Critical Dawn

by Darren Wearmouth

Come on, where are you?

  He considered going over there, but the alien had dropped the tube and regained its square-barreled rifle. It walked down the street, firing at Denver’s position, each round booming like a cannon as the sound reverberated around the remaining buildings.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Maria wave at him. His dad dragged her away. “Go,” his dad shouted. “Get out of there, Den. Don’t fight it, just run; go back through the forest’s edge.”

  Denver nodded and waved his hand to urge them to get out of there before the alien saw them. Another round flew just over his head, the heat scorching his crown. That got his heart pumping again and the adrenaline flowing.

  He fired back at the alien, making the beast stop in the street and kneel behind a burned-out taxi, its chassis mostly rust. Through the windows, Denver saw the alien attend to its gun, probably reloading. It was no more than twenty feet away now. Looking to his left, Denver spotted a narrow alley with a low wall at the end.

  Taking the opportunity, he dashed out of cover and dived into the alley. The expected explosion of the alien’s gun didn’t come. This didn’t make him feel any better. It made him feel like prey to an advanced and highly capable hunter.

  He sprinted down the alley, holding the rifle close to his chest. He clambered over the wall, slipping where the smooth vines had broken through. Hitting the ground hard on his side, he gritted his teeth until the initial pain in his side dissipated. He stood and continued to sprint, taking just a quick glance behind him. As he reached the end of the alley and made to turn right out into a street that looked like the carbon copy of the one he’d just come from, he caught sight of the alien’s long, agile legs.

  Holding the rifle with one hand now and using it like a relay baton, he sprinted down the length of the street, dodging in and out of cars, piles of rubble, and fallen buildings. Each time he passed an alley, he looked down it to assess his position. When he came to the fourth one, he ducked inside and made his way to the end, heading back to the first street, doubling back on himself.

  If the alien was tracking him, at least he’d be getting some distance and putting obstacles between them. When he came to the end of the alley, he saw the alien craft a few feet back down the street.

  Waiting for a moment with his back against what used to be a bank with its expensive marble wall covering, half of which was now charred with signs of war, Denver poked his head around the corner to look back down the alley. When he saw no signs of movement, he stepped out behind the alien’s ship, kneeling in its shadow. He looked out beneath its cone-shaped nose that was a few feet off the ground.

  The alien had returned to the shadow of the car. It appeared to be communicating with someone. Its sharp, turtle-like snout moved up and down in erratic movements. It was definitely croatoan but looked like some kind of genetically-enhanced version. Way bigger, stronger, faster. And certainly better equipped.

  While the alien’s attention was elsewhere, Denver crept around the front of the craft and walked up the ramp, stepping inside. The atmosphere made him choke as though it was filled with a noxious dry ice. He pulled his shirt over his mouth to help filter the air.

  The walls inside were white. To the left was the cockpit section with a single seat in front of a curved glass touch-surface. There was a discernible hum coming from the center of the craft. The whole thing was no more than about thirty feet long and ten wide.

  What caught Denver’s attention though was the cabin to the right. On two surfaces of the walls were racks holding what clearly looked like munitions. He reached out and touched a set of three disc-shaped items. They looked like mines. He lifted them off the rack and placed them in his backpack. Not wanting to spend any longer than necessary, he turned to leave, but something on the lower rack caught his attention: A rifle like the one the alien wielded.

  He looked at his own rifle, then the alien one. It was a tough choice. He’d owned his for years, but it was starting to show signs of wear and tear, and he was running out of ammo. He’d have to make some more, but right now, he needed something to fight this hunter.

  The alien rifle was longer by far, but the tubular barrel was vented and made of some extremely lightweight material. He placed his rifle on the rack and lifted the alien weapon. It felt good in his hands and weighed less than half of the old Remington.

  “Fuck yes,” Denver whispered. “You’re coming with me.”

  He took the alien rifle and the three black boxes next to it, which he assumed to be ammo. They too were extremely light and fit snugly into the webbing around his pack.

  Design-wise, the gun wasn’t a million miles away from human weaponry, but then he guessed that firing a projectile through a barrel only had so many designs. The stock was large, designed for the hunter’s torso, but it still fit snugly in the crook of Denver’s shoulder. The sights were electronic. A slider on the side adjusted the magnification.

  The gun had a button above the trigger. When Denver pressed it, the gun hummed, and a blue light flashed on the two-inch-square sight window, which seemed to be the weapon’s general feedback mechanism.

  Something within the rifle whirred, and the trigger moved forward a hair. A metallic click coming from the main body of the gun told him that it was loaded. The blue light faded away, and a green dot appeared in the middle of the screen.

  He ducked his head outside for a moment, confirmed the alien still had its back to the craft. Heading back inside, he had an idea.

  He followed the vibrations of the humming through the ship, going past the weapon’s rack into what he guessed was the engine compartment. A four-foot high cylinder stood within a vat of blue gel-like substance. A pink tinge came from the perimeter, reminding him of the pink circles on the underside of the shuttles.

  It must be the engine; there was nothing else in the ship. Not wanting this fuck-bag to have the luxury of transport, Denver took one of the mine-like devices from his pack and inspected it.

  Like all croatoan tech he’d come into contact with over the years, it was the pinnacle of simple, efficient design. If they were to design computers, they would have invented Apple machines, he thought, having seen them back at Mike’s basement.

  The mine had just a single mechanism. The same small screen as the rifle’s sights, upon which was a single icon. Denver placed the disc on the top of the cylinder. One had to experiment with these kinds of things if they were to understand what the damned aliens were capable of.

  His lungs were starting to protest about the poor air quality, and from outside, he heard the alien shooting his rifle again. When the rounds didn’t hit near the craft, he realized it must have spotted Maria and his dad.

  “Fuck it,” Denver said, pressing the icon on the mine. It flashed blue, then pink, then started to pulse. He turned and dashed down through the corridor of the ship, carrying the alien rifle with him.

  He stumbled out and rolled down the ramp before scrambling to his feet and sprinting for the alley. As he did, he shouted at the alien, who was leaning against the hood of the old car, his rifle supported out in front of him.

  “Hey, fucker, over here!”

  The alien turned his head and they locked eyes. Denver stopped just inside the alley and held out the alien’s own weapon. “Look what I found. You want it? Come get it?”

  As soon as Denver ducked back inside the dark coolness of the alley, the air took on a strange feel as though it suddenly filled with static. Then the explosion came, cutting short as the craft’s hull muffled the sound, but blue and black smoke billowed out of the open door.

  The alien roared, grabbed its weapon, and sprinted down the street toward Denver. But then it stopped halfway as Denver’s dad stepped out from behind a building and fired two shots at the back of the alien hunter. Both missed narrowly, striking the ground at its feet. It spun round and seemed to be undecided on what to do. Apparently it decided Charlie was more of a threat, and instead of firing its rifle, raced after him.

&nb
sp; “Dad, go!” Denver screamed.

  “Get to the warehouse,” his dad shouted back. “You have to get the part, you understand? Forget about us, the part is all that’s important.”

  And then he was off, darting into the shadows, his root-infused muscles not making it easy for the alien hunter. Denver was left there on his own, the alien craft destroyed, or at least temporarily broken, and the hunter on his dad’s trail. And of course there was Maria. Could he leave them? What if the hunter caught them? Despite his feelings, he knew his dad was right.

  The part would mean the bomb could be completed. It meant they could take out the croatoan mother ship for good. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the cool concrete of the old bank.

  Sacrificing yourself for the greater good was one thing, but having to sacrifice those you loved weighed much more heavily. But what could he do? Deciding that his dad had always proven himself to be right, and knowing the hunter wouldn’t have it all his own way, Denver decided to go for the warehouse. He just hoped his dad and Maria had a plan.

  He aimed the alien rifle into the sky and pulled the trigger. The gun barely kicked back as it fired with a loud but short crack, making his ears whistle. The motors inside whirred again. At least he knew how it worked. He’d come back for the hunter after he got the part. He just hoped he’d be back in time.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Two more figures stepped out of the gloom: a man with a shotgun and a woman with a large, rusty knife. As Layla’s eyes became accustomed to the light, she could see they’d been using this place as a home.

  A camping stove sat in the corner of the filthy, dank room. Next to it, a jumble of metal pans and plates. Supplies were moderately stacked against the wall. Some old cans, probably out of date; pitiful-looking vegetables, even more so than hers; and several large bottles of cloudy water. Clothing hung on a line near the ceiling. A drip of water fell from a frayed pair of cargo pants.

  Croatoan bikes distantly hummed outside.

  “They’re landing,” a voice called from above.

  “Who are you? Why did you come here?” the man in the hunting jacket said.

  Layla touched Gregor’s arm. She said, “We’re running from the creatures outside. These two were attacked this morning in the forest and killed three aliens.”

  “Seems a bit strange,” the woman said. “They don’t usually go after survivors. You’re from that farm, aren’t you?”

  “Fuck this,” Gregor said. “Do you want to stand around here chatting while they come in and blow our brains out? If your man upstairs can see them, let me join him. Give me a clear shot.”

  He held his rifle forward.

  “Listen to his accent. He’s from the farm,” the woman said.

  The man with the crossbow edged back, lowering it. “He’s right though. We’ll deal with this first. Then we talk. Are you armed?”

  Before Layla could answer, Gregor said, “Yes. They’re coming upstairs with me.”

  “This is the only way in,” the man with the shotgun said. “It’s a side building. Only one entrance to protect.”

  Gregor grunted. He grabbed Ben and pushed him forward.

  As much as she’d thought he was a cold bastard throughout the years, Layla couldn’t help admiring Gregor’s leadership qualities when the shit hit the fan. He was decisive and made decisions based on what was best for the team rather than himself.

  For the first time since she could remember, she felt part of something. Gregor risked himself to come back and save her. And now he didn’t want to leave her downstairs with strangers.

  Layla felt integrated like never before, following Gregor as he thumped up the dusty, concrete staircase in his heavy boots.

  Upstairs, a man crouched on the right hand side of the room, holding a pistol. He peered through a sliding hatch the size of a small pizza box created halfway up a boarded window. He squinted against the sunlight streaming through the gap, lighting up his face.

  “I saw you arrive,” he said. “Where did you learn to ride those things?”

  “I used to work in a harvest—” Ben said.

  “Shut up, Ben,” Gregor said. He joined the man by the hatch. “Can you see the aliens?”

  “They’ve landed and taken to the trees. Must be planning something.”

  “Let me look,” Gregor said and stooped down.

  The room above was the same size as the one below, about thirty square feet. Its three windows were covered by wooden boards, painted black. Light streamed in through cracks around the edges. Four single mattresses were spaced around, blankets scruffily drawn over each one.

  The floor was spattered with various-colored dry blobs of candle wax. It reminded Layla of a Jackson Pollock painting she’d seen at the Guggenheim Museum in New York. A can of Spam held more value in today’s world.

  “Use the other window,” the man said, nodding to his left.

  Layla gripped the edge of the other hatch and eased it open along its squeaking rails. A ray of sunlight burst through the gap.

  Across the grassy area seventy yards away, three hover-bikes sat by the edge of the forest. She briefly saw the edge of a croatoan behind a tree before it quickly vanished.

  Gregor nudged her out of the way. He dropped to one knee and aimed his rifle. “Get behind me. If I’m hit, take the rifle and carry on the fight.”

  Layla stood to one side. Ben peered over the man’s shoulder, revolver in his right hand.

  “What are the aliens packing?” the man said.

  “Similar to our conventional weapons. Guns, grenades, that sort of the stuff,” Gregor said.

  “No cannons or those guns that flatten small houses?”

  “Those soldiers aren’t around here,” Layla said.

  “Are you sure?” the man said. “I saw one of their fighters yesterday. First time in years. If the aliens get in touch with that thing …”

  “If it was coming for us, we’d know about it,” Gregor said.

  Layla wasn’t so sure. If the hunter was under Augustus’s command, he could give it a new mission. There was nothing stopping the croatoans outside from identifying their location.

  Gregor’s grip tensed around his rifle. Layla looked over his shoulder.

  An alien scuttled from behind a tree toward the hover-bike she’d previously parked. It stopped a few yards short, took a silver ball from its belt, and threw it.

  Gregor fired.

  The croatoan clutched its torso and slouched to one side. Its grenade exploded with a hollow pop, creating a cloud of white smoke.

  Gregor aimed at the shroud as it slowly cleared, drifting away on the gentle breeze. The blast shunted the bike onto its side. The alien lay flat on its back, helmet blown clear by the force of the explosion.

  “Nice shot. One down,” Layla said.

  She’d never expected to hear herself utter those words.

  “Two to go. And I can’t see them,” Gregor said. “Anyone else?”

  A loud thud shook the building. Layla instinctively ducked. Flecks of paint dropped from the ceiling.

  “What the hell was that?” Ben said.

  “Sounds like they’re next door,” the man said.

  “Joe. Get down here,” a voice called up the stairs.

  “Sorry guys. They want me downstairs,” the man said.

  He shrugged and hurried away.

  “We could make a run for the bikes,” Ben said.

  “It’d be a turkey shoot,” Gregor said. “We stay. Our hosts have offered to be the first line of defense.”

  The building shuddered again after another internal boom. Layla pressed herself against the wall. “What if the croatoans kill them? Use grenades in here?

  Gregor rubbed his chin and looked around the room. “Stack the mattresses in the corner. Do it.”

  Layla grabbed the edge of the closest and dragged it to the end of the room. Its filthy gray blanket slithered off. She kicked it away.

  Ben had already placed
one in the corner at an angle. Layla stacked hers against it. He slid a third mattress across the floor and said, “This won’t protect us. You saw what—”

  “Do you have any better suggestions?” Gregor said.

  After Layla completed the barricade, she returned to the gap in the left window. Ben paced around the room, mumbling to himself.

  The three hover-bikes still sat in position by the trees. Another cut through the sky, it must’ve been the fourth one, circling their position.

  Something moved outside, close to the building. Flicking in and out of Layla’s line of vision.

  She sprang on her toes, tried to get a better angle. The position of the hatch wouldn’t allow it. “I think they’re outside the door.”

  A shotgun blast and two pistol cracks came from directly below.

  Croatoan weapons started snapping.

  “Fuck this,” Gregor said. He slammed his shoulder against the boarded-up window. It crunched into the plywood, splitting it horizontally across the middle. Gregor kicked the bottom section away and leaned his rifle out.

  Ben jumped behind the barricade, holding his revolver over the top of the mattresses.

  An alien grenade exploded. Gregor flew back, skidding on his backside, clutching one side of his face. Smoke coiled through the window.

  Screams of pain came up the stairs, punctuated by the firing of croatoan weapons until both abruptly stopped.

  Layla ran over to the makeshift barricade and slid behind it, next to Ben.

  Gregor moved to the side of the stairway entrance and crouched with his rifle shouldered.

  He put his finger to his lips. The slap of boots on concrete started to echo up the stairs. Gregor nodded with every slow, deliberate step as if mentally counting. Blood trickled down the side of his face.

  Ben’s hands shook as he held the pistol forward.

  A croatoan boot appeared through the entrance.

  Gregor dropped to his back and fired five times. He rolled away and covered his ears. Layla ducked behind the mattress. She grabbed Ben’s shoulder and pulled him down.