existed now, there were four refugee sectors pushed up against the inside of the compound’s barrier wall, sprawling across streets cut in half by the wall, filling the buildings that had been incorporated into its structure. Shantytowns separated out from each other by chain-link fences with privacy strips woven into the wiring, to help contain any assaults that got over or through the wall—not that anybody had told the refugees that.
They weren’t starving, but most of them had been, and the threat of famine was starting to loom large again. Trucks had stopped entering the compound that day, and in response, the warehouses of canned and preserved food had been broken open. Miller eyed the dwindling supplies inside one warehouse as he walked across the compound. It was shocking to see how much of a dent thousands of civilians had made in the stockpiles in just a few hours. It wouldn’t last much longer at the rate they were going.
B ARRICADE SIX WAS a spar of the compound wall that ran diagonally across 26th Avenue, jutting out an extra block to incorporate a string of row houses into the wall, their windows all welded over with steel plate scavenged from cars. Mounting pivots and armoured shields for heavy machine guns stood empty every six feet or so on the top, like a castle’s battlements. Completing the medieval image, a rope ladder had been thrown over the top. A couple of workers below set up anti-personnel mines and IR trigger sensors in the streets outside.
Lewis and what was left of Cobalt-1, including a miserable-looking Hsiung sporting a glossy burn treatment bandage around her upper arm, were set up in a hole in one of the row-house rooves, a ladder leading down into an abandoned bedroom that had become a local command post.
The pungent aroma of mildew suffused the dark space, but Lewis didn’t look too concerned about it, using a couple of screens set up on old bookshelves.
“Shouldn’t we be under attack by now?” Miller asked. “Where’s the rest of Stockman’s convoy?”
“We ran into some luck. Here, look at this.” Lewis made space for Miller at the screens.
Drone overflight footage showed M1A4 Abrams tanks with a crowd of angry-looking Infected beating on it. For a moment Miller thought the tank was under attack, but the crew were doing it too, flinging open engine hatches.
Abrams tanks had gas turbine engines. Not all that dissimilar to an aircraft’s jet turbine. At the end of the day, the tanks were suffering the same way S-Y’s drones had been. A couple of spores had gotten through the air filters, and now the Infected were tearing yard-long strips of soggy fungus out of the M1A4’s engines. Miller didn’t know how, or why, but the Archaeobiome’s shroud fungus was capable of growing inches every hour on fuel oils and lubricants. Anything that wasn’t electrically driven was at risk of getting gummed up, especially turbine engines that sucked down gallons of spore-laced air.
“Hmm,” Miller mused.
Lewis nodded.
Miller looked back over at the refugee shanties and then across the wall as he grunted.
He sure as hell didn’t feel lucky.
H OURS LATER, AFTER Miller had gathered up Cobalt-2 and spread his people out atop the barricade section, scattered reports came in of Infected civilians wandering through the area. But there wasn’t a clear line between civilians and the military among the Infected. The ‘civilians’ started scattered firefights, the kind of unenthusiastic slow back and forth play of gunfire that kept everyone in cover that Miller had envisaged earlier, with few casualties but plenty of scares.
Lewis figured they were performing reconnaissance by fire for the military—shoot at shit until shit shoots back so you know what you’re dealing with. They’d melt away the second one of the heavy machine guns mounted on top of the compound wall opened up.
Any attempt by S-Y’s security teams to push out into the city were thwarted every
They weren’t starving, but most of them had been, and the threat of famine was starting to loom large again. Trucks had stopped entering the compound that day, and in response, the warehouses of canned and preserved food had been broken open. Miller eyed the dwindling supplies inside one warehouse as he walked across the compound. It was shocking to see how much of a dent thousands of civilians had made in the stockpiles in just a few hours. It wouldn’t last much longer at the rate they were going.
B ARRICADE SIX WAS a spar of the compound wall that ran diagonally across 26th Avenue, jutting out an extra block to incorporate a string of row houses into the wall, their windows all welded over with steel plate scavenged from cars. Mounting pivots and armoured shields for heavy machine guns stood empty every six feet or so on the top, like a castle’s battlements. Completing the medieval image, a rope ladder had been thrown over the top. A couple of workers below set up anti-personnel mines and IR trigger sensors in the streets outside.
Lewis and what was left of Cobalt-1, including a miserable-looking Hsiung sporting a glossy burn treatment bandage around her upper arm, were set up in a hole in one of the row-house rooves, a ladder leading down into an abandoned bedroom that had become a local command post.
The pungent aroma of mildew suffused the dark space, but Lewis didn’t look too concerned about it, using a couple of screens set up on old bookshelves.
“Shouldn’t we be under attack by now?” Miller asked. “Where’s the rest of Stockman’s convoy?”
“We ran into some luck. Here, look at this.” Lewis made space for Miller at the screens.
Drone overflight footage showed M1A4 Abrams tanks with a crowd of angry-looking Infected beating on it. For a moment Miller thought the tank was under attack, but the crew were doing it too, flinging open engine hatches.
Abrams tanks had gas turbine engines. Not all that dissimilar to an aircraft’s jet turbine. At the end of the day, the tanks were suffering the same way S-Y’s drones had been. A couple of spores had gotten through the air filters, and now the Infected were tearing yard-long strips of soggy fungus out of the M1A4’s engines. Miller didn’t know how, or why, but the Archaeobiome’s shroud fungus was capable of growing inches every hour on fuel oils and lubricants. Anything that wasn’t electrically driven was at risk of getting gummed up, especially turbine engines that sucked down gallons of spore-laced air.
“Hmm,” Miller mused.
Lewis nodded.
Miller looked back over at the refugee shanties and then across the wall as he grunted.
He sure as hell didn’t feel lucky.
H OURS LATER, AFTER Miller had gathered up Cobalt-2 and spread his people out atop the barricade section, scattered reports came in of Infected civilians wandering through the area. But there wasn’t a clear line between civilians and the military among the Infected. The ‘civilians’ started scattered firefights, the kind of unenthusiastic slow back and forth play of gunfire that kept everyone in cover that Miller had envisaged earlier, with few casualties but plenty of scares.
Lewis figured they were performing reconnaissance by fire for the military—shoot at shit until shit shoots back so you know what you’re dealing with. They’d melt away the second one of the heavy machine guns mounted on top of the compound wall opened up.
Any attempt by S-Y’s security teams to push out into the city were thwarted every
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