After Earth (37 page)

A Ranger had died to save his life, and he owed a debt for her sacrifice and her memory.

Emergency shelters to protect people from sandstorms or lightning—and yes, Ursa attacks—dotted the city, marked with a glowing symbol that promised safety. Anderson windmilled his right arm while his prosthetic left arm directed citizens toward the nearest shelter. Marquez had jogged over to make certain it was open and powered. She then helped funnel the people through the dual doorways.

People continued to make noise, adding to the siren’s wail, and Kincaid wished for earplugs but gritted his teeth, ignored the discord, and kept directing them
toward a safe haven. The great mass continued to flow from the market toward the shelter.

A roar, the sound of which brought back waking nightmares, pierced the panicky noises. An Ursa was close, and he hoped the Rangers were on its heels. He glanced over his shoulder and saw people fleeing in all directions away from the covered open-air market. The creature had to be in there.

Kincaid rushed to the space between the twin doors and entered a code on the keypad. A panel smoothly slid open, and he withdrew three pulsers. Tucking one in his waist and tossing another to Marquez, he felt better about dealing with the imminent threat.

A Ranger emerged from behind the shelter, out of breath and covered in dust. “Have you seen it?”

“In the market, I think,” Kincaid replied.

“Keep the people moving in there; we’ve got this,” he ordered somewhat needlessly. The comment bothered Kincaid, who took it as an insinuation that he wouldn’t do his job unless a Ranger directed him to.

The Ranger sprinted toward the Ursa and, no doubt, his fellow Rangers. If Anderson recalled correctly, the rules stated that—when available—a minimum of eight Rangers were required to confront one of those beasts. People got out of the Ranger’s way and kept streaming toward the shelter. Marquez continued moving them through the doors while Kincaid surveyed the scene. They didn’t need to speak; each understood the other well enough by now that words were unnecessary.

Kincaid watched as the cutlass-wielding Ranger dashed into the market, where sounds of destruction were competing with the siren. He wished there were an off switch for the alarm; by now, everyone had gotten the message.

A body came flying through an opening in the market and crumpled to the ground. It appeared to be missing a leg, and blood pooled around the figure. Marquez gestured for him to keep his position.

“Don’t go, Andy!”

“There are civilians still inside.”

She crossed over to him, eyes flaring. “It’s suicide! This is what the Rangers exist for. And you are not a Ranger. Let it go.”

“But they’re not here and I am.”

“Okay, Andy, so you live and breathe being a Ranger even though you’re not in uniform. What does the manual say about fighting the Ursa?”

“Eight Rangers, no less.”

“You are an army of one. How do you reconcile that?”

He stared at her, speechless.

“I didn’t know you had a death wish.”

“How can I face you tomorrow if I don’t go do this? How could I live a life with you if I knowingly let that monster kill the innocents?”

“If there were an army of us, I’d have your back, but right now it’s just us. We can’t go in there and survive.”

“Gin, I have to. I have to try or I couldn’t live with myself.”

Kincaid ran toward the body, but as he drew closer, it was evident the person was dead. He focused his attention on the market itself, an ever-changing cluster of prefabricated stalls and stands where every food and drink imaginable could be found. As he neared, the corpsman could see the creature, which was huge and moved erratically. However the Skrel bioengineered those things, they were far from elegant creations designed for maximum carnage. The six limbs ended in razor-sharp talons, and the maw was stuffed with pointed teeth. He knew they were sightless, using their other senses, mainly that of smell, to locate and lock onto their prey. Right now it was rampaging and destroying in search of human life.

He knew Virginia would do her job, protecting the perimeter while he went after the beast, but he had no idea if she’d still be there when the mission ended. A part of him was planning a future that included her, but with every step forward he was trampling that dream, risking the first tangible happiness he’d had in years.

The deserted stalls appeared to frustrate it, and the
Ursa tore through thin metal and wood and Plasticine as if they were all cotton-weight fabric. Behind it, Kincaid could spot two more Rangers in addition to the one who had charged toward it. That one could not be seen, and he hoped the man was not dead.

He spied the Rangers deploying their cutlasses. Lightweight and versatile, cutlasses could quickly morph into a dozen or more shapes depending on need. Right now, all the Rangers’ weapons appeared to be in sickle formation, clearly intended to hobble as many of the creature’s legs as possible and bring it down. Of course, first they had to catch the thing.

Then Kincaid saw another Ranger spring from hiding, his cutlass shaped like a needle, and fly toward the beast, ready to pierce its tough hide. The Ursa, though, must have smelled the man and reared up on its hind legs, the forward limbs shredding him in the air. Organs and blood spilled to the ground moments before the dead body followed. The Ursa roared not so much in triumph but because it could.

Quickly, it turned around and charged toward the Rangers, who scattered out of its way. The creature chased the ones who ran to the left.

This was Anderson’s chance. He rushed forward and grasped the fallen Ranger’s cutlass. Now that he was wielding it, there was little to differentiate the corpsman from the Ranger, and Kincaid recognized he had a debt to repay, first to the woman who had saved his life and then to his family’s legacy.

He had to move carefully to avoid alerting the monster but also so that he wouldn’t slip on the messy pools of blood, viscera, and squashed fruit. The sickly-sweet smells made him want to gag, but he swallowed it down and kept approaching the beast as it continued its charge toward the Rangers. The other Rangers were out of sight; either they had run away or they were stealthily approaching it.

The siren finally cut off, and Kincaid whispered
thanks to the heavens, just as his mother had taught him.

He focused his hearing and heard the clatter of taloned paws moving the Ursa along, the cracking of worn wood, and the crackle of the cutlass in his hand.

Then he heard a different sound, a low, plaintive resonance. Not human and most certainly not Ursa. It then struck him that livestock was also on display at the market, mostly as a petting zoo for the kids while the parents shopped. Demonstrations were put on to teach the children how the animals contributed to society. These were not happy noises, and he heard shuffling about. The animals were spooked, and that could only mean the Ursa had decided it was lunchtime.

Kincaid crept closer, hands tightening and retightening their grip on the cutlass. He had never hefted one before and had no real clue how to make it alter its configuration. If the scythe shape was particularly sharp, that might be all he needed.

An animal cried out, with others repeating the sound at a lower volume, and he knew the Ursa had slaughtered one, maybe a horse. He hoped to catch the Ursa unaware, preoccupied as it was with eating whatever poor animal had lost its life before its time.

He worked close to the pens, and as he rounded one corner, he came upon the remains of more Rangers. One’s torso had been torn apart; another’s head was severed from the neck. The man’s head had rolled a few feet away, the look of shock on its face frozen in place, a sight Kincaid wanted to forget immediately. Instead, it seemed to find a place in his mind, right next to the image of the charging Ursa at the playground when he was a child.

The Ursa paused in its consumption, suddenly aware of Kincaid’s presence. Sightless, it turned toward him but held its ground. Dim light reflected off the smart metal protruding in a haphazard pattern around its body. No way could a single shot from that distance take out the beast. Heck, pulsers were useless at point-blank
range. Kincaid had to get closer but was having trouble making his feet move. Perhaps the Ursa would have to come his way; it was a terrifying thought.

He knew that if it imprinted on him and his fear, it would hunt him down until one or the other was dead. Kincaid had other plans for his death—first and foremost being that it would not be for a long time—and so he did the only thing he could: shuffled backward, away from the creature, hoping it would stay to finish its meal. There were still Rangers operating and no doubt more coming. The Rangers’ main mission was to protect the world; his primary job was to protect the citizens
here
, right now.

To his surprise, the beast took a bite of intestine and proceeded to ignore him. He couldn’t fathom it. The things were supposedly killing machines. The only thing he could surmise was that the Ursa considered him too puny or weak to charge right now. On the one hand, he was relieved. On the other, he felt vaguely insulted.

Making no sudden movements, Kincaid headed toward the periphery of the market. He heard human sounds and stopped to listen: They were coming from underneath a collapsed fabric stand. Judiciously stepping over debris, he approached the mound of colorful fabrics and sundries. Individually, each bolt of cloth was light enough, but one atop the other, they created a weight that clearly had someone pinned beneath.

He kicked over a few bolts and called out, “Who’s there?”

“Miranda,” a whimpering voice replied.

“Hi, Miranda. I’m Anderson, and I’m here to free you. Are you hurt?”

“My arm,” she said, and gasped.

He knew about arm injuries and quickly began shoving the fabric out of the way. As he dug through at least a yard’s worth of cotton, wool, linen, and other materials, he encountered wooden and metallic shelving that had gotten tangled up with the bolts and was
not loosening easily. He strained at a particularly stubborn bit of metal, and his right arm ached.

Kincaid rarely thought about what made his left arm unique, but he knew that it didn’t tire, didn’t ache, and was far more durable than his right arm. He tried never to rely on its superior strength—he insisted his doctors calibrate it to male norms—but he also knew it was never a precise process and the prosthetic arm remained somewhat stronger. Now he wanted super strength, the kind he remembered from stories he had heard as a child of strong men such as Samson and Superman. He now wanted to be as mighty as they were for real and save Miranda.

As he applied all the pressure he could muster, the metal began to crumple in his hand, which closed viselike. He gritted his teeth, feeling the muscles in his neck, chest, and legs begin to strain. Still, he didn’t let go, and bit by bit the metal began to give in to the pressure. With a popping sound, it twisted and finally came free, nearly pulling Kincaid off his feet. After regaining his footing, he reached within the opening he had created and continued to yank bits of metal and wood and cloth away. He managed to create an opening and paused to peer within.

Miranda had to be fifteen, if that, and was a redhead with long curls that flowed over her yellow dress, which was now bloody and torn. The arm she complained about was pinned beneath a sewing machine, and she was lying at an angle that prevented her from moving it herself.

“Hi,” he said to calm her.

She grunted and gave him a panicked look. “I can’t feel it,” she said.

That didn’t sound good at all. He renewed his efforts and managed to reach the machine from his side of the mess. Using the cutlass as a pry bar, he levered the machine high enough for her to move her entire body, taking the limp arm from underneath. She began moving toward the opening he’d created. He pulled her through
and then stood her up. He gingerly reached for her to examine the arm, but she threw herself at him and gave him a one-armed hug.

He called in his find and asked for help so that he could continue his search. Once he closed the signal, he said, “Get out of here. There’s an Ursa by the animals, and I don’t want it finding you.”

“What about you?”

“This is my job. You go get that arm examined,” he said.

She wiped away tears with her good hand, hugged him a second time, and turned to make her way outside.

Within the next fifteen minutes, he found more dead bodies, crushed from machinery that had toppled on them, and the corpse of another Ranger. His entire body had long bloody rows carved into it by the Ursa’s talons.

With every step, his mind remained fixed on the Ursa’s noisy position. He kept his radio on low so that he could hear reports from elsewhere around Nova Prime City. It sounded like many Ursa had come simultaneously and were wreaking havoc everywhere, which might mean Ranger reinforcements would be delayed, especially if they didn’t know the Rangers at the market were among the dead.

He turned his back to the Ursa’s position and called in to the corps what he had discovered, insisting the information be relayed to the Rangers. They had to know he and Marquez were the only trained form of defense in this crowded part of the city. Of course, it didn’t feel crowded now as people huddled in shelters or hid within their homes.

As he turned back toward the Ursa, he saw Miranda standing in place. She was clearly in shock and hadn’t gone far. This was a complication he did not need.

“Go!” he said, waving his arms in the direction of the entrance.

“I’m scared,” she said, holding her injured arm.

“All the more reason to get out of here,” he said.

She hesitated.

With a growl all his own, Anderson grabbed the girl, picked her up, and began moving her out of the Ursa’s way. He didn’t have time to play games with her and couldn’t turn his back on the beast for too long. Sure enough, it took being moved just a few feet to shock her back to reality. Her eyes went wide; she let out a gurgling yelp and began running.

The Ursa roared, and Kincaid heard a thick wet sound as something hit the ground. Feeding time was over, the hunt was on, and they were the targets.