The Dire Earth by Jason M. Hough

Author:Jason M. Hough [Hough, Jason M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-101-88303-7
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2014-11-17T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Three

DARWIN, AUSTRALIA

17.APR.2278

The crowd in Ryland Square parted in almost biblical fashion at the arrival of one thousand bloodied, battered, angry soldiers.

Despite all the death, despite the waves of infected still worming in through the bizarre safe zone that supposedly circled Darwin, Russell felt his heart swell at the sea of eyes around him. In those stares he saw hope, admiration, fear, and, simplest of all, resignation. A thousand soldiers had drained the fight out of the crowd like a plug pulled from a bath.

Blackfield took care to meet none of those gazes. He kept his eyes locked on the entrance to Nightcliff. There a line of riot police stood, shields covering their bodies from chin to groin. Some held automatic weapons. Most held black truncheons. None held the expressions Blackfield had basked in from the crowd. No, these people were exhausted, hardened, soaked in bloodlust.

Russell aimed for the one in the center and walked right toward her. She was a short woman, a bit plump. A splash of blood across her riot mask hid most of her face from view.

“That’s far enough,” she said. There was no authority in her voice. She was parroting orders, nothing more.

“Who’s in charge?” Russell asked.

“Braithwaite,” she said.

“Which one of you is Braithwaite?” Russell barked, glancing left and right along the line of police.

The woman spoke. “He’s in the tower.”

“Why? He a coward or something?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed for an instant. “He’s trying to keep the peace.”

“He’s doing a hell of a job. What’s his title?”

“Head of security, and he’s ordered that no one enter Nightcliff without his express permission.”

“Well go and fucking get permission, sweetcakes.”

She ignored the endearment. “Who should I say is asking?”

“The army, you blind cow!” He’d shouted louder than he’d intended. The woman jumped as if slapped. “Lieutenant Russell Blackfield in command. That should be enough to get the wag’s ear. In fact I want him to come out here and chat. Tell him. Hurry along, love. Double time.”

She stumbled back, turned, and ran for the enormous cylindrical tower in the distance.

The crowd, silenced when the troops had arrived, began to whisper among themselves. The whispers grew to conversations. Talk was fine, as long as they weren’t rioting.

Russell turned to Schmidt. He grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him close. “Pass word along to the men. Whatever food or booze they looted on the way here, share it. Smile and nod, be friendly. I want this crowd on our side when this bloke arrives. I want it clear that we made ’em settle.”

“Gave yourself a field promotion, eh?” Schmidt said.

“And why the hell not? You get one, too, come to think of it. Now zip that shit up and spread the orders.”

“Understood,” Schmidt replied, and turned away. He couldn’t have hid his half smile if he’d wanted to.

By the time the thin gray-haired man came up behind the line of riot police, the mood of the crowd had become almost like a celebration. They quieted as if compelled by some sixth sense when Braithwaite reached the perimeter.

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