“They used it like a battering ram,” Marek said. “Livestock fled through the gap.”
“Wasn’t he just trying to help other humans?” Ben said.
Gregor scoffed. “A few croatoan soldiers were still around back then. They hunted down every human they could find. Livestock, survivors, whoever. They purged the area clean.”
“How did Charlie and Denver get away?”
“It’s the same every time,” Marek said. “They just vanish like ghosts. Probably into a network of hideouts like the one over there.”
Gregor looked over the ferns. Something caught his eye: a flash. He whispered, “Get down.”
Marek shouldered his rifled, aiming it toward the shelter. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. Someone’s out there, close.”
A twig snapped. Gregor peered through the ferns.
Three figures moved through the trees forty yards to their left. Unmistakable croatoan movement. Bouncing along as if taking individual one-legged jumps, short pauses between each one. An alien passed through rays of sunlight that streamed through the trees in two thick beams. Its visor glinted in the sunlight.
“Looks like our riders,” Gregor said.
“What the fuck are they doing here?” Marek said.
Gregor put his finger to his lips. The aliens stopped short of the shelter and stood behind three individual trees. After several seconds, they sprang out and rapidly moved to the entrance. All had weapons drawn.
“Holy shit. They’re attacking,” Gregor said.
“Attacking who?” Ben said.
“Exactly.”
One pulled a tennis-ball-shaped silver object from its belt and threw it into the shelter. An alien grenade. The croatoans stood to one side.
Gregor had seen them plenty of times before but usually carried by the croatoan soldiers, not the smaller patrollers that looked after farm security and local transport. They wouldn’t carry out an action like this unless under orders.
Smoke drifted from the entrance following a dull blast.
“Get your grenades ready,” Gregor said.
“What?” Marek said.
“We’re taking them out. Give me the rifle; get a couple of grenades ready to go. Now.”
“What do you want me to do?” Ben said.
“Two croatoans disappeared down the stairs. I’ll shoot the one above. We sprint straight to the entrance. You drop the grenades, and I’ll provide covering fire. Got it?”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Marek said.
Easy from this range, Gregor thought. His shot smashed through the side of the alien’s helmet.
Marek immediately jumped up and ran with a grenade in each hand. Gregor followed, aiming at the alien who sank to its knees and keeled over backwards. Ben appeared by his side, holding his revolver forward. Not what Gregor had anticipated but a welcomed bonus. He’d thought Ben would be a useless coward.
Diving to the ground next to the entrance, Marek reached around it and threw down both grenades in quick succession. A shot fired out of the opening. The metallic snaps of a croatoan gun.
Gregor knelt by the side with rifle shouldered. Ready to take out anything that appeared. Ben trained his weapon from the opposite side, aiming at an angle.
Both grenades erupted in quick succession like a thunderous double-tap.
Mud and smoke spewed out of the shelter.
Smoke cleared. An alien hand shakily reached out of the entrance before flopping to the ground.
Marek sprinted to the downed alien outside and grabbed the weapon by its side. Gregor edged around the entrance, aiming into the hazy gap. One alien lay against the dirt wall. Its uniform was ripped around its body armor, and its helmet was smashed. The other slumped at the top of the stairs, the bottom half of its right leg missing.
Gregor gritted his teeth and stamped on the croatoan’s visor, smashing it like an eggshell. The alien let out a light wheeze as its skin crackled.
“What the fuck?” Marek said.
“We need to warn the others,” Gregor said. “The croatoans are turning. Layla was right. It’s happening now.”
He glanced at the three dead aliens and scowled.
Augustus. It had to be him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Layla sat in the chocolate factory peering at monitors. Results increased by fifty-five percent since they designated harvesters to the land she’d helped pinpoint. It wasn’t what she wanted anymore. It wouldn’t be what any human wanted.
She’d arrived at the monitors as Igor was taking off in the square, the same time as the surveyors. They buzzed around in the usual fashion, business as usual stuff. Mixing soil samples in glass tubes, poring over charts, and generally appearing fussy. To avoid looking too suspicious, Layla moved to the back of the building.
Vlad slumped against the desk, oblivious to it all. He yawned and twiddled a pen. “Do you want a coffee? I’ve still got some of that freeze-dried crap left. A bit gravelly but…”
“No thanks. Have you seen anything different around here in the last couple of weeks?” Layla said.
“What do you mean? Like croatoan stuff? It’s all alien to me.”
Vlad seemed to have thrown up the mental shutters long ago. He didn’t care about anything, at least not when she tried to strike up a conversation. Layla couldn’t decide whether to feel jealous or sorry for him.
Her planned task for today was to check the occupants of the breeding lab. Events of the last two days had a horrible effect of pushing reality to the surface. Survival was no longer an excuse. The thin self-justification for her actions had vanished, and she knew it.
She got up and sighed. “I’ll leave you to it. Speak later.”
The job still had to be done. It wasn’t all about her personal feelings. Twenty women, humans, needed their welfare checking.
Croatoans streamed out of the door ahead of Layla. Outside, it was raining.
They circled around, taking off their gloves and jiggling their fingers. She hugged the side of the building to keep dry and headed for the breeding lab.
Livestock still had sex. One of the remaining human instincts or urges that hadn’t been stripped away by the croatoan regime. It was a daily occurrence in the paddock, embarrassing at first, but she’d gotten used to it.
At least the croatoans had stopped finding human intercourse a source of interest. They’d often gather around the paddock and watch, pointing at the male’s penis and clicking loudly.
The novelty wore off after a few months. Layla thought it was childish, like her former student colleagues who’d giggle at clips of animals having sex.
A tractor rumbled across the square. Alex, wearing her bright yellow waterproof, drove it from the meat factory toward the paddocks. She stopped when she saw Layla and called, “I took one in yesterday. Give me a shout if they need any more food.”
“Will do, thanks,” Layla said, holding her thumb up.
The tractor rumbled away, cutting a dirty track across the damp ground.
Any female exhibiting a bump would be identified, usually by Alex, during feeding time, and they’d be sent to the breeding lab. They were fed slop, kept inside, and monitored until they gave birth. Alex played midwife. Layla would assist if she were around. She hadn’t been required lately although a couple of women were only a matter of days away.
Layla took a deep breath and opened the door.
Inside, the roof echoed with the sound of a single woman’s quiet sobbing.
Symptoms of stress were common. Women would bite their nails, refuse to eat, and often shake. The paddock was their natural environment, unlike the enclosed walls, a single bed, and waste bucket. Layla had given up trying to offer comfort. It had a scarring effect. And when one started crying, others in adjoining rooms would often join them.