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 on the 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 halfway 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 seemed to be undecided on what to do. Apparently it decided Charlie was more of a threat, and instead of firing its 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 kicked back 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 Twenty-Nine
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?”
“Fuck this,” Gregor said. “Do you want to stand around here chatting while they come in and blow our brains out? If your man upstairs can see them, let me join him. Give me a clear shot.”
He held his rifle forward.
“Listen to his accent. He’s from the farm,” the woman said.
The man with the crossbow edged back, lowering it. “He’s right though. We’ll deal with this first. Then we talk. Are you armed?”
Before Layla could answer, Gregor said, “Yes. They’re coming upstairs with me.”
“This is the only way in,” the man with the shotgun said. “It’s a side building. Only one entrance to protect.”
Gregor grunted. He grabbed Ben and pushed him forward.
As much as she’d thought he was a cold bastard throughout the years, Layla couldn’t help admiring Gregor’s leadership qualities when the shit hit the fan. He was decisive and made decisions based on what was best for the team rather than himself.
For the first time since she could remember, she felt part of something. Gregor risked himself to come back and save her. And now he didn’t want to leave her downstairs with strangers.
Layla felt integrated like never before, following Gregor as he thumped up the dusty, concrete staircase in his heavy boots.
Upstairs, a man crouched on the right hand side of the room, holding a pistol. He peered through a sliding hatch the size of a small pizza box created halfway up a boarded window. He squinted against the sunlight streaming through the gap, lighting up his face.
“I saw you arrive,” he said. “Where did you learn to ride those things?”
“I used to work in a harvest—” Ben said.
“Shut up, Ben,” Gregor said. He joined the man by the hatch. “Can you see the aliens?”
“They’ve landed and taken to the trees. Must be planning something.”
“Let me look,” Gregor said and stooped down.
The room above was the same size as the one below, about thirty square feet. Its three windows were covered by wooden boards, painted black. Light streamed in through cracks around the edges. Four single mattresses were spaced around, blankets scruffily drawn over each one.
The floor was spattered with various-colored dry blobs of candle wax. It reminded Layla of a Jackson Pollock painting she’d seen at the Guggenheim Museum in New York. A can of Spam held more value in today’s world.
“Use the other window,” the man said, nodding to his left.