Doomsday's Child (Book 2): Came Monsters

by Pete Aldin

  "Grazed my elbow, but I'm not hit." He came up alongside Elliot, still limping.

  The passenger had straightened himself up on his knees, his breath coming hard. He avoided eye contact.

  Elliot said, "Can I trust you to watch this asshole without shooting him while I check the back?"

  Spider's face screwed up like he could smell dogshit on his shoe. "Yes. But you're no fun."

  "We good over there?" Elliot called to Mafia as the driver's door was opened

  "All good! Guy's dead all right."

  Elliot relaxed half a notch and yanked at one of the truck's rear doors, throwing it all the way open so it banged against the side. Five of his people were inside. All had injuries.

  None of them was Lewis.

  ⁓

  Nobody's injuries were life-threatening.

  Apart from a black eye at the hands of the SERPs, Sturgis had nasty lacerations on and above his left ear from the crash, and had some gauze pressed to them to staunch the bleeding. Di, who'd arrived in a millionaire's yacht with husband Raj at The Downs lighthouse, looked anything but rich. Her face was bloody from a laceration above her eyebrow, and she had a banged knee and bruised shoulder. Rit had bumps and scrapes. Chariya had landed on Claire and appeared uninjured. Claire seemed to have a fractured wrist and a mild concussion.

  "That's what I get for being Chariya's airbag," she told Elliot when he'd returned from securing the prisoner to the fence. "Hurts like hell. Good they had supplies." She nodded to the large medkits Sturgis and Spider were using on the others. Claire's wrist was in a sling and she was sitting in the shade of an apple tree. "I'd really like today to start over again."

  "The entire week," Elliot said. He lowered his voice and crouched beside her. "This is total FUBAR, a disaster."

  "Yes," she said, her eyes shining with tears. "It is."

  "You haven't asked me about Angie or Jimmy," Elliot murmured after a short silence. "Or Woodsy."

  "Time for stories later," she said, her voice catching at a pain in her hand. Her next words came out strained. "Things to do, still."

  He glanced toward the SERP handcuffed to the fence. His name plate read DRISCOLL. Driscoll's head was down and he was still avoiding eye contact with anyone. He looked scared as hell.

  Falling into enemy hands without a prayer will do that to you, asswipe.

  None of the Settlers were talking to each other, focused on removing useful items from the back of the stricken truck. Sturgis and Spider were assessing the weapons and the kit taken from passenger and driver. Spider had a vest on now, the blood-streaked one from Mafia's kill; Elliot the other.

  Elliot patted Claire's foot. "Quite a few things to do," he agreed.

  "The first thing's back at Settlers Downs," she said.

  "Nope. First thing is Mafia hurrying the hell up with my ride so I can get after Angie and the second truck." Once things were under control, Mafia had set off in a jog to retrieve Elliot's BearCat.

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  "Angie's okay," he said. "So far. She took off after the other truck. Alone."

  Once more, she didn't ask about the other two members of their mission. But before her eyes squeezed shut, he was sure the flare of pain in them had more to do with Jimmy than with her head or wrist.

  "Well," she murmured. "You can chase them if you want. But there's another problem. Kyle and one of his men stayed back home along with all our sick people."

  "What?"

  "The ... what are they, cops?"

  "They were. Apparently."

  "Well, the two cops stayed back to pack stuff—our stuff—into all our vehicles so others can come back and get it all tomorrow. And to—" She paused to groan and grit her teeth for a few seconds. "And to treat our sick with their medicine. Kyle made it sound like a great big favor. Even while he was herding our people into trucks. God! The Druids. Now these people?" Echoing Angie from earlier without knowing it, she said, "What the hell is wrong with our species?"

  For a moment her glare burned towards the prisoner before she forced her gaze up at the spread of the tree above her. "Love and light to those who have trespassed against me," she whispered, voice breaking. "Love and light." Her eyelids closed. Tears leaked from between them.

  Elliot touched her foot again. "You rest. I'll ... I'll figure out what to do next."

  He stood, his scalp brushing against apple tree twigs. He reached up and twisted one of them, broke it off, flung it aside and stomped over to Sturgis and Spider.

  "Two of them stayed back there with our sick?"

  The former Navy officer lifted his face to study him. "You about to lay blame for letting them all in? Coz if you are, you can't say anything to me that I haven't already said to myself."

  "Made plenty of errors myself," Elliot said. "Problems. Solutions. Actions. Let's keep it to that. Two SERPs back home? Not three, not four?"

  "Definitely two. They brought three in each truck. Two got in the removals truck and these two got in this one. Their boss Kyle stayed back with another bloke."

  Kyle. That sonofabitch.

  Elliot raised his eyes to the road at the sound of engines. Nothing was coming down the road from the west; it wasn't Angie. He turned his head the other direction: Mafia turning the other BearCat onto the highway.

  "Are you good to fight?"

  With his free hand, Sturgis patted one of the two new MCXs. "Bloody oath, I am."

  "Spider here followed instructions just fine. You take him back home and deal with it. Rit stays with the ladies. Sorry it'll be two hour's hike for you to The Downs, but I'm taking Mafia and the BearCat to go after the other truck. If I can get back in time to help you, I will, but don't count on me. We'll leave our prisoner handcuffed here till we decide what to do with him."

  That would not be a difficult choice.

  Sturgis said, "I'd rather have Rit, too, or Chariya. Make it three."

  "You decide. You'll have to go in the back way. Spider, this man was Navy. He knows his shit."

  "Not today, apparently," Sturgis muttered.

  "Hey!" Elliot snapped his fingers. "Concentrate."

  "Right. Yes."

  "You follow his lead," he told Spider.

  The Vike gave a thumbs-up. "No probs."

  The BearCat was nearing now, but slowly, as Mafia got used to driving it. Hurry the hell up, Elliot thought. To Sturgis, he added, "Whoever stays here keeps a handgun."

  "Maybe they should head to a safehouse." He nodded out through the orchard. "Closest one's forty-five minutes' walk that way."

  "Yeah, good idea. We can join them later. I don't think Settlers Downs is going to be secure for a while." They'd had such a good thing going, a tough life, but a good one. A working community. He shook it off. "Whoever goes with you, you're the boss. Make sure you locate both hostiles before committing to action. When you do, you put them down. No mercy."

  "Don't have to convince me of that."

  "Me either," Spider said.

  He pointed to Claire and Chariya and Di. "Then you take whatever supplies you can to these guys and wait for me there. For us there."

  "For how long?"

  "Judgment call. All yours. If you're worried, there's always Barnabas island."

  Sturgis looked unhappy about that.

  "Here's my ride, finally," Elliot said and shouldered his rifle. Mafia had just pulled up along the centerline. Elliot passed through the fence and across the verge toward the waiting truck, patting the spare mags in his vest's pockets. He had an armored truck with more horsepower than that removals truck or Angie's hatchback. He had a rifle and a sidearm again. He would catch up, he would deal with it, he would—

  "Oy!" Mafia shouted out the window. He'd wound it down about four inches, had his lips pressed to the gap. "You were gonna shoot me."

  Elliot froze.

  "Weren't ya?" Mafia insisted.

  Elliot took another step. "You nearly shot one of my people. It was a reflex."

  "I was
helping you."

  Another step. Elliot steadied the swinging rifle against his side, and raised his other hand placatingly. But his danger sense was alive and alert; he dearly wanted both hands filled reassuringly with a weapon. "C'mon, man. We're on the same side. Let's talk it over on the w—"

  "You have no honor!" Mafia snarled. With that, he dropped the clutch and took off, tires squealing. He hooted a laugh out the window.

  Elliot swung the rifle from his shoulder, aimed, fired at the departing vehicle. It was useless against the protected tires. It had wasted ammunition. His people by the crashed vehicle instinctively ducked for cover, even though he wasn't shooting near them. He roared at the sky in frustration, stormed back to the others, locking eyes with Spider.

  The skinny Vike was also crouched, his eyes wide. He put down his .40 cal and raised his hands. "Not on me, man. Not on me." He looked from Elliot to Sturgis and back.

  "What the hell was that?" Elliot shouted. "What the hell was that?"

  "Please, man." Spider was genuinely scared now. He shuffled awkwardly back on his haunches to keep his distance as Elliot came to a stop at the fence. "It's on him, not me."

  "Get him back!" Elliot snarled.

  "What? How?"

  Now that was a damn good question. Off to the side, the prisoner snickered at it. Elliot turned the rifle his way—the man bit off his laughter.

  Elliot relaxed the rifle and told Spider, "That shit-stained prick took my truck."

  "I—I'm sorry, man. But it was him, not me."

  "You're the same people."

  "We're not. I told you we're not." Spider swallowed. "We're just a bunch of losers who tried to come up with some kinda society that would work for us, you know? Vikings had rules and they had honor. He, Mafia, he feels like ... well, whatever. Honor, yeah. But we're all messed-up individuals really, and he makes his own choices. And you know about my girlfriend—"

  Elliot took two steps closer and Spider quit babbling. Sturgis was standing now, his weapon pointed at the ground near Spider's feet. Elliot said, "If Mafia meets up with Angie out there? Tell me he's gonna be polite. Convince me."

  "He won't hurt her, promise. Look, Mafia was a founder. He and I always disagree on shit—like that guy Bourbon does—and I got voted into a decision-making position which pissed Mafia off. That's why he left me here. He's got a beef with me and with you. But he's got no beef with Angie. He didn't shoot you, after all. Just nicked your truck."

  That much was true.

  Elliot took some deep breaths to calm himself, but it didn't help much. The only working vehicles he knew of were back at The Downs. "I'm coming with you," he told Sturgis.

  Sturgis said, "That's what I thought. How much time do we have? If, you know, that truck gets back to their home without Angie catching it."

  "Six hours, maybe. Ten. Damn, we have to move."

  "Another question: is he still coming?"

  Spider started to rise, but Sturgis warned him off it by pointing the MCX at his leg.

  "Fellas," Spider said, settling. "Let's think this through. I saw a truck taking your people away to be slaves. Three years ago, the Death Druids took my brother and his wife. I don't want that happening to my girlfriend. My baby. I have a baby," he told the others. "Plus, one of my so-called friends just took off and left me here. That means, I got two things to live for. Helping you kill some of these slaver-pigs, and getting back to my home so I can punch Mafia in the face. Let me help you and we all get what we want."

  "His buddy did just dump him here," Sturgis said.

  "Which means he's part of a lawless group of screw-ups and ex-criminals with swiss cheese for brains."

  Elliot stooped and picked up the .40 cal that Spider had dropped.

  "Deal's off," he told him. "Leave the .22 and the vest. Start walking home. And when you see Mafia, you give him a second punch in the face from me."

  Part Five: I've Never Been a Fan of Long Hikes

  22

  It was a long walk through bushland before the three men made it to the back of the farm. Rit and Sturgis entered first, pushing their ballistic vests ahead of them through the "back door", a disguised tunnel beneath the wire. On the way through the tight space, Elliot scraped his taser wounds hard on the packed earth, hissing in pain. Two dogs—Fido and Wilma—met them with hackles up until they heard Elliot's voice.

  "No talking," he reminded the men as he gave each dog a cursory once over. They seemed uninjured.

  "Got nothing to say," Rit murmured and got his vest back on. Then he refitted his black baseball cap, turning it sideways against the sun.

  It was indeed the first time Rit had spoken since his rescue from the BearCat; Sturgis had told Elliot quietly that two of the Settlers had resisted the SERPs and paid the ultimate price. One of those had been Kim, Rit's brother-in-law. Kim had been a good man—a damn good man.

  And they could remember him later. Along with the other dead. When this was done.

  Elliot made the dogs stay; Fido took more convincing, being younger. He had checked Sturgis's watch the other side of the fence: a little before 14:30. It had threatened rain during the hike, but the clouds had blown over, leaving the sky a vivid spring blue. The air smelled of wet grass, fertilizer and faintly, the ocean. The clean air, the spring colors and scents, they made it feel like a good day; it should have been a good day. And it wasn't. He was aware of the whisper of wind on grass, the tread of his colleague's shoes as they started after him, bleated inquiries from the sheep paddock two hundred metres right, some noise from the twenty-odd cattle venturing closer in hopes of food. Elliot hoped the stupid creatures would keep out of their way for the final fifty metres to the next fence and gate. More concerning was the lack of noise coming from north of their position, the area where he kept his camp and the dog pens. He didn't want to think about what that silence might mean, what the SERPs might have done to his animals.

  Sturgis and Rit, stacked behind Elliot as instructed, followed his hand signals and quiet commands, sweeping their piece of the pie as they followed him along fence lines and buildings, helped him clear the Community Centre in middle of the property. The men proved efficient and steady. Sturgis spoke only once, as they moved past the infirmary, asking should they check it? Elliot shook his head no. They would come back there.

  Disciplined, focused, the men moved on with him until eventually they reached the back of the giant open-aired tin-roofed sheep shed that stared out into the Yard where the first Battle for The Downs had taken place.

  And here comes another battle, he thought sourly.

  Using hand signals, he directed Rit to head along the back of the building. He murmured one word: "Garage." Rit moved off without comment. From the garage, Rit would have better cover than he and Sturgis, along with a wider angle on the Yard; with zero combat training, Rit would need it.

  Very slowly Elliot opened the door to the back of the sheep shed, wincing as it creaked a little. Crouch-walking, he followed a service sidewalk around the inner left-hand wall with Sturgis at his back, their rifles trained on the Yard beyond. The cement floor reeked of decades of urine. They stopped at the front corner of the building, crouching low at the steel railings.

  Some of the community's vehicles—a tractor, Ford pickup, two quad-bikes and a diesel-minibus—were still parked over by the homestead. The SERPs had parked four other cars side by side, twenty metres out from Elliot's position, and at a right angle to the holding pens: two Land Rovers, the Ute with the plow-catcher, the Audi SUV. The vehicles' tailgates lay open and facing into the barn entryway.

  "Bastards," Sturgis murmured, leaning around Elliot. "Bastards."

  The two cops stood in the midst of the cars at the barn, sharing a smoke and a bottle, chatting relaxedly. One voice definitely belonged to Kyle. An inch or so of each man's hair was visible above the large vehicles' roofs; if they had brought along helmets and MOPP masks, the pair had taken them off while working. One of their rifles was visible lying across
the Ute's hood, further testament to their confidence. The cars appeared near-to-full with resources. Downs' resources. Elliot wondered if even their cigarette was one of those he'd given to Shaz the other day.

  He'd told the others that he'd prefer to take Kyle alive, for various reasons. But unless Kyle or his buddy were lying prone, unarmed and begging loudly for mercy, the instruction was to shoot them dead and be done with it. No more chances.

  With Sturgis covering him, Elliot slid beneath the railing and onto the dirt and gravel of the Yard, keeping his taser wounds from scraping on the ground. From there, he crawled on knees and elbows left toward the corner where barn met sheep sheds, rifle across the crooks of his elbows. Sure as shit, it was a risk being out in the open—and felt like it. But the sheep run rails offered almost zero cover, whereas stacks of tires lined much of the barn, covered with tarps that rippled and snapped in the light breeze. From that position of relative cover, he would have a clean line of sight between cars and barn door when the men returned to work. There would be a two- or three-second window. Plenty of time. As long as they both stepped into the open together. If they didn't—or if one of them made it inside the barn—there was always the smaller doorway at this end of the structure Elliot could use to follow him.

  Snatches of conversation drifted his way, as carefree as his movements were careful. The subject matter was mundane, the pair trading sports anecdotes the way the two Daves might have. Shooting the breeze after shooting Kim and Dylan.

  They were still at it when he reached his new position and got his left shoulder and body in cover of the tires. Rifle pointed securely down the fire lane past the door, he selected full-auto, and glanced right. He could see Sturgis' weapon poking from under the rails; the man was prone, too. Rit was not visible but should have been in position now.

  "Should be easy," he whispered to himself, mindful of many things that could go wrong. "Please be easy."

  He thought about flushing them out by firing on the vehicles, but that would likely drive them to ground. Occasionally he'd catch sight of a boot or two beneath the cars, never long enough to safely take down both men. He might have used Rit's or Sturgis's flashbangs, except he'd have to get in much closer to toss them: the damn things only had three-second fuses. He considered himself a proficient shooter, but not enough to have tried headshots through the windows of packed vehicles.