by T. K. Malone
“Give or take,” Croft confirmed.
“A day later, you’re chucking ordinance at each other. Unbelievable.”
“Dog eat dog,” Byron Tuttle muttered. “The evolutionary clock has been reset, Kenny. All bets are off.”
“So,” and Kenny again looked around. “Why don’t we all go?”
Croft let slip a laugh. “If you don’t mind me saying, Kenny, you’re not in the best shape for what it entails. And you, Byron?”
“I, sir, am happy drinking tea. I prefer to observe a war zone from the turned page and a number of years in its future.”
Connor was now wondering just what he was getting himself into.
9
Connor’s Story
Strike time: plus 4 days
Location: Project Firebird
Sticks beckoned Molly and Connor up, inspecting each in turn; tightening bootlaces, webbing and chinstraps. He shouldered his machine gun, then took theirs as well, slung them over his other shoulder and made his way outside, where he stopped and turned to them.
“This way first,” he said, pointing. “We run, crouched down, for a hundred yards, sandbags eighty percent of the way. Whatever happens, keep running.” Sticks looked at each in turn.
He looked young, but something about him told Connor he was older than he appeared. Connor guessed at mid to late twenties, and he was scrawny, not in a Byron Tuttle sort of way but an immature one. It was like his body hadn’t yet filled out, and though he’d appeared awkward at first, as he’d served the teas, he now looked assured, ready, and if anything, a little sorry for Connor and Molly. It was that hint of doubt in his eyes which worried Connor so. He nodded, anyway.
“I’m point,” Sticks said. “Molly next. Connor, any problems, shout for your life.”
As soon as they were out of the shade, the heat of the afternoon sun hit Connor. It was intense, a dry heat, and dusty. And there was noise, the sound of a tired battle: the gunfire sporadic then rapid, the whizz of a bullet, the shattering explosion of a grenade. His spit dried in an instant as he crouched and ran after Molly.
The sandbag wall stretched out in front of him, soon on both sides as they entered shadow again and Molly’s boots kicked dust into his face as they ran on. His back began to scream in pain, the crouch unnatural. For a moment, the sandbags vanished, the sunlight now blinding, but just as Connor’s eyes adjusted, they were back into the gloom again. They ran past gun emplacements, dark entrances, and troops sitting in recesses. Sticks ran on, though, ignoring all until he turned into a gap, Molly soon following. Connor felt a hand reach out and grab him, pulling him in and down. He crouched, his back against another wall, Molly beside him. There was a wall opposite, one with a narrow horizontal slit. Clearly this was some kind of lookout point.
“That was the easy bit,” Sticks said. “Y’all want to catch a breath? Maybe have a smoke? Commander Croft can be quite the one fer followin’ orders, but he never said we had to get there quick.” He lit a smoke without waiting for an answer. “You won’t see much out of there,” he said, nodding at the slit. “Might get yer eye shot out, though. What’s it like in the mountain?”
Sticks offered his smokes around. Molly shook her head, but Connor took one. Lighting it, he realized his hands were shaking.
“You afraid?” Sticks asked.
“A little.”
“Me too. Gotta be a bit of a prick not to be. That Banks: he’s got a few deadeye snipers. Took a man’s head clean in the center, all execution style. But, man, we couldn’t even see from where. Mile. Two. Who knows?”
Connor took a deep breath of smoke. Now he’d realized he was shaking, the fear took over his whole body. He held the smoke in his lungs, hoping it would calm him. Glancing at Molly, he wished for her courage, for she was just sitting there, knees drawn in and staring down at the mud floor. “It’s not bad,” she said in answer to Sticks. “Better than out here. It’s safe inside the compound, or seems that way.” Her voice was distant, and Connor realized she was terrified, too.
“Not so safe,” said Sticks. “Can’t be safe. You can hide in a brick house and feel safe, but if there’s fire all around, t’ain’t no better than a wood one. Gotta come out sometime, Molly. Say, were you a gridder? What was it like being a gridder?”
“Everything was the same,” Molly said, her voice now faint. “I didn’t realize it before, but everything was always the same. The days were the same, the nights too. Shops, restaurants, walkways, all the bloody same. Black, gold; black gold. Fucking Free World gold. And now this.”
“That’s one thing ‘bout the army: always different. Do you know, the feds’ll take you anywhere in the world to get shot at.” Connor looked at Sticks. The young man was smiling. “End of the day, getting shot’s the same in any country.”
Molly looked at him as well. She appeared on the edge of sorrow, or maybe joy; it was as though she couldn’t decide. Her eyes were glazed with tears, but her lips had curved into a smile. “I’m sorry, but The Free World Bar And Grill did serve the best guacamole.”
Sticks scoffed. “That musta been nice.”
“It was.” She now looked up at him. “Where were you from?”
“Me? Boone County, ma’am. Boone County, Madison.”
“How long have you been in the army?”
Sticks threw his cigarette butt away. “Since I was ‘napped by ‘em. Twelve, thirteen, I dunno. Good thing, really.”
“Good thing?” Connor asked, drawn into the conversation.
“Nothin’ else to do. No lumber now, no mines, just a soldier farm, that’s all.”
“’Napped?” Molly asked.
Sticks sat up on his haunches, facing them both. “’Napped—kidnapped. I was told it was like the press gangs of old, but I’ve been told a load of things in my life and not all of them were right. Army come to my little town and ‘scripted all the kids—most older ‘n me—I snuck under the radar. ‘Napped, we call it.”
“But…what if you didn’t wanna go?” Connor said.
Sticks scoffed. “Don’t wanna don’t matter. ‘Sides, what else was I gonna do—be a farmer. No, sir, that ain’t fer me.” He shook his head. “Plus, someone had to protect you gridders.” He jumped up. “Then y’all gone done got yerselves killed. Funny that, all the gridders dead and the army still alive. Me, I find that odd—sort of the wrong way round.” He scratched his head, clearly forgetting his helmet was in the way. “Y’all about ready fer the next bit?”
Molly grunted, as did Connor. “Where next?” he asked.
“Next? More crouching, more running, more sandbags. ‘Bout the same again, then a sharp turn away from the mountain—fast, mind; downhill; don’t hesitate. You’ll be exposed for a few seconds. Ready?”
Connor nodded. Sticks brushed past him. Molly followed.
Gulping, Connor stooped low and ran after them. They followed the sandbag alley toward what looked like a dead end, but Sticks turned sharply and vanished from sight. Molly followed. When Connor turned in after them, he came to a set of descending wooden steps, lined like everywhere else with sandbags. He briefly wondered how long Croft and Charm had been planning for this, how long they’d been expecting the apocalypse. He jumped the last few steps, landing on a dried mud square, and banked off to one side, following on Molly’s heels.
They followed a maze of alleys which threaded along the mountainside, Connor shutting out every thought but that of keeping Molly in sight ahead—and keeping his head down; he made sure of that.
Sticks turned again, this time into a shaft of slanting light that lit the end of their path. Connor hesitated, the ground before him dropping sharply away down rough-hewn steps. Molly had already reached the bottom, now crouched within a D-shaped bunker. Sticks urged Connor down.
Over them, the other side of the valley was visible, mountains rearing proud like a rank of ogres. Sheer rock faces hemmed in the green of the redwoods, and in that moment, he knew he was vulnerable and became rooted to the spot. N
ow he could see them so clearly, those peaks, their serrated lines seemed familiar, as though he’d seen them before, as though he’d always known they were there.
Then Molly shouted his name, Sticks joining in with his own urgency. Connor shook his head and made to run down the steps, but the ground at his feet sprayed up in an arc before him, the sound of a bullet filling his ears. He tripped and then tumbled, rolling down the steps until he lay before the other two, on his back. Sticks grabbed him and dragged him up against the bunker’s wall, shaking his head.
“Man, you must be valuable,” he said. “Never known him waste a bullet before.”
“Who?” Connor asked, still dazed from the fall.
“Him…her…dunno. Their sniper.” And Sticks dropped back into a crouch. “Yer leg’s bleeding—bitta shrapnel, no doubt. Le’me take a look.” He pulled up Connor’s combats. “Just a nick.” Rifling in his pockets, he brought out a thin strip of cloth. “I use it as a bandana, but it’ll do fer you,” and he bound Connor’s leg. “Smoke?” he finally asked. “I don’t normally toke on one so frequent, but when you’re going forward, all the waiting confuses them.”
“How do you know?” Molly asked, but then looked disapprovingly at Connor. “You stupid bastard, why’d you wait?”
Sticks grinned at Connor. “You first.”
“Because of the mountains. I’ve not seen them so close, not since... It took me…”
“You been out of Black City before?” Sticks asked. “Didn’t think gridders ever left.”
“When I was young,” Connor muttered. “I can hardly remember it, but I lived in the mountains when I was young. Just seeing them again, so close, took my breath away.”
“Damn near took all of you away,” Molly said, but again, her gaze lingered on him.
Connor reached for his own smokes, offering one to Sticks, but Molly grabbed it first.
“I knew this was a bad idea, that’s why I volunteered to come. Someone’s got to keep an eye on you, Connor Clay.” She lit the cigarette and puffed on it.
Connor shuffled up next to her. “I’ll be more careful.”
“Next bit’s a bitch,” Sticks said. “Doubly so now.”
“Why?” Connor asked.
“Coz they know we’re on the move. They know there’s three of us. One, two, three. Now, for some reason he don’t want Connor dead—that or he got stung by a yellow jacket just as he was shootin’, but let’s say he missed on purpose. It means that when we break cover he’ll be aiming at point—and that’s me. Connor, you up fer going first? Going on point?”
“Where?”
“Out of here, straight along the slope. Thirty feet and you’ll see a stack of sandbags. Roll downhill from there and you’ll end up where you’re supposed to be. You just got in the practice so far.” Sticks took a tug on his smoke. “Way I see it, if he did get stung by one of them yellow jackets, then he won’t be doing no more shooting today. If not, then you’re precious.”
Connor wasn’t confident in Sticks’ logic, but nodded nonetheless. “I’ll do it,” he whispered.
“Then let’s finish our smokes and get on our way,” Sticks muttered, and got to his knees, then crouched and crawled forward to the edge of the bunker. Waving Connor to get ready, he poked his head out. “Now!” he shouted.
Connor took off, running for his life. The mud had turned to wiry scrub, his downhill foot slipping away as he scrambled forward, all the time waiting for the sniper’s bullet. Another battle erupted a little way up the valley, close enough for Connor’s heart to skip a beat. Gunfire and mortars echoed around, then the trees closed in on him on both sides and he felt safe, safe in their embrace, but then he began to stumble, stinging sweat dripping into his eyes. Through their glaze he saw the pile of sandbags and immediately dived to one side, rolling, falling, then dropping like a stone.
He smacked into something firm, bouncing against its slight give. He saw Molly falling toward him, her eyes wide open, her mouth even wider in a silent scream. He rolled to one side, wincing as he caught his foot in something. Molly slammed into the sandbags next to him and Sticks landed to one side.
“It’s easier when you’ve done it a few times,” he said, jumping up and hurrying past them onto a wooden walkway. “Welcome to observation point four,” he announced.
Connor stayed on his back, looking up at the bright blue sky hemmed in by a chimney of trees. He took a deep breath, aware that Molly lay by his side, breathing hard, clearly trying to calm herself. “Shoulda stayed and drunk tea with Tuttle,” she said, but then grunted a laugh. “Got his head screwed on, has the librarian. He’d never rush in to anything so foolish—that’s for sure.”
“What’s Kenny’s excuse?” Connor said, and he too grunted.
“What do you think we’re supposed to see? What’s so shocking?” and Molly rolled on to her side. “It looks like half a wooden cabin.”
Connor sat up. They were in a pit of sandbags, obviously designed as a landing pad. It was bordered on three sides by a wooden walkway carved into the tree-covered mountainside. A stockade reared up on the open downhill side, the ground at its center higher than its perimeter, the whole thing looking like the gable end of the cabin, to which Molly had likened it. Sticks now sat with his back to it, his legs dangling over the pit.
“That’s one way to do it,” he said, “faster, but mighty dangerous with a gun or two in your hand. So, as you can see, this place has its own natural camouflage. Redwoods from here to Morton Deep—that’s if there still is a Morton Deep. There were some mighty big explosions up that valley today. Commander Croft thinks that Banks has emptied the place and leveled it.”
Connor pulled himself up onto the ledge. Molly followed.
“Emptied the place?” he said.
“You’ll see,” Sticks said, and unclipped his water bottle. “That Banks: Croft was too kind to him. Man’s an animal, no more, no less. He was firing shit before he’d even worked out who we were.”
“When did he come?” Molly asked.
“Two…no, three days ago. Morning after the nukes. We were still hunkered down, looking at the flag. See, we had a flag to tell us if we were in the shit or not. Anyway, Deano: he was watching the flag when he sees the convoy coming. He…Deano, he thinks it’s the Russians already invading—dumb fuck—and fires off a warning shot. Croft almost kicks him sideways when he sees it’s the feds. ‘Course, none of the radios worked, so we couldn’t hail them, so Croft decides to go a-visiting. Banks shoots him up, kills a couple of ours, and we’ve been at it ever since.”
“So,” Molly said, “you don’t quite know what you’re fighting about?”
“Truth is: I don’t think so, I know so. That make sense? You know what I think we’re fighting about? I think we’re fighting for this bit of land,” and Sticks looked around. “I think we’re fighting for this ridge, this mountain, whatever you like. Just because it’s what it is,” he whispered.
“It’s what it is?”
He nodded. “Yeah, part of the old world, when it was like my grandma said it was, before The Free World. When it was free.” He smiled and looked at Molly. “Sounds like bollocks when I say it. Never was much good sayin’ what I mean.”
But Molly was nodding, as though his words had hit home with her.
“So, what are we going to see?”
Sticks shrugged. “The real reason we don’t need to talk to them.” He pushed himself up and walked over to the stockade. “Here,” and he took down a set of binoculars which hung from its fence beside a slit viewing point. “Sun’s right now, so you should be good.”
Connor and Molly joined him, where he was already looking out through the slit. He angled the binoculars then swept them in a small arc, eventually holding them still. “There,” he said, and passed the binoculars to Molly. She raised them to her eyes and he crouched beside her. “Now, look just under that rock face shaped like a heart. Follow it down—”
“What the fuck?” Molly gasped, and pr
esently passed the binoculars to Connor.
Connor shuffled into her place. The grey-and-yellow stained, heart-shaped rock was clear to see, down which he trained the binoculars, down into a V-shaped stand of conifers which clad the slope to the valley floor. Connor adjusted the binoculars, focusing in and out, not quite sure what he was seeing. “Is that a—”
“A stockade, as best we can describe it. Looks like it’s got a basic latrine and some sleeping quarters, but essentially they’re all corralled.”
A line of shipping containers made up the edge of what looked like Banks’ base. It reached along a service road behind, and was broken only by what was clearly an open prison, a wooden cage.
“So, they’re prisoners?” Connor could see maybe ten, fifteen people all milling around in a yard area. A man was shouting at a soldier as he marched past. The soldier stopped, approached the man, then butted him in the face with his gun. “What the…”
“It’s quite full at the minute—that’s why we think they’ve emptied Morton Deep. A busload left yesterday.”
“Where for?” Connor asked, giving the binoculars back to Molly.
“That we don’t know, but they’re ‘napping everyone. Croft thinks they’re being sold. Reckons knowledge is some form of currency now—knowledge and know-how.”
“Poor bastards,” Molly muttered.
“So,” Sticks said, “now you know why we can’t let them near your compound. Now you know why they’re camped out down there.”
“How much would a few hundred gridders be worth?” Molly whispered.
“’Specially if you all are the only ones left,” Sticks pointed out.
Connor slumped to the ground. “It’s worse than even Charm thought it was. Slaves,” he barely hissed above a whisper, “they want us for slaves.”
10
Zac’s Story
Strike time: plus 2 days
Location: The Road To Christmas
