Orbs II: Stranded

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

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  ALSO BY NICHOLAS SANSBURY SMITH

  FROM THE ORBS SERIES

  Solar Storms

  White Sands

  Orbs

  The Biomass Revolution

  Squad 19

  A Royal Knight

  To my friends at Simon451 for all the support and encouragement, and for believing in me and the Orbs series—especially my editor, Brit Hvide

  PROLOGUE

  THE waking sun cast a brilliant glow over the wasteland as it crawled higher into the morning sky. Rays of scorching light carpeted the remnants of lakebeds and extinct rivers, unveiling the sun-bleached bones of dead trees that littered the harsh landscape.

  Alex Wagner cleared his visor of grime, wishing he could wipe away the beads of sweat forming inside his helmet. The ventilation system in the suit he had swiped off a dead NTC soldier had stopped working yesterday.

  He adjusted his lean, athletic body inside the oversized suit. The damned hunk of armor was more of a detriment than anything. He glanced down at the exposed skin of his forearm beneath the foot-long claw mark in the suit. Standing there under the blistering heat of the sun, he imagined what the soldier he’d taken the suit from had been thinking in the moments before his death. A blur of images entered his mind and then solidified into a vivid picture. The razor-sharp claws slashing through the air, the guttural shrieks of the aliens hunting the NTC soldier. Alex could see it all, because he too had experienced it, and the memory made his skin crawl.

  A gust of wind whistled past his suit, peppering his visor with dirt. Alex flinched. Squinting, he blinked several times to avoid the burning sweat dripping from his forehead and checked the temperature reading on his HUD.

  One hundred degrees.

  Could that be right? He checked his mission clock; it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. If the reading was correct, it meant the temperature was rising faster than he thought. But maybe it was wrong. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

  He peered back down at the claw mark in his suit. The damage to the suit had probably destroyed more than just the ventilation system. Cursing under his breath, he pushed on through the hissing sand. When the wind cleared, he caught a glimpse of the wasteland around him.

  Like a photograph, the world appeared in a simple, frozen pane through his visor’s glass. He halted to take in the view, his boots sliding to a stop in the loose sand. In the valley below, the dead branches of leafless trees reached toward the white sun. A deep groove from a dried-up river snaked through the cracked red dirt. Beyond the cluster of trees he could see the hint of a road, two dusty trucks sitting idly where they had been abandoned on invasion day.

  Taking in a measured breath, Alex closed his eyes to listen to this new world. The sound of death echoed inside his helmet: the cracking of a dying tree branch, the desperate bark of a starving dog somewhere in the distance, and the memories of the people screaming as he watched them die. It was a chorus playing on repeat, and he knew it would be with him until he, too, died.

  Alex couldn’t grasp why he had survived, while so many others had perished. What made him so lucky?

  He pushed on, trying to recall the series of events that had led him here. The time line blurred like the heat waves on the horizon.

  He could remember signing on the dotted line, promising six months of his life to a Biosphere team. But he still wasn’t sure why they had picked him. He wasn’t anything special. He wasn’t a genius or even exceptionally smart. Five weeks before the invasion, he had simply been a history teacher and assistant football coach for the local high school team. Sure, he’d had a good run as a wide receiver in college, so good that he’d drawn the attention of a few NFL scouts before he blew out his knee, but that didn’t explain NTC’s interest in him. There were millions of people better suited for the project. Divorced and saddled with student loan debt, Alex was hardly the best candidate for an NTC-run Biosphere team.

  Yet they had recruited him. His decision to accept their offer might have even saved his life. But for how long?

  With the surface water gone, the temperature would continue to rise, baking the Earth’s surface. Trees would die and stop producing oxygen, filling the atmosphere with unbreathable levels of carbon dioxide. Alex hadn’t taken a science class since college, but even he knew what was happening. He had a front-row seat to the end of the world.

  The Earth was dying, and so was the human race—what was left of it, anyway.

  Alex stumbled over a rock as he continued deeper into the valley. His helmet bobbed up and down, his dry lips smacking together with every step. The heat was nearly unbearable, and he was low on water, but still he remained focused, vigilant.

  He hadn’t seen any of the aliens for hours now, and he hadn’t come face-to-face with any since they had attacked his Biosphere. The memory was still fresh, hemorrhaging like an open wound.

  Four days earlier, he had been sitting in the mess hall with nine of his teammates, chatting over plates of pasta that he had cooked himself. They heard the faint scratching and scraping noise first. Then came the terrible high-pitched shrieks that made him want to cup his ears. A brilliant blue glow followed moments later as dozens of the spiderlike creatures emerged from the ceiling.

  He’d escaped into a sewage line, covered in hog manure and his friends’ blood. At first he’d hesitated and turned to go back, but what he saw from inside that tunnel changed his mind—the Spiders spinning his screaming colleagues into orbs. He crawled away like a coward minutes after, tears streaming down his filthy face.

  He shook away these thoughts and continued walking, his eyes darting back and forth as he scanned the landscape for signs of the monsters. He focused on a dust-covered road sign in the distance.

  His plan was simple: head west, toward the ocean. The Biosphere had been located in an abandoned missile silo on the outskirts of Edwards Air Force Base in California. Alex, a Maryland native, had little knowledge of the local geography and could only guess that he was now somewhere northwest of the base. After escaping the attack, he had headed as far away from Edwards as possible. He didn’t need a military background to know the Organics were probably swarming there. After four days of traveling, he knew he had to be close. Maybe he’d get to see the Pacific before he died, after all . . . if it was still there.

  An abrupt and powerful windblast knocked him into a boulder, his armor meeting the rock with a crunch. As he pushed himself off the dirt, he caught a glimpse of something. The sky to the west seemed different; there was a blue wall on the horizon. It couldn’t be. Could it?

  It looked a lot like rain.

  Another wind gust tore into his side, knocking him to his knees.

  He grunted, pain racing through his body. He was burning up in his suit, and the inside of his helmet felt like a furnace. Sweat stung his eyes. He winced, waiting for the burning to subside. For a former college athlete, he wasn’t in the best shape, but at least his damned knee wasn’t acting up.

  As his vision cleared, he saw something odd about the rain: It was traveling up, into the sky.

  Were his eyes playing a trick on him? Was his body finally succumbing to dehydration?

  He forced himself deeper into the valley, heading for the rocky hills to the west. Blinking swea
t from his eyes, he tried to focus on the phenomenon in the distance.

  What the hell was it?

  The rainstorm appeared beyond the rocks, but just how far beyond he wasn’t sure. Alex paused to marvel at the sky. He licked his dry lips with grim fascination, his gaze locked onto the strange rain. He knew he didn’t have the energy to travel much farther, but he was curious, and his curiosity propelled him forward across the dead landscape.

  An hour later he reached the last embankment of the valley. Gasping for air, he began to climb, clawing his way up the loose dirt. Rocks and dead vegetation rained down the hill behind him. By the time he reached the top he could hardly breathe. He inhaled, closing his eyes as air filled his lungs.

  “Just a little farther,” he muttered.

  From the hilltop he could see a tan beach extending along the shoreline for miles, but where there would normally have been sunbathers, there was a graveyard of boats. Hulls were twisted in all directions, their cargo littered across the sand.

  The ocean had receded far beyond the buoys that had once warned boats away from rocky areas. Now, they stuck out of the sand like dormant missiles. Miles away, the wall of water rose out of the ocean where it was still deep and blue.

  He followed the rain with his eyes until it disappeared into the sky. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they must be there. Somewhere above him, the aliens had a ship that was draining the sea.

  Alex shook his head and another bead of sweat dropped into his eye. He grimaced, waiting for the pain to subside. To the east, rectangular buildings rose up out of the ground, the structures flickering in the heat waves. Civilization meant resources, which meant water and food. But it also meant danger. Spiders tended to congregate near cities and towns.

  He hesitated, painfully aware of the dryness in his throat. Alex knew he was going to die, one way or another. It wasn’t a matter of if, just a matter of when and how. And he had two choices: die from dehydration, or die like the NTC soldier that had worn the suit before him.

  Neither option was particularly appealing. He took one last look at the wall of rain over his shoulder and started down the other side of the hill.

  * * *

  Alex approached the buildings cautiously, scanning for aliens. There was no sign of movement besides the blur of a miniature dust tornado brewing in the distance. He paused, listening for any hint of the creatures’ shrieks. Just because he didn’t see them didn’t mean they couldn’t detect him. That was another thing he had picked up during the last four days: If he wanted to stay alive, he had to keep focused.

  He checked his HUD again. The display revealed no signs of life. Hesitating, he strained to listen one more time. Besides the wind, he heard nothing but the whining sound of a strained power line.

  Satisfied, he entered civilization for the first time in days; a neighborhood, much like the one he’d grown up in, sprawled out in front of him.

  He checked the road to ensure it was clear and then took off running into the yard across the street. The tall blades of prairie grass snapped like twigs as he passed through them. Nothing green remained, not a single leaf.

  Alex’s vision fogged over. Gritting his teeth, he narrowed his eyes and tried to focus on the house in front of him, but the effects of dehydration were taking over. He rested against a child’s swing set and listened again for the familiar scratching of Spiders. Wiping his visor clean, he saw the filthy glass doors leading into the house. They were covered in dust and dirt, but otherwise unscathed. He checked the windows; they too seemed to be undisturbed. His HUD still looked clear. Everything appeared safe.

  The thought gave him pause. Nothing was safe, not anymore.

  Five quick paces across the yard and he was at the door, resting his back against the house’s aged siding. His first impulse was to break the glass, but instead he tried the handle. It clicked, unlocked.

  He grinned with relief at the small victory as he slipped through the opening, but his smile was short-lived. Inside he was greeted by a dark room. Only a few rays of sunlight bled through the curtains to guide him. Standing there in the shadows, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by fear. Slowly, he reached down and drew his combat knife out of its sheath.

  The knife shook in his gloved hand. Holding the weapon did not feel natural. He was a teacher, not a soldier, and he had never been a fan of weapons. But this was a different world—a world where he had no choice but to protect himself.

  Crossing the room cautiously, he tiptoed toward the kitchen, the knife held out before him. He froze again when he saw the undisturbed room. Three plates were arranged neatly on the table for a family that would never eat together again. The room was an eerie relic from another time, when food, water, and shelter were taken for granted; a time when people’s biggest concern was whether they would be able to make their credit card payment. The world had changed overnight. Bills no longer mattered. Monsters were real. And water was the most important commodity of all.

  Shaking the scene from his thoughts, he made his way to the fridge, opening the door to reveal a bottle of rotten milk and a few cans of beer. A week earlier, he would have jumped at the sight of a beer, but now the cans did nothing but make him crave water even more. He closed the door slowly and turned to the cabinets. The first two held nothing but spices and a few boxes of rigatoni. The next two were full of dusty glasses and plates. With a sigh, he closed them and moved on to the fifth. He licked his chapped lips out of habit, noticing that the blood had dried up.

  He swung the door open, desperate to find something to quench his thirst or satisfy his hunger. Inside were a can of beans, a can of soup, and a couple boxes of cereal.

  Someone must have looted the house before him. Something inside him brightened at the idea. Maybe that person was still out there. Maybe he wasn’t alone after all. He opened up his backpack and dropped the beans and soup inside to eat later, and walked back through the hallway.

  He passed a door that was open a crack. Sliding his fingers into the gap, he slowly opened it farther, revealing a dark utility closet. His heart raced when he saw the outline of a water heater. He recalled the documentary about civilians who survived the solar storms of 2055. A man whose name escaped him had lived for three months off the water inside his water heater.

  He clicked on his flashlight and swept the beam over the dark space. Crouching, he took one step inside the room. His heart sank when he felt his boot slide through a gooey substance.

  He closed his eyes, sucked in a measured breath, and then angled the light at the floor. He knew what the substance was, but wanted to see it with his own eyes. When they snapped open, he saw the remains of an orb.

  “My God,” he said, pulling his boot out of the sticky material. He was alone after all. There was nothing left of whoever had taken refuge in the closet, nor was there any water left in the small heater, which had a claw mark across the length of the metal.

  Alex didn’t bother closing the door. The orb was relatively fresh, not the dried-out type he had come across before. He knew the aliens were probably still nearby. Moving slowly across the carpeted floor, he decided to head upstairs. He wanted a view of the block, to see if he was right—to see if they were still there. Gripping the combat knife tightly, he ducked around the next corner and stopped at the bottom of a large wooden staircase that led to the second floor.

  The stairs creaked under the weight of his boots, and he cursed under his breath. He winced with each step, every fiber in the wood creaking as he moved.

  To his relief, carpet covered the hallway at the top of the stairs. His boots sank silently into the material, and for a second he felt a brief reprieve from the fear. The first door to his right led to a bedroom. In the corner he could see a window looking over the street below. To his left was a small bathroom.

  He checked the sink first. It was bone dry. Then his eyes fell on the toilet. Never in his life had he thou
ght the sight of a toilet would fill him with such hope. His eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning when he lifted the lid and saw a few ounces of cloudy water in the bowl.

  Swinging his backpack onto the floor, he crouched and retrieved the straw he had lifted from a fast-food restaurant. The utensil had already come in handy on several occasions. He closed his eyes as he bent to his knees and started sucking the water down his dry throat, trying not to think about the germs. The odd sound echoed through the quiet house, but he no longer cared. All that mattered was water.

  When the bowl was dry, he stood to check the tank. It was half full, but the water was a reddish-brown, more than likely a result of rust from the chain.

  Was it safe? Did it even matter?

  He hesitated, staring at the murky liquid. It could be his last chance to find drinkable water for days. Especially if the Organics were nearby. He couldn’t risk entering another house; he had already gotten lucky once.

  As he filled his canteen with the reddish-brown water from the tank, an alarming shriek broke through the silence. He fumbled with the bottle, nearly spilling the liquid on the floor. The sound faded away as quickly as it had emerged.

  He froze. Several silent seconds passed. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Had the sound just been a fluke? Some pipe creaking in the bowels of the house?

  Another screech tore through the stillness.

  That was the sound they made. The aliens were close.

  The hair on Alex’s neck stood up. Another shriek followed. Shocked into motion, he scooped up the last of the water from the tank and rushed back into the hallway. He scanned the passage. Should he risk going downstairs, or should he find a place to hide?

  He remembered the creaky stairs and decided against trying to escape. Instead, he slipped into the first bedroom. He looked over the room quickly, and saw it was furnished with a twin bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. In the corner of the room, next to the window, there was a tall closest, the perfect hiding place.