Syndicate Wars: The Resistance (Seppukarian Book 2)

by Kyle Noe

  Lying under their bodies for what seemed like an eternity, Samantha eventually crawled out and grabbed a machine gun from one of the dead—a weapon that was nearly as big as she was—and stared down at her former friends and whispered a prayer for them. She wouldn’t shed a tear for them. She couldn’t. After all the things she’d seen in the weeks since the Syndicate invasion, her well had run dry.

  Samantha shrugged on a tactical vest and then shouldered the small, slightly ripped backpack that held all her personal items. Then, she checked the pockets on her work pants and set off across the street, through a field, and into a strand of trees. She soon made her way through a thick line of timber, moving with a restless energy, a sense of purpose that was belied by her age. She was only twelve years upon the Earth, but had the attitude and demeanor of a much older woman.

  Several weeks of being on the run, surrounded by older men and women, had sharpened her senses and honed her skills. Even though her father had basically skipped in and out of her life, she didn’t dwell on that. Quinn, her mother, had played both roles, and she’d been around her Uncles who’d taught her to hunt, fish, and track at an early age. Still, she learned infinitely more with the resistance.

  She’d been taught how to navigate by compass and field strip a machine-gun, how to build a boobytrap, and how to take down a Syndicate soldier by repeatedly firing at the neckline, the one area a traditional bullet had a chance of breaching the alien’s armor. She was twelve going on twenty-five, which was a blessing given how quickly the world had taken a knee. Her only worry was what her mother would say if and when she ever saw her again.

  Drifting between tree lines, Samantha was soon clawing her way up a ridge line. She perched atop a naked slab of rock and watched the smoke rise from some small encampment on the horizon that was being pounded by Syndicate gliders.

  She peered down at her hands, still wrapped around the stock of her gun. Her fingers were grimed and rubbed raw, but they no longer quivered.

  She wasn’t afraid of the aliens.

  Not anymore.

  Not after all she’d seen and done.

  The sound of Syndicate ordnance was so commonplace that it no longer bothered Samantha. She lifted her gun and slid down a decline. She moved down along the bend of a river that was heavy with sediment and crossed the water over a fallen tree. She was without coordinates, GPS, or anything else to guide her. The plan was to keep moving and hopefully stumble upon a small outpost of civilization where she could resupply and regroup.

  Twenty minutes later, Samantha hauled herself up over a switchback that was so densely populated with creepers and virgin forest that the foliage nearly turned midday to twilight.

  She sat in a cleft of rocks and ate a smear of energy and carb gel from a small packet she’d taken off the body of a dead resistance fighter. There was nothing but the sounds of the forest for many minutes and then came a metallic explosion and the telltale whine of metal on metal.

  She knew the sound well.

  A Syndicate glider was nearby.

  Slithering down into a fold in the foliage, Samantha fear-gripped her rifle and watched the glider circling out over a valley that lay perhaps a mile or two away. She raised her rifle and sighted on the alien machine, whispering to herself all the things she wanted to do to it. She’d seen what the gliders and the drones could do to flesh and bones. She’d been with the resistance fighters back in Indianapolis and then Vegas when the machines swooped down on them like great birds of prey. She’d like nothing more than to blow the goddamn thing out of the sky. Her finger eased around the trigger and—

  BOOM!

  The aft of the glider exploded in a bright, orange fireball.

  Samantha’s eyes goggled and then—

  WHOOSH!

  Another ship sliced by overhead, followed by a subsonic BOOM!

  It was an aircraft.

  An American fighter jet!

  Samantha was shocked that there were any left. She watched the jet knife past the glider and then circle around, letting loose with a bevy of rockets that curled up and into the rear of the glider.

  There was a series of concussive blasts and then the glider listed.

  It was down, but not out.

  The glider fired what remained of its thrusters and angled out as Samantha watched as compartments on the sides of the craft opened. The glider loosed counter-measures to draw off the jet and then returned fire.

  Soon, the sky was filled with Syndicate rockets and counter-fire.

  The jet avoided most of the munitions, but a Syndicate heat-seeking missile snaked around and blew the back of the jet off.

  Heart in her throat, Samantha watched the jet spiral though the air like a comet, heading on a collision course with the glider.

  The machines met and the jet plowed through the glider, breaking it in half. The rear section of the glider tumbled through the sky and blew apart before hitting the ground. The front section appeared to try and orchestrate a crash-landing, but failed, the nose of the glider ripping a hole through a section of forest before spearing into the ground in the middle of the valley, smearing across it. She watched a handful of small fires consume portions of the craft. She looked for any sign of life, any sign of movement, but saw nothing.

  Samantha dropped from her hiding place and skidded down a ravine back into the woods.

  Minutes later, she hopped a burbling brook and made off for a nearby industrial yard that lay just beyond the other edge of the forest.

  Her eyes searched the heavens, glancing about for any sign of more Syndicate drones. If she’d been looking down, she would have seen it—seen the five centimeter length of wire that was concealing a tripwire just below her ankle.

  Samantha breached the wire, which sent a flare screeching into the gun-metal gray sky.

  Tensing, Samantha ducked behind a massive tree and pulled the firing bolt back on her gun.

  “Don’t move!” a man’s voice shouted from somewhere in the industrial yard. “I see you, and I’ve got you surrounded!”

  Samantha didn’t move.

  She counted her breaths and lowered her gun so that she’d be able to whip it around and open fire if need be.

  Her finger eased around the trigger.

  “Come out with your hands up!” the voice said. “Don’t make us come after you!”

  Samantha looked back up. If she was fast, very fast, she could dart between the trees and make a run for it back up the decline. But that would mean exposing her back to whatever was hiding in the industrial yard, and that would be a mistake. She’d always remembered what her mother taught her. Never turn your back on an unknown or an enemy. Samantha thought about what her mother, Quinn, might do in this situation, and then she realized what she had to do.

  She decided to go on the offensive.

  Samantha turned and opened fire.

  Her gun sprayed in the general vicinity of the industrial yard, and she charged forward, screaming her head off.

  The magazine on her gun was nearly empty when a lone figure darted out in front of her.

  It was a scarecrow of a man just turning the corner, dressed in ratty garb. He waved his hands, and his panic-glazed eyes bulged.

  “I surrender!” he shouted. “For Chrissakes I surrender!”

  Samantha stopped and pulled her gun up. She aimed at the revolver that was still tucked in the man’s belt. The man did a double-take when he realized it was a five-foot girl in front of him. The man removed the revolver and dropped it on the ground. Then he craned his head and looked around.

  “Wh-where are the others?” he asked.

  “There aren’t any.”

  “Good Lord. Why the hell did you shoot at me?”

  “Why the hell did you say you had me surrounded?”

  “Because you’re trespassing.”

  Samantha’s eyes catalogued the industrial yard, a few rough acres of rusted car carcasses wreathed by a sagging, metal fence.

  “Trespassing
on what?” she asked.

  The man’s mouth opened and closed quickly, like a fish’s. Samantha reckoned he was confused about the proper answer. “Well, not much, technically,” he said. “But it’s mine nonetheless.”

  “You have the deed?” Samantha said.. “Gonna need to see some kind of property rights before I consider leaving.”

  “Ain’t got a deed.”

  “Then I’m not the only trespasser.”

  The man arched an eyebrow. “Exactly how old are you, young lady?”

  “Didn’t you ever hear it’s not polite to ask a woman her age?”

  “That’s part of the problem. I’m thinking you’re not yet a woman.”

  They stared at each other, but Samantha would give no ground. “What’s your name?” she asked, keeping the gun trained on the man.

  “Eli. Yours?”

  “Sam.”

  “Care to lower that gun, Sam?”

  Samantha looked about. “There anyone else hiding, Eli?”

  Eli shook his head.

  “You got any other weapons on you?” she asked.

  “How come you’re asking all the questions?”

  “‘Cause I got the jump on you and the gun.”

  Eli chuckled nervously. “Point taken,” he said. “And to answer your question, no. I don’t have any other weapons. Not a one, unless harsh words count.”

  A moment passed between them.

  “You look like you’ve been on the run for a while,” Eli said.

  She didn’t respond.

  “If you’re hungry, I got some food. It ain’t five-star or nothin’, but it’s edible. If you’re not hungry, you’re still free to hang out or leave. Choice is yours.”

  He pivoted and took a few steps.

  “Haven’t you ever heard that you’re not supposed to turn your back on an enemy?” Samantha called out.

  Eli glanced at her over one shoulder.

  “You’re not an enemy.”

  “I might be.”

  “Nah. I been around. It’s all in the eyes. Folks who are your enemy generally got hard eyes. Yours aren’t like that. At least, not yet.”

  Eli looked forward and continued heading back toward the industrial yard as Samantha stooped and grabbed his discarded revolver, pocketing it.

  MINUTES LATER, Samantha sat warily across a small fire from Eli who was cooking up some grub in a cast iron pot that was positioned over a section of metal grating. Her gun was strategically positioned across her legs in case she was forced to shoot Eli. She had a strong desire to bolt in order to check on the area where the glider had crashed, but she hadn’t had anything substantial to eat since the day before and was worried she might collapse from hunger if she continued on. Besides, whatever was inside the pot smelled glorious.

  Eli grabbed two metal cups and scooped a mixture of what looked like curry-colored gruel into them. He ate first, showing that the food was safe, then offered a cup to Samantha who took it. The cup was hot, so Samantha balanced it on the stock of her gun, blowing the steam off the top.

  “What’s in this?” Samantha asked, eying the gruel.

  “It ain’t people if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “That’s super reassuring,” she replied.

  “Hey, if you don’t want it—”

  “No, I’ll take it,” she replied, dipping a finger in food, tasting it on her fingers. She could discern several spices and the hint of onion and garlic and the silky taste of fat from cooked meat. It was the best thing she’d eaten in days.

  “You’re welcome by the way,” Eli said.

  “You should be thanking me.”

  “For what?” Eli asked.

  “Letting you live.”

  “That mother of yours ever teach you manners?”

  “She was too busy teaching me to kick ass.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell Child Protective Services that when they stop by.”

  “What?”

  “Forget it,” Eli replied, shaking his head.

  They ate in silence for several seconds.

  “’I ask you a question?” said Eli.

  “One.”

  Eli pointed at Samantha’s backpack. “What’s in there?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Where are your people at?” Eli asked.

  “I said one question.”

  “But you didn’t even really answer the first one.”

  “Gone, okay?” she replied. “They’re gone.”

  “Captured by them aliens?”

  “No, by the tooth fairy.”

  “You sure got a lip on you, Sam.”

  “Got that from my mom, too.”

  “I’d love to meet her some time.”

  “Highly unlikely. Like I said, she’s gonzo.”

  Eli looked up. “How far gone?”

  “So far, I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.”

  He took this in, slowly munching his food. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Samantha remained silent.

  “I had a nephew you remind me of.”

  “Yeah? Where is he?” she asked.

  “Same place your mother is, I imagine.”

  Samantha finished her food and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She glanced around and saw a small hut and an old metal locker that was opened and revealed a stash of canned food and dried goods.

  “It ain’t much to look at, but it’s a safe place,” Eli said, reading her look.

  “For now,” she replied, standing.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Only a matter of time before the bad guys find you. I’ve seen it happen before.”

  Samantha grabbed up her backpack and rifle and took a step.

  “Hey. What the heck? Eating and running?”

  “That’s right,” she replied.

  “Where are you going?” Eli asked.

  “There was an alien machine that crashed not too far away.”

  “Yeah. I heard it.”

  “That’s where I’m going.”

  “What the hell for?”

  She stopped and looked at Eli, dropping his revolver to the ground.

  “I’m twelve, mister,” she replied with a shrug. “I’m naturally curious.”

  IT TOOK another hour of heavy bushwhacking before Samantha reached the outer perimeter of the crash site. The undergrowth for a thousand yards around the destroyed alien craft had been flattened and charred when it collided with the earth.

  There was an enormous trench in the soil, a section a half mile long that Samantha surmised had been created after the glider broke apart. The rear section had simply fallen and air-burst, destroyed beyond all recognition, while the front section had angled toward the valley and plowed the ground before coming to a violent rest at the base of a hillside.

  Most of the glider had been destroyed in the crash, but there remained a section that was largely intact, and aside this was the debris from the jet. Samantha had seen photos of the jet before, she knew it was some variety of joint strike fighter that had collided with the glider to bring it down. There was no sign of a parachute, and she reckoned the pilot had died in the collision, sacrificing his or her own life to take the alien ship down.

  Samantha crept forward, the ground still warm, smoke still rising from the fires that dotted the ground. Her eyes hopped from the debris littering the land all around her, large and small pieces of the alien machine that were unlike anything she’d seen before.

  Her eyes roamed the crash site, looking for anything that might be of use. That’s when she saw it. A section of glider that had not been destroyed, an interior section of the vessel, visible through an open bay door that appeared to contain what looked like weapons.

  Bounding forward, Samantha made good time until she was standing on a ramp that had been partially bent during the landing. She slowly moved forward, listening to the machine creak as she balanced her weight. The air was heavy with the funk of burning metal
and other scents that she couldn’t place.

  She stopped only once to look back and make sure the coast was clear. In the back of her mind was something, some errant thought about the one thing she hadn’t seen strewn across the ground—the bodies of dead Syndicate soldiers. Had the machine been manned, or was it another drone? She wasn’t sure, but the weaponry did look enticing, so she scaled the ramp and peeked into the craft.

  The interior of the Syndicate glider was still obscured by smoke and the detritus of the doomed descent to the ground.

  Samantha gaped at the equipment that lay about, mechanical and bio-mechanical machines, gizmos, and gear crafted from smooth, shiny, alien material. She ignored the more mundane objects, diverting her attention instead to the weapons that had tumbled from their housings after the crash.

  She surveyed rocket pods and what looked like translucent bombs filled with orange and red liquids and a bevy of pulse cannons of all shapes and sizes. She hoisted a Syndicate rifle and recoiled as the butt of the gun, via a series of bio-mechanical levers and motors, transfigured itself to fit the angle of where her bicep met her forearm.

  Setting the rifle aside, she picked up the smallest weapon in sight, what appeared to be a silver handgun, literally not much larger than the palm of her hand. She held the weapon, a pistol really, in her right hand. It was smooth and cool and pulsed with a faint energy.

  There were no insignias or markings of any kind on the face of the weapon, no spot where someone might even insert a traditional magazine of ammunition. She gripped the pistol and—

  WHUNK!

  Some previously unseen segment of the pistol, a portion of its bio-mechanical innards, slid open, and a leather-like strap appeared and wrapped itself around Samantha’s hand.

  Her face wavered between incredulity and fear. She fought to undo the strap, but was unable to. Samantha’s hand came down and the pistol with it, and she caught her reflection in the glossy surface of a faraway wall. For a moment, the gun looked like an extension of her hand.

  Without warning, there came the sound of clicking outside.

  She whirled around and dropped to her haunches, just like her mother had taught her to do when faced with a possible enemy.