Retaliate

by Alex Albrinck

  She also knew she’d need to cross the great north-south river bisecting much of the northern landmass of what was once deemed Western territory. There were bridges used by the rail car system, including the one where her mother reportedly died. That one was near the river’s source. She’d head for that bridge; if it was out, she’d move north, circle around the river’s mouth, and head toward New Phoenix. There were other rivers, but she didn’t think they were quite as big. She elected to deal with them as needed, lest she find herself giving up hope before she’d even started her journey.

  It would be a journey lasting several days. It meant she’d need to steal a ground car from this fortress, somehow stock it with fresh water and food, and ensure she had sufficient fuel to last her until she reached her destination. No, she’d need to make sure her fuel supplies lasted her for much longer than she expected it to take; Roddy told her to always plan for something to go wrong, even if you didn’t know what it was, and assume you’d need at least fifty percent more of something than you expected.

  She looked around and found Miriam’s computer. Thankfully, Miriam’s badge served as a password bypass. Deirdre thought that an odd thing, but they’d done many things here that made little sense to her. She opened a browser and was able to find a general map of the facility through a localized social media room Miriam frequented, where residents opined about things like which restaurant served the best soup or when they’d next be allowed outside. A data scientist, apparently bored, built a fascinating interactive map that overlaid opinions expressed with locations in the facility, color coding based on sentiment. While she found the app interesting—and wished she could try the cake at Mario’s Eatery, the current favorite dessert—she was far more interested in the map itself. She traced the route from the residential wing to the garage, trying different combinations until she found the one that worked best. She found another app called “When” which recommended a time to visit different restaurants based upon current crowd-sourced activity—meaning it showed where app users actually were—so you could avoid lines, shift changes at various stations, and so forth. Her optimal route ran into a lot of traffic. She found a better one that avoided all the hot spots and took her by places where work shifts had just started. It was a longer walk, but it would take less time. She committed the route to memory.

  Then she found a forum where residents discussed the deep desire to go back outside “after the plague was Cleansed.” She sighed; they’d pushed the idea that those in Phoenix were immune to some awful virus and that in order to save the human race they had to exterminate those who weren’t immune, including children, lest the combining of genes render all future humans susceptible to an excruciatingly painful death. Somehow, they’d made the case in a convincing fashion, and the people here dutifully stayed inside to avoid contaminating the purity of the air here while the Ravagers or Cleansers did their work outside and made it safe to leave once more. Several top answers in a thread called “First Thing I’ll Do Outside” involved using one of the fortress’s vehicles to take trips of varying lengths. Respondents helpfully gave make and model and color information, even explaining where one could find those vehicles in the parking garage. One sounded promising: it used solar and wind along with more traditional fuel to generate and store the electricity used to power the vehicle. Range was virtually limitless. One of the respondents said he’d picked out one and had been sneaking water and other supplies in so that the instant the outdoor ban ended he could hop in and drive to the southern tip of Western territory with his girlfriend.

  Deidre made note of that vehicle’s distinguishing characteristics and current location in the garage, mouthing a silent thanks to the man who’d unknowingly helped her out.

  And she hoped that none of the activity she’d just performed from Miriam’s computer would in any way implicate the woman in Deirdre’s impending escape.

  She rummaged through Miriam's belongings, creating a small but efficient bundle: one change of clothes, a toothbrush—rinsed under very hot water—and toothpaste, a hairbrush, and a few other supplies she hoped she wouldn't need. She lifted the front of the smock and mashed the supplies against her stomach—brush bristles facing out—and secured the bundle with a belt she also borrowed from Miriam. She dropped the smock and examined herself in the mirror. Barely noticeable.

  She considered leaving a thank you note for Miriam, but quickly discarded the idea. She’d thanked the woman in person, and the last thing she wanted was to leave evidence of her complicity in Deirdre’s escape. Best to let the verbal thanks be enough. After taking a calming breath, re-securing the face guard, and ensuring the badge lanyard remained around her neck, she opened the door and stepped out of Miriam’s room.

  A few people waved at her as she walked, calling out Miriam’s name. She waved back weakly in reply, coughing into the germ mask provided as part of her job here. She staggered and stumbled a bit, heard a few people ask if she was going to the infirmary, and Deirdre nodded.

  Then she exited the residential area and moved to the lesser trafficked areas, as designed. Her memory remained sound, and though it wasn’t the most direct route, she soon found herself by the garage entry.

  Which, like most everything else, required a badge for entry.

  And that raised another question she’d not yet considered: how could she return Miriam’s badge?

  She ran through everything quickly and decided that it fit best with the available evidence if she didn’t return the badge. The evidence meant to show Deirdre overpowering Miriam, binding the woman in Deirdre’s cell, and stealing her clothes and badge. In that scenario, Deirdre shouldn’t even consider returning the badge; she was playing the part of a criminal, after all. While they'd question the guard for his failure to notice that the kitchen worker he'd been “protecting” had changed, they'd suspect nothing about Miriam. It was better that Deirdre retained the badge.

  Satisfied, Deirdre swiped to unlock the door and walked into the garage.

  By a rare stroke of good fortune of late, the vehicle she wanted was near the door she’d just walked through. She confirmed the supplies stocked by her unknown online benefactor, then settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine. She pulled forward out of the spot and, as she neared the entry door, stopped, opened the vehicle door, and threw Miriam’s badge to the ground. Anyone entering the garage would see the badge and, Deirdre hoped, return it to its rightful owner.

  “Good luck, Miriam,” she whispered.

  Then she rolled the car forward slowly and hoped there were no guards waiting at the exit.

  And, more importantly, she hoped she'd find no Ravagers waiting to devour her as she left the Ravager-proof fortress of New Venice.

  —19—

  RODDY LIGHT

  HE EXAMINED THE INTERIOR while he waited for the ship to begin moving. The seating was comfortable, the minimalist controls featured easily understood labels, and he found the air inside pleasant, barely distinguishable from the fresh variety he’d find outside.

  He sat down and looked for some type of restraining harness, but found nothing. Surprised, he looked around, then up… and realized that the ship had already started flying.

  Flying might not be the right term. The ship hadn’t risen at all, but it was moving down a tunnel on the opposite side of the hangar from the door he entered. He looked back, saw his parents there, shrinking rapidly as the distance between them increased. He waved feebly at them, knowing they couldn’t see him.

  Then they were gone. Roddy turned and faced forward.

  His sense of direction had always been excellent, and it told him the ship was gliding along as if on invisible rails to the north. But they’d not moved up toward the sky yet.

  And if they didn’t move up soon…

  “Uh, ship?”

  Yes, Roddy?

  “Um… are we going to start moving up toward the sky soon?”

  We will increase altitude after we leave the exit
tunnel, Roddy.

  “Aren't we getting rather close to the lake?”

  Entry in eleven seconds, Roddy.

  The ship sped forward and Roddy gaped at the sight growing before him in the tunnel. It looked like a giant glob, a gelatinous substance that, other than the coloring and the fact that it hadn't devoured anything, looked a lot like a solid mass of Ravagers. And this self-piloting ship was about to make a deadly error, flying at a high rate of speed directly at the mass.

  His muscles clenched and he prepared for impact, his eyes closed, and then—

  We will proceed through the transition membrane and emerge into the lake, at which point we will—

  Roddy cracked open one eye. That made it sound like the impending collision was intentional… which had to mean it wasn’t deadly. Right?

  The sphere hit the gel… and slid right through as if passing through a cloud. And suddenly he was in the water, well below the surface, slowing as the watery inertia worked its magic. He felt nothing but shock. Roddy felt his jaw drop open.

  —commence our ascent to the surface and into the air. Cruising altitude for our journey will be two hundred feet. Please relax and make yourself comfortable, Roddy.

  Roddy opened the other eye and shut his jaw, feeling his muscles relax, feeling the beads of nervous sweat pool at the small of his back. He wondered why his parents hadn’t warned him about the whole taking off from beneath the lake process.

  He watched as the surface rushed toward them, and then they were out of the water, trailing plumes of water behind as the ship exploded upward and north. It leveled off, and Roddy’s pilot’s eye told him they were very likely at exactly two hundred feet above the lake’s surface.

  He marveled at the utter simplicity of it all, the smoothness of the flight, the impossibility of detecting that he was moving at all. If ships like this one became common, he was out of a job. Assuming he survived and there was a post-war demand for pilots. “Right. Thank you. How long until we reach our destination?”

  Approximately twenty-two minutes, fourteen point oh five four nine seconds.

  That was what the computer considered an approximate duration? Roddy shook his head, almost smiling as the computer used one of the display screens for a countdown timer and showed progress along their path to the island. Very service oriented machine, this flying sphere. “Right. Thanks.” He paused, then asked what seemed an odd question to ask a machine. “Do you have a name?”

  You may address me in whatever manner you wish.

  Oh. “Okay. Well, thanks.”

  My pleasure, Roddy.

  He wondered how a machine could experience pleasure, then scoffed at the idea. No machine could feel anything, especially human emotions.

  He had to admit that this one could carry on an effective conversation, though.

  The time passed slowly. Roddy felt his stomach doing somersaults, anxious and nervous about what he’d find when he arrived at the island. Would he find no evidence his family had been there in defiance of Micah’s projections? Evidence that they’d been there, and then left? Or…

  No, he’d not even consider that possibility. He’d remain optimistic that he’d find them there, alive and well, or find evidence to suggest that they’d moved on for better accommodations.

  The seconds ticked down, adjusting up or down as the unpredictable lake winds pushed the ship off course or altered its airspeed. Without prompting, it found images from Micah’s personal archive, spliced them together, and showed Roddy a three dimensional hologram of the island and the house. It looked… comfortable. A place you’d want to stay. He amended his earlier thought. If his family had arrived on the island as projected, there was no chance they’d leave. Voluntarily. If they weren’t there, well, then they’d never gotten there in the first place.

  The island appeared on the horizon, bathed in dark shadows. Roddy stood, too excited to sit any longer. But as the island grew upon the horizon, he felt his heart sink.

  Those dark spots weren’t shadows.

  The island had been hit by the Ravagers, scoured clean of everything that had once existed, every tree and house floating before him on the holographic display.

  Unless… “Is that the island? The one on screen right now?”

  Affirmative. Coordinates match those provided and are confirmed by previous mapping efforts of the lake.

  The Ravagers had gotten here. Somehow, despite the miles of water between the island and the mainland, they'd gotten here. And Micah’s safe house was gone, dissolved to dust like the city he and Roddy’s family had fled.

  His heart sank. If his family had been here when the Ravagers arrived, they’d surely perished. Would they have time to evacuate? Would the Ravagers dissolve the boat before moving on to the rest of the island? Had they been treading water? Had they gotten here, noted the demolition in progress, and moved on to another, safer island?

  The island appears to be devoid of life, and the surface is coated with inert Ravagers. Do you wish to land?

  He felt lightheaded. But he stiffened his back and directed the ship lower to land. He had to know for sure. He owed them that much.

  The ship glided to a stop and floated just above the surface. The ramp opened, stretching down to the ground. Roddy started to step out, but the sight of the inert Ravagers gave him pause. Were they really inactive now? Or did they just lack a food source to feed upon?

  He found a few blank scraps of paper—he flipped them over a few times to be certain there weren’t any words or numbers—and crumbled them up before tossing them onto the ground, waiting to see if the Ravagers would wake up and resume their deadly rampage.

  Nothing happened.

  He waited for five minutes, watching intently. But the papers lay there, fluttering a bit in the gentle lake breeze, without so much as a quiver from the Ravagers beneath them.

  Finally convinced, Roddy tromped down the ramp and stood atop the Ravagers, waiting momentarily to see if the deadly robots showed signs of life. But still, nothing happened. The Ravagers here were as inert and dead as the rest of the island.

  He felt a lump in his throat as the words formed in his mind.

  Then he walked.

  His eyes scanned everything, looking for any evidence supporting Micah’s simulated projections that his family had gotten here. He walked the perimeter first, looking for any sign of a boat or raft, or people treading water. Or… not treading water. But he saw nothing. Any evidence that they’d gotten here to the perimeter was eradicated by the Ravagers.

  He kept moving, moving in ever smaller concentric circles, looking for clues. But there was nothing. The island was devoid of anything, showing not even any variation in height above sea level. It was as if the trees and wildlife and house had never existed.

  He felt his throat tighten as he allowed himself to accept the possibility that the worst had happened.

  His wife would die having never heard his apology, and his children would never have the chance to meet him. He'd never get the chance to hold them, to tell his children how big they'd gotten. He’d never get to tell his wife how much he loved her and how the merger of memories made him crazy with the idea that he could ever see anything in that awful woman, and she'd tell him she knew he had no way to know, and then—

  His foot hit something and he stumbled. Instinctively, he bounced back to his feet, as if the Ravagers would devour bare skin but leave his booted feet alone.

  The box was small, half buried in a small bit of dirt that had somehow survived coating by the Ravager slick. It was buried so deeply that he’d not noticed the elevation change, but just enough remained above the inert swarm that he’d caught the edge with the toe of his boot.

  He knelt by the box, eager to identify the nature of this artifact, no matter what it might be. It looked like some type of machine with a thin line of light prominent amidst the dark background. Roddy moved closer, reached out a hand, wondered what it had been, if it had been inside the house or a smalle
r building, if it had been around his family if they’d gotten here, or—

  “Hello—would—like—drink—”

  Roddy jumped back.

  “Hel—lo—frienddddd—”

  The voice was high pitched, squeaky, and sounded very much like the machine had gotten drunk on oil or whatever machines drank. But the coded friendliness made him feel an obligation to reply. “Hello. Um. Friend.”

  “Voice—match—Roddy—welcome—friend—”

  Roddy blinked. This machine… it knew his voice? “Thank you. It looks like the Ravagers ruined this island.”

  “Yes—bad—machines—terrible—don't—like—” The machine went quiet, as if the effort to speak was too momentous to waste unnecessarily.

  The machine responded to the spoken word. It seemed insane to even consider the possibility, but Roddy felt he had to ask. “I am looking for my family. A woman. Two children, twins. Did they—I thought they might try to get here, but the Ravagers—”

  “Yes—Mary—Jill—Jack—other man—Wezzzz—”

  Roddy didn't know what the last part meant, the part about “other man,” and whether “Wezzz” was a slurred word or someone’s name. It didn’t matter. The first part gave him answers. But not what he wanted. The icy dread crept up his spine once more. “So… they were here? They made it here?”

  “Yes—friend—Roddy—”

  He felt his hope evaporate, and he choked back a tear. “Then… the Ravagers got them after all, after all they’d done to get away.” A tear snuck out of his eye and trailed down his cheek.

  “No—friend—Roddy—all—okay—portal—four—three—five five—through—safe—surviiiiiiii—”

  The voice trailed off into silence. And the thin light went out. Roddy knew he’d not hear that high squeaky voice call him “friend” ever again.