Metal and Ash (Apex Trilogy)

by Jake Bible

  When the first lull happened, Melissa didn’t wait to assess the damage. She knew more shells would be on their way. She could even hear Colonel Masterson screaming as such over the cries for help and mercy.

  The other wounded on the mag-skiff hadn’t had Melissa’s protection and she was forced to shove their mutilated corpses from the vehicle before taking over the driver’s seat. The skiff had taken quite a bit direct damage, but Melissa had enough mechanical knowledge to direct the BC repairs and get the skiff functional. She strapped Beth in and took one last look at the bloody beach.

  Before she left though she saw a person trying to stand, even under the attack that was bombarding them all. She didn’t recognize the man, but realized from his uniform that he was one of the mech pilots that had come to destroy the shield generator. Melissa swung the skiff about and grabbed him and pulled him into the seat next to him.

  “Huh…,” the man grunted.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be Matty, would you?” Melissa asked, but the man passed out next to her and she had to scramble to get him strapped in. Blood and death surrounded her and she tried not to cry as she looked over her shoulder.

  “Sorry,” she said to those she left behind as she hit the accelerator and the skiff took off along a rocky path, up through a small patch of stunted, mutated coastal pines, and onto a barely visible road.

  ***

  “Jesus,” Blue sighed as he knelt next to Desmond. “You just get your ocular implant and look what happens.”

  “Bad, Colonel?” Desmond asked. The look on Blue’s face was answer enough. “Yeah, it feels pretty bad.”

  “I can’t shit you, Lieutenant,” Blue said. “I think you have a splinter or two in your belly.”

  “Is there really any belly left?” Desmond grinned as a thin trickle of blood rolled down his cheek.

  “Not in the physical sense,” Blue grimaced. “You want me to take care of you, son?” Blue looked about at the few walking Americans that wove their way through the tangle of mutilated bodies. “Don’t think the medics are coming to the rescue.”

  “No…sir,” Desmond gasped as a wave of pain shot through him. “I’d like to…just look up at the…sky.”

  “As you wish, son,” Blue nodded and patted Desmond on the shoulder. “You’ve been a shining example to your people. You should be proud.”

  “Thank…you…sir,” Desmond whispered.

  Blue got to his feet and looked out into the bay and the speeders racing across the water at what was left of the Americans.

  “I can make you a promise, Hale,” Blue said. “I don’t plan on giving up without fighting to my last breath. If the Americans are going to die they’ll be taking some fucking scum with them.”

  He looked down and frowned as he saw the open focus of Lieutenant Desmond Hale’s synthetic eye. He leaned over and closed the eye gently.

  “Godspeed, son,” he whispered. “You’re finally in a better place than this fuck hole.”

  Blue walked to the closest mag-skiff and ransacked it for a weapon. He found an assault rifle and checked the rounds. Not nearly enough to take on one speeder full of troopers, let alone the dozen or so that were almost to the shore.

  He started shouting at people to get the fuck away and save themselves as he walked casually into the surf and aimed his rifle at the first speeder coming at him.

  ***

  Reginald, his new BC body humming with the need to kill, saw the colonel step into the surf and raise his rifle. A trooper to his left raised his own assault rifle and Reginald stayed him.

  “I would like the honor,” Reginald said in his high-pitched voice. “Been a while since I took some blood on my own.”

  Reginald lifted his sniper rifle to his shoulder, gauged the wind, took into account the bouncing of the speeder on the waves, slowly squeezed the trigger, and watched as a split second later Colonel Blue Masterson’s head exploded in a mass of blood and grey matter.

  “Ahhhh,” Reginald sighed. “That feels good. Nice to have the rush back.”

  “Uh, yes, sir,” the trooper responded. “Should we open fire from here, sir?”

  “No, no,” Reginald replied. “Ms. Isely wants skulls crushed under boots so lets get her some juicy holo with skulls being crushed. Can’t disappoint the boss lady, can we?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir,” Reginald grinned. “We cannot.”

  ***

  All order, all training, all hope fled as Blue Masterson’s brains sprayed across the surf, turning the sea foam bloody pink for a few moments until the next wave came in and washed it away. The colonel’s body floated in the shallow water, unseeing, dead.

  The Americans that were left on the beach went into survival mode. They didn’t form ranks, they didn’t try to organize into coherent teams; they just turned to the Three’s speeders and opened fire.

  And the speeders returned the fire in kind.

  Minutes. That was all it took for the Three’s troopers to wipe out the last of the rag tag group Blue Masterson had been able to hold together. Men, women, even some children, were torn apart by BC bullets, their bodies making a parody of the beach party movies of centuries before as they danced and writhed in agony until falling to the sand, dead.

  Reginald stepped from his speeder, disappointed that his troopers had to use their rifles. He had really wanted to show Ms. Isely a victory without gunfire. There was something ticking, thrumming inside him, that hungered for the raw violence of a boot sole on the face of an American, pressing, pressing, until pop went the jack.

  But a win was a win and Reginald came to terms with that immediately.

  “Find me the Vessel Beth Laughlin,” Reginald ordered. “Bring her to me alive, please. Or dead, if it cannot be helped. But alive would be better for you all.”

  The troopers eyed their new leader warily, pretty sure the psychotic gleam in his eyes wasn’t a trick of the light. None had any illusions that their lives were any more important than the dead Americans that stained the beach of Monterey Bay.

  ***

  “Row, row, row your boat,” Stone sang as he drove the water skiff along the coastline, keeping a safe distance from the Three’s annihilation of the Americans. “Gently down the stream- Oh, wait, guess it’s not quite a stream, eh Gein?”

  “Will you shut it, Stone,” Mr. Gein said as he gripped the sides of the skiff, his body rebelling against the undulating waves that rocked them to and fro. Even with the months he’d spent aboard ship he still couldn’t handle the never ending movement of the ocean. “God I need a fucking drink.”

  “You need to dry out, Gein,” Stone replied as he eyed a mass of debris that had caught in a small cove just a few yards ahead. “And as soon as we make land you will get to do that. I need you thinking clearly, Gein. No more being a sodding drunk.”

  “Fuck you, Stone,” Mr. Gein grumbled. “You’ve been dead for all these months. You have no idea what I’ve been up against.”

  “Oh, poor Mr. Gein with his real body and livingness,” Stone mocked. “It must have been torture to sit around in a gin fueled haze while Ms. Isely did all the work. My heart goes out to you.” Stone let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, wait! I don’t have a heart!”

  “Careful Pinocchio,” Mr. Gein snarled. “I think I see a whale. Might swallow you right up.”

  “Oh, papa, no!” Stone laughed. “How will we ever escape?”

  Mr. Gein and Stone stared at each other for a moment then burst out laughing.

  “I have missed your insubordinate idiocy,” Mr. Gein grinned. “It was boring as fuck all on that ship.”

  “I’d say I missed your paper pushing ass, but I’d be lying,” Stone grinned back.

  “Fuck you, Stone,” Mr. Gein smiled.

  “Whatever gets you through the day, Gein,” Stone replied.

  The skiff thumped against the floating debris as Stone steered them into the cove.

  “The last of the Americans,” Mr. Gein said as he watched t
he debris part around the skiff. “Just a bunch of junk.”

  Stone glanced over the side of the skiff and nodded. He started to turn his attention back to the beach ahead, but stopped as he noticed a hunk of BC amidst the other flotsam. He put the engine in reverse and tried to steer closer to the BC hunk.

  “What is it?” Mr. Gein asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Stone said. “Help me get it into the skiff.”

  “Why?” Gein asked. “Do we need more BC mass?”

  “It’s not BC,” Stone smiled as he grabbed the hunk and hauled it up out of the water. “Not all of it.”

  Mr. Gein helped get it onto the deck of the skiff and stared in amazement.

  “Is that…?” he asked.

  “I believe so,” Stone replied. “Things just got interesting.”

  ***

  The first thing Charlie Masterson noticed as he came to was that he was no longer floating. Waves of vertigo still washed over him as his body adjusted to the lack of constant movement, but he knew he was on solid land. But when he opened his eyes he couldn’t say for sure that he was safe.

  “Hello, boyo,” Stone said as he knelt close to Charlie’s face. “You look lost? Did a jack fall out of a box and get separated from his shipmates?”

  “Stop fucking with him and put some wheels on the skiff, Stone,” Mr. Gein snapped. “We don’t have time to taunt the kid.”

  “I’m not a kid,” Charlie grunted, his throat raw and dry. “I’m-.”

  “I don’t give two standing fucks what you are, jack,” Stone said as he stood up and walked to the water skiff he had been converting into a mag-skiff for the land. “All I care about is making sure I put you to good use.”

  “Let’s get a good distance from Monterey before we contact the enemy,” Mr. Gein said. “Don’t want them zeroing in on us here.” He knelt next to Charlie. “You might just be how we survive this hellish wasteland.”

  “Fuck…you,” Charlie rasped.

  “Keep on fighting,” Stone said. “I’d expect nothing less from a fucking jack.”

  Charlie did fight to keep his eyes open, but fatigue and exposure took over and he drifted back into unconsciousness.

  Forty-Five

  They saw the movement in the massive dust cloud and Masters looked up at Stomper from his cockpit.

  “You ready for this, big guy?” Masters asked as he double checked his weapons systems. “That’s a lot of dead weight coming at us. We fuck up once and they’ll have us on the dirt.”

  “They will have you on the dirt, Pilot Masters,” Stomper replied. “I have no flesh inside me. I am not their target.”

  “Then you better watch my fucking back,” Masters said as he started to walk his mech towards the giant mass of deaders. “Remember the plan?”

  “It isn’t a very good one,” Stomper replied.

  “Best one I have,” Masters said. “We have to take out as many as possible before they hit the Stronghold.”

  “The likelihood of you surviving is small,” Stomper stated. “As I have mentioned before.”

  “You have, Stompy man,” Masters responded. “And I am touched by how much you care for my safety, but shit has to get fucked up. And if anyone is going to fuck up the most shit then it’s gonna be Mitch Mother Fucking Masters!”

  Masters closed his cockpit and strapped in. He smiled as he watched the deader horde get closer and closer.

  “Let us do this shit,” Stomper said.

  Masters broke out laughing. “Fucking A right, Stomper!”

  ***

  Hundreds of thousands of deaders marched towards the two mechs and the Stronghold beyond. Their putrid flesh hung from many of them in strips and strands, flapping in the slight breeze that blew across the wasteland. The burning hunger that fueled them was stoked more and more as the sound of a whistle blasted in a staccato rhythm over their heads. Those that could drooled frothy pink saliva from their mouths in anticipation of the food that awaited them.

  The whistle never lied; there was always food after a march.

  Pope John Paul Ringo George rocked back and forth in his mounted throne as he blasted the whistle over the bullhorn he held in his hand. His eyes watched the power of what he had spent decades building. His pride swelled at the sight of the sea of Disciples that pushed forward, every molecule in their undead bodies responding to the conditioning.

  He laughed inside, making sure the whistle didn’t lose a beat, and thought about how stupid everyone else was for not believing in the Disciples. All the military might; all the Reaper chip technology; the fortified city/states; the UDC’s Stronghold.

  All they had needed was the will to mold the Disciples into what they should be. And a good whistle.

  But that whistle faltered a moment as the Pope watched what the two mechs ahead prepared to do. The Disciples stumbled and almost stopped, but the Pope quickly recovered and got them back into lockstep.

  “JP?” a voice asked over the handheld that sat next to the Pope. The Ranchers had switched to handhelds as soon as they knew their communications on the coms would be overheard. “I believe the attack is coming.”

  The Pope didn’t bother to respond. He could see the attack was coming and everyone had their orders. He just smiled around the whistle and kept blowing out a steady beat.

  ***

  “Okay, so we’ve talked about this,” Masters said as he tucked his mech into a tight ball. “Take a couple steps, pull your arm back not quite halfway then bring it forward fast. Let go as soon as your arm passes your body. Aim low and straight. Don’t fucking launch me into the air!”

  “Don’t launch you,” Stomper repeated. “Got it.”

  “You fucking better,” Masters said. “Or this will get ugly quick.”

  “Very ugly,” Stomper replied as he lifted Masters’s mech up and started forward, drawing his arm back. “Low and straight. Low and straight.”

  Masters’s Tumbler mech arched through the air for the first several yards then came crashing down onto the hard dirt of the wasteland. Masters gritted his teeth at the impact, but couldn’t fault Stomper. It was a pretty good first throw for a giant mech that had never bowled before.

  “FUCK YEAH!” Masters shouted as the Tumbler raced towards the first few rows of deaders. “Here I fucking come, bitches!”

  The mech slammed into the wall of deaders, crushing dozens of them as its momentum kept it going for several yards. Rotten bodies flew in every direction. Arms split off and spun this way and that. Heads shot into the air. Legs were left without torsos. A path of squirming, undead destruction was left in the Tumbler’s wake.

  Masters didn’t waste a moment. He had the Tumbler up on its feet and he was swinging and slashing with abandon. His fists pounded deaders into pulp; his feet ground them into the dirt. He fought his way back out of the mass of undead and then sprinted back to Stomper.

  “Let’s see if we can hit the spare this time!” Masters crowed. “Bowl away, Stompity Stomp!”

  Stomper picked Masters back up and took careful aim. His AI had analyzed his first throw and he quickly realized where his errors had been.

  “I shall get some spin and curve on you,” Stomper announced. “That will bring you back around and make it easier to exit the horde.”

  “I like how you think,” Masters said.

  Stomper took his steps and let Masters go. The Tumbler rolled to the left in a wide curve then began to turn back towards the deader horde. It hit the front line at an angle and ripped a path through them twice as long as before. Masters barely had to work to get up, kill some deaders, and then sprint back to Stomper.

  “That was outstanding!” Masters shouted. “Shall we go three for three?”

  Before Stomper could answer the air whistled with the sound of incoming RPGs.

  “Ah, shit,” Masters swore as he realized he’d have to go back to fighting like always. The brief fun of deader bowling was over. “Time to get to fucking work.”

  ***


  “Do we have a count?” the Pope asked. “I would like to know how many Disciples we should mourn.”

  “Close to two thousand,” Brother Reynaldo answered. “The mech attack was innovative and effective.”

  “Do I hear a hint of approval, Brother?” the Pope asked.

  “Only the approval of anything done well in the wasteland, JP,” Brother Reynaldo responded.

  “Well said, Brother,” the Pope laughed. “We do have to give credit where credit is due. Any accomplishment is an accomplishment of God.”

  “Amen,” many voices said over the handhelds.

  “Shall we show them our innovations, Brother?” the Pope asked as he placed the whistle to his lips.

  “I believe it is time, JP,” Brother Reynaldo answered. “Let the Disciples be bound for Glory!”

  More amens rang out over the handhelds as the Pope gave three short bursts then two then three then one long burst on his whistle. The deaders started to pick up their pace. In seconds they went from a march to a trot. The deaders that weren’t as structurally sound began to fall back and their places were taken by the stronger ones. The trot turned into a run which turned into a sprint. The deaders lowered their shoulders, their chests hunched over, their hands almost touching the ground.

  The fast were on the hunt.

  “Glory to you all!” the Pope shouted through his bullhorn. “Glory to the Disciples that bring down the blasphemous metal! Go forth, my children! Wreak your vengeance upon the unclean mechs! DESTROY THE STRONGHOLD!”

  The Pope gave two more short blasts on his whistle and sat back and watched as the mass of deaders rushing forward split into two then three then four separate groups. The outer two groups went wide and looked to box in the two mechs, while the center two groups attacked straight on.