Chapter 8: The Ghosts of The Past Part 2

The sound of a gunshot echoed out in the vast countryside. This was followed by another series of shots that reverberated in the haze of growing dust in the air. The ground took several hits as dirt splashed about.

Not far outside from the truck was Greg and Gip’grenda. In the Yutilian’s hands was an old submachine gun, a relic of Earth’s ancient past. She was busy holding it up, aiming down the iron sights before her scaly finger pulled the trigger, firing off a small spray of rounds down into the emptiness of the wasteland. Spent brass casings landed not far from her boots.

“Time your shots,” Greg told her through his headpiece. “I only have three magazines, and you’re using up one of them. Flip that switch so you can go to semi-auto.”

“Where?” she asked, lightly tilting the gun.

“There,” he pointed it out for her.

The Itrean flipped the switch and lifted the gun back to look down at the crude iron sights. Regretfully, there was nothing to really target in the vast sands except a small series of holes in the ground where the prior bullets had struck. She took quick aim and pulled the trigger, firing another shot near it. The volume level was quite loud as each round fired.

“This gun is heavy,” she lightly complained, lowering her gun and giving her arms a rest.

“The other guns are just as heavy,” Greg replied. “A survivor in the wasteland has to use what he finds.”

“I want to use my pistol.”

“And the type you’re using?”

“It’s my mother’s pistol...,” she paused to think. “It’s in my hoverbike.”

“I’ll let you get it before we take off again,” he remarked. “But, I’m pretty sure your pistol doesn’t have much stopping power. I’ve heard that most of the Yutilian pistols are pretty much the equivalent of our ancient 32 ACP rounds.”

“Is that good?”

“Against an unarmored target, it can still do something, but some of our survival suits can handle light pistol rounds. Others might be wearing better body armor. Against crazed nutjobs, your pistol won’t have much-stopping power.”

“You are almost like Shal’rein,” she told him before she pulled the trigger and fired another shot, striking not far from where she had previously hit. “They have so many guns.”

“You’re telling me that your village has no firearms to defend themselves?”

“No,” she made a few clicks in her voice. “We have guns ... old guns ... simple ones for wildlife and what New Atrea gives us for invasion. We maintain them, but not really use them ... no need.” She lowered the gun.

“Yeah, well, here, you don’t have a choice. I’ve had to handle a few oddballs here and there. Earth is a shithole, and sometimes the wasteland eats away a person’s sanity. Not to mention the crap we ingest can make us see things or do things we aren’t proud of.”

“You ... kill someone?” she asked him.

“Once, I think, before I joined the service. I was out relic hunting when another hunter tried to rob me ... at least, that’s what I think happened. He walked up to me and demanded that I give him my boots. I think he was doped up on something, but we were both out in the middle of nowhere, and he was too far away for me to punch him. All I remember was him drawing out his pistol and pointing it at me.”

“What happened?”

“I tried to get out of the way. I saw him pull the trigger, but nothing happened. His safety was on, and when he tried to disengage it, I shot him once with my 2011.” He patted his pistol. “Hit him in the chest, which caused him to drop the gun. I took off because I didn’t know if the guy had friends. Last thing I remember looking back was him bleeding and crawling away. I contacted Las Vegas security and informed them of everything that happened.”

“Did they find him?”

“Who knows? I was cleared, but it always served to remind me that out here, anything can happen. Keep shooting.”

Gip’grenda took a deep breath before lifting the gun up and taking quick aim. She pulled the trigger as another shot rang out, the bullet hitting further north from where she had shot before. Greg knew that Itrean regeneration allowed her to handle the loud volume levels of the gunshots. The Yutilian made a few more shots before there was a click.

“No more bullets?” she asked.

“No,” he replied. “Wait a few seconds. You didn’t go through the whole magazine. Might be a dud round or a hangfire.”

“Hang ... fire?”

“Delayed round going off. In this case, it isn’t. Pull that bolt handle back so you can eject the round and load the next one up. One of the problems with my guns ... or anybody else. Most of the ammunition is too old to be used. I try to hand load them, get new replica ones made, or get them anywhere. Not to mention, the guns are old and not in exact pristine condition either.”

“That’s why you have many guns?”

“Yep. One stops, the other keeps going till it goes, and so forth.”

The Itrean woman tried again. This time, she made several shots till the gun was empty. Greg nodded his head before he handed over a spare magazine to her.

“What is this thing called?” she asked.

“M3 Grease Gun,” he explained. “A World War relic used as a submachine gun from the troops that defended this nation.”

“Grease gun?” Gip’grenda made a few chirps in her voice, almost as if she made a chuckle. “It does look like a ... machine tool.”

“Pretty awesome gun. I found it in a person’s safe. It wasn’t in good condition, but I did my best to restore it. Can’t beat 45 acp.”

“Powerful?”

“The lord’s caliber? Yeah. Good rate of fire. Won’t wander around too much on you when you shoot. Might be a little bulky for you, but it’s good enough. That’s yours as long as you stay with me.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make me regret it.” The man turned to look up at the roof of his rig. He sighed as he thought about it. “Can you climb on top of that?” he asked her.

The alien woman lowered her submachine gun, turned around, and looked up near the US flag post. She saw what the man was pointing at.

“Hmm,” she questioned. “Why?”

“Just answer me. Can you climb that?”

“Yes.”

“Then hop up there.”

Gip’grenda didn’t seem to completely understand what the man was getting at. She handed over her gun to Greg before walking up to the rig. The man watched as Gip’grenda used her digitigrade legs to bend down and make a powerful leap, pushing herself up to over twice her height before grabbing the handle near the engine housing. It didn’t take long before she hoisted herself onto the spare tire that was almost her size. From there, she stood up on the rubber lining of the tire and made another leap onto the rooftop of the container. Greg backed up some more to get a full view as he watched her stand up not far from the flag housing. Her eyes befell the machine gun.

“That big gun, you see,” Greg explained. “That’s an M2 Browning Machine Gun, a 50 cal.”

“Very big,” she said.

“That gun is my last resort. I wish I could have found another place to put it, but it’s the best vantage point for this entire rig. I found it in surplus and secured it. I had to spend a year gathering the ammunition for it. I currently have a belt linked up for it, that box you see next to it.”

A layer of dirt and grime had already collected on the weapon. The machine gun was quite large, with a barrel and length that outstretched Gip’grenda’s height. It was connected to a swivel mount welded on the container’s roof. On the left of the gun was a box with 105 rounds, with a belt of large 50-caliber bullets. There was a set of sandbags, and a welded metal wall was in place where one could sit inside and handle the turret. The woman leaned down and looked at it.

“Do you see that handle on the right?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she responded.

“If we get attacked ... if you need to use it, you grab that handle and pull it hard. It’ll be all set and ready to go. You grab those two handles, use the ironsight, point it at the bad guy, and pull the two triggers on them. It’s going to be loud and proud when it goes off. It’ll keep firing until you let up. You understand?”

“Yes.”

Greg let her inspect the machine gun longer. He had to hope that everything that would transpire in the next few hours would work out as he had planned. The more he could let her familiarize everything, the better...

It had been almost two hours. The truck continued its trip westward, dust being kicked up behind it as the multiple wheels continued to churn the broken pavement below it.

Inside the cabin, Greg maintained control of the steering wheel, his headcover taken off. Gip’grenda could note that the man’s glove hands were not tightening and loosening as much as before. She noted that he was more calm now than ever. The cabin seemed to be filled with more guns. Even the Yutilian’s pistol remained close to her, along with the submachine gun and other firearms that the man also brought up as well. The radio was lowered in volume, barely enough to hear it, but still enough for the alien woman to listen to it.

“Why did you let me get my pistol?” she asked him.

“Same reason I let you have everything,” he replied without looking at her.

“You are not telling me something.”

Greg’s eyes looked around him, noting the countryside. Unlike the prior flatland scenery, there were more hillsides now to the left. A broken-down rustic sign on the side of the road stated the approximate distance between here and Wells.

“We’re back in the state of Nevada,” Greg explained to her. “That abandoned city we drove past was West Andover, the former bridge city between Utah and Nevada.”

That didn’t answer Gip’grenda’s question, and she didn’t seem happy to hear it. Greg looked over and knew that she was growing agitated in the silence. The man groaned and looked back forward.

“Owen told me that we’re heading into possible danger,” he told her.

“Danger?” her feathers lifted up.

“Yes. There’s supposed to be a group of bandits ... rogues, fuck knows who they are. They live somewhere around here ... shot down a shuttle a while back. Later on, they attacked Salt Lake City Dome but failed. Salt Lake City Militia scouted this area for months, but they couldn’t find the culprits. It was the last they ever heard of them.”

“Humans?” she asked.

“Of course, but it doesn’t make sense. Outside the domes is certain death.”

“You driving through their land?”

“It’s not their land ... it’s no man’s land. It’s impossible...”

“You don’t seem convinced...”

“Owen called them ‘The Dustmen of the Damned.’ They tried to find any possible holdouts and failed. I think he was just trying to spook us and get a good laugh. But...”

“You have ... machine gun.”

“Yep. I prefer to be ready. If they’re going to attack, they’ll attack a target that’s alone. Owen might be right.”

“Why not try other roads?”

Greg shook his head. “The northern highway’s bridges are gone. This is the only road that leads northward past that road.” He looked at her. “Needless to say, I need you ready. Looking at these hillsides, if I were to lay an ambush, it would be anytime now. According to the GPS tracker, we’ll be reaching a right turn in another good hour’s travel.”

“I see...”

Gip’grenda remained quiet for a little while as Greg looked ahead. The man’s words did have the Itrean look at her pistol again. The Yutilian pistol was the most futuristic of the guns that the man had seen. The organic green metal had small pits on it. It looked like a handgun, but the trigger guard was smaller than his 2011. The gun had two barrels, the top one being much smaller than the other.

“AKT-1s?” he asked her.

“What?” she questioned.

“Your pistol.”

“I ... don’t know. It belonged to my mother. I like this gun ... so light.”

“I admit ... I almost feel like you should be on your hoverbike to help screen my rig, but if we’re going to have a firefight, I’m going to need you here.”

“I want to save energy,” she said. “No charging station.”

“Agreed.”

Gip’grenda continued to look ahead. The wake of information about possible bandits kept her alert, but it quickly became what it was before. Her boredom was taking hold. Even Greg could only do so much. The dust sometimes served as a natural visible wall, gathering so much in the air that it hindered visual ranges. The truck naturally drove up the sides on the long road. Having to maintain focus on natural hazards also made tracking difficult.

“GPS tracker shows nothing around us,” Greg said as he sighed. He grabbed the small dash camera on the dash board and tapped a small button. The Itrean looked at it.

“You record the whole trip?” she asked.

“I already told you that before. Yes.”

“No, I mean ... I forget about camera,” she corrected herself. “You ... record, but do nothing else.”

“What do you mean?”

“You make a show, but you make no comments. You want to record your trip but not engage with your audience. Sometimes racers, we have to do more than just record.”

“You mean that you talk during your races?”

“Not during ... before or after. This ... very slow vehicle ... good enough to drive and talk.”

Greg nodded his head. “You have a point. I could try to do more in recording my comments during travels. Not used to this.”

“I help,” she told him. She pulled out of her pant pocket a large cylindrical device. Greg’s eyes looked at what she was holding.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s my ... Lowa’fa ... I try to find words.”

“Lowa’fa?”

“The words ... grenade.”

“Grenade?” Greg gave her a mean look. His gloved hands tensed, trying to figure out what she meant.

“No ... not bad grenade ... fake ... yes, fake grenade. Toy.”

“A toy?”

“Yes. I’m sorry ... New Atrea gives us these ... they are fake grenades ... like real, but for fun.”

Greg looked forward and relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. “Ah ... I see. Dummy grenades.”

“Yes. Kids in my village play with them. It flies to the nearest child till it makes sounds. Kids take turns tossing it till each one is out. The last one left wins the game.”

“I have to give credit to the Itreans for coming up with a game out of basic war devices. I heard of the Itrean seeker grenades ... never thought they made toys out of them. Why do you have one?”

“I ... like mine,” she seemed to hold close to her. “I name her Lowa’fa. She was my first project. I took her apart and put her together many times. I put a camera on her to help record my races.”

“Really?”

Gip’grenda tapped a few buttons on the device. In less than a second, the device opened up and released a set of propellers. A single enclosed yellow serpentine eye could be seen on the bottom. The eye was organic in nature as it looked over to Greg. The man was startled by the Itrean devices and their alien-like nature. However, even with its looks, the man could see that it was an empty soul, a simple device programmed for the basic commands of its owner.

The Yutilian reached over to the window. The man could see her fiddling with the handle.

“Hey!” Greg called out. The rancher quickly grabbed his headcover and put it on while the Itrean opened the sealed door. The brief rush of interior air mixed with the outside dust as Gip’grenda tossed the device into the air before quickly closing the cabin passenger door.

Before the man could protest, he saw the brief movement of the device as its propellors spun quickly, pushing it high into the sky. Greg looked ahead as Gip’grenda opened up her tilon and tapped a few buttons that appeared on his screen. In seconds, the Itrean was watching overhead of the truck, looking down from where she was moving. The eye of the device was able to look around, providing the perfect aerial view.

“Now I help,” she said. “I record for you.”

“Can that handle the dust?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How long can it stay airborne?”

“Hmmm... 20 minutes. Then I charge it again.”

She used her tilon to guide the device around and do front overhead shots of the moving rig. The dust could be seen being thrown back as the wheels continued to roll. Greg smiled as he gave a nod to her.

The man continued to maintain the wheel for another couple of minutes. He would occasionally look at the GPS tracker, but the thick gray clouds would occasionally disrupt the signal. However, a momentary red blip appeared westward.

“Whoa,” Greg remarked. The hint of mild surprise and severity radiated in the cabin.

“What?” Gip’grenda asked.

The man tapped the screen of his tracker. “GPS tracker almost seemed to catch something ... possibly a glitch from the reception.”

“Where is it?”

“Half a kilometer...”

Greg let off on the gas pedal, letting the truck slow down in its approach. The nearby large hills were on the left and right side, overlooking the original abandoned city of West Andover. The man was thinking. He looked at the sloping sides that naturally created a small valley for the former road to push through.

“Do you see anything?” he asked her.

“No,” she replied, looking at her tilon.

“Be alert ... this region is a perfect place for an ambush.”

The GPS tracker became more distorted. The reception was breaking up some as the denser cloud cover continued to hinder his sight.

“Can we drive around this?” she asked.

“No, this is the only valley area for the road to cut through.” He pointed at the map and elevated points. “This is Goshute Mountain here. That’s Toano there. It might be possible that I can turn around and use this ‘Pilot road’ to encircle around, but it also links to Pilot Mountain here. It’s a long way around, but the roads all lead to ambush points. I’m trying to...”

The man saw something not far in front of him that made him slam on the brakes hard. The entire rig came to a screeching halt as dirt was tossed about, creating a haze of orange dust everywhere around the cabin. Gip’grenda did his best to hold position, but even her tilon was nearly knocked from her hand. Her seatbelt held her tight.

“What?” she asked.

“I saw it,” the man said. He made sure that his headcover was set correctly before reaching for his lever-action rifle. “Come on...” he told her.

“Ok,” she replied.

Greg set the truck in park and popped open his driver-side door. He hopped out of the cabin and onto the broken street below. It wouldn’t take long before Gip’grenda did the same.

The heavy dust in the air made visibility low, but even that was starting to die down as the man’s headcover optics allowed him to track for anything out of the ordinary. His rifle was at the ready.

“Keep me updated on anything your drone sees,” Greg remarked to her. “Watch those mountainsides.”

The Yutilian held her open tilon in one hand as she had her pistol in the other. She remained on wide alert. Greg hated the position he was in, but the fact was that he knew that he couldn’t do anything about it. He walked further and further ahead, away from the truck. There was the rustic hull remains of a car on his right. It was so degraded that he couldn’t even tell what vehicle it was. The man noted another set of broken remains not far from the vehicle containing a junk pile.

The rancher used his headpiece to zoom in on the pile of debris and remains. He wouldn’t have to look any further. He stopped and looked at something that prompted Gip’grenda’s interest as well. Greg sighed.

“Be ready to run back to the truck,” he told her.

“Why?” She asked.

The man was looking at it when the Itrean finally saw it, too. In front of Greg was a thick gray cable. It stretched from the side of the mountain to the junk pile. Only the faint glimmer of metal gave any indication that it was there. It was taught, being high enough to reach the man’s waist.

Greg stood as far as he could from the wire. Grabbing the barrel and handguard of his rifle, he lifted the butt end of his rifle into the air and swung it down on the metal cable.

Shink ... BOOM!

It happened in less than a second as the butt end of the rifle broke the cable and struck the dirt underneath. The moment the cable was pulled, a rocket was instantly fired from the junk pile. It moved so quickly that only the smoke trail could be seen in the air before the flying munition smashed into the distant side of the mountain and exploded, knocking dirt and debris everywhere. The rocket was a meter away from hitting Greg as he felt the wind of it hit his vest. Gip’grenda’s feathers lifted up in pure surprise.

“RUN!” Greg told her. “Go ... go!”

The Itrean was fast. It didn’t take long before she reached the truck. However, she didn’t notice that a part of the hull remains of the car had moved. The hood lifted up and fell to the ground as something crawled out. From some deep crevice or cavern that the hull of the broken car blocked emerged a thin man ... at least that’s what it looked like.

Greg was fast as he turned on the stranger. He only had a brief glimpse. The unknown man was bald, with heavy lesions and boils across the skin. A facial mask was strewn over his throat and jaw. However, he had no form of protection from the elements except for his raggedy clothes.

The stranger tried to lift up a makeshift bolt action rifle and aimed it at Greg, but the rancher was already on him. He pointed his lever action rifle and fired. In less than a second, a 45-70 government bullet slammed into the stranger’s chest, killing him instantly and knocking his body to plop over the car remains.

Gip’grenda was startled by the gunfire and what happened not far from her. Greg pulled the lever and loaded the next round as he ran back to the truck.

“Get in, get in!” he told her. “Call your drone back. We’re going to have company!”

The Itrean tapped a button on her tilon and closed it. Greg had little time to look around as he quickly reached the driver’s side door of the truck and opened it. Gip’grenda already had the door opened but paused for a few seconds as the flying drone quickly flew down and landed on the palm of her hand, the propellors safely away to be retracted back into the unit.