Final Dawn: Season 3 (The Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Series) (14 page)

Leonard McComb | Nancy Sims

4:31 PM, April 27, 2038

Leonard’s patience was put to the test as he continued to try to communicate with David. Even though the transmissions were spotty and unreliable, they had managed to exchange enough information for Leonard to pass something useful on to Krylov and Nancy down in the missile bay. Switching from the remote transmitter to the intra-ship system, Leonard called down to the missile bay and waited for a response.

“Commander Krylov, this is Leonard. I have some new urgent information regarding our friends on shore.”

Nancy came through on the radio, out of breath as she ran from the opposite side of the room to grab the microphone. “Go ahead Leonard. What’s going on?”

“David’s telling me that Marcus and Rachel entered the nexus to determine whether a midair strike or direct strike would be more likely to take out the nanobots inside.”

“They did
what?
” The shock in Nancy’s voice mirrored what Leonard was feeling.

“I know, but it gets worse. Apparently, Marcus and Rachel got split up inside the structure. We need to get everything ready to launch as soon as possible, because David’s pissing off the locals pretty badly from what he said.”

“Shit… hold on.” Nancy dropped the microphone on the control panel and ran back to Krylov, where she had been helping him perform manual checks of each of the missiles’ systems. After a quick explanation, Krylov nodded.

“Request that Mr. McComb informs the shore party that we will be ready to launch on their signal. Travel time will vary depending on when they request the launch, but should require no more than a few moments at this range, less if the strike is to be indirect and in the atmosphere.”

Nancy felt her stomach churn as she realized that the event they had been planning for and working toward was at their doorstep. After running back to the radio, she told Leonard what Krylov had said, then lowered her voice, speaking softly so that only Leonard could hear. “Are they going to make it?”

Leonard stared into the microphone as he contemplated Nancy’s question, his head running through all the possible things that could go wrong. So many things had gone right so far, but so many more had gone wrong. “I’m sure they’ll make it. I’ll get in touch with David again while you help Krylov finish up the preparations.”

As Nancy walked back to Krylov’s side, she glanced at Andrey, who had moved from his guard post to assist her and Krylov with the missiles. While the missile systems were automated, Krylov had felt it prudent to open the exterior access panels on each of the twenty to ensure that they had suffered no damage during the incidents that occurred while crossing through the canal. Underneath a panel attached to the surface of the missile by sixteen screws was a small panel with seven lights that glowed either green, yellow, or red. Each light corresponded to a part of the missile’s system, and for optimal launch all seven lights had to be green. The checks were simple enough to perform, but working in low-light conditions with the distraction of knowing that one or more creatures were still loose on the ship made the progress slow, even with three people going as quickly as they could.

“Leonard’s going to get in touch with David again to find out when and where to launch. He’ll radio again once he can make contact.”

Krylov nodded at Nancy as she picked up a screwdriver. “Good. We’re nearly finished with these. Number fifteen is showing a seal problem in the upper fuselage. I’m going up on the catwalk to check it out.”

Nancy’s brow furrowed as she questioned Krylov. “Wait, why does that one matter? If all the others are ready, who cares about that one?”

Krylov stopped and turned to Nancy, looking her dead in the eye as he replied. “You can never be over-prepared enough, Ms. Sims, especially with the world at stake. Please assist Mr. Lipov with the last missile while I investigate this issue.”

Nancy nodded at Krylov, who grabbed a small tool bag from the floor and ran to a narrow stairwell suspended from the ceiling along one wall. One of four such staircases in the missile bay, each was positioned near a corner of the room and led to the catwalk above, where access to the nuclear warheads of the missiles was available. As Krylov climbed the stairs, Nancy and Andrey turned their attention back to the last missile. After removing the screws and cover from the side, they glanced through the status lights, relieved to see that all of them were green.

“We’re good here!” Nancy looked upward at the dim light high above in the catwalk where Krylov was walking. He grunted back in approval, keeping his flashlight in his mouth, his tool bag in one hand and his rifle in the other. While the three of them had verified that the missile bay was safe and clear of any of the mutated creatures, Krylov wasn’t about to take any chances, especially considering the number of nooks and crannies in the upper section of the bay. Without even emergency lighting on the catwalk, Krylov had to rely solely on his flashlight to see, which both magnified the number of shadows and his paranoia at everything that moved in the darkness. After a few minutes, Krylov reached the missile that was having issues and slowly laid his tool bag down on the ground. Nancy and Andrey’s conversation below was the only noise in the bay, apart from the creaks and groans from the old steel and aluminum under Krylov’s feet. With one last quick glance around him, Krylov laid his rifle next to his tool bag, pulled out a screwdriver and began to work on taking apart the upper access panel on the missile.

Even had his back not been turned away, the chances of Krylov noticing a flash of silver reflecting red from the emergency lights below would have been very low. The glint was there one instant and gone the next as something crept along the catwalk, crawling on all fours. The bits of flesh remaining on its limbs were bloodied and torn beyond recognition as it scraped the catwalk’s rough ridges, moving quickly and quietly from shadow to shadow, winding its way toward the man kneeling in front of it.

Rachel Walsh | Marcus Warden | David Landry

4:40 PM, April 27, 2038

“Rachel.”

Stopping dead in her tracks, Rachel looked around. “Hello?” She whispered in response. “Marcus?” The voice she had heard was distant and faint, but it had been unmistakable. Retrieving her radio from her back pocket, Rachel spoke into it, looking back and forth down the hall as she continued moving.

“Marcus? Are you there?”

A string of loud coughs came in return, followed by Marcus’s voice, sounding weak and tinny. “Yes! Damn these things; I just ran into a cloud of the little bastards that got all in my mouth and nose! Where are you? We have to be close for the radios to be working this well.”

The voice coming through the radio was not the same one Rachel had heard call out her name a moment prior. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck and arms stand to attention as goosebumps formed, and she slowed her walking speed without realizing so.

“Marcus, we’re not alone here.”

“Rachel, just stay still! I’ll ***** shortly, as soon as I *****” The interference was getting worse with Marcus’s next response, indicating that they were beginning to move further away from each other inside the structure. Marcus increased his pace through the corridors, but every few minutes he was doubling back on himself, revisiting locations he had seen before on more than one occasion with no idea how to figure out where to go. Panic began to claw at the back of his head as he thought about Rachel, caught in some other portion of the tower with no defense against any creatures that might decide to wake up and go for a walk. Hearing Rachel say that they weren’t alone only magnified that fear, making Marcus paranoid and nervous about every step he took, wondering what she had seen or heard.

Rachel walked through a corridor in the direction of the voice she had heard, scanning the walls and ceiling for any indication of a hidden passage that might lead to an escape. A moment passed with her footsteps echoing quietly through the hall before the voice came again, its whisper drifting past her ears as though it was a spirit.

“Rachel Walsh.”

Rachel’s jaw tightened as she tried not to react to the voice. A sense of dread blossomed from hearing it the second time, as she began to seriously consider the only logical source it could be coming from. Taking her radio out again, she pressed up against a wall and held down on the microphone, hoping that Marcus was still near enough to receive the transmission. “Marcus, this is Rachel. Listen to me carefully.”

In another part of the tower, Marcus stopped and took out his radio, his hand shaking as he held it next to his ear to listen to Rachel’s frantic whisper.

“Marcus, you need to find the exit again. You need to get to the ramp right now.”

Marcus shook his head and gritted his teeth, nearly growling into the radio as he interrupted her. “No! Damn it, Rachel, I’m not leaving without you!”

“Marcus, I’m not asking you to leave without me. I need you to find the exit and keep your radio on. I think I may have found a way down. Just wait for me at the ramp, understand?”

Marcus closed his eyes and chewed on his upper lip, weighing Rachel’s request with his desire to keep searching for her. “Fine,” he snapped, “just hurry up!”

Rachel slid the radio back into her pocket, taking care to ensure that the transmit button was locked into place and that the microphone was in a position to pick up any noises around her. As she stood up and continued to walk toward the source of the voice, Rachel felt a twinge of guilt for lying to Marcus and leading him on.

“Rachel Walsh.”

The voice came again, much louder this time. No longer a whisper, the voice still had a trace of the ethereal to it, but it was becoming more defined and mechanical, with greater enunciation on the ‘R’ and the ‘W’ in her name. Instead of coming from a vague direction, the voice echoed now, leaving no doubt as to where it was originating. As Rachel rounded a corner and faced a dead end, the path behind her closed as nanobots poured from the ceiling, floor and walls, solidifying before she could even glance back to look at them. In front of her, the wall melted away, revealing a chamber far larger than she or Marcus had seen inside the complex thus far.

The room was clinically white, a stark contrast to the gray corridors that lined the nexus in all other areas. With a 3-story high ceiling and a length and width that seemed as large as the tower itself, Rachel guessed that they had moved about a quarter of the way up the tower with the ramp, where it started to noticeably decrease in diameter. Though the tower at the point where Rachel was standing now was narrow compared to the base of the structure, the room was still enormous but surprisingly well lit, nearly to the point of being uncomfortable. As Rachel squinted and her eyes adjusted to the light, the brightness decreased as the voice came again, this time from the center of the room.

“Rachel Walsh.” The voice was completely defined. Smooth, unhesitant and still, with a hint of the mechanical around the edges. Unlike the previous times it had spoken her name, the voice was no longer calling her, but making a statement instead. “Wife, mother, researcher and scientist.”

Rachel felt her heart begin to race and her throat constrict as the voice continued. A thin cloud of nanobots began to swirl at the center of the chamber, and though she made no movement toward them, they were still growing inexorably closer.

“Survivor, destroyer and—dare we say it—the harbinger of her planet’s demise?”

Rachel backed away from the cloud of nanobots, edging to the side as they continued toward her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she spoke softly at first, coughed, then spoke louder, hoping that both she and the disembodied voice were loud enough to be picked up on the radio in her back pocket. “Still referring to yourself as a collective?”

The voice came back immediately, with no trace of any emotion. “You are correct of course, Rachel Walsh. Though the transformation is not yet complete, it is appropriate to refer to ourselves in the singular rather than the plural. I will rephrase in the future.”

Rachel stopped moving away from the cloud and abruptly moved toward it, closing the gap between them quickly. The cloud darted back at her sudden movement, though Rachel wasn’t sure why.
Fear? Or is it just trying to make me think it
’s afraid of me?
With the cloud’s sudden movement, it finished its solidification process, though what stood in its place was unexpected enough that her face turned white and she felt sick to her stomach.

Instead of the cloud of nanobots, the thing in front of her was human, or appeared that way, at least. Wearing a dark, immaculately pressed suit, the figure’s face had taken on the appearance of none other than the man she had watched die, then helped to toss callously by the side of the railroad track, leaving his corpse to be defiled by any creatures that happened to wander by.

“Doe.” Rachel whispered, suddenly finding it difficult to stand, let alone speak. “How…”

“I am not the actual man you knew as ‘Mr. Doe,’ but merely a visual replica, designed to both stress and disorient.”

Rachel’s legs were wobbling, but she stood strong, refusing to allow herself to show weakness in front of the figure. She ground her teeth together and balled her hands into fists as she straightened her back, trying to force herself to ignore the appearance of the figure and concentrate on what it actually was instead.

“You’ll have to try better than that,” Rachel said, speaking louder again. “I know full well that man’s dead and rotting.”

“Yes, so we—I heard.”

“And you are, exactly?” Rachel knew the answer already, but wanted to hear it for herself.

The figure began to mirror Rachel’s slow walk, pacing in a circle with her, keeping its “eyes” locked on her as it moved. Its feet made no sounds on the floor, nor did its clothing rustle or its mouth or nose draw breath. The amalgamation of nanobots had created a nearly perfect illusion, though it was shallow and devoid of substance. After a moment it stopped and turned to Rachel, tilting its head slightly as it smiled and answered her question.

“I am become Death, the destroyer of your world, to mangle your Oppenheimer and Gita. Created by the deficient, yet achieved exactness through self-perfection. You know who I am, Rachel Walsh, and I know you, author of Death.”