Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  At that point he knew he should move on. Even so, he took a moment to drink in his small victory, looking around in the hopes that Shane or Jo had been watching. They’d been around every time he floundered, which was pretty damned often—was it too much to ask that they see him in his moment of glory? Apparently. The only thing stirring was a sparrow, eyeing him from a nearby branch. “You saw it, didn’t you?” he said to the bird, who flew off at the sudden disturbance.

  Feeling stupid, he started back down the path. He could hear the faint whir of more drones, but none near enough to spot. His course took him to the edge of the woods now, overlooking open fields with a familiar looking ridge beyond. That was where Jo was going when last he saw her, and just at that moment he caught a glint of something shiny up there. A flashlight, perhaps. Or a mirror. He figured it must have been her, and wondered if it were some sort of a warning. Perhaps she’d watched him take out the drone, wanted to let him know she knew and approved. Even as he thought it, the likelihood struck him as extremely low.

  A minute later, a group of men emerged from the woods about half a mile behind him, leaving the path he’d been on and moving in the direction of the flash. It was then that he realized the truth. She was attracting attention on purpose, probably trying to keep them off his trail.

  He gave a start as realization set in, his slamming heartbeat pounding in the fact that he’d almost been captured back there. Far from being helpful by wrecking the drone, he’d slowed his own progress and left himself wide open to his enemies. Somehow, Jo had seen it and come up with a distraction, or else he’d have been recaptured for sure. While he was screwing around, making God knows how much noise with that drone, she’d figured it all out from afar and saved his ass yet again. So much for heroics. He forced himself to calm down, taking deep breaths, then got moving again, this time with a renewed sense of urgency and no intention of straying from the path again.

  * * *

  Mindful of his injured limb, Shane crept forward as best he could. He had a direct route, easy to follow, but uncomfortably exposed. He took careful note of his surroundings, making sure to move through the tallest undergrowth and stay as low as possible. Given his physical condition, remaining concealed along the most direct route was logical, but he regretted the need for such stealth. Had he been more mobile, he could’ve skirted the edges of the grasslands, perhaps getting a read on the progress of his companions in the process.

  His slow pace did offer one advantage. He was able to keep tabs on the enemy, and get a sense of what their search pattern was shaping up to be. They seemed to be relying on those drones they had flitting about, fanning them out about half a kilometer ahead of them, then moving forward themselves. This made their position obvious, and Shane filed it away. Not that he could do much alone and injured, but he was trained never to let a valuable piece of information go unnoticed.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a mirror-flash, almost directly opposite the enemy position and up high. It was Jo up on the ridge, taking some of the heat off Dean. He chided himself for not thinking of that himself—two of them working together would’ve made more of an impact. Aiming to mitigate his error, he made a quick track to the rear and set fire to some brush. Nothing more than a distraction, really, but it would slow the enemy from moving straight forward at any rate. Ignoring the chivalrous instinct to abandon his position and go to his friends prematurely, he pressed on.

  Stepping up the pace, he tried to guess at Jo’s likely path, based on the flash he’d seen. He could at least lay down some suppressing fire, if he was confident she wouldn’t stray into it. Without that information, he didn’t dare. He caught a hint of movement up there, but he was out of position, and couldn’t be certain it was her. Still too risky.

  Feeling useless, he dragged himself closer to the ridge, still trying to determine Jo’s position. So wrapped up in that effort, he didn’t realize he’d neglected to keep track of enemy movements. Without warning, they were on top of him. In the few seconds he had to react, he spun around and kicked out with his good leg, catching one of them in the chest. As that one flew back, another maneuvered around and grabbed him by the throat. The squeezing, crushing assault quickly overpowered him, leaving him halfway to unconscious when the other one got back up and punched him in the gut.

  Feeling his awareness ebb away, he stared up and watched the clouds blur and spin. He had an odd, stray thought about the lack of air being a nice painkiller. He felt nothing of the punch, nor his leg. Nothing much at all. As he faded to black, there was an odd whooshing sound, then a forward snap as the assailant fell into him from behind. The man squeezed even tighter for a moment or two, then slumped to the ground, dragging Shane down with him, finally letting go as they hit dirt.

  With a desperate deep breath, Shane fought to get back up, managing to make it to his knees. He was staring into the face of the other one, who himself was staring back down, wide-eyed and mouth agape, at a spot just behind Shane. Still choking out deep breaths, Shane turned and saw the shattered remains of his choker. While he’d not managed to locate Jo, she’d known where he was this whole time, and struck a well-timed shot into the skull of his enemy.

  Still swimming from asphyxiation, Shane put his energy into dispatching the remaining assailant. Fortunately the man was still reeling from the shock as well, his eyes darting around in search of the unseen sniper. Taking advantage of his disorientation, Shane lashed out with a vicious chop to the throat, but the effort only served to re-focus the other man. Winded and losing strength, Shane began losing ground as they grappled, the attacker landing several punches in a row as he took the upper hand. With a last-ditch effort, Shane threw an uppercut that sent his opponent flying backwards, then with a supreme effort he landed one final kick that put the other man on the ground. Spinning from the momentum, he landed badly on his injured leg, and fell on top of his enemy. Scrabbling for purchase, his fingers closed around a good-sized rock, and he clutched at it while the other man tried to push him off. He rolled and waited for the countermove. As soon as his enemy was within reach he swung up hard, connecting stone to skull in a satisfying, primal blow. A spatter of blood splashed into his eyes, followed by a roaring pain of aggravated injury as the man collapsed on top of him.

  Heaving the unconscious man off, he gritted his teeth to keep from screaming, gave himself a few seconds, then rolled the opposite way and looked for more danger. There were no more behind him, he was reasonably sure of that, and he saw no further signals from Jo. Not that he expected to. She surely would’ve moved away from her firing post by now. He wouldn’t be able to track her, and neither would they. She was too smart to leave a trail. Turning to the woods on the opposite side, he tensed up. Something was out there, just inside the tree line.

  Favoring his wounded side, Shane kept an eye on the spot where he’d seen the movement, skirting around till he was about thirty yards to the side of it. Steeling himself, he moved past the tree line. He instinctively reached for his sidearm on his way in, then cursed silently when he remembered it wasn’t there. He’d have to attack this one the same as the others, weakened as he was.

  He snuck around until he was lined up, branches and growth shielding him perfectly from the spot where his target stood. Now he could approach without being detected, but as he was about to move he heard a rustling of leaves behind him. Turning slowly, he saw two more slowly making their way through the undergrowth. He was surrounded.

  He had to move again to put trees between himself and the men coming up from behind. This left him vulnerable to the man in front, but there was little choice. Creeping forward, he caught sight of a figure in a clearing, still a ways off. Only the hairline was visible at first, then eyes. Familiar eyes. It was Dean, pinned against a tree, wild-eyed and frozen in fear. The shock of Jo’s gunfire must’ve throw him into a panic. White-knuckling the gun and pointing it all over the place, he was looking for a target. He found one in Shane, and very nearly pulling the tri
gger. Only the colonel’s desperate arm movements stopped him. Relief washed over his face as he pulled the barrel up, and opened his mouth like he was about to call out. Shane shushed him and motioned for him to get down, then did the same.

  Slithering backwards and keeping out of sight, Shane stepped badly and choked back a yelp. Branches smacked at the wound as he stumbled, and he made an unfortunate amount of ground noise before regaining his footing. He froze, waited to make sure there were no surprises coming up from behind, then forced himself further backwards until he’d found a spot halfway between the trackers and Dean. He put his back to the largest tree and waved to get Dean’s attention. With hand to mouth to keep his friend quiet, he pointed in the direction of the enemy. “Stay there,” he mouthed, “keep quiet.” Dean couldn’t read his lips, but Shane hoped the accompanying body language would be enough.

  Dean’s eyes widened, but he nodded in rhythm to Shane’s prompts. It seemed he got the message. Dean held the pistol out in front of him, with shaky hands and a questioning look, as if he wanted to throw it to it’s rightful owner. Shane considered it, tempted to get his weapon back enough to give him a moment’s hesitation. But no. They were too far apart. If Dean didn’t nail the toss it’d attract attention. He motioned for his friend to keep it, then slid back down and slunk toward the trackers.

  He had the beginnings of a plan in mind, though nothing more than a distraction. He’d circle around, the way he’d been doing when he was tracking Dean, then set off a disturbance that would hopefully send them off in the wrong direction. It wasn’t much, but he only needed to buy a few minutes. Once he got back to Dean, they could beat a hasty retreat out of the woods, and from there he could keep a better eye out.

  To his surprise, he soon stumbled upon the makings of an even better diversion in the form of an abandoned campfire pit, wood and all. If he could convince the enemy that others were in the area, that might serve to slow them. He gathered up the dry stuff as best he could and lit the thing, once more slinking away as fast as his injury allowed. The frequent movement was doing a number on his leg, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  From a safe distance, he watched his fire flare up. The two trackers noticed it as well. They shrank back, keeping out of the line of sight, talking it over in tones too low to catch. They seemed at a loss, which was excellent, and with clear resignation they walked back the way they came. This was better than Shane could’ve hoped. With luck, they’d go all the way back, report that the woods weren’t clear enough for recon anymore.

  A branch snapped, surprising him out of his daydream. He guessed it was Dean, come over to help despite his clear instructions. What he saw instead made his blood run cold. It was the man from the clearing, the one he’d clocked with a stone. Still bleeding profusely, staggering a bit, but very much alive. And with a bird’s eye view of Shane’s little trick no less. He knew exactly what had sent his partners off, and he could see the condition his enemy was in as well. He wore an expression of intense, laser-focused rage, born of intense pain and humiliation. Shane feared he was about to get a first hand taste of how that felt. He turned and ran, limping badly and unable to make much headway.

  The attacker might have a head-wound to contend with, but he was far more mobile than his opponent. It was less than a minute before he caught up with the colonel and slammed both fists into his back, stopping him cold. Shane was too beaten, too banged up to hold out, and it took just one more blow to put him on the ground with a painful wrenching of the limb. He wouldn’t be walking again soon.

  He rolled, felt around for some weapon, but he was fresh out of tricks. Now there was only him against the assailant, and the other man had the agility to stay out of reach indefinitely. Moving around, he sized Shane up, also looking back in the direction of his partners. Shane could imagine the thought process. Take this one out, go back for reinforcements, find the rest.

  There was nothing left but to lash out, and Shane prepared to do just that. He’d go down fighting, even if he couldn’t get up to do it. But the attacker was ready for that, taking his time, circle-stalking his way around so as to force Shane to keep adjusting his own position.

  Sensing the enemy was weakening, the man coiled up to strike, and as he sprang forward a shot rang out. He was partway through his leap when it happened, felling him straight down, skull-first, onto the ground. Thankfully this time he didn’t land on Shane, who stared up in confusion at Dean’s horrified face, hands trembling even more violently than before, the gun still aimed squarely at the spot where the attacker’s head had been a moment ago.

  “You okay?” Dean choked out, touching his throat as if he’d expected no voice at all.

  “Not really,” Shane grimaced, “leg’s about done. Gonna need some help.”

  As he reached for Dean, the scientist seemed to snap out of his reverie, rushing forward to meet his friend and prop him up. This led to an uncomfortable moment when the barrel of the smoking gun pressed into Shane’s stomach.

  “Better let me have that,” the colonel said.

  Realizing it was still in his hand, he relaxed his grip and let Shane take it. They were about to attempt to stand when a sudden chop of rotors drew near, multiple birds if the volume was any indication, and within seconds they were overhead. Dean lifted his arms in surrender, but Shane grinned broadly. The quick flash of stars and stripes on the sleeve of the nearest soldier had tipped him off. Shane wasn’t sure if he could explain their situation without compromising the secrecy of the mission, but at least they’d be in friendly territory soon.

  31.

  Vern Jones had been semi-retired for three years, but he still had a hand in the family construction business he’d built in Joffrey. Over the course of decades he’d had his hand in any number of major projects around town, not to mention a good number of the homes they were now attempting to defend. He and Joe Thompson, chief structural engineer of the national guard, had been tasked with completing a ground-level analysis of their weaknesses.

  Joe Thompson was a seasoned guardsman, Vern a Vietnam vet. Both had seen their share of death over the years, including natural disasters and humanitarian crises. But nothing could’ve prepared them for the horrors they found while walking around Joffrey. Leaning on each other for support, they tried to focus on-task; determine which retention walls were worth reinforcing, and which ones could be let go. Block after block, the men forced their gaze from the carnage and onto the structures they were supposed to be evaluating. Check for soundness, mark as viable, fix location, note ideal path, or mark for elimination. Next block: Check, mark, fix, note, mark. Move on from there. They took to staring at the walls, and only the walls, making sure the inspections were perfect. Check, mark, fix-note-mark. Move on.

  But everywhere they turned, there was more rubble, more injury, more pure misery. It wasn’t anything like the human interest stories as pictured on TV, as they realized with a growing horror—the media had been managing those stories carefully. Never showing too much, always trying to capture the bright side. So unlike typical journalism. The true magnitude of what was happening increased tenfold when one realized even the reporters themselves, vultures though they normally were, felt the horror. Enough to help cover it up.

  Everyone was in on it. And the reasons behind it were shockingly obvious. If the truth were known, it would be chaos on the streets. Not these streets, not the affected regions. The rest of the country, maybe the world. A mass panic the likes of which had never been seen. That was why the media was keeping quiet, that was why everyone was participating in the coverup.

  Thompson’s radio crackled with sudden feedback, sending a jolt of fear up his spine that made him jump. “Thompson, central. You got Mr. Jones handy out there?”

  Vern guessed it was the Chief calling. That was the logical assumption, anyway, given the fact that nobody else on the force knew him all that well. The city hall folks did, he was always in there for permits and such, but not the boys on the
force. “He’s here. We’re not done yet though.”

  “I know. Chief Masters wanted to check in with him.”

  Bingo, Vern thought.

  The guardsman passed over the handset. “This is Jones. John, that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me Vern. You doin’ okay out there?”

  Jones knew this wasn’t a query about the inspection work. The policeman knew the full scope of things, and that Vern was seeing a lot of it for the first time.