by Wearmouth
Layla’s trailer exploded into flames.
Three croatoans on the right of the office fired again. An alien projectile whistled past Gregor and slammed into a tree behind him.
The odds were stacked against them. The croatoans must have worked out what happened at the shelter. Without the extra weapons and element of surprise, they only had one option. He didn’t like it, but they might just live to fight another day.
“Run for the bikes,” Gregor shouted.
***
Gregor let off four rounds in the aliens’ direction. They scattered for cover.
Layla dropped her backpack and sprinted away.
“Get moving. Now,” Gregor said.
Ben seemed to freeze. He crouched behind a tree, breathing heavily, holding the revolver up in both hands. Marek grabbed him by the collar and yanked him away.
They stumbled to the clearing, weaving between trees. Gregor followed, occasionally turning and firing in the direction of the office.
Branches snapped, and dirt and leaves flew from the ground as the croatoans fired through the woodland.
On open ground, the group would have been cut to pieces. Gregor doubted the aliens intended to stun them and use them for livestock.
He stopped at the edge of the clearing next to the others, turned, and shouldered his rifle. “Get the bikes started. We’re going north. I’ll cover.”
Shots ricocheted around the trees, but there was no sign of an alien advance. Gregor returned fire until he emptied the magazine. He replaced it with one that Marek had given him earlier.
Behind him, three hover-bike engines started to collectively hum.
Gregor turned to see two already rising. Marek and Ben. Layla looked back at him, frantically gesturing him over.
He fired twice more, spun around, and sprinted.
Layla clutched the handlebars. “Come on. Get on.”
“I’ll fly it—”
“Just get the fuck on, Gregor. We haven’t got time to debate it.”
Without thinking further, he grabbed the rear handle and swung himself onto the back seat, keeping his rifle in his right hand. “Go, go, go.”
They thrust vertically into the sky, faster than he’d ever experienced. Gregor clung on tightly with his left hand and squeezed his legs against the seat as if riding a wild horse. He jerked into Layla as she twisted the right handle grip.
The bike quickly progressed to a rapid speed, moaning loudly, bouncing slightly, like taking a powerboat over a lake. Something Gregor used to do in the good old days when entertaining overseas clients, organizing drug deals.
He was impressed with how Layla controlled the beast. They passed the other two bikes in a matter of seconds and cut north through the headwind.
Looking back toward camp, four small dots rose above the main square. Gregor leaned forward. “They’re coming after us.”
Layla reinforced her hands against the bars. There was no detectable speed increase.
Marek and Ben had upped their pace after Layla passed. Gregor signaled to both, pointing to the camp and raising four fingers.
Shuffling around on the seat like a clumsy pommel horse gymnast, he faced backwards. The croatoans closed in, flying in an extended line formation at least a mile behind.
Gregor bent back until his head brushed Layla. “Can’t this thing go any faster?”
She turned momentarily. “What? I can’t hear you.”
“They’re catching up. Can you get more out it?”
“Hang on,” she said.
Gregor slung the rifle and grabbed both handles. The bike banked left and swooped down to a few feet above the trees.
The tactic was safe at a cruise. At this speed, it was dangerous. The reaction time to avoid less obvious things like old overhead power lines or stray lampposts was minimal. He understood her thinking. At least two aliens had crashed at low levels when they were based in Florida.
Ben and Marek followed, plunging down behind them.
Gregor didn’t hear the sound of the alien weapons first. Tiny projectiles hissed past the bike.
One clanked against the rear housing.
He reached over Layla’s shoulder and pointed down. The aliens were faster, and their only protection was his rifle. They were sitting ducks in the sky for the advancing pursuers.
Two more projectiles whizzed past, between the bikes.
Gregor returned fire, trying to take aimed shots. The bump of the bike made it impossible. Something flashed to his immediate left, followed by a metallic rattling sound. He glanced across.
Marek’s bike must have taken a hit in a key area. A jet of red gas sprayed from the side. It began to arc downward. Gregor’s life-long friend slumped against the handlebars, right arm limply hanging by his side.
He looked up at Gregor with a forlorn expression and opened his mouth.
A second later, the bike smashed into the trees at high speed. Marek had no chance.
“Take us down. Now,” Gregor shouted.
Layla swung the bike left and right. She must’ve been searching for a clearing. Anything to get them out of the sky.
The croatoan riders hovered over Marek’s crash site, giving them a moment’s respite.
A reservoir appeared below. Layla dropped altitude. Ben followed suit. Flying yards above water, they blasted two white trails along its glistening, dark brown surface.
Ben looked across, his face full of panic. He pointed to the side of his own bike. Through the roaring wind, Gregor detected an inconsistent tone. Ben headed for the edge, toward a building at the head of the dam.
Gregor carefully watched behind, searching for the arrival of the croatoans over the trees. He grabbed Layla’s shoulder. “They’re not here yet. Do it now.”
Layla decreased their speed to a cruise and reached a grassy area to the right of the building. The bike reared slightly as she twisted the left grip, bringing it to a hover. She pulled back the handlebars. The bike dropped five yards and thumped against the ground.
Ben gently approached, his engine spluttering. Before he reached dry land, the bike nose dipped and entered the reservoir, spraying a thick sheet of water. He was thrown over the handlebars and splashed in, head first.
Ben quickly surfaced and flapped his arms around. “I can’t swim. Help.”
He was ten yards away.
“Hold this a minute,” Gregor said. He passed Layla the rifle, pulled off his jumper, and waded in, pushing off to a swim after a few yards. He grabbed Ben under one arm and started dragging him to the side.
“They’re here,” Layla said. “Hurry up.”
Gregor looked into the distance. Three bikes roared over the trees, advancing along the reservoir, heading directly for them. He staggered out of the water, dragging Ben by his side. “Head for the building.”
Layla ran for a faded red wooden door of an industrial-looking building, Ben and Gregor followed. She jumped over a partially collapsed metal fence and walked through a patch of waist-high weeds. She reached out and rattled the handle. “It’s locked.”
“Out of the way,” Gregor said.
He carried on his forward momentum, roared, and slammed the bottom of his boot against the door’s midsection. It crashed open, revealing dark space inside.
A croatoan hummed into view, stopping at a hover fifty feet away, thirty feet in the air.
Gregor aimed and fired. His round sparked against the side of the bike.
A return shot thumped against the building yards away. Dust puffed from the stone wall.
“In. Now,” Gregor said. He quickly backed away, keeping the bike in his sights, slamming the door closed.
“All three of you. Stay exactly where you are,” an unrecognizable voice said throug
h the shadows.
Layla held up her hands. “We’re being attacked. Haven’t you seen what’s just happened?”
A tall, thin man wearing a hunting jacket stepped out of the shadows holding a crossbow. He aimed at Gregor’s face. “I saw you three arrive on alien machines. You’ve brought them to us.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Denver fired his rifle, hitting the alien’s hand, knocking its own weapon to the ground. The alien leaned down to reach for the gun, but Denver chambered another round and fired. This time, the bullet struck its torso, but like before, it seemed to activate some kind of temporal shifting ability.
While the alien phased in and out of vision, seemingly making it invulnerable to Denver’s rifle, Charlie dashed out into the road and grabbed Maria, who stood there shell-shocked, her eyes already haunted by seeing Ethan vaporized.
“You go,” Denver said. “I’ll keep this fucker locked down while you get Maria somewhere safe. I’ll meet you back at Quaternary.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Charlie said from across the street. “We don’t know what the hell this thing is or can do. You understand me, boy? Get your ass to safety ASAP.”
“I got it, now go.”
The alien’s form flickered, phasing through the visual spectrum. While it was doing this, it moved back to the craft. Denver reloaded his rifle and fired again. As he’d thought, the bullet went right through the alien and struck the metal surface of the craft.
Blue light continued to spill out of the doorway that acted as a ramp from the central triangular section of the craft. Denver looked over to see his dad and Maria head for the shadows of a half-collapsed hotel. They’d just hit the side when the alien spun to face them. It brought out a long tube, placing it on its shoulder. A rocket with more of that blue energy firing behind it shot out, striking the side of the decrepit hotel.
With a blast that made Denver’s ears pop, the remaining rubble of the structure collapsed in a huge cloud of smoke and debris. The single shot leveled the entire building. Denver’s heart seemed to stop as he waited for movement.
Come on, where are you?
He considered going over there, but the alien had dropped the tube and regained its square-barreled rifle. It walked down the street, firing at Denver’s position, each round booming like a cannon as the sound reverberated around the remaining buildings.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Maria wave at him. His dad dragged her away. “Go,” his dad shouted. “Get out of there, Den. Don’t fight it, just run; go back through the forest’s edge.”
Denver nodded and waved his hand to urge them to get out of there before the alien saw them. Another round flew just over his head, the heat scorching his crown. That got his heart pumping again and the adrenaline flowing.
He fired back at the alien, making the beast stop in the street and kneel behind a burned-out taxi, its chassis mostly rust. Through the windows, Denver saw the alien attend to its gun, probably reloading. It was no more than twenty feet away now. Looking to his left, Denver spotted a narrow alley with a low wall at the end.
Taking the opportunity, he dashed out of cover and dived into the alley. The expected explosion of the alien’s gun didn’t come. This didn’t make him feel any better. It made him feel like prey to an advanced and highly capable hunter.
He sprinted down the alley, holding the rifle close to his chest. He clambered over the wall, slipping where the smooth vines had broken through. Hitting the ground hard on his side, he gritted his teeth until the initial pain in his side dissipated. He stood and continued to sprint, taking just a quick glance behind him. As he reached the end of the alley and made to turn right out into a street that looked like the carbon copy of the one he’d just come from, he caught sight of the alien’s long, agile legs.
Holding the rifle with one hand now and using it like a relay baton, he sprinted down the length of the street, dodging in and out of cars, piles of rubble, and fallen buildings. Each time he passed an alley, he looked down it to assess his position. When he came to the fourth one, he ducked inside and made his way to the end, heading back to the first street, doubling back on himself.
If the alien was tracking him, at least he’d be getting some distance and putting obstacles between them. When he came to the end of the alley, he saw the alien craft a few feet back down the street.
Waiting for a moment with his back against what used to be a bank with its expensive marble wall covering, half of which was now charred with signs of war, Denver poked his head around the corner to look back down the alley. When he saw no signs of movement, he stepped out behind the alien’s ship, kneeling in its shadow. He looked out beneath its cone-shaped nose that was a few feet off the ground.
The alien had returned to the shadow of the car. It appeared to be communicating with someone. Its sharp, turtle-like snout moved up and down in erratic movements. It was definitely croatoan but looked like some kind of genetically-enhanced version. Way bigger, stronger, faster. And certainly better equipped.
While the alien’s attention was elsewhere, Denver crept around the front of the craft and walked up the ramp, stepping inside. The atmosphere made him choke as though it was filled with a noxious dry ice. He pulled his shirt over his mouth to help filter the air.
The walls inside were white. To the left was the cockpit section with a single seat in front of a curved glass touch-surface. There was a discernible hum coming from the center of the craft. The whole thing was no more than about thirty feet long and ten wide.
What caught Denver’s attention though was the cabin to the right. On two surfaces of the walls were racks holding what clearly looked like munitions. He reached out and touched a set of three disc-shaped items. They looked like mines. He lifted them off the rack and placed them in his backpack. Not wanting to spend any longer than necessary, he turned to leave, but something on the lower rack caught his attention: A rifle like the one the alien wielded.
He looked at his own rifle, then the alien one. It was a tough choice. He’d owned his for years, but it was starting to show signs of wear and tear, and he was running out of ammo. He’d have to make some more, but right now, he needed something to fight this hunter.
The alien rifle was longer by far, but the tubular barrel was vented and made of some extremely lightweight material. He placed his rifle on the rack and lifted the alien weapon. It felt good in his hands and weighed less than half of the old Remington.
“Fuck yes,” Denver whispered. “You’re coming with me.”
He took the alien rifle and the three black boxes next to it, which he assumed to be ammo. They too were extremely light and fit snugly into the webbing around his pack.
Design-wise, the gun wasn’t a million miles away from human weaponry, but then he guessed that firing a projectile through a barrel only had so many designs. The stock was large, designed for the hunter’s torso, but it still fit snugly in the crook of Denver’s shoulder. The sights were electronic. A slider on the side adjusted the magnification.
The gun had a button above the trigger. When Denver pressed it, the gun hummed, and a blue light flashed on the two-inch-square sight window, which seemed to be the weapon’s general feedback mechanism.
Something within the rifle whirred, and the trigger moved forward a hair. A metallic click coming from the main body of the gun told him that it was loaded. The blue light faded away, and a green dot appeared in the middle of the screen.
He ducked his head outside for a moment, confirmed the alien still had its back to the craft. Heading back inside, he had an idea.
He followed the vibrations of the humming through the ship, going past the weapon’s rack into what he guessed was the engine compartment. A four-foot high cylinder stood within a vat of blue gel-like substance. A pink tinge came from the perimeter, reminding him of the pink circles
on the underside of the shuttles.
It must be the engine; there was nothing else in the ship. Not wanting this fuck-bag to have the luxury of transport, Denver took one of the mine-like devices from his pack and inspected it.
Like all croatoan tech he’d come into contact with over the years, it was the pinnacle of simple, efficient design. If they were to design computers, they would have invented Apple machines, he thought, having seen them back at Mike’s basement.
The mine had just a single mechanism. The same small screen as the rifle’s sights, upon which was a single icon. Denver placed the disc on the top of the cylinder. One had to experiment with these kinds of things if they were to understand what the damned aliens were capable of.
His lungs were starting to protest about the poor air quality, and from outside, he heard the alien shooting his rifle again. When the rounds didn’t hit near the craft, he realized it must have spotted Maria and his dad.
“Fuck it,” Denver said, pressing the icon on the mine. It flashed blue, then pink, then started to pulse. He turned and dashed down through the corridor of the ship, carrying the alien rifle with him.
He stumbled out and rolled down the ramp before scrambling to his feet and sprinting for the alley. As he did, he shouted at the alien, who was leaning against the hood of the old car, his rifle supported out in front of him.
“Hey, fucker, over here!”
The alien turned his head and they locked eyes. Denver stopped just inside the alley and held out the alien’s own weapon. “Look what I found. You want it? Come get it?”
As soon as Denver ducked back inside the dark coolness of the alley, the air took on a strange feel as though it suddenly filled with static. Then the explosion came, cutting short as the craft’s hull muffled the sound, but blue and black smoke billowed out of the open door.