H
HG 400
Guest
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Cutler crouched behind the wreckage of a burned-out Ford and blew softly on his rifle's fuse, sending wispy tendrils of grey smoke to dance up into the air. His rifle had once been a machine of deadly precision, forged to exact specifications in a factory somewhere in Germany, well-oiled, well-maintained, burning clean, pure powder to send perfectly formed fingers of hot death hundreds of yards downrange. He'd never seen it like that, though, and the thought saddened him a little. By the time his rifle found its way into his hands, it'd been passed down through many owners; lost and found, modified, rebuilt, traded for meat jerky and cigarettes, taken from the grip of God knows how many cold, dead hands. Now it was a sad and inferior facsimile of its former self. Running on medieval technology, held together with duct tape and knotted twine, eating up crude black powder that burned the eyes and fouled the barrel, to spit an ugly malformed mass of solder or gold out to crush and tear a jagged hole through anyone unlucky enough to be standing in front of it. His rifle still performed the same function it always had, but now it was slower, weaker, uglier, without grace or elegance. In that way, Cutler reflected, his rifle was like everything else in this new world.
"Hey, fusilier. I see you there," called out the crossbowman.
Of course he saw him. The dirty powder lacing his homemade matchcord stunk like burnt hair and marked out his location to anyone with eyes.
"Step out from behind the car, and slowly."
Cutler stepped out, his rifle held at the ready. He looked the crossbowman up and down, a bearded ragged survivor like him, clad in garish clownlike garb and held casually at his hip, a wicked-looking modern bow, all gleaming polymer and matte carbon, poised to send a steel bolt screaming towards him. Cutler kept his rifle at his hip in imitation, aimed vaguely at the crossbowman's midsection. He screwed up his face into a hateful scowl and directed it at the crossbowman.
"Angry," said the crossbowman, and broke into the rictus of a fake and exaggerated grin, his white teeth gleaming under the shadow of his cowboy hat.
"Happy," replied Cutler.
Satisfied, they lowered their weapons and relaxed their expressions back into cautious apprehension, staring at each other across the deserted road.
"Sorry," started Cutler, "by your clothes I took you for one of them."
The crossbowman glanced down at the neon patchwork adorning his coat, a hot pink and lime green motley, vibrant blue sleeves and an apple red sash draping his shoulders.
"Ugly, I know. It's for overstimulating them. Doesn't stop them from attacking but hey, every little bit helps."
Cutler thought back to all the times he'd barely managed to survive, when the difference between life and death was as little as a scattering of broken glass in a doorway or a rat caught in a snare, or finding a dented can of Monster when his will to keep going was at its lowest ebb. He found himself agreeing and filed that information away for later use.
"You came from the city then," he asked. "It's still thick with them?"
"Yeah, teeming with them. Came up from The Nation, made a run for the gas station on Fairmont, hoping to get at the underground tanks. But they're out in numbers, too dangerous to go for it without a lookout."
God damn it, thought Cutler. How are the infected not all dead yet? They don't work, they can't find food, they don't have the skills to survive. And yet they still haven't thinned out to the point that the surviving human militias can start encroaching on their territories, picking them off. This wasn't right. It'd been years since the epidemic swept the world and reduced what was left of humanity into a squabbling pack of disparate clans, communes and despotates. The mighty eagle of the United States had fallen, and what remained... well, they still provided a semblence of safety, organization and leadership to their citizens, but it would never be what it once was. Like his rifle.
Cutler tilted to the side to show the insignia patch on his upper arm. "I'm on a recon sortie for The Farms. But if all you need is a second pair of eyes, we could get into those tanks, split the takings,"
High-octane gasoline was a huge prize. The Farms had already switched to biodiesel and wood gasifiers for their generators and a few of their vehicles, but a couple jerrycans of the good stuff would bring a good part of their abandoned motor-pool out of retirement. Enough to scavenge and scout at a much higher capacity, at any rate. Enough to make Cutler a hero for a few sweet days.
"I like the way you think, soldier. Semper fi."
Together they pushed into the overrun city. Keeping to the residential backstreets, vaulting overgrown fences and wading through the sea of kudzu and ivy that reclaimed every backyard. Striking for the gas station, a vault of unclaimed gasoline locked tight underground, untouched by the sticky prying hands of the infected. Like it had in the old days, the gasoline was there for those willing to pay the price. The gas station still served its old purpose. Like his rifle. Then the sound of glass crunching underfoot invaded Cutler's idle ruminations and the two soldiers scrambled madly, desperately for cover behind the delapidated fence of a front porch.
It was a five-man team that stepped out into the shady thoroughfare of Brackenwood Avenue. By their weapons, Cutler saw they were far too dangerous to stand against. A pneumonic rifle, the silent and deadly workhorse of the new world militias. Some kind of stamped-metal revolver, crude and disposable, still feeding off the reloaded hulls of old-world shotguns. A powder-burning arrow caster of some kind. A compound bow, and the last man with a brace of six flintlocks slung across his chest. By their garb, Cutler saw that they were also too dangerous to talk his way past. Clad from head to toe in matching black kevlar, scavenged from the murdered remains of police tactical squads. Eyes hidden behind the tinted plexiglass visors of their helmets, leaving only their clenched jaws and cruel mouths visible.
And scrawled haphazardly in faded chalk across the chest and back of each man, the dread insignia of the Sperg Genocide Units.
The units were rumored to have existed in some form long before the epidemic, but they didn't truly militarize until months after the collapse, to defend against the depradations of the Social Justice Crusade. It broke hard in the Third Battle for the Golden Gate and the routed and fleeing genocidaires were scattered with the four winds, turning to banditry, savagery, preying on the weak and undefended for their own survival. But before that, for those few sweet weeks when they marched from Portland to San Fransisco, they were heroes and saviours, the last best hope of humanity. The week that they took Portland, Cutler remembered, the sky was black with ashes for miles around and the air was pregnant with the acrid stink of burning rubber and roasted pork. With the stink of justice.
Cutler gently smothered the smoldering fuse of his rifle with the thick rubber snuffing-cap, just as the defeaning twang of his companion's crossbow discharging into the ground gave their position away, triggered by slippery or trembling fingers. His guts clenched up in despair and terror.
"SHOW YOURSELVES!" cried the pointman, who by the form of her armor and higher voice Cutler now recognized to be a woman. "WE ARE THE LAW!" She raised her rifle and fired a warning shot, the dull thump and hiss of pneumonic pressure spitting a fine mist of liquid thirty yards into the air. In that short fleeting moment in time, Cutler saw a rainbow form in the airborne droplets dancing overhead, and then the stench of benzene reached his nostrils and it was gone, as quickly and unexpectedly as it appeared. The woman levelled her weapon and scraped a flint striker over the barrel, igniting the oil-soaked rags that bunched up around it. Not a rifle, then. A goddamn flamethrower. Perfect.
Cutler rose to his feet with the cold sharp edge of the crossbowman's trench knife digging into the soft underside of his chin. "I've brought you one," yelled his erstwhile friend, "from The Farms, some kind of spy."
The genocidaires converged on him, gripping him tightly under both arms and dragging him out to the oppressive openness of the road. They shoved him harshly to his knees on the cracked blacktop of the road.
"I'm not infected," stammered Cutler "I'm from The Farms, Second Rifles. Please, take anything you want, just please don't kill me."
"He was trying to steal your gasoline," put in the crossbowman, eagerly.
"Fuck's sake no, no, we were after the spergs' gasoline! I wouldn't take your gasoline, I swear it!"
"He did, he said he was gonna take the gas and you can go fuck yourselves, he said-"
The deafening boom of the revolver silenced the crossbowman forever. Cutler flinched in disgust as the hot sticky mist settled over his lips and cheek, and glanced up at the sun to see if a rainbow would form there too. It didn't.
"Strip him down for parts, boys"
A quiet order, a dispassionate order, but two of the men were already crouched over the body, tugging off boots and unbuckling straps and buckles. One of them took out a butchering knife and began stropping it.
The squad leader stepped in front of Cutler and slowly tilted her helmet back, exposing her face. He looked up in terror and saw her cold, dead eyes: broken eyes, a psychopath's eyes, staring right at him but fixed a thousand yards behind him.
"The autistics are all dead," she drawled, emotionlessly. "We rounded up the last of them months ago."
Cutler saw no hint of deceit in her face. No hint of compassion, mercy or decency either. Whatever was human in this woman had died long ago, starved to death from lack of nourishment, or perhaps killed suddenly by some act of violence too terrible to contemplate. She was human. What was left of her still walked, talked, thought and acted like a human. But from the eerie vacancy in her eyes, some important but non-vital part of her had long ago ceased to function. Like his rifle.
She took out a scrap-forged throwaway pistol and held it to his forehead.
"You survived this long, fusilier. You should have figured it out by now. We humans? We're the true autistics. Have been, all along."
Cutler closed his eyes and pictured the rainbow.
"Hey, fusilier. I see you there," called out the crossbowman.
Of course he saw him. The dirty powder lacing his homemade matchcord stunk like burnt hair and marked out his location to anyone with eyes.
"Step out from behind the car, and slowly."
Cutler stepped out, his rifle held at the ready. He looked the crossbowman up and down, a bearded ragged survivor like him, clad in garish clownlike garb and held casually at his hip, a wicked-looking modern bow, all gleaming polymer and matte carbon, poised to send a steel bolt screaming towards him. Cutler kept his rifle at his hip in imitation, aimed vaguely at the crossbowman's midsection. He screwed up his face into a hateful scowl and directed it at the crossbowman.
"Angry," said the crossbowman, and broke into the rictus of a fake and exaggerated grin, his white teeth gleaming under the shadow of his cowboy hat.
"Happy," replied Cutler.
Satisfied, they lowered their weapons and relaxed their expressions back into cautious apprehension, staring at each other across the deserted road.
"Sorry," started Cutler, "by your clothes I took you for one of them."
The crossbowman glanced down at the neon patchwork adorning his coat, a hot pink and lime green motley, vibrant blue sleeves and an apple red sash draping his shoulders.
"Ugly, I know. It's for overstimulating them. Doesn't stop them from attacking but hey, every little bit helps."
Cutler thought back to all the times he'd barely managed to survive, when the difference between life and death was as little as a scattering of broken glass in a doorway or a rat caught in a snare, or finding a dented can of Monster when his will to keep going was at its lowest ebb. He found himself agreeing and filed that information away for later use.
"You came from the city then," he asked. "It's still thick with them?"
"Yeah, teeming with them. Came up from The Nation, made a run for the gas station on Fairmont, hoping to get at the underground tanks. But they're out in numbers, too dangerous to go for it without a lookout."
God damn it, thought Cutler. How are the infected not all dead yet? They don't work, they can't find food, they don't have the skills to survive. And yet they still haven't thinned out to the point that the surviving human militias can start encroaching on their territories, picking them off. This wasn't right. It'd been years since the epidemic swept the world and reduced what was left of humanity into a squabbling pack of disparate clans, communes and despotates. The mighty eagle of the United States had fallen, and what remained... well, they still provided a semblence of safety, organization and leadership to their citizens, but it would never be what it once was. Like his rifle.
Cutler tilted to the side to show the insignia patch on his upper arm. "I'm on a recon sortie for The Farms. But if all you need is a second pair of eyes, we could get into those tanks, split the takings,"
High-octane gasoline was a huge prize. The Farms had already switched to biodiesel and wood gasifiers for their generators and a few of their vehicles, but a couple jerrycans of the good stuff would bring a good part of their abandoned motor-pool out of retirement. Enough to scavenge and scout at a much higher capacity, at any rate. Enough to make Cutler a hero for a few sweet days.
"I like the way you think, soldier. Semper fi."
Together they pushed into the overrun city. Keeping to the residential backstreets, vaulting overgrown fences and wading through the sea of kudzu and ivy that reclaimed every backyard. Striking for the gas station, a vault of unclaimed gasoline locked tight underground, untouched by the sticky prying hands of the infected. Like it had in the old days, the gasoline was there for those willing to pay the price. The gas station still served its old purpose. Like his rifle. Then the sound of glass crunching underfoot invaded Cutler's idle ruminations and the two soldiers scrambled madly, desperately for cover behind the delapidated fence of a front porch.
It was a five-man team that stepped out into the shady thoroughfare of Brackenwood Avenue. By their weapons, Cutler saw they were far too dangerous to stand against. A pneumonic rifle, the silent and deadly workhorse of the new world militias. Some kind of stamped-metal revolver, crude and disposable, still feeding off the reloaded hulls of old-world shotguns. A powder-burning arrow caster of some kind. A compound bow, and the last man with a brace of six flintlocks slung across his chest. By their garb, Cutler saw that they were also too dangerous to talk his way past. Clad from head to toe in matching black kevlar, scavenged from the murdered remains of police tactical squads. Eyes hidden behind the tinted plexiglass visors of their helmets, leaving only their clenched jaws and cruel mouths visible.
And scrawled haphazardly in faded chalk across the chest and back of each man, the dread insignia of the Sperg Genocide Units.
The units were rumored to have existed in some form long before the epidemic, but they didn't truly militarize until months after the collapse, to defend against the depradations of the Social Justice Crusade. It broke hard in the Third Battle for the Golden Gate and the routed and fleeing genocidaires were scattered with the four winds, turning to banditry, savagery, preying on the weak and undefended for their own survival. But before that, for those few sweet weeks when they marched from Portland to San Fransisco, they were heroes and saviours, the last best hope of humanity. The week that they took Portland, Cutler remembered, the sky was black with ashes for miles around and the air was pregnant with the acrid stink of burning rubber and roasted pork. With the stink of justice.
Cutler gently smothered the smoldering fuse of his rifle with the thick rubber snuffing-cap, just as the defeaning twang of his companion's crossbow discharging into the ground gave their position away, triggered by slippery or trembling fingers. His guts clenched up in despair and terror.
"SHOW YOURSELVES!" cried the pointman, who by the form of her armor and higher voice Cutler now recognized to be a woman. "WE ARE THE LAW!" She raised her rifle and fired a warning shot, the dull thump and hiss of pneumonic pressure spitting a fine mist of liquid thirty yards into the air. In that short fleeting moment in time, Cutler saw a rainbow form in the airborne droplets dancing overhead, and then the stench of benzene reached his nostrils and it was gone, as quickly and unexpectedly as it appeared. The woman levelled her weapon and scraped a flint striker over the barrel, igniting the oil-soaked rags that bunched up around it. Not a rifle, then. A goddamn flamethrower. Perfect.
Cutler rose to his feet with the cold sharp edge of the crossbowman's trench knife digging into the soft underside of his chin. "I've brought you one," yelled his erstwhile friend, "from The Farms, some kind of spy."
The genocidaires converged on him, gripping him tightly under both arms and dragging him out to the oppressive openness of the road. They shoved him harshly to his knees on the cracked blacktop of the road.
"I'm not infected," stammered Cutler "I'm from The Farms, Second Rifles. Please, take anything you want, just please don't kill me."
"He was trying to steal your gasoline," put in the crossbowman, eagerly.
"Fuck's sake no, no, we were after the spergs' gasoline! I wouldn't take your gasoline, I swear it!"
"He did, he said he was gonna take the gas and you can go fuck yourselves, he said-"
The deafening boom of the revolver silenced the crossbowman forever. Cutler flinched in disgust as the hot sticky mist settled over his lips and cheek, and glanced up at the sun to see if a rainbow would form there too. It didn't.
"Strip him down for parts, boys"
A quiet order, a dispassionate order, but two of the men were already crouched over the body, tugging off boots and unbuckling straps and buckles. One of them took out a butchering knife and began stropping it.
The squad leader stepped in front of Cutler and slowly tilted her helmet back, exposing her face. He looked up in terror and saw her cold, dead eyes: broken eyes, a psychopath's eyes, staring right at him but fixed a thousand yards behind him.
"The autistics are all dead," she drawled, emotionlessly. "We rounded up the last of them months ago."
Cutler saw no hint of deceit in her face. No hint of compassion, mercy or decency either. Whatever was human in this woman had died long ago, starved to death from lack of nourishment, or perhaps killed suddenly by some act of violence too terrible to contemplate. She was human. What was left of her still walked, talked, thought and acted like a human. But from the eerie vacancy in her eyes, some important but non-vital part of her had long ago ceased to function. Like his rifle.
She took out a scrap-forged throwaway pistol and held it to his forehead.
"You survived this long, fusilier. You should have figured it out by now. We humans? We're the true autistics. Have been, all along."
Cutler closed his eyes and pictured the rainbow.
