by Arthur Stone
“Are we almost there?”
Fisher snapped at the interruption. “We’ll have to paddle the rest of the way. We’ll be lucky to make it in a couple of hours—no way we’ll pull in while it’s still light, I’m afraid.”
“How about we go by foot?”
“Just point me to the nearest dry land, and off we go. No, it’s just swamps and more swamps, as far as the eye can see in both directions. Too bad we’re not beavers. Anyway, paddle time. Nice job catching that cat, by the way. I doubt he was looking to go for a dip.”
* * *
By the time they reached their intended campsite, the twilight was just completing its journey into night. A storm approached from the horizon, and the glistening lightning and distant thunder increased their desire to escape into shelter.
It was difficult to make out any details in the gloom, but they did find the place in time. A chimney reached up to stroke the clouds, and its plump little brother, a large square tower, sat sleeping in its shadow. A ramp ran up to feed the younger sibling, doubtless with a conveyor belt shrouded by the darkness.
This was no ordinary quarry. Boiler could see it was outfitted with a plethora of modern equipment, despite the lack of light and his lack of expertise in the industry. It wasn’t your cheap quarry with three rundown trailers, two dump trucks, and an ancient forklift.
Better, there was still plenty of greenery around, meaning lots of places to hide even in the daytime. At night, only an invisibility cloak could serve you better. Boiler had taken a liking to locations free of open spaces, and despite this being a quarry, it would do nicely.
“We’ll spend the night up there, among the industrial machinery,” said Fisher.
“Decent place to stay?”
“Not quite a five-star hotel, and the escort service is shit, but at least there’s a leather sofa in the office. Somebody put mosquito nets up on the windows, probably since the swamp is nearby, and there are some pretty good drinks in the bar. I’ve never seen any infecteds there, either. So don’t you worry.”
“Are we close to that stable?”
“Jeez, you’re like a toddler. No, we’re not there yet!”
“Information is life.”
“In the Hive especially. No, the stable isn’t far. It can’t be more than twenty miles, as the crow flies. We head due west until we see a huge tower, standing alone out in the middle of nowhere and easy to see from miles away. Quite the landmark. Once we reach it, we turn due north and arrive at the stable after just a few miles. The cluster has only one village, as old as the pyramids of Egypt, but it’s been blessed by a few upgrades over the years. No way we’ll lose our way now.”
“Yeah, I’m tired of wandering. I could use staying in one spot for a while.”
“Not a fan of the vagabond life? What are you hoping to find in a lousy stable, anyway? This is the wretched outskirts of the Edge. There’s nothing good here. This stable only survives because there’s not a closer one. It’s a hole, a dump, the kind of place where you’d catch gonorrhea in the old world. But we immunes can’t catch STDs, so it can’t even offer that.”
“Wait. We can’t catch diseases?”
“Pretty much. And that’s true of more than just germs. I used to get frequent stomach aches and ulcers. But here, I could down glasses of vinegar and feel nothing but a fleeting shade of heartburn.”
“And yet here you are, coming with me to the stable. Why would a shithole be worth any more to you?”
“First I wanted to rest so my leg could heal, but now, I don’t even know.” Fisher paused to think, then continued. “My leg can heal itself, so why spend any money on it? Especially since you can hardly expect decent treatment in a low-level stable like that. So how about we keep going, to someplace far away? I’m tired of the Edge. It’s an overcrowded hell hole, and I don’t even know why I thought coming here was a good idea. I should’ve stayed out West. Of course, if you stay in one place for too long, you get the shivers.”
“The shivers?”
“Yeah, uh—we usually can’t get sick, but the shivers are something else entirely. I don’t think anyone has ever died from them, but they can make you want to die. How about we make a deal? We reach this stable first and then we move on, to bigger and better stables!”
“I need to see a healer. The sooner, the better.”
“Ah, yes, your gift. You’re right about that.”
“Plus I’d like to check the place out and recharge, at least a little.”
“Just stick with me and I’ll tell you what’s what. This stable is a stunted, rotten shithole, like I said. The Edge is never home to anything good. Whenever something good crops up, it only lasts a day or two before something bigger and badder wipes it off the map. Nothing can last here for long. There’s no stability, and no sense in settling down.
“So let’s press on. There are bigger clusters out west, not just shrivels of land sprinkled with dead clusters and deadly barbarians. It’s no paradise, but you can find a quiet place and a job to earn your bread. By becoming a supplier of spores for the doublers and their teams, for instance. Joining a team like that will net you work, a place to live, and maybe even a girl. You’ll be a proper human being, not some wanderer struggling every day to survive, walking an eternal knife’s edge between becoming a heartless beast and becoming a meal for one.”
“So the farther you get from the Edge, the better?”
“It’s more complicated than that. No one’s ever gone any more than a modest distance away. Otherwise, you run into—well, I’d rather not talk about that right before we fall asleep, especially outside of a stable. Bring us in to shore. Hold your gun at the ready, though. You never know what might be around in the Hive, so you can never let your guard down, not even if you have a tank with you.” He glared at the shattered propeller again. “And this piece of shit is hardly a tank.”
Bringing in the boat was easy enough. Boiler slid it up onto the grass, and they stepped out without even getting their feet wet. The cat stared warily at the dark tower looming against the sky and stayed behind Boiler, walking just behind and to his side like a bodyguard. This didn’t trouble the man. His feline friend was a cat, after all, and they were known to exhibit intense anxiety for little or no reason. Who knew what the animal might be thinking? Maybe he had caught a whiff of a dog. Or maybe he just didn’t like new places.
Actually, a dog would be a good reason for anxiety. Boiler gripped his shotgun a bit tighter. Dogs were carnivores, and larger animals were susceptible to the infection. Even running into a pack of diseased poodles could be game over.
A few drops jumped the gate and descended from the night clouds, and the cat meowed mournfully. His tribe had an uneasy peace with the element of water, and this drizzle felt like the prelude to a downpour.
Fisher walked up to a willow with a hollow in its side, stared at it, and ran his hand along its surface.
“What’s that about?” asked Boiler, confused.
“I hammered a nail into this tree last time I was here.”
“And it’s gone?”
“Yeah. Reset.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Almost a month back.”
“As far as I understand, that’s pretty long for this area.”
“Maybe, but some of these clusters only reset once a year. A few, once every three years. But you’re right: most clusters in the Edge wipe frequently.”
He stepped away from the willow and laid out their course. “We’re about to encounter a wall with a gate. The way in was open when I was here, and I hope it still is. Even with my leg in perfect health, I’d be unable to get over that wall.”
“Your limp is almost gone, at least.”
“Give it another mile and I’ll be a cripple again. I need to rest.”
“You can have the leather sofa.”
“Tomorrow, we’ll only have a mile or so to walk. There’s this village on the way that always has a Ford SUV in it with the ke
ys right on the driver’s seat. That’ll get us there quick.”
“We’re taking a car?”
“During the day, traveling by car is fine—in some places, anyway. This is one of those places, one wild cluster after another with plenty of open space. No towns, just the rare house now and then, and no massive trees to fall and block the road. Since the population is so low, the bigger beasts don’t care for the area. The roads could be better, but an SUV can handle potholes and mud. That’ll take us straight to the tower, and it would take us all the way to the stable itself, if not for the mobile outposts they keep along the road. ‘Stable’ may describe the cluster, but it sure doesn’t describe the people or politics there. And after all we’ve survived, I’d rather not take my chances with RPG rockets.”
The way through was indeed open, the wooden creak of the doors already evoking a bit of nostalgia for the boat that had gotten them so far. But if anything was nearby, it might have heard those doors opening.
Fisher didn’t like the racket, either. “These reclusters are never predictable. The first time I was here they creaked like that, but not the two or three times after that. Little differences like that are scary; they remind you that there could be a massive change waiting to hand you a fatal surprise. Come on, let’s get inside before the rain really starts. We still need to cut around the main workshop area, but then we’ll get a decent night’s sleep.”
“You smell that?”
“Smell what?”
“It smells like dead flesh.”
“No—are you just imagining it?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, come on, are you, or are you not?”
“I don’t even know. I smelled it at the gate, just for a moment.”
“Ugh. That’s a bad sign.”
“I know.”
“Alright, let’s take a good, careful look around. Better safe than sorry.”
They examined the entrance checkpoint, careful not to noisily knock anything over. The vagabonds had made enough noise as it was. Fisher stopped just before reaching the second door, which was wide open. “This was closed last time. And every time before,” he whispered. “Wait here, and not a sound. I’ll check it out.”
He crept to the door, peered into the darkness, and waited for a few moments. After one more step, he froze, then swung around to approach the door from the other side as well, checking both corners.
Or at least, trying to check both corners.
Fisher’s second look was interrupted by something violently dragging him inside. He cried out and tried to free himself, but to no avail. The beast growled and tore at Fisher’s neck with its teeth. The raider yelled wildly, kicking the zombie back with his feet and yelling, “Shoot! Shoot it, Boiler!”
The shotgun roared just as the infected got back up, knocking it to the floor. It was one of the less developed infecteds, but still potentially deadly. Boiler spotted another out of the corner of his eye, whirled, and pulled the trigger. But this creature kept coming, despite taking a direct hit from a slug. It only paused for a moment, waving its arms in that ridiculous gesture they all knew. Boiler pumped the gun and took another shot. This time, the beast was done.
But Fisher was lying on piles of bones, moaning and raising his crossbow. He swore, his voice dripping with soul-crushing doom. “Fuck. We’re fucked. The clusterfuck screwed everything up. Bones everywhere.”
Their hearts stopped as a mature infected rumbled from the floor above. A split second later, a dark mass slid off the roof, knocking its footbones into the pavement, straightening up, and clacking towards them.
“Motherfucker! Trampler! Trampler! Hit it in the head! The head! That’s its only weak spot!”
Boiler didn’t know where the weak spot in the trampler’s head was located, but he did know that only three rounds remained in his shotgun. So he pressed the butt to his shoulder and waited for the creature to close. A slug was in the chamber. It had good armor piercing potential, and the closer, the better. He had to hit right on the money, for there would not be time for another two shots.
Here goes nothing. The butt of the gun kicked back into his shoulder. The trampler shuddered and jerked, its limbs going spread eagle and then convulsing violently. And then, it fell. Boiler approached, fired the buckshot round haphazardly, and remembered that the next round was his last. He prepared to fire it into the beast’s temple, deducing that its skull armor would be weakest there.
The mutant tucked in its legs and mourned in protest. Moaned in agony.
But then Fisher staggered over, screaming. “A herd of them! Fuck me bloody. Shoot, Boiler!”
A second creature’s heels clattered to the pavement and rushed at Boiler. His gun was empty, and he had no time to reload. In fact, he had no time for anything at all. Except perhaps retreating into the checkpoint, closing the doors behind him to lock in a few extra seconds of life.
“I’m out! Retreat!” he said in a voice he barely recognized as his own. He turned to run.
By all appearances, Fisher had gone mad with fear. Instead of running, he remained crouched in the doorway and hurried to reload his crossbow, even though it was already loaded. He raised his weapon, took aim, and pointed right at Boiler. With a bizarre calm, he said, “Run forward or I’ll hit you!”
Boiler doubted the crossbow could take the monster down, but he tried to move out of the way. Friendly fire was the last thing he wanted in this situation. Then Fisher lowered his sights and his voice. “I’m sorry, brother.”
The bolt pierced Boiler’s shin with such force that it seemed he heard his bones shattering. No. Those are just the bones underneath my feet. He collapsed into the remains of the former quarry workers.
“You bastard!” he screamed, in desperate rage. This was it. The end. The terrifying monster was two seconds away from its now-disarmed prey, its fangs already bared. This kind of ending was to be expected. His would be yet another untold story of yet another failed newcomer to the Hive.
But he still wanted to live. Screaming from the pain, he rose to one knee, grabbed his shotgun by the barrel, and prepared to slam its butt into the creature’s bony head. But he was out of time. The monster was on top of him.
At the last instant, a loud, familiar hissing sounded off to his left. It was Charcoal, rushing towards the entrance, emitting a cacophony of auditory revulsion. But he was running towards the wall, not towards the open door.
Loud cats were an irresistible temptation for the ghouls. How had he forgotten? The trampler lost all interest in Boiler and rushed after its new purpose.
Whether it caught Charcoal or not, the sequel to the beast’s catlust would be the same: it would return for the cripple, finishing what the traitorous raider had begun. Once again, the cat had bought him a few seconds of life, not even enough to reload his gun. He was powerless. On the very threshold of death, and utterly impotent. Boiler clenched his face, in terror and frustration grinding his teeth so hard that pieces of enamel chipped every which way into his mouth.
And then, the world stopped. The knocking of the creature’s feet on the pavement stopped; the rain slowed to an imperceptibly slow pace; the monster sat crouched in place, preparing to execute its record-smashing jump. Trampler. Boiler reflected on how dumb its name sounded. Not that “Boiler” was much better. Charcoal was frozen in midair, midleap, midescape, his claws outstretched towards his gamble at salvation, a low rooftop. Wow. How did he get all the way up there?
Of course, the most amazing thing was what was happening to Boiler at this very instant. It was unbelievable. Unreal. Impossible. Perhaps it was the last attempt of his broken mind to escape its inevitable fate. But some distant consciousness told Boiler that, no, this was actually happening. He had to hurry, for he had little time. He stood, fighting against the strangely heavy air weighing down on him, as if he now lived in a bath of jello and had to move through it to get anywhere.
The shotgun hovered in the air where he had released it, descending towards
the pavement like a snail inching down the glass wall of its cage. His sword was too difficult to draw from his back. His arms just weren’t long enough. But he could unfasten its scabbard.
With a slow wave of his hand, the sheath flew off to the side. Inertia was strange in this new reality. The sheath hung in the air, like the gun, making agonizingly slow progress towards the pavement.
The monster was still moving, just not very quickly. Charcoal had already reached the edge of the roof, the tips of his paws just touching down. But they seemed infinitely far away from Boiler, who struggled to push through the gelatinous air. Still, compared to them, he was moving faster than lighting. He took another step. His leg did not hurt. In fact, he couldn’t feel his body at all, which was strange, but he had neither the time nor the will to let what was happening surprise him. This was his chance. He had to take advantage of it—he could think about what it meant later.
The trampler’s paw was stretched out, reaching almost to the cat’s tail. Its left armpit was exposed, as was its clenched abdomen. That’s where the sword struck first. Boiler put his whole body into the stab, forcing the blade deeper and deeper. Down into the beast’s chest, down where it would puncture the monster’s most vital organs. These creatures had excellent protection from the front and back, but they were vulnerable from the side.
At last the blade encountered something it could not skewer, but its journey up until that point was long and fruitful. Would it be enough? Boiler didn’t know. In desperation, he tried pushing even harder. Nothing. Once more he pushed, this time with all his strength, like a solitary man trying to shove a tank out of the mud. It’s in! I did it! At that instant, the world began to go dark. His vision tunneled, the sword slipped from his hands, and he involuntarily stepped backward. He saw the world return to normal speed, even as the pavement rushed up to kiss his face.
Blackness took him.
Chapter 25
If you had asked Boiler what the ideal situation was to find oneself in when waking up, he would have probably mentioned silk sheets, a beautiful woman, sunbeams peeking through curtains gently caressed by the breeze, and palm trees rustling just outside.