Metal and Ash (Apex Trilogy) (63 page)

Today my brother and I turn seventeen and Mom baked us a cake. Well, she baked me a cake. Garth is dead, so he doesn’t eat real food.

I should probably explain better. Mom actuallyburned us a cake. It was a small fire and I put it out quickly, so no real harm done. It’s okay since Mom’s not the greatest cook and I would have had to choke down a few polite bites anyway. It’s the thought that counts, right?

“Sorry, sweetheart,” she says as I open the doors and windows to air out the RV.

“No worries, Mom,” I smile. “It’ll clear out soon.”

“Don’t tell your Father, okay?” she pleads, knowing it will upset him and he’ll start in on the psych questions. That usually ends in tears. Hers and his. Of course, Dad has been out on his studies since before we woke up, so he won’t have a clue anything happened.

Dad’s always said Mom used to be an amazing cook before the world died and before Garth and I were born, but she hasn’t been the same since. At least that’s what Dadsays and, well, he isn’t always paying attention, so I take it with a grain of salt.

“I know it’s your birthday and all, but can you go pick the rest of the blackberries?” Mom asks me. “They’re gonna dry on the vine in this heat and I’d hate for them to go to waste.”

I give her an awkward hug (I’m seventeen now, after all) and set off to get prepped before leaving camp. Small compound really. We have a converted RV that has been backed into a rock outcropping that juts from the ground, which serves as our storage area and safe zone if any necs come wandering by. Usually they don’t make it up here, but lately we’ve seen more than our share and Dad puts them down right away (“Headshot, son. Headshot”) even though he says killing anything is a crime these days and should only be done as a last resort or for survival.

The total compound is about an acre surrounded by a ten foot chain link fence with razor wire on top and strung through out. There is a second row of chain link and razor wire spaced two feet out from that then an eight foot deep by six foot wide trench. Mom and Dad were prepared when the world ended.

The compound, and especially my loft bed above the RV’s driver’s seat, is all I’ve ever known for a home. I read about houses and condos and apartments and mansions, but I’ve never seen any. Dad says he’ll take me down the mountain sometime to see what the world used to be like and what it has become. But, as with so many things, he hasn’t told me when. I’ve never been more than ten miles from the compound ever.

So, for now, my impressions of the world, or at least the way the world used to be, are from the books I read. And I’ve read a lot of books. Dad has to make trips to scavenge every once in a while and he always brings me back books.

Mysteries, fantasy, non-fiction history, fictional history, medical books, technical books, horror, romance, teen, pulp. You name it, I’ve read it. What else is a kid going to do in a dead world?

Sure, I can hunt and fish and all that other outdoorsy stuff, but that gets old. Reading doesn’t. Not for me.

2

Seventeen… Wow…

In all the books I’ve read, turning sixteen was the big deal in the old world, back before the necros came to be. Kids used to get their own cars and have huge parties, at least the girls did. Something called “sweet sixteen”. Dad says the parties were for the pretentious elite and were a huge waste of money and resources. I don’t really understand the whole “money” thing, but Dad says it was what made the world go round. Since my parents couldn’t give me a car, Dad spent a couple weeks last year showing me how to operate the RV. I didn’t get to drive it, since it’s our house, but I know what all the buttons and pedals do.

Even without cars, money, and cake, I guess seventeen is pretty important since my parents never thought I’d live past one or two. Having an undead conjoined twin stuck to your back can really worry the parents. Dad tried to separate us more than once, but my blood pressure dropped too low every time and it wasn’t worth the risk. Mom doesn’t ever speak of Garth. She acts like he isn’t there, but I do catch her staring when she thinks I’m not looking. I’m not sure what the problem is really, I’m used to Little Man and he’s used to me. Just like brothers in the books we get on each other’s nerves, but that’s life, right?

Well, “life” might be stretching it a bit when talking about Little Man (that’s mine and Dad’s nickname for Garth). Mom got pregnant just as the world ended, when the necros came to be, and my parents were able to escape up here to the camp. Dad’s a scientist, behavioral virology, and Mom was a surgeon, so they had everything prepared: all the supplies, equipment, resources, just in case there were any complications.

Therewere complications. Best laid plans and all that… (That’s Steinbeck, not my favorite author, but beggars can’t be choosers).

I think about all this as I go through my equipment and weapons checklist: machete in sheath and strapped to my leg; spiked baseball bat on my back, next to Garth; 9mm Beretta on my hip with three extra magazines; ten inch serrated hunting knife on my belt with heavy gloves tucked next to them; folding shovel in my satchel along with matches, a canteen, a large plastic bag and two smaller plastic bags, an extra t-shirt and a towel. Over the years, in order to keep from tearing my skin, Little Man was supported in a deer hide sling that would strap under my arm, across my chest and around back. Now my skin and his has hardened, becoming rough, but pliable. Sorta like a big callus that surrounds where his body connects to mine. The only problem now is it gives him more mobility and as I drape the alert whistle over my neck, Little Man grabs at its cord, as always, and I have to swat his hand away. He grunts at me, but I ignore him.

Mom and Dad knew they were having twins and everything was going fine until a week before the due date. Mom was checking vitals and could only find one heartbeat. That alone would be terrifying, but even though there was only one heartbeat, she could feel us both moving. Dad had to cut us out. Like I said, Mom hasn’t been the same since.

Garth had his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. He was dead for only a day since Mom checked our vitals like clockwork. But dead for a day is all it takes with the necros. Twenty-four hours from death to undeath. Such is the way of the necros.

Necros…
Homo Sapiens Necrosii
. That is what Dad has classified them. A new species all together. It’s his obsession and keeps him away most of the day, and sometimes all night. He calls them HSNs. I call them necros, or necs, but Dad doesn’t like this. He says it’s derogatory and I should know better because of Garth.

Mom never speaks about them and prefers we don’t either. Dad calls it denial. I call it crazy, but I keep that to myself. Crazy moms are in a lot of my books, so I guess she isn’t breaking any new ground.

I systematically unlock the inside gate, re-lock it, double check that it is secure, walk the thirty yards to the outside gate, unlock it, re-lock it, check that it is secure and finally make my way down the trail to the creek and the blackberries waiting to be picked.

Little Man died in utero (in the womb), but since my parents only had a portable ultrasound machine, they couldn’t tell that he and I were connected. Conjoined. When I was young I’d read all these books about kids with normal lives, without their brother hanging from the top of their spine, and I’d be so jealous. But, over the years, I’ve gotten used to it. He’s Little Man.

“He ain’t heavy, he’s your brother,” Dad jokes. Says it’s lyrics to some song by a guy named Neil. I haven’t heard it. They brought equipment, food, weapons and other supplies, but Dad forgot the music (still makes Mom pretty angry), so all I know is what Mom sings while she works or what I’ve read about. Dad doesn’t sing, or at least we tell him not to.

Apparently, Little Man and I share spinal fluid and major blood vessels. This is why Dad can’t separate us, although he hasn’t tried in quite a few years. He isn’t the surgeon like Mom, but she’s taught him a lot and if he has one thing going for him, he learns fast.

“When you’re older, maybe,” he says. He wants my body to stop growing first so he knows what he’s dealing with. Garth’s body hasn’t grown since we were born. He’s a nec and necs are dead and the dead don’t grow. They just erode.

“Theypetrify, notputrefy,” Dad has told me.

The virus that turns a human into an HSN (to use Dad’s term) kills everything, not just the host body. It kills all bacteria, other viruses, microbes, yeast, anything and everything a human body could have n it or be exposed to. This means that once a person turns into a nec they don’t rot away. Instead, they end up changing with the weather. They become kinda spongy when it rains or hard and dry, during a drought. Their body only breaks down by natural exposure to the elements, or friction as they move. This leads to some interesting looking necros out there.

But, since Little Man is connected to me, and my blood and spinal fluid, he doesn’t erode like the rest. He just stays Little Man. I get bigger, he stays the same size.

He does stink though.

Nec farts are awful.

3

“Hush,” I warn Little Man. “Stop wiggling and moaning.” He quiets down quickly. He’s usually pretty good about minding me which fascinates Dad.

Dad…

He spends most of his time out “in the field”, as he likes to say.

“We have to study the HSNs, Garret,” he’ll tell me when he knows Mom isn’t listening or when we are out on our hikes. “They are the dominate species now and we must learn from their behavior so we can survive.”

Not sure what we can learn from them. Only thing they do is look creepy and eat. Eat people. Not animals, but people. What’s to learn?

We get about a half mile down the three mile trail when Little Man shifts again and gives a high squeak. This time I don’t tell him to hush. Instead I get off the trail quickly and duck behind one of the many large pines that are everywhere here in southern Oregon. That squeak means necs are getting close.

Little Man squeaks again, just to make sure I’m listening and I reach behind and pat his head. As usual, he tries to bite me, but he wasn’t born with teeth, and being dead, they never came in. I swat at him absentmindedly and he growls a little, but hushes up. I’m usually pretty good at knowing when necs are close, but I’m lost in thought today. Birthday musings. Dad thinks my sensitivity to necs has something to do with Garth. That I’m naturally more aware of the necros. Whatever the reason, I don’t care, since it’s the only way Dad was able to talk Mom into letting me out of the compound on my own.

Now, here’s the thing about necs: there’s more than just one kind.

Dad calls it “genetic variability”. His theory (god, does he have some theories) is that since each person has many genetic variables and predispositions when alive, it stands to reason they will have the same variables when they are dead. Or undead. Whatever.

Some necs are just slow, shambling creatures. They walk from place to place, their noses and ears leading them to what they hope will be food. They never run, they never make any noise, they just shamble. They’re the easy ones to deal with. We’ve had a surprising amount make it all the way up to our camp and we just wait until they shamble off. Dad usually goes out and puts them down once they are far enough away.

Other necs are a little more animated. Like the lurkers. Those guys wait. They’ll be in a ditch, a hole, a cave, behind a tree, under a bush, behind some rocks. Doesn’t matter, they just wait for prey. There is always one around somewhere. They are pretty quick, but not too bright. They think since they can’t see you, you can’t see them. Usually parts of them are sticking out from their hiding place, so they really aren’t too hard to spot. All you have to do is circle around, come up from behind quietly and SPLAT! Off goes the head.

Now, the ones you have to watch out for are the runners. These guys you don’t mess with. It’s easier to hide and let them move on than to face them. Mostly because they run in packs.

“The runners are the evolution of the Hunter gene,” Dad says. “Some people were born to farm, some were born to hunt. Runners are the latter.”

Runners are fast. And I meanfast! Trust me, runners can, and will, chase you down. Dad and I have come close before, but luckily we’ve gotten away every time.

“Know your surroundings, G,” is another of Dad’s sayings. “Always know where you are in relation to what’s around you. That knowledge can mean the difference between life and death.”

Oh, and runners can climb too. That’s why we have the razor wire on the compound fence.

But what Little Man has warned me about is none of these. What’s close to us is one of the broken.

4

The broken…

The poor, pitiful thing grasps at the dry dirt of the trail, desperate to pull itself along. I can see that its legs were gnawed off by other necs when the thing used to be alive. Used to be a person.

From the look of its torn chest and the matted pony tail hanging down its back, my guess is it used to be a woman. Its clothes have long since rotted away and its grey-blue skin is shiny from what Dad calls “dead sweat”. That’s just ambient moisture that seeps from its undead pores.

Its head is barely attached to its body and dangles down from the neck. With each movement the head bobs slightly, reminding me of one of my childhood toys. It’s kinda comical, but not really when you think that this used to be a person.

I unsheathe my machete and stand over the nec. It struggles to raise its eyes to me, but its head won’t cooperate and the thing starts to hiss in frustration.

“Kill it, Garret,” my Dad’s voice whispers from directly behind me, causing me to yelp and nearly drop my blade.

“Dad!” I fume in a hushed yell, since where there is one nec there are usually others. “Don’t do that!”

“Sorry, G,” he apologizes, squeezing my shoulder. “You shouldn’t let them suffer. Just do what’s needed.”