The Lost Castle

by Nick Cole

  He pulls out his pen and uncaps it, revealing the nib injector filled with deadly neurotoxin. He grasps it in his hand like a fighting knife and they climb the tiny spiral staircase that leads to the upper deck.

  Frank peers from carpet-level at the floor of the upper deck. He sees Mean Stewardess dragging one of the pilots feet first out the cabin door. She doesn’t look like she’s having any trouble and her back is toward him.

  Now or never, thinks Frank, and rushes her.

  She hears him and turns but it’s too late, he has the one shot poison cartridge against her neck and she knows if she moves, she’s dead.

  “Drop it,” he whispers, meaning the compact silenced gun she’s carrying in one hand. A Walther PPK.

  Through the open cockpit door, he can see one of the pilots slumped over against the window, blood and brains washing the high altitude view. It’s the co-pilot.

  Sitting in the pilot’s seat, barely, the big gorilla is pulling back on the flight yoke while flipping a series of switches with practiced effortlessness. As though he knows exactly what he’s doing.

  Frank feels Mean Stewardess smile.

  Because she’s a psychopath, he thinks. And he’s right. But that’s not the only reason she’s smiling.

  The compact gun with the silencer spits, and a moment later the air inside the cabin is turning into a hurricane as everything rushes toward the smashed rectangular window with the rounded edges she’s just shot out.

  He hears her distantly laughing above the tornado as Frank’s pen is snatched from his hands before he can apply enough pressure to shoot her full of neurotoxin. Enough to kill an elephant. Unpleasantly.

  Frank is pulled toward the widening gap in the cracking window. He sees that just beyond the shattering plastic is a forty-five thousand foot fall out onto the great prairie far below. Mean Stewardess flees toward the aft section of the upper cabin, struggling desperately against the sudden hurricane.

  A moment later, the pressure equalizes and everything is dull white noise and chaos falling back into place. The aircraft tremors as wind rushes past Frank and out into the yawning blue chasm of high altitude. Bells and alarms are screeching in the cockpit and people below are screaming.

  The aircraft is beginning a steep climb as it heels over to the right.

  Frank falls back against the far wall as he watches Jordana plant one of her hairpins right in Mean Stewardess’ eye. The woman shrieks and pushes Jordana back down the stairs in front of her, following her down, screaming in agony, promising murder.

  The Gorilla climbs out from behind the controls and pushes his way from the cockpit as though it has just given birth to him and the horrible nightmare that he is.

  Frank feels the aircraft climbing and turning. He knows if this continues, it will roll over on its back. And then...

  The Gorilla stops to sock Frank in the stomach.

  The wind goes straight out of Frank as the guy buries a fist the size of a ham in his gut.

  And there isn’t much wind because oxygen at this altitude is precious.

  Frank isn’t thinking he has to stop this guy for any other reason than that if this guy gets past him, he’ll meet Jordana next, find her on his way to get a parachute from the cargo bay.

  And Frank can’t let that happen. Can’t let him find Jordana next.

  So it’s “Every Day” for Frank because it can’t be the last day for the one he loves.

  It’s ‘Nam in his heart and mind. The trenches that night after the mags went dry and VC were still coming through the wire, in the wire, all around them. After his knife stuck in some guy from the other side of the world and wouldn’t come out of the crying man’s ribcage.

  Red. Murder. Every day.

  All elbows and fists and knees and even Frank’s head, because what does he have to lose if Marie loses her Mama? He’s smashing everything he’s got into this behemoth to stop him. If just so Jordana can hold Marie by the seashore. Even if he’s not part of that picture in his mind.

  And...

  “I’m happy, Daddy.”

  The man’s bones are like the oak beams of a house. But Frank smashes into them with elbows and forearms. The man’s belly is like a cast iron stove, but Frank hurls his knee into it, grunting and promising murder. The man’s brow is like the prow of some ancient Viking ship... but Frank smashes his head into it and hears some horrible deep crack. And hopes it’s not his own.

  The giant goes down, hard, clutching his broken nose and smashed forehead.

  Without thinking, Frank gives a little hop and lands knee first on the man’s exposed throat.

  That breaks. Easily.

  The plane is almost on its side.

  He can’t find Jordana. In the next moment, the plane will be upside down at full-throttle. His wife will just have to be okay for a few minutes more.

  He hopes. Hopes desperately in that way where you’re praying and asking for one thing with all you’ve got left to promise. Offer. Give. Beg.

  He crawls into the cockpit and pulls himself into the pilot’s seat. Outside the wide windshield, the world is not as it should be. The far horizon is almost vertical and the sky takes up only half of it.

  Frank grabs the yoke and coaxes the airborne giant back toward the left. Slowly, he thinks, and hears the plane groan mortally while he does.

  Incomprehensible bells shriek for attention. He can dimly hear some small far-away voice over the headphones that lie on the instrument clusters near the engine throttles.

  And looking at the throttles and the seemingly impossible amount of gauges and switches it takes to fly this thing, Frank knows they are dead for sure. If not now, in the next few minutes.

  Frank is gasping for air.

  The tinny voice keeps buzzing and buzzing in the headphones.

  The massive 747 wallows back to level and the engine noise increases. As though the giant turbines are spooling up into some all new urgent doomsday hum. He glances at the throttle. All eight are set full forward. Max Power.

  The gorilla was trying to kill us all, Frank thinks, and grabs for the headphones.

  “Pan Am 408, this is SFO. We have you not at your assigned altitude. Please advise,” asks an urgent voice.

  Frank scans the instrument panels for a mic. He finds it near his knee, grabs and keys it.

  “We’re in trouble up here. Both pilots are dead.”

  There’s a long pause. Frank can hear his breath wheezing. Even though there is a waterfall of adrenaline coursing through his system, he feels himself fading.

  Needing oxygen.

  Nothing over the radio.

  He grabs an oxygen mask that has fallen behind the headrest. He can feel cold air flooding out from the mouthpiece on his fingers as he tries to get it over his head. He lets go of the controls completely, and it feels as though the plane will just suddenly nosedive into the ground far below as he dons the mask.

  He takes deep breaths of the cool air blasting his face.

  The engines are screaming. Some gauges are heading into the redline indicators. He knows that’s not good.

  He looks at the throttles once more, and sees they are set to Take Off Power. Below that is a printed indicator for Cruise Power.

  He waits for someone to come back and tell him what to do. Still nothing coming over the headphones.

  Then he places both hands on the throttles and pulls all eight back to cruise. Slowly. A second later the engines seem less urgent. More calm.

  But what if we fall out of the sky?

  “Pan Am 408? Are you there?”

  Frank pulls off the mask and keys the mic.

  “This is Pan Am 408. I’m just a passenger. The pilots are dead and we need to land.”

  What about Jordana?

  What about Mean Stewardess?

  What about the b
omb ?

  “Pan Am 408 this is SFO Tower. Stand by, we’re... uh... we’re dealing with the situation.”

  Frank keys the mic.

  “Forget that. Contact Department 19. Tell them this is Frank Romano. I need to talk to Mr. White.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Zekes came out of the dark buildings, stumbling and waving claws to catch the speeding convoy. At times, the dead could not be found for block after silent block within the deserted city. Then suddenly, an uncountable mob would be surging after them in the maze of the business district sprawl.

  Miniguns blared out and into the rushing crowd as the convoy turned away, seeking another route back to the freeway.

  “Gettin’ lost in here, Cap!” cried Brees.

  Braddock keyed his mic.

  “Warlord, we need to get off the street. Advise heading back...” Braddock was turning his map to orient himself to what he was seeing. “Back to the east. Four blocks down is a parking structure we can regroup in. We need to make a new plan.”

  No reply.

  Down side streets, Braddock could see the shadowy blurs of something, somethings, keeping up with them. Tracking them. Shadowing them.

  The Ancient Hunter. The Sisters.

  At the end of a narrow boulevard, zekes, like so many drunks, milled about the street, suddenly sparked to rage as the convoy ran over them, or through them. Finally the lead Humvee turned back toward the east.

  “I guess he likes your plan, Cap-i-tan!” cried Gautreaux lustily from behind the wide wheel of the MRAP.

  Ten minutes later, they were pulling into the darkness of the first floor of an abandoned parking garage. Braddock grabbed his map and rifle and ran forward to the lead Humvee. He didn’t need to tell anyone to keep a sharp eye out.

  They were down to five Humvees and the MRAP.

  Steele was out of his vehicle, carrying the massive shotgun and scanning the darkened recess of the garage. Out in the dusty orange daylight, a few zekes stumbled toward the entrances as though following. As though knowing the convoy was hiding in there.

  Like the zekes had some kind of intelligence. Could figure enough out to hunt them down.

  Or was it all some kind of sensory system?

  “We need to scrub the mission,” said Braddock as he laid his map out on the hood of the lead vehicle. “Everything to the west is blocked. We’re not getting through.”

  “Negative, Captain. We have to get through. We have to reach Objective...”

  “Listen...” Braddock stabbed a finger at the map. “We’re not getting through with what we’ve got.”

  “I agree,” interrupted Steele. “The odds of survival are now at less than zero.”

  “Then why go on? Why not go back and try another route?”

  “There is no back to go to. The base has been destroyed. The odds for returning safely now...” he paused. “Are less than going forward.”

  The engines idled gutturally, sending plumes of exhaust across the darkness of the parking structure.

  “The only way is forward, Captain. And if this unit does not arrive at Objective Iron Castle before nightfall, then the missiles will launch. Get this convoy through, Captain. It’s the only way now.”

  This unit, wondered Braddock. Why did Steele just use the words “this unit?” Does he mean all of us, or just himself?

  Braddock laid his rifle on the hood of the Humvee. He stepped back and watched the faces in all the windows staring at him. Hardened Tier One operators and highly trained soldiers from the Marines and army and all the other armies that trained the best killers the world had to offer.

  They’d started the day with well over sixty. Now they were down to twenty-two.

  And the civilians.

  And then there were the missiles Steele promised to use on what was left of the world.

  If it were anyone else, Braddock would guess they might be bluffing. But he’d watched Steele nuke a city already. So... he probably wasn’t bluffing. He’d done it before. He’d do it again.

  Steele was watching Braddock. Waiting for a decision. Whether he cared or not wasn’t discernible.

  All right, thought Braddock. All right then. It has to be this way.

  He sucked in a lungful of air and put a finger on the map.

  “We need to fall back to that checkpoint the national guard set up on the freeway.”

  “We must go forward, Captain. It’s the only way.”

  Braddock raised his hand.

  “They had two big fuel haulers there.” He sighed. “I’ll need all the explosives... grenades, det cord, C4, everything we’re carrying.”

  Steele said nothing as he continued to move his head slowly back and forth across the garage. The first zekes were reaching the darkness. A sniper from one of the vehicles began to put them down with suppressed single shots.

  Braddock continued, “I’ll drive the lead hauler into the biggest concentration of zekes at the toll road. We’ll spray fuel all over them and drop explosives throughout the crowd and the abandoned cars on the freeway. The second one will follow. We’ll leave one of the haulers in the center of the densest population cluster. Then we’ll continue on until we’ve reached the far side where the climb up the toll road starts. Once we arrive there, we’ll detonate that hauler we left in the middle of the zekes. The flames will create a temporary corridor to the other side. The rest of the convoy might have a chance to make it through that corridor.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Holiday watched the monitors above the gleaming alloy skeleton taking shape on the surgery table. Watched, Unit Incomplete: Awaiting Skin Harvest/Reclamation and Neural Imaging Download continue to flash on the screen.

  Watched as a small socketed pipe with strange USB port interfaces extended from the close ceiling and inserted into the cranial housing of the metallic horror taking shape on the table. The pipe rotated back and forth quickly and Holiday had the feeling that some immense amount of data, or energy, or something was being transferred. The optic assemblies that were the skeleton’s eyes glowed red after a brief moment of silence.

  Hot Start Boot in 5...

  4...

  3...

  2...

  1...

  Diagnostics Running

  Combat Mode Initiated

  Terminate Virus Protocols in Effect

  Mission Status: Critical

  GPS Tracking: Connected

  And then the thing swiveled its head, prone on that horror show operating table, and stared directly at Holiday.

  Without emotion.

  Without empathy.

  Without love.

  Terminate Virus Protocols in Effect flashed silently on the screen. Over and over.

  The skeleton just stared at him. There wasn’t hate. Just cold appraisal. And then Holiday watched as its camera-optic “eye” assemblies irised in... and focused on him.

  That was when Holiday knew it was time to run.

  He dashed through the obscene mockery of a medical facility-slash-warehouse. Monitors flickered to life as he passed telemetric apparatus that whirred and swerved about on him. As though trying to stop, or terrify him. It was like moving through a forest of angry robot trees, and Holiday was mindful that many of these “trees” had scalpels at the ends of their limbs. When he turned to look back, he saw that the metal skeleton had risen from the operating table. And that it was still staring at him. Watching him go.

  Ahead, a human-sized doorway waited along a clean white wall of hexagonal bulges, barely distinguishable by the gray shadows they cast. Holiday made for the door, ducking beneath a robot arm that swiped at his face with a thin gleaming scalpel. The door was covered in industrial plastic strips and Holiday burst through it, heedless of what lay beyond.

  The only thing that concerned him was the skeleton tha
t would be him once they’d removed his skin. In his mind, Holiday knew it was following him.

  And this was some primal horror he could not name as having an origin, but knew deep down that there was such a thing.

  Beyond the operating room lay the coldest room Holiday had ever been in.

  Instantly it was like being in the arctic. Submerged in a frozen lake. Naked.

  Every surface of the room was covered in stainless cold steel.

  Holiday’s hips ached first. A few steps in and he realized his feet were numb with cold. Frozen even. Ten steps and it felt like he was walking on bloody stumps. He pressed on and kept moving toward an oblong door in the far wall.

  A cold green laser swept across him as a high-pitched scream, much like an ancient modem sped up a thousand times over, erupted through the room.

  A small dull audio thump resonated and the green laser ceased its scan of his body. By then, Holiday felt it was too cold to even take one more step.

  Sleep was all he wanted now.

  Sleep was the only option anyone should ever want. And he knew that the last warmth left in this world would be found in the ball he desperately wanted to curl up into. Even his mind felt slow. As slow as limbs that seemed to respond to thoughts from some distant place. Some other country. He could feel the electrical synapses in his brain exploding in slow-motion pulses that seemed to gallop through an ocean of icy motor oil.

  He was just steps from the door.

  Sleep.

  He felt himself sinking. Sinking to the floor and that fetal position where he would hold the last of the universe’s warmth next to his dying heart. Even though he knew it would be useless. In seconds, or maybe moments, it too would fade from existence. The death of heat. The death of warmth. The death of love, thought Holiday.

  The death of everything.

  This is death also.

  From some far off place, he heard the soft whine of mechanical servos and knew it was the walking alloy skeleton. The machine that would be him. Coming for him now.