Paradise: An Apocalyptic Novel (15 page)

Silver looked at his friend’s outstretched finger.

“Hell of a detour.”

“It’s the only way.”

“Let’s get started, then,” Silver said. Him and Baxter dashed away, trying to get to the windmill clearing before they were burned alive.

Pierre was gone.
Something had snatched him out of the leafy darkness, he’d screamed, and that was it. Like he’d never existed.

The others had redoubled their pace.

Heat flooded from everywhere, and it seemed like the fire was at risk of enclosing them. Amanda spurred the group on.

“The shore, the shore. It’s right there. Only a little more.” Her voice was high-pitched, suggesting she didn’t quite believe her own words. But considering they were their only chance of survival, the trick worked; everyone broke into a dead sprint, animals, nature, everything nipping at their heels.

Blue sky, corrupted by smoke, loomed ahead. Melina let out a cry. They might make it.

As the shoreline grew nearer, their elation died down. Almost every animal on the whole island, it seemed, was prowling the beach, howling in irrational or locked in mortal combat with another. The group stopped.

“Oh no,” Clara said, “no, it’s all over.” This did not help morale. If the creator of all these horrific beasts thought they were screwed, it seemed like it was pretty much a done deal.

No one said much. They watched, from afar, safe for now—the animals would not be returning to the smoldering jungle.

Then Jackson spoke.

“I got a plan.”

“Let’s hear it, damnit,” Clara said, shifting Bobby’s weight on her back. The kid had been well behaved; nary a peep had been heard from the youngster during the entire trial. It was enough to make you wonder if something was wrong with him, like he couldn’t hear.

“How fast can you run,” Jackson started, and they gathered round in a grim circle to hear what the final plan would be.

Thin trees and
ashen plants hung about, like a ghost jungle.

Baxter and Silver had made it to the clearing, hid in the debris while the fire tore through the jungle. They’d emerged—covered in smoky soot, but still alive—and began to make their way back to the original path.

Baxter kicked at the corpse of a tree, and the thing disintegrated into a cloud of black ash and charred lumber.

“Well, they sure burned this place up good.”

“They’re good like that, don’t you think?” Silver had a wry smile on his face. Baxter couldn’t figure out why; far as he could tell, this was a disaster.

The two men stopped. On the horizon, they could see a wave of men approaching. Soldiers. They crashed to the charred ground. But they were exposed.

“Can you think of anything?” Baxter asked as the men approached.

“There’s nowhere to hide.” Silver spoke with reverence, a quiet stoicism that seemed incongruent with the rage, the revenge. Like when an animal knows it’s going to die, and just accepts it.

“There’s got to be something.” Baxter’s voice rose. He didn’t want to die.

“There is one thing,” Silver said, checking his gun, running a gloved hand over the trigger. “Just one thing.”

“What?”

“We fight.”

On the horizon line, a sea of black advanced like a scourge of locusts. Silver fired, and the line didn’t halt. Again, again, he fired. Reload. Fire. Some dropped.

Baxter joined in, and the only sounds in the ruined jungle were the bullets flying out from their rifles. One soldier would fall, only to be replaced by another to the left, to the right.

Bullets peppered back at them, out in the open. No cover.

Silver grunted as he caught a round in the shoulder, kept reloading, kept firing. Like a machine on the assembly line, placing a part in the right position, ratcheting the rifle, firing. Repeating it, over and over again.

Even with machinelike precision and accuracy, they’d only knocked down about fifteen of the troops. Which was a lot, their situation considered, but it wasn’t enough. And these soldiers, they seemed dedicated. Determined. They weren’t even using tactics.

They were just going to steamroll the pair of men standing out in the open, a backdrop of orange tendrils dancing behind them, like a painting of a last stand.

Tears stung Baxter’s eyes as another round caught his remaining good leg. This whole sequence might’ve lasted two minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime. His feet buckled beneath him, failing, and he continued to reload.

He wasn’t scared any more. This was it.

Beside him, Silver slumped over, eyes to the sky, still working with the rifle, still aiming it off into the distance, even with no vision to guide the bullets to a target. He fired.

It was all they knew.

Baxter caught a final soldier in the head. They were close enough now that he saw the bullet go through the man’s temple, splash the guy behind him with a thin splatter of crimson.

And that was the last thing that he ever saw.

Bebe was happy
that she was in the back. The guys in front of her had been catching bullets like they were worth a million bucks. Unfazed, like they wanted to die. Maybe the world out there was that terrible.

If it was anything like that room, then she could see how that might be the case. She looked down at the two bodies lying in the chalky black soil. Heat still emanated from the ground, although whether this was from the cinders or their rifles, which seemed to be spitting hundreds of rounds a second at them, she couldn’t tell.

“These guys ain’t human, boss,” the big guy said. He’d survived, though he’d taken a round through the hand. “Look at these goddamn holes in ‘em.”

It was true. Each man had at least two dozen bullets in him; it was only a shot through Silver’s neck that had stopped him. Baxter had caught one in the head, which, even with his genetic abnormalities, was plenty of stopping power. But the rest of their bodies were bloodied, as if they’d been the test subjects of a new Gatling gun.

The lieutenant knelt down and touched the corpses. He drew back.

“They’re burning hot.” He looked down, and the blood coming from the wounds didn’t look right. Red, sure, but maybe too red. “These guys were infected.” He said it like it was crazy, couldn’t be true.

“We seen that on the mainland, though, boss.”

“Nothing like these guys. Maybe a couple extra muscles. Look at this one,” the lieutenant said, pointing at Silver, “he’s built like a goddamn racehorse.”

“Yeah.” The big guy seemed a little jealous.

“What the hell are we doing here?” The lieutenant looked up, stared at the desolation before him, the flames lapping at the forest. This was no better than what had been done to them. This wasn’t justice.

“Finding the source of the virus, boss.”

“I know that. But what the
hell
are we doing here? What the hell are any of us doing?”

No one had an answer to that.

Bebe spoke.

“Just trying to survive. Just like we always have.”

She almost regretted it. That might’ve been it; her cover blown.

“Not like this,” the leader said, shaking his head back and forth, “not like this.”

She would’ve agreed. But survival sounded pretty good. And besides, the guy was full of shit, because, after searching Silver and Baxter—who had nothing on them of any interest—the team moved out, trailing behind the flames.

The mission would continue, just the same.

Bebe needed to get away from this group. Not only was their dedication to the cause freaking her out—it was like she’d stepped into the future, where robots had been invented—but, sooner or later, they’d figure it out. Who she was.

And she’d prefer not to be around when that happened.

Their boats were closer to the mansion. She had a little experience with craft like that, from way back—if she could get close, then maybe she’d find a way off this island. Any other route was out of the question; the fire had advanced to the opposing shore, scalding everything in its path. If anyone was out there, they’d be burned alive—and their escape route with them.

So much for a spare craft.

She hung back, falling in line with various teams, slinking through them one-by-one. No one seemed to notice; they must have figured she had lagged behind, perhaps to tend to the wounded. Or maybe she was straggling from all the smoke.

No one questioned her.

She reached The Hideaway’s mansion in under half an hour. Amazing how much smaller the island seemed once the trees were all gone. By that point, half of it had been eaten by fire.

“What the hell,” she muttered to herself, looking at the blackening sky. This was like no fire she’d ever seen. The ground was wet, the trees well-watered. Nothing should burn this fast; it was like sheets of paper in a fireplace.

There were a few jeeps, along with heavier vehicles, outside the ruined house. No keys. A couple soldiers milled about, perhaps waiting for orders, or too high up to be risked at the head of the offensive.

“You. Private.” This was directed at Bebe. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She mumbled something in response, low as she could.

“Speak up, Private! What’s your name, son? And turn around!”

The steps sounded louder behind her, trampling in the dirt. They weren’t combat boots. Something a little softer. Her hand floated over the sidearm at her waist.

“I gave you an order, Private! Are you being insubordinate—”

She wheeled around and put a bullet right through the man’s eyes. It took her a moment to realize that she’d just killed the general. The other half dozen soldiers all stopped at the sound of the shot and turned towards her position.

Their mouths were agape, but not for long.

A hail of bullets descended upon her uncovered piece of turf, and she dove inside a jeep for shelter. The outside pinged as projectiles flung off the bulletproof exterior. There was only one way out; she couldn’t kill them all.

She tore underneath the dash for the wiring. It was an older vehicle, so the guts spilled out in an old familiar setup. Thank God the Army hadn’t upgraded.

The wires sparked and sputtered as she knocked the tips together. Nothing happened.

Footsteps came closer to the car. Every single one was steady, slow, deliberate, like a clock ticking until the end. The bullets had stopped. They were going to enclose her in a vise.

She touched the wires again. A spark and a stutter. No lights, no springing to life. She did it again. And again. Nothing; the car wouldn’t start. Sweat dripped from beneath her visor, enough that she thought she might drown.

She tried again.

The engine roared to life, and she slammed both of her hands on the accelerator. Bebe hoped the car was pointed forward, and not over the waterfall or into the pool.

Bones broke and someone screamed as the car lurched forward. Surprised shouts sounded around her, and the gunfire resumed. It all bounced off, and she took a peek out the windshield.

The falls loomed. A jerk of the wheel, and she was back on course, heading down the path to the shore where it had all began. Where they’d come in. Everything died away besides the purr of the engine.

And she crashed into a tree, jerking forward. The helmet blocked the brunt of the blow, but she fell out of the car, stunned. No pursuers that she could here. Like a drunk, she advanced, hands pawing at the sandy dirt.

Everything felt like slow motion. She tore the helmet from her head. Her hair stuck to every open patch of skin. The wind felt good. No one behind her. She was free. Nothing else boats, but she had time.

She’d find one.

Bebe fell to the sand, smiling. Her hand reached up, touching the back of her neck.

Blood trickled into the sand.

It felt good, not to have to breathe any more.

The sand turned red, and her body was still.

Jackson ran forward,
on the border between the forest and the sand, rifle in hand.

He was yelling.

“Come and get me you fuckers,” he shouted between bursts from the gun, punctuating each step with a war cry. The animals pricked up their ears at the commotion, turning their eyes towards the strange man dashing alongside them. Even some of the fights stopped, but this might have been because a couple bullets had splashed some of the animals in the thighs and hindquarters.

At the opening into the jungle, Amanda, Clara, Penelope and Melina crouched in wait. A stream of fighting beasts started to flow towards Jackson’s hollering, until the entire right side of the sandy expanse was clear.

It gave the rest of them a path.

A path to the
Emergency Kit
.

The quartet—quintet, if one counted Bobby bouncing on Clara’s back—raced towards the cove.

On the other side of the beach, Jackson fumbled with the final clip, jamming it into the gun. Yellow bursts leapt from the muzzle, illuminating the shadows. Every animal closed in.

When Jackson had told the others the plan, there was resistance. They wouldn’t accept him sacrificing himself. Suicide. It couldn’t be the only way. He’d been warm about it, accepting his fate. Said he’d figured that he’d outlived expectations, anyway, given the circumstances.

Then he darted off, yelling, and they didn’t have another chance to dispute what he said.

The group had no choice but to honor his decision. The boat was in the alcove. Amanda ran her fingers underneath the controls, finding the keys.

As they took off into the quiet surf, they thought they heard screams from the shore. But everyone preferred to believe that Jackson had made it. Or had just fallen dead, no pain.

A final bloodcurdling scream, however, shattered that illusion.

Amanda punched San Diego into the GPS, holding her breath as it searched for, then found a satellite. The five survivors watched as the island receded into the rearview, until they could see nothing but endless blue.

Afternoon, then night
fell. Dawn came again, and the small emergency boat neared the shoreline of California. They could see no activity along the docks—none at all.

Amanda piloted the craft right up to the front, disembarking. The others followed her into this wasteland, stopping to look at a building blanketed with fluttering posters.