PLATFORM: PERSONAL JOURNAL (HANDWRITTEN ON CLAY TABLET)
USER: TYLER JORDAN
STATUS: ACTIVE
DATE: ONE YEAR, NINE MONTHS, NINE DAYS POST-EVENT.
LOCATION: THE "DUST HIGHWAY" (FORMERLY A104 ROAD).
[Entry 3]
We are living in the Stone Age.
It is a strange irony. I am an engineer capable of building hydro-electric dams and railguns. Nayla is a biochemist who cracked the genetic code of an alien fungus. Juma is a literal superhuman.
But today, we are traveling in a cart made of Brick.
Metal is death. Any significant mass of iron attracts the Rust Beetles. Any plastic melts in the ambient heat of the Red Zones.
So, we had to innovate backwards.
The Wind Wagon was stripped. We removed the steel wheels and replaced them with massive, solid wheels carved from Petrified Wood (harvested from the dead Salt Forests). We removed the steam engine—too much copper piping—and replaced it with... Sails.
We are land-yachting.
The A104 highway is flat enough. The wind—generated by the thermal updrafts from the burning South—is constant and fierce. It blows North, but we are tacking against it, zigzagging our way West toward the Rift Valley.
Our cargo is precious. We aren't carrying guns. We aren't carrying gold.
We are carrying Ice.
Ten crates of "Blue Salt"—the inert crystal harvested from the dead Titan's corpse. It is the only thing keeping us cool. We sit on the crates like they are air conditioners.
"Port side!" K-Ray yells from the helm. He is steering using a complex system of ropes and pulleys made from braided hemp. No metal chains.
The land-yacht—which Katunzi has named The Clay Pigeon—heels over. The ceramic-tiled hull grinds against the asphalt.
"Speed?" I ask.
"Thirty knots!" K-Ray grins. "Who needs an engine when the world is breathing on you?"
I look at the horizon. The sun is a smear of bloody light through the dust. We have thirty-six hours left before the "Foundry's" deadline.
THE GHOST TOWN
We pass through the ruins of Babati.
It used to be a bustling town. Now, it is a graveyard of red dust.
Every car on the street is a pile of rust. The tin roofs of the houses have disintegrated, leaving only the brick walls standing. It looks like an ancient Roman ruin, stripped of everything shiny.
"Hold," Juma says.
K-Ray spills the wind from the sails. The Pigeon rolls to a halt.
"What is it?" Suleiman asks, gripping his weapon.
It's not a gun anymore. The Harpoon melted. Suleiman is now carrying a Crossbow. The limbs are made of laminated composite wood, the string is high-tension polymer (coated in clay), and the quarrels are tipped with Obsidian.
Stone Age weapons for a Stone Age war.
"Movement in the bank," Juma points.
The old NMB Bank building. Brick and concrete.
"Beetles?" I ask.
"No," Juma sniffs the air. "People."
We disembark. The ground is hot through the soles of my boots. We have wrapped our boots in layers of asbestos cloth scavenged from old fire suits.
We approach the bank.
"Hello?" I call out. "We are from Arusha. We are not the Foundry."
Silence.
Then, a stone flies out of the shattered window. It hits the ground near my feet.
"Go away!" a voice screams. "You bring the heat!"
"We have water!" Katunzi shouts, holding up a clay jug. "Clean water! And cold!"
At the word "cold," a head pops up. A young woman, face smeared with red dust. Her eyes are wide, terrified.
She comes out, followed by three children and an old man. They are emaciated. Their clothes are rags.
"Water?" the woman croaks.
Katunzi steps forward and offers the jug. She drinks desperately, then passes it to the children.
"Where is everyone else?" I ask.
"Taken," the old man says. "The Metal Men took them."
"Metal Men?" Juma asks. "The Beetles?"
"No," the old man shakes his head. "Men. But... shiny. They walked out of the dust. They didn't sweat. They didn't breathe. They took the strong ones. They left us to bake."
"Robots?" K-Ray whispers to me.
"Or cyborgs," I say. "The Foundry said they were 'reclaiming' resources. Maybe people are resources too."
"Where did they take them?" Suleiman asks.
"South," the woman points. "To the glowing mountain. They said... they said the Forge needs coal."
My stomach turns. Coal. Fuel.
"We can't help them right now," I tell the woman gently. "We have to go West. To Olkaria. But if you head North, to Arusha, there are bunkers. Deep underground."
"We can't walk," the woman weeps. "The ground burns our feet."
I look at the Clay Pigeon. We are already overloaded with the Ice.
"We can take the kids," Nayla says. "We can squeeze them in."
"Nayla," I warn. "Every pound slows us down."
"We take the kids," Juma says. His tone is final. He looks at the children. He kneels down. "Do you like dogs?"
Kioo trots over and licks one of the kid's faces. The kid giggles.
It's settled.
THE AMBUSH
We load the children onto the yacht. We give the adults the rest of the water and directions to a hidden stash of supplies I left near Tarangire a year ago. It's the best we can do.
We set sail again.
But the stop cost us time. The sun is setting. And in the Red Zone, night doesn't bring cool air. It brings the Hunters.
CLANK. CLANK.
"Behind us!" Suleiman yells.
I look back.
Emerging from the ruins of Babati are three shapes.
They are humanoid. But they are huge—seven feet tall. They look like medieval knights, but their armor isn't steel. It's Bronze.
Dark, oiled bronze that gleams in the twilight. Their heads are smooth domes with a single horizontal slit for eyes.
"The Metal Men," Juma whispers.
They are running. And they are fast.
"They have pistons in their legs," I say, looking through the binoculars. "Steam-driven. External combustion engines on their backs."
One of the Bronze Knights raises its arm.
A jet of flame shoots out.
"Flamethrowers!" K-Ray screams. "Hard to port!"
He spins the wheel. The Pigeon swerves. The jet of flame scorches the asphalt where we were a second ago.
"Suleiman! Fire!"
Suleiman raises the crossbow.
THWOCK.
The obsidian bolt flies true. It hits the lead Knight in the chest.
CRACK.
The obsidian shatters against the bronze plate. It does nothing.
"Armor is too thick!" Suleiman curses. "Stone doesn't pierce metal!"
"Juma!" I yell. "Can you drain them?"
"Too far!" Juma yells. "And if I touch them, they'll burn me! That's not just heat; that's pressurized napalm!"
"We need to slow them down!" Nayla is holding the children, shielding their eyes.
I look at our cargo. The Ice.
"I have an idea," I say. "K-Ray, keep her steady! Suleiman, give me a fire-pot!"
Suleiman hands me a clay pot filled with the refined Spore-Fuel. It's basically a Molotov cocktail.
I grab a chunk of the Blue Salt—the Titan Ice. It's freezing cold in my hand.
I shove the Ice inside the Fuel pot.
"What are you doing?" Nayla screams. "Mixing thermal extremes creates a pressure bomb!"
"Exactly!"
I light the rag.
"Eat this, Tin Man!"
I throw the pot.
It arcs through the air. It lands directly in front of the lead Knight.
SMASH.
The pot breaks. The fuel ignites.
Heat meets Cold.
The reaction is violent. The Blue Salt sublimates instantly upon touching the fire, expanding its volume by a factor of a thousand in a microsecond.
BOOM.
It's not a fire explosion. It's a Cold Blast.
A shockwave of super-cooled air expands.
The lead Knight runs into it.
The thermal shock is catastrophic. His bronze armor, superheated by his internal engine, hits the freezing cloud.
PING. CRACK. SNAP.
The metal shatters like glass. The Knight's leg snaps off. He tumbles, crashing into the asphalt in a pile of broken gears and leaking oil.
The other two Knights stumble, blinded by the freezing fog.
"It worked!" K-Ray cheers. "Thermal shock!"
"Don't celebrate yet!" I yell. "We just used ten percent of our coolant! Keep moving!"
THE CROSSING
We sail through the night. The wind howls.
Juma sits at the back, watching the darkness. The violet light in his veins is dim. He's tired.
"The Foundry knows we're here," Juma says quietly.
"They sent scouts," I agree. "Those Knights... they were sophisticated, Juma. Hydraulics. Servos. That's not just scavenging. That's manufacturing."
"Who is building them?" Juma asks. "Vance?"
"No. Vance is a brute, but he's not... cruel. He wouldn't harvest people for coal."
"The Architect?"
"Dead," I say. "I saw the satellite hit him."
"Ideas don't die," Juma says darkly. "Maybe he left a backup."
We fall silent.
Suddenly, the Clay Pigeon lurches.
"Road block!" K-Ray yells.
Ahead, the highway is gone. A massive chasm has opened up—a rift caused by the seismic activity. It's fifty feet wide.
"Can we jump it?" Suleiman asks.
"Not with this weight," K-Ray says. "And not without a ramp."
We stop at the edge. The chasm is deep. At the bottom, I can see the red glow of magma.
"We have to go around," I say.
"There is no around," K-Ray points to the map. "This rift stretches for miles. We're cut off from Olkaria."
"We aren't cut off," Juma stands up. He walks to the edge. He looks down at the magma.
"What are you thinking?" I ask.
"The heat," Juma says. "Heat rises."
He points to the sails.
"The updraft from this crack... it's massive. If we change the angle of the sails... and if we lighten the load..."
He looks at the heavy ceramic wheels.
"We turn the yacht into a glider," Juma says.
"Juma, this is a pile of bricks," I say. "It doesn't glide. It falls."
"Not if we use the Spore-Silk," Nayla says. She pulls out a roll of the silvery fabric we harvested from the spiders in Season One. "It creates lift when heated. Like a hot air balloon."
"We wrap the hull in silk," I realize. "The heat from below fills it. We float across."
"It's crazy," Suleiman says.
"We have twenty-four hours," Juma reminds us. "Start sewing."
THE FLIGHT OF THE PIGEON
It takes us three hours.
We wrap the underside of the Clay Pigeon in the silk. We extend the sails horizontally, like wings.
We push the cart to the very edge.
The heat coming up from the chasm is intense. The silk begins to ripple and puff up. The cart feels lighter.
"Everyone in!" I yell. "Hold onto something!"
The children are strapped into the center. Juma holds Kioo.
"On three!"
"One... Two... Three! PUSH!"
We shove the cart off the cliff.
For a second, we fall. My stomach drops. I see the magma below, bubbling and popping.
Then, the heat catches the silk.
WHOOSH.
The cart jerks upward. We don't fly gracefully; we bob like a cork in a stream. The thermal current slams us against the rising air.
We drift across the chasm.
"Steer it!" I yell to K-Ray. "Lean right!"
We lean. The cart tilts. We drift toward the far ledge.
We are ten feet away. Five feet.
We are dropping. The heat is dissipating near the edge.
"We're going to hit the lip!" K-Ray screams.
"Brace!"
CRASH.
The front wheels (which we put back on) slam into the dirt of the far bank. The cart bounces. Wood splinters. The silk tears.
We skid across the ground, digging a furrow in the dirt.
We stop.
Silence.
Then, a child starts crying.
"Is everyone okay?" I gasp, checking my ribs.
"Alive," Suleiman grunts. "But the wheels are cracked."
"We can walk from here," Juma says. He stands up and points.
Ahead of us, looming in the darkness, are the Olkaria Geothermal Towers.
They are dark. Silent. Abandoned.
But inside one of those hangars lies the Kilimanjaro.
"We made it," I whisper.
"Now comes the hard part," Juma says. "Now we have to perform surgery on a dead god."