Gunz

by William Stacey

  Situated in downtown Ottawa, the Government Operations Centre—the GOC—was less than two blocks from Parliament Hill, taking up the entire floor of a government office building. Boasting state-of-the-art communications equipment and highly trained intelligence and technical support staff, the GOC was the Canadian government's twenty-four seven monitoring and reporting hub providing federal emergency response to critical incidents of national interest. On rare occasions, the GOC organized whole-of-government response management to national disasters, but most of the time, its staff watched forest fires and floods, while monitoring the terrorist threat level. The lighting, as always, was dimmed, with the command floor taken up by terminals staffed by analysts. Huge wall-mounted plasma screens displayed twenty-four seven national and international news channels.

  The senior watch officer, Paul Bernard, a former major in the Canadian Army's Intelligence Branch and a veteran of tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, sat back in his chair and sipped his Tim Horton's Double-double coffee, overseeing his staff as they monitored their computers or worked on daily reports. This morning was quiet, with no significant issues.

  Perfect, Paul thought. Quiet's good.

  Then the first call came in.

  Paul absentmindedly watched one of his analysts as she answered her phone and began to jot down notes. When her posture stiffened and he saw the sudden panic flash through her eyes, he knew it wasn't going to be a quiet morning after all.

  Another phone rang, then another.

  Shit!

  His own phone rang.

  "Government Operations Center," he said. "Senior Watch Officer." He began to jot down notes as the excited analyst from the British Columbia Provincial Watch Office tried to explain something to Paul, babbling incoherently. Three times, Paul had to interrupt him and ask him to repeat something, and the analyst eventually relayed what few details he did have on an apparent terrorist attack in British Columbia.

  Analysts rushed over to his desk, clutching notes, their faces white.

  "Got it," Paul said, hanging up. He stood up and looked about, raising his voice so everyone could hear him. "Set Condition Red. Institute emergency protocols. We've got what looks like a complex terrorist attack in Fort St. John, British Columbia. There are unverified reports of hundreds of civilian casualties. The provincial watch office is coordinating emergency response, but they've lost contact with the RCMP detachment in Fort St. John."

  An excited chorus of voices began asking questions all at the same time. Everyone knew Fort St. John had been the site of the basilisk attack a year earlier, but as the senior watch officer, Paul was the only person in the GOC who was "read-in" on Operation Rubicon and understood where the giant lizard had truly come from. Given the exact same location, there was no way this was just a terrorist attack.

  "Damn it!" Paul yelled over them. "Do your jobs! Get the prime minister's operations officer on the phone, give National Defence a heads-up, and make sure the RCMP liaison officer—where is Sandra?"

  "Here! I'm here," the RCMP liaison officer, a young woman in her thirties with her dark hair tied in a bun, called out from her desk, where she held a phone to her ear. "I'm on it already. The nearest RCMP detachment to Fort St. John is in Dawson Creek, and they're already responding."

  "Right, make sure everything gets passed to Sandra as well as me." He turned his attention back to his staff. "Be calm, and do what you were trained to do."

  "There's more!" someone yelled out from across the room, a young man standing with his hand on the secure red phone—the phone that connected to the White House. "NASA's reporting—wait." The young man began listening, nodding.

  "Reporting what, damn it?" Paul yelled.

  The young man paused, his face white. "Some form of global communications issues, something to do with unprecedented gamma-spiking—whatever that is. It might be part of the terrorist attack. There are reports of people in Arizona just … collapsing into comas."

  Someone blurted out something about a chemical attack. Paul stared in confusion, trying to make sense of the disparate details. "What the hell is gamma-spiking? Someone research it and get back to me."

  "It's not just the States!" another analyst yelled. "Same thing in Wales."

  "And Spain!" someone else screamed.

  "China and Russia as well."

  Shit, whatever this is, it's global. "All right, enough! Deal with Fort St. John first. That's our priority. Get the National Defence liaison in here, and let's get the prime minister briefed on what we do know. Until we know better, assume armed terrorist attack with chemical or nerve agents, but given where this is happening, be prepared for reports of … weird animals."

  The staff erupted, rushing about. Paul fell back into his chair and stared at one of the news monitors, where a live feed, clearly taken from a grainy mobile phone, showed a shaky image of a smoke-filled residential area and what looked like a … plane-sized winged creature flashing overhead. The banner at the bottom of the screen read "Monsters attack Fort St. John."

  "God help us," he whispered to himself. "It's happening again."

  PART II

  BATTLE OF TAYLOR BRIDGE

  12

  Elizabeth gasped for air, stumbling through the woods, the bug-out bag on her back and the rifle held across her chest, still driven by panic, a need to get away from the fires behind her and the monster that had murdered Clara.

  The sun was rising now, but there was so much smoke in the air, it was like running through fog—fog that tasted like soot. She tripped and fell, dropping the rifle and slamming her knee against a stone. She cried out as sharp pain ran up her leg. Sitting back, she wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them both against her chest as she rocked in place, tears running down her cheeks, moans spilling past her lips.

  Clara was dead.

  She and the others had been flash-incinerated in a torrent of blue fire, the heat of which had been staggering, even from a hundred feet away. Clara died saving her, getting her out of the base—a base that was also gone now.

  I'm alone.

  What do I do?

  Her heart pounded in her chest, her skin was drenched in sweat, and she was so thirsty, so very thirsty. Breathing hurt, and with each breath, she felt more lightheaded. She suddenly realized she had closed her eyes for a moment and had begun to drift off.

  "No!" She jerked upright then slapped her face as hard as she could, energizing herself with fresh pain. If I fall asleep here, I'll suffocate—or burn if the fire spreads. She picked up the rifle then slung it over her chest. "She died saving you, Elizabeth. Now get moving."

  She stumbled forward, walking toward the sun, or at least in the direction that seemed brightest in the smoke. It must have been the correct direction, because the air became easier to breathe, and she felt a cool breeze blow against her sweaty chest.

  SHE HEADED EAST, following the sunrise, considering her options. The dark elves were back. They had to be. And this time, they had sent a dragon—a real honest-to-God dragon. The battle had been entirely one-sided. None of the rifle or machine-gun fire had had any discernible effect on the monster. Even Clara's anti-tank missile had done nothing to it.

  That made no sense.

  Elizabeth was no soldier, but she was a superb student and had an aptitude for remembering details. Training with the Task Force Devil soldiers had involved both practical and classroom study, and Elizabeth had memorized the various weapons' specifications. Clara had hit the dragon with an M-72 LAW using a HEAT warhead, a high-explosive anti-tank missile capable of penetrating half a foot of steel plate. Yet the dragon had shrugged off the impact. Were its scales that strong, or was it just too large for even an anti-tank missile to kill it?

  If so, it was practically invulnerable.

  Could I have hurt it with magic, a lightning bolt, perhaps?

  Probably not.

  Elizabeth was gifted at channeling offensive magic. The task force soldiers had joked about how she was the ultimate "we
apons system." But while she could easily kill a man with a lightning bolt or break his body in two with telekinesis, there was just no way that she could have hurt something as large as the dragon. She had only killed the basilisk because she had been using Cassie's Brace.

  She froze, breathless, as an ice-cold wave of loss washed over her.

  Cassie!

  Is she even still alive?

  Is anyone?

  Once again, she felt her panic well, her heartbeat pounding in her skull. The woods seemed to spin around her, and she stumbled into a Douglas fir and used its trunk to hold herself up as she gasped for air. She was alone, and the closest help was in Fort St. John, but she was on the wrong side of the Peace River. I'm going to die out here in the wilderness, all alone. "Stop it, Elizabeth," she told herself. "You're freaking out again, panicking. If you don't calm down, you will die."

  They had learned about survival. Swamp Thing and the other task force soldiers had insisted upon it, just in case they ever got separated on a mission. Elizabeth focused on those lessons now. She'd never suspected she'd ever need them this close to home. "Take stock of your supplies, Elizabeth. Water and food first then shelter and safety." She removed her backpack and knelt to inspect its contents. If nothing else, the bug-out bag should have water.

  Undoing the straps that held the bag's top closed, she stared in confusion at what sat on top of the stuffed bag—an olive-green canvas bundle, with black lettering that read Grenades: M67 and M14.

  God help me, I've been walking about with a bundle of grenades on my back.

  She carefully lifted out the cloth bundle then softly placed it on the ground before unwrapping it to reveal the six green fragmentation grenades, each smaller than a baseball. The grenades were packed inside two slings so that she could more easily carry them. She moved the slings aside to reveal the other explosives—two grey soda-can-shaped canisters with red lettering identifying them as M14 Thermite Grenades.

  "Why put incendiary grenades in a bug-out bag?" she whispered to herself, feeling her terror of fire building again. Thermite grenades were filled with a chemical mixture of aluminum powder and oxide capable of burning at four thousand degrees Fahrenheit for minutes. Then she remembered how Cassie had told her that Alex and the others had used them to destroy the carcasses of the hellhounds they had hunted. She rewrapped the grenade bundle, feeling safer when she couldn't see the incendiary grenades anymore.

  Next, she removed two cloth slings, each holding five fully loaded plastic magazines of 5.56mm ammunition.

  Her thirst spiked when she saw the three full one-liter plastic water bottles. She popped the lid on one and drank deeply, letting the cold water cascade down her parched throat. She would have drunk all of it, but she was afraid she might throw it up, so she reluctantly put it aside as she unpacked the rest of the bag. She pulled out three large see-through plastic bags practically bursting with various supplies. She had no time to go through them, but she did see bandages and water purification tablets. Next out were three MREs—meals ready-to-eat, the army's version of boil-in-a-bag meals—as well as six energy bars. She put the MREs aside and ripped open one of the energy bars then quickly wolfed it down. There was clothing at the bottom, a bush cap and a lightweight long-sleeved army shirt. She removed her fragmentation vest with its heavy Kevlar plate and pulled the shirt over her sweaty T-shirt, shivering as she did. The shirt was too big for her, but she rolled up the sleeves and stuffed the shirttails into her pants. When she hung the floppy bush hat over her back from its cord, she saw that stuffed inside was a dark-green shemagh, an army scarf. She wrapped the scarf around her neck, using it to wipe her sweaty face, cleaning any soot from around her eyes. There were also several pairs of men's underwear and three pairs of thick wool socks. The soles of her feet, bare inside her boots, throbbed painfully. She undid her boots and pulled them off, noting she already had blood blisters forming; one on the bottom of her heel was as large as a Loony dollar coin.

  She closed her eyes and sighed. Perfect.

  If Cassie were here, she could heal Elizabeth's feet in a moment. Elizabeth sucked at healing, but she had to do something; she couldn't walk all the way to civilization with blistered feet. She drew in mana, carefully channeling it into healing waves then sending the waves washing over her feet. Her first few attempts did nothing more than make her skin itch, but eventually, the blood blisters dried up and began to harden, looking as though they were several days old. She smiled in surprise, tentatively touching the largest blister, noting it was no longer filled with fluid. The skin felt tender, but she could walk on it. That'll have to do, she thought as she pulled a pair of the socks on, amazed at the difference a thick layer of wool made. She tied her boots back on.

  Everything went back inside the bug-out bag but one of the slings of magazines, which she looped over her neck and shoulder. She then opened the bag's side pockets and found several flashlights; more socks and MREs; a compass—the kind that flipped open with a mirror on the inside lid; insect repellent—which she quickly sprayed over her face and neck; and several knives, including a multi-tool that she clipped to her belt. Also in a side pocket was a set of small binoculars, no larger than her fist, with a neck strap. There were candles and batteries for the flashlights as well.

  Then she found what she had been desperately hoping she'd find—a small radio handset. She grasped at it and flicked it on, feeling immense relief when she heard its static hiss. She pressed the transmit button. "Hello, hello, this is Elizabeth Chambers. Can anyone hear me? Is there anyone out there?"

  She heard only static hissing.

  "Hello, please, is there anyone listening?"

  The radio chirped, followed by static. Almost too quiet to make out over the hiss, she heard a woman's voice. Closing her eyes, Elizabeth concentrated on the voice. "Stand … highway and 86 … civilians … horses."

  She pressed the talk button. "Hello, hello, this is Elizabeth Chambers. I'm with Task Force Devil. Come in. I'm alone in the woods."

  When she listened again, the woman was still talking, but her voice was almost indecipherable now. The only words she made out before the woman's voice disappeared beneath the static were "God help us."

  She wanted to scream in frustration but slipped the radio into her pants pocket. "Please, Lord, no," she whispered. The transmission she had heard could have been coming from anywhere, but likely, it was coming from Fort St. John, the closest city and the same place her family lived. If the dragon attacked the city as well…

  No, she refused to consider that. Her family was safe. The city was safe.

  Not if the dark elves have attacked.

  She secured the small backpack, feeling paper crinkle within its flap. There was another compartment in the flap itself. She undid the zipper and pulled out a folded map covered in plastic coating—map-tack for writing on the map. And sure enough, buried in the back of the compartment were two permanent markers, blue and red. She slipped the blue one in her shirt pocket and opened up the map, recognizing the standard army one over fifty thousand grid terrain map displaying the local Peace River area.

  "Thank you, Lord," she whispered.

  She laid the map out on the ground, placing the compass on top of the north-south grid lines then rotating the map until the compass needle pointed to magnetic north. Scrutinizing the terrain, she found the dam where the base had been and ran her finger east over the Peace River, which had to be on her left, hidden by the forest. If she could find the river and follow it, she'd move northeast to civilization.

  But she'd need to get across the river somehow.

  The small town of Taylor was the closest settlement. There, she'd find the only bridge over the river for a hundred kilometers. There'd be help in Taylor. All she needed to do was call the authorities. By now, the Canadian army must know their secret base was attacked. They were probably trying to establish contact with the task force. From Taylor, she could beg a ride to Fort St. John and check on her family, make su
re they were okay. She did a quick map estimate. If she was where she thought she was, she had about a twenty-kilometer hike through the woods before she reached the Taylor Bridge. That was going to be a tough trek. It would take hours.

  She stared at her fragmentation vest on the ground. With its ballistic plate, it probably weighed twenty pounds. Her backpack and rifle would be heavy enough. Besides, the body armor was designed to protect against bullets and explosions, not dragon's breath and magic. She left the vest where it lay and hoisted the small backpack over her shoulders once again, pulling the straps tight so that most of the weight was distributed evenly. She picked up the rifle and drew back its action to see if it was ready for firing. It wasn't. The magazine was full, but the firing chamber was empty.

  Idiot, Elizabeth. Start thinking clearly, or you are going to die out here!

  She worked the action, chambering a round. Then she made sure she put the fire selector on safety. The map went into the collar of her shirt for ease of use, sitting next to the small binoculars around her neck. She slipped the compass's carrying loop over her wrist then took a quick bearing northeast.

  "What are you waiting for, Elizabeth? The Lord helps those who help themselves. Get moving."

  As the sun rose higher, taking some of the chill out of the air, she began to trudge through the forest, pushing through the clinging underbrush.

  13

  Tlathia sat cross-legged in the strange Old World forest, the backs of her hands resting upon her knees, her palms up, her eyes closed in meditation. Kargin waited nearby, silently watching her. Neither she nor the dwarf had ever seen such trees as these that towered over them. The strange smells were overwhelming: decomposing leaves, wildflowers, and tall stalks of grass—all was familiar yet exotic at the same time, like a dream given life.

  The Old World. Once our home.

  But no longer.