This was originally meant to be between chapters 41 and 42, as it was on SpaceBattles. It proved very contentious at the time. I made it an Omake there, as I was reluctant to discard it, with the idea to possibly making it canon later. Later is now, and I have decided that it is in fact canon. The events chronicled here will come up in later chapters.
I've left the SpaceBattles notes here below to give some context.
I have decided today (15-Oct-2016) that this is now canon. It will be referred to in later chapters. My original note is left for historical interest.
A note from the maker of words, commonly known as an 'Author':
I wrote this as an experiment to show a part of the Worm world that was disconnected from the events currently ongoing in Brockton Bay, but still relevant. The tone of it was deliberately harsher and more bloodthirsty. I found it an interesting exercise and based on the likes, a lot of people found it worth the effort. However, it was obvious from the several pages of commentary that followed it that a lot of people didn't like it as well for a whole slew of reasons. I originally removed it from the threadmarks due to the dislike, some of which was well argued, but a few people have raised good points that have led me to put it back as an Omake. It may or may not become canon at some future date. Time will tell. If you're really interested in the arguments for and against this chapter, read the next ten(!) pages of comments. Otherwise, you can either take this as a stand alone short, or a possible part of canon, or just skip it entirely. It's up to you. If this changes at some point I'll alter this note.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Slowing, Jake shifted down, the ancient but solid Ford truck bouncing on the rough road, the big V8 engine rumbling in front of him as the tires bit at the gravel road. He steered to the side of the road, stopping at a point where he could more clearly see the town five hundred feet below him, peering carefully at it. Something looked wrong.
After a moment he realized what it was. While Creek Bend was a very small town, population only twenty-nine, thirty when he was home, it was still normally showing signs of activity at half past one in the afternoon, such as a number of his neighbors moving around. Things like Andy puttering around his farm on his tractor doing whatever it was that he did, Sheila looking after the small general store, which mainly meant sitting around waiting for one of the other nineteen adults to want something, or other such activities.
Yet at the moment he couldn't see any movement at all.
A small trail of smoke was rising from the chimney of his house, showing that the furnace was running, and he could see other houses in the tiny hamlet doing the same thing, but there wasn't a trace of other human activity. No one moving around in the street, none of the cars moving, not even any of the kids playing outside.
That was… not normal.
Rummaging in the glove box he retrieved his binoculars and put them to his eyes, focusing the device and scanning the area, the fine hairs on the back of his neck rising. Something was definitely not right, he could feel it in his bones.
Even with the magnified view he couldn't see any signs of life. What he could see was worrying. Two bicycles abandoned in the middle of the single street that ran through the center of the town, an old Ford Explorer with the drivers door open and judging by the faint clouds of steam coming from the exhaust in the crisp air, the engine still running. It was slewed across two of the three parking spaces outside the general store as if whoever had been driving it had jumped out in such a hurry they hadn't bothered to turn it off.
He recognized the vehicle. It belonged to his next door neighbor Bill, a very large and strong ex-Navy man who had retired to this tiny Idaho hamlet years ago, following his family roots, and made a small but usable living fixing things around the area.
Not that there were many people to fix things for. The nearest large town, or at least, larger town, was Jordan Valley, Oregon, thirty-five miles or so north-west as the crow flies, and that place was only about two hundred people and a tiny airstrip. By road it was at least twice as far, over extremely rough terrain. In the other direction it was Grand View, nearly triple even that distance if not more by road, which went through the mountains and wound back and forth so much it was dizzying. The road itself was still being built, once it was completed it would make the trip less difficult, but at the moment there were several places that were only passable with care.
There were shorter routes if you knew the area well and had the right vehicle, but they were dangerous even at the best of times, and February wasn't that. Jake had just come down the road from Jordan Valley, having been on an overnight trip for supplies, and was both tired and hungry.
And now, suspicious and worried.
Scanning the area again, very carefully, he couldn't see anything moving at all, not even one of the half-dozen dogs that lived in the town. The only sign of life he could see that suggested someone actively doing something was over a mile and a half away at the heavily fortified enclosure that two crazy ready-for-anything-up-to-and-including-the-end-of-the-world survivalists lived in, where there seemed to be a vehicle slowly moving back and forth. It was only visible now because of his altitude above the town, they were in the next valley over and normally no one could see them.
Hear them, on occasion, yes, they had a distinct liking for heavy weapons and tested them on a regular basis, which got quite loud sometimes. Other than that, and a very definite paranoia where the authorities were concerned, once you knew them they were actually not bad people, just a little more nuts than average around these parts.
You had to be very sure not to sneak up on them, though. They tended to react badly to that…
Growing more worried by the second, Jake checked the town again through his binoculars then put them on the seat beside him, turned around to check the rifle sitting in the rack behind him, then put the vehicle in gear and resumed driving. Rolling into town very slowly ten minutes later he carefully scanned the scene, still unable to see any signs of life. Abruptly stopping, he stared at the side of the road, where the rear end of another vehicle was visible protruding from a deep ditch. Again, it belonged to one of his neighbors.
Looking around he couldn't see anyone, so he put the parking brake on, grabbed his rifle and chambered a round, then got out of the truck and went to investigate, very cautiously and listening intently for anything out of place. The whole town was eerily silent, only the sound of the light breeze blowing through the trees and a crow cawing.
He noticed as he approached the vehicle that there were other tire tracks in the loose road surface, the ones from the station wagon leading to it from the direction of the town in a wild series of skid marks, then another set which looked like they belonged to something large, bigger than his truck. Kneeling down he inspected them, seeing that there was a double set which suggested the rear wheels of a large truck or van, something like that.
Standing again, he resumed his careful approach of the vehicle in the ditch. Something was bothering him, something it took a moment for him to identify.
When he did, he stopped dead.
Blood.
It was the smell of blood. Fairly fresh, but not recent.
Taking a deep breath he raised the rifle into a firing position, then moved closer very slowly. When he could see in through the back window, he stared in horror, before approaching the car and peering inside. Jake could feel his stomach turn over, only just managing to keep his breakfast down.
The entire inside of the car was spattered with blood, a number of red smeary handprints on the windows, except the driver side one which was missing, shattered crystals of safety glass all over the vehicle. They glinted in the afternoon sunlight, glued in place with the blood which was almost dry now.
Stepping back he breathed harshly through his nose for several seconds, wildly wondering what the fuck was going on. Why was Brenda's car just sitting here in the ditch a hundred yards outside the town, blood all over it, with no one around?
And more importantly, what had happened to Brenda?
She was an annoying old woman sometimes but he didn't wish her ill even so. The amount of blood in the car, and in the trail of it he could see leading from the broken window when he went around to that side, didn't look particularly survivable. There must have been several pints of it at least, soaked into the upholstery and dripping down the side of the machine.
Swallowing his bile, he checked the skeletal bushes along the road but could see no sign of a body. Only marks which looked horribly like those left by a body being dragged. They led back into town.
Turning to look towards the half dozen buildings, a very bad feeling building in him, Jake stared for some time, then slowly got back into his truck and drove it towards the general store. His home was on the other side, a quarter mile further on, but he had an overwhelming urge to check the town warring with a similar one to race home right now. He wasn't entirely sure why the first one won out but it did.
Parking next to the vehicle he'd spotted from the road higher up the mountain, he turned the engine off and looked around. Still there was no sign of movement other than him and a couple of crows. Reluctantly getting out he checked the still running SUV, the sound of the engine idling the only non-natural noise in the area. When he reached in and turned it off, the sudden cessation of the rumble almost made him jump. The fuel gauge read nearly empty which made him think it had been running for hours.
Why, that was the question.
At least this time there wasn't any blood. Only an inexplicably abandoned vehicle.
Backing away from it, he looked at the two bicycles in the middle of the road for a moment, then the store, then around at the other houses. A visceral feeling of dread made his guts clench.
He really didn't want to look inside the store.
After a moment he crossed the street in the opposite direction, deciding suddenly to check the houses first. The Smith household was the nearest, he could see the front door was open a little from where he was. Approaching it he held his weapon ready, pushing the door open with the muzzle, then waiting. Nothing jumped out at him after the faint creaking sound died away. Somehow unwilling to break the silence with a call, he cautiously entered, looking around.
The house turned out to be empty. He looked everywhere, in the basement, in the utility room, even under the beds. No sign of the four people who lived there. Gazing out the second floor window at the small cluster of buildings, Jake shivered. This was far too much like a horror film for his liking. Something terrible had happened here.
He checked all the other houses, only his one which was furthest away left in the end. There was no sign of anyone at all, although there were plenty of signs that they'd been there up until recently, probably no more than fifteen to twenty hours before. He did find one of the dogs the Ashdowns owned, torn to pieces in their back yard, apparently over a day ago. There were half a dozen crows picking at the body, which flew away as far as the roof of the house when he approached. Standing next to the animal's corpse staring down at it, he tried not to throw up.
It wasn't easy.
In the end, he turned his footsteps towards his truck again. Still not wanting to enter the store, having a horrible premonition that when he did his world would end, he numbly got back into his truck and started the engine, driving it the short distance to his home and his family. Stopping in the familiar spot he turned it off again, then sat staring at his house. His heart was hammering in his chest.
From his seat he could already see that his front door was half open.
After a nearly endless time, which was probably closer to ten seconds, he swallowed down a lump in his throat then got out of the truck, grabbing his rifle again. Walking over, very slowly, to the front door of his house he stopped dead just outside it, then gently pushed it open with his free hand. A strange plastic burning smell wafted out.
"Mary?" he called softly, the first word he'd spoken in hours. It was almost a shock to him, that human sound.
No one replied.
Going in through the same door he'd passed through for over fifteen years on a daily basis, Jake entered his house, weapon ready. He spent nearly forty minutes searching it, finding no trace of his wife or his nine year old son Michael, although there were plates on the table still half full of congealed bacon and eggs. The kettle on the stove, which was turned down low, had boiled dry and nearly melted, the source of the smell he'd encountered. Acrid traces of carbonized polymers from the ruined handle filled the kitchen.
He turned the stove off, then slumped into a chair, staring around the room, lost.
An indeterminate time later, he sighed. Jake knew what he had to do. Before leaving the house, he went into the master bedroom, opening the closet and moving a couple of backpacks to the side, then knelt on the floor to open the safe mounted there, spinning the dial with the confidence of practice. Opening it when it clicked for the final time he removed the old but well cared for M1911 pistol that was inside, along with three magazines loaded with hollow-point rounds. Having checked the weapon and loaded it, he put it in his pocket along with the two spare magazines and stood up, not bothering to close the safe again.
Five minutes later he was staring at the front door of the general store. He could smell blood again, and this time he knew it wasn't coming from the car in the ditch.
Eventually, pistol in hand, he summoned up his courage and went up the two steps to the door, turning the handle and opening it, pistol ready and his rifle slung over his shoulder. Light from behind him illuminated the scene in shades of crimson and pink.
Jake turned to the side and vomited.
It took some time before he could enter the building. As he'd more than half expected, he found the various missing people there.
Most of them.
As in, all the people, but only most of the bodies.
Shaking with adrenaline and rage, he carefully checked each person, all of whom he knew and counted as neighbors if not friends, finding all of them dead. Mostly very brutally. Body parts were missing, bodies themselves were mutilated in horrific ways he knew he'd see for the rest of his life every time he closed his eyes. The damage was… utterly unbelievable. Something that no human, or normal human, could even conceive of inflicting.
But someone had. It wasn't accidental, it wasn't an attack by wild animals, it wasn't self inflicted in some terrible madness. Someone had done this to them.
Jake was fairly sure he knew who, based on news reports over the years.
Stepping over the remains of someone he was only half-sure was Brenda, he stopped when he spotted a familiar ring on the hand of one of the more badly damaged bodies. If it wasn't for that ring, he'd have never been able to identify the person in question.
But he knew that ring. He'd given it to Mary seventeen years ago when they were married.
Weirdly, he didn't cry. Dry eyed, he knelt in the coppery-scented muck and gathered the still-cooling remains of his wife in his arms, holding her tenderly. Beyond her he could see a small form with familiar hair, someone he knew without looking closer was his son.
A terrible, all consuming, white-hot rage was building inside him somewhere, a rage that would burn all in front of it when it came out.
That wasn't yet, though.
He looked at the floor where his wife had been lying and saw two characters shakily scribbled there in the foul fluid coating almost every surface in the room.
Jake nodded. He'd been right.
With one final hug, and a whispered promise, he tenderly laid his wife's body down, then went to find several jerry cans of gas and a match.
"What the hell is that, Willy?"
Willy looked over at his best friend Zack, who had stopped the bulldozer he was using to smooth out a patch of ground inside their walled compound in preparation for building another storage room, then followed his pointing finger as the old diesel engine rattled into silence. Rising over the ridge to the east was a thick column of black smoke, which was blowing their way in the light breeze. Shortly they could both smell burning wood and gasoline, along with an unnerving scent that reminded them of a bad barbecue.
"It's coming from town," he replied slowly. "Something bad is happening."
"No one has been past for two days," Zack said thoughtfully. "Which is a little odd, normally we see Andy going up to the forest every day or two. Minding his still."
Both of them were people who didn't trust easily, and had found common cause in this out of the way place, settling in to wait for the disaster they were both convinced would happen sooner or later. Originally it was World War Three, but with the steady rise of Parahumans, it was just as likely to be something worse. They had pooled their resources years ago, stocking up on everything they could imagine needing for when civilization inevitably collapsed.
"Maybe this is it," Zack added.
"Perhaps. But I'm not sure yet."
"Maybe we should go and check it out?"
They stared at each other, then at the smoke cloud billowing over the hill. "We'll need something bigger than these," Willy commented, hefting the illegally modified AR-15 he was carrying over his shoulder. He never went anywhere without it. No one locally seemed to mind too much, they were fairly laid back around here and had a very live and let live attitude. He was OK with that, although he still didn't actually trust them. Not completely.
A revving engine sound caught his attention and made Zack turn as well. They watched the dark red truck that was driving down the track half a mile away that led to the town of Creek Bend. "That's Jake Petty's truck," Zack commented, peering at it through the pair of binoculars he had around his neck from his vantage point on top of the five ton piece of construction machinery.
"Wonder what he wants?" Willy grunted. The man in question was a nice enough guy and his wife was cute, but they didn't have much contact.
Zack dropped down off the machine he was standing on, both of the walking over to the gate. Opening the viewing slot in it Willy watched the vehicle drive up, then stop fifty yards away. Several seconds passed before the driver's door opened. The man who stepped out looked like he'd just driven through hell.
"Fuck me," Willy muttered. "What the hell?"
Zack climbed up the ladder next to the gate to the observation point above it in the fifteen foot concrete wall, looking down at their guest. The smell from the smoke cloud still drifting their way was becoming pretty nasty by now.
"Hey, Jake, what the fuck happened to you?" Willy called when the other man, who was covered in blood like he'd been rolling on the floor of an abattoir, yet didn't look injured, was close enough.
Then he saw the taller man's eyes.
He flinched.
"Fuck." Looking up at his friend, he added, "I'm letting him in."
"Sure that's a good idea, Willy?"
"I think so," he replied, unlocking the heavy bar across the door in the gate, then opening it. Jake walked through it with the same steady pace he'd been using since he got out of the truck, giving the impression he'd have done the same thing regardless of whether the door was open or shut.
When he was inside, Willy closed the door and barred it again, before turning to the man who was standing watching him calmly with empty, dead eyes. Willy noticed he had a .308 rifle over his shoulder and obviously had a pistol in his coat pocket from the way it was hanging, but made no move to either of them.
"Jake."
"Willy."
"What's going on?"
"They're all gone, Willy."
He stared, then glanced at Zack, who had slid down the steel ladder and was standing a few yards away with his hand in his pocket, the one Willy knew held a 9mm pistol, in a position that kept him out of the firing line between Zack and Jake.
"Who's gone, Jake," he asked in a deliberately calm tone. He was damn sure he was in the presence of someone who was only fractions of an inch from snapping. Violently and all over the place.
"Everyone. Mary. Michael. Brenda. Andy. Everyone."
"What do you mean, 'gone'?" Zack asked. Jake looked at him, then back to Willy.
"Dead. Murdered. Slaughtered." He pointed at the smoke cloud which was slowly beginning to fade away. "I gave them a decent send off. It was all I could do."
"Jesus," Willy breathed. "How? Who? We've been working here for days and we didn't hear anything."
The two words that his neighbor spoke made him go white.
"Slaughterhouse Nine."
"They went out on the east road," Zack said, standing up. "A big vehicle, something like a bus, I think. Not very fast, heading towards the pass through the mountains." He pointed. "They must have come in from the direction of Jordan Valley. You didn't pass them, so that only leaves east as a direction to go."
"I'm going to kill them," Jake said in an almost calm tone. Zack and Willy exchanged a glance. "And you're going to help me."
"How the fuck are we going to kill the fucking Slaughterhouse Nine, for Christ's sake?" Willy asked in shock. "The Protectorate and more independent heroes and villains than I can remember have tried for years, but those fuckers are still wandering around killing people. What can we do that they can't?"
"Do the job properly," Jake replied with a chilling smile. "Those people tried to stop the S9. I'm going to kill them. I don't care what happens to me, but they're dead, they just don't know it yet."
"How?" Zack asked.
Jake told them.
"For fuck's sake be careful, Zack," Willy yelped as the huge six by six army surplus truck, springs compressed almost to the endstops, jounced and rocked its way down the almost impassable trail that counted, barely, as a road. It bypassed well over half the distance to Grand View, but only if you had a very large off road capable vehicle that could ford streams and something of a death-wish. Even in the middle of summer the route was difficult, in the tail end of winter in the dark it was horrendous.
Not to mention when you remembered what the truck was full of.
Pale faced, his friend wrestled with the steering, keeping them more or less on the right route. Willy checked the map in the light of a small flashlight, then nodded. "Almost there. Are you sure about this, Jake?"
"Yes."
It was all he said. With a small sigh, yet understanding the man more than he'd expected, Willy kept navigating.
Eventually they bumped and clattered their way out of the steep mountain pass that the tiny old track descended and found themselves on a much wider and smoother stretch of tarmac, turning to the east and driving on. Another five and a half miles passed before Jake said, "Here. This is the place."
Zack pulled over and turned the engine off, then looked out at the scene, before turning to the other two men. "We've probably only got about four or five hours, unless they stop for the night. Down that road with those vehicles they won't be able to do more than about fifteen, twenty miles an hour at best but I think they had about a two hour head start on us."
"We'll have to work fast, then." Jake opened the passenger door and got out. The other two looked at each other, then sighed and followed.
The silence of the night was broken by the sound of a hammer smashing a lock, then a few minutes later, the sound of a large diesel engine rumbling into life. The noises went on for hours.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Jack whistled softly to himself, sharpening one of his spare knives and enjoying the early dawn light coming in through the windows of the old greyhound bus he and his friends had liberated a few towns ago when William's car had finally died. The man really should have maintained the thing better. It was bumping along a very bad section of this remote road, William at the wheel, the ride pretty awful. Idly wondering if he should write a letter to the relevant person in charge of roads in this area, he swore mildly as one particularly vicious pothole made him nearly stick the knife into his own face.
"That would have been embarrassing," he chuckled, running the whetstone along the blade again, then holding it up to the light and inspecting it. Satisfied, he put the stone down, then picked up the oiled cloth next to him on the seat and carefully cleaned the blade, before closing the knife and putting it away.
The ride smoothed out suddenly, the bus picking up the pace from the near walking-speed it had been doing for the last two hours to something more suitable. He was beginning to wish they'd acquired something more suitable for off-road use. These little armpit of nowhere towns in rural Idaho were fun and all, but they had major infrastructure issues.
"Thank god for that," a voice from in front of him said sourly. "My back is killing me. Why the hell don't they fix these fucking roads?"
"I believe that is in fact what they're doing, my dear Shatterbird," he replied mildly, looking out the window as they went past a sign that told passers-by that there was a construction zone three miles ahead. "This is all new road surface, I expect that it's being upgraded even now. Next time we come through it will probably be much easier."
"I'll be just as glad to never see this entire state again," the woman mumbled. "I'm bored. When are we going to get somewhere interesting?"
"Soon enough, my friend, soon enough," he smiled.
Looking towards the back of the bus he watched as Riley fiddled with the insides of one of her robotic spiders, then glanced at the seat across from his where the towering form of Mannequin was folded into a much smaller space than one might expect. The Tinker was apparently asleep, although with his artificial body, it was difficult to tell. Hatchet Face was snoring next to Riley, provoking a couple of annoyed looks from the blonde girl.
"I bet Crawler is having more fun than we are," the woman grumped, making him look at her again.
"Possibly, but then he's easily amused. We'll find out sooner or later, no doubt. He'll turn up again eventually." The monstrous cape hadn't really been comfortable in the bus, barely fitting into it, and had abruptly announced in the last town but one that he was going to go off on his own for a while since they were all too slow, then he'd vanished. Jack was sure he could probably track him via news reports if he wanted to, but at the moment, didn't really care all that much. He'd been mumbling something about wanting to meet some reptilian cape on the east coast for a while now, or it might have been 'eat' rather than 'meet'. Sometimes he didn't enunciate very well.
The bus rumbled on, following a long descending curve that eventually ended up going through a narrow cut in the mountain, barely wide enough for two lanes, with hundred yard or more tall rock walls either side of the road. One could see the marks where the rock had been blasted away to form the cutting. Signs at intervals warned of the potential for falling rocks.
A couple of minutes later, the vehicle slowed. "Jack, we have a problem," the driver called over his shoulder.
"What sort of problem?" the tall slender man said, getting up and moving to the front of the bus, putting his hand on the driver's seat and bending down a little to look out the windshield. William pointed.
"That sort."
Somewhat bemused, Jack studied the mid-forties sandy-haired man who was sitting in the middle of the road twenty feet away, precisely on the newly painted central yellow line, in what looked like an ordinary wooden household chair, apparently waiting for them. He was covered in blood, with a calm expression on his face. Intrigued, Jack stared.
"Now, I wonder what that fellow wants," he murmured.
"Should I run him over? Or go back?" William Manton asked. He yawned widely, tired from the very long and rough drive that had left him behind the wheel all night.
"No, I think..." Jack paused, looking around carefully. There was no one else in the area, only the man on his chair, and a couple of hundred yards away, a wider space in the road where some construction equipment and a couple of large steel storage containers was sitting, apparently waiting for the road crew to resume work the next day. The fresh tarmac ended about fifty feet past the man in the chair, the road going back to being rough and full of potholes. "I think I'd like to have a chat. He's gone to all the trouble of coming out here to wait for us, it's only polite to see what he wants."
"You sure?"
"He's one man, William. I don't think he's even a parahuman." Squinting at the guy, he added thoughtfully, "In fact, I think I recognize him." He thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "I know. He was in a photo in that last town, in the house at the end of the street. He must want to talk about our visit."
Jack smiled widely. "This should be interesting."
Motioning to his companion, Jack waited impatiently for the bus door to open, then went down the steps and stood on the road. Briefly admiring the much better surface that the road crew had produced, he walked slowly over to stand ten feet away from the man, who simply watched him approach.
"Hello!" he said brightly. "Nice day, isn't it?"
The man looked at him, then past him at the rising sun, which was burning through the low cloud, showing all the signs of becoming a fairly good day for this time of year. He shrugged.
"It was, once."
Jack met his eyes. The other man's were completely empty.
A slight feeling of unease went through him. There was absolutely no fear there, which bearing in mind his reputation seemed a little odd. He looked around carefully, then up at the cliffs on either side, but could see no one and still no signs of it being a trap. Just one emotionally dead man and a wooden chair.
"Her name was Mary, if you didn't know." Jack looked back to the man, who was watching him. "My wife. The one you animals killed. My son was called Michael. He was only just nine."
"I'm not sure what you want me to do with that information," Jack told him, taking a knife from his pocket and flipping it from hand to hand. The man didn't take his eyes from Jack's.
Once again, the man in the chair shrugged. "I don't care. I just wanted you to know it. My name is Jake."
Smiling, Jack pulled out another knife and started juggling them. "Jake and Jack. How nice. Almost a rhyme. So, Jake, why are you sitting in the middle of the road waiting for us?"
"I'm going to kill you."
Jack studied him for a moment. "Really?"
Jake nodded. "Really. In about five seconds."
"I don't see a weapon," Jack noted curiously.
The dead smile he got back was absolutely horrifying. "I know. That's the point."
Jake stood up.
Jack didn't even have time to hear the click from the switch on the seat of the old wooden chair before the world dissolved in fire and shrapnel.
"Fucking hell," Willy screamed as the monstrous explosion rained fragments of rock and twisted metal down on him and Zack where they were concealed at the top of the cliff three hundred feet above the road and as far back from the edge, the fireball that followed actually rising above them. When the rain of debris finally stopped, he uncovered his head, thankful for the military surplus flak jacket and helmet which had diverted more than one probably dangerous if not actually lethal hit. Looking over at his friend, who stared back white-faced, he swallowed.
"That was a fucking big blast," he said loudly, almost unable to hear and feeling that one of his eardrums might be damaged. "Twenty tons of ANFO might have been overkill."
"No such thing," his friend yelled back, shaking his head and hitting the side it of a couple of times. "Especially with the S9. I hope it worked." They crawled closer to the edge of the cliff and peered over. Nearly a hundred feet of road was simply missing, a rectangular crater several feet deep marking where they'd buried enough explosives to fight a small war, both home made and military surplus. More than fifty claymore mines had been just under the surface, with the ANFO in bags with det cord strung through them under that. One of the road crew storage containers had yielded quite a large amount of quarrying explosives, much of which had ended up under the road as well. There was also nearly three hundred gallons of gasoline and diesel fuel in every container they'd managed to scrape together packed in around the explosives, to produce a napalm effect. Judging by the still fiercely burning fires down there, it had worked.
The entire improvised mine had been hastily covered with a foot of gravel and a thin layer of tarmac. They'd only just finished in time, painting the lines only minutes before the sun rose. The detonator wired to the chair poor Jake had been sitting in was the most nerve-wracking part of the entire enterprise.
"There goes a brave man," Willy sighed.
"He had nothing left to live for, the poor bastard," his friend said, working the bolt on the fifty caliber anti-materiel rifle he was holding, chambering an armor-piercing round. Willy did the same thing. The pair scanned the wreckage of the bus, until Zack pointed. "There. Fucker's still moving."
Willy aimed, then fired. The high-velocity tungsten-cored round hit the weakly moving form of Mannequin directly in the head, making him tumble backwards again. Three more shots alternating between the two of them and the armored mechanical head cracked. The next one produced a spray of goo.
Even though the cyborg Tinker was now still, they fired off another twenty rounds until every part of him they could see was leaking meat and fluids. Watching suspiciously, Willy also fired at some small spiderlike robot that eventually climbed out of the wreckage, most of its legs missing. The thing shattered into tiny pieces. Finally, when ten minutes had gone by without any movement or sound aside from the crackling flames, Zack nodded.
"That's it, I think."
"Last part, then."
Working their way back from the edge, they both stood, slinging their rifles over their shoulders, then walked away from the cliff about three hundred yards. Willy pulled a radio detonator from his pocket and flicked it on, a red light illuminating. With no ceremony he flipped up the protective cover and pressed the button under it, provoking another, somewhat smaller explosion from where they'd just been. This was followed by a long drawn out rumble and a huge cloud of dust as the side of the cutting collapsed onto the road beneath, burying everything under thousands of tons of rock.
"I hope to god that really is it," Zack sighed.
"That shit Jack Slash is definitely dead, he was right on top of the charge," Willy replied. "Nothing much left of the bus either, anyone in it is hamburger. I didn't see either Crawler or the Siberian, either they weren't there or they're under all that crap. But I think we got most of them for sure. Jake was right."
"I hope he's happy, wherever he ends up," Zack commented as they began hiking back to the place they'd parked the truck. His friend nodded quietly. Now they had to go and tell the authorities, and collect the reward. Jake had asked for his third to be donated to a suitable charity in his wife and son's names.
Behind them, the cloud of dust blew away in the rising breeze as the sun came up. Smoke still drifted around the scene, but nothing else moved.