Monsters (28 page)

James wasn't convinced. As well trained as the soldiers were, his mind began thinking about escape. If a confrontation arose, what would he do? Where would he go? As they journeyed on, he kept a mental note of what he considered the best courses for retreat. He figured he'd let them tie down any monster that might stray across their path while he slipped away in the confusion.

As they moved beneath an overpass, James noted McIntyre had his hand on his sidearm. It had to be loaded, and James wondered what McIntyre might be looking for in the rusting steel girders barely a foot above their heads. Even the horses seemed wary of the bridges. What were they scared of? Whatever it was, it had to be small or the handgun would have been ineffective. Spiders? Ravens? Raccoons? The more he thought about it, the more his mind jumped at the shadows beneath the crumbling bridges.

They made good time on the flat open stretches of road.

With trees dotted along either side of the highway, James was unsure whether they were still within the town. Except for the towering ant hills in the downtown region, they could have been somewhere out in the countryside. He caught sight of a feral cat slinking away through the undergrowth. It had been crossing a pedestrian bridge over the freeway. For James, it was a good sign. The cat had been in the open, it had felt unthreatened until they'd come along. Once, domestic cats had been pets, now they were the least of the monsters. They tended to be overly cautious and careful. If a cat was in the open, there were no dogs within a mile or so, and James breathed easy. McIntyre saw the cat as well, pointing at the animal as it disappeared into the undergrowth, but he never said anything. Although talking wouldn't make any difference, it seemed no one wanted to jinx their transit through the city.

A thick tangle of juniper shrubs and weeds had taken hold in the center strip dividing the highway, forcing them to choose one side or the other.

With a wave of his hand, McIntyre signaled they should stay to the right. James silently agreed with the decision. With the shadows growing long, the western side of the expressway was in the shade, making it more dangerous, allowing monsters to lie in wait without being seen.

James had already noticed movement in the bushes, but he was sure it was from rats. That would explain the cat, as it was probably hunting them. The rats were no danger, not yet. Although they were a couple of feet in length, they tended to be scavengers. They'd scurry along beneath the bushes before dropping away, only for another couple of rats to pick up the trail further along. If the troop ran into a lion or a bear and there were casualties, the rats would be there, feasting on any bloodied scraps.

Slowly, the ruins of lowlying buildings began dominating the embankments. Occasionally, the screech of some wild animal or bird cut through the still air, setting their nerves on edge. As quiet as they thought they were in moving through the city, it was clear the animals didn't think so, and that was likely to attract attention, the wrong kind of attention.

James jumped as McIntyre's radio crackled. The words were harsh, hard.

“Rec-Force. We have visual.”

McIntyre reached into his satchel, picked up the radio and replied in the same terse tone of voice.

“Copy that.”

Looking at the downtown region rising before them, James wondered where archangel was watching from. Ants and termites traversed the mud-laden skyscrapers. Beyond them, a rusted water-tower sat alone on a hill. That had to be the observation post, James thought. One of the legs had buckled, causing the tower to lean to one side, but it still stood almost two hundred feet in the air.

“Rec-Force. We have Romeo Sierra en-route.”

“Copy, Archangel.”

McIntyre turned slightly back to face James. “They're sending troop reinforcements to guide us in.” It was the first time that day McIntyre had acknowledged him in that way. James felt he should reply and almost said, ‘copy that,’ in response.

“Great. The sooner we're off these streets the better.”

“There's still a way to go yet,” McIntyre said. “We'll probably link up just after the city center.”

So much for the northern tribes having reclaimed the cities. James was beginning to suspect that particular rumor was nothing more than propaganda. From what he'd gathered so far, he figured they had a token hold on a small portion of the city, somewhere on the outskirts. It was a far cry from driving the monsters out and reclaiming the land, but he could understand their motivation. You had to start somewhere and, for all their faults, the northern tribes had started. It was more than he could say for the raggedy band of villages to the south. And they'd reclaimed technology, not only finding and restoring equipment like radios, but figuring out a way to charge them.

The sun broke through the clouds. Although it was sitting low on the horizon, the warmth on his face was welcome. The horse seemed to appreciate it too, kicking up a little, but not out of fright. The lumbering beast picked up its pace, its hooves clacking on the crushed concrete.

As they approached downtown, the mud-packed nests towered above them. Trails of ants scurried along invisible paths that wound themselves along the edge of the road.

Each ant was the size of a man's foot or larger, carrying twigs, bits of wood, clumps of fur, and the dismembered carcass of a wasp. Their mandibles could leave a nasty bite, easily cutting through skin but not bone. With thick, bulbous bodies, they raced along faster than the soldiers jogging alongside the horses. It was only then James realized the soldiers had changed weapons. Instead of long pikes, carried midway so they were balanced, they now carried crossbows. He turned, looking at the horse coming up the rear behind them. The pikes and lances had been clipped in place on the huge beast, rising up slightly above the animal. Whatever they were expecting, it wasn't a bear or a dog.

James went to say something but McIntyre raised his hand, signaling quiet. The lead horse came to a stop, bringing the troop to a halt.

McIntyre pointed at the built-up layers of hard-packed dirt burying the road. At first James didn’t understand. Then he realized what it was that had attracted McIntyre’s attention.

There were no ants.

Whereas before, the ants had busied themselves, winding in trails along the road, now they were nowhere to be seen. In the cool air, perspiration broke out on his forehead. The ants had disappeared into underground caverns and tunnels. That they'd forsaken the surface worried him. Something wasn’t right.

The soldiers fanned out, spreading themselves across the street and climbing over the thick, caked-mud packed on the ground. The metal frame of a bus protruded from the mud on the far side of the street, below one of the skyscraping mounds. The rear of the rusted frame disappeared beneath the slope of mud and debris.

Soldiers took up positions, using the bus for cover. It was only now they'd come to a halt that James could hear a hum, a low, pulsating throb, but he couldn't place the direction. The noise seemed to come from all around them.

The soldiers looked nervous. They clumped in groups of three and four, with their backs turned to each other, guarding all approaches.

McIntyre snapped his fingers.

James was surprised by how crisp the sound was in the still breeze. With deft gestures, he used hand signals and pointed at several groups of soldiers. They understood implicitly what he wanted. The closest soldiers climbed up on Lisa's horse, taking positions at the back of the animal.

Lisa looked worried. Their eyes met for a moment and James remembered that look. It was the same expression she'd had on the mountain, one of desperation and anguish. She was afraid. He wanted to go to her, to tell her everything was going to be fine, but he wasn't sure what they were up against, and the soldiers with her looked determined and aggressive. She was in good hands, better hands than his.

The radio crackled. McIntyre switched it off. The two flanking groups of soldiers crept forward. Slowly, the column of four horses moved on, hanging back some thirty feet behind the scouts. James felt sorry for the soldiers out ahead, the six of them were bait, with the majority of the troop hanging back to cover the column of horses.

Although McIntyre hadn't said anything, James had a fair idea what they were up against: yellow jacket wasps. The hive had to be nearby, perhaps in one of the buildings.

His horse followed the lead horses up over the mounds of dirt blocking the road, climbing high above the street lost somewhere beneath the rock-hard dirt. The ground was uneven. The weight of the horse caused it to break through the surface occasionally, its hooves sinking into the brittle clay before it stepped forward again. With each step, James could feel the animal settling into the ground beneath them.

A couple of soldiers climbed up onto his horse, handing James a bow along with a quiver full of arrows. As they had crossbows, they joked about giving him a toy, but James ignored them. He could feel the tension in the bow begging to be fired. The balance was right, the grip tight.

James swung the quiver over his shoulder and pulled back on the drawstring of the bow. His fingers relished the feel of the pressure demanding release. James felt more confident already. Releasing the string slowly, he reached back and pulled out an arrow, examining it closely. The feathers had been set with a slight twist. They'd corkscrew nicely in flight, providing accuracy. The arrow shaft was light, while the head was a sharpened steel tip. Someone had put considerable care and effort into the arrow’s construction.

James almost willed a monster to attack. He held both the bow and the arrow loosely in his right hand as he sat swaying in the saddle of the horse. The soldier behind him whispered in his ear.

“Hornets are vicious. If they swarm, wait till they're close before you fire. They'll hover for a fraction of a second before attacking, sitting off from you by about six feet. They like to pick their point of attack. That's when you shoot. Fire too soon and you'll miss. They're just too fast. But fire when they're incoming and committed, and you'll take them easy.”

James nodded, thinking carefully about what the soldier had said. He knew there was a tendency to panic under pressure and appreciated the pointers, committing them to memory. These guys knew their stuff. He'd do well to pay heed, and he knew it.

The thick mass of raised clay stretched on for several hundred yards, lumpy and irregular. In the distance, he could see more troops. Reinforcements had arrived. He should have breathed easier but the throbbing, resonant hum around them set his nerves on edge.

Looking at the hard-packed dirt, James could see how it had been built up in layer upon layer by the insects, caked on like cement. The top of several street lamps sat just a foot or so above the uneven surface. Occasionally, signs were visible, their pale letters sticking out of the mud or having been exposed by the weather. They revealed the world lost beneath: God bless America, Taco Bell, Richmond welcomes safe drivers.

The soldiers kept their wary eyes on the buildings, especially the few visible windows not caked in mud.

The still air was broken by what James initially thought was the sound of thunder. He turned instinctively to see the horse behind them drop through the solidified mud, disappearing from sight in a whoosh of dust and dirt.

Immediately, hornets came swarming out of the hole. Soldiers screamed. The fallen horse panicked and struck out with its legs, trying desperately to clamber out of the hole as waves of hornets attacked in their thousands.

“Go. Go. Go,” McIntyre cried, whipping his horse.

Looking back, James could see wasps diving in and out of the gaping hole. The trapped horse reared up on its hind legs, throwing soldiers into the nest. Panic seized the troop. Such devastation occurring so quickly was overwhelming. The first of the horses must have weakened the ground, not knowing they were treading on the roof of a winter hive.

James held on as the horse under him bolted forward, its legs slipping on the crumbling clay, and he felt himself falling, as though the hive was continuing to collapse beneath them, but it was the jolt of the horse breaking into a gallop.

The cadence of the run had him bouncing in the saddle, struggling to hold on to the leather straps. At one point, he almost lost the long bow.

The sky turned black. Hornets raced around them, circling back so they could attack from all sides. One of the soldiers on the horse in front threw a heavy canvas sheet over Lisa, wrapping her in it before he found himself fending off a hornet trying to bite at his neck.

The soldiers with James began firing their crossbows, shooting only at those wasps that showed interest in them, leaving hundreds that soared further on. The sound was deafening, an incessant whine drowning out the cry of soldiers being stung to death.

With the wind in his hair and the horse galloping beneath him, James felt he was going to make it. He could see the reinforcements a couple of hundred yards ahead. They had lit fires on either side of the road and were heaping car tires and wood onto the flames. Balls of fire erupted into the air as cans of gasoline were thrown into the bonfires.

A hornet descended on James, keeping pace with him as the horse galloped across the crumbling clay.

The angry insect beat furiously at the air with its wings, its dark compound eyes set intently on him. The stark, black and yellow highlights on its abdomen were striped like a tiger. With its body arched, the wasp closed in, its stinger and jaws poised to strike at his face and neck.

James pulled back and fired with barely a thought to aim, shooting on instinct. The arrow caught the wasp in the thorax, knocking it sideways and causing it to spiral to the ground. The other wasps around him became incensed with the loss, and James found four more wasps darting at him. His footing came loose and he slipped, bouncing in the saddle, sliding over the edge of the massive horse as it galloped on. McIntyre grabbed him with one hand as he slid to one side, giving him the fraction of a second he needed to regain his hold on the saddle before falling to the ground some fifteen feet below.