30
Manhattan, inside of a large and corroded machine-
Call it a one in a million, what-the-h*ll shot. A spit-at-fate gamble. Whatever, as he fought through whirling rust-flakes and howling, hammering wind, dragging himself up the inside of that sweeper, John tried something different.
The decontamination screen sizzled and cracked overhead like an extra-large bug zapper. Highly dangerous, but triggered by sensors. After all, why waste power when there was nothing around worth frying? Tended to limit its charge to suit the catch of the day, too. Airborne bacteria needed miniature jolts; mutant insects, a bit more voltage; trapped, dumbass heroes, an effing lightning bolt. So… what if it just didn't see him?
Tough to reach the right shirt button, whilst clamped into his exopod, but John managed to trigger that handy 'distort' feature, just as the fans' rotation switched again, this time yanking him violently upward. He'd been holding tight to a bulkhead brace; one foot on a lower rung, the other seeking his next fragile toehold. When the currents shifted, that corroded brace bent, screeched and then came off in his hand.
John was flipped completely up and over, tumbling like a leaf through wild, blasting air and gashing debris. Tough to see and harder to orient, but years in space had taught him to keep his head, no matter what.
Spread the exopod's wings once more, and then vaulted upward. Decontamination screen was right there, popping many-headed bugs like corn. No way to avoid it, so he didn't. Just took a deep breath and plunged straight through a low-setting kill field.
Yeah, so… as an experience, not recommended. Seriously, skip it. That base-level magno-electrical zap passed clear through his body, triggering every nerve he possessed. Wasn't just pain. Was everything, all at once, a million times over. He might have grunted something vivid in old Italian; a language uniquely constructed for cursing in. Afterward, felt like he'd been hit by a bus, then run over, backed onto and dragged about fifty yards. Not finished yet, either.
Second screen had to be got through, and this one was not much rusted, at all. No choice but to waste time looking for its one hinged emergency panel, then jimmy the lock and squirm through. Three minutes, minimum.
Next came the interior fan. It had slowed somewhat, but still sliced the air into quivering shreds just above him, making a business-like hiss as it went. Well, halfway through, right? Nothing left but to throw the dice and see what happened.
Finding a decent eddy… almost a calm spot… in the sweeper's bulging midsection, John eyed the pace of those long, gleaming blades. Then, when he figured he'd got it timed about right, the astronaut punched his exopod's little engine and shot forward.
Grandma liked to claim that her grandsons each had a guardian angel. If so, John's was the fricking hardest working of the lot… and somebody owed him a case of beer.
Got through, just. Lost some paint from the exopod's right wing and a bit of shoe leather, but retained all major body parts, and that was a win. Behind fan number two lay the sweeper's collection tank. Older model. Refrigerated, bulky and loaded with toxic slime. Needed new filters, John noted, on his way past. Also saw someone's ancient, folded-up lunch bag, there on the service gantry. Found himself hoping that they'd liked their work and enjoyed their meal, before… whatever.
Fifty feet higher, he was finally into the sweeper's maintenance control bay; coughing, shaking and half-blinded with rust, but alive. Would have liked to collapse, but… yeah. Buddy and Ellie. The infected explorers were out there, right now; probably filming their way through that monster reptile's digestive tract.
John nodded, and got himself together enough for a swift look around. This part of the sweeper featured a railed metal catwalk and workstation, making a broad ring around its thick midsection. Goosing a little more go out of his exopod, John swooped across to the safety of that circular deck; landing with a soft tchik upon pierced, faintly vibrating metal.
There were more safety placards up here, along with basic controls, urgently blinking lights and… what he was really after… a med station. By this time, the astronaut's ears were ringing, and he was seeing double. Head felt like something inside it was trying to blast through his skull. So nauseous, that even the air tasted bad.
"Didn't even get drunk, first," he grumbled aloud, limping toward the med station, which was marked with a big red spoon-and-bottle sign. The noise up here was muted, with no drones or lasers to harry him. Just a scratched, failing leg and probable radiation poisoning.
He passed a large view screen on his way around. Below that lay a blinking control panel, still waiting for input.
"In a minute, promise," he said, patting the sweeper's rust-flecked dashboard. The seeker drones were still out there, he noticed, circling his lifeboat like sharks. John gestured rudely through the window, because he wasn't dead again. Then, he got his battered ass moving.
At the med station, another bulkhead sign gave helpful "in the unlikely event" pointers. But, he didn't need all that. Just yanked the panel open, for the goodies he hoped were inside.
Right. Bandages… disinfectant… antibiotics… aspirin… tetanus meds (grabbed those) anti-nausea pills (that, too) and chelation tablets. So, you know how, when you're in a real hurry, and everything's critical, you have to move slower, be extra careful? John knew he was sick. Possibly dying. Knew that somewhere, two sweet, confused people were waiting for rescue. He'd promised.
So, the astronaut kept his movements cautious and purposeful. Dropped nothing. Made no mistakes. Just got the cap off that pill bottle and swallowed about three chelation tabs. Would be pissing heavy water for the next month, but he'd get that Goddam radioactive crud out of his system.
Next, cleaned and disinfected the scratch on his leg, which had begun to heat up and turn purple. Nice. Slapped a bandage on that, and hunted the next most important item: an antidote for the plague that had doomed New York City, and most of the eastern Territories. Found it, in a small, dark, syringe-draw bottle. Past the expiration date, like everything else up here, but better than nothing. Enough doses for all three of them, too, because sometimes things go right.
Useful life tip? Always read the label, first. This one boasted side-effects like disorientation, memory loss, unconsciousness and death. Better to take it on safer ground, John decided, once he'd found the Pendergasts and had a little more breathing room.
Then, as he was putting his finds into one of the suit's expandable 4-D trouser pockets, John turned to face the view screen, again. That's when the skies outside opened up, and all hell broke loose.