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Dark Crimson By Nick P.
Chapter XIII

He was close. He was real close. I could not see him; I could not hear or smell him. But I could feel him. In the dry wasteland, I could sense the buggy being sucked northward and the trail of dust behind us being carried away by the warm wind. There was dust behind, but what was ahead remained masked from me. Ahead lay many possible scenarios that I had rehearsed in my head. But that was the future and I could not gaze into it. This foresight remained unclear and uncertain. There was one thing that was certain, however: whatever was going to happen, it was not going to go the way they had hoped and told me back at the Outlands.

            That next morning, the orange Stroggos clouds had settled low. Visibility was to a minimum: there was none of it. One could only see a metre or two ahead, beyond which everything was lost in the low-lying moisture. Just as on Earth, the fog brought along with it an odd and mystical sort of sense and feeling, one that was accompanied by the usual, eerie silence. This was not at all encouraging after the tense night. The only sound was the distant whining of the fuel cells while the buggy slowly moved over rock. It seemed that our followers had either stopped pursuing, or had taken a detour or found a way to move noiselessly. Despite this, everyone was still uneasy. No one spoke since the start and they all gazed out though nothing could be seen. Ears tried to pierce through the silence, to hear the sound of movement.

            The Chief broke the silence.

            “Can’t see nothing. We’re stopping.”

            I carefully manoeuvred myself towards him. “You’re not authorised to stop this buggy, Chief.”

            “I said I can’t see a thing, captain. It’s been a miracle we got this far. This here place is full of big boulders and things: it’s hell driving through. I ain’t risking our lives no more.”

            Needless to say, this upset me. He had been driving for the last few hours in the mist, and all had been well. What was stopping him from continuing onward this way? We had no time, and these damned young soldiers just couldn’t seem to get that thought through their thick heads.

            “I’m in command here, goddamn it!” I yelled at him, my voice being shockingly loud in the absolute stillness that had settled when the Chief had stopped the engine. “You do what I say! Someone is following us. Do you want to make us easy targets?”

            When I stopped talking, another dead silence followed, and then, in the distance, a rock stirred and rubble stirred before all was quiet again.

            This made us all pause.

            “Shit,” murmured Chef. “Not again…”

            The Chief was looking around, trying to pierce through the cloud. “You see anything, Chef?”

            “I don’t know, they’re here, though. Rocks don’t just fall by themselves, and there ain’t no living things out here that ain’t enemy. But why don’t those dumb fucks attack? Watch there, Chief, to the left…”

            “Lance,” the Chief instructed. “Get ready on the cannons.”

            And then flashes of light came from the mist. We were under attack again, and so I knew that we were close, really close. It might’ve even been the same group that had attacked us yesterday. The beams of energy flashed through the air, a blinding yellow, almost white, that cast an odd aura in the moisture that surrounded them. They flew, trailing sparks, coming from our left. Somewhere in the rocks, behind the wall of clouds, they were there, enemies. But were they a Strogg patrol or rebels led by Kurt himself? The two were as inclined to attack one another as they were to attack us. Once again, I ducked down.

            Whatever our attackers had wanted to accomplish by their silent pursuit, they had succeeded and proceeded with their assault. It was definitely the thinking of a man. And there weren’t many men in this part of Stroggos. There weren’t many men that would attack you unless you had stolen or won all their money in poker, and that was back in civilisation. There was only one man here who had split from it, and I knew who it was.

            Kurt.

            Lance fired several shots blindly into the fog.

            The Chief finally managed get enough hydrogen to combust and dust was kicked up as the six wheels spun against Stroggos dirt. But the blazes of energy followed us even as we drove away.

            More shots went off from Lance cannon and distant explosions followed, coming along with high-pitched inhuman screams.

            The Chief turned back to me, not heeding his driving. “You got us into this mess and you can’t get us out cause you don’t know where the hell you’re going, do you!? Huh? Where the fuck are we going you son of a bitch?”

            One of the blaster shots flew by and hit him in the chest. He looked down, more surprised than anything else. One energy hit was not enough to kill a man, but the hit made the Chief pause, making him an easy and open target that begged to be shot. Three more bolts of energy blazed through the air and hit him in the chest, his body contorting grotesquely. For him, there seemed to be no pain, just astonishment and shock. The firing stopped, and I could see him touch his wound in disbelief before his eyes rolled up and back and he fell forward and against the buggy’s controls. The mist had taken his life; the war had taken two. And stupidity and ignorance had taken thousands more.

            The attack ceased and the stillness of the mist took hold again.

            In less than twenty-four hours, we had lost two essential crewmates. In less than twenty-four hours, they had passed in very much the same way.

            After the first few seconds of shock passed, Chef ran up to the front cabin and pulled the Chief’s body away. He stopped the buggy then slowly walked back and sat down, looking at me. Lance remained up on his cannon, seemingly indifferent to the situation.

            The mist was thinning and soon, bright sunlight began to filter through.

            And they continued to look at me.

            “My mission,” I started, knowing that it was about time I told them. The Chief and Clean would never know, and naivete had contributed to their passing. But I had unspoken orders, orders implied by the large ‘CLASSIFIED’ sign placed above each and every printout of my mission papers. I didn’t want to let death creep in again from behind some rock. For a while, I had been torn in indecision; I was told not to reveal my objectives. But now I had made up my mind. I didn’t want to lose these two remaining men without them knowing what they died for. “My mission is to make it up northward. There’s a Green Beret Colonel up there who has gone totally insane. I’m sent to kill him.”

            Chef shook his head. “Wow, that’s fucking typical. Shit. Damned Stroggos mission. We’re blowing through hell just so you can go up there and kill one of our own guys. He’s crazy, so what? He’s here and not on Earth. Crazy people kill, and the only thing here for him to kill is Stroggs. What’s wrong with that? Well, that’s military thinking for you. That’s fucking great, just great!” He stood up. “That’s fucking crazy! I thought you were coming in here to blow up a bridge, a warehouse, or maybe a major supply line or something. Or fucking convoys!”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “So what, what happens now?”

            I looked up at him. “From here, I go on my own.”

            Chef shook his head. “No. No, wait. We go together. Hell, we got this far. On the buggy, we’ll go with you. On the buggy, what are you supposed to walk? We’ll give you a ride, OK?”

*          *          *

Part of me was afraid of what I could find and what I was to do when I finally got there. I knew the risks, or imagined that I knew. After the attacks, all sorts of new thoughts and ideas were unwillingly propped into my head. Fear. Fear grew, and I had to grow with it. I had to accustom myself to it because fear, the tiniest flinch could be disastrous to my objectives. But regardless, it was unstoppable, an undeviating human emotion, and so I felt fear. But there was one thing that I felt even more, something that was much stronger than fear, and that was the desire to confront him.

            Next morning came in silence. The buggy seemed eerily empty and tranquil without the others; the stillness was foreboding. Chef was now piloting the buggy, quietly gazing at the rising sun. Lance was sitting off to one side, quiet as usual. His puppy was nowhere to be found, but he spoke little of it. Someone had opened the door and it had got out. The little dog was undoubtedly now wandering about the orange surface, left without food or water, soon to die of dehydration. That is, if the flies didn’t get it first. Or maybe the Stroggs.

            To our right, something brightly reflected the orange sunlight. As we drew nearer, it became apparent that it was a tiny shed of sorts with a fuel-cell hydrogen charger put in front. It had once perhaps been a service station but was little more than rusty metal now. The shed itself was tiny and worn out, a small booth of sorts. The door was left ajar to gently swing in the warm morning breeze. Rust covered it in proliferating patterns. There was a small path cut in the rocky land that led to it, while the hydrogen container was off to the right of the path. It was rusty too, though it was uncertain as to whether it still held hydrogen despite being abandoned.

            “Chef,” I said. “Pull up.”

            He swung the wheel around and the buggy headed down the tiny path. The path itself was only two or three metres long and soon our transport lay parked next to the canister that held the flammable gas we sought. Chef turned off the engine, an utmost silence creeping in, and jumped down to see if he could refuel. I jumped down as well and went towards the shed with a half-mind set on exploring.

            Inside, it was as depressing as the outside. Rust was just as prominent. There was a single desk in the centre with a chair set behind it. Papers held by a heavy anti-tank shell stood there while their edges gently fluttered in the wind. On one corner was a book of sorts. I moved towards it with interest.

            It was a technical manual regarding the V-180 ion-propelled Coalition bombers, also known as ‘Wildcats.’ Naturally, the manual was huge and thick and detailed everything from stabilisation ailerons for atmospheric flight to the mechanics of the plasma engines, even the dangers of the ionised gas in closed spaces. I couldn’t imagine what such a book would be doing here, in this tiny barrack. The only place I’d expect to find one would be in a pilot or captain’s quarters. I flipped through the pages and saw something else of interest: in the margins, notes had been scribbled neatly in a strange shrift. It reminded me of Russian, though I still couldn’t read it. It wasn’t quite Cyrillic.

            I picked up the book. It was old and tattered; the edges were bent and torn and the cover had given way to much abuse and time. But someone had apparently loved it; someone had taken the time to add to it, to keep it. And so, feeling as if I shouldn’t simply leave this object lying there, I pocketed it.

            After a brief glance to make sure I hadn’t missed anything of interest, my feet carried me back outside. The sunlight overwhelmed my eyes for a few seconds before they came back to focus and the black silhouette of the buggy came into focus. Besides it was the hydrogen container and a human figure.

            Chef was waiting for me there.

            “Someone had cut the tubes that led to the underground supply tank. I managed to reattach them. I got about a half-tank’s worth of fuel before she ran dry.”

            I nodded. “Should be enough to get us there and back over the Vagga Canyon.”

            And then I paused. Had the Vagga Canyon Bridge collapsed? It sure as hell looked ready to do so back when we drove through. But if it had fallen, how were we to return? My superiors surely didn’t give a damn. As long as I completed my mission. Oh well, I thought. No point in turning back now. Might as well follow through, might as well finish for what I travelled so long, for what Clean and the Chief had died.

            I hoisted myself up the ladder and into the buggy and Chef followed. I settled myself on the bottom of the containment area while Chef started the transport. Lance hovered overhead, rather absentmindedly sprawled over the gunner’s chair.

            And there I pulled the book and started flipping through it, hoping it might reveal something else.

            But I had little time because we had just about arrived.

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