by T. C. Edge
It began to come into view, a sprawling field of tents and temporary buildings, military vehicles and jets.
And fire.
And blood.
And dead bodies, littering the ground.
And soldiers rushing about, groups hurrying from their barracks, weapons to the ready.
It was a war zone, the base ablaze, hundreds, thousands of soldiers, milling about trying to find the source of the sudden carnage. And among them, the men in black zipped and surged, a small unit of apparitions haunting their way through the camp. These men thought they had the day off. They thought their war had been put on hold.
No, not today. Today the devil had come to visit.
Chloe flashed her eyes open, stark and wild. She looked directly at Nadia, whose body was frozen in place as she watched her.
“We have to get out of here,” Chloe whispered. “Right now!”
She lurched, abruptly, charging for the door.
“Where are you going?” Nadia shouted, following behind.
“Tanner!” Chloe said. “We need Tanner!”
She charged into the sunshine, the sounds of battle growing clearer now, and headed right for the staging area. She poured inside to find Tanner at the rear, alongside Slattery, Jason, General Linklater, and several other military figures Chloe recognised from earlier but didn’t know.
The large warehouse held a number of soldiers too, Panthers and Spectres not required for the mission to the facility. To one side, President Rashmore was being briefed by his men. No one seemed entirely sure of what was happening.
“It’s them!” Chloe shouted, rushing inside. “It’s one of the strike teams from the MSA!”
They all looked at her, slightly dumbstruck.
“Well what the hell are you waiting for!” Chloe said. “We have to get out of here!”
Nadia caught up, panting, and stopped by Chloe’s side.
“Cliff, let’s go,” she called. “Jason, Colonel Slattery, you too.” She looked over to Rashmore, as if considering extending an invite, but noticed that he was well seen to by his own men.
“Just wait one minute,” grunted the deep voice of General Linklater, staring right at the girls. “How are you so certain it’s…them?”
“I saw them,” Chloe said. “They’re taking out your soldiers like they’re swatting flies, sir!”
“They’re not my soldiers, young lady,” said Linklater. “I think you’re a little muddled up…”
“I don’t care,” Chloe bit, cutting him off. “If they’re not ransacking your base yet, they’re sure to get there soon. You think they’re here just to take out the NDSA men? Hell no. You need to evacuate your western camp immediately, General. Send word over now.”
Wow, where did that come from? She looked at Tanner and saw his left eye bulge at her outburst, lips pursed appreciatively. Even Slattery seemed to have taken some pleasure at seeing his old boss spoken to in such a way.
And by a girl, no less, not yet out of her teens. A girl, too, who had no military experience, and had absolutely no right to speak to a general like that.
But God did it feel good!
“General, er, I suggest you listen to her,” Slattery said coolly, suppressing a smile. “I’ve found her instincts to be quite good.”
Instincts. She appreciated the supportive word from Slattery, but this wasn’t her instinct. It was cold hard fact. Who else did they think might be attacking the base?
General Linklater regarded Chloe with a mixture of curiosity and displeasure for a moment, before striding off and speaking with his officers. The Panthers, meanwhile, were readying President Rashmore for extraction. Chloe hurried over to the main operations area at the back, eyes on Jason.
“What’s the story at Lake Michigan?” she asked. “Things…going well?” Her voice turned tentative, expression the same, as if frightened to hear the answer.
Might as well find out, she thought, given the circumstances.
“Looking good over there,” Jason said, staring at her. Then he glanced over at General Linklater, speaking hurriedly with several of his officers and Spectres in the corner. “That was, um, pretty awesome, by the way.”
Chloe smirked.
“Thanks. I don’t really know where it came from.”
“A firm knowledge that you know best,” said Tanner, grinning. “You have the courage of your convictions, young Phantom,” he added, putting on a wise, sage-like voice.
“Yeah, and in the spirit of that, let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?” said Nadia. “We can rendezvous with the others later at another location.”
“Yes indeed,” nodded Colonel Slattery, gathering up a few files. “Jason, go and get the sparrow ready for take off. I’ll follow in a second.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jason, nodding and marching away.
The young lieutenant moved around the side of the tables there at the back of the warehouse, and began moving for the large doors, the sun shining down warmly outside.
Chloe watched him go a moment. And then she got a feeling. A horrid, terrible feeling, right down deep in the pit of her stomach.
She shut her eyes, rushing into Remus’ perception.
The little drone, as he often did, had operated without command for the last minute or two, flying back across the city having completed his reconnaissance mission. He was high up still, but fast descending, moving swiftly in the direction of the staging tent.
Chloe could see Jason from Remus’ birds-eye view, preparing to step out of the shadow of the warehouse and into the morning light.
And then she saw something else, something that set a fierce strike to her heart; motion, movement. A man in black swept from the east, hurrying at great speed towards them, pacing in the direction of the temporary coalition camp set there to the north of the city.
He drew a gun as he came, aimed, and fired a single shot.
Chloe looked again at Jason, just stepping out into the light. But really, he fell into shadow.
A gunshot echoed loudly in the air, a bullet cutting through the young man’s head. He dropped backwards, falling to the earth in a heap, body slumping back into the shadows of the staging tent.
Chloe knew immediately that the young lieutenant was dead.
And surely now the rest of them would follow.
118
Ragan hurried to the second floor of the main facility, emerging from the stairwell into the central hall. His eyes quickly worked down the many wings; several Panthers and Spectres were still hurrying about, evacuating the residents of this level.
“Hurry!” he shouted out to them. “We have enemy soldiers incoming!”
He turned back, hurrying into the stairwell once again. About a dozen soldiers had taken position there, watching the levels below for the sight of any soldiers - whether nano-augmented Ravens or synthetics - coming their way. The other dozen with him rushed out into the level, ordered to watch the various wings that extended away from the central hall.
More of the facility’s inhabitants passed by, nervously rushing up the stairs. The flood of them was gradually turning to a trickle as they abandoned their rooms, drawn out by the commotion, rushing from distant parts of the level. Many held bundles of belongings in their arms. Many others were barely dressed, wearing only their nightclothes, bare feet slapping on the cold floor as they ran.
The noise in the stairwell was almost deafening, the echoing of so many feet hauling frightened bodies up the stairs. Many were panicking, many children crying. Ragan tried to block it all out and focus, sending his eyes over the edge of the railing, searching below for movement.
A voice came at him from above, shouting down from the top floor. Ragan looked up to see a Panther jostling with the crowd, like a boat battling against the raging surf, peering over the rail.
“Sir, charges almost set up here,” he called out. “We’ll be ready to detonate soon.”
“How long?” Ragan called, heart thrashing.
“A few minutes, sir. Most of the residents are gathered now. Only a few more trickling in. Jets above are being loaded.”
“Good. Let me know as soon as the charges are set.”
The soldier nodded and disappeared, and Ragan heard a shudder rush through the bodies of the soldiers around him. He turned his eyes back down the stairwell and saw shadows flooding now, pouring up from the floors below.
He peered down - were they staff here, or soldiers? He couldn’t order his men to fire until he knew…
He knew.
He knew immediately. The way they moved; the speed, the grace.
The synthetics were on their way.
“We hold them off!” Ragan shouted. “We hold them off right here!”
His men primed themselves to shoot, aiming rifles over the edge.
The rush of bodies continued through the door, hurrying up the stairs. One of them called out to him.
“Sir, men incoming from the wings!” he shouted.
Ragan looked through the door into the central hall, then rushed out to join the man. His eyes turned down the wings of the facility - more soldiers were coming their way from several of them, a mixture of regular guards, Ravens, synthetics…
“Fire,” Ragan shouted. “Hold them off!”
His order was greeted with an immediate barrage, the sound of twenty rifles roaring at once. He lifted his own and rushed back into the stairwell, looking down through the shaft as the dozen soldiers that protected it began to pepper the levels below with bullets. Hundreds of rounds, thousands of them, rained down from above, forcing the oncoming enemy men to slow and take cover.
They weren’t all dressed in armour, not having time, or not having access yet to such garments. These were synthetics yet to be signed off for active duty. Powerful, yes, but unpolished, and vulnerable without their mesh bodysuits and helmets. Only one or two seemed to be properly attired. Most of the others were barely dressed.
“Aim for their heads,” Ragan called out. “Concentrate fire! Hold them! We hold them here!”
Chloe had informed him of the synthetics’ physical makeup, scanning Mikel’s new body as he’d requested. They had significant armouring all over, but particularly around the chest. Their skulls were similarly hard to penetrate, but the high calibre weapons his soldiers were using, from this range, might well be sufficient for the job, particularly if fired in concentrated bursts at the same spot.
He noted Mikel among the men, firing down alongside them. Mikel stopped, then turned, racing up half a flight of stairs towards Ragan.
“I’m wasted here,” he hissed, eyes lit. “Too tight.” He turned to look at the door. “I’ll have more fun out there.”
Ragan marvelled at the man - the creature’s - complete lack of fear. He seemed to revel in this, come alive with the thrill of it. He nodded and sped out the door, rushing to attack the soldiers coming from the wings.
Ragan hesitated a second as he watched him go, then sped right after him into the main hall.
Mikel burst into the central hall down here on the second level of the facility, turning his eyes immediately to the action. From a couple of the northern wings, MSA soldiers were rushing, the Panthers and Spectres firing from cover, trying to hold them off.
Mikel scanned the onrushing group, picking out his favourite targets. He spotted three synthetics among them, coming from one wing - two were dressed in training clothes, another was properly armoured, though not wearing a mask. He looked into their faces, identical to his own, and felt a cocktail of rage and hatred burn through him.
Lifting his rifle, he rushed right towards them, firing at lowly guards and Ravens, taking out several as he entered down one of the long, wide corridors. He wore an armoured combat suit, provided by Hunt, though wasn’t wearing a helmet. He didn’t exactly want to be wearing either. To be counted among these Panthers…that was almost a bad as looking exactly the same as these other synthetics.
He growled, eyes blazing with a fire to eliminate them all. It would start right here. These would be the first synthetics - the first of his new kind - to fall to his hatred and wrath.
Gunfire continued to rip from behind him as he went, targeting the synthetics coming his way. He turned around to find that Hunt had followed him from the stairwell, and was firing alongside his soldiers now. Mikel lifted a hand to them and shook his head.
“Defend the other wings,” he called out casually. “I’ll handle this.”
He heard Ragan issuing orders to that effect, and the soldiers turned their attention elsewhere, firing down other passages as more soldiers rushed on.
Mikel looked down his own, a smile rising. The three synthetics coming his way began to slow, recognising him as one of their own. He could see the rage bubbling behind their eyes as they looked at him, furious at this betrayal.
They lifted their weapons and began to fire at Mikel, a hundred or so feet away. The barrage was sudden, though entirely expected. Mikel merely needed to close the space between them, force them into close-quarter-combat. He danced through the gunfire, reluctantly grateful, now, for the body armour as a couple of rounds met their mark, bouncing harmlessly off his flank when they might otherwise have found flesh.
He shut down the space immediately, and in barely a split second was on them. His own rifle was tossed to one side as he came, bursting between the three men, knocking one off to the side with a thundering shoulder.
The man, dressed only in shorts and a training sweater, crashed into the wall with a thick crack, a crater splintering off from his body on the vertical surface. He dropped to his knees, wheezing, trying to recover. It wouldn’t be enough to do serious damage - not to his synthetic form - but was plenty to disorientate him for a moment.
That moment was all Mikel wanted.
He turned to the other two, the odds now more favourable, and in a quick motion drew a knife from his belt. The armoured man did the same, tossing his rifle away with a burning anger in his eyes. The other, lightly clothed, synthetic, tried to step back to give himself room, lifting his rifle again to shoot.
No, thought Mikel. I won’t allow that.
He lunged for the man, ducking beneath the knife-thrust of the other, slipping right behind the rifle-wielding man’s back. It was a motion that was so familiar to Mikel - as a nano-vamp, it was always his intention to get behind any enemy, his chest to their back, in order to sink his canines into their neck and feed. That particular purpose was no longer relevant, but the ability to sweep beyond a man’s defences, and get behind them, was still incredibly valuable.
So it proved again. With a burst of power, he got into position, gripped the man’s neck, and twisted it violently. The usual snap that accompanied such moves - that of a neck being broken - didn’t come. Instead, he heard an ugly grinding of metal as the synthetic’s ‘interior defences’ and robotic augmentations were bent and twisted out of place.
He had to put more strength into it than usual - much more, in fact - but the result was the same. The man’s blue eyes sharpened in pain and confusion, face contorting, shards of metal and bone ripping through the flesh of his neck.
Blood spurt out in bursts, splashing into Mikel’s face. He licked his lips on instinct, tasting the blood, wondering how it might compare to that of humans. The same, he noted, the synthetic crimson shower giving him a warm sense of ecstasy, bringing such wonderful memories to mind.
“You…freak,” the armoured synthetic growled, eyes darkening. They still held that hatred, but a fear was blossoming too. He looked at the soon-to-be-corpse in Mikel’s arms, blood still spitting from his neck. “He’ll be back. His mind is still stored…”
“Not for long,” grinned Mikel, cutting him off. “Do you not see what’s happening here?” he hissed. “This place is about to blow. When you die in a moment, there’s no coming back. This is the end for you…”
The man’s eyes grew more fearful at that. He’d signed up to become immortal, unkillable. His death wouldn’t be the
end, no. He’d just be uploaded into a brand new body. What a fool he was…
Mikel tossed the body to one side, blood trickling down his face. Not so handsome, perhaps, now, he thought, grinning more widely, eyes ever more manic.
The other man he’d shoulder barged against the wall was now stirring, getting uneasily to his feet. Mikel snorted at the sight. These pathetic men couldn’t handle their new bodies. Even they were no challenge to him.
No, his challenge lay out there. The true synthetics, the true threats, still causing chaos across the continent. Colonel Heston, Major Olsen, that foolish man called Kendrick. All of them would be hunted by Mikel, once all of this was done.
He felt a wondrous, intoxicating thrill at that thought. Now that would be a proper hunt. That would be a glorious purpose.
Suddenly, the armoured synthetic came at him, almost taking Mikel off guard. Almost, but not quite. His knife flashed under the lights, metal surface glinting. Mikel saw the tip coming right for him, pressing towards his neck. He swerved, letting the man’s motion take him forward, pushing him on the back as he passed. He went tumbling on, falling over his legs awkwardly. He was a child, nothing more.
Mikel laughed cruelly, and zipped to the other man, face ashen, eyes still wobbly as he stood, trying to lift his rifle to fire. Mikel reached him, tearing the gun from his grip, flinging it a hundred feet down the corridor with a casual flick of the wrist.
He grabbed the man’s face in his palms, sliding his tongue over his lips. His prey’s eyes bulged in terror as Mikel began pressing his thumbs into those sockets, sliding them through one of the weak, unarmoured spots on his artificial body. Those eyes gave way easily enough, his thumbs pressing deep as the man thrashed and wriggled, howling in agony.
Mikel just laughed as he excavated the man’s skull, pushing his thumbs right through into his brain. The thrashing body began shuddering more violently for a second as he did, before suddenly falling still, screaming voice ending abruptly.