She turned her head and saw two burning balls arching through the air directly for her.

  Nina jumped, falling between the walls of crates and packages yet again. The two explosive shells detonated above, blowing open a dozen containers and sending a grainy cloud of powdered detergent into the air.

  Nina felt a sharp pang of pain in her right ankle as she landed but the minor injury did not slow her. She took flight through the warren of passages with the sound of rolling wheels chasing from behind-and then bullets ricocheted off the concrete in front of her just as she entered a four way intersection. The fire came from her left.

  The wolf flattened against the wall for a moment, then bobbed around the corner on a knee firing on full automatic. She walked her shots in toward the Commando who stood half-behind a pallet full of cooking oil cans tightly shrink-wrapped in a bunch. The bullets from her M4 made a muffled ting as they pierced the tin containers. Steady streams of Wesson splashed on the floor.

  The robot returned fire. Nina retreated a step and switched out an empty magazine for a new one. A moment later she peeked again and rapid-fired not so much to kill but to suppress in order to buy time to gain a better view of available paths.

  The one directly across the intersection appeared the most inviting and the most expeditious route to the north; the way she felt she must go to find and kill the Bishop. But just as she decided to dart across the intersection, one of the Commandos appeared in that passage ahead at a distance of thirty feet in a direct line of fire to her, and vice versa.

  Nina won the test of speed. Her rifle launched lethal shots just as her foe raised its arm. Some bullets missed wide but in the storm of full-auto fire quantity overcame a lack of quality. The Commando shivered and then fell in a heap to the concrete floor. Its red eye flickered before fading black.

  Nina ran across the intersection spitting suppression fire to her left as cover. She raced between a high stack of potato sacks to her left and large red shelving holding drums and crates to her right.

  To her surprise, a second Commando stepped over the body of the dead one and into the passage leading north; directly in front of her. Nina braked hard and nearly fell as her momentum grappled with the traction of her boots.

  The new arrival had a clear shot at her. This time Nina did not win the test of speed, but she reversed course quickly and jogged side to side to avoid incoming bullets. Fragments of rotting potato peels blew out from her right and jets of smelly liquid shot out from her left as the Commando’s rounds hit the walls to either side but missed the zigzagging mark.

  As she raced toward her previous position another of the Commandos-the Sergeant with black Chevrons on silver shoulder plates-appeared 15 yards ahead.

  Nina fired her weapon but just as her mental tab sheet knew it would, her gun ran dry before hitting home.

  The Sergeant rocked its metal-encased head side to side in what might have been a kind of robotic taunting and launched a pair of burning grenades as Nina approached at full speed with enemy bullets from behind chasing her all the way.

  She reached the intersection before the explosives and jumped left. The devices hit a pallet of boxes and exploded. A thunderstorm of peanuts and cashews filled the four-way intersection with nearly shrapnel-like velocity. Nina rolled east beneath it all then found her feet and ran. As she moved she struggled to change out another empty magazine for a fresh one.

  The Commandos pursued. She heard their garbled, synthesized conversations and the roll of their wheels. The passage she traveled straightened with crossways every five yards.

  A flash of bronze to her left.

  Nina fired a burst to ward off the shadow.

  A volley of enemy fire from her right.

  She responded with another burst, but kept moving east.

  Nina slowed and turned about and saw one of the skeletal Commandos following her at a distance. She paused and it fired but did so with no real attempt to aim from its concealed position behind a stack of containers.

  Bam!

  Jugs of fouled sweet peppers exploded in a corridor to the south. Liquid and slimy slivers of green and red oozed to the floor.

  She fired in that direction then ran again to the east. Rolling wheels sounded to her right-and her left-and from behind.

  They’re herding me.

  She ran faster, stopped at an intersection, and aimed to her left-the north. She fired bullets before she saw anything. One of the Commandos-rolling parallel to her flight-drifted into the stream of fire. It spun around like an off-kilter top and went down in a pile of scrap.

  Its partner learned from the mistake, stopping shy of the open corridor and holding its arm around the corner, letting fly a hail of rounds. At the same time, to the south, Nina heard the distinct pop of more grenades: the Commandos shadowing her on her right flank had arrived.

  She did not wait. Nina grudgingly ran east again: the way they wanted her to go. A moment later a pair of small explosions blew apart chunks of concrete where she had just stood.

  The rolling wheels began again, content to contain her and direct her rather than engage.

  She ran faster-faster, trying to reach the next intersection before the enemy did, as if maybe she could change direction north or south to avoid the trap. It did no good. The metallic soldiers increased their rolling speed as if sensing each change in her momentum.

  She fired bullets to the left. The enemy there had learned not to charge into intersections without caution.

  She fired more to her right. The Sergeant and his companion avoided the shots and answered with their own.

  Nina ran forward again although her sense of direction-confused as it had become-felt as if all her running, dodging, and avoiding led her closer to the starting point where she had left her comrades than the end. As she moved she changed out yet another clip as ammunition became a scarce commodity.

  The pallets piled high with boxes and crates and barrels stopped at an open space facing a trio of loading dock doors in the vast expanse of the eastern wall of the chamber. She arrived there a moment before the Commandos.

  My last stand.

  She turned south, knelt, and fired at the first sign of movement. Her volley hit the Sergeant’s wingman as it emerged full speed from the maze. That robot rolled across the open space and slammed lifeless into one of the loading dock doors.

  The Sergeant blindly launched grenades in defense to ward off her automatic fire. The maneuver worked: the explosive balls hit one of the concrete walls between garage doors. Pieces of stone and mortar fell around Nina and the concussion wave knocked her off-balance. Her fire stopped; she fell over flat onto the cold floor, her rifle slid several paces away.

  The three remaining bloodhounds reached the end of the hunt; one from the passage Nina had come, one to the north, and the Sergeant to the south.

  They paused in what might have been a soldier-to-soldier courtesy as she stood in preparation for liquidation.

  The turrets on the Sergeant’s shoulders swiveled with the sound of whirring gears. The one big red eye dominating its robotic head shrunk to a sliver as if squinting for better aim.

  A series of fiery sparks engulfed the Sergeant. The thing shivered and spun around facing a new enemy to the south.

  Vince Caesar-a trail of blood behind him-lay on the floor thirty yards to the south holding Carl Bly’s SAW.

  Nina dove across the floor, grabbed her M4, and launched bullets into the Commando to the north. It went silent and fell backwards as if something flipped its ‘off’ switch.

  The machine gun rounds tore apart the Sergeant. Vince tried to draw a bead on the second one, but it swerved side to side like a smart duck in a shooting gallery. Vince’s fire went high partly because he could not risk hitting Nina.

  The remaining red-eyed soldier met Vince’s machine gun with shots from its own weapon. Before it found its mark, Nina blasted it from behind at close range. It emitted a sad electronic hum and fell face-first on the concrete.

  The warehouse went quiet. The loudest sound to her ears came from her heaving chest.

  Nina hurried along the outer wall to Vince. He lay on the floor. Blood pushed through the makeshift bandage on his knee. He had exerted a dangerous amount of effort.

  She spat, “Vince, are you crazy? Your knee-“

  “Shut up. I wanted to rescue you for once. About time someone did. That all of them?”

  Nina spoke through huffs of deep breath; the adrenaline still ran through her veins like burning aviation fuel.

  “There’s one still up on the catwalk,” she glanced in that direction but the maze of crates and shelves blocked her view and therefore, in return, blocked any view of them from the spotter.

  “Nina Forest.”

  Nina turned around fast expecting to see the Bishop standing over her with some implement of torture. She saw nothing other than the labyrinth of stacked pallets and the de-activated Commandos.

  “It is good to be near you again.”

  The voice came from a PA system. She did not know if that system belonged to the remains of the Sysco facility or something The Order installed. She supposed it did not matter.

  “You were always a good soldier,” the Bishop’s words slithered through the air. “Always focused on accomplishing the mission.”

  Vince mumbled, “Who the hell is that?”

  Nina did not answer.

  “You performed a tremendous service for Voggoth many years ago. Your most glorious mission. Do you remember? You delivered Trevor Stone to me. You betrayed him, Nina. I never had the opportunity to thank you for your work. Well done, Nina Forest.”

  The back of her neck grew red. Her brow furled as her eyes darted around the chamber searching for the source of the transmission. She did not think the Bishop saw her, but his dead minions certainly gave him a clue as to her position.

  “He suffered for days. We nearly purified him. All thanks to you, Nina. It is a shame that you have wasted your skills in service to humanity. Voggoth could use another drone as talented as you.”

  Nina stood tall and straight. She cradled her M4 in her arms.

  Vince grew nervous. Not for himself, but for her.

  “Nina, listen, he’s just trying to bait you. Trying to draw you further in.”

  It occurred to Nina that Vince held little understanding of what the Bishop might mean. He-like the other wolves-only knew the general story of her capture, implantation, and stolen memories. Nothing more.

  “You are such a good soldier, Captain Forest. Especially when you serve Voggoth’s ends.”

  Vince reached up from his position on the ground and grabbed her arm.

  “Don’t do it. It’s a trap.”

  Nina realized that while Vince did not know the whole story, his faith in her-his loyalty-trumped anything the Bishop might say or suggest.

  “I know.”

  “Nina,” but Vince’s protest trailed off when he saw her narrow eyes; her determined eyes. “Okay, then, you want the SAW?”

  “No, too heavy,” she answered and eyed his wound. She might be able to get him out of there with a strong shoulder, but he could not help her with what lay ahead. “You keep it. Hold out here as long as possible. I’ll come back and get you when I’m finished with this.”

  “Here,” he slipped off his shoulder holster with the Mac-11 and held it to her. “Take this. Every bit counts.”

  She accepted the weapon and slipped it over the shoulder opposite her own Mac-11.

  “I apologize, Nina Forest,” the Bishop’s voice returned. “It is a shame that when your compatriots removed our implant you lost all those memories.”

  Nina thought about the missing year of her life. She thought about what she had lost. She thought about a life with Trevor, stolen by Voggoth and his ilk.

  If the Bishop had hoped to intimidate or confuse, he failed. His taunts gave birth to the seed of fury planted in Nina the day she had awoke in The Order’s facility with her memories stolen. A seed nurtured first by mystery and then by the revelations of all she had lost. Of all they had taken.

  “I am sure you would be proud of how efficiently you performed for Voggoth. I cannot restore those memories, but I could share the story with you if you care.”

  Vince threw his eyes toward the ceiling and remarked, “He really doesn’t know who he’s fucking with, does he?”

  The energy in her body-every muscle, every nerve-seemed to vibrate. All her life Nina had felt proficient with weapons; now she felt as if her very person had become a weapon, fueled by anger and guided by lethal instinct. The battle in the maze with the Commandos served merely as an appetizer. The main course awaited.

  She nodded to Vince and then walked north. After a minute she reached the end of the maze. Far across the chamber on the western wall the remaining Commando rolled along the catwalk and aimed his weapon toward Nina as she moved into the open.

  Its shots went wide; distance again thwarted the creature’s accuracy.

  Nina changed the M4’s rate of fire switch, raised her rifle, and fired a solitary bullet that traveled all the way across the warehouse.

  The Commando’s red eye shattered. Its robotic body rolled backwards, hit off the wall, then slumped forward over the catwalk railing. The thing fell to the floor far below.

  Nina paid the dead enemy no mind. She continued walking north toward the exit.

  Toward the Bishop.

  18. Lone Wolf

  The St. Claire Square mall included a food court. Not much had changed between pre- and post-Armageddon in that respect. On that particular evening as a steady rain drummed against the skylights, Jon Brewer sat at a long table in that big room with a cup of coffee and a grilled chicken sandwich.

  Well, at least it tastes like chicken.

  Only a few lights shined in the place, creating spaces of dark and spaces of light illuminating aged counter tops here, marble floors there. At a distant table a trio of soldiers-two men and a woman-shared a midnight breakfast. At another table a solitary officer from an armored division paged through manuals in an attempt to solve a mechanical problem or another; probably seeking a way to make one kind of part that was available substitute for another kind of part that was not.

  As for Jon Brewer, he reviewed readiness reports. Like much of his army, those reports suffered from sloppiness to a greater extent than typical just a few months ago. Another sign of his military machine-one he fostered since its inception in the ashes of Armageddon-descending into the chaos of final defeat.

  Then again that analogy held true throughout ‘The Empire’ as things unraveled. In the eleven years since the invasion, humanity in North America had rebuilt itself into clusters of civilization surrounded by dangerous wilderness with that wilderness often times including major cities overrun by a new ecosystem of predators and prey: concrete jungles in a most literal sense.

  Food production, industry, education, military training, and an entirely new economy-similar to but still distinct from the old world-grew into place. Man adapted.

  Post-Armageddon Nebraska, Oklahoma, and Iowa may have only been populated by a few thousand settlers, but those settlers harvested enough crops to feed half of the nearly four million persons living and surviving in North America. Stocks would soon run low and starvation would become a serious concern as more and more refugees joined the larger enclaves in the east.

  Upon Trevor’s return last year, he had broken the leadership of the burgeoning labor unions due to their involvement with the assassination attempt. This created difficulties in manufacturing goods and services. Shortages of clothing, machine parts, and electronics not only affected the civilian population but could be felt on the battlefield as evident by a dearth of hygiene and medical supplies.

  Education? The schools had emptied either by order from local governors or due to a lack of students. Teenagers joined Jon Brewer’s army or the militias springing to life on a community by community basis. Kids as young as eight trained in firearms use in anticipation of a last stand.

  Military training? The grooming of new officers came to a halt; every cadet became active-duty either on the front lines or in support roles or taking over garrison duties in far flung regions so as to free veteran troops for combating The Order.

  Overall the economy stretched and broke. Continental dollars remained the official currency but Jon knew barter had come back in style. Indeed, growing numbers of people bartered for survival equipment then head for the hills or islands or the same bunkers they had occupied eleven years earlier when the monsters first arrived.

  Then again-as he had witnessed on the Poplar Street Bridge-some sought a more permanent, personal end to the nightmare.

  He tried to clear his mind. He needed to dice his concerns into bite-sized pieces so as not to choke on the whole.

  While the distant click and clack of footsteps offered constant companionship to the darkness of midnight in the mall, a set of more determined clicks and clacks caught Brewer’s attention as they marched to his table.

  He glanced away from the readiness reports and saw a slender black man. The guy walked with the type of military precision that spoke of his pre-Armageddon service.

  Jon immediately recognized Carl Dunston, one of the original band of military survivors who had found the estate with Tom Prescott back in the first year.

  Dunston saluted. Jon returned the courtesy with much less vigor; perhaps his own concession to the coming chaos.

  “How was the flying out there tonight, Carl? Weather seems a bit iffy.”

  “Not so bad, General. Just a little rain. Takes more than that to ground an Eagle.”

  Dunston-an army pilot by trade-had been one of the first graduates from Trevor Stone’s personal ‘how to fly a captured alien shuttle’ course.

  “What have you got there?” Jon referenced the envelope tucked under Dunston’s arm.

  Carl removed the envelope, undid the clasp, and handed it to Jon. General Brewer pulled out a series of photographs-most aerial and many taken with infrared equipment-as well as a trio of pages stapled together.