Love, Death, Robots, and Zombies Read online

  Chapter 11.

  Hope can’t stave off a horde of zombies, unfortunately.

  We move west, and always to the north there are roamers in abandoned villages and crumbling buildings. Always Echo is searching for a place to get through, her mind on Haven. We try to keep well away from the infected. I’m constantly scanning the horizon with my spyglass. Even so, it’s not long before we have to confront one.

  It comes out of the west, ahead of us, and we try to go around it–but it spots us. It’s not one of the slow ones. It rumbles toward us on high-stomping feet, mouth open, a strange desperation in its thoughtless gray visage. When it becomes apparent the thing will just keep running at us, I raise my crossbow.

  “Careful,” Echo urges. She only has four bullets in the machine-pistol, so we’re not about to waste those.

  I breathe. I aim. The zombie is running full-tilt when the bolt takes it through the nose. I have a flashback of Ballard’s eye popping out. The head whips back, and the thing collapses. Shakily, I retrieve the bolt.

  We go west again.

  Gradually, the z-line veers northwest. We follow it like the bank of a river, praying the waters don’t overflow. No one can say why the z-line exists. I’ve heard talk about magnetic lines and the path of the wind and crazier things, but that’s probably all nonsense. I assume it’s there because there were a string of major population centers along its path, and this was just where the plague-walkers ended up thriving–but why wouldn’t they stray from the area over time?

  We kill a dozen zombies in the first three days. My bolts are actually getting dull. We find an old shovel in the rubble and add it to our arsenal. I have a knack for finding and exploiting hidden water-holes, but food is harder to locate. Sleep is harder still. We don’t dare rest with a roamer anywhere in sight, so before camping each night we head south at least a mile. We never lie down unless we’re well-hidden, and even then we’re paranoid and easily startled.

  The land changes.

  Shrub-desert yields to fields of brittle brown desert-grass. There’s more small game, even full-sized trees here and there. Some grow up through the rubble of destroyed homes. Nature is retaking the world, healing the scars inflicted by humanity.

  The grass hides danger too, however. Echo almost steps directly on a roamer. It makes no sound. A grasping hand brushes her ankle as she walks. She leaps five feet and screams, crashing into me. I trip backwards and we both go to the ground. The zombie’s legs are missing. It drags itself hand over hand through the field. We scramble up. Echo grabs the shovel. She smashes it over the head until its skull turns to mush, like a broken pumpkin.

  She stands there, chest heaving, expression terrible. Slowly, she looks at me … and laughs–half from the look on my face, half out of sheer relief. Laughing with the bloody shovel, spattered with gore, she’s like a savage blonde psychopath. From then on, we watch the horizon and the ground at our feet.

  At night, there’s a new closeness between us. We sleep together under the blanket, not entirely for warmth. I get used to her there. There’s a fragile tension. My body wants more. I want to roll on top of her and hold her down, feel the fierce press of her lips. When her fingers shift slowly on my stomach, when her breathing is deep, I imagine she wants the same. Other times, I think I’m delusional. Maybe I’m just imagining things. Ballard comes to mind. I remember how she offered herself to me, and what I said to break her.

  Thus, there’s an invisible barrier between us. Sometimes, when we lay together at night, the slightest movement threatens to shatter it completely. A turning point is inevitable. Yet we’re bound together, each the other’s sole remaining friend–how can we risk more? If something goes wrong, if she doesn’t reciprocate–or if she lets me only because she thinks she has to–all will be lost. A wedge will come between us. And in the wastes, a mental wedge can lead to very physical dangers.

  So the barrier remains. But it’s increasingly hard to ignore.

  A week or so out of Scargo–I’ve stopped counting the days–we come upon a village.

  The z-line is still running north-northwest. The bloody thing is endless. There are no significant breaks, no areas to cross through without attracting the attention of a dozen roamers. We can take some roamers out if we need to, but if they build up too fast we’ll be screwed. We have to be absolutely sure we can get through before making the attempt. I’m arguing against that we should strike out due west when Echo stops and squints at the horizon ahead…

  There are houses up there. Not broken-down piles of rubble. Actual houses. Gleaming red and white. Roofed. We turn to each other in wonder–is this one of the settlements Wade mentioned?

  The z-line doesn’t run straight. Roamers spread out in all directions, and it’s hard to tell if this precise location should be included in what we’ve come to think of as “horde territory.” We’ve been staying south of the main thoroughfare. The village is more to the west.

  Cautiously, we approach. I put a bolt through a roamer on the way there. Aside from that, none are even in sight. A bit closer, I use my spyglass. The houses look nice–but there are no people. No roamers either. It’s like a perfectly preserved ghost-town.

  Warily, we close in.

  We enter the first house. Still nothing. No roamers, no people. The furniture is intact. Cushions have moldered and wasted away, but couches and chairs sit otherwise untouched. Even more astonishing, a lone book sits on a lacquered marble table. An old mystery novel. The pages are brittle. It’s as though someone just got up and walked away … a century ago. I pack it away in my bag to trade–or for Franklin, if we ever get back to him.

  “The Blue Tower was still standing,” Echo points out. “Maybe these houses are like that. Newer materials. Didn’t rust or decay like the others.”

  I have to agree. The place looks abandoned, yet it’s still standing–and neither of us has ever seen a dead village this intact. Its proximity to the z-line has probably helped keep the looters and crazies away.

  Back outside, we go exploring. The village is big. There are a few hundred houses, and almost all of them look the same. A square plaza in the center of town is lined with bigger, rectangular buildings. Some of the shops still have signs in their unbroken windows. We’re halfway through the square when Echo stops abruptly, listening.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Shh.”

  Then I hear it too. Music. Not just any music. High-energy electronic dance music. Can this be? No. Ridiculous. We’re in the middle of a ghost town on the edge of a zombified wasteland. Surely, I’m not hearing this? I am. It’s blaring far and wide across the dead town. My grandfather showed me a small, ancient computer once that played music like this–music that couldn’t be reproduced by traditional instruments. A woman’s singing accompanies it. She has a beautiful voice. The whole harmony is strangely mesmerizing. With a sense of unreality, I and Echo stare at each other, listening. Should we be amused or horrified? We’re freaked out.

  “It’s coming closer,” Echo whispers.

  We reach one of the plaza’s corner-buildings, wide-eyed, flighty as scared rabbits. I have no idea what to expect. I poke my head around the corner–nothing. The sound must be a few streets over. We creep forward along the side of the building. I have to know what’s causing this. It’s getting closer now.

  “Tristan,” Echo warns, pulling at my arm. She’s had enough. She’s in flight mode.

  “Okay, let’s–”

  The music rolls over us in fresh waves of sounds. Its source crosses into sight ahead.

  Holy Mother of Crom.

  Fifty feet away is a circular aerial drone. It hovers fifteen feet above the ground, a fan spinning on its underside, speakers blaring. It drifts slowly down the center of a wide avenue … and beneath it, drawn by the noise, is a solid wall of zombies.

  They’re packed into a clambering t
hrong, arms reaching vainly upward, drawn by the drone like a carrot on a string. Echo and I are already racing back the way we’ve come–but the bastards are good at sensing movement. As we round the corner leading back into the plaza, I glance back…

  …and a dozen or more have peeled off from the main group, coming after us. Too many to fight. We try the nearest door. Locked. No time to smash it in. We race across the plaza. The next door is open. We rush into an abandoned bar. If we can just hide in time…

  The lead roamer is already in the plaza. More stream around the corner. I lock the door. It won’t be enough.

  “Here,” Echo says, sending a chair skidding across the floor. I wedge it under the door. She’s throwing everything she can, and I’m piling it into place. The building’s wide windows are in pristine condition. The music is getting louder; the drone moves toward the square. I flip a table on its side and shove it against one of the windows just as something thuds hard against the door. I run for another table. More thuds. They’re slamming face-first into the building. Glass shatters. A roamer comes in through a window, tumbling toward Echo, flesh full of shards. A strip of skin hangs like torn fabric.

  “Run!”

  Like I have to tell her. Is there a back door? The hallway we take dead-ends in an office, and when we turn back there’s a moving corpse six feet away, barreling toward us. As with that roamer in the closet, I’m mesmerized by the bulging eyes. Reflex alone has me raising the crossbow, squeezing the trigger. The bolt passes through the right cheek and goes out the back of the jaw, missing the brain.

  The zombie keeps coming.

  It hits me full-force, one big organic hammer. I’m falling. The thing is on top of me. The cold hands grip my arms with desperate intensity. The yellow teeth come forward in a silence more terrible than sound…

  And the head is smashed sideways by the shovel in Echo’s hands. The dead face collapses under further blows, spattering my new shirt with bits of gore. My priorities can’t be right, because a petty involuntary complaint creeps in: the Doctor gave me this shirt.

  Then we’re up and moving, but more are already inside. A staircase on our right. We scramble to higher ground … those yellow teeth will be in my nightmares … and before I know it we’re stumbling onto a gravelly roof. The sun is insanely bright, incongruent with the chaos below. Echo closes the door and backs away, staring at it, waiting.

  Nothing comes out.

  I don’t think they saw us duck through that last door. We’ve got a chance.

  The drone is still blaring music. It has already passed through the square and is turning down another street. We creep to the edge of the building and look down. The main throng still follows the drone. Slow and maimed undead trail the pack all the way across the square, like dust in the tail of a comet. About thirty plague-walkers mill about our building, distracted by the commotion. Some have already forgotten us. They stand stupidly in place or meander aimlessly or pluck up tufts of grass and chew it like cows. One crunches a broken board in its teeth. They’re not eager to go away, and even now a few spot us on the roof and make a beeline for the building. They try to climb the walls, clawing at the fading paint, fingernails breaking like eggshells, mouths upturned like baby birds.

  “What are we going to do?” Echo asks.

  We’re screwed.

  “Wait it out. They’ll drift away,” I say, backing away from the edge.

  The drone continues into the distance. It’s been out of the plaza fifteen minutes before the last of its maimed followers drags itself off the street in snail-like pursuit. The others have stayed behind, unfortunately. The excitement of our flight has distracted them enough to break their attachment to the drone. Now they have no reason to go anywhere. I walk the roof’s perimeter. Their random wandering has spread them in all directions. It could be days or even weeks before there’s a safe route through. I’m angry now. The town only looked empty because of that damn drone and its ludicrous parade.

  “What the hell is that thing doing here, anyway?” I ask, waving vaguely toward the machine.

  Echo gasps.

  A silver robot, perhaps seven feet tall, has entered the plaza in the wake of the zombie-comet. In each hand is a silver sickle, glinting in the sunlight. The robot wears plasteel body armor from the neck down. Behind it comes a boy, eleven or twelve years old, and behind the boy is a car-sized wagon pulled by a compact robotic tug. The wagon is chock-full of treasure from the ruins.

  The boy and the robot can’t help but see the roamers around our building. The newcomers look straight at us, taken aback. They consult one another. The boy waves at us and smiles. Then he crouches behind the wagon and hides himself under a blanket.

  The armored robot moves into the plaza. The zombies around the building haven’t yet spotted him. He plants his feet wide apart, holds his sickles ready, and blasts a trumpet-like noise: da-tada-DAAA!

  Heads snap toward the sound. It draws the undead like gravity. Their various speeds mean they reach the robot in a kind of stream–and as they do, he lops off their heads with disturbing ease. Swift, efficient motions. They collapse all around him.

  When too many arrive at once, they begin to overwhelm him. They bite at his arms, they latch onto his legs, they claw at his torso. Their teeth can’t penetrate the plasteel. Still, they try. Their fingers break against his armor. One sickle gets lodged in the side of a skull. It’s pulled from the robot’s grasp. The other gets stuck in a ribcage. Then he’s crushing their heads with his hands and stomping them underfoot. He stumbles but never falls. When it’s done, the robot stands at the nucleus of a pile of thirty corpses. It looks as though a small bomb has gone off.

  He retrieves his sickles.

  The boy comes out from behind the wagon, checking carefully for stray undead.

  “Ahoy!” he calls up to us. “Anyone bit?”

  Echo and I share a glance.

  “No,” I say.

  “There may be more inside though,” Echo yells down.

  The robot enters the building. Noises follow. A decapitated head bounces out of an open window on the second floor, causing the boy to jump aside.

  “How about a little warning next time!” he says. Despite his age, there’s a gun holstered on his right hip. I check my crossbow and quietly load another bolt, just in case.

  “What are you guys doing here? Didn’t expect company,” the boy yells up to us.

  “Just passing through,” I say.

  He cracks up laughing.

  “Just passing through! Just strolling through zombie-central,” he says.

  “All clear,” the robot shouts. His voice is synthetic, not softly ambiguous like the Doctor’s but quite obviously robotic. The boy’s not controlling him and he’s too aware to be a programmed automaton, which means he’s a sentient being–a living machine, like Lectric, only smarter. Using a Tritium-Two or Microsoft Ultima, I’m guessing; maybe even a Tritium-Three.

  “We’re not looking for trouble,” I tell the boy. They may have cleared the zombies for us but that doesn’t make them friendly.

  “Us neither. Wanna come down and talk?” the boy asks.

  I consult Echo. We have a wordless conversation. Her eyes are wary. We got lucky with Wade. The boy seems friendly, but out here who really knows? There’s no good reason to expose ourselves to unnecessary risks.

  “Nah. I think we’re good up here, thanks,” I say.

  “All right, kryptonite. Starbucks, let’s go,” the boy yells.

  The robot emerges from the building. They start down the street. The boy looks up as they’re leaving and says, “Good hunting!”

  The world’s a strange place–the apparent randomness of Fate, the way little things can make a big difference. If he hadn’t used that simple phrase, who knows how many things would’ve changed? “Good hunting” was what I used to say to Crispin and Berkley whenever they came w
ith me to ruins outside Farmington. The ruins were a great adventure as a child. Every new find was a treasure, tradable t or not. Never had a robotic guardian or a big wagon to carry stuff in; still, the phrase makes me see something of myself in the boy.

  “Wait! Do you know anything about Haven?” I shout.

  They stop and look back.

  “Heard the name before. Someplace north of Apolis, I think,” says the boy.

  The fear turns to intensity in Echo’s blue eyes.

  “We’ll come down and talk a bit, if it’s okay with you,” I say.

  The boy and robot consult one another.

  “Fine with us,” the boy says.

  We emerge slowly, warily, weapons lowered. The robot has stowed his sickles on some kind of magnetic back-plate. He stands just ahead of the boy, protectively, prepared to shield him if need be. We introduce ourselves.

  “I’m Jarvis. This is Starbucks,” the boy says.

  “Well met,” Starbucks says. It’s an odd name, another moniker from the World Before. People in Farmington believed in the power of old names. We had a Honda, Sony, Exxon, and Visa–all of which, I’m told, were powerful titles from the days before the Fall. In Farmington, they were thought to bring luck and prosperity. Guess that disproves that theory.

  Up close, Starbucks’ is enormous and intimidating. His eyes are black spheres, but the rest of his face is a semi-malleable metallic membrane, capable of molding itself into human-like expressions. Pretty standard for sentient robots. Roboticists learned early on that people need a lot of visual cues related to a robot’s internal state, just as they do for other humans. It’s the only way to establish an amount of trust and predictability.

  I want to ask what model neural embryo he’s outfitted with, but it’s probably inappropriate to inquire about the quality of someone’s brain just after you meet them. I’m wondering why he’s wearing the armor too, since the roamers are no threat to a bloodless organism, but what I ask instead is:

  “Where’s Apolis?”

  Jarvis frowns.

  “Northwest. You’ve never been there? That’s where we’re from. Where are you from?” he asks.

  “Farmington.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s not really there anymore,” I say, shrugging.

  “Oh. Tough luck, dude,” Jarvis laments. “I don’t like to fall too far behind the drone. Let’s walk and talk.”

  Jarvis has travelled quite a distance–further than I ever went at his age. Then again, he has Starbucks to protect him. The robot has been attached to the boy’s family for like forty years, which is pretty old for a sentient robot. His body won’t rust, but even a Tritium-Three will wear down eventually.

  Starbucks doesn’t talk much. The weird thing is: he breathes. His body integrates several biochemical components to help power internal electrical systems. He can stop breathing for more than an hour if he needs to, but otherwise we’re always hearing the slow, perpetual rhythm of his exhale-inhale cycle.

  Jarvis makes up for the talking. He tells us there are no good ruins left around Apolis. It’s clear he’s a veteran of the hunt. I know just how he feels too. In Farmington, I spent countless hours combing through forgotten places in the desert. I frequented crumbled houses and hidden holes no one else even knew existed.

  Jarvis is enthusiastic and upbeat, eager to share his stories. I like the kid, but I feel inclined to provide some kind of warning or admonishment. I was like you, I want to say, and look what happened. Here lies the world: use at your own risk.

  “This is the furthest southeast we’ve ever been,” Jarvis says. “We came close to this area last time, but we were already loaded up on goods. I just knew we had to come back though–this place is a goldmine! Check this out.”

  He rummages through the wagon.

  “Jarvis,” Starbucks warns. He has just lopped the head off a lingering zombie, but it’s us he’s warning Jarvis about: they don’t know us well enough to flout prized goods. Ignoring him, Jarvis pulls out a large copper coin, dated 1847. His face is ecstatic.

  “It’s even older than the Fall!” he says. “I’ve got a collection of these at home. They’re really hard to find. If you’ve got any, I’ll trade you for ‘em. Oh–and look at this. My uncle made it from another one.”

  He pulls up his sleeve to show us a unique watch. The face is another copper coin, dated 1852. I just smile and nod, albeit a little sadly, because again I feel the warning–you won’t be allowed to keep these things. The world will take them from you.

  Possession is an illusion. All things are only borrowed.

  The words pop into my head, and they’re deeper than expected. Even the mass of our bodies is borrowed from food and drink, to be given back to the Earth one day. I can’t say why, but the idea is vaguely comforting.

  “That’s enough,” Starbucks says, frowning, taking a step toward the boy.

  “Relax, Starbucks. They’re okay,” Jarvis says.

  “He’s right. You should be careful with this stuff. Don’t show people,” I say.

  Jarvis scowls stubbornly.

  We continue in the drone’s wake, talking. We explore more houses along the way and score more than I expect: new clothes, leather belts, toy cars, a quality hand-axe, old books, and a second pack in which to carry everything. Echo finds some fancy women’s clothing and a pair of shockingly red high-heeled shoes.

  “That’s ridiculous. How could anyone walk in those?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Maybe–maybe we can trade them,” she says, stuffing them in her pack–but she had a smile on her face before I spoke; trading them may not be her first priority.

  My own favorite find soon arrives in the basement of a workshop: a spool of copper wire, resistors, tiny LED’s, and two ancient circuit boards. I’m reminded poignantly of my grandfather’s store. I miss tinkering. Everything gets arranged carefully in my pack.

  Near dusk, Starbucks calls a halt. Jarvis fetches a big controller from the wagon and fiddles with it. A few blocks away, the music dies. We hurry west together.

  “What about the drone?” I ask.

  “It’ll come,” Jarvis says.

  “Won’t the roamers follow?” Echo asks.

  “Nah. It’s programmed to make a wide, fast circle. It’ll shake the dead-heads.”

  “Seems risky,” Echo mutters.

  “Don’t worry, Starbucks won’t let any get us. Will you, Starbucks?”

  “Only you,” says Starbucks without a trace of humor.

  The conversation brings something else to mind.

  “Why do you wear the armor?” I ask.

  The two of them look at me.

  “I mean, they can’t really hurt you,” I elaborate.

  “No more than they can hurt you,” Starbucks says.

  “Relax, Star,” Jarvis says. “Look, a lot of people think it’s just a rumor, but roamers can hurt robots. Starbucks is a little sensitive about misinformation where his, uh, species is concerned.”

  “Hurt? How?” I ask doubtfully.

  “Bloody waterbags,” Starbucks mutters, ignoring the question.

  “Two ways,” Jarvis says. “First, their teeth are hard enough to penetrate most tactile layers. Tactile layers aren’t as hard as metal, and most robots can’t regenerate the material, so they end up numb wherever they’re bit–permanently. How would you like to lose all feeling in your arm? Not fun, right? Second–this is where the rumors come in–zombies can infect robots. I don’t care what you’ve heard, we’ve seen it happen. It’s the truth.”

  My expression is a mixture of doubt and confusion. The first part I get. Lectric had a softer tactile layer too, a thin transparent material fused to his metametal hide. Sensory input is essential for all sentient beings. But how could a robot catch a virus when…

  “They have no blood. No offense,” I add, glancing at Starbucks.

  “True
. But Synth-Z ain’t a normal virus,” Jarvis says. “Here’s what people don’t understand: there’s more than one kind of plague. Way back in the World Before, somebody made Synth-Z. Later on, somebody changed it. If Star wasn’t wearing armor, most of these dead-heads could only numb him. But a few could kill him or drive him crazy.”

  “Nanobots,” Starbucks says, looking out into the ruins.

  I turn an inquiring gaze on him. He sighs and elaborates.

  “Synth-Z is a hybrid organism, part carbon, part silicon. In humans, it kills most of the brain, alters the muscular structure, reinforces the bones–changes the whole body’s biochemistry in very specific ways. In robots, like Jarvis said, mostly it does nothing. But at least one strain works differently. When a zombie bites, it secretes the virus through its saliva. In my case, that could mean a nanobot infection in my tactile layer. Tactile information is relayed to the neural embryo. If it’s the R-strain, the virus will feed garbage data through the tactile pathways. Which leads to a mix of pain, pleasure, and vivid hallucinations. If the corruption spreads, it only gets worse–hyper-aggression, loss of reason, personality collapse, death.”

  There’s nothing we can say to that. The revelation is astonishing. I’ve never heard of this. We stop two miles later, well outside the ghost-town. Starbucks has to kill three more roamers along the way. We’re at a dip between two hills, and we’ve come to a social cusp.

  “We’ve got all we can carry. We’re gonna head west in the morning,” Jarvis says. “You guys … You wanna stick with us until we hit Apolis?”

  “Jarvis, we don’t want to trouble these people,” Starbucks says.

  Echo and I share a searching look.

  “I thought Apolis was north,” I say.

  “North, northwest. We’re going west to Hapsburg first,” Jarvis says.

  “We want to get north of the z-line. How can we do that?” Echo asks.

  “Apolis. It’s the best place to cross. But you don’t want to take the straight northwestern route.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Raiders. They’re camped in a big forest between the Missipy River and the z-line, a few days from here. That’s why we’re going west first. We’ll turn north at Hapsburg. It’s safer.”

  Echo and I share another look.

  “We don’t want to trouble you …” she says, looking sideways at Starbucks.

  The big robot’s rhythmic breathing is interrupted by a sigh.

  “Jarvis is right. If that’s your goal, you need to go through Apolis. You’d better come with us.”

  He’s still wary. If anything, his distrust comes as a relief. Jarvis’s childish enthusiasm makes him fun to talk to, but such things can’t keep you safe. The aerial drone comes whirring in, honing in on Jarvis’s controller. They stow it on top of the pile in the wagon.

  Starbucks takes first watch. I’m not used to having strangers around; I barely drift off before paranoia wakes me again. I relieve Starbucks when the time comes, but even when he “sleeps,” he sits staring in our direction. His breathing slows and he goes into some kind of low-power mode, yet he has no lids over his glassy black eyes, and I have a feeling he can still monitor our movements.

  We make it through the night and nobody wakes up dead.

  In the morning, we stray west from the z-line, heading toward a place called Hapsburg.