Gunz

by William Stacey

  "Mag-sens? That what you guys call these two women that can … do stuff?"

  "Cassie and Elizabeth. And they can do more than stuff. It's impressive. Trust me. God, I hope they're okay."

  "This shit is crazy. I hear the prime minister is going to enact the Emergencies Act." Gus shook his head, staring out the window. "Amazing, isn't it, a liberal government enacting martial law—again."

  "It's going to get much worse, I think."

  The van slowed, and up ahead, Alex saw a long line of military vehicles idling along the side of the road, facing the base entrance. The first vehicles they passed were support trucks and armored recovery vehicles, but soon they began to drive by a long line of eight-wheeled Coyote armored reconnaissance vehicles with turret-mounted 25mm chain guns, as well as a handful of the slightly larger eight-wheeled LAV-IIIs, Light Armored Vehicles, which each carried a section of infantry. Young men crawled over the armored vehicles, prepping them for combat, loading boxes of ammunition, and securing gear. It was like watching ants crawl over a meal.

  Alex turned to Gus. "What are we sending?"

  "My unit, the Reconnaissance Squadron from the Lord Strathcona's Horse Regiment."

  "Square combat team?"

  Gus shook his head. "Don't have time to pull that together. Recce Squadron was on the books to do a live-fire exercise in two days, so most of my cars were already green."

  "That was lucky."

  "Not so much. Most of my guys are newbies. Some have been in uniform less than a year. Only my senior non-coms have seen action. I'm taking kids to war."

  "It's always kids going to war. Any support?"

  "We've been able to scrape together a platoon of Pats from 1 Battalion and an engineer and FOO detachment."

  "Pats," Alex knew, meant a platoon of infantry from the famed Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry Regiment, also known colloquially as the PPCLI—although they preferred the nickname "Patricia's." The FOO was a Forward Observation Officer, usually an artillery officer trained to call in either artillery or air support, generally with pinpoint precision. "Air support?" Alex asked.

  "The 408 Tactical Helicopter Squadron is already mobilized, but I'm not sure of their status. To say that things are fucked up right now would be a vast understatement. The Immediate Response Unit for 1 Canadian Mechanized Brigade Group is prepping now to follow us, but they'll be establishing a defensive perimeter farther back along the Kiskatinaw River to the south of where we're going. We're the only ones authorized to go forward, and only to rescue civilians and assess the situation."

  "What about the Americans? Operation Rubicon is a joint op."

  Gus shook his head. "Word is, they've got their own problems in Arizona. For now, it's just us, a recce squadron plus."

  "The dark elves have sent thousands of troops into Fort St. John—a real army."

  "This is a 'come as you are' party, Alex. We're lucky to have what we do."

  The van pulled over beside a command Coyote, which Alex assumed belonged to his friend. Everyone piled out but the driver. A corporal ran over and handed a carbine to Gus and another to his sergeant major. Gus gripped the side of his armored vehicle, paused, and looked over his shoulder at Alex. "I'm glad you're with us, buddy, but I need to take care of business. The sergeant major will find you a ride. There's no more time, Alex. We need to roll, and we're going in hot. If you need to tell me something, go through Huck. She'll be on the radio net with me."

  "Got it—tell Huck." He had no idea who Huck was, but this wasn't the time.

  "You're the only man here who has actually fought these dark elves before. Remember that." Gus turned to his sergeant major. "We're rolling in five, Sergeant Major. Ready or not, here we come."

  "Roger that, sir," said the sergeant major, coming stiffly to attention.

  Gus climbed atop his armored vehicle then lowered himself into the crew commander's hatch in the turret, putting on a crew commander's helmet and radio earphones. Sergeant Major Ouellet grabbed Alex's elbow and pulled him along with him. "This way, sir." He stopped a sergeant who was rushing past and told him to grab one of the spare rifles and tactical vests. The sergeant nodded and darted off. Ouellet took Alex to the rear of another LAV-III, its back hatch lowered, its diesel engine thrumming. Judging from the robust antenna array on the vehicle's turret, Alex guessed this was the FOO vehicle—the artillery Forward Observation Officer. "This is your ride, Captain," Sergeant Major Ouellet said.

  The sergeant that Ouellet had tasked a moment earlier trotted over with a C-7 assault rifle and a fully loaded tactical vest in his hands, as well as a paper DND 2227 loan card, which he insisted Alex sign. Some things never change, Alex mused as he signed for the rifle, ammunition, and tactical vest. The sergeant, obviously the unit quartermaster, disappeared with the loan card.

  Alex worked the rifle's action, making sure it wasn't loaded. A young female officer, an artillery captain with her red hair close cropped in a crew cut, climbed out the back of the LAV, looking from the sergeant major to Alex.

  "Captain Benoit," the sergeant major said. "This is Captain Armstrong, the FOO. The Royal Canadian Horse Artillery have been kind enough to lend her to us for the next few days, eh. Captain Armstrong, this is your passenger. He's our only subject-matter expert on these aliens, so please don't get him killed right away."

  The female officer snorted, smiling widely. "I'll do my best, Sergeant Major."

  Ouellet spun away.

  The FOO thrust her hand out to Alex. "Heidi, but everyone calls me Huck."

  More plain than pretty, Huck had a long, thin nose, somewhat narrow eyes, and a stern, angry-seeming demeanor that reminded him of Clara. She was, no doubt, distrustful of most men in the army, and likely for good cause. From long experience, he knew that women in the combat arms branches had had to fight twice as hard as the men to be taken half as seriously. It tended to make them cold at first. "Alex," he said, gripping her hand firmly. "Sorry they're thrusting me on you."

  "Don't worry about it. Stow your shit inside. We're rolling any minute—just doing a communications check now."

  "Got no shit to stow," he said, holding his weapon and tactical vest.

  She barked an awkward but honest laugh, exposing a wide gap between her front teeth, and he found himself beginning to like her, despite having just met her. "Well, you won't take up too much room, then." She slapped him on the back and turned away, yelling orders at her crew, getting them ready to roll.

  The sound of diesel engines revving cut off any further attempt at conversation, and Alex climbed into the crowded back of the vehicle. Minutes later, the LAV began to roll. Alex sat on a bench, blind to what was going on around them. An hour ago, he had been a prisoner. Now, he was going to war with Recce Squadron.

  No kidding the situation was "fluid."

  21

  Elizabeth crouched in the tree line, staring out across the field of wild grass. The field extended for about a kilometer before meeting a series of low hills with residences built upon them, including a farmhouse with rows of what looked like beehives. The Alaskan highway cut through the hills to the right of the trees in which she and the volunteers hid. Almost a hundred men and women knelt in a line on either side of Elizabeth—including almost three dozen red-jersey-clad Canadian Rangers with their bolt-action Lee Enfield rifles, a dozen or so RCMP officers from Dawson Creek—as well as the handful of survivors from Fort St. John—and almost fifty more locals with hunting rifles. When the mayor had asked for volunteers, these men and women stepped forward immediately, terrified but willing to do what was necessary to keep their families safe. Dozens of other volunteers—those who couldn't fight—moved along the congested highway, urging the civilians to abandon their cars and move forward on foot across the Taylor Bridge, carrying those who were too old, too young, or too injured to walk on their own. Every one of them needed to get across the bridge now, in any way they could. Worry snaked through her, and she pictured hellhounds attacking women and
children.

  She forced herself to concentrate on the things she could control—holding back the dark elf army and giving the civilians a chance to escape. Paco's plan was simple—wait in the woods until they saw the dark army then open fire—but simple was about all they could handle in the time they had. She had slipped both bandoleers of loaded magazines over her neck, as well as the sling of hand grenades. She had no idea if she'd need that much ammunition, but better safe than sorry.

  What she really wanted was Cassie's Brace. The Sasquatch talisman vastly amplified magical energy, and she was pretty sure she'd need that help. The dark-elf mage they had fought on Rubicon had been far more powerful than Elizabeth or Cassie. What if there are hundreds of mages? Thousands? As advanced as twenty-first-century weapons were, even Elizabeth could take on a platoon of modern soldiers with magic. If they send their mages, they're going to burn down these woods around us. Her blood ran cold when she remembered the dark-elf mage's fireball enveloping her, remembered her skin melting—

  She shook her head, forcing herself to pay attention to what needed to be done. Dwelling on her fears would get her killed.

  A hot, dry August wind pushed through the fields, ruffling the tall stalks of wild grass and sending grasshoppers whirring away. Thunder softly rumbled in the air. For what must have been the twelfth time in the last half hour, she gripped her rifle's plastic magazine and shook it vigorously, making sure it was seated firmly in the weapon's feed. Swamp Thing had lectured her on the dangers of using fully loaded thirty-round magazines, which tended to overcompress the magazine spring, interfering with the grip of the magazine catch assembly. Sometimes, Swamp Thing had told her with grave sincerity, fully loaded magazines had a tendency to fall off at the most inopportune times—like in the middle of a firefight. Remembering his lecture, Elizabeth had taken two rounds from each magazine, easing the stress on the springs.

  "It's good, Elizabeth," Paco said. "Leave it be." He lit two cigarettes and handed her one. She shook her head, and Leela took it instead.

  Elizabeth had eaten again and refilled her water bottles in the community center. She was exhausted, but her fear kept her on edge. Soon, she'd be in combat. The first time she had taken a life had been on Rubicon. Surprisingly, it had made her feel … energized, more alive. Even now, a tremor of anticipation coursed down her spine. What kind of Christian am I, she wondered, to find battle exciting?

  A poor one was the obvious answer.

  The mayor squatted next to Constable Trotter, a hunting rifle in his grip. He must have sensed her staring at him, because he returned her gaze with frightened eyes. She gave him a smile, which he tried to return but managed only a weak grimace. Leela lifted her hunting rifle to her shoulder and used its scope to scan the terrain, her cigarette dangling from her lips. Elizabeth desperately wanted to talk to her alone and find out how she had trained herself to channel mana and what she meant by creating shields, something neither Elizabeth nor Cassie could do.

  Once again, her thoughts drifted to her family. Please, God, let my family be safe. She had borrowed a cell phone from one of the others, but there had been no answer from her parents' cell phone. Someone else had claimed the cell towers were destroyed.

  The thunder rumbled once more, coming from the dark clouds gathering to the north. Summer storms came fast, and this one looked as if it would be on them quickly. Even the air carried the promise of rain, a damp, musky odor intermingled with the flowering weeds, cow manure, and sweet stench of roadkill coming from the highway. Her tongue ran across a dry mouth, and she opened another water bottle, drinking a third of it before handing it to Paco and Leela to finish off. Paco drank a few sips, as did Leela, then he poured the rest into his cupped hands for the heavily panting Clyde.

  Her pack sat beside her, and she rummaged in it now and removed the radio and tried it once more, hearing nothing but static. Paco glanced at her, and she shook her head. Then she looked through the small field binoculars again, staring at the highway. Waves of heat rose from the asphalt, but nothing moved on it. Maybe they're not coming, she thought. Maybe taking Fort St. John was enough. Please, God, I know you're angry with me, but let this be an end to the killing.

  Then she saw movement on the highway, and she got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. A single vehicle, a huge green RV camper, the drivable kind with a gaudy yellow racing stripe along its chassis, rolled down the highway, but it was moving so slowly—and behind it was… "Oh, Lord, no!" Hellhounds, an entire pack of the fire-breathing monsters, chased the camper, easily loping along beside it.

  "What's wrong?" Paco asked.

  "There," she said, thrusting the binoculars at him.

  Paco stood up and peered through the binoculars. He swore softly, handing the glasses to Leela. "It's running on a flat, on the rim," he said.

  "We need to help," Elizabeth said.

  Paco shook his head. "Too far to shoot, and the hellhounds are too close. We'd hit the camper."

  "It's too late," said Leela, lowering the binoculars and staring at Paco and Elizabeth with wide, frightened eyes. "They've set it on fire."

  "Shit, shit, shit!" exclaimed Paco, pacing back and forth.

  Even without the binoculars, Elizabeth could see the orange flames on the rear of the camper, the pack of hellhounds still chasing it. The camper dropped out of sight behind a hill, but the black smoke remained in the air.

  "No!" said Elizabeth, thrusting her rifle into Paco's hands. She turned and began climbing a nearby tree with low, wide branches. "Help me," she said.

  Paco dropped her rifle then cupped his hands for her, thrusting up on her butt to help her up the tree. "It's too far, Elizabeth."

  "Not for me." She grunted as she pulled herself up onto a thick branch. A year ago, before she started training at the gym with Swamp Thing and the others, she couldn't do a single chin-up. Now, she could do them while wearing all her gear. She balanced upon the branch, now about fifteen feet in the air, and stared out onto the highway, seeing the green camper once again. The flames covered its entire rear now, with even the back tires on fire. The hellhounds ran alongside it, snapping at the metal chassis, like dogs that finally caught a car, but they knew exactly what to do with it.

  Those people are going to die.

  "Help me," urged Leela, who now hung from the branch Elizabeth was standing on. She had been so preoccupied that she hadn't even noticed the young woman climbing up to join her. Elizabeth reached down, caught Leela's hand between both of hers, and hauled her up onto the branch. Panting heavily, Leela stared out at the highway. "Oh no," she whispered in horror. "It's still too far."

  "No, it's not. All we need is line of sight, and we have that now. Can you slow down the hellhounds?"

  "I don't know—yes. Yes, I can. What about the flames?"

  Elizabeth bit her lower lip and considered the options. "I might be able to blow them out, but I might also just fan them, making them worse."

  "I don't think you can make it worse. Do it!"

  Elizabeth composed herself, breathed in deeply, then raised her hands before her and began to channel. She knew she was drawing in too much mana, that she risked burning herself out the same way poor Duncan had, but she wanted to make sure she blew the flames completely out on the first try. The mana filled her, and she felt as if she were about to burst, like an overinflated balloon. Sweat stung her eyes, and her legs shook, her muscles beginning to cramp. When she couldn’t draw in one iota more, she released the mana, channeling it into a hammer blow of air to strike the flames. In a single gut-wrenching moment, the fire vanished, snuffed out like a child's birthday candle.

  Joy blossomed within her. I did it! Thank you, God.

  She felt Leela channeling then, and the hellhounds chasing the camper fell to a sudden jarring halt. Those in the rear smashed into those in the front, rolling over them to come to a sudden stop as well, as if they had hit an invisible wall—which was exactly what had happened.

  Elizabeth stared
in wonder at Leela, whose skin was flush with excitement.

  So that's what she meant by shield. I have to learn how to do that.

  The camper sped away on its rims, trailing smoke but safe.

  Leela whooped in excitement then grabbed Elizabeth's arm to steady herself. "We make a good team. I didn't know we could cast a spell that far."

  "I'm not sure 'casting a spell' is an apt description for channeling mana, but Cassie and I learned over the last year that if we can see something, we can channel mana at it, but using mana is like shining a spotlight on yourself. Let's just hope there weren't any dark-elf mages close enough to sense that."

  The two women climbed back down as the smoking green camper slowly rolled past the woods on their right, disappearing from sight.

  THE FIRST OF the dark elf army appeared on the highway less than twenty minutes later. Elizabeth watched through her binoculars as figures, barely discernible at first through the shimmering heat coming off the asphalt, became more distinct. The thunder boomed once more, and thick droplets began to fall. "Paco," she said.

  Paco peered through his rifle's scope. "I see 'em." He turned and raised his voice. "Pass the word. No one shoots until I give the order. Our best chance is to sucker punch them before they get a chance to organize."

  "Won't they be used to gunfire after Fort St. John?" Elizabeth asked.

  "Maybe not. We're on key terrain. From here, even a hundred people firing hunting rifles are going to cause a lot of damage, especially with aimed shots. Most of these rifles are scoped for distance, and I doubt even chain-mail armor will slow down a .223 deer-hunting round, let alone a 30.06. We're gonna shoot the living shit out of these alien sons of bitches."

  Now, she could see that the figures were marching in organized ranks. While small groups ranged ahead of the main body, most of the advancing force was grouped together across all four lanes of the highway. There were so many of them—thousands. Glancing up at the dark clouds, she saw no sign of flying lizards.