Sixth Cycle

by Darren Wearmouth

  He listened for any suspicious sounds like wastelanders prowling or sneaking up to attack. After hearing nothing apart from the collective chirp of crickets, Carlos swept the probe near the ground. The needle on the display flickered higher. This region was still outside the known fallout area, but part of it may have been carried north by precipitation, causing a rainout zone.

  He returned to the SUV and opened the rear passenger door. Trader had found an old CBRN suit and respirator in a compartment of a battered old ship and supplied him with it. Carlos wasn’t one hundred percent sure it would work, but it was better than nothing.

  The disruptive patterned jacket felt light around his body. He slipped on the trousers and tied the velcro fastenings, snapped on a pair of black rubber gloves, placed the respirator over his face, and tightened the hood around it.

  Every breath gently sucked the mask tighter toward his face. Moonlight provided reasonable visibility from a clear night sky. He decided to patrol and grabbed his gun and antique night-vision goggles. Wastelanders were less active at night. They preferred to hunt during the hours of daylight. More chance of spotting movement and going straight on the attack.

  He followed an exit road for half a mile, keeping his silhouette hidden below the rising ground to his right. It led to the remnants of a small town. Trees and plants grew out of the shells of the houses still standing. Dust piled up against their walls. Nature was in the process of reclaiming this place.

  The solidly constructed buildings in the cities were always more interesting. The ones that weren’t destroyed by the Axis’ conventional onslaught usually had some interesting items lying around. The snow globe he’d found in a Portland apartment took pride of place on his SUV dashboard.

  Something clanked along the road in the opposite direction. He slipped inside a collapsed ruin and crouched behind one of its broken windows.

  Firing would be a stupid idea. It would only draw more trouble. Carlos would wait for the wastelander to pass. They often beat things with sticks to check if any animals were hiding in the wrecks or ruins.

  Footsteps neared. He peered to his left. The shaggy hair, hunched gait and metal bar in the person’s hand told him all he needed to know. Carlos fumbled on the floor and picked up half a brick. If the wastelander came close or spotted him, he’d have to take him out the old-fashioned way. In these situations, a gun was a weapon of last resort.

  The wastelander, a male, stopped and sniffed the air like a dog. The further south he traveled, the more like animals they became. The ones near the strongholds used to be almost human and spoke pigeon English, although they had the same uncompromising aggression.

  Carlos’ breathing intensified. Condensation clouded the edges of his plastic eyepieces. He squeezed a finger under his respirator and smudged it away.

  The wastelander turned to face his building and raised his metal bar. He ran for the house and threw himself against the wall, a few feet to Carlos’ right. The whole structure shuddered. Dust fell from the exposed roof beams and showered him.

  He gripped the half brick tightly and raised it. The wastelander sniffed again and moved toward the window. Carlos edged back and waited.

  The wastelander put his head through the window. Before he had a chance to look around, Carlos slammed the brick down on top of his head. The wastelander grunted and slumped against the frame.

  Carlos learned ten years ago, as a teenager, to never give these people a second chance. His friend did and it cost him his life. Luke showed an injured wastelander mercy; his reward was a slashed throat. He smashed the brick down twice in quick succession. His rubber glove glistened with blood. The wastelander grunted and twitched.

  He pulled the unconscious body through the window and dragged him out of sight. Carlos couldn’t afford the wastelander to follow him or report back to his group, if he had one. This was the most unpleasant part of his job. He swung the brick down five more times to make sure he wouldn’t be compromised until they found the body.

  His mutated friends would probably sniff him out eventually, so Carlos decided not to hang around. He wiped his glove on a faded dangling rag that used to be a curtain and exited through a rear entrance.

  The frame of a swing set poked out of the top of the waist-high grass. He waded through it, brushed a section of rotting fence to one side, and came out on another former neighborhood road barely visible below the weeds.

  Two cracks, sounding like distant gunfire, echoed in the distance.

  Carlos ducked behind the rusting skeleton of a vehicle and looked south.

  A pair of glowing red lights hung in the night sky and slowly descended. Somebody firing flares. He hadn’t seen the wastelanders do that before, and he’d observed a lot of their behavior. Most of it involved a relentless hunt for food and soft targets from the clean zone.

  Another flare arced into the sky. Carlos wondered if it was a distress signal. Only a fool would be living this far south. He raised his gun and crept forward to investigate.

  Carlos moved into a sparsely wooded area and gently stepped between the trees in the direction the third flare came from. The moon cast eerie shadows across the dusty ground and branches creaked overhead. The town disappeared behind him, and the trees quickly thinned out. He looked around for some natural cover. The ground rose to his left.

  A distant tinny-sounding voice broke the silence, carrying on the gentle breeze. The flares dropped out of sight. A vehicle engine revved. The voice became louder and faded away again. Carlos dropped to the dirt and crawled on his hands and knees to the top of the rise.

  Half a mile to his right, two vehicles had their lights on full beam.

  Standard design Omicron SUVs with open tops. Whoever it was had come from a stronghold. They headed across the wasteland at a speed of around five miles per hour.

  A figure stood on the backseat of the rear SUV. They held a megaphone to their mouth and shouted through it. What they hell are they doing?

  A sizzling light came from the front vehicle. Another flare shot into the sky. Carlos leopard-crawled closer along the ridge. These people had a death wish.

  The voice became more audible as the vehicles drew level with his elevated position. A figure on the front SUV reached inside a crate and threw objects on the ground.

  “Free food. Shelter. Weapons. All you can eat. The Sky Man urges you north. Defeat the people who want to oppress you. They have unlimited supplies.”

  Carlos scanned behind the vehicles. The recognizable shapes of wastelanders darted after the SUVs and picked up the boxes. Two ran alongside the rear vehicle. A muzzle flashed twice, followed by the report of both shots. Both dropped to the ground.

  “Do not approach the vehicles. The next stop-off point is twenty miles north. We have food, water and weapons. Keep your distance. We are here to help you.”

  Thirty wastelanders appeared out of the gloom, fifty yards behind the vehicles. Some carried a box, others picked up the recently discarded ones. They kept their distance and followed, half jogging.

  “We will reach our destination in four hours. The Sky Man will honor you with food. He is preparing you for battle against your mortal enemy. The Sky Man will give you what is rightfully yours in exchange for loyalty.”

  They were being lured toward the strongholds. Worse still, by Omicron vehicles. Somebody was trying to destroy their society from the inside.

  The whole area moved behind the thirty wastelanders. Carlos tapped the side of his goggles and tried to refocus. Somebody cried in the distance, followed by two more shrill shouts. Seconds later, the whole air filled with a collective roar. The goggles weren’t broken. Hundreds of wastelanders came into focus. Another flare fired in the air. More followed in a long disorganized procession. Thousands of them.

  Carlos watched as they streamed past the ridge. He couldn’t accurately estimate numbers because of the rolling ground.

  A few stragglers on the flank reached the foot of his hill and trudged up. He had to get we
ll ahead of this overwhelming force and warn everyone. They would need all hands at the walls to repel an invasion this size, and even that might not be enough.

  Carlos had to get back to his vehicle immediately. He could race back up the highway and put decent distance between himself and the invading force. On foot, they would take two or three days to reach the strongholds. Wastelanders still had human bodies and would need rest.

  Another flare shot into the sky in the distance. These weren’t the only two vehicles collecting the savages. The odds could be insurmountable. If Carlos didn’t make it back, he felt sure the strongholds would be crushed. They wouldn’t be able to defend themselves without warning.

  A man shouted through the megaphone, “Follow for a better life. Follow for victory. Follow the Sky Man.”

  A loud collective shout followed. They repeated the last few words. Who the hell is the Sky Man, and how did he get his hands on the resources?

  Carlos ripped off his respirator, turned and sprinted for his SUV. The Geiger counter reading meant that he had a slim chance of being poisoned, but that paled into insignificance against the discovered threat. He had to move quickly, and running in a respirator was hard work.

  He reached the SUV, didn’t bother changing out of his suit, and started the engine. Through his open window he could hear the distant buzz from the mob moving north.

  A surge of determination ran through him. If he didn’t make it back to tell Trader, it could mean the end for humanity as they knew it. The continent would be left infested with wastelanders, and all hopes of forming a civilized society would be destroyed.

  The SUV’s wheels spun in the dirt, and the vehicle shot forward, through the gap in the broken barrier, back onto the decaying highway. He had enough gas to make it home without stopping, and that’s exactly what he intended to do.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The first signs of daylight seeped through a gap in the curtains, casting light into Trader’s cramped spare bedroom. Jake only managed a few minutes’ sleep during the night. Sporadic gunfire rattled on the walls. The factory whistle blasted at four in the morning, and thoughts about the new world spun through his mind. The strongholds were too wrapped up in their original philosophies. He felt it was holding them back in terms of building a stronger, more cohesive society. Strength in numbers wasn’t a bad thing, especially with a growing threat outside.

  He heard a door open inside. Trader coughed three times, cleared his throat, and clambered downstairs. Jake threw his blanket to one side and sat up on the mattress. He checked his watch for the fiftieth time. Just past six in the morning.

  He zipped up his flight suit, drank from a bottle of water on the windowsill, and gazed over Trader’s compound buildings at workers trudging to and from a factory in their stained purple coveralls. The smell of cooking bacon wafted into the room, and his stomach growled.

  Jake joined Trader by his frying pan in the kitchen. “Morning, chief. I thought we were hitting the bunker at first light?”

  “Can’t miss the most important meal of the day. Didn’t the Fleet teach you that?”

  “Depends on the situation, but I’ve never turned down a cooked breakfast.”

  Six bacon rashers sizzled in the pan. Trader forked out three and placed them in a fresh buttered roll. “There’s coffee on the table. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Jake said and took a bite. It tasted exactly how he remembered, delicious. “Where do you get your meat and bread?”

  “Each stronghold has their own livestock and bakery. Sigma doesn’t own pigs. This is probably from Omega.”

  Trader opened wide and stuffed half of his roll into his mouth. Jake poured a coffee and gulped it down, warm and bittersweet, just the way he liked it.

  “You ready to go?” Trader said. “I want you to lead the team today. Show them what you showed me in the first bunker. They’ll respect you for it.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise? I’m still a new kid on the block.”

  Trader stuffed the second half of the roll into his mouth. He tried to speak and paused after half-chewed food garbled his initial response.

  “You’ve had years of training. My guys are good, but they’re not at your level. I won’t be here forever and need a safe pair of hands to pass my responsibilities on to.”

  “This is all a bit sudden, isn’t it?”

  “Things move quickly in 2205, Jake. Look at Pete; he was one of my better guys. He’ll probably be crippled for the rest of his life and spend his time sitting on the rampart.”

  “You hardly know me.”

  “I saw enough yesterday. The way you took the initiative. You don’t have any bias toward an individual stronghold. That’s a key requirement to make things tick.”

  “Can’t say I particularly like any of them at the moment.”

  Trader smiled and flashed his decaying yellow teeth. “That’s my boy.”

  Jake reasoned that if he wanted to change the society for the better, it would be easier doing it from within. He couldn’t go back so had to move forward. A few of Trader’s team might be irritated, but it was nothing he hadn’t faced before. After flying up to captain in the Fleet, he always had to deal with the scorn and bitterness of old sweats who didn’t make it. His priority was always getting the job done.

  “I’ll do it. Who are you replacing Pete with?”

  “We’ll pick up a recruit from one of the strongholds. Sigma probably.”

  Jake thought about Skye from Omega during the night. He owed his life to her. Her slick exfiltration immediately impressed him, and she was exactly the kind of person he wanted watching his back.

  “What about Skye? Can you bring her in?”

  Trader swept his keys from the kitchen worktop. “Nope. Finch sees her as his little pet. I know she’s good, but he won’t let her go.”

  Jake finished his coffee and followed him out to the square in front of his house. The other team members were already by their vehicles. Thick gray clouds blanketed the dawn sky.

  The growing daylight allowed him a clearer view around Trader’s fenced-off compound situated below the northern Sigma tower. His team lived in a small five-story apartment block opposite his house; eight garages with rolling shutter doors, no doubt packed with goods that he exchanged between strongholds, filled the space between them on the left-hand side. The vehicles parked on the right, in front of the sturdy pair of wooden gates. One of the team pulled them open.

  “Straight to the west bunker, guys,” Trader said. “I’ll be the forlorn hope. Keep your distance and sound your horn if you see any wastelanders.”

  A few of the team nodded. They climbed into the five SUVs and two trucks.

  Trader and Jake jumped into the lead vehicle. He wound down the driver’s window and lit a cigarette. Jake wound his window down too. He didn’t mind people who smoked, but liked to avoid it first thing in the morning.

  The convoy rumbled along the main road through the center of Sigma. Most people didn’t even acknowledge it. They were probably used to seeing it leave and arrive at the stronghold every day. The main gates started to open when they reached within one hundred yards. Trader didn’t need to brake and maintained his steady speed until they hit the road outside.

  “How are you planning to distribute the weapons?” Jake said.

  “Haven’t decided yet. They’re still in the truck. I’ll give some to Epsilon for them to reverse engineer the design. Theta could do with—”

  The radio crackled. “Trader, this is Carlos. Do you copy?”

  Trader grabbed the mic from its central housing on the dash. “Carlos, do you have something for me?”

  “We need to meet. Urgently.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Heading north. I had to take a detour. Can you make it to Kappa for two o’clock?”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I can’t say over the open airwaves. But you need to come.”

  “Give it to me on an urgency s
cale of one to ten. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

  “Ten.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Trader placed the mic back. He held a clenched fist out of his window and thrust his foot against the accelerator. Jake could taste the burning clutch plate in the back of his throat as the vehicle roared and sped up. They bounced over a rock, and his head brushed against the roof. He held his hands against the glove box to keep himself steady.

  “Better buckle up,” Trader said.

  Jack pulled the plastic belt across his chest and clicked it in place. “Who’s Carlos? Sounded important.”

  “He’s my scout. I sent him south to see if he could find a reason why so many wastelanders were heading north.”

  “Why couldn’t he say over the radio? I doubt they use them.”

  “When you make a move in this world, you better be damned sure you know the facts. I’ve got my suspicions, but I want to hear what he has to say first.”

  Jake frowned. “That’s about as clear as mud. If you want to bring me along, you need to start being straight with me.”

  “I don’t want to cloud your judgment. I will say that Carlos doesn’t exaggerate. I’ve got a feeling we might need those extra weapons in the bunker.”

  Trader turned right at a fork in the road and headed west along a dirt track.

  * * *

  The team only encountered one wastelander on their way to the bunker. The convoy stopped, and somebody put an end to the danger with a sniper rifle. The track didn’t take the most direct route; instead it snaked through the open countryside, avoiding any forested areas.

  As Trader approached the bunker, Jake could see the shattered remains of a town in the distance. An Axis ballistic missile must have reduced it to a few jagged walls rising from piles of rubble. Most wooden structures were either flattened or burnt out. Foliage tangled and choked the mess.

  “Is most of the country like that?” Jake said.