mattresses had fallen atop her body.
It was time to take advantage of what the engineering team called “muscle enhancers,” a series of gears and springs inside the suit “fabric” meant to amplify the movement of her limbs and counter the effects of the excess weight of the metal contraption. Her arms weighed twenty pounds more than they'd weighed without the armor, but she moved with no additional perceived effort, just an unavoidable awkward clunkiness that no feat of engineering could change. The key for her now was simple: the greater the acceleration of her own movement, the greater the enhancement provided by the suit.
She relaxed her muscles, letting every gear and spring mechanism in the suit fabric halt its motion. She took three deep breaths and then hurled herself forward with every ounce of strength she could muster.
The “muscle enhancers” turned that explosive movement into a force sufficient to hurl the debris off her. The momentum pulled her up off her back, and nearly put her back on her feet.
She fell backward onto the debris pile, though. She sat up and stared at the mountain of metal crossbeams and heavy debris atop her leg. Those pieces weighed far more than the mattresses, perhaps too much even for the muscle enhancers. She scowled at this new predicament, and then scanned the room for potential solutions to her problem.
Her eyes fell upon the battered form of Stephen.
One of his legs bent at an angle impossible without a complete fracture of the femur. Blood trickled from his mouth, and she wondered if the fall had cracked his ribs and punctured a lung. She suspected that the fall had broken his back, given the awkward angle at which he lay atop his own debris pile.
She felt the sympathy well up inside her. He'd been an idiot, and had eventually tried to kill her. But even idiots didn't deserve to die in such a painful manner.
Given the last few minutes, she wasn't counting him out just yet.
Her eyes flicked to something in her peripheral vision. The suit and the helmet. The fall hadn't dislodged the suit from his legs, and one of the arms was visible beneath the pile of debris he'd landed on. The helmet had landed just a few feet away from him. Mercifully, the debris had fallen before him and he'd landed atop the pile.
She had her motivation. She'd save him, even though his actions in the past thirty minutes had proved him unworthy.
No.
She shook her head in realization. This entire calamity was the result of the attitude that one small group--including her--had the right to judge the masses other than themselves as unworthy. She wasn't making amends for her part of this scourge by saving him. Stephen might be a fool, perhaps even a bit evil. But those facts didn't prove the original premise of mass unworthiness true, no more than it proved her wrong in choosing him as a token member of the condemned to save.
In reality, she and those like her were the ones who ought to be condemned. Not Stephen. Not the many thousands who'd die soon, the millions more who'd die not long after.
She felt the tears moisten her face. She should be dead. Not Stephen. She didn't know how much longer she had to live. But she decided she'd spend that time saving all she could until she drew that final breath. She'd not try to save Stephen because she'd personally chosen him or because she'd taken him as a lover. She'd save him because he needed help surviving a calamity she'd helped unleash on a world that, for all its faults, deserved better.
Her eyes snapped back on the primary beam pinning her down and her gaze narrowed in concentration. Her right leg bore the bulk of that weight/ She shifted and wriggled the left leg until she managed to pull it free from beneath the beam. She paused her motion, letting the gears in the suit reset once more. She then picked her target on the beam and hurled the boot forward while simultaneously bending her right leg down and twisting her foot parallel to the beam.
The force generated would have killed any living thing in its path, but it only moved the beam a few inches. Deirdre scowled. She ceased her movements once more after first lining her left boot up with the target, took a deep breath, and repeated the movement. The beam moved a bit farther than the previous attempt.
But it was enough.
Deirdre wrenched her right leg free and stood, unsteady, atop the pile of debris, testing her leg. Beyond the general soreness of her entire body, she detected no other injury. The suit showed not a single scratch or dent, looking as if it had just gotten polished.
She lumbered toward Stephen.
His eyes were open and unblinking. She knew him well enough to look into his eyes and know he still lived, if barely. He was in a state of complete shock, and that was understandable. What he'd thought to be a secretive getaway with his lover--away from the watchful eyes of his wife and her husband--had turned into something beyond the scope of his worst nightmares. His gaze twitched slightly as he registered her appearance. His face turned, losing what little color remained.
He expected punishment. His eyes begged forgiveness, and asked her to save him.
He hadn't earned it. But neither had she. She'd made a vow to herself, and that meant she'd save him because only she could save him.
She looked at him and offered a faint smile. It was not a smile that condoned his attempts to hurt her, or his unwillingness
to listen as she tried to save him from the pain he now experienced. Her smile spoke of forgiveness, of a willingness to do all she could to get him to safety and back to full health.
He offered the barest of smiles in return; it was all he could do in his current state.
She reached to pull aside the debris beneath him. She'd free the portion of the suit buried in the debris before pushing his likely unmoving limbs inside and bolting the helmet on his head. Then she'd try to figure out how the hell the two of them would get out of a building already starting its collapse.
Her hand touched the first piece of wood... and she startled back in horror.
The dark, oily ooze of Ravagers started traveling up her arm.
She shuddered in horror, realizing two things almost simultaneously.
She'd been reached by the Ravagers and would live only because she wore the protective suit.
And it was too late to save Stephen. If she touched him right now, with the Ravagers crawling over the protective Diasteel skin, she'd transfer them to him. He'd die, dissolved to dust before her eyes and in a pain she hoped she'd never experience.
She almost felt a tickling sensation, imagining the little machines crawling up her arm and swarming over her body, wondering what it would feel like if they truly managed to dissolve her.
Her eyes moved back to Stephen. He seemed to realize he wouldn't make it, the scant bit of life left in him looking terrified. He was suffering because he didn't know how the end might come, just that the pain already consuming him might pale in comparison.
She knew what she must do.
She mouthed the words “Forgive me” to him.
And then she raised her right arm, clenched her hand into a fist, and slung her arm down as fast as she could.
The fist connected with his forehead, and she saw the life leave him in that instant.
His pain ended.
The Ravagers crawled off her fist to the consumable target, swarming over Stephen's body. She watched as his body seemed to deflate before her, beneath the oozing dark mass of Ravagers. Watched as what had been Stephen Clarke became nothing. Watching the decomposition horrified her, more so because if he'd lived, the pain would surpass anything he felt from her hand or the horrific fall from the floor above.
And she knew that, inside this building and throughout the cityplex, hundreds of thousands wouldn't have their pain ended before the Ravagers feasted upon them.
Stephen's dismantling took them less than a minute.
The ooze spilled out of the suit, leaving the material unharmed, and sought new material as its programming commanded.
She felt the rumbling of the building. It meant that the Ravagers were rapidly dissolving walls, floors, and support structures on the interior. The vanishing floors were a warning.
Get out now, if you can.
Deirdre looked at the now empty suit and helmet. She grabbed the helmet and attached it to the suit. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would come in handy if she could get out of here. She used the muscle enhancers of her own suit to throw Stephen's old suit over her shoulder, and then stood on the pile of debris, trying to find a way out and down.
The floor dropped beneath her instead, and as she landed below, she felt the wind knocked out of her lungs once more. Then, she felt the entire building pitch to one side.
The sensation of falling was far more pronounced and lengthy this time, giving Deirdre plenty of time to wonder if the suit could save her from a three hundred foot fall as the infrastructure of a massive building crashed around her.
—————
MICAH JAMISON
—————
AS THE SMOKE CLEARED, JAMISON found his fears confirmed. The road below him shimmered as if a liquid, undulating as Ravagers devoured pavement and concrete, surging forward as replicated new devices replaced the old. His eyes flicked quickly left; the devastation to the west, in the direction of the Bunker and the original cache, was horrific. Little remained but a thin haze, dust generated as buildings collapsed and vanished amidst the surging tide of Ravagers. He spotted clearing much further to the west along the spur road, near the Diasteel compound, but knew it was only a matter of time before even that compound turned into little more than skeletal remains, its employees swallowed by the advancing swarm.
Apocalyptic death machines spared no one.
Well, except those who knew their weaknesses and who had the means and foresight to prepare.
The car slammed to the ground, and Jamison snapped forward against the sturdy harness, then slammed back against his seat. His hands slipped from the controls, but he quickly reestablished contact and turned the car sharply to his right, heading east toward the city. He vaguely noted the presence of Ravager ooze on the ground where he'd landed, but paid them little heed. The devices couldn't hurt him while he remained inside this car. Sheila was similarly protected, a fact she'd recognize quickly.
He switched his mind to one of operational battle mode, oblivious to anything but survival and the success of his mission. He needed to reach his home and gather those final critical supplies. He'd moved most of them to the final destination already, but there were some items that required transport only after the cataclysm erupted.
The car burst past the forward edge of the Ravager swarm. Jamison noted the increased foot traffic, attributed it to the growing earthquake-like rumblings in the ground, and promptly tuned out that data point. He ignored the panicked faces, the arms waved by those closest to the leading edge of the swarm, those who'd recognized the effects of the advancing wave and wanted transport. Not his problem, not part of his mission. He never slowed, altered course slightly only if impending collisions with the growing numbers of refugees would lead to greater delays than merely running them down.
He noted the line of people ahead, a human shield blocking his path. They waved at him, their faces full, not of fear, but feral levels of demand. Their eyes told him everything. They'd force him to a stop. Rip him from the car. Likely beat him to ensure he'd not put up a fight. Drive away, fleeing the growing cloud on the horizon.
Jamison set his face into a steely, stone-like glare, communicating his own intentions. He'd not stop. Several dove aside, recognizing the necessity of survival. Two didn't. The dual thumps he felt told Jamison they'd permanently learned his bluff was no bluff. What remained of their battered bodies would soon become additional fodder for the replicators.
Traffic thinned as he neared the city. Those farther from the primary caches of Ravagers hadn't yet recognized the peril, not that it would do them much good. He saw curious glances from people as he drove by in the oddly shaped car, pushing speeds far beyond posted limits. A siren sounded. The traffic control officer activated the flashing lights, pulled out from a side street, and started after him.
Jamison didn't stop.
Two minutes later, the officer's car trailed so far behind Jamison he couldn't see even the flashing lights.
He pulled to his right, down a side street, then left down another, and finally took another right. His home was a simple affair, small and neat, with little ostentation or decoration to draw attention. The inside was simple and Spartan, the minimal possessions giving few clues as to the identity of the sole resident. Jamison reversed the car into the driveway, unhooked the harness, killed the engine, and opened the door. With the seal broken, the noise hit him. It was there, the low rumbling, not enough to suggest imminent demise, but a thrumming not normal among the standard sounds of city life. He heard the sounds of ground cars, the distant murmur of people walking along sidewalks. If he listened with sufficient intensity, there was something else there, something different beyond even the distant rumbling.
Silence.
He'd never realized before the sounds emanating from the distance, the faraway ground cars and manufacturing facilities lining the spur roads. Not until those faint noises went silent.
It was terrifying.
Jamison sprinted during his recognition pe
riod and reached his front door seconds later. He swiped his hand and unlocked the door, waiting and twitching as the portal slid noiselessly aside. He swiped the inside doorframe and the door whooshed closed behind him.
The bulk of the supplies he'd accumulated over the years of preparation were already at the destination. The majority of those remaining away from the destinations weren't supplies he'd use or need each day, but had foreseen potential need prior to his permanent departure. He'd packed that cache of supplies inside the trailer parked in the garage. He'd seize those final few precious supplies, stow them in the trailer and secure it, and then attach it to the car he'd driven here.
Jamison sprinted to his first floor bedroom. The bedding showed nary a wrinkle, as if never used, and Jamison paid it little attention. He opened his closet and seized a satchel, threw it on the bed, and dashed around the room for the critical supplies. He threw them in the bag, pausing as his gaze fell upon the framed photograph of a studious-looking woman in her early thirties. Jamison grabbed the frame and set it inside the satchel. He threw the straps over his shoulders and moved to his next target.
The second door in the bedroom remained closed. Jamison reached atop the oversized doorframe, found the slight gap between the wood and wall, and wriggled his fingers inside. The first clip released seconds later, and Jamison expertly moved his fingers behind the frame, gently working the remaining dozen clips loose. He knelt down and used his shoulder to hold the loosened frame upright as he pried up the loose floorboard beneath the room's thick layer of carpeting free. He stood and lifted the frame gently from the gap in the floor. He turned the frame perpendicular, and then moved at a brisk but careful pace through the house to the door leading from the house interior to the garage.
His standard car sat in the first stall. He drove the more traditional vehicle when requiring private transportation away from the car and driver his military rank permitted. That vehicle didn't have quite the same modifications that the car in the driveway provided, but in an emergency it could haul the trailer and get him to safety, though not to his ultimate destination. Knowing where he'd likely be at the activation of the Ravagers, he'd elected to keep the more disaster-equipped vehicle near the office and the trailer here. If he'd been home during the activation, he'd certainly use this car. He'd arranged it so that he and Sheila always worked the same shifts. He'd be able to swing by the apartment she shared in the city with her husband in the scenario.
The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3 Page 22