Predator Press
[LOBO]
Part I
s per design specs, the Mag Lev Network efficiently delivered Beverly to Winston’s apartment -200 miles away- within 20 minutes. Still, despite her rush, she found herself pausing at the door. What she is proposing is both crazy and frightening, and she steadied herself as a shiver ran through her like an electric current.
In this moment of forced and focused suppression of fear, she realizes her head is aching too. Suspecting her hastily-applied ponytail, she pulls the elastic ring out as she finally knocks. This unintentionally delights Winston who, already attracted to the good Doctor, has never seen her somewhat bookish and professional demeanor.
“Beverly,” Winston smiles blearily, still adjusting his robe.
“I’m sorry Winston,” Beverly smiles somberly. “I should have called first. But I spent the ride here convincing Rick to come.”
“Here? Now?” Winston winces at his own incredulousness.
“Yes. Can I come in?”
“By all means,” he steps aside invitingly and closes the door behind her.
If Beverly is impressed by Winston’s rather posh apartment, she doesn’t let on as she strides to his kitchen. “Do you have coffee?”
Still at the door, Winston scratches though his sleep-addled hair . “Sure. Is something wrong?”
“Did you watch the translated vid?”
“Some of it,” Winston shrugs, following her. “It’s a hoax,” he adds conclusively as he procures coffee grounds from a cabinet.
“It’s too elaborate to be a hoax. Nothing on this scale could be created in secret. Even the language is some long-dead derivative of Latin. Are you hungry? I want to order food.”
“It’s 11pm,” Winston protested mildly, filling the coffee maker with water. “And we have a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“To report our findings,” Beverly agrees. “We are having a meeting before that one. These findings are,” she chooses her words carefully. Only now does it occur to her that Winston’s apartment may have surreptitiously. But for that matter, her apartment could be too. “Significant,” she proceeds dubiously. “Particularly given who we are reporting them to. Mag Lev will want to drill regardless of our opinions, and with billions of dollars at stake it would surprise me for this to just disappear. We need to discuss our findings first. And what to tell them, if anything at all. Rick is already on his way.”
“So you watched the whole thing?”
“Numerous times. And read and re-read the transcripts and all the analysis I could.”
Winston chuckles. “And you thing is some kind of distress call from some ancient civilization.”
“No,” replies Beverly. “I think it’s a
warning.”
***
“How are we doing?”
“Well, it ain’t good,” I says, peeling back my mask. “I’m a hundred miles behind. I went down as far as I could -maybe a mile. But visibility is pretty bad.” Tucking my head into my lapel, I finger sand from the filter. “I got a goddamn flat tire too.”
There’s a pause, and empty static crackled loudly.
“Can you get back on track?”
“I don’t think so,” I says, staring out unseeing over the clouded chasm. “Negative. I’m sure I can get the bike fixed; my grandpa had a farm out here a few miles back. But I can’t see a damn thing unless this storm clears up. It looks like the end of the Earth.”
Would grandfather’s farm even still be there? I thought.
This was nothing but boring farm flatland ten years ago.
“I’m going to have to check in with you guys in the morning,” I says. “I have no idea what has happened here. The landscape seems totally different.” I bit my lip, thinking. “Unfortunately, I can guarantee we won’t be finding any food here.” Hesitant and frank, I commit, “I would guess this is the end of the road really.”
“Round trip?”
“It’s your call. I’m familiar with this area, so maybe I can dig something up. And if the storm clears, there might even be a way to continue on.” I look back over my shoulder to see the gulch beyond the edge of the highway, but only see the whipping grey of sand and ash. “I don’t know how optimistic to be about the highway, but as far as being broken down, I couldn’t have picked a better spot. I grew up here. Blinding storm or not, I know the area.”
“I think it’s a good idea for you to get some rest.”
I laughed, “Funny. I was thinking food. I’ll bet a million bucks I’ll find a few cans of chili or something.”
“Let’s say you check in daily.”
“Grid permitting.”
“Of course.”
“We need to make this conversation short then, for my battery. I’ll bring back all the fuel I can carry too.”
“Refined?”
“Let’s not get picky yet. Lemme see what happens.” There's a thick, dried brush under the sand, and sometimes it cracks under my steps causing me to sink several inches. "This was a farming community. Unless is was looted thoroughly, I should find a trove of useful stuff. Frankly I don't know how you could have looted this place of everything considering how hostile it seems."
“I’m officially listing you as ‘Grounded by Severe Storm” until further notice.” A brief pause.
“How long until we have you back on duty?”
“What makes you think I’m coming off duty?” I says. Re-applying the filtered mask, I switch off the doubtlessly-recorded conversation. The approval I wanted was, well, all I
wanted. They won't be hearing me for a while. Did we do this? I don't know. Do I care?
Jesus fucking Christ. This place is a hellhole now.
I remember the Shell station sign, and that used to be at the highway exit.
No I don't really care.
-So that means that before the huge crack in the earth runs roughly perpendicular. I close my eyes for a moment to try and remember the place with roads. Eyes open, it occurs to me that I’m not on any of the ‘roads’ at all … I’m in a water retention pond, now full of sand.. Strangely fortunate, this leads me directly into the edge of the city.
I decide to prop up the bike and leave it. With visibility as it is, I'm as likely to hit an abandoned car or a concrete pole or something. Further complicating things is that my area knowledge is very old: you would be surprised how many new buildings and apartment complexes and roads creep in over the years.
Plus, my father's farm was well outside the city -maybe eighteen miles southwest of the -the "Rift"- as the crow flies. Farm land, surrounded by wire fencing to mark borders and keep large animals in. In short, biking any further off the highway would be a good way to get decapitated.
Still, I would live to regret my cavalier attitude.
This storm, to my knowledge, would never end.
And I would never hear another living human voice again.
I only know this because I have been paying Agatha twenty bucks a week to do it for over a month now.
Regardless of misadventure, I make the same intersection
every morning between 6:23 and 6:26 in the morning.
Finally having lost faith in the "Rule of Law", I have chosen to follow the path of the Supervillain.
And that's how Rommel caught me. My cape, skirting the icy road outside the car door, was the perfect medium for Rommel to stop and drag my 1990 Plymouth Horizon off the road and into a nearby ditch.
Predator Press
Captain Portre pointed his rollerbladed toe and inspected it casually. From the corner of his mouth he mumbled, “What kind of vessel was the Sea Nile?”
Predator Press
This was perplexing. I have personally witnessed Daisy, our monstrous oceanic hunter, eat everything from Taylor Swift albums to pimply gangsta teenagers that piss me off in a swirling bloody chainsaw-like fashion. But guacamole? Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole no matter what we did. So I figured we feed them to one of the Predator Press Scienticians, and then feed him to the shark, right? Well it turned out that Predator Press Scienticians were too lazy and worthless for this historic opportunity.
