Resistance: The Gathering Storm

CHAPTER FOUR A Stroll in the Park

East of the Badlands National Park, South Dakota

Monday, November 19, 1951

A miniature snowstorm billowed up around the Party Girl’s hard angular lines as the battle-scarred VTOL descended out of the grayness above.

There was a thump as the transport’s landing gear came into contact with the ground, and Hale came to his feet. He was wearing four layers of clothing, counting the winter-white parka and matching trousers. And, in spite of the viral inhibitor shot he had received prior to takeoff, he was wearing a combination combat harness and white knapsack over his I-Pack. The emphasis was on health, food, and ammo. Everything else having been eliminated to keep the weight down.

He was armed with a Rossmore 236 shotgun for clean-up work, and an L23 Fareye for use on targets up to six hundred yards away. Although it was Hale’s hope to avoid enemy contact if at all possible.

Last, but not least, were ski poles plus a pair of snow-shoes that Hale would don once he left the plane. His thoughts were interrupted as the Party’s Girl’s pilot—a long, lean officer named Harley Purvis—appeared at his side. Purvis sported a New York Yankees baseball cap, a well-worn leather jacket, and a pair of fleece-lined boots. He had dark brown skin, even features, and had been given the call sign “Hollywood” in flight school.

“You are one crazy bastard,” Purvis said as he slapped Hale on the shoulder. “You know this could cost you your bars.” The pilot had to yell in order to be heard over the sound of the engines.

Hale knew that what Purvis said was true, but he didn’t care. He was tired of being dead.

Like all the soldiers in the Sentinel program, he was officially listed as “Killed in Action,” which meant his family believed him to be dead. It was a precaution intended to prevent information about the top secret SRPA program from leaking out.

But as the Chimera continued to push down into his home state of South Dakota, most people fled or were killed. As a result, Hale had no idea what had happened to his mother, father, and sister. Were they still alive?

The question had haunted Hale ever since his return from overseas—and repeated attempts to obtain information had been fruitless. None of them was listed as having entered one of the government-run Protection Camps. Was that because they weren’t willing to take what his father would regard as a handout? Or was it because they were dead? Like millions of other people around the world.

Hale was determined to find out.

“Yeah,” he responded, “if they catch me, I’ll have to call you ‘sir,’ and that would be ridiculous.”

“Actually, given the fact that I’m a first lieutenant, and you’re a butter bar, you should call me ‘sir’ anyway,” Purvis responded loftily. “And I plan to keep my bars… So if you get caught roaming around the countryside, be sure to lie about how you got here.”

“You can count on it,” Hale assured him. “And you can consider that IOU paid in full. Where did you learn to play poker anyway? The Girl Scouts?”

“At UCLA,” Purvis answered with mock indignation. “But having lost to a lowlife like you, it looks like I need a refresher course.” Then he turned serious. “Remember, thirty-six hours, that’s all I can give you! And one more thing…”

“Yeah?”

“Watch your six… It’d be a shame if a Hybrid blew your ass off and ate it for lunch.”

Hale just grinned, gave a wave, and left the plane through the rear hatch. After a one-foot jump his boots sank four inches into the soft snow—a sure sign that snowshoes would be needed.

Hale knew Purvis had a mission to complete, so he hurried to clear the LZ quickly so the Party Girl could take off. Once he had waded out to a point where he could be seen from the cockpit he waved again, and saw the pilot give him a thumbs-up in return. There was a dark-skinned beauty painted on the VTOL’s nose, and Hale noticed that one of her eyes was closed in a sardonic wink. Then the engines roared, snow swirled, and the ship went straight up.

Hale watched it go, but it wasn’t until the plane had disappeared into the lead gray sky, and the drone of its engines died away, that he felt the full weight of his decision. Maybe he was crazy, but what else could he do?

If his family was dead, well, the reality of it would be hard to take. But not knowing was even worse. Frank and Mary Farley weren’t his real parents. They had been killed during the influenza epidemic of 1924. But the Farleys had raised Hale as if he was their biological son, and now it was his duty to do what any son would, which was to help his mom and dad if such a thing was possible.

So Hale found a spot where the wind had blown away most of the snow, sat down, strapped the snowshoes to his boots, and got back on his feet with help from a ski pole. Then, having checked his compass, he set off.

The surface of the snow was frozen, so each time Hale brought one of the snowshoes forward and shifted his weight to it, there was a soft crunch as the shoe broke through the top crust. Hale had used snowshoes throughout his childhood, but it had been a while. The key was to maintain the correct distance between his feet, because if he placed them too far apart he would consume more energy than was necessary. And if he brought them too close he would bark his shins.

It took a while to find the old rhythms again, but once he had, Hale made much better time. Good thing, too, because the Rocking F Ranch was still fifteen miles away.

It would have been nice if Purvis had been able to put him down in the front yard of the family home, of course, but that would have forced the pilot to enter prohibited airspace. “Prohibited,” meaning airspace that had been ceded to the Chimera. It was off-limits to any aircraft not on an authorized mission.

So he had to do it the old-fashioned way. Still, Hale was confident that he could make the round-trip with time to spare, so long as the weather held and he didn’t encounter any of the enemy. The low cloud cover would keep most of the Chimeran aircraft on the ground, and the steady snowfall would obliterate his tracks as well.

That was the theory anyway.

But as Hale topped a rise and made his way down the opposite slope he discovered that he was unexpectedly tired, and welcomed the opportunity to rest next to a group of trees. After less than an hour of walking his thigh and calf muscles were already sore. He knew they would hurt even more the following morning. The weight of his food, weapons, and ammo was a factor as well.

The break offered him an opportunity to eat a hard Hershey bar and scan the whiteness that lay ahead. He knew he would be easier to spot out in the open, and if forced to defend himself, he’d have no place to hide. With that in mind he panned the binoculars across the rolling prairie, looking for even the tiniest hint of movement, a color that shouldn’t be there, or a feature that wasn’t consistent with its surroundings.

Between the misty haze that hung like a backdrop across the land, a veil of thinly falling snow, and the dim winter light, visibility was poor. But Hale spotted some movement off to the right and felt a sudden surge of adrenaline, only to discover that he was looking at three gaunt horses. Left on their own by the war, they stood huddled next to the building where they had once been fed.

Satisfied that the way was clear, Hale left the relative protection offered by the trees and slip-slid out across the unmarked snow. Lung-warmed air jetted out in front of him, the snowshoes made a consistent swish-thump sound, and the Rossmore thumped against his chest. The alternative was to carry the weapon across his back, along with the Fareye, but that would open him up to a sudden attack by Leapers. The dog-sized creatures could jump six feet in the air and had a lethal bite. It required quick reflexes and a powerful weapon to bring them down, so having a shotgun at the ready increased one’s chances of survival.

So the shotgun remained where it was as he crossed the open area, passed the barn on his right, and spotted some snow-blurred tracks that ran down through a gully and up the other side. Some of the impressions had been made by various types of livestock, but there were others as well, including impressions left by splay-footed Hybrids.

As Hale sidestepped his way up the slope, he was careful not to pop up over the top, knowing that just about anything might lie in wait beyond. But his fears were groundless, and when he brought the binoculars up, all he saw was open prairie.

No, not all. Some of the tracks wandered off to the right and left, but the rest led to a point where a dark smudge could be seen, about a hundred yards in front of him. There were no sounds other than the measured rasp of his own breathing, the soft rustle of his parka, and the insistent sigh of the wind.

Hale’s tracks overlaid all the rest as he made his way out toward the dark thing—and he was momentarily startled when a flock of crows took to the air.

A moment later he realized he was looking at a dead Titan. Judging from the sizable cavity where its abdominal organs should have been, the carcass had been lying there for days. The variety of tracks in the blood-tinged snow indicated that scavengers of every possible description had been feeding off the carcass for some time. But what was responsible for the monster’s death?

Certainly it hadn’t been a band of civilians, even if any remained in the area. Titans were twenty feet tall, carried powerful cannons, and were notoriously difficult to kill. Hale knew firsthand, because he’d been forced to tackle the beasts in England, and had no desire to do so again.

So what brought the Titan down, Hale wondered, as he circled the body. A strafing attack by a Sabre Jet? Had a VTOL happened by on its way back from a mission? Hale figured it had been something of that sort, although he would never know for sure.

The next three hours were spent slogging across the gently rolling prairie. Hale was forced to cut his way through a barbed wire fence on one occasion, and came across others that, judging from the tracks in the snow, had been torn down by a Chimeran Stalker. A patrol perhaps? If so it was one more thing he had to worry about.

There were other signs of the enemy presence as well, including piles of frost-glazed Hybrid dung, a dead steer that had been riddled with projectiles from a Chimeran Bullseye, and the remains of an encampment littered with partially gnawed human bones. All of which forced Hale to slow down lest he inadvertently walk into a Chimeran emplacement.

By that time he knew he was nearing the White River. It ran roughly east and west, a few miles south of the main highway that ran between Rapid City and Sioux Falls. The Rocking F Ranch was located in the strip of land south of the highway and north of the river.

In order to get there Hale would have to cross the river via one of the local bridges. The span he had in mind was a modest affair that had been put in place to serve ranchers who needed to move livestock back and forth across the waterway. Hale had spent the first two decades of his life in the area, so he knew exactly how to reach the bridge. But would it still be there? If so, was it being used by the Chimera? There was only one way to find out.

At that point Hale decided to remove the clumsy snowshoes, bundle them with the ski poles, and tie all of them to his pack. Then, boots sinking into the snow, he fought his way up the side of a low-lying hill to an outcropping of rock at the top. A spot where a much younger Hale had spent many an hour while his horse grazed below. It was a fairly simple matter to circle around, find cover, and examine the bridge through his binoculars.

The good news was that the structure was still in place, but the bad news was that four stinks were guarding it. Two of the Hybrids were stationed at the north end of the span, one carrying a Bullseye, and two of them paced back and forth at the south end, one of them wielding an Auger.

The Chimera had smooth skulls, six eyes each, and mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth. None of the stinks were equipped with the sort of cool packs Hale had seen in England, suggesting that the cold weather was to their liking, and sufficient to keep their core temperatures down.

This was a disappointment, since it had been Hale’s hope to carry out his self-assigned mission entirely unnoticed. But he wasn’t about to let four Hybrids prevent him from reaching his goal. So he shrugged off the pack, put the Rossmore aside, and brought the Fareye around to where he could use it. Then, placing his right glove on a rock, he set the rifle on top of it.

With that accomplished, Hale brought his eye down to the telescopic sight and began the not altogether unpleasant process of deciding which stink to kill first.

He needed to drop all four of the aliens one right after the other, if possible, both to clear a path across the bridge and to prevent them from spotting him before he had finished taking them down. Had the targets been human, Hale might have chosen to kill an officer or non-com first, but with no way to determine which freak was in charge, he had to rely on speed. So he made the decision to drop the sentries located at the north end of the bridge first, because they were farther away and had quicker access to cover.

Then would come the ticklish task of swinging the Fareye to the right and acquiring his other two targets, both of whom would probably be firing on him by then. Thanks to the distance, he would retain the advantage, however, so he couldn’t allow them to come closer. Because the last thing he wanted was for the alien with the Bullseye to tag him and send a dozen projectiles to seek him out. Or for the stink with the Auger to shoot through the rocks, and kill him that way.

Judging from the drift of the snowflakes the wind was blowing west to east, something Hale would need to take into consideration along with the ambient air temperature and the way the slug would drop slightly while in flight. With all of those factors in mind, he placed the crosshairs over the first Chimera’s head, made a tiny adjustment for the wind, and tilted the barrel up a fraction of an inch. Then, having taken a deep breath, he let most of it out. The trigger seemed to squeeze itself.

The Fareye nudged Hale’s shoulder, but thanks to the cylindrical silencer, the report was no louder than a baby’s cough. Hale saw a halo of blood appear as the Chimera’s head exploded, but resisted the desire to watch the body fall, knowing that every second was precious.

Target number two was turning circles at that point, trying to figure out where the bullet had come from, and that was when the second slug hit. The Hybrid went facedown in the snow and slid for a good two feet before finally coming to rest.

Swinging the rifle to the right in an attempt to acquire the third and fourth targets, he saw only one of his opponents. An object blurred past his telescopic sight, and Hale brought the rifle back, noting with a grim sense of satisfaction that one of the Hybrids was hiding behind a bridge support.

Time seemed to slow as Hale poured his entire being into making the critical shot. Slowly but surely the crosshairs drifted into place, Hale sent the necessary message to his right index finger, and felt it tighten on the trigger. The rifle coughed and a sudden spray of blood marked a hit as the third Chimera fell. It was only wounded, however, and a pink smear marked its progress as it began to drag itself through the slush.

Hale wanted to finish the Hybrid—needed to finish him—but there was the fourth one to consider. So he swung the rifle away, quartered the ground below, and came up empty. That was when the breeze flew a rank odor into Hale’s nostrils and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

He felt the Hybrid’s foul breath wash across the left side of his face, and swore as long needle-sharp fangs sank into his shoulder. There wasn’t enough time in which to bring the Fareye around, and the Chimera was too close for him to shoot it with the long-barreled weapon, anyway, so Hale made a grab for the double-edged commando knife that was fastened to his forearm. As he did, the stink lost its grip, but leaned in to press its advantage.

The Fairbairn Sykes fighting knife had been a gift from Lieutenant Cartwright in England, and as he jerked the weapon free of its sheath, Hale leaned away from his attacker. Then, bringing the double-edged blade around with his right hand, Hale drove its six inches of steel through one of the Chimera’s yellow-gold eyes.

Something warm squirted onto Hale’s fist as the Hybrid opened its jaws, screeched in pain, and reeled backward. Since it was still moving he guessed that the sliver of steel had missed the Chimera’s brain, but it was sticking out through the spot where a human nose would be. So it should have been dead, but bounced off the rock face behind it.

Having regained a momentary advantage, Hale threw himself to the left. The Rossmore was there, leaning against the pack, and he made a desperate grab for it, but the Hybrid was on him by then. Its skeletal fingers were wrapped around his throat as it pressed down with all its weight.

Hale felt dizzy, knew he would lose consciousness soon, and sought to push the stink away with his left hand while exploring the ground with his right. His fingers found and rejected two smaller rocks before finally closing around a chunk of granite that had the right amount of heft.

Then, as the world began to fade to black, Hale brought the rock up with all of his strength. There was a loud thok as the makeshift weapon found its mark, and a sudden loosening of the creature’s grip as all of the alien’s remaining eyes rolled back in his head. Suddenly the weight was gone as the Chimera fell over sideways and allowed Hale to scramble clear.

Within seconds he was back on his feet. There was a loud boom as Hale put a load of double-ought buckshot into the unconscious stink. The blast blew a hole the size of a dinner plate through the creature’s chest.

It was tempting to fire again, just for the emotional satisfaction of it, but Hale knew he had to conserve ammo. So he stood there for a moment, chest heaving, his shoulder throbbing, as he fought to regain his composure.

Still in pain but functional once more Hale bent to retrieve his knife. There was a certain amount of suction, but having secured a good grip on the handle, he managed to jerk the weapon free. After cleaning the blade, and returning the weapon to its sheath, he reloaded the Fareye and slung both it and the pack over his good shoulder.

That accomplished, and with the shotgun at the ready, Hale went hunting.

The third stink wasn’t hard to find. Having made his way down onto the bridge deck, he picked up the Auger he had seen earlier. Then all Hale had to do was follow a trail through the blood-tinged slush to the north side of the span, where the badly injured Chimera was still dragging itself away. The ′brid snarled and snapped its teeth, but having left its weapon behind, there wasn’t anything it could do as Hale fired half a clip of Auger rounds into the alien.

The body jerked convulsively as the projectiles passed through both it and the bridge deck to splash into the river below.

The weapon was too heavy to carry given the combined weight of his other armament, so Hale dropped it into the river, and followed the well-churned road north. Unlike the pristine whiteness of the prairie, this was a dangerous way to go, since a group of Chimera could come barreling down the road at any moment, yet there was a method to Hale’s madness.

Even a Native American tracker would have found it difficult to pick his bootprints out of the muck that covered the road and Hale doubted that any of the Chimera possessed such skills. Plus, with solid cement only four or five inches under the slush, he could move faster.

And, as Hale topped a rise and followed the highway down to the point where it crossed a streambed, he had the opportunity to get off the road without leaving tracks. Which he proceeded to do.

Once in the half-frozen stream, Hale followed it west. Twenty minutes later he was within the borders of the Rocking F Ranch. But the light had started to fade, and by now the bodies of the Hybrids would have been found. If a massive search wasn’t already underway, it soon would be.

Which was why Hale forced himself to maintain a brisk pace until he spotted a four-foot-tall pine tree that lay within reach of the streambed. It took a moment to wrestle the tree out of the frozen soil and fill the hole with snow, but two minutes later Hale had what amounted to a broom.

With the tree in one hand and the shotgun in the other, he followed the creek uphill to the point where he could see the rocky hill that he and his family called Prospector’s Knob, named after the rusty tools his father had found there.

Backing out of the stream, he used the tree to obliterate his tracks, and worked his way up to the point where the windswept hillside was clear of all but a thin dusting of snow. At that point it was safe to toss the tree in a ravine and continue on until he arrived at what a ten-year-old version of himself had called the Fort. A collection of car-sized rocks that had been the scene of many an imaginary battle, and still stood guard over a boyhood secret. One which, if it remained intact, might save Hale’s life.

He entered the small clearing behind a screen of snow-frosted rocks and immediately made his way over to the base of the hill. Many years had passed since the slab of rock had been put into place, but it was still there. Having placed his pack and the Fareye off to the side, Hale lifted the slab out of the way.

That produced a jab of pain as he got down on hands and knees. A combination of dirt and loose gravel had filtered into the cavity from both sides, but once he scooped the material away, a small opening was revealed. Hale’s boyhood dog had discovered the hole and immediately scuttled in, forcing the youngster to follow. He was pretty sure he could still fit through the aperture, and was determined to give it a try.

Grabbing his pack, Hale shoved it into the cave, followed by the snowshoes and his weapons. He used the ski poles to push everything further in, then he lay down on his back and stuck his head into the blackness.

There was a slight dip that had to be negotiated before he could wiggle his way up into the main cavern. It had been a negligible obstacle when he was ten, but it represented a more significant barrier now as Hale kicked with his feet and swore when some dirt fell on his face. His shoulders scraped both sides of the hole as he reached up to push and pull on the rock face within. Progress was incremental, but after a three- or four-minute battle, Hale was inside.

It was pitch black, but Hale was ready for that. He took a flashlight out of a pocket, and as the torch came on a blob of light splashed against one of the walls. He scrambled to his feet and discovered that there was just enough room to stand.

The beam took him on a journey into the past as it roamed the walls of the cavern.

The makeshift shelving was still there, as were the supplies a younger Nathan Hale had considered to be important, including a beat-up kerosene lantern, a box of safety matches, a jar of what had once been peanut butter, a spoon borrowed from his mother’s kitchen, a stack of well-thumbed Red Ryder comic books, a box of .22 shorts, half a roll of toilet paper secured with a rubber band, a mousetrap, the bottom half of a broken shovel, and an Ovaltine decoder ring.

That brought a smile to Hale’s face, because he could remember sending for it, and running all the way down to the mailbox every day for two weeks before it finally arrived.

Life had been simple then, and in retrospect very special, because even though the Chimera had already arrived on the planet, the people of South Dakota had remained blissfully unaware of them.

If only we had known… Then again, he realized, even if they had known, it’s unlikely anything could have been done.

There were more artifacts of the past, including a blackened fire pit, the pile of desiccated wood stacked next to it, a crude likeness of a Neolithic cave painting Hale had seen in National Geographic magazine, and lots of overlapping sneaker prints left by the young explorer.

There was a narrow aperture over the fire pit that was just big enough to carry smoke up and out of the cavern. Normally, a soft whistling noise could be heard as wind crossed over the natural chimney. But now, as Hale heard a thrumming sound, he knew something mechanical was nearby.

A Chimeran drone? Yes, that was a strong possibility, and he felt his stomach muscles tighten as the noise grew louder, then softer again.

Seconds later the airborne machine was gone, causing Hale to breathe easier. Had the drone discovered him, it would still be lingering above. But there would be other hunters, some of whom would be a lot more dangerous than drones, so Hale hurried to move his belongings farther away from the entrance and rolled a rock in to block it.

What had been difficult for a ten-year-old was easier for an adult.

Then it was time to light the kerosene lamp and set up housekeeping. It was tempting to start a fire, both for additional warmth and psychological comfort, but Hale had reason to believe that at least some of the Chimeran constructs could sense heat. If so, a column of smoke and warm air would function as a beacon, and lead them right to his hiding place.

So rather than take that chance, Hale lit a military-style fuel tab and placed a can of beans and franks over the tiny flame. Rather than bring entire C rations, Hale had pilfered components from six of the cardboard boxes prior to departing the base, taking only the items he wanted. Beans and franks being his favorite.

While dinner was cooking Hale took a few swigs from his canteen, followed by three long drags from the I-Pack before turning his attention back to the now bubbling brew. Humble though the dinner was, Hale enjoyed both it and the chocolate bar he had for dessert. That made him thirsty though, and with only half a canteen of water left, he had to limit himself to tiny sips.

Feeling refreshed, he stripped off the parka and two layers of clothing underneath, to inspect the damage the Hybrid had done earlier. His T-shirt was thick with clotted blood, but thanks to the regenerative powers of the Chimeran virus, Hale knew the puncture wounds would already be closed and would soon be healed.

It was a few degrees warmer inside the cave than outside, but it was still chilly, so he hurried to put his clothes back on. Having left his bulky sleeping bag behind, Hale planned to curl up on the floor, and not for the first time. He had slept there as a boy, though not during the winter.

But first, before Hale could take care of his own needs, there were two weapons to clean. That took the better part of forty-five minutes, but was extremely important since both had been exposed to moisture all day long.

Eventually, after completing his chores, Hale positioned his pack for use as a pillow and took the Ross-more into a lover’s embrace. The lantern remained on—which was fine, since there was sufficient fuel to get him through the night. And while it provided no real heat, the light would serve as a source of psychological comfort.

Hale could see the glow through his eyelids, as he thought about his family and the long happy days of his youth. Before he knew it he was far, far away.

The ground shook.

The vibration woke Hale immediately, but he wasn’t sure why, and lay with the shotgun at the ready until a second tremor caused tiny particles of rock to rain down from above. And that was when Hale realized that something extremely large was stalking the land.

A Titan? Like the dead Chimera he’d come across earlier? Or maybe a Mauler, like the ones spotted during the recon mission.

Or perhaps a three-hundred-foot-tall Leviathan—possibly the largest creature to ever walk the surface of the planet. There were mechanical possibilities, too—including heavily armed Stalkers and Goliaths.

Whatever the case, a full minute passed before the earth-shaking footsteps faded away, leaving Hale to try and go to sleep again. That took a while, however, as memory chased memory, and the hours ticked away.

It was an urgent need to take a piss that caused Hale to awake at what his wristwatch said was 0632. His shoulder felt fine, but his rarely used snowshoeing muscles were aching, and there was a bad taste in his mouth. So he got up, urinated in a corner, and brushed his teeth. That process consumed what remained of his water.

Having rolled the barrier rock out of the way, and with empty cup in hand, Hale lay down on his back and pushed his head and shoulders out into the open. It was cold, very cold, and as the thickly falling snowflakes kissed his upturned face Hale grinned happily. Because bad weather was good weather—for him anyway—since visibility would be limited to a few feet.

Securing a mugful of snow, Hale wiggled his way back inside the cave, and went to work. Breakfast consisted of three drags of aerosolized inhibitor from the I-Pack, followed by more franks and beans, plus the mugful of snow-water in the form of some hot chocolate. Then it was time to clean up out of respect for his younger self, push his gear out into the open, and follow it into near-whiteout conditions.

Minutes later Hale had both his pack and snowshoes on. With both weapons positioned for traveling, and the ski poles in hand, he set off for home.

Thanks to his knowledge of the local terrain Hale felt confident that he could find the ranch house regardless of the weather, but was careful to check his compass every now and then just to make sure he was still on course.

He did his best to keep his head on a swivel, but the parka made that difficult, as did all the gear he was carrying. After the first half-hour or so, the endless snowfall combined with the steady swish, swish, swish of snow-shoes threatened to dull his senses and leave him open to attack.

To counter that possibility, Hale made it a habit to pause every ten minutes or so and conduct a 360-degree scan of his environment as far as he could see—which wasn’t very far. But with the exception of a forlorn steer and a briefly glimpsed white-tailed deer, he saw no signs of life until he topped a rise and spotted a line of enormous footprints that cut across his path. Each pod-print was so deep that not even the heavy snowfall had been sufficient to fill them in, although there had been enough to obscure the shape. Given the configuration, though, the vibrations he had experienced the night before must have been caused by a Chimeran battle mech, possibly a Goliath.

There were other signs of the machine’s passage as well, including shattered boulders, trampled trees, and a black scorch mark off in the distance. Something—or someone—had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The thought made him pick up the pace. He needed to get home.

His progress was generally uneventful, although a pack of feral dogs followed him for a while until eventually turning away to follow a more promising scent. He began to see familiar landmarks, like the frozen pond where both cattle and the local wildlife came to drink in the summer, and the tumbledown line shack his foster father’s father had built, and the windmill that brought deep-lying water up to fill a metal tank.

The windmill was still now, its metal blades hung with icicles, its purpose lost—along with an entire way of life.

After the first inclination to rush ahead, Hale forced himself to slow down again. Because if his parents had left, and the ranch house still stood, it could serve as a haven for almost anything. Chimera included.

With that in mind Hale took cover in a cluster of trees. He removed both his pack and snowshoes, and stuffed everything under some low-hanging branches. Then, carrying only the I-Pack plus weapons and ammunition, Hale worked his way forward.

The house had been built in a hollow where it and the outbuildings were sheltered from the prairie winds, so it wouldn’t be visible until he was practically on top of it. He traveled the last few feet of the journey on his belly with the Fareye at the ready and the Rossmore slung across his back.

As his head inched up over the top of the rise his heart beat faster.

The house was intact!

The snow fell like a lacy curtain around the two-story structure. It looked as it always had, and could have been featured on a Christmas card. It was so quiet that the sudden pistol-shot sound caused Hale to jump.

A quick scan of the terrain revealed that an overloaded branch had snapped under the weight of the snow.

Having slowed his breathing, Hale turned his attention back to the house. He knew better than to rush in, and made use of the Fareye’s scope to examine every inch of the structure’s facade. That was when he saw details that caused his spirits to plummet.

There wasn’t any glass left in most of the windows, the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the front door was ajar.

There was no sign of life, so Hale made the decision to trade weapons, knowing that if he was forced to fight inside the house the Rossmore would be the better weapon. Then he rose, and began to advance.

Snow crunched under his boots and deep drifts made it necessary to lift his feet high as he angled down the slope. Once on flat ground he took momentary cover behind the ranch’s snow-encrusted propane tank before dashing across the parking area to crouch by the pump house, where he paused to eyeball his surroundings.

Then, as certain as he could be that there weren’t any nasty surprises waiting for him, Hale left the shelter of the pump house and made his way up the snow-drifted walkway. His boots made a hollow thumping sound as he climbed the front steps to the wraparound porch. The screen door had been holed, and hinges squeaked as Hale pulled it open.

A nudge from the Rossmore was sufficient to push the wooden front door out of the way to reveal a devastated living room. Hale’s heart sank as he stepped inside. A .30-30 Winchester casing rattled away as a snow-encrusted boot hit the brass cylinder and sent it skittering across the wooden floor. Photos from the Farley family album, bloodied bandages, and broken crockery lay everywhere.

As Hale looked around he saw that the walls were riddled with bullet holes and blast marks. Pictures hung askew, the world map over the couch had been half-obliterated by an Auger blast, and blood splatter could be seen on the floor. Based on the medical paraphernalia that sat on the sideboard, it looked as if the wounded had been laid out on the dining room table. Hale could imagine his mother bent over a bloodied ranch hand, doing what she could to prolong his life for another few minutes, as the battle raged around her.

Judging from the hundreds of empty .30-30, .45, and even .22 casings that littered the floor, plus the red, green, and yellow shotgun shells scattered around the house, it appeared that the Farleys and their employees had put up one helluva fight. It had been a losing battle however, or that’s the way things appeared. But where were the bodies? Had the Chimera taken them away? Or was there some other explanation?

Although it was only mid-afternoon, little sunlight pierced the clouds and the snow, so the room was dark and gloomy. Hale removed the flashlight from his pocket and began to play the beam across the walls and floor in an effort to find some clue as to what had taken place after the battle. That was when he spotted the familiar scrawl on the living room wall.

To friends and family,

Farleys don’t run. That’s what dad said. So we stayed. They came the day before yesterday… And I’m proud to say that we killed every damned one of the bastards!

But Sam went down, and Red, and Pete. Then mom died, followed by dad, and I should have been next. But it didn’t turn out that way. So I scooped out a grave with the tractor and buried them out back. Right next to mom’s garden.

I’m heading south with Ruff. Pray for me.

Susan

Ruff was the family’s mastiff—and Susan was Hale’s sister. Not his real sister, but she might as well have been, because the two of them were as close as any blood relatives had ever been. Susan was one of the few people who could shoot a rifle as well as Hale could, and given her knowledge of the outdoors, she might have been able to escape Chimera-occupied territory alive. That possibility made Hale feel a little better as he passed from the dining room and badly ravaged kitchen to leave the house through the back door.

The snowfall slowed by then, making it a little easier as he took a look around. The barn stood off to his left, the tractor she had mentioned was straight ahead, and the garden was off to the right. A wonderful sight in the spring and summer, but fallow now, and buried under the snow.

And something new had been added, a mound that could only be the mass grave Susan had referred to, adjacent to the garden.

Each footstep made a dry crunching sound as Hale made his way over to the mound and stood with his chin on his chest. Tears trickled down his stubble-covered cheeks as he thought about the battle that had been fought, and how hard the burial must have been for Susan. These were the people who had raised him—not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

Frank and Mary Farley had been good people, who, like so many others, had been killed by the stinking invaders.

As Hale’s head came up he felt stronger, more determined than ever to eradicate the alien menace, no matter what the effort might cost him.

That was when Hale heard metal clang on metal, he brought the Rossmore up, and swiveled toward his left. Someone or something was moving around in the barn.