Paradise: An Apocalyptic Novel (14 page)

“Fuck you, man,” the other voice said, “you’re the porn addict. Don’t put that on me.”

“Oh, Rodriguez, don’t lie to us. And don’t stop for a beat in the middle of the mission. This is important.” The soldier laughed. Rodriguez had been caught jacking off in the dingy shack they’d holed up in during the first week of the campaign.

Maverick could hear the soldier’s steel toed boots clamoring on the deck. His heart raced as he reached for the pistol in front of him. He loaded the clip in with a booming click, and then waited.

The boots came closer.

So did the truth.

16

Vengeance

“Goddamnit.” Silver cursed
and ranted between harsh, short breaths as he dashed through the jungle.

This wasn’t part of the plan—no, the military hadn’t been part of the plan at all.

Baxter brought up the rear, limping from a stray bullet that had found its way into his shin. He was still quite mobile for a man nursing a hell of a gunshot wound. He knew better than to engage Silver in one of his moods. Ambrosia did funny things; Silver, who used to be mild-mannered, was now a delusional, raging lunatic—on a good day. Baxter had an idea; he felt some of that same fire within his own breast. He winced as he put down the injured leg, vaulted off the ground and landed on the lower shelf below.

Ahead, rustling. No tactics; the two men charged, scopes glued to their face. A few soldiers, maybe an entire squad, thrashing through the forest. Silver and Baxter, they were moving quick, rushing, but they were silent. You learned how to be silent in a jungle like this, so you didn’t get eaten.

Or shot.

The pair unloaded on the unwitting team, and radios crackled.

“Delta Squad under heavy fire over here, need—” And the voices cut off, the tramping stopped. Within seconds bodies littered the ground. None of them belonged to Baxter or Silver.

The two men stepped over the still warm corpses and continued. The
Emergency Kit
. That was all that mattered. Silver pricked up his ears.

“Those bastards,” he said, still moving, never stopping, “they have every damn beast on this hell hole on top of us now.”

Baxter nodded. The pace picked up. Double time would be too slow to describe it; the men dropped into an all-out sprint, still quiet as they glided across the leafy forest floor. Imperceptible to others, they could hear the sounds of the beasts, the communication. Maybe it was their senses, maybe it was just practice. But they knew what most of the guttural cries and caws meant: they were being targeted.

The only way to survive was off the island.

The pistol shook
in Maverick’s hands as he took aim. He steadied himself on a crate, grasping all ten fingers tight around the grip. It reminded him of whenever a chick in a spy movie has to save the day by blind-firing, fighting the gun’s recoil with every muscle in her slender, beautiful body.

He wished he was the super-spy, not the damsel in distress. It questioned his manhood.

The metallic thud of the boots came closer and closer. They were searching all the rooms, the cabins first. Made sense; that’s where you’d hide, sleep. It was comfortable up there. No doubt the Army figured him for a rich dumbass, unable to survive. He’d show them; his fingernails dug into his flesh, but still the gun shook. He ground his arms into the wooden box, desperate to stop his nerves.

It helped, but he still wasn’t going to be a sharpshooter.

It seemed to happen in slow motion; a crack of light at the top of the stairs, followed by full-blown daylight showering the front of the room. And then the boots. Those god-awful boots, loud, clanging, like an automaton coming to destroy him.

“Please, please,” Maverick repeated, over and over again, just to himself, with each step and echo. His heart seemed to match the rhythm of Rodriguez’s descent.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Time slowed, and Maverick could feel a single droplet of sweat clinging to his brow in defiance of gravity. It felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He told his eyes to focus on the stairs, on the point straight ahead. The shadow moved forward, cutting through the light like a sharp knife.

“Hey, Rodriguez.” The other soldier called out, and Rodriguez and those awful boots stopped, the tips right on the stair where Maverick’s vision was focused. A harbinger of things to come.

“This better not be another joke.”

“We got to go back. New orders.”

Maverick saw the boots turn around as Rodriguez shifted his weight.

“Okay.”

“But finish doing your check. And Rodriguez?”

Maverick crept forward, from behind the safety of his crate. Every neuron in his body screamed for him to go back, hide, stay in the darkness. But sometimes you’ve had enough of the shadows and your mind craves the light.

“What?” Rodriguez knew what was coming. He didn’t know why he’d bother to ask.

Maverick’s feet glided across the floor, like he’d been doing this his whole life.

“Try to keep it in your pants.”

Rodriguez said nothing, but Maverick heard the sigh. The
anger
. The exasperation. The soldier stood on the steps, with Maverick a yard behind him.

His buddy’s footsteps trailed off.

Maverick reached up and dragged Rodriguez from the steps, crashing to the floor. The man thrashed in Maverick’s hands, struggled against the suffocating lock around his neck. But Maverick, with whatever strength he had left, held on, like a man trying to break a bronco.

The kicks turned to twitches. Then nothing.

Maverick dropped the limp body to the ground and crept up the stairs, not looking back. He didn’t want to. He peered over the bow, to the jungle. No sign of the other soldier.

Then he remembered the cubbyhole, the things still spread across the floor.

With a deep breath, he descended again and got what he needed.

His eyes were shut most of the time.

Maverick didn’t open them until he was on the shoreline again, warm sand kicking at the back of his legs.

“Now what,” he whispered, but no one answered.

The jungle seemed
cold, even though it was humid. Stifling.

The hill had seemed safe, even if everyone knew it wasn’t.

Emotions don’t listen to logic. Nor do pounding hearts.

Jackson’s was in his ears as he thrashed through the vines and forest floor, struggling to find the paths left behind by beast or man. Clara was guiding them along Silver’s footpaths, but it was slow going.

Each roar seemed to come closer. Their only solace was that the soldiers didn’t know about these little arteries carved throughout the island. Only Ambrosia Team did.

But it was only a matter of time—hours, days, no one could say—before the military figured something out. Hours passed, and the group made steady progress. Their surroundings didn’t change, only the fatigue and pain within their weary bones.

“Where is this thing,” Melina said through sharp breaths, at this point just about broken by The Hideaway, “it seems like we’re going nowhere.”

“We’re about to reach the fork. A left, and we’ll be there. It’s carved out, on the shoreline. One way in and one way out.”

“How far is that?”

No answer. Amanda held up her hand, indicating that everyone should be silent. Smoke and the smell of burning leaves hung in the air.

This island was going to be charred before they were done.

The group redoubled their pace, choking and covering their mouths with sleeves and whatever else was available.

No one was sure if that’d be enough.

Bebe awoke to
the mansion crawling with ants.

Except, instead of ants, they were humans. Humans in hazmat gear, black helmets, armed with state-of-the-art firearms. Swarming upon the carcass of the once great house.

About to swarm on her.

Her vision swam as she propped herself up against the wall. An elbow touched the floor. A mistake; a shockwave of pain emanated from the joint. Looking down, she could see blood, maybe the bone. Something didn’t seem quite straight. She pulled it up and held it close to her chest before testing her other arm.

That one was okay, far as she could tell. It would have to do. Teeth clenched, she pushed herself from the dust-caked hardwood, moving towards the front.

Voices and the hint of shadows lapping at the inside of the foyer stopped her. She’d have to go a different way. No chance of fighting her way out, even if she had a firearm. Which she didn’t.

Her good arm gravitated towards the hunting knife she kept strapped to her thigh. Still there; it hadn’t gone through the sheath, into her leg. That’d be just what she needed; to get skewered by her own emergency blade.

The voices were getting closer. Time to try another exit.

As she limped through the ruined house, she wondered why it had to be so damn big. It was the first time she was pissed about it. Before, the opulence was just stupid; but now, the size of this monstrosity was going to kill her. She’d be trapped in here, caught in the living room or sitting room or some other room with her pants down.

The kitchen—the cook’s kitchen, not the personal kitchen, which Maverick and the others sometimes used—was almost on the other side of the damn estate. Still, she managed to make it, slipping inside and barring the door from the inside. That would stop anyone from following her.

A crate beckoned for her to sit. This was all going to hell. The military. She could tell from the way they talked to each other. Too stiff, too formal to be anything but trained men.

There was no staying here. The house was gone. Baxter had burned all the crops. The yacht was toast. And she was alone.

This was the end of the line, it seemed. A pack of cigarettes lay on the stainless steel island running down the center of the room. She hoisted herself up and grabbed them, lighting one on the stove.

It felt good to sit on the crate and smoke, like nothing else mattered. No one was coming, although the rattles and bumps in the house told her that soldiers were inside, searching the premises. Wouldn’t be long now.

Bebe got up and rifled through the drawers.

A set of strange keys called out to her. They had the insignia of the homestead on them—makeshift scribbles, just as it had been on the outside walls. There was only one of them that seemed to matter; it looked like a vehicle’s key.

Behind the keys was a flare gun and a few cartridges. She swiped these, tucking the orange plastic pistol into her waistband. Better than nothing. A jolt at the door reminded her of that fact. By instinct, she dropped right to the floor, belly flat, gun out and loaded. Her elbow didn’t appreciate the cajoling.

The door rattled again. Then, whoever was on the other side got pissed, decided to put some real back into it. They charged through.

A bright light burst through the kitchen, and the soldier yelped in surprise when Bebe, quick as a panther, leapt up and charged with the hunting knife.

Now covered in blood, she looked the part of a jungle warrior. That didn’t last long; like a snake shedding her skin, her clothes dropped to the ground. In their place, she donned the fallen soldier’s full gear, dragging him into a utility closet. The visor obscured most of her face.

“Clear?” Another guy walked into the kitchen just as she was finishing.

She grunted in response, low, like a man—or as best she could manage. The other guy shrugged and left. She checked her pockets, the various clasps on the vest. Plenty of firepower, if she was smart.

She’d have to be, if she wanted to make it out alive.

The radio inside her helmet crackled. The voice told her to move, so she did.

There was a sea of ants spread out in front of the house. Bebe sized up the rest of them; from the looks of it, there might be a couple women in the mix. Or just small men. It was hard to tell with everyone outfitted for a viral outbreak.

A general paced at the forefront. Everyone stood at attention, so Bebe did her best to mimic their movements. It wasn’t hard; in another life, in another country, she’d done this charade all before. Stand like a ram-rod, listen to someone bleat on and on about sacrifice, what camaraderie meant. When bullets flew your way, you didn’t care whose flag you were following.

You were scared.

She could sense that in the group, the nervousness. No one wanted to be at ground zero, find where it all began. The origin of an apocalypse is never a pretty sight.

“Soldier?” The general was talking to her. She froze, and her heart dropped through the floor. It was the first she’d felt pinpricks in her arms since basic training, some decade before. When she was 18. “Move out!”

She glanced around; her unit had fallen away, leaving her in a daze on the rocket burnt verandah. A quick salute and she fell back in line. There were no questions. She was just a cog in a machine, a cog that needed a little grease.

The lieutenant in charge of her team was speaking as she slipped into the rear.

“We think they might be hiding along the coast. Or might have hidden something.”

“What’s the plan, boss,” a big, thick slab of a man said, “sweep ‘em out?”

“We smoke them out of the jungle, make them break for it. Then capture them at the shore.” He had a stick wrapped in blackish tar clutched in his hand. “Anyone got a light?”

The meathead produced a lighter.

A minute later, the jungle was a tinderbox, dozens of these torches tossed into its underbrush. Bebe joined without remorse. The sounds of the animals crying, this was nothing. Not in comparison to the last week at the house, or the things she’d done.

Liquid dripped from inside her helmet, down her face. Maybe it was a tear. Or it was just sweat.

“Move forward,” the lieutenant called, and the group moved forward in well-rehearsed unison, continuing the burn as they went, the once unyielding jungle falling to the might of man’s oldest technology.

The wind was
blowing out towards the shore, towards the escape boat.

Silver watched as the flames leapt from treetop to treetop, as if everything was made of kerosene.

“They’re smoking us out,” he said, “we won’t last long in there.”

“The fire? We can outrun that.”

“What’s inside the fire, Bax, what’s inside the fire.”

Everything
in the jungle would be running towards the shore. Men, even ones like them, couldn’t hope to survive that onslaught.

“Looks like we screwed the pooch on this, huh?”

“Sometimes things bite you in the ass,” Silver said, staring at the dark earth beneath his boots.

“A detour, then. We head around.” Baxter stared at the trees, the direction of the smoke. “That way.”