Salvation (Rise Book 2)

by Nathan Hystad

  “Sounds easy enough,” Tubs said.

  “Yep.” Dex believed nothing was ever that simple.

  Chapter 33

  Lina

  Lina walked around in a daze as everyone else buzzed in frantic activity. The people who lived in the hollowed-out mountainside but were unable to fight, were busy preparing to flee their home and travel to somewhere safer. She heard Monet talking about Cripple Creek, suggesting that maybe some of them go there, but it seemed like these new people had their own plans.

  She’d lost Buddy during the assault but had found the coyote again near an injured child. Buddy had blood on his mouth and growled at anyone coming near them until Lina arrived. He sauntered around with her now, making her feel better; stronger somehow.

  Monet was in her element, fast-walking and yelling orders as she stopped to place a reassuring hand on a shoulder, or help lift a refugee’s heavy burden or a small child.

  Lina wished that she was like that; wishing that she was strong and confident like her companion when inside she felt like she was unravelling. Nothing in her life, not even the loss of her entire village and the subsequent terror of being tracked by the drones, had prepared her for the stress she felt in the aftermath of the brief and bloody encounter.

  Something tugged at her consciousness, threatening to break her out of her trance-like state. She turned towards the ghost of the sound and found Yas staring at her expectantly.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “I said,” Yas went on in a softer tone as if recognizing how delicate she was in that moment, “you wouldn’t believe it, but they have a guy who thinks he can fly their ship.”

  Wordlessly, Lina rose, placing a gentle hand on the big man’s shoulder as she passed as if to thank him for bringing her out of the distant state she’d fallen into.

  She walked toward the ship, hulking and dark against the light color of the dusty surroundings, and saw Monet jogging down the ramp. Their eyes met and the older woman’s face cracked in a smile.

  “You have to see this,” she muttered excitedly, grabbing Lina by the hand and half dragging her up the ramp. Buddy remained outside, as if afraid to enter something so strange-smelling. “The people here have been under siege by Seekers for days,” she explained as their eyes began to adjust to the gloom inside the alien craft, “and Trackers showed up yesterday to start digging them out. This ship arrived right before we did, which is lucky, I guess…”

  “Not for them,” Lina muttered as she needlessly ducked under the lintel of a door, which was a clear foot higher than her head. Monet chuckled darkly, taking her comment as a celebration of their victory.

  “There’s a guy who lived here,” Monet went on. “He was a pilot before they came.”

  “What’s a… a pilot?”

  “Someone who used to fly, like airplanes and helicopters.”

  “Oh,” Lina said, not wanting to slow proceedings by explaining that she didn’t have a clue what Monet was talking about.

  “Anyway, he’s in the cockpit and he reckons he can get this thing working.”

  Lina opened her mouth to ask but closed it again, simply following Monet through the compartments. She noticed that things seemed very different and yet somehow similar inside the ship.

  The layout of the sections all seemed like they’d work for humans, but everything was stretched like her eyes were playing tricks on her. She guessed that made sense, given that the birdbrains, as she’d heard them called, were at least a head taller than the tallest person in their group.

  “My guess is that this is a kind of troop transport ship,” Monet said as she indicated a lateral row of what she’d guessed to be seats. They looked like seats, but something about them was so strange, so alien that it took her a second to figure it out just as Monet beat her to it.

  “They have weird legs,” she explained, pointing at the molded buckets with shoulder straps hanging down, “like birds. Our fly-boy has the same problem up top.”

  She led the way onwards before Lina could question anything she’d said, shooting one final glance backwards to the strange rows of seats and counting up how many of the tall, evil creatures it could carry. Again, Monet gave her the grim estimation.

  “There are two decks of seats like this,” she said gravely. “Which is roughly two hundred.”

  If a handful of them could offload so much destruction, then the thought of two hundred of them spilling out of those seats and descending the ramp with their guns firing made her feel cold all the way to her insides.

  “…only so many ways you can make somethin’ fly, ya know?” she heard a man’s voice explain with a slow, confident tone that made her instantly warm to the man even without seeing him.

  “Yes, but, Whittaker, are you sure you can fly it?” another voice demanded peevishly. The man he’d called Whittaker let out a breezy, wheezing laugh almost as if he felt sorry for the person asking him.

  “Son, ain’t no guarantees o’ nothin’ these days.”

  “This plan is suicide,” he fired at her without offering a greeting or even an acknowledgement of her presence.

  “Y’all forgive me not standing up when ladies enter the room,” Whittaker croaked out of one corner of his mouth. “Kinda have my hands full at the moment, plus my back ain’t what it used to be.”

  Lina entered the small room Monet had confusingly called a cockpit and stepped to the side where the profile of an old man with leathery skin and a white beard came into view. He treated her to a sideways glance and a kindly smirk before lifting a finger to tip an imaginary hat at her.

  “Ma’am,” he said before turning to the bizarre controls laid out in front of him and scribbled a note on the pad of yellow paper resting on his thigh.

  “Hiding in the desert and doing nothing is suicide,” Monet countered. “We have one shot—one—to end this.” Whittaker chuckled again as if he knew something they didn’t. Lina looked at him, placing him in his late fifties if he was a day.

  The man Monet had spoken to stared at her for a few seconds before making a huffing noise and clambering uncertainly down the steps.

  “So,” Monet said as she stepped forward and placed a hand on the back of the piloting chair, “this is Lina. Lina, this is Whittaker.”

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said formally, treating her to the full force of his smile, which warmed her through in the opposite way as the cold feeling of dread had chilled her bones. “J.C. Whittaker, United States Naval Aviator, retired, at your service.”

  “Lina,” Lina answered shyly, finding herself returning the smile whether she chose to or not. She’d never heard anyone speak like him before, and the way he almost sang the words he used in a melodic way lulled her.

  “Anyway,” Monet cut in, “not to sound like that guy, but can you fly it?”

  “Well,” Whittaker said as if he was about to start a long story, “like I was tellin’ Mister Bug Up His Ass there, there’s only so many ways a thing can stay in the sky without makin’ like a rock. You need power o’ some description, and you need a way to make it go left and right and up and down.” He shrugged, as if the concept of artificial flight was a simple one.

  “So…” Monet prompted him. He jumped a little in the strange chair he occupied and leaned forward to explain his thoughts.

  “You see, this little doo-dad here looks somethin’ awful like a cyclic, and this sucker this side looks like the collective, so that leaves me searchin’ for the throttle.”

  Lina and Monet exchanged worried glances

  “Erm,” Lina began before Whittaker cut her off.

  “Like in a chopper,” he explained unhelpfully. “My guessin’ is this one makes you go whichever way you like, and this one does the old up and down, only on this weird-ass heap o’ alien junk, they’re on the wrong side.”

  “Okaaaay…” Monet said, barely keeping up with what she felt might be irrelevant details to the plan as a whole.

  “Which gets me to thinkin
’ that one of these things has to be the old gas pedal, right?”

  Both women gave up, shrugging as if to signify that they’d given up and lost the plot following his words. Whittaker sighed and struggled out of the chair with difficulty. When he rose to his full height, Lina saw that he was no taller than she was but walked with stoop like his head was too heavy for his neck.

  “First off,” he explained, “I need me a ton of pillows so’s I can sit and reach the controls. After that, sure. I can try to make it fly.”

  “Really?” Lina said. “You can make it fly?”

  “Hold on there,” Whittaker said with a chuckle, “I said I can try. I never promised I could do.”

  “There is no try,” Monet intoned solemnly, “only do. My father used to say that to me…” she said, trailing off as though she was either embarrassed or besieged by painful memories. She cleared her throat and drew herself up as if resetting her chosen exterior.

  Whittaker smiled broadly, which only made her feel even more embarrassed. He looked from Monet to Lina as if seeking some kind of recognition, but found none.

  “Wise man, your father,” he said eventually. “Well, best we go see what makes this tub tick.” He groaned as he set off toward the exit. Both women followed him , doing their best to ignore the mutterings while listening intently in case he said something useful.

  “Engine room, I’ll hazard a guess,” Whittaker said as he placed a hand on a metal door. Lina didn’t need to do that; she could feel the gentle hum and pulse of something behind the door that spoke to her of great power.

  Monet stepped up just as a dull metallic clang rippled through the walls to make them all freeze. Monet, eyes wide and bright in the gloom, drew the pistol from her waist and looked around.

  Clang

  “Who’s there?” she demanded. “Anyone down here?”

  Clang, weaker this time, as if the wrong note had been played on a musical instrument.

  “You need to show yourself immediately,” Monet called out, louder this time. Something about the tone of her voice made Lina kick into action. She unslung the shotgun from her shoulder and held it with the barrel pointed towards the deck. Even Whittaker reached inside his jacket and pulled out an old semi-automatic pistol with a long, heavy-looking barrel and worn wooden grips.

  “Come on out,” he called out in a voice more powerful and commanding than Lina had expected, given how gently he had spoken to them. “Y’all fixin’ to catch a bullet if you don’t.”

  Clang, clang, clang…

  They spun, all three of them looking towards the corridor behind them as the renewed sound snatched their attention. Monet went first, gun held steady in both hands, knees slightly bent as her head swiveled from left to right and back again. Whittaker followed, his own gun held in one hand pointing upwards, and Lina went after as she instinctively glanced behind every few steps.

  Monet stopped, indicating with her fingers that she thought the noise was coming from a doorway, and Whittaker stepped up to press himself against the wall to one side of it, pausing to give her a nod.

  Monet hit the door release button jutting from the floor with her right boot, bringing her gun up with her small flashlight held between her teeth as she moved inside. Whittaker went in too, leaving Lina suddenly feeling exposed and alone in the corridor, so she followed them to an empty room where they glanced around in bewilderment.

  Clang

  Dull and weak, and coming from beneath their feet.

  Monet leapt back to point her gun and the beam of light onto the metal deck panel. Whittaker’s gun made a heavy, satisfying click as his thumb pulled back the hammer and he lowered the barrel to the ground.

  “Come on out now,” he warned, grit in his words now. “Don’t make us come in there after you.”

  Silence stretched out through uncomfortable and into painful until Monet’s temper broke.

  “Screw this,” she snarled, handing her flashlight to Lina who held it in her left hand, clutching it tightly against the barrel of her shotgun. Monet glanced up at Whittaker, who returned her look with a brief, confident nod. Monet’s fingers dug into the gap in the panel, and with a grunt, she stood, extending her legs to haul open the slab of floor.

  Lina shone the beam of light into the small gap and gasped; a prerequisite to a scream.

  “God damn,” Whittaker blurted out.

  Monet dropped the panel to one side, fumbling to draw her weapon again as she peered over the side.

  To see a bone-thin, writhing alien clutching at its chest and gasping for air.

  Chapter 34

  Dex

  The moment Dex thought he was about to find reprieve from the never-ending storm, it began to pour again, this time harder than before. The fence was twenty feet tall, but nothing more than classic chain-link. He wore a mask pulled over his face, the wool itchy on his skin. The Overseers might have cameras on, and he didn’t want to be spotted. Not for his long-term plan to work.

  Dex doubted he was going to survive the night, but on the off-chance he made it out unscathed, the last thing he wanted was to be hunted and killed for his actions. Tubs wore a red ski mask, since they’d been unable to find another dark one, and it stood out more than Dex’s in the dark night.

  He’d expected to find Seekers around, but his tablet showed a few idly roaming the coast; none of the drones hovered near the shipyard, making his task simpler.

  “The handles are slick,” Tubs grunted as he used the tool to cut through the chain link.

  “Keep going. You’re almost there.” Dex saw he needed at least twenty more snips, and they’d be able to pass through the fence. They’d chosen the darkest corner of the fortification along the back of the square, as far from the building inside the fence as possible. At least we’ll see them coming.

  Dex held his rifle up, ready and willing to use it if they were spotted, but so far, the grounds had remained silent. It was well past midnight, the night slowly growing closer to sunrise than sunset, and he couldn’t wait to finish the task. Twenty ships.

  He glanced to their explosives and hoped it was enough.

  The constant sound of the snipped chain link carried to his ears, and a few minutes later, Tubs was tucking the cutting tool away and bending an opening into the fence.

  “It would help if you weren’t so huge, Tubs,” Dex whispered.

  “I can’t help it if I have big bones,” Tubs replied, pressing through the opening. Dex passed him the heavy pack of munitions and stepped into the shipyard himself.

  “You take the left, I’ll go right. Place the devices where we agreed earlier and keep moving. Don’t stop until you’re out,” Dex said. They’d been over this already, but Tubs’ gaze had a way of drifting off to the distance when someone spoke to him.

  “Got it. Be careful. Meet you here in ten,” Tubs said, and he was off.

  Dex blinked rainwater from his eyes and peered right. The first ship was close, settled to the ground. The old concrete was cracked and crumbling beneath the weight of their space vessel, and Dex ran to the thrusters, pulling a laptop-sized device from his bag. He set it on the hull and tapped the button on the top, metal claws jamming into the surface of the craft, holding it in place.

  Each of these explosive hubs had three or four connected devices, and Dex stuck the baseball-shaped bombs along the outer hull then moved toward the next one. He repeated the process, again and again, until five of them were armed.

  By the time he rounded the corner, ready to head in the direction of the water, he heard a noise.

  Dex’s heart jumped in his chest, sending his nerves on edge. He set the pack to the ground and grabbed his gun while he pressed himself against the sixth ship’s hull.

  There were at least two of the aliens walking toward him. Damn it. He’d been foolish to think he could avoid the Overseers entirely. He couldn’t use the rifle, not now. It would reveal his position and send the entire region into a state of alert. Tubs would be caught and killed.<
br />
  He set it down gently and pulled a knife from his boot. His gloved hand wrapped around the wet handle, and he waited, hoping they’d turn around and leave.

  He crouched, hearing their footsteps growing nearer, their clicking voices speaking in low conversation. Dex tried to calm himself. This was nothing more than a hunt, the same kind he’d been on for years. He was the hunter, not the other way around. And this was his world. They were the invaders. He was fighting with the Reclaimers to send them packing, and this was his duty. Adrenaline coursed through him, and he was ready.

  Dex spun around the corner of the thruster, knife darting out, prepared to attack, but there was no one there. Rain dripped between the spacecrafts, dark pools of water rippled almost noiselessly.

  His breath returned to his lungs, and he slid the knife away, continuing on his way. He placed explosives on the next three ships and ran out of supplies. Tubs had been carrying more than him, and now Dex was confident they had enough to blow this fenced off yard to the moon.

  He thought he heard more of them nearby, but he couldn’t see anyone. He was lighter without the burden of the weighted pack, and he moved quickly, trying to find Tubs’ location. The big man would have been working from the left and inward by now, closer to the building where the aliens slept.

  Dex went to the edge of the yard, hugging the left line, and walked in the shadows toward the single building. It was dark, no lights on, but the yard contained the bright glowing post lights in each corner. It was easy enough to avoid the spotlights they created, the huge spaceships giving ample coverage from the beams.

  Finally, he saw Tubs. The big man was jamming one of the devices into thrusters on a nearby enemy craft. He looked happy as he stuck it to the hull, almost at peace in the rain and darkness. Tubs didn’t see the aliens approaching behind him. There were five of them, and Dex grimaced as he grabbed his gun. Five were too many.

  They’d already planted most of the explosives, and Dex couldn’t let himself get killed or they would never be detonated. Every inch of him struggled with the decision. His body was telling him to help, to fight beside Tubs, but the risk was too great. Without these ships being destroyed, Tom said there was no chance.