Prologue
August 17, Year Three
County Mayo, Ireland
3 miles north-west of Claremorris
The smoke didn't bother Alice so much now. It was more the rubbing – sprinting in her combat uniform, weighed down by woodland camouflaged kit, gloved fingers hurting from how tightly she gripped her AR-15, it seemed like wherever there was fabric there was an itch. She tried not to focus too much on that and more on making it to the treeline. Phelps and Berbatov were in front of her, sprinting too, the dry and overgrown field hard beneath her boots, the ragged treeline seeming to refuse to get any closer.
"Don't stop, keep moving!" Phelps yelled as they went. The snap of a Mauler, from somewhere in the near-distance, mixed with the crackle of gunfire all around, the whir of Banshees above, the distant percussion of six inch artillery pieces finding their mark. "Get to the trees!" Alice's thighs burned but she kept going, to the trees, throwing herself down among the greenery, twigs snapping underneath her, just as a hail of orange rounds spat over her head. She looked back over the field, saw two troopers fall, others still rushing, just as Berbatov raised his rifle over the bank and emptied half his magazine. Alice clenched her teeth but didn't blink. She looked to her left, to Phelps, who had his whole fist jammed against his ear, yelling into his headset.
"Warthog, Warthog, this is Two-Four! We have engaged the enemy and are advancing!" An explosion somewhere behind them, theirs or ours, and a chunk of the field erupted in a muddy geyser. More troopers were jumping against the bank either side of Alice now; she crawled up the bank, slowly, tentatively, despite all the noise of war around her, one of the trees splintered and falling as an enemy round screamed right through its trunk. Peering over the bank, across the field and at the next treeline, she saw them – dark figures, big, muscular, like gorillas walking upright, bulky in their armour, and without a thought she brought her rifle to bear. Aim. Steady. Breathe. Squeeze. A burst of three rounds went singing over the field. She didn't see any fall before she slipped back behind the bank, sensing return fire, which came, as they adjusted. Over the gunfire and the shouts, she could hear something else, something far more awful – growls.
"Captain!" she screamed. Phelps couldn't hear her – he was still yelling into his headset. "Captain! Left side! Left side!" Everyone looked at once, as if those words cut through all the noise, just as one of Them burst out from the trees down the dirt road.
"Brute! Brute!" Troopers scattered, some crawled, as the ugly beast stomped nearer, almost seeming lost, unsure of what it was doing, like it had come out of frustration, dressed like a medieval soldier in that clunky metal armour, from which shone flashes of light as bullets pinged off it. With a dozen automatic rifles all unloading on it at the same time, it had no chance – despite its bulk, the Brute was cut down, flopping to the ground like a doll. Alice stared at its broken form for a moment, the lolling tongue from its ork-like face, the empty dog eyes…
"Hawkins!" The scream in her ear yanked her back to reality – she turned and saw Phelps so close they could have kissed. Again.
"Take two men and flank around the left side!" He grabbed her shoulder and shoved her backwards. "Now!"
"Sir!" She turned and ran, smacking two random troopers over their helmets as she went, and both followed, all keeping low under the bank. She heard the fizz of plasma and a pitiful scream of "medic!" and refused to look. Keeping to the treeline, the three rounded a corner down the next dirt road, rifles raised, and at once came face to face with a column of Brutes. Standard formation – little bastards up front, big ones in back. Four minors, all in light blue armour, with two red-armoured seniors behind.
"Drop 'em!" Alice screamed, and all three unloaded their clips into the group, chopping them down, shredding the foliage all around. Six Brutes fell to the ground, lifeless, and Alice couldn't believe her luck for a moment. Nobody survives a two-on-one against Brutes. Not that close, anyway. "Keep going, keep going!" she insisted, as much to herself as the others, and they hurried forward, over the dead Brutes, checking each for life as they did, one of the men putting a round in the mouth of one which twitched. They hurried, battle uniforms infuriatingly loud, further down the path, trying to get around the treeline they'd been taking fire from. Alice slowed and the other two did the same – then she knelt and scurried towards a bank, on top of which was a rotting wooden fence. Peering over, she saw the Brute line, barely twenty metres to their ten o'clock, hidden in the trees with two turrets unleashing purple plasma fire. The Irish countryside had never seen a thing like that. Alice turned to the other two, waiting urgently, and smiled.
"Frag out," she said, raising her eyebrows, almost in excitement, and as one the three prepared fragmentation grenades and threw them simultaneously. Three dirty explosions ripped through the Brute line, both turrets shutting up, and suddenly the line was met with volleys of automatic fire from the opposite treeline. Alice and the other two joined in, Alice almost laughing, before hurrying further down the bank, hoping to bag a straggler.
"Move! Move! Move!" she yelled, the other two struggling to keep up.
Alice turned a corner round the trees and, in an instant, regretted her enthusiasm. A Brute in grey armour, just behind the tree, swung out an arm which caught her chest and threw her backwards. She landed with a sickening thump on her back, sure a rib had broken, looking up at this hideous creature which glared at her, blood trickling down its snout. It roared – just as Alice raised her rifle and emptied the rest of her magazine. The Brute crumbled on top of her, crushing her but not, this time, killing her, and as all the oxygen was pushed from her lungs and blood pooled in her mouth she felt the world around her turning white.
