Free World Apocalypse - Captive

by T. K. Malone

  “Okay,” said Loser.

  He just let it go? thought Zac, but Loser caught his eye, and Zac realized the man was letting Walter off the hook. Zac gave him the faintest of nods. “You were saying, Walter: access points?”

  “Indeed,” he fumbled to say, now appearing flustered. “Laura,” he managed more forcefully, having cleared his throat, “you need to—”

  “Yes, Father, check the schematics. Where can I get access to them?”

  “Same place as yesterday.”

  Laura nodded.

  “And what are we all going to do, Walter?” Zac asked.

  “You should go with Renshaw. He’ll familiarize you with some weapons and armor which I think you may like, but let me stress this, Zac: no games.”

  “Games? You think I’d play games with my brother’s life?”

  “No, no, of course I don’t, but I’m not asking you to save him, am I?”

  Zac felt his temper rise, his blood begin to boil, but he tried his hardest to keep on top of it. Control was everything, and he knew, even though no words had been said, that Noodle, Billy and Loser were with him.

  Of those, Loser was now staring at him, wizened old eyes in a weathered shell, and Zac wondered what action he’d seen, what horrors The Free World army had thrown at him. He’d only known him days, and he hadn’t said much, but Zac already had suspicions there was more to him than met the eye, and the previous couple of days had only gone to confirm it.

  “So,” Zac said, “you arm us, Laura finds a way in, then what?”

  “Then?” said Irving. “Then you get close to Connor. Then you finish it.”

  “We don’t have to get close,” said Loser. “I can take him out; just need a clean shot.”

  17

  Zac’s Story

  Strike time: plus 8 days

  Location: The Meyers' Retreat

  Zac breathed in the night air. It was good to be out of the cabin. Up ahead, Renshaw and five of his best men were forging ahead. It had been Billy Flynn who’d questioned the choice of a small group, arguing that surely using all of Meyers' men, he’d have been able to clear the federal army out of the way with ease. It was a reasonable enough point to raise.

  Irving had merely stated a small force would have a better chance of getting to Connor; they could better lure Sable away and so finish it before she had a chance to spread beyond the compound. All this still niggled Zac, mostly because Sable hadn’t—by Walter’s own admission—spread when she’d had the chance, when Switch had replaced the fuse. He’d let it go. Somehow, he doubted he was being told the whole truth, if they even knew it.

  He flexed his arms, the heavy combat fatigues still not molding fully to his body. Renshaw had provided them in the armory, and they were all moving with some measure of discomfort. He’d called it memory-armor—some invention of Irving’s—and had promised by the end of the night they wouldn’t even know they had it on. The armory had been set out like a gym changing room, two banks of wooden benches down the middle, and where lockers should have been were racks of guns, shelves of clothing, boots, knives, crossbows, and grenades. Renshaw had taken down a jacket which looked like it had been made from a thousand ribbons, each about six inches long. Taking up a knife, he’d handed them both to Noodle. When instructed, and try as Noodle might, he couldn’t cut, slice or stab through the ribbons. Loser had tried next, but he’d hung it up and selected a gun. Renshaw had inclined his head but eventually nodded and they’d all moved away. The bullet had smashed into it but then merely dropped to the floor, the jacket unscathed. Billy Flynn had tried to tear it apart with his bare hands but had soon given up.

  “Not indestructible,” Renshaw had said, “but close enough.” He’d tossed one at Zac, surprising him by how little it weighed.

  Everything they now wore was made of the stuff, their trousers, vests, jackets, gloves, boots, and helmets. Only Loser felt truly at home, having muttered something about it being like a sniper’s getup, except without the camouflage. Reluctant at first, Noodle had been the first to get geared up, and then Renshaw had shown them something even more incredible. He’d put his own on and the ribbons had quickly melded into each other, the suit appearing just a little more normal. The clothing, Renshaw had told them, morphed like this dependant upon their core body temperature and its response to their motion. In the fluidity of battle, he’d assured them, it would balance mobility with protection, adjusting to the level of hostility they’d encounter.

  At first, that hostility had consisted of nothing more than a steep mountain trail. It had wound up in a great loop for a seemingly endless length of time. They each, Renshaw and his five men, Billy, Noodle, Loser, Zac, and Laura, carried what weapons they’d selected along with backpacks and now studiedly grim faces. It hadn’t been a time of idle chatter, even for Noodle, who’d been suspiciously quiet, nor Loser, who’d now lost his newfound tongue, or even Zac, though a few dozen unanswered questions still rattled around in his mind. There was no banter, nothing, just their labored breaths and the scuff of their bootsteps as they trudged up the trail. Eventually, Zac stopped, took a breath and looked up at the stars.

  “It’s amazing how much you miss them,” Laura said, drawing close.

  “Sorry, what?” said Zac, wrenched from his thoughts.

  “The stars; it’s amazing how much they comfort you.”

  He grinned. Yes, he thought, it was indeed true, but he didn’t know what to say in response. True, they’d spent a few nights together, but that respite was now over.

  The trail widened part way up the ridge they were climbing, in the midst of some towering redwoods. Beyond the spread of their high-reaching blackness, the glow of the blue-black sky offered him some hint of hope, and yes, Zac thought, the stars were comforting—like beacons of hope shining down upon them. They endured, they sparkled and shone no matter what was going on below, and they made him feel small, even more so than did the giant redwoods, and yet they also made him feel safe.

  “It is,” he at long last said.

  She held him in her gaze. “So many words, Zac,” and she nudged him and leaned in, but her attention felt stifling when all he needed was space. Connor was so close now, too close. Two days, maybe three, and they’d be there, if all went well. Then he’d have to make a choice, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that, wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready for it. He shifted uneasily.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, “it’s just…”

  “Time, Zac, it’s all just time. No matter how many questions, he wouldn’t have answered.”

  “But why?” Zac took out a smoke. “Why, when all I wanted to know was if he was certain?”

  “Because, whatever you do now, the blame isn’t on his shoulders. Don’t you get it? That’s how manipulators like my father and grandfather work. They spin circumstance, create threat, muddy waters, and muddle minds. Then, when the dust settles on the battlefield, they’ll judge, learn and finally walk away with clear consciences because others made the impossible decisions, ones they were forced into.”

  “So, I get to kill my brother and they get to blame me if I’m wrong.”

  She went over to a redwood and leaned against it, the sole of one boot planted on its bark, her knee crooked. She looked strange in her getup, in her military uniform. It didn’t quite suit her, but then it didn’t look stupid, either. He cursed that he couldn’t even make his mind up which.

  “Pretty much,” she said. “But you could look at it differently.”

  “How so?”

  “They’ve given you the power. No one’s asked Renshaw’s men to kill Connor. It’s all down to you, Zac. For whatever twisted reason, it’s all on you.”

  “And if I choose not to? If I choose to let him live and he dies anyway, what then?”

  “Then the machines take over the world?” She laughed and looked back up at the stars.

  Zac took a drag on his smoke and walked over, leaning back beside her against the mighty redwood. “Did
I ever tell you about Connor? About his love of old films—real old films.”

  “No.”

  “There was one where the woman in it had his name—Connor.”

  “A woman called Connor?”

  “Sarah Connor. Anyway, she lived in a time when the machines ruled the world, or her boy did, something like that.”

  “What’s your point?”

  Zac stared into her eyes. “Mankind still existed, still survived—that’s my point.”

  “Even when they were ruled by machines.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Fucking disastrous. Man was getting his ass handed to him.” Zac’s smile flashed in the starlight, humor erasing his melancholy.

  “You asshole, Zac Clay.” Laura swiped him with her open palm.

  Renshaw called over, and they both went to join him.

  “We’re going to trek up to the top of this ridge and then down to about halfway. Then we hunker down. These suits will stop heat-seekers from tracking us, but if they’ve got drones up in the air, we’re sitting ducks out here. Nighttime marching all the way, until we get to Aldertown.”

  Zac nodded.

  “Could have taken Loser’s truck,” said Noodle.

  “Could have if he hadn’t wrecked it,” Renshaw smirked. “Anyway, I have a little detour in mind.”

  “Oy!” Loser shouted, like he was on satellite delay.

  “Detour?” Zac asked.

  “I’ll show you later.”

  “Plus, first sign of a firefight and Loser jumps—he said it himself,” Noodle called out.

  “Shut up,” Loser spat. “Too good a truck to lose, that one.”

  “Not to mention the bikes—more than likely be a rarity now, bikes,” moaned Billy Flynn.

  “Then, Billy-boy, we’ll just have to get through this and relieve Nathan of a few,” said Zac.

  Billy Flynn looked at him. “Where’d your good mood come from?”

  Zac looked at Laura. “I can see the stars again,” he said, and then he grinned at his old friend.

  Renshaw’s men took point, crawling into the forest like a creeping mist. It was like they’d made these mountains their own, and Zac understood this particular interpretation of Occam’s razor; sometimes a few could prevail where many may not. They picked their way toward the ridge, the still of the night unbroken but for Loser’s panting breath and Noodle’s wheeze, the odd grunt from Billy Flynn.

  At the top of the ridge, Renshaw called for a break. They were now on a small flat stretch of rock between two weathered pinnacles, level with the canopy. Renshaw and his men slumped to the ground, guns across their legs. While they took out water flasks, Zac’s side took out smokes.

  “No wonder you pant like a pig, big man,” one of the soldiers called. All five of Renshaw’s men looked much the same, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and tight-lipped. None said much, if anything. Just for a second, Zac wondered if there was a reason they weren’t trying to be friendly, weren’t trying to get close.

  “We can look after ourselves,” said Billy, his tone laced with challenge.

  “I’m sure you can,” the soldier retorted, “but for how long?”

  Billy looked him up and down in silence, but then Renshaw quietly said, “Walk with me, if you would, Zac?”

  Zac reckoned there was a confrontation brewing. “Why not?” he said, relieved not to be a part of it, but as he stood, an explosion rocked the valley, the tips of the redwoods bending in the blast which briefly buffeted them all. Everyone scrambled to their feet, staring out across the valley as a vast ball of flame steadily bloomed into the sky.

  “Shit, but that was big,” Renshaw said. “I’m guessing one of the Hell’s Gates has fallen,” but his voice betrayed no surprise. “Makes our chat all the more important.” He tapped Zac’s elbow and nodded for him to follow, then led him a short way down from the ridge. When they came to a prominent rock, poking up through the steep slope of trees, he climbed up and sat on one of its ledges. Zac was at his heels, soon shuffling in beside Renshaw, their legs swinging over the edge.

  “So,” Zac said, “what do you want to chat about?”

  “I want to make it quite plain I’m not over the moon with this arrangement. You and your men, well, they’re—you’re a danger to us.”

  “A danger?”

  “Men and soldiers; there’s a difference. Mine are professional, well-trained. They function as one, live as one, and they’ll fight as one. Yours? I’m not so sure.”

  “You’ve no need to worry,” Zac told him, but too quickly, on impulse, and he knew it was bravado. “They’ll stand,” he muttered.

  “Stand? I have no doubt about that. I have no doubt they’re brave, good men, but there’s a difference. You see, Zac, our two views of a good outcome from a fight differ somewhat.”

  Zac stared at him as he drew out another smoke, offering the pack to Renshaw. The soldier hesitated but took it. Zac lit his own and passed Renshaw the light. He then looked down into the valley, imagining the likely chaos surrounding the compound. He wondered if Connor himself still stood. “Differ?” he finally said. “How do we differ, then?”

  Renshaw took a drag of his smoke. “They’d see a victory as the death of their enemy, of bloodied flesh and broken bones—bodies strewn where they’d once stood. Pumped with adrenalin, screaming their victory, your boys would feel like giants…and rightly so.”

  Zac realized he was nodding. “Sounds about right.” He could see the scene now, see the blood, feel the tinge of revulsion at his excitement at the thought. “So, what would you do different?”

  Clearly it was Renshaw’s turn to reflect, and he took his time. When he did answer, Zac’s excitement quickly faded. “We’re all slightly different,” he said. “I’ve one among my team who’ll just disappear into himself, maybe for hours, maybe days. Another’s a crier; you wouldn’t know it to look at him, and I definitely wouldn’t bring it up. One likes to clear his head as soon as possible by getting drunk, or high, you know, that sort of thing. There are as many different ways they choose to cope as there are men.”

  “You?”

  “Me?” and Renshaw smirked. “Believe it or not, if I can get my hands on a device, even an old-fashioned book, though I haven’t seen one of those for as long as I care to think back, I like to read.”

  “So,” Zac said, his voice pained, “you don’t celebrate?”

  Renshaw looked rather surprised. “Oh, we celebrate, but we celebrate getting out alive. We don’t celebrate the deaths, Zac; we don’t ever celebrate death.”

  Zac drummed his fingers on his knee. “And you think we’ll get you killed?”

  “Zac, I know you’re going to get some of us killed, which goes without saying. I’m just trying to cut down the losses.”

  Lying back on the rock, Zac thought about Renshaw’s words. Were he, Billy, Noodle, and Loser that much of a liability? He couldn’t see it; he didn’t want to see it. He shook his head. “I suppose we do walk through the forest like lumbering giants.”

  “That you do.”

  “And we may be a bit rough and ready.”

  “That you are.”

  “But we’ll fight with all our heart, because we have a damn good reason.”

  “Connor?”

  “Connor.”

  “But you’ll be there to kill him.”

  Zac ran his fingers through his hair, wringing his mind for the right words. He couldn’t be sure how far he could test this man without pushing it, but since they’d left the Meyers' retreat, he’d been alone with his thoughts and those thoughts had fallen on Renshaw and his band of men quite a few times; indeed, much of the time. What he couldn’t work out was what they had to gain. In the bluntest of terms, he wanted to know why they didn’t just up and leave. Money wasn’t important anymore, so Irving and Walter couldn’t be dangling that carrot before them. So, why were they still here? Why were they still pressing ahead?

  “What
if it’s not all as Irving says it will be, as Walter says? What if Connor is in control and Sable’s not? What then, Renshaw? Do we still kill him just because Walter said so?”

  Renshaw patted the rock on which they sat. “It’s no coincidence I brought you to this old promontory, no coincidence I stopped when I did, despite it being the worst place on the mountain. One drone, Zac, one drone and we’re undone.”

  “So, why did you stop here?”

  “It’s Brad, by the way; Bradley Renshaw. Not quite a commando name, more marine. Somehow, it doesn’t sound strong enough. So, call me Brad, Zac, and I stopped here for a very good reason. There’s six in my team, yet I only march with five. Somewhere, out there, my sixth man is milling with a mad crowd, fitting in, getting information back to us. One of us comes here every night in case he makes contact. Sometimes he does, sometimes not, but we’re always here.”

  “Do you reckon he’ll come tonight?”

  “Tonight? No, not tonight. One of my men was up here last night and got the nod he was in the valley, back near the preppers' compound. We won’t hear from him again until he catches up with us.”

  Zac let out a long breath. “So, that’s how you know what you need to do?”

  “Indeed, and that’s how I know what a mess it is down there.” He peered across the trees and down into the valley, as though seeing it. “So, Zac, are you going to ask me the real question on your mind?”

  “You haven’t answered my question about Connor, yet.”

  Renshaw laid back beside Zac and looked up at the stars, as well. “Not yet.”

  Zac laughed. “A game of cards, bluff and raise, eh? Is that what we’re playing? Alright, I’ll stake you this: why? Why bother? Why not just clear out and take your men with you?”

  “And there it is.” Renshaw laughed. “I knew that was the question on your mind—the reason why. Would you believe me if I said I’d been wondering that very thing myself?”

  “No, no I don’t think it would. Since this whole thing started, I’ve been second-guessing all my decisions.”