Raptor Apocalypse

by Steve R. Yeager

  “Deceptive strikes, Cory. And, good,” LaPaz said, presumably commenting on the refusal of his offer. He then performed a demonstration strike with his sword, showing where he would have struck Cory.

  “Lesson over,” LaPaz said. He tossed his sword away and opened his arms.

  Warily, Cory clasped hands with the man and was lifted and embraced. He relaxed. And then he was shoved. Once again, he toppled over backward and landed flat on his ass.

  “You need to think, Cory,” LaPaz said. “Don’t be so hasty. I can read every move you plan to make. They are written in your expressions. This is something you must learn to suppress. You must learn to hide your intentions, for deception is paramount. It’s what this is all about, my friend. It is what I’ve been trying to teach you all along.”

  The professor went to fetch a towel.

  “Yes, professor,” he said, cowed. He did not like calling Juan LaPaz by his first name, even though the man insisted on him doing so. He did not yet feel worthy. Perhaps one day he would, but not today. He also did not enjoy being made to look like a fool or the constant lectures, but he endured, sucking it all up and taking whatever was thrown at him.

  “Deception is always the best course of action,” LaPaz said, mopping his face with the towel. “Lying to others is what we do every single day. Life outside ourselves is a deception. Remember that. But, remember this too, you must never, never fall into the trap of lying to yourself.”

  Cory knew all this. It was repetitive. Although, knowing it and doing something about it were two completely different things. The professor made a fist on his chest. His face twisted into a sour grimace.

  “You okay?” Cory asked.

  LaPaz nodded and glanced at the clock in the room. “Yeah, I’m hungry, that’s all. I’ll be fine,” he said. “Speaking of that, it’s almost time for dinner. Shall we?” He went to retrieve his sword. With a flourish, he traced a figure-eight pattern in the air with the blade. He then brought it up in front of his face and bowed low. Cory returned the formal gesture, only not quite as elaborately. The professor wrapped an arm around Cory’s neck, and they left the room together.

  The shower was hot. Cory stuck his face under the heated spray, letting the soapy water rinse away the grime. Just a few more seconds remained in his water allotment, and he meant to make the most of them. Finishing, he left the cramped stall and grabbed a towel from a hook on his way out. In the shower cubicle next to his, the professor was singing some old Beatles song off-key. Which one, Cory had no idea, but he had heard the professor sing it many times. It had something to do with a fool and a hill. Three short blasts came over the intercom. Cory glanced at the metal speaker box overhead. Dinner service would begin shortly. He was not hungry, but if he did not eat during the allotted time, people might become suspicious. Conformity drove almost everything in the bunker. When to eat, what to wear, what you could say, even what you were supposed to think. Fortunately, the constant drumbeat about deception had kept him from saying anything stupid. His thoughts were his own, and they always would be.

  He returned to the dormitory he shared with six men. There, he quickly dressed in a tan-colored jumpsuit and hurried off to join with the flow of people headed down a long concrete hallway on their way to the cafeteria. Since they were all members of group A5, they would eat first, followed by A6 and A7. The lower numbered members gathered in private quarters set aside for them. They were important enough to be served their meals without having to mingle with those of lesser status. The professor was an A2, which meant he was near the top of the hierarchy. Still, he preferred to take his meals alongside everyone else. While all were supposedly equal in the bunker, some were more equal than others.

  Cory continued down the corridor. Sterile fluorescent lights glowed overhead. Thick green and blue latex paint covered the cinderblock walls to either side. He held his hand out and brushed it against them as he walked down the hallway, feeling the texture of the smooth skin of the latex and the rough stone underneath. It was often how he thought of himself.

  All those around him were dressed in identical jumpsuits. Even though everyone was supposed to be equal, he was one of only three black men allowed into the mostly white organization. Before the downfall, the group’s leaders had preached tolerance and diversity, but that did not necessarily mean they practiced it. During the year underground, his core beliefs were challenged by what he had seen. When he had first joined, he fully supported the plan. Now, he longed for the day when he could taste fresh air again and feel the warmth of the sun on his skin.

  He separated from the group as he entered the cafeteria. The starchy smells of cooked potatoes and sour beans permeated the room. Grabbing a tray off the stack at the end of a metal counter, he followed behind the others wearing stenciled A5’s on their backs and loaded his tray down with watery, reconstituted mashed potatoes, some lentil soup, and a ceramic bowl of jiggling green Jell-O. They served the same shit to him almost every day. A little pepperoni pizza or chicken would have been a welcome change. However, meat and dairy were two of the items that had been banned. They did not fit in with the organization’s social mores. But, of course, it was different for those of rank and privilege. Cory had seen the meals served to them, including the steak and ice cream. He spotted Professor LaPaz sitting near a group of former students at a polished stainless-steel table. He went to join them.

  “Mr. Melkin,” the professor said in greeting. “Welcome. Come. Sit with us, please.” He gestured to a chair next to him. “Are you tired after our little workout?”

  Cory nodded absently.

  “Good. Good. Today, you fought me well,” the professor said in a boastful voice, loudly enough that everyone around him could hear. “You almost won this time, too.”

  Cory forced a smile. Sometimes, the professor could be a real, egotistical prick. Nevertheless, he sat down on a plastic chair between two others. A pretty girl he knew as Nicole, and a guy named Stewart, who wore large flesh tunnels through both ears and had silver piercings on his lips and nose. Cory hated the guy.

  “I don’t know why you like to fight like that, professor,” Nicole said. “It seems violent and stupid to me.” Her eyes blinked rapidly as she spoke.

  “Fight?” LaPaz replied. “My dear, we all do it. Some with swords, some with words. You know it keeps me young and virile.” He winked at Nicole and smiled broadly.

  With the man’s messy gray hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, Cory found the display off-putting, if not slightly upsetting. Though, he respected the professor enough to smile along.

  “Well, you do wield your sword well,” Nicole said.

  Cory’s smile faded. He was nonplussed by the way the professor so easily slept with every female student he had ever had in his classes. Nicole continued to stare at the man, blinking and smiling like an idiot.

  No one spoke for the next minute.

  “I’d sure like some better food,” Stewart said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. He stirred everything on his tray together and dumped salt on it then shoveled a heaping spoonful into his mouth. “Not sure,” he said, chewing, “that I would’a signed on for this gig if I’d known the food would taste so much like ass.”

  Cory was pretty sure Stewart knew what ass tasted like.

  “That’s a dumb thing to say, Stewie,” Nicole said. “Would you rather be out there, with them?”

  “The food might be better. I mean, come on, weren’t they made to taste like chickens? Surely would beat this slop. I’m tired of pretending I’m vegan.” Stewart looked to the professor, who was expressionless, and continued talking, mouth spilling food. “Bio-engineered, DNA-sampled, super-chickens. Wasn’t that right, prof? Serves those bastards right screwing around with Mother Nature. She’s a damn nasty bitch. Bet they all regret it now. Ha!” Bits of potato flew from his mouth like tiny shards of white shrapnel.

  The professor frowned. “This is not something to be made light of, Mr. Wharter. What was done had to be done
for the good of the species. It was a horrible act. But, it was a totally necessary, rational one.”

  Cory nodded once. He was not a monster. He had seen the necessity of what they had all been a part of. He had stood in line waiting for coffee, waiting on the dumbshits in front of him to order their soy mochas and 190-degree chai teas. The world just had too many people in it, and something needed to be done about it.

  -11-

  TEX IN THE CITY

  THE FADING SUN cast long shadows across the jagged teeth that once represented the height of civilization. A cold wind whistled through the hollow alleyways, blowing old papers down the long-abandoned streets. Standing on a pile of crumbling asphalt, Jesse loaded another five rounds into his trusty Remington 870. He had a couple of shells left in his pockets, and a handful more squirreled away back at his shelter, all #2 steel shot, good for birds, great for raptors.

  The reeking, oozing corpses of several of the things lay before him. One, he had gut shot. It was split open, spilling its eggs across the broken, gravel-studded asphalt. While the odor was unlikely to attract others within the next few minutes, he was sure the nearby packs had heard the shots and were on their way to investigate. It might be best to move along, he figured. And do so quickly.

  Killing raptors had been the primary focus of his existence for the past five years. Ever since leaving the refugee camp in Texas behind, he’d been stalking them, exterminating them. Now he moved like a ghostly reaper through the mile-high city of Denver, killing any of the creatures that he found with extreme prejudice. They had taken so much from him.

  He scanned the immediate area for threats and sniffed the air. He smelled a stale, musty stench. Above him circled groups of carrion birds, marking the spot where he stood. On the nearby building ledges, crows sat waiting for him to leave, occasionally cawing to hurry him along. Once he left, the birds would swoop down and pick at the pieces until more raptors arrived and chased the birds away. He didn’t hate the birds as much as he did the raptors. They weren’t constantly trying to kill him. Based on the number circling above, anyone else in the city would know the size of the raptor pack he had slaughtered if they knew how to interpret the signs. The birds had become his friends and constant companions. They were one of the few things that had remained alive after the raptors had killed and eaten almost everything else.

  Jesse crouched low on his haunches. His knees popped and cracked. His back ached. He knew he was getting old, fast. He waved a hand in front of his face to brush away the flies attempting to crawl up his nose and went to one of the fallen raptors to inspect it. The creature had been exposed to the sun more than once. It had paid the price for it too. Raised scars and puffy, pink growths covered much of the thing’s otherwise cream-colored skin. The thing was thin, malnourished, and weak, like many he had encountered of late. The swollen sores dotting its hide had burst open where the shotgun pellets had hit it. White, mucus-like pus dribbled out of the wounds, forming a thin film of scum on top of a pool of blood next to the bodies. From a sheath at his side, he withdrew a long hunting knife. Using the blade, he sliced into one of the smaller raptors and carved around the leg joint, lifting it up as he cut. He shifted positions and held it down with his knee while pulling up on the leg. The creature’s tendons stretched until finally popping like over-tensioned guitar strings, and the leg came off with a wet sucking sound. He then cut the clawed foot off, stuffed the detached piece of meat into a plastic shopping bag, and then tossed the bundle next to his nylon daypack, which contained everything he had scavenged that day.

  He would eat well tonight.

  Turning at a sudden noise, he noticed one of the raptors behind him twitching. He jerked to his feet, knife held ready. He waited, watched. It did not move again. A few of the braver crows began landing nearby. They inched their way closer to the kill. He smiled at them and cut off a slice of flesh. He taunted them with it, dangling the bloody piece in his fingers.

  They hopped closer.

  He flung the bloody strip as far as he could throw it. Cawing, the birds sped after it and began fighting each other for it while he scanned the shadows for hidden threats. The frenzied crows would attract any raptors nearby, making them an easy target and giving him warning when the raptors showed up. Whistling softly, he rubbed his knife on the leathery skin of a raptor, leaving behind streaks of red on the thing’s pale flesh. What he took today would feed him for another few weeks, but only if he cooked it or got it in salt soon. With his thumb, he unfastened the canteen at his belt and unscrewed the cap. It contained rainwater collected from the rooftop cisterns above his primary shelter. He took several swigs of the sweet water, letting it dribble from his mouth and through his beard. A cold breeze came along and rustled his long hair. His whiskers tingled. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation while it lasted. He had survived on his own here for over a year, making it through the harsh winter. He’d been told he could find others in the city like himself. But, when he had arrived, he’d found the place empty and himself alone.

  Amy was the woman who had said he would find others. Others like him. Those who wanted to hunt and kill raptors. He had found her while traversing the high desert two hundred miles to the south. The day he first met her had been hot and dry, and he had almost accidentally stumbled right into a group of marauders. Skirting around them, he took cover on a bluff overlooking their encampment and observed them throughout the night, drinking, yelling, and shooting off guns. The drinking he could understand, the yelling too, but all that wasted ammunition? He stayed there through the night, hoping the raptors would come for them.

  They didn’t.

  In the aftermath, however, he found her. Amy was left naked and beaten. She lay curled up on a picnic table, clutching a torn shirt that had been stained red with her own blood. She’d been repeatedly raped by the thugs and then left behind to feed the raptors. Jesse spent two weeks nursing her back to health in the back room of a diner he’d found along the route. She kept telling him about the city and all the great people who were in it, that there were others like him, making a stand, trying to reestablish some semblance of civilization. She said there were supplies, food, and best of all, ammunition. They left for the city in the fall when the weather changed and her health had improved enough for her to travel. Along the road, scavenging what they could, they spent their nights in basements, inside roadside culverts, or anything else that offered protection.

  Then it all happened so fast. A sudden dash of movement from behind an abandoned UPS truck caught Jesse’s eye. He yelled for her to drop. He raised his gun, but it was too late. A single raptor, no bigger than a dog, slammed into her, ripped into her chest, and tried to disembowel her with a sickle-shaped claw. Jesse was one step behind and moving parallel, raising his hunting rifle. He fired. Instead of hitting the raptor, the bullet hit Amy in the shoulder, shattering the bone. His second shot killed her attacker. But it was too late.

  It took two days for her to die.

  Everywhere else he had been, both before and after meeting her, Death had walked beside him, marking him, stalking him, but never coming to claim him. Instead, it always took those he cared for. Since Death had rejected him, he kept the Beretta that his father had given him safely locked away in his shelter for fear he might use it on himself. Around his neck, he kept a single nine-millimeter bullet in a leather pouch to remind himself that when all hope was lost, he would return to his shelter and pair the bullet with the gun. Then, flipping off the world, and all that remained in it, he would bury that piece of lead deep into his own brain.

  After burning Amy’s body so the raptors would not get it, he left for the city. Going there had worked out well for him. The city had been better than the countryside. While much of the city was picked clean, there always existed the opportunity of uncovering something new, some new cache of food, or weapons. The necessities, he had covered. He had plenty of water, plenty of wooden furniture to burn, a rooftop vegetable garden, salt for preserving
meat, and plenty of toilet paper. He’d found a whole warehouse full of the stuff. But the city was lonely. Empty. No one new had passed through in weeks. He preferred to avoid contact with anyone.

  Anyone, except for his daughter, Hannah. She gave him hope, and hope meant he hadn’t needed to use that single bullet yet.

  Finishing the butchery work on the raptor, he tied the plastic bags filled with what he had harvested to the outside of his nylon knapsack and put his arms through the straps. He squatted on his knees and rolled his shoulders to redistribute the weight then pulled on the straps to adjust the fit. After searching the rubble of an old apartment building on the far side of the city, he had found a couple of cans of dog food, which would be a change from his daily diet of raptor flesh. He also found some canned vegetables, a little shaker of salt, but sadly, no ammunition. Not even a spent cartridge.

  Killing one or two, or even a pack at a time, wasn’t quite as satisfying as sitting on a rooftop and killing a hundred in one sitting. With raptors, and the way they rapidly bred, there seemed to be an endless supply of them. Although, each one he killed was one less on the planet, which made him think he was making some small dent in their numbers. He exhaled through pursed lips and glanced up at the darkening sky. The sun was moving behind a towering building, and the area he was in would soon be in shadow. Every raptor left in the city would be prowling the streets in an hour or two. If they did not find prey, they would fill the night with their screams of frustration and hunger, a horrid, despairing, tortured cry.

  After another quick drink from his canteen, he started for his shelter. Every step he took, he chose deliberately, wanting to make as little noise as possible. He worked his way down the street, hopping between pockets of waning sunlight peeking between the buildings. As long as he stayed in the light, the raptors would not attack. The sunlight slowly killed them. They were afraid of it. He didn’t understand why exactly, but found it a small blessing. The wind whistling past the surrounding buildings moaned and rattled various bits of trash. The sound often played tricks with his mind, calling out to him in murmuring whispers. He kept scanning the cracking streets and toppled trees, looking for organic movement. He never focused on any one spot for too long and vigilantly watched each shadow. Raptors were clever ambushers.