by David Moody
The outpost is filled with cheers, but Chappell’s not celebrating. “They’re playing with us.”
“What are you talking about?” Estelle demands.
“That thing was just a distraction, and we bought it,” he says. “For Christ’s sake, look!”
With attention focused elsewhere, the tarpaulins have been thrown off the back of the two flatbeds, and masses of Hater fighters have emerged. They race forward with predatory speed, but with numerous distracting fires burning brightly nearby and other firefights continuing, their movements are all but hidden in the low light. Keeping track of their numbers becomes infinitely more difficult when they split and splinter, fighters now heading in every direction.
No one’s waiting for orders any longer. Civilian or CDF, anyone who has a gun in their hands begins to fire at the enemy. Some take well-considered shots, aiming carefully, but most simply spray bullets in as wide an arc as possible, doing whatever they can to bring an end to the Hater attacks. All thoughts of conserving ammunition are forgotten, because what’s the point of holding on to bullets when faced with a large-scale attack like this? If they don’t successfully defend the base this morning, everything will be lost.
More Hater fighters appear now, running onto the battlefield on foot. They’re coming from all angles, protected by their relative insignificance in the face of the overall carnage.
Estelle knows she’s running out of options.
* * *
Bryce watches the battle unfold from a distance. He wants nothing more than to be in there fighting, but he’s forcing himself to hold back. He grips the wheel of his Subaru, arms locked rigid with tension. It’s hard knowing there are Unchanged alive in that place while he’s just sitting here watching.
There’s a reason, though, and he has to stay focused on that. Danny McCoyne helps him keep control. “You just need to hold back and bide your time, Bryce,” he tells him. “We’ve all been in scraps like this before. They start big, then get smaller. I know it’s hard, but if we keep our distance now, it’ll be easier when it’s time to make our move.”
“You sound like a coward making excuses.”
McCoyne swallows hard. “I’m not, I swear. I want the same things you do, the same things we all do. I’m just trying not to get myself killed in the process.”
Bryce’s head is spinning. He’s struggling to keep everything in check and under control. He believes his pathetic little non-fighter pet might have a point, but he also knows if Johannson or the others catch wind that he’s been sitting out the battle, they’ll turn on him quicker than if he were Unchanged.
“I need Johannson to know how useful I can be to her.”
“I get that. Like I said, the start of these battles is always the worst part. Let the rest of them take the heat for now, then you go in at the end and take the glory. They’re all focused on what’s happening right now. You need to focus on what comes next.”
He turns and stares straight into McCoyne’s hollow face. “You mess with me and you’re dead.”
“I get that, too.”
“Put one foot out of line, do one thing that paints me in a bad light, make one single mistake, and I’ll snap you like a fucking twig.”
“I won’t, I swear.”
“I’ll haul you in front of Johannson and tell her what you are and what you can do, and she’ll have you strung up. Understand?”
“I understand,” McCoyne says, and he does. He absolutely does.
44
The Outpost—Several Hours Later
It’s less a single battle now, more a collection of countless individual skirmishes, all taking place in the same confined space. Keeping the enemy pushed back feels like trying to plug a dam that’s constantly springing new leaks, but the CDF have so far managed to repel the relentless hordes. Aside from their lack of nerves and the sheer fucking animalistic ferocity that every single Hater exhibits, they’re proving to be a relatively unsophisticated threat. Their weaponry is limited, and their tactics have so far been easy to predict and counter.
The enemy initially focused on breaching the trenches, but Chappell had already planned for that, deploying armed militia back-to-back along the entire line. The first few Haters to make it over the threshold were immediately killed. A pack of around twenty of them then stormed a part of the trench that had been compromised by one of the crashed vehicles from yesterday, the invaders using the wreck both to help gain access and as cover, but the gunners made short work of them, too. Threat neutralized.
Chappell has overseen the entire operation from the service station mezzanine and has been both fascinated and repulsed by the bizarre, borderline kamikaze Hater behavior he’s witnessed. He knows he can use these behaviors to his advantage, and he has a volunteer willing to help. Leslie Wright can’t fight, and she can’t operate any of the remaining CDF machinery of war, but when he asked for someone to carry out what some would consider a suicide mission, she was the only one to oblige. She used to be a keen long-distance runner, a damn good runner at that, and she’s missed the freedom of the open road more than anything since they’ve been holed up here. Chappell takes her down to the front of the building. She freezes for a moment, the noise and the smell and the proximity of the fighting making her almost change her mind. Almost.
“You sure about this?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“And you’re fast?”
“Yes.”
“Really fucking fast?”
“Yes!”
“Good. Because you’re going to need to run faster than you ever have before.”
And even though she knows a wrong step or an ill-considered change of direction might end her life, it’s a chance she’s willing to take. For these few precious minutes of escape, Leslie’s ready to risk everything.
Chappell kisses her lightly on the cheek. “Good luck. And thank you.”
She stretches her muscles, touches her toes, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, then runs like hell.
Leslie crosses the trench using a well-defended pontoon bridge. The noise out here is deafening, but she still screams, “Come on, you fuckers!” at them in the vain hope they’ll hear. And now she sprints. When they see her, they see an easy target and immediately come for her, but she has speed and surprise on her side, and all they can do is race after her. She heads for gaps in the fighting, running a large and lazy circle, loving being out in the open at last, despite the danger.
She glances back over her shoulder. It’s working! She’s like a fucked-up Pied Piper with a riled-up mob of killers following her rather than rats. She’s been out in the open for less than five minutes, running nearly three-quarters of a mile, when she decides enough is enough and changes direction back toward the crossing point. All she needs to do is put in one last burst of speed, get across the pontoon bridge before they raise it again, then catch her breath, sit back, and watch as the soldiers make short work of the gullible bastards who’ve followed her.
And it almost works.
With the bridge in sight, a lone attacker comes at her from out of nowhere. She banks hard right to avoid being caught and goes over on her ankle in deep mud. She tries to get up and run again, but the pain’s severe, and she already knows she won’t make it home. She knew the risks she was taking coming out here, and it was worth it for those snatched minutes of freedom. When Chappell realizes she won’t get back, he orders the bridge to be raised and the militia open fire, mowing down more than thirty Haters. He feels enormous guilt watching Leslie die, but her sacrifice is more than compensated for by the slaughter of so many of the enemy. To his surprise, in the time Leslie was out in the open, two other civilians have volunteered to make similar runs themselves.
As the morning has passed and the afternoon has progressed, the balance on the battlefield has clearly shifted in favor of the CDF. More heavy-duty bridges have been laid over the trench. A Challenger tank has just crossed and has taken up position around fifty meters away from
the front of the CDF-occupied buildings. With an ocean of space all around it, its crew can take unchallenged potshots whenever the enemy shows signs of trying to encroach again. Even now, when the fighting has been raging for hours and their casualties are mounting, those tireless bastards are refusing to give up. Another Hater-driven truck appears up ahead. The tank’s loader inserts a shell into the main gun—kissing it and wishing it well on its journey, praying it hits the mark because they’re really running low of ammo now—then the gunner takes aim and fires. There are few more satisfying sights these days than a direct hit on a truckful of Haters. When the smoke clears, there’s nothing left but a crater and an ugly mass of blackened metal.
Two military utility vehicles now make their first appearance. Looking like heavily armored 4 × 4s with huge guns mounted on the roof, they burst clear of the outpost and whip around the churned-up battlefield with ten times the agility and speed of any tank. For the drivers, this is starting to feel like sport; chase any lone Haters left out there and mow them down if the gunner doesn’t deal with them in time. These vehicles are conspicuous, still painted khaki and beige from when they were last deployed in a desert country on the other side of the world. In most wars, the lack of camouflage would be a problem, but not this one. Today, the crews are proud that their vehicles stand out. After hiding and sheltering in silence for so long, it feels good to be right in the Haters’ faces again. Many of the militia wish they’d gone with their instinct and broken ranks like this a long time ago.
It’s noticeable now that the noise around the service station outpost is changing; there’s more engine noise than gunfire. The tanks and utility vehicles have been ordered to cease fire so the state of play can be assessed. Estelle and Chappell have ventured down to the front line, and it’s noted by the rank and file.
She stands on the edge of the trench with her field glasses, watching a final flurry of Haters run for cover in the distance. The only ones who are left are the horrifically injured: the dead and dying. There are CDF militia doing the rounds on foot—finishing them off, then stripping their bodies of anything of value.
It’s over.
“We did good,” Estelle says to Chappell.
“Yep.”
“Is that all the enthusiasm you can muster, Greg? You do realize what we achieved today, don’t you? Those creatures exist solely to hunt out and kill people like you and me, and we beat them into submission.”
“But they haven’t submitted, have they? We’d be stupid to think it’s job done.”
“True. And we’re not stupid. There’s still a long way to go.”
Chappell sighs. “Today was an expensive day. When you add it all up, it’s cost us dear. We lost some good people, and we used up a hell of a lot of ammunition. We don’t have huge reserves.”
“I know that and you know that, but they don’t.”
“They’ll find out if they keep coming back for more.”
“Stop being such a bloody pessimist.”
“You don’t think I’m entitled to be pessimistic?”
“This time yesterday, perhaps, but not now. Not after what we’ve achieved. We have to make the most of this. Maximize and drive home our advantage. We strike now, take back control, and wipe those bastards out.”
“I hope you’re right, Estelle.”
“You know I am. More importantly, the people inside this base who’ve been looking up to us to see them through this crisis now also know that we can deliver. They’ve all seen what we’re capable of. We’ve shown them that the enemy is beatable. Don’t you feel a change in the air, Greg? We’re on the verge of taking back what’s left of our world.”
“You can be so fucking pretentious sometimes.”
“Mind your mouth. I can always find someone else to do your job if you’re not up to it.”
“There is no one else, and you know it,” he reminds her.
“We need to analyze what happened today,” she continues, ignoring his last comment. “We’ve learned a lot. The Haters have absolutely no military capabilities, that much is clear. They’d have used it by now if they had. They attempted a very visible and very rudimentary attack, and it was a complete failure. You saw them as clearly as I did. Trying to use sticks and stones and knives to fight tanks—there was only ever going to be one outcome.”
“I don’t think you give them enough credit.”
“And I think you give them too much.”
“Just don’t be so quick to write them off.”
“I’m not writing them off, but we will be able to in time. They’re falling apart. The longer this goes on, the more basic their behaviors become. They’re regressing. They’re becoming increasingly unsophisticated and animallike, and we can use that to our advantage.”
45
It’s pitch-black. Just before three in the morning, the next Hater incursion begins, and this time it’s a much smaller-scale affair with a wholly different intent. There’s no noise and bluster, none of the arrogance of their previous in-your-face attacks. Subtlety and reserve aren’t words normally associated with Haters hunting Unchanged, but needs must. Their brazen brutality has so far been unsuccessful, and an alternative approach is now called for.
A group of fighters makes its way toward the less heavily defended rear of the outpost. There are guns and tanks and snipers here, too, but they fail to pick up on the six men and women who sneak and crawl across the open space. They split into pairs, each duo lugging containers of fuel behind them. They’ve spent time watching and have chosen three relatively inconspicuous spots. Once they reach the trench, they empty the barrels out over anything that looks vaguely combustible, then set the fires burning.
It’s a distraction, and the Unchanged generals know it. Troops are dispatched to deal with the fires (though the Haters who set them have already slunk away into the darkness again), but the main CDF forces maintain position so as not to leave the front of the outpost vulnerable to attack. It’s a simple and straightforward response, and it doesn’t work.
With the CDF soldiers split between the small fires to the rear and defending the main hub of the outpost, no one notices another pack of Haters breaching the trench at its most inaccessible point. With attention directed elsewhere, they’re free to get in and over the threshold with remarkable ease and speed. They split up and work their way through and around the abandoned construction equipment and those few military machines that have so far remained unused. They’re spotted soon enough, but it’s a calculated risk because in the poor light, with so many things to hide behind and move around, it’s impossible for the Unchanged to know how many of the enemy have broken through. There’s a frantic attempt to get a couple of arc lights set up and lit, but they’ve barely been used since the night of the bombs and it’s minutes, not seconds, before the buildings are locked down and the entire area is filled with intense artificial light.
But all that does is illuminate what’s coming next.
The Haters are sprinting through CDF territory, causing maximum damage. They set fires, shoving burning rags into the fuel tanks of vehicles. Several of them explode, and they’re parked so tight together in parts of the compound that chain reactions cause many more to catch fire. The intention here is not to destroy but to cause alarm, and there’s no question that it works. Elements of the civilian population, squashed uncomfortably into the restricted confines of the service station, start to panic because suddenly and without any warning, the battle they’ve been watching intermittently over the last days from a distance is now being fought on their side of the CDF defenses.
Outside, more Haters throw petrol bombs toward the outpost. Again, these are crude weapons, but their cumulative effect is startling. There are numerous arcs of fire and bursts of flames, and between putting out the fires and dealing with the Haters who’ve already breached the barriers, there’s now absolute chaos in and around the outpost. These people have been living on their nerves since the attacks began, and the proximity
of these latest explosions has ratcheted up the fear to another level.
Elsewhere, more troops are dispatched to the trenches. Are these small-scale attacks just a decoy? Estelle and Chappell know they can’t afford to let their guard down. Anyone who can use a gun is given one (though there’s nowhere near enough ammo to go around), and a new perimeter is established tightly around the hotel and service station buildings. Perched on top, snipers scan the area below and take out anyone they think is an attacking Hater. Trouble is, there’s no natural light, and while their infrared sights are quick to show up body heat and movement, all other details are hidden; everyone’s body heat looks the same. The snipers can’t see faces; they can only try to anticipate intent. The direction someone’s moving, the speed at which they’re running, if they’re attacking or defending … these are the only ways left to discern between Hater and Unchanged right now. Each shot carries an unprecedented weight of expectation. Did I hit my target? Have I just killed one of ours?
More petrol bombs are thrown through the darkness, dancing gracefully across the sky, then crashing down to earth and causing untold pain. The CDF is so tightly packed in this confined island of space that wherever the firebombs hit, they invariably cause huge amounts of damage. A bottleful of fuel hits a wall and explodes, showering two soldiers with fire. One of them tries to roll along the muddy ground to put out the flames, but there isn’t space and all he does he spread the fire. Another lucky firebomb lob hits a small artillery store, and within seconds, the whole damn lot has gone up, sending more militiamen and women running for cover as the munitions explode around them like deadly fireworks.
Yet despite all of this, the CDF is still maintaining control. The snipers finish off those Haters who’ve trespassed onto their patch, then shift their focus to other figures moving through the periphery. They give their position away when they light their Molotov cocktails and get ready to hurl them at the base. Wising up to the routine, the CDF soldiers manning the howitzers immediately unload before the bombs can be thrown. It’s incredibly satisfying watching a Hater burning as a result of the detonation of a petrol bomb they haven’t managed to lob in time.