Earth Alone (Earthrise Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  "No bullets, ma'am?" Addy said, gasping.

  "Maybe we can feed them Spam sandwiches and they'll choke to death," Elvis offered, earning a laugh from his friends, forty push-ups, and an hour scrubbing pots that night.

  Ensign Ben-Ari approached a wooden crate and cracked it open. Bayonets gleamed inside.

  "Fuck yeah!" Addy said. "Brutal. Now these are weapons."

  Marco frowned at her. "We fired assault rifles and tossed grenades, and you're impressed by knives?"

  Addy nodded. "Anyone can pull a trigger or toss a bomb. It takes balls to fight an alien up close with a sharp piece of steel."

  "Not steel, soldier," said Ensign Ben-Ari, stepping closer. "Steel would shatter against the scum exoskeletons. These bayonets are made from a diamond-iridium composite with a coating of graphene, developed by HDF scientists. These blades can saw through a tank—and they'll cut the scum here." She lifted a bayonet and tapped one of the towering exoskeletons. "See where their segments meet? That's where their armor is weakest. That's where you fire bullets, and that's where you stab them. That is if you can avoid their claws." The ensign slapped the exoskeleton, and it spun on a hidden axis, claws whirring.

  "Ensign, ma'am," said Elvis, looking queasy, "why approach the scum? Our guns can hit them from a kilometer away."

  Ensign Ben-Ari stepped toward the recruit, removed her shades, and stared into his eyes. "How many bullets are in a magazine, recruit?"

  "Sixty, ma'am."

  "And how many magazines do you carry?"

  "Six, ma'am."

  "According to HDF statistics, two hundred thousand bullets are fired for every dead scum. How many scum can you kill with your bullets?"

  Elvis thought for a moment, counting on his fingers. "Two hundred thousand per dead scum . . . sixty bullets per soldier . . . carry the one . . ." He scrunched his lips, then sighed. "Not many, ma'am."

  Ensign Ben-Ari nodded and turned toward the rest of the recruits. "In battle you'll run out of bullets. Sometimes your gun will jam. Sometimes a scum will leap onto you in close quarters—among trees, inside a building, inside a scum hive—and you'll be too close to even load, aim, and fire. Sometimes your bayonet will be the difference between a dead scum and you in the belly of one." She turned toward Corporal Diaz. "Corporal, care to demonstrate?"

  "My pleasure, ma'am," said the corporal, smiling thinly. He lifted a bayonet from the crate, snapped it onto his T57 assault rifle, then charged with a howl. Dust flew under his boots. Ensign Ben-Ari hit the exoskeleton again, spinning it madly on its axis. Corporal Diaz swung his weapon sideways, catching a claw's blow on his gun's stock. More claws lashed. Diaz swung his gun the other way, blocking the claws on his barrel.

  He pulled his gun back. With a roar, he shoved the muzzle forward.

  The bayonet hit the centipede between two segments. The exoskeleton cracked. The blade sank all the way down. The scum stopped flailing.

  Diaz pulled his gun free, then thrust it again, shouting wordlessly. The bayonet slashed between two other segments, cutting deep. A third blow sliced off a claw, and a fourth finished the job. The top half of the centipede, large as a man, cracked off and thumped onto the sand.

  "Dead scum," Corporal Diaz said.

  "It was already dead," Addy whispered to Marco, then fell silent when Ben-Ari's eyes flicked toward her.

  "Linden!" Ben-Ari barked. "You seem to think this was easy. Step up and grab a bayonet." The officer pointed at a second scum exoskeleton. "You're next."

  "Gladly, ma'am," Addy said. "Just like beating up hockey players back home."

  She snapped a bayonet onto her gun, roared, and charged toward the scum.

  Ensign Ben-Ari hit the exoskeleton and stepped back. The massive centipede spun on a hidden axis, claws lashing.

  Addy reached the alien and thrust her bayonet. A flailing claw caught the barrel of her gun, knocking it aside. The stock rose to hit Addy's chin, knocking her head back. The claws spun again, driving into her side.

  "Addy!" Marco cried, leaping forward.

  Corporal Diaz grabbed him. "The claws are dulled, soldier. Stay where you are."

  Addy fell into the sand, lip bloody. Indeed the claws had not cut her—but they'd leave ugly bruises the next day. Addy struggled to her feet, cursing and grumbling.

  "Real scum don't move like that, Commander," she said to Ben-Ari.

  The lieutenant nodded. "Real scum are three times as fast, and they're racing all around you as they lash their claws." Ben-Ari pointed at another recruit. "You, Dickerson. Go."

  Nick "Dicky" Dickerson, one of the burly brutes who followed Pinky, grunted and grabbed a bayonet. He too charged at the scum. He too fell into the sand, bleeding from his temple and elbow.

  One by one, the recruits charged toward the exoskeleton, lashing their bayonets. Beast was nonchalant as he slammed at the creature, managing to cut off one claw, but finally the remaining claws knocked down even the mighty Russian. Lailani screamed as she charged, landing furious blows, and it looked like she would slice the scum in two, but a low claw finally hit her legs, and the little soldier rolled.

  "One dead varmint coming right up," drawled the lanky Sheriff, grinning toothily. They called him Sheriff partly because he was from Texas, mostly due to the sheriff's star he had drawn onto his helmet with permanent marker. Defacing military property had earned him kitchen duty all week, but they let him keep the helmet. "Just like rustling cattle back home."

  Hooting and hollering, Sheriff raced toward the scum, suffering a blow to his jaw so bad it knocked out two teeth. Corporal Webb had to accompany the Texan to the infirmary across the base.

  Pinky stepped up next. He passed a hand through his hair, spat, scratched his balls, and grabbed a bayonet. With a hoarse scream, he charged.

  The exoskeleton spun.

  Screeching, Pinky leaped into the air and swung his T57. The stock slammed between two claws, halting the creature's spin. Pinky slashed the gun the other way, driving the bayonet between two segments. The exoskeleton cracked. Laughing and cursing, Pinky pulled the gun back, leaped into the air, and drove the bayonet into the crack. He kicked against the claws, twisting the gun, and leaped back.

  The exoskeleton cracked in two, exposing hollow innards. Another blow sent the top half falling.

  "Fuck yeah!" Pinky said, strutting like a rooster. "That's how it's done!"

  The recruits whistled, applauded, and patted Pinky on his back. All but Marco and his friends. They stared, sullen.

  "Lucky bastard," Addy said. "We softened it up for him."

  Elvis nodded, rubbing his side where the dulled claws had struck him. "We added a thousand little cracks. He just needed to give the last one."

  "Emery!" said Ensign Ben-Ari. "You're up." She pointed at the third and last scum.

  Marco gulped. This was a fresh exoskeleton, no cracks or crevices on it. He wouldn't have Pinky's advantage, and he certainly lacked Corporal Diaz's battle experience. Marco approached the crate and pulled out the final bayonet. The graphene blade was black and glimmering like obsidian. Marco almost felt like a character in some fantasy novel, given a magical blade to slay the mythical ice-zombies.

  Maybe I should write that kind of book instead of Loggerhead, he thought, attaching the bayonet to his assault rifle. He stepped toward the scum.

  "Kick its ass!" Addy shouted.

  "It doesn't have an ass!" he called back at her.

  "Carve out its heart!" Lailani cried.

  Marco wasn't sure scum had hearts either, but he'd take whatever encouragement he could get. Unlike his comrades, he didn't charge toward the exoskeleton but approached slowly, weapon raised. Ensign Ben-Ari slapped the scum, and it began to spin, claws lashing.

  Those claws were as long as his gun. To cut the creature, Marco would have to step into their range. He stepped closer, then leaped back as the claws lashed. Pinky, Dickerson, and a few others scoffed behind him. Marco tightened his lips.

  Careful, he thought. Don't
charge like a brute. Slowly.

  He approached again, thrusting his weapon.

  A claw hit the barrel, nearly yanking the gun from his hand. If not for the rifle's strap, it would have flown from his grip. He stepped back again.

  "It doesn't have an ass!" Pinky said behind him, speaking in mock falsetto, and laughed hoarsely.

  Marco tried to ignore the goading, the mocking laughter of the other recruits. He narrowed his eyes, staring at the scum. Its claws were still swiping from side to side like a boxer's swinging fists. Suddenly Marco no longer stood in the African desert. Suddenly he was back in the snow, in the frozen streets of Toronto, and the scum was scuttling toward him, killing his mother, eating her corpse, killing Addy's parents, and Marco screamed and lashed his gun forward with all his strength.

  The bayonet slammed between two segments so powerfully it crashed through them, and the barrel of the gun followed, sinking deep, halting only at the handguard. Claws slammed into Marco's side with the might of swinging hammers, cracking against his ribs, and he screamed in pain but wouldn't release his gun. He pressed his boots against the scum and yanked mightily, ripping the bayonet out, tearing through more of the exoskeleton. A claw slammed into his helmet, ringing his head like a bell.

  Marco fell back onto the sand.

  Before him, the scum cracked in two. Marco rolled aside, and segments of hard exoskeleton and claws fell, piercing the sand inches away.

  For a moment Marco lay in silence. Nobody was laughing now.

  He stood up and stared down at the torn scum. He kicked sand onto it.

  Finally Pinky broke the silence with a snort. "Big deal. It was already dead."

  "So was yours," Addy said, earning a glare from the little soldier.

  That night at the mess hall, Marco earned pats on the back from his comrades—aside from Pinky and his gang. Beast even offered to let Marco borrow his photo of Oxana—or was it Ludmila?—just for the night, to keep him company during his guard duty. Marco politely declined, but he did accept Sheriff's dessert. It was more wet sponge than cake, but Marco was grateful for any sustenance. After only a few days in the military, he was already down a notch in his belt.

  "Well, we're all expert scum killers now," Addy said as they ate. "I'm ready to win the war."

  Elvis made his best war face and stabbed his Spam. "Pow! I'm Marco Emery, scum killer!" He bit into the meat. "Tastes like chicken."

  That night, as Marco lay on his cot in his squad's tent, he felt somebody watching him, and he turned to see Lailani looking at him. She quickly closed her eyes and rolled away, and Marco spent a moment looking at the back of her head, at her buzzed black hair, and he remembered holding her in the pavilion, how she had slept against his chest.

  "Goodnight, Lailani," he whispered before Addy slapped him with a pillow.

  "Guard duty," she said, and Marco trudged outside into the night, gun in hand, bayonet sheathed at his side. The stars spread above, and somewhere among them lurked millions of the scum.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "You just had to call her Corporal Pizza," Marco said, trudging through the desert, holding one side of the trash bin.

  Addy shrugged, holding the other side. "I didn't know she was listening! And besides, everyone calls her that. Elvis came up with it."

  "Yes, but you're not an idiot like Elvis," Marco said.

  Addy bristled. "Yes I am!"

  Marco groaned. "Her name is Corporal Fiona St-Pierre, and you hurt her feelings." He leaned down to pick up a candy wrapper, then placed it in the bin. "And now we have to clean the whole base. And I didn't even do anything! You're the one who called her Pizza. I was just listening to you."

  "Well, I'm glad her feelings are hurt. She's a nasty, unpleasant woman, not nearly as nice as our other commanders. Her personality's worse than her skin. Hell, even Sergeant Singh is more pleasant, and he's always scowling under that big black beard of his." Addy lifted an old pair of underwear. "Eww!" She shuddered and tossed it into the bin. "Eww, eww, eww, scum streak marks!"

  Marco shuddered as he saw a condom in the rocky field. He used the candy wrapper from before to lift it, then quickly tossed it into the bin, cringing. "Disgusting." He struggled not to gag. "Anyway, look, it's St-Pierre's job to be tough, and—" He grimaced. "What the hell—is that a dead rat?"

  They had been carrying the garbage bin through Fort Djemila for the past hour, punishment for insulting the corporal. The recruits had brought an assortment of personal items from home—toiletries, snacks, undergarments—and the garbage littered the base, rolling through the rocky fields and sand. Their bin was large enough to stuff Beast into and already half full.

  "Poet, none of this would have happened if you hadn't asked me what food I miss most," Addy said. "You made me think of pizza. You see, it's your fault. If not for you, we'd be at the firing range now, blasting wooden scum. Instead we're picking up dead rats and underwear and—"

  "Addy," Marco whispered.

  "—and candy wrappers and tampons and—"

  "Addy, look," he whispered again, eyes dampening. "Oh God. Oh God."

  "What, Marco? What? I'm trying to—"

  He grabbed her cheeks, forced her head sideways, and her jaw unhinged.

  "Fuck me," she whispered.

  Marco nearly wept. "It's beautiful. It's so beautiful."

  Holding the bin between them, they began to run.

  It rose from the desert like a temple, like a holy monument, like the burning bush Moses had seen. Marco heard the song of angels. It was impossible, had to be impossible, just a mirage—yet there it stood before him in all its glory, promising to deliver manna from heaven and all the sweet sins of hell. Beaten up, red and gray, covered in scratches but still full of delights, the vending machine glistened, calling to him.

  Marco placed his palms against the transparent plastic, gazing at the treasures within.

  "Gooble-drops!" he whispered. "Fizz-wizzlers! Almond Crunchers! They're all here!"

  Addy drooled. "Bags of Hickory Chips. Bottles of icy-cold Forest Dew. And . . ." She gasped and tears filled her eyes. "Ice cream, Marco! Bars of delicious, completely unnutritious maple-flavored Hockey Puck ice cream, just like at home! Oh mama. Marco, my dear old boy, today we feast." She rummaged through her pockets. "You have any money?"

  "I think so. I still have my wallet from home."

  They pulled out their wallets and produced a few hundred dollars, just enough to buy two or three items. They chose two Hockey Pucks—rich maple ice cream between two large cookies—and a bottle of Forest Dew to share. They sat in the shade of the holy vending machine, here at the far edge of the camp, only the sand and barbed wire for company. For a few blessed moments, they ate and drank.

  "I almost feel human again," Marco said and took another bite.

  "A little taste of civilization." Addy devoured the last few bites of her ice cream and took a swig of pop. "I missed this."

  "Me too," Marco said. "If I were back in Toronto now, I'd guzzle down ten of these."

  "I don't just mean the ice cream," Addy said. "I miss just talking to you. About things other than war." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one.

  Marco raised an eyebrow. "Addy, for the last couple of years at home, you barely talked to me. You spent all your time with what's his name, the hockey player? Butch? Buck? Bubba?"

  "Steve," she said.

  "Ah, that was it."

  Addy rolled her eyes. "He was an idiot anyway. Good in bed, that was all."

  "Addy!" Marco winced. "I don't want to think of you like that."

  She stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth and winked. "Jealous?"

  "Of course not."

  "Why not?" Addy placed a hand on his thigh. "You don't looove me like you love de la Rosa?"

  Addy had never touched him like that before. She had often knuckled his head, twisted his arm, elbowed him in the ribs, but now she rested her hand on his thigh, dangerously high up.


  He stood up—too quickly, he thought. "Very funny, Addy," he said. "You're a real joker." He snorted. "You've been living in my home since we were both eleven. We're practically brother and sister now."

  "And Lailani is an exotic flower of the Orient, and your cock longs for her like your stomach longs for ice cream." Addy nodded and blew a smoke ring. "I get it."

  "Now who sounds jealous?" Marco said. Suddenly he wasn't enjoying this time away from the platoon. Addy had always been a strange one, but now she confused him more than ever. And suddenly—damn it, he couldn't help it—he remembered seeing her in the shower, glimpsing her naked body, and the water dripping down her, and—

  He swallowed and looked away, pulled a last bill from his pocket, and stuck it into the vending machine. He bought an Almond Cruncher bar and placed it into his pocket.

  "You're not going to eat it?" Addy said. "You're saving it for de la Rosa, aren't you?" She grinned. "Marco and Lailani, sitting in a tree, f-u-c—"

  "Addy!" He grabbed one side of the garbage bin. "Shut it and help me. Let's get this over with."

  She waggled her eyebrows. "So you can get back to de la Rosa faster."

  They walked through the camp, picking up the last pieces of trash. Marco wanted to tell Addy that he was still in love with Kemi, but he said nothing. He didn't want to dredge up that memory. For the first few days in the HDF, he had thought of Kemi constantly, but now—six days into his service—he was thinking about her a little less. So much of that old world seemed like a distant, hazy memory. Six days. Six eras ago.

  They were walking back toward their platoon when they saw the second miracle rising from the desert.

  Marco and Addy paused and stared silently.

  For a long moment they said nothing.

  "It's . . ." Marco approached slowly and touched it. He looked back at Addy. "It's a public telephone. I think."

  Addy stepped forward too. She raised her hand and touched the metal box on the pole. Neither had seen a public telephone in real life before, only in old movies. For over a century the world had used nothing but portable phones—the devices getting smaller and smaller every generation. But no electronics were allowed in Fort Djemila. At first Marco had assumed the ban was meant to prevent the recruits having any contact with the outside world—to make them forget their old lives, to isolate and break them here within this prison. But he remembered the rusty old radios, the crude bullets. Scum were technologically advanced, but they had trouble with old technology. They couldn't hack old technology, not as easily as they could hack humanity's cutting-edge gadgets. At least that was the story their commanders told. And here before them—an old phone with actual numbers you had to press, an actual receiver to speak and listen, an antique. Yet when Marco lifted it, he heard a live line.