Critical Dawn

by Darren Wearmouth

  He placed the pistol back in his hip holster and looked around the shed. Faded pictures of topless women had been pinned around the walls. A bottle of vodka sat on a workbench next to Igor’s revolver. His clothes were folded in a scruffy ball by the end of the mattress. Nothing in view smelt of Augustus.

  “Why do you need me? I’m on feeding duty in an hour,” Igor said.

  “You’ll be back in time; don’t worry. We’re going to a town where two croatoans were killed yesterday. It’s too dangerous for just Marek and me to go. We need someone else.”

  Igor grabbed his sweater and shook it before placing it over his head. “Marek’s free? Why not take Alex?”

  “Questions, questions. We need some short-term supplies until we get near a big city again. Are you coming or not?”

  “Do I have an option?” Igor said while pulling on his jeans. He slipped on his boots and glanced up at Gregor with his sneaky eyes.

  “I’ll throw this one back. Do I have to ask you or tell you?”

  He let Igor take the lead past the chocolate factory. The small-time Muscovite was handy with a gun; Gregor had witnessed it early in the ice age when they came together. It took Igor five seconds to kill four armed survivors in a barn during the early battle for the remaining territory and resources around Vladikavkaz. Gregor’s gang were forced north and regrouped in the southern Russian city. Igor was pushed south; that’s where they’d met.

  Gregor guessed he was a petty jewel thief or a lone wolf for hire in his previous life. The more the years went by, the more his claims of running a Moscow operation became exaggerated. Fat lot of good his bullshit did him in their situation. It’s not like the croatoans would give a flying fuck.

  To his left, he noticed an anti-gravity platform being pushed from the paddocks with three humans slumped on top of it. Their orange skin looked like they were coated in fake tan like the ladies who used to hang around his hideout in Yerevan.

  Igor turned. “What the hell is going on over there?”

  “No idea. I’ve got Layla on the case. Speaking to her when we get back.”

  Gregor liked to delegate and deal with things in bite-sized chunks. Supplies and Igor were his immediate focus. Delegation brought a sense of responsibility and loyalty; people felt involved. That was something else the Russian could have learned instead of obsessively grooming his ridiculous moustache.

  Marek waved across from the hover-bikes and walked across to meet Gregor. The square was a hive of activity. Three croatoan riders were in position. The engines were already quietly humming. Clusters of aliens milled around the entrances of every building. The whole place crackled with croatoan speak.

  “They seem in high spirits this morning,” Marek said. “Is it National Croatoan Day or something?”

  “What’s up with them?” Igor said.

  “Who cares? If they’re happy, I’m happy,” Gregor said. “Do they know where we’re going?”

  “Yep, all set,” Marek said.

  Gregor swung his leg over the closest hover-bike, gripped the side handle with one hand, and tapped the rider on the shoulder.

  The bike rose above the height of the buildings and thrust forward.

  It tore over the paddocks at a low level. Gregor looked behind to see the other two bikes following in line. Below, a strange, transparent object sat by the gates, a couple of surveyors around it.

  As they reached the far end of the paddock, humans scattered away in all directions from the flight path, running for the shelter or bushes that had sprung up since the area had been cleared. It was one of those moments where the feeling of power was magnified.

  In the distance, an orange haze covered the vast farmland. A feeling of pride swelled up in Gregor. He hadn’t been up on a bike in months to get a high level view; there’d been too much to sort out on the ground level. The scale of the project came back to him.

  He gripped the other supporting handle as speed increased. They roared over the forest for five minutes before the bike gradually reduced to a slow cruise as the alien’s tracking tablet reached the coordinates that Marek had supplied. The engine softly purred as they slowly approached a rocky area below. The rider brought the bike around above it and hovered, waiting for the other two bikes to arrive.

  Igor waved as he arrived. Gregor nodded.

  All three bikes lowered simultaneously. Gregor’s came to rest at a slight angle. He hopped off. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

  The alien didn’t acknowledge him. It sat silently, looking straight forward.

  Marek pulled a map from inside his jacket. “It’s a five-minute walk from here. Follow me.”

  Gregor checked his gun and held it up. He followed Marek and Igor into the forest, occasionally pointing his gun at the back of Igor’s head and pulling away. The wet night chill had already left the woodland, and humidity was building. Gregor wiped a thin layer of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

  Sporadic rays of sun seeped through gaps in the trees, highlighting thousands of midges, busily hovering in clusters. Gregor felt an itch and slapped his neck. Igor spun around and faced him.

  “Paranoid about something?” Gregor said.

  Igor frowned. “Anything could happen out here. I’m staying alert.”

  Leading the way, Marek crunched along the forest floor. He crouched by a fallen, rotting tree and checked his laminated map.

  “Are we here?” Gregor said.

  Marek pointed his gun over the dark brown, lice-infested trunk. “It’s just over there; we’re two-hundred yards away.”

  Two people moved in the distant clearing. Gregor gripped Igor’s shoulder. “Get down.”

  They observed the area for five minutes, creeping closer from tree to tree until the three were fifty yards away. Two people stood on a former street, heating a large metal pot on a fire.

  Rubble was spread around the road, probably from yesterday’s explosion. Not that it mattered. The place was slowly dying. The fifth harvester, once repaired, would put it out of its misery. Gregor remembered watching in awe when he first saw one plow through a small town. Chewing up buildings, gouging out foundations, and spitting them behind in minute pieces mixed with surrounding soils.

  “We’ll take them head on. Don’t do anything unless I say,” Gregor said.

  Igor spun the wheel of his revolver and clicked it back in place. Marek held his gun in both hands.

  Gregor moved from behind the tree and quickly broke from the forest. A man and woman turned, wide-eyed. She dropped a ladle. He attempted to say something, then turned to run.

  “Stop right there,” Gregor shouted. “We mean you no harm.”

  Both put their hands up. The man shuffled round to face him, his bottom lip quivering on his dirt-smeared face. They were in filthy clothes stained with years of grime. If Augustus had a problem with Gregor’s sweater, he couldn’t have met many of the population. These two were throwbacks from a bygone era, peasant-looking types he’d only seen on period dramas before the shit hit the fan.

  Marek moved around the right-hand side, covering the flank. “Are there any others we need to know about?”

  “It’s only us. Please, we’ve got nothing,” the woman said.

  Igor moved ahead of Gregor, looked into the pot, and pointed down. “Nothing, you say? What’s bubbling away here?”

  Gregor clenched his teeth and felt his left eye twitch. He bit his lip to keep the appearance of a team.

  “It’s just a simple stew. You can have some,” the woman said.

  “Mallard and root. We call it duck a l’orange,” the man said. He nervously laughed, abruptly stopping when it was clear that Gregor didn’t find it remotely amusing.

  “Give us your supplies, and we’ll go,” Gregor said. “You have time to loot some more. I don’t.”

  Igor wrapped his sweater around his hand and grabbed a handle on the side of the pot. “We’ll start by taking this.”

  “No,” the woman said. She reached for
the other handle. The pot flipped over, and the contents splashed over Igor’s ankles and feet. He jumped back and yelped.

  Gregor tried to stifle his laugh. The woman edged backwards.

  Igor thrust out his revolver and fired twice into her chest. She collapsed backwards, her right hand flopping onto her chest over the wounds.

  The man held out his arms and momentarily froze before kneeling by her side. He clutched her left hand and shook it. “Ellie … Ellie …”

  The shots echoed in the distance. Igor picked up a piece of boiled duck by his feet and tossed it into his mouth. Gregor glanced at Marek and nodded.

  The man looked up with tears in his eyes. “What have you done? What have you done? This is all we have. You’ve … you’ve killed her.”

  Igor stepped forward and fired again. The blood sprayed from the back of the man’s head as the round exited. Igor turned to Gregor. “Whiney pieces of—”

  Gregor aimed his weapon at Igor’s face. “Drop it, now.”

  Marek quickly moved to Igor’s side and took aim. “He said drop it.”

  The revolver twitched in Igor’s hand. He ducked slightly before holding his left palm toward Gregor, crouching, and placing his revolver on the ground. “Steady, old friend. They meant nothing to us.”

  Gregor wanted to shoot him. But the years they’d spent together since the invasion had a freezing effect on his trigger finger. “I said don’t do anything unless I said so.”

  “She was just a hag,” Igor shrugged. He spat out a piece of duck. “The food tasted like shit anyway.”

  “We’ll never know if they had supplies,” Marek said. “We can’t search this whole town. You’ve made this a wasted trip.”

  “And you’ve fucked our chances of getting info on Jackson. You’re an idiot,” Gregor said.

  Igor smoothed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. He stared at Gregor with his piercing, light blue eyes. “What’s this really about? She was just a hag, an old witch with a cauldron.”

  “What’s going on between you and Augustus?” Gregor said.

  “Me and Augustus?” Igor said. He shrugged and pursed his lips.

  “I heard you talking to him while I was in the garage,” Marek said.

  Igor’s eyes half closed as he shot a glance at Marek. “He’s the one you shouldn’t trust. I wasn’t captured by the little wasp.”

  “Forget about Marek. I’m the one asking the questions. What were you and Augustus talking about? Don’t even bother denying it,” Gregor said.

  “He asked me how things were going. I told him we’re in good shape. What am I supposed to do? Ignore the skinny old bastard?”

  “Is that all he said?”

  He held his hands toward Gregor as if they were in invisible cuffs. “Would I lie to you, old friend? The things we’ve been through to get here. Seriously?”

  Gregor grunted. “If I didn’t need you, Igor … Lead the way back to the bikes. I’ll take your revolver.”

  “Have it your way,” he said and started walking away.

  Marek picked up his revolver and handed it to Gregor. He whispered, “Are you just going to let him go? He’s up to something. I know it.”

  “We need him for the moment with the new targets. I can’t afford to be a man down on the farm.”

  “You’re the boss. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Marek said.

  Gregor smiled and patted his shoulder. “Trust me; he won’t live to see next winter. Until then, he can work with the livestock and meat-processing.”

  Igor turned and waited by forest edge. Gregor longed for the good old days when things were less complicated.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ben cursed the others and then the aliens and then the whole damned world. A twig snapped against his face as he passed through the dense forest. He pressed his fingers against his cheek and felt the dampness of a stinging cut.

  Every sound had him on edge. He held the alien pistol in front of him, aiming at any movement or hint of shadow. The compass kept him on track, and occasionally, he’d come to old trails, buildings, and even some automobiles.

  There were a number of them, rusted hulks, their windows and doors sans glass and consumed by weeds and vines and other creeping, green foliage. One thing that struck him was just how quiet it was walking out here on his own. Very few birds or other animals. Certainly, nothing that screeched like the animal that had kept him awake all night.

  Tiredness mired his progress and weighed down his legs. The pistol felt heavy in his arms, and the backpack filled with supplies was like an anchor, its hard edge wearing a sore groove into his lower back.

  Fuck this, he thought, slumping down on a log. Hefting the pack off, he rubbed his back and looked out ahead of him. There was a clearing maybe only thirty feet away. A few streams of golden light cut through the green gloom, highlighting the dust particles and small, buzzing insects as they looked for their next meal.

  Splitting the light every few minutes, the solid shadows of the shuttles descended from the mother ship, whose shadow bled through the dark clouds above. He realized he wasn’t very far off at that point. The weird, pink lights of the shuttles bathed the tops of the trees and then disappeared beyond the cover.

  The sound of a voice came to him then. Different accent to the others. Harsher. Foreign for this land. Not wanting to be caught flat-footed and in the open, Ben slipped behind the trunk, pulling the pack with him.

  The voices died off, but he could still hear the snapping of twigs getting louder, closer. Perhaps a single person given the regularity of the noise. The trunk made a good rest for the pistol. Ben braced his shoulder against the tree as he looked down the grooved channel that made up the sights.

  Dull black, heavy, but accurate and deadly, Ben remembered how lethal the pistol was in Denver’s hands. There’s no way Ben’s aim would be that good, but he knew if this threat came close enough, he’d have more than a good chance of hitting it.

  His pulse quickened; his breath became shallow.

  Twigs continued to snap, getting closer to the edge of the clearing that Ben focused on through a pair of tree trunks. He could see right across the clearing to where the tree line started again.

  A figure stepped out.

  Ben, although expecting it, still found it startling in his heightened state and pulled the trigger too quickly, sending his shot firing high above the figure’s head. The person ducked and rolled. At the end of the roll, the person rose to a knee and held out a gun, sighting across the tree line, tracing where the shot had come from.

  What is he doing? Ben thought as the figure seemed to sniff the air and then smile before rising to his feet.

  “It’s just me, Igor. That you out there, our little croatoan friends? Firing on your allies now? I’m not sure Augustus would be so happy with that.”

  The man spun around, his weapon by his side. “Come on then, show yourself. I’ll get you back to the farm.”

  The farm! Igor … Ben pulled his pistol away and took his finger off the trigger. He remembered Denver and Charlie talking about an Igor, along with a Marek, Alex, and of course Gregor. All the people who worked on the farm.

  Grabbing his pack, Ben vaulted the trunk and ran out to the tree line, making sure he kept the pistol in hand but pointing down to the ground. He didn’t want to accidentally threaten Igor and get shot himself for the effort.

  Excitement and relief built within him as he rushed forward into the clearing, holding his free hand up. “Igor? Please, can you help me?” He didn’t really know how else to start.

  Igor, with his shaved head, droopy moustache, and deep scowl, aimed his pistol with both arms out in front of him. “Stop where you are and drop that damned weapon,” he said. “Who the fuck are you? And more importantly, what the hell are you doing shooting at me?”

  Making a wet thudding noise, the alien pistol struck the loamy soil as Ben did as he was told. He held both arms up, having seen people do it in Western films. “I
’m Ben. I’m from the ship … vI mean harvester. I escaped from Charlie. I was trying to find my way back.”

  “Oh really?” Igor said, cocking his head to one side. He looked over Ben, watching the edge of the forest, probably suspecting some kind of trap. “And is he chasing you?”

  Ben shook his head. “No, I slipped away in the night. No one knows I’m here. He killed the rest of my crew shortly after he damaged the harvester. Please, you’ve got to help me. I can’t stay out here.”

  “Why’d you fire on me?” Igor asked, stalking closer, his pistol solid and unwavering, the barrel pointing right at Ben’s head.

  “I was just scared. I thought Charlie and his psycho son were stalking me. I panicked. I’m not used to it out here. I’ve only ever known my ship, my cabin, but all that’s gone now, and my crew …” Ben dropped his head to really sell the ruse. Although not exactly experienced in body language, he gathered this Igor wasn’t the prize wrench in the toolbox.

  “Stand up,” Igor said, “and turn around.”

  For a moment, Ben hesitated, thinking he was going to be executed. But Igor’s bark made him jump and follow the orders. Then the man’s hands were on his arms, pulling them behind his back. Something plastic locked his wrists in place. Igor’s breath was on his neck as he threatened him.

  “You’re coming back to the farm with me, Ben, but if you so much as move or breathe out of place, I’ll put you down like a pig and feed you to the cattle. You understand?”

  Ben nodded furiously, wondering what the hell he had got himself into, and if Denver and Charlie had set him up and all the nonsense about the plan was just a way of getting rid of him, to get him killed by these other people.

  Not that he could do anything about it now. He thought of showing Igor the bead that he kept in his shirt pocket beneath his zipped jacket but didn’t want to waste his best gambit. He decided to wait until he met this Gregor character.

  Still, while Igor placed the alien pistol into the pack and hauled the latter onto his back, Ben said, “I’ve got information about Charlie and Denver. I know things; I can trade.”