“What about them?” James asked, dipping his head at Clem as if he were an object rather than a person.
“Let them run if they like; it’s not our job,” Rogers said.
“You’re all going to die. There aren’t enough of you to make a difference,” Clem shouted.
Jacob turned away to follow his leader; he met eyes with Masterson, who slightly dipped his chin before looking at Rogers. “Get to your people, then meet us at Emmerson’s Ridge. Do you know it?” Masterson said.
“I do,” Rogers answered, stepping off into the destroyed convoy advancing in the direction of the camp.
They ran directly at the fighting, sacrificing caution for speed. Moving out of the narrow hills and onto an expanse of flat ground, James guided them to the shoulder of the paved road, Duke trotting by his side. The closer they got, the more Jacob could hear the sounds of screaming people, the noise fueling his adrenaline and blocking out the signals from his tired muscles begging him to quit.
At the cutoff where the paved surface of the road met the gravel, they spotted the first of them—a cloaked vehicle, its surface reflecting the same liquid sheen they’d seen in the valley. With no time to hide and without warning, a red turret materialized from atop the mirrored shell and rotated in their direction. A bright flash burst out, and Jacob gasped for breath as a blue beam raced above his head, the oxygen in the air feeding whatever energy the projectile consumed. Jacob felt the heat on his neck, and the screech of the shot screamed at his ears.
He was bumped hard and knocked off course as Rogers moved him from the road and into the concealment of the trees. James’ rifle barked somewhere ahead of them, single shots in rapid succession. “Contact left!” he shouted before firing another salvo.
Rogers stopped abruptly and dropped next to a tree, bringing up his own rifle. Jacob followed his movements, doing the same and dropping in line. Rogers’ weapon joined the fight while Jacob spotted a target of his own—a broad-shouldered creature dressed in blue, the red stripes seeming to illuminate the sleeves of its arms. Covered by a wide, glossy helmet, the creature’s head swiveled. The helmet turned, and a dark tinted screen locked in Jacob’s direction.
The creature seemed to lean back slightly, surprised by his presence; its weapon rose to its shoulder and leveled out. Jacob was faster and already on target. He applied pressure to the trigger, feeling the buck of his rifle. The creature lurched back then spun, collapsing to the ground. James was back on his feet, running toward the camp as he shouted over Duke’s barking for them to move up. Jacob could see the woods ahead flashing with the bright blue lights of the alien weapons, the report of the friendly rifles’ resistance fading.
Without consideration for their own safety, they rushed on, already committed and ready to put themselves in harm’s way to shield the civilian withdrawal. Jacob exited the trees and dropped into the clearing of the athletic field. They had egressed at the center of the longest edge of the field. Rogers and James close to him, they were in a perfect flanking position.
Jacob could see the blockhouse far to his right, the structure now engulfed in blue flames. He searched a mass of friendlies just in front of the blockhouse, some fleeing while the wounded on the ground were making a final stand. He couldn’t find Laura anywhere. The burning wreckage of the Blackhawk was on the opposite end of the field just inside a copse of trees—he prayed his family wasn’t there. James moved close to him and grabbed his shoulder, taking his eyes from the burning wreckage of the helicopter and back to their immediate front.
“We’ll look for them later… now, we fight,” James said.
Jacob saw the creatures moving forward, firing at the wounded men on the ground. His anger blocked any recollection of fear. The aliens were close, less than fifty meters, and lined up in a makeshift skirmish line. Formed up like an opposing football team, this was a clean-up crew, organized to finish those left in the fight. Marching ahead, they approached the blockhouse, weapons up and firing rapidly at anything to their front, the blue beams exploding and engulfing on contact, knocking the fleeing soldiers and civilians to the ground.
Watching the carnage, James snarled, “We have to stop this! This isn’t an attack… this is a massacre.”
Still in the aliens’ blind spot, the bearded man raised his rifle and snapped off three quick shots, took a deep breath, and fired again, laying down a base of fire into the blind profiles of the lined up creatures. The nearest alien crumpled; the others in the line, still preoccupied with the targets to their front, were oblivious to the attack on their flank. Jacob dropped to a knee and opened fire determinedly. Selecting targets of his own, he locked on center mass of each creature and watched them tumble with the impact of his rounds.
The remaining aliens turned, suddenly aware of the threat at their flank. At less than fifty meters away, they lunged, bringing their weapons up as they advanced. The Assassins were ready and already stable in their firing positions. Jacob was on his feet. Stepping into the field, he stayed on the trigger, shoulder firing his M14 until the bolt of his rifle locked back. Jacob watched as his rounds cut through the creature’s shirt, others smacking against its helmet and visor. Whatever armor the things wore, it was useless against Jacob’s weapon.
The creatures were down, the gunfire ceased, and the Assassins found themselves alone now in the field, surrounded by the dead. James moved to one of the dead and kicked a heavy metallic rifle away from its gloved hand. He drew his knife and stood by the body encased in
