SecondWorld

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Down!” he shouted as he dove to the pavement and slid beneath a truck. Vesely dove beneath the truck with him. Miller searched the area for any small red lights and found Pale Horse beneath a vehicle two rows over.

  A loud pulsating electric hum filled the air. It sounded like the Beehive, but crackled with energy. The hum grew louder, passing above them.

  “Is Bell,” Vesely whispered, pointing up.

  The thing was airborne.

  Movement to the side caught Miller’s attention. He turned as Pale Horse rolled from one car to the next. The hum grew louder for a moment and then the two miniguns opened up on the pavement where Pale Horse had just been.

  “Don’t move!” Miller said.

  While the little robo-bombs seemed to be attracted to body heat, zeroing in on the source before exploding, whatever patrolled the air above them responded to motion.

  While the thing wouldn’t climb under the cars looking for them, they couldn’t move.

  Unless, Miller thought, it can’t see us.

  The air was already thick with red flakes and smoke from a number of burning vehicles, but the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. What they needed was a fire in the other direction.

  Miller shifted back toward the alley.

  “Survivor,” Vesely whispered loudly. “What are you doing?”

  But Miller didn’t respond. The hum was off to the side and Miller didn’t think the thing would have a good line of sight. At the edge of the vehicle, he peeked out and glanced at the now red sky. Nothing. He rolled out from beneath the truck, grabbed the robo-bomb, and rolled back. The maneuver took just two seconds, but had somehow attracted the sentinel’s attention. It hummed loudly as it closed in.

  Miller moved back under the truck and slid up next to Vesely. “I’m going to take this a few cars down and—”

  “Give to me,” Vesely said, reaching for the robot. “I build things. Electronics. Will start motor.”

  Miller let him take the device. The Cowboy seemed to understand his plan.

  Using a knife, Vesely removed four screws from the bottom of the robot. He removed the black cover from the outer ring. The internal design was fairly straightforward, like an oddly shaped remote-control car. “Still functional,” Vesely said. “Just lacks input to tell it ‘move forward.’”

  Vesely found the throttle and pushed it forward. The little wheels spun quickly as the engine whirred. He pushed the throttle all the way forward and pinned it in place using one of the free screws. The two men lay side by side, looking down a line of cars that stretched a hundred feet. Vesely lined the robo-bomb up as straight as possible.

  Miller rolled to the back side of the truck. “Go!”

  Vesely let the robot go and it zipped away, moving quickly beneath the line of cars. The hum grew louder as the hovering sentinel tracked the robo-bomb’s movement.

  Miller rolled out from beneath the truck and got his first look at what was firing the miniguns. The black, vaguely bell-shaped craft hovered thirty feet above the parking lot. A bright light glowed at the bottom, flickering in time with the loud crackles. A minigun had been attached to either side. Miller was happy to see the weapons tracking the robo-bomb as it appeared and disappeared between each car it passed.

  The guns opened fire, tearing into the line of cars as it chased the fast-moving robot.

  Miller ran the other way.

  Behind him, Miller heard what sounded like a war. The guns never stopped firing. Spent shell casings rained down from the craft, rattling against pavement and metal. There was a loud whuff as one, or more, of the vehicles ignited. And then, there was an explosion. Miller recognized the sound as the robo-bomb detonating. The sentinel had destroyed one of its own.

  Miller stopped, bent down, grabbed what he needed, and sprinted back the way he came. The chaos that greeted him was far better than he’d hoped for. At least four cars were on fire and billowing thick black smoke into the air—smoke that was being pulled in his direction. In fact, his plan had worked so well that he could no longer see the minigun-wielding Bell. But he could hear it, hovering in the smoke, no doubt trying to make sense of its surroundings.

  Miller reached the spot where Vesely lay hiding and continued past.

  Smoke rolled over him and he held his breath. The hot grime stung his eyes, which began to tear. But he kept searching the haze for his enemy. He found the dull glow moving toward him just a moment later. He stopped, took aim at the light, and waited.

  A gust of wind cleared the air around the Bell and Miller tossed his explosive payload like a discus player. The sightless, but still explosive robo-bomb sailed through the air.

  Off target.

  But Miller didn’t need to strike the hovering Bell, he only needed it to see the robot. A moment later it did. As the disk-shaped bomb closed to within ten feet of the Bell, both miniguns opened fire.

  Miller dove beneath a car.

  The bomb exploded, sending a wave of hot air over Miller.

  But there was no secondary explosion. Or the sound of the Bell falling from the sky. Just the hum of the thing. But the hum was different. Instead of pulsating, it was now intermittent. The sound began to fade.

  Miller came out from hiding and watched the wounded machine come down at an angle. The bright light at its base flickered. Every time the light went out, the device lost altitude. A loud crash rolled over the parking lot as the Bell slammed into, and through, the front of the NSSB. Glass shattered and exploded inward.

  Vesely and Pale Horse ran up to Miller.

  “Holy geez,” Pale Horse said. “What the hell was that?”

  “Is Bell,” Vesely said.

  “Long story,” Miller added, and ran toward the building. He wanted to be inside before any other automated security joined the party. They reached the ruined front end of the building. There was a wide hole where the Bell crashed through. “Open sesame,” Miller said, and stepped inside.

  The trio entered the large, open lobby one at a time, weapons at the ready. Only Miller had training with breaching and clearing a building, but Vesely and Pale Horse had apparently seen enough movies to be competent. Or they were just following Miller’s lead as he swept his weapon back and forth, looking for targets. Convinced they were alone for the moment, Miller said, “Clear,” and relaxed his stance.

  The place looked like a tornado had moved through. The once chic lobby, decorated with tall, living plants and modern art sculptures, was coated in a layer of human detritus. Food wrappers, empty bottles, strewn papers, lost luggage, even a tipped-over moped. Not to mention a smoldering Bell. Miller steered clear of the Bell and worked his way toward the back of the lobby.

  “Now what?” Vesely asked.

  “Now,” Miller said, pointing to a trail of trash leading down a hallway, “we follow the bread crumbs.”

  The trail of debris led to a now-abandoned security check point—metal detectors for people and luggage. A second security station held rows of computer monitors connected to what looked like rows of miniature centrifuges. There were several large red trash bins marked with biohazard symbols. Each and every one was overfull with used needles. “What the hell?” Miller whispered.

  Vesely pointed to the centrifuges. “DNA testing. For purity.”

  “Unbelievable,” Miller said before moving on.

  The floor behind the security checks had been torn up. Shattered wood and ripped-up linoleum tiles sat stacked beyond the hole. Miller slid between the metal detectors in case they were still active, and approached the hole. A staircase shot straight down several stories.

  “They’ve been walking right over it for years,” Pale Horse said. “Where does it go?”

  Vesely started down the stairs. “Down.”

  The three men took the stairs as quickly and quietly as they could. Nearing the bottom, they slowed. The stairs ended in what looked like a subway station straight out of Nazi Germany. Red, white, and black propaganda posters lined the walls, proclaimin
g the superiority of the Aryan race, the rise of the Fourth Reich, and the messianic return of the Führer.

  Miller stopped at the bottom of the staircase. He heard voices. He couldn’t risk looking without exposing himself, but he could hear two men. He leaned close to Vesely and Pale Horse and whispered, “Take me by the arms, like I’m injured. Drag me out. Lay on some more of that German.” He placed his hands behind his back, clutching the silenced handgun.

  The two men understood the plan and placed their arms under his, hoisting him up between them. Miller hung his head down and let his feet drag as the two men pulled him out into the secret terminal.

  “Who the hell are you?” asked a man’s voice.

  “Help us,” Pale Horse said. “He’s been shot.”

  “Are you here for the last shuttle? It’s the last one.” This was a woman’s voice.

  “C’mon now,” Pale Horse said. “There are ten of you.”

  Ten of them! Miller thought. Shit.

  “Why do they have guns?” asked another woman.

  “Ich werde verschlingen Ihre Kinder!” Vesely shouted.

  “What did you say?” a man asked, but it sounded more like, “Vaht dis you say?” An honest-to-goodness German accent.

  Busted.

  He heard a weapon slide being racked, drew his silenced sidearm, aimed toward the sound, looked up, and fired twice. Pft! Pft!

  A man in full World War II German regalia toppled to the floor, two neat finger-sized holes in his head.

  Two more men dressed in blue security guard uniforms took aim, but were stumbling back from the action, caught off guard. Vesely and Pale Horse wasted no time drawing their weapons, but in the time it took Pale Horse to aim, Vesely had shot both men in the head with his UMP.

  The nearly silent gunfight took three seconds and left seven petrified people in its wake. Judging by the similar facial features and variety of ages, Miller guessed this was a family. Three generations’ worth.

  A baby cried.

  Four generations.

  The mother of the baby, a pretty blonde who couldn’t have been more than a few days over eighteen, said, “Please don’t shoot us!”

  The family huddled in a corner. The grandparents stood at the front, ready to take a bullet for their brood.

  A part of Miller that sought blood for blood wanted to take the baby, gun the rest down, and be done with it. These people had no problem allowing the rest of the human race to be wiped out.

  But he couldn’t kill in cold blood. He saw an open door in the terminal’s white tile wall. He motioned to the door with his gun. “Get in.”

  The family filed into the large storage closet.

  “Please,” said the young mother. “Don’t leave us down here. The air—”

  “If you don’t want to die,” Miller said through clenched teeth, “then you better start praying we can stop—”

  The second oldest man—the baby’s grandfather—spit in Miller’s face and wound up to take a swing at him.

  Miller punched the man in the gut, doubling him over, and then put him on the floor with a punch to the face. He wiped the spit off his cheek and said, “Lock them in.”

  Pale Horse held the door shut while Vesely wedged a chair under the handle.

  Miller’s heart thumped with anger. It took everything he had not to shoot that man. He walked toward the boarding ramp and heard an electric zap to his right. Light emerged from the tunnel first, followed by a sleek red subway car. The car was aerodynamic on both ends and the three sets of double doors were emblazoned with the SecondWorld symbol. It hovered over a pair of strange-looking tracks and was attached to a cable above it, that sparked as it moved. The car came to a stop and the doors opened. Miller saw the engineer glance over, looking for his fare, but instead finding three dead men.

  The man’s eyes popped open, registered Miller’s approach. The doors began to shut, but Miller threw himself onto the car and shot the man twice in the back. Feeling no remorse for killing the man who was about to speed away with their ticket into Dulce, Miller dragged the body out of the train and laid it on the floor.

  Miller stood over the four dead men. There was surprisingly little blood from the three shot in the head. The rounds had entered the skull, but not come out. Vesely and Pale Horse joined him.

  “What are you doing?” Vesely asked, heading for the train. “We must go.”

  “Hold on,” Miller said. “Let’s change our clothes first.”

  Vesely looked down at the dead and gave a nod.

  Five minutes later, they stood on the train. Vesely and Pale Horse were dressed as guards. He had debated with Vesely about him still wearing his cowboy hat and holstered .38s, but the man claimed victory after pointing out that they were in the southwest, where a Stetson combined with his perfected Southern drawl wouldn’t stand out. “If anything,” he claimed, “they will be admired.”

  Miller wore the German’s uniform, which he realized after counting stars belonged to a general. He hoped the uniform’s intimidation factor would keep people from inspecting his face too closely. It wouldn’t help to have “the Survivor” recognized.

  He sat down behind the controls, which were simple enough. Vesely and Pale Horse stood behind him. Miller looked back and said, “I think this thing has harnesses for a reason.”

  The two men looked at the side-facing rows of seats. Double-strap harnesses hung from each chair. The two men sat down and quickly buckled themselves.

  “How fast can it go?” Pale Horse said, sounding doubtful. “It’s a train.”

  Miller put his hand on the throttle. “We’re about to find out.”

  He shoved the throttle all the way forward.

  The train accelerated faster than any of the three thought possible. Faster than the F/A-18 Hornets. And without the anti-G suits keeping the blood in their heads, all three passed out and spent the first ten minutes of the twelve-minute, eighty-mile trip unconscious.

  When Miller came to, it was to the sound of an alarm and a flashing display screen that read COLLISION WARNING.

  Below that text was a distance counter, ticking down feet quickly. When he first saw it, the number was at five thousand feet—just under a mile. By the time he shook his head clear and looked again, it was down to two thousand feet.

  Miller felt a rush of adrenaline surge into his body with the realization that he had only seconds to live.

  54

  Miller yanked the throttle all the way back. The car slowed, but continued forward. The distance counter continued to roll.

  Seven hundred feet.

  Miller looked for the brake, but couldn’t find it.

  Five hundred feet.

  Shit!

  Three hundred feet.

  The car suddenly dropped, struck the bottom of the magnetic track, and slid with an ear-piercing shriek.

  One hundred and fifty feet.

  The seat’s harness dug into Miller’s shoulder. His vision began to fade as the car rapidly slowed.

  With a jolt, the pressure on his body eased. His vision returned. They’d stopped. To the right was a subway station nearly identical to the one they’d left—white tile walls and Nazi propaganda posters. If anyone staying here had any doubts upon entering, they’d be brainwashed by the time they left.

  Miller unbuckled and turned around. Vesely sat frozen with his eyes wide. His hand was raised and clutching a metal cable. A sign above the cable read EMERGENCY BRAKE.

  Vesely had saved their lives.

  “What happened?” Pale Horse asked as he freed himself from the harness.

  “Is maglev train,” Vesely said. “Magnets hold train above track. It hovers. No friction.”

  Pale Horse rubbed his neck. The rapid acceleration had yanked his head hard to the side. “That’s why we were moving like a bat outta Hell?”

  Vesely answered with a nod. “Emergency brake cut power to magnets. Train fell. Friction stopped us.”

  “Did more than that,” Mille
r said, smelling smoke. He walked to the doors and had to force them open with his hands. Two men in red uniforms approached quickly. One held a fire extinguisher. Before they arrived, Miller stepped out of the car and did his best to look pissed. Vesely and Pale Horse followed.

  “What happened?” asked one of the men, while the other blasted the smoking base of the subway car with the fire extinguisher.

  “This piece of shit malfunctioned,” Pale Horse said.

  Vesely backed up the claim. “I had to use the emergency brake.”

  “That’s not possible, I—”

  Miller drew his sound-supressed sidearm and shot the man in the forehead. The silent cough of the weapon was drowned out by the hiss of the fire extinguisher. The man putting out the fire had no idea his partner had been killed.

  Miller quickly scanned the area. A large door that looked like it had been taken from a bank vault was the only exit. It was currently closed. A security panel to the right had a numbered keypad and palm reader.

  “How will we get through?” Vesely whispered.

  The door opened from the other side. Three more men dressed in red coveralls and carrying an assortment of toolboxes entered the terminal.

  They saw the dead man right away, but before they could retreat, Miller and Vesely shot all three. The door tried to close, but stopped against the body of a man who’d fallen in the doorway. The heavy motorized door persisted, squeezing the man’s body. Pale Horse ran for the door, but before he could reach it, the door started moving again, and this time, didn’t stop until it was securely closed.

  Blood poured from the lower half of the man’s severed body, pooling around the door.

  “Oh my God, what happened!” shouted the man with the fire extinguisher.

  He ran to the severed legs, dropping the extinguisher. “What happened!” he shouted again, and looked to Miller. That’s when he saw his dead partner and Miller’s gun aimed at his face.

  The man’s hands shot up, which Miller took as a good sign. He wanted to live.

  “What’s your name?” Miller asked. He walked toward the man, keeping the gun leveled at his head the whole time.