Denver launched himself off the couch, screaming, “No!”
Bracing for impact, Gregor squeezed off a shot before Denver landed a stiff right jab to Gregor’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.
The shot went wide, just missing Khan’s right ear.
The boy screamed in shock.
The impact against the floor winded Gregor. He dropped the pistol from his hand and tried to punch Denver in the ribs, but the taller, heavier man had already straddled him and grabbed his throat, squeezing his windpipe.
Denver lifted his right fist high, ready to bring it down.
Gregor didn’t resist. He just smiled at the kid, waiting for him to prove that he had balls like his old man. “Go on, then,” he mocked as he waggled his jaw from side to side. The kid had a decent jab on him; he’d give him that.
“Stop,” came a voice from the edge of the room.
It wasn’t human.
“Stop… fighting.”
Raspy, heavy with bass, and punctuated with weird clicking could mean only one thing. Twisting his head and looking over, Gregor saw the damned alien move closer and place his gnarled hand on Denver’s shoulder.
“No,” it said, shaking its head.
“The damn things speak English now?” Gregor said as Denver reluctantly removed himself and stood back.
The alien loomed over Gregor and extended its hand. “No harm,” it wheezed.
Gregor slapped it away and rolled over onto his front. He got to his feet and rubbed his jaw as he swayed on unsteady feet. Looking at the overly amused Layla, he asked, “What the hell’s going on here?”
“Please, Gregor, take a seat. We’ve something to show you,” Khan said, running a hand through his dark, short hair. He scratched at his black scruff on his cheeks and stared at Gregor with those strangely intense and wild dark eyes of his. Although of a similar age to Denver, being born during the ice age, Gregor noticed an old soul in him.
A tracker and a bit of a wild man, he appealed to Gregor’s sense of self-sufficiency. He even liked how awkward he appeared in this setup.
Whereas Layla and now Maria and Denver were happy writing reports and organizing projects, Khan looked like the kind of guy who was happier stalking prey in the woods.
Tipping his head to the young man, Gregor turned and walked up to the bar, pulled out a stool, and sat down next to Maria. She didn’t look at him—no one did. All eyes, including his, were on the alien.
“So what do we call it?” Gregor said.
“Her,” Khan replied. “She’s called Venrick, and she was head of croatoan operations in Eastern Farm Twenty. She joined the group when they headed north.”
Venrick nodded her large turtle-like head and blinked her good eye.
Although a croatoan speaking English was new to Gregor, he’d quickly got over the initial shock. It wasn’t entirely surprising. Before the shit hit the fan, Augustus had instigated a new language-learning system. The plan was to teach both croatoans and humans a new combined language based on English.
“Venrick and the others left to follow a distress signal a week after the escape pods landed,” Khan added. “I saw various groups of them firsthand as they headed across the border into Ontario. But when they passed Lake Simcoe, they only got a few kilometers before… well, perhaps you’d like to show your video, Venrick?”
The alien chattered an affirmation and shuffled over to the media screen. She took a data card from a pocket within her armor and placed it in the port of the screen. Turning to face the others, she added, “One pod found, we take, but others… too far. We travelled toward pods, but we met…” She struggled to find the words, her leather lips unable to form the correct shape for the sounds.
Khan filled in. “They met resistance.”
Gregor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees; this was starting to sound very interesting indeed.
“Via her helmet cam, Venrick caught the… well, let’s just play it.” Khan and Venrick walked away and sat on a couch next to Denver and Layla’s. Everyone stared up at the screen, waiting for the video to play.
It switched on; the sound of gunfire and excited clicking burst from the hidden wall speakers. Gregor reflexively startled as a gun fired from behind him.
It took him a few split seconds to realize it was just the audio on the film. The images shook and it took a while to work out what he was looking at.
In a field wider than the camera’s angle, hundreds of croatoans wearing the familiar farm-issue armor ran panicked in all directions.
Bodies were falling to the ground by the dozens.
Two pods lay haphazardly in the center of the battle, and it appeared they were the prize for the winners.
To Gregor’s surprise, the opposition were also croatoans. But these ones were entirely different. And not just their dress, which appeared to be adapted human clothes.
Bizarrely, one, a particularly large commander of some type, led the charge while wearing a double-breasted suit. Different colored fabrics were sewn in the elbows, legs and knees in order for it to fit the alien physiology.
Mixed in with these strangely dressed aliens were a ragtag band of humans. Wild-eyed and wearing rags and tatty jeans, they mobbed the farm aliens and cut them down with a mix of crudely made melee weapons and alien rifles.
The sheer numbers of them overran the field.
Venrick must have panicked at that point because the film became wild as she turned and fled into the woods.
“Back up a few seconds,” Gregor said, having spotted something in the battlefield.
Khan did as requested.
“Freeze it.”
There on the screen, in the shadows of the fight, an alien pulled a human from a pod. Venrick zoomed in. It was…
“Charlie goddamned Jackson!”
CHAPTER THREE
Charlie tried to crouch and catch his breath. For the first time in years his limbs felt weak. Sweat coated his clothes and the breeze tickled at the hair on his neck. He squinted against the sun and reached down to grab some root.
The metal cable noose tightened around his neck. He scrambled backwards trying to maintain balance as a croatoan yanked him with the pole he was attached to like some errant dog. The alien dragged him through the sunbaked field of flourishing orange crops.
Charlie tried to reposition his hands underneath the restraint to protect his neck wound. He licked his lips and swallowed hard. “If you want to keep me alive, you’ve a funny way of showing it.”
The croatoan ignored his words and pulled again, crushing Charlie’s blistered fingers.
He couldn’t accept his final act would be screaming as they fed him into a meat-processing machine and turned into silver trays of slop. Not that… anything but that.
For the last five minutes, faint sounds drifted across the breeze. He glanced over his shoulder. The trail of croatoans headed into a massive basin. Half of the ten aliens had already disappeared down it.
The sweet odor of the root field quickly changed to a nostril-invading stench. A mixture of cooking meat and dung wafted up from the basin.
Distant noises became clearer: the repeated clank of metal being struck, a dog barking, a rapid rhythmic sound of sawing wood. And then raised human voices, one laughing. Nothing like any farm he’d previously stalked and attacked.
The croatoan slowed as the ground changed from harvested land to a dirt road on a steep incline. Another alien stalked close with its strange bouncing gait and stopped to have a staccato conversation with Charlie’s captor.
Both of their uniforms were old and tatty. The body armor was faded and stained, their visors lacking their usual trademark sheen.
Charlie reached out and gripped the pole, twisting himself around to try to get a better view of his intended destination.