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

by Christopher Nuttall

  Joe shuddered. The censored media hadn't carried any mention of what happened to collaborators who were captured by the resistance, but word had still spread widely. Everyone agreed that the Walking Dead were not responsible for their own actions, yet that didn't apply to real collaborators. A number turned up dead every week, often killed in a whole series of inventive ways. It didn't seem to deter others from joining up, but at least they weren't always the most intelligent of humans ...

  Maybe some of them have an excuse, Nicolas thought, remembering the reports from Saudi Arabia. The guest workers – slaves, in all but name – had been the most loyal collaborators the aliens could have hoped for. But Joe has none.

  “I have a number of questions,” he continued, drawing his knife and pressing it to the collaborator’s throat. “You are going to answer them. If I think you’re lying to me, I will cut you somewhere delicate. But if you answer all of my questions without delay, I will let you go afterwards.”

  Joe stared at him, then nodded slowly. He had to know that Nicolas was lying, that he had no intention of letting Joe just walk off into the sunset, but it was the only hope he had of any kind of survival. The aliens wouldn't be interested in saving him, even if they burst in before Nicolas started cutting. They’d consider him expendable now that his cover as a resistance member in good standing was thoroughly blown.

  “All right,” Nicolas said. “Question number one ...”

  It was nearly an hour before he stepped back and surveyed Joe, feeling the urge – once again – to simply cut the bastard’s throat. He hadn't really grasped just how far Joe had spread his criminal network, both by working with the collaborators and muscling his competitors around – or, in one case, betraying them to the aliens. Joe controlled nearly a third of every criminal operation in Washington DC, as well as a small army of private thugs much larger than the men he’d declared to be part of the resistance. And, with his links to the collaborators, he could have done a great deal more to help the cause than reluctantly helping Nicolas to enter the city.

  Very good thing he doesn't know about Karen or Howery, he though, grimly. How could someone commit treason on such a scale? Even Benedict Arnold had had a better reason to betray his country.

  “All right, boss,” McIntyre said. “What do you want us to do with them?”

  Nicolas walked back outside and stared down at the bound criminals. Some of them were nothing more than thugs, hired to keep their fellows in line. Others were very definitely whores, dragged into the motel and used to service visitors. None of them had deserved what had happened to them, had they? But there was nothing he could do about them ... he caught sight of a girl who reminded him of his ex-wife and shuddered. No, she was not a criminal and she didn't deserve to suffer.

  He considered, briefly, trying to get them out of Washington. But it would be impossible, he suspected; even if they could all be forced through the sewers, there would be no place to hide them without some prior arrangements. On the other hand, some of the whores might well know more than they let on. His time at BUD/S had included a series of harrowing tales about security breaches by young men who’d picked up girls in bars, unaware that they had been carefully singled out for such attention. And then there was the young soldier who had fallen asleep in a whorehouse in Panama and woken up to find himself handcuffed to the bed.

  And some of the others might be useful ...

  “Talk to them,” he ordered. “Sort out the ones who are prepared to work for us from the ones who aren't, then move the latter down to the basement and secure them there. We can dispose of them if necessary. No one would notice a few more bodies lying around the place.”

  Once, that would have horrified him. He’d never understood why the Iraqis had been content to leave dead bodies – both belonging to insurgents and people who got caught in the crossfire – lying on the ground, but it wasn't something he shared. Indeed, dead bodies spread disease; he was no expert on medicine and even he knew that. Now, he found it hard to care. So many people had died in Washington that rumour had it that parts of the Potomac had become red with blood. And they were collaborators and parasites and monsters ...

  He saw a young man struggling as two of the soldiers picked him up, reading his story almost effortlessly. Born in a ghetto to a single mother, with no decent male father figure in his life ... and with none of the education that might have given him a pathway out to a better life. Instead, he’d joined the gangs, wasting his life ... and he would still have wasted it, even if the aliens had invaded Earth. A single bullet at the wrong time would have cut his life short, if he didn't wind up arrested, or took a drug that killed him.

  Poor bastard, he thought. Military discipline might have made something of him, but he hadn't even had the motivation or courage to try. Now, at best, he would be a prisoner until Washington was liberated. At worst ... the resistance would kill him. What a waste of a life.

  He shook his head, then walked back to study Joe. They’d take over his contacts and string them along long enough to get his force into position. And then they would retake Washington DC or die trying.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Washington DC, USA

  Day 242

  “This room should be safe,” Howery said, as Karen closed the door behind her. “I have given orders that no one is to disturb us.”

  Karen nodded, relaxing slightly. “And any ... bugs?”

  “There were none, as far as I can tell,” Howery said. “I checked very carefully and found nothing. I’d prefer to talk elsewhere, but time isn't exactly on our side.”

  “I know,” Karen said, eyeing Howery carefully. Her resistance contact had warned her that some of the ex-Walking Dead broke down, or had emotional storms at the worst possible moments ... and either one would be far too revealing. If the aliens happened to take a careful look at Howery’s brain, they'd know that someone had managed to free him from their bondage. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve had a stroke,” Howery admitted. He glared down at his hands. “Or like I am permanently on the verge of throwing a tantrum if I don’t get my way in every detail. Do you think that’s normal?”

  “Only for a five-year-old kid,” Karen said, although she was more worried that she wanted to let on. Some of the others had shown the same symptoms. “But you had your emotions bound up for so long. They have to come bubbling out of you now.”

  “No doubt,” Howery said. He gave her an oddly twisted look; it took her a moment to realise that he was trying to smile, but his face was still largely immobile. “But I shall keep myself under control.”

  He shuddered, slightly. “I better had,” he added. “I had to supervise the interrogation of a number of prisoners taken from Wyoming yesterday. None of them were willing to talk until the aliens started manipulating their brains. I think they’re getting better at it all the time. They were inducing pain and pleasure upon command.”

  Karen blinked. “Torture?”

  “Or brainwashing,” Howery said. “Given enough time, they would have those poor bastards twisted around their little fingers, without ever having to use implants. I don’t know if that sort of tampering would even be noticeable afterwards ... God knew the Russians experimented a lot with brainwashing during the Cold War. I just don’t know how far they actually managed to get before the war ended.”

  Howery’s fingers touched his face, lightly. “We’re being ordered to prepare several regiments of Order Police for travel overseas,” he explained. “Apparently, our Lords and Masters are reaching the limits of what they can do with warrior manpower – which, by the way, is something no one without an implant is supposed to know. The warriors will be largely reserved for shock troops, while the main body of the occupation force for Britain will be made up of Order Policemen. Plenty of them will die ...”

  Karen saw another implication. “And relationships between British and American resistance fighters will suffer,” she said.

  “Almo
st certainly,” Howery agreed. “We had problems making friends with the Iraqi troops when so many of them had family and friends on the other side. Even when the poor guys were completely vetted they still had to suffer the weight of our mistrust. Now, with the Order Police serving as an occupation force, it will be harder for the Brits to trust us – and vice versa. No doubt they’d round up a few thousand Brits to occupy us too.”

  “Bastards,” Karen said. She hesitated. A few regiments sounded like plenty of manpower, but compared to the requirements it was tiny. “Are they not expecting much resistance?”

  “I think they’re expecting Britain to get thoroughly banged up by the invasion and occupation,” Howery admitted. “From their point of view, smashing Britain down just gives them more time to build up their own positions – once they deal with Russia, of course. The last great human power will have to fall afterwards. And then there won’t be much left to slow them down, but resistance fighters. And you know what they’re doing now.”

  Karen shivered. A day after the successful attack on the alien complex in Wyoming – which had somehow gone utterly unmentioned on the alien-controlled news channels – the aliens had forced the refugee camps further away from their bases and settlements. Millions of people, already displaced once, had been displaced again, completely without warning. From what she’d read on the internet, the aliens had tightened security around their complexes to the point where anyone who went within a mile or two of them was taking his life in his hands. They’d done the same in the Middle East and Africa, the reports had added; even some of their collaborators had been displaced to give their cities a zone of security. Repeating that attack might prove tricky.

  “I know,” she said, softly.

  “The troops will be ready for dispatch within the week,” Howery continued, briskly. “They’re going to be gathering at various airports, where they will be loaded into captured jumbo jets for the flight across the Atlantic, once the aliens secure a foothold on the British mainland. For some reason, they’re not considered important enough to fly on alien craft. For several weeks, Order Police forces in the US will be drawn down ...”

  They shared a long look. “However, they are still running additional patrols,” Howery added, “and trying to intimidate everyone into believing that they’re stronger than they actually are. Fairly standard trick; one of them must have actually read the manual. Or a good military novel.”

  Or was one of the Walking Dead, Karen thought, grimly.

  “I downloaded a complete copy of their planned deployments for the next two weeks,” Howery explained, passing her a USB stick. “They’re not good at reacting to unpleasant surprises and there will be fewer warriors backing them up, so we may be able to take advantage of it in a few cunning ways. On the other hand, they will also be thoroughly paranoid. Warn your contracts to take that into account.”

  “Thank you,” Karen said, taking the USB stick and hiding it in her belt. “And Washington itself?”

  “There’s a copy of every Order Police base on the stick,” Howery assured her. “But I don’t have access to the alien deployments themselves, not completely. What I do have is also on the chip, but there may be surprises ... unlike the Order Policemen, the warriors seem willing to change their tactics and positions every second day. Damn bastards are born with martial talents.”

  Karen frowned, thoughtfully. “Do you think that is actually true?”

  Howery shrugged. “I’ve seen some families produce great soldiers for several generations,” he said. “Back when I was in the army, I knew someone who had an unbroken line of soldiers that had started somewhere back during the days of Robert the Bruce. In Scotland” – he added, seeing her puzzlement – “back before America was more than a vague rumour across the horizon. But I honestly don’t know if it was hereditary or environment that shaped his family.

  “But the warriors definitely seem almost designed to fight,” he mused. “Just like super-soldiers from a science-fiction movie, complete with massive strength and endurance. If they didn't have some limits, I might believe that they had been engineered right from scratch.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve also discovered that the aliens keep two of their command ships far up north, near the North Pole,” he added. “That’s where they fly their fighter craft from for this part of the world. The third seems to be in the Middle East, which makes sense; they’re currently expanding their settlements there as fast as possible. Unfortunately, there are no hard figures on just how many fighter and transport craft they have left. They don’t share that information with anyone, even the Walking Dead. What little I do have is on the stick.”

  “Thank you,” Karen said. She’d spied in the heart of Washington ever since the city had fallen, but she couldn’t imagine the kind of courage it took to continue posing as one of the Walking Dead. “How are you feeling?”

  Howery hesitated, then stroked the side of his face. “How do I look?”

  “Cold,” Karen said, slowly. “Just like one of the Walking Dead.”

  “I have no feeling here at all,” Howery said. “I poke my chin and feel nothing. Other parts of my body seem to have no feeling at all; other parts seem to just feel too much. And I feel naked even though I’m not.”

  Karen nodded in understanding. The thought that someone – everyone – knew her secret had kept her frozen from time to time, even though cold logic told her that if they knew what she’d been doing, they would have taken her in and implanted her by now. She couldn't understand how a spy could remain in place, day after day, when he could just run for his life. The stresses of being a spy would eventually overwhelm him, just as they were threatening to overwhelm her.

  “I have to listen to the inanities of the collaborators and cold orders from the aliens, when they can be bothered to intervene,” he continued, standing up. “One of them bows before me and trembles when I speak, the other considers me little more than a useful object. The only person I can hold a normal conversation with is you.”

  “The Walking Dead don’t converse,” Karen observed, feeling an odd twinge of unease. “And we can only talk here because it’s safe ...”

  “I know,” Howery said, as he stopped in front of her. “But it’s a fucking nightmare.”

  He bent down and kissed her before she could react, then stepped backwards. “I felt nothing,” he said, sourly. “I want you – or anyone – and yet I feel nothing.”

  Karen swallowed, unsure of what to say or do. Unlike many of the other assistants, she’d never been called upon to share her body with her superiors – but then, the thought of Daisy wanting anything other than power was absurd. Maybe Daisy would have slept with her superior if it had gotten her one step closer to power ...

  “I’m sorry,” Howery said. His voice was almost completely toneless, barely hiding a hint of shame and regret. “I ... I lost control, just for a second.”

  “It’s alright,” Karen told him. She’d been warned of some of the possible after-effects of being an alien slave, controlled by an implant that had suddenly been deactivated. “You don’t have to worry.”

  But that wasn't true, was it? The Walking Dead had no sexual feelings at all. No one had ever managed to seduce one, even though the internet was overloaded with stories of those who had tried. Howery, on the other hand, was coping with the sudden release of desires and lusts the aliens had kept firmly bound up inside him. What if he tried to seduce someone else? They’d know that something was badly wrong.

  She hesitated, torn between the desire to get out and the conviction that she might have to sleep with him, if only to preserve his sanity. There was a shower in the next compartment, she could wash up properly ... and even if she didn't, it was hardly unknown for the collaborators to summon their assistants for sexual gratification. Karen had been lucky; if she hadn't been Daisy’s assistant, she suspected she would have been forced into someone’s bed by now. And yet, if anyone realised that it had been Howery she’d slept wit
h ...

  “Go,” Howery said, pushing her away. “We’ll talk later. I promise.”

  Karen took a long look at him, then left the room.

  ***

  Dave gritted his teeth as the door closed behind her, breaking the view of her ass in the tight little skirt her superior had made her wear. He should never have let it get so close to absolute disaster, but his emotions had driven him onwards. It had only been when he’d felt – without really feeling – her lips against his that he'd regained control. And even then it had been a close-run thing.

  He locked the door and marched into the next compartment, pulling off his uniform and dumping it and his underwear on the chair. The endless flood of sexual lusts had to be controlled, somehow. He’d been lucky that it had been Karen who’d been there, not one of the other girls. As sexy and winsome as they were, they weren't spies ... and they had superiors, all of whom would be very interested in an atypical Walking Dead. Dave didn't want to think about what one of the collaborators would do with the knowledge that the Walking Dead could be freed.

  Cursing, he stepped into the shower and turned the water on, wincing slightly as a torrent of cold water washed the lusts away. It wouldn't last, he knew, but it should get him through the rest of the day. And then ...?

  And then you hold on as long as you need to, he told himself, firmly. And after that you can think about finding a girl.

  ***

  Karen managed not to jump as her contact stepped out of the shadows, but it was a very close-run thing.

  “Good to see you,” he said, seriously. It was the same man who’d liberated Dave Howery from alien control, although he seemed to look older now. “Come with me.”