Metal and Ash (Apex Trilogy) (23 page)

“One such as yourself shouldn’t be casting stones,” the Pope replied curtly.

“At least my children are made of metal,” the Great Maker said, puffing out his girded chest. “That will last forever.”

The Pope eyed the Great Maker’s leaking hydraulics. “Due tell.”

The two men of the wasteland looked each other over.

“But where are my manners?” the Pope said. “I am a man of God here to tend his flock. And although you may not be a Disciple, you are a part of Him. Please join us and rest your weary self. I am sure you have some tales to tell of your journey and how you came to be stranded here.”

***

“Thank you,” the Great Maker said as he was handed a canteen of slightly cool water. “And could I trouble-?”

He was also handed a small container of hydraulic fluid by a young Rancher Sister. She curtsied and then left quickly. The Great Maker watched her go, the look of hunger on his face.

“That should be enough, yes?” the Pope asked as he leaned back in his well worn chair. “Unless you require some other sustenance? Something a little warmer…and redder?”

“I have beaten those urges,” the Great Maker said. “Willpower is the only true power.”

“Is it?” the Pope mused. “I suppose so. You must be very powerful then.”

The Great Maker did not respond as he sipped his water.

The two of them sat in the Pope’s office and bed chambers. It was not ornately adorned as the Great Maker had expected. It was simple, with plain furnishings and a single bed. A rug had been thrown down on the packed earth floor and the interior of the room was lit by tallow candles, not halogens.

The Pope saw the Great Maker eying the candles.

“They are rendered fat,” the Pope acknowledged. “We waste nothing here. I assure you no lives were sacrificed for their making. We use only bodies that God takes of his own wish. It is a hard choice since the rendering process denies the individual of becoming a Disciple, but it is a sacrifice they decide before leaving. We all make our decisions well before the decisions are made for us. All must be prepared in the wasteland.”

“I whole heartedly agree,” the Great Maker replied after taking a few short sips of the water. “Clean.”

“You were expecting mud and sand?” the Pope asked as he swept his hand about. “Humble does not mean we live without basic standards.”

“My apologies,” the Great Maker nodded. He took a couple more sips then set about patching and refilling his knee hydraulics. “My condolences on the loss of the Archbishop. Both of them.”

“Yes, well the first one was a political nightmare,” the Pope said, rolling his eyes. “How that branch decided to elect a mere boy to Archbishop I cannot say. And Archbishop Wyble? His death was only a few days ago, but not quite soon enough for my taste.”

“Oh?” the Great Maker inquired.

“Like all powerful organizations we Ranchers had our divisions,” the Pope explained as he stood up and began to pace the room. “As I am sure you have heard.”

“Rumors even made it to my hermetic ears, yes.”

“Divisions are fine,” the Pope continued. “They are natural. Not all can agree at all times. But for the Archbishop to align with the UDC? Those sworn to wipe Disciples from the face of the wasteland? That was blasphemy.”

“And you couldn’t rein them in?” the Great Maker asked as he stretched his legs and tested the hydraulics. “You are the Pope.”

“A title, a name,” the Pope shrugged. “Who am I to force them to go against what they felt was right? We all have our own path. I had no interest fighting my Brothers and Sisters. And it seems I didn’t need to as they all came to the end God chose for them.”

“That they did,” the Great Maker agreed. “And what end do you think your God has planned for me?”

“My God?” the Pope asked. “He is all of ours’ God. And his will is a mystery even to me, his chosen voice upon this scorched earth.”

“Don’t exactly hold the power in an iron grip, do you?” the Great Maker laughed as he leaned back. “Maybe that is why the Archbishop aligned with the UDC.”

“I hold more power than any man in the wasteland,” the Pope replied, his eyes cold, dangerous. “Do not be fooled by my gentle nature.”

“Oh, I have not been,” the Great Maker said. “Not in the least.”

The Pope stood there and watched the Great Maker for a time. The cyborg let himself be studied and waited through the observation.

“Would you like to see them?” the Pope finally asked.

“See whom?”

“The Disciples,” the Pope grinned. “The true power of the wasteland.”

***

“Quite a sight,” the Great Maker said as he stood on the edge of the ridge overlooking the deep canyon below.

“A life’s work, Colonel,” the Pope said. He watched the creatures try to scramble about each other, but they were packed in so close most could barely turn around. “For those below are the hands of God. And the teeth. And the claws. And the Hunger.”

“And the Hunger,” all of the Brothers and Sisters repeated as they stood a respectful distance behind the Pope and the Great Maker.

“The Hunger?” the Great Maker asked. “I do not know this part of your canon.”

“It is not, as they say, main streamed,” the Pope said. “Another reason for the split amongst the Rancher fold. The Archbishop, and the ones before him, did not believe in the Hunger. They believed only in the True Disciple. That one day, one of the Disciples would unfetter themselves from their undead curse and become as one with humanity and deader.”

“The zombie messiah,” the Great Maker chuckled.

“Yes, the zombie messiah,” the Pope said, joining in the laughter. “Which is rubbish. Once a man or woman has Changed they are a Disciple and that is all. There is no True Disciple as the more aggressive branch of our faith would have liked to believe.”

“And with Archbishop Wyble’s death that branch does not exist anymore,” the Great Maker stated.

“Precisely,” the Pope said, turning from the writhing view below to take in the cyborg that was the Great Maker. “You have an innate grasp of this, Colonel. Are you sure your spirit lies with the machines?” The Pope waved his hand towards the creatures in the canyons. “And not with the Changed Flesh?”

The Great Maker just smiled. “You still haven’t told me what the Hunger is.”

“That is the Hunger!” the Pope cried, his finger pointing at the mass of deaders. “That is the power of the wasteland! That is the true reason that God created the wasteland! Look upon them! See what they are!”

“You are telling me that you consider the undead to be God’s ultimate plan?”

“I am telling you, Colonel,” the Pope replied. “That everything is God’s ultimate plan. And the Hunger is fuel, the fire, the spirit of his plan. Think about it, Colonel. Would we be who we are, would the world be what it is, without the Disciples? No. And would the Disciples be what they are without the Hunger? Again, no.”

The Great Maker thought about the Pope’s words as he surveyed what was below him. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of deaders, all packed tight into a massive canyon that was easily half a mile across and three miles long. The undead stretched as far as the Great Maker could see.

“How many exactly?” the Great Maker asked as his red eyes scanned the numbers, trying to calculate on his own.

“Brother Reynaldo?” the Pope asked.

The man stepped forward from the group behind the two men.

“At last count, JP, there are exactly 680,753 Disciples in the canyon,” Brother Reynaldo replied.

“680,000?” Colonel Maker exclaimed. “And you aren’t worried about them escaping? That amount could wipe out nearly any settlement in the wasteland. It could even take on the Stronghold.”

“Yes,” the Pope beamed. “It could take on the Stronghold.”

“But there would be no way to control those numbers,” the Great Maker said. “Even with your skills as Ranchers, even you could not keep them all wrangled.”

“Brother Reynaldo?” the Pope asked again. “If you please.”

The man walked to the edge of the canyon and placed a thin tube to his mouth. He blew hard and the Great Maker cringed, his ears shrieking in pain at the high-pitched whistle.

“Stop!” the Great Maker cried. “I beg of you!”

Brother Reynaldo did and looked back at the Great Maker, joining the Pope’s puzzled look.

“Interesting,” the Pope said. “I did not know you would be so sensitive. My apologies.”

The Great Maker rubbed at his ears and shook his head. “No apology needed. I have specialized senses. But I fail to see what that accomplished.”

“Then you fail to see,” the Pope said as he pointed down into the canyon.

Every deader, every single putrid, decayed, undead body, stood at attention, their faces pointed up at the Pope that stood hundreds of feet above them. The Pope raised his arms to the heavens.

And so did the deaders.

Twenty-Eight

The grav-sled thumped and bounced off the uneven ground of the wasteland, the dogs pulling as hard and fast as they could. Campbell leaned her body over the sled, trying to make the vehicle as wind resistant as possible. LaFrance, strapped to the bed of the sled, winced with every jolt.

“How far back are they?” LaFrance shouted at Shiner who was keeping pace with them easily as he ran along side the sled.

“Fifteen clicks,” Shiner stated. “They are not aware of us yet. Their pace is not increasing or decreasing.”

“But will they catch up?” Campbell asked. “The dogs don’t have endless energy like you.”

“When they expire I will take the sled on myself,” Shiner stated.

“What?!” Campbell screamed. “I am not letting my dogs die!”

“That was a joke,” Shiner said. “A bad attempt at humor to do what you humans call ‘lighten the mood’.”

“You need to work on your timing!” Campbell yelled.

“Or just not joke,” LaFrance suggested.

“Understood,” Shiner replied.

He pushed his scans as far out as possible, searching the wasteland for a place they could hide. He knew he could find somewhere that Campbell, LaFrance and the dogs could hole up in, but as for himself, that was another issue. The Canadian mechs that had come through the tunnel and into the wasteland would pick up his tech easily with their scanners. Even if he tried to shield his signal he couldn’t guarantee that an aware mech pilot wouldn’t notice the dead spot in his scans.

He made a choice that he didn’t like, but was the only one he could come up with.

“A mile ahead,” Shiner said. “There is a bluff. I am reading that a small creek runs below it, starting from the top and then winding down into the base. There should be a cave you can hide in there.”

“Wait, you aren’t hiding with us?” LaFrance asked, not missing the implication of the wording. “What the hell are you thinking of doing, Shiner?”

“I will be the distraction,” Shiner said. “It will give you cover as they pass so you are not discovered. Once the mechs are out of range you will need to head southeast. You will find refuge there.”

Shiner reached out and touched the grav-sled, instantly relaying the Stronghold’s coordinates.

“They’ll rip you apart,” Campbell said. “You are one talented hunk of BC, but not against that many machines.”

“I will only engage for as long as needed,” Shiner said. “Then I will follow.”

“What if they are headed for the Stronghold too?” LaFrance asked. “What do we do then?”

Shiner processed for a minute, but couldn’t come up with an answer. “If they turn to go that way then stay where you are. I will send help.”

“Not if you’re destroyed!” Campbell yelled. “Jesus Christ, Shiner! This is one fucked up plan!”

“It is a plan nonetheless,” Shiner said as he pointed towards the bluff that was quickly approaching. “Hide there. You will know by nightfall what your plan of action is.”

“And if you do survive you’ll meet back up with us, yes?” LaFrance asked.

“I cannot say,” Shiner answered, his thoughts on another part of the wasteland. “I may be needed elsewhere.”

“Fucking hell,” Campbell swore. “This place really does suck shit. All the stories are true. The wasteland blows.”

***

“You still have them?” Norton asked over the com. “That fucking thinking BC pile of shit hasn’t figured out how to dodge the sensors, has it?”

“No, sir,” Canadian Mech Pilot Gail Esther responded. “I still have him dead on.”

“Good,” Norton said. “As long as he is still on your path then feel free to engage at anytime.”

“Sir?” CMP Esther asked. “May I ask a question?”

“What, CMP?” Norton snapped.

“Our mechs, they’re BC,” CMP Esther started.

“That’s a statement, not a question,” Norton growled. “You’re wasting my time.”

“My question, sir, is whether the Shiner machine will be able to morph our BC if he comes in contact with it, sir,” CMP Esther finished.

Norton didn’t respond.

***

“FUCK!” Norton shouted as he muted his com. “Son of a fucking bitch!”

Those with him in the command center tried to keep their attention focused on their work and away from their commander.

“Fucking BC!” Norton screamed. “Had to fucking be malleable, huh? Had to be organic? Fucking BC!”

“Sir, we have-,” a tech started bravely.

“Shut the fuck up!” Norton roared. “We have a serious fucking problem and I need some serious fucking answers! Everyone that is not essential to mech operations at this moment needs to come up with a way to block Shiner from controlling BC! NOW!”

The command center personnel scrambled.

***

He knew that he would still be visible on scanners, but he changed the color of his skin to match the drab tans and browns of the wasteland anyway. For those relying on their eyes, they’d see nothing but a small cloud of dust making its way across the landscape.

But in that cloud of dust was a BC machine ready to die. Shiner knew that Campbell and LaFrance had a slim chance of survival, but he would do everything he could to widen that chance. Even with the assertion that he could not “feel” he knew what was inside him. He wouldn’t let the humans die without a fight.