Nicholas Smith - Hell Divers

“That was Ares ?” Magnolia asked, as if reading his thoughts.

X checked his mission clock. The blue numbers were steadily ticking down. “Yep,” he said. “And if we don’t hurry, the Hive is going to look just like that.”

Magnolia picked up her pace, her boots crunching in the snow behind him. “Think anyone else made it?”

“Everyone else is dead. If they had survived, we would see their beacons. Keep moving.”

They didn’t have the luxury of time to mourn their dead. He waved the team forward, breaking into a trot toward a stretch of snow that sloped into a valley. That was where most of the buildings were—and, according to the nav flag on his HUD, also the location of the first crate.

At the edge of the downslope, he signaled to stop. Tony joined him, crouching by his side. Both pulled out their binos to scan the city.

“Looks like that bridge leads into the city and the industrial zone,” X said. “The crates should be on the other side.”

“They never can get them close, can they?” said Katrina, behind them.

“Looks like there’s a way down over here,” Tony said. He trained his binos on a stretch of highway that curved down into the valley. The wind had cleared the ancient roads, exposing a strange-looking vehicle. X had never seen the like. He zoomed in on the turret that topped the boxy machine. Mounted on it was what appeared to be a cannon of some sort.

Moving his scope to the left, he saw a half-dozen of the strange machines of war.

“Let’s go,” X said. He led the team along the edge of the bluff and down a slick, icy hillside to the highway. With his blaster leveled over the street, he ran toward the armored trucks, or whatever they were.

He slowed as he drew near the massive machines. Icy pieces of the armored shell were scattered around the vehicles. The one good thing about this place, he reflected, was that the freezing temperatures had preserved much of the Old World. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what lay beneath the mounds of snow burying the rest of the city.

A quick scan of the road showed no immediate threats. X lowered his blaster and brushed the snow off the back of the closest vehicle.

The comm flared to life. “We should keep moving,” Tony said.

“Hold up,” X replied. “I just need a second.” Squinting, he read the lettering aloud. “M-three Abrams… built in 2029, in Lima, Ohio.”

He brushed away more snow.

“United States Army.”

X took a step back, remembering the bulkhead on the Hive ’s bridge. The same name was engraved in a plaque above the entrance to the room. Like the M3, the Hive had been commissioned for war. He had known it before, but seeing the armored vehicles, and the monster crater a few days before, reminded him that people had done this. Humans had destroyed this world.

“You good, X?” A hand shook his shoulder gently. It was Katrina, and he could tell by her soft voice she was ready to get moving.

X nodded, then froze. A new dot was blinking on his HUD—something that should be impossible in this lifeless place.

“We got a contact,” Tony said.

“I see it,” X replied. The dot was some sort of beacon, but the signal didn’t match anything from the Hive . Whatever it was, it was moving.

“What do you make of this, Murph?” X asked.

The engineer trotted up to his location. “It’s not one of ours.”

“I know that,” X said. “So what do you think it is?”

Tony stepped forward. “I could give you a theory.”

“I’m listening.”

“One of the Sirens took the beacon off a dead Ares diver. Hell, maybe it swallowed it.”

“Or maybe somebody from Ares survived the dive,” Magnolia said.

X furrowed his brow. “No way in hell they could last out here this long, though, right? And no way anyone survived that crash.”

“Right,” Katrina said. “Couldn’t be a survivor.”

“Has to be something else,” X said. “Let’s find a path around.” He flashed an advance signal, but Katrina grabbed his shoulder a second time.

“Wait,” she said. “If it’s a Siren, then why does it look like it’s on a direct route to one of our supply crates?”

X checked the map. She was right. The beacon was moving toward their supplies.

“I don’t know,” X replied. “But we’re going to find out.”

The animal pen stank of manure, but Tin didn’t dare move. He kept his eye up against the fence, peering through an inch-wide gap at the armed men in the distance, trying meanwhile not to breathe in the awful smell.

The chickens were crowding the enclosure around him, pecking at morsels in the dirt and generally doing whatever chickens did. Gently, to avoid causing a ruckus among the hens, Tin scooted away from them and caught a glimpse of Silver, in the next pen. Watching the men outside the plastic clean room, the dog let out a low growl. Lilly went over to him, her ears perked. Heartened that the dogs were keeping watch, too, Tim squirmed back to the fence for a better look.

The two men walked away from the plastic vestibule—the same room Tin had visited two days ago. The man with the black dreadlocks turned to another guy, who wore a scarf over his face.

“I told you not to shoot anyone, Alex!”

“Sorry, Trav, but the guard aimed his gun at—”

The one named Travis snatched the rifle from Alex and backhanded him. The blow knocked away Alex’s scarf, exposing tight, scarred flesh on his right cheek. A fresh bandage covered his chin. He didn’t bother pulling the scarf back up.

The two men glared at each other, and the intense silent moment lingered between them until the door to the clean room unzipped. A big, thickset man shuffled out. Tin had seen him before, too. He recognized the bald head and full red beard from the trading post.

“The Militia’s surrounded the first-deck entrance,” he said. “We’re trapped in here.”

“How many, Brad?” Travis asked.

Brad ran a nervous hand over his shiny pate. “A dozen at least, all armed to the teeth.”

“This changes nothing,” Travis said. “Our demands are still the same.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and said, “Ren, get those farmers over here.” His deep voice carried the length of the huge enclosed field.

Tin wiggled flat against the dirt for a better view through the mesh wire fence, keeping his head low to the ground, careful not to be seen. The fourth man, Ren, had a group of six farmers herded together. He wielded a long, rusted blade that looked like a butcher’s knife. Ren pushed the hostages along a path between a plot of green beans and another of tall corn.

“You need to think about what you’re doing,” one of the farmers was saying. “The Militia will kill all of you, and for what?”

Ren pushed the man to the dirt and kicked him in the ribs.

“Leave him alone!” a woman cried. She dropped to the injured farmer’s side.

“That’s enough, Ren,” Travis said.

Together, Alex and Ren corralled the group and ordered them to sit in the dirt in front of the clean room, where Brad cuffed their hands behind them with plastic ties.

“Anyone see where that kid went?” Travis asked, scanning the room.

Tin scooted lower, pressing his face into the dirt and chicken droppings. Realizing he had lost his hat, he felt a wave of anxiety. Without the hat, he felt exposed, naked.

“See if you can find him,” Travis said.

Tin listened to boots squelching over the moist ground, coming closer. He closed his eyes and imagined he was back in his old apartment with his dad and X. The squishy footsteps continued toward him, then were suddenly drowned out by the crackle of static over the PA system.