The Last Peak (Book 2): The Darwin Collapse (35 page)

Had the infection progressed too far for the dose to work?

If not, how long for it to take effect?

If it did work, would there be any lasting damage?

She had more questions than answers. All questions and no answers was more like it. She was about to leave when she noticed a door on the far wall.

Antiviral Serum Production.

She had to get back to Iridia, and who knew where the deltas had broken in. But this was important. It could be
the
thing to change everything. Wasn’t this what the world was waiting for?

 
She rolled Theresa over and set the wheelchair to the side. She swiped a card reader. It blinked green and she opened the door.

This museum of horrors had a Mona Lisa.
 

Jack, the Bili chimps’ pack leader and Jane’s mate, was inside. He was alive. And that was the only good thing Beth could see about his situation.

And even that was questionable.

MASON
pinched his eyes shut. No, that wasn’t right because they were already shut. He squeezed them tighter. A sharp pain jabbing his cheek rose above the complaints emanating from numerous other places in his body. The sensation focused his mind, surprising him because it was a valid indicator that he was still alive. The memory of the final few minutes of consciousness flooded into his brain.

An uncomfortable weight pressed onto his chest. Was it the knowledge of what had happened?

His eyes snapped open.

Mr. Piddles sat on his chest staring down. So it wasn’t only the knowledge.
 

Mason looked around the bathroom.

He was alone.

Rather, he was the only one alive.

He tried scooting the cat off, but it resisted, leaning against his hand. He picked it up and moved it, which didn’t go over well.
 

Mr. Piddles hissed and darted out of the bathroom.

Stupid cat.

Mason pushed himself up into a seated position. His head spun and a wave of nausea clenched his gut and made his mouth water. He concentrated on simply existing. That alone was nearly impossible.

 
Several inert bodies lay around him. He scanned each one and was relieved to confirm that none of them were of his group. He searched the floor looking for the dropped Glocks. None were present. The assault team had scavenged the weapons. At a time when there was no obvious resupply, it was smart to grab weapons when you could. He would've done the same thing.

Unfortunately, the absence of firearms meant he was extremely vulnerable to any threats that might arise.

He found the Bonowi baton partially concealed under a delta's body. He pulled it free and snapped it to full extension. It wasn't a pistol, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing. He looked around for his knife but didn't see it. Maybe it was underneath one of these bodies, but Mason didn’t know if he had the strength to dig through the carnage.

First thing’s first. He had to get up.

He gripped the vanity and pulled himself to his feet. A sharp pain flared in his cheek making his legs wobble. He sat on the vanity to stay upright. He picked up a fragment of mirror from the countertop and peered at his reflection.

He knew there wouldn’t be a bright-eyed, cheery faced image staring back at him. But what he saw was almost unrecognizable. On a disturbing and profound level, his psyche refused to admit that it was him. White bone peeked out from a deep gash running diagonally down his cheek. Dark blue patches surrounded both eyes. He reached up to touch the open wound and winced as a stabbing pain in his forearm briefly rose above the other stimuli.

A three inch jagged splinter of wood protruded from the muscle. Mason gritted his teeth and yanked it out. The intensity of the wound faded leaving the gash in his cheek to once again command his attention. It needed stitches. A couple dozen by the looks of it. He spent a few seconds inventorying the countless cuts and scrapes.
 

He felt like a giant pile of beat up, exhausted crap, but he’d make it. He’d been worse off before.

With the quick self-assessment complete, the next thought that jumped into his mind was how to get to his family.

The chopper had presumably returned to Milagro Tower, as Anton had mentioned in the broadcasts during the assault on Juice’s bunker. But the tower in downtown Los Angeles was twenty miles away. And there was no such thing as easy-driving miles anymore.

He had the Bronco. It could handle jumping curbs and bulldozing over small piles of debris no problem. But the news reports had shown that the roads in and around downtown were jammed with abandoned vehicles. It had been nearly a week since the media went silent, but there was no reason to think the roads had magically cleared.

As heavy and strong as the Bronco was, it was no Abrams tank. He wasn't going to be able to point it at a block of densely packed cars and roll through it.

The electric cargo bike was likely still down the street, but the battery was dead. He had no doubt he could maneuver it through the maze of cars, but it might take half a day to get there. He still had Spock, Beth’s Vulcan 750. It was small enough that he could probably wind his way through the jam-packed streets while also picking up speed in any open areas along the way. With a combination of speed and maneuverability, he should be able to get there in a couple of hours if things went well.

It would have to do.

He took a number of deep breaths while listening for movement or other clues about who or what might remain in the house. The only sound was the slow inhale and exhale of his own breath. There didn't appear to be any immediate threat. He nudged bodies around looking for his lost knife. The third body revealed its location. It was still stuck in the corpse’s torso. Mason tugged it free and wiped the crimson stain on a fragment of clothing clinging to the delta’s waist.

Mason worked his way out into the hallway, stepping over lifeless limbs. His heart wanted to grieve for them. These people likely led ordinary, comfortable lives just ten days ago. The intervening days had taken away everything, starting with the mind that made them human, and ending with the blood that kept them alive.

They didn’t deserve this end.

His family had been taken by a maniac. Juice and Linda had been murdered by the same man.

Mason had only one objective, though it came in two parts.

Save his family.

And kill Anton Reshenko.

He crept down the hallway toward the stairs. What next? The house. Clear the house to ensure no one else got left behind. Deal with threats if any arose.

The air reeked of human excrement mixed with the sharp scent of blood. He longed for a gulp of whiskey to burn away the foul taste coating his mouth.

The rooms upstairs were empty and the rooms downstairs turned out to be the same. The front door had been blown off its hinges and lay on top of a body on the floor. The body lay perpendicular to the door underneath its center. Both ends of the door balanced in the air like some kind of twisted playground seesaw.

Was this the new world? Would children ever be free to play outside again?

Mason skirted around the macabre arrangement and stopped beside the open doorway. He listened and heard a commotion outside. He raised the baton, preparing to strike down whatever was coming.

Nothing came.

He listened again. The sounds appeared to be coming from beyond the courtyard, out in the street. He quietly slipped outside and surveyed the bodies in the courtyard.

Jesus. These used to be people. People with families and lives and dreams.

Mason threw a stick of dynamite on that train of thought. It would take him nowhere useful right now.

He saw Beth’s motorcycle over by the gate where they’d left it. A tiny spark of hope flickered in his chest. Movement created optimism. If he was doing something, going somewhere, then he still had a chance. He crept over and was about to throw a leg over the seat when he stopped.

There was a puddle of shiny, black liquid below the engine. A viscous drop hit the surface as he watched. He knelt down and took a closer look.

Shit.

A large caliber bullet had punched a ragged hole in the engine. Mason didn't know if the assault team had purposely spiked the vehicle or if it had been hit by a loose round, but it didn't much matter. The bike was going nowhere fast. He was tempted to try to start it anyway to see what happened but with the odds leaning toward a fiery explosion, he decided against it.

Which left the Bronco.

It could get him closer, but he’d get bogged down at some point. And he wasn't in any kind of shape to walk for miles and miles.

Anger burned in his chest. He had to get to his family and yet had no way to do it. They wouldn’t survive for long. Anton had killed Juice and Linda in cold blood. He was more than capable of doing the same to Mason’s family.

Juice and Linda.

They'd been murdered, and the knife that twisted in Mason’s gut was that he was partly to blame. They’d gotten involved by helping him. Juice’s generosity had gotten he and his wife killed. His old friend was exactly what this changed world needed most. An inventive problem solver that knew how to get shit done.

Mason listened again to the movement somewhere beyond the perimeter wall. He climbed up on the bike and peeked over.

In the middle of the street, a small group of deltas surrounded the body of one of the assault team members. They’d managed to tear through his tactical gear and expose the flesh below.
 

Mason wondered how long he’d been out because the corpse was utterly ravaged. The leg bones looked like they’d been cleaned with a scrub brush. A large delta gnawed meat off a small bone. Maybe from the hand or foot.

The operator’s HK MP7 lay a couple feet from his body. The deltas ignored it, not understanding its value. Mason knew better, but he also knew they wouldn’t ignore him. And a baton wasn’t enough offense to take on the eight deltas picking the corpse clean.

He dropped back down off the bike and made his way around the back of the house. He found a trashcan and used it to hike up over the wall and drop down into his own backyard. He strode toward the Bronco, still thinking about his part in Juice’s death. About the injustice of cutting down a man with so much to give.

He jolted to a stop mid-stride. A memory flashed into focus. Maybe Juice wasn't done helping.

Maybe it was time to reveal his latest and greatest invention.

Mason shook his head. It was insanity, of course. But he couldn't think of a better option. He hopped in the Bronco and fired it up. The throaty old bruiser growled to life, the rumbling an assertion that it was ready for anything.

He pulled out on to the street and revved the engine at the group of deltas. They screamed and shouted. Half of them cowered in terror and the other half glared, ready to charge him. He could run them down and try to recover the rifle, but could he live with himself having done it?

No.

These people, or creatures, or whatever, were not enemy combatants. They hadn’t willingly entered a war zone to fight and possibly die if the vagaries of war turned against them.

Mason hit the gas, weaving around bodies where he could and rolling over them where he couldn't. The wet crunch under the tires only vaguely distressed him. The weary numbness in his mind kept it somewhat at a distance. He remembered the feeling well. He and his men had felt it in Fallujah. It was a survival mechanism. The mind closing in on itself when the horrors of the outside world threatened to unravel it.

Compassion required comfort, to some degree at least. When all comfort was stripped away, when only suffering remained, it was a rare soul that could still hold onto both compassion and sanity at the same time.

Mason left the group to their grisly business and headed toward Juice’s house. He turned south and headed toward the canals.

Movement up ahead caught his attention. Five people sitting in a front yard. Numerous large planters had replaced the usual turf. They sat huddled together in one of the aisles between planters.

Were they crazy?

As he got closer, he saw the truth of it. Not people. Deltas. A family with three kids. All of them either naked or wearing fragments of tattered clothing.
 

Mason slowed as he got closer.
 

The mother plucked a tomato from a tall plant and handed it to one of the young boys. The boy accepted it and popped it into his mouth. He crunched down and juice dribbled down his chin. The other two held their hands up asking for their fair share.

The father stood up and faced the Bronco as Mason stopped in the street. He stepped in between his family and stared at Mason. His eyes narrowed and his body tensed.

They seemed so normal. And yet, the differences made the scene all the more surreal.

Clearly, they weren’t all aggressive. Why were some more aggressive and others, like these people, almost normal?

Mason didn’t want to scare them or start a confrontation, so he eased off the brake and continued on.
 

He was a few blocks away when an enormous, muscled delta loped out into the street. It must’ve been a bodybuilder in its previous life.

It stood in the middle of the street staring at the approaching Bronco. No stitch of clothing remained. The creature didn't flinch as Mason drove closer. Did it not recognize the danger of getting run over? Did it not understand what happened when flesh collided with steel at twenty miles per hour?

Mason scanned both sides of the road and didn't see a clear path. It would've been easier to drive straight through the unfortunate creature. There was no threat of damage to his vehicle. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. With less than thirty feet remaining between them, Mason steered left and hopped over the curb. He smashed through a black wrought iron fence and demolished what had once been a meticulously manicured front yard. He stomped on the brake as the next yard had a concrete retaining wall a couple of feet high.