Apocalypse Soon (Kyler Knightly and Damon Cole Book 2)

by Garnett Elliott

  "Apocalypse Soon" and "Babylon Heist"

  Copyright © 2015 by BEAT to a PULP

  "Strontium Dreams"

  Copyright © 2009 by Garnett Elliott

  First appeared in Plots with Guns, #6

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except where permitted by law.

  The stories herein are works of fiction. All of the characters, places, and events portrayed in this collection are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover art by Chuck Regan; Design by dMix.

  www.beattoapulp.com

  For the first KNIGHTLY AND COLE adventures

  from BEAT to a PULP books

  Kindle edition (also available in paperback)

  It's a dirty job … Policing the timelines has always been dangerous, but the brave agents of Continuity Inc. have arguably the most important job in human history. Protecting human history.

  Newly promoted agent Kyler Knightly teams up with his uncle, Damon Cole, to stop unscrupulous developers from exploiting the Late Cretaceous. A luxury subdivision smack-dab in the middle of dinosaur country threatens not only the present, but super-rich homeowners looking for the ultimate getaway.

  CARNOSAUR WEEKEND includes the original Kyler Knightly story "The Zygma Gambit," inspired by the dream journals of Kyle J. Knapp, and a sci-fi short story "The Worms of Terpsichore," all together totaling nearly 16K words.

  * * *

  PRAISE FOR THE WORK OF GARNETT ELLIOTT

  "A tale by Garnet Elliott is always a good one … [he] never disappoints."

  —Kevin Tipple, Book Reviewer at Kevin's Corner

  *

  "When you read something written by Garnett Elliott, you can count on two things—fluid prose and a subtle attention to detail that combine to properly immerse the reader in the story."

  —Alec Cizak, Pulp Modern editor

  *

  "Elliott packs a lot of plot into this one, and he spins his yarn in fine, tough prose."

  —James Reasoner, Author of Texas Wind on "Hell Up in Houston"

  *

  CONTENTS

  APOCALYPSE SOON

  BABYLON HEIST

  STRONTIUM DREAMS

  About the Author

  Also by Garnett Elliott

  Other titles from BTAP

  Connect with BEAT to a PULP

  "If time travel is possible, where are the tourists from the future?"

  —Stephen Hawking, A Brief History of Time

  APOCALYPSE SOON

  The warning klaxon sounded just as Kyler Knightly set down his tray of chamomile tea and shortbread. At twenty-three hundred hours, he was the only person in the Continuity Inc. canteen. So much for a late night snack.

  He bolted towards the exit, his skin still itching after a recent jaunt to Panama, circa 1913, to save the Canal from time-hopping anarchists. No one had briefed him about the goddamn mosquitos. He'd had to spend hours in the infirmary afterwards, submitting to the robotic ministrations of the Derm-o-Doc.

  Technicians hustled past in the hall. "Knightly!" called a feminine voice.

  Melody Fischer came sprinting over. The top of her short dark hair only came up to his chest, though nobody ever kidded about her height. In addition to being a field agent, she served as Continuity Inc.'s aikido instructor.

  "What's going on?" he said.

  "Rogue jaunt. That's the buzz, anyway."

  They hurried to the auditorium. Kyler's uncle Damon Cole, puffy-eyed from sleep, was already on stage. He'd just finished wheeling out Continuity's AI in a large Flexiglas tank. Kyler forgot about his itching skin. There must be something truly bad in the offing, to bring Sennacherib II all the way down from his fourth-floor suite.

  "Where is everybody?" Fischer said, looking around.

  Damon shrugged broad shoulders. "We three are it. Our Strike Team jaunted off to Ceres two hours ago, and no one knows when they'll be back."

  "Great timing," Kyler said.

  Sennacherib's chip-voice rattled from speakers attached to his tank. "The timing is no coincidence. Fellow sentients, we have a traitor in our midst. A Continuity technician has gone rogue."

  "Who?" Kyler said.

  Sennacherib's tentacles brushed a control pad. In order to make AI's more empathic, newer models were surgically implanted inside animals. Sennacherib shared headspace with a California two-spot octopus. At his touch, a holo sprang up above the tank. It depicted the bust of a middle aged man, non-descript save for a certain glaze to his eyes.

  "Paul Dirac," Sennacherib said. "Master technician in R and D, and up until ten minutes ago a rules-abiding employee. Spotless record. Per the company shrink, he has an obsession with Pre-Apocalypse North America and vintage automobiles. Quirky, though that's to be expected with a genius IQ."

  "Where'd he jaunt to?"

  "Take a look around the stage. The answer should be obvious."

  Furniture and props had been placed to form a crude set. Hastily done, but serviceable. Shelves lined with canned vegetables, tinned meat, how-to books and packets of freeze dried coffee. A water purifier. Several shotguns.

  "I'd guess this is a survivalist's room," Fischer said, examining a can of peaches. "An underground shelter, maybe. If Dirac's obsessed with the Pre-Apocalypse era …"

  Sennacherib's bulbous head nodded. "Excellent deduction. Given the Zygma projector's last settings, I estimate a high probability the jaunt's destination was an area known as Old Vegas, circa 2035. A dangerous and pivotal time in American history. The mass indicator shows Dirac jaunted back with a substantial amount of supplies. You'll need to go after him, stat."

  Damon held up a hand. "Whoa, now. Give us a chance to get strapped, first."

  "Quickly. There's no telling how much damage an insider could do to the time-stream."

  Damon rushed offstage to return moments later with a flat black case. Nestled inside were a trio of flechette pistols. He pocketed one for himself and doled out the remainder. Kyler caught Fischer eyeing his uncle's muscular torso as he handed her a pistol.

  "Observe some restraint, please," Sennacherib said. "We want Dirac brought back alive, if possible."

  "What're we using for focus objects?" Kyler said.

  "Everything on the set is a certified antique, so take whatever looks portable."

  Kyler grabbed the closest thing; a slanted cross made from chrome, wider than it was tall. Damon, predictably, chose a shotgun, and Fischer selected a tiny can opener.

  They were ready.

  "Twenty-first century English is close enough to contemporary Anglic," Sennacherib said, "so you shouldn't need a voder. Does everyone have recall beacons? Good. Now find your marks."

  Humming echoed through the auditorium as a Zygma projector came sliding in stage left, its faceted quartz "eye" already starting to spin. Kyler clenched his gut out of reflex; jaunts usually meant an attack of nausea. How many did this make for him now? Two dozen? He'd lost count.

  Stage lights flickered and dimmed. The Zygma process drew horrendous amounts of power, straining every spare erg from the fission pile in the basement. The quartz eye spun faster, faster. Pallid radiation streamed out over the three agents.

  Damon grinned. "Quickest briefing we ever had, huh?"

  The image of his smile froze in place, as Zygma particles unknit the surrounding reality. In moments they would be wrenched from London's West End and sent hurling through the chronosphere.

  A screech replaced the background humming. Damon's image wavered, obscured by
a shower of violet sparks.

  Something was wrong.

  Dirac must've known they'd be coming after him. He must've—

  Blackness.

  * * *

  —sabotaged the projector.

  Kyler materialized ankle-deep in a rippling sand dune. Hot, desiccated wind threw grit in his face. He fought the urge to dry heave as his senses reoriented, logic pointing out that yes, the big blazing ball overhead was the sun, and further, he was breathing unassisted, with just the right amount of pressure bearing down on his skin.

  So he'd materialized on Earth. And not within a volcano or at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. He had that going for him. When he was remained a question, however.

  Low mountains huddled in the distance. Even closer, sunlight gleamed off a bizarre cityscape, not quite in ruins. A replica of the Eiffel Tower leaned at a dangerous angle, not far from a pyramid made of black glass. Between them sprawled multi-storied buildings, dry pools and cracked fountains that ran with dust instead of water.

  Old Vegas.

  Maybe Dirac's sabotage had been too hurried to truly screw them over. This seemed like the right time period. And he would be in a hurry, trying to jaunt before security caught him. Hope sparked. "Damon?" he called out. "Fischer?"

  His voice broke into echoes.

  Alright, that might've been too optimistic. Still, the chance remained his fellow agents were around here, somewhere, contemporaneous to him. He had to believe that. The thought of Uncle Damon materializing in hard vacuum …

  He shuffled down the dune. For a moment he contemplated using his recall beacon, but ditched the idea. If the projector was damaged, he might not be so lucky on his jaunt back. Better to wait.

  By instinct he headed towards the ruined city. If this was indeed somewhen around 2035, the Slow Fall of North America had only recently begun. Major infrastructure should still be intact. Ergo, the city might have a community living somewhere inside it. How they would react to strangers wandering in from the desert was anyone's guess, however.

  He felt for the flechette pistol's comforting grip.

  Fifteen minutes later he reached a strip of weathered asphalt. A vehicle had been parked off the shoulder. Seeing it brought another hopeful twinge. The vehicle was clearly a gascar, of a subtype known as a 'pickup truck.' Hulking, with oversized tires, the bed sported a heavy machinegun on a gyro mount. Aluminum spikes jutted from the sides.

  No one was at the wheel or close by. If the truck had been abandoned, it must've happened recently. The cab door hung open. He approached, trying to remember how twenty-first century ignition systems worked. Something about a key—

  "Hands high!"

  A patch of sand to the truck's right thrust upwards, and a rifle barrel poked out. Eyes glinted behind it. Kyler raised his empty hands.

  "That's good. Porkchop, frisk him."

  "Don't need to," came a voice from somewhere behind the truck. "I can see his gun clear as day."

  "Go and take it off him, then."

  Sighs. An obese man in desert camo waddled around the truck bed. He must've been hiding on the other side. His gelled hair stuck up in a rooster's comb, and he wore goggles with darkened lenses. A trench knife hung from his belt, but he didn't draw it as he approached.

  "Hey, mister," said the rifleman, "you got any friends with you?"

  "It's just me," Kyler said.

  "Try anything and I'll light you up."

  Porkchop tore the flechette pistol from his pocket. "What the hell's this? Some kind of toy? It's made of plastic."

  "Let me see." The gunman climbed out of his hiding place. He wore similar fatigues, surprisingly clean for someone who'd been crouching in a hole, and had gone to the trouble of painting his face with elaborate makeup. Sweat had already smeared the design into a colorful blob.

  Porkchop tossed the pistol over. The gunman caught it with his free hand, the other keeping the rifle trained on Kyler. "Looks pretty wussified to me. Check him for more goodies."

  Thick fingers brushed over Kyler's coveralls. They found the strange focus object in his breast pocket and drew it out. Both men uttered respectful gasps.

  "Whoa," said Porkchop. "Factory original, it looks like."

  "Where'd you get this?" said the gunman.

  "It's, ah, mine. Family heirloom."

  Chrome winked as Porkchop held up the wide cross. After a moment's admiration he handed it back.

  "That's a holy symbol, mister," said the gunman, squinting at Kyler's face. "Where you from, anyway? You're too pale to be a local. Ah, skip it. I can guess. You've come wandering out here to hook up with the Clark County Militia, haven't you? Only reason you'd be on foot, carrying that."

  "I'm looking for a man named Dirac," Kyler said. "Have either of you—"

  "Father Dirac," Porkchop corrected.

  "Of course you're looking for him," said the gunman. "We're all looking for him. And that sweet, sweet ride he's offering at the rally tonight."

  Porkchop rested his hands on his ample hips. "We can't waste this guy, Two Wyck. Not if he wants to convert."

  "Agreed. You do want to convert, don't you, bud?"

  Kyler nodded with enthusiasm.

  "Awesome. Well, we'll take you back to camp. My name's Two Wyck Ed, by the way. Get it? Too wicked? You'll probably want to be thinking of a Militia handle too, instead of whatever lame-ass name your mama gave you."

  "Can I have my gun back?"

  "Sorry. I know it sounds kind of blasphemous, but you can't bear arms until you pass our initiation. Then it'll be cool."

  Loud static burst from the truck's cab, followed by a high-pitched tone. The two men exchanged looks.

  "That's the emergency frequency," Porkchop said.

  "No shit. Go turn it up."

  They hustled over to the cab. Porkchop fiddled with the dials of what looked like a CB radio hung below the dash.

  "… all units. There's a convoy on the juice-line up from Barstow. Repeat, convoy traveling I-15. Multiple civilian vehicles and cargo. At least one heavy rig, so watch your ass. All units, please respond …"

  "Hot damn," Porkchop said.

  "Man your post." Two Wyck grinned at Kyler. "Looks like we get to bust your cherry early. Take shotgun."

  "What do you mean—?"

  "Move it."

  Ammunition boxes formed a barrier between the seats. Kyler had to clamber around the truck's front to reach the passenger side. He saw something attached to the grill, just below the hood.

  It was the strange cross symbol.

  * * *

  Two Wyck buried the accelerator. Desert landscape sped past in a russet blur. From the primitive gauges on the dash, Kyler guessed their speed was in excess of a hundred-sixty kilometers per hour. He tried to focus on that, and not the horrid, twangy music playing over the roar of the air conditioner.

  "Like it?" Two Wyck said. "That's from Country Thunder '17. They sure knew how to auto-tune back then. Not like the crap we get now."

  Porkchop rode in the truck bed. He stuck his goggled face through a small back window. "You worried about that rig, boss?"

  "Only thing I'm worried about is if the Elko Preppers get there first. Look sharp, now. We're nearing the highway."

  Two Wyck eased off the gas. A larger strip of road appeared to their left, and as he swerved onto it a mongrel line of cars and vans filled the driver's side window. Porkchop let out a war-whoop.

  "Look at that herd," Two Wyck said. "Easy pickings."

  He started to accelerate, bearing down on a squat red van. A fireball blossomed directly ahead. Two Wyck swerved around it, nearly flipping the truck.

  "What the hell was that?"

  "Preppers," shouted Porkchop. "I see 'em. One o'clock."

  A dirt bike bearing two riders had leapt onto the road some twenty meters in front of them. The rearmost rider lofted a bottle with a flaming rag stuffed into the neck. Porkchop opened up. Bullets stitched pavement around the bike, tearing chunks of asphalt
before finding the gas tank. And both riders. The bike shuddered with multiple impacts and turned into a second geyser of fire, easily avoided.

  "Watch the goddamn ammo," Two Wyck shouted.

  A gray behemoth loomed in the window at eleven o'clock. The aforementioned heavy rig, slowing down to protect its charges. Armor bulged along the sides of the trailer, and a bubble turret, bristling with twin guns, protruded from the top. Two Wyck swore and tapped the brakes, just as the turret poured a fusillade of tracer rounds. His reflexes saved the truck from being cut down the middle. Accelerating again, he swerved behind the cover a nearby van. The tracers didn't follow.

  "Sumbitch," he said, fuming at no one in particular. His makeup was running in a torrent now, the bright red and blue smearing into sweaty gray.

  Behind the pickup came the whine of high-revving engines. Dune buggies shot past on either side. They'd been affixed with the same spikes and gun mounts as the pickup, and the leftmost sported what looked like a mortar tube. The driver on the right flipped them off as he passed.

  "Our boys," Two Wyck said. "They sure took their sweet time. But they'll grab all the glory if we don't hurry."

  He swerved back out from cover. The rightmost buggy was already blazing away, marching a stream of slugs into the rig's oversized tires. Tread puckered, but didn't blow. Solid rubber. The turret answered fire, with more effective results: tracers chewed the buggy's cab to shreds, and Two Wyck had to execute a hard left to avoid the smoking remains.

  "Porkchop! Top that turret!"

  A hollow whump sounded to their left. Kyler caught the glare of a mortar round arcing upwards, to alight seconds later atop the truck. The bubble turret disappeared in a burst of incandescent flame. Two Wyck hollered and slammed on the gas.

  They sped alongside the big rig, Porkchop bouncing rounds off the sloped armor. A panel slid back and a helmeted figure leaned out with an assault rifle. Porkchop's .50 pulped his face. Two Wyck, in the spirit of things now, rolled down the window as he drew alongside the rig's cab. He aimed the flechette pistol and squeezed off several rounds. Humming darts struck sparks from the armor.