Blood Red Sand

by Damien Larkin

  Such thoughts of the future stood far from his mind as Schulz swirled his brandy. Below and around him, his men were dying. The home he had known and loved for a decade sat blazing on a funeral pyre.

  Oblivious to his darkening mood, Mr. Myers refilled their glasses again.

  After taking a large gulp from his, Schulz turned his vision towards the battle raging across the government district.

  Mr. Myers swirled his half-empty glass. “He really does like putting on a show. Your Führer, I mean. I can’t say I ever agreed with his politics, but he knows how to grab a person’s attention.”

  “I don’t follow,” Schulz said, staring gloomily into his own drink.

  “This!” Mr. Myers sang out and extended his arms towards the fighting in front of them. “He’s showing us the sacrifices he’s willing to make to secure humanity’s future. He wants us to make a blood sacrifice of our own, and I think we’ve proven ourselves with that.”

  The sorrow welling inside Schulz evaporated. Anger rushed through his veins like poisonous lead. For a moment, he considered reaching out with his good hand and choking the life from Mr. Myers’s smug face. Fighting to maintain control, he clamped down on his jaws to keep from launching into a furious tirade.

  Mr. Myers finished his brandy and chucked the empty glass onto the street below. “All of this is a pantomime,” he exclaimed. “Nothing more than a spectacle for the masses. Our peoples will suffer by the same design, but that suffering will ready us for the battles and wars to come. The Great War awaits us, Herr General. It may be decades away, but as sure as the Earth revolves around the sun, it is coming for us. Thanks to our actions today, we will be ready for it.”

  Schulz didn’t know how to react. He studied Mr. Myers’s face, wondering if this was an elaborate American joke. Despite his near-constant grinning, darkness cloaked Mr. Myer’s eyes. He didn’t seem to look directly at anything or anyone, but rather through them, as if he could see beyond what was perceptible to the human eye.

  “Look at them,” Mr. Myers continued with a shake of his head as he glanced again at the streets below. “They look like ants. Hundreds and thousands of worker ants. They live, they breed, but only in death will their lives have any true purpose. Their broken bodies and bullet-riddled corpses will be the foundation of our future.”

  Aghast at Mr. Myers’s statements, Schulz found himself unable to speak. He opened his mouth, but words refused to form on his lips.

  Smiling, Mr. Myers faced him. His dark eyes pierced through Schulz, sending a cold shiver of ice up his spine. “Well, I’ve burnt the ears off you for long enough, General. Time to get you into custody. Don’t worry, this will all be over soon.”

  Still unable to form a single syllable, Schulz spun about and spotted two goons in black suits standing behind him. They gestured at him to walk towards the stairwell, but something about the way they looked at him made him guess they would love nothing more than for him to resist. He placed his hat back on his head and complied with the order. With his head held as high as he could manage given the circumstances, he marched off the roof, flanked by the two lackeys.

  “Oh,” Mr. Myers called out, causing his guards to stop Schulz. “Deactivate the planetary jamming signal and send a message to Wolf One. Tell him it’s time for the final act. This war is over.”

  One of the goons grunted and nodded in answer. He shoved Schulz forward again, and slipping a hand into his pocket, he pulled out an unusual communications device. Before reaching the stairwell, Schulz caught a final glimpse of the mysterious Mr. Myers, who stood with his arms outstretched, as if re-enacting the crucifixion. Behind him the fires chewed through New Berlin colony.

  COMMAND AND CONTROL BUILDING, GOVERNMENT DISTRICT

  20.46 MST

  DAY 2

  McCabe aimed his Lee-Enfield and fired while bullets smashed around the doorway. A green energy bolt spit from Dub’s HK-17 and sliced through SS soldiers. Noid sprayed fire at another enemy column, charging headfirst at them. Heaps of bleeding, eviscerated SS die-hards lay stacked around their feet, but still, wave after wave, they kept attacking.

  Two of them managed to close the distance as Dub slapped in a fresh clip. Stumbling over the remains of their dead comrades, the SS soldiers pounced on him, trying to skewer him with their bayonets. Dub swung his HK-17 up to block the thrusts and shoved at them. He managed to level his weapon at one and squeezed the trigger, riddling his opponent’s chest with bullet holes.

  The second SS soldier lunged again, burying his bayonet deep into Dub’s leg. He roared and slashed wildly with his HK. The bayonet attached to the barrel cleaved through the SS soldier’s face, ripping his nose apart and knocking him to the ground. Unable to stand, Dub tumbled to the floor beside the SS soldier. McCabe tried to dart from his position to assist him, but a shower of SS bullets kept him pinned down. Dub reached for his knife, and rammed it into the chest of his attacker, stabbing repeatedly until his adversary no longer drew breath.

  Shrieking like a mad woman, Noid alternated between energy blasts and semi-automatic fire as she targeted anything that moved in the corridor. Then she threw herself into the line of fire, grabbed Dub by the straps of his backpack, and hauled him back into the corridor of the lab, where she leaned him against the two wounded West German soldiers. She returned to her firing position at the doorway, joining McCabe and the two remaining MEF soldiers.

  “Bail out, Dub,” Noid screamed as she reloaded her weapon. “Anna, Mo, and Smack are clear. You’re up.”

  “Bullshit,” Dub retorted and dragged himself to his feet.

  Dub wrapped a bandage around his leg and pulled it tight. After checking it held, he limped back to the door frame. With pain engraved on his swollen and bruised face, he forced himself into a sitting position. He cocked his weapon and unleashed another energy bolt. The blast ripped the head of an approaching SS soldier clean off, knocking his body into his comrades.

  “You bail,” Dub shouted over the din. “It’ll be a cold day in Hell when I’m not the last one out.”

  “Stop being a dick for once in your life,” Noid snapped.

  “How about you stop being dick? Now get your skinny ass to the Compression Matrix.”

  Bullets snapped around them like hail stones on a tin roof. A bullet ricochet struck one of the MEF soldiers in the arm. He cursed aloud but raised up his Lee-Enfield again and fired back until he emptied his clip.

  “Fine, shithead,” Noid roared back. “You win. But you better not be far behind me.”

  “Understood, prick-face.”

  While McCabe slipped in a fresh magazine, Noid kneeled and passed Dub the scanning device. Their gazes met, but despite their animosity, McCabe noted a grudging respect when they nodded at one another. Noid extended a hand and gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder before standing up again.

  “Sergeant,” she called out.

  McCabe removed his empty ammo clip and surveyed the situation. The SS assault ground to a halt. Dozens upon dozens of carcasses carpeted the corridor. The wounded tried to claw their way over the mountain of dead, desperate to reach their colleagues at the far end of the corridor. Exhausted, McCabe stepped back into the lab corridor to reload and found Noid still standing there.

  “Safe journey,” he mumbled as he reloaded.

  “You know something, Sergeant?”

  He made eye contact with her while clicking the fresh clip into his Lee-Enfield. She stood in front of him, gazing up at him. Blood splattered her face.

  “You’re kinda cute for an old guy.” Then she pounced on him. She pressed her warm lips against his and rammed her body hard into his with enough force to knock him back into the wall. Confusion gave way to primal instinct as he melted into her. His hands grabbed at her waist as their tongues touched and probed.

  As quickly as it had started, Noid pulled away, but not before biting his bottom lip. Dazed, he watched her blush and take a step back. She brushed a st
rand of loose dark hair behind her ear. Her eyes seemed to glow as her gaze lingered upon him.

  “In another lifetime, Sergeant,” she said and winked. Without another word, she turned about and disappeared into the lab.

  Rubbing a trickle of blood from his lip and feeling rejuvenated, McCabe spun about. He caught Dub’s eye. The Irishman flashed a smile at him but said nothing.

  “I’m not that old,” McCabe muttered, unable to mask his own smile.

  Dub chuckled. “I wouldn’t take it personally. Technically speaking, she’s a seventy-year-old woman trapped in a twenty-six-year old’s body, if that helps.”

  “You people,” McCabe said with a shake of his head. “Dare I ask what that even means?”

  “You can ask,” Dub said with a shrug and moved his eye to his HKs sight.

  In the corridor, the only movements came from the wounded trying to crawl to safety. The two MEF privates took pot-shots at them.

  Dub waved his handheld device from side to side, scanning for any other signs of activity. “It looks like they’re regrouping for another assault.”

  “That’s suicide,” McCabe said. “Charging headfirst into a prepared position down a corridor with no cover makes no sense.”

  “They know the end is nigh,” Dub said. “A lot of them are going to blow their brains out when the Old Man surrenders. They think they’ll die with honour this way, the stupid wankers.”

  Dub checked his watch and clawed at the doorframe as he tried to pull himself up. Losing his grip, he fell back down, wincing from the pain.

  McCabe extended a hand to help him up. “Leg at you?”

  Dub took McCabe’s hand and shook his head as he steadied himself on his feet. He lifted the shirt of his black and red uniform, revealing a wound to the stomach. Blood oozed from the gash, and he looked paler.

  McCabe slung Dub’s arm over his shoulder. “That’s not good.”

  “I’ve had worse,” he grunted.

  Dub directed him towards the lab, dripping blood with every step. McCabe eased them into the room. He paused at the sight of Anna, Smack, Big Mo, and Noid stretched unconscious on the floor in the corner of the room. They lay with those metallic headbands resting on their foreheads. The Black Visors had their HK-17s draped across their torsos, and the rectangular explosives he had witnessed them use before rested in their hands.

  “Over there,” Dub said, nodding at the panels and screens.

  McCabe guided the Black Visor over to the console. Dub ran his fingertips over several buttons and looked over the displays in front of him. After entering a command, the nearby Compression Matrix hummed to life again. A countdown timer appeared on one of the screens. Dub grabbed at one of the headbands and fixed it on his forehead. He then motioned at McCabe to set him down beside his friends. Trying to be as careful as possible, McCabe eased him onto the floor after slipping off his backpack. Dub squirmed to get comfortable. He, too, rested an explosive on his chest. In one of his hands he held a grenade.

  McCabe stood over him. “So that’s that?”

  “That’s that,” Dub replied. “You should get your men out of here. When these charges go off, they’re going to take the adjoining rooms above and below with them.”

  “You promised me answers.”

  Dub leaned forward. A trickle of blood oozed from his mouth. He glanced up at the screen on the console and settled back onto the floor. “You’ve got about two minutes to get far enough away from here to seek cover, so ask, Sergeant. I can’t promise you’ll like the answers, but I won’t lie to you.”

  Every question, every single thing that had bothered McCabe slipped from his mind. Gaping like a fish out of water, he wracked his brain, searching for a question, any question while the timer continued counting down.

  “That thing,” he blurted out, pointing at the Compression Matrix. “What is it?”

  “A device that allows near-instantaneous transmission of compressed data across time and space without any type of degradation. Primarily used for communications, until some genius figured out how to copy and send brain patterns. It can’t transmit physical matter yet, but they’ll figure that out in time.”

  McCabe nodded at the answer.

  “And you? What are you?”

  “They call us Hollows. My brain pattern was transmitted from Earth to Asaph Hall Research Station on Phobos where I awoke in a replicated version of my own body. It included a code dubbed the Voice of God that was originally used to manipulate me into fighting and killing the natives of this world by seeing them as giant insect-like creatures. I know. It sounds far-fetched even to me and I lived through it for a year.”

  “They?”

  “The Mars Occupation Force. Also known as the MOF.”

  McCabe rubbed his forehead, unsure of the incredible claims and uncertain about what it all meant. He didn’t know Dub well and could barely stand him, but he appeared genuine in his assertions. “Where are you all going now?”

  Dub forced a smile across his face, but it was weak. “I’m going back to the future, Sergeant. Well, technically, it’s your future and my past… Even though I won’t be born yet. So, wait… Does that make it my future, too? It’s all subjective, Sergeant McCabe. Even I can’t wrap my head around this whole time-travel thing.”

  “Time travel?”

  “Yeah.” Dub checked the countdown timer again. “Like I said, the signal from the Compression Matrix cuts through time and space. I was forcibly enlisted into the Mars Occupation Force in 2018. They sent me to 1975, where I served for a year before I got locked up for two decades. I don’t look a day over thirty, but from my perspective, I’m seventy years old and spent over forty years on Big Red. From my family’s point of view, I’ve been missing for about three days. It’s all relative.”

  “Do you really work for MJ-12?”

  “In a way,” Dub said with a shrug. “The future’s complicated. I did something that I thought would free a lot of people, but then I discovered we were pawns in a much bigger game. We aligned with the lesser of two evils, a group called the Core Cadre, to buy Earth and Mars as much time as possible before the Great War kicks off.”

  McCabe scratched his chin while trying to process Dub’s words. He patted at his pockets for a cigarette and tried to form a new question, but Dub reached up a bloodied, shaking hand, stopping him.

  “We’re almost out of time, Sergeant, but I have a confession to make before you and your men go.” Dub’s face crinkled in pain when he rested his hand on his chest, allowing the blood to ooze from his stomach wound. “I lied when I said your name wasn’t on my list, Sergeant. I know exactly who you are. Over twenty years from now, my friends and I will do something stupid. You’re the reason I spent twenty years behind bars rather than being dissected or lined up against the nearest wall and shot. You’re also the reason I’m here in the first place. You’re the reason I am the way I am now. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t bitter towards you, but I apologise for giving you a hard time.”

  “I don’t understand,” McCabe said, shaking of his head.

  “You will.”

  Dub lifted his HK-17 from his chest and extended the weapon towards him.

  “Here,” Dub said as another small stream of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  McCabe accepted the assault rifle, curious of Dub’s intentions.

  “Give this to Mad Jack. You’ll get a promotion out of it.”

  McCabe started to speak again, but Dub waved him off. He placed the pin of the grenade into his mouth. Keeping the clip pressed down, he pulled the pin out and spat it away. With an exhausted sigh, he lifted his hand and rested the grenade against his forehead.

  Seeing the countdown timer pass the thirty second marker, McCabe jogged towards the doors of the lab. He turned about for a fleeting moment and looked over the unconscious Black Visors and their dying leader.

  “Really,” he blurted, “who are you people?”


  Dub flashed a smile at that. “We’re the good guys, asshole.”

  McCabe turned his back on the Black Visor leader. He sprinted out to where his MEF soldiers guarded the door. After hauling the wounded to their feet, he peaked around the doorframe.

  The Nazi soldiers lingered in covering positions at the far end of the corridor. McCabe gestured at his soldiers to prepare to move and tossed a smoke grenade amongst the dead outside. A cloud of white smoke pumped into the corridor, giving the MEF soldiers and the West Germans a chance to escape.

  Bullets pinged as the SS soldiers fired blindly into the smoke. They shouted to each other and charged towards the lab, tripping over their fallen as they advanced.

  McCabe reached the opposite end of the corridor and started pushing his soldiers around the corner to safety. He had shoved the last of the wounded West Germans ahead when a deafening roar filled his ears. While his brain processed the ferocious sound, he hurtled towards the corridor wall. His already-wounded left shoulder bore the brunt of the impact, sending shards of agony throughout his limb and into his back and torso. He blinked his watery eyes clear as a piercing siren rang through his skull. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils when he leaned to the side for a better view.

  The corridor outside the lab was burnt black with large portions of the floor missing. The doors had been torn from the hinges, as had several metres of the wall. Several smoking bodies lay in pieces across the corridor. A cold wind whipped in from the exposed outer wall and fanned smaller flames, causing them to dance across the chunks of wood and brick covering the splintered marble floor.

  A warm trickle of blood dripped across McCabe’s face. He raised a filthy hand to his forehead and wiped it away. His finger touched a shard of glass embedded in his skin. With a single, sharp motion, he pulled the shard out. Clenching his teeth to stop a groan escaping, he tossed it away. He turned to his soldiers, noted they were moving and trying to pull themselves to their feet. A wave of relief washed through him at seeing them alive, but that feeling died when he looked farther up the dark corridor.