Filaria - Brent Hayward [33]
McCreedy took his foot off the brake. Above, the two watching pickers dwindled out of sight. Phister’s skin tingled. At least he no longer suspected that Philip was organizing an ambush: the stranger had seemed as surprised and tense about the accident as did he and McCreedy.
He hoped he would never see one of the little men again, not for as long as he lived, but this wish was quickly dashed when the car rolled past the biggest crate yet, and into a somewhat clear area, where dozens — maybe hundreds — of pickers stood shoulder to shoulder. They covered every conceivable surface. Swarming, the little men clambered over each other, heaped into a pile that glittered sickly in the diffused green light. But activity stopped as the car moved slowly into the clearing. And also came to a halt. Hundreds of blank faces turned toward the vehicle.
“Shit,” McCreedy said, and, fumbling, backed up.
Philip hissed, “Wait. Look. Look there.”
In the midst of the tiny men — what they covered, and had been working on — stood another figure, towering over the crates. A stationary black giant whose face, glimpsed now between the bodies of the pickers, was similar to those of the hordes, only bigger, and darker. Standing with arms at its sides, feet together, the vision of the giant coalesced as Phister gawked.
All those pickers, stilled in their toil, held miniature tools in mid-swing.
“They’re constructing some form of soldier,” Philip whispered, rising from his place, one hand on each of the other men’s shoulders. “Stop the car, stop the car. We’re witnessing something incredible, something extraordinaire. These are preparations for defense, a sign that the network is still functioning in some manner. What is it fighting? We must evaluate this.”
But McCreedy, without taking his eyes off the giant, continued to back up. Nor was Phister really interested in sticking around. In fact, the more he stared, the more pickers he saw. They really were everywhere, melting from the shadows.
Maybe a thousand.
Maybe ten thousand.
And another black giant — the beginnings of one, anyhow — leaned against scaffolding, some distance away.
Slapping his palm down on the driver’s vest, causing a resounding thump that made Phister flinch, Philip scrambled from the rear seat while the car was in motion, stumbling for footing as he leapt and, landing, finding his balance on the floor, staggered forward a few clumsy strides. He did not fall. He held his hands out, a greeting, placating, and approached the spectacle.
“Phister,” Philip called, loudly over his shoulder, “it’s imperative that you remain nearby. Do not leave this area. You must listen to everything I say to these diminutive fellows.”
McCreedy put the car in drive, accelerating into a narrow turn, squealing one-eighty away from the clearing and heading back in the direction they had just come. Phister heard Philip yelling. This time, he did not look back.
So they drove, full speed, white-knuckled, for hours, or so it seemed, whipping madly between crates and boxes and down endless aisles, fleeing kilometres and kilometres within that huge, packed chamber, until the faint light of the distant ceiling faded. They did not see another picker during their flight, nor anything else that moved. Yet McCreedy drove as if pursued. Perhaps they were.
As their pace finally slowed, near dusk — more lost than ever — they discovered evidence of others; a deserted camp under the crag formed by the overhang of a huge chest, with cots set up for three adult-sized individuals.
While McCreedy kept watch, Phister cautiously searched the belongings, feeling awful for doing so, but finding canteen rations laid crosswise in a box, and a jug of cool water, which he brought back to the car. He and McCreedy consumed these goods in an instant before continuing on, consternation growing as the darkness closed in from all sides.
DEIDRE, L1
Miranda stood quietly by the window, her eyes moist with tears. Light breezes, scented with damp and woodsmoke from