Sullivan Saga 2: Sullivan's Wrath

by Michael K. Rose

  “Your shot,” Sullivan said.

  Allen raised his rifle and centered the creature’s chest in his sight. He pulled the trigger, and the creature fell as it was still snarling and sniffing in their direction.

  “I can see,” said Sullivan, “how these things can easily overwhelm soldiers who are scared and panicking. But once you learn to set up your shot, they should be easy enough to take down.”

  “I agree. And Liz didn’t say so, but I get the impression these aren’t the aliens who are behind this invasion. They seem like nothing more than animals. Soldiers sent to kill and be killed.”

  They continued walking. “You’re probably right.” Sullivan furrowed his brow. “Tactically, soldiers like these would be best used in the very early engagements of a war. Their appearance is frightening, they can move swiftly and if you only have solid-projectile weaponry, they’d be very well-protected against all but large-caliber guns.” They reached the dead creature, and Sullivan stopped to study it. “The mouth, arms and legs are completely exposed. They have no weapons apart from their teeth and claws, so they’re only good for close quarters combat. Once soldiers learn to aim for the face, they can be easily defeated at range.”

  “But they’re fast and quiet,” added Allen, “so I’m guessing they’re here to infiltrate enemy lines and spread havoc more than anything else. Cause confusion, disarray.”

  “Shock troops,” said Sullivan. “That means they’re expendable. What was the phrase they used to use? Cannon fodder? And I’d bet that whoever has sent them has another type of soldier at their disposal. An elite soldier who will come in and mop up.”

  “I suppose that’s why only a few thousand of these things have been sent through the wormhole. They’re here to soften the enemy up before the real invasion.”

  “And possibly to test the strength of the enemy’s weaponry.”

  Allen nodded. “Now what Liz said makes sense. When we get to the wormhole and show them what our energy weapons can do, they’ll not want to waste their elite soldiers fighting a war they might not win. Remember, the aliens behind this are busy fighting a war in their home universe, too. They’re looking for an easy conquest.”

  Sullivan reached down and pulled at the skin-tight covering over the creature’s body. He glanced at the blood that was oozing from below the wound in its chest where the energy blast had not completely cauterized the flesh.

  “Look at this, Frank. Blood is seeping out through this material.” He dipped his hand into a nearby puddle and dripped the muddy water onto the fabric. “But on this side, it slides right off. It’s a one-way fabric. Material can penetrate from the inside out, but not from the outside in.”

  He stood and nudged the creature with his foot, rolling it over. “See? They’re put in these suits, and I’ll bet they never get back out of them. All the… waste… seeps right out through the material.”

  “You seem awfully interested in alien bowel movements,” said Allen, raising an eyebrow.

  “I’m interested in the material, Frank. It’s strong enough to stop bullets and is porous, but only from one side. It would be great for military uniforms.” He took out his pocket knife and sawed at the material for a few seconds. “Barely a scratch. Before we leave this planet, I want to find a way to get a sample of this material.”

  “Fine,” said Frank. “But we’ve been here long enough. Those things might have some death pheromone or something that attracts others.”

  “I wish we knew more,” Sullivan said.

  “Maybe Captain Quinn and his men can tell us more about them and their behavior.”

  “Maybe,” said Sullivan, standing. “Let’s keep moving.”

  Sullivan glanced at a wrecked supply truck as they passed it. “I just hope Quinn hasn’t moved from the coordinates Liz gave us. We might never find him in all of this. It’s clear that the usual channels of communication are no longer in operation.”

  “I’d say it’s nothing short of chaos,” said Frank. “I wonder if Paris was overrun with those aliens.”

  “That’s something else to ask Quinn, if we find him.”

  34

  THE TRENCH STRETCHED out before them. Sullivan imagined it filled with men. It must have been miserable, living in such conditions. There had been rain recently, and the bottom of the trench was covered with mud.

  “Liz told us that Captain Quinn and his men were in this trench,” Sullivan said, checking their position on his tablet. “East of here.”

  “All right,” said Allen. “Let’s get in.”

  They slid down the slick side of the trench. Sullivan looked down the trench as far as he could in either direction. Now that he was in it, the stench of death that had tickled his nostrils up above became overpowering.

  “We’re probably going to find a lot of bodies here,” he said to Allen.

  Allen picked up his duffle bag. “We’ve seen bodies before,” he said. “Let’s move.”

  As they began walking, Sullivan soon realized that the mud was knee-deep in places. It would be slow going.

  “Should we walk up top?” asked Allen, apparently thinking the same thing.

  “I don’t like the idea of being so exposed. It’s not only the aliens I’m worried about. Things being the way they are, I wouldn’t be surprised if soldiers that might be around would shoot at any shadowy figure moving toward them and worry about who it was later. Besides, I don’t think we have far to go now.”

  As if in answer to his statement, the sound of a bolt-action rifle chambering a round filled the still, quiet night.

  “Who goes there?” a voice called out.

  “Friends!” Sullivan answered. He put down his rifle and raised his hands. Allen followed suit. “We’re putting down our weapons. We don’t want any trouble.”

  Sullivan peered down the trench but could still see no one. A movement on the ground caught his attention. A man extricated himself from a small hole in the side of the trench. He took a few steps toward them. “Who are you?”

  My name is Richard Sullivan, and this is Frank Allen. “We’re looking for Captain Quinn.”

  “What for?”

  Sullivan nudged the bag with his foot. “We’re bringing supplies and weapons.”

  The soldier took another few steps. “You’re not British.”

  “No. But we are friends, I promise you that.”

  The soldier nodded. “Pick up them bags and start walking.”

  Sullivan and Allen complied and moved forward. The soldier let them pass then followed behind, his gun still at the ready. He grabbed the rifles they’d dropped and, after looking at them curiously for a moment, nudged them forward.

  “Piccadilly Circus!” the soldier called out after a few minutes of trudging through the mud.

  Another man came around a curve in the trench. “What’s this, Harris? Prisoners?”

  “They say they’re bringing weapons and supplies.”

  “From who?”

  “Don’t know, sir. But I figured you’d want to see them all the same.”

  Sullivan studied the uniform of them man approaching them. “Are you Captain Quinn?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Richard Sullivan. This is Frank Allen. We’re not British, but we are friends. We’re bringing highly advanced weapons to help you defeat the creatures who’ve been wreaking havoc across Europe.”

  Quinn slowly stepped toward the bag Sullivan had set on the ground. He opened it and took out one of the energy rifles. “What the devil is this?”

  “It shoots a bolt of energy—electricity—at a target. Gouges out a fist-sized hole in most materials.”

  Quinn raised an eyebrow. He appeared as though he wanted to ask another question but instead put the weapon back in the bag. “This way.”

  He led them to a wide part in the trench where what remained of his platoon was gathered. He sat down on an ammo crate. Sullivan and Allen found a couple of sandbags and sat on them.

  “Righ
t,” said Quinn. “Out with your story.”

  Sullivan nodded. “I’d thought about how to bring this up when we met you. I considered telling you some lie, but then I realized that with what you’ve seen these past few weeks, our story wouldn’t seem as strange as it would have been a month ago.” He paused. “Captain Quinn, we’re from a parallel universe.”

  Quinn furrowed his brow.

  “Those creatures you’ve been fighting are also from a parallel universe.”

  “I thought they were Martians.”

  “No. They are aliens—beings from another planet—but that planet isn’t Mars. In fact, their planet doesn’t exist anywhere in your universe. They’ve managed to cross over from their reality into yours.”

  “How?”

  Sullivan smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand that myself. But we’ve been sent here by a highly advanced… intelligence… to bring these weapons and help you.”

  Quinn reached into his pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes. “I’ve only a few left, but I think I need one of these just now.” He struck a match and lit a cigarette. “You’re right,” he said after a few drags. “A month ago, I would have shot you as German spies. But your story doesn’t seem so mad now.”

  Sullivan slowly reached into his coat pocket and took out his tablet. As Quinn and the other soldiers watched in awe, Sullivan unfolded it and tapped on the screen. He handed it to Quinn. “This is the location of a wormhole. Think of it like a tunnel connecting the aliens’ universe to yours. These creatures you’ve been fighting have come through this wormhole. We need to get there and fire our energy weapons into it. We believe this will force them to close the wormhole and, hopefully, leave this world alone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re fighting another war back in their home universe. They came here looking for a place to escape to in case their planet was overrun. If they believe you possess this kind of technology, they’ll look for an easier target.”

  “This is eighty kilometers away. My men are in a sorry state to be trudging across the countryside.”

  “We’ve also brought food and medical supplies. You’re welcome to them. Will you help us do this?”

  “If it ends this invasion? Of course.” He looked around at his men. “What other choice do we have?”

  “Let’s do it, Captain,” said one of his men. The others shouted their approval.

  Quinn nodded. “Right,” he said to Sullivan. “We don’t dare risk lighting a fire during the night, but in the morning you can show us how these weapons of yours work.”

  SULLIVAN STUDIED THE bolt mechanism on the Lee-Enfield rifle. “I’ve never actually fired a rifle like this,” he said.

  “We’re more than happy to trade it for one of your energy weapons,” said Captain Quinn.

  “What’s the range?” asked Sullivan.

  “Effective range is around five hundred meters. Few can reliably hit anything outside of that.”

  “That’s about the same for the energy pistols.”

  “And the rifles?”

  “Fifteen hundred meters. Beyond that the energy has dispersed too much to make it effective.”

  Quinn took one of the energy rifles as Sullivan handed it to him.

  “Trigger mechanism, just like your rifle,” Sullivan said, “but there’s no recoil.” He pointed at the sight. “So if you take your time and make sure the red dot in the sight is centered on your target, you’ll hit it. There’s a night vision function in the scope so you can see through it even in the dark.”

  Sullivan took a battery pack from the duffle bag. “This is the equivalent of the magazine. It holds enough charge for fifteen shots. The battery packs for the energy pistols only hold enough charge for eight shots.”

  Quinn took one of the pistols from the bag and studied it. “The sight is the same as on the rifle?” he asked.

  “Yes. You can line up your shots and hit anything up to five hundred meters away.”

  “How many spare magazines—battery packs—do you have?”

  “None, unfortunately. I’d ask that the men who get the energy rifles be very careful with their shots.”

  “We already are. Supply lines are non-existent. We’ve managed to gather some ammunition from the bodies we’ve come across, but it hasn’t been much. I’m proud to say that most of the dead men we’ve encountered seem to have gone down fighting.”

  “Do you have any idea how many soldiers are still operating in the area?”

  “Right after the Martians—the aliens—attacked, there was an attempt by command to reorganize the men, reform the line. But those creatures got behind us. They cut off supply lines, attacked from all directions. A lot of men retreated toward Paris, hoping that it would be a natural gathering spot. But we’ve received word that Paris is overrun by the creatures. Out here we can see them coming, but they’d have a million places to hide in a city. I wouldn’t go back there. Not now.”

  “And what about the Germans?”

  “The creatures swept across the German lines before they reached us. I suspect they got the worst of it. We’ve come across a few small groups of Huns, but they know the score. Whatever differences we had before are now meaningless.”

  “Do the aliens move during the day?”

  “Yes. Day or night, we have to be on the lookout. But at least in the daytime we can see them coming.”

  “Then I suggest we get moving. We should cover as much ground as possible.”

  As Sullivan began gathering his gear, an alarm was raised. He climbed up on an empty ammo crate and looked over the edge of the trench. A dozen of the creatures were bounding across no man’s land.

  “Try it out!” he yelled to Quinn.

  Quinn powered up the energy rifle as Sullivan had shown him and raised it to his shoulder. He aimed at the chest of the nearest creature and pulled the trigger. A brief flash of light filled his vision, and the next thing Quinn saw was the creature fall forward, a smoking hole in its chest.

  “Good!” he said, handing the weapon to the man behind him. “Up on the line!”

  Quinn helped Sullivan and Allen distribute the energy rifles as the rest of his men began firing with their Lee-Enfields. In the daylight, Sullivan had a better chance to observe the creatures’ behavior.

  They moved on all four legs, almost like cats. They were leaping distances of three or four meters at a time, making them difficult to hit as their position was constantly changing not just horizontally but vertically as well. Even so, Quinn’s men took to the energy weapons quickly, and in just a little over a minute all the creatures lay dead between the trenches.

  “Well done, men!” said Quinn. “But remember, once those guns are out, we can’t reload them. Favor your Enfields if you’re able.”

  Sullivan handed one of the pistols to Quinn. “We have five pistols in all. Frank and I are going to keep the other four,” he said. “We need to make sure we have enough firepower left when we get to that wormhole.”

  Quinn nodded. He looked down the line. “Let’s move out!” The men scrambled up the side of the trench into no man’s land. “Lead the way,” he said to Sullivan.

  Sullivan studied the map on his tablet. “This way.” He began walking, glad to be out of the muddy trenches and even happier that the sun was beginning to break through the clouds.

  35

  BROTHER PETER SHIFTED in his seat. He had been directed to a chair in one corner of the office. Behind him was a wall of false books. He took his eyes off the reporter interviewing him and glanced at the camera pointed in his direction.

  “Now tell me,” said the reporter, “what does your order believe? You are not Catholic?”

  “Um, no. We’re a non-denominational monastery. All who believe in Christ are welcome.”

  “But His Holiness Pius XV has sought an audience with you. Why do you think this is so?”

  Peter considered lying and telling him that Pius was, as Father Curtis had said, a liber
al pope who was not so concerned with denominational differences, but he decided to tell the truth—what he felt to be the truth—instead.

  “I believe,” he said, “that the Pope has asked to see me so that he can say he gave me a fair evaluation before claiming that the visions experienced by me and my fellow monks are without substance.”

  “Why do you believe this?”

  “When I arrived, the Pope did not meet me. In fact, the meeting has been postponed. When you consider the possible ramifications of this vision—nothing less than the Second Coming—you would think he’d want to see me as soon as possible, if he believed.”

  The reporter nodded. “And why, Brother Peter, should he or anyone else believe you?”

  “I have no reason to lie. I have devoted my life to the service of God.”

  “But this claim you make will require proof. How do you intend to supply that proof?”

  “I really don’t know. Unfortunately, we don’t have surveillance cameras at the monastery. But why would we lie about this? How could it possibly benefit us?”

  Peter noticed a mischievous glint in the reporter’s eye. “Your monastery accepts donations, does it not?”

  “Of course, but….”

  “There is a long history, Brother Peter, of charlatans claiming a special rapport with God to trick the well-intentioned out of their money.”

  Peter felt his heart begin to race as his body produced more adrenaline. Fight or flight, he thought to himself. He never should have come here. Father Curtis was right to have kept the press away from the monastery.

  “I cannot speak for anyone other than myself,” Peter said, his voice wavering. “But I know what I saw. And I also know that my fellow monks saw it as well.”

  The interviewer raised an eyebrow. “Again, I must ask: can you prove it?”

  Peter was about to answer, but the reporter’s face went pale. “Are you sick?” he asked, leaning forward.

  In response, the reporter pointed over Peter’s shoulder. Behind him, in front of the shelf of false books, was the same image of the crucifixion. Peter immediately fell to his knees and began praying.