The Void

CHAPTER 24

Drake Monroe held up his tracker and turned to Alex. “Shuttle, 300 feet, dead ahead.”

“Got it.” Alex slowed them from a jog to walking pace. He didn’t need to see the slow-moving bodies to know there were living beings out there, waiting for them.

At first, he thought it might have been the monstrous attackers that had taken Steve Knight, but as he reached out and concentrated on them, he noticed something strange. He wasn’t detecting the bestial sensations he had from the Morg. And he knew what human patterns felt like — the heartbeat, the breathing, and body warmth — but this was different again. Something in-between.

Everything is messed up in this damned place. Had to be the strange atmosphere; it was still making it difficult to identify anything accurately. Alex slowed again, and this time spread his team.

“What is it?” Russell Burrows asked.

Alex ignored him, and turned to the HAWCs. “Erikson, keep ’em all back, and keep ’em quiet.”

“Sir.” She slid away to the civilians pushing them away from the soldiers.

“The rest of you, eyes out. We’re not alone.” Alex turned back to the shuttle. Casey, Sam, Dunsen, Monroe, and Garcia had all drawn their RG3s and were moving like ghosts.

The HAWCs deployed their quad scopes with the four lenses lumping the front of their visors making them look like alien robots. Alex knew the HAWCs would be switching between thermal, light enhance and motion sensors trying to get an idea of what awaited them out there, but he knew nothing was fully penetrating the biological fog.

Alex didn’t like leaving the civilians so far back, but he had no choice. If there was going to be an ambush, it’d be here, and he didn’t want them put at risk any more than they were already.

When he saw the outline of the Orlando take shape in the mist, Alex waved the HAWCs down, and walked forward by himself. He then stopped and waited. There was something else there, inside the craft, he knew it, and it was trying to invade his mind. The more he tried to probe it, the more it pushed back. His neck prickled with the danger, and he expected an attack from anywhere and everywhere at any second.

He saw the door of the Orlando hatch was open, and the fuselage had a huge rip in it. Sam came and stood at his shoulder.

“What do you see?” Sam whispered.

Alex kept his eyes on the Orlando. “Nothing, but it’s weird. I can sense there’s someone or something in there. Maybe it’s the goddamn mist making it hard for me to pinpoint exactly what it is.” He turned. “But it’s not human.”

The bowling ball-sized rock struck Sam, mid chest, and smashed him off his feet. Then they came. Fast. Emerging from the furiously agitated haze holding metal rods, knives, and hands hooked into claws.

Alex spun to meet them. “Engage.”

Alex’s arm came up, and his shield whirred to life, deflecting the initial charge. But the impact was like being struck by a battering ram. Who, or what, had struck him had the strength of several men. Alex rolled away, shield up, and ready for the next attack.

The Russians. Had to be. The huge men came out of the mist, a few with guns raised. The last thing Alex wanted was a firefight. The HAWCs weapons were safe in the explosive atmosphere, but he bet the Russian weaponry, if discharged, was liable to turn the entire mountaintop into a giant fireball that’d consume them all. He knew that if the HAWCs fired, they’d provoke return fire.

“No shooting,” Alex yelled, and rolled as an iron bar struck the ground again and again, trying to hammer him.

The HAWCs shelved their weapons over their backs and entered the fray against their bigger opponents.

Alex saw Sam rise back to his feet. Casey Franks roared as she dove, her shield engaged on her forearm and a Ka-bar knife in each hand. She had the blades pointed backwards so she could still use her armored knuckles to punch, and then bring in backward thrusts of her knives to slash at her foe.

Max Dunsen and Andy Garcia grappled with another of the Russians. Spetsnaz, GRU, or any other Special Forces that Russia could pit against them should have fallen like wheat before the scythe, but to Alex’s amazement, his HAWCs were being beaten back.

No, not just beaten back, but obliterated. One massive arm swung out, striking Dunsen and knocking him twenty feet back into the mist. Then Garcia was grabbed around the throat, lifted off his feet, and shaken like a rabbit in a hound’s mouth before being slammed down into the mud.

Garcia was groggy, but drew his longest blade, and stabbed upwards, but the laser-honed tip refused to penetrate the ribs of his opponent. In return, the Russian holding him down kept one large hand on Garcia’s throat, pinning him in place as he drew his other arm back, lined the HAWC up, and then with a sickening crunch, he punched down with all his strength into the HAWC’s helmet.

Astonishingly, the fist passed through the armored face-shield and on into Garcia’s face and skull.

“Noooo!” Alex was up and charging. He dropped his shoulder and cannonballed into the figure, knocking it off his man. He pulled Garcia up, but there was nothing he could do; the HAWC’s head was destroyed.

He stared into the ruined face of his dead soldier, as time fell away. It was impossible, the helmets were near unbreakable, and the human skull could withstand over 500 pounds of pressure before crushing. Alex let Garcia’s body slide back to the ground.

The Russian had crushed Garcia’s skull with one fist.

Alex turned slowly, teeth bared. So could he.

Sam Reid was trading blows with a being larger than he was. Even though Sam had internal MECH technology, it was he who was struggling with his opponent. Dunsen rejoined the fight. He, Casey, and Monroe faced an opponent together, but against the Russian they seemed to be taking turns being flung around like rag dolls.

Alex felt the movement in the air before he saw it, and raised his shielded arm in time to stop the metal bar coming down across his neck. Even though the super-compressed air defrayed the massive blow, he still grunted from the force of it, and his feet sunk a few inches further into the ooze.

He spun and came up with his knife, the metal blade horizontal, and he stabbed in hard at the Russian’s ribcage. The razor-sharp edge, with Alex’s force behind it, should have penetrated the ribs, and found the heart or at least the lungs — either should have meant immediate death or incapacitation.

But the blade barely entered the skin, and then struck something that felt like solid bone where none should have existed. Alex looked up into the face for the first time — the man didn’t wear any breathing apparatus, and his features were a grotesque mask of elongated jaws, heavy brow, and large, black soulless eyes like those of a shark. The man grinned, showing teeth that were strong and inward curving.

The Russian lunged, but he underestimated Alex who pivoted and brought the knife back around, roaring and swinging with all his strength into the meat of the Russian’s shoulder. There was no bone or armor plating there and his eight-inch knife sank to the hilt, delivering a devastating injury, and one that should have rendered the Russian’s arm useless.

This time the Russian howled with pain as he dropped his iron bar, and he quickly reached up to catch the hilt of the blade and Alex’s hand in his own. Alex saw that the giant hand only seemed to have three large blunt fingers and it completely wrapped around his own.

The Russian tried to crush Alex’s hand but couldn’t, and instead Alex pushed the blade further into the mottled flesh.

“It hurts, da?” It was Alex’s turn to grin.

The Russian growled and Alex stared into the black discs of eyes. What’s happening to these men?

Unexpectedly, the Russian straightened then jerked back, lifting Alex up off his feet while still gripping his hand. He pulled it from the knife and used Alex’s arm to swing his body around and whip him hard to the ground. Alex grunted in pain as his head thumped down and he felt the impact jar every bone in his body. His vision swam, and his mind began to wander away.

His adversary ripped the knife from his shoulder and flung it away and then bent to pick up the fallen steel bar.

Look. The voice in his head was urgent but disdainful. I said, look!

Alex’s blurred vision focused on hurricane of violence around him. Without the ability to use modern weaponry, it reminded him of movie scenes of age-old gladiator battles — huge warriors in armor battled each other with swords, clubs, and shields, as well as the most basic of weapons; hands, fists, elbows, and heads.

He saw Sam Reid lifted from the ground by one of the most grotesque men he had ever seen in his life. The HAWC was held aloft for a few seconds before being slammed down to the mud. His adversary then went to stomp down on him, but Sam caught the huge boot and hung on tight.

Three other HAWCs battled another of the men. Alex’s confused state making it impossible for him to tell who was who in their robotic-looking suits. Alex knew his HAWCs were an indomitable force and near-indestructible human beings, but the Russians were even more super-charged and bestial. They not only held their own with the American Special Forces soldiers, but their strength seemed to far surpass them.

Look at your loyal soldiers now. The voice chuckled cruelly. They follow you, and see where have you brought them? To hell, of course.

He turned his head, seeing the fallen body of Garcia.

Once you’re dead, they’re all dead. Close your eyes, and just let it all go. The cruel laugh again. After all, that’s how a coward would die.

The metal bar then came down across his chest, and Alex felt the ultra-tough biological armor-plating crack. The suit held, but it wouldn’t for long.

That’s how a coward would die.

Alex’s stupor made him feel like he was tied down. He tried to roll away, but too slowly, and the next strike of the bar was across his lower back. Lightning bolts of pain shot through him.

“I’m not a coward.” Alex strained.

Then get the fuck up. On your feet, soldier… or let me take over!

The voice was now a roar as the bar came down again and again.

Fight or die — choose! The cruel voice goaded, urged, and tormented him. Alex knew who it was — The Other, drawing power from the conflict, wanting to be released, and thirsty for blood.

Alex whipped the shield around in time to stop the bar striking his head. Through the shield, the Russian, or whatever he had now become, became a blur as he used the metal bar and one huge fist to pummel down on Alex.

Alex held the shield aloft to take impact after impact. He weathered the vicious blows as each became ever more furious.

The Other wanted blood, and gave him a choice — fight or die. Anger as well as adrenaline and steroids surged through him. He pushed to his feet. “I choose to fight.”

The metal bar swung down, but instead of it striking the shield again, Alex turned his arm, and caught the bar, and held it even though the Russian tried with all his might to jerk it free.

For what seemed an age, but would have been only a second or two, the adversaries stared into each other’s eyes. Alex’s would have seemed to burn with an intensity and fury that made other men shrink back. But the HAWC saw in those inky, soulless depths something the Russian didn’t want him to see — doubt.

Alex gritted his teeth, and jerked back hard, ripping the bar free. Faster than the Russian could react, Alex swung it back at the man. The Russian held up a forearm, but the bar struck it violently, and with a wet crunch, the arm broke like a tree branch. The man howled as the hand swung down, held to the arm only by the flesh.

Alex Hunter wasn’t finished. He used both the bar and his armor-plated fist to beat at the Russian, forcing the bigger man to backpedal. Alex then swung the bar backhanded, catching the man’s chin with a sound like a bell ringing. The Russian fell back to the ground.

Yes, yes, good. Now feed me.

Alex looked down at the Russian. If those black eyes were begging for mercy, they were looking in the wrong place. The Russian started to rise.

“Yes, I will,” Alex whispered.

He swung the metal bar with such force at the man’s head that it cleaved its way all the way down to his neck.

The body juddered for a few seconds on the ground as nerves misfired, before laying still.

Alex stood looking down at the carnage, before shaking his head as though trying to dislodge an angry hornet. He needed to refocus. His vision still swam but he pulled the RG3 rifle from over his shoulder, turned and peppered the ground with the high-speed projectiles.

“Enough!” Alex roared and aimed the weapon at the face of the Russian leader.

“You have something that belongs to us.” Alex strained, as the beast inside him wanted to obliterate them all. The Russians and his HAWCs froze, eyes on him, waiting. But in the Russian faces there wasn’t fear, more amusement.

Alex grimaced for a moment, trying to pull The Other back. “Hand it over… and I’ll let you live.” Alex pointed the RG3 directly at the biggest Russian’s face — the leader, he thought. Inside his head, a voice screamed to pull the trigger.

“HAWCs, form up on me.” Alex watched as Dunsen pulled Monroe to his feet, and turned to bump armored knuckles with Casey. Then his soldiers eased back toward him, never taking their eyes off their foes, until they were at his shoulders.

They straightened, waiting. He noticed Sam was sporting cracked biological plating, and remembered his own suit taking the abnormally brutal impacts. Sam’s armor, like his own, was harder than titanium and should not have been breached by anything less than a direct hit from heavy-caliber weaponry. But the Russians had cracked them with their bare hands.

Alex scanned the faces of the impossible-looking men facing them. None wore breathing apparatus, so were sucking in the toxic air. Their heads looked misshapen, brows and jaws longer and even their arms hung lower than they should, and ending in club-like fingers. Their uniforms stretched, and he could see splits appearing across the chests and biceps of some of them. It was like they were growing right out of their clothing.

One of them went to raise his weapon. But the biggest among them, who had been fighting Sam, waved it down, and turned to face Alex.

“This is not American territory.” The voice was deep and guttural. He held a hugely muscled arm out toward the Orlando and gave Alex a sharp-toothed grin. “I claim right of salvage.” He kept his eyes on Alex and one hand on the hilt of a large Russian blade.

“Fine, keep the shuttle. Just give me the image chip; I know you’ve got it. Last chance.” Alex’s gun barrel didn’t waver.

The man looked at his team, and then down at his soldier who still had the metal bar sticking from his head. His powerful jaws worked for a moment.

“We are not afraid to die, and I think your soldiers are also not afraid to die. This is the warrior’s code.” His grin returned. “Besides, the things we have done, you and I, maybe we deserve to die.”

He raised his chin and inhaled deeply through his nose and then nodded. “I think high methane content. Maybe this gas will explode if we fire our weapons, maybe it won’t.” He looked over Alex’s shoulder to the civilians. “But will you gamble the lives of the others who are with you? Maybe they not so prepared to die, da?”

Alex’s choice was simple; he could fight and risk detonating the mountaintop, and end up killing everyone, or he could back off. If it were just the HAWCs, it’d be easy.

“I’m Captain Alex Hunter, and up here, I am the first and only law. There will be no more warnings.”

The big man stepped forward. “And I am Ivan Zlatan, and up here, I do not recognize your authority.” He lowered his brows. “In fact, little man, I do not recognize your authority anywhere.”

Alex fired the RG3 twice, putting two pencil-sized holes through the Zlatan’s shoulder. The huge man jerked to the side, grunting. But the next sound was a grating laugh. He turned back, as black blood started to weep through his uniform, but only for a few seconds before it dried.

One of the Russians brought up his gun, but Zlatan put a huge arm out and pushed it down.

“We are not so easy to kill,” Zlatan said.

“You’re already dead.” Sam joined Alex. “You know this gas you’re inhaling is toxic?”

“Not to us.” The Russian took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We don’t need to dress like spacemen because of a little mist. I think we are tougher than you Americans.” He smiled sourly.

Sam snorted. “Yeah, you all look like crap. If you think it’s not affecting you, then you’re blind.”

“You thinking you can chance it.” Zlatan laughed corrosively again, before looking at his downed man again. “His name was Valentine Russlin; a good soldier. But not as good as me.” He looked up at Alex. “Little man, I will peel you from your suit, and break you into pieces.”

He looked at each of the HAWCs. “I think this will be your graveyard today.”

He lowered his head, large, dark, glossy eyes glaring at Alex. His remaining men stared unblinkingly at Alex with the same weird eyes. The HAWCs were like statues, with their RG3s pointing unwaveringly at each of the Russians’ heads.

The foggy atmosphere curled around them, if anything becoming more crowded with the floating specks. Alex’s laser-focused attention detected the sound of something large moving out beyond the curtain of mist.

Zlatan cocked his head. “Yes, I know, we are not the only predators that stalk this mountain.” His strange eyes narrowed, as he seemed to be tracking something that even Alex couldn’t see.

The scream that tore through the atmosphere was one of fear and absolute pain. Casey spun at him.

“Erikson.”

“Shit! Pull back,” Alex yelled.

“Another time.” Zlatan’s eyes never left him.