He knelt down and listened. The buzzing of drones was everywhere like hornets on the attack. Then he understood. The bomb had been a dud. All it did was smoke, which meant that the communication controls had remained intact.
His legs fell out from underneath him. He sunk down upon the dead leaves his, entire gut aching as if someone had beat him with a club.
The kids. The smoke meant that the wives probably thought it was the explosion and had taken off across the field. If that was the case, then as of that moment they were running right through a minefield of drones, heavy with firepower.
Kilt jumped up and ran back the way he came, but then suddenly stopped and dove behind a bush. A drone flew right over his head just inches from the tree line, then another and another. The forest was turning into a war zone.
He sensed a break in the fly-by’s and began to run back to the tower. Then there was a roar and penny sized explosions erupted all around his feet. They were shooting at him from above. He dodged to the side and kept going, but the closer he got to the landing strip the louder the drones moaned. Suddenly he tripped, falling to the ground. Another cluster of bullets rained down in the exact spot where he would have been had he not fallen. The entire forest between him and the landing strip was drenched with lead—bullets raining down, breaking branches, piercing leaves. The place was a death trap. He turned and ran the opposite way, deeper into the woods, away from the tower.
His thoughts ran in time with his steps. What-do-I-do? What-do-I-do? But there was nothing. Except…
He ran into a miniature clearing, an area that was just a small gasp of breath among the choking trees. He stopped and held the grenade and pulled the pin and tossed it and bolted.
BOOOM!
He hadn’t expected such an explosion. It tore through the air with a ferocity that terrorized his eardrums and rattled his brain.
Kilt ran away from the flying shrapnel, trying to go northeast, but it was so damned hard with all the trees to tell which way he was going.
The buzzing hornets grew louder, moving in for the kill. The pop-pop-pop of their guns was just behind his ear. He didn’t dare look back, only ran and ran. He ran over the logs and through the gullies, his boots ripping away layers of leaves, dirt, mud, and bark chips, his legs digging into a hill, slick with musty compost, pumping his arms, then down the slope dropping into a gorge, and up the bank until it leveled off. He ran in the way a man only could when running for his life. Away from the tower, the bullets, from Senior, Jack, Joe, from murder, guilt, death he ran until his lungs gave out and he collapsed against a tree.
Then a great quiet struck him like a revelation, a reverse surprise. Now, there was only his breathing and the faint whirring of engines far in the distance. He pushed himself under the cover of a tree and waited and waited. He waited until nothing happened.
It worked. They—whoever “they” were—didn’t suspect him of heading back toward the Kradle.
He was home free, except he couldn’t keep going. Something was pulling him back to the tower. Kilt turned and studied at the arrangement of trees between him and the battle he left behind.
As his adrenaline tapered dry Kilt began shaking again. He was bone cold. So, so cold.
God damned those grenades! Fifty-fifty. Those were the odds of leaving the right bomb and he was unlucky. No, he thought, they’re unlucky.
He shouldn’t have thrown the grenade, although it created a diversion and made the drones chase him, he should have gone back and used it to help the others. Oh no you don’t. He chided himself. There’s only one shoulda, in the string of events here, but not going back isn’t one of them. You should have planted both bombs. I didn’t know one would be a dud. Which is why two bombs were needed. I know. I know. Christ do I know. You made them run through a minefield, and now, you have zero bombs to show for it. So, what did your selfishness buy you? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And what did it cost you?
He had to go back. The least he could do was go back and check on things, maybe there was some way he could help. He’d never know unless he tried.
Kilt was only able to take one step before he was knocked unconscious by a shell that he never heard blow, never saw coming, only felt it as though it exploded from inside his head.
***
By the time he awoke it was almost dark. The forest was thickly silent elevating the ringing in his ears from a nuisance into a drilling punishment. He sat up in a panic and squeezed his legs from top to bottom, then breathed a sigh of relief; everything was still in place, nothing missing. He twisted his achy body from left to right making sure his spine was still intact. There was a sticky smear of blood on his forehead but it was only a cut and didn’t feel deep or concerning. From what he could make out, he was still in one piece and uninjured.
Then what happened? An explosion strong enough to knock him out all day should have at least tore up something. And why were his eyes burning? And be-damned if he didn’t have the worst headache of his life. He rubbed his temples.
Feeling like he swallowed sawdust, he took a big swig of water. That’s when he noticed the black canister lying in a nest of leaves beside him. He nudged it shyly with the toe of his boot before picking it up. “Gas bomb,” he whispered. So that’s what happened. They peppered a fleet of gas bombs in the area and he had walked face first into one. The explosion had knocked him out and the gas kept him under.
He surveyed the forest, but there was nothing out there, quiet as birds at bedtime. Whoever they sent to look for him must have been long gone. Kilt exhaled deeply. He didn’t know how they missed him, but he was luckier than a leprechaun he wasn’t found.
He stood up. His legs had the consistency of water. Blood rushed to his head bringing up a fresh wave of pain. Alright, let’s try this again. He thought and took a timid step forward.
Kilt checked the fading sun, making sure he was headed southeast. The comm tower was likely crawling with Gov-Corp agents and there probably wasn’t much to see, but he still needed to check things out before he moved on. He couldn’t get the look in Joe’s eyes off his mind.
Every so often Kilt stopped and listened for any signs he wasn’t alone, but either there was nothing or the ringing in his ears was so loud he couldn’t hear it.
He needed to hurry. It was going to be dark and cold soon, and he still had to find a safe place to hide and build a fire, but he couldn’t leave without looking for them.
As he approached the landing strip he crouched and tried to lighten his steps, nearly impossible in his clunky boots. A few feet from the tree line he stopped and began crawling on his hands and knees. Like a frightened child, fearful of the shadows and hidden monsters, he scuttled to the bushes, paranoid by unseen spooks.
He peered over the bushes and observed the landing strip under the fading dusk light. The Predators were, again, lined up in military order, but now the runway was littered with bullet holes and burn marks. The hair on the back of Kilt’s neck rose. It was as if he were looking over a field of tombstones, knowing the dead were alive just hours earlier, hungry and hunting.
The tower was as dark and silent as a shop closed down for the day. Any evidence of the dud bomb was invisible from his distance.
Something caught his eye up the perimeter on his side of the field. Something white, peeking out from the dark woods.
He pushed his way through the tangle of growth for about twenty meters before stopping to listen. Nothing. Maybe it was safe now. Maybe no one was watching. He took off again and hid after a few more meters.
When the brush became too thick with vines, he grabbed the ivy, which was like knots in the hair of the forest and tore it down.
Finally he made it through and hurried the rest of the way with the bright white object in sight. Suddenly, it stuck him that he knew what it was. He knew what it was somewhere in the back of his mind he knew but rejected the idea. Because it couldn’t be real. The boy was with his mama and nothing bad could happen to a kid when he was
with his mama.
Laying just within the crust of the woods, in a cradle of autumn leaves, stained with burn marks and bullet holes: Jack’s little white bear shirt.
Kilt’s knees gave out like broken hinges and he collapsed to the ground. His body hung as if a stake were driven up his spine leaving him erect but with limp extremities. A thousand shoulda’s and if-only’s raced through his head, battering his senses, a violent interrogation.
He reached over to touch the shirt, his hand shaking, his stomach convulsing with the beginnings of sobs.
“Oh Jack,” he moaned.
He picked up the shirt, examining it like an artifact, and that’s exactly what it was, the last remaining evidence of a lost civilization. He pressed it to his tear soaked face.
There were fifty of them, living peacefully, but there was no room for peace in this vulgar world. Who would gun down a little boy? What harm did he do? What harm did any of them do?
But, Kilt thought, those robots don’t see it that way. They don’t see anybody, only targets.
Chapter 36
At dawn’s first light Kilt’s eyes flew open as if an alarm had sounded. Possibly, he hadn’t slept at all. He shivered in the wet chill of the morning while staring numbly at the cold ashes where his pathetic fire had died out at some point. He remembered stirring sometime in the night, opening his eyes in the cold pitch black, knowing that he was out of kindling and wondering how many minutes until he’d see the light of day.
He painstakingly sat up and rubbed the dew out of his beard. A nasty taste polluted his mouth.
However long he had slept—if he even had—it wasn’t nearly long enough to cure him. The day had just begun and already he wished it were over.
Pulling himself up, he began to gather more sticks. It would be better to wait another hour, he thought, when everything is dry. Except he was cold now.
He kicked through stacks of dead leaves until he found a handful of kindling. He brought it back to the piles of cold ash, but as he turned to go in search of larger logs, he suddenly fell to his knees, his breath turning to stone. The pain in his chest was excruciating. Was this…was this a heart attack? But then came the jerking sound of his breath and he realized he was sobbing.
All night the images of the scene around the landing strip tortured his mind. Jack’s little bear shirt, Senior’s bandana, a knife, a shoe. Deeper and deeper he had pushed into the woods, searching for evidence of the family. He did not expect to find any bodies—the GovCorps would have taken them. Or they are alive. But after he found the blood, pooled into a muddy puddle in the dirt, he gave up hope.
Every time he thought about that bear shirt he tried to convince himself of alternate scenarios—that Jack was with his mama and he probably survived. Maybe his shirt flew off while they were running. Maybe it tore and they left it behind. Maybe Penny took it off and threw it away because…because…
“Christ.” Kilt doubled over as if he’d been shot in the gut. He wished someone would. A bullet would be a mercy.
Last night after it got too late to keep up his search, he turned tail and ran. He ran as far and as long as he could. He passed right through where they had dropped the gas bombs and kept on going. He only stopped when it got so dark he couldn’t see, and smashed his shoulder into a tree. He fell to the ground, his arm throbbing, but managed to get up and clear a space to make a fire. By his estimate he was about four miles northeast of the landing strip.
All night long a voice had tormented him. He didn’t know where the voice came from. He had never heard such a sound. It was throaty, like a frog, but it hissed through his head like a chorus of serpents. The voice rummaged through his brain, turning over the hidden, painful memories like stones, shouting questions that Kilt struggled to answer: Why didn’t you go back when you didn’t hear the explosion? I was doing what I thought was best at the time. Best for who?
The truth was Kilt chose his own family over them. He chose to save his own neck. But it was for James! Does that matter to Joe? James is still alive. I am still alive. But not Jack.
Then Kilt found himself arguing back at the gremlin. Yeah well what about family? That’s a virtue isn’t it; watching out for your family? A family man. That’s what they call it. Hey look at him, he’s a family man, what a guy! Wasn’t I just doing what I was supposed to do? I was helping out someone else, repaying them for their kindness, but also hedging my bets to protect my own. There’s nothing wrong with that. In this twisted world a person could stand to watch out for their own neck. Forget about trying to change the world, make it a better place and all that tra-la-la fairytale crap. Forget about helping others. What did it all add up to? When it came right down to it, a man could spend his life building up his land, harvesting his crop and raking in his fortune, only to wake up one day and his land is stolen, his crop hauled away and his fortune drained, all at the hand of someone more powerful. God knows I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And there’s no amount of protest or good deeds that can stop it. So what’s the use of trying? But your family. That’s a man’s lifeline, his bloodline. It’s his heart, and a man only has one job in this lifetime, and that’s to make sure his heart keeps beating.
Then his head went silent, or so he thought, until the gremlin’s menacing voice surfaced: If they couldn’t make it, how can you?
Kilt folded over until he was laying on the ground in a loose fetal position. Maybe he was in shock. He no longer knew or cared if he was cold. The sun’s golden rays were slowly creeping across the ground, encroaching upon him until the bright light invaded his eyes, morphing in his tears. He squeezed them shut and focused on listening to the birds in their morning roll call, announcing their species. Blue jay, cardinal, mockingbird.
Then, the melodies were interrupted by rambling in the bushes. At first he thought he was half-dreaming but then there were a series of cracks from the breaking of larger branches. His eyes shot open.
He turned his head. Standing partway out of the trees was a dark figure the size of a large cow. Kilt squinted at the animal, its head lowered, aiming its massive horns. In spite of the situation, he was fascinated by the glowering beast which he looked like some sort of moose. It had the same muscular quality of a regular moose, yet its head was sleeker, less comical looking. Its antlers were smaller, which meant it was faster.
The monster extended its neck, lifted its head and belted a sound that erased all thoughts in Kilt’s mind.
AAAAOOOOOOOOOWW!
His heart started as if jolted by electric pads. The call was a cross between a bray and a howl and its message couldn’t have been clearer. Kilt was dead meat.
The moose creature lowered its head and stamped the ground.
“Easy boy,” he whispered evenly. Slowly he pushed himself up into the sitting position and scooted away. “Easy.” he dragged himself through the ashes, pulling a silver trail behind his rear.
The beast’s head bore down as if it were showing off its horns and then suddenly its eyes changed color, shifting from black to blood red.
Kilt’s stomach dropped. It was some sort of genetically modified lab moose.
The moose dug its front hoof into the ground and charged.
Kilt tried to spring to his feet but he was too slow. The moose was on him. At just the right moment, he rolled to the left, missing its jagged horn by an inch. If it had been a regular sized antler he would have been shishkabob.
He leapt up and took off, his feet stirring up the ash sending it into a grey cloud as high as his knees.
The moose tore into the ground and pivoted, facing Kilt with those damned red eyes. It dug a hoof into the ground and charged.
If Kilt jumped to the side too soon, the moose would instantly see it and adjust its head. He would have to wait until the very last sec…
“Aah!” He shouted as he jumped to the right, but this time, the moose was ready and at the last instant shifted, catching Kilt on the edge of his shoulder. “Shit!” His hand flew to his wound,
the warm wetness seeping down his fingers, but it was only a cut, deep but manageable.
This thing was smart. Too smart.
The moose skidded to a stop, circled its massive hips and rebounded. On the edge of its left horn there was a dab of red streaming down the mighty antler. He’s slower at turning than he is at charging. Kilt thought. Then he found his escape route: not twenty meters away, there was an oak tree with a sturdy, low hanging branch.
Kilt moved around in a circle, facing the beast. When he was only meters from the tree he stopped. He held his position and waited. The moose charged. Kilt stood his ground. As it closed in, Kilt faked left and then dove right.
He hadn’t realized he shut his eyes until he had to open them. The moose had missed. Without looking back he sprinted to the tree, and as smooth as he could, he grabbed the lowest branch and hauled himself up. The moose had turned and was coming after him. Kilt reached up and grabbed another branch hanging so perfectly within his reach he swore God himself had planted it there. He pulled himself on top putting him just a foot above the reach of antlers.
To his surprise the moose charged and drilled its head directly into the tree. “Woah!” He held on, the impact nearly shaking him off the branch.
The moose ran back, lowered its head, and hit it again.
“Geezus!” Kilt looked down at the blood pouring out of the poor bastard’s head.
It paced around the base of the tree once before trotting off several meters further this time. There was a murderous glow in its eye. Kilt pulled himself up higher.
The moose pawed the ground and lowered its head. That’s when Kilt recognized the other animal it had been cross-breed with in some screwed up Corp lab: a bull.
It charged. For a moment Kilt thought it surely wouldn’t ram into the trunk at full steam ahead.
Crack!
One of its horns broke off on impact, and was now barely attached at the root. A gutty looking red bud protruded at the base, matted with torn patches of hair. What was left of the horn dangled, bouncing against the side of its head, like a pinned hat, toppled over in the wind. Blood trailed behind its clottering hoofs and when it turned around blood was flooding down the animal’s face.
Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1) Page 21
