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  To his left, the small, low buildings of dwellings were just visible through the trees and vines. Small pockets of lights, drum fires, and candles glittered behind grimy windows deep in the foliage.

  He and Denver had seen a group of survivors in the town the last time they were here. It gave him a little sense of hope that they appeared to still be here, still surviving, which made him feel guilty about bringing the beads here.

  The croatoans would come. Hopefully, the human survivors would have the sense to hide and put out their fires when they heard that dread-whine of the hover-bikes.

  Further along Main Street, Charlie came into the center of town. The river had changed course and headed north, going under a bridge. Charlie crossed it until he came to an area where the vegetation wasn’t as thick.

  Rows of houses stood like rotten teeth. Their roofs had long collapsed, and the ice damage had crumbled most of the walls, but among the damage, there were one or two that remained—or at least had been rebuilt, patched up, and saved.

  Finding an ideal spot, a large warehouse unit with an alley leading down to the side, Charlie removed the beads from his pocket and a cube of C4 from his backpack.

  He had salvaged the explosives from his old Army base where he’d spent a few years in his childhood as a National Guardsman. Although he was running low, he could spare some for this.

  He found an old, rusted dumpster, its insides now home to a range of flora. He placed the beads on top of the C4 and covered it with a series of fern leaves behind the dumpster. He inserted a blasting cap into the plastic explosive and wired up a trigger to a trip wire, which he ran across the narrow alley. In the gloom, no one would detect it.

  The only worry he had was that some idiot survivor might wander in and set it off before the croatoans tracked the bead’s signal.

  On his way back out, Charlie heard a series of raised voices in argument and the barking of a dog—Pip.

  Seemed Denver had found the survivors.

  Charlie put his backpack on and took the knife from his belt and headed further into the town toward the voices. Whatever it was about, they needed to shut the hell up before the damned aliens turned up.

  Further into the town, the foliage gave way a little to brick and concrete. Some of the old multistory brick buildings had survived, mostly on account of being solidly attached to each other, providing mutual shelter from the encroaching trees.

  Denver and the others were surrounded by a ragtag group of post-thaw survivors. Their torches flickered in the dark sky, illuminating the red and cream brick of a substantial building. An old iron cannon, its black paintwork now peeling with rust, kept guard out on the grass in front.

  For a moment, the building distracted Charlie.

  It looked almost completely intact.

  Ornate, cream arches over tall windows contrasted with the deep red brick. As he looked up, he could just make out the spire and the clock tower in the gloom.

  A tatty U.S. flag fluttered gently on a breeze from a flagpole that was bent over at the top, and yet it still hung on, still flew that flag with defiance to what had happened.

  “Stop!” Charlie shouted, silencing the bickering, his word echoing off the building like a gunshot. The group turned to him as he approached.

  When he got nearer, he lowered his voice. “You lot are gonna get us all killed. Keep your damned voices down. What’s the problem?”

  The group consisted of three women and two men. All of them had the gaunt look of desperation about them. One of them, a dark-haired, hard-faced woman wearing clothes that looked like she had made them herself out of a mix of plaid and chino material, stepped forward and sneered.

  Turning to the rest of her group, she let out a laugh. “Look who it is, the man and the myth. Charlie Jackson, the survivor, the savior of humankind. You’re not wanted round here, Charlie. You’ll bring those damned aliens after you. We saw what you did with the harvester. Why do you have to keep poking them, eh? Why do you always have to antagonize them?”

  “Yeah,” one of the men said, stepping forward into the torchlight, the flames showing his ruddy face behind his unkempt beard. He stood considerably shorter than Charlie, barrel-chested, and wore a patch over one eye. “We’ve made a life for ourselves here. We had a peace. They didn’t bother us, we didn’t bother them. Now your meddling’s gonna change all that. When are you ever gonna let it go, Charlie? It’s over, man, they’ve won. It’s done, finished, over.”

  Charlie leaned in and grabbed the man by the lapels of his filthy jacket. “It’s not done while I’ve got breath in my lungs. You lot can skitter about like cockroaches in the night, but I won’t stand by while those fuckers slowly kill us all off. I will not go extinct. Goddamnit, I was there! I lost everyone I loved, but I kept going for us, for humanity. And you just want to give up? To hide? No, I will not go down like that.”

  He pushed the man back, and he stumbled. The other man in the group stopped him from falling completely. They glared at Charlie, and he could see hatred in their eyes.

  How had it come to this? Survivors he often met mocked him as a myth, a useless old man with nothing to offer while they hid in the shadows like scared ghosts.

  “Now you lot have a decision to make,” Charlie said, pointing the group.

  Ben, Maria, and Ethan watched on in tense silence. Denver, as ever, cast a quiet determination, backing up Charlie with Pip at his side.

  “What are you talking about?” the woman said. The rest of her group stepped forward. Enemy lines were drawn between the two groups now.

  “You either do the right thing and let us shelter with you for the night or you choose to do the wrong thing and refuse. But if you choose the latter, let me tell you now, I will not consider you my allies. I will not consider your lives worth saving. Like I said, your choice. Live and die by it.”

  The woman backed off and turned to her group. They muttered for a moment before she turned back to Charlie and the others. He saw she held a pistol in her left hand. “Keep on going, Myth. You’re not welcome here.”

  “So be it,” Charlie said, gripping the knife in his right hand to try and channel his anger somewhere the others wouldn’t see.

  The woman stepped back, and her group parted, leaving a way through the old road. She pointed eastward out of town. “Go, before things get difficult.”

  “Wait,” Ben said, “take us in with you. We can help you. We’ve only just met Charlie and Denver. We’re not like them; we just want to stay out of the way.”

  The woman laughed and shook her head.

  “On your way,” she said again, waving the pistol.

  Charlie and Denver, along with Pip, moved on. All the time, Charlie kept an eye on the woman’s trigger finger. Denver had his rifle across his chest. Charlie knew his son would be quicker on the draw even with the larger weapon; it was like an extension of his body.

  When he was twenty feet clear of the other group, he turned back and saw Ben, Maria, and Ethan pleading their case with the other group. It stung him that they’d be so quick to jump ship even after he and Denver had liberated them and saved their asses.

  Without the beads, they wouldn’t be tracked. They had a chance of life now, and at the first opportunity, they’d betrayed his trust and loyalty.

  As if reading his mind, Denver patted Charlie on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Dad, it’s their damned choice. We can’t make them follow us. Some people just have to see the world for what it is themselves first. Some people were born to die.”

  “Not us,” Charlie said. “You and I, son, we’ll keep going. We’ll endure. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Where do you wanna go?” Denver asked. “Mohan Run?”

  “Yeah, the shelter there should still have some supplies unless these scumbags have looted it.” The Mohan Run shelter was in a thick part of the woods on the outskirts of the town. It was one of the first Charlie and Denver had set up when they travelled west from New York when Denver was just thi
rteen.

  It was easier back then. Fewer harvesters, and the croatoans were still building the infrastructure after the thaw. Like their previous shelter, it was just a hole in the ground, but it was better than nothing.

  With his personal reputation not worth a damn these days, he didn’t like the idea of staying in Ridgway with the other group running around. People like those had built up a myth around Charlie and had distorted who he was, casting him as some kind of villain.

  But that was often the case with post-thaw survivors.

  They didn’t have the perspective of what the world was like before. They had no way of understanding that the earth wasn’t a giant farm for the croatoans, that it was humanity’s home. They looked at towns and cities and couldn’t picture how people had lived and loved, how a society worked.

  It was every man and woman for themselves now despite his attempts at uniting them against the invaders. Ben and the others’ actions were no surprise to him. He had hoped that unlike the others, these would be different; they would show more willingness to fight back.

  He’d set them free, but what they did with that freedom was their choice.

  Charlie turned his attentions back to the east road, what used to be Highway 219. A twisting vine that looked like a serpent choked the white sign on the side of the road. The numbers were fading but remained.

  Five minutes on their journey out of the town and he heard footsteps racing up behind him. Pip growled by Denver’s side, but they didn’t stop. Just kept on walking. Eventually, it was Maria who spoke first, as Charlie’d expected. Ben wasn’t the type to admit his mistakes. He and Ethan were still trying to find where they fit into the world.

  Maria already knew. “I’m sorry,” she said. “About back there. It’s all so confusing.”

  “Forget about it,” Charlie said. “No need to say anything else.” He spared her the humiliation of asking to rejoin them. They had nowhere else to go. This would be a good lesson for them. They’d now discovered an important lesson in trust.

  Trust no one.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Layla gripped the silver handles on either side of the hover-bike, turning her head against the wind chill. The feeling of weightlessness contrasted the aching in her fingers as they shot through the air over the densely vegetated land. Each trip helped her get a better idea of how the machines operated.

  The controls were quite simple. Moving the handlebars forwards raised the bike. A twist grip on the right handle increased speed. The alien rider would twist the left grip when they wanted to hover. All gentle movements. It was like being on a huge hair dryer and sounded a little like one too.

  She looked over her shoulder at the disappearing camp and farmed area beyond. From this height, it looked like the world had been split in two. One side, a brown cloak with an orange tinge; the other a sea of green with occasional smashed ruins peeping above the canopy. The derelict remnants of her former world.

  Layla wondered if Gregor and his gang were nearing their expiration date. Manual labor and resource management was good, but it was nothing the croatoans couldn’t do themselves once they picked up on the implemented systems. She felt a little safer as long as the improvements and tweaks kept yielding results based on her scientific knowledge of the species.

  She’d actually found it easier than she’d originally thought. It was pointless fighting a superior force, so improving conditions of the captured survivors provided a justification in her own mind.

  Augustus appreciated Layla and told her she was the brains of the outfit, although he’d disparagingly called her Doctor Mengele when he was in one of his melancholic moods and cackled at her reaction from behind his weird mask.

  Layla peered over the croatoan’s shoulder at the tablet. The green ‘v’ that indicated the bike’s position was nearing the group of red dots. The alien twisted the left grip to hover. The bike pulled around above a small clearing.

  Surrounding branches and leaves rocked and rustled in the downdraft created by the three descending vehicles. A rabbit ran from the clearing followed by loose twigs blown away by the force of the hover-bike’s thrust.

  The croatoans dismounted after the bikes settled and drew their brain pistols. That was Gregor’s nickname for them. He could always be relied upon for his subtlety.

  They each keyed in something on their wrist devices. They weren’t checking the time; croatoans had no concept of the human way of measuring it. The wrist devices controlled appearance. All three suits and helmets took on a disruptive camouflage pattern of brown, green, and cream.

  An alien clicked free a tablet from the front of a bike and held it toward Layla. She took it, holding the screen away from the sunlight now poking through the clouds, giving the mossy clearing a slight luminous feel.

  A blue arrow marked their position, and as she turned, it did the same like a spinning compass, pointing in the direction of the dim red spots.

  “Right guys, follow me.”

  She led the way into the dark forest, picking her way through the damp undergrowth. After a hundred yards, the gap on the tablet closed to half. At least they hadn’t landed right next to their intended targets, although the hover-bikes would’ve been spotted or heard by anyone above ground.

  Layla glanced ahead for any clues, a fresh-broken twig, footprints on the wet, soft forest surface, a scrap of clothing on a thorn bush, anything to indicate a recent presence. The unfarmed landscape was increasingly turning into rainforest typically associated with the southern hemisphere. She wondered what conditions would be like in the Amazon.

  A group of noisy birds fled from close proximity with a chorus of exotic squawks. Layla crouched and turned. The three croatoans ducked behind individual trees. Hover-bikes hummed overhead. She caught a glimpse of two between a gap in the trees powering through the air high above alongside each other.

  She waved the croatoans alongside and pointed at the tablet then toward a lighter area in the distance. “Over there. Might be the remains of a small town, highway, or something like that.”

  One of the aliens nodded and gently pushed her forward.

  Proceeding with caution, with croatoans on either side, Layla picked up a beaten track, worn into the ground, running toward the target area. It wasn’t surprising that humans would be taking similar routes. Land, or at least cover, was becoming less and less available as the continent transformed into a vast area of alien agriculture.

  The places left alone were the concrete jungles. The last she saw was Nashville, now transformed into a slimy green outcrop. Layla felt like Juan Crisóstomo Nieto discovering the lost city of Kuelap. The conducive climate of thick, moist air had made conditions perfect for a quick colonization of plants and trees. Whatever the harvesters didn’t chew up and spit out, nature took advantage of, regaining its stronghold.

  At the edge of the tree line, Layla paused. The forest floor gradually turned into slippery concrete. Ahead was a main street of a small town. Thick vines climbed the buildings. Ivy sprawled over the walls. Most shop front windows were smashed, probably during the mini ice age. Wooden doors had rotted from the top and bottom, a couple creaking in the breeze. PVC ones were covered in black and green-speckled mold, their windows dulled and dirty. Several vehicles dotted along the street, all at various stages of decay, rusting away to become dark red shells.

  The road was still visible through the weeds and ferns that popped and spread through the fractured surface. It led a hundred yards back into a forested area.

  Layla checked the tablet. The signals came from dead ahead. At the far end of the street by one of the larger buildings, a dumpster, which resembled a large plant-pot stuffed with weeds, marked the likely signal source.

  “Okay. It’s right along there. How do you want to play this?” she said.

  One of the croatoans pointed to himself and another then slowly started advancing. Layla and the other alien waited.

  They moved from rusted vehicle to doorway to plant. M
oving a few yards at a time, covering each other as they headed along the street. When they reached halfway, the alien next to Layla clicked a few times and followed the others.

  As she wasn’t armed, Layla followed behind, using the alien’s body as cover. She let out a small yelp after falling to one knee, her foot sliding on a clump of loose moss. The croatoan span around, aimed at her, its helmet almost blinding as a ray of sun reflected toward her. After a short moment, it held out an arm, and Layla pulled herself up. They continued forwards.

  It wasn’t quite as bad as her college field trips. Layla was always treated like the ugly duckling. Teased for being a geek and marginalized by her peers because her theories went against the conventional wisdom of the lecturers. The more she studied human behavior and became a victim of their spite, the more she hated humanity and realized it was on the wrong path. Her parents were an exception, but the ice age took them quickly. At least the croatoans didn’t judge, tease, or bully her.

  The two aliens ahead stood behind a truck yards away from the dumpster. They sprang out from their position and behind the dumpster in their strange, bouncy style. Layla edged to one side for a better view. They headed for a side alley.

  She heard a twanging noise. Something flicked into the street.

  The two croatoans froze, looked at each other.

  A huge eruption followed a blinding flash of light.

  Layla flew backwards, skidding across the road surface. Small chunks of debris hit her body and face. The sound of masonry dropping, glass breaking, and a booming echo through the buildings deafened her.

  The alien pulled her up. She found it difficult to balance, tried to focus and patted herself down. They were surrounded in a veil of light brown dust. Rays of sun tried to break through it.

  Her ears rang with a high-pitched tone. The croatoan clicked in an urgent tone and pulled her toward the dumpster, pointing its weapon from side to side.