BZRK: Apocalypse (BZRK 3)

When it was all over, they counted seven bodies of former Cathexis employees.

“A skeleton force,” Tanner said. “So this was just a warm-up.”

They had assembled in the dining hall and Wilkes had helpfully brewed a pot of coffee and popped open bags of chocolate chip cookies.

They were eight now, along with three wounded survivors from the plane wrap

ped in blankets and lying bandaged on empty steel tables. O’Dell and one other had taken a remaining Sno-Cat to what looked like a hangar that lay well outside of the main base.

“Whoever was here pulled out,” Tanner said. “This place was not built for the dozen men left behind.”

Vincent stood up and walked away.

“He’ll be okay,” Plath said, not believing it.

“He’s been through a lot,” Tanner said generously.

“You have no idea,” Wilkes muttered as she poured mugs of coffee.

“We don’t know if anyone got off a message to whoever, wherever … but let me just say that any skepticism about you, Ms. McLure, is officially dead and buried. We have to find wherever they went, chase them down, and stop this.”

“All we’ve got is a Sno-Cat,” a man observed. “Holds four passengers.”

Vincent came back and without pre-amble said, “They left their computers on. There’s another base. Farther south. A couple hundred miles.”

Someone whistled low, and slow, and said, “That’s a hell of a long ride in a Cat.”

Then O’Dell returned. He had two prisoners, held at gunpoint. “Meet Mademoiselle Bonnard and Mr. Babbington.”

“Dr. Babbington, actually.”

O’Dell smacked his rifle butt into the man’s spine.

“They didn’t even know what was going on. They’re out at the hangar out there, working on … well, you’ll want to see this, Tanner.”

“Is it a hovercraft with a jet engine and missiles?” Tanner asked wearily.

O’Dell threw up his free hand in exasperation. “You are no fun to surprise, Captain.”

“We were just completing the assembly,” the Frenchwoman said. “We are not dangerous. You have no need to point guns. We are engineers, just working for the company. Let us go free.”

“Uh-huh,” Tanner said. “Well, ma’am, you, too, Doctor, you now work for the U.S. Navy. You will complete your work, and if you manage to do it inside of two hours, I will not strip you both down to your underwear and send you out onto the ice.”

“The sleighs are coming in,” Stillers reported. He was casting questioning glances at Bug Man, wondering no doubt why his face was swollen, why his teeth were missing, and why he was wearing a bathrobe and flicking between YouTube and Twitter on the big TV monitor in Lystra Reid’s living room.

“Yeah,” Lear said distractedly.

“That will be the last of it,” Stillers said.

“It’s all coming down, Stillers. Um … Tell everyone good job, yeah? Yeah. Tell them all I said well done.”

He nodded. “Did you want to, maybe, come over to the dining hall and speak to them?”

Lear considered the idea, shook her head almost shyly, and said, “No, I have to watch.” She waved a hand toward a shaky YouTube of one of the endless array of riots in one of the endless number of burning cities. “Panic, you know. That’s what gets them killed. It’s like medieval, yeah? Plague. Or cholera.”

She was no longer talking to Stillers, who sensed that fact and stood there stoic and awkward.

“That’s the whole point. Madness leading to panic. If they just didn’t panic, yeah, they’d be okay. Yeah? If they just didn’t panic. But I knew they would.”