Target Rich Environment

by Larry Correia

  So when the aliens invaded my mind that night, it was all confused images of Wendy being ripped away, of her brothers and sisters crying, of the lab coated Program officers sawing open her skull and shoving electrodes into her brain.

  The Dreakers were persistent alien bastards. We didn’t know where they came from. I couldn’t understand the science of it, but they didn’t exist in the same dimension as we did, so we couldn’t see them, and no one could figure out how to communicate with them. We didn’t even know what they wanted or what had brought them to Earth to begin with. One day the nightmares began and the world had begun falling apart. All we knew about the Dreakers were that they’d invaded the dreams of everyone on Earth, and so far, they’d managed to kill about half of us.

  “I miss Mommy,” Wendy said out of nowhere.

  “Me too.” I was tired and cooking our breakfast of powdered eggs and SPAM. There’d been no food shipments into our zone this week, so we were living off of what we’d managed to store. The electricity was out again, but at least the gas lines still worked.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”

  “It’s not your fault, honey.”

  Wendy didn’t sound sad, just matter-of-fact. “I didn’t sleep good that night so I couldn’t keep the monsters away. They got in Mommy’s head and broke everything. They made her too scared to live. That’s why she took all the pills.”

  My eyes had gotten watery. “Don’t talk about it. You’re good.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Don’t say that.” I brought her the plate of eggy mush. She was wearing her favorite princess dress. I’d traded for it years ago, and it was falling apart, and she’d outgrown it, but Wendy wouldn’t part with. She said it made her feel pretty. “Mommy always said you were a superhero.”

  “Kinda, but I’m not all the way.”

  Her older brother had found a box of crayons in the street when he’d been scavenging yesterday, and Wendy was drawing a picture. She set the old piece of scrap paper aside to eat. Her drawing was a bunch of green and black squiggles. “What’s that?”

  “One of the monsters. His name is . . . Well, it’s a funny name, with a lot of s sounds in it,” she said proudly. “Sissassack. But I can’t say it right. He’s the one that was inside Mr. Nelson’s head when he shot everybody.”

  They hadn’t bothered to reopen the school since the massacre. I picked up the paper and tried to decipher the picture. It was either too alien, or she was just that bad of an artist. “Why don’t you draw something happy?”

  “This is happy, Daddy.” She looked up and beamed at me with her gap-toothed grin. “I found Sissassack last night and made sure he’ll never hurt anybody again.”

  I sat down across from her. “How’d you do that?”

  Wendy took the red crayon in her fist and violently scribbled all over the picture.

  The bastards cut off our food rations. It was a warning that the government that had the power to give everything also had the power to take it all away . . . But I still wouldn’t sign their damned papers.

  “What’re we going to do, Dad?” my oldest son asked when he relieved me from guard duty. The two of us were on the roof, watching the barricades. The further you got from the Safe Zones, the more the city turned to shit. To conserve the Dreamers we were all ordered to sleep at the same time. That was easy for the government to declare, since they weren’t out here dealing with gangs, looters, or people the Dreakers had possessed.

  “I’ll trade for food.”

  “What’ve we got to trade?”

  “I don’t know.” He was too young to know what a father was willing to do to provide for his children. “I’ll think of something.”

  “We could go west. They couldn’t take Wendy from us there. There’s no government at all on the west side.”

  I shook my head. That side of Baltimore was controlled by warlords. Once they figured out that Wendy was a Dreamer, they’d kidnap her just as fast as the Program. “That’s not a good idea.”

  He was scared and trying not to show it. When I was his age, I was playing video games and trying to get up the courage to talk to girls, not trying to make sense of the apocalypse. “Then what’re we going to do?”

  “I’ll think of something,” I said again. “I promise.”

  The Program sent a team to retrieve her, but it was more like an army. Their armored vehicles crashed through our barricades. Helicopters hovered over the block, searchlights playing back and forth across the mostly abandoned buildings.The neighbors had sold us out. Even though Wendy had been protecting their dreams all these years, they were scared and hungry, so they told the Program right where to find us.

  My oldest daughter tried to talk to them. They shot her down in the street. I was too stunned to move. Then my boy reacted, running to his sister, and they gunned him down too.

  Wendy was hiding behind my legs, screaming and crying. Don’t let them take me away, Daddy! Don’t let them take me away! I tried to fight. It was like my hands were too clumsy to work. Though I’d tested it, the pistol I’d traded for wouldn’t work. The trigger weighed a million pounds and when I did get it to shoot, I couldn’t hit anything. The Program soldiers just laughed as they dragged me away from Wendy and beat me mercilessly with their batons.

  I couldn’t do anything, and the clubs just kept falling, breaking bones and splitting skin. Wendy was begging for them to stop. I reached out for her, but a Public Safety Officer, faceless behind his riot helmet, had grabbed her by the hair and was dragging her away. She was kicking and screaming, but he picked her up and hurled her into the open back of the armored car, where she bounced off the walls and lay crumpled on the floor.

  The faceless man slammed the hatch shut.

  “Daddy?”

  I woke up, covered in sweat and shaking. I could still see my other kids lying dead in the street. I could still feel the clubs, but I was lying in my own bed. Somebody had turned the lights on.

  “Wake up, Daddy.” Wendy was standing next to the bed. She put one tiny hand on my arm. “You were dreaming.”

  “I know. I’m okay now.” I hugged her tight. What good was a father who couldn’t protect his own family? “I won’t let anything happen to you.” That had been too real. It had been a long time since Wendy had let something that awful slip into our house. “Damned Dreakers,” I muttered.

  “It wasn’t the monsters this time. That dream was just you.”

  I started to cry.

  In the olden days before the invasion, they could have called on the phone, or sent an email, or even had a letter delivered. I remember when I was young, everybody, even poor folks, had a cell phone. But now there was no phone service, no internet, hell—we didn’t even have reliable electricity, and it had been five years since they’d disbanded the postal service, so when the Program wanted something, they had to come in person.

  They hadn’t attempted to cross the barricade. It had been the Washington family who had been guarding the block last night, and they’d seen a Program car stop at the entrance and toss the package over the gate. The fat envelope had my name on it, but there had been plenty of warnings written on the package, so by the time I found out, the whole compound knew.

  A judge had signed the papers for me. I had twenty-four hours to turn Wendy over to the Program, or we would be in violation. Anyone who harbored us would be criminals.

  They’d burn the entire block if they had to.

  “I hate to say this, but we got no choice, Brody. You know what they’ll do if we don’t turn your girl over.” Douglas was the nominal leader of our block and my best friend. I could tell that the others had already talked it over before they’d fetched me. I already knew what they were going to say. “You helped build this place, and we’re thankful for everything Wendy’s done, but we voted . . .”

  “After all that she’s done for you, after all these years she’s kept us safe, you’d just turn her out like that?” I had to ask, though I
already knew the answer. Of course they would.

  “You’re the reason we ain’t got no food deliveries,” Colvin said. “Sorry, brother. They ain’t leaving us no choice. My kids got to eat.”

  “So that’s it? You survive one more shitty day, so you can cower through one more horrible night? What’re you going to do without Wendy to keep away the Dreakers?”

  “I don’t know,” Douglas said, spreading his hands apologetically. “I just don’t know. We might get along without her, we might not, but we can’t stand up against the Program. Aliens might screw with our heads later, but the Program boys will just shoot us now. We already took a vote. You and your kids can stay if you want, but Wendy’s got to go. I don’t know why you’d want to stay though, if the Program offered my family a spot in the Safe Zone, I’d take it.”

  “No possessed in there, that’s for sure,” Colvin agreed.

  “You think it’s so damned easy, you’d let them hurt one of your kids to save the rest? You chicken shits have no idea what that’s like.”

  Douglas just shook his head sadly. “Naw, man, I figure I know a lot what that decision feels like.” Then he walked away. Most of the other adults followed him.

  “He stuck up for you, but votes a vote.” Colvin poked me in the chest. “You got twenty-four hours, Brody. Pack your shit, because you’ve got to go.”

  For the first time in six years, there were no nightmares at all.

  I dreamed about my wife before the Dreakers had broken her mind and spirit, back when she was kind hearted and full of love. I dreamed about the world as it used to be, with hope and promise. I dreamed about friends and family, dead or missing, but in my dream they were all alive, and I dreamed of my children growing up in that idealized old world instead of the real one.

  It was wonderful.

  When I woke up, Wendy was waiting for me. She was wearing her princess dress and a backpack with cartoon characters on it. The pack was stuffed with clothing and her favorite toys. It was like a child’s interpretation of what you’d need on an epic quest.

  “I didn’t have nightmares last night. Did you do that?”

  “That was my present to you. I tried extra hard to chase off the monsters ’cause today’s Father’s Day.”

  I hadn’t looked at a calendar in a long time. “Thank you.”

  Wendy shrugged in that adorable way that only the truly innocent can. “I had to try hard to help just our house, so I let the monsters scare everybody else more than usual. Serves them right for being mean to you.”

  “What’s with the backpack?”

  “It’s a long walk to the Safe Zone.”

  “We can’t go there, silly. They’re going to—”

  “Shush!” Wendy held up one finger and poked me in the lip. Her mother used to do the same thing. “I know what they’ll do. I see their dreams like I seen yours, and they’re going to put me to sleep forever.”

  I gently took her hand and moved it aside. “Which is why we can’t go there.” I didn’t know where we were going to go yet, but we had to go somewhere.

  “You don’t understand, Daddy. I don’t mind. I see the dreams of the kids who are asleep all the time too. They were lonely, but they found each other. So they’ve made up their own world. On the light side are where all the people have gone. On the dark side are where the monsters come from.” Wendy pointed around my bedroom. “This is in the middle part. I’m going to the light so I can save the middle. It’s very nice there. That’s why I tried so hard so you could see it for yourself.”

  My dream?

  “Yes, Daddy. I didn’t want you to feel sad for me. Mommy says it’s time for you to let me go. I need to go be a superhero.”

  TOLD YOU it was a gut punch.

  Years after this story was written I was approached by a fan at Salt Lake City ComicCon. She had just read “Father’s Day” and loved it, and commented about how brilliant I must be to tie a post-apocalyptic, alien invasion, sci-fi story in with Peter Pan.

  I got a really confused look on my face and said, “I did what now?” Don’t get me wrong, authors love being called brilliant, but I had no idea what she was talking about. She explained that I had a magical Neverland populated by heroic lost boys and I even named the girl Wendy.

  Wow . . . That actually would have been really clever, but honestly, I hadn’t even thought of it that way. For future reference, whenever a fan thinks I’m smarter than I actually am, I’m just going to run with it.

  DESTINY OF A BULLET

  This story was originally published in Called to Battle: Volume One published by Privateer Press, edited by Aeryn Rudel, Darla Kennerud, and Doug Seacat.

  I’ve written a couple of novels (Into the Storm, Into the Wild) and several shorter pieces for Privateer Press set in their Iron Kingdoms universe. I really enjoy their setting, play their games, and paint their miniatures, but how I wound up writing for them is kind of funny.

  I registered on their web forum to put up pictures of my miniature painting and to get feedback from better painters. I never mentioned what I did for a living. Then one day somebody started talking about how super easy it would be for Privateer Press to compile fan fiction and sell it. I had to put my professional writer hat on, step in, introduce myself, explain how creating media tie in fiction works, and how it is a fairly complicated and challenging process requiring good fiction writers who either already know the world, or who are willing to learn it.

  About fifteen minutes later I got an email from the company basically saying “Whoa? You play our game?” And I was all like “You read my stuff?” And the next thing I knew I’d written a bunch of stories for them. I can neither confirm nor deny that I was partially paid in miniatures.

  Whenever I tell my fans that I’m writing a piece of fiction which ties into an existing world, whether it is for a game or some other shared universe, they always ask if they need to be familiar with that world before reading it. The answer is, no, not if I do my job correctly.

  Volgorod, Kos Volozk, Khador, 607 AR

  HE HAD ONCE HIDDEN in a pile of garbage for three days in order to kill a man. That job had been completed during a summer in Imer. It had been miserably hot, and insects had feasted on him continuously. Stinking of filth, badly dehydrated, sunburned, and sick, he had still made the two-hundred–yard shot on demand the instant his target had shown his head. One round. Nice and clean.

  That job had been preferable to this one. For two days and two nights now he had hidden, watching the blank white of a high mountain pass. He was chilled to the bone but couldn’t light a fire for risk of being seen. It must have been because of the unrelenting cold that he found himself thinking wistfully about the desert. The northern woods of Khador had never been intended for man. Fools lived here simply because they were too stupid to leave and too stubborn to die.

  He had come all this way to put a bullet into a particular one of those stubborn fools.

  Some folks called him a mercenary, others a hired gun. Most would argue he was nothing more than an assassin. Regardless of their opinion of how he earned his coin, everyone knew Kell Bailoch was the finest rifleman in western Immoren. Give him a clean shot and the gods themselves couldn’t save you.

  The hard part was the waiting. The sniper let his mind wander.

  He had spotted them coming long before they saw him. Picking his potential employer out from the crowd had been easy. The hooded woman walked between two men in long cloaks. The common folk were deferential and moved quickly out of the woman’s path. The two men were trained killers, and they couldn’t help but act like it, with wary eyes constantly shifting as they scanned the busy market. Their predatory nature made them stand out among the shoppers.

  Kell Bailoch preferred to blend in. It made his job easier. He kept his wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes and covered the lower half of his face with a scarf, masking his Cygnaran features.

  He stepped from the shadows and followed the three discreetly for a time. The gent
ly falling snow barely stifled the merchants’ enthusiasm as they loudly hawked their wares. Fall in northern Khador was like winter in any other kingdom. Once he was certain this wasn’t an elaborate trap, and they were isolated from potential eavesdroppers, Bailoch walked up behind the kayazy’s guards and waited to be noticed.

  It didn’t take long. The first bodyguard turned, his hand inside his cloak and surely resting on a long dagger. The second moved immediately in front of the woman. They were quick, but he noted that neither looked toward the rooftops. Sloppy.

  “What do you want?” the first guard demanded.

  “I wish to speak with Mistress Padorin about a job,” Bailoch answered. His Khadoran was unaccented, as bland as his appearance. “I was informed she’s looking for me.”

  The woman turned, giving him a glimpse inside the hood of pale skin and blue eyes. She was rather young for the leader of a ruthless trade organization. “You are the one I was told about?” she asked.

  Bailoch tipped his hat. The survivors of Talon Company could always be counted on for referrals.

  “You’re shorter than I expected.” She appraised him. “Are you as good as they say?”

  “Are you as rich as they say?”

  She nodded.

  “Then I’m good enough.”

  It was just another job, though colder than most. There had been so many jobs over the years they had begun to run together. Half up front, find a way to reach the target, take the shot, collect the remainder. Sometimes that meant investigation, preparation, disguises, infiltration, and cover identities, other times it meant good field craft or an elevated position and some patience. In the end it was all the same: get a line of sight and let Silence work.