“Rebecca! Get up!”
It was Diego’s voice that first roused me from slumber, his lips close to my ear, my name whispered with fierce intensity. I began to sit up, for a moment uncertain of my whereabouts. My face and hair were moist with dewfall, but at some point in the night, Diego must have with gentlemanly consideration cast the blanket about my person, for I was not otherwise uncomfortable. The sky above us was just showing the first light of dawn, and though it was to have been a beauteous morning, I did not have even a single moment to contemplate it.
There was a sharp report, then another, and then a shout, followed by a crackling fusillade that tore through the peace of that newborn day. The fog that had settled over my mind suddenly cleared, swept away by the rising winds of war.
My gaze turned to observe the source of the disturbance; at the gate, I beheld several of the settlement’s motley crew of night watchmen returning fire from the towers overlooking the compound’s only entrance. Two more fired through openings in the gate itself, which remained thankfully closed, two weighty wooden planks drawn as bolts across the interior. For the moment, this effort at a frontal assault had been thwarted, but several of the guards had fallen; two bodies lay lifeless on the ground near the gate, and a third cried out most piteously from where they lay out of sight.
“Hammer. Here. Now. We need to get to the….”
A peculiarly subtle sound swept across my hearing, as if the air were a silken tapestry and a single sharp nail had been drawn, swift as a calligraphic brushstroke, across its shimmering surface. A fraction of a second later, the sound of a shot followed.
“Sniper. Xxxx. Stay low. Follow me.”
Leaving the blanket and the night behind us, we made our way expeditiously towards the central compound, where those within were only just now beginning to stir. A figure came running towards us from the inner compound gate, rifle clutched tight to their chest.
It was Liberty, the genial, somnolent watchperson from the night before. She had clearly just woken herself, and the look upon her broad, honest face was one of utter confusion.
“Diego! What the hell? I mean, what the xxxx?”
“Libby. Get down! The Hammer’s at the gate, and we’ve got at least one sniper inside the outer…”
But before he could finish, there was another whisper of steel on silk, and Libby fell like a sack of sand, the life smitten from her sturdy form by our invisible assailant.
At this, both Diego and I, already crouched, flung ourselves prostrate upon the ground, pressed as close to sheltering earth and a parked tractor as was possible so as to present less of a target to our unseen assailant. From the outer gate behind us, more cries and gunfire filled the air; clearly the guards there were hard pressed in their own fight for survival, and it felt clear that there was an imminent danger that the gate should be breached.
“Whoever’s in the compound must’ve cut the outer alarm. I’m gonna get to the main board, get that sounded.” Diego crawled with surprising swiftness over to where Libby’s corpse lay, where he seized her rifle and the pistol by her side. To my surprise, he then tossed the rifle towards me.
“Tractor’ll give cover. Stay here. Defend yourself.”
I nodded a curt affirmation. “Yes. I shall.”
I clambered to the large sheltering rear wheel of the tractor, sat upright against its reassuringly dense rubber and steel, and began familiarising myself with the rifle, a worn antique Kalashnikov that was likely several centuries old. In that, it was of the same vintage as my Ruger, but was of considerably cruder character, having clearly been rebuilt by a gunsmith of only modest skill on at least several occasions out of the parts of numerous donor rifles. A quick inspection showed the bolt was significantly worn and scored, as is common in this most ubiquitous of pre-collapse firearms. Despite this, the action was acceptable, all else was in working order, it had a fully loaded magazine, and it appeared capable of the grim and brutish task for which it was designed. I did have considerable doubts as to its accuracy, but it would have to do.
Diego had begun a rapid crawl towards the gate, moving from cover to cover, as our unseen assailant tried once and then again to prevent his progress.
Three things then occurred in near simultaneity.
Firstly, the stern klaxon of the inner compound alarm began to sound, rallying those within to the defence of the settlement. Secondly, a mere instant later, over the wall of the inner compound came soaring the most welcome figure of the ever-faithful and stalwart Ernest; it was evident that he had registered the events without, deduced the necessary course of action in response, and ensured that a hue and cry was raised before setting himself to the task of assisting in our mutual defence. Thirdly, witnessing the ascent of my Series 9, and noting rightly that the attentions of the malevolent Caddiganite gunman would be in that moment distracted, Diego sprang to his feet, and running with the swiftness of his synthetic limbs, was to the inner compound door before any harm could befall him.
An instant later, Ernest landed by my side, where he went to one knee, pressing himself up against the side of the tractor, his mirrored, featureless visage considering my person carefully.
“Milady. Are you unharmed?”
“I am, dear Ernest, thank you. Merely a few scrapes and scratches from the crawling, none of which are of any note. As you have no doubt already deduced, Caddigan is at the outer gate, and we are most sorely perturbed by an insolent and murderous marksman who has infiltrated the compound. They…”
At this very moment, a round cracked against the very top of the rubber tractor tyre, filling the air with a spray of black and tarry particles that settled unpleasantly upon my hair, face, and dress.
“Yes. That. Could you please find and dispatch them for us? They’ve been quite troublesome.”
“I shall, milady. I have triangulated their location. Before I fulfil your request, do you require anything further?”
“I do not. Again, thank you, Ernest.”
My reflection bobbed in his mirrored face as he nodded, and with a slight, curt bow, Ernest flung himself skyward, departing in a great swirl of dust cast round about from his thrusters. He arced upward in a precise parabola, as had he been hurled bodily by an ancient manganel or trebuchet; his target was clearly a modest ramshackle outbuilding near the northernmost wall, but sixty metres away. From that cover, and realising that their bolthole had been revealed, our vile assailant smote wildly at the instrument of his approaching doom, a desperate last attempt to ward off the dark encroachment of fate.
Some of that fire struck Ernest as he flew, but his intention was not to be thwarted, and down he swept inexorable and undeterred. His arrival at the shack from behind which harm had been done was followed by a cry of horror and rage, after which there was a single, blunt, and slightly moist sound, as if a great mallet had been forcibly applied to a cantaloupe. While I did not directly witness the sniper’s demise, I do not doubt that this description closely mirrors the actual moment; that I did not actually observe it is a minor mercy.
Moments later, Ernest returned to view, carrying with him a Kalashnikov of similar design to my own, but mounted with a hunting scope; he was in the process of loading this requisitioned weapon with ammunition that had clearly just been taken from what remained of the sniper. He gave an acknowledging wave, then once again leapt upward, this time bound for the gate and our beleaguered defenders.
As he did so, there was suddenly a flood of movement from the inner compound, as tumbling forth from that bailey came Diego and two dozen allies, all bearing ancient rifles and stern demeanours, as intent as hornets stirred to the defence of their disturbed nest. Half of the group rushed towards the eastern gate to provide aid; above them, a half dozen small recon and intel drones whirred heavenward, providing the insight that is so vital to success in any martial concours.
The second dozen rushed towards parked and waiting vehicles, the selfsame vehicles that had been requisitioned from the Caddiganites during the melee that effectuated my rescue. Four of those trucks roared to life, with an anarchist taking their place at the weapon mount behind the cab; they rumbled as one towards the firefight.
From the gate, a cheer, and a redoubling of the sound of gunfire streaming out against our assailants. From his soaring vantage overhead, I could see Ernest making good use of the weapon he had seized, firing down upon our foes with unerring accuracy.
The tide, it seemed in that hopeful moment, had turned in our favour.
But in the very next instant, in the merest tumble of a solitary grain from the hourglass of Chronos, it turned again.
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