Critical Dawn (The Critical Series Book 1)

by Wearmouth

  An alien clicked free a tablet from the front of a bike and held it toward Layla. She took it, holding the screen away from the sunlight now poking through the clouds, giving the mossy clearing a slight luminous feel.

  A blue arrow marked their position, and as she turned, it did the same like a spinning compass, pointing in the direction of the dim red spots.

  “Right guys, follow me.”

  She led the way into the dark forest, picking her way through the damp undergrowth. After a hundred yards, the gap on the tablet closed to half. At least they hadn’t landed right next to their intended targets, although the hover-bikes would’ve been spotted or heard by anyone above ground.

  Layla glanced ahead for any clues, a fresh-broken twig, footprints on the wet, soft forest surface, a scrap of clothing on a thorn bush, anything to indicate a recent presence. The unfarmed landscape was increasingly turning into rainforest typically associated with the southern hemisphere. She wondered what conditions would be like in the Amazon.

  A group of noisy birds fled from close proximity with a chorus of exotic squawks. Layla crouched and turned. The three croatoans ducked behind individual trees. Hover-bikes hummed overhead. She caught a glimpse of two between a gap in the trees powering through the air high above alongside each other.

  She waved the croatoans alongside and pointed at the tablet then toward a lighter area in the distance. “Over there. Might be the remains of a small town, highway, or something like that.”

  One of the aliens nodded and gently pushed her forward.

  Proceeding with caution, with croatoans on either side, Layla picked up a beaten track, worn into the ground, running toward the target area. It wasn’t surprising that humans would be taking similar routes. Land, or at least cover, was becoming less and less available as the continent transformed into a vast area of alien agriculture.

  The places left alone were the concrete jungles. The last she saw was Nashville, now transformed into a slimy green outcrop. Layla felt like Juan Crisóstomo Nieto discovering the lost city of Kuelap. The conducive climate of thick, moist air had made conditions perfect for a quick colonization of plants and trees. Whatever the harvesters didn’t chew up and spit out, nature took advantage of, regaining its stronghold.

  At the edge of the tree line, Layla paused. The forest floor gradually turned into slippery concrete. Ahead was a main street of a small town. Thick vines climbed the buildings. Ivy sprawled over the walls. Most shop front windows were smashed, probably during the mini ice age. Wooden doors had rotted from the top and bottom, a couple creaking in the breeze. PVC ones were covered in black and green-speckled mold, their windows dulled and dirty. Several vehicles dotted along the street, all at various stages of decay, rusting away to become dark red shells.

  The road was still visible through the weeds and ferns that popped and spread through the fractured surface. It led a hundred yards back into a forested area.

  Layla checked the tablet. The signals came from dead ahead. At the far end of the street by one of the larger buildings, a dumpster, which resembled a large plant-pot stuffed with weeds, marked the likely signal source.

  “Okay. It’s right along there. How do you want to play this?” she said.

  One of the croatoans pointed to himself and another then slowly started advancing. Layla and the other alien waited.

  They moved from rusted vehicle to doorway to plant. Moving a few yards at a time, covering each other as they headed along the street. When they reached halfway, the alien next to Layla clicked a few times and followed the others.

  As she wasn’t armed, Layla followed behind, using the alien’s body as cover. She let out a small yelp after falling to one knee, her foot sliding on a clump of loose moss. The croatoan span around, aimed at her, its helmet almost blinding as a ray of sun reflected toward her. After a short moment, it held out an arm, and Layla pulled herself up. They continued forwards.

  It wasn’t quite as bad as her college field trips. Layla was always treated like the ugly duckling. Teased for being a geek and marginalized by her peers because her theories went against the conventional wisdom of the lecturers. The more she studied human behavior and became a victim of their spite, the more she hated humanity and realized it was on the wrong path. Her parents were an exception, but the ice age took them quickly. At least the croatoans didn’t judge, tease, or bully her.

  The two aliens ahead stood behind a truck yards away from the dumpster. They sprang out from their position and behind the dumpster in their strange, bouncy style. Layla edged to one side for a better view. They headed for a side alley.

  She heard a twanging noise. Something flicked into the street.

  The two croatoans froze, looked at each other.

  A huge eruption followed a blinding flash of light.

  Layla flew backwards, skidding across the road surface. Small chunks of debris hit her body and face. The sound of masonry dropping, glass breaking, and a booming echo through the buildings deafened her.

  The alien pulled her up. She found it difficult to balance, tried to focus and patted herself down. They were surrounded in a veil of light brown dust. Rays of sun tried to break through it.

  Her ears rang with a high-pitched tone. The croatoan clicked in an urgent tone and pulled her toward the dumpster, pointing its weapon from side to side.

  Layla squinted and blinked. The dust stung her eyes. She coughed and swallowed, trying to clear her dry throat.

  They came across the bottom half of a croatoan leg, boot still attached. Close by, half a broken visor rested in the weeds. An arm protruded from a pile of rubble.

  The street became clearer as the dust settled. One of the lead scouts was still intact, slumped against a brick wall in a mangled shape. Its suit had returned to its former gray color, ripped in various places around the armor plates. The helmet visor was splintered, punctured in two places.

  She felt the grip release on her shoulder. The alien dropped to one knee, bowed its head, and clicked more slowly. It appeared to be grieving. Layla hadn’t seen this kind of emotion before, although she’d never witnessed one being killed in front of another.

  Her opinion of croatoans since being recruited by Augustus had gradually grown to a solid appreciation. They were pragmatic. Working in small teams to achieve their objectives, never being led astray to carry out petty injustices or wasting time debating their moves. The aliens had a clear focus on the big picture.

  An old human saying was look after the little things and the big things will take care of themselves. The croatoans tackled things in the opposite direction. So far, it was working out.

  Layla sighed and put her hand on the alien’s shoulder. The rhythm of its sounds increased, going from something similar to the tick of a grandfather clock to a fast, dripping tap. It stood up, holstered its weapon, and grabbed Layla’s ponytail, forcing her head down to the side of its hip.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she said.

  “Hu-man,” it croaked.

  “Get off me. I’m on your side.”

  It ignored Layla and started dragging her toward the forest. She stumbled over plants and debris, trying to maintain its pace while keeping balance.

  They crashed through the undergrowth, back in the direction of the hover-bikes. Her legs caught on weeds. The croatoan curled an arm around her chest and ripped her free.

  “Please. Why are you doing this?”

  The top of her head ached from the constant yanking. She staggered alongside, and they reached the clearing. The croatoan wrestled her onto the back of his hover-bike and raised a finger.

  She nodded. “I won’t do a thing. I’ll help you report it. None of this was your fault … our fault.”

  The engine started with a roar, and the alien thrust the bars forward. They shot up to an unusually
high altitude faster than she’d ever seen the bikes move. They were usually graceful and steady. The croatoan twisted the right grip fully back, and they surged forward, increasing to a dizzying speed, the trees below merging into a green blur.

  Layla clung on for her life. Wind blasted against her face. The seat vibrated below her, and she yelped as they occasionally bounced like a jet-ski.

  The warehouses quickly came into view.

  They dipped like a shooting arrow near the end of its arc, heading straight for the square. The buildings grew in size by every second. She felt herself pressing against the alien because of the angle of descent.

  At the last moment, as Layla feared some kind of mad emergency landing, the croatoan twisted the left grip, and the bike shuddered to a hovering halt. It calmly pulled back the handlebars, and the bike smoothly descended to the end of the line in the square.

  The croatoan ignored Layla, dismounted, and quickly walked to a barrack warehouse. She stood up and took a few deep breaths and rubbed her hands together to stop them shaking.

  Alex raised her hand from the chocolate factory entrance. She walked across to the parked bikes. “Is everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Layla put her arm around her, leaned on her as they walked back toward Gregor’s office. “They’re changing, Alex. Is Gregor about?”

  “He’s chatting to Mr. Augustus, something about new targets.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gregor grabbed a forty-year-old bottle of whiskey from his kitchen cupboard. He’d intended to open it when celebrating something. Appeasing Augustus would have to do, something to take the edge off him.

  Single malt wasn’t going out of date any time soon unlike most other pre-alien produce. It was a shame Augustus hadn’t rotted away like an unwanted microwave meal in a derelict supermarket. He sat at Gregor’s desk, caressing his stupid robe with an armed croatoan behind each shoulder.

  Gregor placed the green bottle down with a reassuring thump and turned the tartan label in Augustus’s direction. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Augustus?”

  “Don’t you offer all of your guests a drink?”

  Gregor frowned. “I didn’t think that—”

  “No, I don’t want a drink. We’ve got serious business to discuss.”

  The croatoans clicked in unison. Augustus sat forward, placed his elbows on the desk, and clasped his fingers together. His sunken eyes fixed on Gregor.

  Gregor told himself to keep calm, not to betray a flicker of emotion. He wanted to gut Augustus like a fish just like his former boss during Gregor’s successful putsch in 2009. Augustus and his old boss shared a lot of the same qualities. They made the men feel uneasy, behaved like kings, and ultimately acted for themselves instead of for the wider gang benefit.

  “It’s been raining a lot this month,” Gregor said. Augustus dismissively waved his hand. “You said something about new targets, Mr. Augustus?”

  “A global change of plan is required for all camps and farms. I’m here to tell you about the new directive and to set your targets for the next month.”

  Gregor shifted uneasily in his chair. “Change of plan?”

  “You’re required to double the land conversion statistics. We’re not going fast enough. I need a major push in the next few days.”

  “That’s impossible. The six harvesters are working twenty-four—”

  “Five harvesters at the moment. You’ve let another one get sabotaged today.”

  “I’m going to take care of that. It’s the same person,” Gregor said. He tried to think of a way to articulate the implausibility of the new expectations. The ground team were already fully maximized meeting the current requirements. “Will you be providing me with more equipment and resources?”

  Augustus drummed his fingers on the table and slowly nodded. “It’s time to be frank with you, Gregor.”

  He turned sideways, slipped his bony fingers around his robe’s hood, and pulled it back. The mask encased the front half of his head and was held on with an elastic strap. Blotches of pink scarring covered the back half surrounded by wispy, brown hair. Augustus reached behind his crusty, misshapen left ear and clicked the fastening loose. The mask sprang away and hung to one side. He turned back to Gregor.

  Gregor clenched his teeth, trying to keep a neutral exterior. Augustus looked like he’d been attacked with a knife and had the wounds cauterized with a blowtorch. Scarring covered at least fifty percent of his face. His left cheek folded inwards as if sewn to his tongue. Small islands of dark stubble spread around his chin and jawline.

  “What are you doing?” Gregor said.

  “I’m showing you the price of failure. I’ll be checking how you’re getting on in a couple of days. My face should serve as a reminder of what will happen if we’re not on schedule. I’m sure you can figure out the punishment for repeated failures?”

  “How do you expect—”

  “I don’t expect. The croatoans expect. You’re not a special case. It’s the same the world over.”

  The door flung open, and a croatoan bounced in. The two guards initially turned their weapons before relaxing. It started communicating with Augustus using staccato alien noises. Gregor tried to discern Augustus’s reaction, but his mangled face was impossible to read.

  “I need a moment outside,” Augustus said.

  He left with the new arrival. The two guards remained inside, helmets angled down at Gregor. He reached for the whiskey bottle. The guard on the right flinched, nudging its weapon up.

  “Steady, my friend. I’m just having a drink,” Gregor said.

  He filled a shot glass and swallowed the whiskey in a single gulp, refilling immediately and drinking again. Gregor clenched his fist to keep his hand steady.

  Augustus was setting him up for failure. Without doubling the harvesters, they had no chance. Even if the croatoans provided the machines, the ground team didn’t have enough trained humans to work in the Operations Compartments. The key to running the harvesters around the clock was the ability to carry out isolation procedures from the local control room to allow continuing functionality. The croatoans couldn’t or wouldn’t resource it, which was part of the reason he thought his team were still alive. They needed humans for work as well as food.

  The door opened. Augustus returned, mask in hand. “I take it you’ve heard the latest news?”

  Gregor raised his eyebrows. “Latest news?”

  After sitting back at the desk, Augustus dabbed a white folded handkerchief against a dribble of saliva running from the corner of his mouth. “Ten croatoans dead. Ten. The harvester. You’re bringing a lot of heat down on this operation.”

  “Ten dead?”

  Augustus repeatedly jabbed his finger against the desk. “Two at the harvester. Two surveyors. Four searching for their killers. Two blown up, killed in a trap, following signals. Ten. T. E. N.”

  The left corner of Augustus’s mouth twitched.

  “It’s Jackson and his bastard son,” Gregor said. “We’ll get them. They can’t keep hiding forever.”

  Augustus sighed. “You said that last year after they crashed a bulldozer through the paddock fences. Are you sure it’s them?”

  “I’m positive. The harvester attacks have all followed the same pattern. Whenever we’ve interrogated survivors, they always blame him. Trust me, most of them want to keep out of our way and hate him as much as me.”

  Augustus stood and cupped the mask around his face, clipping it back in place behind his ear. “You’re incapable of sorting this out. So I will.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Gregor said.

  “I’ll see to Mister Charles Jackson. We’ve got a limited resource available for such situations.”

  “A limited resource? I can do this, just
give me time.”

  “Your time will be occupied with the quotas. We had a similar situation in North Africa. A pain in the ass that wouldn’t go away. I’m sending down a croatoan hunter.”

  Gregor remembered a larger, more aggressive alien during the battle of Eastern Europe. He hadn’t seen one for twenty years. No nonsense and formidable. If it crushed the little wasp, he’d shake its hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Augustus. With him out of the way, we’ll have a better chance of meeting your targets.”

  Augustus held the door open, and the two guards left. He turned to Gregor. “They’re not my targets, I’ve already told you. Oh, one more thing …”

  “Yes, Mr. Augustus?”

  “Wash your clothes. You smell like horse manure.”

  ***

  Gregor followed Augustus and his two guards back toward the shuttle. Augustus had an annoying strut, like a peacock. He hadn’t spoken a word since his aroma barb. It was all right for Augustus; he probably had croatoans scrubbing his velvet robe and running him luxurious bubble baths on the mother ship.

  The cobalt shuttle’s primed engines blasted hot air in Gregor’s face. He stopped by the edge of the clearing as the entourage headed for the graphite ramp.

  Augustus glanced back; Gregor raised his hand. The robed cretin didn’t acknowledge him and shuffled into the craft followed by the two guards. The ramp slid into the main body, and the door hissed across and shut.

  The ground rumbled as the engine noise increased, blowing dust in all directions.

  The shuttle raised a few feet, paused, and zipped away in a smooth, diagonal line above the trees. Gregor shielded his eyes from the lowering sun and watched the craft bank to its left before shooting through the clouds toward the distant, vague outline of the mother ship in the spring green sky, the shuttle’s pink rings quickly disappearing into orbit.