Out of the Dark (47 page)

Of course, no one had done anything about providing them with overhead cover, had they? The “armored” trucks’ cargo compartments still had only their fabric covers, so they remained completely vulnerable to overhead fire, although he supposed he should be grateful his troopers at least had firing ports cut through their “armor.” They could fire from cover
against anyone who
wasn’t
in a position to shoot down at them from above. And there was a light auto-cannon mounted on the “APC’s” cab, as well. There was a downside to that, too, naturally, since nobody had provided a hatch to seal the access trunk to the gun position in bad weather. The best he’d been able to do was rig a tarp across the gun and snug it down, and even then icy rainwater kept dripping down onto the driver and the communications tech squeezed up against the right side door.

And did we get any RC drones?
Laifayr asked himself sardonically.
Of course we didn’t!
They’re
getting too thin on the ground, too, aren’t they? Cainharn! I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a colonizing expedition a
twelfth part
as fucked up as this one!

He wasn’t supposed to know just how bad the equipment shortages had become, but he doubted any officer anywhere had ever managed to keep the regular troopers from knowing things they “weren’t supposed to know.” That was the nature of reality in the Emperor’s service. And, to be fair, he was pretty sure—well, maybe not quite
that
sure—that the shortages were worse in Ground Base Two Alpha’s zone than elsewhere. Things had been so much quieter around here, at least until recently, that the other ground bases had been assigned a higher priority for already scarce equipment.

Yeah, and the
last
damned thing you want, Laifayr, is for the situation to change enough that they suddenly decide they have to start transferring combat equipment back into
your
zone to deal with it!

That wasn’t the way a Shongair trooper, a Shongair hunter, was supposed to think, but Laifayr had become a sadder and a wiser Shongair. It was one thing to hunt aborigines armed with flint-tipped arrows or even iron swords and spearheads. It was quite another to hunt somebody who not only had firearms but personal weapons which were actually
better
than one’s own. And, frankly, the sooner he got far, far away from these lunatic humans, the better he’d like it!

He grimaced and leaned closer to the windshield, rubbing at the mist which had condensed on its inner surface, and peered through the water-streaming crystoplast.

They were rolling into one of the humans’ towns—the one called “Brevard” on the maps. There didn’t seem to be many of the aliens about at the moment, though. Not too surprisingly, probably, in this weather. He knew they were virtually out of fuel for their vehicles, and
he
damned well wouldn’t have been out walking in rain like this unless he absolutely had to!

He thought about ordering the communications tech up onto the auto-cannon, given the opportunities for ambushes the town’s buildings afforded. On the other hand, the one thing even humans weren’t stupid enough to do anymore was to actually ambush Shongairi inside one of their towns. They’d had ample evidence of what would happen to any town within two of their miles of where something like
that
happened!

No, if anything was likely to happen, it wouldn’t be inside one of their towns or cities. On the other hand. . . .

“Slow down a little,” he told the driver, scrubbing off more condensation—this time on the side window—and looking into the rain-blurred rearview mirror on his side for the headlights of the other two semiarmored cargo haulers of his outsized squad. He could see only one set of lights, and he grimaced. “Let the others catch up a bit before we head back out into the country.”

“Yes, Senior Squadron Commander,” the driver replied, and Laifayr returned his efforts to peering through the windshield once more as the vehicle slowed a little.

He couldn’t see much, and he glanced at his awkwardly mounted thermal viewer. It was a standard infantry model, fitted to the “APC” as best the techs could manage, and squeezing it in hadn’t been easy. He had to bend over and crane his neck uncomfortably to use it, which was probably one reason he didn’t spend more time looking through it. Besides, the infantry model wasn’t worth much compared to the ones normally mounted in the real APCs and GEVs. It was shorter ranged and less sensitive, and rain like this really hammered its range back. Under
these
conditions, he’d probably see anything worth seeing with his unaided eyes before he’d pick it up with that piece of junk!

Not that there
is
anything to see right this minute,
he thought grumpily, and sat back once more, thinking longingly of the patrol’s end.

•  •  •  •  •

Sam Mitchell’s SUV came scooting out of Hannah Ford Road onto US-64. Its headlights were off, despite the bad weather and limited visibility, and Dave Dvorak and Rob Wilson felt a huge surge of relief as they saw it. Unfortunately, the game plan had been for the convoy to turn to the right and travel another mile to the point at which 64 intersected Island Ford Road and Cathey’s Creek Road. From there, it would head up Cathey’s Creek to the National Forest Road, a little over three miles northwest of Brevard.
That twisting, circuitous, heavily overgrown road would take them deep into the Pisgah Forest, where concealment would be much more easily come by. Eventually, they would reconnect with US-276 around Waynesville, then head across into Tennessee by way of the back roads that ran up over Eaglenest Mountain.

Which would have been just fine . . . if it hadn’t required them to go
north
first—directly towards the oncoming Shongair patrol.

Wilson was waiting outside the tree line with a Maglite flashlight, and he speared the windshield of Mitchell’s SUV with the light’s diamond-bright beam the instant he saw it. Mitchell braked hard, then leaned out the driver’s window.

“What?”
he shouted.

“Take ’em south!” Wilson shouted back. “Pick up 215, then take it up to the Parkway and cross into Tennessee that way!”

Mitchell didn’t hesitate, despite the abrupt change in plans. He only nodded back, then accelerated south along the divided highway in a splattering slipstream of rain. The buses, trucks, and vans of the rest of his little convoy came hurtling out of Hannah Ford Road right behind him, following his taillights, and Wilson ran sloshingly through the rain to join his brother-in-law.

“Any sign of them yet?” he panted, flopping down in the sodden leaves, and Dvorak shook his head without looking away from the road. He had his big rifle’s bipod firmly settled, and he’d laid out his extra magazines.

“Nope,” he said now. “I expect they’ll be along any minute, though. Question is, what do we do about them?”

“If they’re willing to leave us alone, then I move we leave
them
alone,” Wilson replied, wiggling into a comfortable firing position of his own. “I think Sam’s got a pretty good head start. If they aren’t coming pretty fast, I doubt they’ll spot any of his vehicles. And once he gets off 64 onto 215, he’ll have that ridge between him and the highway.”

“Agreed,” Dvorak said, and looked at him. Neither of them wanted to admit the fear they felt. The new route Wilson had just sent Mitchell along ran within less than eight miles of the cabin and their family. If the Shongairi
did
spot the escaping convoy and went in pursuit. . . .

Would it be better to go ahead and ambush them here?
Dvorak wondered tensely.
We’re five miles from Sam’s turnoff. If we were to nail them here,
would it keep them from following him up, closer to the cabin? But on the other hand, we don’t have a clue how many of the bastards there are. For that matter, if they never even notice us, if they just drive on by, then
. . . .

•  •  •  •  •

The patrol’s vehicles had closed up nicely again, Senior Squad Commander Laifayr decided, watching the headlights of the other two vehicles in the mirror. Another day-twelfth or so, and they could turn around and head back towards their home base at the human town of Old Fort . . . not that he was looking forward to that horrible stretch of the humans’ “interstate” between there and Black Mountain. The only good thing about Old Fort Mountain was that they’d be going
down
it this time, although that had its own drawbacks in weather like this.

Cainharn, this whole damned
planet
has its drawbacks!
he grumbled to himself.

•  •  •  •  •

His name was Jamison Snelgrove. He was a thirty-six-year-old lawyer who’d enjoyed a promising career before the Shongairi arrived, and his wife Melanie was pregnant with their second child.

Neither of them had wanted the nightmare which had enveloped their world over the last three and a half months, and they’d done their best to ride out the storm at Melanie’s folks’ North Carolina farm. They’d been making out fairly well—not everybody was well fed, and none of them were looking forward to the coming winter, but they’d been making it.

Until Melanie went into premature labor, anyway.

The phones were down, of course, and the nearest doctor they knew about was in Brevard, so that left only one thing to do. Fortunately, they’d been hoarding gasoline against exactly this sort of an emergency.

Which is how Jamison and Melanie Snelgrove came out of Hannah Ford Road onto US-64 barely three minutes behind the convoy of refugees and just as Senior Squad Commander Laifayr’s patrol came down it from Brevard, headed south in the northbound lane.

•  •  •  •  •

“Shit!”
Rob Wilson hissed as the pickup truck came hurtling out of Hannah Ford so fast it fishtailed on the wet pavement when the driver turned north.

“Take it easy!” Dvorak responded. He’d flipped up the lens covers on his
rifle sight and was peering through it towards the headlights which had just appeared to the north of their position. “May be the best thing that could’ve happened. If the patrol stops these folks and they’ve got a legitimate reason to be out here, it’ll delay the puppies long enough for Sam to get his people completely out of sight.”

“Yeah, we can
hope
,” Wilson muttered.

•  •  •  •  •

Senior Squad Commander Laifayr blinked as he saw the headlights appear suddenly in front of him. They were headed directly towards him, and they had that peculiar blue-white intensity only humans’ headlights had. It was the first time he’d seen a human vehicle on his patrol route in the last five days, though, and he felt himself perking with curiosity.

Probably one of the local government’s official vehicles,
he thought.
No one else would have the fuel to be out here.

•  •  •  •  •

“Jimmy!”
Melanie Snelgrove screamed as she saw the trio of headlights suddenly coming directly towards them on their side of the road. The color didn’t look right to her, and then her eyes went even wider as she made out the poorly seen silhouettes behind them. She’d never seen anything quite like them, and she knew—without question or doubt—that those weren’t
human
-designed trucks.

Jamison saw them, too. He stared at them for half a heartbeat, then wrenched his head around towards his wife. Melanie was white-faced with fear, hands clutching her abdomen as another of those terrifying, premature contractions ran through her.

Half a hundred chaotic thought fragments flashed through Jamison’s brain. There wasn’t time for any of them to truly register, be completely thought out. They were bits and pieces. His terrified wife. Their unborn child. Rain beating on the pickup’s windshield and side windows. The uncertainty of how the aliens would react. Hum of hot air through the defroster vents. Fear for what might happen to Melanie. Fear that even if the aliens had no hostile intent, they would delay him, keep him from reaching the doctor in time. Clicking sound of windshield wipers. Reports and rumors about clashes with the Shongairi. Pickup tires hissing on wet pavement as they carried him towards the alien vehicles. . . .

All of that flashed and chattered and yammered in his brain, and his hands acted without command. He slammed the wheel hard around to the
left, stamped on the gas pedal, and accelerated desperately south, away from the oncoming patrol.

•  •  •  •  •

Laifayr shot bolt upright in his seat as the human vehicle suddenly turned away. It accelerated with amazing speed, rocketing away from him like a Deathwing with its tail on fire. He’d heard that the absurdly overpowered human vehicles had better acceleration rates than anything except a GEV, but this was the first time he’d actually seen it demonstrated. Still. . . .

“After them!” he snapped at his driver.

•  •  •  •  •

“Fuck, fuck,
fuck
!” Wilson snarled as the pickup truck abruptly whirled around.

He had no idea why the driver of that vehicle had decided to run for it. Maybe the idiot had a perfectly good reason—a reason even Rob Wilson would have approved of, or at least sympathized with, if he’d only known what it was. But at this moment, the only thing Wilson could think of was that fleeing pickup truck leading the Shongair patrol straight towards Sam Mitchell’s convoy.

“Wh—?” he began, but the deafening blast of his brother-in-law’s rifle answered the question before he ever got it asked.

•  •  •  •  •

Dave Dvorak had spent hours studying diagrams and sketches—even a few digital photos—of Shongair vehicles. Most of the photos only showed the vehicles driving by, and even the ones that showed them parked and motionless were usually taken from far enough away to show considerably less detail than he would have preferred. The diagrams had helped a lot, though, and between them he’d established clearly in his mind where the driver of any given vehicle was likely to be. More than that, one of the diagrams Sam Mitchell had brought him had given him a detailed feel for where the Shongairi kept the radios, and the range was barely a hundred and fifty yards.