The Crane War

by Graeme Rodaughan

  The attack continued, running into the slowing second Chevy Suburban. The rest of the team had already evacuated the second vehicle. The 30mm rounds lingered for another half second and the SUV evaporated in a bright glare as the remaining stores of weapons and ammo ignited, vaporizing the vehicle into fragments of burning metal.

  The edge of the blast wave from the detonating ammunition flattened his team and blew him twenty feet into a hedge lining the parking lot. He rolled away from the thick branches and rose to his feet. He scanned his team; they were all rising to their feet. They had salvaged whatever arms they were carrying with them in the cars, a mix of assault rifles, MP5 sub-machine guns and a lone multiple-grenade launcher. The firepower of his team had just been decimated.

  The drone continued to patrol overhead. Another attack was imminent, the team needed to find cover as quickly as possible. Justin thrust his right hand out toward the closest warehouse and commanded, “Follow me.”

  He blurred across the road. They would follow the lines of the buildings to minimize the opportunity for the shadowstar to have another shot at killing them. Ironically, they would be safer in the vicinity of Arthur Slayne and the P-Case than out in the open and in the cross-hairs of a shadowstar drone.

  His team blurred behind him. Moments later they were following the wall of the nearest warehouse, looking for the entrance.

  The snap and crack of gunfire erupted over the tactical link.

  The vampires had caught up with the Mirovar force team.

  * * *

  No one can become a trick motorcyclist on a first ride.

  Anton couldn’t aim and fire effectively, and ride and steer his motorcycle at the same time. He spun the bike to a stop, snapped his assault rifle up to his shoulder and ramped hard. The airport resolved into razor-sharp clarity. Time slowed, the blurring vampires resolving into men and women sprinting across the grass and tarmac toward him. He was struck by how ordinary they looked, dressed in casual street wear, or occasionally a business suit. It was as if someone had trawled a shopping mall and collected these people at random. They were unarmed, their hands clenching spasmodically. Their eyes were dark with blood lust, glaring at him with avid hunger. Their excited shrieks cut through the night air like knives. They didn’t need weapons, they had numbers. As strong and tough as a Ramp master was, just a single vampire with a good grip on an arm or a leg could tear him apart.

  Despite his Ramp, an unsettling disquiet crawled into Anton’s gut. These were not disciplined praetorians who could be expected to make rational choices. A palpable aura of madness infested the air. A dire infection that echoed the berserker within him. He dared not go there again. What use was a deadly power that could kill everyone he loved. He couldn’t risk becoming a danger to the rest of the team.

  He constrained his ramp, holding it steady at just below his maximum capability.

  Tiny numerals ripped down toward zero on his nightglasses’ heads-up display. The leading vampires closed past a hundred yards. Anton pulled his weapon’s trigger. The assault rifle was configured for three round bursts. The weapon spat flame, three rounds lancing toward the closest vampire.

  The vampire moved aside, two of the bullets whipping past him. The third, a silver round passed through his left arm in a splash of blood. His face froze with shock, and he stumbled, falling to the tarmac in a cartwheeling jumble of arms and legs. A second vampire half a dozen yards behind the first was hit by a hollow point. She jerked backward in a pink mist, then recovered, running hard toward Anton.

  Fire speared from behind Anton’s right shoulder. One of his team mates had swapped to full-auto. A withering burst of mixed silver and hollow-point rounds cut through the vampires, dropping another three, with a fourth limping forward on a shot out knee.

  The vampires dodged, leaped and twisted, fanning out into a broader front as they sought to avoid the rounds streaming toward them from Anton’s right.

  Behind Anton’s left, light flared, reflecting off the pale faces of the swarming vampires. The crack of an exploding 40mm grenade arrived a moment later. Peter had opened up on the second swarm of vampires with his multiple grenade launcher. A handful of assault rifles barked and stuttered as the rest of the Mirovar force team engaged the larger force.

  The range to the nearest vampires dropped to fifty yards. Anton slid his leg over the bike seat and took a step away from the motorcycle. Gray smoke puffed from the barrel of his gun with each round. He snapped the weapon from vampire to vampire. Some were fast enough to twist aside; two others were shredded by combinations of silver and hollow-point rounds. The latter exiting in plumes of pink mist. Silver stricken vampires fell to the ground, sliding yards forward across the tarmac or grass.

  Continuous rifle fire lanced past him on the right, ripping ragged holes in the vampire line.

  The range dropped to less than twenty yards. There were at least two dozen vampires sprinting toward him, some were branching off toward Anton’s right to attack whoever stood behind him. The gunfire from that direction fell silent as his team mate ran their first magazine dry.

  Anton held the trigger down, his assault rifle riffing through its magazine on full-auto. The vampires screamed with hate and fury. They converged on his location, bunching up into a nearly solid wall of howling terror. His bullets couldn’t come fast enough to slow their advance. For every vampire taken down, another took their place.

  Light flashed from behind him, casting shadows across the advancing vampire’s faces. Automatic gunfire cracked and echoed across the airport, counterpointed with the sharp crump of exploding grenades. His rifle clicked on empty, gray smoke issuing from the barrel in a rising wisp. A vampire appeared on the far side of the motorcycle. She leered at him, her long dark tresses a ragged curtain around her pale face and gleaming fangs. She snapped. “Your empty.”

  Anton stabbed her through the left eye with the barrel of his rifle. She recoiled back like a cut snake, her hands flying to her face. The five nearest vampires leaped at him, eyes wild, fangs bared, pale hands outstretched to grip, rend and tear. Their screams rising in excited expectation of triumph.

  Anton launched himself up and back, flipping midair. He released the rifle, letting it swing from its straps. His right hand snapped up, grasping the handle of the Blue Dragon. It swished free from its scabbard, its magnificent blade gleaming in the airport’s floodlights. He landed on the tarmac, the Blue Dragon arcing down upon the closest vampire. The blade sliced into the creature at the point where the neck met its left shoulder and exited just above the opposite hip.

  Anton spun away, his katana trailing a line of blood. The stricken vampire fell in opposite directions, his comrades rushing past him. Their faces twisted with a ferocious madness bordering on frenzy.

  Jay stood ten feet away. He rammed a fresh magazine home and opened up at point blank range on the rest of the vampires rushing them. He backed away from the advancing creatures, tongues of fire licking from the barrel of his gun with each round. The vampires were less than ten feet away from him, so close the flames from the barrel were reflecting off their dark eyes and multiple rounds were tearing chunks of flesh from their bodies.

  A counter on Anton’s nightglasses displayed nineteen hostiles within twenty feet. They were being overrun and surrounded. A sliver of fear pierced Anton’s heart. He’d never faced anything like this before.

  Jay leaped backward in the direction of the rest of the Mirovar force team, firing his rifle with one hand to provide what cover he could. His other reached for his katana. He raked the tarmac beneath him with rifle fire before he landed. The nearby vampires spinning away. Landing in a crouch, he rose in a classic fighting stance, his rifle slung at his side, his katana held with both hands pointing nearly vertical above his head.

  The vampires surged forward again. Anton twisted and turned, rushing to get closer to Jay. Together they could cover each other’s back. A vampire grabbed Anton’s left ankle. It was like his foot was frozen in concr
ete. He fell down flat on his face upon the tarmac, the Blue Dragon skidding clear of his right hand.

  Strong hands flipped him over onto his back. Bodies crowded around him. The vampire he’d stabbed in the eye appeared over his face. Her left eye was a ragged mess of raw flesh dripping blood onto his face. Her head flicked right, lining up across his neck. Her fangs gleamed in the floodlights as she cocked her head back for the downward plunge into his throat.

  Something snapped deep within Anton’s soul. A cobalt fire ripping through him like an Arctic gale.

  The vampire hesitated above him.

  Anton convulsed, wrenching his right hand free. His stiff fingers speared upward into the vampire’s throat. He clenched his fist, tearing down in a flash, ripping her jaw free from her face in a shower of blood.

  He crunched forward, leaping to his feet, another four vampires hanging off him like rats harrying a wild dog. He whirled and spun away, breaking their grip on him, vampire bones snapping like a volley of drums. The creatures howled, then launched themselves forward in a mad frenzy of blood lust.

  A voice resounded in his ears. A distant part of his mind recognized it as his grandfather. The voice called out, “Cut through to the warehouse.” The meaning of the words was lost in a howling gale of noise. Someone was screaming. A deep throated counterpoint to the shrill shrieks of the vampires.

  Anton gave way to the berserker Ramp, retreating into a world of instinct where the only rule was kill or be killed.

  A red mist descended and cast all restraint away.

  * * *

  The command shadowstar drone hovered two miles above the airport.

  “What the hell is that?” Crane snapped.

  Chloe followed the line of Crane’s finger to the lower-right-hand corner of the battlespace display. One of the Ramp masters was fighting the vampire militia with his bare hands.

  Crane manipulated the feed, and the vision expanded until a ten-yard square around the fight filled half the available display. Anton Slayne blurred through the remnants of the first wave. A counter at the bottom of the screen indicated living militia vampires within the field of view. It was down to twelve, and dropped to eleven as Anton tore the head off the nearest vampire.

  The vampires struck back. Pummeling and tearing at Anton. He rocked beneath their blows, but what should have taken off an arm or a leg, or caved in his chest wall, left him standing.

  A memory of summoning the hardness of the supreme ramp flooded through Chloe’s mind. The night she’d been trapped in the foul mud on the bottom of the Mystic river opposite the Boston docks. She’d made her bones harder than the skin of a nightfalcon helicopter. She’d punched through its armored nose with her bare hands and torn it apart. Anton must be doing something similar to avoid being shredded by the militia vampires.

  She glanced back at Crane. He did something she’d never seen him do before. He shuddered. He stared at Anton for a long moment. The counter at the bottom of the screen making steady progress toward zero. He then uttered in a voice of quiet amazement, “A berserker.” His gaze flicked to Chloe’s face. He pointed a long finger at Anton Slayne, a finger betraying a barely perceptible tremble, and commanded, “Kill him. Kill him quickly.”

  Chloe pressed her lips together and nodded. Her hands flashed over the display. A red cross-hairs appeared over the image of Anton as he smashed the last of the first wave vampires head first into the tarmac, splashing the militiaman’s brains over the ground. He rose up from the kill, and looked around, apparently perplexed by the lack of immediate opponents. He spotted the Blue Dragon lying a dozen yards beyond the circle of partially dismembered corpses surrounding him. He blurred to it, scooping it up in a single movement and rushed off toward the second wave vampires assaulting Arthur Slayne and the Mirovar force team.

  That fight was at least three hundred yards away from Anton but getting closer with every second as he blurred across the airport. The shift in targets to Anton would give relief to the Blake force team who’d disappeared into the first warehouse. Another Ramp Master two hundred yards in front of Anton opened fire on the rear of the second wave vampires. It was Jay Creeley, he’d obviously thought better of hanging around a berserk Anton Slayne.

  Chloe opened a communications channel to the deployed shadowstar drone a mile beneath their position. “Hoffman, a new target has been designated,” she said with a level voice. “Avoid collateral damage, no cruise missiles.”

  “Copy that, Ma’am. Weapons are hot,” Hoffman responded.

  The time of Anton Slayne being her asset had come to an end. Chloe issued her next command without hesitation, “Fire at will.”

  She drew in a breath and sighed quietly. Anton was exceeding her expectations for him. It was a shame to lose him now before he could fulfill his purpose.

  She studied the screens. There was nothing else she could do.

  * * *

  He barely remembered his name. The enemy were massed in front of him. He surged toward them, a bright blade in hand. He would kill them all and rejoice in their spilled blood and dismembered flesh.

  Li’s voice called from deep within his mind.

  Anton staggered. His left hand slapping the left-side of his face. A jagged spear of agony lanced behind his eye patch, driving through his skull like a pile-driver.

  The agony lifted, the red mist clouding his mind dissipating like a half-remembered dream. Her voice called out again like a clarion trumpet, “Above you!”

  He glanced upward. A shadowstar drone loomed above him. His nightglasses zoomed in. The weapons bay was open, a multi-barreled cannon pointing directly at him with deadly intent.

  Anton panic ramped, jagging hard right.

  Light flashed behind him. Hot air bathed the back of his neck as the night thundered around him.

  Anton kept moving - it was the only thing keeping him alive.

  He twisted, turning hard left, bursting forward like a demon escaping hell.

  The sharp light and ripping thunder of excoriated tarmac and earth followed him. The firestorm followed his steps, a burnt metal stench flooding his nostrils, promising nothing but sudden death.

  Anton dug deep into the silence and blurred to the right.

  * * *

  Anton avoided the third attempt to kill him.

  “Damn it,” Crane snapped. “He’s too fast.”

  Chloe asserted, “It’s the wrong weapon. It’s designed to defeat vehicles. A single Ramp Master can avoid it through continuous random direction changes.” She tightened her lips momentarily, suppressing a smile. “We’d have to get lucky to kill him this way.”

  “Indeed,” Crane growled. “Maintain the attack. We’ll see if his luck holds out.”

  Chloe nodded, there was nothing to say to Hoffman, he had his orders and would continue to attempt to kill Anton with his 30mm cannon until he was successful or ran out of ammunition.

  She scanned the screens. Arthur Slayne and the Mirovar force team had made it to the front of the second warehouse. The second wave vampires had taken more than fifty percent casualties. Not surprisingly, the use of thermobaric grenades by the Mirovar force team had been devastating against unarmored vampires. The Ramp masters stood in a close group in front of the warehouse, firing automatic weapons on full auto at the advancing second wave vampires. The use of 40mm grenades had ceased. They must have exhausted their stocks. The second wave vampires continued to blur toward the Mirovar force team. They would swamp the Ramp masters in moments.

  Chloe doubted that would actually happen. Surely Slayne would have a way into his own building. In any event, the second wave had served its purpose and drawn the Blake force team into the fight. The second force team had disappeared from view. They were last seen approaching the first warehouse. She said to Crane, “The Blake force team have entered the first warehouse.”

  “Who’s carrying one-thousand-pound hammerheads?” Crane asked.

  “Cantor,” Chloe replied.

  “You know w
hat to do.”

  Chloe issued the commands for Cantor to target the first warehouse with a hammerhead cruise missile.

  Crane stated matter-of-factly, “Take away the ground of the enemy.”

  In a matter of seconds, the first warehouse would cease to exist.

  * * *

  “Justin, hit the second level tunnel,” Arthur called over the tactical link. “Follow the map.”

  There was a shadowstar hunting Justin’s team and the first warehouse was slim protection at best. He scanned the interior of the warehouse with his nightglasses. It was an easy hundred yards across and double that long. A shipping container stood nearby, its doors locked with dark-gray chains and polished padlocks. It was outlined by a green box in his Order nightglasses.

  Justin shouted, “This way,” and blurred toward the container’s doors. He gripped the closest door, his muscles bunching across arm, shoulder and thigh. He gave a mighty roar, metal squealed and tore, the chains snapping apart and clattering to the concrete floor. A moment later, he shepherded his team into the container. The floor revealed a set of stairs leading down to a well-lit landing. He pursued his team members down the stairs like the devil hunting lost souls. He reached the first landing, a tunnel running to a ‘T’ intersection beckoned to his right. He ignored it, whirling around the landing and descending to the second level.

  The stairs shook and he leaped the rest of the way. A deep-throated ‘THA-OMP,’ reverberated through the tunnel as he fetched up on the lower landing. A plume of gray dust followed him onto the landing, coating his hair and clothes. He picked himself up, waving the gray mist away from his face and staggered out onto the lower tunnel.

  Justin’s team greeted him, patting him down and slapping his shoulders. He stared past them into the tunnel. It ran for twenty yards than branched with a ‘T’ intersection. Arthur’s map application drew a green line curving past the right corner labeled ‘Warehouse #2.’ He looked around, everyone was okay, and he said, “Let’s go.”