by Arthur Stone
“Because of the predators’ sense of smell?”
“Exactly. And they’re so cunning, sometimes I even envy them. A lot. I know, I know, talking like that is bad luck.”
* * *
Nimbler fired. His bolt blew open a ghoul’s temple, then flew further and rattled loudly against a concrete wall.
“See you in hell!” Nimbler lowered his crossbow and hollered, “Take him, Boiler. It’s just a young runner, no serious match for you. Take it down. It’s a moron, so use that to your advantage!”
This ghoul was no different from the others, except for its greater speed. The infected ignored Nimbler and rushed headlong at Boiler with a rumbling growl. The newcomer replied by grabbing its outstretched arm, sidestepping, guiding its body to barrel past, and then jerking sharply—but even this failed to overpower his adversary. The zombie ignored the pain, which a human would have found unbearable, and thought nothing of the cracking sounds in its twisted arm. It continued growling and writhing, clenching its teeth. The actions it took may have been stupid, but it was nonetheless frustratingly powerful.
The fact that it was a girl with a slender physique, whose beauty had not yet been ruined by the day’s events, made the situation a surreal one. Under very different circumstances, Boiler might have asked to kiss her.
“Nimbler, do something!”
“What do you want me to do? Looks like you’ve found true love. Don’t tell me you’re offering me a threesome.”
“She’s going to eat me!”
“Oh come on, nobody’s going to eat you. It’s just a runner sporite. Normal teeth, nothing serious. She’ll just slobber all over and try to chew you, but you’ll survive. Nobody dies from these things. Here, hold her while I...”
His ax slammed into the runner’s right temple. Her body jerked, and yet somehow Boiler restrained her. After the second blow, the ghoul collapsed into a limp, motionless doll. Nimbler squatted down next to her and lifted the hair on the back of its head, revealing a small swelling similar to the one the organic convertible sports car maker had carried.
“Ugh. This one’s new.”
“So?”
“Spore sac just started growing. Meaning it’s empty—might as well not even cut it open. Looks like this young lady arrived here on the same big boat you did. Her clothes are still holding up, and she’s barely got any blood on her. She had promise, she did, going from empty to runner in less than a day. Too bad we cut her career path short. This is a really quick cluster.”
“If you’re going to explain, at least use words I understand.”
“Eh, sorry Boiler. I keep forgetting it’s your first day here. The fresh infecteds are called empties in these parts, like I said. All the dead men you see wandering around are empties. No spore sacs yet, and they pose no appreciable danger. They can surprise you when they mature into jumpers, though—empties that can leap a few steps but then can’t run any more than that.”
“I’ve seen those.”
“Those that survive and find enough food mature into sporites. That usually takes days, but this girl managed to become a runner much faster. A runner’s a shitty sporite, but still a sporite.”
“Shitty? Meaning what?”
“Their sacs are usually empty. But they’re still sporites, and they usually mature slower than this one has. Many have noticed that these creatures mature faster in clusters that reset rapidly.”
Boiler comprehended Nimbler’s repeated explanations a bit more each time, though he still wouldn’t say they made sense. “Come on. We won’t take anything. None of these things grow spores in a day.”
“That one you gutted in the store was a sporite, too?” Boiler asked as they walked.
“The raffler?”
“Yeah.”
“Yup, and not at all the most fearsome, either.”
“It didn’t even remotely look like that girl!”
“Well, it was a mature sporite. They start losing their human form. They grow new teeth, good for tearing into meat. Sometimes you run into a toothless raffler, which is fun. They’ve lost their old teeth but don’t have their new ones yet. Then the heels of their feet harden, turning them into tramplers. Those always have teeth. Dangerous bastards. If you ever hear the thuds of their heels, freeze and turn off any lights you have.”
“Are tramplers the most dangerous sporites?”
“Yeah, the final stage. But line all the monsters up and the tramplers would be the kindergarteners of the lot. Sporites mature into peapods, and those are real beasts. They look more like naked gorillas than former humans. Their skin is transformed, and they start to grow armor.”
Boiler shuddered. “Armor?”
“Well, first some areas of their skin just get tougher. Then plates of it harden, along the spine and skull. A crossbow can hardly punch through them, and when they’re fully matured, they even stop most bullets. Peapods are quick, tenacious, and cunning, usually sticking together in twos and threes. Sometimes, they even form whole packs and go on raids that have killed countless immunes.”
“Are peapods the most dangerous?”
“After them come the elite, the pearlmakers, too diverse to divide into concrete groups. If you ever see something even scarier than the highest-tier peapod, you’ve got an elite on your hands. For most Hivers, the first elite you ever see is also the last. Thankfully, not many of them exist, or we’d be finished.”
“What do elites mature into?”
“They’re the strongest, like I said already. God, I forgot how much of a toddler your typical newcomer is when you’re trying to explain the world to him.”
Boiler ignored the jibe. “So elites are the last stage.”
“The last stage of infecteds, yeah. But there’s something much worse out there, something that isn’t and never was an infected. No one talks about them out in the clusters, though, so let’s change the subject, alright? How about we hit a clothing store along the way? You could use some new scraps.”
“I don’t remember any on this side. Plus, we’ve arrived at your bridge.”
“Meh. The cluster across the way is old and poor. Not many clothes to be had there. I suppose you can deal with wearing rags for a bit. It’s bad luck to turn back.”
“You’re really superstitious.”
“I’ve always been really superstitious, just been hiding it. If you live in this world for long, Boiler, you’ll be superstitious, too. Everyone in the Hive is. Come on, pick up the pace—there’s an open area coming up ahead.”
“One second. I’m confused.”
“What now?”
“That’s not our bridge. It’s completely different. I remember our bridge like I built it thing myself.”
“Oh, right. It’s not from your old city. The river and bridge are from the cluster that begins right here. See how the bridge’s end is busted and bent, leaning up against the embankment like that? That’s the cluster boundary.”
“Weird. The highway just continues through the crack. You could just drive right down it, like some deity matched the roads up in a malevolent cosmic game of Carcassonne.”
“It’s usually like that. Roads, rivers, and other things run from cluster to cluster, and while strange interruptions do happen, they’re rare. But any maps you pick up from stores will be no help, except for the cluster they’re in. Neighboring clusters usually have entirely different contents, but they share similar terrain along their boundaries. Your cluster had a river, and so does this one. But this one didn’t have the other bridges, so those just stop halfway. Now, if this cluster resets, the new one might have bridges, and if so, they’ll likely line up with ‘yours.’ You’re right: it’s like some god is building a giant puzzle, trying to make everything line up just right.”
“So this other cluster has no civilization to speak of?”
“Little towns, cabins, cottages, some quarries, and a small factory.”
“We had quarries across the river, too.”
“Like
I said, things usually line up, but never completely. The only cluster that was truly yours is the one we’re leaving right now, and that’s only guaranteed till the next reset. At that point, it might stay the same, but it might also have significant differences. That’s how it goes. Sometimes, things’ll happen that you’d never believe even if you were stone drunk. Like meeting your own self.”
“You mean a doppelganger of yourself from another reality, brought in by a cluster wipe?”
“Hey, look, lucky me, my godson’s a quick learner.”
“That one was easy.”
“So the same city could be brought in, with a Boiler just like you. Except you probably wouldn’t get the chance to have a friendly chat, since he’ll be growling at you and trying to make you his dinner. To eat himself, if you think about it.”
“Has that actually happened to anyone?”
“More often than you’d think. It’s not the craziest thing to happen in the Hive, either. Come on, now, people standing around on this bridge stick out worse than Mount Rushmore. A fresh cluster attracts the worst of the beasts like a burger draws flies. Let’s avoid them, shall we?”
Chapter 8
Boiler didn’t recognize his surroundings, though he had the western suburbs of Bismarck practically memorized. The wilderness had been close, sure, but here the suburbs had vanished, and the wilderness was unlike anything Dakotan. This place had more trees, spread out though they were. The nearby factory was unrecognizable, its waste rock dump unfamiliar. This cluster had only a couple of run-down workshops, unsightly concrete walls, a lonely, tall brick chimney, and several cars decomposing in a parking lot to the left of the gaping gate.
Nimbler ventured into the open as rarely as possible. At least there was cover here—in the wilderness west of Bismarck, they’d have been visible for miles. They crept along the bushes by the waste rock dump, skirted down the wall up to the gate, and ascended the metal ladder to the roof of one of the workshops. Boiler’s experienced guide suggested they survey the surrounding area from a vantage point, and his dedication to surveying far exceeded Boiler’s. Nimbler camped by a capped ventilation duct, drew his binoculars, and expended ages requesting that they show him anything suspicious in the cluster.
Boiler sat beside him, also looking about but failing to notice any threats, not even a single one of the wandering ghouls that had populated the city. He understood this cluster’s age to be the reason. Its last reset had occurred weeks ago, maybe even months ago. Even then, there must have been few people here, and by now all had been devoured or displaced.
He was beginning to grasp how things worked, though he still had more questions than he had answers. People in this world mostly served as food. Nimbler mentioned that infecteds first went after unaffected animals, then immune humans, and then after their own kind. If no soft, fleshy delicacies were available, the stronger beasts fed on the weaker, reducing their numbers quickly. Thus the immature ghouls were little more than livestock. Experienced infecteds knew that tasty meals were most likely located in fresh clusters, so a recluster pulled them in from all directions, but immunes came, too, to get first dibs on the treasure store of local goods. All of these combined into a perilous throng.
But in an old cluster, all of that was far in the past. The lower tiers of infecteds had been devoured by their mature siblings, or had died from prolonged hunger or an ax blow to the head. Those fortunate enough to reach the more dangerous stages had left for richer hunting grounds. Treasure seekers like Nimbler and like Kettle’s group had scooped up most valuable items, so immunes had little interest in visiting.
Quite and peaceful. But still no place to let your guard down. In the Hive, you never knew what might be just around the corner. Nimbler was too experienced to waste vast stretches of time contemplating the pristine beauty of early autumn landscapes. He knew what he was doing.
Wait, autumn? But... but it was...
“Nimbler, it was summer back there, but the leaves are yellowing here.”
“The local clusters are all summer, yeah, but this one’s been here for a long time. They can’t stay green forever. Changes like this usually happen as a reset approaches.”
“Could it reset right now?”
“Hardly. Neighboring clusters never reset one right after the other. There’s always an interim. As little as three days, more often a week, sometimes a month. So, have you noticed anything?”
“It’s quiet. No life but those crows flying over the dump site.”
“Yeah, it is quiet, not even any empties around.”
“You said this cluster was old, so they’d be long gone by now.”
“You meet sporites everywhere, though, even in slow clusters. This complete absence, I’ve never seen before. Except that right before a reset, all the beasts leave the cluster. They hate getting taken down by clusterfuck knockout, too.”
“So no infecteds, yellowing leaves—maybe a reset really is about to happen.”
“No, there’s no mist, and it always shows up in the low-lying areas a few hours before the reset hits. The air starts to crackle, too, as if all the oxygen is short-circuiting. So, little chance of this being a reset.”
“Maybe everything here just decided to hit the city. It’s really close, and you did say that the beasts flock to fresh clusters like flies to honey.”
“Any who wanted to go there would’ve been gone since last night, right. Or maybe there just weren’t many of them here, and the few that were here died of hunger.”
“Of course. No houses around, just this factory.”
“Still, I don’t like it. Something’s wrong, something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s foolish to push ahead into an open area when you sense danger.”
“What are we looking for, Nimbler?”
“We need to get to a stable. I’ll drop you off there and take care of my own business. Two birds, one stone thing.”
“A stable?”
“Oh come on, I told you about those.”
“I don’t think so. Not for horses, I assume. A city? Something else?”
“Well, clusters come in various kinds. Usually the word ‘cluster’ means an ordinary cell that undergoes resets, like this one, or like yours. But there are other kinds of clusters. A stable is completely different. It’s a stable cluster. Doesn’t reset.”
“Ever?”
“Or so rarely that you’ll never live to see it, so you don’t care. The bigger stables are what keep us alive. Bases can be constructed and stuff can be stashed without being wiped out by resets, and large stables are home to settlements where you can sell loot and buy stuff you need, get medical attention, or just take a break from looking over your shoulder all day. Breaks are necessary, after all. Otherwise sooner or later you snap from the tension. But not everyone can spend all their time in a stable. Infecteds don’t really like stables, since they never smell resets coming from them, so they don’t flock to them. Meanwhile, we immunes need spores, or we drop like flies, and you can’t get spores when we’re cooped up in a stable. Though some do, catching low-level infecteds and locking them up, feeding them, and waiting for them to mature into sporites. But that’s tough, and rarely economical. Infecteds don’t mature quickly in captivity, and they generate few spores and even fewer peas. And if you harvest a sporite and find it isn’t rich with spores, it doesn’t get a second chance to prove itself. An infected’s spore sac is its weakest point, and once it’s pierced, the infected is done was. So most immunes, called tracers in Hivespeak, go hunting for spores. Pretty much everyone who leaves stables does so to hunt, in one way or another, since nobody will pass up a chance to get their hands on some spores or peas.”
“How far is the nearest stable?”
“Very close, but it’s not the one we need.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a triangle. A tiny stable wedged at the junction of three ordinary clusters. Triangles are rarely more than a kilometer across. There’s not much to do ther
e, and they almost never have populations living in them, and never decent populations. Maybe a couple of small supply caches. In the West, a triangle might be populated, but not out here. Too many dangerous spots in the East, so no one makes a home of it. Alright, let’s head down. We’re not going to find anything up here, so we should cut our chances of being noticed ourselves. There should be a fire ax behind the workshop there for you. Even snotty little kids know not to go weaponless in the Hive, and you’ve got to start with something. An ax is a pretty good start. Efficient. Reliable. Quiet. You’ll like it.”
* * *
Something unpleasant awaited them by the fire ax. A skeleton, lumped with small bits of flesh, its clothes all torn. Nimbler paid the scene no mind, but as Boiler studied the carcass, he asked,
“Why aren’t the crows going for this?”
“Why would they want a bunch of meatless bones? They’re carrion birds, not necrophiles.”
“There’s enough meat on this to peck at, but they’re not even approaching it, just flying overhead.”
“I guess they see something more tasty. There are plenty of dead things in the Hive. You’ll get used to that.”
The ax was cumbersome. But anything was better than fighting a runner bare-handed. The immature beasts didn’t have claws or powerful jaws, but they could be strong, as Boiler had noticed.
Around the next corner lay another body, this one torn apart, its bones scattered across an area several meters wide. Nimbler switched to high alert, quietly informing Boiler, “Two close together is bad. Something finished these two off, and it might be something serious, so stay sharp.”
Boiler had already been “sharp,” but now he was maximally on edge. His companion had clearly sensed something that drove him to go up there and take that long look around. Nimbler himself had said that gawkers and admirers didn’t last long in the Hive. How much time he had spent here, Boiler didn’t know, but based on the things he’d said, it had been a long time. The guy was experienced enough to pick up something Boiler hadn’t, something suspicious. That suspicion was unlikely to be the mere absence of lower-level infecteds.