by John Murphy
Any time people gathered in groups of four or more, soldiers were required to break them up, especially in the zone around the headquarters. It was an ineffective policy aimed at circumventing attacks by gangs. The rebels merely adapted to the rule by spreading out and ambushing platoons of soldiers from many sides.
The soldier approached the tuk-tuk, his rifle exposed beneath his poncho.
Killian shouted, with an accent, “Food! We need food! Food for dying old man?”
The soldier aimed his rifle-mounted flashlight at Gahn and Wongsawat. They squinted into the bright light. Wongsawat groaned as if in pain.
Killian slid off his seat and knelt on the watery ground, holding his hands out. “No gun, see? No gun, see?” He kept his face low.
Gahn spoke in broken English. “My father is dying. He need hospital. He need food!”
Wongsawat groaned feebly. Their rifles were tucked behind their backs.
“Get out. Let me look at you!” the guard shouted. Pleadings for food or medical help were common, and the Global Alliance hated dealing with beggars.
Killian recognized the Scandinavian accent. It reminded him of his girlfriend from so long ago.
Gahn and Wongsawat wrestled theatrically to get out of the tuk-tuk, their rifles barely concealed beneath the blankets they’d left behind on the seat.
“What is this?” the guard asked, spotting the muzzles sticking out. “Get on the ground!”
A screech from a fighter craft blasted overhead as the Global Alliance prepared to bomb the quarantined area.
Everyone cowered instinctively at the deafening noise.
The guard looked up from his crouch just in time to see Killian lunge at him. His look of surprise, horror, and disbelief was an expression Killian knew well. Killian’s blade stabbed the soldier’s neck, right beside his Adam’s apple. Killian sank the knife in deep and yanked. The gash in the guard’s neck slice opened wide. Blood jetted out, spraying Killian’s face. It stung his eyes, and he tasted metallic salt.
Instinctively, the soldier clasped a hand over his wound, all thoughts of duty gone.
Bombs exploded a half mile away. Everyone except Killian and the wounded soldier ran for shelter.
Killian stabbed the soldier twice more, then jumped back onto the tuk-tuk, turned it around, and pedaled as quickly as he could. The dying man flailed helplessly in the gutter, rainwater washing over him.
Killian wondered if his decisive action would quell any rebuke from Gahn. He doubted it. In less than a day, it wouldn’t matter anyway. He wouldn’t likely survive his own plan.
* * *
Killian woke with a start. He had nodded off some time in the early hours before dawn. The bombing had continued all night. Every explosion committed the rebels further to their cause.
Killian, Gahn, and Wongsawat lay close together in the back of an abandoned store. Rats scampered off Killian’s body, doubtlessly waiting for more corpses to feed on.
Killian grabbed one by the tail. It curled up and tried to bite his fingers. He smacked it on the floor.
“Better make that your last meal,” Gahn said somberly. “While we slept, the rats ate what we were saving for this morning.”
Killian suspected Gahn had consumed both their shares. It wasn’t beyond Gahn to exploit his position and take things he wanted.
Killian offered the rat to Wongsawat. The rebel leader waved it off.
“You will need that more than me,” Wongsawat whispered gravely.
“Thank you for saving us yesterday,” Gahn said. “Brother.”
Killian doubted Gahn’s sincerity. It was common before battles to share last words like this. Should they survive, their normal rivalry would resume.
“But your plan is suicide,” Gahn hissed. “We will all be killed.”
“Gahn!” Wongsawat cut him off. “We are all going to die, anyway. You have seen our city of twelve million people disappear before your eyes. Why would you think yourself so mighty that you would be spared?”
Wongsawat looked back and forth between the two. “Killian has proven himself. He has good instincts. Yes, this plan seems suicidal, because we have never dared to go into the belly of the beast to strike at its heart. But we are left with little choice. Our people will be scooped up in a matter of hours. We fight, not for personal gain or glory, but to save our people. Look at us! There is no glory here. We are merely fighting to kill the beast that consumes us.”
Gahn was humbled before Wongsawat’s rebuke.
“You are a good leader, Gahn,” Killian said.
“Ah!” Gahn spit on the ground. “Save your flattery for when I have won.”
CHAPTER 6
TENS OF THOUSANDS OF THAI PEOPLE huddled obediently in corrals before three massive Carthenogen cargo vessels, which looked like soulless prisons. Stark floodlights illuminated their gray structures against the dark sky. A predawn downpour drowned out the sound of the refugees’ murmuring.
Each craft was one hundred feet wide, three times as long, and fifty feet high. Despite each being the size of an office building tipped over on its side, they flew deftly by virtue of advanced, side-mounted propulsion engines, a technology the Carthenogens refused to share with humans. They were an everyday sight over the skies of Bangkok, and always flew in packs of three, shuttling ten thousand people each by rebel estimates. It was easy to see how the city had been emptied of twelve million people since the purge began eighteen months ago.
The refugees were herded into narrowing channels as they prepared to board the crafts. The rear gangways opened slowly, revealing their cavernous bellies.
Speakers blared through the refugee camp in Thai. “Please leave all belongings behind. Take nothing. All that you will need will be provided to you upon arrival at your destination. You will have new, spacious homes, new clothes, food in plenty, and medical care. You will enjoy much happiness, peace, and freedom. Please board the transportation ships provided by our saviors from the heavens. Thank you for your cooperation.”
The message repeated every few minutes.
The refugees barely made any noise, apart from their feet sucking and clopping in the muck. Global Alliance soldiers waited on the other side of the fences, their faces ghoulishly white and somber in the floodlights. The gangways’ mechanisms whirred and locked into place.
It had been an hour since Killian had seen any of his fellow rebels hiding among the masses. The last thing he’d heard was Gahn cursing the plan to leave their rifles behind. Anyone discovered smuggling a weapon into the gates of the refugee camp would have been immediately executed.
Killian’s stomach churned with anticipation, as if the rat he had eaten was struggling to get free. The promises made over the speakers stirred a powerful craving in him. Like the refugees, Killian also wanted to escape Bangkok’s horrid conditions. No one had ever heard where the Carthenogens took the millions of refugees, but the continued death, misery, and destruction in their once-vibrant city was certain. Was it better to believe what they were told, or what they saw? Hope was a potent incentive.
Killian pushed forward to the corral gate leading to a ship’s ramp. He looked to his right and spotted Wongsawat in position. Surely Gahn was somewhere close behind.
Killian stooped under his tattered blanket and observed the soldiers on the other side of the barricade. He was looking for an easy target. Despite their rifles, a few soldiers stood out as passive, weak, clumsy, and very well fed.
Killian checked Wongsawat’s position again.
The soldiers stepped back, remaining behind the gate as it swung open. The hordes surged forward, anxious to escape their living hell.
Wongsawat was among the first to reach the fifty-foot-wide gangway. He stumbled and fell halfway up the steep incline. He rolled onto his back and clutched his chest as if he were having a heart attack. The other refugees pu
shed around him and kept climbing the gangway.
The soldiers didn’t make a move. They weren’t taking the bait.
Killian darted in from the left flank, shoving people aside. Some refugees shoved back, even shoving one another, not knowing the cause of the commotion.
“Keep moving! Keep moving!” the soldiers shouted.
The shoving spread. Many refugees fell on the steep incline.
“Keep moving! Keep moving!”
Six devil beasts appeared at the top of the gangway, bearing their weapons. They fired booming bolts of red energy into the air. The refugees shrieked in fear then pushed backward, many falling over one another down the ramp.
“Keep moving! Keep moving!”
Three Global Alliance soldiers jumped onto the gangway, using their rifles as prods to push people away from the fallen.
Killian knelt beside Wongsawat, pretending to help him up. The old man played his part well, groaning and pretending to struggle as he attempted to get on his feet.
A soldier pushed past the brawling refugees and grabbed Killian’s arm. Killian rose up and slashed his knife into the soldier’s throat. The soldier went wide-eyed and fell backward, clutching his neck. Killian wrestled the dying soldier’s rifle from his hand, then rolled off him and scrambled to the side.
A red bolt of energy blasted through several scrambling refugees. They fell back, a jumble of limbs, torsos, and heads. Wongsawat burst like a potato in a microwave oven.
Killian had no time to react to Wongsawat’s death, as his own life was in imminent danger. He hid his procured rifle under his blanket and pushed through the struggling crowd to the edge of the gangway. He leapt off and took cover beneath the ramp, then fired at the confused soldiers on the outside of the gates.
Three soldiers went down. The rest pushed toward the gate and fired into the refugees.
The chorus of screams tore at Killian’s heart. This had been his idea, and it was going horrendously wrong. In firefights, soldiers retaliated against the rebels directly. No one anticipated the devil beasts would blast their “refugee cargo” indiscriminately.
Killian peeked over the edge of the gangway and saw Gahn standing on the ramp, not ten feet away.
“Over here! Over here! This is your murderer!” Gahn shouted, pointing at Killian.
Killian had suspected Gahn would betray him somehow, but not in the midst of battle.
A red bolt of energy slammed into Gahn. His superheated innards burst out of his body.
The devil beasts continued to fire in Killian’s direction. He pressed under the ramp as Global Alliance soldiers perished from the blasts.
Killian stole another glance up the ramp and saw the Carthenogen warriors looking for further threats in the retreating crowd.
The gangway began to lift, threatening to expose Killian. The craft’s engines started up with a loud, throbbing hum. He dove among the bodies of the soldiers he had shot and lay on his back, pretending to be dead. Other soldiers fired their rifles randomly into the fleeing refugees. Dozens of casualties covered the ground as the hordes scattered. Killian took careful aim and shot at the soldiers from behind. Four shots, four dead soldiers.
The massive transport lifted away.
Killian fired into the glowing underside of the propulsion engine. Sparks flew where the bullets struck. On full auto, his rifle was empty within two seconds. Killian cast it aside and then scrambled to find another among the bloody corpses. He fired at the engine again. Global Alliance vehicles were armored and immune to rifle fire. The propulsion engines, it appeared, were the cargo vessels’ Achilles’ heel. A web of blue electricity enveloped the engine as the craft listed to one side. A deafening pop was followed by a flash of blue light and a shower of sparks. Electricity arced along the left side of the craft like a fuse burning, until it reached the forward engine.
Rear-mounted weapons opened fire on the crowd, including the Global Alliance soldiers. The soldiers fled toward the command post, and the civilians fled for the city.
The craft rose another fifty feet before the forward left engine issued a similar pop and flash of blue light.
The craft listed heavily as the engines on the right side shrieked in an attempt to compensate. Then the craft fell, ever so slowly, like a flailing, injured bird. Losing its fight against gravity, the rear touched the ground with an angry crunching sound that grew exponentially louder with each passing second. What appeared like tiny shrapnel against the mammoth transport were actually large structural supports and heavy sheets of metal alloy sprung from their near-seamless welds. Debris flew out until the body of the craft collapsed violently, creating shock waves that bounced Killian and the dead soldiers off the ground.
The second and third craft took off to escape the danger, their bellies empty of human cargo.
A dark shadow flew overhead, followed a split second later by an ear-piercing roar. Three flashes, as brilliant as lightning, leapt from the underbelly of a passing jet. The flashes incinerated each of the three Carthenogen transports, and each one, including the downed craft, erupted in a cloud of fire.
Killian had only a moment to cover his head with his soaking wet blanket before the heat from the exploding craft swept over him. Gasping and holding his breath, he could smell and taste the burning hair and the singeing flesh of the dead soldiers.
The roar of the burning transports was punctuated by the distant screams of fleeing refugees and rapid fire from machine gun batteries near the command compound.
Killian had never seen a fighter craft like the one that had just taken out the transports. It was neither Global Alliance nor Carthenogen. Then what was it?
The intense heat subsided enough for Killian to peek out from under his steaming blanket. Brilliant fires from the downed ships illuminated a field of smoldering soldier and refugee carcasses.
He spotted movement—soldiers getting off the ground and stumbling toward the command center.
Killian became aware of a burning sensation in his exposed feet. He sat up to examine them. They felt hot to the touch, but not burned to a crisp as he feared. Slightly blistered but intact. Raindrops stung as they hit his skin.
Still stunned by the mystery attack, he got up and looked around. The soldiers were no longer shooting, only fleeing.
Killian took advantage of the confusion to make for the headquarters compound in the distance. “Run and gun” was the plan, and the only tactic he had left. He grabbed a dead soldier’s helmet and ran toward the headquarters. It wasn’t a very good disguise, but it would confuse anyone observing him, even if only for a moment.
Machine gun batteries continued to thump ahead of him, spraying a net of tracer rounds across the sky. The mysterious craft was nowhere to be seen or heard, but if it returned, the rain of metal projectiles would surely ensnare it.
Killian found himself running alongside dozens of Global Alliance soldiers. They didn’t appear to notice him, or if they did, they didn’t care. He ran through the muck and onto a paved road past the antiaircraft cannons. He was grateful for the hard surface because his energy was draining. The rifle in his arms seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. His ragged, wet clothing twisted around his legs and tugged at his bony frame.
When he was a few hundred yards from the headquarters compound, streaks of white energy struck the antiaircraft batteries. It looked like sheet lightning. The batteries exploded like bricks of firecrackers.
Concussion waves pummeled Killian from every direction. He managed to keep upright, still moving, within a ring of flames a mile wide. He stopped to observe what was happening. He wasn’t certain, but he guessed there had been twenty strikes.
He tried to resume running over the littered road, but he could only muster a trot. His entire back ached, and his legs felt like they were filled with sand. His shoulders shuddered, and his forearms felt like wires ready to snap. His s
andaled feet, blistered from the heat, were rubbed raw, almost certainly bleeding. He didn’t take time to check.
When Killian was within one hundred feet of the concrete walls surrounding the command center, he heard more explosions behind him. He dove to the ground.
Shards of agony shot through his body, as if he were made of glass and splintering to pieces. He looked back and saw the mystery attack ship descending slowly from several hundred feet. It sprayed the ground beneath it with a steady stream of white blasts from a rotating turret on its underside. Several Global Alliance soldiers fired their rifles at the ship, only to be hit with white energy blasts in return.
Killian realized the ship wasn’t shooting randomly; it was targeting aggressors with precision. He laid his rifle down and played dead. It was easy, seeing as he felt half-dead already. He watched in awe as the ship took mere seconds to clear the entire area leading to the compound of soldiers. The ship fired more energy blasts from its upper side at targets in the distance. Killian had never seen anything so surgically destructive, so fantastic.
Ropes dropped from the underside and fighters wearing black armor descended from the craft. It hovered until they reached the ground, then took off again. The invaders ran toward the compound—right toward Killian. Not wanting to be mistaken for a Global Alliance soldier, he kept still until they’d passed him.
The invaders raced swiftly, quietly, and efficiently over the debris and bodies. Killian counted seven of them. He decided to follow them, as they appeared to share his goal of destroying the compound.
Killian ditched his helmet, picked up his rifle, and lumbered toward the compound. The invaders were through the gate within seconds. By the time Killian reached the compound, the invaders were methodically clearing it of soldiers by using red bolts of energy that sounded like thumps on plastic buckets. It appeared the invaders had the same technology as the Carthenogen warriors, only smaller and better suited to humans.
Killian watched their synchronized teams covering, firing, moving, advancing. He knew that no Global Alliance soldier who had taken refuge in the compound would survive.