“We’ll take them head on. Don’t do anything unless I say,” Gregor said.
Igor spun the wheel of his revolver and clicked it back in place. Marek held his gun in both hands.
Gregor moved from behind the tree and quickly broke from the forest. A man and woman turned, wide-eyed. She dropped a ladle. He attempted to say something, then turned to run.
“Stop right there,” Gregor shouted. “We mean you no harm.”
Both put their hands up. The man shuffled round to face him, his bottom lip quivering on his dirt-smeared face. They were in filthy clothes stained with years of grime. If Augustus had a problem with Gregor’s sweater, he couldn’t have met many of the population. These two were throwbacks from a bygone era, peasant-looking types he’d only seen on period dramas before the shit hit the fan.
Marek moved around the right-hand side, covering the flank. “Are there any others we need to know about?”
“It’s only us. Please, we’ve got nothing,” the woman said.
Igor moved ahead of Gregor, looked into the pot, and pointed down. “Nothing, you say? What’s bubbling away here?”
Gregor clenched his teeth and felt his left eye twitch. He bit his lip to keep the appearance of a team.
“It’s just a simple stew. You can have some,” the woman said.
“Mallard and root. We call it duck a l’orange,” the man said. He nervously laughed, abruptly stopping when it was clear that Gregor didn’t find it remotely amusing.
“Give us your supplies, and we’ll go,” Gregor said. “You have time to loot some more. I don’t.”
Igor wrapped his sweater around his hand and grabbed a handle on the side of the pot. “We’ll start by taking this.”
“No,” the woman said. She reached for the other handle. The pot flipped over, and the contents splashed over Igor’s ankles and feet. He jumped back and yelped.
Gregor tried to stifle his laugh. The woman edged backwards.
Igor thrust out his revolver and fired twice into her chest. She collapsed backwards, her right hand flopping onto her chest over the wounds.
The man held out his arms and momentarily froze before kneeling by her side. He clutched her left hand and shook it. “Ellie… Ellie…”
The shots echoed in the distance. Igor picked up a piece of boiled duck by his feet and tossed it into his mouth. Gregor glanced at Marek and nodded.
The man looked up with tears in his eyes. “What have you done? What have you done? This is all we have. You’ve… you’ve killed her.”
Igor stepped forward and fired again. The blood sprayed from the back of the man’s head as the round exited. Igor turned to Gregor. “Whiney pieces of—”
Gregor aimed his weapon at Igor’s face. “Drop it, now.”
Marek quickly moved to Igor’s side and took aim. “He said drop it.”
The revolver twitched in Igor’s hand. He ducked slightly before holding his left palm toward Gregor, crouching, and placing his revolver on the ground. “Steady, old friend. They meant nothing to us.”
Gregor wanted to shoot him. But the years they’d spent together since the invasion had a freezing effect on his trigger finger. “I said don’t do anything unless I said so.”
“She was just a hag,” Igor shrugged. He spat out a piece of duck. “The food tasted like shit anyway.”
“We’ll never know if they had supplies,” Marek said. “We can’t search this whole town. You’ve made this a wasted trip.”
“And you’ve fucked our chances of getting info on Jackson. You’re an idiot,” Gregor said.
Igor smoothed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. He stared at Gregor with his piercing, light blue eyes. “What’s this really about? She was just a hag, an old witch with a cauldron.”
“What’s going on between you and Augustus?” Gregor said.
“Me and Augustus?” Igor said. He shrugged and pursed his lips.
“I heard you talking to him while I was in the garage,” Marek said.
Igor’s eyes half closed as he shot a glance at Marek. “He’s the one you shouldn’t trust. I wasn’t captured by the little wasp.”
“Forget about Marek. I’m the one asking the questions. What were you and Augustus talking about? Don’t even bother denying it,” Gregor said.
“He asked me how things were going. I told him we’re in good shape. What am I supposed to do? Ignore the skinny old bastard?”
“Is that all he said?”
He held his hands toward Gregor as if they were in invisible cuffs. “Would I lie to you, old friend? The things we’ve been through to get here. Seriously?”
Gregor grunted. “If I didn’t need you, Igor… Lead the way back to the bikes. I’ll take your revolver.”
“Have it your way,” he said and started walking away.
Marek picked up his revolver and handed it to Gregor. He whispered, “Are you just going to let him go? He’s up to something. I know it.”
“We need him for the moment with the new targets. I can’t afford to be a man down on the farm.”
“You’re the boss. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Marek said.
Gregor smiled and patted his shoulder. “Trust me; he won’t live to see next winter. Until then, he can work with the livestock and meat-processing.”
Igor turned and waited by forest edge. Gregor longed for the good old days when things were less complicated.
Chapter Twenty
Ben cursed the others and then the aliens and then the whole damned world. A twig snapped against his face as he passed through the dense forest. He pressed his fingers against his cheek and felt the dampness of a stinging cut.
Every sound had him on edge. He held the alien pistol in front of him, aiming at any movement or hint of shadow. The compass kept him on track, and occasionally, he’d come to old trails, buildings, and even some automobiles.
There were a number of them, rusted hulks, their windows and doors sans glass and consumed by weeds and vines and other creeping, green foliage. One thing that struck him was just how quiet it was walking out here on his own. Very few birds or other animals. Certainly, nothing that screeched like the animal that had kept him awake all night.
Tiredness mired his progress and weighed down his legs. The pistol felt heavy in his arms, and the backpack filled with supplies was like an anchor, its hard edge wearing a sore groove into his lower back.
Fuck this, he thought, slumping down on a log. Hefting the pack off, he rubbed his back and looked out ahead of him. There was a clearing maybe only thirty feet away. A few streams of golden light cut through the green gloom, highlighting the dust particles and small, buzzing insects as they looked for their next meal.
Splitting the light every few minutes, the solid shadows of the shuttles descended from the mother ship, whose shadow bled through the dark clouds above. He realized he wasn’t very far off at that point. The weird, pink lights of the shuttles bathed the tops of the trees and then disappeared beyond the cover.
The sound of a voice came to him then. Different accent to the others. Harsher. Foreign for this land. Not wanting to be caught flat-footed and in the open, Ben slipped behind the trunk, pulling the pack with him.
The voices died off, but he could still hear the snapping of twigs getting louder, closer. Perhaps a single person given the regularity of the noise. The trunk made a good rest for the pistol. Ben braced his shoulder against the tree as he looked down the grooved channel that made up the sights.
Dull black, heavy, but accurate and deadly, Ben remembered how lethal the pistol was in Denver’s hands. There’s no way Ben’s aim would be that good, but he knew if this threat came close enough, he’d have more than a good chance of hitting it.