Siege Line

by Myke Cole

  His training screamed at him to go back. This wasn’t the warrior’s way. He was a professional who never let his heart rule his head. But that wasn’t right, was it? The warrior’s way was a living way, and it had ceased to own him the moment his heart ceased to beat. The Director’s way was a new way, one all his own, one he invented day by day, learning as he went.

  If, by some miracle, the walrus made it through, he could summon help. The Canadian police, the Army. The Director would be able to handle them someday but not now. Leave the man to the pickets or chase him, it was a bad choice either way. But no choice was as bad as indecision. He was already moving; he wanted to kill the man, so that was what he would do.

  To his credit, the walrus didn’t waste a lot of time on the radio. Once he was certain he wasn’t getting through, he jammed the receiver back in the pocket of his parka and focused on keeping the throttle open wide. The machine fishtailed briefly on the packed crust. The Director could hear the rattling of the chain drive as it opened up distance. He put on speed, pushing his legs farther, leaning forward as he moved faster. The snowmobile still widened the gap, shrinking in his vision. The magic that animated the Director’s corpse made him faster than a cheetah sprinting after prey, but even a sprinting cheetah was slower than the whirring chain, the slamming pistons driving it so quickly that the Director could hear it buzzing like a swarm of hornets, could feel the spraying snow drifting past his face.

  “Squirter outbound from the southwest,” he said into the commlink. One of death’s many blessings was never being out of breath. “Target is on a snowmobile, making one hundred knots.”

  “Acknowledged,” came the reply. “I don’t see—”

  “You should hear him! Christ, he’s got the throttle wide open!” The Director was surprised at his own words. Showing anger to his people wouldn’t do. But he watched the shrinking of the machine and felt the gap opening by degrees, the responsibility shifting from him to the spotter and shooter somewhere in the woods overlooking this sorry excuse for a town. If there was any hope of stopping the walrus, it would depend on the power, focus, and determination of his snipers, a pair of fragile bags of meat. The thought made him furious.

  “I have eyes on, ready,” the shooter said.

  “Range, one zero zero zero meters. Elevation, three. Minute of angle—no. Come down 1 MOA,” the spotter said.

  The snowmobile flew past the last remaining buildings and skidded out onto the road along the frozen lake shore, then switched back abruptly, diving through unplowed banks of high snow. The walrus leaned on the handlebars, loading the springs hard, and the Director grinned as the snowmobile’s back end broke loose, fishtailing, engine roaring as it rose above the snow. It took a few seconds to regain traction, but in those seconds, the Director closed the gap, stretching his legs until he felt the femoral head scrape against the dead tissue lining the socket of his pelvis. A living man would have been left disabled, howling in agony. The Director just kept running, watching the distance shrink.

  “Come down,” the spotter was saying. The Director had forgotten about the sniper team. He didn’t need them now. He would have the walrus tackled into the snow in a matter of moments. The thought of the sniper team stealing his triumph at the last instant sent a fresh surge of fury through him. “Stop!” he shouted into the commlink. “Cease fire!”

  But the spotter was already speaking. “Send it.”

  No. It was his kill. The walrus had shot him. The walrus had fled from him. The walrus had opened a lead on him. His vision went red, the bone spines rising from his back, head, and hands for the first time in years. He gave the rage free rein and lunged.

  His legs pumped and pushed; his feet left the ground. The snowmobile drew closer. He could smell the oil sealant on the walrus’s parka, see the wind rustling the tips of the faux fox hair bordering the hood. He could hear the pounding of the walrus’s heart.

  Bang.

  The gun’s report echoed, giving the Director’s augmented hearing a host of data denied the living ear. The shot was a thousand yards out to the northwest, firing a 7.62mm NATO round. The wind had put English on the bullet, and the Director could tell from the whistling trajectory that the shooter had compensated. Gravity was acting on the long shot, dropping the round toward the walrus’s head as he . . .

  The Director felt the round punch through his hip, spinning him in the air. He put out a hand to stop himself, felt his palm dig in, only to have the inertia of his body rip it free, sending him tumbling again in a spray of snow. He gave in to it this time, knowing there was nothing for it but to let the inertia spend itself. He endured the indignity of the roll, the snow packing down his shirt collar, stuffing his nose and mouth. At last, he stopped, his head banging off a rock, legs sticking straight up out of the snow.

  He threw himself onto his feet, eyes roving. The sniper team were the only ones close enough to see, and they would have been utterly focused on the target. Even now, they would be just coming off their scopes. That was good. He couldn’t lead people who had seen him humiliated.

  And humiliated he was. He could hear the angry-hornet buzz of the snowmobile’s engine whining in the distance, interspersed with the occasional throaty cough as it plowed up a steep bank of new snow.

  You moved too fast. You got too excited and you fouled their shot. You should have just hung back and let them take him out.

  It was what a professional would have done, but he had been too angry, too caught up in taking vengeance to do it right. It was unforgivable. In his time as a SEAL, he had trained endlessly on this very point, ensuring his human mind stayed dominant over his monkey mind. But he had also trained never to dwell on the past. What was done was done, and beating himself up over it would solve nothing.

  As if he had read the Director’s thoughts, the shooter’s whisper sounded over the commlink. “Doubtful.”

  The spotter answered, voice trembling slightly. “Shot blocked.”

  “Bravo element is eyes off,” the spotter said. The Director could hear the fear in his voice, could tell that he knew what had blocked the shot, who he had just put a bullet through. “We have no shot, I say again, no shot.”

  The Director tested his hip and leg. The round had penetrated a few inches left of his navel and rebounded off the bone, chewing a long furrow through the flesh to exit out his buttock, almost at the small of his back. The leg worked fine.

  “Orders, sir,” the spotter said. He wanted to know if they should send pursuit. The part of the Director who was still the professional knew that would be best, to send the helo up, get eyes on from the air before trying to engage in extremely difficult, unknown terrain.

  “Hold what you’ve got,” the Director said. “I’ll get him myself.”

  He wheeled and plunged into the thick snow, forging through the rough trail broken by the snowmobile’s skis. Once again, he told himself his reasoning was practical. He couldn’t draw limited assets away from the hamlet or he would risk losing the sheriff, but he knew the truth. The walrus was his. His.

  The sniper shot had frightened the man; the Director could smell his elevated blood sugar even from there. Better, it had driven him off the snowpack, forcing the snowmobile to chew through snow-covered brush, bouncing on uneven terrain as the walrus sought to move away from the sniper team. That he had been able to determine their position and was able to move in the right direction spoke to some degree of training. The thought made the Director feel better; if he was being bested by a trained warrior, it took the sting out of it somewhat.

  And he was being bested. Because, as he started running again, the same deep snow that slowed the vehicle’s chain drive slowed his own steps. The distance between the Director and the machine didn’t widen, but it held, and he squinted through the funnel of churning snow at the walrus’s back, taunting him with its nearness.

  He felt something catch, snap free
inside his hip. His step shortened, staggered. He cursed. Maybe the round had done more damage than he thought. He pumped his legs faster, pushed himself harder. He felt the wobble in his hip, stumbled again. The snowmobile coughed over an ice-encrusted log, landing in a clatter of breaking branches before the tread dug in and sent it leaping forward.

  There was no denying it. The gap was widening.

  The walrus reached back into his parka now, brought the radio receiver out. The Director listened for the jammer’s hum, but it was attenuated enough at this distance that it drowned in the engine’s roar. If the walrus wasn’t clear yet, he soon would be.

  The Director howled, long and loud, an animal shout of rage and frustration. It was crude and more akin to the Golds than he liked, but he was past caring now. The walrus stiffened at the sound, glancing over his shoulder, the radio paused halfway to his mouth.

  And then the Director suddenly had hope.

  Through the spraying snow, he caught a tiny glimmer, no more than a spark, so brief that most would have thought it a trick of the light, a flash reflected off the snow. But the Director’s eyes were too sharp, his need to kill this man too keen. He saw the spark for what it was: frozen water, wide enough to catch the sun’s rays and send them scattering.

  He dove to the left, the joint of his damaged hip grinding. For a moment, he felt the joint separate, worried he might fall. He clapped a hand to his hip, pushed down with all his strength, felt the bone sliding beneath the skin. It held, if only just, and he was off and running again.

  The walrus was only now turning to look in front of him, and the Director could hear his shouted curse as he sighted the frozen water, metal thudding against rubber as he slammed against the handlebars, desperately trying to turn the vehicle.

  The tread dug in, spraying snow, the engine air intakes roaring. The snowmobile slewed drunkenly to one side, threatening to topple over, one ski waving madly in the air, half the tread spinning madly, biting nothing. For a moment, the Director thought he had him, but the walrus stood on the footrests, leaning his considerable weight into the high side. The center of gravity shifted, and the machine thunked back down onto both skis in a burst of white powder.

  The Director howled again, charged. The walrus turned, slammed the handlebars once more. The snowmobile coughed and shuddered, the nose pushing out toward the water, the tail moving toward the Director, trying to open the lead again.

  But it was too late now. The Director was too close, and the machine had shed too much speed. With a cry of triumph, the Director launched himself at the walrus a second time. He extended his hands, felt his jaw unhinge, gray tongue swelling and extending, eagerly anticipating the hot rush of the man’s blood.

  But the walrus still had a surprise left. He threw his body in the opposite direction, hauling the handlebars after him. The snowmobile tipped up, dragged earthward by the walrus’s heavy bulk, turning the vehicle into a metal shield. The Director had time for a howl of surprise before he smashed into the vehicle’s undercarriage.

  The whirling tread chewed through the cloth of his hood, ripping it away. It made short work of the cheek beneath, and the Director could feel the flesh grind away, flap open, his swollen tongue sliding out of the gap to dangle down by his shoulder. He screamed, the anger in full command now. He tore his head back, threw his shoulder down, and slammed the snowmobile’s fairing, splintering the plastic.

  The machine shuddered, tumbled, rolling over and over, dragging the walrus with it, jerking him like a rag doll. The Director leapt free, landed in a crouch, watching the snowmobile carry the walrus down toward the frozen water. The Director would have thought he would shake free, but the walrus hung on, the heavy machine pummeling him with each toss. The Director rose and followed at a walk, conscious of his unstable hip joint, not wanting to make it worse. He would let the machine do its work first. It was still his kill, since he’d set it in motion. If he was lucky, the walrus would still have some life in him, and the Director would take his time in ending it, ensuring the man understood the cost of all the trouble he’d given him.

  But the snowmobile spun on its side, then skidded out over the bank of the frozen lake. It hung precariously for a moment, tempting the Director to run for it, before disappearing down the bank. The Director heard the cracking splash that could only be the ice giving way and the water beneath welling up to receive machine and man both.

  He paused, listening. The frustration of losing the walrus was fading now that the man had clearly paid for his defiance. The Director had done more damage to himself than he had wanted, but that was sometimes the case in battles. He dialed his hearing down, heard nothing more than the shifting ice, the bubbling water, and the slowing of the Walrus’s heart, sounding fainter as he sank beneath the surface. The radio crackled as it shorted, then went silent.

  The water couldn’t be warmer than thirty degrees. Even someone as well insulated as the walrus wouldn’t last more than ten minutes. The heart beat slower, fainter, followed by the rustling whisper of the ice riming over, already filling in to cover the hole punctured by the snowmobile.

  The Director raised a hand, probed his wounded face, felt the exposed bone of his jaw, the row of teeth above. It would be horrifying to see. That was good, he supposed.

  He felt hungover, shaken, the way he’d felt when he was alive, the post-combat comedown shakes of subsiding adrenaline, the vague illness of his whole body having been tuned to the single task of taking a life. He hadn’t felt it since he died, until now. That was good; he could accept his wounds because they came from a fellow warrior, no matter what his appearance.

  Water under the bridge. The threat was neutralized. The danger passed.

  Still probing his flayed cheek, the Director turned and slowly stalked back to his camp.

  CHAPTER XI

  WALKING DEAD

  Once Mankiller was sure the monster was gone, she turned her attention to the fire. The station still had four fire extinguishers in good repair and fully charged, and she and Calmut were soon dousing the building’s side in white foam. They were lucky there was little more than a gentle breeze, and the flames already had an uphill battle against the ice riming the station’s siding.

  She got back on her sights the moment she was certain the fire was out, squinting through the billowing vapor at the remains of the barricade. She was skilled at spotting the shifts in shadow that spelled movement, even in poor visibility. There was nothing. The barricade was still and silent. And that was not a good thing. Because there had been four people out there: Denise, Early Bird, Gunther, and Alba Rodriguez, who had been a crabber in Alaska before she picked up her sea bag and walked east on a lark.

  Another minute on the sights and Mankiller finally vaulted out the window, dropped the three feet to the packed snow.

  “What’re you doin’?” Calmut called down to her.

  “Shut up and cover me,” Mankiller said, keeping her weapon at the low ready as she made her way to what remained of the barricade.

  The line of trucks was little more than burned wrecks now, the remains of their paint blistering, the snow around them long since turned to gray slush. The gas tanks had already exploded, so they wouldn’t have to worry about that, and the flames had died down to the point where even a strong wind wouldn’t blow them against the station. She could waste precious chemicals putting them out, but there was no point.

  The defenders hadn’t fared so well.

  Denise was little more than a black smear on the snow. One of the monsters had flattened her head, and it looked like the flamethrower had exploded on her back, cooking what was left. Gunther had run halfway around the station before he succumbed to the fire. Early Bird was collapsed beside the truck, recognizable only by his bulk. There was more left of him, but he was burned just as badly as Denise. Mankiller cursed inwardly. Her last words to Early had been unkind, and she still held the rifle
she’d confiscated from him. He had it coming, but seeing his corpse didn’t make it any easier. Even if he had been drunk, had been on the verge of shooting her, she’d wished like hell that she’d thrown an arm over his shoulder and told him just how much she loved seeing him around the town, sober or no. Early had helped her dress a deer she’d shot last summer, spending a whole day and getting his parka bloody up to the elbows, for no other reason than wishing to be neighborly. He was a drunk, but so were a lot of folks. Joe liked a drink now and then. So did she.

  Alba had been blown clear by the blast, was lying in a heap on the barricade’s far side. Mankiller had seen plenty of dead bodies in her day. It was hard to look at dead folks, especially ones you’d come to know. In a way, them being all burned up was a blessing. A burned body looked so little like the person she had known that it made it easier to get the detachment she needed to cope.

  Denise, Early, and Gunther were lost causes, but she had to do due diligence with Alba. The girl was surely dead, but Mankiller needed to at least check her pulse. Even from this distance, she could tell she’d have to look at Alba’s face, whole, eyes sightlessly staring. The sight of that face would do damage, the kind that lasted. That’s your job. To suck up that damage so other folks don’t have to.

  Mankiller swallowed and made her way to Alba’s side, knelt, turned the girl over.

  Alba hitched a gasping breath, her eyelids fluttering before snapping shut. Mankiller cursed, stripped off her glove, shoving two fingers against Alba’s neck. No pulse. “Ollie! Throw me the defib right now!”

  She heard Calmut scrambling inside the open window, and then the red plastic box came sailing through the air to land in the snow just a foot from Mankiller’s knee. Mankiller popped it open, stripping Alba’s chest and getting the leads attached. She pushed the activation button, staring at the screen, waiting for the red charging light to turn green. ANALYZING, the screen read. PLEASE WAIT.