S.T.Y.X. Humanhive (S.T.Y.X. Humanhive Book 1)

by Arthur Stone

“You were driving in the dark?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With headlights on?”

  “Despite my objections.”

  “You’re lucky you escaped with your head. Driving is dangerous enough during the day.”

  “But people do drive.”

  “Yes, just not poor raiders like us. Or at least, we don’t drive for long.”

  “I’ve seen whole convoys in the daytime. Armored vehicles. Looked like military.”

  “Far from here?” Fisher asked, suddenly on edge.

  “Not really.”

  “What kind of vehicles?”

  “Two trucks, one with a canvas top and the other with a hard top, followed by a vehicle I didn’t recognize that looked like a communications vehicle of some kind. And then a couple of Humvees with open machine gun turrets.”

  “Like Humvees, huh?”

  “Yeah. Saw a couple of them running, plus I saw one burned out way back, far away from here. They weren’t exactly Humvees but a modified build I’ve never seen before. Something else flew overhead before the convoy, too, and based on the sound I’m pretty sure it was a drone.”

  “Drones, yeah. That’s what we call all those fliers. Some have machine guns, some have missiles, some are just scouts.”

  “Well, at least there’s one thing in this world you don’t classify into a chart of terms.”

  “Various groups are separated by dark zones and other bad clusters, so their speech divulges. People relocate, and variants and dialects multiply. Get used to our terms—it’ll be the lingo you speak until you die.”

  “Who were those guys? They patrol the road all the time. Maybe getting in touch with them would be easier then walking to the stable ourselves.”

  “Well, we’d certainly come to the end of our journey faster that way. They’d shoot us to ribbons, laughing all the way.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Your fear is the reason you’re here talking to me instead of rotting in a roadside ditch.”

  “So who are they? Some kind of gang? Moles?”

  “Moles are filth. That’s not how they operate. No, these long-distance acquaintances of yours were from a much more dangerous group: the edgers.”

  “That really doesn’t tell me anything.”

  “We’re near the Noose right now, at the edge of the Hive itself. Everything beyond the Noose is just blackness. No way through. This whole zone is called the Edge, and it’s full of large stables where the edgers have settled. They’re people from worlds like mine and yours, made up of clever minds who can somehow get here and then go back.”

  “Hmm. Why won’t they show us the way, then?”

  “Lots of reasons. They don’t need us infecteds. They’re always going through sterilization chambers and never take their respirators off. You get infected fast if you breathe without protection, and the edgers, like everybody else, are mostly not immune. We don’t know if our infection can thrive outside of the Hive, but none of them is about to risk their own world for people like us.”

  “That makes sense, but it doesn’t explain all the military activity. Can’t we just talk it out with them?”

  “Where to begin? They consider us less than human. Less than animal, even. We’re just raw material for them.”

  “What?”

  “You see, Boiler, to survive we need something from the infected. Unless we get our hands on the innards of their spore sacs, we die in a matter of days. But we’re also infecteds in a sense, meaning we also have valuable goodies inside of us. Goodies that the edgers find useful. For example, your testicles can be crushed and made into a serum that kills cancer cells. Only some kinds of cancer, sure, but normal humans are still willing to pay an awful lot for something like that. And I doubt you’d be willing to donate your balls to their cause.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “Testicles, ovaries, adrenal glands, pancreas tissue, thyroid glands, livers—many parts of us are very useful for the edgers. Immunes’ bodies are a trove of medical treasures for them. Still want to sit down and ‘talk’ with them? You ever heard of the tale of the fat mouse’s diplomatic talks with the hungry cat? They were very short. And very... decisive.

  “We gut the beasts to avoid death by spore withdrawal, Boiler. The beasts, in turn, eat us. And the edgers gut us, just like we gut the beasts. So both we and the monsters kill the edgers every opportunity we get. We’re usually acting in vengeance for the deaths of our friends and grabbing their valuable gear for ourselves. But the beasts, as usual, are just trying to find a meal, and the edgers have meat on their bones just like we do. It’s a dog-eat-dog world we’ve come to, and everyone who lives here is one of the dogs.”

  “Anyone ever infiltrated their stables?”

  “You really want to get home, don’t you?”

  “Let’s just say these haven’t been the best three days of my life.”

  “Yeah, as far as vacation spots go, this one scores just below Lesotho. But if you return to one of the worlds the edgers come from, you’ll bring the infection with you. And if the infection thrives there, soon the planet will be one huge dead cluster. That never resets. The whole world will be filled with just the beasts and you, with no supply of fresh food or bullets. Before long, you’ll yearn for the Hive.”

  “‘One of the worlds the edgers come from?’ They have multiple worlds?”

  “Yeah, plenty. We can distinguish which worlds they’re from based on how advanced their weapons and other tech are. Sometimes edger bands have American tech, like Humvees and Strykers. Sometimes their tech is more like the Russians’, and they speak Russian or a similar tongue. But some edgers come in speaking only God knows what and wielding weapons that look like they’re straight out of a sci-fi set. Edgers are the most dangerous enemies this world contains, both for us raiders and for those who barely ever leave their stables. There are plenty of us who like nothing better than killing edgers.”

  “Commandos?”

  “Yeah. The best commandos have tanks or drones, though. We’re just raiders. We’re hunted like wild beasts and dismantled for spare parts. Negotiations? Hah. Out of the question. Got any of that stew left?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Toss me a whole can, would you? I’m starving, and regen doesn’t work when you’re famished.”

  “Only three cans left. But I can check the nearby store.”

  “No need. Check the garages in the morning instead, assuming the place is quiet. Bikes are more important to find.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “If you notice anything off, even just a tiny sound out of the ordinary, get the hell out of there. No offense, but you’re still a newbie. Don’t risk your neck any more than you have to.”

  “Why not go right now?”

  “Night time.”

  “You yourself said the beasts were no more dangerous at night.”

  “Right, but the earth is cooling down. Meaning the drones will have a much easier time seeing you, the armored trucks might soon follow, and you can kiss your ass’s bullet-free status goodbye. They’ll come for our balls, but they’ll take the rest of us, too. Like you said, they patrol the highway nearby and watch their roads from the air, day and night. Because they’re scared.”

  “Keeping an eye out for elite pearlmakers?”

  “They’re not as scared of them as they are of the commandos. There are worst beasts, though.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Elites aren’t the worst.”

  “What is?”

  “Forget it. Best not to speak of them. They can be discussed in stables, but not even mentioned out here. Bad luck.”

  “Superstitious, huh?”

  “Of course. There are some words that’ll get you a bullet in the eye if you speak them in vain. Anyway, the edgers are still mortal, you know, and they have lots of things everyone else would love to have. Weapons, ammo, vehicles, equipment.”

  “I get i
t. Your people do everything they can to ambush them.”

  “Commandos kills edgers all the time. It’s not easy to do, but they’re good at it. If you ever come across wrecked body armor and dead tanks, a commando operation is most likely what you’re looking at.”

  “I saw a burned-out APC a while back. Two, actually.”

  “I saw a tank blown to pieces just a couple of days ago.”

  “Ammunition explosion?”

  “Possibly. Some of the stables here have miniature armies. They always have equipment woes, sure, but they have enough tech for a decent convoy. Artillery, anti-tank rounds, the works.”

  “I don’t understand how inhabited stables even exist under these conditions,” Boiler puzzled. “If the edgers found out where they were located, they could just hit them with an air and artillery strike, then scavenge the corpses. A whole city of immunes just ripe for the taking.”

  “Right, that happens sometimes,” Fisher confirmed as he munched the last of the cold can of stew. “But there’s something you haven’t considered. We’re near the Noose right now. On the Edge. That’s the strip along the rim of the world where the edgers maintain their bases.

  “They don’t usually stray far from this area. After all, they must always wear respirators, and each campaign requires decontamination afterward, which is very unpleasant. So edgers stay as close to their bases as divers do to their submarines. And when they leave, they come back as quick as they can. They’re not suicidal, after all, and are terrified of being infected. Sometimes they might arrange a large-scale raid of a well-known stable, but only if it’s close by. When you’re a few hundred miles away from the Noose, you’re more likely to encounter Martians than edgers.”

  “Wait, there are Martians here?”

  “Hah! No, I was just making a joke. No Martians. At least, that I know of. God knows we’ve got enough things here worthy of Area 51 as it is.”

  “So I ran into some decent guys here, earlier on. Good fighters, it seemed, but also the kind you wouldn’t be afraid to do business with. But just after I met them, some other group attacked us, and I doubt they were edgers. None of them were wearing gas masks or respirators or anything like that. They caught me and tossed me in a truck with another guy who looked like an edger: his respirator had been ripped off his face. He was from the Caribbean, I’m guessing, or possibly some place in South America, since he said a couple of words to me in Spanish. I’m bad with accents. Of course, he could’ve been American but hoped the others wouldn’t understand him, since they really didn’t seem like the intellectual type. Grammar like second-grade dropouts. Anyway, those guys in the truck mentioned a ‘grabber,’ and it sounded like something to be scared of.”

  Fisher was startled. “Grabber?”

  “Right. We encountered a tripwire, and it sounded like someone with the job of ‘grabber’ might have been involved. Unless the tripwire was the grabber?”

  No, Grabber doesn’t put up tripwires. He’s the leader of the moles, you could say. Has a big gang of them, and the little shits do everything he says. What else did you hear?”

  “Hmm, well, the group in the truck kept referring to a leader named ‘Raoul.’”

  “Raoul is Grabber’s right-hand man. Many stables would pay a handsome sum for the bastard’s head. We’re not talking a few peas here. They’d pay in pearls!”

  “Moles?”

  “Yeah. I have no idea how you escaped alive. They wouldn’t care that you were a newcomer. They’d sell their own mothers to the edgers, and talk them up to the highest price in bullets they could get.”

  “Human garbage. I get it.”

  “Don’t go around insulting garbage like that.”

  “But wait—if they’re bosom buddies with the edgers, why’d they have an edger in captivity? They ripped his respirator off, too, which is almost certain death, right?”

  “Remember that tale of the friendship between the hungry cat and the fat mouse?”

  “Yeah. It was a short tale. Easy to remember.”

  “That’s what their relationship is like. One day they’ll bring the edgers containers of our innards, and the next, the container’s filled with edger innards instead.”

  “Sounds like a complicated relationship.”

  “Almost as bad as you and your ex-girlfriend’s. Also, the edgers are not a unified force. They come from many different worlds. Some reach agreements among themselves and even work together, while other groups ignore each other. And sometimes they fight, when they can’t come to peaceable terms on how to divvy something up.”

  “Wait, so this Grabber and Raoul probably work with one edger faction, and that edger prisoner was from another faction?”

  “Sounds likely. Did you come here from A4?”

  “I’ve heard that mentioned before.”

  “It’s the common name for the sector that lies just east of us. Several edger factions work the area, and commandos, in turn, hunt the edgers. Grabber operates there, too—targeting both edgers and commandos.”

  “So those soldier types I ran into were commandos?”

  “Anything special about them you remember?”

  “The oldest went by ‘Panther.’”

  “Of course he did. Could have been anyone. Like I said, there are lots of delicious clusters out there, for all tastes. Too many people in A4 to know them all. Well, I’m out. We could talk all night, but I really need some sleep.”

  * * *

  Boiler was back atop the familiar roof, his binoculars raised and aimed at the store. A couple of ghouls stood among the cars in the parking lot, which had been free of any signs of “life” the day before. As if they had anticipated his plans. Read his thoughts. He didn’t really need that store, so they could stand there as long as they liked.

  No other beasts were in sight. The town seemed calm enough, his gun gave his new confidence, and his leg barely bothered him at all. He could search each and every house, and nothing should trouble him.

  But what would be the point? Unless he was looking for bikes. The garages had been a huge disappointment along those lines—the few that had been open had nothing of value inside. How much time would an extensive search take? How many priceless bullets would he use? Plus, what if he encountered one of those monsters who couldn’t care less about bullets? Dying for a chance at a pair of bicycles didn’t sound like his preferred exit strategy from this world.

  He went back inside the garage. By the glow of a small flashlight, Fisher was opening the can of stew Boiler had left him before ascending to his crow’s nest. Charcoal watched with uncharacteristic fascination, determined to claim his share.

  “Good morning. How’s the leg?”

  “Better. Bikes?”

  “None to be seen.”

  “Shit. Guess it’s Plan B, then. Have you eaten?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Then get packed up and let’s get going.”

  “Packing shouldn’t take long. Just need to sort my socks.”

  “That’s the spirit. Always ready to go at a moment’s notice, and yet with clean socks. What’s the ammunition status?”

  “About eighty rounds. But half of them are worthless buckshot rounds.”

  “Not completely worthless, as long as you’re just facing empties and runners. By the way, how about a new name for you?”

  “What? Why?”

  “Ninja. Seems to fit better than whatever the hell ‘Boiler’ means.” The newcomer had slung his sword and scabbard over his shoulder so it would hang behind his back, where it wouldn’t trip him up, and this made Fisher smirk.

  “Where else do I put it? It’s a decent sword, so it seems stupid to throw it away. An ax would be better, though.”

  “If you learn to swing that thing, well, I’ve met some people who do quite well here with a sword. It’s much faster than an ax. You should practice drawing it from behind your back.”

  “You kidding me? I’d be lucky not to scalp myself.”

 
“You didn’t strike me as the clumsy type.”

  “It’s just unwieldy. Too long, and sheathed too tightly. I could draw it from a waist belt, but from behind my back?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So what do you use if things come down to hand-to-hand combat?”

  Fisher reached under his rags and pulled out a sharp pickax with a handle made from a length of metal pipe.

  “This. We call it a ‘beak.’ Convenient thing to have, and it can drill the brains out of even the scariest monsters if you hit between the armor plates. It’s easy to pull out, too. Hard to get stuck.”

  “I should get me one of those.”

  “They’ll make one to your liking at the stable. Plenty of craftsmen there. Well, we ready to go?”

  “You’ve still got some stew left.”

  “I’ll eat on the road.”

  “Which way are we going? Due west?”

  “Pretty suspicious tone of voice there, Ninja. You up to something?”

  “There’s a store out that way guarded by a couple of runners—or sprinters, I haven’t learned to tell the difference yet.”

  “There’s no hard line between the two types. You can outrun a runner, but not a sprinter. It’s faster, with more endurance and more persistence. It has sharp nails, too, almost as vicious as a raffler’s. Let’s just go around them. No point in encountering them, and I’d hate to be in combat with two sprinters with my leg like this if something went awry.”

  Chapter 22

  Fisher’s limp was painful to look at. It slowed his pace considerably, causing him to amble about as if in no particular hurry. From snippets of conversation here and there, however, Boiler deduced his new companion planned to kick his speed up a notch once they reached a certain point. The man would pull out his compass now and then, adjusting their direction. They were heading north northwest, obviously towards some specific location unknown to Boiler. The latter tried to ask where they were heading, of course, but all he received in response was a request to keep the conversation to a minimum on the move. “Words bring beasts and bullets, they say.”

  Fair enough. Boiler knew well that sharp eyes and ears were more important than trivia games, despite his unceasing thirst for more information.