by Tufo, Mark
The ship grows larger in my field of view. I can feel each second vanish like some apocalyptic countdown. I’m not going to make it. I ready the tank for a quick turn, but with the way it’s responding, there will be nothing quick about it. I see a blue glow starting where the railgun is mounted, growing in intensity. If the ship fires and hits, the tank will be torn to shreds and, along with it, any hope I have of reaching Mike…or the longer dream of seeing my family again.
Purple tracers make a near solid stream as the two vessels race toward each other. The blue glow of the shot intensifies. I should break off, but this whole thing is about timing. I keep pouring rounds into the machine, hoping that I’ll know when to dodge in time. The glow is almost white, and it suddenly dawns on me why I can see that at all. I’m looking straight down the barrel of the railgun.
The weapon is about ready to fire, yet I continue straight on. I know that if I wait until my brain records the shot, it’ll be too late. I grit my teeth and continue on, feeling like I should be screaming madly. The whistler vessel suddenly lurches, much like the other one. It fires at the same time; the shot goes wide and wipes out a large group of bikers that were riding alongside.
The hovercraft is tilting and slowly turning above me, the rotating craft casting a momentary shadow. Slowing the damaged tank, I turn in order to bring the whistler craft into view. It’s still spinning a slow circle, almost like a ship that has a damaged rudder.
Thinking the barrier gone due to my rounds finally penetrating, I switch to the quad cannon and start delivering fire into the wounded craft. Pieces immediately start falling off the stricken vessel and smoke drifts aft. I continue as the hovercraft starts a steep descent, plowing into the ground in a screech of twisting and tortured metal.
All of the railgun turrets are down. That leaves the mass of the bikers and the one remaining hovercraft. So far, I haven’t seen a swarm of them coming out from the base, but my attention has also been focused elsewhere. There’s no telling how much longer the tank will be operational, but I’ll take as many out as I can. I guess if it gets worse, I can limp away to the mountains and try to make a go of it there. Although I don’t really see how I’ll be able to escape from the hundreds. It’s not like I’ll have a huge lead on them with which to escape. But if that happens, that means I’ll have to give up on getting into the complex, at least with this current attempt.
So, I have a decision to make. I can use what’s left of the tank to cut and run, using the cannon and the ammo remaining for the machine gun to keep the whistlers at bay. Or, I can chance it will function long enough to take out the remaining bikers and be able to get into the complex. Currently, I have the momentum and advantage. I’ll lose that if I leave now.
Going all in, I make the decision to stay. I’ll just have to keep moving so they can’t board. With their big guns down, who knows what the riders will do. I start firing into the largest group, the eruptions from the cannon rounds sending bikes caroming. Shrapnel tears into bodies, separating limbs and sending whistlers tumbling across the plain.
Turning in a large circle, I seek grouping after grouping, tearing large holes in their midst. The armored vehicle, the frontend wavering left and right, rolls up and over downed bikes. I can hear metallic pings and am a little amazed that the alien creatures are actually attempting to take down the tank with staples. Maybe they’re hoping that one or two might ricochet inside. Who knows?
Burst after burst explodes on the desert floor. Bodies and bikes lie everywhere, so thick that it’s impossible not to run over them, like, they’re now part of the ground. I catch sight of the remaining hovercraft over by the gate. Were I the whistlers, I would set the thing on the ground, as it’s nearly as useless as the bikes. It could be that they’re giving positional updates, but for what? The slaughter seems senseless, and if it weren’t for the treatment Mike and I had at their hands, I might even feel bad about it.
I lock onto the hovercraft and fire, watching the explosive rounds tear into it. With a larger explosion, the craft drops straight to the ground, slamming into it and sending a wave of dust outward.
The whistler numbers rapidly decline. Motorcycles lay amid a turmoil of dirt, plumes of smoke rising from several. Eventually, there’s nothing but the dead and dying. The noise of the battle falls, the only sound the tortured whine of the engine and clanking of the tank. The controls have grown progressively worse, and the acrid smoke begins filling the cabin. Before the vehicle fails completely, I send volley after volley into the gate, watching as one side twists and creates a gap. Then, with an outpouring of dense, acrid smoke, the tank finally dies.
I grab my gear, including the extra carbine and sniper rifle, and toss them overboard. Scrambling out of the hatch, I land on the desert floor behind the tank, making sure to keep it between me and the walls.
Seeing the battlefield in its entirety is a far different view from the small sections I could see through the screen. The soil is churned up, looking like a newly furrowed field, except a plowed field has order, whereas this has none. There’s a haze of dust in the air, lowering the visibility to the point that the sun is just an orangish-brown orb floating in the sky. Wrecked motorcycles are everywhere, either tangled together or laying separately. Most are covered with a layer of dust. Whistler bodies, much like the bikes, lie in clumps, making the terrain look like a series of hillocks—almost like it’s infested with huge moles. I assume the smaller hills are pieces of whistler bodies.
The quiet is almost complete, adding to the surreal nature. The silence right after a battle has always been strange. The noise and confusion of a firefight is incredible, and then comes that moment when the bullets stop flying—people hunkered down, searching for targets. That moment before the comms come alive with questions and commands. That may not be the case in larger unit engagements, but it’s been my experience with small team operations.
There’s the cooling of metal from nearby motorcycles and the odd noise from the tank as it goes through its death cycle. Brown smoke is rising through the open top hatch, adding to the overall poor visibility of the battlefield. Elsewhere, smaller plumes drift lazily upward, along with four dark, black smoke columns from the crashed hovercraft. Toward the leaning gate, two other pillars rise from the smashed railguns atop the towers.
Taking out my binoculars, I scan the area, searching for any whistlers still roaming around or only partially injured. The last thing I need now is to be winged by a stapler. Well, I suppose the very last thing would be for my nemesis demon to materialize. I shut that thought down quickly in case just thinking of him brings him into existence. Of course, immediately occurring is the weird desire to call out his name three times. What is wrong with the human mind that it functions in this manner? Or, I guess that could just be me. I suppose it’s a good thing that I can’t remember it, if I ever knew it.
There isn’t any movement nearby, nor is there any sign of live whistlers between me and the gate. Once I finish with the surveillance, making my way to the gate will be my next move. However, I’ll be visible to anyone atop the wall and vulnerable. For that reason, I carefully glass the towers, finding several whistlers standing on top. There are a couple more just outside of the canted door of the gate. I figured there had to be survivors, but I thought there would be more…a lot more. Normal odds would dictate it. Perhaps these alien creatures are more fragile that I thought.
The sniper barrel has a self-contained suppressor at the end with a removable shroud to replace the interior wadding. It shoots a similar round to a .300, but I’m not sure of what grain. The markings on the shells mean nothing to me. One of the things I didn’t like about it when I test-fired it shortly after locating it is the reticle. It’s a dot instead of a crosshair, which throws me off a little. And there are vertical and horizontal dots for bullet drop. I prefer my old mil-dot scheme, but beggars can’t be choosers. I wouldn’t know what the bullet drop is for the rounds anyway. I could have spent more time firing to figure
that out, but I focused mostly on finding out at what range the thing was centered on.
The scope has a built-in rangefinder, but it’s not in yards or meters. Four hundred is where it’s centered, but that’s definitely not in yards. The shots are centered closer to three hundred yards, but that was only by a visual guesstimate. At any rate, I have some idea of the rifle’s capability, but not enough for extremely long-range shots.
Propping the rifle against the tank, I range the tower—624-whatever-distance-measurements. So, that would be a little over 450 yards. Gathering what knowledge I have of .300 caliber rounds and assuming earth-like conditions here, if I’m centered in at 300 yards and shooting out to 450 yards, that equates to around twenty-inch bullet drop. The wind is calm and the day has started heating up, which will keep bullets aloft longer. I’m going to give it a guess of eighteen inches. That’ll either work or it won’t. Luckily, the rifle is a semi-auto, so if I miss, I’ll just give it another wild-ass guess. I’m assuming if I don’t see the bullet hit the wall, then I overshot and will aim lower.
The mental gymnastics leaves me wearied. I sight in on one of the whistlers atop the wall and raise the reticle a foot and a half over the top of its head. That’s the only part showing, so it’s not that I have much of a choice between head and body shot. Seeing I’m going from ground level and shooting up approximately twenty-five feet, I add a couple of inches.
The whistler’s head looms large in my field of view, the scope having a pretty decent magnification. I have no idea of gender, so I’m just going to call this one Charlie. Charlie is gazing out over the battlefield, I’m sure looking for me. I’m using the tank as cover, aiming just to the side of the turret to keep me from becoming silhouetted.
Inhaling deeply, I start letting the breath out as I slowly squeeze down on the trigger. The reticle holds steady and the rifle abruptly kicks back against my shoulder. As I quickly recenter the scope, Charlie is looking up in the air, his head turning left and right. The shot itself could barely be heard past a couple of yards, so he must have heard the bullet whiz overhead. I’m assuming I shot too high, given that I didn’t see anything strike the wall. The round must be loaded hotter than I anticipated, or some other weird part of this world is affecting it, like the gravity is 99.99999999% that of my world.
I lower the reticle and fire again, this time watching Charlie’s head quiver as the round penetrates. I can almost see his beady little eyes cross and roll backward in his head before it slides below the level of the wall. Now having a good aimpoint, I slide over to the second one visible on that tower. Ralph is looking over at his friend, wondering why he decided to take a nap. I don’t have any time until Ralph figures things out and is gone from view. With another deep breath, I go through the routine and another bullet is soon speeding across the plain. The round slams into the side of Ralph’s head and he, too, drops out of sight.
Switching to the other tower, the whistler there is oblivious to what just occurred on the other side of the gate. This one is watching the field as well, its gaze focused in my direction. Maybe they didn’t see me emerge from the tank and are waiting, the ones at the bottom of the gate ready to come get me the moment I come out. They may have their bikes hidden inside. I’m hoping there isn’t a gaggle of them poised to appear. The picture in my mind is of a hundred whistlers, all sitting on their Harleys, just waiting for the signal.
I send the third one down and survey the complete top of the wall, searching for any additional watchers. Scanning all of the tall black wall that I’m able to see, I can’t find any sign that there are others. I focus back to the gate to find that the whistlers that were there are no longer in view. They might have heard the bodies falling twenty-five feet over their heads and ducked back inside. That means I’ll have them to take care of once I reach the interior.
Breaking down the spare carbine, I stash it in my pack. It isn’t really a good fit, but it’s the best I can do. I only have a few more meals and a little water remaining, so I’ll have to start thinking about that before heading back. There’s also the helmet and mask I brought back from the whistler planet. I’ll have to modify the mask prior to heading back in order to breathe, especially if I have to exert myself.
With another quick scan, I move away from the tank. The front of the vehicle is in shambles. The railgun’s kinetic shot rammed through the front tire and through the chassis. I’m glad I wasn’t sitting at the gunner or driver seat or I’d be a grease spot somewhere out there in the desert.
Exchanging my carbine for the sniper, I dash away from the smoldering wreck, maneuvering through wrecked bikes, bodies, and parts of bodies. Keeping one eye on the wall and the other out for injured whistlers, I make straight for the wall. I want to minimize my exposure in the open. Considering that a great number of their kind were obliterated in a battle that had to be heard for miles around, I’m surprised there aren’t reinforcements coming out of the gate. Maybe they had their entire force out, but I have a difficult time thinking there aren’t any in the tunnel. Perhaps I’ll round the corner at the gate and run into a massed army.
Breathing rapidly from my run to the wall, I arrive within its shadow. Not literally, as the sun is still rising on my side of it. The dust is slowly settling even more, the visibility improving and the sun shining with greater intensity. The orangish hue that was prevalent is now turning more yellowish. I start along the base of the wall, keeping watch on the gate for the reemergence of the whistlers. None of them show themselves by the time I reach within a few feet of the entrance.
One of the large gates is canted from where I rained shells into it, creating gaps. Crouching at the corner, I look around it with a signal mirror. I can’t see much of the interior due to the thickness of the walls. However, instead of multitudes of waiting whistlers, what I can see of the interior courtyard is empty. That means either the whistlers are off to the side, they climbed up to where their other comrades fell, or they fled deeper inside the complex. My biggest concern is that they’re waiting in an ambush, knowing that my goal is to enter the facility. And the only way to do that is to come through the gate.
My line of sight widens as I creep forward, although it’s only to one side, as I’m hugging the wall. I post up at the next corner. Having a pretty good view of the far side, I don’t see any of the creatures waiting to attack. Holding my mirror to search further, it’s nearly knocked out of my hand by a barrage of staples that smack into the dense, black stone. They ping with tiny sparks and ricochet across the gate. I’ve found my missing whistlers.
Crouched, I contemplate my situation. It’s pretty obvious that they’re locked onto the opening, and if I venture anywhere around the corner, I can expect to be peppered with staples before I’m able to get off a shot. Shucking off my pack, I figure I have two choices. I can wear it backwards and let it absorb staples heading toward my torso which would leave my legs and head open. It will also make moving and shooting a bit awkward. My second option is to toss it inside. The whistlers may fire at any movement and then pause for a second as they try to figure out what is transpiring. I can use that moment of confusion to get in, locate my targets, and take them down.
The second plan sounds a lot better than entering a firefight waddling around like a sumo wrestler. Given my situation, I can’t afford to be hit by even one staple. Sleeping it off around here seems like a pretty sure-fire way to end up a captive again. That’s a huge no thanks. I’ve checked off that box and have zero desire to experience it again. So, I’m going to have to Matrix my way through this upcoming fight.
I toss the backpack past the gate and hear several thumps as staples tear into the fabric. Others whiz past. I wait for a count of two, allowing for the whistlers to ponder what is happening and become confused. I round the corner, my barrel seeking its first target.
Three whistlers are lined up against the inner wall, their weapons only now tracking back from the thrown pack. With my carbine on full auto, I open up on the creat
ures. Bullets punch holes through the black leather jackets, powering through and into their bodies. The only indication that my rounds found flesh are the two whistlers in front slumping to the ground.
I feel a grazing blow along the right side of my head and hear the zip of a near miss. The third whistler positioned behind the other two sends another shot at the same time as I fire at him. There’s a tug on my sleeve from his staple, thankfully missing. He collapses, bouncing off the wall like a Weeble. Unlike the toy, this one does fall down. I send quick bursts into each of them, making sure they won’t get off a parting shot.
Reloading while on the move, I’m searching the rest of the area for any sign of others. Scanning the buildings and tops of the inner wall, I don’t see any. I’m still amazed that others haven’t shown up, but I’ll take the boon I’m being given, as those seem very far and few between.
I return to my pack and begin plucking out the oversized staples. There’s a trickle of blood sliding down the side of my face and I’m hoping none of the toxin entered my bloodstream. For that reason, I let it bleed freely and will maybe wrap it later when I get a chance. Right now, I want to move quickly in order to get inside the tunnel before someone figures out that the residents are no longer among the living. If whistlers are even that to begin with. I’m beginning to have my doubts.
I move among the scattered structures within the vast courtyard. They look an awful lot like the waypoint cube, black and angular with silver tubes running throughout. I wonder if the buildings might house the mechanisms to create portals. Maybe each structure makes one to a different world. Try as I might, I can’t find an entrance to any of the buildings. There aren’t the handprint key locks or any door that I can determine.