A Hole in the Sky

by William C. Dietz

  But after a good night’s sleep, and with the sunshine angling in from above, Susan was in a good mood as she rolled out of the bag into the chilly air and went about her morning routines. All of the metal surfaces around her were covered with a layer of glittering frost. Water was limited to what she had in two Army canteens, but she was used to such inconveniences, and it wasn’t long before she was dressed and cooking breakfast over a can of Sterno. She still had plenty of oatmeal, but was running low on everything else. That included tea, which she missed very much.

  Once the meal was over and her gear was packed, Susan took the Fareye and made her way over to the east side of the deck. It had been too dark to scan the surrounding countryside the evening before, but now she could see for many miles.

  Just before President Grace’s death, and over the objections of those who spoke for Freedom First, the Grace administration had not only constructed defense columns like the one Susan was standing on, but so-called Protection Camps as well. They were small towns, really, in which hundreds of thousands of displaced citizens could be housed, and kept under control.

  The city of Concordia had been host to such a camp, and as Susan swung the Fareye from left to right, she could see what remained of it. Hundreds of barrack-style buildings were all set up on a grid, complete with little parks that were positioned with checkerboard-like regularity. The open areas were overgrown now, but Susan could imagine children playing in them, as their parents looked on.

  It was a reasonably peaceful scene at the moment, or would have been, were it not for the strange flower-like structure that had blossomed at the southern end of the camp. Susan thought it was some sort of Chimeran spaceship at first. But, after studying the object for a while, she concluded that it was a prefab fortress. The sort of thing the aliens could drop wherever a small base was required.

  The black metal dome sat about six feet off the ground. It featured a com mast and three petal-shaped ramps. She assumed there was a fourth on the south side of the structure. A hodgepodge of human vehicles were parked around the dome, which suggested that the stinks had learned to use them.

  Susan was too far away to make out very many details. But she could seen tiny figures coming and going and knew that they were Hybrids. It was difficult to keep count, since it was hard to know how many Chimera were inside the structure at any given moment, but Susan estimated that fifteen to twenty of the aliens were in residence. And the longer she watched, the angrier she became. She was sick and tired of running and hiding from the creatures who had murdered her family.

  Those emotions gave birth to an idea that was both audacious and more than a little absurd. What if Susan could wipe out all of the stinks associated with the base? It wouldn’t mean a damned thing where the big picture was concerned. The Chimera would still be in control of the United States. But it would be a victory of sorts. That got her to thinking, and a plan started to come together.

  The Chimera had taken Concordia. And now it was time for the bastards to pay.

  Having left the tower a little after noon and stashing her gear in a culvert, Susan was waiting at the west side of the Protection Camp when darkness fell. Now, being right next to one of the outlying buildings, it was easy to see why critics including Freedom First had been so opposed to what they called “citizen concentration camps.” Meaning places where a substantial portion of the population could be forced to live according to rules laid down by an increasingly dictatorial government.

  But Susan knew it was important to put such concerns aside as she entered the maze of buildings with the Fareye slung across her back and the Reaper in her hands. She didn’t want to use the weapon, though. Not yet anyway. Because in order to execute her plan, she needed a stink magnet and a reliable source of light. Something other than the Chimeran base, which was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  As Susan darted from building to building, she had to watch out for the debris that lay everywhere—and for either a Chimera or one of their Drones. Although judging from the way the firebase was illuminated, the aliens hadn’t been attacked in a long time.

  After counting the streets from the tower, Susan knew when she arrived at what she thought of as 15th Avenue. She circled a burned-out car and crossed the street. Having entered the long, narrow building on the other side, she used blips of light from a hand torch to navigate down a dusty hallway. It was lined by tiny apartments, glorified bedrooms really, all equipped with bunk beds and basic furnishings.

  Susan had a pack of cigarettes. Not to smoke but to trade, one coffin nail at a time, to those who did. But in this situation she was about to turn a tube of tobacco and a pack of matches into a trigger. She placed a cigarette crosswise inside the packet of matches, being careful to keep the tip well away from the match heads.

  According to Susan’s Freedom First instructors, the average burn time for a Camel was four to five minutes. Plenty of time in which to reach her next destination. But first she gathered a pile of flammable materials together, lit the cigarette, and placed the triggering device next to a big wad of dry newspaper.

  With that accomplished, she hurried out into the night and made for the nearest watchtower. The two-story structures were located at regular intervals throughout the camp. Their purpose being to protect the inhabitants and control them.

  Susan let the Reaper hang crosswise over her chest so both her hands and feet were free to climb the ladder. A series of quick steps carried her up through a circular opening to the point where she could step off it onto a wooden deck. It was surrounded by four waist-high walls and topped with a conical roof. The structure wouldn’t protect her from .22-caliber bullets, much less blasts from an Auger. But hopefully the element of surprise, and the cover of darkness, would offer sufficient protection.

  Kneeling in front of a south-facing window with the Reaper within easy reach, Susan brought the Fareye around and slipped the sling up over her head. By that time she could see a red-orange glow through the windows of the building in which the fire had been set. And it wasn’t long before flames escaped through open doorways and began to climb the outside walls.

  Would the Chimera ignore the blaze? Or would they attempt to put it out? There was no way to know. But one thing was for sure: If the neighboring structures caught fire, and the conflagration began to spread, the fire would threaten their base. And that was a good thing.

  So she watched with interest as a Chimeran transport roared up the street and came to a halt. Half a dozen Hybrids got out. But, rather than fight the fire, they began to scan the area with Augers in an effort to locate the person or persons responsible for the blaze. The whole thing was absurdly easy at first, thanks to the fact that the Hybrids were silhouetted against the flames. All Susan had to do was move the Fareye from target to target and pick them off one at a time. Five of them went down before the survivors realized what was happening and sought cover.

  Rather than try to figure out where the Hybrids were hiding, Susan turned her attention to the heretofore brightly lit dome. It suddenly went dark as an engine started and reinforcements piled into a second transport.

  Susan smiled grimly as the headlights came on and she inserted a fresh magazine into the rifle’s well. It appeared that the hive-mind, or whatever it was that controlled the Hybrids, hadn’t run into that situation before. By using the headlights as reference points, she was able to put three bullets into the area where the windshield should have been. The transport swerved left, then right, and smashed into a building. It didn’t blow up, which was unfortunate, but Susan was happy nevertheless as she passed the sling over her head and felt the Fareye thump her back.

  Having grabbed the Reaper, Susan was in the process of turning towards the opening at the center of the room when a Patrol Drone popped up through the aperture and a bright light speared her eyes. The robot exploded as a burst from the Reaper struck it. But other machines were visible outside the windows by then, and she felt a searing pain as a couple of projectiles graz
ed her ribs.

  At that point the situation became desperate as Susan held the trigger down while turning a full circle. Drones exploded one after another, bits of shrapnel stung her face, and the Reaper clicked empty.

  Susan ejected the empty magazine and replaced it with another as she made for the ladder. She clamped the side rails between her boots and slid to the ground. Her boots thumped as they hit the ground. Auger bolts flashed around her and lesser projectiles kicked up geysers of dirt. It was time to run.

  As Susan zigzagged through the firelit maze of buildings, the whole notion of taking on a couple dozen Hybrids by herself seemed stupid now. She would be lucky to survive. A breeze came up as a Bullseye tag blipped past her head. Sparks flew high into the air, where they circled for a moment, before being carried to other buildings. In no time at all, cedar-shingled roofs caught fire and the blaze began to spread.

  The surviving Hybrids stopped firing within a matter of seconds, and Susan could imagine them running towards the suddenly vulnerable dome. At that point it would have been smart to keep going, retrieve her pack, and clear the area as quickly as possible. But one of her father’s favorite sayings was “Never leave a job half finished.”

  So Susan switched to offense. The open wound hurt, but she forced herself to ignore the pain as she jogged south. At least ten buildings were on fire by then, and there was plenty of light to see by as she neared the dome. The lights were back on and half a dozen ’brids were standing in front of the structure as if to guard it.

  Susan brought the Fareye around, braced the rifle against a signpost, and triggered a series of quick shots. All but one of them flew true. Then the weapon was empty as the sole surviving stink spotted the weapon’s final muzzle flash and turned in her direction. It charged straight at her, firing as it came. Projectiles buzzed past her.

  She didn’t have enough time to reload the Fareye, and the Reaper was hanging by its sling, so Susan pulled the Colt. Then, walking towards the oncoming stink, she raised the pistol, pulled the spur-shaped hammer back, and began to fire. “That’s for Dad! And that’s for Mom, and these are for our ranch hands.”

  The heavy slugs hit the Hybrid, threw it back, and dumped the creature on its back. The Chimera was dead, but Susan had one bullet left, and was determined to use it. “And this one,” she said as she pointed the revolver downwards, “is for me.”

  With a loud bang, the .45-caliber slug smashed the Hybrid’s grotesque face, flames shot a hundred feet up into the sky, and the past continued to burn.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ONE-ON-ONE

  Friday, October 23, 1953

  Tank Town

  One step at a time. That was the way Capelli made it through each long and exhausting night. Fortunately the terrain was relatively flat. But even a slight incline required the slaves to throw their combined weight against the wooden crosspieces as Master Jack’s whip nipped at their backs and they pushed the wagon upwards.

  Nine days had passed since the stop in Hamley and Nix’s ill-fated battle with El Diablo. And now, according to Bam-Bam, the circus was on its way to a place called Tank Town. A community which, to hear him tell about it, was like a miniature city. Except Capelli had no intention of going to Tank Town or anyplace with Master Jack and his so-called performers. Because he planned to escape.

  It was on the fifth day out from Hamley that Capelli found the broken hacksaw blade. He and the other donkeys were crouched inside a large equipment shed at the time, waiting for night to fall, when he caught a glimpse of the object, partially covered with soil. The implement was half the length it should have been, and dull as well, which probably accounted for why it had been thrown away.

  Shortly thereafter, Capelli went to work on link thirty-two of the chain that ran from the wagon’s tongue to his metal collar. But his task wasn’t easy. The teeth were worn down and there was rule eight to consider: “Don’t trust anyone.” Not even his fellow donkeys—who might try to take the tool for themselves, or sell him out to one of the guards.

  So sawing through the link had been a long, arduous process often carried out with cold fingers when the others were sleeping. And with nowhere else to hide the object, Capelli had been forced to stick the ribbon of steel down into his right boot, where it rubbed his skin raw.

  But finally the cut had been completed and camouflaged with a paste made from oil-soaked dirt mixed with spit. Now, all Capelli needed was the right opportunity to pull himself loose and run like hell. And when he and his fellow slaves toiled up a 3-percent grade, he saw his chance.

  Alfonso was the only member of the troupe who had a horse, and he was scouting somewhere up ahead. There was no moon. But with a clear sky and some starlight, Capelli could see the mixture of grass and unharvested wheat that flourished along both sides of the road. It was tall enough to hide in, and given the need to protect the wagon, it seemed unlikely that Inkskin and Bam-Bam would pursue him for very long.

  So as the slaves reached the top of the rise, Capelli felt for link thirty-two, found it, and broke free. Then, cognizant of the fact that it was important to move quickly, he ran. Inkskin saw the motion and hurried to block the slave’s escape route.

  Capelli had about two feet of chain to work with, and the metal flail struck the guard across the bridge of his nose. He fell, the Bullseye clattered as it hit the ground, and Capelli kept running.

  Master Jack was bellowing orders by that time, and projectiles blipped past Capelli’s head, as Bam-Bam opened fire on him. Capelli was in the wheat by then. But after hours of hard work, his legs felt as if they were made of lead. He drove himself forward anyway, knowing that every yard of progress took him closer to freedom. The firing had stopped by then, because a dead donkey was nothing more than Hybrid fodder.

  But then, just as Capelli was about to drop to his hands and knees in an attempt to disappear from sight, he heard the sound of thundering hooves. Voices shouted, a loop of rope fell over his shoulders, and a horse rushed past him. Suddenly, Capelli was jerked off his feet and towed towards the highway. The ground was reasonably smooth, but there were small rocks, and they pummeled his back until he came to a sudden stop in the drainage ditch.

  Inkskin was there to lift Capelli up, drag him onto the pavement, and beat him back down. The lower part of the guard’s face was black with blood and he was furious. From his vantage point on the ground, Capelli realized that there were three horses in all as the man who had roped him swung a leg over his mount’s back and stepped down. “Thanks,” Bam-Bam said, as the rope was removed from Capelli’s shoulders. “The bastard damned near got away.”

  Master Jack had arrived on the scene by then and took advantage of the opportunity to kick Capelli in the ribs. The blow hurt like hell. Capelli curled up into the fetal position. Then, turning to the rider, the ringmaster spoke. “Are you from Tank Town by any chance?” he inquired conversationally. “We were told to expect a contact roughly five miles out.”

  “You heard right,” the man replied, his breath fogging the air. “My name’s Grady. I’m what the boss calls a ‘coordinator.’ ”

  “So Tank Town is still in operation?”

  “We’ve been in business for fifty-three days without being attacked by the Chimera. And that ain’t no accident,” Grady added, as he coiled his rope. “In order to enter Tank Town you’ll have to do it at night, you’ll have to follow one of our guides, and you’ll have to obey the house rules once you’re inside.”

  “Okay,” Master Jack replied. “That sounds reasonable. What’s this I hear about an entry fee?”

  “You’ll have to pay a fee to get in,” Grady confirmed. “Plus the boss takes ten percent off the top of anything you make.”

  There wasn’t much light, so Capelli couldn’t see the expression on the ringmaster’s face, but he could tell that the fat man was annoyed from the tone of his voice. “Ten percent? That’s kind of steep, isn’t it?”

  Grady put a foot in a stirrup and swung up onto his horse
. “That’s a matter of opinion, I guess. But a large audience is real hard to find these days.”

  Master Jack was in no position to push back and knew it. “Point taken. We’ll follow your guide in.”

  Inkskin jerked Capelli to his feet, shoved him towards the rest of the donkeys, and added a kick for emphasis. “Welcome back, Capelli. You’re going to be sorry. Real sorry.”

  Capelli stumbled, caught himself, and knew that he was.

  Both Boss Orley’s guide and Ringmaster Jack wanted to make it into Tank Town before sunrise. And for good reason. So long as the stinks controlled the sky, everyone on the ground was vulnerable. Especially during daylight hours.

  All of the slaves were ordered to push harder. But when Master Jack’s whip cracked, it was Capelli who felt the pain most often. Because everyone was angry with him. Including most of the other donkeys. They blamed him for the extra work, even if that didn’t make sense.

  So it was back to one-step-at-a-time as the hours ticked away, the sun began to peek over the eastern horizon, and the guide led the slaves off the highway. Her name was Tupo, and Alfonso rode at her side as she led the slaves into a shallow river. After a hard right turn, the donkeys were forced to drag the heavy wagon upstream. A strategy clearly intended to prevent traffic from creating the sort of trail that might be noticed from above. “Put your shoulders into it!” Bam-Bam demanded, as the wagon lurched over loose rocks, and El Diablo screeched.

  It was difficult to find a solid footing on the river bottom, but Capelli did the best he could, as the tip of the whip found his left ear and left it numb. Fortunately, the trip from the highway to the point where a massive pipe opened onto the streambed was mercifully short. A left turn took them into the metal tube. A wood floor had been installed to accommodate vehicles, and occasional lights hinted at the presence of a generator.