All this time under the new alien paradigm had really shifted people’s perception of what it meant to be human and what society should and shouldn’t be. Sure, he had to be selfish at times to ensure his survival, but wherever possible, he sought ways to be inclusive.
It’s why he sent Ben to the farm. There was certainly no love lost between them and Gregor, but Charlie knew that Ben would find a way into their support and would be taken care of. There was no way he’d be able to cope on his own in this kind of environment. He needed a more clear-cut structure and someone strong to lead him.
Despite what Charlie thought of Gregor and his methods, he was certainly a strong leader and would take care of Ben at least long enough that they could get the inside info from him and free those poor bastards trapped on the farm.
Pip stopped and wagged her tail. Denver took a knee and held his hand up. The rest of the group stopped as Charlie walked slowly to kneel beside his son. “What’s up, Den?”
“A group of three, about forty feet away around a fire. One’s armed with a pistol. They’re just eating, chatting. They seem to have set up camp. There’s no obvious way around.”
Denver pointed to the artificial valley caused by two collapsed buildings to either side of the camp. The large, concrete mounds with sheer sides where the towers had fallen directly down meant they had no easy way around.
Going too far around would lead into the busy area of west Manhattan, putting them far out of their way and exposing them too much. Charlie took his monocular from the webbing on his backpack and took a closer look.
He hoped to recognize some of them. Since his time going back and forward to his old office, he had come to know some of the survivors. Most of them were with him in the caverns where many had lived out the ice age, but not this group. Two of them were young, post-ice age. Charlie didn’t recognize the older man.
Weighing up the odds, Charlie thought about going in with firearms and dealing with it quickly, but the two young ones, two girls, looked like they were suffering from malnutrition. The roasting meat smell came from a tiny, charred squirrel over a poorly made spit. These people weren’t surviving particularly well. That catch wouldn’t feed one person let alone three.
“What’s going on?” Ethan said as he clumsily sat by Charlie, knocking a pan from the side of his backpack. The metal vessel struck a rock, ringing out. The three survivors moved with unexpected swiftness to the source of the sound.
The older man raised his pistol and fired twice into the trees, directly at Charlie and the others. They ducked, but the bullets were already going high and wide, striking the thick trunks of the alien redwoods.
“You damned fool,” Charlie said, pushing Ethan away. Charlie shrugged the pack off his shoulders and grabbed his own firearm from the holster around his belt. “Stay down.”
Another two shots whipped through the trees, striking branches and leaves. He was getting closer. Denver raised the rifle and chambered a round. The three survivors were now just a few feet away from the tree line. They’d be instantly killed from that range.
“Wait,” Charlie said, this time speaking loudly so that he could address everyone, including these other three. “We’re human, friends; don’t shoot.” He touched Denver on the shoulder and whispered, “Hold your fire, son.”
“Show yourself,” the older man said, still aiming his pistol into the trees.
Charlie placed his pistol back into the holster, covering it with his jacket. He could still draw it quickly if he needed, having modified the holster so nothing obstructed the gun.
Maria gave him a concerned look. Ethan looked scared but in control. This was progress. They were getting used to life out of the harvester. “Wait here,” Charlie said, “and watch. Keep me covered if the shit hits the fan.”
With that, Charlie tapped Denver twice on the shoulder and stepped out with his arms up. The three survivors stepped back to give him room. The older man, his face craggy and white hair tied back in a ponytail, kept the weapon trained on him. He squinted his eyes, scrutinizing Charlie. “Who are you? What do you want?” he said, a noticeable shake making his weapon judder within his grip.
“We mean you no harm,” Charlie said. “We’re just passing through. If you let us, we’ll be gone right away. We don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
“Who are you?” He asked again.
“My name’s Charlie Jackson; I’m like you, a survivor.”
“They all say they’re like us, but then they always say something.” The old man looked to the young girls. Up close, Charlie could see the resemblance now; they were clearly his daughters, and he could just imagine what some of the other people would want with them. They both looked to the ground, unable to hold Charlie’s eye.
“How many of you are there?” The man asked.
“Three others beside me,” Charlie said. “I suggest you put that weapon down. There’s no reason for anyone to get hurt, is there? Listen, you don’t look well. Why don’t you let us go about our business, and I’ll leave you something to help.”
One of the young girls looked up then, her dirty face hiding a pretty personality. Her blonde hair was matted and covered with twigs and debris. They looked as though they’d been living in the ground, which made no real sense given the number of dwellings and buildings they could choose, but then he’d known people like this before, people who would refuse to go back into the cities and preferred to stay outside with nature. There was something comforting about being around trees, animals, and bugs.
It reminded people they were still on Earth. Day by day, things were getting more and more removed from the Earth they used to know, but it was slow enough that most people didn’t really notice, like a slow-growing cancer tumor.
“What’s your name?” Charlie asked the man, making sure he didn’t look at the girls for too long. He didn’t want to give the old guy any reason to shoot.
“Jan,” he said. “I used to work here before …well, before everything. They’ve left us to die out. They don’t care.”
“Who?”
“The croatoans. For a while, we thought they’d help us, take us to their colonies.”
“They’re not colonies,” Charlie said. “They’re farms. You don’t want to go there unless you have something you can offer them.”
Jan looked to his girls and back to Charlie. “I know. It’s why we stay out here. You said you could help?”
“We can if you put the weapon down.”
Jan hesitated for a moment before eventually lowering his gun. Charlie thought it was more likely through exhaustion than anything else. The old guy slumped to an old wooden crate he was using as a seat.
Charlie turned to the trees and beckoned the others out. Denver kept his rifle pointing to the ground so as not to spook them. Ethan and Maria came through carrying Charlie’s pack between them. From that pack, Charlie took three days’ worth of dried ration packs—foil-wrapped, just-add-water soups that he had recovered from the Army base. They’d last a century apparently.
In addition to the rations, he took out his supply of root contained within an old tin and cut off a third.
“Here, for your daughters.” Charlie handed him the root and the ration packs. “It’s not a lot, but they look like they need it. It’ll give them something to get them by for a while until you can find something more substantial.”
Tears welled up in Jan’s eyes as he took them. He bowed. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what to say … I …”
“Don’t say anything,” Charlie said. “Just have yourselves a meal and share the root. It’ll give you enough energy to move. Go north, upstate, away from the trouble.”
“What trouble?” Jan asked.
“The trouble I’m going to be giving to the alien scum. Trust me, go north.”
With that, Charlie motioned goodbye to them. The two girls smiled and thanked him with quiet, whispering voices.
They headed through the camp and came out ont
o a road that hadn’t quite succumbed to the encroaching forest.
Here, humanity, in the form of concrete and steel and glass, remained defiantly. Charlie navigated his way through the ghost town of Manhattan until he came to the Quaternary headquarters. Though the building was charred on the outside and pitted from various munitions, it remained standing.
But it wasn’t the upper floors he wanted.
He led his group through a pile of debris, a maze of corrugated metal doors and wooden obstructions, until a dark hole greeted him. At the end of the tunnel was a metal door with a heavy lock. He took a key from his pocket and opened it.
Bright white light flooded out.
“Go on, inside,” Charlie said, pushing the others inside while he watched behind him to make sure no one else was watching him. Once Ethan had gone through, Charlie followed inside, closing and locking the door behind him.
A basement room greeted him. Lights strung across the ceiling with looping wires illuminated the room. All around the wide-open space were desks, parts littering every surface. Wires and batteries, mechanical parts, anything and everything that could be salvaged.
Ethan and Maria turned around, taking it all in, their eyes wide with wonder.
A shadow came from behind a screen, then a bright red and blue sweater around a thickset man with a beard that reached to his chest.
“Charlie, Denver, strange new people! You made it. So great to see you.” The man opened his arms wide as he approached Charlie, embracing him with a bear hug. Releasing him but gripping his arms, the man smiled.
“Mike,” Charlie said.
“Charlie.”
“How’s the weapon coming along?”
“Huh! All business as usual. That can wait. Come the fuck in and grab some coffee first, eh? You’re not a damned savage, and you have shiny new people to introduce to me.”
Charlie smiled, enjoying his old colleague’s unflappable personality. But behind the joviality was a keen mind, the very mind that Charlie needed to bring down the croatoans. But before they got to that, he would do as he suggested. A cup of coffee was always welcomed before the destruction of an invading force.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ten years of cat and mouse would finally be ended in the next few hours. The thought of it made Gregor smile. He checked the working parts of his gun. There would be no mistake with Charlie Jackson if he were close to the shelter.
Ben had told him that Charlie planned to move to another location. He might still be there. So could his supplies.
Marek loaded six grenades into a small backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “Ready to do this?”
“Get three hover-bikes ready,” Gregor said. “I’m going to pay Igor a visit.”
Marek left the office. Ben shuffled after him.
Gregor slid a magazine into his pistol grip, put a round in the chamber, and followed. He left the other two heading for the square, turning by the side of his office and striding over to the moldy shed.
The moody morning sky would no doubt soon give the croatoans a treat. A shuttle approached. Its noise grew louder.
He looked through the cobwebbed window. Empty.
The shed gently shook as warm air blasted downwards.
Layla’s trailer door rattled open. Her head appeared around it. “What are you—?”
The descending shuttle, arriving for a morning supply collection, quickly drowned her out. It smoothly dropped toward the landing area, obscured by trees. Gregor pointed toward his ear, shrugged, and headed off to the square.
Marek and Ben were already waiting on two bikes. Igor stood next to them. He licked the edge of a cigarette paper and rolled it in his fingers.
“Still smoking that shit?” Gregor said.
“Morning, Gregor. How are you?”
Gregor grunted. “Shouldn’t you be helping Alex feed the livestock?”
Igor rubbed his hands together. “Just come to wave goodbye. I hear you’re hunting a wasp.”
Wave goodbye. Like Igor ever did that. His time was coming. Not here though. Too many croatoans around. He was priority number two today.
Gregor swung his leg over the hover-bike and tapped the alien on the shoulder. He turned to Igor. “Have a good day, my friend.”
“You too, my friend.”
Igor smiled and raised his hand as Gregor’s vehicle ascended. A horrible false smile. The type he’d seen Igor use when interrogating people with his knife. Igor’s modus operandi was strapping somebody to a chair and playing tic-tac-toe on their face. He’d gone lightly on Ben but left his unmistakable fingerprint.
As the bike lifted above the warehouses, hugging the farmed land, Gregor gazed at the distant, orange haze. Thoughts of Layla’s revelations spun through his mind.
He had too many moving parts to consider. Jackson, Igor, Augustus, the croatoans. Removing two of them would bring more clarity.
They zipped away from the farm. Alex stood by a tractor in the paddock, throwing food to the livestock. She looked up and they passed. Gregor saluted.
The plan was to land half a mile away from the shelter and move quickly along the riverbank. Zero tolerance against anything that shifted. The same policy applied to Ben if he was found to be lying.
Gregor glanced across to the two bikes flying next to his in formation. Marek looked across and returned a nod. Ben’s eyes were shut tight. He hunched behind the croatoan rider, turning his face against the rush of wind.
Ahead, the river came into view like a large brown snake winding through the overgrown land into the distance.
Rain started to fall, tinkling against the bike’s metal as it powered through the sky. A minute later, they reached the river, momentarily hovering above it before lowering onto a thick grass bank. A couple of birds took flight from the undergrowth.
Ben jumped off the back of his bike and unsteadily walked to a tree. He leaned against it and doubled over. A long trail of saliva hung from his mouth as he dry retched a couple of times.
A dead spotted redshank caught Gregor’s eye after he dismounted. He walked closer to inspect it. Its feathers were coated by a stringy paste. The river slowly flowed past like a large, foamy beer. He rubbed a greasy fern between his fingers. The change was becoming more rapid. Gregor just hadn’t been noticing the little things. Now they had his full attention.
The croatoans stood in a circle, tick-tocking away.
Marek patted him on the shoulder. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
***
Igor watched until all three specks disappeared into the distance. This was his chance to cement a place as number one in Augustus’s eyes. To raid Jackson’s den and bring back information, or better still, kill him. He’d do what the boss had failed to manage.
Gregor was past it. Ten years was long enough being in the tin-pot Armenian’s gang. It was time for Igor to run the show. Augustus had already verbally promised him the job; there’d been too many mistakes. Harvester damage, livestock escapes, and dead croatoans: It all added up, and it was time to pay.
Augustus had informed him yesterday that Gregor would be taken on a one-way trip to the forest. Left for animals to nibble on his stinking corpse. These things were best done in private.
Layla, Vlad, and Alex were still required and would all have to fall in line. The croatoans wouldn’t give a shit.
Igor waved toward the barracks. His croatoan rider exited the door and took its position on the hover-bike. He held a map forwards and pointed to a location. The alien punched in coordinates on its tablet before clicking it into place above the handlebars.
The bike drifted over the warehouses for a couple of minutes. They had to wait for the shuttle to take off. The brilliant blue craft shot into the sky. Its six pink rings glowed against the gray clouds before slipping through them, out of sight.
Below, the little surveyors left their barracks and headed to the chocolate factory. That would be the first thing Igor renamed. Gregor and his stupid nicknames. H
e should have had more respect for his masters.
They cruised over Gregor’s office. Much better than a shed. Soon, the whole place would be Igor’s. He hadn’t decided on whether to take Alex or Layla first.
He tapped the croatoan’s shoulder.
The alien jabbed its head to one side. He rolled his finger around, trying to signal an increase in pace. “Faster, faster.”
No response.
Sedately traveling over trees gave Igor a better view of their immediate surroundings. If he was going to be boss, it was a good chance to see potential looting spots. Overgrown buildings with trails leading from them or signs of smoke drifting out of the forest. Both signs of habitation.
After spotting two thin streams of smoke curling out of the trees, he looked back to the farm to orientate their positions. Only a few miles away. He’d treat survivors like the hag near the ambush site. They had no value unless young enough to process.
The bike lowered in a clearing not quite at the specified location but close enough. Igor recognized the vague, broken lines of a tennis court. Shrubs and weeds filled the cracks brought on from age and ice. Remains of a rotting net stretched across the middle, raised by bush. A rusty chain link fence surrounded the court, half-smothered in ivy. The bottom of it had mostly broken away and curled upwards. Only two sections remained in place.
Igor slipped a compass out of his pocket and checked his map against the tablet location. Just under a mile north.
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” Igor said.
The croatoan ignored him.
“Whatever,” he whispered to himself as he checked his watch.
He pulled up a section of the fence and ducked underneath. The forest was dark ahead. It suited his approach. Stealthily moving from tree to tree, keeping a close eye on his bearing, Igor made quick progress.
Critical Dawn Page 19
