Siege Line

by Myke Cole

  “Joe. How you doin’?”

  “I’m okay, Sheriff. This is jus’ . . . I didn’t expect this.”

  “Nobody did.”

  “Whaddya think they want?”

  “Don’t care. Whatever they want, I want the opposite and badly.”

  “Yeah. What about . . . What about the things . . .”

  “Shut up, Joe.” Mankiller had been deliberately avoiding thinking about that wriggling mass of flesh they’d seen in the cage. “We’ll deal with that when we have to. Not before.”

  “Okay, boss, but I was jus’ thinkin’ maybe it’s like what your grandpa does—”

  “I thought of that too, okay? If’n it is, we know what we gotta do to take ’em out.”

  “I jus’ . . . I didn’t think it worked with people.”

  “Joe, will you shut up and come on?”

  “Okay,” Yakecan said, and hurried after her.

  They made it out into the hall before the sight out the window brought them up short.

  A man had emerged from the door of the municipal building, walking deliberately toward the station.

  He was naked.

  “Is that . . .” Yakecan began, coming up on his sights.

  The man began to pick up speed toward them. His skin was a darker gray than Sally’s, save for his arms, which were red to the elbow. Gore dripped from his mouth, from bone claws that emerged from his fingertips. His tongue, black as a new tire, was too long and thick, hanging from the corner of his mouth. His eyes burned gold, fixed steadily on the station window, as if he knew Mankiller was inside.

  Tires crunched on the snow outside the door. Mankiller heard an engine coughing.

  She raced to the door, threw it open, bringing the Alaskan up and sighting in on the naked man walking toward them.

  “Hey, Sheriff.” Crosshill’s voice. “I brought a whole mess of guns and all my traps, I wasn’t sure if . . . Jesus, what’re you—”

  “Get inside right now, Tom!” Mankiller’s world had already blurred away, the front sight on her rifle drawing into focus. She wished this was Afghanistan, that she could simply pull the trigger and put a round through the dark gray blur hovering in her sights. She already knew what it was, knew what that meant. But it wasn’t shaped like a wolf, it was shaped like a man, and she wasn’t a soldier now, she was a cop, and that meant there were protocols that had to be followed. “Police! Get down on the ground!” she shouted. “Put your hands behind your head!”

  The thing shrieked, a cry that sounded almost gleeful, somewhere between the piercing scream of an eagle and the bark of an angry dog. It launched itself at her so quickly that the frozen ground churned beneath its bare feet, sending up a spray of frost behind it.

  “Tom, look out!” Mankiller shouted, slapping the trigger back. The Alaskan jerked, the shot breaking high, but she saw the blur spasm as the round caught its shoulder. The .375 round was powerful enough to drop a bear at two hundred yards, but it only served to knock the creature to one side. It hardly slowed, but it missed the door, crashing into the bannister of the low staircase hard enough to shatter it, bone claws slicing through the railing and splintering the steps beneath.

  It was down for a mere instant, then leapt to its feet, sweeping a clawed hand toward her.

  Mankiller leapt aside, her shoulder striking the hood of Tom’s car before she tumbled to the ground, the Alaskan’s butt smacking her in the face hard enough to split her lip. She heard the doorframe crack as the thing’s hand smashed through it

  She could see Tom in her peripheral vision, backing away, off-balance. She scrambled backward on her hands and heels, trying to give herself enough distance to line up another shot.

  Not that another shot would help. The monster was already recovering, finding its balance, turning toward her.

  Up close, Mankiller got a good view of the burning eyes, so like the wolves and bears her grandfather made. The soul of an ancestor brought into a human corpse? She shuddered as it crouched, spread its bloodstained hands, and roared. It’s trying to spook me. It enjoys it.

  She wouldn’t give it the satisfaction. She picked up the Alaskan and sighted in, knowing full well that as fast as that thing was, it would reach her before she could pull the trigger.

  She heard the station window bang open, saw Yakecan leaning out, bringing the 870 up, sighting in.

  The shotgun slug could punch a hole nearly an inch across through a buck’s heart, cutting through all the surrounding bone and muscle like it was hot margarine. Mankiller’s eyes widened and she threw herself to the side. “Joe! Don’t shoo . . .”

  The 870 roared and the creature’s head exploded like a rotten cantaloupe, raining fragments of metal and jellied gray matter down on her. She felt the ground churn a few inches to her left as the spent slug buried itself.

  “Fuck!” Mankiller scrambled to her feet, struggling to get the tumbling Alaskan back into her grip. “Damnit, Joe! You ’bout fuckin’ shot me!”

  The monster lifted its pulped head sagging on its thick neck. It opened its mouth to roar again, but the slug-adjusted orifice could muster nothing more than a choked gurgle. Its gold eyes still burned from now-lopsided sockets. It reached out with one red hand, grasping the truck’s bumper, bent low.

  Bang. Tom, shooting at the thing from the truck’s far side. From the sound of the blast, it was a weak round, 9mm. Even if he could hit it, it wouldn’t do anything.

  “Tom, get out of here!” Mankiller said, dashing away from the truck.

  The creature grunted, strained, lifted. The truck groaned as its front end rose. Mankiller could see the wheels hanging over empty air, and then the monster gave a final push and the truck toppled end over end, the bumper shearing away, the cab crushed beneath its own weight.

  Mankiller threw herself aside as the truck tumbled. The bed’s tarp went flying, and something struck her in the leg. She went down hard, fumbling the rifle again, got her arms up over her head.

  It was raining guns. Pistols, boxes of ammunition, huge steel crescents. As they thumped to the ground, Mankiller winced at how close they’d come to staving in her skull. Bear traps. The damned idiot brought bear traps.

  The creature was already following the tumbling truck, ignoring Tom and Joe, making straight for her.

  “Shit! Boss! I’m comin’!” Yakecan was shouting. It wouldn’t matter. He couldn’t stop this thing. No one could.

  Mankiller felt the throbbing in her leg. Whatever had struck her hadn’t torn her pants, and she didn’t see any blood. She got up to one knee and aimed the Alaskan again. The creature gurgled, picking up speed.

  Boots pounding on frost. Yakecan beside the thing, pointed the 870 at its ribs, fired point-blank.

  The shot threw the monster onto its side, but it simply rolled back to its feet, came on after her. At last, terror seized her. She dropped the Alaskan, scrambling back on her hands and heels once again, panic driving now, all the fight in her utterly absorbed by the need to run. “Stop it, Joe!” she shouted. “Stop it!”

  It reached out, seized her ankle, the claws sinking into the thick fabric of her snow pants.

  “I got it, boss!” Yakecan said, held the 870 over the back of its knee, fired.

  The leg sheared off, spinning into the air and tumbling away, trailing a thread of metal cable and spewing gray fluid. Was it a robot of some kind? A cyborg?

  The thing turned, snarling, flailed at Yakecan. Its newly shortened limb robbed it of most of its leverage, but it still mustered enough force to backhand Yakecan into the ruins of the station steps, the 870 tumbling from his hands. Its grip on Mankiller’s ankle tightened. She could feel bones grinding beneath her skin.

  She reached back to grab at the ground, as if good purchase would be enough to break its hold. Her rational mind told her it was useless, that the thing had dead strength, so powerful t
hat she would have a better chance ripping her foot off her leg than breaking free.

  Her fingers scrabbled, searched, closed on the cold steel crescent of trap jaws, the sharp edges of its teeth gliding beneath her gloves. She ripped it up and brought it down, meaning to club the monster in the head and succeeding only in pounding her own shin. Her howl of agony was cut short by the length of chain that followed, smacking her in the back of her head hard enough to dim her sight.

  The thing yanked on her leg, hauling itself up her body. She had thought it would rip off her foot, but she could see now that it planned worse. It was climbing her, making its way to her chest.

  Her heart.

  She spit, screamed, pushed. It was useless. She was going to die.

  The thought gave her clarity, an odd measure of peace. She felt some of the panic recede and her focus return. If this was to be her end, then she would make it a worthy one. She brought the bear trap up between them, forced the jaws open with all her might. The effort made her grunt, and she felt the muscles in her back burning painfully, her spine singing out as ligaments tore. The trap bucked and pulled, the spring plate rattling against the frame. The traps normally took two people to set, and there was no way she could get the spring plate in place now. She held it with all the power she could muster, then slammed it down on the thing’s pulped head, releasing the jaws.

  They snapped shut halfway down the monster’s face, crushing what remained. The flames of its eyes vanished, swallowed in the vortex of its collapsing skull. It shuddered, slumped, the head drooping to Mankiller’s abdomen as it adjusted to the weight of the added steel. It let go of her ankle, raising a hand to its head, slapping weakly at the jaws.

  Crosshill appeared behind it, his wood axe in his hands, rising over his head.

  “Jesus, fuck, Tom! Be care—” Mankiller scrambled away as he brought the axe down between the thing’s shoulder blades. It jerked, and Crosshill yanked the axe back up again. The next stroke severed its arm at the shoulder. The next split it halfway across its waist. The next took off the head, drawing sparks from the chain and sending the trap flying.

  Crosshill struck again and again, breaking the monster into smaller and smaller pieces, until at last he stood, leaning on the handle, panting. “Holy . . . fuckin’ . . . shit. Joe, you all rig—”

  “The fuck is wrong with you?!” Mankiller scrambled to her feet. “I got Joe shootin’ at me and you choppin’ at me. You tryin’ to kill me?!”

  Crosshill blinked, look down at the ruined mess of the creature beneath him. “I just saved your life, Sheriff.”

  “It was a near thing. A damn near thing.”

  “Well, I’m fuckin’ sorry.” Crosshill stabbed an angry finger at her. “Next time, I’ll just let it bite your damn fool head off.”

  “Jesus.” Mankiller was shaking with rage. Just a few hours before, she had been playing snow snake with Yakecan up by the . . . Yakecan.

  She ran to his side. He was sitting up, rubbing his head, the 870 butt resting on his cheek. “Jesus H. Christ . . .”

  “You okay, Joe?” Mankiller held up a hand. “Look at my finger. Tell me if—”

  Yakecan pushed her arm down. “I’m okay, Sheriff. Just got the wind knocked out of me. Help me up, wouldja?”

  Mankiller reached down, but Yakecan was already pushing himself to his feet. He dusted himself off, stooped to retrieve the 870, then stood, staring in silence at the scattered fragments left by Crosshill’s axe. “Hands is all red,” he finally said.

  “Yeah,” Mankiller agreed. “He was comin’ from Municipal.”

  “So, guess that means we ain’t gettin’ the mayor.”

  “Guess so,” Mankiller said.

  “What the hell is going on, Sheriff?” Crosshill asked.

  “Not sure, but I got an idea. Know some things.”

  “What things?” Crosshill’s voice was straddling the line of panic.

  “I know we’re under siege, and there’s a lot more of these”—she gestured to the remains of the dead thing on the ground—“inbound.”

  “So, what do we do?” Crosshill asked.

  Mankiller looked at him like he was simple. “It’s a siege, ain’t it? We dig in and hold on.”

  CHAPTER X

  THE RIGHT CALL

  The Director stared down the hillside at the plumes of smoke curling from the forest of silver smokestacks dotting the scattered hamlet of Fort Resolution.

  A sparse forest. This was every bit as isolated as the most distant backwaters nestled in the ridges of Afghanistan. If not for the slim stretch of poorly maintained country road connecting it to the transportation network, it would be little more than a camp.

  Xolotl and Quetzalcoatl flanked him silently, their gray bodies adorned with only their gold and jewels. The Director briefly considered asking them to dress. The constant reminder of their unlife made the living members of the Cell nervous, but even if he had the language, he doubted they would comply.

  He turned to Mark instead. “This is . . . rustic.”

  “Population’s less than a thousand, sir.” Mark’s voice was muffled by her hood. She was dressed as the rest of the Director’s living servants: white parka and snowsuit, tactical gear. “Most of them still make their living as hunters and fur trappers, just like the old days. It’s like the Middle Ages out here.”

  “If they are so backwards,” the Director mused, “how is it they managed to kill one of my men?” He gestured.

  “The sheriff is an Army veteran, sir. Six years in.”

  “Special Operations?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A Ranger, then.”

  “No, sir.”

  “What did she do for the Army?”

  “Just one tour, sir. Explosives Ordnance Disposal.”

  “You mean to tell me that one of my operators, a man who completed a twenty-year distinguished career with the most elite special forces unit in the United States before he started running ops for us was caught out and killed by a woman who spent six years defusing bombs?”

  “She got a Medal of Bravery, sir. That’s a pretty big deal in the Canadian Army.”

  “No doubt she got it for her expertise in documenting the disposal of ordnance,” the Director said. This was why you could never rely on humans to get things done. The Golds were the only truly effective tool in his box.

  As if she sensed his thoughts: “She took out a Gold, too, sir.”

  “No.” The Director turned his gaze to the wreckage outside the police station. “It took three of them to do that, and they were lucky.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Director could tell from Mark’s tone that she didn’t agree, but there was no need to correct her just now.

  “I do not believe that releasing the Gold was the wisest choice,” he said.

  “Ops made the call, sir,” she said. “Once he saw we had a man down, he didn’t want to leave anything to chance.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as them calling for help or being inspired by the victory.”

  “How would they call for help?” The Director turned to look at her. “We have jammed cell and satellite comms. We have cut the landlines. They don’t even have VHF.”

  “Maybe one of them has a crystal radio set, sir.”

  The Director swallowed his frustration. This mission had to be a success. He had considered the alternative to finding the Summoner and securing his cooperation. It would be easy to hide himself and the remaining Golds in the vast wilderness, and the bitter cold would do nearly as good a job as the refrigerated cells back in the facility. But the humans wouldn’t be able to survive long out here, and without the infrastructure of the Cell, he’d lack money, equipment, and transportation to do anything more than hide. No, he needed a living body and soon. “Tell me, Mark. Why are we here?”

  “
To find the Summoner, sir. The sheriff’s grandfather.”

  “That’s right. Tell me, do you think that releasing a Gold into the hamlet is a good means to that particular end?”

  Her adrenaline spiked. She knew where this conversation was leading. “I thought . . . They killed one of ours. I thought a show of force was required. Maybe they’d give up resistance once they saw what the Golds could do.”

  “The Golds”—the Director finally turned his head toward her, shuffling infinitesimally closer—“are not discriminating about who they kill, Mark, you know this. The one you sent entered and exited the municipal building. Tell me, do you think it left anyone in there alive?”

  “No, sir. Probably not.”

  “Probably not,” the Director repeated. “So, the entire town government, any one of whom may have had information on our Summoner’s whereabouts, are now lost to us.”

  “You said the sheriff is the one who matters, sir. You said she would help us find him.”

  “Are you making excuses? Are you not taking responsibility for an error in judgment? Is that what my ears are hearing?”

  Mark’s adrenaline skyrocketed. Her voice shook. “No, sir. Of course not. It was entirely my fault. A bad decision, and one that won’t be repeated.”

  “Yes.” The Director looked back to the town. “It was. You are fortunate that the sheriff and her allies were able to destroy it, loath as I am to lose such a powerful asset.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m hoping the encounter broke their spirits in spite of the victory. Seeing a Gold can be unsettling. Now we can go in to parlay for the information.”

  “I find it startling that I understand the minds of living humans better than you, despite the difference in our condition,” the Director said.

  “Sir?”