EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  The Kan fired his t-gun twice. Both darts hit Bodine, and the combined explosions blew him in half.

  Manning felt something warm splatter the back of his neck, heard the distinctive thump as a pair of enormous feet hit the ground, and spun to his right. The Kan was turning, too, only to the left, which made it a race. The first being to complete the turn, and acquire a target, would win.

  The security chief heard himself scream some sort of incoherent war cry as the shotgun came around, and he squeezed the trigger.

  Only half of the double-ought buck hit the Kan’s thorax, but that was enough to throw the warrior off-balance and send his darts wide. A man in buckskins took the projectiles in the back, staggered as they blew his spine out through his chest, and flopped facedown. Manning worked the Mossberg’s slide, felt more than heard the next shell slot itself in the chamber, and jerked the trigger.

  This load of lead was dead on. The slugs, each the size of a .38 pistol round, tore the left side of the warrior’s throat out. His head seemed to wobble, toppled over sideways, and his body followed it down.

  Now, ready to kill, and keep on killing, Manning jacked another shell into the weapon’s chamber and pulled a 360. But there was nothing to shoot at. Only half a dozen beings remained standing and all were human. They looked at each other as if surprised to discover that they were still alive.

  Another set of flares went off and threw a ghastly pall over the circle of crumpled bodies as Farley bent over a fallen Kan, jerked the bowie knife free from the alien’s chest, and returned it to its sheath. Then, turning to his troops, Farley did what so many leaders had done before him. He put his grief on hold, gathered the living, and led them away. “All right! Time to pull out! Or would you like to be here when the shelling begins?”

  As if to punctuate the ex-Ranger’s words, what sounded like a runaway freight train roared over their heads, something hit the center of the mostly emptied field, and a column of dirt mixed with abandoned belongings rose high into the air.

  The debris was still falling, still raining down, when the survivors started to run.

  In the meantime, off to the east, the mass exodus continued. The moment a group of slaves cleared the field and entered the tree line, they were divided into groups of twenty-five and led away. Sool and her companions were a good half mile into the woods, following an overgrown maintenance road, when the orbital bombardment began.

  She felt the earth jump beneath her feet, listened to the successive explosions, and thought about Manning. He’d been there, she’d felt it, somewhere in the fighting. But where was he now? Lying on his back? Dead eyes staring at the stars? Or running for his life? No, for her life, or what her life could eventually be were the insanity to end. The slaves walked for the better part of two hours before being ushered into a musty-smelling farmhouse and herded down into the basement.

  Food was waiting, along with makeshift bedrolls, and a half dozen smiling faces. A woman stepped forward. She had warm intelligent eyes, a buxom figure, and dark brown skin. “Hello! My name is Amanda Carter, and I’m a member of the resistance. Please allow me to welcome you home.”

  With the exception of those having darker-colored skin, most if not all of the newly escaped slaves had been abused by black overseers at one time or another, and some viewed Carter with open suspicion. The silence stretched thin.

  Sool took two steps forward, opened her arms, and met Carter’s gaze. “Hello, Amanda, my name is Seeko, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The two women embraced, the tension seemed to drain from the room, and both groups merged. Somebody handed Sool a piping hot mug of Campbell’s Bean and Bacon soup. She thanked them, found a place in a corner, and placed her back against the concrete wall.

  The soup was good, the mug was empty, and the doctor was asleep by the time Dixie found her ten minutes later. The nurse looked up at the man who stood at her side. He looked tired and blotchy with someone else’s blood. “She would want to see you . . . I’ll wake her up.”

  Manning shook his head. “No, she needs her sleep. We all do. If you don’t mind, I’ll just sit down and take a load off. We can talk when she wakes up.”

  Dixie said that would be fine and left to get some soup.

  Manning meant to wait for her, intended to remain awake, but soon started to fade.

  And that’s where Dixie found them, side by side, both dead to the world. The man and the woman . . . the doer and the thinker . . . the killer and the healer. You are one strange pair, the nurse thought to herself as she looked down on the couple, but these are strange times. We’re going to need both of you.

  Slowly, gently, Dixie pulled a blanket up around their shoulders, extinguished a nearby candle, and tiptoed away.

  5

  DEATH DAY MINUS 41

  SUNDAY, JUNE 21, 2020

  The tree of liberty grows only when watered by the blood of tyrants.

  —BERTRAND BARE’RE DE VIEUZAC

  Speech to the National Assembly, 1792

  NEAR THE RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

  The temple complex shimmered in the hot afternoon sun. Thousands upon thousands of slaves, along with contingents of Kan, Fon, and Ra ‘Na, lined both sides of the gently curving road. If any of them thought the situation unusual, or wondered about the oversize sedan chair, they gave no sign of it. There was the drone of insects, the momentary snap of an otherwise languid pennant, but little else was heard. Just the slap, slap, slap of slave feet, the rasp of their breathing, and the thump of Tog’s heart as it pushed blood into his head.

  Never one to spend time in close physical proximity to Saurons when he didn’t have to, the Dro would have been happy to catch a ride on a human-drawn cart, or even waddle up the road had that been a choice. Unfortunately, as part of what Ott-Mar no doubt considered to be an act of kindness, the Zin insisted that Tog ride atop one of the Fon. Like most of the clergy, Tog had been so honored before, but that was back in his younger days when his body had been more flexible, and a good deal lighter to boot.

  Much to the cleric’s embarrassment the Sauron functionary even mumbled something about “fat fur balls,” but not so loudly that Ott-Mar could hear. Then, with help from two human slaves, the paunchy prelate was loaded into the saddle and left to his own devices.

  Now, swaying like a ship at sea, Tog battled to maintain his seat and keep his lunch down. The single bright spot, and the Grand Vizier gave thanks for it, was the fact that owing to the ceremonial nature of the procession his none-too-happy mount was reduced to a slide-step shuffle and unable to bounce. The landscape lurched, the sun beat down, and there was little to do but endure.

  Roughly fifteen units forward of the point where Tog bobbed and swayed, Hak-Bin looked out through gauzy curtains and held communion with his nymph. “Can you feel them, little one? Trying to find you with their eyes? Conscious of the gulf that separates you from them and wondering why? Yes, I know you can. Well, your turn will come soon enough. But first, so I can ensure your safety, certain precautions must be taken.

  “Yes, that means a delay, but a relatively brief one. You are early, after all, very early, and that is part of the problem.”

  The ensuing movement, followed by a moment of exquisite pain, left no doubt as to the nymph’s lack of sympathy. The next member of the line wanted to be born sooner rather than later.

  Hak-Bin bit down on a corner of fabric, waited for the pain to subside, and reacted as he would to any surly subordinate. “You’ll pay for that . . . My life continues. The power you hunger for is my power . . . and will continue to be my power for forty-one more days.”

  The unborn Sauron didn’t like that, not one little bit, and did its best to punish its progenitor. But Hak-Bin had been injured many times during his long life, had withstood “the cleansing by pain,” and knew that he could take it.

  The procession had arrived at the edge of the moat by that time, and those who watched the heavily curtained sedan chair pass could not possibl
y have imagined the battle of wills that raged within. Most, to the extent that slaves considered such matters, imagined that a Zin lolled within, his body supported by a mountain of cushions, eating the Sauron equivalent of grapes. Would they have felt even a shred of sympathy had they known the truth? No, Hak-Bin supposed, probably not. But they should have.

  Feet thumped on raw wood as the slaves carried their burden into the temple, the sedan chair shook as Hak-Bin locked his pincers onto the interior framework, and Dr. Maria Sanchez-Jones watched from the hill high above. What the hell were the Saurons up to anyway? The sedan chair vanished, the door closed behind it, and there was no way to know.

  SALMON NATIONAL FOREST, IDAHO

  With the exception of the scouts out in the forest, and the Hammer Skins assigned to guard Racehome’s perimeter, everyone else listened as Raymond Dent, self-styled “Lion of the Airwaves,” returned to the air.

  Everyone who was anyone, and that included both Jonathan and Ella Ivory, were crammed into the underground studio as a self-important assistant delivered the cue, and Dent, still recumbent on his flower-strewn stretcher, started to speak. The radio personality had a wonderful voice, even Ivory was forced to admit that, and a delivery to match. Every word he said sounded as though it came straight from Yahweh’s mouth. “Good evening, this is Raymond Dent, the Lion of the Airwaves, speaking to you from a secret location hidden somewhere in the western part of what used to be the United States of America. But that nation perished, my friends, eaten from within by the Zionist Occupational Government, soiled by the pre-Adamite muds, and burned by the Saurons.

  “Now, even as the days grow dark, a new nation is born. A Christian nation, an Aryan nation, a new Israel. No, you cannot come here, not yet. Satan’s children, the sons of Belial, are too strong for that. But what you can do is prepare your mind, body, and spirit for the glory ahead. A time when Amerika will be pure again. When the white race will live free of miscegenation, when no trace of mosque or synagogue can be found on our fair land, when our culture, the white culture, will rise like a tower of hope and bathe the land in its light. Until then you must remain where you are, grow strong, and prepare for the final cleansing.

  “Look to those around you, even to those with whom you sleep, or to those who manifest themselves as children. Are they pure? Or are they servants of the beast? Waiting to pull the new society down?

  “Every garden has weeds my friends—and every gardener must be vigilant. If you are a Soldier of God, a true Aryan warrior, you will understand my meaning.

  “Now, even as Satan’s beasts become aware of this broadcast, and start the search for our transmitter, the final battle begins. Tell others what you heard, and monitor this frequency, especially between 9:00 P.M. and 3:00 A.M.

  “May Yahweh bless and protect you . . . This is Raymond Dent, the Lion of the Airwaves, signing off.”

  A switch was thrown, the onlookers started to applaud, and the self-important assistant thumbed a stopwatch. “One minute and fifty seconds,” he said proudly, “which puts us well under the two-minute mark.”

  Like everyone else in the room Ivory knew Dent and his followers were trying to keep each broadcast under two minutes in hopes that doing so would extend the period of time before their haphazard network of transmitters were located and destroyed. By sending the signal through what remained of the telephone network, and routing it to transmitters located hundreds of miles away, the Dent heads believed they could insulate Racehome from the possibility of Sauron retribution.

  Nice in theory, but hard to believe, especially given the level of technology that the aliens possessed. But, except for Ivory, the only person in the community actually to live under the whip, the Saurons were something of an abstraction. As with tuberculosis, they knew about the disease, understood how dangerous it could be, but didn’t believe that such a thing would ever happen to them. The reality of that caused Ivory to be depressed rather than elated. Ella squeezed his arm. “So, will you do it?”

  “Do what?” Ivory asked, wondering what he had missed.

  “Why, the interview of course,” his wife answered easily, “what else?”

  Ivory realized that the room had grown quiet, that all eyes were on him, and that a trap had been sprung. His opposition to the radio show was fairly well known—but most of the community thought the broadcasts were a good idea. By inviting Ivory to take part in the program, Dent was forcing the military leader publicly to oppose the show, and thereby isolate himself, or participate, and thereby add to its legitimacy. The racialist forced a smile. “An interview? Of course . . . Nothing would give me more pleasure.”

  There were cheers, renewed clapping, and high fives all around.

  Dent, who was more than satisfied with the evening’s work, fell back against the pillows. The wink was directed at Ella . . . and the smirk was for Ivory. “I won,” it seemed to say, “and you lost.”

  Ivory discovered that his hand had somehow drifted to the butt of the .9mm handgun holstered at his side. He ordered it to fall, summoned a stare, and aimed it at Dent. Eyes locked, wills clashed, and events were set into motion.

  HELL HILL

  The temple was all but complete by then, its secrets safe within thick limestone walls, its towers thrusting brazenly toward the morning sky. Manning, who still had difficulty walking after the return journey on the back of a horse, turned his back to the complex and looked out over the area below.

  Like everything else about the Sauron complex, the semicircular plaza and the spire that marked its center was huge. But then it would have to be in order to accommodate a million Saurons. Even if they were packed into tiny cells. That being the case there was more than sufficient room for the roughly one thousand slaves expected to attend Franklin’s speech. Not just any speech, but the first speech in which the politician would openly advocate rebellion, and therefore the last speech on behalf of the Saurons.

  Now, as the whips cracked, and the pathetic remainder of the once-burgeoning slave population was herded up toward the top of the hill, Manning considered the task before him. Protect the Big Dog even as he committed the equivalent of suicide, get him off the hill before the Saurons could react, and pull a world-class fade. No small task on a peninsula swarming with Kan. Manning sensed movement at his elbow and turned to find Franklin at his side. “Sir, I really must . . .”

  “Don’t lecture me on risks,” Franklin said goodnaturedly, “not after the I-5 raid. Who led that attack by the way? It wasn’t me.”

  “I didn’t lead it,” Manning replied. “I only took part in it, after you gave permission.”

  “And it’s a good thing I did,” Franklin said dryly, “since you would have gone ahead regardless of what I said.”

  “Not true,” the security chief said sheepishly, “not after Seeko said ‘no.’ ”

  Franklin laughed. “You’re a lucky man, Jack. Take good care of her . . . Women like that don’t come along every day.”

  The comment caused both men to think about Jina, which neither of them wanted to do. Manning placed his body between the president and the plaza. “Please leave the platform, sir. I’ll call you when things are ready.”

  The politician took one last look around, made a face, and complied. Kell, along with Alaweed, hustled the chief executive away. Though vulnerable to any number of things, the black SUV was a safer place to wait.

  With Franklin under wraps, Manning could turn his attention back to the task at hand. A well-conceived security zone should resemble a well-set table, having a place for everything and everything in its place. A quick check confirmed that Wimba, Dylan, Lu, and Amocar were all where they should be. Wait a minute . . . Amocar? On duty? And actually doing his job? Now, that was unusual . . .

  But wait a minute—somebody was missing. Manning pulled a piece of graph paper out of the inside pocket of his jacket and checked to ensure that he was correct. The security chief swore under his breath. The plan called for an operative to be posted on th
e north side of plaza. That particular slot had been assigned to Jill Ji-Hoon, and the agent was nowhere to be seen.

  Though not gifted with physical beauty, or a lightning-fast intellect, Amocar had one quality that set him apart. He was lucky. Call it ESP, intuition, or a sixth sense but whatever it was often served to warn him when danger threatened. Amocar felt a featherlike touch, looked up toward the platform, and half expected to meet Manning’s gaze. But the security chief was turned to the right and looking off toward the north side of the plaza.

  Amocar followed the other man’s gaze, saw the gap in the line, and felt ice water enter his veins. The rotten, dirty, filthy bitch was gone! There was only one possibility . . . Somehow, some way, Ji-Hoon knew about the hit! More than that, she was on her way to stop it!

  Manning turned to his left, started to speak into the voice-activated boom microphone, and stopped. Amocar had disappeared.

  Meanwhile, not far away, preparations were under way. Farkas had been a cop. Not an especially good one, but a cop nonetheless, which was how he came to know a state trooper named Horsky. The same Horsky who worked as a slaver. Now, having been seconded to Amocar, and given what he considered a plum assignment, Farkas was in an extremely good mood.

  For reasons known only to the Saurons, the ceremonial horns that groaned with such monotonous regularity nearly always did so from inside an enclosure called a kak. The kak consisted of colorful fabric stretched over metal frames, which were connected together via simple pin-style fasteners to create a four-foot-by-twelve-foot room. Or, as Farkas thought of it, a hide similar to the ones his uncles used for duck hunting.

  Yes, the fact that three Fon were inside with him, blowing bass notes through huge tripod-mounted animal horns was a bit distracting, but every job has its downside. Kind of like being the only cop in Guthrie, Washington. Did the aliens approve? Disapprove? There was no way to tell as the horns groaned and Farkas went about his business.