Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory

by Christopher Nuttall

  “They’re playing at being military,” McVeigh explained, when she commented on it. “Just like many of those militia groups.”

  Judith shrugged. Some of the militias had grown into determined and capable insurgent groups, hurting the aliens wherever they found them. Others had been so overconfident that the aliens had practically wiped them out in their first engagement. War, she’d been told, was a harsh exam. Those who failed died.

  “Time to slip away,” McVeigh added. Down below, the Order Policemen were climbing into the trucks. “We need to report in.”

  “And,” Judith asked, “tell them what?”

  “That the enemy is on the move,” McVeigh said. “I think they need to know that, don’t you?”

  ***

  I think that Nicolas has the better job, Greg thought, sourly. Or does he want to strangle his superiors too?

  His original job might have evaporated, but he did have a reputation for repairing computers. It wasn't hard, not when most problems could be solved by looking at the list of recently-installed programs or – if all else failed – checking the help files. But it had also convinced him that most people were idiots when it came to computers. A few simple precautions and half of the job’s hassle would simply disappear.

  “The problem is caused by these files,” he said, wishing that he was somewhere – anywhere – else. “They were downloaded from the internet by one of your children.”

  Mrs Flint glared at him. She was fifty years old and had brought up three children after her worthless ass of a husband had abandoned them – or so she told everyone who even showed the slightest bit of interest in her life story. Greg would have liked to know which part of his job description included listening to his client’s personal details, but he kept that thought to himself. Mrs Flint would complain about him if she thought he was being cheeky and half of his customers would disappear, out of fear of her sharp tongue.

  “My boys wouldn't visit such websites,” Mrs Flint insisted. “Someone must have hacked into my computer and downloaded them into my system ...”

  Greg didn’t – quite – roll his eyes. The odds of a hacker deciding that he was going to spend his time downloading porn– and the attached viruses from untrustworthy sites - for Mrs Flint were quite low. It was far more likely that her three teenage boys had discovered the joys of online porn, without learning how to tell the difference between safe sites and unsafe sites.

  “No doubt,” he agreed, dryly. “I suggest, however, that I should give them a lecture on computer safety ...”

  “So you can claim extra money,” Mrs Flint snapped. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

  Greg shrugged. It wouldn't be long before Mrs Flint called him again, in a panic because her system was refusing to work properly. Given the amount of junk the boys downloaded – toolbars, nifty programs, outright porn – he was mildly surprised that it worked at all. At least she didn't have a husband any longer. Greg still recalled with embarrassment the day he’d asked an innocent question about who had been downloading porn, only to ruin a marriage.

  He opened up the computer and went through it, deleting the junk programs one by one. Luckily, there didn't seem to be any damage to the actual computer itself, merely too many running programs for it to handle. Shaking his head, he finished the job, started to set a password to prevent people from downloading additional programs, then decided that it wasn't worth the hassle. Mrs Flint would make a terrible fuss if she decided that he was interfering with her freedom to use her computer as she saw fit.

  “It’s done,” he said, finally. “However, I would suggest that you got a new machine ...”

  “I could sell this one for a thousand dollars,” Mrs Flint said. “And then buy a new one with the money.”

  Greg sighed. The computer might have been worth a thousand dollars when it had been purchased, although he doubted it, but it wasn't worth more than twenty bucks now. Before the invasion, it would probably have cost more to post it to its buyer. Now, of course, with no new computers being produced in America, there wouldn't be a replacement – unless Mrs Flint made a deal with a computer geek. But that was unlikely. Few people took New Dollars unless they were pushed into it.

  He shook his head. Mrs Flint’s refusal to grasp a few basic realities of life – her boys watching porn, alien invasion destroying the public transportation networks that had once allowed Americans to ship something thousands of miles overnight – wasn't his problem. All that really mattered, right now, was taking care of Nancy and keeping his head down. And hoping that the aliens didn't press him into further collaboration.

  “I’m sure you can,” he said, and picked up his coat. “I’ll see you next time.”

  Mrs Flint counted out seven hundred New Dollars and passed them over to Greg, who took them gratefully. Inflation was already a problem – he wouldn't have been paid so much in old dollars, not before the invasion – but at least it would ensure that Nancy and himself could eat. He pocketed the money, shot a warning look at the two teenage boys hiding up the stairs and then walked out of the harridan’s house. Mrs Flint could solve her own problems in future.

  He couldn't help noticing that there were more Order Policemen on the streets as he walked home. Every street corner seemed to have a handful of policemen, standing there and fingering their rifles as if they expected the entire town to come alive and start hunting them down. They didn't seem to be stopping and searching people, something that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. If their behaviour was odd – they weren't even leering at the girls – what were they doing?

  Nancy yelled to him the moment he stepped inside the house, running down the stairs to give him a hug. He’d insisted that she didn't step foot outside the house while he was gone; if he’d had enough food, he would have suggested that they both stay inside and hope that the chaos washing over the world left them alone. But the small stockpile of food he’d built up after the invasion was gone and he had to work for them to eat. Shaking his head, he gently pushed his adopted daughter into the kitchen, then concealed half of his money from Mrs Flint in a antique jar. If he hadn’t had enough problems, there were reports that Order Policemen were stealing money too. Didn't the aliens pay them enough?

  Maybe it’s inflation, he thought, ruefully. A thousand New Dollars at the start of the month becomes toilet paper by the end of the month.

  He walked into the kitchen and found a tin of soup, which he poured into a pan and put on the stove. God alone knew what he was going to do when he ran out of gas; the aliens provided power on a very limited basis, often turning the power off and on every so often to remind the humans who was in charge now. He wasn’t sure that he could keep up with the electricity payments, even with guaranteed employment from Mrs Flint. It was easy to wonder how many repairmen had carefully concealed the source of the problem so that they would be called back, time and time again.

  They were midway through dinner when he heard a dull rumble sweeping over the town. Motioning for Nancy to stay where she was, he walked over to the window and drew the curtains aside, just in time to see a handful of military vehicles driving down the middle of the road. Once, the sight would have been strange, almost surreal. The heavy armoured vehicles had once seemed utterly out of place in suburban America. Now, they were all too typical.

  “Daddy,” Nancy said, “what’s that?”

  “Trouble,” Greg said, feeling a shiver running down his spine. “Drink up your soup and ...”

  There was a knock at the door. Greg hesitated, wishing that he still had the pistol Nicolas had given him. But it had been confiscated, along with most of the weapons in Mannington – besides, all he could have done with it against such firepower was to die bravely, leaving Nancy alone. Plucking up his courage, he walked to the door and opened it to see a grim-faced Order Policeman. Others lurked, just outside the garden gate, holding their weapons as if they feared resistance.

  “Call everyone out of your house and gath
er in the middle of the road,” the Order Policeman snapped. “Now, damn it. Anyone found trying to hide will be beaten.”

  Greg swallowed, then called for Nancy. “Should we take anything with us?”

  “No, just get out there,” the Order Policeman snapped. “Now!”

  Greg obeyed, holding Nancy’s hand tightly as they walked out into the middle of the road. Everyone on the street seemed to be getting the same treatment, several of them being pushed along when they didn't seem inclined to move fast enough to suit the Order Police. He caught sight, briefly, of one of Mrs Flint’s boys, before he was hidden in the crowd. The young man looked to be on the verge of panic. He wasn't the only one.

  He looked over at the armoured vehicles and swallowed again, realising that they were positioned so that they could fire into the crowd if necessary. Nicolas had once told him that they’d had to be very careful to avoid an accidental massacre in Iraq; if half of the rumours he’d heard were true, the Order Policemen had carried out deliberate massacres in America. He looked up at the grim-faced men and wondered, bitterly, just where the aliens had managed to find so many willing collaborators. Who would have thought that there were that many Americans who were willing to cooperate with an invading force?

  And who are you to talk? His thoughts mocked him. You collaborated as much as any of them. And you weren't honest about it, were you?

  There was a deafening sound as one of the vehicles fired a machine gun into one of the houses, shattering plaster and smashing windows. “March to the centre of town,” a voice ordered, sharply. There was a choking sob, hastily cut off, from one of the people who had lived in that house. “Do not delay. March to the centre of town.”

  When they arrived at the sports pitch, where the registrations had been carried out – it felt like years ago, even though it had barely been two months - Greg saw a small army of collaborators waiting for them. They hadn't been allowed a chance to pick up their ID cards, but it didn't seem to matter. The collaborators lined them up, checked everyone’s fingerprints and biometric readings, then pushed them into the middle of the field to wait. Greg looked around at all the gathered firepower and knew that resistance would be futile. The emotionless Walking Dead in command of the operation wouldn't hesitate to gun down anyone who tried to fight.

  “Daddy,” Nancy said, “what are they doing?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie,” Greg said, although he had a very nasty idea. There were reports of mass slaughters – and worse – posted on the internet. Maybe the aliens just intended to depopulate Mannington and leave the buildings alone, just to make a point. “I just don’t know.”

  It seemed like hours before the alien collaborators finally pronounced themselves satisfied. Everyone in Mannington, from the mayor to the youngest child, seemed to have been gathered in the heart of the town. A handful of people who had been caught trying to hide were dragged in, after having been beaten black and blue, and dumped on the edge of the field as another warning. The aliens seemed not to care about the actions of their collaborators, as long as they obeyed orders when it counted.

  “Those of you who are unmarried, or without children, come forward,” the collaborators ordered, finally. They repeated the instruction several times, as if they expected people to balk. “Those of you who are unmarried, or without children, come forward.”

  Greg watched, one hand holding Nancy tightly, as the first batch of humans came forward. The collaborators searched them, removed anything that might be useful, and then bound their hands before pushing them into a truck. Once the first set of trucks were away, the second arrived, allowing them to keep funnelling people into the vehicles. Greg was reminded of scenes from the Holocaust before the collaborators finally called on people with children. He braced himself as fingers searched his pockets, then bound his hands and shoved him into a truck. Nancy, it seemed, was young enough to be left unbound. Instead, she was merely assisted into the truck behind him.

  “Be brave,” he whispered. Everyone seemed to be panicking, particularly the youngest children. They were crying, screaming for their parents to do something – anything – to end the nightmare. But there was nothing their parents could do to help them. All they could do was endure and pray that the aliens didn't intend to kill their children. “Please. Be brave.”

  “Shut your brats up or we’ll gag them with tape,” an Order Policeman snapped.

  It was a futile effort, Greg saw. The kids were too frightened to be quiet and their parents weren't much better.

  Maybe they don’t intend to kill us, he thought, clinging to what little hope he could. They didn't molest any of the girls.

  The truck’s engine roared as it lurched into life, heading down through Mannington towards the checkpoints on the edge of town. It was hard to see anything outside the vehicle, but Greg caught enough glimpses of his town to tear at his heart. He couldn't help wondering where they were going, where the aliens were taking them ...

  ... And if they would ever see Mannington again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mannington, Virginia, USA

  Day 212

  Nicolas lay on his belly and peered through his binoculars towards Mannington, fighting the urge to run forward and do something to get his daughter out of the trap. But there was nothing he could do. By the time the reports reached the bunker, the Order Police had already surrounded Mannington and planted armoured vehicles in positions that covered every possible angle of approach. All the resistance could do was watch as the town was slowly emptied of human life.

  “They brought enough transport along to move everything,” Sergeant Bain muttered. The recon specialist had been attached to Nicolas’s new unit by Oldham personally. “That’s the entire town they’re taking away.”

  Nicolas nodded, still unable to grasp what the aliens were doing. They had carried out massacres in the past – he’d avenged several of them personally – but they had never simply emptied a town, at least outside the land they’d stolen for their cities. This was odd, and that bothered him. The closest alien city was hundreds of miles away.

  He silently counted the trucks as they left, praying that they wouldn't run into an IED or another surprise. The aliens had sensors that sniffed out IEDs, although the resistance had found some ways to fool them and the Order Police rarely seemed to use them, for no apparent reason. Nicolas suspected that it was proof that the alien rebels were right and resources were actually quite limited. Or maybe they just considered the Order Police expendable.

  “Yep, definitely enough transport,” he muttered back, already composing his next message to the alien rebels. Maybe they could provide answers about what had happened to his daughter. And the man he’d once considered a brother. “But what are they going to do with the town?”

  Hours ticked by as the alien collaborators searched Mannington thoroughly, moving from house to house with practiced ease. A handful of people who’d remained in hiding were dragged out and shot, their bodies left to bleed out and die on the pavements, but there didn't seem to be any organised looting. Normally, the Order Police took everything that looked valuable and wasn't nailed down. Now, they were brisk, efficient and disinclined to waste time. Either they were growing more professional, Nicolas decided, or they had something else in mind. He rather hoped it was the latter.

  “I think they’re getting ready to go,” Bain said, flatly.

  Down below, the armoured vehicles were moving back towards the checkpoints on the edge of town. The collaborators were leapfrogging their way out of the town, as if they were practicing a retreat under fire. Nicolas hoped that they wouldn't be so professional if they were actually called upon to perform such a movement for real. It was never quite as easy as the tactical manuals made it sound.

  “Looks like it,” Nicolas agreed. Where was Nancy? Where were they taking her? Had she been separated from Greg? “They’re leaving the town empty.”

  He gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to charge directly a
t the alien collaborators and demand answers. Nancy wasn't old enough to attract attention from the average male, but he knew from bitter experience that there was no shortage of paedophiles in the Order Police. Half of the reason they’d joined, he knew, that that the aliens didn't care what they did, as long as they obeyed orders. The thought of his daughter being raped by one of those bastards was maddening – and terrifying. What if they realised just who her father actually was?

  “Look,” Bain said. He pointed into the distance, where a trio of alien craft were approaching, skimming the ground like some of the CAS aircraft Nicolas had called on back when the world made sense. “I think they’re coming here ...”

  Nicolas had no time to say anything before the three craft passed overhead and circled Mannington, their pilots clearly ready to hit the drives and race away if a Stinger missile rose up to challenge their control of the air. But nothing happened, apart from birds fleeing the presence of aerial intruders. The aliens seemed to relax, their craft slowing down until they were hanging silently in the air, dominating the skies over Mannington. Nicolas, no matter how much he despised the Rogue Leaders for what they had done to their own race – and were planning to do to humanity – had to admire their technological prowess. The thought of the power needed to keep something hanging in the air so silently was staggering. Nothing human, not even a helicopter, could match it.

  “They’re abandoning the checkpoints,” Bain snapped. “Hell, they’re running.”