The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3

by Alex Albrinck

Roddy didn’t know the place of his birth. But he felt a chill of fear. How was he able to know Delaney’s thoughts? Why hadn’t he realized he was “hearing” others’ thoughts, not just extrapolating what they might be thinking via internal rationalization and dialogue?

  He sucked in another breath. He had no memory of his life before joining the Special Forces. Was he… was it possible that he was one of those immortals, having lived through the Golden Ages and all of the calamities since, only to forget those lifetimes of experiences now?

  He looked at Delaney.

  “To answer your unspoken but loudly thought question, Light: yet again, we don’t know. I think there are three possible explanations for your uniqueness. First, yes, you may well be a survivor of those ancient days who had those skills unlocked, but your mind and memories were wiped clean and you don’t know why your powers still work on the surface. That scenario means you had help; you can’t erase your own memories. Second option: you’re a mutation, and your powers, while similar to those of old, operate differently, and are thus naturally immune to the nullification weapon. The third could be seen as a combination: one or both of your parents developed the mutation and passed it along to you. If that’s the case, they may well be the ones who wiped your memories of your younger years so the mutation process—if artificially triggered—couldn’t be discovered by others.” He shrugged. “We’ve been trying to undo the nullification weapon for decades without progress. It’s a riskier option, given that it helps many, but it certainly beats having those powers forever suppressed. But if we can figure out what makes you tick and apply that to a small, hand-picked group? So much the better.”

  Roddy was their trump card. They’d find his secret and use that to establish dominance over their new utopia on the planet, hiding Roddy’s secret—and, in that scenario, theirs as well—for the remainder of their very long lives.

  “So you’re going to experiment on me, then. Cut me open. Try to figure out what makes me different.” Or torture him to see if that might trigger suppressed memories.

  “Cut you open?” Delaney snorted. “I think not. You’ll do us no good if you’re dead. If your secrets are discoverable, we won’t find them via an autopsy.”

  “Really?” Roddy tried to keep the relief from his voice. “I seem to recall Silver telling you to take me to the surface and find Deirdre, and kill me if I failed.”

  “I’ve lived a very, very long time, and I’ve learned methods of making people experience levels of anguish they can’t fathom. I won’t kill you, Light.” He leaned in close, until his nose nearly touch Roddy’s, and jabbed his finger into Roddy’s chest. “But if you don’t give me what I want? I’ll have to settle for watching you beg for death instead.”

  —————

  WESLEY CARDINAL

  —————

  THE BOAT ROSE and fell on the gentle river current, moving east toward the great lake. Wesley felt no compulsion to fight against that movement nor to amplify the pace through his own efforts. Fate carried him to the largest body of water nearby; reason and survival instinct confirmed that as the optimal choice.

  He knew that the miniature robots couldn’t dissolve water, that they would in fact halt and move away from water. The Phoenix Group, the men and women who’d decreed the rest of humanity unworthy of survival, ensured that the pristine lands they’d claim as their own private utopia would have plenty of fresh water for drinking, cleaning, agriculture, and even transport. He felt a surge of red-hot anger sear through him, and he clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white. Oswald Silver remained alive and healthy, far from the cataclysmic destruction he and others like him unleashed upon unsuspecting millions. The men and women he worked with weren’t perfect by any means—the two guards who’d escorted him to the brig and Sheila Clarke came to mind as undesirable by his measure—but none of them deserved to die like this.

  He wanted to punch something. He couldn’t reach the water without risking a tumble from the boat, and decided that pummeling the wood might damage the vessel or his fist. He’d already suffered enough pain during his escape from the city and in the attack by those Hinterlands beasts. The last thing he needed, with his very survival on the line, were broken bones in his hand.

  He craved sleep; his body needed the downtime to begin the long healing process. He rustled through one of his packs and pulled out a dried chunk of meat, tore off a small piece, and popped it into his mouth, returning the remainder to storage. The high fat content gave the meat a strong flavor, and it would help maintain a feeling of satiety for many hours. He didn’t know when he’d get another chance to eat.

  Wesley settled back, taking care to avoid moving to a position too near to horizontal. He might not need to row or steer, but he needed to remain alert. He snapped his fingers and checked another pack, removing a small life vest and donning it. If he spotted Ravagers on the boat, he’d need to jump overboard; if he didn’t notice that until he was well off the shore in the lake, he’d need a vest for floatation assistance, even with his amazing swimming skills.

  Vest secured, he turned his head to the left and gazed upon what remained of his home city.

  The Ravager swarm was thickest to the west, spreading from the initial cache of devices—and perhaps others—outward in widening circles. He wasn’t certain, but it looked like Oswald Silver’s Diasteel office tower was among the earliest structural casualties, which would have mattered more if Silver had been in the tower at the time of its destruction. As he turned his gaze to the east, the oozing, oily mass thinned. Building and population density both increased as one neared the lake and the dock providing safe harbor for trading vessels, and the Ravagers would need more time to destroy everything remaining in that direction. As he watched, one of the massive apartment towers began wobbling, its structural integrity shattered as the Ravagers surrounded and dissolved the building. The uneven destruction caused building failures in unpredictable patterns. He watched as the apartment building seemed to slouch straight down toward the ground, then leaned wildly to the side until it slammed against what remained of the city roadways. He had little doubt that, had he still been on shore, he’d sense the thunderous reverberations of the ongoing collapse. It took many minutes before the Ravager swarm began the actual dissolution of each structure; once started, though, the process took only a few minutes.

  He found a pair of binoculars to aid in his observations. He’d packed the bags thinking he’d run from a collapse of civilization, and he’d need to stake out and protect land for private farming, the raising of livestock, the creation of a home. He’d packed the binoculars to enable the tracking of potential game and potential attackers. Now he used them to watch the city he loved dissolve before his eyes.

  He wondered how many remained alive in the unfolding chaos.

  A blur flashed across his field of vision.

  Startled, he pulled the binoculars from his face, ensuring the flash of motion hadn’t been nearby. He located the blur and aimed the double magnifying lenses in that direction, twisting the focus knob until the details snapped clear. The blur crystallized into the image of an oddly-shaped ground car moving at an incredible pace to the east. There was only one passenger.

  It was the General. Micah Jamison dodged falling, dissolving debris and frantic survivors as he moved ever nearer to the dock and the lake.

  He felt a small surge of hope. The General had always protected Wesley, for reasons he couldn’t yet recall. Had the man known such a horrific event might come? Had he prepared to survive just such an eventuality? If he was here on the ground in the middle of the city, Wesley reasoned, he couldn’t be part of the Select; nobody on the Phoenix Group’s elitist list would be so foolish as to stick around during the purge and watch it unfold in person. Such a move could only prove suicidal.

  No, the General wasn’t one of them, just a man trying to survive.

  Or so he thought, right up until he watched Jamison’s car accelerate across the do
ck and soar out over the lake until it smashed into the surface.

  Wesley gulped. He focused his binoculars on the spot where the craft struck, looking for any sign that the man survived. Wesley had no idea how many people still lived, but knew that every life was meaningful now.

  The General didn’t strike him as a man who’d give up, who’d quit, who’d race away from the surging swarm only to hurtle his vehicle and himself to a watery grave. Wesley felt a sliver of camaraderie; he, too, had driven a motorized vehicle off the land into a body of water, not to die, but to live. To reach a zone of safety.

  Memories flashed. The General had been there during those tests all those years ago. He couldn’t recall why. But Micah Jamison knew of the water exception, that the Ravagers would stay away from the precious molecules of hydrogen and oxygen. Had he, like Wesley, sought refuge in the largest body of water conveniently available?

  He spun around, his back toward the lake, grabbed the oars, and rowed. The Ravagers writhing on the shore north of the river had given him a clear view of the port and dock by clearing away all the trees and brush once there, but Wesley needed a better angle. The car would sink—it had to sink—but he suspected Jamison would extract himself and surface nearby.

  Wesley meant to get there and offer him transport aboard the small boat.

  He reached the estuary, turned himself to face forward once more, and grabbed the binoculars. His swing of the lenses toward the spot where Jamison’s car sank revealed two transport vessels, no doubt bringing imports from other cityplexes. The explosion of the dock and the destruction of the ships rattled Wesley, but he kept his cool, kept himself poised, and searched for the General.

  He didn’t see a man, but he did see something moving under the water at a rapid clip.

  It was too far away to see in detail. But the shape strongly resembled the odd ground car the General drove off the pier.

  Wesley pulled the binoculars away from his eyes, a look of incredulity on his face.

  The General owned a car drivable under water?

  Then he shook his head. He was the one reporting in clandestine fashion of all the secret technologies hoarded by the elites running the Phoenix Group. It took little imagination to suspect that the General had access to superior technology hoarded by the Western government, and had availed himself of some of that technology in secret. Wesley thought the man might share that bit of good fortune with others, but trusted Jamison enough to know that, if he kept his findings secret, that his motives were pure.

  He put the binoculars back to his eyes and squinted, orienting on the underwater vessel as it vanished from his magnified sight. He set the binoculars down so they pointed in that direction and dug through his supplies until he located his compass. He identified true north and aligned the compass with the binoculars, giving him a direction to travel. He didn’t know where the General might be headed. But he was heading in a straight line at a high rate of speed. Wesley suspected he had a longer term shelter available somewhere in the lake. Wesley would follow that line and search for that shelter, and ask the General to bring him in and allow him to work to help keep both of them alive. Two were better than one, after all. He knew there were strong odds that, given the imprecision of his tracking methods, he’d miss the General’s final destination.

  He’d try anyway. He didn’t have any other options.

  He didn’t have an engine for propulsion. He had only his arms, his agonizingly tired arms. He focused first on getting a comfortable distance from the shore. Then he used the compass to angle the boat in the direction the General traveled, and he rowed. This was no race; he rowed at a consistent pace, not a sprint, conserving what little strength he still retained. He stopped at regular intervals to eat from his rations; there was little sense conserving them now. He dipped the small metal cup over the side of the boat, drinking heavily, pouring cool liquid over his scorched scalp and skin.

  The hours dragged on, and the sun headed for the horizon.

  Darkness swept over the lake, moving slowly toward the savaged lands.

  Wesley pulled the oars into the boat. His arms felt numb from the exertion. He found the metal cup and dipped it over the side, fearing he’d drop it in his fatigued state, then drinking the cool water greedily when he didn’t. He put the cup down and moved his aching arms to his leg, touching it gingerly. It didn’t hurt as much as it had in the immediate aftermath of the beast’s attack. He could still remember the pain and shock of the teeth tearing into his flesh, the later sharp pain as he applied the healing salve to his wounds. Fatigue hung over him, fighting with maintaining his course as his primary mental focus. He had to stay awake as long as he could.

  For as long as he could see, at least.

  He wondered how he’d survive in the night. Wondered if any flying, nocturnal predators might swoop down on his still form, perhaps scavengers mistaking his battered, bloodied body as a rotting carcass fit for a meal.

  A drop of water hit the top of his head.

  Then another.

  Wesley looked up, grimacing.

  He felt the breeze stir, gradually increasing in intensity. He found some small bits of rope and secured the oars to his seat; he wouldn’t be able to control the boat if the waves threw him about, and couldn’t risk losing them. He checked the supply bags, ensuring the ties binding them to the craft remained secure, confirmed that all were sealed to protect the contents from the elements. He extracted the last bit of rope in his possession and fashioned a makeshift seat belt. If things got rough, he needed to make sure that he stayed in the boat as well.

  Then he patted his leg, feeling the sheath and knife strapped there. If the boat capsized, he’d be ready to free himself.

  The winds whipped up to a frenzied level. Lightning flashed; the growing darkness as the sun receded below the horizon seemed to return as the sky lit with the power of the storm. A deep crackling sound made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The rumbling bass of thunderclaps shook him to the depths of his being.

  The storm seemed to last hours. Wesley screamed at every deity he’d ever heard of, and cursed a few of his own invention, bemoaning the fate chosen for him. More than once, he’d noticed the lump of metal strapped to his leg, and wanted to grab the knife and plunge it into his own heart and end it all.

  If he hadn’t already known the world was ending, he’d certainly suspect it after experiencing this storm.

  At last, the winds subsided. The lightning moved away, frightening whatever life might remain to the northeast. The thunder seemed like a dream nearly forgotten on the edge of sleep. The sun, long since chased from the sky, no longer lit his surroundings.

  It took Wesley several exhausted moments to recognize two extraordinary facts.

  He still lived.

  And he could still see.

  This illumination didn’t come from the sun or moon. The storm had passed, its lightning flashes now too far away to be anything more than a distant star twinkling in the sky. Yet he could see.

  Wesley blinked. In his exhaustion, it took him time to recognize that this made no sense.

  Gradually, his mind worked, grudgingly acknowledging the issue. He turned his head, which seemed to weigh more than the scooter he’d crashed into the river, looking for the lighting source.

  He found it to the southwest. The entire land glowed with an eerie luminescence, the light moving and swaying as though alive.

  Alive?

  It wasn’t alive. Wesley knew exactly what generated the light.

  Those evil bastards coded the Ravagers to change color based upon the time of day. Dark during the day, bright and glowing during the night. They wanted the survivors to know. Know what lurked, what never rested, never slept. The brightness might keep survivors from sleeping during the night, further reducing the chance they’d survive as fatigue led to mistakes.

  It wasn’t enough to kill everyone.

  They had to… well, sneer at the victims in the process. />
  Wesley found the strength to stand up in the boat. He erected the middle fingers of both hands and turned slowly, directing the gesture-based epithet in every direction, ensuring that, at some point, it faced the one man he associated with this evil.

  Then he sank to the bottom of the boat and fell into a deep sleep, his adrenaline stores depleted. His last thought before consciousness escaped: survive, find Oswald Silver, and feed the man to a hungry swarm of Ravagers.

  In what seemed an instant, he woke.

  Based on the sun’s position in the sky, he realized he’d slept for at least twelve hours, and had little doubt he could use another dozen. Muscle stiffness didn’t help; he’d collapsed in a heap that hadn’t done his wounds any favors. With no one watching, he didn’t concern himself that any might think less of him for the tears and screams of pain as he forced himself back to the seat and took stock of his situation.

  He twisted around and found the nearest swath of the mainland. The Ravagers were the original dark, oily color once more, slithering like a giant flat snake over the land, moving east in search of more prey. He scowled, muttering a few of the new obscenities he’d invented in the past day. Then he moved to his primary pack, wincing the whole time, and rummaged through to find the compass. He located true north and looked in the direction Jamison’s “car” headed the day before.

  His jaw fell. He stood up, trying to ensure that he wasn’t seeing something. Then he rubbed his tired eyes and looked again.

  An island rose on the horizon, no more than five miles away.

  He stared at it for several minutes until an unusually frisky wave rocked the boat. He stumbled back into his seat, then craned his neck around to stare at the island once more.

  Hallucination, maybe?

  “Well,” he said aloud for no particular reason. “If it’s a hallucination, I’ll know in a few hours.”

  He unfastened the oars, attached them to the rowlocks, and angled the boat in the direction of the possibly illusory island. Then he started rowing again.