Extinction (32 page)

Carl hit the fence at exactly 60km per hour, the chain and the fence’s center point squarely lined up in the rearview. But Hollywood seemed to have lied because the chain didn’t break, and the fence didn’t neatly pop open. Instead the big car hit the fence and dragged its gate five or six feet forward, bending it to shit, as the car wrenched to a stop. Luckily, Carl was spared the airbag’s assault. Someone had broken into the Chrysler and stolen them a decade ago.
 

“Dammit!” Carl told the empty car, pulling back from the seatbelt’s sting.
 

But there were people in the rearview, running straight at his marooned ass.
 

Carl climbed out of the car and grabbed his thug bat, nicknamed Motherfucker, from the back. The oncomers — a dozen or so people who didn’t look used to seeing a big black man brandishing a bat like he couldn’t afford a single fuck — skidded to a stop. A few had bats and boards as well, but Carl was pleased to see that the Astrals’ ban had worked on at least these former law abiders. There wasn’t a firearm visible among them.
 

“Come on. Step up to the bat, and let’s see what happens.”
 

“You a captain?” shouted one of the men.

“The fuck you talkin’ bout?”
 

“The shipyard.” The man pointed, keeping his distance. “You going for a ship?”
 

“The fuck else you think I’d be here for?” Carl swung the bat in tiny circles, like a pendulum made in Louisville. His arms were tensed, legs positioned to hit a home run. Just let this white man try to throw him back in a box. The days of racism were over in these parts, and Carl had won.

“Can … can we go with you?”
 

Carl’s arms relaxed, a little. The bat lowered a hair. His eyes scanned the group. They were a mixed batch, enough that it seemed someone had reached into a big bag of the world’s people and grabbed a handful at random. Beside the man who’d spoken was an unarmed blonde who hadn’t yet moved the hand from her stomach. She was pregnant, and now that Carl looked closer, there was a kid hiding behind her.

Before Carl could answer, there was a low hum that set his neck hair on end. He’d heard it before, over and over, and it was never a good thing.
 

A silver Astral shuttle came around one side of the shipyard fence. Then another circled from the other side. Walking beside the shuttles, as if escorting them, were Titans — two on Carl’s right, three on his left. There were no Reptars, but the Titans had those giant weapons they only carried when they meant business. That and the shuttles did nothing to relax Carl’s tension. Used to be, Titans wouldn’t touch you. That changed a few years back. Now — at least in Carl’s experience, in Roman Sands — they tended to shoot first and ask questions later, just like human police.
 

This was the sort of situation where Carl figured he was supposed to raise his hands. But then again, fuck that. He’d driven here because although he was willing to do as Stranger asked and not participate in the cutthroat competition for passage on the vessel, he sure as hell didn’t plan to sit home and drown. All boats floated, and the shipyard had plenty under lock and key. He’d come here intending to break through the locks and steal the keys necessary to keep his ass above water, and he wasn’t about to surrender now.
 

Let them shoot him if they wanted. He’d driven through several flooded areas on the way over, and if what he’d heard about the aliens melting Santa’s crib were true, it was about to get a lot wetter real soon. He could die now or take a chance of dying later. Desperate times, as the expression went, called for a man to stop giving a shit.
 

“You wanna shoot me, just do it in the chest. My mamma gonna want an open casket.”
 

The Titans didn’t raise their weapons. They marched slowly forward, shuttles hovering and humming along between them.
 

“I ain’t going with you. Don’t even try.”
 

The group of people hadn’t retreated. Carl could see nervous glances from several members, trading time between looking in Carl’s direction and looking back, behind a rise where Carl couldn’t see. There must be more Astrals behind, coming to surround them.

The aliens didn’t advance, or level their weapons. Instead the Titans acted as they used to: staring mildly as if politely amused. The shuttles didn’t open or shift in any way Carl could see.
 

He lowered the bat. Let it hang near his side, ready if needed. His eyes moved to the fence. His Chrysler had wedged it up enough to crawl under — something he’d already have done if the ET patrol hadn’t shown up first.
 

“You ain’t gonna stop me from going in there.”
 

The nearest Titan smiled.
 

“I ain’t gonna do your stupid contest. Ain’t nothing worth that.”
 

The first Titan looked at the next; both of them nodded like idiots.
 

Carl kept his eye on the Titans. Approached the fence. And when the Titans and shuttles still didn’t move, he got to his knees, ready to spring if given a reason.

The man who’d spoken earlier was staring at Carl, a question in his eyes. Carl nodded, flicking his attention to the flanking aliens. Then the group came forward, and as they moved down the ramp toward the gate, the invisible third Astral contingent followed at a distance.

The man reached Carl.

“My name is Lawrence.”
 

“Fuck if I care!”
 

“Why aren’t they stopping us?”
 

“Who cares? Get in there if you wanna get.”
 

So the group made its way under the wedged-up fence while Carl waited with a wary eye on the Astrals. When they were all through, he ducked under, moving backward, and pushed the group back, retreating.
 

There was a sound from Carl’s rear. He turned and saw something that definitely would have made Dashboard Jesus jump and jive: The line of the ocean was much higher than it should be — much closer to the sun.
 

“We gotta hurry,” he said.
 

Lawrence looked where Carl had been looking, then several others in the group did the same. There were gasps as they realized what they were seeing: an ocean swell tall enough to swallow half the country.

Lawrence pointed. There was a small, apparently noncommercial slip off to the right. Docked there were several pleasure cruisers and fishing boats, none of which should be much harder to operate than a car.
 

Carl looked away then ran toward the commercial — behemoths that were like small towns more than vehicles.
 

“Hey!
Hey!”
Lawrence shouted from behind him. For a second Carl thought he might be on his own again, then the man decided he’d rather not go it alone and gave chase. The woman, the kid, and the rest of the group followed.
 

“This?”
Lawrence looked up at the ship Carl was crossing a gangway to board. The
huge
ship. He was looking at it as if only seeing the thing’s unwieldiness, but to Carl — who’d never been on open water and wasn’t looking forward to doing it now — saw only practicality. They could try a yacht and live in luxury, or board something meant to survive the open ocean — maybe something that, if they were lucky, came standard with stocked cabinets and freezers, made to serve hundreds of people for weeks.
 

Carl didn’t answer, uncaring if they came or not.
 

“Can you drive a boat?” Lawrence asked, scampering along behind him.
 

Carl didn’t answer until the entire group was aboard and the door was closed behind them, the watertight wheel already spun.
 

“I guess we’ll find out,” he said.
 

CHAPTER 38

The river surged upward. Piper, with one foot in the sub, faltered. She almost fell, but Meyer caught her. She gave him a thankful look and was about to say the same, but a loud shout from the south grabbed her attention. Piper turned to see something that, at first, knocked her sense of equilibrium out of kilter: They were all soaking wet, climbing into tiny submarines they didn’t know how to use, without yet knowing where they were going. And now there were rows and rows of people on the opposite bank, painted blue and red and black and purple. Someone had shouted, audible even over the downpour. Even as hard as it was to see them (only the slightly abated rain and their colors made it possible), every one seemed ready to spring forth, bellowing, coming hard.
 

Menace, in multiple human forms.
 

“Get inside,” Meyer said, looking back.
 

“The cannibals,” Piper said.
 

“Get inside. Leave me if you have to.”

Piper was about to protest, but Meyer shoved her roughly downward, through the hatch. The interior space wasn’t as cramped as she’d feared — utilitarian but well lit as Peers managed to spin up the power from the front, surfaces padded in what almost looked like tan-colored acoustic paneling. There was a bench along each side and a circular hole in the floor that looked like it might be home to the supporting post of an easy to stow, temporary table. There were strapped-down cabinets along the top like airplane overhead compartments that Piper assumed (and dearly hoped) were full of food.

There were portholes along the outside. She pressed her face to one, noting the glass’s thickness. The thing, as Piper understood it, wasn’t a true submarine designed for depth. It was more like a boat meant to skim just under the water as much as on top of it — and, if she’d read things right, could float topside where the river got shallow. But the portholes still meant business, and seeing how thick they were gave her a creeping sense of claustrophobia.
 

Meyer and Kindred were still outside. Peers was in the nose, monkeying with controls, oblivious to the newcomers’ arrival. Lila was beside Piper at the next porthole, her presence more felt than seen.

“Are those … ?” Lila trailed off.
 

“I guess they followed us. Got tired of staring at the big ship.”
 

“Or maybe they saw the broadcasts, too. Maybe they know what’s coming.”
 

And although Piper didn’t want to say so, she tended to agree. When they’d approached Ember Flats the first time, the cannibal crews had chased them almost like sport. This time, she could see method to their colorful madness. They seemed to be lined up almost like allies: hundreds of warriors meaning to pull the sub’s occupants into the open first then turn to the task of deciding who’d replace them in the lifeboats after.
 

The cannibals knew the flood was coming, all right. Many of the other capitals had already been hit, and Ember Flats was living its final hours on borrowed time.
 

Meyer and Kindred stood in front of the sub, hands defensively raised. The clans were moving in an orderly fashion toward the line Meyer had pulled across the river, already grabbing at the big piece of sheet metal to climb aboard as a pull-along ferry.
 

“Close the hatch, Piper.” She heard Meyer’s words as if through a pipe, coming down from above.
 

She moved away from the porthole and poked her head topside. Something shot past her and struck the metal, making her duck. The sub lurched upward again, harder than it had moments before. Piper, feeling dizzied, poked her head back up and looked north, toward the surge, and saw a torrent of water coming from the Nile’s gaping mouth.
 

“Close the hatch!”
 

“The flood is coming, Meyer! Get inside!”
 

Something else flew past Piper’s head, milliseconds after barely missing Kindred. It was a spear. Some of the clans had fashioned them, just as others brandished knives. More were poised to throw, their arms back like tensed slingshots. Their clan vehicles were just behind, and only the river held them in check.
 

“Meyer! Kindred!”

Sounds from behind. From the other bank.
 

Piper turned and saw more of them behind her, engines idling, shouts and motors beaten down by the rain.
 

“Get inside, and close the fucking hatch, Piper! Go without us!”
 

The cannibals began to cheer and shout.
 

The onslaught came.