The War Rig rolled to a stop at the edge of the canyon.
Hughes killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the whistling of the wind through aluminum ribs.
Jason stepped out of the truck. His boots crunched on the red sand.
Below them lay the Boneyard.
It wasn't a junkyard. It was a mass grave for machines.
Thousands of aircraft filled the ravine. Boeing 747s, their wings snapped like twigs. Fighter jets, rusted and stripped. Cessnas piled like kindling. They stretched for miles, a river of dead metal flowing through the Badlands.
"Aluminum Canyon," Hemingway said, joining Jason at the cliff edge. He spat tobacco juice into the abyss. "The Barons drag everything here. Every plane that crashed during the collapse. Every drone that fell out of the sky."
"It's a slaughterhouse," Hughes whispered. He was shaking. To him, machines were alive. This was a massacre.
"We need to find the B-29," Jason said, checking his map. "Hemingway, you said she was in a bomber."
"Sector 7," Hemingway pointed to a cluster of heavy fuselages near the center of the maze. "The Superfortress. It's the biggest thing in the valley."
They descended into the ravine.
The shadows were long and sharp. The wind howled through the empty cockpits, sounding like screaming ghosts.
Whoooo. Whoooo.
They climbed over wings and crawled under landing gear. The smell of old hydraulic fluid and rotting insulation was suffocating.
"Watch your step," O'Malley warned, sweeping his rifle. "Scavengers love this place. Lots of hiding spots."
But there were no scavengers. The Boneyard was empty.
Too empty.
They reached the B-29.
It was a monster of a plane, resting on its belly, its wings clipped. But it wasn't just a wreck. Thick black cables ran into the fuselage, pulsing with power.
"It's active," Hughes noted, touching a warm cable. "Someone is feeding it juice."
They climbed through the rear hatch.
The interior was gutted. The bomb bay was filled with servers. Blinking lights. Cooling fans humming in the dark.
"This isn't salvage," Jason realized. "This is a command center."
They moved forward to the cockpit.
The door was sealed. Jason forced it open with a crowbar.
Creeeeak.
The smell hit them first. Not rot. Antiseptic.
And ozone.
In the pilot's seat sat a figure.
She wore a leather flight jacket, cracked with age. Her aviator cap was pulled low.
"Amelia?" Jason called out softly.
The figure didn't turn.
Jason walked around the seat.
He stopped. His breath caught in his throat.
It wasn't a woman sitting in a chair.
She was the chair.
Thick clear tubes ran into her spine, pumping a glowing blue fluid. Her hands weren't on the yoke; they were fused to it. Wires ran under her skin, disappearing into the dashboard.
Her eyes were gone. Replaced by flight avionics goggles that had been surgically grafted to her face. Lenses whirred and clicked as they processed data.
"Oh god," Hughes gagged. He turned away, sickened.
"She's a CPU," Jason whispered, horrified. "The Barons... they're using her brain to process flight data. She's a wetware guidance system."
He stepped closer.
"Amelia?"
The figure twitched. The head snapped up. The lenses focused on him.
A speaker in her throat clicked.
Krr-zzzt.
"Flight 370... heading South..." Her voice was synthesized, layered with static. "Altitude... steady... Jason?"
The human part of her woke up.
She knew him.
"It's me," Jason said, kneeling beside her. "I'm here."
"Jason..." The static cleared. Her voice sounded young. Terrified. "The sky... it's heavy. Too much data. I can't... land."
"We're going to get you out," Jason promised. He reached for the wires in her arm.
"No!" Amelia jerked back. "Don't disconnect! The signal... it holds the sky up!"
"What signal?" Hemingway asked, stepping into the cockpit. He looked at the woman he had once known, now a machine. His face was stone.
"The Father," Amelia whispered. "The Broadcast."
"What is he broadcasting?" Jason asked. "Is it a weapon?"
"It's a song," Amelia said. "A frequency. It overrides the brain. It makes the drones dance. It makes the people... sleep."
She grabbed Jason's hand. Her grip was crushing, enhanced by servos in her wrist.
"He needs the reactor," she hissed. "To amplify it. To make the whole world hear him. The Siren Song."
"Where is the reactor?" Jason asked.
"The Sawmill," Amelia said. "It's coming. It eats the noise. It eats the planes."
Suddenly, the ground shook.
RUMBLE.
Dust fell from the cockpit ceiling.
"Earthquake?" O'Malley looked around.
"No," Amelia turned her head toward the windshield. Her lenses zoomed. "Hunger."
Jason looked out the cracked glass.
At the edge of the canyon, a mountain of steel crested the hill.
It was massive. Ten stories high. It moved on tank treads the size of houses.
On the front of the machine were three colossal circular saws, spinning with a deafening roar.
SCREEEEE.
The Sawmill.
It drove into the canyon.
It didn't stop for the wrecks. It drove through them.
The saws tore into the aluminum carcasses of the dead planes. Sparks flew in geysers. Metal screamed as it was shredded, pulled into the machine's maw to be melted down.
It was eating the Boneyard.
And it was heading straight for them.
"We have to go!" Hughes screamed. "It's going to mulch us!"
"We can't leave her!" Jason shouted.
"She's hardwired!" Hughes argued. "If we rip her out, she dies! Her brain will fry!"
Jason looked at Amelia.
"Leave me," she whispered. "I am the flight recorder. I remember everything."
"I'm not leaving you," Jason said.
He turned to Hemingway.
"Can you carry her?"
Hemingway looked at the woman in the chair. He looked at the wires.
"I can carry the pilot," Hemingway said. "But not the plane."
He pulled out his knife.
"Do it," Jason ordered.
Hemingway cut the cables.
SNAP.
Amelia screamed. It was a digital shriek that tore through the cockpit speakers.
Her body went limp. The blue fluid in the tubes sprayed across the dashboard.
Hemingway scooped her up. She was light. Too light.
"Run!" Jason yelled.
They scrambled out of the B-29.
The Sawmill was closing in. The noise was deafening now—shredding metal, grinding gears, roaring engines.
The B-29 they had just left disappeared under the tracks.
CRUNCH.
The bomber was flattened in seconds.
They ran through the maze of wrecks, dragging the unconscious woman.
They reached the War Rig just as the Sawmill crested the ridge above them.
Hughes slammed the truck into gear.
"Go! Go! Go!" O'Malley fired the turret at the massive machine, bullets sparking uselessly off its armor.
The War Rig roared away, kicking up red dust.
Behind them, the Sawmill turned. Its massive saws slowed down.
A spotlight from the top of the fortress swung around. It locked onto the fleeing truck.
A voice boomed from the machine. Amplified. Distorted.
"Jason..."
It wasn't a computer voice.
It was a human voice. Warm. Familiar.
"Ezra Prentice," Jason whispered, staring into the side mirror.
"Son," the voice echoed across the canyon. "You're late for dinner."
The Sawmill accelerated.
The chase was on.