Dawn of the Mad

by Brandon Huckabay

  “Petor, get on that radio and see if you can raise fleet. I need to know where we are, and they need to know we are still alive.

  Petor nodded and seemed grateful for not having to look at the bodies any longer.

  Roman turned to Lestor. “I need you to police up what you can. Rations, grenades, ammo. Whatever you can carry.”

  “Understood.”

  Roman walked over to Petor who had uncrated the rest of the communications array. It consisted of a small table and a portable computer. The antenna itself unfolded, and once raised manually, it was about fifteen feet in height. Petor got busy on the keyboard and placed a headset on his head. He rested his helmet on the desk.

  “I’ll give you five minutes, and we move. I don’t like sitting here.”

  “OK.” Petor stopped typing. “The antenna should be calibrated. Let’s see if it works.” Petor stood and look at Roman, who had now removed his helmet.

  “Fleet command, come in. Fleet command, come in. Over.” Petor was about to try again when a voice responded, cutting into the static. “Unit calling, identify yourself. This is a secure high-level channel.”

  Roman snatched the headset off of Petor’s head. “Give me that damn thing.” He put on the headset and spoke into it. “Listen here, you asshole. Your advance party is history. We are cut off and need immediate extraction!”

  The static resumed.

  “You got that up there?” Roman handed the headset back to Petor. “They must be all nice and cozy up there. See what they say. I gotta take a piss.”

  “What do you have, Ensign?” The watch commander peered over the shoulder of the ensign who sat at his communications station. The ensign adjusted knobs on the console while holding a headset to his ear.

  “It’s a tier one encrypted transmission from Battalion 3, Company 6. It’s intermittent, but I did pick this up.” The ensign quickly replayed Roman’s call for extraction. The bemused watch commander placed his hand on his chin.

  “That is Captain Siminov’s Clone Assault unit. There may be survivors.” The watch commander spoke quickly, “Try to get him back. If his element is still operational, they will be the only advance clone unit in the area.”

  The ensign nodded and quickly resumed his manipulation of the console’s knobs. “Last calling unit, identify yourself and transmit verification code.”

  The ensuing static quickly broke. Petor’s slightly nervous voice sounded on the bridge. “Ah, yes. Hello.”

  The ensign turned to the watch commander with a bewildered look on his face.

  Petor continued, “We are at the rally point. It looks like the advance party was wiped out. We have secured the perimeter and are awaiting extraction.”

  The watch commander took the headset from the ensign and covered the mic with hand. “Get the ground marshal down here at once.” The ensign exited his station, leaving the watch commander alone.

  “Unit calling, identify yourself,” he resumed, taking his hand away.

  “Ah, this is Petor. We are from the penal battalion.”

  The watch commander was left speechless. His brief moment of confusion was broken by the arrival of Chuikova on the bridge.

  “Report.”

  The ground marshal’s speech slurred and he rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

  “We apparently have a penal unit occupying the forward rally point. It’s from Captain Siminov’s last known location.”

  “OK. Give me that.” The ground marshal angrily grabbed the headset and spoke into it. “Who is in charge? Put him on, Trooper!”

  Petor managed to whimper a soft “Yes, sir” before leaving the radio to static.

  “What units do we have in the vicinity?” the ground marshal asked.

  The watch commander quickly produced a holopad and read the latest intelligence report.

  “None, sir, in close proximity. Nothing at this time since we ceased orbital strikes. The advance clone units seem to be disintegrating. No support units have been able to get through due to enemy air and missile strikes. Most are spread thinly throughout this area, just short of the large city indicated on the map here.” The watch commander enhanced the outskirts of what appeared to be a sizable residential area. Numerous flashing indicators showed the current positions of the units.

  “Why wasn’t I informed of our lack of progress sooner?” the ground marshal asked coldly.

  “Sir, you made it clear you did not wish to be disturbed.” The watch commander took a step back, as if he fully expected to be struck. The marshal’s demeanor quickly changed, however.

  “I’m sure I did. I’ll take care of this. I want a full briefing in my quarters prepared on the progress of the clone units and supporting elements. Find out why our forces are being split up. No one else will be notified of this but me. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” The watch commander did an about face and set off from the bridge, yelling orders to his junior officers.

  The ground marshal gazed out of the panoramic view window at the blue planet below. His short trance was quickly broken by an incoming radio transmission. The ground marshal quickly turned off the intercom so the transmission could be heard only on his headset.

  “This is John Roman. There are four of us left. As of right now, we are the rally point. The clone minders of this unit are all dead. No sign of the clones. How copy?”

  “Roman, this Johann. It’s good to hear your voice. When this is over, I’ll buy you a drink and you can tell me how you ended up in a penal battalion.” Chuikova looked around the bridge for any robed figures who might be sticking their telepathic minds where they were not welcome. He wasn’t sure of the range of their mind probing, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Seeing none, he continued, “Hold position and await further orders.”

  “You want me to stay here?” Roman’s voice agitated voice asked. “Let me be the first to inform you that your clones are going cannibal. We have found some of your regular army troops. My guess is your clones are killing them, just like before when we followed that nut around my city. I hope you copied that. We will wait five minutes, and my team is moving out.”

  “Understood. Stand by.” Chuikova turned to a nearby technician. “Patch this through to my quarters.” Without waiting for a reply, he made a hasty exit off the bridge. Unbeknownst to him, a figure in black robes had blended perfectly into the shadows on the bridge. The figure quickly exited to provide information to his master.

  “Roman, are you there? It’s Johann.” The ground marshal sat in a small room connected to a closet in his quarters, to which he had the door closed and locked. He sat in a metal chair and spoke into a handset.

  “Go ahead. I hear you.” Roman’s voice came over the headset surprisingly clearly.

  “Johnny, I am sending you new coordinates. Try to make your way there. We are reinforcing several sectors in order to contain the clones. We will attempt to get you guys out of there. You should have never been there.”

  “Well, we are here and will head that way. It looks like chaos down here. I haven’t seen any operational regular units, just an abandoned rally point with lots of equipment, but no sign of anybody.

  “Understood. We will get you out of there. In the meantime, maintain contact. Out.” Chuikova put the headset down and let out a long sigh. He pushed a button on the side of the featureless wall, causing the door to open. He walked back into his quarters, sat on his bunk, and was about to pour a drink from the bottle of rotgut on the table next to the bunk when a robed figure stepped out from the shadows.

  “Your attempts to hide transmissions from me are futile. You should know that,” the robed figure hissed.

  Chuikova slowly turned around. He made no attempt to hide the look of disgust that played across his face.

  “Well, come right in.”

  The robed figure threw back his hood, revealing a pale, weathered face with patches of grey hair and two black eyes. What reviled Chuikova the most were several carbuncles, oozing black pus, inter
spersed throughout the forehead and skull. The skin looked almost rotted, as if Chuikova was staring into living corpse. Set square in the forehead was a third, pineal eye, with a purple pupil that held Chuikova paralyzed for a brief moment. He felt a brief surge of electricity surge through his body, before quickly regaining his composure.

  The robed figure’s dry, cracked lips formed into a thin smile upon seeing that Chuikova was unable to meet his gaze.

  “There will be no extraction,” the robed figure hissed. “The clone units will be reinforced once the rest of the fleet arrives from pulse space. You will continue to push your elements forward until the whole of the continent is infested with my creations.”

  “And what purpose would that serve? I thought we were attempting to pacify this planet in the name of the supreme chancellor. Apparently you have ulterior motives.” Chuikova regained his composure and stared straight into the black eyes. His anger and contempt now overwhelmed all the anxiety and fear he had felt initially. He reached for the bottle of rotgut.

  The robed figure paced the confines of the spartan quarters. He produced a jeweled staff from the depths of his robes and began to lean on it to supplement his left foot as he walked.

  “You are most correct. We are not here for pacification; this is merely but a test of our new forces on an indigenous population. The home world is weary of another war, and if this experiment is successful, we will be unstoppable. Ten thousand years ago, the Auger-Lords set out to conquer the universe and nearly succeeded.” The robed figure stopped for a moment, as if he was remembering events that had transpired so long ago. He continued, albeit in a quieter, soft tone, “The ways of the Auger-Lords were passed down to a select few, and over time, they were nearly forgotten. Theories and applications of the ancients’ technologies are almost lost, except for the order of the Shadow. We keep the legacy alive and will continue to do so until the end of the universe. Do you now see?”

  Chuikova stood up abruptly. “The only thing I see is death. I am weary from death.”

  The robed figure began to laugh. “It is written in the ancient texts that when a thousand years have expired, our creator will be awoken and set forth to reclaim his kingdom. Your time therefore is at an end. The prophecy must be carried out and fulfilled.” With surprising quickness, he brought the staff to bear upon Chuikova. A blue light formed on the tip. Chuikova was a split second faster. He brought the heavy bottle of rotgut down hard upon the robed figure’s head. The bottle shattered into several large fragments, and the rust-colored liquid began intermingling with blood. A large shard of glass embedded itself into the robed figure’s third eye. The figure gasped and fell, the staff clattering uselessly onto the metallic floor. Chuikova fell upon him in an instant, sandwiching the withered head between his massive hands.

  “This isn’t over!” The robed figure hissed, blood pouring out of its ears. We will hunt you down wherever you try to hide!”

  Renewed with vigor, Chuikova squeezed with all his might, and the skull between his hands made a loud pop. He felt the skull break in his hands and dropped the lifeless body to the floor. Just to be sure, he would eject the body into space. He immediately strode over to the wall-mounted intercom and ordered security to be on alert and to detain any and all followers of the Shadow, terminating them with extreme prejudice if they offered any resistance.

  CHAPTER 44

  Roman turned his team around and headed back the way they came. After about 25 meters, he dropped to one knee and held up his left arm, curling his hand into a fist. Lestor, Chana, and Petor immediately dropped to the ground, breathing heavily. Roman peered through the dried cornstalks and carefully surveyed the highway in front of him.

  “OK, we are back on the interstate. You guys stay put; I’ll check it out.” Roman slowly emerged from cover and looked to the south along the interstate. The distinctive corrugated metal roof of the Border Inspection station could be seen about a mile away. Squinting though his helmet visor, Roman saw nothing but abandoned vehicles littering the roadway.

  Petor, too curious to stay put, came up behind Roman and opened the face shield on his helmet. “I think I see someone up ahead,” he said, pointing to a figure sitting behind a bullet-riddled cargo van no more than ten meters away. He couldn’t see any movement.

  Roman thought for a split second about yelling at Petor about moving from cover but decided against it. “I see him. I’ll go check it out.” Roman opened his visor, stared directly into Petor’s eyes, and told him firmly, “Stay put.”

  Closing his visor, Roman looked left, and right. Seeing no danger, he took off from the cornfield in a full sprint. He reached the back of the van, and opened his visor. He looked at the motionless body and instantly recognized that it was Lon, or at least what was left of him. A large-caliber projectile had split his helmet and canoed his head, exposing his brains.

  “It’s Lon,” Roman’s voice boomed over the helmet radios. “The rest of you, get over here, one by one. We can try to go up the other side of the highway.”

  The remaining three cautiously made their way to the back side of the van. Once all three were there, Roman looked to the west across the southbound lanes of traffic. His team faced about a twenty-meter dash until they could get into the tall cornfields on the other side.

  Lestor slowly peeked his head up to look through the van’s rear window and further north up the highway. Suddenly, without warning, they heard a loud crack and Lestor’s head snapped back. He instantly fell lifeless to the asphalt, showering Roman with bits of brain and skull.

  “Get down!” Roman yelled. Two more cracks resonated, and pieces of the van were vaporized. “Snipers. Stay down.” Petor and Chana needed no encouragement; they both already were hugging the ground. “We can’t stay here much longer. I’ve gotta think of something.” Two more cracks sounded, slamming into the van’s engine compartment. Roman began to unbuckle his assault vest and belt. Within seconds he was out of his pants, leaving Chana and Petor staring at him with a look of bewilderment. Without any hesitation, he quickly removed his white BVDs.

  “Hand me Lestor’s rifle.”

  Petor grabbed Lestor’s rifle and held it while Roman put his pants back on. Seeing that Roman was devoid of clothes on the lower part of his body, she turned away, blushing. He grabbed the rifle and affixed his BVDs to the end of the rifle barrel, securing them as best as he could.

  “Let’s hope this works. If they are army guys, let’s hope they will take us alive.” Roman slowly raised the rifle, with his underwear fluttering in the wind. He slowly emerged from the back of the van with his arms raised high.

  “Well, this is weird.” A heavily camouflaged sniper peered through the scope of his Barrett .50 rifle once more. The sniper spotter next to him raised a large scope to his eye and focused on the anomaly downrange.

  “If I didn’t know any better, Sergeant, he is attempting to surrender with his underwear. This guy has balls. Range 1,200 meters.”

  “Either that or we just greased our own guys. Get Duncan down there to check it out.”

  The spotter touched a microphone secured around his neck and spoke. “Eagle Three, this is Eagle’s Nest over.”

  “Go ahead, Eagle’s Nest,” replied Duncan.

  “Roger. Take your team to the highway and intercept possible hostiles. One of them is waving his underwear. How copy?”

  “Good copy. Watch our asses.” After a brief pause, Duncan said, “Did you say ‘underwear’?”

  “Ah, that’s affirmative, Eagle Three.”

  The spotter resumed looking through the scope to see if any more viable targets would make the foolish mistake of sticking their heads up.

  “You think they saw us?” Petor looked at Roman intently as he rested against the back of the van.

  “Well, they stopped shooting. I just hope they get to us before the clones do.” No sooner had Roman finished his sentence than he heard a firm voice coming from somewhere from the west side of the interstate.


  “Place you hands in the air and slowly walk over to the sound of my voice. If you aim your weapons in this direction, you will be dead before you hit the ground.”

  Roman slowly stood up, motioning the others to do the same. “Follow my lead. No sudden moves. Sling your rifles.” They slowly walked across the southbound lanes and entered the thicket on the other side.

  “That’s far enough.” Four soldiers wearing ghillie suits emerged from out of nowhere, aiming their M4 carbines at the group. A big blonde headed hulk of soldier carried a Javelin anti-tank launcher at the ready; a spare missile protruded out of carrier on his back. The apparent leader stepped forward, cradling a Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle in his arms. He eyed the group with curiosity, especially Chana. All three had removed their helmets. Her long black hair cascaded to her shoulders. Petor fished his spectacles out of one of his pockets and perched them on his nose. Roman smiled at once.

  “You guys are the army, and are we ever glad to see you!”

  “I am Sergeant Duncan, 21st Special Forces group. I really don’t know what to say.” After a slight pause, he continued, “I’ll need your weapons if you don’t mind.”

  The trio handed over their rifles to another soldier without question.

  Who the hell are you people?” Duncan asked.

  Roman wiped a bead of sweat off of his brow. “It’s a really long story, but if you could get us out of here quickly, I’ll tell you everything—the sooner the better.”

  Duncan needed no further explanation. He activated the throat microphone and spoke in a slightly cracked voice, “Eagle’s Nest, we are coming back, with three.”

  “Understood,” replied Eagle’s Nest.

  “Wait,” hissed Petor. “They may treat you fine, but me and Chana are not from your world. There is no telling what they will do to us.”

  Roman looked at Chana and could tell she was nervous about going with the Army group. He put his hand on Petor’s shoulder. “Don’t worry; I won’t let them do anything to you too.”