by N. W. Harris
She cast a wild-eyed glance at him, like she didn’t have complete faith in his insane plan. Everything happened so fast that Shane didn’t have a chance to come up with any other ideas. He operated on instinct, a month of hardcore training, and all the strategic and tactical shit the rebels had stuffed into his brain during the neural upload.
His team rushed into the barbaric mob. The skin-masked teens crouched low and moved like rabid animals looking for a place to sink their teeth. Dropping his shoulders, he tried to emulate them, expecting at any moment a blood-caked cleaver would split his head open from behind. The smell of rotting flesh and body odor brought tears to his eyes. A small girl wearing the face of an old woman dropped on Shane’s right, shot by the teens in red armor. The skin-faces shrieked and rushed at the attackers, ignoring his team, who snaked between them.
More of the deranged kids spilled out from between the buildings, drawn by the howls of their friends. Shane’s group was forced to a walk. He looked over his shoulder and could see the armored kids were no longer a threat—fifty skin-faces between them and his team.
“No!” Steve shouted.
Shane spun, bringing his rifle around. Steve had a skin-face lifted in the air, one hand on the kid’s neck and the other on one of his legs. The linebacker threw the skinny kid ten yards, shattering the rear window of an abandoned car.
“Tracy?” Shane called.
She lay on the ground behind Steve. Shane rushed to her, using his rifle to prod the skin-faces out of the way. Her arm had a gash on the inside, near her armpit. Blood squirted out of the wound, and her color faded fast.
“It’s arterial.” Fresh adrenaline launched him into action—he couldn’t lose her. The rebels’ neural upload had included enough first aid training for him to know she’d be dead in minutes if he didn’t stop the bleeding. He wrapped his hand around her upper arm, trying to squeeze the lacerated blood vessel.
“Damn you!” Tracy growled, glaring at him with pain flooding her eyes.
“I’ve got to stop the bleeding,” he apologetically said. Blood spurted above where he had his hand.
“There’s no way you’ll get a tourniquet on that,” Dr. Blain said, crouching on the other side of Tracy.
“Use your healing pen,” Shane yelled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Steve, Laura, and the rest shoving the skin-faces aside when they approached. So far, the spear-toting teens seemed intent upon killing the teens in red armor. But now that they’d attacked Tracy, he knew at any second they’d turn on his team.
“I can’t while the ship is overhead,” she replied, her voice filling with panic.
“What?” he snapped.
Tracy’s eyes fluttered, and her skin grew paler by the second. Shane couldn’t lose her. Her strength and courage had kept him going through the worst times they’d seen. Desperate to stop the bleeding, he shoved his fingers into the wound. Finding the pulsing artery, he pinched it between his finger and thumb. The blood stopped spurting.
“You did it, Shane,” Dr. Blain said.
“Yeah, now we’ve got to get her the hell out of here,” he replied. “Steve, help.”
Steve pivoted around, and Maurice covered his position, pushing the skin-faces away.
“You’re going to have to carry her,” Shane said.
The linebacker nodded and slung his rifle over his back. He hoisted Tracy into his arms. Shane kept his fingers pinched on the artery in her armpit. Tracy groaned when they lifted her, but she didn’t pass out. He knew she was in a bad place, or else she would’ve objected to being carried.
Maurice and Laura glanced at Tracy and then at Shane, their eyes filled with concern.
“Get us out of here,” he ordered, looking around at the crazies running past.
Only a few of the red-armor-wearing teenagers still advanced up the street, firing their weapons into the onslaught with as much insanity in their eyes as the skin-faces.
Holding his rifle in his left hand, Shane followed Maurice and Laura forward, matching Steve’s pace so that his fingers wouldn’t slip out of Tracy’s wound. They could only move at a fast walk, weaving their way around the cars and shoving aside skin-faces who came too close. Shane, Steve, and Tracy maintained the center of the small squad. Shane glanced around the perimeter at his team, keeping tabs on their positions.
Dr. Blain, who struck Shane as someone who’d never touched a gun, carried Tracy’s AK, using its barrel to poke crazies who came too close. He could tell she wouldn’t last two seconds if it turned into a firefight.
“How much longer until the ship crosses the horizon?” Shane shouted over his shoulder.
“Ten minutes,” Jones replied, his voice calm and just loud enough to be heard over the ruckus. “I’ve marked the time.”
He was referring to the wristwatches he’d issued to them. The ingenious devices had a weak radio connection between them, so one person could synchronize them all, but they were low tech enough not to raise interest on the Anunnaki scans.
The captain guarded the rear and had affixed a bayonet on the tip of his rifle. When Shane grabbed him after he shot the Anunnaki prisoner, he realized he’d misjudged the aliens’ strength. Captain Jones demonstrated his mastery of several styles of martial arts during training, but Shane worried his physical weakness would make him vulnerable if they had to fight hand to hand with the savages rushing past. The captain claimed he’d worked with the Navy SEALS and other Special Forces units, and Shane had always assumed he could survive in almost any situation.
Dr. Blain looked back at Tracy with a worried expression.
“When the alarm sounds,” Shane said, capturing her gaze, “we switch places.”
She blinked as if processing what he said was a challenge. Terror seemed to paralyze her, her face slack and pale. Then she nodded, some of the anxiety fading from her expression. Shane had seen his friends immobilized by fear on more than one occasion, and being given direct orders always seemed to help them regain control.
Laura walked in front of Shane. She held her rifle in one hand and had rigged its strap around her neck and shoulder to help support the weight. Even with only one good arm, he knew she’d do better in battle than Dr. Blain. Laura had fought with lethal effectiveness in the reactor compartment of the Anunnaki ship, growing fiercer after having her arm blasted off. Although she’d been one of the weaker members of his team during much of the training, she’d proved her worth ten times over during actual combat. Dr. Blain had healed the stump in the hotel and had promised she could clone a new arm for Laura, but she needed equipment that was on the submarine in Alexandria.
Maurice walked to her left, guarding the side with her elbow-length stump. Shane was so grateful Steve had picked the cheerful preacher’s son off the floor of the reactor compartment and carried him to the escape pod, but it also made him feel terrible for leaving Liam behind. The Australian boy might be with them now if he hadn’t.
Shane glanced at his watch. Three minutes until the ship passed the horizon. The sounds of the battle against the armored teens faded behind them, and the skin-faces started paying more attention to his team.
“We’re almost through,” Steve said. “The street ahead looks clear.”
“Hang in there, Tracy,” Shane demanded. Her unfocused eyes closed halfway, and he feared she didn’t have much time. He could feel her pulse through the artery he held. Her heart beat wildly, trying to pump the diminished volume of blood to her starving brain.
They got a block past the last skin-face, and their watches vibrated.
“We’re clear,” Dr. Blain said, her panic seeming to recede and her tone becoming all business. “Put her on the hood of this car.”
Steve eased Tracy down, and the doctor shinned the blue light from her pen-sized healing device on her wound.
“You can let go now,” she said.
Terrified that what little remained of her blood would come spurting out, he released his grip
on her artery and pulled his fingers out of the gash in her armpit.
“Hurry,” Laura warned. “I don’t think we’ll be left alone much longer.”
Shane glanced at Tracy’s face, worried she might be too far gone. What would he do without her? From the first meeting in the Leeville High gym, when they decided to head for Atlanta, she’d been part of the foundation that gave his team strength. He was able to lead because he knew she was there, always ready to step up to the plate and help him. How many times had she saved their lives? Both Tracy and Steve had risen to superhuman status in Shane’s view, and he’d almost come to believe that they were bulletproof. Lying on the hood of the car and barely clinging to consciousness, she looked more fragile than he could have ever imagined possible.
His hand sticky with her blood, he wrapped his fingers around the pistol grip of his rifle. Dr. Blain stopped the bleeding, and it seemed the tough girl’s color was returning. A primal grunt made him shift his attention to the street behind them.
“Move the perimeter out a few feet to give Dr. Blain room to work,” he ordered, stepping next to Steve and raising his weapon.
“I’m just about sick of all these nasty freaks,” Steve growled.
“Hold your fire,” Shane warned. “We don’t want to excite them too soon.”
Shane didn’t approve of the disgust and hatred in Steve’s voice, but he couldn’t say anything. The linebacker needed his aggression if he was going to hold off these crazies, but Shane didn’t want anyone to forget that these were just normal kids before the Anunnaki messed them up.
Maurice stood to his right, and Laura was on the other side of Steve, leaving Jones and Jake to guard the upside of the street. The Americans had taken point without being asked. Shane glanced at their faces, their eyes were narrow and their determination to protect Tracy was written in their furrowed brows.
The skin-faces crawled over cars, advancing slowly toward his team. They moved like snakes closing in on their prey. At least they seemed to have some fear of the guns, though he could tell that wouldn’t stop them from charging for long. Hiding behind cars as they approached, they hunched over in a subhuman way, their bodies coiled so they could spring into attack.
Shane looked over his shoulder. Dr. Blain still leaned over Tracy. She held a bag of saline and was squeezing the fluid out of it into Tracy’s vein.
“How much longer?” Shane asked.
“Just a couple of minutes,” she replied, never taking her eyes from her work. Her relatively calm voice made it obvious that she didn’t realize how close the skin-faces were. “She’s lost a lot of blood. I’ve got to get some fluids in her and hyper-stimulate erythropoiesis before we can move her.”
He was about to warn her that they didn’t have much time when a scream made him take aim. Still hiding behind the cars, other skin-faces joined in with the first howler. The shrieking reverberated off the stucco walls of the buildings, an unnatural sound that would drive him to madness if he had to hear it too long.
The terrifying chorus was picked up by the rest of the crazies, pressing toward Shane and his friends from down the street. He didn’t see any more teens in red armor, figuring they’d been wiped out by this hoard.
“There must be thousands of them,” Maurice observed, shouting close to Shane’s ear. “They’re like demons.”
“Hold your ground,” Shane shouted, lining up his sights on the closest skin-face.
It was a scrawny boy, his features hidden behind the decaying face of an old man. Although the boy’s chest was bare, Shane couldn’t see his skin. It was coated with blood and soot. The ashes of burned buildings and the gore of the dead were like catnip to these nut jobs. They wanted to roll in the destruction and carnage, seeming to lust for the extinction of the human race. Maurice was right. They were like demons, there to usher in a new era where Hell would rule the Earth.
“Use semi-automatic until you have to switch over,” he shouted. “Make each shot count; we don’t have much ammo.”
He was terrified, but he had become jaded to the fear. It didn’t immobilize him or cloud his focus. His finger relaxed on the trigger, his eyes scanning the enemy. The skin-faces continued to scream until he expected what little glass remained unbroken in the cars around them would explode, and then they rose up together in a deadly wave and surged toward Shane and his friends.
More than half of the aristocrats seated around Athos in Kilnasis’ booth burst to their feet, clapping and cheering as the blonde human killed the massive wolf. General Athos had stood with them, and it was hard for him to remain stoic and not join in their revelry.
“They’re amazing, Uncle!” Pelros shouted. “The humans are everything we expected they’d be.”
“Indeed,” Athos replied, smiling at the young soldier. “The perfect slave soldiers.”
“No species we’ve ever encountered could’ve survived that match,” Kilnasis’ daughter, who stood on the other side of Pelros, said.
Athos knew he had to be careful. He didn’t want to upset Kilnasis, who didn’t seem to mind the idea of his daughter courting Pelros despite his scarred heritage. He looked over at Kilnasis, who had taken up his position behind the podium once again. He raised his hands, trying to calm the crowd so he could speak. From where the general was sitting, it was easy to see that the smile on Kilnasis’ face was forced. He’d just lost a lot of money and his three favorite pets. The royal glanced at Athos, his fake smile fading slightly as if he blamed Athos for the loss.
“Citizens of Anu,” Kilnasis said, calming the spectators. “The humans have proven their strength, beyond our expectations.”
The coliseum exploded in cheers of agreement. Kilnasis raised his hands once more, trying to calm them.
“Yes,” he said once he could be heard. “What we’ve just witnessed was amazing. However, their strength and courage is useless and even dangerous to us without absolute obedience. We still aren’t certain what happened to the other ships. We must have proof that these warriors can be controlled.”
Kilnasis paused. His words hushed the crowd, and Athos sensed the awe of the citizens was tinged with fear. The royal was right. They needed proof that the humans would not turn on them. He worried Kilnasis also wanted vengeance against the three slave soldiers, retribution for the loss of his wolves. The aristocrat glanced around the coliseum, the spectators falling silent. Anticipation for what sport he’d think of to test the slaves charged the air. The people in the booth around Athos had taken their seats, though they sat on the edge, ready to leap to their feet once more.
On the arena floor, the two smaller wolves were revived, sedated, and then carried out. After they loaded the largest on a float, they transported it through a different door in the sidewall. The three humans stood alone, shoulder to shoulder on the arena floor, looking up at the royal and dutifully awaiting their next order. Kilnasis fixed his cold gaze on them.
“Kill the male,” he ordered.
The two females turned without hesitating, one throwing a knee into the male’s stomach and the other taking him in a headlock.
Athos pushed past the aristocrats who sat between him and the speaker’s podium.
“Kilnasis,” he said when he was next to the podium. “Don’t do this.”
“I see no better way of proving their obedience than having them turn on each other,” Kilnasis replied, sounding satisfied that Athos was agitated.
“These are the finest of the slave soldiers we harvested,” Athos continued, trying to stay calm. “They’ll lead the invasion. We can’t waste them.”
“Don’t worry, General,” Kilnasis said, his tone slightly patronizing. “Unless they decapitate him, he will be revived.”
Just then, the crowd roared. The male human threw the female who had his neck, and he backed away from the girls, holding his fists up and ready to fight. Doors opened on either side of the arena, and primitive swords with curved blades were thrown near each of t
he humans.
“By the gods,” Kilnasis said with feigned disappointment. “I guess those weapons might make it hard to bring him back.” “This is unacceptable,” Athos objected.
“You need the people on your side, General,” Kilnasis scolded. “This will guarantee the votes. I’m giving them what they want. You’ll get your army.”
Athos glared at him a moment longer. Shaking his head, he turned back toward his seat. He hated the waste of life, hated the coliseum. Although he knew the royal was vengeful, Kilnasis did know how to manipulate the people. Athos could never get the votes he needed without the royal families’ help. He abhorred that it had to be paid for with the blood of such outstanding slave soldiers.
Just before he sat down, he looked toward the naval officers’ area. A junior officer rushed down the steps to the lowest level and whispered something to the ship’s admiral. The young admiral’s eyes went wide, a hint of panic in his expression. He stood and followed the messenger out of the coliseum, casting a distressed look at Athos as he rushed out.
The clash of swords, amplified by the coliseum’s acoustics, brought his attention back to the humans fighting below. The boy held his curved blade up in front of his head, having just fended off an attack by the girls. Both of their blades held up by his, he kicked one of them in the stomach. She dropped, but then rolled forward, slicing through the weak spot in his armor just behind the knee. The boy fell, and the blonde girl who killed the lone wolf raised her sword above his neck.
“I’ve seen enough,” Athos said to Pelros, looking away before the girl’s weapon came down. “I’m going to talk to the admiral. Wipe their memories after this is over.” He pointed at the arena, but he didn’t look when the crowd exploded into cheers. He knew the girl had decapitated the boy, making it impossible for the medical staff to save him.
“Yes, sir,” Pelros replied, his eyes wide as he stared down at the bloody scene on the coliseum floor.
Athos made his way out of the aristocrats’ seating area and exited the coliseum without glancing down into the arena again. The bloodthirsty crowd had gotten what they wanted and rose to their feet, cheering for the humans. Kilnasis had gotten his vengeance; the blood of the male slave had paid for the defeat of his wolves. The cruel aristocrat had simultaneously guaranteed that the citizens would vote for Athos’ plan. He had to get ready for the invasion of the planet passing above the ship, but he also had to figure out what caused the admiral to rush out of the games acting so flustered. Admiral Vecan loved the games—the bloodier the better. He wouldn’t have left unless he was forced to. Athos hoped it wasn’t more bad news. Losing the entire fleet was enough to last him a millennia.