One of the men wolf-whistled.
“Dick,” Judith said, without heat. “Try not to trip over your trousers when you run.”
***
The air was cool and the sky was overcast, suggesting that it was going to rain in the near future, but Abigail couldn't help feeling delighted as the escort party led her towards the waiting truck. It was a large vehicle, one of the electric trucks that had never quite lived up to its promise, at least until the aliens had produced a workable power supply. She wondered, absently, if the original owner had been one of the truckers who had been forced into using an electric truck, despite their manifold inefficiencies. Now, at least, the system actually worked.
And all it cost us was our freedom, she thought, wryly. She'd done articles exposing the inner workings of the collaborator government; quite a few of them hailed from Corporate America, where they’d faced ruin in the wake of the economic crash. The alien-backed government had passed laws to help them, in exchange for producing materials for the aliens themselves. And yet the products the aliens wanted seemed to make little sense. It was possible, she’d told herself, that they were just purchasing to give human industry a boost, but that seemed unlikely. They didn't really seem to care about how many humans had been thrown out of work by the war.
The soldiers opened the rear of the truck, revealing – instead of a dirty chamber – a pair of chairs, a handful of books, a small drinks cabinet and a toilet compartment. From what she’d been told, quite a few trucks had been used to move people across the nation in secret, even before the alien invasion. There had been so many trucks on the road that intercepting and searching them all was almost impossible, even in the days after terrorists had struck the United States.
“Open the coffin once the door is closed,” a soldier said, as they placed it in the truck. “Don’t attempt to open the door unless there is no other choice.”
Abigail scowled. She still had no idea where they were going, but she had been warned that there would be at least five days in the truck – and they might well not be able to let her out until the end. She would be a prisoner, effectively, until they reached their final destination. And she would be spending her time with the alien ... she’d heard enough jokes from the soldiers, when they’d thought she couldn't hear them, to last a lifetime.
The door slammed closed. Moments later, she heard a series of clicks as the truck locked.
She swallowed, hard. If someone opened the door without the right code, the entire truck would explode, vaporising her before she knew what had hit her.
Carefully, she opened the coffin, revealing Theta. For a long moment, she thought that the alien was asleep, even though his eyes were open. But then, the doctors had stated that the leader aliens had no eyelids, even though the warriors did. They slept with their eyes open.
“Five days of being confined in this truck,” she said, wondering if the alien would care. “Is that going to bother you?”
“No,” the alien said, as he sat up.
Abigail shook her head. A human who was trapped in such a small space would start going nuts, sooner or later. Even prisoners in jail were allowed to leave their cells and exercise for a few hours each day. It was just another piece of proof that the aliens weren't humans in suits, but genuinely inhuman creatures. She looked at how the alien’s body moved as he stood upright and shivered. No human in an unconvincing suit could have performed such movements without breaking themselves in half.
“I have questions,” she said. The truck shook once, then lurched into life. “Questions about your culture. Does your society have a religion?”
The alien seemed perplexed by the question. “A religion?”
“A belief in a supreme being,” Abigail explained. It wasn't a good explanation, but it would have to do. “Do you worship a god?”
“We know where we came from,” the alien said, after a long moment. “Why would we believe in an answer without proof?”
Abigail considered it, thoughtfully. “But there is no proof that God doesn't exist.”
The alien tilted his head, slightly. “Absence of proof that something exists does not suggest that it does exist,” he pointed out. “That is a contradiction.”
“True,” Abigail agreed.
Smiling, she changed the subject.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Washington DC, USA
Day 226
“... And so we will be deploying additional manpower out to the farms,” Daisy said. “It is vitally important that we build up additional food supplies before the end of the year.”
Karen sighed, inwardly. Like all of the other senior collaborators, Daisy was building her own little empire amid the ruins of the United States. It wasn't efficient; every attempt Daisy made to streamline the process caused the other senior collaborators to push back, hard. Karen had a private suspicion that the aliens tolerated it for reasons of their own, although she couldn't imagine what those might be. There was no logical reason not to implant all of the senior collaborators.
But the process doesn’t always work, she thought, remembering the former Vice President of the United States. Normally, if they failed at turning someone into one of the Walking Dead, they would simply disappear the victim, but that hadn't been possible for the VP. The last time Karen had seen him, he’d been a drooling idiot, staggering around as if he could no longer control himself. She had no idea what had happened to him since that final speech.
“And we also have the issue of the boat people in Florida,” Daisy added. “I propose that they be simply enslaved. They should be grateful for regular food, instead of complaining all the time about having to actually work for a living.”
Karen wanted to roll her eyes, but instead settled for making a note on her pad. Cuba had been consumed by civil war after the aliens had invaded, setting off a tidal wave of chaos that had spread over the region. There were hundreds of thousands of refugees heading for the United States, now that the Coast Guard was no longer patrolling American waters. Most of them were landing and causing even more chaos, despite the Order Police. Those arrested went straight into camps for indefinite detention. It was only a surprise that it had taken so long for Daisy to realise their potential.
“A sensible idea,” another Area Commander agreed. “We will have to take precautions against escape, of course, but additional labour would be very helpful.”
“Make a note,” Daisy ordered. “I want to have the men shipped north; we can keep their women and children as hostages in the camp. Should they cause trouble ...”
Karen nodded, hiding her revulsion. The thought of taking hostages was unpleasant – un-American – but she could see the awful logic. In the parts of the world where the social contract had been a dead letter from the start, like the Caribbean, the only ties holding people together were those of blood. Using family as hostages would ensure good behaviour.
And it would be necessary. The supply of everything American farmers needed to grow food had been cut short by the invasion. Even the full might of the collaborator government hadn’t been able to repair the production and distribution network in a hurry. Now, many farmers were back to the days before tractors and combine harvesters, relying on brute labour to sow fields and grow crops. They needed as much labour as they could get.
Slaves, she thought, darkly. How long will it be until we’re back to plantations?
“On another note, we have several additional units of the Order Police ready for deployment to the south,” Daisy added. “I believe we can start pushing the terrorists out of California and Texas.”
Karen wondered, absently, if she was talking about the insurgents or the gangs that now ruled large parts of the Southern United States. California’s meltdown had taken law and order with it; the situation would have been dire even if the aliens hadn't smashed most of the military during the invasion. Now, to all intents and purposes, the Deep South was a free-fire zone, part of the civil war raging through Latin A
merica. If the aliens restored order down south, they would probably wind up with millions of willing collaborators.
“That will be suitable,” General Howery informed them. The Walking Dead man had no patience for political games. “We have much work to do.”
Daisy nodded and stood up, bringing the meeting to an end. “Karen,” she said, “I have meetings with several corporate executives. You can go type up the minutes and then relax.”
“Thank you,” Karen said, tightly. It wasn't as if there was a shortage of things to do to relax in the Green Zone. Half of the other assistants and aides were hooked on Cocaine or Heroin, while the remainder played computer games or enjoyed themselves with the small army of comfort women held in the complex. “I’ll find something to do.”
She watched Daisy leave, then looked over at General Howery. As always, the Walking Dead man seemed largely unaware of her existence. Karen had once flashed him her breasts and he hadn't even noticed. Karen had laughed, afterwards, and then started to shake. What sort of power did the aliens have if they could reduce a man to a sexless slave?
General Howery had been a good officer, according to her files, and she’d been impressed the one time she’d met him before he’d been implanted. Now, he was an alien slave, all of his skills bent to their service. As far as Karen could tell, he wasn't resisting at all, not any longer. At first, she’d dared to hope that he was holding on. Now, there was no trace of resistance, even in his eyes.
She took a breath as she walked towards him, knowing that she was about to cross the line between passive spying and active resistance. Daisy would have her killed if she ever realised just how much Karen had passed on to the resistance, if only to ensure that the aliens never realised just how badly she had been compromised. But Howery ... if he suspected anything, he could take Karen for interrogation and no one would dare to stop him. They wouldn't need to torture her either. All they’d have to do was stick an implant in her head and she would talk freely.
“General,” she said, “I received a message today, just before the meeting.”
Howery’s dead eyes stared at her. Karen shivered, feeling her nerve start to break. She’d been leered at by drunken men, yet that hadn’t been as terrifying as staring into the General’s eyes. Part of her wanted to run, to use the emergency escape plan she’d worked out with the resistance. She was risking everything on one throw of the dice.
“There are some elements of the local resistance who want to come over to us,” she added. It had taken some careful thought to come up with a story that might get Howery out of the Green Zone. The resistance couldn't stage an attack inside the complex. “They’re willing to work with us, if you talk to them in person and assure them of good faith.”
It was, she hoped, a convincing story. Some of the remnants of the resistance in Washington was slipping into criminal behaviour – according to her half-remembered history lessons, that was how the Mafia got its start – and they wouldn't want to upset the boat by actually resisting. They wouldn't be the first resistance group to seek a local truce with the Order Police too, although such truces had always been very limited. Mainly, they tended to involve betraying any other resistance activity on their patch.
“I see,” Howery said, tonelessly. It was impossible to tell if he was buying her story, or if she should kick him in the nuts and run. “And what are they prepared to offer us?”
“They will report any other resistance activity within Washington in exchange for being left strictly alone,” Karen said, carefully. “But they insist on making the deal with you personally, as a known representative of our masters. They don’t trust the collaborator government.”
Howery looked at her for a long moment, then stood up. “We shall go speak to them,” he said, shortly. “Now.”
Karen carefully kept her face blank. “Now? But ...”
“Now,” Howery repeated.
***
Nicolas had never been very fond of Washington. He’d only visited a few times in his life; mostly, Washington was the city of politicians who issued impossible orders and then complained loudly when they weren't obeyed. He still recalled one anti-pirate mission that had almost turned into a disaster because the watching politicians had insisted on issuing useless orders to individual SEALs. If nothing else, the alien invasion had put a stop to that nonsense.
It still made him angry when he saw how far the capital city, the shining light on the hill, had fallen. Hundreds of buildings had been knocked down, while others looked to be permanently on the verge of tumbling over; countless refugees crammed themselves into camps or squatted in buildings, trying to find some shelter from the weather. There was a palatable aura of fear overhanging the entire city, no matter what some people did to try to dispel it. Nicolas hadn't seen such fear in people’s eyes since a covert mission into Somalia, during the War on Terror. The city had been captured by Islamic militants and everyone had been afraid for their lives. Washington had the same feeling.
No one seemed to trust anyone any longer. Nicolas watched the population scurrying along, never making eye contact with anyone or talking to strangers. What little food there was in the shops, he realised quickly, went to the strong; the Order Police didn't seem to be interested in patrolling the poorer parts of the city. He’d spotted a dozen different street gangs during his first recon around the city block, all glaring at their rivals as if they were about to start a war. The city felt as though it was tipping over the edge into the abyss.
It wasn't much better in the richer parts of the city. The army of bureaucrats who made the collaborator government work were virtually prisoners in gated communities, protected and imprisoned by the Order Police. Nicolas was careful not to go too close; the papers Joe had provided, he'd been warned, might not stand up to scrutiny from one of the Walking Dead – or from a particularly careful Order Policeman.
The only part of the city that seemed almost normal was the Green Zone. At night, it was lit up so brightly that it could be seen for miles around, a mocking reminder to the rest of the city of just how far they’d fallen. Nicolas couldn't help wondering why the resistance didn't simply lob a few mortar shells in every so often, before deciding that it would probably compromise them too much. And he had his suspicions about just how committed Joe and his allies were to the cause.
He scowled as he stopped outside the apartment block and found a place to sit, looking no different from the other beggars who wandered the streets of Washington these days. Most of them, he suspected, had been on some form of medication before the alien invasion; now, there were no hospitals to take care of them, or drugs for doctors to prescribe. The Order Police didn't seem to care what happened to them. Nicolas had a feeling that few of them would survive the winter.
It was nearly forty minutes before a car came down the street and pulled up in front of the apartment block. Nicolas let out a breath he hadn't realised he’d been holding; when he’d been briefed on the resistance’s agent in the Green Zone, he’d worried that she wouldn't be able to lure General Howery out of the safe zone. He smiled to himself as he watched a redheaded girl, barely out of her teens, climbing out of the car. She was followed by General Howery.
Nicolas shivered when he saw the man. Unlike the other Walking Dead he’d encountered, he’d known General Howery before he'd been pushed into taking early retirement and the change in him was chilling. Cold eyes scanned the street, showing no hint of feeling, before he turned to follow Karen into the apartment block. Nicolas stood up as soon as the door closed behind them and walked over to the side door. He would intercept them inside the building, just in case they were being watched. How closely did the aliens supervise the Walking Dead? There was no way to be sure.
Bracing himself, he slipped into the building. There was no more time to hesitate.
***
Karen wrinkled her nose as she led the way into the building, smelling the faint, but unmistakable stench of urine. The building was dark and dingy, har
dly the type of place she wanted to live in, or use for anything other than firewood. A small pile of rubbish in one corner caught her eye and she looked before she could stop herself, seeing a handful of condoms, drug needles and other used items carelessly abandoned. Whoever had squatted here after the rightful owners had fled hadn't stayed for long.
“They’re down here,” she lied, praying that the resistance had managed to plan everything properly. If Howery realised that she had lied to him ... she didn't deceive herself that she could escape before he caught her. She’d be dragged back to the Green Zone, implanted and then made to talk. “You have to speak softly to them.”
Howery merely looked at her with cold, lifeless eyes.
“I’m babbling,” Karen said, turning back. Panic was flickering at the back of her mind. “I’m sorry, I have a habit of babbling when I’m stressed. This meeting could ...”
Howery caught her shoulder and jerked her around to face her. “This meeting is important,” he informed her. “I do not require excuses, merely that you do your job.”
Karen saw ... something ... moving behind Howery. A moment later, a cloth was firmly pressed over the General’s mouth, while strong arms held him tightly. She stared, unable to move or speak, as Howery struggled helplessly before collapsing to his knees. His attacker, a pale-faced man wearing a rough outfit, winked at her.
“Well done,” he said, as Howery hit the ground. “You lured him wonderfully.”
Karen felt her knees sag too. “Thank you,” she gasped. “I ... I don’t think he told anyone where we were going.”
Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory Page 22