Bounty Hunter: Dig Two Graves

by Rachel Aukes

  The door opened, and a single shape stepped out.

  “Sara,” a man called out, and she immediately relaxed, relieved to hear Grundy’s voice.

  She stepped out from cover and approached the old man. “Grundy, you about gave me a heart attack.”

  He met her halfway. “Sorry about that, but I couldn’t wait until morning.”

  She frowned. “What’s happened?”

  “We think Sloan might try to make a move on the silo—or at least, on where they think the silo is. Anyway, it may be a couple of days or longer until I get out this way again, so I thought I’d better bring you this tonight.”

  “Well, it’s good to see you, no matter what time you stop by. We’re still sitting good on supplies, though.”

  He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  She examined it in the headlights. It was a flat piece of metal with a strip of jagged teeth along one side. She held it up. “What is it?”

  “It’s a key to my house.”

  She frowned, confused. “You just swipe it like a regular keycard?”

  He chuckled. “You kids and your technology. No, this has no tech in it. You stick that smaller end into the round lock on my door, then turn it clockwise.”

  “Clockwise?”

  “That’s to the right. Turn it left to lock it. Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out easily enough.”

  She’d never seen a real key before and found herself running her fingers along it, intrigued that it worked with no technology embedded within it.

  “You remember how to get to my place?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I do.”

  “Good. Then go grab the kids. You can drop me off at the silo on your way.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

  He patted her shoulder. “You don’t need me. Besides, I can do more good here. Now, go get the kids. This old man needs his sleep.”

  She smiled and ran past the shack and down the trail to the half-collapsed culvert the kids had found the day they’d arrived. She heard the click-click of claws on metal, followed by Nick’s voice, “Shh, Champ.”

  She shook her head at their attempt at being quiet. “Kids, it’s safe.”

  They tumbled out of the round opening and splashed into the shallow streambed. She cringed at the mud she’d no doubt have to scrub out of their clothes, but now wasn’t the time to worry.

  “Grundy’s here. It’s time to get loaded up. We’re going on a road trip.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Renzo’s doorbell chimed during late tea. He preferred brandy, but after never fully recovering from a blaster shot through his stomach thirteen years ago, he had to settle for an easier drink. He set down his teacup and checked his tablet. A Z-borg, wearing his brown exoshield, stood outside his door.

  “What is it?” Renzo asked.

  “Sir, a drone has identified two poys,” the soldier replied. It took Renzo a second to realize the clone had meant POIs, or persons of interest. He wouldn’t scold the Z-borg for the mispronunciation. Z-borgs, short for Zenith cyborgs, made excellent soldiers, but in order to age the clones quickly enough—at two times the normal speed—to the optimal physical age of twenty, corners had to be cut in other areas, and general education was sacrificed in favor of battle tactics.

  He pushed to his feet, turned off the artificial fireplace, and walked to the door. He opened it, and the Z-borg stepped to the side to allow him out.

  “Show me,” Renzo said, and accompanied the Z-borg to the command center, inside which an entire wall was filled with screens, all displaying active video feeds. The Z-borg took up a guard position by the door, and Renzo stepped inside. A specialist sat at a panel, his finger cycling through video feeds. When he saw Renzo, he tapped out a command, and the screens morphed into a single video feed. “This is ten minutes ago, outside silo Fourteen,” he said.

  Renzo watched as a cutter pulled up outside the entrance to the Clearwater silo. An old man stepped out of the driver’s side, and a younger woman exited the passenger side. The corner of the screen displayed their faces, names, and links to details. He watched the pair speak briefly; then she embraced the older man before walking around to the driver’s side. Two children jumped out of the cutter and hugged him as well. Their details populated in the corner of the screen.

  Their ID boxes had red outlines.

  He pursed his lips. The children lived. That disappointed him.

  It was a topic he’d have to address with Commander Vane, as he couldn’t allow insubordination in his ranks. She’d been an exceptional officer during the Revolution, but evidently, a decade without war had made her soft.

  “Assign that drone to follow them. I want to know exactly where they’re going.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Val embraced Grundy. “Stay safe.”

  “That’s my intention,” the older man said with a slight smile.

  She nodded at Kit. “Take care of them.”

  “I will,” he said as he stood next to Grundy—not leaning on anything, but she could tell he was struggling even to stand.

  She stepped back, motioned for the twenty refugees she’d been training, and led them to four vehicles—her cutter, Rex’s, and two others they’d acquired from generous locals loyal to their cause.

  Rex, in his exoshield, was rummaging through the back of his vehicle when she reached him. He pulled out a blaster that was twice the size of the one she carried.

  She grimaced. “Why are men always obsessed with size?”

  Rex clutched the blaster to his chest. “Because when it comes to blasters and grenades, size really does matter.”

  She could imagine his brows wagging behind that helmet. “Whatever you say, T-Rex,” she said, using the callsign printed on his chest plate. “I don’t suppose you have a photon cannon stashed back there.”

  He shook his head. “I wish I did.”

  “I wish you did, too, because we’re likely going up against a tank or two today.”

  He tapped his blaster. “I’m ready.”

  She didn’t comment on the impact a single blaster would have against a heavily armored tank. Instead, she nodded to her cutter. “I’m leading the way. Take three passengers. Follow me to the site.”

  “I’d follow you anywhere, sweetheart.”

  She rolled her eyes and left him at his vehicle. She climbed into the driver’s seat of her cutter. Three of her rebels climbed in, one in the passenger seat and two in the back seat. Her cutter was the standard configuration, seating only four comfortably. An MRC transport would have been handy, but she hoped she’d have little need for one after today’s ambush. Would her rocket launcher be enough to breach a tank’s hull? If not, the odds would turn quickly out of their favor.

  She led the small convoy to the ruins, guiding the vehicles behind one of the more stable buildings—a multi-story concrete frame. Once everyone was out of their vehicles and standing around her, she sent them out in pairs to areas that offered the best combination of cover and good sightlines. Except for Val and Rex, her ragtag group had no field experience. They fidgeted nervously, and she knew a fair number would freeze when it came time to take their first shot at a living target.

  “You can do this. This is what you’ve trained for. You’re protecting the silo and everyone inside. No matter what happens in the next hour, know that you’re saving lives,” she said.

  As they took their positions, she turned to Rex. “Take up a sniper’s position in the tall building there.”

  Rex didn’t budge. “Nope. My job’s to keep you alive. How else will I get you to go out with me if you’re dead?”

  She chortled. “I hate to break it to you, hunter, but you and me? Not going to happen.”

  “It’s Kit, isn’t it? You go for the scrawny ones who are always getting themselves beat up, don’t you?”

  She shook her head. “I need your head in the game, Rex. We’re about to go up against
dozens of murcs and a couple of tanks.”

  “My head is in the game. My brain’s big enough that I can both have my head in the game and carry on a friendly conversation with you.”

  “Sure it is. All right, you can set up near me.” She led him to a wall fragment near the edge of the ruins. She scanned the ruins and made out several of her people from behind. She was proud that most seemed to be relatively well concealed.

  She would’ve preferred to dig trenches to slow the tanks, but they didn’t have time. Joe’s latest message had said they’d arrive soon. That meant Val had to work with what they had, which she was afraid wasn’t nearly enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Boris sure doesn’t like us,” Tote said.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Joe asked drily. “Is it because he put us in the first wave, or is it because he put us with the inept and riffraff?” A dirty look from the trooper sitting across from him caused him to add, “Sorry.”

  “He didn’t put us with the—oh.” Tote cut himself off as he looked across the faces of the rest of troopers Boris had pulled together. This makeshift squad of misfits was clearly expendable. Three were usually on kitchen duty, which Tote had said was their only job. Joe didn’t recognize the other three and wondered if they’d been released from the brig only to be sent to their deaths.

  Joe recognized what they were heading into. Death waited at the ruins. Calling them the first wave was ludicrous.

  They were the bait, plain and simple.

  Even knowing that Val’s people would try to avoid hitting him meant little. During a chaotic firefight, it didn’t matter. His best chance for survival was to hang toward the back and run at the first shot.

  That Sloan hadn’t sent in the tanks first seemed like a callous disrespect for life. Then again, if someone was to die, Joe would rather it be a murc than one of Val’s refugees, and the refugees were ready. Val’s response to his latest message had been brief but clear: We’re waiting.

  The lone MRC unit drove to the edge of the ruins—another stupid order on Sloan’s part, but at least it saved him from having to walk very far. The transport provided cover, which was likely intended to help the first wave survive long enough to draw out their ambushers.

  The next two waves—one tank in each, leaving one to defend Sloan at the farm—had to be right behind them, since they’d been loading up and preparing to roll out the same time Joe’s transport left the farm. Though he hoped they were far enough behind to give him time to reach Val. Staying out in the open with the murcs was a quick ticket to a dirt nap.

  He was still puzzled as to why Sloan had called for two waves to follow the bait. Once the ambush was triggered, it made the most sense for the murcs to go in with everything they had to wipe out the rebels. The ruins were in a U-shaped valley, meaning there was only one way in and one way out, which eliminated any battle strategies that utilized flanking or pincer-type maneuvers. He hated not seeing the logic in a plan—it had to be there—but the back of the transport opened, and he had to first focus on not dying.

  Joe lagged as the others stood and moved to the back.

  The trooper who’d glared at him earlier stood in front of him. “You should take point in case we find trouble. You’ve already proven that you’re good at running away.”

  Joe sneered. “I’ve already been shot twice today. I’m in no hurry for another blaster burn.” And he meant it.

  The trooper pursed his lips and turned away.

  Tote held out his hand and helped Joe to his feet. “Ready for this?”

  Joe gave a dramatic sigh. “Do I have a choice?”

  Tote slapped his shoulder. “Don’t worry. That gang out there is probably a bunch of homeless teenagers trying to act tough. As soon as the second wave rolls in, they’ll turn tail and run.” His grin widened. “At least, they’ll try to run. We’ll mow them down in no time.”

  Fortunately for Joe, Tote had turned to the opening, so the murc didn’t see Joe’s expression. Joe had never been good at hiding his feelings—the exohelmet had helped immensely with that—and he’d never taken pleasure in killing anyone, certainly not when he knew who waited outside.

  Joe took up the rear with Tote right in front of him. The squad spilled out of the transport like a handful of pebbles, squinting in the bright sunlight.

  All seven squad members took positions against the transport. While it afforded them protection at their backs, from the front, they were lined up like targets for practice. And that’s exactly what happened. An eruption of blaster fire sent Joe back to the transport. A blaster shot struck the hull a few inches in front of him, and he dove, hit the dirt, and rolled between the tracks.

  “Marco!” Tote dropped to the ground, intending to join Joe. He started to roll, but a shot went through his helmet, and he died instantly.

  Joe clenched his eyes closed. He despised leading lambs to the slaughter. Tote hadn’t been a bad man. He hadn’t been good either, but that didn’t mean he’d deserved to die.

  Joe opened his eyes and elbow-crawled to the edge of the track to see if the coast was clear. What he saw was a cloud of dust. The second wave was nearly there.

  Then the pieces fell into place. The ice-cold logic of it stabbed him in the heart, stealing his breath. He placed a call to Val.

  She answered in a heartbeat. “You’re under the transport, right?”

  “Yeah, so don’t shoot me. I think this is a setup.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They split the tanks and squads into two groups at the farm. They’re distracting you out here to divide and conquer. I think they’re sending one group here to keep you busy while the other group goes for the silo.”

  He could hear her sharp intake of breath over the din of battle. “Hold on for a second.”

  He heard rustling, tapping, and a moment later, “Damn it. I can’t reach Grundy.”

  “I can’t reach Kit, either,” Rex’s voice came through Joe’s armlet.

  “We need to get to the silo,” Joe said.

  A nearby photon blast blew up a chunk of wall, sending out a shower of debris.

  “Too late. The tank’s almost here,” Val said.

  “I have an exoshield. I’ll get to the silo. Val, I need you to send me coordinates and access codes to every one of the silo’s entrances,” Rex said.

  “Be careful, Rex. You’re in danger of becoming a hero.”

  Rex laughed. “I’m not doing this to be a hero. I’m doing it for the first crack at Sloan’s vault.”

  Val said, “Rex, go. Joe, come to my position. I’m at your two o’clock—look to the left of the double-trunk tree. Move fast. That tank is almost on us.”

  “On my way.”

  He shoved out from under the transport. The shooting had ceased, and all the murcs in his bait squad were down. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see a tank rumbling into the ruins, a transport directly behind it.

  He sprinted. His leg protested, and his side had a stitch, but the painkiller did its job. A blaster shot hit the ground in front of him; he stumbled and dove.

  “Don’t shoot!” Val yelled. “He’s with us!”

  He pushed back up to his feet. He didn’t think the tank would fire on a murc in uniform, even one who looked to be a coward. It seemed his gamble paid off. He made it to Val, tumbling over a crumbling wall to join her.

  “I hope you brought a tank-buster with you,” he said.

  She patted the rocket launcher at her side. “This is all I’ve got.”

  He cringed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Kit’s heart sank when he saw the tank and two MRC transports roll into the valley. Val and Joe’s plan to draw the murcs to the ruins hadn’t worked. With nearly all the silo’s security forces at the ruins, only an old man and a badly injured Kit stood between the murcs and the silo.

  Silos were built to survive hundreds of years of tectonic shift
ing, but they had an Achilles’s heel: the ground entrance. The emergency entrances were flat covers hidden under inches of sand and rocks, but the primary entrance—the one visible and accessible to residents—was illuminated by a skylight. A severe enough hailstorm, and the glass would shatter.

  Except a tank was no hailstorm; it was a tornado.

  Kit popped another pill—he was going to need all the help he could get. Then he walked over and squeezed Grundy’s shoulder. “Take the elevator. Get down there with the others.” He glanced at the munitions lockers. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

  The old man shot Kit a withering scowl. “I’m no yellowbelly. I’m not leaving you here to fight alone.”

  Kit’s features hardened. “We’re not going to win this fight, old man.”

  Grundy held his blaster tighter to his chest. “I know.”

  Kit had been five when he left the silo, so he knew little about defending an underground fortress. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas on how to keep them from getting in?”

  Grundy swallowed. “They’ll get in; there’s nothing we can do to prevent that. But we can slow them down, make it harder for them to get into the heart of the silo.”

  “Tell me what to do,” Kit said.

  Grundy looked around the security room they stood in and held up a finger in the air as he mumbled his thoughts aloud.

  The security room was the highest place in the silo and nearest the entrance. Kit tried to ignore the video feed that showed the tank crawling to a stop less than fifty feet away. He tensed. “I need your help, Grundy.”

  “Hold on. I’m thinking.”

  Kit clamped his lips together and waited impatiently. He would’ve paced, except he refused to burn every precious ounce of energy he had. On the screen, a murc trotted over, carrying a large sign that read: