AntiBio: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (2 page)

2

A tail-wagging, mass of black hair and muscle greets Ton as the door to Milo’s quarters slides open.

Canine Units, or bug hounds to GenSOF operators,
are trained military dogs, designed from the genes up to sniff out deadly bacteria, while also protecting their individual operator. They will kill anything to keep their operator safe, or die trying.

A genetic soup of dog breeds, bug hounds are clones that pull their quick intelligence from the German Shepherd, their single-minded determination from the Pitbull, their undying loyalty, as well as quiet stealth and thick fur, from the Chow Chow, and their unquenchable work ethic and problem solving ability from the Border Collie. With a little of this and that thrown in for genetic stability and health.

All pitch black fur with black tongues, black eyes, and even black teeth, a CU is impossible to spot in the dark. Their only distinguishing individual feature is the infrared ink muzzle tattoo that each has listing their name and squad number. But for an operator, it’s no problem telling them apart. Just as one person knows their own hand from another person’s.

“Hey, girl,” Ton smiles, crouching down to rub behind
Snorts’ ears. “How’s my hundred pound killing machine?”

“She’s got gas,” Milo says from the corner of his quarters. “Or that could be me.” He lifts a glass of purple liquid. “Probably me.”

GenSOF Sergeant Courier Class Milo Kailua is seated cross legged in a form fitting chair that’s connected to the wall where his bunk was earlier that morning. Wearing only a tank top and boxers, his muscled bulk of 265 pounds looks out of place in the cramped space. An identical dog to the one Ton loves on sits next to Milo, his eyes watching the lieutenant and his bug hound.

Milo reaches
out and scratches the dog’s ears and he lies down, but his attention never leaves the man and dog by the door. While Milo may be facing Ton and Snorts, his attention is on what is being projected directly onto his retinas via his IRIS- Intraocular Retinal Infrared Screen. His eyes are completely black and he’s busy swiping the air with one hand while taking reluctant sips from the glass with the other. From Milo’s perspective, he sees the pages of the latest mystery novel by superstar author, Coretta Belfour.

“Good book?” Ton asks. “Something I’d like?”

“Hold on,” Milo says. He swipes the air one more time, continues reading until he finishes the page, and then shakes his head. “IRIS off.”

The images leave his vision and he blinks a couple of times to orient himself.

“What? Oh, the book? Nah, not your stuff,” Milo says. He stands and the chair slides back into the wall, replaced by two smaller chairs next to each other. “Grab a seat, man. You look like shit. I thought the whole point of me watching Snorts was so you could sleep in.”

“Worm had
other ideas,” Ton says. “Apparently my bacterial count was off ratio due to my alcohol intake last night.”

“The proper-” Worm starts.

“Shut up,” Ton scolds.

Milo smirks and motions to the chair again.

“Nope, can’t stay,” Ton says. “Gonna go make sure the rest of the squad is up in case we get called on to deal with that crap down there.” One of the chairs slides back into the wall.

“CCPD has it already locked down,” Milo says. “It was about free movement credits
after all. Looks like the Mayor’s office has reduced the amount of people allowed on the street at one time. Folks are getting stir crazy.”

“Well, fuck them,” Ton says. “Try being GenSOF. We go from barracks to transport
, tower to Sicklands, and back. They’d go even crazierif they weren’t allowe
d
an
y
movement.”

“But we get the Sicklands all for ourselves,” Milo smirks. “Scorched earth, dead trees, Cooties trying to kill us. Eden, man, Eden.”

Ton stumbles a bit as Snorts shoulders against him, pushing towards the door.

“Okay, we’re going,” Ton says. “Has she eaten?”

“Yeah,” Milo says, nodding to the identical mass of black hair and fur lying in the opposite corner. “Almost finished Gorge’s food too.”

Ton looks at a third dog that is curled up like an unmoving lump in the corner. He shakes his head. “That dog never eats unless Blaze feeds her.”

“Whereas yours will eat anything in sight,” Milo laughs. “But Worm scolded her and she backed off.”

Snorts gives a low growl.

“Worm? Are you scolding my dog now?” Ton asks.

“Meals are precisely calibrated for optimal health,” Worm replies. “Whether for humans or Canine Units, proper nutrition, in correct proportions, is essential to survival.”

“Proper nutrition speech?” Milo asks, looking at Ton. “He’s not in my ear.”

“Exactly.”

“Want some of my proper nutrition?” Milo asks, holding out the glass. “I can’t drink anymore of this crap.” Milo pauses then sighs as he cocks his head.

“Worm scolding you now?” Ton smiles.

Milo rolls his eyes then taps his left ear. “What was life like before we had a babysitter in our heads?”

“Peaceful?” Ton wonders. “Got mine at eighteen. That’s twenty years of AiSP voice. I don’t even remember what an empty head was like.”

“Almost makes you envy the civvies down on the street,” Milo says then waves at Ton. “Get going before I rip another one, man. It’s gas from the Purple. You really don’t want to be here.” Tequila sniffs then glares up at Milo. “See? I’m pissing off my own dog, man.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Ton says. “We still on for tonight?”

“You know it,” Milo replies. “Poker?”

“What else am I gonna do with her?” Ton laughs then walks from the room, the door sliding shut behind him. He looks down at Snorts. “Ready?”

The dog gives a quiet huff and the two move down the hallway, their blurry reflections shining from the gleaming metal walls.

3

The loud lapping is what stirs GenSOF Sergeant Courier Class Hogarth “Hoagie” Menendez. Not the sound of Worm in his ear and not the very prevalent smell of vomit.

Vomit…

“Belly! No!” Hoagie snaps, forcing his eyelids apart. Even the dim light of his quarters is too much and he closes them again, wincing at the stabbing pain. “Belly! Stop that.”

There’s a chime at the door and it slides open.

“Sergeant Menendez?” Ton says from the doorway. “I believe your dog is eating your sick.”

“I can hear that, LT,” Hoagie replies. “I’m not happy about it.” He forces one eye open and looks at the lieutenant. “What’s up, LT? Worm won’t shut up in my ear and I think he made me
throw up.”

“Riots,” Ton replies. “Get up and get dressed. We probably won’t be needed, but we have to be prepared.”

“They won’t send us down into genpop,” Hoagie says. “Can’t risk our uber specialized GenSOF bacteria infecting the civvies.”

“You never know,” Ton says. “Get ready. Worm?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Worm replies so both men can hear.

“If Sergeant Menendez is not s
oniced, dressed, and fed in ten minutes then please motivate him.”

“Motivate him,
Lieutenant?”

“10,000 volts should do it.”

“I’m up, I’m up,” Hoagie says as he struggles to stand, running his hands through the bright red tangle of curls that covers his head. “Go fuck with the others, will ya? I’ll be ready in nine.”

“I know you will,” Ton smiles. “Come on, Snorts.”

The dog doesn’t move, his eyes locked on what remains of the puddle of vomit. Hoagie’s dog, Belly, senses this and starts to growl low.

“You gotta work on that food protection shit, Sergeant,” Ton says, stepping back into the hall. “Belly needs to learn to share his puke.”

“I think your dog needs to learn how to not eat everything that isn’t nailed down,” Hoagie calls out as the door slides shut. “Worm?”

“Yes, Sergeant Menendez?”

“What color is for breakfast?”

“Green, Sergeant.”

Hoagie looks back at the dwindling pool of vomit.

“I think I’d rather share with Belly.”

The dog growls again and moves his bulk to block Hoagie’s view of his precious meal.

4

“Care for a glass, LT?” GenSOF Sergeant Courier Class Paulo Kim asks, raising a glass of red liquid and nodding as Ton walks into the quarters. Long and lean, Paulo Kim stands almost a full foot taller than Ton, who isn’t short by any standards. He stands at his wall, watching several news feeds at once. “I am told this tastes like strawberries.”

“Never had a strawberry,” Ton replies. “And neither have you.”

“Good,” Paulo says, grimacing as he takes a sip. “Because apparently strawberries taste like shit.”

Snorts trots past Ton and nudges the sleeping mass next to Paulo’s bed with his muzzle. The mass doesn’t budge.

“I think Munch had a longer night than you did,” Ton smiles.

“He has a lower tolerance for alcohol,” Paulo says.

“It is against regulations to feed your Canine Unit alcohol, Sergeant Kim,” Worm says.

“It was a joke, Worm,” Paulo sighs. He nods to the wall where the scene below is being played out and commented on by a dozen talking heads. “So is that.”

“The people are restless,” Ton says.

“The civvies don’t know how good they got it,” Paulo responds. “If they saw what waited for them in the Sicklands they’d shut the hell up in a second.”

“Maybe,” Ton shrugs. “But it is our nature as human beings to crave freedom.”

“Well that plague ship sailed a long time ago,” Paulo says. “We officially back on duty?”

“Nah,” Ton says. “Just on alert. Still have two more days of leave before we run wheels again.”

“Cool,” Paulo nods then downs the rest of his drink. “Fargh. I must have done something bad in a past life to deserve this crap.”

“Now who doesn’t know how good he’s got it?” Ton smirks. “Poker tonight?”

“What else am I gonna do with her?” Paulo smiles.

“Good,” Ton nods as he turns to leave. He pauses. “You haven’t seen Blaze this morning, have you?”

“No, why?”

“He’s not in his quarters and Worm can’t locate him,” Ton replies, looking nervously over his shoulder at the news streams. “Left Gorge with Milo.”

“Probably found a nice piece of GenSOF support personnel and ended up crashing with her,” Paulo shrugs.

“Hopefully it’s another operator,” Ton says. “Even with StatShields on there’s risk of infection
with our specialized bacteria.”

“GenSOF support personnel know what they are getting into when they sign up for duty in the tower,” Milo says.

“And GenSOF operators know what a risk they are to others,” Ton counters. “Blaze better watch what liberties he takes.”

“Like you said, LT, it’s human nature to crave freedom. Hell knows Blaze craves it more than all of us combined.” Paulo locks eyes with Ton. “I almost think that boy would rather stay in the Sicklands sometimes than come home to CC.”

Ton smiles sadly and nods then shakes the thought loose. “Canteen at 2100?”

“See ya there,” Paulo replies as the door slides shut. He looks at his sleeping dog. “You ever gonna wake up?”

A long, low snore issues from the bundle of fur.

5

“Um….excuse me?” a woman’s voice says very quietly. “Hello? I need some help here.”

GenSOF Sergeant Courier Class Simon “Blaze” Crouch stretches and opens his eyes, savoring the smell of someplace other than the GenSOF tower. He rolls his head and smiles at the beautiful woman standing naked in the middle of the loft.

The woman is a petite
brunette; her hair cut brutally short, but with bangs swept up slightly in front. Her body is thin, bordering on malnourished, yet still muscular. She stands in the middle of the spacious loft, her hands on her hips and mouth turned up in a sly smirk. The loft itself is the result of an investor trying to gentrify the Burn- all exposed, ancient brick with steel girders spanning the single room. But the investor blew his credits on stim and the place was never finished, left to be absorbed into the working class slum.

“And what can I help with, young lady?” Blaze grins, stretching some more, his muscular arms reaching, reaching, reaching up to the far off ceiling, then settles his body back into the softness of the bed. He doesn’t envy much about the civvies stuck in Caldicott City, but he does wish the bunks at the
GenSOF barracks were as soft as this one. “Maybe you should just come back to bed. I can help way better from here.”

“That would be great, but I need to get dressed and you are on my closet,” the woman says. “I have to be on shift in ten minutes.”

Blaze looks over at a long workbench up against the wall.

“What stupid job have you been assigned now?” he asks.

“I told you last night,” she frowns. “I’m going to be assembling the scan units for TransPods.”

“Right,” Blaze replies, standing and walking over to the workbench, his naked body illuminated by the weak
light that filters through the shimmer strips that line the top of the loft’s walls. The wall before him flashes blue as a static charge waves across it, sterilizing the brick and steel every fifteen minutes. Blaze fingers a thin metal medallion that hangs around his neck. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound disrespectful. It’s just that you have way more talent than a solder girl in the Burn.”

“No, it’s cool,” the woman smiles as the bed behind him folds up into the wall and a large case slides out. “I knew what you meant. But we can’t all be lucky GenSOF operators, now can we?”

She opens the case and pulls out a pair of pants, a t-shirt, and underwear and socks, tossing them onto a chair a few feet away. She needs to get dressed, but her eyes are drawn to the many scars and burns that dot Blaze’s skin. She wants to reach out, but knows she can’t touch him, not unless she activates her StatShield. Which would make it very hard to get dressed.

He’s tall, shorn bald, and handsome in a scary way; scary not because of the scars and burns, but because of the mottled colors of his skin. Obvious grafts that have been performed over the years to replace areas on his body that have succumbed to one of the many flesh-eating Strains that run rampant in the Sicklands. Despite the
specialized bacterial load operators possess, they are still at the mercy of the Strains, just like the genpop. But unlike the genpop, they don’t die from the Strains, just heal up to fight again. It’s that ability that makes GenSOF operators a danger to the average citizen.

She shakes her head, wondering how he’s still alive; wondering how they have stayed together so long and not gotten caught.
She doesn’t wonder why his bacteria hasn’t killed her; she knows the answer to that. One day she hopes to share that with Blaze, but today she has to get dressed and get to work.

“What’s on your mind, Ms. Jersey Cale?” Blaze asks, turning from the workbench.

“Hard to remember with that looking right at me,” Jersey smiles as she glances at his crotch, slipping on her underwear and bra. “How about you get dressed too before I say fuck it to first shift and take a credit penalty.”

“I can’t help it if women love what I got,” Blaze smiles.

Jersey frowns, her eyes going steely. “Women?”

“You know how it is,” Blaze says, smiling wider. “I’m Courier Class, sugar. I go out into the Sicklands and kick ass for the Clean Nation, wiping out the Cootie menace.”

She drops the pair of jeans in her hand and walks over to him.

“You’re lucky I know you’re full of shit,” she says, taking her bra and underwear back off and throwing them over her shoulder.

“You’ll need to activate your StatShield,” he says, aroused, but also slightly alarmed. It’s a dangerous game they play. “In fact you shouldn’t have even turned it off. I got bugs in me that could make your guts liquefy.”

“Do you now?” Jersey says as she presses
the spot on her right wrist where her personal sat chip, or PSC, is located. A quick shimmer of light envelops her then disappears. “It’s active now.” She reaches down and grips the stiffness between his legs. “So are you.”

“Good one,” he says as he lifts her up, spins her around and sets her on the workbench.

“I don’t have long,” she says. “If I clock in in two minutes I can still keep those first shift credits.”

“I don’t need long,” Blaze replies, electric sp
arks flicking from her StatShield to his skin. “And you won’t either.”

He’s in her so fast she can only respond with a loud cry as she grips his ass, pushing him to go deeper, deeper, deeper.

It takes them exactly two minutes and thirteen seconds before they climax. Not quite in unison, but close enough to leave them panting and laughing as their bodies shudder around each other.

“Now, it’s work time,” Jersey says. “I’ll have to sonic later.” She hurries to her workbench and clocks in with seconds to spare. “And get dressed later. Can you turn the heat up?”

“That’ll eat into your credits,” Blaze says.

“Nah,” Jersey smiles as she throws on an apron over her sweat slicked skin. “I’ve made some mods to the conditioning unit. The extra power gets deducted from the asshole downstairs. Doesn’t affect me a bit.”

“You and your technology wiles,” Blaze laughs as he gets himself dressed. “I’m on leave for another couple of days. If I can get away I’ll be back tonight.”

“Don’t push it,” Jersey says, picking up a small static charged soldering iron. “I love seeing you, and actually love you, but we get caught and it’s all for nothing.”

“What’s all for nothing?” Blaze asks, looking at her as he holds his boots in his hands. “What is up with you lately? Is there something I need to know?”

Jersey comes close to telling him, but shoves the words aside and just shakes her head. “No, no, nothing,” she smiles. “Get going, operator. You get caught away from the GenSOF tower and they’ll throw you in the brig.” She shudders. “They find out you’ve been with me and…”

“Nothing will happen to you,” Blaze says. “I’ll make sure of that. Worse case scenario you end up as GenSOF support personnel, which wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

“And be stuck in that sterile tower the rest of my life? No, thanks,” Jersey frowns. “I’d go nuts.”

“You already are,” Blaze says as he steps to the wall and the door slides open. “I’ll try to make it again tonight.” He smacks his forehead. “Crap. No, I won’t. Poker night.”

“Right,” Jersey smiles. “What story are you going to tell them this time?”

“I may go with twins,” Blaze says. “Gotta keep my fake rep up. As long as they think I’m full of shit they won’t know to look for you.”

Jersey giv
es him a sad smile. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Jersey waits a few minutes to make sure Blaze is gone then takes off her apron and steps back from the workbench.

“Am I still logged in, Worm?” Jersey asks.

“According to your work station you are ahead of your quota,” Worm’s voice says from the speakers embedded in the loft’s ceiling.

“Don’t fudge the numbers too much,” Jersey says. “Then I’ll have to work overtime to catch up.”

The workbench before her slides into the wall and is replaced by a new one with considerably more advanced equipment.

“I hate this part,” Jersey says. She grabs a swab from the new workbench and inserts it vaginally. “Ugh.”

“It is integral to the process, Ms. Cale,” Worm says. “We must maintain accurate data in order to verify that the probiotic is effective.”

Jersey slips the swab into a slot on the table and it disappears. She takes another and swabs the inside of her cheek; then another and swabs under her left armpit.

“Can I get dressed now?” she asks.

“Once I know the samples are sufficient,” Worm says. “And I have StatMisted your body as well as your living quarters.”

“I hate getting StatMisted, Worm,” Jersey says. “But if it’s all for science.”

“It is for more than science, Ms. Cale,” Worm says. “It is for the well being of humanity.”

“So no pressure then?” Jersey smirks.

“Sampl
es are sufficient,” Worm says. “Please don your mask while I StatMist you clean.”

“Awesome.”