Crucible Zero (12 page)

Slater knows you're out to kill him. He's tearing the world apart looking for the key for how to kill you. If you read this, Matilda, don't get close to him; don't fight him. You can't win.

—W.Y.

E
ven though I had my head tucked against Abraham's wide back, my arms locked around him and legs straddling his sides, riding a motorcycle when one is concussed is all kinds of painful.

I found the best thing I could do was keep my eyes closed and concentrate on the shifting of his muscles beneath the layers of clothing he wore, trying to make myself useful—or at least not a hindrance in the turns and switchbacks of the road.

Unfortunately, none of the vehicles had survived the crash well, and we had to take it even slower than the vehicles might manage, because Quinten was semiconscious and Foster had to compensate for his nearly dead weight.

What would have taken us an hour in the bus took more than two. It was late afternoon, and when I did risk a quick look out to the goal horizon, it felt like we hadn't even crossed half the distance.

When Neds' motorcycle started sending out an alarming amount of smoke, we decided to pull off the road under some trees to let the engine cool down.

I groaned as I tried to get feeling into my butt and legs, and walked stiffly over to where Foster was still straddling the four-wheeler, Quinten facing him in his arms.

“How's he doing?” I asked.

“He needs rest,” Foster said. “Shelter.”

“I know.” I glanced down the road, then back at Neds, who were strolling off a distance to pee.

Abraham had pulled out his canteen and taken a drink, and handed it to me.

I swallowed until I cleared the dirt in my throat, then took the canteen over to Foster.

“We're not going to make it to House Earth before nightfall,” I said to Abraham.

“Mmm,” he replied.

“Do you know of a place we can hole up until morning?”

Foster took a swig of water, then, without having to say anything, we both worked on waking Quinten enough to take a drink.

Quinten's eyes were swollen almost shut, but he opened them a slit. We tipped the canteen to his mouth, and he managed to down three or four gulps.

“Where?” he croaked.

“Still on our way to House Earth. Almost there,” I lied. “We fell off the road. Last time I let Neds drive.”

He grunted, which I think was supposed to pass as a laugh.

“The ferals . . .” he said.

“I know. You don't have to worry about them either. We've got that all taken care of.”

That either satisfied him or it was all the strength he had. He closed his eyes and slumped forward into Foster again.

Foster wrapped his left arm around him, holding him steady as easily as if he were a child.

“Do you want me to trade with you, Foster?” I asked.

He shook his head. “We should go soon. Abraham. Shelter.”

It wasn't quite a command. I glanced over at Abraham. He stood near his bike, eyes set on a point to the northwest. “There's a cabin. It's not large, but it should have fire lines, and it might have other provisions.”

“How far away?” I asked.

“Two hours. In the right direction. We'll be able to make the compound in the early morning tomorrow.”

“Should we just push through the early hours of the night instead?” I asked.

“No,” Abraham and both Neds said.

“We'll go to the cabin,” Abraham continued. “Foster, I'll take lead; you follow. Mr. Harris, you take the rear.”

Neds rolled his good shoulder and shook out his hand. “Let's do it,” Right Ned said.

I glanced at the motorcycle. My legs were already feeling the past couple hours. But two more wouldn't be so bad. Besides, we still had good weather, and so far no other signs of mercenaries.

“Is there a reason no one else has come out to kill us?” I asked Abraham as he mounted the bike and steadied it for me to get on.

“It's getting late,” he said. “Whoever is out here is looking for their own place to hole up.”

“Do they know about the cabin?”

“Probably.”

“And we're just going to ride up to a cabin full of mercenaries and knock on the door?” I wrapped my arms around his waist.

“I wasn't going to knock.” He started the engine, checked to make sure Neds and Foster were set, and started down the road again.

*   *   *

Evening was draining down quickly, shadows growing under the brush thick beside the road. Old, abandoned fences threw stripes of darkness across our path.

It was cold, and getting colder fast. I glanced up, trying to get a bead on the sunset. I couldn't see the sun, and even the cool gold light that had poured through the trees fifteen minutes ago was gone.

There would be no more light until morning.

Abraham had turned off a side road about an hour ago. It was little more than a rutted path in the dirt that we had to take slowly, because of the winter washouts that had cut deep wallows in the road. Brush and brambles reached out from either side of the path, and at one point were so dense, we had to stop for Abraham to hack away at them with a machete.

Every time we stopped, I could feel the shifting in the shadows. I'd been around ferals at the edges of our property my whole life. Crocboar and the like. I knew what they sounded like; I knew how they hunted.

And I knew they were hunting us.

The only good thing about us having to go so slowly was the possibility that other people—people who wanted us dead—hadn't been out this way recently. The disadvantage?

Well, those were lurking between the trees, flashes of teeth and fur I caught out of the corner of my eye.

If anyone was following us, we had left obvious tracks in the dusty soil, and hacking back the brush would be a clear indication that we'd turned this way.

Every inch of my skin was tight with goose bumps, my senses sharp, heartbeat pounding. There was danger here. We were in danger.

“How much farther?” I asked as Abraham rolled to a stop so he could hack back another bramble of blackberries.

“Half a mile?” he said between swings.

I glanced at the forest around us. “Give me your knife.” I swung off the bike, pulling the one blade I had with me. Why hadn't I packed my usual weapons?

Maybe because I didn't have any usual weapons, seeing as how I'd been mostly dead in this world and Evelyn had been living this life instead of me.

Abraham pulled his knife—a long, wicked-looking thing—and flipped it, offering me the hilt.

“Why?” he asked.

“Ferals. Close.”

He swore in a language I didn't recognize—maybe Russian—and redoubled his efforts to clear a hole we could drive through out of the thicket.

I stepped away, walking several yards back the way we'd come so I had some maneuvering room to fight. Foster was sitting on the quad, Quinten strapped on in front of him and leaning into him. Since Quinten was unconscious, Foster's hands were full. He couldn't help fight if the ferals attacked.

Neds were half asleep, Right Ned's head resting against Left Ned's. They had only one working arm, and needed that for the bike.

Only Abraham and I were well enough and unencumbered enough to deal with the beasts.

And if Abraham didn't clear that trail, we were in for a hell of a time. I didn't think we had enough knives or bullets between us to put the ferals down if they were as blood hungry as I'd been told they were.

“Matilda,” Left Ned said softly.

He didn't have to. I saw it.

The feral slunk out from behind the tree, three more behind it. They weren't as ugly as the crocboar we had on our property, but they looked intent on the same thing: killing.

Mottled fur covered their heavy heads and blocky torsos, and spindly hips were tucked down low over short, wolflike back legs. Their front legs weren't legs, but more like monkey arms. They moved forward on all fours, lips pulled back from hooked yellow teeth, pointed ears flattened against their wide heads.

There was only one way to make sure a crocboar went down and stayed down: stab it through the eye and into the brain.

Since these ferals were mutated too, I figured that would work with these beasties.

I shifted my grip on the knife in my right hand. And bent my knees.

The beasts rushed. A storm of teeth, muscle, and claw.

I dodged the first two, and sank my knife into the third one's eye. It howled and squealed. I worked to pull the knife free, but it was thrashing too hard for me to get leverage. It kicked and bucked at the knife, then swung its front arms wildly, grabbing for me.

I grabbed it back, holding its arms and pivoting. I threw my weight to force the beast in front of me.

The other two slammed into me. I swore and braced my back leg and hips. They clawed and bit at their fallen pack mate, who was my temporary shield. I wrenched the knife free and stuck it in one eye, two. The ferals fell off, writhing and shrieking.

I threw the dead feral on top of the other two. Ducked as another bolted out of the shadows at me.

It practically bent in half to turn back on me. I slashed, missing the eye, my knife wedging into its shoulder.

Shit.

It backed off before I could withdraw the knife, snarling off into the shadows, tugging at the knife.

Terrific. I'd just armed my possibly opposable-thumbed enemy.

Three more ferals galloped out of the shadows. Two came straight at me while one waited. That one appeared to have spotted the pile of dead I had left in the middle of the road and seemed to be reconsidering the direct attack.

They were feral, and they were smart. It was probably how they'd survived out here this long: quick adaptation.

That could be a problem.

I pulled the revolver; didn't know how many bullets I had left, and didn't have time to look.

Aimed for the eyes. One feral jerked, went down. Aimed for the next. Two shots. Hit, but not clean.

I swore again, rushed to meet its attack, stuck the knife in its eye, and danced back out of arm's length. It fell, rolled, and howled, then was still.

I scanned the shadows. Didn't see any more ferals.

“Matilda!” Abraham said. I glanced his way, expecting a swarm of ferals to have slipped around behind me.

He was jogging to the bike. The road was clear.

“Wait!” I yelled.

“Now,” he said. “There will be more. Many more.”

I hurried over to where the feral had retreated with the knife and searched the forest floor for the blade.

“Matilda!” Abraham said again.

I heard the engines. “A minute!”

Weapons weren't exactly plentiful. We'd lost most of what we had in the tumble over the cliff. I wasn't going to leave a perfectly good knife behind.

Something shifted in the shadows. Brittle timber snapped. They were out there. They were coming.

Crap.

I pushed aside needles and leaves.

Found it!
I picked up the knife and ran back to the road, stumbling once but catching myself before I fell.

Abraham was already driving my way, his gun drawn. He fired at whatever was in range behind me. Pulled the bike to a stop and fired again as I got on.

“Told you to come,” he said.

“I was looking for your knife,” I said as he handed me the gun.

“Don't care about the damn knife. I care about you.” He turned the bike, barreling down the road at speed.

“You're welcome,” I yelled over the growl of the engine. I twisted to get a look at how close the ferals were.

Close. Too close. And it wasn't just three or four. It was a dozen. More than a dozen.

I didn't have enough bullets to take them all down, so I held fire unless one of them got within a couple yards of the bike.

And they did. They might look like top-heavy wild-dog things, but they could put on bursts of speed.

I fired, and the closest feral tumbled. The rest leaped right over its body, galloping after us. I took down another. Missed as Abraham swerved, fired again. Hit.

I turned to look ahead. No ferals outpacing us yet, but it couldn't be long. The cabin was in sight. Larger than I expected, maybe a thousand square feet or so inside it. The roof was peaked and relatively moss-free. A good hundred yards around it was cleared of trees and brush.

Foster and Neds had already made it to the cabin and had dismounted their bikes. Foster kicked in the door, carrying a still-unconscious Quinten in his arms. Neds lifted his rifle one-handed, tucked it against his good shoulder, and fired.

Abraham pulled up under the cover of Neds' fire, stopped the bike, and killed the engine.

“Go!” I yelled at Neds.

I hopped off the back. Assessed the situation.

A wave of fur, fangs, and claws was closing in on us. Twice as many as I'd seen before.

We didn't need bullets. We needed flamethrowers. This was no time to take a stand.

I ran for the cabin door. Neds were already ahead of me.

Abraham was on my heels. “Go, go, go!” he shouted.

We rushed into the cabin, and Abraham slammed the door shut.

The only problem? Foster had broken the latch, and our pursuers had opposable thumbs.

“The door won't hold,” I said, leaning against it.

“I know.” Abraham was feeling along the wall to the right.

“Do we have more guns? We need more guns,” I said.

“Just. Wait.”

“For what miracle?” I asked.

“This.” He flipped a switch, and something bright flashed outside. The ferals howled.

“What's that?”

“Fire line. We rode over it on the way here.” He shut the fuse box and strode to the window on the other side of me, then pulled back the curtains.

It wasn't dark out there at all.

Abraham slid the window open and knelt in front of it. He drew his rifle off his back and carefully fired a half-dozen shots. He waited a moment, glancing up away from the sight so he could get a wider view.