Tar

By Taylor Hohulin

Brendan Cobb calls it tar, but there might be as many names for it as cities left standing.

To some, it's known as filth, or blight. Others call it the Black God in reverential whispers. Whatever name it takes, the effects are the same. Cities left in ruins. People turned into monsters. Living infections with no known cure. The best anyone can do is avoid it, but even that gets harder the more it spreads.

Brendan survives this waking nightmare by trading salvage for shelter and for repairs to his cybernetic arm, until a newcomer arrives, convinced Brendan is the key to ridding the world of tar once and for all. Reluctantly, Brendan and his mechanic join the newcomer on a journey across the desolate highways of a ruined world, where he learns the true history of the tar…and of the dark power inside him, which grows stronger every day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Taylor Hohulin
• Release date: Nov 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386479048

Taylor Hohulin

Taylor is a radio personality by morning, a science fiction author by afternoon, and asleep by 9:30. His weaknesses include Oreos, his dog, and Sharknado movies.

Book preview

for all who chose to be vulnerable

when they could have been powerful

TAR

From the Book of Memory

When you read this account, read it well. Every word is true, I swear.

I am exhausted, and I am afraid. I want to act, but first I must write. My words must be as good as the most vivid of memories, because soon they will be the only memories we possess. And you, O reader, must include these pages in your own history.

It all began when the star fell from the heavens, though I wonder if it truly was a star. I have never seen a star glow purple where it landed. I have never seen a horizon lit so brightly.

And I know of no star capable of doing what this one did to me and my companions.

NEWHAVEN

1

The instant Brendan Cobb realized he was not alone, he ducked under a broken slab of concrete, pressing deep into the shadows there. He listened to the intruders, tracking their position in the abandoned grocery store.

The whole time, his eyes never left the rippling patch of tar. At its widest, it stretched a foot across. Its edges formed a jagged outline against the wall thirty feet away. Fortunately, patches like this stayed where they took root. This particular patch couldn’t pull free and chase after Brendan. It would remain stuck to that wall after nothing remained of Newhaven but crumbling piles of rubble.

Unfortunately, as soon as anything got too close to a patch, those calm ripples along its pitch-black surface would turn into an army of tentacles, and then it would take a miracle to save the target from infection. Even worse, it was impossible to tell how far the tar could reach without stepping into range and getting infected. Brendan only knew he was safe where he stood. If the tar had enough mass to infect him from there, it would have done it. The tar never waited, never bided its time. It was a slave to its terrible, insatiable hunger.

Brendan had been trying to plot a route past the tar when he heard voices.

From the sound of it, not even one belonged to a man older than twenty. The noise wouldn’t agitate the tar, but Brendan still winced. He tried to keep quiet whenever the tar was close. It was pure superstition, but superstition gave him a sense of control. The alternative was panicked helplessness, and Brendan knew which of the two he preferred.

The voices drew closer. Brendan squeezed deeper into the shadows, trying to shrink into the crevice formed by a mountain of debris.

C’mon, guys, said one voice. There’s no salvage here. It’s picked clean.

You a chicken? said another. Scared of something?

Brendan winced at the ensuing chorus of chicken-calls. They were kids, but that didn’t mean they were any less dangerous. Kids made sloppy salvagers, and sloppiness put everyone in danger.

I ain’t scared, Tiger Stripe, said the first voice over the noise. I just don’t wanna waste time. Look at this place.

The conversation carried on a few minutes, and Brendan remained hidden. As the voices lost steam, he allowed himself to hope they’d leave. Maybe they hadn't noticed the tunnel and started wondering, as Brendan had, if there might be a massive stockpile of salvage beyond the patch of tar.

Eventually, the chatter faded. Footsteps echoed near the exit, but then a single voice rang out.

Look!

Everyone else fell silent. The footsteps ceased.

The kids saw what Brendan had seen. Next to the patch of tar, the ceiling had caved in, forming an impenetrable wall of debris which cut off access to half the store. The only way through was a tunnel created when a plank wedged itself between the wall and the floor. For now, it held up the combined weight of the debris.

Another voice spoke: You think there’s anything back there?

The footsteps resumed, scuffing loudly as the pack broke into a run. The harsh laughter picked up again. This wasn’t the afternoon Brendan had envisioned.

Reluctantly, he left the cover of his post. As much as he wanted to avoid talking to these kids, it wouldn’t do for them to find him hiding. If they thought they saw weakness, they might turn violent. Sloppy kids with a streak of violence would ruin a day of salvaging in a hurry.

As Brendan stepped into the open, the leader moved a hand to his hip, fingers hovering over a blaster. The wide sleeves of his tank top revealed six long stripes along either side of his ribcage. They were tattoos, the kind that shimmered in the light and glowed in the dark. Expensive. Brendan guessed this was the second voice he’d heard. Tiger Stripe.

There were five of them, all young enough to believe themselves invincible, but old enough to distrust strangers. Their mods were either brand new or hadn’t seen much use, judging from the way they gleamed in the dusty sunlight. Brendan noted multifaceted chrome arms, legs that pistoned so quietly they might as well be flesh, and even a few skullplates with complex, flashing circuitry.

They’d clearly paid good money for them, too. These weren’t the sorts of mods you picked up in a junk heap and hired a back-alley mechanic to install. These looked like the salvagers chose them from a catalog and had a professional perform an actual operation. Brendan supposed that still happened in remote cities. It was possible that in places where the tar hadn’t taken over, mods were fashion statements. Some people got diamond rings, others replaced their flesh arms with metal ones.

The kids came to a stop ten feet from Brendan. Tiger Stripe stepped forward, drawing his blaster. The store filled with the high, almost sub-audible sound of the bio-powered weapon pulling energy from his flesh.

Five of us and one of you, chum. Tiger Stripe pointed the blaster at Brendan, more out of warning than threat. He only held it tight enough to maintain the connection between his palm and the bio-power cell. We don’t want trouble, and neither do you.

Brendan didn’t say anything. He only nodded at the tunnel through the debris. Tiger Stripe cocked an eyebrow, unsure of what Brendan wanted. He craned his neck, peering through the opening for a couple seconds. Then his eyes lit up.

Check it out! he cried. We got some muck in here!

Hearing it called muck confirmed it for Brendan: This pack came from somewhere outside Newhaven. Everyone here called it tar. The kids were likely in search of a place that hadn’t fallen to the tar yet, or at least one that still had plenty of food, supplies, and survivors. Their perfect little city had seen its first patch, and now they were running scared. That had been Brendan once upon a time, but he gave up chasing rumors years ago. Even the clean cities didn’t stay that way. The tar always found him. The tar always found everyone.

The pack of outsiders approached the opening. They’d grown more cautious, but still giggled and elbowed each other.

Tiger Stripe turned to Brendan. How far can it reach?

That was the question Brendan had been asking himself before the newcomers arrived. If the patch was no bigger than what he saw, it would be safe to pass through the tunnel, provided he stayed near the wall of debris opposite the tar.

But Brendan didn’t know how much tar he couldn’t see.

Tar squeezed through the smallest of holes with ease, which meant if this wall had a crack in the wrong spot, a gigantic mass of black could be hiding in the hollow behind the patch. For all Brendan knew, he’d been at the edge of its range. If he’d taken another step closer, the hidden tar could have poured through the crack, reaching out and taking him in the blink of an eye.

So he only said, We’re safe here.

Dare you to run through! shouted one of the kids to a whooping round of laughter.

Tiger Stripe held up his mod, a metal arm that shone so clearly he must have polished it every night. The giggling stopped, and Tiger Stripe let the silence sit for a few moments before speaking again.

Don’t be stupid. That’s how you get infected. Tiger Stripe gestured at one of the kids: Eagle Eye.

A lanky kid with long blond hair loped to the front of the group. He’d had a large red lens installed where his right eye used to be. Swollen, pink flesh ringed the mod. A recent install, most likely.

Tiger Stripe pointed at the patch. Your mod can show you if there’s a crack behind that stuff, right?

Eagle Eye stared over Tiger Stripe’s shoulder, eyebrows bunching in concentration. Yeah, I guess so.

You guess so?

Eagle Eye shrugged.

Well, go over there and tell me what you see! Quit standing around.

Eagle Eye sauntered as near the tar as he dared and paused, studying it. Brendan noticed the high sound of bio-power again. The edge of Eagle Eye’s mod glowed in alternating rings of blue and yellow. A soft glow cast the tunnel in eerie crimson.

After a few seconds, Eagle Eye faced the group. I think we’re safe.

Tiger Stripe crossed his flesh arm over his mod. He tapped the blaster against his tattooed ribs. Well, I feel better already.

Another shrug. What else do I—

"Listen. I’m not parading through there just ‘cause you think we’re safe, okay? You gotta prove it to me. Tiger Stripe waved his mod at the tunnel. Go ahead. We’ll be right behind if the muck doesn’t getcha."

Eagle Eye turned back to the tunnel. His throat clicked as he swallowed. Then, with Tiger Stripe waving him on, he walked toward the tunnel. He drew closer and closer, and soon he passed the place where Brendan had been observing the tar. Beyond there, anything might happen. Even though he didn’t care what became of these kids, Brendan’s heart raced as he watched. If the tar struck, it would happen so fast none of them would have time to react.

And then all he would be able to do was run.

Eagle Eye circled around the edge of the tunnel, backing into the side opposite the wall where the tar waited. So far, it stayed in its place, unmoving except for slight undulations on its surface, like a black pond rippling in the breeze.

Don’t trip! someone shouted. A round of snickers followed, but Tiger Stripe shushed them.

Eagle Eye entered the tunnel, stooping under its slanted edge. The tar held still. He edged further in until he stood opposite the black patch. The heckling stopped. No cackles or chicken-calls now. Only a collective, nearly tangible holding of breath.

The tar didn’t move.

It wasn’t until Eagle Eye came out the other end of the tunnel that the tension dissipated. The instant he stepped out, he threw his arms up in the air. A raucous cheer erupted from the kids. They shoved each other, taunted each other, and generally celebrated their good fortune.

Tiger Stripe clapped Brendan on the back. His eyes gleamed with an expression that wasn’t threatening, but wasn’t amiable, either.

Let’s see what’s on the other side, huh?

2

Brendan followed the salvagers through the tunnel. Behind him, Tiger Stripe’s blaster gave off its high whine.

Emboldened by Eagle Eye’s stunt, the kids danced past the tar, shouting and laughing and making faces at the quivering black pool. Brendan shuffled with his back pressed against the debris opposite the tar, watching for signs of danger as he passed.

But the tar stayed put, and they made it through unscathed. Brendan allowed himself a sigh of relief.

This side of the tunnel provided no change in scenery. The shelves that remained standing had long since been picked clean. Dusty trash and unrecognizable detritus littered the floor.

As the teenage salvagers descended on the shelves, Brendan hung back, arms folded. He’d known better than to expect a steak dinner and a stocked gun safe. Still, he’d hoped a place like this—one he hadn’t explored since settling in Newhaven—would have had at least a few easy-to-find treasures, but even that had been too idealistic. He’d been a baby when the world fell to the tar. Of course someone had already been here.

Today’s wouldn’t be an easy salvage, but then Brendan couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an easy salvage.

Something cold and hard jabbed at Brendan’s back, a not-so-friendly reminder that Tiger Stripe remained behind him with a charged blaster.

Since we’re all here together, why don’t you help out? said Tiger Stripe’s voice in his ear. Heck, we might even let you keep a few things.

Brendan only nodded despite the low buzz of anger warming the base of his skull. Now was not the time to fight. Not with a blaster aimed at his spine. If he played his cards right, he could still manage a decent salvage with no struggle.

There. Tiger Stripe gave Brendan’s shoulder a shove toward a fallen shelf. Think anything might be under there?

Brendan looked at the shelf. It was long, metal, and covered in rust spots.

Looks heavy, he said.

Nothing a mod can’t handle, right? Tiger Stripe slapped Brendan’s metal arm.

Brendan sighed. Tiger Stripe was determined to get Brendan to work for him. Fair enough. He reached down with the old mod that had replaced his flesh arm years ago, and he gripped the shelf with creaking metal fingers.

He planted his feet and pulled. His mod wasn’t as fancy as the other salvagers’, but it worked fine. The shelf creaked in protest as it rose.

Brendan was right—it was heavy. His mod spasmed, and he made a mental note to visit Krystal. The bio-connection between his shoulder and the mod was wearing thin again. Nothing to worry about yet, but ignoring warning signs was a recipe for terribly timed malfunctions.

The shelf settled into an upright position with an echoing thud and shrieked once more when Brendan tossed it on its side.

As he looked where the shelf had been, a grin split his face from ear to ear. He couldn’t help it, even with Tiger Stripe breathing down his neck.

Just in front of his feet was a pile of cans—unopened cans, adorned with pictures of vegetables. That would fetch a high price at the dorm. Maybe Logan would let him keep an extra can with his dorm-provided meal—a little bonus commission.

Well, wouldja look at that?

Brendan glanced over his shoulder. Tiger Stripe stood nearby, blaster pointed at Brendan’s midsection.

You did good, Tiger Stripe said.

Brendan didn’t respond. He counted the salvagers again, making sure no one had circled behind him. He’d hoped Tiger Stripe’s attention would lapse—no such luck. Unless things changed, he wouldn’t be sneaking any salvage out unnoticed.

Way I see it, you worked hard to find those. Tiger Stripe took another step closer. I’d say you’ve earned... He paused, pretending to calculate. ... a twenty-five percent commission.

Another glance confirmed all the salvagers were in front of Brendan, which meant the way behind him was clear. He nodded, keeping his eyes ahead, and scooped cans into his satchel without counting. It didn’t matter how many cans made twenty-five percent. Tiger Stripe would let him know when he’d taken too many.

And he did. As Brendan took a can of beans, Tiger Stripe cleared his throat and waggled his blaster.

That was Brendan’s cue.

He scrambled to his feet and ran, grabbing the satchel as he did.

Tiger Stripe barked something harsh and insistent, but Brendan barely heard it. He’d descended into a place ruled by impulse and instinct. Coldness enveloped him as his legs pumped, pulling the tunnel in the debris ever closer.

Tile exploded inches from Brendan’s feet, an errant shot from Tiger Stripe’s blaster. He did not fire again—a wise decision, considering Brendan was running toward the only way out of this part of the store. The last thing anyone needed was a collapsed tunnel.

Just as Brendan wondered if he would escape, a sound roared behind him, speeding closer at an alarming rate. The rapid whispering of metal joints pistoned over and over, faster than any human could move on his own.

Brendan glanced back. The kid with two mods in place of his legs was sprinting after him. The slender prosthetics looked more like they belonged on an insect than a human. As the thought crossed Brendan’s mind, a single word cut through the coldness that surrounded him. The salvagers were chanting.

Grasshopper! GRASS! HA! PER! Grasshopper! GRASS! HA! PER!

Grasshopper leaned forward as he ran, with an expression equal parts grin and grimace. Brendan didn’t want to fight him here, not with four other salvagers waiting to join. It would be cleaner if he could separate them and take them on one by one.

None of these things occurred to Brendan as thoughts. They were instincts, like don’t touch a fire, or don’t breathe underwater. They passed through his mind in an instant, registering deep within his very core.

Only seconds remained before Grasshopper reached him. It was time to fight fire with fire—or, rather, mod with mod.

Brendan raised his mod, praying the earlier malfunction wouldn’t rear its head again, and triggered the switch straddling his flesh and the bio-connectors.

The metal hand rocketed straight up. Brendan’s gleaming arm elongated, stretching high above him. A collective gasp sounded behind him, and a smile found its way up from the darkness over Brendan. His mod might not have been as shiny as what the salvagers sported, but none of them had Krystal for a mechanic. She’d developed the stretchable, flexible alloy for Brendan’s mod, and he had a feeling there was nothing else like it in the world.

Grasshopper was closing in, but Brendan only needed another half-second. The mod sailed upward until it collided with a rafter twenty feet overhead. The impact shuddered all the way down the alloy into Brendan’s shoulder. He squeezed the rafter, tripped another trigger, and then the mod regained its original shape, pulling him into the air as it shrank.

Brendan’s feet whipped in front of him. Grasshopper’s hand grazed his calf. He looked back as he ascended. The salvagers had spread out, their strategy shifting with this new revelation of their prey’s ability.

Near the top, Brendan flipped upside down, hooking his leg over a rafter and pulling himself up. It wasn’t clear yet how he’d escape—only that this was his next step. That was all he could do. Keep taking the next step, and eventually, one of those steps would be one that led him to safety.

Hopefully.

Below, the salvagers resumed chanting Grasshopper’s name. The kid squatted so low his oversized knees rose above his ears.

Then his gleaming mods snapped to full extension, and he sailed toward the wall of debris created by the cave-in. Grasshopper hit the wall feet-first, let his momentum bend his legs to his ears again, and then he pushed off.

He rocketed toward Brendan. His long, mechanical legs trailed behind him, and his flesh arms extended, ready to grab a rafter. He flew at a blinding speed, his face a mask of determination.

Brendan didn’t have time to think. He dropped off the rafter, and a split second later, Grasshopper crashed into the spot where Brendan had been waiting. Brendan reached with his mod, firing the switch so it stretched across the rafters. The instant it found purchase, he retracted it again. He swung over the open space of the grocery store while salvagers below watched him wide-eyed and chanting.

Grasshopper! GRASS! HA! PER!

Overhead, Brendan heard loud, skittering impacts. Grasshopper was chasing him from above, scrambling along the rafters on all fours. The salvager used his mods to launch himself from rafter to rafter at breakneck speed, all the while wearing that grinning, grimacing look. His eyes tracked Brendan with grim determination.

Grasshopper was almost on top of him. Time for a new tactic.

An overhead beam sat a few feet behind Grasshopper. Brendan launched his mod at it. The minute the impact vibrated along his mod, he grabbed hold and pulled himself toward it, willing the mod to use all available bio-power to pull him as fast as possible. The world spun as his body acclimated itself to the sudden drain of energy.

Brendan swung his feet forward. Realization flooded Grasshopper’s features, but it was too late. He was sailing between two rafters, with no way of changing course before Brendan reached him.

They met mid-air. The impact jarred Brendan’s legs and compressed his spine. His left heel smashed into Grasshopper’s collarbone, snapping it like a twig. His right pushed through the bridge of the kid’s nose.

Blood sprayed. Grasshopper yelped.

Brendan turned just in time to see Grasshopper’s body hit a rafter, wrap around it, and then drop. The remaining salvagers shouted their disapproval, interspersed with colorful threats, but they shut up when Grasshopper landed head-first. There was a sickening crack to go with the grotesque way his body collapsed on itself.

The silence lasted only a moment before a shout rang out, followed by a high-pitched sound which Brendan recognized too late as Tiger Stripe’s blaster. The rafter disintegrated beneath Brendan’s feet in a flash of energy. He pawed at the air for a handhold, but came up empty. He hurtled toward the ground and Grasshopper’s motionless form.

Brendan extended his mod once more, hoping to catch another rafter before he dropped into the salvagers’ waiting arms, but then that high-pitched sound returned, and the rafter disintegrated. Brendan’s mod flailed in a cloud of dust.

The earth met him, and his vision went black.

3

Brendan couldn’t breathe. He clung to consciousness with desperation, and the abandoned store faded into view. The salvagers converged on him. They were in no hurry. They’d spread out now, surrounding him and cutting off his angles of escape.

Brendan forced himself to a sitting position, and pain exploded from his spine. He held back the wince though. The salvagers smelled blood. He couldn’t afford a show of weakness.

Tiger Stripe raised his blaster. It glowed bright yellow, absorbing energy from his body as it charged for another blast. We were going to let you out alive. All you had to do was share some food. He cocked his head to one side, feigning a look of disappointment. Now we have to kill you. You know that, right?

Brendan didn’t respond. He glanced over his shoulder to see if any escape lanes remained.

Tiger Stripe motioned with his blaster. Get up.

Brendan obeyed.

Go over there. Another wave of the gun, this one accompanied by a vague nod.

Brendan lifted his hands, showing he wasn’t a threat, even as he planned his next move. It would take drastic measures to survive this. He’d fallen into that dangerous intersection of trust and underestimation, and now he was paying the price. Tiger Stripe pointed Brendan to a bare wall, plated from end to end with solid metal. Brendan backed into it, feeling the cool surface through his threadbare shirt.

Tiger Stripe handed his blaster to Eagle Eye. Expressionless, the lanky kid took the weapon, holding it as if he feared it would bite.

Your turn, Tiger Stripe said with a sneer. Take care of him.

Eagle Eye lifted the gun. His hand trembled. Brendan braced himself, every muscle in his body winding into a tight coil.

Do it, Tiger Stripe whispered.

The muscles along Eagle Eye’s face bulged as he clenched his jaw. His modded eye whirred. Was that a sign of nervousness? Or did the mod's software only assess variables, ensuring that even this point-blank shot would go off without a hitch?

Do it! This time, Tiger Stripe’s command erupted as a shout.

Eagle Eye flinched, and the instant his flesh eye squeezed shut, Brendan took his chance. He lashed out, launching his mod at Eagle Eye. The metal fist made contact, and energy exploded from Eagle Eye’s blaster. The blast came so close to Brendan’s head the power warmed his cheek. He didn’t turn to see the hole it created in the wall behind him. The path to the tunnel was free now, and he would not miss his opportunity.

He’d nearly escaped when a blood-curdling scream stopped him in his tracks.

Despite the voice in his mind screaming to run away, faster than he’d ever run, Brendan turned. The salvagers stood in a semicircle, frozen in a diorama of terror. The entire scene was almost perfectly still.

Almost.

Only one thing moved now: a black tentacle extending into Eagle Eye’s mouth from the newly-opened hole in the wall. Rippling bulges traveled from its root, down the dark length, and into Eagle Eye’s gaping, silent scream. Fine, black tendrils snaked off the main tentacle and filled Eagle Eye’s nostrils and ears. Tiger Stripe’s blast had exposed a new patch of tar. Once upon a time, every crack and hole in the wall had been sealed, leaving the tar no escape.

But now the salvagers had set it free.

Eagle Eye convulsed. The cords along his neck turned black. The color spread, painting the pathways of Eagle Eye’s veins. Soon his entire body showed raised and blackened veins as the tar ate its way through its new host’s blood. The tentacle grew thin in the middle and split in two. There were no more salvagers in the tar’s range, so it retreated to its place in the wall, while the tentacle still extending out of Eagle Eye disappeared into his body. He closed his mouth, and his modded eye darkened.

Brendan needed to run. It was one thing to salvage near a patch of tar fixed in one place, but once the tar infected a living host, it could roam freely.

Brendan knew this, and yet he found himself rooted to the spot. The grotesqueness of the scene had frozen him. Eagle Eye, too, had stopped convulsing the moment his eye went dark. He stood, arms hanging at his sides.

Then his body jerked, quickened with perverse life. His mouth sprang open. A black tentacle erupted from the gaping maw, and that was enough to inspire Brendan and the salvagers into action. The salvagers dove out of the way of the tar seeking its next meal. Brendan took off, sprinting for the tunnel through the debris like he should have done ages ago.

The salvagers screamed behind him, but he kept running. His feet tore at the cracked tile. His heart thudded in his throat.

The tunnel drew closer. Only after he reached the other side did he allow himself to turn back.

Eagle Eye stood, framed in the ragged hole through the debris. The thick, black cord of tar hung out of his mouth, an oversized tongue that quivered with every lurching step he took. The infected salvager took another step toward something Brendan couldn’t see. There was a clatter and a shout, followed by Tiger Stripe’s voice shouting, Don’t do it! Don’t shoot it! but it was too late. Yellow light painted the debris tunnel, and Eagle Eye staggered backward.

The top half of his head vanished.

The modded eye was gone. Most of his nose was gone. Above his neck, there was a jawline, a mouth, two nostrils...and then nothing.

No blood came from the wound—the tar had taken care of that—but where Eagle Eye’s skull had disintegrated, a mass of inky tentacles floated, weightless like seaweed underwater.

Eagle Eye took a hideous, shuddering step.

Someone screamed.

The tentacles shot forward with deadly intent.

The scream stopped in a gurgling choke.

Brendan turned and ran.

4

Brendan ran until he grew weak and the world began to spin. He’d used his mod far too much in the abandoned store. His body had spent a lot of energy to power the mechanical arm. And then there was the pain, radiating down his spine and into his extremities. When his legs threatened to give out from exhaustion, he collapsed behind a boarded-up house. His fingers trembled—partly from weakness and partly from fear. It had been years