While the alien’s attention was elsewhere, Denver crept around the front of the craft and walking up the ramp, stepping inside. The atmosphere made him choke as though it was filled with a noxious dry ice. He pulled his shirt over his mouth to help filter the air.
The walls inside were white. To the left was the cockpit section with a single seat in front of a curved glass touch-surface. There was a discernible hum coming from the center of the craft. The whole thing was no more than about thirty feet long and ten wide.
What caught Denver’s attention though was the cabin to the right. On two surfaces of the walls were racks holding what clearly looked like munitions. He reached out and touched a set of three disc-shaped items. They looked like mines. He lifted them off the rack and placed them in his backpack. Not wanting to spend any longer than necessary he turned to leave but something on the lower rack caught his attention: A rifle like the one the alien wielded.
He looked at his own rifle, then the alien one. It was a tough choice. He’d owned his for years, but it was starting to show signs of wear and tear and he was running out of ammo. He’d have to make some more, but right now he needed something to fight this hunter.
The alien rifle was longer by far, but the tubular barrel was vented and made of some extremely lightweight material. He placed his rifle on the rack and lifted the alien weapon. It felt good in his hands and weighed less than half of the old Remington.
“Fuck yes,” Denver whispered. “You’re coming with me.”
He took the alien rifle and the three black boxes next to it, which he assumed to be ammo. They too were extremely light and fit snuggly into the webbing around his pack.
Design wise the gun wasn’t a million miles away from human weaponry, but then he guessed that firing a projectile through a barrel only had so many designs. The stock was large, designed for the hunter’s torso, but it still fit snug in the crook of Denver’s shoulder. The sights were electronic. A slider on the side adjusted the magnification.
The gun had a button above the trigger. When Denver pressed it, the gun hummed and a blue light flashed on the two-inch-square sight window, which now seemed to be like the weapon’s general feedback mechanism.
Something within the rifle whirred and the trigger moved forward a hair. A metallic click coming from the main body of the gun told him that it was loaded. The blue light faded away and a green dot appeared in the middle of the screen.
He ducked his head outside for a moment, confirmed the alien still had its back to the craft. Heading back inside he had an idea.
He followed the vibrations of the humming through the ship, going past the weapon’s rack into what he guessed was the engine compartment. A four-foot high cylinder stood within a vat of blue gel-like substance. A pink tinge came from the perimeter, reminding him of the pink circles on the underside of the shuttles.
It must be the engine; there was nothing else in the ship. Not wanting this fuck-bag to have the luxury of transport, Denver took one of the mine-like devices from his pack and inspected it.
Like all croatoan tech he’d come into contact with over the years, it was the pinnacle of simple, efficient design. If they were to design computers, they would have invented Apple machines, he thought, having seen them back at Mike’s basement.
The mine had just a single mechanism. The same small screen as the rifle’s sights, upon which was a single icon. Denver placed the disc onto top of the cylinder. One had to experiment with these kinds of things if they were to understand what the damned aliens were capable of.
His lungs were starting to protest about the poor air quality and from outside he heard the alien shooting his rifle again. When the rounds didn’t hit near the craft, he realized it must have spotted Maria and his dad.
“Fuck it,” Denver said, pressing the icon on the mine. It flashed blue, then pink, then started to pulse. He turned and dashed down through the corridor of the ship, carrying the alien rifle with him.
He stumbled out and rolled down the ramp before scrambling to his feet and sprinting for the alley. As he did, he shouted at the alien who was leaning against the hood of the old car, his rifle supported out in front of him. “Hey, fucker, over here!”
The alien turned his head and they locked eyes. Denver stopped just inside the alley and held out the alien’s own weapon. “Look what I found. You want it? Come get it?”
As soon as Denver ducked back inside the dark coolness of the alley the air took on a strange feel, as though it suddenly filled with static. Then the explosion came, cutting short as the craft’s hull muffled the sound, but blue and black smoke billowed out of the open door.
The alien roared, grabbed its weapon and sprinted down the street toward Denver. But then it stopped half way as Denver’s dad stepped out from behind a building and fired two shots at the back of the alien hunter. Both missed narrowly, striking the ground at its feet. It spun round and it seemed to be undecided on what to do. It decided Charlie was more of a threat and instead of firing his rifle, raced after him.
“Dad, go!” Denver screamed.
“Get to the warehouse,” his dad shouted back. “You have to get the part, you understand? Forget about us, the part is all that’s important.”
And then he was off, darting into the shadows, his root-infused muscles not making it easy for the alien hunter. Denver was left there on his own, the alien craft destroyed, or at least temporarily broken, and the hunter on his dad’s trail. And of course there was Maria. Could he leave them… what if the hunter caught them? Despite his feelings, he knew his dad was right.
The part would mean the bomb could be completed. It meant they could take out the croatoan mother ship for good. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the cool concrete of the old bank.
Sacrificing yourself for the greater good was one thing, but having to sacrifice those you loved weighed much more heavily. But what could he do? Deciding that his dad had always proven himself to be right, and knowing the hunter wouldn’t have it all his own way, Denver decided to go for the warehouse. He just hoped his dad and Maria had a plan.
He aimed the alien rifle into the sky and pulled the trigger. The gun barely kick backed as it fired with a loud but short crack, making his ears whistle. The motors inside whirred again. At least he knew how it worked. He’d come back for the hunter after he got the part. He just hoped he’d be back in time.
Chapter 29
TWO MORE FIGURES stepped out of the gloom: a man with a shotgun and a woman with a large rusty knife. As Layla’s eyes became accustomed to the light, she could see they’d been using this place as a home.
A camping stove sat in the corner of the filthy dank room. Next to it, a jumble of metal pans and plates. Supplies were moderately stacked against the wall. Some old cans, probably out of date, pitiful looking vegetables, even more so than hers, and several large bottles of cloudy water. Clothing hung on a line near the ceiling. A drip of water fell from a frayed pair of cargo pants.
Croatoan bikes distantly hummed outside.
“They’re landing,” a voice called from above.
“Who are you? Why did you come here?” the man in the hunting jacket said.
Layla touched Gregor’s arm. She said, “We’re running from the creatures outside. These two were attacked this morning in the forest and killed three aliens.”
“Seems a bit strange,” the woman said. “They don’t usually go after survivors. You’re from that farm, aren’t you?”