The Complete Colony Saga [Books 1-7]

by Collings, Michaelbrent

And if there were feelings like that, if he could still find interest – even in a tough-talking woman dressed in body armor and with a cruel scar wrapped around her neck – couldn't the world be saved? At least a tiny corner of it?

  Aaron nodded. "Alive. Ken gave her a good thrashing, though. She's holed up right now. On some antibiotics." He grimaced. "I do think it a bit odd, truth be told. Something infecting everyone's mind, and we keep worrying about gangrene or blood poisoning or whatnot." A bigger grimace. "Hell, doesn't seem like losing a limb makes much difference these days."

  Amulek shifted beside Christopher. Get on with it.

  "What do you want to talk about, Aaron?"

  Aaron pulled a hand over his forehead. Wiped away sweat. It was dark out. The middle of a farm next to a canal that whispered in the black. Shhhh, shhhh, shhhh. Christopher could barely make out the movement, the stars the only light available. But he saw the motion, saw his friend's shoulders sag.

  "I want this over, son."

  "Yeah." Christopher had to struggle not to let his shoulders drop, too. "Yeah."

  Aaron took a step toward him. Christopher heard the creak of Amulek's bowstring tightening. He held out a calming hand.

  "No one's going to make a move, Amulek."

  Aaron stopped and looked at the teen. "Amulek, huh?" he said, as if that meant something particular to him. A nod. "You can calm your hands, son," he said. He gestured to the slightly darker patch of dark ground that marked their friend's grave. "There'll be no fighting from me. Not here."

  The string creaked again. Lessening tension.

  Aaron looked back at Christopher. Starlight glimmered, and for a moment his face was clearly visible. "But wherever you are, there's going to be action. I think I'm going to have to kill those little girls. And if you get in my way I think I'll have to kill you, too."

  39

  CHRISTOPHER TURNED to sarcasm like a friend, something to enjoy good times with, something to hide behind when bad times loomed. It had been that way before the Change, it was that way now. He had one friend in a new grave, but his insulating sarcasm still remained, no matter what. "We locked in on the child-murder option, or is this something you're still spitballing around?"

  Aaron didn't laugh. Didn't smile. He stared, and the stare killed the laugh on Christopher's lips. It fell away stillborn. The night swallowed it.

  "I'm pretty locked in." Aaron passed his hand over his forehead again, and now Christopher realized it was the bad one. He had seen this before; wondered if Aaron was keeping himself awake through pain, or maybe just using the pain to remind himself that he was alive.

  One of the primary conditions of humanity is pain. Our pleasure bordered by darkness, our good defined by the ills around it.

  (birth by death, a tiny hand holding mine and a head split in two by an axe)

  "I don't want to do this, Christopher," said Aaron. "I don't want any of it. But the world's changed. And the only thing that stands out are the way the zombies act when the girls are around, or when their brother is."

  "Maybe it's just him, then," said Christopher.

  "You know it ain't. Not just him, anyway. They're all a part of it. You know it, you feel it." Aaron leaned in close. And Christopher knew he was right.

  The girls were part of what was happening. Not just the way all the zombies were. They were something special. They were changing in different ways. Buck had been attracted to Hope early, like a best friend become protective uncle. And now that Christopher thought back, the same had happened with Sally and Lizzy. He remembered the toddler asleep on the big cat, curled up on the furry belly of a predator that should have eaten her alive.

  And now it was more. The big man and the big cat were... what? Not mere protectors.

  Guardians.

  Of what?

  Royalty.

  The thing that had swung up and down a spine, in and out of this reality, pushed its way into its mind.

  "DIE AND BE REBORN AND LIVE FOREVER IN ME." That voice didn't belong to the spine-crawler. To the thing.

  Then what? What did it belong to? And what did it have to do with the thing that crawled up and down a too-small spinal column?

  They went together. Dream, nightmare, reality. It was all coming together. Converging to a point that would not merely change, but completely and finally convert the world to something horrible and alien... something anathema to all things that made this place home.

  "What would you want me to do?" said Christopher. He couldn't believe he was asking. Couldn't believe, but also saw no other choice. He didn't know if he would do what Aaron asked, but he had to know.

  Aaron opened his mouth to speak. Hesitated. Shook his head. His eyes glimmered like two more stars, fallen to earth from the heaven but still somehow bright and hallowed.

  He inhaled.

  Then flung himself backward.

  Whatever he had been about to say disappeared. Swallowed in the scream that came out instead, by the ground that hitched under his feet.

  By the thing.

  40

  THE ZOMBIES WEREN'T static. They had changed, and continued changing. Fast but stupid at first, then slowly growing even faster, and much smarter. Teeth and hands and feet were their weapons in the beginning, but soon they could puke acid. An acid that – near as Christopher could tell – ate through anything and everything. Indeed, it was such a strong solvent that every zombie he had seen vomit up the stuff had practically dissolved under the power of the black liquid.

  Then they added another liquid to their arsenal. Bilious, nasty goo. Not used to destroy, but to build and heal. They secreted yellow pus that could harden into mortar that they built into walls – using human body parts as the bricks – or to heal impossible wounds.

  And they got still smarter.

  They stuck to slick vertical surfaces with some kind of suction that Christopher couldn't pretend to understand.

  Then their bones and skin shifted. Some of the monsters –

  (my baby)

  – had developed jaws that split into three or four segments, then vibrated so rapidly they could chew through steel.

  Still, one of the things that Christopher found strangest and most disconcerting was the plate-like growths that had begun enveloping the heads and bodies of some of the creatures. Thick and tough-looking, the black growths sprung out of their skin at random. Some of the beasts' eyes had been completely covered – which hadn't affected their ability to hunt; they had just used some kind of sonar to find prey. Other zombies' ears were obscured, and a few had their heads utterly enclosed in a cocoon of thick black armor.

  Now Christopher wondered if he was finally seeing a reason for the change as the ground where Aaron had been standing broke open. The mottled, misshapen head of a zombie pushed out of the ground. Straight out of Night of the Living Dead or any of a thousand other zombie flicks, only this was real. Terrifying, awesome, real.

  The zombie that pushed out of the ground wasn't the simple, rotted creature of a Romero flick. Those disgusting armor plates covered most of its head, and even in the darkness Christopher could see they were moving. Spinning like they were set into tracks, some kind of organic ball bearing mechanisms. The dark crags of the growths rained dirt as the thing pushed through the surface. A moment later it had its hands – also covered with the strange, spinning growths – on the ground and was pulling itself out of its burrow.

  It was digging. Built to dig. Every single cheesy zombie movie Christopher had ever seen flashed past the front of his mind in an instant: a thousand hands pushing through fresh grave-earth, a thousand bodies pulling forth from wet mud like maggots spawned in the soil.

  Aaron had talked to him on the train. Had told him that the stories they told of zombies were evidence of times the things had tried to come before. That the stories – the dead rising up, the deadly bites, the fast zombies and the slow – they were all evidence of previous invasions. Mental intrusions either aborted or repelled by some unknown mecha
nism.

  What? How did we win then? How can we win now?

  And seeing this, the creature with whirring, spinning blades all over its body, a tunneling creature that now yanked itself free from beneath their feet, Christopher believed. Aaron had been right.

  How can we win? How can we win against this?

  He backpedaled. The thing shot through the earth, moved so fast it was more swimming than digging. Just doing the strangest breaststroke ever through a dirty lake that Christopher, Aaron, and Amulek were holy enough to walk upon.

  The thing rose up, half of its form free, then three-quarters. Then it toppled, writhing like a worm. Its arms were partially fused with its trunk, its legs were joined by that yellow muck from hips to knees. It wasn't a thing meant for speed on land, only speed through it.

  Thank God.

  Christopher didn't feel relieved, though. He felt sick. More so when he realized that the thing hadn't pulled free from some shallow grave. The hole it had pulled itself out of wasn't a single body's length in depth or width. Instead, it fell away to nothing, an oubliette that dropped directly to the earth's core.

  Or, worse, a tunnel.

  For what? What else is in there?

  As if he didn't know. And when he threw away the lie, the foolish hope that there was no tunnel, that these things hadn't found him again, that was when he heard it. Another thing heard with mind rather than with ears. No sound, just feeling. No thought, just despair.

  (give up

  give in)

  The feeling was low, but present. Real.

  "Coming," said Aaron. The cowboy's voice was low, and it almost sounded like he was promising to do something. Like he wasn't saying "They're coming," but "I'm coming." Promising to do what they said. To give up, give in.

  To join them.

  Christopher realized he had stepped toward the digger zombie. That he was nearly within reach of its stunted hands. What would they do if they caught him? What would hands that could crush rock do to flesh?

  Give up....

  Give in....

  He stepped forward again.

  The digger flopped around, looking like a three-way cross between a dying trout, the world's biggest turd, and a garbage disposal that had exploded. It would have been funny if it weren't for the fact that Christopher was about to be in range of its grasp.

  And he suddenly didn't care.

  Give up....

  GIVE IN....

  Another step. The armored hands moved toward him as he moved toward them.

  40

  THE THING IN FRONT of Christopher moved slowly on land.

  The thing behind him moved fast. So fast.

  A hand clamped around his neck. Yanked him off-balance. Another hand flew at his face. Christopher tried to twist away, but he was powerless against the assault. Spun like a baby in the hands of a giant. A huge hand swinging toward him...

  ... and pinching his thrice-broken nose.

  He screamed and punched his attacker. Amulek danced out of range, moving with that same effortless grace that characterized Aaron's motions, Sally's motions. The kid was another predator. Someone not to be trifled with.

  And he had just saved Christopher's life.

  The call of the zombies receded behind a white curtain of pain, a veil of tears that freely overran Christopher's cheeks. He couldn't stop crying, no matter how much he blinked or how many times he ran his filthy sleeve over his face.

  The pain throbbed, and with each throb it seemed to amplify, to magnify. It utterly enveloped him.

  And damn, it was sweet.

  "Thank you," gasped Christopher. He could barely speak, and that was ecstasy, too. Because he could speak, if only a little. Still struggling, which meant he was still alive. "Thank you." Another flurry of blinks. "Let's get a new way of saying 'look out,' okay?"

  Still struggling, still speaking, still making jokes.

  Hell, yes. Still alive.

  The thing on the ground twisted toward him. Found Christopher out of reach, so it dipped its head down and in moments was half-buried again. Moving away this time.

  Where? Why?

  No answers.

  "We might want to get going," said Aaron.

  That was a sensible suggestion, but Christopher was at a loss. Trying to ignore the ever-closer feel –

  (Give up... GIVE IN....)

  – of the zombies was almost the limit of what he could attend to. How could he try to keep Aaron from following him back to the shelter?

  And should he even try?

  (Give up... GIVE IN....)

  They were coming.

  No. Not coming. They're not coming at all.

  Low whines erupted all around.

  The ground near Christopher's feet humped up, broke.

  Another one of the zombies.

  Another.

  Still more.

  Not coming. Not coming at all.

  They're already here.

  And they were everywhere.

  41

  THE GROUND BENEATH his feet surged wildly. He was riding a wave. His mind fell back to Manhattan Beach. Four months in his teens when he had stayed at a very exclusive boarding school.

  The first month had been a stunningly uninteresting one. Classes full of uniformed boys all interested in nothing but money – theirs, their parents', the net worth of the boy sitting next to them – and teachers interested less in coursework than in coaxing future favors out of their students.

  The second month got exciting. But excitement comes in many shapes, many flavors, many pleasures... and so many pains.

  The second month was when Headmaster Albert "Grody" Grossman called him into his office. An imagined slight against one of the boys. Christopher didn't even remember doing it, and soon found out it didn't matter what the slight had been, or whether he had done it or not. It was just an excuse for the headmaster to closet him in the small office.

  The secretary was sent to look for Christopher's files. Not just the ones on the computer, but hard copies held in another building, another part of the campus.

  He was alone with Headmaster Grossman. Alone, and soon facedown, screaming, crying.

  The third month he discovered surfing. The assaults happened regularly, and he already knew that telling his parents would be a waste of time. Mother and Father were busy. Too busy to listen, and much too busy to care.

  He went out on the waves. The water felt good on his scratches, his tears. He wept and the sea swallowed him, made him small, too small to catch, too small to touch. Safe in the sea. Safe when he rode the waves.

  And now he rode the waves again. Not water but earth, giant mounds hunching up beneath him as minute earthquakes ran up and down the bank of the canal.

  His brain found a spare instant to note the one place the earth stood unmarred: the newly turned dirt that marked Ken's grave.

  He spun, twisted. Wherever he put his foot down, something was moving. Something chewed up the dirt under his right foot. Something reached out. He whirled back. Fell onto another pile of moving soil.

  He surfed. Tried to be small. Tried to be safe.

  The fourth month in school he had also surfed. Right up until the last day of spring, the beginning of summer. He left the school early – all the students did. Someone started a fire that ate through most of the campus buildings, including the headmaster's home. Grossman was killed in the flames.

  No one ever discovered who did it. Christopher had been sure they would figure out it was him, but police discovered a cache of child pornography in what was left of the headmaster's basement. Pictures that included not only random innocents culled from dark crevices of the 'net, but some who were recognizable as past students.

  No one looked too deeply into the "accident" after that.

  Sometimes justice could simply be accepted.

  Christopher was sent to another school. No more beatings, no more of the far worse things that followed the rulers and canes.

  Still no Mo
ther, no Father. Just him.

  He burned that school down, too. Almost got caught. Dancing on the edge of flame.

  Like now, dancing on the edge of earth, the edge of life.

  His right foot came down on a shifting mass. Something bit into his shoe. There was a sound of shearing leather. His foot jerked.

  He fell.

  One of the things lay in his path. It couldn't reach for him. Couldn't reach with arms pinned to its sides by that mortar-muck the things puked up. But it didn't have to. What need was there of grabbing prey when the merest touch would grind that prey to pieces?

  Christopher tried to get his feet under him. Tried to balance. Tried to surf to safety.

  Failed.

  And no fire to save him this time. Just falling. Falling.

  He looked around, hands waving at nothing as he fell from the wave. Fell crashing to doom.

  Aaron: twisting away, efficient two-steps and jigs that danced him off mound after mound.

  Christopher: Falling.

  Falling.

  Amulek: the boy silently sliding between the mounds, moving as though he knew where they would appear before they did.

  Amulek and Aaron were both were too far to help. Moving away.

  The wave was going to kill Christopher. No salvation, only death.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  Fallen.

  42

  THE THING BELOW WAS all spinning masses of armored flesh, plates of some awful material.

  Then the spinning plates split. Something dark in the darkness, blacker than the night.

  GIVE UP.

  It was a mouth.

  Christopher reached out. Trying to stop his fall, to reach for something, anything. To halt a descent into that gaping maw.

  GIVE IN.

  There was nothing to hold. Just air, and it held him not at all as he clawed his way through it.

  His fingers stretched, and suddenly they were inside the thing's mouth. No idea how they got there.

  The thing bit down.