This is the End 2: The Post-Apocalyptic Box Set (9 Book Collection)

by J. Thorn

  I wondered if my body would ever be discovered. Or if I’d be recycled just like all of this biomass, eventually winding up in someone’s scooter tank.

  My brain began to fool itself. It told me it was okay to breathe this shit. In fact, this shit had a high oxygen content in it. All I needed to do was take a big gulp and I’d be fine.

  My hand touched something. A dial. Something familiar about it. Something important.

  My utility belt reel.

  I turned it counterclockwise and felt a tug on my belt. My sinking had stopped. But had it reversed? The sludge was too thick, too warm, for me to tell if I was moving through it.

  I had no idea how much time had passed, but my willpower was gone. Betrayed by my body, I could no longer keep holding my breath. My immediate future would be choking, gagging, and dying, accompanied by a horrible taste.

  My mouth opened with a will of its own, my diaphragm spasmed, and I gasped for air I knew I wouldn’t get.

  I was right. The taste was terrible. Like taking a bite out of a rotten egg coated with sour milk and dog feces.

  But I was also wrong. Because it was, indeed, air.

  I opened my eyes, squinting against the sting, and saw the nanotube reel had brought me to the surface of the muck and was slowly winching me out of the vat. My peace officer training had apparently paid off, because one of the things drilled into our heads was to never let go of our weapons. I was pleasantly surprised to see I still clenched my Taser. I shoved it into my holster, then shifted my weight so I rose vertically.

  Thirty seconds later I was hanging in midair, above the biomuck. I hit the reel, pausing the ascent, and then moved my arms and legs to swing. Slowly at first, then picking up speed as momentum kicked it. Timing it right, I pressed the release on the reel just as I cleared the edge of the vat.

  The fall could have been fatal—a fifteen-foot drop onto grass. But I twisted my body around as I fell and managed to catch the lip of the vat, my body slamming alongside it. I released my grip and hit the ground hard, flexing my knees to absorb the landing, then slamming onto my side and slapping the ground with my open palms, like a judo fall.

  I lay there for a moment. Then I laughed. A wet, garbled laugh that ended in me turning over and throwing up on the floor, the fear and the stench too much for my stomach.

  I wiped my good hand across my face, trying to squeegee away the goo from my eyes, nose, and mouth. Then I got on all fours, and eventually my feet, and tried to figure out where I was in the building.

  The smell was supernatural. Besides the biomass vat I’d crawled out of, there were six others of equal size, plus two toilet vats. Like plant and animal matter, human waste was also compostable and recyclable. I’d never given much thought to what happened after I flushed, but it apparently ended up in a holding facility like this one. The pools were even larger than the biomass vats, making me glad I chose the right chute to drop down.

  Keeping my nostrils pinched together, I staggered past the vats to the near wall, which I followed until I found a door. I didn’t encounter anyone, but that didn’t surprise me. This wasn’t a part of the building where you’d hang out for fun.

  The door led to a hallway. I tugged out my DT, wiped off the screen, and brought up a schematic for this building. One room over was the furnace, and then beyond that the stairwell to the parking garage.

  Every step felt slow and ponderous, like I was still in the muck. As anxious as I was to get out of there, I also had an irrational desire to curl up in a corner and get some sleep. Two near-death experiences within four minutes really took a toll on the body.

  I managed to find the garage, and incredibly it was empty. It took me a moment to get my bearings, and then I half ran, half stumbled to my Corvette. It was hardly anonymous, but they could already track me with my chip, and I chose horsepower over a less auspicious ride. I fished my keys out of my pocket and hit the security button.

  Then the garage filled with cops.

  They came streaming in from all directions. I pulled out my Taser and shot twice, each shot hitting a peace officer.

  But there was no bolt of Tesla lightning. No falling over in spasms. They kept coming at me, pulling out and aiming their own weapons.

  They’d suspended my electricity account.

  I managed to get behind my car door as the firing began, the blue storm starting off with just a few bolts and then gathering speed and strength until the wax bullets hitting my car sounded like hurricane hail. I jammed my key into the ignition—grateful it was a real key because if they’d killed my electric account, they’d probably disabled all other chip functions—and then gunned the engine and slammed the Vette into gear.

  It was like driving into a supernova, too bright for me to be able to steer, so much light it hurt like someone was poking my corneas with splinters. I turned sharply, plowing through parked biofuel bikes, getting ahead of the barrage just enough to be able to see again. I gunned the engine, drowning out the electric bullet maelstrom, and then was whiplashed into my seat by a rear impact.

  I squinted into my rearview mirror.

  Teague. In his Porsche 911. As I watched, he rammed me again, jerking my head backward.

  “You want to play, old buddy? Let’s play.”

  I pinned the accelerator, throwing dirt and clover onto his windshield as my fat rear tires dug two trenches in the greentop.

  I squeezed my earlobe, activating my headphone. No dial tone. Disabled. So I flipped on the dashboard microphone.

  “Sirens,” I told the car.

  The police lights came on, embedded in my front and rear fenders, strobing red and blue and accompanied by the piercing wail of the emergency horn, belting out the familiar weeeeeeeeee-ooooooooooooo-weeeeeeeeeee-oooooooooooo.

  When was the last time I’d hit my siren? Months? Years?

  Hectic as the situation was, I managed a tight smile. Being a cop felt pretty good.

  I shot out of the garage, my chassis taking to the air, and burst out onto Wabash, the El train racing by overhead. I jerked the wheel, fishtailed, and floored it, chasing the El, weaving through the metal beams that supported it. The siren would automatically change all the signal lights to green, giving me the right of way.

  In six seconds I was doing eighty miles an hour, my tires losing traction on the greentop. I turned the wheel slightly. The car didn’t respond, beginning to skid.

  “Ice treads!” I hollered.

  Metal spikes poked out of the rubber in my tires, finding traction on the bioroad, digging into the greens and dirt. The traction returned, and I finessed the car past a support pylon, clipping off my driver’s side mirror as I scraped by.

  “GPS. Route to home.”

  The video superimposed over the windshield, plotting a map through the streets to my house. But it wanted me to get off of Wabash. Since Wabash was the only road without traffic, it was best I stayed on it as long as possible.

  “Reroute. Wabash primary.”

  The display changed, keeping me on this street for the next two miles.

  “Rearview. Bottom left.”

  My rearview mirror switched to the lower left-hand side of my windshield, which was easier for me to see. Teague was still behind me, a pinpoint blur in the distance.

  I had to get home, had to talk to Vicki before I went underground. Chances were high that every peace officer in Chicago was plotting my course and knew my destination. But the only one I really feared was Teague. He knew me. He had a TEV. He’d be able to find me no matter how far underground I went.

  That meant I had to stop him, and stop him now.

  I cut around a pylon and stomped on the brakes, doing a one-eighty, three-sixty, and finally a five-forty, facing south on Wabash. I could make out the flash of Teague’s police lights in the distance.

  “You want me? Come get some.”

  I mashed down the gas pedal and headed right at him.

  SIXTEEN

  Teague and I were childhood buds. G
rew up in the same neighborhood. Went to the same schools. Both majored in peace studies and law enforcement down in Carbondale. We applied for the CPD on the same day, and both joined the Timecaster Division on the same day. I loved him like a brother, and would have died for him, knowing he felt the exact same way about me.

  Then Vicki came along.

  Teague was the one who found her.

  “She’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, Talon. She makes other women seem like they’re from a different species. You have to book her months in advance, but you really need to try her out. Trust me, man.”

  I trusted him. And I booked the time, expecting the most incredible sexual experience of my life.

  I didn’t expect to fall in love.

  I really didn’t expect her to return that feeling.

  And it completely blindsided me when Teague showed me the engagement ring he’d bought for her, because he was in love with her as well.

  I was no idiot. I wouldn’t trade a woman for a brother. Not even the greatest woman in the world.

  I kept my mouth shut. Teague proposed, and was politely turned down. I swore I’d stop seeing her, out of respect for our friendship.

  But I didn’t. I kept seeing her. And I bought an engagement ring of my own, one that Vicki accepted.

  Teague went ballistic. Our fight was so brutal that if we both weren’t peace officers, we would have spent at least a decade in jail each. My left arm, right knee, and six ribs all have carbon nanotube weaves thanks to Teague, and his jaw, right arm, and skull suffered similar damage.

  When I healed, I married Vicki, and lost my best friend.

  I knew he hated me. But I didn’t think the hate ran so deep in him he’d frame me for murder. Or that it ran so deep in me that I’d be clenching the steering wheel and barreling at him at sixty miles per hour.

  Since he was matching or surpassing my speed, there was no time for second thoughts. No time for dwelling on actions or consequences or repercussions. I was going to run the fucker off the road or die trying.

  I expected no less from him, which was why it really threw me when he hit the brakes.

  In the millisecond before impact I swerved, my tail end clipping his front bumper, enough energy, speed, and momentum to send both of our cars rolling end over end like dice.

  The airfoam package Vicki insisted I install—because it was far superior to air bags—deployed as advertised, filling the interior of the Vette with a protein foam matrix as I flipped, turned, and eventually came to a stop on my hood.

  The foam was clear, permeable enough to breathe in, but strong enough to keep me pinned in my seat without a bit of damage. I was dizzy, but unharmed.

  “Solvent,” I said.

  The solvent sprayed out of the dashboard jets, instantly dissolving the foam. Gravity kicked in, and I felt the weight of my body as I hung upside down from my seat belt.

  “Seat belt.”

  It released me, dropping me onto my shoulder.

  “Door.”

  The twisted door blew off, the recessed explosives ejecting it into the street. I crawled out of the tight opening, kissing the greentop.

  I may have been fine, but my car…

  Oh, shit. My beautiful car.

  It looked like an angry god had crushed it in his fist. I shook away the motes floating around in my vision and locked onto Teague’s Porsche. The same god had smote him as well. But Teague hadn’t opted for the expensive airfoam package, and an old-fashioned air bag pressed him into his seat. I hobbled over, knowing I needed to get out of there, but not willing to leave my former friend if he needed help. An odd feeling, since moments before I’d been ready to kill him.

  I unclipped my folding knife from my utility belt and jabbed the air bag, pulling it away from him. His nose looked like a mashed tomato, and his arm hung at a funny angle. I felt for a pulse in his neck.

  Strong. For some reason I was relieved by this.

  Then his hand shot up, pointing his Taser at me.

  I ducked the shot and sprinted away, toward the intersection, blending from near-deserted Wabash onto mega-busy Monroe. The people were packed so densely it was tough to walk through them. I managed to push into the street, and then stepped in front of a kindly looking old man on a biofuel scooter.

  “Sorry,” I said, plucking him off.

  He stared at me, angry and confused.

  “Are you fuct? I’ll just call a timecaster.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said, taking his helmet. “I already know I did it.”

  I twisted the gas handle and melded into traffic. While I knew I was being tracked, I wouldn’t be easy to spot in a stream of several million bikes. I kept executing quick turns, changing directions, backtracking, making it hard for the peace officer bikes—if they knew who to look for—to catch me.

  When I finally buzzed past the front of my house I wasn’t surprised to see twenty cops standing guard around the property.

  It wasn’t good for my health to try to talk to Vicki right now. But it might be the only way to save my marriage.

  I kept my head down, whipping around the corner and ditching the biofuel bike in front of my neighbor’s house. I hung the helmet on the handlebars, the engine still on. Then I swallowed my pride and rang his videobell.

  Chomsky’s face appeared on the monitor. He was bald with a big nose and looked pissed, but that was his perpetual look. We’d been neighbors for more than ten years, and friendly for the first few, until his vines grew across to my rooftop and I harvested them for biofuel tax, figuring they were on my property. He took offense and raised a big stink with the local alderman, resulting in a big fine for me.

  Chomsky was a dick. But he was also my only shot at seeing Vicki.

  “What the hell do you want, Talon?”

  Good. Apparently he hadn’t seen the news yet.

  “I had an accident and can’t get in my house. I need to get on your roof to jump over.”

  “You look like shit.”

  The remnants of the airfoam had become a slimy mucus, which gave my coat of stinky biomass garbage a glossy sheen.

  “Please, Chomsky. I know we don’t get along. But this is an emergency.”

  “A month of foliage.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll let you on my roof, but you’ll owe me a month of foliage for biofuel tax.”

  I glanced at the corner. Two peace officers were coming my way.

  “Sure, Chomsky. A month.”

  “Really? You sure agreed to that quickly. Let’s make it two months.”

  “Two months? You’re such a dick.”

  “That’s the offer. Take it or leave it.”

  The cop duo had picked up their pace. One was holding his earlobe.

  “Deal,” I said.

  “And apologize for calling me a dick.”

  I ground my molars. “I’m sorry, Chomsky. You aren’t a dick.”

  “That’s right. Who’s the dick?”

  The cops were almost on me.

  “I am, Chomsky. I’m the dick. Now, please open the door.”

  “Wipe your feet before you come up.”

  He buzzed me in. I didn’t bother wiping my feet. I pushed past him in the hallway, running up his stairs as fast as I could, bursting out onto his green roof. I hurried to the edge and looked down.

  Cops were everywhere, many of them focused on their DTs, tracking my chip.

  “Talon, you ass-master! You trailed shit all through my house! And it stinks!”

  I judged the gap between my roof and his. It was only six feet, but the height made it seem a lot farther away. Did I have the strength to make the leap? I was exhausted, beaten up, covered with twenty pounds of gunk.

  “The stink is making me puke! You owe me a carpet cleaning as well, mister!”

  “Shut up, Chomsky! You’re such a dick!”

  “I’m calling the alderman!”

  Dick.

  Chomsky stomped off. I looked at th
e gap again, sure I wouldn’t be able to make it across. I wondered if my dick neighbor had a pair of frog legs. A kermit could make the jump, easy.

  “Talon?”

  I glanced over at my roof. Vicki was there. Vicki, the love of my life. My wife. My everything. And suddenly I had the strength of ten men. I took five running steps, then launched myself into the air, sailing toward her, soaring like a bird on the wings of love.

  Halfway there I knew I’d be about a foot short.

  SEVENTEEN

  The wings of love fuct me, and I slammed into the side of my house, frantically trying to get a handhold even as I felt one or two ribs snap. Vicki raced to me, pulling my shirt just as the bullets started to fly. I hooked an ankle up on the ledge and hefted myself over, lying on my back and panting like an asthmatic at a hayseed festival.

  “Talon…”

  My wife knelt next to me. She had tears in her eyes, her face a sad snapshot of concern.

  “In order of importance,” I heaved, “I love you, I’m sorry, and I didn’t do it.”

  “I know, I know, and I know. I love you, too, baby.”

  She kissed me, which proved she loved me because at that moment I was the worst-smelling object on the planet.

  “Cops in the house?”

  She nodded. “A dozen.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “No.”

  “They’ll use you to get to me. Go to Sata. He knows what’s going on.”

  “I tried calling you…”

  “They cut my headphone. But I’ll get in touch.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise. If you don’t hear from me, I’ll meet you at the space elevator. Tomorrow.”

  She nodded. I wanted to kiss her again, but she was already covered with foul-smelling gunk and I didn’t want to add to it.

  Vicki had no such concerns, and she leaned in to kiss me. For ten magical seconds, all was right with the world.

  I heard a snoring sound, and turned left. My raccoon visitor was sleeping in the hemp bush, all four legs in the air. He had marijuana all over his whiskers, and I may have been projecting but it sure looked like he had a smile on his furry face. I pulled my knife.