James Axler – Bitter Fruit

Conte quietly agreed with the assessment. Unless the woman was particularly necessary to Cawdor’s plans, rescuing her now was foolish. He understood it from a human side, though. But it was a side he’d long put distant in the aftermath of the destruction of the world and those long, lean years inside the White Sands redoubt. Compassion wasn’t something easily afforded.

“Henderson,” Conte called over the radio.

“Go,” Henderson called back.

“The activity of the force from New London?”

“They seem content to stand pat, Sarge.”

Conte had been aware of the pursuit from the town as soon as it had begun. They’d had to work their way through the forests and the harsh terrain back to the jeep. A number of the people who’d been chasing Cawdor’s band had died in the explosion when the gate had blown up. It had taken only minutes to regroup and mount another effort, though. Conte didn’t know whom Cawdor had angered in New London, but the man had done a good job of it.

The sergeant shifted his night glasses toward the Celt village. All he could see were shadows.

“Local militia’s starting to turn out in force,” Whittaker commented.

Conte scanned the terrain, overlooking the writhing, twisted shadows of the hunting plants. Turley and Cruse were close enough to aggravate them without setting them into a frenzy.

Beyond them he spotted the sec guards spilling out of the doors of the underground fortress. A number were on horseback, carrying torches.

“Not content to go quiet anymore,” Whittaker stated. “They want to make an impression.”

Conte watched, wondering if the show of force was for the army camped just outside the reach of the plant barrier or if it was because of Cawdor’s actions.

One thing Conte was certain ofjudging from the DNA experimentation evident among the guardian plants, the way the gardens were laid out to effectively use every square inch of land and the few glimpses they’d had of the interior of the giant rootsthere had to be a treasure load of high-tech apparatus in there. The small redoubt they’d arrived in had to have been a staging area, a stronghold to retreat to for secret meetings between whoever had set up this enclave and the man who’d sold out the White Sands projects.

Besides terminating Cawdor and his people, Conte knew one of his objectives was to destroy as much of the underground fortress as he could. It posed a threat to their beachhead.

And hopefully it held another mat-trans unit.

Conte keyed up the radio. “Cruse.”

“Go.”

“Tell me those explosives are ready.”

“Done,” the man replied. “On yur go.”

As he watched, the horsemen deployed, kicking their horses into gallops. They streaked for thatched homes that were evidently part of a preselected target group. In seconds the first of the houses was aflame. Only a few heartbeats after that, villagers rushed out into the narrow roads between the buildings, obviously not believing what they were seeing.

However, some of the villagers hadn’t been caught so flat-footed. Fully a dozen and more came charging out of their homes and out of rabbit holes that had been dug along the roadsides. Evidently the rebellion by the people in the community had gone well past preparation stages.

A small war had started in the village.

Glancing back toward the New Londoners, Conte saw their ranks shifting and reforming. The pursuit group hadn’t missed the outbreak of hostilities, either. Vehicles broke away from their hiding spots, taking up new positions.

“They’re not going to miss the party,” Whittaker said.

“Neither are we,” Conte replied. “Cruse, blow those explosives.” He covered his ears and peered through slitted eyes, not looking toward the path they’d chosen.

Turley and Cruse had linked the flash-bangs together along a length of cord, then threw them out at prescribed distances, farther and farther. Most of them had stayed in a straight line. An instant after Conte issued the order, the flash-bangs went off in quick succession.

The sergeant bolted through the forest, heading on an interception course with the jeep. Aames was behind the wheel, rolling over everything that got in his way, staying away from the things too large to roll over. The high bumper plowed over small trees and brush.