S.T.Y.X. Humanhive

by Arthur Stone

  “Seeing how you killed a manmincer, I won’t even ask about the trampler. You’ve got promise, Boiler. I knew it as soon as I set eyes on you. Let’s drink to your prospects, then. May you never be stopped on your road to greatness, come elite or worse!”

  “What could be worse than an elite?”

  “We shouldn’t talk about that. Bad luck,” Nimbler replied, softly and infuriatingly.

  “Everything is bad luck in the Hive.”

  “You’re not wrong. We have all kinds of superstitions. When you’re in hell, though, you start to believe new things every day.”

  A loud quarrel broke out across the hall. The fight quickly came to blows, until the door flew open and Gloom stomped in. Without any attempt to decide who started it or who was in the right, she grabbed them both by the collar and effortlessly, almost carelessly, dragged them out of the room. “These two need to cool off. Please continue enjoying your meals, dear guests. These patrons will return once they’re reconciled their differences.” Despite the men weighing in at over two hundred pounds each, Gloom handled them like kittens. She probably could have taken both with a single hand.

  Boiler shook his head. “Power lifter.”

  “Quasis: weak in the attraction department, strong at everything else. Careful around them. Once these six guys were looking to take her out, not sure why. So she dragged them all behind the bathhouse and nearly drowned them in the pond back there, calling it ‘cooling off.’ Seems to work. I’ve never seen anyone ‘cooled off’ pick a fight with her again.”

  “So, back to the monsters more powerful than elites...”

  Nimbler lowered his head and voice. “Never discuss this with strangers, you hear? And only in stables. Large, safe stables far from the Noose. In other words, stables unlike Smoker in every way. Some will be upset to insanity if you say ‘scraper’ around them, and might clobber you even shoot you.”

  “The healer here mentioned them. So did those guys I bumped into on day one.”

  “Braver lads than I thought. Or dumber. No one discusses them near the Edge.”

  “Probably dumber. So, anyway, the scrapers.”

  “No one will dare tell you why they’re called that. Or what they’re like.”

  “You’re dodging the question.”

  “I am not. You ever seen Ridley Scott movies? That one where monster with the acid blood plants more of itself in you?”

  “Alien? Everyone’s seen Alien.”

  “If you see a beast that looks like that, you can be sure it’s a scraper.”

  “It looks exactly like that? No way.”

  “I didn’t say that. Just that if you see something indescribable, something extraterrestrial, a nightmare to behold, it’s most likely a scraper. They come in various forms, sometimes looking even humanoid, but there is always something otherworldly about them. You will never confuse them with infected. They are entirely other. As different as a bat is from a praying mantis. More different, even. Of course, if you see one, prepare to die. Virtually no one can beat them. Unless, of course, the scraper just ignores you; they’re not infecteds who throw themselves at everything and everyone. Sometimes they just don’t care. But if they do, I hope your will’s in order.”

  “Can they be killed?”

  “Anything can be killed, but for a human to kill a scraper takes a miracle. They’re exceedingly rare, especially near the Noose. If you’re looking to meet one, head away from the Edge and into the center of hell itself. Also, try to stay close to dead clusters, since we think your chances of bumping into scrapers around them are higher. The infecteds will get you first, though. That’s where the biggest elites live, especially since there are no edgers to thin the population out that far from the Edge.”

  “Are scrapers the highest stage of infecteds?”

  “No way. No spores, no peas. Only white pearls, which you can’t even get from elites, and then only black and red pearls. You can’t buy a white pearl anywhere, ever. Might as well find the Holy Grail first. And scrapers don’t have the usual amber.”

  “Amber?”

  “Those yellow-orange fibers in spore sacs. Only the strongest infecteds have them.”

  “Are they valuable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn. I left them behind.”

  “Unfortunate. Amber is used to make spec, a stimulant and powerful opiate. The opiate form can cause you problems in some stricter places, but stimulant dosage slips through. It’s all about the dosage. Opiate dosage is several times higher than the stimulant dosage, and several times more potent than heroin. If you see people behaving like morons, talking like idiots with their words and sentences cut off, and every other word an insult, they’re likely on spec.”

  “Yeah, I’ve met some of them. They even mentioned spec.”

  “Everybody’s met some of them. They’re everywhere. Some of them aren’t like that, though. Like calm drunks, they’re just relaxed by the spec, lulled into a peaceful stupor. Anyway, scrapers don’t have the fibers, just pure amber filling their sacs. A different kind of amber entirely, like an opiate but doesn’t dumb you down like ordinary spec, chronic overdosing won’t drive you mad, and acute addiction is unknown. It’s called goldspec, the best stimulant in the world and an incredible regen booster. Very useful stuff. And very expensive. Only a few sellers ever carry it.”

  Nimbler took another swig. “So, why’d you go see that healer? To learn more about your hivegift?”

  “And get him to look at my crossbowed leg.”

  “Your gift?”

  “A useful one.”

  “Hah, we’ll drink to that! And definitely not beer. A gift is a serious thing, and only proper liquor will do. Hey, boy, bring me a clean glass for my godson! Don’t turn down my vodka, Boiler—you should toast your gift. As far as survival goes, it’s your best friend.”

  The vodka was better than moonshine, but hardly delicious. Nimbler was downing buckets of it without eating a thing, yet still steady on his feet and almost as steady with his voice.

  “I need to see the healer myself. I have a difficult matter to talk with him about.”

  “The local healer left earlier today, so you’ll have to go somewhere else.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Mother of... well, I guess I’m leaving too, then. Enough drinking myself to death in this shithole.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Healers can see things others cannot. Not everything, but some things. I can see why this one would leave, though. Smoker’s a vulnerable spot.”

  “Doesn’t seem very vulnerable to me.”

  “You should see the other stables. This one’s got a straightforward defense perimeter, transparent. Dicer doesn’t have that many people, but he has lots of mines blocking the ways in, plus ordinary cameras and night vision cameras and several alarm systems. There’s a bunker under that headquarters, his ‘basement,’ where he locks up the especially rebellious and oversees his landmine operations. There’s always someone on duty there, ready to press the button at a moment’s notice. In fact, their grasp on the mine situation is so good they could probably send a military convoy straight into orbit. The whole defense perimeter is electronics and explosives.”

  “Sounds safer than I thought.”

  “It’s too noticeable. A good defensive perimeter is hard to detect. Hard to analyze. And not discussed openly by everyone.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard the technical rundown from a local.”

  “Smoker has grown. It’s the easternmost stable near the Edge, and raiders who enjoy wandering the area come here first both ways, blowing all their loot or spending just a little, or just relaxing for a day, then heading back to the rich clusters or going back west.”

  “West? You just said these mysterious scrapers and fully developed elites were out that way.”

  “Well, the farther you go from the Noose, the higher your chance of encountering them, sure, but the chance is st
ill small. A map of this place looks like circles of hell, Boiler. First, the ring outside of the Noose, nothing but endless dark clusters. Then the Edge, a bunch of small clusters continuously resetting. Then another ring, which can hold the big monsters, but only in rare cases. That’s the most populous ring of all. You can walk a thousand miles in from the Edge yet still only endure minuscule chances of encountering scrapers. Perhaps if you tried hard enough, you could increase your chances. But the farther you go in, the more high-level elites there are. Flocks of elites are a regular occurrence in the inner, fourth circle of hell. Plus a plethora of manmincers and lesser killers. If you’re intent on finding a scraper, they’ll probably kill you before you get lucky.

  “But all of these delightful places are far, a thousand or more miles away from the Edge. The rings are uneven, so your mileage may vary. That zone is called Hell, Hades, Lake of Fire, Inferno, and so on. All the same place. Yet between Dante’s delight and the Edge lies the third ring, and that’s the decent place to live. The clusters there are larger than they are along the Edge, and a number of them are stables. The ordinary clusters in that third ring are bigger, too. Not many of these tiny, shitty clusters. And you’ll see things that’ll make the wonders of your tribulation in the Edge pale by comparison.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever been to New York?”

  “Couple of times.”

  “Here’s your chance to go back. There’s a cluster in Hell that keeps resetting to Manhattan. Subway, airports, Empire State Building, pretty much all of it. Midtown West is, ironically, the closest to Hell. Hell’s Kitchen indeed.”

  “Huh.”

  “You ask me, I think New York always deserved a special place in Hell.”

  “Plenty would agree with you there.”

  “Anyway, millions of people show up, over and over, of all different kinds, and millionaires and billionaires and gold and art and more supplies and electronics and weapons than you can imagine. Can you picture it? But they drop in right next to Hell and its elites and scrapers, hundreds of millions of pounds of walking meat.”

  “So that’s why this Hell is filled with gangs of elites.”

  “You got it. And New York isn’t the only city that drops in right next to Hell. Chicago, Moscow, Frankfurt, Nairobi—they drop in right at the border, as if by design. All superb places for scavenging, be it for living food or for ammo and supplies. But the larger a cluster, the bigger the delay between its resets. Some take months or even years. Such rich feeding grounds ramp many of the beasts straight up to elite.”

  “How often does New York reset?”

  “Once every four and a half months.”

  “Not as slow as it could be.”

  “Each time is a complete circus, though. People don’t turn as quickly in the slower clusters. They start to fuss and try to figure out what’s going on and what to do. Sometimes the Moscow district even tries to activate the nuclear option. But when they press the big red button, they realize all the missiles were out of the city, left back home. Where are they trying to launch them, anyway? America? Across Hell straight into New York, perhaps, if they had any way of knowing New York was there. You never know what unstable people might think in an even more unstable situation. But come on, enough of this miserable subject.” Boiler turned. “Bartender! Another drink! And how about another one of those mystery meat burgers? I think my friend here is still hungry.”

  The door swung open again, and Tiny came in. In one arm he held an empty vodka bottle, and with the other he was dragging Boiler’s other bathhouse acquaintance, Slicer. The oversized man pulled him along by the leg as the smaller one slept serenely despite the primitive method of transportation. A trickle of saliva left a trail from his mouth, running back toward the bathhouse.

  The two of them had apparently been steaming since Boiler left. Tiny was still in his birthday suit, not bothering to dress, and his face was red from the extended heat of the sauna. One glance in his eyes was enough to see the absence of reason’s spark within. Tiny had no idea his behavior was so uncivilized.

  Nimbler smirked. “Careful, big boy, or you’ll freeze your balls off.”

  Tiny did not react to that, nor to the sound of the television. His mind was swamped by the bottle. The giant staggered forward and overturned the first small table he encountered, destroying its flimsy legs beyond repair. Gloom walked in, calmly grabbed them, and nudged them out of the room without any comment.

  “Time for them to cool off, too?” Boiler asked.

  Nimbler shook his head. “Why would she? They’re decent customers who pay her regularly and without trouble or complaints.”

  “That table is wrecked.”

  “What does Gloom care about a table? Garbage like that ends up here all the time. Value is a different concept here in the Hive. Get used to it. Come on, let me pour you another one.”

  “Thanks, but I’m off.”

  “Without me?”

  “I need sleep.”

  “There’ll be plenty of time for that in the next life. Let’s get lit!”

  “Get lit without me, Nimbler. I’m tired, and my leg needs rest.”

  “Alright, well—don’t vanish on me, OK? I’ll try to sober up a little tomorrow so we can talk some more. There are important things for us to discuss. You know how to find me?”

  “You come find me. I rented a room here at Gloom’s.”

  “Alright. Are you sure we’re OK? No grudge between us?”

  “You’re still worried about that manmincer situation? No, no grudge.”

  “Then I’ll be here in the morning. Or early afternoon, at least. Need to sober up a little.”

  * * *

  The world was darkening, and Boiler took a moment to get used to street lamps once again. The lights were placed systematically to cover every alleyway and passage, leaving no dark areas where infecteds could potentially hide. Of course, any infected here would have had to miraculously make it past all the mines, traps, alarms, and cameras, but sometimes miracles can happen.

  The area around Dicer’s headquarters was as bright as a clear day, with four searchlights operating simultaneously. The machine gun pickup Boiler had ridden into Smoker was parked across the street, along with a spike-fortified minibus and a sturdy unmodified black Jeep. These vehicles hadn’t been there during the day.

  Light pollution like this was visible from miles away, especially from the air, so why hadn’t the edgers attacked? This many immunes gathered in one place was quite the prize. There must have been defenses other than mines. This place was on the edge of the next circle of hell, and Boiler knew the edgers didn’t like to work this far from their bases. Perhaps a full-scale military operation was too tough, yet anything else was too risky against such defenses.

  He jumped at the sound of a ruckus from overhead, a howl interspersed with a vicious hiss. Something dropped from the collapsed roof of a neighboring building, landing near him. It was a well-fed but frightened red cat. Charcoal landed nimbly behind and continued the chase—and the noise. “He should be ashamed, fighting across weight classes like that,” Boiled remarked to himself, amused.

  A new ladies’ cat had come to town, and if Rusty survived the scrap, she’d have to content herself with living in occupied territory. For Charcoal, this place was paradise. He was the king of all tailed beasts in this town.

  Boiler squinted and tried to move his ears, imagining that the trigger would slow the world down a hundredfold. Before he even focused fully, the world went still and silent, even the crickets slowing their songs to an imperceptible tickle of his ears.

  He exited his accelerated state immediately and shook his head, half recovering from the effect and half in surprise. The last two attempts had worked, as well, but they had taken much more time and effort. Such short training sessions, but the difference was astonishing, with not even the slightest activation delay this time.

  Maybe the alcohol had something to do with it
. If so, he understood why the raiders got so drunk, but there were probably other reasons for that. After all, the raiders were looking for the easiest way to ditch the perpetual stresses of cluster exploration. Boiler had been in the Hive for only five days, but he felt like a couple of months had passed, at least. The entire rest of his life had lacked a tenth of the excitement. Most of it had been... boring.

  Should I try to slow time again? No, it was best to wait. Reader’s advice was not to overexert himself. He’d already need to up his lifejuice intake and didn’t want to risk harming his unaccustomed body overly much. Besides, this was a terrible place to pass out, since judging by the smell Gloom’s guests often used this spot to relieve themselves.

  It was time to sleep. In the morning, he would try again. He knew how useful his ability was, and mastering it was his number one priority.

  Chapter 30

  Gloom’s patrons may not have been the most desirable, but Boiler’s room was pleasant enough. It was more of a shoebox than a room, but it was clean, did not smell strongly of smoke, and featured a comfortable bed with bright white sheets. He tried to delay his sleep awhile to enjoy the feeling of stretching out as much as could.

  Years had passed, it seemed, since he last slept in a bed. He was clean, with a full belly, some alcohol in his blood, and a leg that had almost fully healed. A strangely nostalgic feeling of gratitude awoke as he slipped off to sleep.

  A rifle butt to the face severely diminished the room’s comfort. He strained his eyes, the pain in his face, the noise in his head, and the blood gushing from his brow hindering his escape from confusion. Another blow followed, this time to the ribs.

  “Your hands. Hold out your hands. Now!”

  His wrists were pushed together by someone, and then by something cruel and metal that allowed little circulation. Another blow struck his other side, and he was grabbed by the neck and thrown onto the creaking wooden floor.

  Boiler’s vision began to clear then, and he saw his wrists bound by white plastic. The man yelled again. “Get up. I said get up! Out into the hall. You make one wrong move, I’ll cut your balls off and ship them to the edgers!”