Gears of War: Jacinto’s Remnant (24 page)

We’re
different
.

Shit, how would I know what a victim looks like? Does anyone think that when they look at me?

No, the COG
was
different. COG citizens were almost a second-line army. They were used to doing their duty

—whatever that duty might be—for the greater good, and that was why they were citizens. Anyone who couldn’t hack that degree of self-discipline gave up and went with the Stranded.

Fuck them. Parasites
.

“Yo, blood trail!” The shout went up from further down the line. “Over here.”

Everyone converged on the Gear who’d found something. She couldn’t recall his name; Collin or something. Squad designations didn’t seem to mean a thing now except as call signs on the day so that CIC had some idea of locations.

Lost my whole squad. Men I’d only known for a week. Cole lost his, too—back with Delta again. Tai gone.
Shit, what’s left of us now?

Marcus looked down at the frozen black patch, evidently unimpressed. “Mataki? Pretend you want this asshole for lunch. Track him.”

Bernie set off into the trees, slow and careful, noting damage to vegetation. Everyone else kept behind her line. Blood … broken tree root, white inner fibers not oxidized yet… boot print in one of the remaining pockets of snow … She was now a hundred meters into the woods, and the light was filtered by the evergreen canopy. It was getting hard to see.

Shit, where’s the blood gone?

“Lost the blood,” she called. “Wait one.”

“Over here.” That was a guy to her left, too far to be a continuation of this trail.

“You sure you’re not looking at rabbit shit, sweetheart?”

“I know what shit looks like, Sarge.”

Then another Gear called out, fifty meters to her right. “Blood here, guys.”

This wasn’t funny. She was cold, tired, and she needed to pee. She waited to hear Baird make that little snorting noise of amusement at her expense. But he was right there behind her, dead silent. She looked around. Every Gear looked seriously alert.

“If you’re taking the piss,” she said sourly, “this is the wrong time for pranks, and I’ll—”

Baird nudged her hard in the back. “Granny, how’s your hearing these days?”

“About as good as my right hook, dickhead.”

“I mean it. Listen.” There was a sharp crack as someone stepped on a twig. Baird whipped around. “Hey, I said
listen. Hear
it?”

Bernie thought it was an animal at first, a distant groaning noise, and then it suddenly became the only ambient sound she could hear. Her brain focused on it and nothing else.

“Shit.” That was Marcus. “Kantus.”

The sound resolved into a steady, continuous droning. It made the back of her throat itch.
Kantus
.

And where there were Kantus, there were grubs ready to attack.
That
was the noise, some weird chant or animal call. It rallied grubs, even badly wounded ones. The sound made them fighting mad again.
Definitely shit
.

She heard the creaking and ripping behind her at the same time as everyone else, and turned.

“Ambush!” Dom yelled.

Grubs erupted from the ground in a semicircle right behind them—Boomers, mainly, around thirty or forty—

and cut them off. Baird opened up with the Hammerburst. Bernie reached for the Lancer slung across her back, cursing herself for walking in here with the Longshot, and heard a rapid
beep-beep-beep
some meters away. A blast nearly blew her off her feet. Splintered wood flew everywhere like flechettes. The smell hit her instantly: scorched metal, raw meat, scented wood resin.

The Gear to her left, the guy who’d spotted the blood, was already down. Bernie caught a glimpse of a headless body. Something had also sheared off some of the surrounding saplings at head height. Once that registered on her, her conscious brain took a backseat and the primal core that knew how to process information and move her around without thinking took over. She took cover and opened fire. For all the chaos, she could still hear that droning sound.

“Mines!”
Marcus backed up toward a larger tree, gesturing. “Watch your asses—proximity mines. Sigma—fire position,
there
, now. Delta
—there
. Where’s that fucking Kantus?
Mataki!
Find the goddamn thing and shut it up.”

The Gears were deep in the tangled gloom, minus vehicles, and if any Centaur or Raven support managed to get to them, how the hell could they open fire? Marcus called for support anyway. Some of the Boomers had huge cleavers, snatched from the Locust kitchens. Others were Maulers with shields and explosive flails. They looked like a random army wielding whatever weapons they could grab, cobbled together from what had survived, but calling them stragglers didn’t do them justice. This was an efficient, intelligent killing machine once again. One Mauler struck out at a large tree, bringing it crashing down at an angle, but it stopped short of crushing Gears in its path when it lodged in the branches of another. It just cut off another exit.

Another explosion cut down trees and Gears, and another.

“Freeze!” Dom yelled. “They’re driving us into more mines!”

Bernie, crouched in the flimsy cover of a pine tree, shut out the muzzle flash, screams, and rattling fire and tried to focus on that single, sickening noise.

The Kantus had to be stopped. The first problem, though, was to find the thing in this maze. Time—it could have been a minute, two minutes, or half an hour.

All Dom knew was that he wasn’t dead yet. He could hear Marcus, and eventually he heard Cole and Baird yelling over the sound of chainsaws. Then he realized he hadn’t heard Bernie in what seemed like a long time. He felt like instant shit for forgetting her.

“Bernie?” He could hear everyone else on the radio net, so she had to be receiving, too. “Hey, Mataki?”

No answer.
Shit
. Maybe the radio was down. No, that was the dumb and desperate lie he’d often told himself when he didn’t want to think that someone had finally run out of luck. He bobbed up from cover, hitting one of the butcher Boomers with short bursts of fire. Marcus got in a headshot while it was struggling.

“I hate it when they think,” he said.

“So much for stragglers. They’ve sharpened up again.”

“Shut that damn Kantus up, Bernie.” Marcus paused to listen; the droning chant was going strong. Dom was close enough to see a bead of sweat run from his hairline down his neck, subzero temperatures or not.
“Shit
. Sounds like two of them now. Someone find those assholes and take them out.”

Boomers wouldn’t run if a Kantus was chanting. The droning sounded like plain noise to Dom, weird and irritating, but to the grubs it must have been like a bugle call or something, because they went for broke when they heard it. Stopping the damn thing mattered.

“Delta, Sigma, all squads—this is Control. Bravo Three’s heading your way. Hang in there.”

“Step on it, Mathieson.” Marcus primed a frag grenade and prepared to swing it by its chain. “And I’d really like some ordnance I can
roll
under those bastards’ shields… aw,
shit.”
The grenade caught the top of the Mauler’s shield and spun clear. Two seconds later, it exploded, taking out a drone who stepped over it. It didn’t kill the thing, but it lay bleeding and shrieking while its buddies carried on around it. “If we can get them to a clearing, can a KR target them?”

“Delta, KR-Eighty here, what clearing?” That sounded like Gettner. “You want me to
make
one?”

“Can you
see
anything below, Gettner?”

“Not enough to be certain I won’t take your guys out, too.”

Dom could hear the helicopters overhead, but the forest canopy was too dense for him to see more than shadows, even in daylight. And the pilots sure as hell couldn’t see enough to confirm targets. Another explosion deafened him for a moment and he felt something stab into his cheek. When he put his hand to his face, his fingers came away wet with blood and sharp, fragrant wood splinters. He was lucky they hadn’t blinded him.

“Man, you okay?” Cole thudded down beside him. Dom could hear via his earpiece, but every other sound—

except the Kantus chant, which seemed to be seeping into his brain via his teeth—was muffled now, his hearing pummeled by the noise. “Where’s Baird? I hear him, but I don’t see him.”

“To your right.” Baird was panting. “And I
—shit!
Shit, shit, shit—man, that’s
it
. My frigging goggles. You
bastard.”

There was another stutter of Hammerburst fire, very close—not a grub, but Baird. Dom tried to look around. All he could see was muzzle flash, smoke, and drifting debris picked out in the shafts of light stabbing down from the canopy. The battle was running in bursts. Every time he dropped behind cover and looked up again, the grubs were somewhere else, waiting, then they started up again. They were pushing the Gears deeper into the forest. Every time they fell back a few meters, another mine detonated. Dom could hear Collin screaming. That was the real nightmare: he was pinned down, he couldn’t even see where the screaming was coming from, and the guy needed help.

“Anyone near Collin?” Marcus yelled. “Where the hell is he?”

“Got him.” Dom didn’t even recognize that voice. “Shit, I can’t move him. I’ll stay with him.”

“This is more than a frigging ambush.”

“You said it.”

Dom still couldn’t see Baird. Cole knelt back on his heels, looking as if he was going to jump up and find him. Dom tried to grab his arm. “Don’t, man.”

“Baird,” Cole yelled. “You okay?”

Baird was there, all right. Dom saw the Boomer with the meat cleaver just before he saw Baird. The Boomer swung, Baird ducked to his knees, and the cleaver skimmed his hair to thud deep into a tree trunk. The Boomer tried to pull it free, but in the heartbeat’s pause Baird shoved the Hammerburst at an angle into its gut and fired—

once, twice, then a third burst. It fell backward, still hanging on to the cleaver’s handle. Cole jumped on it and fired his pistol into its head point-blank.

And it
still
had a grip on the cleaver. Baird smashed at its knuckles with the butt of his rifle until the blade dropped along with the dead Boomer’s arm.

“Frigging
cook,”
he snarled, picking up the cleaver. “Now it’s
my
turn.”

The grubs advancing on them suddenly turned to look behind. Bravo 3 crashed between the trees, spraying fire everywhere. Dom dropped back behind the shattered stump of a tree and found himself nose to nose with Marcus.

“Okay,” Marcus said, finger on his Lancer’s power button. Dom readied his, too. “Steady …” Any grub left standing was being driven toward them. The things were about to get a gutful of chainsaw. “Go!”

Dom jumped up from a crouch and swung his chainsaw into the first gray moving object he saw. He wasn’t even sure where the blades caught it. He just felt the saw bite and travel like it had a life of its own, and the grub slipped down sideways in slow motion—or so it seemed to him. When he pulled the saw clear, he was staring straight at Gears from Bravo 3.

Where are the grubs? All down. Over. All gone
.

The Kantus was still droning. It sounded like an echo. There were definitely two.

“Shit, you guys need to check before you—”

Dom saw movement behind the Bravo line. The ground at the edge of the treeline erupted, and another rank of grubs—Boomers and drones—rose from the frozen ground, cutting off every Gear. It was a double ambush. For the first time he could remember, Dom found himself wishing a round would just hit him between the eyes,
now
, right now, and get the shit over with, let him go home to wherever Maria was. The thought was gone in a breath. Marcus lobbed a frag grenade between the trees, clear of the Bravo line, and the explosion bought two seconds to find cover. The battle revved up again. The Kantus was louder than ever; the Boomers charged.

“You better not be dead, Mataki.” Marcus dropped and sat back against the tree stump while he reloaded. “Kill that noisy bastard.
Now
.”

If Bernie couldn’t find the Kantus, then Cole decided he had to.

It was just like thrashball. Once he had his mind set on winning and could visualize what he was going to do, the moves came naturally. There were plenty of damn trees, and those things weren’t obstacles—they were an
advantage
, and he was trained to take it.

All he had to do was find where that bitch-ass voice was coming from.

Every time he shut his eyes and concentrated, it sounded like it was coming from everywhere at once; every time he looked around, straining to see through the smoke and gloom, he saw vertical columns and horizontal movement, trees and troops, no freaky Locust cheerleader in robes and a helmet. Where could a thing like that hide? It was damn big, like any grub.

He needed to get some elevation.

Cole sprinted from tree to tree, zigzagging, doing a dangerous thrashball run away from the battle and in the direction he thought the voice was coming from, deeper into the forest. He was expecting to hit a mine at any moment. He thought he saw movement matching his own, but when he turned his head it was gone. Then he looked back. What he saw now—he saw stairs, baby,
stairs
. Explosions had torn up the forest and some trees had been ripped clean out, roots hanging in the air, trunks leaning against others at an angle. If he took a run up the trunk, he’d be halfway up a big tree and a few meters higher than everyone else.
Speed, baby. Just get some speed up
.

Cole sprinted. He still had the acceleration, even now. His boots hit the bark and he just let his momentum take him far enough up the slope of the tree to fling his arms around the upright trunk supporting it and hang on. There were two big black pits in the ground thirty meters away—emergence holes. He straightened up, one arm still around the trunk, and scanned a full arc around him.