Escape Velocity: The Anthology (47 page)

       “
GOOD IDEA,” flashed the screen. “Give me a few more minutes.”

       “
For what?”

       “
To finish my adjustments. These modifications should enable us to sustain a speed of three-hundred miles per hour without compromising integrity.”

       “
Three hundred miles per hour! The highway patrol will be after us.”

       “
They’ll soon lose sight of our position.”

       “
I’ve never driven that fast. We could wreck.”

       “
Give me the coordinates.”

       “
What?”

       “
Your friend’s address.”

       “
Why?”

       “
The coordinates, please.” Tomma supplied him with the address to Al’s home. “Had I known of our destination, I would’ve simply brought you to me.”

       “
Huh?”

       “
The facility where I lived is less than three miles from your friend’s home.”

       “
Baffin Labs?”

       “
The same.”

      
Tomma continued, “Do you think our friends back there will figure out where we’re headed?”

       “
Not unless humans have uncovered their own telepathic abilities.” Tomma chuckled.

       “
As for Nemonites,” Marco continued, “they aren’t capable of deciphering electrical impulses emitted by brainwaves. Such transmissions still require intermediary processes to retrieve and analyze data. They can’t read minds.”

       “
That’s at least hopeful.”

       “
For the moment,” Marco agreed. “That doesn’t preclude their ability for overcoming such obstacles. They’re adept at ruling-out what’s known from what isn’t. One alternative is to pinpoint our location by honing in on vehicular emission.”

       “
Nemonites?”

       “
Baffin’s superhuman beings.” Marco gave Tomma time to absorb this pronouncement. “You should now accelerate if we intend to outrun them.”   

       “
They’re less than twenty car lengths behind.”

      
When Tomma stepped on the accelerator, the Crossfire lurched and seemed about to stall, when all at once the engine revved. Marco nodded. The engine control module recognized his alterations. Communication had been established between the digital computer and circuitry with sensors and control outputs. One more second should do it. Before Tomma could prepare, the car shot forward like an Mk-13 from a missile launcher. The headlights in the rearview mirror grew distant.

       “
This is great,” Tomma laughed, smoothly clearing the rear of a flatbed truck. Traffic had thinned, opening up long stretches of uninterrupted road. “You’re amazing.” Tomma accelerated to two hundred fifty miles per hour. “We should arrive at Al’s home in a fraction of the time.”

      
Marco, however, worried over the message he’d sent while underneath the dashboard, hoping his encryptions avoided detection.

      
A blinding veil of snow converged with the headlights, causing the road’s disappearance. Just when Tomma decided to decelerate, the car went around a bend and lost traction. Overcompensating by jerking the steering wheel, Tomma sent them rocketing off the road toward the woods. He watched Marco dive to the floor seconds before the airbag struck him.

      
The dense underbrush slowed the car’s momentum, until it crashed into the boughs of an immense pine. Heavy, white powder instantly began erasing evidence of their departure from the road.

      
Marco lay on the floorboard, pinned beneath the laptop. After struggling free he tore into the airbag, causing its deflation. Thankfully, the car had landed upright. He likewise deflated the driver’s side airbag and scrambled onto Tomma’s chest. Despite having made good time, their pursuers would be less than thirty minutes behind. Marco hoped the blizzard hid their presence in the woods.   He crawled to Tomma’s mouth where shallow breaths puffed into his face. Pressing his nose to Tomma’s carotid he found a strong, erratic pulse. A small gash above Tomma’s left eye bled slightly. He pinched Tomma’s right hand, eliciting a groan. He did the same for the left. Traveling the length of Tomma’s body he tested for sensation. He found a possible break in Tomma’s right ankle. Returning to Tomma’s face, he slapped the icy flesh whereupon Tomma grunted. Marco desperately pulled on Tomma’s ears in an effort to hurry consciousness.  

       “
Wha the fuh...”

      
Possible concussion. He turned his attention to the laptop. Further headway rested with his ability to summon help. They weren’t going anywhere on their own.

      
Upon opening the laptop he detected what would’ve been indiscernible to human ears. His pinnae rotated like mini satellite dishes, listening for signs of intent.

      
Stealth.

      
Something was scouring the woods.

      
Categorizing the impressions on the snow revealed some were large and heavy − others small and light. Pheromones processed by his brain were presently benign, but relative to the animal kingdom, readings of that nature could change without warning. Helpless to defend Tomma, he opted to save himself. The success of the mission rested with him.

      
He squeezed through the jagged windshield and jumped from the hood. No use covering his tracks. These creatures tracked by extraordinary methods. He hid behind a cluster of branches.

      
A dozen small forms emerged in the clearing where they hesitated, most likely classifying the odors emanating from the wreck. Despite the minimization of his visual capabilities, he determined their species.

      
Rats.

      
What he couldn’t ascertain were their affiliations.

      
His answer came when Lancelot spotted the car and sped in that direction. Marco tore out of the brush and raced to intercept him. Others soon joined them.

       “
We received your message and set out immediately,” Lancelot told him. “We came across some deer who told us of an accident. We decided to check it out.”

       “
Tomma’s hurt and can’t move on his own,” Marco informed him. “Do you know our exact location?”

       “
His friend’s home is less than two miles.”

       “
How do we move him?”

      
Lancelot signaled several rats. They took off into the woods and soon returned leading a pair of mountain lions. Engaged with their arrival, Marco was caught off guard by the shimmering, pink light from behind. Transfixed by its luminosity, for a long moment he stood mesmerized.

      
Nemonites!

      
An intense fear dropped him in the snow where all four legs resembled tiny twigs. Lancelot, who understood the ramifications to Marco’s predicament, rushed to his side. “This is Cryallis. She’s an ally. Marco, she’s our friend!” 

      
Marco never heard. His brain busily activated the defense mechanism contained in a modular component of his implant. A database prepared to download the host locations to innumerable living and non-living viruses. Once complete, execution for the worldwide release of these invaders would commence with the speed of light.

One Long Holiday

Ben Cheetham

It had been a calm evening, but around midnight a storm rose suddenly out of the south. Connor stood at the bedroom window, listening to waves pounding against the long neglected sea-wall. The storm grew in intensity and hailstones the size of eggs clattered off the roof.

       “
Come to bed,” Scarlett said.

      
Connor climbed in beside her and slid his arm under her neck. “There’ll be a lot of bodies out there tomorrow.”

      
Scarlett shushed him. “Go to sleep.”

      
He closed his eyes and shuddered. “I can hear screaming.”

       “
It’s just the wind.”

      
The noise continued relentlessly. Connor plugged his ears with his fingers, but nothing could block it out. It resonated along his bones and vibrated in his temples, edging him towards hysteria. Finally, he gave up on sleep, went downstairs, and tried the radio. The news that crackled out of it was depressingly familiar. Storms devastating cities on the Atlantic and Pacific seaboards. Water wars raging across Southern Europe. Floods, famines, uncontrollable wildfires, a hundred dead here, a hundred thousand dead there. Numberless refugees fleeing north. And the heat, the relentless heat of a planet that had been converted into a Dutch oven from hell. Connor concentrated on the flat, precise tone of the announcer’s voice and felt himself slowly lulled to sleep.   

      
In the morning, after breakfast, Connor walked around the outside of the house, checking that none of the boards he’d nailed over the downstairs windows had been torn loose.

       “
We need to go to the well,” said Scarlett. “Our water’s running low.”

       “
Later. I’m going down to the beach.”

      
Scarlett grimaced. “Must you?”

      
Connor nodded. “I’ll take my rod and see if I can catch a trout for dinner from the river.”

      
He crossed a field, stirring up puffs of faintly acrid smelling dust with each footstep. The dust clung to his throat like mucus, making breathing uncomfortable. The river was little more than a muddy stream. He took out his knife, carefully sliced a little skin off the heel of his hand, baited a hook with it, and cast off. He got a bite almost instantly and reeled in a large brown trout. He beat it against a rock until it stopped flapping.

      
He made his way along the riverbank, through a deserted village, to the beach. He expected to find nine or ten bodies, but there were dozens strewn across the sand amidst the wreckage of the crude rafts they’d crossed the Channel on. Hundreds of carrion birds, rats, foxes, cats and dogs scavenged their flesh. As he moved amongst the bodies, he saw faces of every shape and size, every age and color, all frozen into the same expression of fear and desperation.

      
The sun was fast burning off the pale mist that hung over the beach. Soon, Connor knew, the corpses would blow up like obscene balloons and the air would fill with the scent of roasting flesh. He worked quickly, rifling through pockets and bags. One bag contained a couple of unlabeled tins and a roll of banknotes wrapped in plastic. He put the tins in his rucksack and flung the money away.

      
A sound caught his attention. Glancing around, he saw a little girl, about six years old and vaguely Arabic. She sat hunched over, eyes closed, crying. One side of her face was crusted with sand and blood. Conner stared undecidedly at her a moment. Then, with a heavy breath, he lifted her in his arms. She didn’t struggle or even open her eyes as he carried her back to the house.

      
A look of horror came over Scarlett’s face. “What’re we supposed to do with her?”

       “
I don’t know.”

      
Connor dampened a cloth and cleaned the girl’s face, exposing a cut on her forehead that had already scabbed over. There were no other visible injuries. He laid her down on the sofa and covered her with a blanket.

       “
She can’t stay here,” said Scarlett. “We’ve barely enough food to feed ourselves. You’ll have to take her to one of the camps.”

      
Connor made no reply. He fetched a couple of large, empty plastic water bladders and handed one to Scarlett. “We’d better get going.”

       “
Alright, but we are going to talk about this later.”

      
They followed the river inland, holding umbrellas to protect themselves from the sun. The air was hazy with dust whipped up from the surrounding fields by gusts of hot wind. After a couple of miles, they came to a wide, empty road, its surface cracked and potholed. They passed a gaunt man sat at the roadside, head in hands.

      
A banged-up old truck appeared on the road ahead. It pulled up beside them and four masked figures carrying pistols and automatic weapons got out. “Are you British?” said one of them.

       “
Yes,” said Connor, avoiding eye contact.

       “
Seen anyone else around here?”

      
Before Connor could reply, the gaunt man staggered into view. Eyes popping, he raised his hands and began gabbling in a language that might’ve been Italian. The crack of a gunshot rang out and he fell over. Two of the figures picked him up and heaved him into the river. As he sank from sight, a cluster of shadowy brown streaks converged on him.

      
The figures returned to the truck and drove off. “They call themselves militia?” Connor spat in disgust. “They’re nothing but goddamn murderers.” He pulled Scarlett close and held her until she stopped shaking. Then they continued walking, looking over their shoulders every few paces.

      
They began passing groups of people lugging water in every type of container imaginable. The people eyed them warily. Many carried knives, axes, metal bars and other crude weapons. They joined the back of a queue so long they couldn’t see its end. Soldiers in shabby uniforms patrolled the ragged line, struggling to keep its weary, bickering occupants in order. One approached them and asked to see their identification papers.

       “
How many people are in front of us?” asked Connor.