Critical Dawn

by Darren Wearmouth

  Denver kicked open the door. A flood of cool air rushed out. He glanced back as the control panel started to beep, lights turning red after five seconds. “You know the layout. I’ll cover you.”

  Rifle fire crackled from inside the chocolate factory. Layla was confident that Gregor would sweep the place clean. They were on the brink of securing the farm, and she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to finish the remaining aliens. He was like a pit bull once he got something into his head.

  While Denver was looking ahead, his attention away from her, she raised the rifle to the back of his head. “Did you kill Alex and Vlad?”

  Denver looked around slowly, staring at the barrel of the rifle. He frowned and shook his head. “You really think that? How little you think of people outside of this place. From where I come from, we don’t kill other humans. You ought to look closer to home for that behavior. Besides, this is our chance. My dad isn’t sacrificing himself so we can squabble like petty criminals. So no, I didn’t fucking kill Vlad or Alex. You got it?”

  Layla felt the sincerity in his voice, the conviction, but Gregor would take some convincing. She could tell from Gregor’s earlier reaction that he didn’t believe Denver in the slightest and would carry out his own style of crime scene investigation to establish events. That was one situation she’d really like to avoid.

  “It’s one long corridor,” she said, pointing into the lab. “You take the doors on the right, I’ll take the left. We’ll do it together,” Layla said.

  Denver nodded and spun through the door, pointing his rifle at the first window. He took a couple of steps back and breathed, “Holy shit.” He glanced back at her, his eyes wide with surprise. “How are we going to get all of those women out safely?”

  Layla checked the first room on the left. “We’ll free them once the farm’s secured. I’ve got it worked out. Don’t worry, they’ll be safe.”

  While moving from door to door, Layla kept Denver in her peripheral vision. They glanced into each cell before moving along.

  She flinched as a croatoan rifle snapped. The glass on a cell door shattered next to her head, spraying fragments into the corridor.

  She crouched and felt a sting on her cheek and a warm dribble down her neck.

  Denver ducked next to her, holding his rifle to his chest. “It’s only a nick. Do any of these rooms have external windows?”

  Layla took a deep breath. Tried to compose herself. “No. One must’ve been hiding.”

  Another alien projectile whistled above them, slamming into the opposite door.

  The weapons shook in her hands. She glanced at Denver.

  He firmly nodded, stood, and fired twice.

  Two quiet clicks came from the cell.

  “Clear,” Denver said. “Let’s finish this and get out of here.”

  They proceeded to check the rest of the cells with more caution, creeping along the corridor, peering in with weapons pointed until reaching the end of the building. Layla immediately turned and headed for the entrance.

  Denver walked alongside her. “You must have a sick or strong mind to have put up with this.”

  “I did what I needed to survive. I don’t expect you to understand my choice.”

  A hollow pop sounded outside. An alien grenade.

  Layla sprinted to the door and pushed it open. She knelt in the gap and scanned across the square with her rifle. Denver ran past her and took up a firing position a couple of yards away.

  Gregor had a small pile of alien grenades next to him. He tossed one into a shattered window of a barrack building and ducked. Smoke belched out after an explosion. Maria huddled behind a hover-bike, her hands over her head. She looked pale, scared—the opposite of Gregor, who seemed to be enjoying this far too much.

  “He’s a fast mover,” Denver said.

  “You should consider that if we want to take the fight further. Destroy more farms. Start wiping out their crops. We need effective people.”

  “Whoa. You think I want to team up with that piece of shit?”

  Gregor tossed another grenade into a barrack building as Denver jogged across to Maria. Layla looked around the square, taking in the devastation and the pile of dead croatoans. It’d been quite easy. A coordinated effort around the world could wipe out the farms. The problem was communications. The aliens had effectively cut all long-range comms when they screwed the ionosphere. Humans were sparse. Spread far and wide as individuals and small groups, avoiding rather than confronting the croatoans after their initial show of strength.

  If Charlie managed to take out the mother ship, they might just have a window of opportunity to destroy the remaining colonists, but they needed to pull in the same direction. A level of organization was required.

  Denver swung his rifle in Gregor’s direction.

  A barrack building door slowly opened, and an alien crawled out. Gregor kicked the croatoan in the chest. It collapsed to the ground. He stamped on its helmet visor, crushing it with the sole of his boot.

  Layla looked up. The shuttle had disappeared from view.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Charlie took in a deep breath as the shuttle finished its docking procedure with the mother ship. The whole thing rattled violently, crushing him against the liquidized human food and root compound packages.

  Sweat poured from his face and his leg muscles were starting to cramp. The container smelled of blood, but he knew it was just the foil coming loose on the silver trays.

  Even that knowledge wouldn’t get the terrible images of the meat-processing unit out of his mind. How terrified those people must have felt, standing in line, and one-by-one going into the machine to come out the other end a convenient meal.

  Despite his temporary reconciliation with Gregor, he hoped Denver would make the bastard pay for overseeing that kind of treatment.

  A low hum vibrated through the container’s sides, making his teeth rattle.

  It must be close now.

  The sounds of whirring motors from somewhere behind him indicated that the mother ship had closed its docking hatch.

  On clear days and nights, Charlie had watched the underside of the ship through his scopes. When the hatch opened, he’d often get a brief glimpse of the inside. It featured the usual croatoan pragmatic style: off-white smooth surfaces with light blue and pink accents much like their anti-grav projectors.

  He wondered why they hadn’t invaded during the ‘80s. They’d have got a kick out of the neon colors. That aside, he knew that shuttles were held in corridors just wide enough to accommodate the shuttle and someone to get into the cockpit on either side.

  The sound of metal on metal came to him, and the shuttle rocked. He could feel movement. The aliens were coming into the storage area from the cockpit. His heart remained steady as he thought about this mission.

  Once the container was taken out and delivered to the main distribution area, he’d have to find a way back toward the edge of the ship. He needed the bomb to rip a hole in the structure of the ship and preferably take out the anti-grav projectors.

  The ship had eight of them in pairs at each corner.

  Mike was sure that if they were to take out one corner, the ship would be destabilized enough to succumb to gravity. But with it now docked and a part of the terraform ship, that plan needed some modification.

  The container rattled and moved, gaining speed down the ramp until it leveled out with a bump. The voices of the croatoans seemed more relaxed, their clicking and grunts less high-pitched. They continued to push the container further into the ship. After a couple of minutes, they came to a stop. Charlie felt the sensation of rising in an elevator. Up and up they went, and that’s when he had the idea.

  Throughout, he had only heard two distinct voices. And with this perpetual rising, they were probably in a confined space. He reached behind him and grabbed the small bottle of oxygen, making sure he didn’t make any noise. Not yet anyway.

  Once he had that tucked into his belt, he pulled hi
s hunting knife free of its belt holster, keeping it low and hidden by his side. He’d pushed the bomb free of himself and hidden it under a number of foil-packed trays.

  That’s when he kicked out and banged his elbows against the container. He carried on until they stopped rising.

  The latches sprung open, the lid twanging with the freed tension.

  Two black barrels of croatoan pistols pushed into the gap before the lid was removed fully. The aliens looked down at him. Their faces didn’t change, show surprise, or show any emotion. They simply observed before then breaking their attention and looking at each other, no doubt trying to figure out if there was a protocol for this.

  The one on the left turned away, revealing that they were indeed in a kind of elevator. Circular with white walls, it must have been about twenty feet in diameter.

  Ideal.

  When the one on the right leaned further in, Charlie kicked up with his legs, scattering trays and foil packs over the edge, knocking the pistol away. He thrust up his arm, driving the knife underneath the alien’s visor and the blade into its tough skin, but the knife was made from their own metal and honed over the years.

  It broke through the hide with a pop and sliced easily into the alien’s brain.

  Its arms and hands twitched. Reaching up, Charlie grabbed the pistol and let the alien fall to the ground.

  The other one spun round from behind the container, clicking and grunting in urgent tones. It mustn’t have seen Charlie grab the pistol, for when the croatoan leaned over to point his own weapon, Charlie was already aiming and pulling the trigger.

  With a loud reverberation, both pistols fired. White-hot blasts of pain burned into Charlie’s chest. His oxygen tank hissed. Air started to escape from the valve before it popped completely, draining the precious air.

  Yellow blood dripped onto his shoulder.

  The croatoan slumped over the edge, its visor in pieces with a hole burned through it and through the creature’s skull.

  Charlie placed his hand over the valve to try and stop the flow of air as he stood up and got out of the container, stepping over the body of the still-twitching alien.

  He checked his chest; the fabric of his camo shirt was frayed at the edges where the alien round had grazed by. The skin had risen into a bright red welt across his pectoral muscle. Kneeling, Charlie opened one of the root packs, grabbed a handful of milled root powder, and rubbed it in until the skin started to tingle, healing the cells.

  While that continued to do its magic, he controlled his breathing, reducing his heart rate, and assessed the situation. He couldn’t tell how sound proof the elevator car was, but the fact it stopped meant that someone would likely have noticed. Perhaps they were waiting for the delivery of the container.

  Looking at the alien control panel, there was no way to guess of its destination or how it might work. A clear glass square, maybe eight by eleven, featured a series of symbols that he wasn’t familiar with.

  In all the time he had fought with the croatoans, they’d been careful not to leave any of their tech or communications behind.

  Even the ones he had killed rarely had anything with their writing on it.

  The valve continued to release the pressurized oxygen, and he began to feel lightheaded, not just from the shallow breaths, but the alien atmosphere within the ship.

  Ripping off a foil cover and spitting into the remnants of the root powder, he made a paste and used the rippled foil to press and hold the paste around the broken valve. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it’d buy him time.

  A flash of light came from the glass control panel on the circular wall. A light blue ring spun around, reminding him of the waiting icon on PCs back in the day. And then the car jolted and started to lift.

  It appeared that someone had realized there was a problem. Charlie knew he didn’t have long now. Even with the oxygen mask, the atmosphere burned against his skin. With the alien pistol in his left hand, he reached over with his right to grab the bomb from the container, throwing it over his shoulder and putting his arm through the strap so he could wear it like a backpack.

  He kneeled behind the container so he would be obscured when the doors opened. He knew it was unlikely he would get another chance at this.

  One way or another, he’d set the bomb off.

  For sixty long seconds, the elevator continued to climb until finally it stopped and the doors opened. Charlie saw the darkness reflect against the back wall. He gripped the pistol tight and strained his hearing, all the while trying to suppress the urge to cough.

  The oxygen ran out. Each inhalation brought nothing. He cast the mask and the small tank to the side. He felt drunk, his vision spinning. Pain pinched at his nerves and muscles as they knotted with cramp.

  Still he gripped the pistol and waited.

  A voice called out to him. It sounded from somewhere far away and dulled as though his ears were full of water. Louder now, closer, the words became distinguishable.

  “Oh Mr. Jackson, what have you done? The scourge of my employers fancied a tour of the ship, did he?” A shadow loomed over Charlie, and he knew this to be the one named Augustus. “Come out, little wasp, unless you wish to choke to a slow, painful death. I’m not concerned either way. Come see what you want to see. It’s too late for everyone else now. Maybe you’ll prove worth keeping around? Your choice.”

  The shadow retreated.

  Charlie moved his aching body to the side and peered round the container into the dark corridor. He thought he was hallucinating. Outside the elevator, beyond the short corridor, was a room styled like a Roman court.

  A colonnade of columns stretched into the distance like disciplined soldiers. The fluting was a perfect replica or Roman composite design. They’d even got the ornate, floral capital correct.

  Marble surfaces adorned the floors, supporting lush, terracotta-colored rugs. A mist of pale air billowed out of the elevator, the alien atmosphere leaking into an artificial human one.

  Even with the mask, Charlie knew he was human on the inside.

  Augustus was wearing a red toga with a large, golden broach. He reached the end of the colonnade and turned. He waved at Charlie, beckoned him in. His mask glinted in the candlelight as he turned and disappeared into the gloom. Hallucination or not, Charlie couldn’t wait any longer. He crawled out of the elevator and pulled his legs free in time for the door to shut behind and the car to descend.

  Fresh, sustaining air flooded his lungs when he inhaled. His eyes watered, clearing the stinging alien atmosphere. Everything told him to just lie where he was and breathe, give into the pain and wait it out. But no, he couldn’t afford to do that; this was bigger than him.

  The bomb weighed heavily on his back despite its small and potent stature.

  He got to his feet and walked after Augustus, small grenades of pain exploding in his muscles, but with every movement, he felt looser, stronger. The root compound continued to tingle on his chest, the soreness of which had reduced to barely a mild irritant.

  With knife in one hand and pistol in the other, Charlie continued down between the columns until he came to the end. To his right, he saw more firelight flickering in the darkness.

  He squinted, trying to make out more details, but the darkness and shadows were too encompassing. He had no choice but to go further into the space. His boots echoed on the marble surface. He stayed to the left-hand wall, using the torches in the sconces to navigate his way forward.

  Unable to stand the quiet, he called out, “So what now, Augustus? You change Earth for good. Where does that leave you? Trapped up here in your little ode to a dead empire? You must know what happened to the Romans when the Visigoths came to town.”

  A flash of brilliant white light made him stumble to a stop and bring his arm up to his eyes. He heard the shuffle of feet too late. Something metallic struck out of the whiteness against his forearm, making him drop the pistol.

  Charlie dashed back and hunched into a defensive stan
ce, holding his knife out in front of him, ready to strike back. Through squinted eyes, he saw a sandaled foot kick the pistol away further into the wide white expanse.

  “You’re no Goth,” Augustus said, the voice coming from behind Charlie. “At least they put up a real fight.”

  He spun round and slashed out with his knife, but no one was there. He realized his mistake too late.

  A foot crunched into his back, sending him flying forward. He hit the marble floor; the side of his head cracked against the unforgiving surface, making his vision bleed with blotches of color.

  Weight pressed down him, pushing the hard case of the bomb into his lower back. A blade cut the straps, and the bomb was taken away. Charlie spun onto his back, bringing his fists up, ready to protect himself, but Augustus casually tossed the bomb away, clearly thinking it was nothing more than a backpack of supplies.

  Returning to Charlie, Augustus held a broadsword by his side. The man’s silhouette blocked some of the glaring light. Charlie could now make out that they were in a large, open, office-like space. A desk sat centrally, and a large screen wall separated the space to its right. But more importantly, to the far right, thirty or so feet away, Charlie saw a porthole through which he saw the underside of the terraform ship just a few feet above.

  He was near the top and, crucially, near the edge.

  Charlie smiled and began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Augustus said, bringing the point of the sword forward until it touched Charlie’s throat.

  “Just funny how things turn out. You spend so much energy worrying about something, worrying about how to achieve something, and yet if you just let go, life will often put you in the right place.”

  “Huh. Who thought you would be so philosophically minded? That you survived the confrontation with Baliska made me think you were just a savage. You see, I’ve seen lots like you in my time.”

  Augustus arranged the mask on his face where it had slipped slightly, exposing the knotted scar tissue beneath.