Mausoleum 2069

by Rick Jones

  “Mr. Wyman, we’re seventeen flights up. Seventeen flights down sits Air Force Six, our way of getting out of this god-forsaken place. We can be down there within seconds at the touch of a button.”

  “We can also be dead,” he told him. “I’m just saying that we need to use good judgment and prudence.”

  “By wasting time when time is not a luxury. I don’t think so.” Without anything further to add, President Michelin took it upon himself by depressing the button with his thumb.

  The elevator began to whir, and then rise to their level.

  Michelin held up his thumb as if it was something magical. “Simple,” he said.

  But Eriq disagreed. You fool!

  #

  It had taken time for the creature encased inside a walled tomb to kick its way out.

  At first the wall cover held. Then over time, cracks and fissures appeared along the stone plate, the lines dividing the characters of letters inscribed upon it.

  Loving Mother of Sheena

  In time, the marble plated memorial broke with pieces flying everywhere, the letters scattering about the floor like pieces of a puzzle. The words Loving Mother of Sheena were no longer legible, but cryptic.

  Then it worked its way free and took to the hallway, looking up, then down, to its left, and then to its right, the thing trying to get a fix.

  When it tried to walk it did so like a baby taking its first steps, choppy and unsteady. But in time it found its footing and its agility, quickly becoming sure and stable. As it ambled about it kicked the broken pieces of marble regarding its epitaph, the pieces skating away. But as soon as the broken bits settled, it looked at them inquisitively as if the scattered tiles and lettering meant something.

  Lov

  ing

  Mother of

  Shee

  na

  But it couldn’t quite make the connection.

  It moved along the corridor joining others of its kind—quick, fast, and hungry. There were scores of them leaping and moving about, all of them moaning and speaking in whispers.

  And then it closed its milk-covered eyes and sniffed the air, allowing its olfactory senses to manipulate its actions on a purely instinctive level, and to analyze pheromones.

  It had taken in the scents of the dead and the rotting, but it had also taken in something that distinguished itself from those unlike it.

  It had picked up the smell of living tissue, something delectable to its palate. Something it needed.

  But there was something else, something forbidden. It was a recognizable scent.

  Since the thoughts of its mind were kaleidoscopic, it couldn’t quite piece together matters of reasoning.

  Nonetheless, the scent was alluring.

  And like the others of its kind, it walked the warrens, searching.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Banshee glided slowly into the Portside Bay, hovered, and then lowered until it settled on its skids.

  Tin Man glided inside with the pull of his cord. Once the bay door closed, the entire area was pressurized and the gravity level equalized, causing Tin Man to fall to the floor, hard.

  When the Banshee’s door opened, members of the Force Elite quickly exited and secured the perimeter with their assault weapons raised at eye-level and their heads on a swivel.

  Skully and the pilot headed for Tin Man, who was laying on his side in the stationary ‘up’ position of doing sit-ups, and quickly noted the fracture in the tinted face shield.

  “Lift it up,” Skully told him.

  The pilot crouched down, undid a couple of clasps, rotated the helmet, and then removed it. Tin Man’s face was hardly recognizable. It was blue and gray, the color of dirty ice. His eyes, having been covered over with frost, stared at nothing in particular, and his lips appeared to be curving into a grimace of pain the moment his features suddenly locked up.

  Now that Skully’s team was down a man, the mission had grown far more difficult. Every man was an asset. Every man had his duties. Every man had his specialties. And though they weren’t completely down, they’d surely been weakened.

  Skully spoke into his lip mic. “Call out, people.”

  “Clear,” stated Funboy.

  “Clear on the stern side,” said Meade.

  “Good on my end,” returned Juggler. “Area’s clear!”

  The team regrouped at Tin Man’s body and memorialized him with a moment of silence before Skully eventually brought them back to remind them of the mission at hand.

  “All right, people, listen up,” he began. “This ship is steadily drifting away from Earth, so we have to move quickly. I want heads on a swivel and weapons ready. We’re to stay in constant communication should the team split. I want everyone to know where everyone is, even without visual. Clear?”

  “Hoorah.”

  “Constant updates, people. By the second, if necessary.”

  “Hoorah.”

  He turned to the pilot. “Remain with the Banshee. Secure it. And take Tin Man inside and put him in the Banshee’s airlock for now. We never leave our own behind.”

  The pilot looked at Tin Man’s body and at the odd configuration that it was frozen in. “Copy that,” he said grimly.

  “The president’s whereabouts are unknown at this time, but with coordinated sweeps we should be able to acquire him within thirty minutes. Not one second more. We acquire the asset and pull out of here as quickly as possible.”

  “Hoorah.”

  Then came a rumbling as a large metal partition that divided the starboard side with the Portside Bay began to rise.

  The members of the Force Elite quickly raised their assault weapons and directed them at the opposite side of the area, ready to battle.

  As the door lifted, Air Force Six could be seen sitting in the opposing bay.

  The team edged closer to the shuttlecraft, their fingers on the triggers.

  And then a shadow appeared.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  New DC.

  Oval Office.

  “Mr. Vice President.” The Attorney General sounded urgent as he entered the Oval Office. “”I’m afraid we have multiple situations on multiple fronts.”

  The vice president set aside documents. “Such as?”

  The AG pointed to the bank of monitors that rounded along the curved wall. There were four rows of six, for a total of twenty-four screens. “Please, Mr. Vice President, if you will.”

  Vice President Schaffer tapped a code into a keypad on his desk, and brought up images of cities already laid to waste but burning. Towering columns of smoke rose from places like Old Pittsburgh and Old Memphis. And in the west, Old LA and Old Tijuana. The angles were taken from cameras attached to the undercarriages of Winged Banshees that constantly monitored the landscapes.

  “All the Old cities have fallen to what appears to be a series of coordinated attacks.”

  “All of them? By whom?”

  “Our best guess is that the Wasteland savages have taken the initiative. But it can’t be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there aren’t that many Wasteland savages. At least not in these numbers. There can’t be. Not after the president ordered their eradication two years ago. They’re a dying breed.”

  “How many are we talking about?”

  The AG took liberty to go to the presidential desk and let his fingers hover over the keypad. “May I?”

  The vice president fell back into the seat. “Of course.”

  The AG began to type additional codes, the action bringing up new images, then zoomed in. “These were taken when the Banshees piloted down for a better view. What we’re looking at here, Mr. Vice President, is Old Baltimore. And the scary thing about this is that it’s very close to New DC, considering the location of an active war.”

  The pictures were high-octane battles fueled by vicious actions. Countless masses converged on the Old cities, the hordes moving with a speed and agility never seen before. They l
eapt. They ran. And they killed with savage lust. People from the Old cities attempted to fight back with crude weapons and cudgels, only to lose ground when summarily defeated.

  Whereas the AG saw potential dangers, the vice president saw differently. “This is a godsend,” he said. “Let the Wasteland savages and the city clans slaughter each other. It only serves to take the weight of responsibility off the forces guarding the Fields of Elysium. By killing each other off, they promote security for us.”

  “You need to look more closely, Mr. Vice President.”

  The AG zoomed in until the victors could clearly be seen.

  Their skins were putrid and gray with corded veins. Ruined flesh had been pared back to reveal bone and muscle mass, and racks of ribs showed through areas where skin had decayed. In others, the yellow polish of jawbones were exposed as they fed on the corpses of their victims, and eye sockets were hollowed or gutted, yet they could still navigate through the plains and fields of the cities with little difficulty.

  The vice president spoke as if to dismiss away the problem with a simple explanation. He raised his hand to the screen. “Disease,” he said. “They’re savages driven to hunger living in an unsanitary wasteland eventually becoming the hosts to what—leprosy?”

  “Leprosy hasn’t been around for centuries.”

  “It hasn’t been eradicated, either. Not completely. If the conditions were there, then it could return.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Vice President, I believe you’re missing the big picture here.”

  “Really.” Schaffer responded as if he took it personally. “Suppose you enlighten me.”

  He switched to multiple screens, and they showed the same thing. Multitudes of savages covered areas the same way bison use to roam massive regions the size of American states.

  Schaffer sucked in a breath. “Where the Hell did they all come from?”

  “That’s precisely my question, Mr. Vice President. They’re everywhere.” The AG then turned to Schaffer, pinning him with a benign stare. “Once they’re done with the Old cities, once the food supply is gone, then what? Will they attack the Fields of Elysium?”

  “No. The automated sentry guns along the parapets will protect us.” But the vice president sounded as if he was trying to make himself believe his own statement. “We’ll be fine.”

  The AG looked at him disconcertedly a moment before speaking. “Mr. Vice President, there aren’t enough weapons, sentry guns, Stryker’s, soldiers or ammunition to keep that amount of people—or whatever they are—at bay.”

  “The walls will hold.”

  “Perhaps . . . But if they don’t?”

  “They will,” he returned. The corners of his lips moved with nervous tics and his eyes averted from the monitors. “They’ll hold.”

  “They’re hungry,” the AG added. “And hunger turns us all into savages. If they want to breach the walls of the Fields, they’ll find a way . . . eventually. Our time is coming.”

  The vice president didn’t respond, which made the AG wonder if Schaffer heard him at all.

  “Good day, Mr. Vice President. If you need me, you’ll know where to reach me.” He turned and left the Oval Office, closing the door behind him with a snicker of the bolt locking.

  Schaffer allowed his eyes to gravitate toward the monitors and watched the mayhem play out. Then he considered that the AG was right. Turning a blind eye wasn’t going to make the situation go away.

  He knew the food supplies in the Fields were dwindling at a rapid pace, and eventually they’d be gone altogether, leaving men to their own devices to survive. Even inside utopias.

  Hunger, as the AG said, but not in so many words, can turn the most civilized people into savages. And a day will come when all men will be equal. No more Wasteland savages. No more clans living within the ruined cities, and no more people living in luxury. Everyone would be the same. They would be barbarians killing each until no one was left.

  He closed his eyes and came to a very painful truth.

  Mankind was finally coming to a vicious and brutal end.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When the freight elevator made its upward journey, there was something besides the noise of its mechanical whirring. At first it sounded soft, a slithering of sounds and whispers.

  The president cocked his head. “Any of you hear that?”

  Eriq nodded. “Yeah . . . I do.”

  “What is it?” Sheena asked.

  No one answered because no one knew.

  . . . um to ssssssssssss meeeeeeeeeee . . .

  “Escaping steam? Maybe from the pipes?” offered the lead Detail officer.

  “No,” Eriq stated with confidence. “Not even close.”

  . . . whirrrrrrrrrrrr . . .

  . . . Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee . . .

  “Is it coming from behind us?” asked Lisa Millette, her head whipping around to scope the corridor behind them “It is, isn’t it? They’re behind us! My God, they’re coming up from—”

  Senator Newel took her into his embrace and shushed her. “Listen.”

  . . . whirrrrrrrrrrrr . . .

  . . . Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee . . .

  The whispers were growing louder as the elevator neared.

  Eriq moved to the elevator doors and placed his palms against the cold steel.

  . . . Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee . . .

  Then he pressed his ear to the door.

  . . . COOOOOOME TOOO MEEEEEEEEE . . .

  He backed away, quickly, then grabbed Sheena’s hand and began to guide her away from the elevator. “Everyone, get away from the elevator! Now!” He turned and led Sheena down the corridor. “This way!”

  “And why would we do that, Mr. Wyman?” asked the president. “Safe passage is almost here.”

  . . . COOOOOOME TOOO MEEEEEEEEE . . .

  “Not on that boat it isn’t!” he cried. “Those things—they’re on the elevator! That’s what you’re hearing!”

  The whirring stopped.

  . . . COOOOOOME TOOO MEEEEEEEEE . . .

  And the lit number above the elevator door flashed their numbered level.

  . . . COOOOOOME TOOO MEEEEEEEEE . . .

  “Move!” yelled the Detail guard, pushing and ushering the president in the direction taken by Eriq. “GO!”

  They raced down the corridor, following Eriq and Sheena, taking sharp bends and turns. Two of the president’s guards stayed behind to secure the hallway, taking stances, double-fisting their firearms, and aiming at the doors, waiting to set off a volley of shots to give the president time to widen the gap between them.

  . . . COOOOOOME TOOO MEEEEEEEEE . . .

  The doors began to part.

  . . . COOOOOOME . . .

  Arms extended through the opening, cancer-infested looking limbs that lashed out like the tongues of snakes, as quick darts, with clawed fingers raking the air.

  . . . TOOO . . .

  The guards stood by with their fingers applying most of the pressure necessary to pull the triggers.

  . . . MEEEEEEEEE . . .

  The doors opened.

  And the dead spilled out into the corridor like clowns exiting a vehicle at a circus affair, the flow of people never-ending.

  . . . COOOOOOME TOOO MEEEEEEEEE . . .

  The guards pulled the triggers in quick succession, the bullets finding the center of body mass. Chunks and bits of decayed flesh and viscous fluid blew back, showering those who were behind the first wave, but the front line continued on, the undead absorbing the bullets as if they were nothing more than the sting of wasps.

  Then the guards redirected their aim for headshots, and pulled the triggers.

  Heads sheered away as cranial pieces and gray gore took flight, the bodies falling, but the second wave leapt over them with athletic ease and came at them with unbelievable speed.

  Muzzle flashes continued to spark the corridor with light as the guards continued to hit their targets, all headshots, taking down the de
ad, but they were like roaches. No matter what you did to stop the flow, they just kept coming.

  “How can there be so many?” one guard cried.

  They leapt and caromed off the corridor walls, bouncing from one side to the other.

  “What the Hell are these things?” one guard hollered, then he ran out of ammo, ejected his magazine, and quickly seated another. “I’m running low!”

  “Same!”

  They started to move back, firing and taking out the dead with headshots, sending gray matter to splash against the surrounding pipes and conduits in ghoulish display.

  . . . COOOOOOME TOOO MEEEEEEEEE . . .

  As some fell to the corridor floor, others took their place and came at the guards with frenzied eyes and bony talons.

  When one of the guard’s gun started to go off in a series of dry clicks, he dropped it and headed in the opposite direction, running as fast as he could. The second turned as well, pivoting on feet that were too slow to react in timely fashion as a hand slashed across the guard’s back, ripping its nails through his flesh, and drawing scratches across the bones of his vertebrae.

  The guard screamed, feeling the burning sensation of white-hot agonizing pain, the type of pain that would give pause to one who would believe that death would be a better alternative to this. As he fell to the floor they crawled over him like insects, the tips of their fingers tearing his skin as if it was as fragile as rice paper, then reached for the morsels of his innards.

  A fount of blood erupted from the guard’s mouth, and then his lungs sounded off in a wet rattle a moment before they were ripped free.

  The second guard ran down tunnels that branched off into several different directions. His group was nowhere to be seen.

  “Mr. President!”

  The dead gave chase.

  The Detail guard took a series of turns, his eyes wide as he turned his head from one side to the other, seeing nothing but empty warrens. Where did they go?