AntiBio: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (7 page)

14

“FUCK!” Hoagie shouts as he jerks away from the set of robotic arms that hover about him. “You fucking pinched my tricep! Again! Worm? Make them stop that shit!”

“I am sorry, Sergeant,” Worm says. “But the preparation procedure is automated and outside my control. I will send a report to maintenance to schedule recalibration of the arms.”

“Doesn’t help me now, though, does- FUCK!”

“They a little pinchy today?” Blaze asks as he walks into the prep cube next to Milo’s.

“Not for me,” Milo says. “Hoagie just can’t stand still.”

“I do stand still, asshole,” Hoagie snaps. “They still fucking pinch me!”

“Maybe they don’t like you, Hoag,” Paulo smiles as his arms and legs are encased in flexible, form fitting body armor. He winces a little as the armor is sealed. “Or maybe they do need calibration.”

“See,” Hoagie says. “Standing still doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Report has been sent and I offer my apologies, operators,” Worm says.

Blaze holds out his arms and spreads his legs as the dozens of small robotic arms start to go to work. A thin sheen of silicon is sprayed over his uniform then pieces of heavy duty plastic are pressed around his joints. He flexes his knees and elbows then nods and the arms continue. Piece after piece of body armor is carefully applied and sealed in place. The cube flashes with a brilliant light as the armor is statically charged.

“Thank you,” Blaze says, stepping away from the cube.

He joins his squad mates as they file from the prep room and into the armory next door. A helmet, a large pack, and a short, black baton waits for each operator at various stations in the stark room. Blaze holds out his wrist to one of the stations and the StatShield encompassing the equipment blinks out. He picks up the helmet and places it on his head, waiting for the semi-claustrophobic feeling as it molds perfectly to the contours of his skull.

“Face plate,” he says and there is a shimmer of light across the opening of the helmet. “Tactical test run.” Maps, data streams, targeting protocols, all flash before Blaze’s eyes. “IRIS integration. Targeting.” The targeting protocol moves from in front of his face to the direct vision in his left eye. “Clear. Navigation.” The targeting is replaced by the three dimensional grid of the terrain surrounding Caldicott City.” “Clear. Data.” His personal vital signs, the POV’s and vital signs of his squad mates, the current temperature and weather forecast for the Sicklands, as well as the energy level of the baton he holds, stream across his vision. “Clear.”

Blaze grips the baton and gives it a hard s
nap to the left and down. It begins to expand and mold around his hand, extending two feet out in front and one foot back, going from a thin cylinder to a heavy duty rifle. Blaze puts the butt of the rifle up against his shoulder and turns to the far wall.

The rest of the squad
matches his movements and all fire as part of the wall slides away to reveal a thick patch of rubber. The rubber absorbs the bright blue static charges that fly at it. Satisfied with the results, they snap their hands down and to the right and their rifles shrink into  large pistols. Again, as a squad, they raise the weapons, fire at the wall, and watch as the charges are absorbed. They snap their hands up and left then right and the pistols become larger versions of the original batons, but glow brightly.

“Weapons systems are operating at optimal levels,” Worm states. “You have been cleared to proceed to the transport bay.”

Zebra squad turns on its heels and the wall that had been behind them slides away to reveal the buzz of work in the transport bay. Chief Roark is standing there, her lips pressed into a thin grimace.

“You guys just had to fuck up my day, huh?” she snaps as one by one they walk past her. She slaps a metal patch to each of their right shoulders. “You have Tranny Eighteen today. Treat the girl right and bring her back in one piece, will ya?”

“We’ll do our best,” Milo smiles. “You seen LT?”

“I have seen lots of LTs,” Chief Roark says. “
And each one is such a treat to behold.”

“Have you seen
our
LT?” Milo says. “Lane?”

“He has shown initiative and is already on board Eighteen,” Chief Roark. “So how about you join him and get the fuck out of my hair?”

“Pleasure as always, Chief,” Milo nods.

“Suck a dick, Kailua,” Chief Roark says as she makes four marks on a checklist, swipes her fingers, and watches the list blink out.

Zebra squad work their way around mechanics and repair orbs that flit here and there through the transport bay. They get to Tranny Eighteen and stop, their eyes fixed on the unusual sight before them.

A woman dressed in armor that matches the operators’, but is bright white instead of black, is busy shouting orders to a man and woman loading four long, grey cylinders into the cargo hold of the transport.

“Is she Clean Guard?” Hoagie asks. “Doesn’t look like Clean Guard. She looks like a bug doc in Clean Guard drag.”

The woman sees the squad standing there and nods then goes back to supervising the placement of the cylinders. A checklist appears in her hands as she scans one of the cylinders. Blaze’s eyes go wide as a picture of a woman appears then blinks out.

“What?” Paulo asks. “You see something?”

“Are there people in there?” Blaze asks. “I could have sworn-”

“Zebra squad!” Ton shouts from the transport hatch. “Let’s move!”

They turn their attention to their commanding officer and book it up into the transport. The inside is smooth metal just like every other surface in the tower. There are two seats up front, one on each side of the transport, and one in the rear. Other than
that, there isn’t a single detail except for the reflections of the squad off the metal.

“Sir,” Blaze says
once all operators are inside and the hatch closes behind him. “The cargo. What is it?”

“Not our concern, Sergeant,” Ton replies. “What is our concern is making sure Dr. DeBeers arrives at Control safe and sound.”

“Why no Clean Guard, LT?” Hoagie asks. “Bug docs never travel outside Control without Clean Guards.”

“How’d she get here without them?” Paulo asks. “I didn’t even think bug docs could leave Control without their escorts.”

“You keep asking questions and I’ll keep not having answers,” Ton replies. “The mission is to deliver Dr. DeBeers and her cargo to Control. Yes, this should be accomplished by Clean Guard, but since they are not present, the task has been handed to us. We have the most runs between CC and Control which is why our leave was cut short. That’s all I know.”

He focuses his eyes on Blaze.

“Whatever you thought you saw, forget it,” Ton warns. “It’s a distraction and we can’t afford distractions. Take your stations and I’ll show you why.”

Milo and Ton move up front
, with Milo taking the left seat and Ton taking the right. Paulo sits in the seat against the right wall and Hoagie sits in the one by the left wall. Blaze grabs the seat in the rear. The dogs all settle on the floor next to their operators, ignoring the safety harnesses that slide up next to them. Vid screens come alive in front of each operator and they find themselves looking at a sat image of the Sicklands.

“This is
twenty-five clicks from the wall,” Ton says, swiping his hand across the image in front of him. The views zoom in on all screens. “As you can see, the satellites have picked up a large group of Cooties massing along our route.”

“We need an alternate?” Milo asks. “Or will we engage?”

“I would rather not do either,” Ton says. “But the doctor is on a time schedule and we can’t afford to go around.”

“Engaging could cost us more time, sir,” Paulo says. “That’s a lot of Cooties.”

“Estimates show the number to be close to sixty-five,” Worm states.

“Sixty-five?” Hoagie asks. “You sure, Worm? I haven’t seen that many Cooties in one place in a long time.”

“Like I said, Sergeant Menendez,” Worm responds. “It is an estimate. The Sicklands inhabitants do not posses PSCs like regular citizens of the Clean Nation cities. There is no way to take an accurate census. I stand by my estimate of sixty-five, with a margin of error of five to seven.”

“So there could be over seventy of them,” Blaze says. “Weapons?”

“Satellites do not detect the presence of any static weapons, but the group could be wielding primitives such as spears, axes, knives, bats, lengths of pipe, or even possibly large rocks.”

“Not large rocks,” Paulo laughs. “Anything but large rocks.”

“I can assure you the transport will hold up to any of those weapons listed,” Worm says. “You will not need to fear the large rocks, Sergeant.”

“Good to know
. I was so worried,” Paulo grins. “Explosives?”

“No sign of any explosive or incendiary devices,” Worm says. “But they can be cloaked easily from satellite detection. The transport’s sensors will be able to pick up signatures as we get closer.”

“I’m calibrating for it now,” Blaze says from the rear seat, a stream of diagnostic information rushing past on his screen. “I’ve got us dialed in for everything from methane balloons to diesel cocktails.”

“Diesel,” Hoagie snorts. “Fucking savages.”

“They scavenge what they can,” Paulo shrugs. “You would too if you lived like they do.”

“Can’t call that living,” Hoagie replies. “More like waiting to die.”

“They’re people, man,” Paulo states. “Just like you and me.”

“Do not sympathize with the Cooties,” Ton orders. “They are not people like us. They are bloodthirsty carriers of disease. If they could
, they’d turn the Clean Nation cities into just more piles of rubble for the Sicklands. They are the enemy and they will be dealt with accordingly. Understood?”

“Sir, I wasn’t sympa-”

“Understood, Sergeant?” Ton snaps.

“Yes, sir,” Paulo nods. “Of course, sir.”

“Good,” Ton says. “Now I want each of you to study the route. Lock that shit in your brains. We have made this run plenty of times, but each mission is different. Do not rely on what you know, only what you see. Once we are a click off from the group, we will reassess the situation. If we can push through then we will. If not then I will entertain alternatives.”

“Yes, sir,” they all reply.

“I do not believe alternatives will be acceptable,” a voice says as the wall in front of Blaze shimmers and becomes transparent, leaving only his vid screen in place. “Your mission is to take the most direct route and return me and my cargo to Control in the least amount of time possible.”

“Zebra squad, this is Doctor Mona DeBeers,” Ton says. “She is our mission. We will protect her at all costs.”

“And my cargo,” Dr. DeBeers adds. “My cargo will be protected as if it is an extension of my person.”

The operators look at the cylinders that are secured behind the doctor in the cargo hold. The woman, older with salt and pepper hair cut into a short bob, is seated in a chair similar to the ones the operators occupy, but hers is equipped with several more layers of restraints and padding. She looks comfortable enough, yet Blaze can tell she
does not like wearing the body armor that protects her.

“We’re not being asked to die for a set of tubes, are we, LT?” Hoagie asks.

“You are being asked to complete your mission without question, operator,” Dr. DeBeers says. “And your mission is to safely deliver me and my cargo to Control. If you die completing your mission then that will be unfortunate, but it will also mean you have done your duty for the Clean Nation. Do you have an issue with doing your duty for the Clean Nation, Sergeant…?”

“Menendez,” Hoagie replies. “GenSOF Sergeant Courier Class Hogarth Menendez, ma’am.”

“Doctor,” she replies.

“I’m sorry?” Hoagie asks.

“I haven’t spent my life searching for cures to the Strains to be called ma’am,” Dr. DeBeers says. “You can refer to me as doctor or Dr. DeBeers.”

“Yes, ma’- doctor,” Hoagie replies. “My apologies.”

“I can understand the confusion, Sergeant Menendez,” Dr. DeBeers says. “I believe this is the first time you have transported anything other than inert cargo to Control. The Clean Guard usually handles all transportation of personnel to and from Control, but I have had to move my time schedule up so they were not prepared to return me. They will remain behind with two other doctors that are visiting the GenSOF tower.”

She smiles, but no
ne of the operators feels any warmth from it.

“And to be perfectly clear, the Clean Guard does not question the fact that their lives
are there for the protection of all Control personnel. I expect you not to question it either.”

“Of course not, Dr. DeBeers,” Ton says. “Thank you for understanding the special circumstances. Now, if my squad doesn’t mind, I’d like
to get this run underway. The sooner we are gone the sooner we can return.”

“By all means, continue
your protocols,” Dr. DeBeers says. “I have work of my own to do while we travel.” Her focus shifts to the air directly in front of her, and although none of the operators can see it, it is obvious she is studying a vid screen from her point of view.