Doomsday's Child (Book 2): Came Monsters

by Pete Aldin

  The stocky one raised his chin. "We sure have." His voice was gravelly, like someone had taken to his larynx with a broken bottle. He was older than Spider, in his early forties, Elliot's age. Parts of his cheeks were shaven, leaving a goatee flanked by wide sideburns. A pink pucker of skin on his chest spoke of an old stab wound, or bullet wound. Years old. He continued, "That's why he's asking. They're not exactly social workers."

  "You lost people to them?"

  "One," gravel-voice said. "In a gun fight. About a year ago."

  "Wanna lose more? Because if we don't teach these sonsofbitches a lesson today, they'll only get bolder."

  The men conferred some more. Then Spider smiled, revealing stubs of teeth. "Half the haul?"

  "Fifty-fifty."

  "Who else is in the truck?"

  "Only one person. Two of you, two of us."

  "You sure we can take two trucks out with just the four of us?" asked the bigger man.

  "Two trucks?" Elliot patted the door. "Both like this?"

  "One like that, plus a removals truck. Like for moving house."

  "Only the gods know how many men they had in them," Spider added.

  "Gods?" Angie snorted quietly. "Dickhead."

  "We have a good chance, fellas," Elliot said, wishing he believed it. "We do this right, then yes we can take them. But you'll both have to do what I say. One hundred percent."

  They looked at each other and shrugged.

  "Should be fun," gravel-voice said.

  Spider added, "We have our own car. I ride with you. Your friend rides with him."

  "No way. You both follow us."

  "Want us to trust you?"

  "I—"

  "I'll go with him, Elliot." Angie was busy gathering her gear, weapons and pack, shoving the field glasses in the latter.

  Elliot's head snapped toward her. "The hell you will."

  "Stop trying to shelter me. You want them onside, trust goes both ways."

  "You said they're dickheads." He had the sense for once to keep his voice down as he said that.

  She flashed a harsh smile. "Yeah, but so are you sometimes. And I've driven with you." She stroked her Glock. "Besides, my little friend here will look after me." She climbed out the other side.

  Both men's eyebrows rose momentarily at the sight of her, but they covered their attraction quickly, switching their gaze back to Elliot and closing the distance a little more. Their weapons remained slung.

  Spider said, "Why are you driving one of their trucks?"

  "Where'd you get their gear?" gravel-voice added.

  "I stole it all. Long story for later. Important fact is they've killed one of ours. Maybe two. And we'd rather they didn't enslave the rest of our people."

  "Enslave?" The stocky man spat on the ground. "They're as bad as the fucking Death Druids were."

  "And yet, they wear cop gear." Spider smiled his stub-toothed smile again. "Smell the irony?"

  "They are cops," Elliot said. "Or were."

  "Awesome," said gravel-voice. "All the more reason to help you. What's the plan?"

  "The plan right now is to get closer to home. To our farm. Find a perfect spot for the ambush. We get that far, I'll explain the rest then."

  "Haven't thought it up yet, eh?"

  "Most of it I have. First step is finding that site. And the clock's running here."

  "Let's party," Spider said.

  "Our car's back there," gravel-voice said.

  "Dandy," Angie said and followed him down the road. Whether or not she knew Elliot would still be watching her, she flipped him the bird good and slow. At this, Elliot nodded, satisfied: she could look after herself.

  "How long since they broke through your barricade?" he asked Spider. Down the street, Angie got into a green Mazda hatchback with the other Vike.

  "Three hours. Something like that. We were hunting roos behind those houses when we heard the noise. Scared the complete and utter shit out of us."

  Three hours. Kyle had taken it slow, or he'd left later than Da Silva had claimed. Or maybe he'd had other business while he was on the road. Elliot thought of the original inhabitants of The Downs, the farmers who'd made their deal to buy protection from the Death Druids by catching others for them. Maybe there were groups out there with similar deals with the SERPs. Maybe even the Vikes—same as in the Middle East, there was always the chance that his new allies were actually working with someone else. And wouldn't that be ironic, him and Angie having to fight their way out of the same situation twice? A return to the day they had met? Circularity.

  The hatchback coughed into life, gravel-voice revving it, waking it up. Elliot looked Spider over as he did. Built like Jimmy, but harder, Spider was in his mid-twenties. He had a little buzz on, bobbing on the balls of his feet. Meth? Nerves? Every few seconds he flashed Elliot a smile. Shit, but this was risky.

  Yeah. But what isn't?

  "Three hours," he said aloud and Spider grunted confirmation. Kyle's delay for whatever reason might be a good thing. But a three-hour head start was still a head start; a whole lot of bad could already have gone down back home. Which, once again, Elliot could not dwell on.

  The hatchback wheezed its way out into the middle of the street and crept toward them, trailing smoke.

  Elliot grabbed the BearCat's frame to haul himself up. He said, "Climb in. And let's get to know each other a little more."

  20

  "Your name's Spider?"

  "Yep. Can't remember yours. Sorry."

  Sparkles, Radler's ghost said. "Elliot."

  Spider offered his hand, reaching past the rifles. The move was oddly businesslike.

  Elliot clasped it briefly—it was rough and gritty, the grip firm.

  They were out of town now, passing between the motel and gas station. Elliot's gaze switched between the two properties, still not convinced the SERPs hadn't organized an ambush of their own. Surely, those trucks would have radio contact with Jericho. Surely, Da Silva had updated Kyle on Elliot's escape. Maybe; maybe not. It was always better to be suspicious than not to be.

  The hatchback was a green blob in his side mirrors, Angie's blonde hair visible through the windshield. It left a thin wake of sickly smoke behind it. Elliot asked, "Your guy back there with Angie? What's he called?"

  "Mafia."

  "Mafia?"

  "He worked for them in Melbourne. Good guy."

  "Right. Wow. We have very different definitions of good."

  "Don't worry, Elliot. He's reformed."

  "I goddamn hope so."

  Spider gave a little groan as he stretched, wiggling his bare and dirty toes. He seemed completely at ease and Elliot gave him another checking over to see if he was stoned.

  "He used to break legs for a living," the Vike continued, "but after all we've been through, he's a humanitarian now. He don't wanna do that shit no more."

  "But he's doing it now. He's about to, anyway."

  "Well, okay, yeah. He also believes in taking care of our people. And he never liked pigs."

  "Criminals rarely do."

  But taking care of your people was something Elliot could relate to. As long as "Mafia" minded his business, did his job, kept his hands off Angie, he could call himself whatever stupid nickname he wanted.

  Besides, everyone had a past. The guy might have turned over a new leaf.

  "And your name? Spider. Your parents call you that?"

  "Nah." He looked embarrassed as he admitted, "They called me Barney."

  "You're kidding."

  "Wish I was."

  "Spider's better," Elliot agreed. "But why that name?"

  "Well, Vikes give each other our names. Kind of a ceremony. They gave me mine coz I've got these long skinny arms and legs—" He stretched them all out in front of him. "—and I'm good at climbing and sneaking around and shit."

  Just like Jimmy, Elliot thought, and changed the subject. "Your car back there's making a lot of smoke." It wasn't enough to telegraph their approach
to anyone, but it looked truly unhealthy.

  "We rigged a few for bioethanol." Spider laughed. "Be grateful you're not driving behind it, dude!"

  It had quickly become clear that Elliot would have to drive slower than he'd like in order to keep the struggling little sedan close. Perhaps that was for the best: taking this slow was good, despite the desperate need he felt to get home.

  "Why'd your other friend leave?" he asked Spider.

  "Bourbon? Coz he's a dick. He didn't trust you."

  "You do?"

  "You're good people."

  "And how do you know that?"

  "Well..." Spider made a face, looking sheepish. He wiggled his toes some more.

  "Well what?"

  "Truth is I've checked out your compound before. Quite a lot."

  Elliot tensed. "You—?"

  "From the outside. I promise I never went in."

  "You never went in."

  "Never. You guys looked like good people."

  Are you shitting me? He scoped us. We had no idea. Spider: good at sneaking around.

  "Those people in that farm aren’t just good people, they're the best people," Elliot said quietly. "You help us, I'm in your debt."

  "Like you said, we gotta do something. Those pigs might come after us if they get too cocky. We can't let that happen. We can't." He stretched again, eyeing the MCXs lustfully. "Anyway, this could be fun. You're letting us use guns, right?"

  Elliot chewed his cheek then said, "Guess I am."

  "Sweet. Ran outa bullets two years ago." Spider slapped his knee. "Jeez, I love shooting."

  "Right. Just don't shoot anyone we care about."

  "Oh, no. No way." He tapped a rifle with a fingernail. "What do I need to know about these before I use one?"

  "Before we get into that. Last time I met you, you were using. Convince me you're straight right now."

  "Hey, trust me, mate ..."

  "Trust? Trust starts with honesty. And I need to know what I'm working with."

  "Okay, look, we're all smokers back there, back home. Potheads. We grow our own. That's all. Just bud, that's all."

  "That's all?" Elliot gave him a hard look.

  "And booze, of course. What's left of it."

  "That's all?"

  Spider squirmed a little. "Well."

  "Seriously, stop saying well."

  "Sorry."

  "You were saying?"

  "So some of 'em—two of 'em—they do use harder stuff sometimes. Not me. Honestly."

  "You seem a little wired for a pot-head."

  "I'm excited, man. I'm ... well ... nervous."

  "Fair enough. And Mafia? He use 'harder stuff'?"

  "Nah. Not Mafia. Bourbon does."

  "What harder stuff?"

  "Not meth. Definitely not meth. Promise. There was three guys tried to join us in the early days and when it turned out they were meth-heads, we chased 'em away. We ..." He turned his hands over, studying them, front then back, front then back. Softly, he said, "We had to kill one of them. Stupid bastard would have killed us if we hadn't."

  "Okay, I'll accept that. No meth-heads you say. So, Bourbon and this other guy—"

  "Girl."

  "This other girl. They use, what, smack?"

  "Painkillers in the early days. We keep them for what they're meant for now, for medicine. But I think they still have a little coke left. They used to have a lot of that."

  Elliot grunted something halfway between a laugh and a groan.

  "What?" Spider said.

  "Nothing. Except 'coke' is the word our young people use to mean something they liked in the old world. Something good you can't get anymore."

  "Nice. Yeah, good word for it. Ya can't get any brand of colas or lemonades or mixers or anything ... and if ya do it's flat and tastes like piss so what's the point. Hardly any good stuff to be found in our territory anymore."

  "Or ours, huh?"

  Spider blushed, concentrated on giving his toes another wiggle.

  Elliot shrugged. "So. Bourbon and the girl use coke, painkillers. What else?"

  "Well."

  Elliot glanced at him.

  "Sorry. I'll stop saying it. Right, so there's this group up north. They took over the poppy fields and they make good shit apparently, so Bourbon and Traci trade for it sometimes."

  "Poppy fields?"

  "You didn't know Tassie had poppy fields? Oh, yeah, dude. Pharmaceutical companies grew hectares of it in the old days. This group—"

  "Okay. Okay. I've heard enough for now."

  What the good God? Another group? Another faction processing and dealing in opiates? That sounded like outlaw biker business. Maybe they weren't gone, after all. The other night, he'd told Claire, Helluva lot we don't know about the world outside our region. He'd sure been right about that.

  "Let's focus on the mission to hand," he said. "But when we get through this, I wanna know everything you know about that other group."

  "Sure, I can trade you that info."

  "Trade me?" He supposed that was fair enough. Spider was here risking his life to help. If—when—they beat Kyle and took back Settlers Downs, it wouldn't hurt to trade something for decent intel. An alliance would be good; it would be what Claire would want. He said, "What kinds of things you gonna ask us for?"

  "Only one thing." Spider studied his hands again. "I ... I got kind of an exterior motive for coming along to help you."

  "Ulterior motive," Elliot corrected him. "And what the hell would that be?"

  "You take me in."

  "Take you in?"

  "Me. My missus. My kid."

  Elliot looked him over and Spider straightened under the scrutiny. He raised his chin. "I don't smoke anymore. Don't even drink. I'm high on life now, that's all. I've been clean for a year. Ever since my missus told me she was pregnant. If Mafia can reform, so can I."

  "Keep talking," said Elliot. The more Spider spoke, the more opportunity for Elliot's bullshit detector to kick in if needed.

  "See, that's the reason I was scoping out your place. I only went there when I was on me own. Honest. I ... the others, they're okay. They're not bad. But the way we live, it's not ... I dunno, I just don't want my daughter growing up there. Better than nothing in a dangerous world. But if there's a chance we can come with you ..."

  Elliot's bullshit detector detected no bullshit. Spider appeared sincere: for the first time his calm and careless toker demeanor was slipping. His eyes had misted as he spoke.

  Elliot said, "You do realize our place is up shit creek?"

  "Well, what place isn't?"

  "I mean, it's a long way up shit creek."

  "Trust me, I won't be bringing 'em to your place until this crap with the bad cops is sorted. But when it is ... well ..."

  "That word again," Elliot said, lightly this time.

  "What I mean is, you folks are the kind of people my kid should grow up around."

  Elliot thought about the kids at The Downs, saw them running, playing, sitting under the tutelage of Lewis and Krystal and Neil. He saw the indulgent expressions of the adults watching them play and heard mealtime conversations of people's hopes for these children's futures.

  "Agreed," he said. "But hear me. I have a zero-tolerance policy on drugs. You got anything on you, anything, dump it out the window now. It'd be a solid gesture of good faith."

  Spider patted a hip pocket. Something in there rattled inside a plastic container momentarily. He was grinning like a fool again. "Hardest stuff I've got is three aspirin and six Tic Tacs. You want a Tic Tac?" He contorted himself to dig in the pocket.

  Elliot gestured for him to stop. "I'll pass."

  They'd passed beyond the outer limit of Birns River Bridge now. Elliot gave the truck a little more gas. More smoke pumped from the hatchback behind them as Mafia tried to keep up. Elliot could only hope Angie's conversation with an ex-kneecapper was as reassuring as his had been with Spider.

  ⁓

  On a three-hundred-yard s
traight-run of asphalt between two sweeping curves, Elliot pulled the BearCat onto the side. Ahead, the highway's curve vanished around a natural spur where elevation would be good for a sniper. Ignoring a query from Spider he grabbed both MCXs, got out and checked both ways along the road. Grunting in satisfaction, he signaled Mafia to cut his motor and went back to cut his own.

  "Stretch your legs," he told Spider, "and watch the road ahead."

  He joined Angie and Mafia at the end of the truck.

  "I like this place." Facing back the way they'd come, the whole siding to his left—the south—was up high, fifteen to twenty feet above the roadway. The land leveled out opposite and to his right, filled with old orchards gone wild.

  Angie cleared her throat. "We're going to wait here and hope they come past? Maybe going to the farm is better."

  "You mentioned something about leadership," he replied evenly. "I was on the other end of a rifle from several grass-roots insurgencies. And ... and an IED, too. A smaller force against a bigger, better-armed one? We have to hurt them, we have to contain them, we have to get the upper hand quick. The four of us walking back into that farm leaves too many variables."

  "I don't like it here."

  "Don't have to." He whistled and waved Spider to come back to them. When the skinny Vike drew near, he continued. "We have two choices, right? Go in after them, or lay an ambush."

  Angie brandished her sawnoff shottie and her Glock. "I'd rather go in than wait."

  Mafia nodded and grinned.

  But Spider said, "Probably not the safest thing to do."

  "I agree," said Elliot. "The main problem with incursion is that there's most likely six or more of them. What if there's ten? Or twenty?"

  No, there wouldn't be that many since they needed space in their trucks for their victims. Their cattle. But it was good that Angie and the Vikes were wary.

  He continued, "We'd have to sneak in the back entrance. Can't go in the front gate, which they'll be guarding. We won't know how many they have or where those individuals are. They could be in any building or any paddock. It's chaos. And we might be firing into our own people used as meat shields—or hit them for the simple reason that chaos forces mistakes." He gestured to the highway. "At least here, we'll have the hostiles contained in vehicles and we'll have more control of the situation."