Tar
by Taylor Hohulin
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Copyright 2018 Taylor Hohulin
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Also by Taylor Hohulin
The Marian
The Marian
The Hunted
The Cloud
Standalone
Alpha
Polaroid
The Box Is Protection Not Prison
Tar
Your Best Apocalypse Now (Coming Soon)
Watch for more at Taylor Hohulin’s site.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Also By Taylor Hohulin
Tar
TAR
NEWHAVEN
THE ROAD
THE HOTEL SHALOM
THE TIN CAN MAN
BLACK FALLS
TIR ANHREFNUS
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Further Reading: The Marian
Also By Taylor Hohulin
About the Author
for all who chose to be vulnerable
when they could have been powerful
TAR
From the Book of Memory
When you read this account, read it well. Every word is true, I swear.
I am exhausted, and I am afraid. I want to act, but first I must write. My words must be as good as the most vivid of memories, because soon they will be the only memories we possess. And you, O reader, must include these pages in your own history.
It all began when the star fell from the heavens, though I wonder if it truly was a star. I have never seen a star glow purple where it landed. I have never seen a horizon lit so brightly.
And I know of no star capable of doing what this one did to me and my companions.
NEWHAVEN
1
The instant Brendan Cobb realized he was not alone, he ducked under a broken slab of concrete, pressing deep into the shadows there. He listened to the intruders, tracking their position in the abandoned grocery store.
The whole time, his eyes never left the rippling patch of tar. At its widest, it stretched a foot across. Its edges formed a jagged outline against the wall thirty feet away. Fortunately, patches like this stayed where they took root. This particular patch couldn’t pull free and chase after Brendan. It would remain stuck to that wall after nothing remained of Newhaven but crumbling piles of rubble.
Unfortunately, as soon as anything got too close to a patch, those calm ripples along its pitch-black surface would turn into an army of tentacles, and then it would take a miracle to save the target from infection. Even worse, it was impossible to tell how far the tar could reach without stepping into range and getting infected. Brendan only knew he was safe where he stood. If the tar had enough mass to infect him from there, it would have done it. The tar never waited, never bided its time. It was a slave to its terrible, insatiable hunger.
Brendan had been trying to plot a route past the tar when he heard voices.
From the sound of it, not even one belonged to a man older than twenty. The noise wouldn’t agitate the tar, but Brendan still winced. He tried to keep quiet whenever the tar was close. It was pure superstition, but superstition gave him a sense of control. The alternative was panicked helplessness, and Brendan knew which of the two he preferred.
The voices drew closer. Brendan squeezed deeper into the shadows, trying to shrink into the crevice formed by a mountain of debris.
“C’mon, guys,” said one voice. “There’s no salvage here. It’s picked clean.”
“You a chicken?” said another. “Scared of something?”
Brendan winced at the ensuing chorus of chicken-calls. They were kids, but that didn’t mean they were any less dangerous. Kids made sloppy salvagers, and sloppiness put everyone in danger.
“I ain’t scared, Tiger Stripe,” said the first voice over the noise. “I just don’t wanna waste time. Look at this place.”
The conversation carried on a few minutes, and Brendan remained hidden. As the voices lost steam, he allowed himself to hope they’d leave. Maybe they hadn't noticed the tunnel and started wondering, as Brendan had, if there might be a massive stockpile of salvage beyond the patch of tar.
Eventually, the chatter faded. Footsteps echoed near the exit, but then a single voice rang out.
“Look!”
Everyone else fell silent. The footsteps ceased.
The kids saw what Brendan had seen. Next to the patch of tar, the ceiling had caved in, forming an impenetrable wall of debris which cut off access to half the store. The only way through was a tunnel created when a plank wedged itself between the wall and the floor. For now, it held up the combined weight of the debris.
Another voice spoke: “You think there’s anything back there?”
The footsteps resumed, scuffing loudly as the pack broke into a run. The harsh laughter picked up again. This wasn’t the afternoon Brendan had envisioned.
Reluctantly, he left the cover of his post. As much as he wanted to avoid talking to these kids, it wouldn’t do for them to find him hiding. If they thought they saw weakness, they might turn violent. Sloppy kids with a streak of violence would ruin a day of salvaging in a hurry.
As Brendan stepped into the open, the leader moved a hand to his hip, fingers hovering over a blaster. The wide sleeves of his tank top revealed six long stripes along either side of his ribcage. They were tattoos, the kind that shimmered in the light and glowed in the dark. Expensive. Brendan guessed this was the second voice he’d heard. Tiger Stripe.
There were five of them, all young enough to believe themselves invincible, but old enough to distrust strangers. Their mods were either brand new or hadn’t seen much use, judging from the way they gleamed in the dusty sunlight. Brendan noted multifaceted chrome arms, legs that pistoned so quietly they might as well be flesh, and even a few skullplates with complex, flashing circuitry.
They’d clearly paid good money for them, too. These weren’t the sorts of mods you picked up in a junk heap and hired a back-alley mechanic to install. These looked like the salvagers chose them from a catalog and had a professional perform an actual operation. Brendan supposed that still happened in remote cities. It was possible that in places where the tar hadn’t taken over, mods were fashion statements. Some people got diamond rings, others replaced their flesh arms with metal ones.
The kids came to a stop ten feet from Brendan. Tiger Stripe stepped forward, drawing his blaster. The store filled with the high, almost sub-audible sound of the bio-powered weapon pulling energy from his flesh.
“Five of us and one of you, chum.” Tiger Stripe pointed the blaster at Brendan, more out of warning than threat. He only held it tight enough to maintain the connection between his palm and the bio-power cell. “We don’t want trouble, and neither do you.”
Brendan didn’t say anything. He only nodded at the tunnel through the debris. Tiger Stripe cocked an eyebrow, unsure of what Brendan wanted. He craned his neck, peering through the opening for a couple seconds. Then his eyes lit up.
“Check it out!” he cried. “We got some muck in here!”
Hearing it called muck confirmed it for Brendan: This pack came from somewhere outside Newhaven. Everyone here called it tar. The kids were likely in search of a place that hadn’t fallen to the tar yet, or at least one that still had plenty of food, supplies, and survivors. Their perfect
little city had seen its first patch, and now they were running scared. That had been Brendan once upon a time, but he gave up chasing rumors years ago. Even the clean cities didn’t stay that way. The tar always found him. The tar always found everyone.
The pack of outsiders approached the opening. They’d grown more cautious, but still giggled and elbowed each other.
Tiger Stripe turned to Brendan. “How far can it reach?”
That was the question Brendan had been asking himself before the newcomers arrived. If the patch was no bigger than what he saw, it would be safe to pass through the tunnel, provided he stayed near the wall of debris opposite the tar.
But Brendan didn’t know how much tar he couldn’t see.
Tar squeezed through the smallest of holes with ease, which meant if this wall had a crack in the wrong spot, a gigantic mass of black could be hiding in the hollow behind the patch. For all Brendan knew, he’d been at the edge of its range. If he’d taken another step closer, the hidden tar could have poured through the crack, reaching out and taking him in the blink of an eye.
So he only said, “We’re safe here.”
“Dare you to run through!” shouted one of the kids to a whooping round of laughter.
Tiger Stripe held up his mod, a metal arm that shone so clearly he must have polished it every night. The giggling stopped, and Tiger Stripe let the silence sit for a few moments before speaking again.
“Don’t be stupid. That’s how you get infected.” Tiger Stripe gestured at one of the kids: “Eagle Eye.”
A lanky kid with long blond hair loped to the front of the group. He’d had a large red lens installed where his right eye used to be. Swollen, pink flesh ringed the mod. A recent install, most likely.
Tiger Stripe pointed at the patch. “Your mod can show you if there’s a crack behind that stuff, right?”
Eagle Eye stared over Tiger Stripe’s shoulder, eyebrows bunching in concentration. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“You guess so?”
Eagle Eye shrugged.
“Well, go over there and tell me what you see! Quit standing around.”
Eagle Eye sauntered as near the tar as he dared and paused, studying it. Brendan noticed the high sound of bio-power again. The edge of Eagle Eye’s mod glowed in alternating rings of blue and yellow. A soft glow cast the tunnel in eerie crimson.
After a few seconds, Eagle Eye faced the group. “I think we’re safe.”
Tiger Stripe crossed his flesh arm over his mod. He tapped the blaster against his tattooed ribs. “Well, I feel better already.”
Another shrug. “What else do I—”
“Listen. I’m not parading through there just ‘cause you think we’re safe, okay? You gotta prove it to me.” Tiger Stripe waved his mod at the tunnel. “Go ahead. We’ll be right behind if the muck doesn’t getcha.”
Eagle Eye turned back to the tunnel. His throat clicked as he swallowed. Then, with Tiger Stripe waving him on, he walked toward the tunnel. He drew closer and closer, and soon he passed the place where Brendan had been observing the tar. Beyond there, anything might happen. Even though he didn’t care what became of these kids, Brendan’s heart raced as he watched. If the tar struck, it would happen so fast none of them would have time to react.
And then all he would be able to do was run.
Eagle Eye circled around the edge of the tunnel, backing into the side opposite the wall where the tar waited. So far, it stayed in its place, unmoving except for slight undulations on its surface, like a black pond rippling in the breeze.
“Don’t trip!” someone shouted. A round of snickers followed, but Tiger Stripe shushed them.
Eagle Eye entered the tunnel, stooping under its slanted edge. The tar held still. He edged further in until he stood opposite the black patch. The heckling stopped. No cackles or chicken-calls now. Only a collective, nearly tangible holding of breath.
The tar didn’t move.
It wasn’t until Eagle Eye came out the other end of the tunnel that the tension dissipated. The instant he stepped out, he threw his arms up in the air. A raucous cheer erupted from the kids. They shoved each other, taunted each other, and generally celebrated their good fortune.
Tiger Stripe clapped Brendan on the back. His eyes gleamed with an expression that wasn’t threatening, but wasn’t amiable, either.
“Let’s see what’s on the other side, huh?”
2
Brendan followed the salvagers through the tunnel. Behind him, Tiger Stripe’s blaster gave off its high whine.
Emboldened by Eagle Eye’s stunt, the kids danced past the tar, shouting and laughing and making faces at the quivering black pool. Brendan shuffled with his back pressed against the debris opposite the tar, watching for signs of danger as he passed.
But the tar stayed put, and they made it through unscathed. Brendan allowed himself a sigh of relief.
This side of the tunnel provided no change in scenery. The shelves that remained standing had long since been picked clean. Dusty trash and unrecognizable detritus littered the floor.
As the teenage salvagers descended on the shelves, Brendan hung back, arms folded. He’d known better than to expect a steak dinner and a stocked gun safe. Still, he’d hoped a place like this—one he hadn’t explored since settling in Newhaven—would have had at least a few easy-to-find treasures, but even that had been too idealistic. He’d been a baby when the world fell to the tar. Of course someone had already been here.
Today’s wouldn’t be an easy salvage, but then Brendan couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an easy salvage.
Something cold and hard jabbed at Brendan’s back, a not-so-friendly reminder that Tiger Stripe remained behind him with a charged blaster.
“Since we’re all here together, why don’t you help out?” said Tiger Stripe’s voice in his ear. “Heck, we might even let you keep a few things.”
Brendan only nodded despite the low buzz of anger warming the base of his skull. Now was not the time to fight. Not with a blaster aimed at his spine. If he played his cards right, he could still manage a decent salvage with no struggle.
“There.” Tiger Stripe gave Brendan’s shoulder a shove toward a fallen shelf. “Think anything might be under there?”
Brendan looked at the shelf. It was long, metal, and covered in rust spots.
“Looks heavy,” he said.
“Nothing a mod can’t handle, right?” Tiger Stripe slapped Brendan’s metal arm.
Brendan sighed. Tiger Stripe was determined to get Brendan to work for him. Fair enough. He reached down with the old mod that had replaced his flesh arm years ago, and he gripped the shelf with creaking metal fingers.
He planted his feet and pulled. His mod wasn’t as fancy as the other salvagers’, but it worked fine. The shelf creaked in protest as it rose.
Brendan was right—it was heavy. His mod spasmed, and he made a mental note to visit Krystal. The bio-connection between his shoulder and the mod was wearing thin again. Nothing to worry about yet, but ignoring warning signs was a recipe for terribly timed malfunctions.
The shelf settled into an upright position with an echoing thud and shrieked once more when Brendan tossed it on its side.
As he looked where the shelf had been, a grin split his face from ear to ear. He couldn’t help it, even with Tiger Stripe breathing down his neck.
Just in front of his feet was a pile of cans—unopened cans, adorned with pictures of vegetables. That would fetch a high price at the dorm. Maybe Logan would let him keep an extra can with his dorm-provided meal—a little bonus commission.
“Well, wouldja look at that?”
Brendan glanced over his shoulder. Tiger Stripe stood nearby, blaster pointed at Brendan’s midsection.
“You did good,” Tiger Stripe said.
Brendan didn’t respond. He counted the salvagers again, making sure no one had circled behin
d him. He’d hoped Tiger Stripe’s attention would lapse—no such luck. Unless things changed, he wouldn’t be sneaking any salvage out unnoticed.
“Way I see it, you worked hard to find those.” Tiger Stripe took another step closer. “I’d say you’ve earned...” He paused, pretending to calculate. “... a twenty-five percent commission.”
Another glance confirmed all the salvagers were in front of Brendan, which meant the way behind him was clear. He nodded, keeping his eyes ahead, and scooped cans into his satchel without counting. It didn’t matter how many cans made twenty-five percent. Tiger Stripe would let him know when he’d taken too many.
And he did. As Brendan took a can of beans, Tiger Stripe cleared his throat and waggled his blaster.
That was Brendan’s cue.
He scrambled to his feet and ran, grabbing the satchel as he did.
Tiger Stripe barked something harsh and insistent, but Brendan barely heard it. He’d descended into a place ruled by impulse and instinct. Coldness enveloped him as his legs pumped, pulling the tunnel in the debris ever closer.
Tile exploded inches from Brendan’s feet, an errant shot from Tiger Stripe’s blaster. He did not fire again—a wise decision, considering Brendan was running toward the only way out of this part of the store. The last thing anyone needed was a collapsed tunnel.
Just as Brendan wondered if he would escape, a sound roared behind him, speeding closer at an alarming rate. The rapid whispering of metal joints pistoned over and over, faster than any human could move on his own.
Brendan glanced back. The kid with two mods in place of his legs was sprinting after him. The slender prosthetics looked more like they belonged on an insect than a human. As the thought crossed Brendan’s mind, a single word cut through the coldness that surrounded him. The salvagers were chanting.
Tar Page 1