Bill emerged from the forest, he burst through grass, driving between the two tanks, firing pistol shots that dinged off the armour pathetically. The foremost tank turned its head laboriously to meet him. It fired a shot at near point blank range. Bill unexpectedly sped ahead. The shot hit the rear tank in its side, molten metal dripped from the gaping hole in its shell, it turned and tried to break, too suddenly, it skidded and crashed into a hill bank, crushing the main gun. It sat, smoking.
Saburo was in awe. He revved his engine and followed Bill through the canopy. Several Yellowjackets did the same, some burst into flame as the remaining tank continued the pursuit.
“He’s fucking furious!” screamed Bill, cackling in the wind.
A Cossack in a brassy old bike joined their formation. “I know a good spot,” he cried. “When I hit my horn—” he did so, a high pitch reedy tone blared out. “-Everyone stop. Understand?”
“Yes!” screamed Bill, still revelling.
“I’ll lead,” cried the Cossack.
He took an abrupt turn to the left, Saburo and the Yellowjackets followed him, fanning out. The tank adjusted course awkwardly, firing shots into the trees.
The formation whipped past, branches clawing at them, they were forced to slow down, but still outpaced the tank considerably. They reached the top of a hill, slowly rolled down, allowing it to catch up. The trees became sparser, and the soil became dry and rocky. Once the tank had vision on them again, the Cossack revved his engine and sped up, and Yellowjackets followed, one bike was popped, sending a shockwave of heat and debris. They hurtled down the hill. The Cossack hit his horn. They all stopped, boots digging into the soil.
The tank sped past them, turning to fire, it flew into the quarry below, falling forward – the cannon was crushed, and the tank landed on its side, throwing up a blanket of dust. Hooded figures clambered out and ran through the quarry, but they were picked off by the bikers above.
Bill looked down to the quarry “LEARN TO DRIVE YOU CUNTS!” he screamed.
43
Loma’s army made a fighting retreat out of the citadel. Hooded bandaged figures crawled out of holes in the concrete like rats, firing automatic weapons in close quarters. The casualties on both sides were horrendous. Melee combat and friendly fire were inevitable in the dark, claustrophobic conditions. When the golems were released, all hope was lost of an easy victory that day, the mercenaries fell back, company by company, and with them followed the rest of the disparate alliance. Many stragglers of her army found themselves lost, cut off in the maze-like catacomb underneath the facility.
Loma’s personal force now contained only 6, including her and Kirwyn. They made their way out of the citadel, inch by agonising inch. Stopping behind cover to fire at their pursuers, they heard gunfire and explosions distantly, both above and below the ground.
They ran down a corridor. A hooded figure jumped out of a room ahead of them, he fired a shotgun, killing one of her men. The rest of them ducked down and entered a nearby room. They heard distant footsteps running towards them, from the corridor they had just passed. Loma glanced out and saw that they were Immortals. She pulled her head back from the doorframe and a shotgun blast punctuated the action, sending shards of wood into a nearby soldier’s face.
“They’re flanking us,” she said. “We have to go.”
“What about the fucker with the shotgun?” asked the Sevenokes soldier, trying to pick splinters from his tattooed face.
“I’ll deal with him,” said Kirwyn. “You go on ahead.” Without time for discussion, Kirwyn lifted his lantern and swung it at the doorway containing the shotgun-toting Immortal. The figure staggered back, avoiding the flame, firing into the wall. Kirwyn leapt through the fire after him. Loma and her remaining men ran past him, firing down the hallway at the flankers as they went.
The flankers were taken unawares, and fell down, shooting wildly from the ground. A bullet hit Loma’s leg and backside, but her armour protected her from serious wounds. One of her men was not so fortunate, he lay screaming on the ground. They could not take him. They ran around a corner. She heard a shotgun blast. She winced, she had to go on.
They rounded another corner and saw the entrance hallway, light poured in from the outside world, their salvation. She heard explosions outside. These rocked the facility slightly, sending dust pouring down the light shaft. They exited the facility, blinking. They saw their fellow soldiers running in disarray, some in clumps, some alone, hundreds of them, making for the safety of the trees. Loma joined them, and her men followed.
Ahead of her, artillery fell. Groups of soldiers erupted like flowers, spreading from the dreadful impact. She could not stop now. She turned around and saw squads of cloaked figures with old cannons, little mortar teams. She turned to fire at them, but it was useless, she did not have the range, she turned back to the wooded hill and saw another explosion far ahead of her. Great chunks of earth were flung up. Limbs ripped off of bodies, craters were left. There was nothing they could do, they had to keep going. All gunfire had stopped. The only sounds were the whistle of the mortars, the deafening explosions and the wails of those unfortunate enough to be wounded by them.
She was hurtling through the air. The world was silent. She fell, her body bouncing like a ragdoll. Men and women fell in pieces around her, splattering her face with mud and blood. A high pitch ring emerged from the void of silence. She blinked slowly, staring at the sky. Explosions fell, muffled in the distance, the screams of agony. She did not speak. She could not move.
She heard a gunshot, faintly, in the distance. And then another. They rang out with regularity. In time the mortars lay silent. She had heard that particular gunshot before, it came from a long rifle.
“Good shooting, kid,” she whispered, smiling, she closed her eyes.
Saburo thundered along the road, surrounded by an assortment of bikers. The holodisk in his breast pocket vibrated. He retrieved it. The co-ordinates of Loma’s ship flittered across his glasses. He stared at them for a moment, then tossed the holodisk to the road. He revved his engines and burned black rubber on the roads.
Alana lay in her nest. She fired again. The artillerymen lumbered with their mortars, trying to find a more suitable position. She knocked one of them through the head, sending the equipment tumbling to the ground. She slid the bolt.
“I am a Ranger,” she whispered to herself.
She fired at another artilleryman. The shot kicked up dust by his leg.
“My weapon is the long rifle, and my aim is—”
She shot him in the body, sending him, tumbling off the roof of the Citadel.
“—true. I do not fight for money or for glory. I fight to protect the meek—”
She fired. Slid the bolt.
“And the innocent.”
She fired. Slid the bolt.
Within the Citadel, Kirwyn lurked in a dirty room, utterly lost. He had stolen one of the black robes of the Immortals, and tried to appear inconspicuous, but feared one of Loma’s men might find him there. He heard soldiers marching, ducked down and cringed. They came to an abrupt stop.
“My lord.” Said one of them.
A figure walked past the doorway. It was deathly pale, with blue veins, and a large elongated head, the end of which was covered by black machinery. Its body was likewise metallic and covered in wires and sockets. Clear plastic tubes hissed gas into its snout. Two large pale blue hands emerged from black sleeves, the nails long and yellow. It spoke to its men.
“What news?” it said, its voice strangely pleasant and soothing.