The Fleet (14 page)

“Should we
shoot?” Zilne asked.

“No,” Dalton
replied. “Not yet. We don't know if it's an infected or
survivor.”

About the time
of his reply, Dalton sensed something. Be it bushes that were out
of place or a strange feel of the wind. Something wasn't right and
his extensive military experience warned him of it.

Turning
quickly, He began to skin the iron pony from its holster, though it
was too late. His eyes gleaming directly into a revolver pointed
his way.

“You keep
getting slower with time, you old bastard.” Johnny replied.

Though it took
a moment, Dalton finally realized the voice to be one of a
friend.

“I figured
you'd still be out here scratching together a living.” Dalton
replied with a grin. Brushy threads of beard spreading widely as he
did so.

“Cambria.”
Johnny said.

“Johnny.”

Growing up,
the two had been in love. He'd always pictured a day to come when
they'd be married, but it wasn't to be. Cambria had bigger
ambitions than a life on this planet. A simple lifestyle just not
her cup of tea.

She'd scraped
up the money to lease a ship and dreamed of hiring a crew to keep
it in the sky. And she'd done just that, finding Dalton in the
process. Before the infection began to spread, she'd returned home
just a single time. Still, it was long enough to nearly find Dalton
and Johnny nearly in a fight to the death. Not over Cambria's
affections, per se, but for the simple hell of it. Both men were
mouthy, good with a gun and liquored up during the encounter.

Eventually
they'd become friends, though Johnny had no intention of ever
leaving his home. Even after the infection began spreading and it
had become obvious that folks would die by the masses.

Suddenly, the
darkened sky sparked with a bright light. A huge fireworks display,
or so it seemed, with a thunderous bang to go along. The bang to be
interpreted by Johnny's gang as unfriendly fire. Immediately firing
back into Dalton and his crowd.

“Stop!” Johnny
yelled loudly. “Stop shooting you mangy fucks! These are friends of
ours!”

It took
several moments, but the rifle shots finally quit zipping towards
them. Each one blistering by and pissing Dalton off a bit
further.

“You mean we
come down here to help folks and start getting shot at!” Dalton
growled.

“It was a
mistake babe, let it go.” Cambria said. Grabbing her lover by the
arm and doing her best to talk sense into him.

Babe?
Johnny thought. Quickly understanding that a woman he'd loved, a
woman he'd never gotten over – was now committed to another man
before his very eyes.

“Ah,” Dalton
said with a heated grumble. “Shit.” he added. Stopping in his
tracks but kicking dirt and rock toward the slow approaching group
of outlaws.

“Sorry old
friends,” Johnny said. “It's been hell down here. A shoot first and
ask questions later mentality. You don't know what it's like.”

As May'yok
responded over their com to the shuttle and its crew, everyone knew
it was about to get worse. Dalton had heard the news broadcast over
the crackling radio, as had the rest of the group.

The Lucky Lady
was gone.

Dalton and his
crew had a shuttle, but it was the short distance variety. Nothing
that could possibly get them close to Second Glimmeria. And while
he struggled with the loss of their ship and its crew, Dalton also
hoped some type of distress signal had been sent. Otherwise, it
would take a mighty long time for the fleet to realize they were
actually missing.

A snapping
sound hit the air around them. The sonic boom of a ship coming in
hard.

“Don't even.”
Dalton threatened, pulling his revolver out and pointing it to the
small band of outlaws. Daring the filthy bunch of cowboys to make
the same mistake twice.

“That's the
other shuttle.” Zilne said.

“We need to
get to it fast.” Dalton replied.

“I wonder how
many of our people made it out.” Cambria asked.

“Don't matter
much,” Dalton replied. “Ships like the Lucky Lady don't go up like
a fireworks show unless they're hit with a lot of firepower.”

“The Viscion?”
she asked.

“That would be
my guess,” Dalton replied. “If so, they just stirred up a hornet's
nest of pissed off Dalton James.”

“The Viscion?”
Johnny questioned.

“We'll explain
on the way. Can you get us to the area that shuttle went down?”
Cambria replied.

“Yea. Looks
like Otter Flats. Gonna have to get to hauling ass though, it's a
long march on foot and I can promise you that anyone and anything
nearby heard it go down.”

“Appreciate
the help old friend.” Dalton said.

“I'd do
anything to help you out.” Johnny said, though his eyes never broke
from Cambria's.

I'm gonna have
to kill this fast-drawing sumbitch before it's over with.

*

Adam wrangled
through the sheets of his bed a bit. Another night of Avery nearly
pushing him out of it, wanting the security of a parent as he
slept.

The com,
however, quickly brought Adam from his deep sleep. For the most
part.

“Yea.” he
said, reaching over to press a button while keeping his eyes
closed. Hoping it was only a dream.

“We need you
in the situation room sir, as soon as possible.”

Taking a deep
breath and trying to convince himself he'd slept enough already,
Adam sat up in the bed. Cursing anything and everything that had
kept him awake.

“I'll be there
in a few.”

“Yes sir.”

Laying back
down for a moment, Adam slowly made his way from the bed to a small
window inside of his quarters. Deep in the heart of their
newly-born city, though his room was atop a large tower.

Looking out of
his window for a moment, Adam's eyes fixated on the brimming glow
of sunlight. Their brand new day about to begin; his with a meeting
in the situation room.

After finding
someone trustworthy near the situation room to care for his son, of
course.

Upon arriving
to the situation room, Adam immediately knew something was going
down. He'd seen the looks on faces just like these, many times
before.

“We're going
to war.” one of the top officials among humanity commented as Adam
entered the large chamber room. Ten of their high-ranking officials
gathered.

“War?” Adam
replied.

“We received a
hail from the Luck Lady late last night. She came under attack,
presumably by the Viscion, and was lost to us in an explosion.”

“What of
Dalton and...”

“Adam, we
believe your friend and his companions are still alive. Looking
through the transmissions we received before the explosion, it
looks as though the original shuttle arrived intact and the backup
shuttle aboard the Lucky Lady was also launched sometime during the
attack.”

Adam's mind
went to ease a bit, though he also understood that, had Dalton
survived, he'd be in one hell of a dilemma.

“We need to go
get them,” Adam said. “If they made it to the surface alive, the
Viscion will be right on top of them in a matter of hours.”

“We know,” one
of the ranking officials said. “But it will take time.”

“They may not
have time!” Adam shouted.

“Adam,” the
man said calmly. “You need to put your emotions to the side for a
moment and think like a military man here. If we rush out on a
half-ass mission to save our soldiers, we'll be no good to them.
Because we'll be dead. Believe me, we're going to get our people,
but when we do,” the man added. “We're bringing the fury of hell
along for the ride.”

As much as
Adam hated to admit it, the officer was right. From a military
standpoint, they stood no chance of winning head-to-head against a
race which held a substantial advantage when it came to
weaponry.

“So what do
you need me to do in order to help?” Adam asked.

“You know
Dalton James better than anyone in this room. We just need to know,
if he were on the surface of the planet in question, where he'd
most likely be trying to hold up?

Wherever the
liquor is.

“Um,” Adam
said, appearing to stumble a bit as he fought against the thought
of whiskey. “He'd either take the highest ground possible or he'd
look for a centralized building somewhere. Some place that gave him
a lot of cover.”

“Would you be
willing to go in and help our team try to extract Dalton and his
group?” the officer asked.

A million
things flashed through his mind. Seemingly every hour of every day
he'd spent together with a friend who'd been like a brother to him.
A man he'd do anything for.

“Regrettably,
no. I have a son to think about now.” Adam replied.

“I see.” the
officer replied with a bit of frustration.

“Sir,” Craig
said. Entering the large room of military preparation. “I'll
go.”

“And you are?”
the officer asked.

“Just a pilot
who's ass is here because of Dalton James refusing to leave me
behind. Sir.” Craig replied.

Closed doors
or not, rumors had already spread throughout much of the city.
Especially the military branch of it. Including Craig and his new
found love, Anna, who wasn't crazy about Craig's willingness to go
into battle.

“With due
respect, lieutenant, I'm not sure how much use you'd be to the
group we have going in.” the officer replied.

“I have a
plan.” Craig said.

“I'm sure you
do,” the officer said. “And so do we. Now if you'll excuse us,
lieutenant.”

“Wait,” Adam
said, standing to his feet. “You asked me to think like a military
man, so I am. As a military man, if I were up against impeccable
odds and someone announced a plan, I think I would give them a
minute of my time.”

“Alright
then,” the officer said. Wanting nothing more than to rid himself
of the lieutenant's sight, but respecting Adam Michaels enough to
give the young soldier an audience. “Get on with it.”

Craig would
deliver a plan that would, in all honesty, awe those in attendance.
And it would eventually be put to good use against the Viscion.

But not before
he could nod appreciation to Adam. Finding respect in the man that
had accomplished so much throughout his time in the military.

Both
honorable...and otherwise.

*

Peeling his
eyes open slowly, the co-pilot of the Lucky Lady began to sit up.
Realizing his body was in bad condition; perhaps broken ribs and a
leg that wouldn't quite work. Very painful to the man, who cringed
with each breath.

Lucky though,
seeing the husk around him laying dead. Injuries sustained in the
shuttle's quick and ridiculous attempt at a crash landing. Orc-like
warriors who aren't flight trained don't mix well with, well,
flight. So it seemed.

Injuries
aside, the co-pilot had bigger problems. Several figures stumbling
through the dark around the wreckage. Each of them infected and
making way to the shuttle which was partially intact but heavily
damaged.

Its
compression door had been ripped from the frame of the shuttle upon
impact, leaving a six-foot wide doorway to the rear of the craft.
Wide open and, unfortunately, a welcome sight for the infected
dead.

Still strapped
in, the co-pilot's harness would not give an inch. Even with
panicked hands pressing against the release lever. Strapped in and
left for dead, nothing more than a combat pistol within his
reach.

Pulling it,
the man understood that shaking hands led to missed shots. So he
waited for them. And as the first infected entered into the shuttle
with a taste for flesh on its lips, the co-pilot blistered a shot
from his pistol. Hitting the trunk of the bastard's body and
dropping it quickly.

A standard
combat pistol held eight rounds before a reload – the co-pilot
still counted nine infected. Based on what he could immediately
see.

Shot after
shot he dropped them. One at a time. While, in the back of his
mind, the co-pilot wondered how he could possibly survive the final
two and remain a prisoner to harness straps that nearly bit into
his shoulders.

Why should he
be any different than the crew of the Lucky Lady? They had all
died, so why not him? Perhaps it was his destiny to join them in
the land of the afterlife.

As the sliding
mechanism of the pistol popped empty, the man let loose his grip.
Preparing for the inevitable death which stood before him. Limping
closer by the second.

He'd go down
swinging, even if that meant swinging an emptied pistol at the
approaching infected.

Boom.

A shot so loud
that the co-pilot's ears rang hard. The splatter of infected
offering a stucco of gore onto his clothes as he fought to
understand the terms of the moment. Had he already passed on?

“I hate the
fucking undead,” Dalton said. “Aggravating bastards.”

Was he to be
judged in the afterlife by a bearded man who swore like a
sailor?

“On your feet
dipshit. More of them will be here in no time.” Dalton said.

“I...I can't.
My harness is broken.”

It had finally
occurred to the co-pilot that he'd indeed cheated death. Only to
fall into the loving arms of a man who also reeked of death, albeit
death by cheap cigar smoke.”

“Damn,” Dalton
replied, unsheathing his combat blade and slicing the harness
straps in a single motion. “All these muscled up husk laying dead
and we get the chicken with a broken wing.” he added. Watching the
fragile man try to stand.

“Paul.”

Had he not
been in charge and on the run, Dalton would have backhanded the
puny mongrel for making him walk such a distance for nothing. But
he understood. He'd been in two such crashes himself.