Quarantine (The Shadow Wars Book 7.5) (12 page)

“What? Why?”

“It's...complicated,” Banks replied.

“And we don't have time to explain it, we need to get back by there, lay in wait, then we pop out and blast him when he gets close enough,” Greg said.

They made their way into the mines, past the initial staging area and into the damp, dark network of earthen tunnels carved into the mountainside. For several moments, nobody spoke. There were only the sounds of muffled movement. The deeper the went, the more a growing sense of tension began to plague Allan. He played his flashlight across the walls, the ceiling, the others, looking for some hint as to what was making him so pensive. He'd finally shrugged it off as his out-of-whack emotions and being here again when they stopped in a large cavern.

“Wait,” Poet said, holding up a fist. Everyone froze. “Something's wrong.”

“What?” Banks asked.

“I don't know...”

Allan frowned, feeling it too, more so than ever, and knew suddenly that it wasn't his emotions. It was his instincts. They were telling him something. He played the pale beam of light across the ground suddenly as an idea came to him. Up ahead, the way yet gone, he spied something. His whole body went cold as he realized what it was.

Bootprints in the mud.

“He's been here already!” he called out, turning to face the others.

That's when he saw it.

Something detached itself from the ceiling and landed directly behind Banks.

“Banks!” Allan heard himself scream.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Two gloved hands came up, one on either side of her head, and came together, grabbing her. Her eyes went wide. She dropped her gun, hands coming up to try and detach the grip, but then her head was twisted sharply to the side. A loud crack filled the air, and the life instantly faded from her eyes.

“Open fire!” Poet screamed. “Open fire!”

Allan expected to see the tall, imposing shape of the killer as Banks' body fell away, but instead, to his horror, he saw his own armor. Instantly, he remembered his nightmares. Now it was happening for real. Sort of. Banks' body fell away and then the armor moved. It moved
fast
. Everyone opened fire, including Allan. He ended up spraying down where it had been with several bursts from the assault rifle he'd grabbed.

Whoever was wearing his armor was hidden completely within it. The faceplate was perfectly opaque, a black shield against identity, making the wearer seem inhuman and almost insectile. Allan quickly realized that this was how he looked to everyone for several months. Chaos reigned in the cavern as the mysterious assailant moved among them, dodging most of the gunfire, occasionally taking a hit.

What was most disturbing was the way he moved in total silence. Even when a wild shot landed, he made no noise. Allan emptied his rifle, cursing, trying to keep track of it and land a shot wild simultaneously avoiding hitting the others. He slammed a fresh magazine of armor-piercers in and took aim once more.

The assailant came to stand before Duncan, who had just run out of ammo. In a flash, it made a fist and punched straight through the man's faceplate. The assailant's bloody gauntlet punched through the back of Duncan's head and helmet in a spray of gore. Allan let out a scream of surprise and fury, snapped the barrel to the assailant's location, flipped to full auto and squeezed the trigger. A concentrated array of bullets punched directly into the man's back and out his chest. Allan riddled both the hostile's body and Duncan's with an entire magazine's worth of armor-piercing rounds. The gun began clicking as the ammo ran out.

Finally, Allan released the trigger.

Both the man wearing his armor and Duncan collapsed to the ground.

Allan knew there was no chance Duncan was still alive. He walked slowly over, trembling with adrenaline, covering the man in his armor after slapping in a fresh magazine. He knew there was no way anyone could survive a full mag of armor-piercers to the back, but...stranger things had happened just recently.

“Let's see who this son of a bitch is,” Allan muttered, genuinely curious as he kicked the armored body over onto its back.

The others gathered around him as he reached up and flipped open the visor. He let out a startled shout and shot to his feet as he realized there was nobody and nothing in the suit. It was simply an empty suit of power armor.

“What the fuck?” he whispered.

“That makes sense,” Poet replied.

“What?
How
?!”

“Think about it. It's all figurative in here. You were a prisoner of your armor. You felt safe in there. If you were going to get through this whole thing, you'd have to get past your armor. It was part of what was keeping you from reconnecting with the world around you,” Greg replied.

“Fuck...fine, so what does this mean? He's already come and gone? Or was this thing waiting for us and he's still coming? Or was
this
my insanity?” Allan asked.

“No, this can't be it,” Poet replied.

“Why not?”

“Just...because. It's not right. You didn't start wearing your armor until Lindholm. We have to go back further. And yes, I think this means he somehow got here before us. Which means...shit, come on, the mobile command center.”

Poet turned and hurried out of the cavern. Allan, Greg and Wilson followed. Allan cast one last look over his shoulder, wishing he could have done more, or at least thinking that maybe he should say something now that Duncan and Banks were gone, but there wasn't any time. There was never enough time, it seemed.

Outside, the storm was worse.

The mobile command base looked like it had been abandoned for a long time. In a way, Allan supposed that made sense. There was a single jump ship among the forsaken equipment and gear. The team split up, checking the area, but found no trace of their target. Allan hurried onboard the remaining jump ship, worried that it had been rendered inoperable. But when they tried to activate it, the vessel turned on without a problem.

“He must have taken another one,” Poet said, settling into the pilot's seat and closing the back ramp.

“Now what?” Allan asked.

“There's a starport that should have FTL-capable ships a couple dozen miles north of here. We'll grab one and press on to Frontier,” Poet replied.

“Why don't we just go back and take the other ship?” Allan asked.

Poet shook his head. “It was never meant to get further than Lindholm, too unstable.”

Allan settled into his seat with the others, sat back and waited for the ride to be over.

Chapter 12

–
Home & Heartbreak
–

They made the trip to the starport, which was at the edge of a larger colony, and found a ship with FTL capabilities. It was a cargo ship, vacant, void of life. The colony was the same. The storm had let up by the time they arrived, and an eerie blue moonlight fell across the area. Almost perfect silence awaited them. No people spoke. No engines revved. No machinery ran. The place was wholly, totally inert and silent.

“Where is everyone?” Allan asked after they'd taken off. “That place was dead.”

“Gone,” Greg replied. “They're all dead.”

“I guess so.”

The cargo ship left the atmosphere and jumped to FTL flight.

* * * * *

“Why did you join SI?” Wilson asked suddenly.

They'd been flying for an indeterminate amount of time. When he tried to reason how long it had been, he realized he had no idea. It could have been five minutes or two hours. He spent so long trying to reason it out that Wilson repeated his question.

“What?” he asked. “Why did I join?” Allan glanced up. Wilson and Greg were staring at him. “Why?” he replied.

“I was just curious,” Wilson replied.

Allan frowned. “You can't be curious because...you're me. Which means that
I'm
curious,” he said slowly.

Wilson shrugged. “So, why did you?”

“My girlfriend had broken up with me, I was at a loose end, it seemed like a way to give myself a new life, a new identity.”

Wilson shook his head. “No...that's not right,” he replied.

“What...
you're
telling
me
I'm wrong about why I joined SI?”

“Yeah. It's not right.”

“Okay, what happened then?” Wilson seemed to consider it for a moment. “You don't know, because I don't know...” Allan said suddenly, realizing what was happening.

“That's right,” Wilson replied. “But I
do
know that's that not what happened. Not exactly. Something different happened. I just don't know what.”

“You think I repressed a memory,” Allan said.

Wilson nodded. Allan looked at Greg. “What?” Greg asked.

“What about you?”

“Well I don't know. You keep me out of your life. Even though I'm your best friend.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Greg laughed. “Because you think I am your best friend. We've been over this.”

Allan sighed. Poet suddenly called out that they had arrived over Frontier. Allan looked out the nearest window and saw the familiar green-blue orb in the distance, growing closer. It sent a ripple of discontent down his spine.

“I'd always assumed I'd be returning here under different circumstances,” he murmured.

“It's been over a year now,” Wilson replied.

“Yeah. I wanted to go back, see my parents, but...”

“Too painful,” Greg said quietly.

“Yeah.”

The ship began to rattle as it entered the atmosphere. The vast, sprawling metropolis of Frontier was laid out before them, portions of it glittering in the rising sun. Buildings, courtyards, skyscrapers, all spread out beneath them. There was one portion, however, that was dark, a blot of blackness amidst the fields of steel and glass.

“What's that?” Allan asked. Before anyone could answer, it came to him. “Wait...that's where I used to live. That's where my first apartment was, with my girlfriend. With Amy.”

“Yep. That's where we're going,” Greg replied.

“How do we know that's where the insanity is?” Allan asked.

“Well it's not exactly hiding, we've been tracking it,” Poet replied from the cockpit. “It didn't do anything to cover its tracks.”

“Wait...it's not covering its tracks, it didn't take the time to disable this ship. It was the only one left at that starport. It would have been easy...it
wants
us to follow it.”

“Trap,” Wilson said.

“Yeah,” Allan murmured, although he didn't quite think that was entirely accurate. The cargo ship continued honing in on decayed spot. It reminded Allan of a malignant tumor. It was unreal, the difference between the rest of the city and the block containing his old apartment complex. As they came in for a landing in a vacant lot next to the structure, Allan tried to think back to this time in his life. He'd just graduated from high school. Amy was his love, his life. They were each other's first, moved into an apartment together, both got lousy jobs to support their new lives. It had been great for two years.

Then the love had gone out of the relationship, or something like that, and they'd broken it off when they realized it wasn't going to work. But...Allan stared at the ruined apartment complex as the ship settled down. But it hadn't gone quite like that, had it? He suddenly had the scary feeling that he had forgotten something, something very important. He began focusing harder, trying to dredge up the depths of the past, to recall...

“Allan, come on,” Greg said, standing. “We've landed. We need to go inside and finish this.”

“Fine,” Allan replied, standing up.

They quartet of survivors moved down the back ramp, guns up, ready for combat. The buildings that surrounded them were cast in dark, ruinous corrosion. Broken windows, heavily weathered metal or stone, everything seemed to be a hollowed out husk of its former self. Allan led them across the vacant lot, stepping onto the parking lot of his former apartment complex. It was five stories tall, a bleak, prefabricated rectangle that shot into the sky. How many hours had he spent at this place? It was immediately and incredibly familiar.

But beneath the familiarity was a vague sense of dread and unease. It was growing as Allan approached, crossing the cracked concrete lot. Their boots echoed hollowly as they approached the double doors at the base of the building. Allan continually scanned the area, his pulse racing, hunting for signs of a hostile. But there was nothing. No looming figure in the windows, no outlines in the shadows, nothing.

They stepped into the decrepit lobby of the apartment complex. No furniture. Black mold on the walls. Dust on what remained of the broken-out windows. Allan had the others split up and search the area. They moved through the broken-down structure, through the first four apartments on the bottom floor, finding nothing. Allan knew where they had to go, his apartment was on the third floor, but he opted to linger, regrouping with the others back in the lobby.

“We have to go up to the third floor,” Poet said. “Either she's isn't here yet and we set a trap, or she is and she's waiting for us.”

“You said she,” Allan said. “Why she?”

Poet stopped, frowned, his brow wrinkling in confusion. “I...don't know,” he replied. “It just...”

“...feels right,” Wilson finished.

The sense of lurking dread continued to grow. He knew what he had to do next, but he was having a hard time doing it.

Then the insanity decided to make his next move for him.

There was a small sound from behind them. Allan spun around and saw the killer, in all its eight-foot, black-armor-wearing horror, standing in the doorway. It was marching straight towards Greg, who raised his rifle, but before he could get off a single shot, the killer grabbed him by the neck, gave a good, hard squeeze, broke his neck and tossed his lifeless body aside. Poet opened fire, but it was useless. The killer walked directly into the line of fire, made two fists and brought them together with Poet's head in between.

Blood sprayed, and Poet collapsed to the floor.

Feeling a fury ignite in him, Allan ran directly for the killer's back. In a sudden blur of motion, the killer spun around and casually backhanded him. Allan grunted in surprise and pain as he flew across the room, slamming into a wall and crashing to the ground. He struggled to his feet, preparing to defend himself, but when he had a good view of the room, he catch a fleeting glimpse of the killer's back as it retreated deeper into the building.

Allan had a good idea of where it was going.

He began making his way across the room, hurrying to follow. He was alone now. Wasn't he always? It seemed that way. He marched down the corridor, to the stairwell at the end. As he poked his head into it and looked up, he again caught sight of the killer up a few flights. Allan began rushing up the stairs, plummeting headlong towards whatever conclusion this whole thing was building to. He got to the third floor, found the door to his old apartment broken in. He stepped in, surveying the living room, the decrepit furniture.

“Allan?”

Allan froze. That infinitely familiar voice. His first real love. Amy. The dread had become terror. He was slowly beginning to realize that something different had happened that day. Something potentially catastrophic. It must have been, given the fact that he had apparently forgotten about it. All he knew was that being in that apartment again caused absolute terror to steal into his soul. It took all of his will to press deeper into the apartment.

“You're home early,” Amy said. She sounded nervous.

“Not feeling well,” Allan heard himself say, the words torn from his mouth. “I thought some fun in the sack would help me along a speedy recovery.”

“Oh...okay, great,” Amy replied.

He stepped into the bedroom. The apartment was no longer ancient, dark and decrepit. It was relatively new, furnished and gray. Rain beaded and ran on the windows. Amy was lying in bed. Something was wrong. She looked sweaty, her hair in disarray. She was smiling nervously, smoothing her hair. She was naked, or at least topless, beneath the blankets.

“What...were you doing?” Allan asked, hesitating.

“I was, you know...masturbating,” she replied.

Allan frowned, sensing a great deal wrong with the situation presented to him. Something shifted in the closet. Amy's eyes snapped over to it. Allan could see a very clear fear in her gaze. He suddenly realized there was someone in the closet. He slowly crossed over to it.

“Allan, don't...” Amy whispered.

He didn't stop. He reached the closet and opened it up. A naked man was inside.

“Hi,” he mumbled.

“Who...who the fuck are you?” Allan asked. At the moment, it felt like all of his emotions had utterly vacated his mind.

“Allan, please,” Amy said.

“I should go,” the man said, trying to get out of the closet and move past Allan.

Allan turned around and stared at Amy. For a moment, he felt like he was losing his mind. At first, it felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. But then he knew that he was recovering lost memories. He knew them to be true even as also knew that he had no idea what was coming next. It was more than a little confusing.

“You're...you're cheating on me?” he asked, pure, utter bewilderment filling him. “Why?”

“Allan, I'm sorry, I...I can explain,” Amy replied.

Suddenly, the confusion was utterly annihilated by fury. Pure, unmitigated fury. His vision became red and unfocused. At that moment, the entire universe consisted of that room. Specifically, one thing in that room that he wanted in his hands more than anything else. When Allan moved, he moved fast. He raced across the room, to the bedside table.

“Allan? Allan,
don't
!” Amy cried, realizing what he was doing.

He tore the door open and pulled out the pistol he'd bought for home protection. It was loaded. He flipped off the safety and pointed it towards the man.

“Who is he?!” he asked.

“Allan-” Amy began

“
Who is he
!?” he screamed.

“He's just some guy I met at work!” Amy yelled back.

“Whoa, look man, I'll just go, okay? Just-just let me go,” the man said, trembling. “I just-”

“
Shut up
!” Allan screamed. “You cheated on me...
with some guy you met at work
?! Why?”

“Allan, please, calm down-”

“
Why, Amy?! You fucking tell me why
!”

“Allan, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-”

A realization hit him, just then. It was a whole, complete and utterly rational thought. Or so it had seemed at the time. He would never be able to shoot Amy, it just wasn't in him. And this guy...even in his deranged state, he realized that there was a good chance this guy had no idea what was going on. He probably just thought this was a quick hookup. He couldn't shoot this guy. Unfortunately, he had to shoot
someone
in this room.

So he put the gun to his own temple.

“Allan, Allan don't,” Amy said, real fear in her voice.

Before, he'd been helpless against the tide of the memories, unable to stop himself from experiencing, from reenacting them. Now, he felt control return. He could feel it all. The gun in his hand, the barrel to his temple. He was staring at the ground, at his feet. Allan looked up. The room had changed. It was dark and decayed again. Amy and the man were both gone. Instead, before him, the killer stood, unmoving.