Juggernaut

‘They are insects,’ said Jabril. ‘Lobotomised. Individually they don’t count for much. But they mass. And they are relentless. There are hundreds of them, and they will keep coming until you have used up every bullet and have nothing to throw at them but rocks. They won’t quit. They won’t retreat. They have a single, all-consuming purpose. To tear into your flesh.’

Amanda leant her rifle across the saddle of the quad bike. The ruins beyond the temple boosted luminescent green by her nightscope. Pale pillars and jagged walls. Bodies sprawled on flagstones.

More soldiers shambled out of the darkness. Dust furled round them like smoke. Living cadavers. Slack, desiccated faces. Stench carried on the wind. The reek of decomposition.

She lined up kill-shots, soft entry points, reticules centred on jet-black eyes.

Gunshot. Skull-burst.

She worked the bolt.

Gunshot. Shattered jaw.

The magazine ran dry. She slapped a fresh clip of .308 into the receiver. She folded a fresh stick of gum into her mouth.

‘Enemy left. Bunch massing by that archway,’ she said.

‘Save your ammo,’ said Voss. ‘Let me deal with it.’

Voss set aside his smoking shotgun. He slung the strap of the SAW over his shoulder and locked a fresh belt of ammunition into the receiver.

‘Give me some light.’

Amanda threw cyalumes into the darkness beyond the temple entrance. The scattered sticks glowed ectoplasmic blue.

Six soldiers lumbering out of the dust storm into the pool of strange, chemical light.

Voss braced his legs, gripped the heavy machine gun and shot from the hip. Jack-hammer roar. Muzzle-flame. Two hundred rounds per minute. Cartridge cases cascaded from the weapon, chimed and skittered across the flagstones. His arms trembled as he fought to control the machine gun.

The soldiers were torn open. Legs scythed at the knee. Arms torn from their sockets. Smashed ribs. Fractured spines. They were thrown backwards by the impact of heavy calibre rounds.

Two of the soldiers tried to struggle to their feet. Their olive uniforms were bullet-scorched and burning. A fresh sweep of the gun. Heads smashed open. Skull shards. Pulped brain tissue. They fell dead and twitching.

Lucy ignored the muzzle-roar and gun smoke. She shook out daypacks and grabbed stuff they would need for their journey across the desert.

She decanted mineral water into canteens and Camelbaks. She ripped open MRE pouches. She tossed plastic meal pots. She kept dried fruit.

She divided the remaining ammunition. She checked her pockets, made sure she had her map and compass.

‘Everybody suit up,’ she said. ‘We’ll lay suppressing fire with the SAW, then make a break for it. You too, Jabril. You’re coming with us. No argument. I’m going to get you home.’

She offered Jabril a pistol.

He smiled and shook his head.

‘I’ll make a deal with you all.’

‘Talk later, all right? Your old pals have sniffed out fresh meat. If we stay here much longer we’ll get overrun.’

Jabril pointed to the metal trunk lying in the quad trailer, half hidden by Toon’s flak jacket.

‘Let me have the missile case. The documents. The virus. Give them to me, and I will show you a way home.’

Voss let rip another stream of machine-gun fire.

‘There’s a way out of here?’ shouted Lucy.

‘The freight train. We used it to haul Spektr. It’s still here. Maybe you can get it started. Ride it across the desert.’

‘Where is it?’

‘I’ll show you. In return for the case. Give me the missile, and I will get you home alive.

Containment One

Gaunt tied a scarf round his face. He adjusted sand goggles and turned up the collar of his leather jacket.

He was halfway across the valley floor.

He leant into the storm. Sand particles blurred like torrential rain.

He trained his flashlight on the dial of his compass. He struggled onward, alone in the dark.

He found rails half hidden in dirt. He followed them, stumbling over sand-dusted sleepers.

He entered a narrow ravine. Rough, sandstone walls. He felt the sudden change in air pressure. Wind funnelled through the tight fissure. The cyclone risen to a jet-scream.

His jacket whipped around him. He zipped it closed. He hugged the valley wall for guidance and support.

A split in the rock. A natural declivity. He hid from the storm.

A brief respite. He sat in the sand. He sipped from his canteen. Half empty. About a litre of water left.

He took the sat phone from his backpack. Flickering digits. The unit scanned wavebands, trying to acquire a signal. Nothing. Too deep in the ravine. No line-of-sight.

He packed the comms gear, knocked back Dexedrine, and stepped out into the storm. Sand particles stung his cheeks, his hands.

He followed the rails. He felt like he had walked for miles.

The track abruptly terminated in a jumble of wooden beams and sacking. He surveyed the obstruction by flashlight. A blocked tunnel. High and wide.

He pulled planks aside. He rolled an empty oil drum. He shone his flashlight into the cave mouth and let his eyes adjusted to the dark.