“Forrester,” Sachi said, “where the hell are your people going?”
“I’m sending them to look for who’s out there,” he replied, “and we’re staying here until they come back.”
“They’re trying to draw our exos out,” Sachi said, “you’re the ones falling into the trap.”
“We can’t let them keep shooting at us,” he said.
Another stray gunshot went off further down the hill. I looked in that direction, seeing movement down there. One of Sachi’s people from the other company went running down the hill after the movement.
“Come back,” Sachi said over her company’s private frequency.
The man slowed down about a hundred feet down the hill and then turned back around, trotting back up. A large caliber gun cracked, the man’s helmet shattering in a shower of brains and bullet proof polymer. Both companies’ members started firing everything into the woods in the direction of the road, aiming at nothing, their 30 mils and .50 cals tearing up the pine trees. One fired a grenade, exploding on a tree halfway down and sending it snapping to the ground.
“Hold fire!” Sachi shouted, all the weapons silencing at once. “They’re going to split us up and drain our ammo.”
“They fucking killed Serge,” someone said from the other company.
“Because he fucking ran off,” Sachi said, “they’ll just keep picking us off if we don’t-”
More gunshots went off, the Liberty Protection people fleeing back toward us. One of the refugees screamed as a stray bullet went into the crowd, hitting a teenage boy. The Liberty Protection people turned and knelt, opening fire up the hill with bursts from their .50 cals. Another potshot came down, hitting the ground right by Aveena, who screamed and jumped back, falling and rolling down the hill into a tree.
“Get them moving!” Forrester growled over the radio, “Go! Go!”
The LoC Security people ordered the crowd to their feet, getting them running. The Liberty Protection people continued firing intermittent bursts up the hill to cover our retreat. I went to Aveena, who was being helped to her feet by agent Brie, and grabbed her shotgun off the ground, handing it back. Aveena hugged the gun close as if for comfort, looking between the two of us wide eyed, seeming to forget everything Emma and Brie had shown her about how to handle the weapon.
The three of us ran along with the disorganized column of people, passing by the lifeless body of the dead teenage boy, a man attempting to get the boy’s mother to start moving. The Liberty Protection agents stopped shooting and ran to catch up. All the gunshots had ceased, now only the sound of just under a thousand people trampling through the forest.
“It wasn’t CSA,” agent Fancis Davis said over the radio, “I didn’t get a great look at ‘em, but I swear I saw Sean Rodham.”
“Why the fuck are they shootin’ at us?” Corporal Roman asked, “isn’t he your friend, Frank?”
“What are you trying to say?” Frank asked.
“Nothing,” Roman said.
“Go fuck yourself, prick,” Frank said.
“The fuck did I do?” Roman asked.
“That’s enough,” Major Ellison said, “we don’t know who is behind this.”
“We gotta slow down,” agent Brie said, “people are gonna get tired out.”
“Christ, Riviera,” Forrester said, “you let your agents bark orders? What kinda chicken shit operation you runnin’?”
“It wasn’t an order,” Brie said, sounding offended.
The bickering continued for another ten minutes, the crowd slowing down to a brisk walk on its own accord.
I tuned out the voices, exchanging a glance with Sachi. Even though both of us still had our visors down, I could just imagine her expression saying you see what I had to deal with in the front? And then my own expression answering back, apparently you didn’t escape it by coming to the rear.
After only five minutes of peace, the arguing falling into tense silence, more gunshots rang out. The refugees were calmer this time, although shouts of fear still answered the crackle of gunfire. Everyone quickly dropped to the ground. The exo suited people got into defensive formations, this time being more economical with their ammunition.
“Hit one,” Rocky said, “I think he’s wounded.”
The potshots were coming in long intervals.
“Should we send someone to capture ‘em?” Roman asked, looking quickly down the hill when another shot went off.
“No,” Sachi said.
“Yes,” Major Forrester said at almost the same time.
“We can’t split up,” Sachi answered back, scanning across the hill with her 30 mm raised, “that’s exactly what they want us to do.”
“Most of ‘em don’t seem ta have weapons strong enough ta penetrate the exos,” Major Ellison said. “And we might learn what’s goin’ on if we can question ‘em.”
“It looks like they’re wearing double aught nines,” Rocky said, “who the fuck are they?”
“The Crusaders,” I said.
“Christ,” Rocky said, “they weren’t wearing those Kevlar exos before, meaning…”
“Meaning they were supplied by someone,” Savita finished, “I’m guessing they ran down to Dolores and told the CSA they’d harry us if they were allowed to live.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” Corporal Roman said, “they were LoC. They wouldn’t initiate force like this.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Savita said, “not everyone in your fucking paradise wanted it this way.”
“Yeah, people like you,” Frank said, and then added in a suck-up tone, “it’s like the Major said, this is all your fault.”
“They’ve cleared out again,” Sachi said, “let’s get moving.”
“I’m callin’ the shots here,” Forrester said, “we’ll get movin’ when I say.”
Sachi said, muffled through her helmet without the radio, “oh, fucking Christ, are you serious?”
Within five minutes we were on the move again. Ten minutes later, more gunshots went off. The movement into defensive positions was even more routine this time, the refugees even quieter as they ducked to the ground. The gunshots cleared up and we went on the move again for another fifteen minutes before more were fired.
This happened again. And then again. And then again. All day long. It got to the point where the predictable argument after each sortie became more of a nuisance than the gunfire.
The movement into defensive positions became mechanical. By the time the sky began to dim, nobody made a sound when the attack came, just slowly and quietly getting onto the ground as if lying down for a nap on their stomachs. There was no time to stop to eat. Most of the attacks went without anyone getting hit – either our people or our attackers.
The sun went down. The attacks continued. The pattern was obvious. Five minutes of potshots from all directions, fifteen minutes of reprieve. Rinse and repeat. There was no time to stop for dinner.
The Crusaders knew they didn’t have the manpower or weaponry to defeat us in an open battle. And we had vulnerable civilians to protect. What they were doing made perfect sense.
The attacks continued, not giving anyone a chance to fully recover from the last. A few times someone would see one of the attackers get close and try pursuing them, but even the cruder exoskeletons the attackers wore allowed them to escape as a hail of bullets would rain down on anyone that split off from the group. But the bait of seeing someone just a couple hundred feet away was sometimes too tempting, even though the outcome was always the same.
The only talking was the bickering after each one – should we go after them? Keep going? Maybe we should just ignore the attacks and keep moving? Maybe we should setup camp and maintain defensive positions, waiting for them to get close enough we can take them out one at a time and whittle them down. Were they really the Crusaders, or just CSA people disguised to look like them? Are they leading us into a bigger trap? Maybe we should turn back. Or maybe we should go higher up. Maybe we shoul
d surrender to them. An argument broke about whether we should stay on the road, since it’s not like we’re hiding from anyone anyway, but we continued on through the woods, swinging wide around Telluride and Pandora. In all of it, there was always the not so subtle implication of just handing over the forty-eights in exchange for sparing everyone else. Though even Forrester didn’t dare say this explicitly.
Meanwhile, the temperature started dropping again as the evening wore on. It quickly became clear that our pursuers weren’t going to let up, wanting to harry us through the cold night to sap strength and morale. By nine o’clock we were no longer stopping during attacks, continuing to march. Exhaustion plagued the column, everyone persisting only out of fear and numbness.
Yet the attacks kept coming in the same pattern – five minutes of intermittent gunshots, occasionally hitting someone, although never fatally, and then fifteen minutes of quiet. Even when someone was hit, there was a calm that hovered over the refugees, their minds becoming desensitized to the danger.
By midnight, fatigue almost seemed to give way to a giddiness in some people. When the gunfire started people would shout out taunts. ‘Almost got me!’ a young man yelled. ‘What are you, blind?’ a middle-aged woman called. ‘Maybe we oughta stop and sleep,’ another woman said loudly, ‘not like these assholes can even hit us.’ ‘They’re trying to kill us with the cold wind from their bullets flying by,’ a gray-haired man growled.
More and more people joined in the taunting, some people even laughing hysterically or bursting into song as if they were drunk, which many of them probably were. But my experiences in past lives told me this wasn’t anything uncommon. Often the initial panic of a dangerous situation would give way to a sort of gallows humor if the danger was sustained for a long period of time. I could remember being in besieged cities where the abject misery was juxtaposed with uproarious laughter, almost as if mocking the absurdity of it.
Major Ellison was the final hold-out on joining the japing for quite some time, but even he gave into calling out taunts after a while. By four in the morning, our pursuers might be mistaken in thinking that their attacks had actually raised morale. Sachi began asking if Scott Hardy was alright after every attack, which confused and then delighted him as he joined in with the forty-eights like he was one of the guys.
“I mighta had ‘er wrong,” Hardy slurred as he put his bottle of whiskey back into his pack, “she seems like a pretty nice gal. I see wuh you guys see in ‘er. She’s like uh mother.”
Both companies of forty-eights cracked up in uproarious laughter at this, Scott Hardy looking around confused.
“You fuckin’ drunk,” Emma said, “she’s bet that you’ll be the next one to die. Stands to make a hundred crypto if you do.”
Other people started joining our death pool, explaining why they made their choices to more manic laughter between each one.
“I’m taking this guy Buford Stine,” Manny said, “when we were attacked from the road, I saw him shoot himself in the leg. Was just a flesh wound, but still, I think he’s a danger to himself.”
“I’m taking this chick Doris Listern,” Pedro said, “she seems like kind of a bitch. I saw her screaming at Ellison’s people to protect her when we were getting attacked. So fuck her, I hope she dies.”
“I’m takin’ this dude Christian Batey,” Rocky said, “the dude was fuckin’ complaining about gettin’ dirty when we started walking through the woods. I mean, Christ dude.”
“I’ll put my money on a man named Norman Hutchison,” César said, “my gaydar has been going off on him, yet he has not once responded to my flirtatious looks.”
“I’m taking my ex-boyfriend,” agent Brie said to oh’s and woops, Emma playfully slapping her on the back, “Steven Lloyd,” she crinkled her nose in disgust, “he broke up with me over social media and we lived walking distance from each other.”
“I guess I’ll take this woman Carle Smith,” agent Richard Sullivan said, his voice shaky over the radio as his Shift withdrawal was ramping up, “she’ll probably die of old age before getting shot.”
“Yeah, well I’m taking Ralphie Collins,” Francis ‘Frank’ Davis said, “that asshole has been doing nothing but smoking weed the entire time.”
“Sounds like my kinda guy,” Pedro said.
“I’m taking Susan Holloway,” Emma said.
“That chick with the two kids?” Rocky asked.
“Yeah,” Emma said, “it’s a fucked-up world, so I’m staking my bet on the fact that fucked up things will happen.”
The laughter at this point was almost frenzied, fueled by exhaustion, fear, and aimless anger. More taunts were leveled at our pursuers as gunshots started up again, right on schedule. The refugees whistled and jeered. One group of people bent over and pulled down their pants, mooning into the darkness up the hill. One of them jumped and fell forward when a bullet hit the ground between his legs, resulting in more raucous laughter.
When the potshots ended again, Emma looked to Olivia and asked, “You want in on this?”
“Stanley Forrester,” she said, everyone hooting and hollering in amusement again.
“Non-see Staerring,” a thickly accented voice said.
The people wagering became quiet for a moment, looking over and finding Akira walking a few paces from us. She looked as haggard as everyone else, yet there was something in her eyes that appeared more aware than I remembered from before.
“Nancy Sterling? That nurse chick?” Rocky asked, glancing ahead at the brunette woman who had helped patch Forrester up.
“I didn’t think you’d want in on this,” I said.
Akira shrugged, talking in English with a thick accent, “I cont beet on sowf on we-in, so I beet haer. She bravey run and haerp peeper wy fy-ting.” She glanced at Emma. “In fuck-up wurd, she die.”
The people wagering were silent for a moment before bursting into laughter again. Akira grinned weakly along with us, finding that amusement in the absurdity of our situation.
The joking back and forth continued through every twenty-minute cycle of gunfire and quiet until the sun started coming up when even the giddy, exhausted humor wore off. The constant, mechanical, tireless rhythm of the attacks became demented. The laughter and taunts died away, turning into sullen quiet again. And yet the attacks continued in rhythm. Five minutes of gunfire, fifteen of quiet. As if whoever was attacking us hadn’t noticed the change in mood.
One particular attack around ten in the morning ended up hitting four people, killing three. For an hour the fear was renewed, causing people to move faster, whimpers and murmurs floating around at each attack. But the fear then went back to baseline. People tried eating on their feet. People who had gotten drunk the night before were now sick. I passed by the occasional spot of steaming vomit puddled on the frozen ground as we continued on.
Every once in a while, a few jeers and taunts would spring up, but fatigue had gone beyond the point of it catching on the way it had during the night again. People occasionally shouted in anger, asking how this was even possible. How could our pursuers keep up the chase without a break?
A theory went around that it must be UGVs, but every once in a while, someone would catch a glimpse of a person in an EXO:B-009 exoskeleton scamper back up or down the hill away from us. For the most part the bickering about who is in charge had ceased, but occasionally someone would idly ask if it might be better to get lower on the hill, or higher on the hill, or stop for a break, and this would renew the argument for a few minutes.
The afternoon started to dim into night again, the rhythm continuing unceasingly. The grim joke became that we were making incredible time now. The mountains were well within view. We had gone almost forty-five miles in the past twenty-four hours. Talk of just stopping for sleep and letting the bullets hit who they may came up – it’s not like we were even doing anything to prevent them from hitting people, anyway. Others argued that if we stopped, it’d allow our pursuers to rest as well, and that thi
s was now a race to see who would give up first.
Midnight arrived before Major Forrester gave in and called for the halt. Everyone was relieved to stop, even when the potshots started back up again. Their aim was still inaccurate, half the shots not even hitting anywhere close enough to know where the bullet went. It was psychological warfare more than an attempt at extermination.
“They’re wearing us down for an attack,” Evita’s voice said, “and it’ll probably come as soon as everyone’s asleep.”
Even with the cycle continuing – five minutes of shots, fifteen of quiet – people fell asleep easily. One attack came with a particularly large onslaught, bullets hitting closer to home, people crying out, a few even being hit. And then it stopped and didn’t restart again after fifteen minutes. It stayed quiet for thirty minutes. Forty minutes. Fifty minutes. An hour. The tension actually increased in the extended quiet as everyone waited, not knowing when it was going to start back up.
But at least for that night, it stayed quiet.
Chapter 57
“Can I talk to you?” someone said, waking me from the half sleep I was in.
I looked up through my visor, finding Joaquin Yrid kneeling down next to me with his visor up. I lifted my visor and sat up, grunting. It was three fifteen in the morning. Most refugees actually looked to be awake, kept from sleep by anxiety over when the next attack might occur. The air on my face was painfully cold, moisture momentarily crystallizing in my nostrils as I breathed in.
“What is it?” I asked, taking a sip of water from the straw in my suit.
“I saw you talking to Socky the other day,” he said.
“Sachi?”
“Uh, yeah,” he said, “sorry. I saw you talking to her.”
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