Critical Dawn

by Darren Wearmouth

  After ten minutes, he sensed he was getting close and slowed to a deliberate creep, placing his feet away from any twigs or branches. Revolver to the front.

  Igor crouched behind a large rock and searched the woodland. Ben had directed him to this spot. If this was a wild goose chase, he vowed to beat the little shit’s brains out.

  Through the gloom, Igor saw it. A dark slit slightly raised off the forest floor. A manmade entrance. Charlie Jackson wasn’t as clever as he thought. A couple of obvious trails led to the opening.

  He waited five minutes. Observing, searching for signs of movement. The place appeared to be deserted. If Jackson or his bastard weren’t around, some of his supplies or any available clues to his whereabouts would have to do.

  Igor moved around the side of the shelter and edged forward, aiming at the entrance.

  From a distance, it looked like a small hump, blending in with the surrounding forest floor. Up close, steep dirt steps were cut into the ground, leading into what was probably a bunker. Igor thought about shouting a threat but decided against it. If anyone was here, he’d take them by surprise.

  He crouched, listened by the entrance. Not a sound from the inside. Trees rustled above in the gentle breeze.

  Igor leaned around the corner, peered down. Holding his revolver through the entrance, he started to climb down.

  A loud bang filled his ears. He felt searing pain in his right knee. Igor instantly buckled to the ground, dropping his revolver and sliding down the steps.

  He desperately fumbled in the dark. A boot stamped on his wrist.

  A shotgun barrel pushed against his cheek.

  Through the gloom, Gregor’s face appeared. “Say goodnight, you Russian fuck-rat.”

  Igor groaned. “Wait. I wasn’t here to kill you. I followed and came to warn you.”

  Gregor forced the barrel harder against his check. “Stop lying. It’s over. Your only mistake was thinking you were smarter than me.”

  Igor had seen Gregor in this kind of mood a hundred times. There would be no stay of execution. “Get it over with. You’re a dead man anyway. A ship’s coming to complete the process. Augustus told me—”

  ***

  Gregor’s ears rang with a high-pitched tone after his two deafening shots reverberated around the bunker. The effort of dragging Igor’s body up the steps helped his anger subside. Ben was right; Igor was playing a dangerous game. The two-faced bastard was trying to get one over on him. He searched the Russian’s pockets, then tossed the revolver to Ben.

  Ben caught it and wiped mud from a groove in the cylinder. “Is this mine?”

  “Look after me, and I’ll look after you. It’s that simple,” Gregor said.

  “You’ve done well,” Marek said. “He was a bad apple.”

  “Tell me about it,” Ben said, pointing to his face.

  Gregor lifted Igor’s legs and nodded toward the bank. “Grab an arm each. We’ll throw him in the river. Don’t want to leave a calling card for Jackson.”

  The other two gripped the corpse under each shoulder, and they staggered and crashed through thick ferns thirty yards across to the bank.

  “What was Igor saying about another ship?” Marek said.

  “Something about completing the process. I’ll pass it on to Layla. He was probably bullshitting to try and save his own pathetic life.”

  They dropped Igor by the edge, and Marek rolled him into the water. The body rolled onto its front and slowly floated away.

  All three stood amongst the foliage, catching their breath.

  “Remind me to thank Jackson for the use of his shotgun. When I kill him,” Gregor said.

  Marek smiled. He’d found an AR-15 wrapped in plastic complete with three full magazines. He tapped the stock. “Not if I get to him first.”

  Ben frowned. “He’s not that bad. A bit of a dick, but …”

  “A bit of a dick?” Gregor shook his head. “Do you think you’re the first crew that met him?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben shrugged.

  “I’ll tell you a little story about the hero, Charlie Jackson. Our farm was based near Jefferson City a few years ago. He blew up a harvester and kidnapped two of the crew. One was sent back to place a bomb in the chocolate factory. It detonated, killing several croatoans and my cousin. At the same time, he and his bastard son flattened a paddock fence with a log strapped to the roof of a small truck.”

  “They used it like a battering ram,” Marek said. “Livestock fled through the gap.”

  “Wasn’t he just trying to help other humans?” Ben said.

  Gregor scoffed. “A few croatoan soldiers were still around back then. They hunted down every human they could find. Livestock, survivors, whoever. They purged the area clean.”

  “How did Charlie and Denver get away?”

  “It’s the same every time,” Marek said. “They just vanish like ghosts. Probably into a network of hideouts like the one over there.”

  Gregor looked over the ferns. Something caught his eye: a flash. He whispered, “Get down.”

  Marek shouldered his rifled, aiming it toward the shelter. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Someone’s out there, close.”

  A twig snapped. Gregor peered through the ferns.

  Three figures moved through the trees forty yards to their left. Unmistakable croatoan movement. Bouncing along as if taking individual one-legged jumps, short pauses between each one. An alien passed through rays of sunlight that streamed through the trees in two thick beams. Its visor glinted in the sunlight.

  “Looks like our riders,” Gregor said.

  “What the fuck are they doing here?” Marek said.

  Gregor put his finger to his lips. The aliens stopped short of the shelter and stood behind three individual trees. After several seconds, they sprang out and rapidly moved to the entrance. All had weapons drawn.

  “Holy shit. They’re attacking,” Gregor said.

  “Attacking who?” Ben said.

  “Exactly.”

  One pulled a tennis-ball-shaped silver object from its belt and threw it into the shelter. An alien grenade. The croatoans stood to one side.

  Gregor had seen them plenty of times before but usually carried by the croatoan soldiers, not the smaller patrollers that looked after farm security and local transport. They wouldn’t carry out an action like this unless under orders.

  Smoke drifted from the entrance following a dull blast.

  “Get your grenades ready,” Gregor said.

  “What?” Marek said.

  “We’re taking them out. Give me the rifle; get a couple of grenades ready to go. Now.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Ben said.

  “Two croatoans disappeared down the stairs. I’ll shoot the one above. We sprint straight to the entrance. You drop the grenades, and I’ll provide covering fire. Got it?”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Marek said.

  Easy from this range, Gregor thought. His shot smashed through the side of the alien’s helmet.

  Marek immediately jumped up and ran with a grenade in each hand. Gregor followed, aiming at the alien who sank to its knees and keeled over backwards. Ben appeared by his side, holding his revolver forward. Not what Gregor had anticipated but a welcomed bonus. He’d thought Ben would be a useless coward.

  Diving to the ground next to the entrance, Marek reached around it and threw down both grenades in quick succession. A shot fired out of the opening. The metallic snaps of a croatoan gun.

  Gregor knelt by the side with rifle shouldered. Ready to take out anything that appeared. Ben trained his weapon from the opposite side, aiming at an angle.

  Both grenades erupted in quick succession like a thunderous double-tap.

  Mud and smoke spewed out of the shelter.

  Smoke cleared. An alien hand shakily reached out of the entrance before flopping to the ground.

  Marek sprinted to the downed alien outside and grabbed the weapon
by its side. Gregor edged around the entrance, aiming into the hazy gap. One alien lay against the dirt wall. Its uniform was ripped around its body armor, and its helmet was smashed. The other slumped at the top of the stairs, the bottom half of its right leg missing.

  Gregor gritted his teeth and stamped on the croatoan’s visor, smashing it like an eggshell. The alien let out a light wheeze as its skin crackled.

  “What the fuck?” Marek said.

  “We need to warn the others,” Gregor said. “The croatoans are turning. Layla was right. It’s happening now.”

  He glanced at the three dead aliens and scowled.

  Augustus. It had to be him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Layla sat in the chocolate factory peering at monitors. Results increased by fifty-five percent since they designated harvesters to the land she’d helped pinpoint. It wasn’t what she wanted anymore. It wouldn’t be what any human wanted.

  She’d arrived at the monitors as Igor was taking off in the square, the same time as the surveyors. They buzzed around in the usual fashion, business as usual stuff. Mixing soil samples in glass tubes, poring over charts, and generally appearing fussy. To avoid looking too suspicious, Layla moved to the back of the building.

  Vlad slumped against the desk, oblivious to it all. He yawned and twiddled a pen. “Do you want a coffee? I’ve still got some of that freeze-dried crap left. A bit gravelly but …”

  “No thanks. Have you seen anything different around here in the last couple of weeks?” Layla said.

  “What do you mean? Like croatoan stuff? It’s all alien to me.”

  Vlad seemed to have thrown up the mental shutters long ago. He didn’t care about anything, at least not when she tried to strike up a conversation. Layla couldn’t decide whether to feel jealous or sorry for him.

  Her planned task for today was to check the occupants of the breeding lab. Events of the last two days had a horrible effect of pushing reality to the surface. Survival was no longer an excuse. The thin self-justification for her actions had vanished, and she knew it.

  She got up and sighed. “I’ll leave you to it. Speak later.”

  The job still had to be done. It wasn’t all about her personal feelings. Twenty women, humans, needed their welfare checking.

  Croatoans streamed out of the door ahead of Layla. Outside, it was raining.

  They circled around, taking off their gloves and jiggling their fingers. She hugged the side of the building to keep dry and headed for the breeding lab.

  Livestock still had sex. One of the remaining human instincts or urges that hadn’t been stripped away by the croatoan regime. It was a daily occurrence in the paddock, embarrassing at first, but she’d gotten used to it.

  At least the croatoans had stopped finding human intercourse a source of interest. They’d often gather around the paddock and watch, pointing at the male’s penis and clicking loudly.

  The novelty wore off after a few months. Layla thought it was childish, like her former student colleagues who’d giggle at clips of animals having sex.

  A tractor rumbled across the square. Alex, wearing her bright yellow waterproof, drove it from the meat factory toward the paddocks. She stopped when she saw Layla and called, “I took one in yesterday. Give me a shout if they need any more food.”

  “Will do, thanks,” Layla said, holding her thumb up.

  The tractor rumbled away, cutting a dirty track across the damp ground.

  Any female exhibiting a bump would be identified, usually by Alex, during feeding time, and they’d be sent to the breeding lab. They were fed slop, kept inside, and monitored until they gave birth. Alex played midwife. Layla would assist if she were around. She hadn’t been required lately although a couple of women were only a matter of days away.

  Layla took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Inside, the roof echoed with the sound of a single woman’s quiet sobbing.

  Symptoms of stress were common. Women would bite their nails, refuse to eat, and often shake. The paddock was their natural environment, unlike the enclosed walls, a single bed, and waste bucket. Layla had given up trying to offer comfort. It had a scarring effect. And when one started crying, others in adjoining rooms would often join them.

  She walked along, glancing through small square windows on individual doors.

  The layout inside was quite simple. A long corridor ran along the middle of the warehouse with brightly lit, sparse cells on either side. Forty in all. At the moment, they had a fifty percent occupancy rate.

  The inhabitants were identified by room numbers, which Layla had painted on the doors.

  One woman sat hugging her knees, rocking backwards and forwards. Another pressed her hand against the plastic pane as Layla passed. The majority of the twenty lay placidly on their black plastic mattresses.

  In the second to last room near the end of the corridor on the floor, a woman was lying, spread out on her front. Layla took a sharp intake of breath. She knocked on the window and received no response.

  She twisted the circular locking mechanism. It opened with a clank. Layla pushed the door, forcing it the last couple of inches with her shoulder to move rigid legs out of the way. Creating enough space to enter through a narrow gap.

  When she reached down and grabbed an arm, it was pale and stiff. Too late. Rigor mortis had set in.

  Next to the woman’s outstretched hand was a small, humanlike figure crafted from twisted, dry grass. A charm or keepsake. The first she’d seen created by livestock.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed.

  Layla hadn’t witnessed a death in the building before. She’d only heard about it occurring. The procedure was to hit the green call button by the entrance. Layla hurried along the corridor with her head in her hands.

  She depressed the saucer-sized button. It flashed and let out two soft, electronic beeps.

  A minute later, two croatoans walked across the main square carrying a gray metal slab, heading straight for the breeding lab. They didn’t move with any great urgency and stopped to talk to a group of aliens by the hover-bikes before finally reaching the building.

  The first one bumped through the swing doors and looked at Layla. She led them along the corridor and pointed into the cell. The croatoans briefly paused. One clicked, and they both jerked forward.

  They placed the slab on the floor, grabbed the body by its hair and robe, and rolled it on. The front area of the woman’s clothing was stained dark purple. Layla closed her eyes tightly and put her hand against the corridor wall for support.

  The patter of alien feet passed her. She opened her eyes and watched them bounce along the corridor.

  Faces started to appear through the little windows. One woman wailed. Then another. As the croatoans carried the body to the entrance, the whole place echoed with crying and moaning.

  Layla followed the aliens, watched them bump back through the doors. They crossed the main square, around the hover-bikes, and straight into the meat-processing warehouse.

  She leaned with her back against the wall. The wailing continued, penetrating deep inside her. She wanted to run but didn’t know where. She clasped her hands around the back of her head, bringing her elbows together in front of her face. Her back slid down the wall until she ended up in a crouching position.

  A woman peered through the closest window, sobbing. Layla shuffled sideways toward the door, out of view, gulped, and took a deep breath.

  She couldn’t hold it in any longer and joined the cacophony of weeping.

  ***

  Layla composed herself in an empty cell, took a few deep breaths, and wiped tears from her face with her sweater sleeve. Something had to change. It was impossible to carry on at the farm now.

  Perhaps it was time to find Charlie Jackson.

  The breeding lab’s door banged open. Footsteps ran along the corridor. Vlad flashed past the open cell door. She heard him skid to a stop. He hurried into the cell.

  “Layla, you
’re wanted at the monitors. You need to come with me.” He fidgeted with a pencil, scraping his thumbnail against the sharpened end. “Layla. You have to—”

  She sniffed and looked up. “Wanted by who?”

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. What’s happening?”

  Vlad held his hand toward her. “Augustus. He wants to speak to you. Says it’s a matter of great urgency.”

  Augustus never spoke to Layla on an individual basis. She’d talked to him at meetings with Gregor, and he’d made the odd passing comment to her around camp. This was the first time he’d directly requested her presence.

  “Why me? Did he say anything else? Was he angry?”

  She grabbed Vlad’s hand and hauled herself off the bed.

  “He specifically asked for you. As for angry, who knows?” Vlad shrugged. “He wears a mask, and I struggle to understand his accent.”

  Augustus’s accent was a mystery. He spoke with the fluency of a native English speaker but didn’t sound like any Layla had previously heard or met. Gregor had asked him where he was from a few years ago. Augustus replied, Earth.

  The rain had abated outside, and surveyors crowded around the chocolate factory table. They ignored Vlad and Layla’s entrance, more interested in a tablet that was being passed around like a hot potato.

  She could see the outline of Augustus’s head on the main monitor, surrounded by color, waiting for her.

  “Do you know where he’s transmitting from?” Layla said.

  Vlad pointed upwards.

  When she reached the desk, Augustus leaned forward. He stroked his mask. The wall behind him was decorated with a series of bright rings. The largest outer circle was light pink, the inner ones different shades of blue.

  This was her first glimpse inside the mother ship. It looked like Augustus was in a psychedelic brothel.

  “Please take a seat, Layla,” Augustus said. She slid a stool from under the desk. Vlad flopped in his customary position. “I didn’t tell you to sit down, Vlad. Leave the building. Return in five minutes.”