Earthlings (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  A church.

  The walls were crude, just stones gathered from the surrounding fields and mortared together. A wooden cross rose from the roof. The chanting came from inside.

  Clay kicked down the door.

  About twenty Bahayans were inside, all women and children. They knelt around candles, praying and crying. Incense was burning, and a painting of Christ hung on a wall.

  When Clay entered, the villagers turned toward him, tears on their cheeks. A few of the women clutched prayer beads. Children cowered behind them.

  "You dare worship another man," Clay hissed. "I am your god. I am your only god. And heretics must die."

  He raised his rifle.

  The women screamed.

  Clay opened fire.

  He emptied his magazine. He loaded another. He emptied it too. He loaded a third magazine and unleashed his wrath.

  Blood flowed across the church floor.

  The last infidel crashed down dead.

  They lay there before him. Twenty corpses. Women still huddling over their children. There was so much blood.

  It was beautiful. He had become holy. A savior standing above hell, reaching to heaven.

  A child crawled out from under its dead mother.

  Clay shot the brat in the chest.

  He left the church and returned to the village market. One woman was already stripped naked. Her children lay dead around her. A group of soldiers dragged the woman behind a hut, and Clay heard her scream. Other villagers were running toward the rainforest. Soldiers fired, tore them down, and laughed.

  Gunshots filled the air.

  Death was everywhere.

  Clay smiled, walking through his domain.

  "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds," Clay whispered, and a shudder swept through him.

  A woman ran past him, carrying two children. She was heading toward the hills.

  Clay shot her in the legs. She fell, spilling her children. The brats lay there, weeping. They looked at Clay. They whispered something. Maybe begging.

  Clay shot them. A shot to each little chest. They both fell.

  The mother screamed and wept and lifted her dead children. Clay grabbed her.

  "Hey, soldiers!" he said. "I got a fresh one for you!"

  He tossed the woman to a few sergeants and corporals. The men laughed, ripped her clothes, and dragged her behind another hut. It was barbaric, if you asked Clay. But let the men have their fun. They had earned it. Clay was a good lieutenant, and he took good care of his soldiers.

  He knelt by the two dead children. Two fresh experiments. Clay drew his knife.

  He whistled as he worked. He scalped his victims. He cut out their tongues. He carved off their ears. He stuffed the trophies into his pack. He would clean and preserve them later, souvenirs from his conquest.

  He walked through the village. A few people were fleeing their huts. He shot them. They were easy shots. Most of the villagers soon smartened up. They were staying indoors, cowering behind flimsy bamboo walls.

  Well, that wouldn't be a problem. As he sauntered through the village, Clay pulled out his lighter. Hut by hut, he kindled thatch roofs. The huts caught fire so quickly. So beautifully.

  Villagers emerged, screaming, some burning. And Clay shot them too. He knelt, carving them up. Collecting ears, scalps, tongues, fingers. A few heads he would boil later for the skulls.

  Let the other men rape the women. Clay was not interested in such crude pleasures. He was not some animal. There were more beautiful uses for flesh.

  His pack was already brimming with trophies. But Clay kept exploring the village. Kept loading new magazines. He wandered by a farm, and he shot the oxen. Pigs squealed in their pen, slamming at the fence, mad with terror. Clay emptied his magazine into them. Killing animals was not as fun as humans. But it was fun enough.

  Clay was soon out of bullets. Spirits high, whistling a tune, he walked toward his jeep to grab more ammo. As he passed through the village common, he saw more naked women on the ground. Men were queuing up for their turns. Children lay dead everywhere. Nearby, a squad was lining up more villagers. The poor bastards were on their knees, begging.

  "No Kalayaan here!" one woman said, tears on her cheeks, before a soldier shot her through the head. And soon the entire squad was firing, and bodies hit the grass.

  Humming an old song, Clay grabbed more magazines and reloaded.

  "Save some slits for me, boys!" he said.

  His platoon laughed. Some other soldiers were collecting trophies too. They were jealous of Clay's necklace of ears. Most of the corpses were mutilated already, ears and scalps removed. One sick bastard was violating a corpse. Pervert. Even Clay wasn't that depraved.

  "You sick fuck," he muttered, kicking the necrophiliac as he walked by.

  Clay looked around, seeking new targets. So many villagers were dead already. But there! A few children crawled away from their dead mothers, trying to escape. Bam. Bam. Bam. Clay shot them dead. A group of other villagers were running toward the banana grove. Clay tossed a grenade, and they fell.

  He lost count of how many he butchered. Dozens? No, surely hundreds by now. This was the best hunt of his life. This was, he decided, the best day of his life. Here in Santa Rosa, this beautiful village on Bahay, Clay Hagen became a true god.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A Few Small Lights

  Jon struggled against the ropes, desperate to free himself. He could hear it outside the hut. Gunfire. Explosions. Screams.

  It was a massacre.

  And here he was, tied up inside a nipa hut, helpless.

  He tugged harder at the ropes, groaning, then collapsed. He could barely see. His left eye was swollen shut. He tasted blood. Bruises covered his body. Clay's fists and boots had bloodied him.

  But Jon didn't care about the pain. He kept seeing the image of the Bahayan woman running. Clay shooting her. A woman who looked so much like Maria.

  I have to stop him. I have to, or he'll kill every Bahayan in this village. And he'll find Maria and kill her too, like he promised.

  He looked at his friends. George and Etty sat nearby, gagged and tied up. They too were bruised and bloody. Blood was dripping from Etty's forehead. George's nose was bashed up. Both were straining against the ropes, unable to free themselves. The platoon had unarmed them, taking even their pocket knives.

  The screams continued outside. The gunfire rattled. Villagers were begging, screaming, dying. A baby wailed, a gunshot rang out, and the baby's scream was cut short.

  Jon shouted into his gag.

  Clay will murder everyone in Santa Rosa, then torture me and my friends.

  He cursed himself. He should have killed Clay when he had the chance. But he had spared the monster. Shown him mercy. The blood of Santa Rosa was on Jon's hands too.

  Another scream sounded outside. Footfalls thudded, and a woman begged for mercy. Gunfire roared. A body slammed into the hut, cracking the wall, and blood leaked between the bamboo stalks. Outside, the killer laughed.

  Jon stared at the bloodied wall. One of the bamboos stalks was cracked. A splinter thrust out like a bayonet.

  Every movement ached. Every breath sawed at his lungs. But Jon forced himself to move. He wriggled across the floor, ankles bound, arms tied behind his back. Thankfully, there were no guards inside the hut. Everyone was outside, enjoying the killings.

  Jon pushed himself up, then slid his tied wrists around the sliver of bamboo. He moved his wrists up and down, sawing at the rope. It took an agonizingly long time. As he worked, George and Etty watched with wide, hopeful eyes. All the while, the gunfire and screaming continued outside.

  Finally—the rope tore.

  Jon's arms were free.

  He removed his gag and took a deep breath. The ropes around his ankles were tight. He kicked the wall, broke off a shard of bamboo, and sawed at the rope, finally freeing his legs. With his wooden blade, he cut George and Etty free too.

  The friends shared
a quick embrace.

  "What do we do?" George whispered.

  From outside the sounds of gunfire, screams, and laughter continued.

  "George, Etty—you two run." Jon took a deep breath. "I'll face Clay."

  "We're not going anywhere," George said. "We'll face him together."

  Etty balled her fists. "We're Fireteam Fucking Symphonica, and we stick together."

  "If we face these soldiers unarmed," Jon said, "we'll probably die."

  George clasped Jon on the shoulder. "Then we die together."

  "If George and I ran, we'd regret it forever," Etty said. "In this war, we killed for nothing. Let's go die for something."

  They left the hut and stepped into hell.

  For a moment, they could only stare.

  Hundreds of corpses filled the village. They piled up along the roadsides. Women. Elders. Children. Even babies. Many of the women had been stripped naked. Many of the corpses had been mutilated—scalped, ears cut off, hands severed.

  The three friends just stood there, staring. For a moment nobody could speak.

  "We have to show the world," Etty finally whispered. "We have to show them what happened."

  Jon looked around. His heart pounded. His head spun. A few soldiers stood nearby, mutilating corpses. Other soldiers gathered between burning huts, laughing about something.

  Jon could not move. Could barely breathe.

  A massacre. Genocide. This was genocide. And it seemed to him that every corpse here had Maria's face.

  "How can we show them?" Jon said. "Nobody will ever believe this."

  George was pale, trembling, but he managed to snarl. "Yes they will."

  His hands shook badly, but the giant managed to pull something from his pocket. It was a phone.

  Jon's eyes widened. "George! We're not allowed to own personal phones."

  "I know." George wiped away a tear. "I smuggled it with me. All the way from Earth. It has photos of my family on it. I look at the photos sometimes at night." He gave a shaky growl. "And now we'll take more photos."

  The giant raised the phone, which seemed as small as a matchbox in his massive hand. He aimed the camera at a pile of corpses. But his hands trembled violently. He dropped the phone.

  Jon lifted it. "Here, George."

  But the giant was pale, shaking. He shook his head. "My hands are shaking too badly. Besides, I got fat fingers. You'll have to do it, buddy." George covered his eyes. "I can barely look."

  So Jon began to take photographs.

  He moved along the dirt road. Between the burning huts. Along the papaya grove and rice paddies. To the marketplace. The bodies were everywhere. Hundreds of them. He saw no bodies of Kalayaan, no bodies of fighting-aged men at all. All innocents.

  Most of the soldiers gathered farther away, pointing at the ground, and laughing. But a few soldiers were walking through the carnage. They were collecting trophies—bead necklaces, folding knives, body parts. They saw Jon taking photos. Some looked away, suddenly ashamed, but others laughed. A few soldiers even smiled and posed for the camera.

  Jon kept moving through this vision of hell. He photographed it all. Every victim. Then he hid the phone in his pocket.

  He took a deep breath, glanced at his friends, and nodded.

  They stepped between the burning huts and toward the laughing soldiers.

  Most of the platoon was gathered there. Clay stood among them. The soldiers surrounded something, leaning down, laughing.

  Jon stepped closer, and he saw it.

  The soldiers surrounded a hole in the ground.

  "I knew it, soldiers!" Clay was saying. "I told you we'd find enemy activity here. A bunker! A bunker to store Kennys!"

  Jon stepped closer.

  "Clay!" he shouted.

  The platoon stopped laughing. Everyone turned toward Jon and his friends.

  Clay looked over the rim of the bunker. His lips curled into a predatory smile.

  "Ah, you've come just in time, Taylor," he said. "Do you enjoy what you see here?"

  "I see murder!" Jon said, standing across the bunker. "I see a massacre! I see genocide!"

  Clay tossed back his head and laughed. "Wrong, Taylor. You see victory. We found a bunker! Enemy activity. The Kalayaan are here."

  Jon shoved his way between soldiers. He stared down into the bunker.

  It was just a hole in the ground. Barely larger than a well. A handful of women and children cowered below, weeping. They were probably the only survivors of the village.

  Jon looked back up at Clay. "This isn't a bunker. This is just a little cellar. A place they store seeds and supplies. It's just women and children down there. Not Kalayaan. Everyone you murdered here today, Clay—they were innocent."

  Clay pulled a grenade from his belt.

  "Watch them die, Jon Taylor. Enjoy the show."

  Jon took a step back, eyes widening.

  Clay laughed and pulled the pin.

  Jon ran, vaulted over the cellar, and slammed into Clay.

  Both men fell onto the grass. The live grenade thumped down beside them.

  Soldiers ran, cursing.

  Jon lifted the grenade and hurled it into the distance. It exploded among the burning huts.

  "George, Etty, get the villagers into a jeep!" Jon shouted. "Get them to safety! And tell Colonel Pascal what—"

  Clay barrelled into him, knocking him down. Jon nearly fell into the cellar.

  Clay's beefy hands closed around Jon's throat. The lieutenant smirked, drooling, his eyes bugging out. His hands tightened, and Jon gurgled, unable to breathe.

  "I'm going to kill you nice and slow," Clay said. "You're going to die like a slit, and I'm going to piss on your corpse."

  Jon drove his knee into Clay's stomach. As hard as he could.

  The brute recoiled, groaning. He reached for his rifle, which hung across his back.

  Jon kicked. Hard. His boot connected with Clay's shoulder, knocking him backward. The beefy officer fell onto his back, pinning down his rifle. He roared.

  Vaguely, Jon was aware of George battling other soldiers, holding them off, howling. Of Etty lowering a rope into the cellar, coaxing the women and children out.

  But Jon had no time to take a closer look. Before Clay could aim his rifle, Jon leaped onto him, pinned him to the ground, and began raining down blows.

  His knuckles cracked. Maybe they broke. The pain was agonizing, but Jon kept punching. Clay's face bled, but he just laughed.

  The brute kicked wildly. His knee drove into Jon's ribs. Pain bloomed. Jon fell. For a moment both men lay on the grass, panting.

  Jon glimpsed Etty pulling more villagers out. George was roaring, tossing soldiers back. The huts were still blazing, and smoke rolled through the village.

  And then Clay was rising, aiming his rifle. Jon grabbed the gun. A shot rang out. A bullet hit a tree. The muzzle burned Jon's hands.

  Both men wrestled for the rifle. It still hung across Clay's body on a strap. Jon yanked it hard, pulling Clay off balance. Another shot fired. A branch shattered and fell. Jon's ears rang.

  Jon kicked his opponent in the shin. Clay crumbled, and Jon pinned him down, managed to unhook the rifle from its strap, and—

  Clay's boot slammed into his chest. The same spot as before. Right in Jon's solar plexus.

  Jon fell, unable to breathe. Stars exploded across his vision. Still he struggled to hold onto the gun.

  Another boot hit him. Jon howled in pain, and the rifle tumbled into the cellar.

  Before Jon could recover, Clay was on him, and the blows rained. Jon raised his arms, desperate to protect himself. His head dangled over the pit. Clay was laughing above him, blood covering his face—dripping from his nose, his mouth, splashing onto Jon. He had become a demon. If there had ever been any humanity in Clay, it was gone.

  "You're going to die now, Jon Taylor," the beast said. "I wanted you to live long enough to see the dead. You saw. You suffered. Now I will grant you mercy and let you
die."

  Jon tried to fight, but Clay pinned his arms down. His beefy fist rose.

  Another blow came down.

  White light flashed.

  Jon's head tilted back. Blood flowed from his nose, his mouth, his forehead.

  He saw the world upside down. And he saw Etty load villagers into a jeep. Saw her driving them away to safety.

  So many died, Jon thought. We failed to save this village. But we saved a few lives. We saved a few at least.

  "Still alive, Taylor? You're showing some spirit." Clay leaned closer and whispered into his ear. "You will die soon, don't worry. Before you die, know this. I'm going to Mindao next. To the Go Go Cowgirl. Me and my platoon. We're all going to take turns with your whore before I scalp her. I'll keep her scalp as a trophy. Goodnight, Jon."

  Clay's fist rose high, prepared to deliver the killing blow.

  Jon roared, freed his arm, and drove his fist into Clay's chin.

  Clay fell back.

  Jon grabbed him.

  For a moment they struggled, rolling around by the cellar. The huts burned all around. The other soldiers watched.

  A blow hit Jon's cheek.

  In the white light, he saw Maria's bright smile.

  He saw her kind eyes.

  He heard her laughter. Felt her kiss.

  He rose to his feet, panting, dripping blood. Clay stood before him, bruised and laughing.

  "Ready for more, Taylor?" the brute said, a tooth loose.

  With a wordless cry, Jon ran, barreled into Clay, and slammed him into a burning hut.

  Jon stumbled back, coughing, and watched the fire spread over his enemy.

  For a moment, Clay just stood there. Burning. A living torch. He stared at Jon from the inferno. He did not fall.

  He really is a demon, Jon thought.

  And then Clay began to run. Burning, screaming, he ran toward the huts and vanished into the smoke.

  Jon did not follow. He could not run, could barely even walk. But he had done enough.

  Let the fire end him, he thought.

  Bleeding, coughing, barely able to stand upright, Jon stumbled in the opposite direction. He limped down the dirt road, leaving a trail of blood. Soldiers stepped aside, letting Jon pass. He had defeated their leader.