Dusk Territories: Always Burning (27 page)

“Weapons don’t kill people, Doctor. You should know that,” Brinks said, noting the gesture.

“Weapons aren’t the cause of all casualties. But ideas are, and you can’t kill those. I don’t like the idea.”

Amused by the concept, Brink jumped back on the truck. He tapped the side to inform the driver that he was on. Their truck began to move, vaulting over the rocky terrain of the hill. Wheels screeched as the gears strained to a higher gear. Their goal: to drill through the defenses before them, to stop the Drifter from slipping through their fingers. Speed, firepower, manpower was all at their disposal and Brink was going to use it. Ideas of death attached to the back of Ragnar’s mind. That wouldn’t stop the battle ram. Ragnar wondered,
was this revenge worth it?

Full speed ahead, they charged. The point of their formation rushed down the hill like a powerful river, heading straight towards the Drifter’s forces. Gun turrets were the first to go off, sputtering rows and row of fire, clanking against the armored trucks. They returned fire, but not quite as consistently. Some of the weaker RV’s of the forces fell before them, spinning out.

The heavier artillery returned fire to match them. Sounds of the explosions crashed into the air in ear-splitting volumes. Some of the return fire hit targets, ridding the drilling offense bit by bit. Brink’s face changed at the attack. Despite the ambush, Drifter still had enough sense to mount a good defense. Even still, the confidence didn’t wane, it just wasn’t as clean as he would have liked.

A few of the Brink’s front line fell, spinning out, and soon crashing or worse exploding into one another. Flames lit up the sky in red. The smell of gas slapped Ragnar in the face; it’s very mass almost choking him. The mass got larger with the destruction of some of Drifter’s cars. Over and over again, the fight was getting larger and the death toll sky-rocketing.

“I want all of them dead,” Brink whispered into his radio.

The gun turrets continued firing, and now so did the soldiers from the back of the trucks. Assault rifle fire and shells now joined the crazed ambiance. And it was about to get worse. The turret of both of the Abraham’s turned. Brink must have known this was a risk. If he didn’t, the flash of the 120mm gun would tell him otherwise.
Tanks are worse than guns,
Ragnar thought.

As expected, the Abrams showed no mercy. They blasted through the rim of the charge, thinning their numbers. One fired incredibly close to their location, rocking the truck and spurting a shower of rocks and dust into the air. Their turrets were active, each manned with men and woman of accurate fire.
He couldn’t possibly think that we could make it.
They couldn’t possibly make it to the Drifter’
s caravan. Progress was good, but they would never make it.

“River…” Brink said simply.

She stood up steadily, even in the incredible speed that they were going. Her feet were firm, unaware of the dangers around her. River extended her hands, allowing her small arms to stretch to her side. Sea colored flames spun from her palms cloaking them and large portion of the army in a wall. It howled like a heavy wind carrying a banshee scream. More screams added to this. From the inside of the flaming shawl, all Ragnar saw was dancing faces in the embers of sea foam, screaming out to him.
These aren’t flames. They’re souls. She’s burning people with souls.

River closed her eyes, as her flames ate away through the Drifter’s defenses. Ragnar watched as this demon ate away steel and bone, adding the residents to the pool of screams. The more she killed with the flames, the more powerful it got. She could only maintain it for moments at time.
A smile of pleasure lit up her face, gathering the pain of everyone it touched.
Only a little time was all she needed. She created a hole in the defenses while creating an impregnable defense for a vital minute.

Finally, she collapsed as the flames disseminated. Ragnar caught her with one arm, out of reflex. She cocked her head back, laughing manically. “Thanks for the catch, Raggy. You do care.”

“I could kill you right now.”

“But you won’t, because I just gave you a step towards your revenge.”

They were in the middle of Drifter’s ring. When the flames fell, only the outer ring of the Drifter’s forces was left. The two tanks fought off the edge enemies. Their second line of defense was completely gone, leaving only the residential trucks in defense. The elusive man that slipped through his hands since this all began was right there. Rage bubbled in Ragnar’s gut.

“Did you ever doubt me, Ragnar?” Brink said, finally aiming his weapon.

“Yes,” Ragnar admitted. “Yes, I did.”

“Then doubt no more.”

Brink opened fire on the Drifter’s R
V. His ring of defense now turned to offense as they protected their leader. It would be to no avail. Brink continued fire, pushing the pressure on the single leader. Bullets clanked against the surface of the armor, barreling into some of the weaker positions like the windows. A few men within the
shelter, most likely Drifter’s guard, mounted an offense. At this point, they were too close, far too dangerous, and far too evasive. At any moment, they would crash into them.

Even a crazed lunatic wouldn’t risk that. Even the best knew when to retreat. An escape route is all he had.

Within a few meters, the Drifter’s vehicle took off in a completely different direction than they were headed. It slipped through the lines of its defense, t
aking more damage. The defense didn’t close fast enough however. Ragnar heard as the engines of their ride kicked it into overdrive. Speeding in miles per hour well over 100, they cut through the closing gaps with a few others, snapping Drifter away from his pack.

The offensive portion was over. A chase took its place.

A sound gambit
, Ragnar thought. Drifter’s power lied in numbers. Yes. His firepower was formidable. Yet the king remains one of the weakest pieces in chess. At any cost, it makes sense
to check.

Now, they were locked.

“Lilia,” Brink said, still firing on his target with precise eyes.

“Aye boss,” the female driver responded.

“You know what to do now.”

“Trap the mouse?”

“Trap the mouse.”

“We could just blow them up sir,” Lilia suggested.

“No. I have to see if someone is there. Besides...” Brink nodded at Ragnar, who impatiently rubbed against the handle of his axe. “Our friend might want to do this more personally.”

“Right, sir! Full speed ahead!”

Ragnar knew they were close. They were locked in this conflict. Drifter no longer had his resources. Then why did he feel so nervous. Why didn’t the bad feeling go away? Was something up?
Then it hit him.
Where was Wood?

_

Celine and Samson was only a spectator in this conflict. Everything was going so bad.

This was something that she felt the moment this day had arrived. She watched dreams of its happening. It repeated in her head. If she intervened, this could change badly. The visions were never truly clear. But, the images she had seen were that of a solemn one. Her eyes followed the small RV and the few others that managed to break away fast enough to defend the leader.
They will never catch it. They would never be able to do anything.

Those people were going to die.

Celine had seen it. Brink was going to trap them. He had already set the foundation. Celine closed her eyes. She saw the building, the building that would be their tombs. Everything she did lead up to trying to stop this was crumbling. Yet this event still happened. She took deep breaths, trying to keep herself from screaming from the top of her lungs. “This is bad.”

“You didn’t predict this.”

“The fact that I did, Samson, irritates me”

“Drifter’s done, huh?”

“Yes—“

Celine caught her words. Something was different. In her visions, there were different sorts of defenses. Drifter and his team brought out bigger guns, and defended almost to the death of the entire group. Yes, the deaths here were mounting, but not nearly as much. But this time, Drifter retreated far too easily, almost like he was baiting. “Damn it,” Celine said, with a sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Samson asked, taking a sip from the mouth of his ever so handy brown glass.

“Someone is a moron and a genius.”

“What?!?’

“You don’t see what’s going on? Look closer.”

The main attack on the main camp subsided. Brink’s forces, no longer as dedicated with their goals were being fought off. To them the battle was won, and became relaxed. That led to their genocide. The big guns came out. RPGS, Javelins, explosives, high powered guns tore through the Ancestor’s survivors that didn’t charge after the head. Using those at the beginning of the battle was risky, and the forces were too big, so it was sound clean up.

However, what had surprised Celine the most was something else. She kept a watch on how the leader worked. Drifter never made mistakes. Costly successes, yes, but never mistakes. He could only cut his losses.
That’s a dangerous game, but he knows how to work with it.
Drifter was too important to the team to be the bait.

Celine peered deeper.

“Dammit, Drifter.”

There the old man stood, looking over the carnage from the hatch of the tank. From here, she could tell he wasn’t happy about this. His long white hair fluttered behind him, eyes caught into a trance.
He hates losing people. He might be a bit crazy, but he’s still human.
Wood sat beside his Uncle staring in the direction of the souls. Those people in his truck had been used as the bait. They would risk their lives while they snuck into Houston. Only a few people would make that risk.

Graham would take that risk.

Celine sat on the ledge, nodding.

“What’s going on?” Samson asked again. “Drifter…didn’t—“

“Drifter chose not to go. He would have died otherwise….but…” Celine blew off some anger. “Graham and his team might not make it back to Houston.”

“Is that a big thing? I mean—“

“Yes,” Celine said calmly interrupting, “it’s not on my list of things that I wanted to happen.”

“Is he that important?”

“He knows.”

“He knows what.”

“He knows about
Father
. He just doesn’t remember it.”
      

Samson took a large gulp from his drink, obviously not drunk enough to take this seriously. “What again?”

“He knows about Father.”

“Like our Father?”

“Yes, our Father,
my
biological father.”

“For real?”
      

“Yes, Samson.” Celine gave an exasperated sigh. “He just doesn’t remember. He found out the moment of his…death.”

“This shit’s getting far too deep for my taste, sugarlips.”

“If things were any easier for you, you would be on your back, sleep.”

“What does he know about
Father
that you don’t?”

“How to stop him….without all the strings attached.” Celine grabbed her shoulder, aggravated that she even felt this way. “But we might lose that.”

“Aren’t you happy? That’s your pops.”

Happy.
The word felt foreign in her mind. Her mind tried to produce memories of it
. They never came. “No. I don’t feel either way.” She grabbed the end of her cloak. “Better feel nothing than sadness either way. Let’s go. We have to watch how this unfolds.”

Samson boarded his motorcycle, revving it up. “You’re a grim person.”

“Yes. And the next time you call me sugarlips, you won’t remember how to breathe.”

The thin man shook his head, putting on his helmet. He believed every word she said. Though she trusted no one, he trusted that she was going to keep her word. She returned to her thoughts.
Happy,
she asked herself again.
I was happy before, but I couldn’t let it stop me. No matter how much I love my father.
She touched her white crystal on her chest.
No matter how much I want to miss him.

16

We Aren’t Dead Yet

“
Survival was always their main goal. It comes to a point where survival meets opposition and you have to make something happen.”

Wood watched the anger swell in Drifter’s eyes.

Drifter remained where he was since the battle finished; he was within the tank crossed-legged and smoking a pipe. He never smoked. He was the type of man that would only partake in it for a small moment of contemplation. These were one of those moments. Rings of silver smoke oozed from his nose and mouth as he muttered. The rings broke off and garlanded his features, drifting in a haze around him. “Monsters are real,” he told himself over and over again. It had become the anchor to his reality.

Heron slipped in from the top of the hatch, landing perfectly on the metal flooring. She looked at Drifter, then back at Wood who just shook his head. “It was a logical move,” she said simply.

“Logical is a fancy word,” Wood said, eyes barely open. “But it never gives us what we need to hear. People are dead.”
      

“And Drifter isn’t happy about it.”

Wood gave a low laugh. “Why do you think he created this caravan in the first place?”

Heron lowered her glance, “To protect the innocent people caught in this nonsense.”

“He never
wanted
anyone to die. He knew it was going to happen.”

“Then why is he sad?”

“He’s not. He’s angry.” Wood met her with a full smile, showing all his teeth.

Drifter slammed his cane hard on the ground, the metal ringing. His pipe fell from his lips. “That’s enough,” he said, his voice calmer than it had ever been. Wet hair dripped sweat on his face, a solemn cold expression. In the past, a moment of recollection would slip by and he would return to his normal self. This time the insanity stayed, the mad dog foaming from its mouth. His cane shook from its master’s unsteady grip. “Death count.”

“About half of our force has been dismantled, so about 50. Crisium and Tyrus are too injured to battle.” Heron shook her head. “I don’t think we can take Huston like this.”