Darren Wearmouth - Critical Path

Denver looked away, rubbing his neck. His eyes flickered to gaze upon the complex over Gregor’s shoulder before focusing back on the root.

“What do you want from me?” Denver asked, his voice raspy, but with the edge of desperation that Gregor had heard so many times before from junkies.

“I want you to remember who you are and what you do. You’re a killer, Denver. The aliens’ worst nightmare. You promised to kill every single one in your path, remember? And here you are letting one lead us into God knows what. Listen to me. I’ll give you all the root you need to be who you are again, but first you’ve got to work with me to take out Venrick. Once we know the location of the battle and your old man’s pod, you and I will… dispose of her services.”

Denver reached for the root, but Gregor pulled it away. “Are you clear on what you have to do for this?”

He wanted the kid to say it.

After a moment of thought, the trembles now more visible in his hands, Denver nodded once. “I got it. Give me the root and I’ll kill the damned alien myself.”

He only had to sow the seed and offer the promise of the drug, and junkies would do almost anything. For Denver, this was just the start; he didn’t have a clue as to what Gregor would lead him to do for more root.

Smiling a satisfied grin, Gregor handed Denver the syringe and leaned back, watching him shoot the root into a vein in his wrist.

You’re mine now, son.

“Look smart,” Gregor said as he hid the leather wallet in his jacket. Khan, along with Maria, Layla, and the soon-to-be-dead Venrick, approached with their gear, ready to head north into Canada.

Denver’s eyelids drooped for a few moments as the root took effect.

When the others turned up, he was back to his old self, helping out with the packs, being the go-to guy, but Gregor noticed the way he looked at Venrick as the alien approached on her back-to-front legs.

Her greenish-brown scales shimmered in the sun, and her tubes made a sucking sound as she breathed in the root-enriched air from the tanks on her back.

Gregor noticed that Denver eyed them, no doubt wondering how to get to the root inside.

But the kid wouldn’t have a chance.

Not if Gregor could help it.

Augustus peered into the gloomy cell, checking on his two most valuable inmates. Jackson sat cross-legged opposite Baliska, who quietly clicked.

They would meet in the arena. The Doombringer versus the hunter.

Another fight to boost Augustus’ personal popularity. He would be observing as Unity’s sole ruler. No stupid council, no lying prostitute, just him on a single chair.

A new Earth-uniting emperor.

Augustus clinked a dagger across the window’s thin iron bars.

“Shame about your champion. Is that the best you’ve got?” Jackson said.

“You did me a favor. But you won’t last forever. I’ll certainly not be awarding you a rudis.”

“A what?”

“A wooden freedom sword. My Doctore owns one. They’re given to a gladiator who wins his freedom. Didn’t you learn anything from your studies?”

“I specialized in American history. Unlike you, we were not a group of barbarians before the invasion.”

Augustus jabbed his dagger between the bars, in Charlie’s direction. “The Roman Empire had great buildings, baths and villas with heated rooms and tiled floors while people on this continent lived in tipis. Don’t you dare lecture me about history. Save your venom for your next fight.”

He gestured to the guard to open the gates and headed out, concealing his dagger under his robe. An essential weapon for nighttime excursions around Unity.

Moonlight radiated through the wispy clouds, illuminating with streaks of silver the rooftops of the tatty buildings that lined the twisting dirt roads.

Weak light from lanterns and candles shone from windows and doorframes.

Raised voices came from the tavern at the end of the road. The destination for his meeting. Augustus hated mixing with these low-ranking people. Although he knew he required the respect of the bottom-feeders in order to manipulate them.

A small price to pay to satisfy his ambitions. A crucifixion or two would bring them in line later.

A painted white plank with black lettering hung above the door, saying No Croatoans. The perfect attitude for him to exploit. Divide and conquer. Augustus checked the straightness of his mask and pushed open the door.

Conversations immediately stopped as patrons turned to identify the new arrival. Augustus glanced at the ten tables spread around the plain rectangular room.

“Good evening,” he said.

He received a murmured response. The patrons resumed their conversations. The place stank with a mixture of stale, beer-soaked floorboards and root smoke—the latter clouding the room. Augustus headed to the bar at the far end of the tavern.

A man and woman ascended a set of wooden stairs halfway along the room. She slapped his backside. He could be trading intercourse for food or vice versa. They might have just had a drink and decided to rut.

A young woman behind the bar, one of Augustus’ spies, placed a porcelain cup filled with root wine in front of him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Anytime, darling,” the spy said with a smile before she rushed off to continue serving other patrons.

Most things were free for him in Unity. His payment came in the form of providing entertainment. A steady stream of fighters, usually human strays, but more recently, croatoans from harvesters or farms in a state of confusion after the ship crashed.

Three preinvasion men sat around a table in the corner of the room. Augustus had had them under observation for weeks. Pragmatic survivors, never mixing with croatoans, probably living in Unity for the safety and food it provided. He walked over and placed his cup on the table. “Mind if I join you?”

One of them men, sporting a wiry gray beard, glanced around the tavern. He nodded and shuffled along the bench, creating room for Augustus. “Quite a show at the arena today. Is it true what you said about him?”

Augustus sat down. The two on the other side of the table glared at him. Their weather-beaten faces from working the land, scruffy shirts and unkempt beards gave them a thuggish quality.

“It’s all true,” Augustus said. “But he’s in desperate need of some attitude realignment.”

“He should be given a medal. From what I hear, this could be the end for the croatoans,” Gray-beard said.

“Given half a chance, Jackson would destroy our town. But you’re right about the croatoans. Which is why I’m here.” He lowered his voice. “I have a proposition.”

One of the men sitting opposite, with a scar running along the side of his face, regarded Augustus. “Why should we trust you? We know you’ve been in bed with them. You used to come here in a shuttle.”

Augustus shrugged and sipped his wine. “I protected this place. What do you think would have happened if the croatoan council knew about Unity? I worked from the inside to cut the best deal possible for humanity.”

Gray-beard grunted. “Some deal. I’ve been south and seen the farms. We’re nothing but animals to them.”

“Keep your voice down,” Augustus said. “That bitch has spies everywhere. You’ll end up with a wooden jacket if she hears about our conversation. And the correct phrase is: were nothing but animals. That’s all over now.”

“Bitch? You mean Aimee? She’s okay. There can’t be many other places running like this around the world. As strange as Unity is, it works,” Gray-beard said.

“Without the mother ship, we can reclaim the planet, using Unity as a new base for an empire,” Augustus said. “There’s around seventy thousand croatoans on Earth, probably a lot less after people realized what Jackson did. Millions of humans are still alive on farms or living rough. The problem is coordination. Getting people together to successfully and easily wipe out the aliens.”