by Nick Thacker
“Anyway, Mitchell—who tended to be far more brash than I—finished the damn thing. He moved in, lived here, and died here. He actually named one of the levels after us.”
Mark saw Jen’s eyes grow with understanding.
“Nouvelle Terre—‘Level Ten: Rue Or.’ A simple anagram,” Austin said, satisfied. “Today, most of the station is functioning without oversight or human interaction, as you’ve probably guessed. Level Ten is our personal space, with our research labs and offices, but it’s relatively unoccupied, of course.”
As Austin spoke, Mark eyed his opening. He waited for the Russian soldier—standing two people to Mark’s right, and the only one who was still pointing his weapon at Jen, and Reese in the center of the circle—to drop his rifle. Finally, the man let his guard down for a moment, and Mark lunged. He took two steps to gain speed, then forced his body out toward the soldier to his immediate right.
The impact knocked the soldier off balance and sent both of them crashing into the next soldier in line. Mark found his feet and continued moving, jumping upward and punching at the same time. He caught the man under the chin and knocked him unconscious.
With his free hand, he reached to the man’s side and gripped the KA-BAR knife sheathed there. As the man fell, he held onto the handle of the knife and slipped it away from his body. He turned just as another Russian soldier was running toward him. Mark grabbed the knife in a tactical grip and thrust out quickly, dropping the man before he had a chance to attack.
A few of the other soldiers around the large circle had a quicker response time, and they lifted their weapons to fire just as Mark had turned toward them. They focused their attention on Mark, leaving Saunders and Nelson unattended.
Saunders had begun moving just as Mark was tackling the first soldier, and she reached out and crushed the gun-wielding hand of one of the soldiers with her elbow. He howled in pain, but the sound was quickly silenced as she ripped his head backwards with all her strength. He crumpled to the ground, and she picked up his weapon. She tossed another toward Erik, who was standing dumbstruck at the edge of the circle. “Move!” she yelled to him. Erik burst into action, fueled by fear, and began to run backwards, firing wildly at soldiers left and right. One of his shots hit the mark, and a Russian fell to the ground inches from Mark.
Nelson was engaged in combat as well, though without as much luck as his two counterparts. The person standing next to him was a Russian woman, and she was prepared for his attack. She punched him once in the gut, and he felt his eyes bulge as she landed a forceful blow to his kidney. She was fast, moving around him before he could turn, and she jumped on his back.
He reacted the only way he knew how and jumped up and backwards, trying to land on top of the woman. She swiveled around quickly and left Nelson to fall onto his back on the hard dirt, the wind leaving his body.
“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered, as he saw through tear-filled eyes the woman preparing to pounce on his exposed chest. She held a knife in one hand, and it was all he could do to roll out of the way at the last minute. She struck the dirt next to him with the knife, the blade stabbing deep into the ground, and she screamed as she realized she’d missed her target.
Nelson was ready for her.
He kicked the blade—and the woman’s hand—as hard as he could, breaking two of her fingers, then he reached out and grabbed her arm. He twisted it, causing the woman to shriek, but she turned the rest of her body to remove the pressure and punched at him with her other arm.
The punch didn’t land, and Nelson used her own momentum to launch her toward a group of three men he saw racing toward Mark.
She bowled into them, causing one of them to fall over, and he reached down to pick up a gun that lay at his feet. He was about to fire when he heard Mark yell over the cacophony.
“Nelson! The president!” Mark was under bombardment from five Russian soldiers. They hadn’t fired at him, for fear that they’d hit one of their own, but it was clear that they were well versed in self-defense. Mark had been punched, kicked, and elbowed by each of them it seemed, though none of the hits had been debilitating blows.
He punched one soldier as another kicked at him, forcing him to dodge at the last second and thus lose his power.
The fighting in the main compound grew intense. Mark successfully held them off, using the advantage of being the only real objective they had. He ran for the outskirts of the fields, letting them take potshots as he developed a plan of attack.
None of the rounds hit him, but he knew they’d follow him wherever he went. He needed to get Jen and Reese to safety.
He waited for Nelson to finish his skirmish with one of the female soldiers, then he drew the man’s attention. While Mark fired a few shots toward the Russians, Nelson moved around to the rear of the group. He began to fire, immediately sending the group of soldiers to the ground. Those who weren’t hit squirmed around on the dirt, trying to move toward cover or to an angle that would allow them to return fire.
Meanwhile, Mark corralled Jen and Reese and together they ran toward the street.
Mark ran backwards, ensuring that none of the Russians got off a crack shot in their direction, and also that Nelson was safely covered. When Nelson pulled away to pursue the president, Mark turned and made a beeline for the first house on the city block.
CHAPTER 50
NELSON SPUN AROUND, TRYING TO spot the president. He saw him meandering toward a building—the information center they’d first seen upon entering the level when they disembarked—and he raced over to him. “Mr. President,” he said as he reached the shack. “We need to get you inside.” The graying man turned to Nelson as he approached but didn’t say anything.
Nelson grabbed him and shoved him toward the small house. He kicked the door, and the loose hinges fell completely off of the frame. It fell back into the house and landed with a loud bang on the concrete floor.
Nelson crinkled his brow. “I guess that’ll have to do,” he said. He nudged the president inside, then found a chair in the corner. “Wait here. Whatever your story is, sir, I’d sure like to hear it when we’re out of this mess.”
The president nodded.
He didn’t wait for more. He turned and marched out the door, already fumbling with the safety on his rifle. He caught sight of Erik at the edge of one of the houses.
Move, you fool, he whispered to himself. The young man was concealed from one side, but it was the wrong side.
He sprinted toward him, allowing himself to lower the rifle to gain extra speed, and when he neared the house he shouted out. “Erik! Get in the house!”
Erik turned his head to see Nelson bearing down on him. His eyes were wide, and terror streaked across his face. He stood, dropping his gun to his side. As Nelson approached the porch at the front of the house, he heard a loud crack and dove forward.
His body hit the dirt and he covered his head with one hand as he used the other to guide the rifle around to find out where the shot had come from.
Crack!
Another round burst nearby, and Nelson caught the brief flash of the shooter’s muzzle. He reacted quickly, firing three rounds toward the black-silhouetted soldier. The man fell, and Nelson rose to check on Erik.
The geologist was lying facedown on the dirt, his gun laying a few feet away.
“Damn,” Nelson said, coming up alongside the boy. He didn’t need to feel for a pulse; two red circles had appeared on his prone back and were growing in size.
Nelson cursed again, then jogged toward the line of houses.
CHAPTER 51
WITH THE RIFLE IN HAND, Saunders aimed down the sights just in time to see a group of three Russians camped out at the edge of the clearing, crouched next to one of the outlying buildings.
They were already aiming in her direction.
Shit.
She dove sideways, rounds erupting on the hard-packed dirt next to her. They’d missed, but she didn’t stick around to wait for their next sh
ots to find their mark. She rose and began to run, heading the opposite direction, toward the small information shack.
As she ran, she noticed movement to her left. Jeremiah Austin was sprinting away from the action, aiming for the stairs at the edge of the round level.
His second-in-command, the blond woman named Sylvia, was following closely behind. Saunders picked up her pace to catch up to the pair, but just as she was about to overtake Sylvia, the woman turned and began running along the perimeter of the dome.
Saunders considered chasing her—wherever she was now heading—but instead decided to continue to pursue Austin. He was now rounding the first set of stairs, and she raised her rifle.
I can make this shot. She knew she’d hit him, but she wasn’t sure if it would be just a crippling blow or one that might prove fatal.
And she couldn’t take the chance.
She ran full-out, holding her gun in one hand, and sprinted toward the top of the stairs. She reached the metal threshold just as Austin had finished descending the second set of stairs, but already she could tell that she was faster.
She would catch him.
Austin began taking the stairs two at a time, but Saunders had already begun descending in leaps, jumping from the top of one small set of stairs to the next.
At the third floor below ground, Level Seven, she came close enough to the tiring man to pounce. Saunders breathed in, tensed her upper body, and lunged forward with the force of a small car. She aimed for the small of his back, just above the pelvis, and connected perfectly with her target.
She heard him grunt, then felt his body shudder as it fell forward. Together they toppled down the stairs, landing on the sheet metal floor connecting the two sets of stairways. Before Austin had time to recover, Saunders slammed the base of her rifle hard into the back of his skull. His body gave in, collapsing into a weak pile.
Expecting the man to have been knocked out, Saunders exhaled and slid off his back. She started to stand, but was surprised when Austin, still in a prone position on the floor, kicked out with a leg and tripped Saunders. He jumped up, more spry than she’d imagined, and kicked her again in the torso before she hit the ground.
This time it was her turn to grunt. The kick landed directly above her kidney, and the pain coursed through her body with a vengeance. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, but she didn’t have time to recover.
Austin grabbed her by the back of her vest with one hand and punched out with his other, knocking her rifle out of her hands. She turned to watch it tumble end over end down the stairs. As she watched, Austin punched again, this time missing the mark and allowing Saunders time to react and gain an advantage.
She didn’t waste it.
With Austin’s center of balance lost from his attack, she tackled him again, this time lifting him completely off his feet and carrying his body along the floor into the hard wall of the dome surrounding them. She crushed him against the wall, trying to squeeze the life out of him. She relented for a moment, then smashed forward again, this time injuring the man.
He yelped, and she heard a bone crack. Where it was on his body, she wasn’t sure, but she didn’t stop there.
Saunders let him down, and he crumpled into a fetal position on the floor. She wouldn’t be duped again, so she made sure her next attack solidified things.
With the side of her hand, she swiped downward toward his neck, slamming the hard part of her wrist on the fleshy portion of skin between his shoulder and neck. She ripped his head back, pulling on his disheveled hair, and elbowed him in the face.
She let go. Austin crumpled to the ground, a welt already appearing above his right eye.
She could see his chest rising and falling, but she didn’t want to take any chances. She pulled him up, struggling with the dead weight of the man. Once standing, she slipped her arm under his and began walking up the stairs.
CHAPTER 52
THIS WAS THE FIRST TIME he’d seen the inside of one of the houses.
How did these people live? Mark wondered.
Since his company had a small role in completing this research station, his interest was even more piqued. He took in the living room, dining room, and kitchen as they walked through the front door. The living room was sparse, featuring a paisley couch, rectangular glass coffee table, and a few empty picture frames on the wall. The front entry was floored in faux wood, but the rest of the living room and dining room—a small connected space that felt more like an afterthought than an actual room—was carpeted.
Jen didn’t seem impressed, either. She didn’t say anything, but her eyebrows rose as she and Reese stepped in behind Mark.
“What do we do?” she asked him.
Mark thought for a moment. “We’re not safe here, even without them shooting at us. It’s pretty open out there, and I know at least one of them watched us run in here.”
Reese held his mother’s hand, but he looked up at Mark. “Dad, don’t you think we can each take a window to look out of? At least we’ll know if they’re following us.”
Mark nodded, appreciative of the idea. “Jen, get to the kitchen and check that one. Reese, stay close, but look out the window behind the dining room table. I’ll stay in here, since this window faces back into the open clearing. If either of you see anything, yell, then get down. Am I clear?”
He turned to see Jen and Reese nodding. He took his position at the window, wiping away a thick sheet of dust around the sill. They most likely saw us run into the house, he thought. He swept his hand across his brow, wiping away the sweat droplets that had formed there.
But we weren’t looking behind us at all. The realization hit him at the same time as the sound of pounding footsteps on the front porch.
“Reese!” he yelled.
But it was too late. The footsteps reached the open front door—why hadn’t he closed it!—and he saw the shadow of a large man standing just outside. He spun around, staying crouched, as a barrage of rifle shots pounded holes through the thin sheet rock on the walls. Bullet holes quickly riddled the floor and walls, and Mark held his gun ready.
The first Russian mercenary rounded the corner and stepped into the house, his gun firing on full automatic. Mark had just enough time to ensure that Reese had moved from the dining room to the kitchen, away from the direct line of sight. He lifted the stolen gun a bit higher and pulled the trigger. It was set to burst fire, and three rounds quickly sailed from the end of the gun and dropped the man standing in the doorway.
Before he could move to another position, a second soldier—one of the Russian women he’d seen earlier—stepped in to take the place of the first. She lifted her gun, but Mark was already prepared. He hadn’t moved, so his aim was still true. He fired. She faltered, then fell.
Mark felt the click of the gun’s empty ammunition chamber before he heard it and cursed under his breath. He reached down instinctively, only to remember he’d been traveling as a civilian. There was no more ammo to grab.
As the woman fell into a heap on the wood floor, a third soldier stepped into view. He wasn’t as slow as his teammate, and Mark could only watch helplessly as the man lifted his rifle, pointed it at Mark, and pulled the trigger.
The single bullet tore through the air and ripped into Mark’s shoulder. He realized what had happened before he felt any pain, but the searing fire of the torn flesh alerted his brain soon enough.
Mark had never experienced pain like this before. Part of his training at the company had included extended periods of submersion under water, subjecting himself to mild torture, and other wild forms of “hardening,” as the company liked to put it. But nothing could have prepared him for the unbelievable torment of being shot. He had no body armor; no medication to numb the pain.
The blood came shortly after, seeping down his arm in bursts of warm throbs. But Mark’s mind was focusing on one thing: the man standing in front of him.
The Russian was huge, at least six and a half feet tall and three
hundred pounds. The bulk of the man didn’t belie his strength, either. Mark could see rippling muscles on his neck and arms, the only portions of his skin that were uncovered.
The man glared down at Mark and grinned. He stammered something in Russian, but Mark didn’t budge. Again, the man said something in his foreign tongue, then stepped forward.
This is it, Mark thought. I was brought here to do something, and I succeeded. They have no use for me now.
Mark dropped the useless assault rifle and lifted his chin. He didn’t dare look toward the kitchen, where he knew Reese and his wife were waiting, probably watching.
The man stepped forward again, lifting his gun into the air.
God, this man wants to beat me to death.
Mark eyed the rifle as it began its downward arc. Maybe I can—
Before the rifle landed, and before Mark could finish his thought, a gunshot tore through the silence in the room. The man in front of him staggered, then went limp. He stood for another two seconds before falling heavily on the floor, blood spurting up from his chest.
Mark opened his eyes—he didn’t remember closing them—and looked at the front door.
Nelson was standing in the doorway, his silhouette carved out of the light surrounding his frame.
“Nelson!” Mark said, ecstatic.
“Thought you might need a hand,” the Brit said haphazardly as he entered the house.
Reese ran around the corner and jumped onto Nelson.
“Woah, boy, didn’t see you there!” Nelson said. “Might have put a bullet into that little head, if I wasn’t careful.”
Jen gave Nelson a horrified look, but it quickly melted into a smile.
“Let’s get that arm looked at,” Nelson said, moving toward Mark. Mark tried to sit up straighter against the wall, but failed miserably. The pain was too much. Nelson bent down next to him and peeled away some of the shirt. “Jen, can you see if there’s anything in the kitchen to sop this up with?”
