by Tripp Ellis
“I think it’s clear," Lily said.
“No.” Walker strained to hear.
“Do you still hear it?”
“Maybe.”
Walker heard the distant sound of small arms fire. Short discrete bursts. A few minutes later, the craft headed back toward the culvert. It flew overhead and circled around a few times. Then it flew away again, only to return again several minutes later.
“Do you think those shots were…?”
“Probably somebody heading home from the meeting.”
“Do you think someone tipped the robots off?"
Walker grimaced. "It's possible."
They waited in the culvert for 45 minutes as the synthetics searched the area. They finally left, and Walker crawled out of the drainage pipe. He helped Lily to her feet as she emerged.
They climbed up the ridge and headed back home. It was 3am by the time they reached the house. Lily eased the back door open, trying not to wakeup Harlan.
Walker washed off his muddy boots at the hose outside. By the time he got inside, Lily had peeled off her clothes and was throwing them in the washing machine. She stood their in her bra and panties. Every sumptuous curve on full display. She was a sight to behold.
Walker tried not to look. He stood in the doorway and cleared his throat.
“Take off your clothes,” she demanded. She had a lascivious glint in her eyes. “I’ll wash them.”
Walker swallowed hard. It felt like the temperature rose 10°.
“Don’t be shy. Were both adults."
Walker peeled off his fatigues and tossed them to her. She threw the muddy things into the wash.
Lily’s eyes devoured his sculpted body. She bit her lip in the sexiest of ways. “You got a girlfriend, Commander?” Her breathy voice was like velvet.
Walker inhaled. “Yes,” he said, exhaling. “Yes, I do.”
“That’s too bad.” She smiled and spun around, sauntering out of the washroom. She had a heartbreaking saunter. He could definitely see why Jasper didn't want to let her go.
Walker shook his head and caught his breath.
Lily returned a moment later and tossed him a pink bathrobe. “It’s all I have.”
He grimaced as he slipped it on. He looked ridiculous.
Lily stifled a laugh. “Hang on. I'll get you my fuzzy slippers." She giggled again.
“No. That’s okay. Thanks."
The two stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“Well, I guess it's past my bedtime. Sweet dreams, Commander." She had a devilish smile. She twisted around on her toes like a ballerina and strutted toward the stairs.
Walker couldn't bear to watch anymore. Lily was having way too much fun taunting him. His head fell into his hands and he tried to think about something less inspiring, like baseball. At any other time in his life, he would've jumped at the opportunity. But as enticing as she was, there was only one woman Walker cared about. And he wasn't going to screw that up for anything.
Walker left the washroom and started across the living room. He was going to go upstairs, go straight to his room, and lock the door.
But he never even made it to the stairs.
The front door splintered into a hundred pieces. A tactical squad rammed through, flooding into the living room. Assault rifles drew down on him.
“Get on the floor, now!” one of the synthetic goons yelled.
31
Walker
Walker raised his hands and dropped to his knees. The goons surrounded him. One of them kicked him in the back, and Walker face planted against the hardwood floor.
Lieutenant Drek watched with glee.
The house was surrounded by mechanized soldiers. A close air support vehicle hovered overhead. Spotlights slashed the night, dancing around the property, spilling in through the windows.
One of the synthetic goons put a knee in Walker's back, and restrained his wrists. He rolled Walker onto his back, then scanned his face with his PDU. Within seconds, Walker's military profile popped up on the screen.
“He’s UPDF military. Just like the kid said,” the goon shouted to Drek.
The commotion had roused Harlan from a deep slumber. He emerged from his bedroom wielding his shotgun. “Get off my property, you damn sons-of-bitches!”
The goons peppered him with bullets. Muzzle flash lit up the living room. Harlan's chest erupted in volcanoes of blood. He managed to squeeze off two rounds from his shotgun before he crumpled to the ground.
He caught one of the synthetics in the neck. It practically tore his head clean off. The robot flopped to the ground and twitched. The damage was too extensive for its nanites to repair.
Harlan lay in a pool of blood on the floor.
Walker was furious. His face was red and his veins were popping out. But there was nothing he could do.
Lily shrieked in terror as she barreled down the stairs in her PJs. Rivers of tears streaked down her cheeks.
The goons turned their weapons on her. “Hold it right there, ma’am.”
“You murderers!"
One of the goons grabbed her and threw her to the ground. She smacked the floor, and another goon pounced on her, restraining her wrists.
“Harboring a fugitive is a capital offense,” Drek said as he lorded over her.
The goons yanked Walker from the floor and dragged him outside. They pulled him across the porch and down the steps.
Jasper was outside, watching the operation.
Walker scowled at him, and Jasper looked away with guilt.
"Burn the house,” Drek said.
“What about the girl?” a goon asked.
“Let her burn with it." Drek marched through the doorway and down the steps. He passed by Jasper. “You’re a fine upstanding citizen.”
“You said she wouldn’t be harmed.”
“Did I? Oh, well.” Drek continued to the gunship that had landed on the lawn. The house behind him was beginning to glow with flames.
Lily was hogtied, screaming and crying on the living room floor. Soon she would be engulfed with flames.
The room filled with smoke and began to billow out the front door.
Jasper lunged toward the house, but a goon grabbed him. Jasper’s eyes filled with tears.
“Don’t do anything stupid," one of the synthetics said, pointing a weapon at his head. He was going to be forced to watch the woman of his dreams burn alive. All because he was jealous of Walker.
Drek marched up the ramp of the gunship. He smiled and sat across from Commander Walker.
Walker was seething. His eyes burned into Drek like lasers.
“All this destruction. It's a shame. Things would've been so much easier had you just turned yourself in. Those poor people would still be alive.”
Walker scowled at him. He could hear the crackling fire as it grew. He turned his head and watched the flames swallow the home. The amber glow flickered across his face and sparkled in his eyes.
“Humans are still an enigma to me, I must confess. You make no logical sense. You slip past our armada and return to New Earth to… do what, exactly? You can't possibly hope to make a difference. The statistical odds of defeating the occupation and restoring the Federation government to power are 9,397,452 to 1, according to my most recent calculations."
Walker said nothing. He could hear Lily’s agonizing screams. His lips quivered with rage, and his eyes welled.
“You risk a great deal coming here. If I were the gambling sort, I’d bet there's a 50-50 chance that I can pry the location of the last star destroyer out of you. That is where you came from, isn't it?”
Walker remained silent. The flames shot four stories into the night sky. Soon, Lily’s screams stopped. Walker thought about how much she must have suffered. The searing flesh. The inability to breathe.
His blood boiled. "I'm going to kill you," Walker said in a low, menacing voice.
Drek laughed. “Wouldn't that be interesting? Do you want to hear th
e odds of that happening?”
“I already know the odds. And they’re pretty damn good."
Drek chuckled again. He stood up and moved aft. He punched a button on the bulkhead with his fist, and the hydraulics engaged. The ramp slowly closed behind him.
Walker caught his last glimpse of the burning flames.
“Take us out of here,” Drek called to the pilot. A moment later the gunship lifted off the ground. Drek took a seat and strapped himself in. He looked Walker up an down—he was still wearing the pink robe. “I love your outfit, by the way.”
32
Tyler
Tyler opened the inner airlock hatch. The platoon braced for an onslaught by the creatures.
But it never came.
Tyler slung his weapon aside and dipped the mop into the bucket of DETMT. He held the dripping mop head out in front of him and inched into the airlock. Then he pushed into the hallway.
The horde of creatures backed away from the mop head. The fumes of the repellent wafted through the corridor. The rest of the platoon filed out behind him, each carrying a sealed 5 gallon bucket of DETMT. Faulkner carried O’Malley over his shoulder—he was big enough to handle the extra weight with ease. Donovan brought up the rear with another mop and bucket. She laid down a trail of repellent behind them. The platoon looked like a team of militarized janitors. As silly as it seemed, it was working.
The insects clacked and clattered as they scurried away from the repellent. The sound of the creatures slithering about was enough to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand tall.
The team snaked through the passageway to the north entrance of the complex. The pungent repellent kept the throngs at bay within the narrow hallways, but would it be as effective outdoors?
Tyler paused for a moment at the north entrance. “Stay tight. When we reach the truck, coat the tires, the truck bed, the cab, everything.”
Tyler re-soaked the mop head, then opened the main doors. A rush of hot, sticky air hit him in the face. Tyler crept toward the dump truck, keeping the sea of creatures at bay. They didn't want any part of the repellent. It was like they were blinded to the entire platoon.
The big yellow truck was scratched and dented from years of service. This wasn't the first coat of yellow paint on the truck, and the scrapes revealed multiple layers of yellow underneath. The wheels and undercarriage were coated with the reddish clay that was pervasive throughout the area.
Tyler reached the truck and doused it in as much repellent as possible. Faulkner climbed into the truck bed, then pulled O’Malley’s non-responsive body up, with Petrov’s help. They set O’Malley in the center of the bed, then took positions on opposite sides. Horton, Donovan, and Mosley climbed into the back as well.
Tyler opened the driver’s door to the cab and leapt inside. He powered up the rig, and the mammoth engine clattered to life. Elliott ran to the other side and took the passenger’s seat. He pulled the heavy door shut with a solid clank.
Tyler shifted the truck in gear. His foot pressed the accelerator, and the massive tires dug into the ground, spewing red dirt. The Behemoth heaved forward. For as big a vehicle as it was, it handled rather well. The all-wheel steering allowed it to turn on a dime. While it wasn't as smooth as a limousine, it wasn't a bouncy, uncomfortable ride. The enormous weight kept it steady, and the advanced shock absorbers handled any terrain abnormalities with aplomb.
So far, the repellent was working. The bugs scattered out of the way of the massive truck. The ones that didn't went snap, crackle, and pop underneath the tires. The rest of the platoon aimed their weapons over the side of the truck bed, ready for the creatures to attack.
Tyler spun the wheel, turning the vehicle south. He drove the truck alongside the compound until they came upon the Vantage.
The brakes squealed as Tyler brought the yellow dump truck to a stop. He tapped his earbud to activate it. “Petrov, Mosley… Check out the Vantage. Assess its viability. See if there's anything left of Kowalski.”
“Aye, sir," Petrov said. He didn't look too thrilled about jumping out into the middle of those things.
The two warriors hopped out of the truck bed. Their boots kicked up plumes of dust as they landed. With weapons in the firing position, they advanced to the Vantage.
The creatures backed away from them—the repellent was still working. The commercial preparations that you could buy in the store would last anywhere from 6 to 12 hours. At a 100% concentration of DETMT, this stuff ought to last for months.
Petrov and Mosley ran up the loading ramp of the Vantage. Wires were dangling from avionics. Crusty blood was splattered all over the windshield and command consoles of the cockpit.
Petrov tapped his earbud. “Sir, the Vantage is FUBAR. We’re not getting out of here on this thing.” He paused a moment. His face was solemn. “There's no trace of Kowalski."
“Copy that,” Tyler responded. “Get back to the truck.”
“Aye, sir.”
Petrov and Mosley plunged down the ramp and made their way back to the yellow Behemoth. The sun had dipped down below the horizon, and dusk was turning into night. And night was always more terrifying than the daylight. It didn't matter what planet you were on, or what enemy you were facing—night always brought the worst demons.
Once they had climbed back aboard, Tyler threw the truck into gear. He plowed forward to an access road that led to Station 5. Tyler frequently glanced to his PDU, keeping an eye on the surveillance map.
The platoon held on for dear life in the back.
Tyler's skin was red and burning from the high concentration of DETMT. But that was better than becoming bug food.
The yellow truck barreled down the dirt road. Thick jungle on either side. Things were going smoothly, until the engine began to stutter. It clanked and clamored. The yellow beast hopped along. Then the engine finally died.
They were halfway to Station 5.
Tyler made several attempts to restart the Behemoth. It chugged and chugged and chugged. But the engine just wouldn’t turn over.
The night air was still. Without the roar of the engine, the sounds of the jungle came alive. The brooding hordes of monsters out in the darkness could be heard slithering about. Death was out there, waiting for the platoon.
33
Walker
The internment camp was a massive complex, surrounded by a containment beam. There were rows of temporary housing structures as well as command offices. There were guard towers at each corner and at the main entrance. The containment beam was probably 40 feet high. There was no way to scale it. It was a translucent impenetrable force shield.
The camp was hastily thrown together, but it served its purpose. Roughly 10,000 military personnel had been captured and detained. The synthetics were in the process of extracting as much information as possible from each of the detainees.
Two goons grabbed Walker and dragged him from the gunship to the processing facility.
“Enjoy your stay,” Drek called after him, then marched to the command structure.
Walker was stripped of his clothes and shoved into a decontamination chamber. Several nozzles sprayed him with a chemical mist. He closed his eyes and mouth and tried not to breathe. His eyes burned as the chemical seeped in. His skin felt raw and tingly. He didn't know what they were spraying him with, but it couldn't be good. The process was repeated several times, with varying chemicals, then followed with a finishing rinse.
Afterward, hot air was pumped in through vents to blow him dry. There was some kind of chemical drying agent in the air, because it only took 10 seconds, and he was bone dry. Then a robotic arm injected him with a solution—probably an antibiotic, or antiviral, or some combination thereof. Disease was always a major concern in any prison population.
Another robotic arm extended, and implanted a small microchip under his skin. He rubbed his finger over the area, but he couldn't feel the implant underneath. It was imperceptibly small. He made a note of the exact location. H
e planned to cut it out at the first opportunity.
The door opened. Walker exited the chamber, and he was given a jumpsuit and a pair of shoes. The goons escorted him to the extraction facility, where he was strapped to a gurney.
It was an antiseptic lab with display screens and terminals and several technicians. One of the techs placed a neural ring on Walker’s head. It connected to his temples and linked wirelessly to the central computer.
“You may experience pain, dizziness, nausea, vomiting, and/or death,” the tech said in a rote monotone voice. They had done so many extractions already, it was becoming exceedingly mundane. “The more you try to resist, the more painful it will be.”
The neural transfer process mapped and scanned the subject’s brain. The synthetics were masters of creating neural networks and deciphering brain activity. The device stimulated multiple areas of the cerebral cortex. Roughly 20,000 terabytes of data were processed in the span of a few minutes. It was like experiencing everything that happened since birth, all at once. Needless to say, most people got shorted out.
The tech stepped to the control terminal and activated the device. It spent the first few seconds calibrating. Walker didn’t feel anything. He tried to close off his mind and think about nothing.
But soon, a rush of memories and emotions flooded through his mind. It felt like someone had reached into his brain and was stealing his identity. Memories from childhood, visions of his parents, battles he had fought, friends he had lost. The flow of information was staggering. His heart was pounding. His skin was covered in sweat.
Some people had outright heart attacks. Others emerged from the process brain-dead. No one was ever quite the same.
Walker tried to focus on one thing, and force every other thought out of his mind. It was like a hyper intense session of meditation. His brain felt like it was being torn apart. His head throbbed with the pain of an ice headache.
The memories began to slow—he was putting the brakes on the outflow of information. He wasn't going to let them take anymore of his soul. Most of his military career had been about conditioning the mind. Sure, Walker was a perfect physical specimen, but it took mental toughness to be a Reaper. BSCT was 24 weeks of pure pain. If you were going to survive it, you had to learn to put pain in a special place and ignore it. Reapers did the jobs that nobody else wanted to do, and Walker had developed laser focused control of his mind.