Black Rain

For the others, time and stress began to take their toll. Their minds were soon playing tricks on them, seeing and hearing things that weren’t there. Emotions swung wildly from one extreme to another. McCarter found himself drifting into utter despair at one moment, wishing it would just be over one way or another, then laughing at the absurdity of it all a few minutes later. The others struggled through similar states.

And then, in the last hour before dawn, things got worse.

Another sound began to make its presence known, the hollow, rhythmic voice of chanting men, hidden somewhere within the trees. The Chollokwan had returned.

Soon they could see glimpses of fire through the tangled mesh of the trees, and gray smoke began to fill the clearing. But this time the Chollokwan did not build the inferno they’d created before. They set fires only sporadically, gathering in groups, chanting and shouting in waves once again.

Their voices were coarse and threatening. Haunting the survivors, mocking them and, above all else, reminding them of something no one wanted to recall: they had been warned.

CHAPTER 39

As dawn approached the Chollokwan voices faded, receding into the forest along with the morning mists. But this time, the rising sun brought no feeling of safety or redemption, no false sense of relief, only the stark realization of how bad things really were.

Shell casings littered the ground by the hundreds, scattered like cigarette butts from some mad smokers’ convention. Burned-out flares lay in small heaps of ash amid circles of blackened earth while the piles of stone loomed like rubble between ugly eruptions of sharpened steel. The tents they’d once slept in were little more than shredded lengths of nylon, jagged strips hanging limply from mangled frames. Farther out, the drums of kerosene crackled and burned, belching thick, oily smoke and fouling the air with acrid fumes.

In this harsh morning light, the clearing showed itself for what it was, for what it had always been, a wasteland, a graveyard, a malignant spot in the middle of paradise, where nothing lived and nothing grew. As the Nuree had insisted, it was a place that had been rejected by life itself.

Still, with a respite from the attacks, the survivors took the chance to recover and sleep, dozing in shifts, with their loaded weapons beside them, waiting for the next phase to begin and hoping somehow that it would not. They’d barely survived through twelve hours; most wondered how the hell they would last through sixty more.

At noon the shift changed and Hawker took the lead watch from Verhoven.

“Break time,” Hawker said.

“Uh-hm,” Verhoven replied, as he set the safety on his weapon.

Verhoven wasn’t a man given to deep reflection, things were what they were in his world, but Hawker sensed a thorn in the man’s side somewhere.

“Something wrong?” Hawker asked.

“Been counting ammo,” Verhoven said. “Another night like the last one and we’ll run dry before the sun comes up.”

Hawker hadn’t taken the time to inventory things, but he sensed the same thing. If the animals continued their onslaught unabated, it would be a war of attrition that the humans could not win. “We’ll have to be more sparing in what we use,” Hawker replied.

“They’re wild, Hawk,” Verhoven said. “Even Danielle, who’s a hell of a shot, uses too much ammo. And the others are all over the place.”

“They’re afraid,” Hawker said. “They’ll be a little better tonight.”

Verhoven looked at the ground for a second and then back at Hawker. “If they’re not, I’m taking the guns out of their hands. I don’t care what they say. If it comes to that, you and I will do the firing. No one else. Better they be pissed off and alive than empowered and dead.”

Hawker hesitated a second. He doubted Danielle would give up her gun, but the others would not fight the logic. He nodded, and Verhoven turned and walked off.

A few minutes later Danielle approached him with the medi-kit in her hand.

“I can only hope you’re going to examine me,” he said.

“Much as you’d like me to,” she said. “There’s a lot more wrong with you than I could fix.”

He smiled.

“We do have a problem, though.”

“Really,” he said, looking around, “because I hadn’t noticed.”

“Kaufman,” she explained.

He stared at her for a second. It was like she’d read his mind. “Yeah, Kaufman.”

She explained. “Without that son of a bitch to send up his flare pattern, who knows if his helicopter will land. That means no extraction, no free ride home.”

“I thought about that,” he admitted, “although I wasn’t sure he was telling the truth with that story to begin with. You use flares to draw attention to yourself when someone’s looking for you. Kind of odd to use them for a party that already knows where you are. More likely you’d use smoke. That would keep any distant observers from locking in on the position and it would give the pilot localized info and wind direction as well.”