Devoured World: Volume One

by Fleet, Ricky

  “Deserters? Why aren’t they rounded up and executed?”

  “It’s all a matter of free will. The empress won’t punish anyone for having had enough of war. When I say deserters, I mean soldiers who’ve fought battle after battle with the infected. They’ve earned their freedom as far as I’m concerned.”

  “That makes sense,” said Zip thoughtfully.

  The doors burst open and the medics poured in, greeted by the half-drunk soldiers. Eric and Tom accepted the proffered drink and sought Andy out.

  “This is for you, buddy,” said Tom, handing over a small envelope.

  “Is it?”

  Eric nodded and squeezed his shoulder.

  “Thank you both.”

  “You’re not going to tell us off for underage drinking?” Zip giggled. The concoction was already having an effect judging by her half-shuttered eyes.

  “As it’s a first offense, I’ll let you off with a warning.”

  “Where are you going?” she said as Andy quietly made his way out of the room.

  A flash of the gift and she smiled knowingly.

  Emerging into the cool, night air, Andy had never been more nervous. The contents of that small package were more terrifying than any amount of enemy gunfire. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, he thought, turning it over and over in his hands.

  “It’s your family,” he whispered to himself, sitting on the cold concrete with his back to the wall of their hut.

  Peeling back the flap, the glossy card tucked within reflected the outpost floodlights. Tracing the sharp outline, he gathered up his courage and plucked the picture out.

  “Turn it over.”

  The white backing goaded him. On the other side was his past, his life, his whole world. They were gone. His initial desire to have something tangible to hold, to remember them by, was waning.

  “We can do it together if you want?” Zip offered, interrupting his anxious musings.

  Andy flinched, nearly dropping the picture. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry,” she replied, sitting down beside him. “The offer still stands.”

  Looking at the unturned picture for long seconds, he slowly slipped it back into the envelope.

  “Not today. I thought I was ready, but I’m not.”

  “Want to get another drink?”

  “Absolutely,” Andy replied.

  Pocketing the card, he stood up and helped Zip to her feet. She staggered forward and fell into his arms. “My bad.”

  “Have you been consuming alcohol tonight, ma’am?” he asked with a stern, authoritarian voice.

  “Not me, occifer,” she said, pretending to be more inebriated than she was. “I’ve only had a glass or two. Of water.”

  “Then it’s time you did,” Andy chuckled, slinging one of her arms over his shoulder.

  “We’re going to feel this in the morning,” Zip warned.

  “Probably, but at least for a few hours that rot will stop us feeling anything at all.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Moving back inside, the card pressed against his thigh, almost insistently. He ignored the imaginary pressure, knowing it was only feelings of guilt. Downing a fresh glass, he surrendered to the tender mercies of the yellow liquor as Smith answered a request for a story. Feeling the spreading glow, Andy closed his eyes and listened.

  Chapter 8

  Corporal Smith, report.

  “Third target located. The hive’s in a small town called North Chester, six miles east of Albion in the Ischua Valley.”

  Estimated numbers at target location?

  “Scanners indicate around fourteen thousand.”

  Any indication of the host strength?

  “Judging by numbers I’d guess she’s a fledgling, probably no more than a year old.”

  Can you get eyes on? Command may send a team to extract the brood mother if the Initiative can use her.

  “I can try. Going radio silent until I can confirm, psy comms only.”

  Understood.

  Smith stood on the valley wall outside of town, staring down. Rows of newer brick-built housing on the outskirts were still standing, their roofs missing only a few tiles. The older, timber homes had started to suffer from the passage of time, some collapsing completely while others leaned like drunkards. Pockets of mutants moved in and out of the dilapidated structures, patrolling, hunting, whatever the mindless creatures did. The high school and massive playing fields lay directly below the rocky promontory. Goal posts on the football pitch rose into the sky, the bleachers behind offering concealing shadows for any lurking threat. In the distance, the town square swarmed with life, revealing the likely location of the queen.

  Moving with exaggerated care, Smith avoided any loose shale or twigs which would give away his position. Hopping between solid ground, he approached the broken, tangled fence, keeping low and hugging the perimeter until reaching the dark seating. Performing a quick sweep with vision as clear as day, the metal framework was empty. The building seemed equally devoid of movement, so he ran past the bandstand towards the open changing room doors.

  This takes me back.

  Many decades had passed since his previous self would charge from the tunnel, wearing full football padding. In the silence, Smith was sure he could hear the faint echoes of those battle cries. Moving inside, the merest hint of sweat and testosterone prickled his nostrils. Then again, it could just be fond memories playing tricks. The colourful bunting hanging from the walls had faded. Notices on the boards had blown loose of the pins as the paper crumbled, settling against a corner further inside the hall. Rows of lockers lined the changing room, the ghosts of the team slamming them closed appearing like wraiths in his memory. Bumping chests and helmets, they turned and surged through Smith, banishing the vision. Moving along the maze of empty hallways, he came to a trophy cabinet. The smiling face of the science club winner beamed from the picture frame, all braces and thick lensed glasses. Looking in those merry eyes, he could sense the underlying sadness in the black circles. It reminded him of Johnny Wiles, the poor kid who drew the undeserved ire of his teammates. Their ill treatment bordered on torture at times.

  What happened to him?

  Smith’s cloned memory was hazy. Snatches of images flowed through his mind; screaming teenagers, running teachers, people gaping through the bathroom door, a pool of blood spreading from the booth. Suicide as a result of bullying they’d called it. A brief suspension had been served by the football players responsible. Their crime was quickly forgotten as a result of their value to the pride of the community.

  Young Steven Smith had never slept a full night thereafter. He would find himself moving sluggishly through the dream forged crowd, accusations etched on their faces. Each step would take long seconds, the edge of the toilet stall gradually revealing the sight within. First a shoe, then a second. A cheap, unfashionable brand of footwear, floating on a sea of blood. The lower legs, then the thighs, a spattering of crimson soaking through the denim. A ghostly white hand, fingers tightly wrapped around a scalpel taken from the science labs. Scarlet droplets splashing into the rapidly spreading pool from the tainted blade. The second hand, a deep red gash rising from the palm to halfway up the forearm. Empty veins hanging from the wound. A face, staring at him, contorted with pain and sadness. The butchered arm, rising, fingers curling impossibly from severed tendons. Pointing at his murderer, the blue lips parted on the frozen rictus of its face. Before the opening mouth could give vent to its hatred, he’d wake from the nightmare bathed in cold sweat. Steven could escape the haunting in the waking world, but not his guilt. Quitting the football team, he’d finished high school and enlisted the next day. He would spend his life defending people, attempting to atone for his imagined sins.

  Johnny’s face vanished as something went clattering to the tiled floor further towards the main entrance. Claws could be heard scraping, followed by snuffles and grunts. Loading his pistol, he checked the suppressor was locked in pl
ace. Shadowy figures crept around the corner, moving in his direction. Keeping tight to the wall, Smith sidled backwards using the cover of the cabinet. Ducking into the nearest classroom, he tried to close the door. The hinges were seized solid, refusing to budge. Moving behind the large teacher’s desk, he crouched and listened. He could make out four distinct movement patterns of varying weights. A short burst from his pistol would be sufficient if they discovered his position. Taking a breath, he became like a statue, legs tensed and finger on the trigger. The weirdly garbled language carried through the open door, before coming to a complete stop.

  Had they seen something? He’d made sure to avoid leaving footprints in the dust. The pause extended as the creatures muttered to each other; the clicking, throaty rattles of their language chilling him. Was it even a language? The Genesis Initiative claimed not, but Smith was damned if he didn’t sense some kind of purpose to it. Just as he was about to stand and unload on the monsters, they moved away. As soon as the sounds receded towards the gym, he left the room with its posters of fading equations and blank chalkboard. The reception led out onto the front of the school. Finding the first human remains on the stone steps, scraps of shredded backpacks still clung to several of the skeletons. Time had done away with the flesh, but the ravages of fangs and claws were still evident on the bones.

  Bastard things! he thought, grinding his teeth in anger.

  Sprinting past the dead, he crossed the street and hugged the first house. Another group of infected came into view three bungalows down. Dropping to the ground, he shuffled backwards through a gap in the broken latticework of the void beneath the home. The patrol passed, and another came into view, then another. They moved in groups of four to eight, leaving only small windows to move freely.

  This isn’t going to work. I’m going to try and use the storm drains.

  Ok, Corporal. Don’t put yourself in unnecessary danger.

  I won’t. If the layout is similar to most towns it’ll take me right to the square.

  Good luck.

  The hunched, long limbed creatures skulked past his hiding place and rounded the corner. Leaving cover, he ran across the road. Hearing the unmistakeable sound of the mutants, Smith hit the ground with his rump and skidded the last few feet through the open drain. Turning his face to the side, he felt the steel graze his helmet. Thankfully, he wasn’t wearing combat armour, or he never would’ve fit through the thin opening. Hitting the bottom of the catchment area, his feet crunched through a layer of twigs, leaves, and general rubbish. Quickly moving down the tunnel, he spun round to see if the creatures had heard the noise. A minute passed without inquisitive faces appearing at the opening and he relaxed. Keeping the pistol aimed straight ahead, Smith navigated the dry passages of the storm network. It was a simple task, taking only five minutes of heading north and listening for the increased activity.

  I’m at the town square. It’s thick with infected. I’m going to try and identify the location of the target.

  Received.

  Shifting position, the sliver of light gave only a sixty-degree field of vision. If he moved any further forward, he would be completely exposed. The courthouse doors were a splintered mess. Dozens of the creatures milled around inside by the security desk, but they weren’t guarding anything, Smith was certain. Moving to the next grate, he could see an old steak restaurant and another building alongside it. The sign had long ago fallen, but he could make out the letters Pacific Bank imprinted vaguely on the weathered stone.

  Clever, very clever.

  The brunt of the mutant forces was gathered around the perimeter. Hundreds of the creatures lined the street, with more hovering on the rooftop and peering from the windows with their thick steel bars.

  I’ve found her. She’s in a bank, likely hiding in the vault. It’s the most secure location in the town.

  Is there any way to confirm her size?

  If you can provide a distraction I can try and get inside.

  What do you suggest?

  A Magjet flypast, land in the school fields to the south. Lob a few displacement grenades and then get the hell out of dodge. While they investigate, I’ll get inside.

  Roger. Magjet will be dispatched in five. ETA to you, thirty-five minutes.

  I’ll sit tight.

  Smith sidled back into the darkness and crouched down, readying himself mentally for the attack. He would have mere minutes before the mutants would swarm back to protect their mistress. The storm culverts would get him to the edge of town and out of danger, but it would be tight. As he waited, the hidden sun moved sluggishly across the muddy, brown sky. Like a ghost remembering its old life, it yearned to pierce the veil and bring warming comfort to the living.

  Corporal, you’ve got incoming.

  Roger that.

  Inhuman shrieks of warning tore through the town square. Smith could feel the multitudes race away through the concrete tunnel. Feeling the air change, dust motes rose from his hiding place as the grenades drew greedily on their surroundings. As the implosions let loose their gathered power, the multiple detonations rattled the heavy metal grate.

  Time to go!

  Pushing the cover up and over, he jumped out like a jack-in-the-box. The previously teeming space was left with only a few stragglers; the ones whose limbs were too twisted or rotten to allow swift movement. Short bursts from his pistol ended their misery, the slugs liquefying organs as they fragmented. To the south, three more rumbles carried through the ground, causing a weakened wooden building to collapse into its hollow basement. Funnelled by the protective bars, the remaining queens guard poured down the steps of the bank straight into Smith’s strafing fire. Several of the creatures were cut in two, the bullets severing their upper body like the swipe of a scythe. Leaping over the leaking corpses, Smith charged past the offices and teller counters. Another set of steps led down from the lobby. Much like a lot of the smaller banks, the top and bottom was guarded by iron bars that wouldn’t be out of place in an Old West jail. Resin secretions coated the walls, fresh and dripping. A nervous bleating came from below.

  Host has been located. Moving to confirm.

  In times of increased criminality, the banks had spared no expense on the vault itself, in spite of the simple security measures up to this point. The twelve-inch-thick, dual lock time-controlled door was ajar, the rods of the locking Mechanism resembling the spokes of a wheel. Puffy grey flesh shuddered inside as the host moved deeper into the reinforced shell. He’d seen enough to judge her value and moved no closer. In spite of their flabby seeming bulk, they could move rapidly when threatened.

  Smith to base. She’s a baby, less than a year old.

  Damn.

  Orders?

  Get clear and we’ll level the three towns with a missile barrage.

  Roger that.

  Backtracking, he left the bank and jumped into the open drain. Reaching for the grate, an arm lashed out, breaking the fingers that clasped the handle.

  “Fuck,” he hissed, cradling the damaged hand.

  By the luck of the gods it was his left hand that flopped uselessly, not the right. Bodies crammed themselves through the gap in their desperation to get to him. Firing the remaining ammunition into the crush, blood rained down onto the concrete. The droplets hit the dust covered surface, forming into perfect orbs of powder coated plasma. The blockage bought him valuable seconds, and he sprinted away as the creatures above ground burrowed frenziedly through their kin.

  I’m blown, they’re all over me.

  Can you get to an extraction point?

  It’s too dangerous for extraction. I’ll try and lose them in the hills.

  Understood. Corporal, your readings show you’ve suffered trauma.

  A few broken fingers, nothing too bad. I’ll administer cyclomeine as soon as I get clear.

  Good luck.

  Smith, out.

  Shrieks echoed down the passage leading back to the school. He was cut off. Thinking rapidly on the layout o
f the town and his corresponding position, Smith knew he was only a few hundred yards from the outer homes. Their gardens opened up onto wilderness, and possibly safety. Dodging down a branch in the system, he listened at the nearest cover. Screams of rage were coming from all around, but the biggest concentration of noise was to the rear. Knowing he had no choice, Smith climbed the ladder with his good hand. Using the back of his left, he sent the cover clattering to the cracked road. Emerging from the ground like a troll, he picked his shots carefully, clearing a small path between a couple of Edwardian style homes. Dodging over the mutants as they gurgled their last breath, he could feel the horror bearing down on him, feel their red eyes boring into the back of his head. Yells of hunger caused his skin to crawl.

  Passing between dead cars and windblown piles of uncleared rubbish, he made it to the row of houses backing onto the rolling hills. Shoulder barging a locked gate, time had weakened the timber, causing it to disintegrate in a puff of dust and soft slivers. Clearing the empty twelve-foot-wide pool in one jump, he spun on his heels and unloaded a half magazine through the house and its neighbour. Already teetering, the impact of the bullets tearing through structural supports finished them and they collapsed, sealing the small alleyways at either side.

  As he powered up the hill, he could hear the scrabbling sounds of the mutants as they surged over the destruction. Smith’s options were rapidly running out. He could never outrun them in the long term; after twenty miles he would start to flag, and they would overwhelm him. His weapon only had three magazines left, nowhere near enough to kill them all. Blaze of glory? It seemed the only logical thing to do. He’d tagged the location of the queen for the missiles, if only he could get back to the bank. Shoot the host, seal the door, and wait for the cleansing fire. It was preferable to being eaten alive.

  Base, I’m done. These things are all over me. Requesting…

  Coming to a halt on one of the bluffs, Smith could see the Sable Dam in the distance. An idea sprung to life in his head.