"You can't do that!" Both he and Suzanne spoke at the same time, almost crying it out.
Ironhorse smiled with irritating superiority. "Ah, but we can, Doctors. You're both very privileged; you're about to witness a rare event—and live to tell about it. Delta squad in action. Anytime, anyplace, any objective—my men are the best."
Harrison had heard of them, all right, but he shook his head. "If you value your men, Colonel, call them back. You have no concept of who or what you're dealing with."
Ironhorse cocked his head and shot him a curious 274
look. "Just a few terrorists, with small arms and a poorly defended perimeter. I figure my men are overprepared."
Suzanne moved closer, leaning toward the Indian to hiss: "You don't understand . . . it's not just terrorists you're fighting—"
Harrison put a hand on her arm to silence her. After their last encounter, Ironhorse no doubt thought him crazy, and any explanations would be considered the ravings of a couple of lunatic scientists. The man would see soon enough for himself.
She turned toward him angrily. "And what happens when all his men are killed?"
"Excuse me, Dr. . . . McCullough, isn't it?" Ironhorse asked politely; Suzanne glanced up at him. "It doesn't matter to my men whether they're fighting terrorists ... or something else." His expression was enigmatic.
Jesus, Harrison thought, he knows. Perhaps the colonel wasn't as dull-witted as he'd first believed. Harrison and Suzanne exchanged surprised glances.
Ironhorse was still talking, this time to Harrison. "I still remember the look on your face when you saw those empty barrels, Blackwood."
Harrison raised a brow at that and said cautiously, "And just how experienced are you at fighting those things, Colonel? How much do you know about the first time they did battle with us?"
Ironhorse shrugged. "Enough. I know they don't have their ships or their weapons. Without those, my men will make mincemeat out of them."
"And have your men been told who they're fighting?" Suzanne's tone was cold.
"The terrorists had weapons," Harrison pointed out. "They overran an army installation, killed every soldier in there—and the aliens overtook them."
Ironhorse sighed as if weary at having to explain such elementary things to such ignorant people. "You have to remember—we're engaging in pure speculation here. / won't believe they're really aliens until I see it with my own eyes. I'm certainly not going to say anything crazy to my men, particularly something crazy I can't back up. I keep my suspicions to myself. Otherwise, my men would lose faith in my judgment."
"And knowing the shock and confusion they'll experience when they find out who they're fighting," Harrison retorted, "you expect them to be able to win?"
"Absolutely. You obviously don't know jackshit" —he glanced at Suzanne—"excuse my language, Doctor—about Delta squad, Blackwood. Aliens or not, whoever, whatever's down there doesn't stand a chance."
"You're making a horrible mistake," Harrison said softly, feeling helpless as he thought of the young soldier who had just left. If there were only something he could do to stop it. . . .
Ironhorse checked his watch. "Now," he said.
Behind the shelter of a tall pine on the outskirts of the farm, Reynolds stood silently gazing at his watch. At the instant the digits changed to 19:00:00, he motioned right and left for his men to move forward.
He was aware of a sense of exhilaration, of therapid-fire drumming of his heart, of the thought o! Arlene, and a sudden panic: How would she feel if something happened to him? But Reynolds, though still young, had seen enough combat to ignore such sensations. Like his role model the colonel, Reynolds had long ago adopted the motto, Don't think—act. At the moment his mind was too focused on what came next to worry about analyzing his own feelings.
He dashed to a vantage point from which he could see both the farmhouse and the barn, to be sure his men were in position. They were ready; the entrances to both buildings were covered by soldiers wearing gas masks. Reynolds raised an arm to signal two riflemen several yards in front of him; they fired off canisters of tear gas into the house and barn.
Within seconds, thick white clouds of gas began billowing out of both structures. The men positioned near the entrances followed the gas up with a couple of well-aimed concussion grenades. The ground vibrated with the explosions; a pane of glass still left in one of the farmhouse windows shattered, sending glass flying onto the porch.
Those who weren't wounded were due to come rushing out, coughing and gagging, any second now. It was time. Reynolds blew three short blasts on the whistle around his neck, then dropped it and pulled down his own gasmask. He charged forward. Meanwhile, the soldiers began storming the buildings, some jumping through windows, others kicking down doors.
Clutching his M-16, Reynolds ran to the barn
entrance. The tear gas was beginning to clear only slowly; it was still too thick inside the barn for him to see anything except the backs of his men as they disappeared into the fog, and the vague outline of the tractor-trailer. Reynolds smiled grimly. They were here, all right, and he'd like nothing better than the chance to get even with those sons of bitches, after seeing what they did to the soldiers at Jericho Valley. But there was still no sign of anyone fleeing the house or barn, no sound of gunfire . . . just a strange vibrating, humming sound, as if someone were chanting.
Reynolds raised the rifle and waited.
Xashron climbed up the ladder into the gray shadows of the loft, where most of the recently revived soldiers rested against bales of hay. The Advocacy and their attendants camped inside the warmer, more spacious accommodations of the old farmhouse, but Xashron, though he could have remained with them in comfort due to his high rank, preferred to camp with his soldiers.
Flanked by Xeera and Konar, Xashron stepped forward where he could be seen. There was a rustling as some of them tried to rise at the sight of their supreme commander, sounds of surprise from others who did not recognize and did not trust Xashron in his human form.
The Supreme Commander raised an arm in a clumsy approximation of a Mor-Taxan gesture. "Rest," he told them in their native tongue, for none of them had yet taken host bodies. He paused to look them over. At least thirty dark forms—no more than that, Xashron had insisted, for he would not release more soldiers than he had adequate supplies for, despite his desire to overthrow the Advocacy—were huddled on beds of straw; some of them rose on their thin appendages, to show respect, regardless of Xashron's order.
Feeling a deep sense of pride at the sight of them, Xashron said, "I have come not as your commander, but as a fellow soldier, to seek a consensus. I am proud you have survived, for this allows us a second opportunity to secure Earth before our colonists arrive. Yet I grieve because you, and your brothers and sisters who died, have suffered much at the hands of the Council. The sight of my soldiers falling beside me has made me bitter. We require enlightened leadership if we are to succeed."
He paused to judge the response; all listened quietly, without dissension so far, which gave Xashron the boldness to speak candidly.
"The current Advocacy is unenlightened," he said. "We must have a new Advocate."
There were murmurs. A female standing in a far corner of the loft said, "Such talk is dangerous, Commander. You put yourself at risk."
"I put all of you at risk as well." Xashron eyed her calmly. "You could be punished merely for listening to such talk. All of those who do not wish to hear what I have to say are permitted to leave without fear of punishment."
The female was silent; no one moved. One of the males reclining against a bale of hay asked, "What do you suggest we do. Commander?"
"I suggest we retain one member of the ruling
class"—he did not mention Xana's name, for fear that someone had seen them slip off together into the forest; best to seem impartial at this point— "and replace two members with soldiers: myself, and whomever you select by consensus."
Whispers. Some
silently considered, others looked pleased; but Xorr, the commander of a squadron, spoke as he reclined on his bed of straw. "Supreme Commander—I have always bowed to your will. But the Advocacy would never agree to such a thing, nor would the Council. Such an action is unheard of— letting the military rule side by side with the upper class. ..."
Next to Xashron, Konar came to his leader's defense. "Our situation is unheard of. The Supreme Commander merely wishes to avoid the errors of the past, errors which came close to destroying us all.. . or have you so quickly forgotten, Commander Xorr? The military needs a voice in this new world, for this is strictly a military operation. There are only three members of the upper class on Earth—yet they rule us all. Should they continue to do so—those three who recommended the invasion be launched before our scientists even knew of the danger that awaited us here?"
"It's true," someone said clearly, amid echoes of agreement. "The Advocacy thought only of its own glory."
Xorr rose angrily on unsteady appendages. "And what do you, Supreme Commander, suggest we do with the two deposed members of the Advocacy? We all know they will not surrender peacefully."
Xashron studied the group. Xorr was misguided in his loyalty, but shrewd enough to force Xashron into admitting he must kill the two Advocates, words that on Mor-Tax would have earned him immediate death . .. and which, on Earth, would offend those who were undecided about Xashron's plan.
"I leave their fate to a consensus," Xashron said evasively. "Let all of you decide what is best—lean do nothing without the assistance of the majority. All I ask for now is that you consider my words. This is a new world; old laws, old taboos are no longer relevant here. What is important now is ensuring, at all costs, that no more mistakes are made." He paused. "Through a miracle, I have my soldiers back; I will not lose them a second time to please the egos of our rulers."
Xorr took a step forward. "And as members of the military, Supreme Commander, you and I are sworn to protect the ruling class with our lives. This is the highest law ... or have you so conveniently forgotten the oath you took?"
Xorr's statement created an almost palpable tension in the room, for each soldier had taken the same pledge to protect the ruling class; some murmured their agreement with Xorr's proclamation of loyalty, others looked silently to the Supreme Commander for guidance. With disappointment, Xashron realized that it would take both time and political maneuvering to overcome Xorr's opposition—and time was the one commodity the invading forces could no longer afford to squander.
"I have not forgotten my oath," Xashron replied. "I, too, am loyal to the Advocacy. . . but my loyalty to my entire world, to the survival of my people and my fellow soldiers, runs much deeper. Your focus is too restricted, Xorr. We are speaking not of the survival of two members of the ruling class, but of the survival of our entire race."
Xorr had no answer; Xashron could sense the momentum of opinion shift in his own favor. Perhaps there was still a chance of convincing the majority, in which case he would have to assassinate Xorr and his followers as soon as it could be arranged—a pity, since Xorr was a competent military leader—before Xorr could kill him.
He was about to ask for an immediate consensus, but there was no time. Xeera, glancing over the edge of the hayloft, cried out.
"Commander, we're under attack!"
Xashron rushed to her side to see just as billowing clouds of gas filled the barn.
On the hillcrest, Harrison and Suzanne watched helplessly as the men swarmed into the abandoned buildings. "Colonel, please," Harrison began, "for the sake of your men—"
But Ironhorse ignored him totally, staring transfixed through a pair of field glasses. Finally, he lowered them and swore softly. "Damn . .. they're not even here!"
"Thank God for that," Harrison said fervently, at the same time it dashed his hopes of getting Wilson's proof.
That was a split second before the shooting started.
* * *
The humming grew louder, then stopped. Expectantly, Reynolds flattened himself against the termite damaged wood near the entrance; but instead of hearing the sounds of surrender, he detected a sharp, brief whistle coming from inside. He drew closer to the door's edge and peered into the barn. Someone cried out; the sounds of struggle . . . and then through the wisps of gas, Reynolds saw chaos: Dozens of huge, shapeless black forms dropping from the rafters onto the soldiers below. In the melee, guns fired, and the whistling sound came again. And whatever was happening didn't look too good for Delta squad.
Reynolds was about to rush in to help out when he saw something—someone—coming at him through the mist. A man, a stranger. Reynolds stepped back and took aim.
The man saw but kept coming. He held an odd-looking object in his hand that Reynolds decided was a weapon: a length of thick wire, weighted at the ends with what looked like mechanical gears. The man staggered, but there was no blood on his dark clothing, only vague, indescribable filth.
"Halt!" Reynolds barked, but the man kept coming. Even in the darkness Reynolds could see there was something horribly wrong with him; his face was swollen and covered with pus-filled sores and flies. The man started to slowly swing the cable. Revolted, Reynolds fired.
The terrorist fell straight onto his back two feet from the entrance, and then, to Reynolds' wide-eyed horror, the man's skin began to bubble and pop, releasing small sprays of pus. It was as if someone had
WAR OF THE WORLDS poured strong acid on the body; the skin melted, leaving dark red muscle and bone and gleamingly slick internal organs. Something black and gelatinous had wound itself all around the skeleton and the organs, and when the fizzling stopped, a smoldering pile of bones and nasty-looking black scum remained.
Reynolds was still gaping, stunned, when he heard the whistling sound again. Strong wire wrapped itself around his legs and arms, forcing the rifle from his grasp as he dropped to the ground. He flailed in vain, then tried to worm his way toward the M-16. He actually managed to get a hand on it, but his arms were pinned so that he couldn't raise it and take aim. From the side of the bam, another man appeared, Ms face as ghastly as the other's, an Uzi balanced on his hip.
It was the last thing Reynolds saw before the world exploded.
"Reynolds!" Ironhorse dropped the field glasses and dashed down the slope seconds before the burst of automatic gunfire.
"No, Colonel, don't-—" Harrison reached for him, but Ironhorse was already gone. Harrison squeezed his eyes shut as the man with the Uzi fired at Reynolds.
Ironhorse tore down the hill and made Ms way toward the barn, but he was too late. Reynolds' body was a twisted heap, tangled in wire and old rusted gears, a makeshift bola. "Reynolds," the colonel whis-
284
pered, crouching over the young soldier. At the sight of him, Ironhorse closed his eyes. The Uzi blast had caught Reynolds in the right side of his face, now a bloody, unrecognizable mass.
"You bastards—" Ironhorse stood up. At the same time, the roar of an engine sounded behind him as a rider dressed all in black came speeding out of the barn on a four-wheel ATV. A machine gun was mounted on the handlebars, and the rider aimed it at Ironhorse.
Ironhorse roared with fury and fired his M-16. The rider was knocked from the ATY, which flipped onto its back, wheels spinning crazily. The rider's body began to dissolve, bubbling and fizzling, the same as the one Reynolds had killed. But there was no time for Ironhorse to watch—a man and a woman in grotesque, decaying bodies were approaching from the direction of the fannhouse. He fired again, missed; the two fled into the safety of the barn through a side entrance.
The colonel peered into the barn as the remnants of the tear gas stung his eyes, making tears stream down his face. The barn was quiet, except for dark, inhuman shapes ... if anyone from Delta squad was still inside, they weren't alive. Damn Blackwood for being right! It no longer mattered to Ironhorse if he lived or not. The way he saw it, he deserved to die with his men. He reached for a grenade on his belt, loaded it onto
the attachment on his rifle, aimed it straight into the barn, and fired.
The blast made Ironhorse stagger backward; the old
building groaned and shuddered as wooden rafters gave way and collapsed to the floor, carrying other dark alien forms with them.
That's right, you bastards, DIE____
He slipped another grenade onto the launcher and began to take aim again, when his legs went out from under him, tangled in one of the makeshift bolas. An old man approached from behind the far side of the bam—not as badly deteriorated as the others, but definitely eaten away by radiation. The old gas station owner, some detached part of Ironhorse's mind realized calmly. What the hell was going on?
Was the gas station owner, he corrected himself grimly. At least his hands were still free. He fired the grenade right at the guy's chest when he was still several yards away.
The old man caught it in his bare hand like some martial arts expert. Ironhorse knew then he had to be hallucinating. This whole thing was some weird, unbelievable dream—the grenade should have torn the man's hand off, or at least taken a few fingers with it—but here the guy was holding it. The old man studied the grenade curiously, as if he'd never seen anything like it before.
The colonel covered his head with his arms and turned away just before the explosion.
"Wait here," Harrison said to Suzanne. He couldn't stand by and watch Ironhorse get killed too.
"Oh no you don't." She shot him a dangerous look. "You're not going down there. And you're not leaving me alone."
"Look at him!" Harrison pointed; Ironhorse was struggling to untangle his legs without success.
"But you don't even have any weapons." She hesitated, then said, "I'm going with you."
"No way. One, you've got the kid to think about; two, you've got the camera. You alone can convince Wilson, and you know it. You've got to survive or we can all kiss our asses good-bye."
"Harrison—"
But he was already making his way down toward the battle.
"God damn you, Blackwood!" But at least she stayed put.
J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection Page 21