“Only when the screaming stops is the silence deafening”

  The Wisdom if Rebecca

  The Bird landed, flattening what was left of his crops. It’s hard, metallic edges at odds with the grace of its landing.

  Davy’s hands clenched. “Well, that’s just impolite.”

  Its beak lowered, releasing a mob of ringtails. They swarmed out in organised ranks.

  These weren’t the skittish greys he’d seen. These were taller, had red-tinged fur and a sharp, confident bearing.

  Some were brown, but not many.

  Last out was a large red, way taller than the others, who barked orders, forming a perimeter around the Bird.

  “Hmm. They’re organised,” Davy muttered. “Disciplined… like soldiers.”

  He glanced towards the forest. Native greys were screaming from darkness beyond the shadows. Anger palpable, but none dared step into the open.

  Then, without warning, beams of red light lanced out from the Bird into the trees. Grey forms fell.

  Their bodies limp as they hit the forest floor.

  The screaming stopped.

  The forest went quiet.

  Not the quiet of night, but the absolute stillness that accompanied death.

  Then the reds started to screech, their voices sharp and triumphant.

  “That just ain’t right.” He’d heard of the electric telegraph, even used it, but this… this was something else altogether.

  A few greys darted into view, taunting the reds with shrill cries before vanishing back into the shadowy tree line.

  Then, without warning, a blue beam lanced out from the treeline, striking the Bird’s hull. The light splashed across its metallic surface. It was like water thrown on a hot, dusty carriage, crackling as it dissipated.

  When the glow faded, the Bird remained; untouched.

  But something had changed. Its outline wavered, cloaked in a shifting red haze, as if it’d been dipped in molten glass.

  Big Red barked orders, splitting his mob. Most moved towards the forest. A small group started moving Davy’s way.

  The rest stayed by the Bird, protecting it.

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  They moved out. Each of the reds surrounded by the same red haze. It didn’t just shield them; it pulsed, like a heartbeat.

  When one screamed, it flared bright and then dimmed, as if feeding off their personal energy.

  Even though it was dark, Davy could see that each red either carried a strange musket. A short stubby pistol.

  When they shot these at the greys, red beams streaked out and the red haze around them flickered.

  The greys returned fire, some of their beams glancing off the red haze, while others made it shimmer brightly as if consuming the impact. “More devilry!”

  As the reds neared the forest’s edge, their advance faltered. Davy’s could see the chaos unfold with perfect clarity.

  The reds stumbled into hidden pits.

  Their cries piercing the air as they fell, skewered on sharpened stakes.

  Razor vines with needle sharp thorns sliced through the fur and flesh of others.

  Logs crashed down, breaking bodies, crushing some with sickening thuds.

  Then the greys struck back quickly, dispatching the survivors with brutal precision before melting back into the shadows.

  Davy grinned, leaning on his knife. “Well now… that was real interestin’,” he said to no one in particular.

  Glancing at the motes he added, “Turned my own traps on ‘em. They ain’t dummies.”

  The motes pulsed, their light flickering as if in agreement.

  Then Davy saw movement, down below the ledge. It was the group who’d been sent up the cliff. He knew he didn’t have one of the hazy shields. Wasn’t sure what the squad of reds were after; him or something else?

  Either wasn’t good and one thing he’d learnt back home was that sitting waiting for things to go right rarely helped.

  So, he grabbed a couple of wooden spears stacked by the entrance of the cave and waited for the reds to disappear into a gulley.

  Davy then quietly stepped out onto the ledge and traced his way along the rock wall.

  He went past the gulley the reds were traversing and dropped silently into one that ran parallel.

  A few minutes later he was behind them and could hear their noisy progress up the gulley.

  Davy knew exactly where they were and moved up close. He stole a quick look around the corner and saw that one of the four was lagging, its fur had no red tinge, it was browner.

  “Thought there was only red or grey,” he muttered.

  Davy sprinted up to the brown, driving his spear clean through its back. As it slumped, he covered its mouth, silencing it. He yanked the spear free, then quickly reworked the tip with his knife before moving on.

  He caught up to where he thought they were but as he rounded the corner he was confronted by a red, coming back towards him.

  The red was fast, but Davy was faster. As it lifted its weapon to fire, he lunged, thrusting the spearhead clean through its belly.

  It gasped, eyes wide, clawing at the shaft, but Davy was already moving.

  He wrenched the weapon free, releasing the red to fall on one knee. Blood seeped between its fingers and into the dirt. Another step; his knife found the soft space beneath its jaw, and with a quick twist, the body went limp.

  Davy thought about hiding the body but decided to leave it as a warning to others.

  ‘Two down, two to go.’

  He knew from bitter experience that when you pick-off a party one by one they cotton on sooner or later. So, he grabbed a small rock and got as close as he dared to the remaining two.

  Davy then threw the rock past them, as far as he could. The reds reacted, all attention firmly on the gulley ahead.

  He moved quickly and was within a few yards when the one at the rear span around. Davy’s hunting knife struck out, drawing a line across its neck. He registered the blood spurt, ‘three down,’ but kept going and jumped the last red.

  All the air whooshed out of it as the two of them hit the floor.

  Davy on top.

  The red all but squashed underneath.

  He drove the knife through the reds mouth and out the back of its head.

  Its eyes, already wide with shock, flickered and lost focus.

  Davy withdrew the knife and cleaned it before sheathing it at his waist.

  ‘That’s all of ‘em.’

  He then climbed carefully, quietly up the last of the gulley, retreating to the safety of his cave.

  Night darkened. Stars began to brighten, as both moons fell leaving the valley in umbra.

  Big Red was struggling to understand how he’d lost so many. This never happened; they were just greys. A bunch had fallen into animal traps near the forest. Others had gone into a gulley and just disappeared.

  He was furious, and gesticulating wildly called what remained of his mob back into the Bird.

  As it took off, disappearing into the sky, the shadow of darkness lifted from around the cave.

  Davy surveyed the carnage below.

  Crops lay uprooted, strewn along the water’s edge. The gentle contours of his fields, months of backbreaking labour were crushed flat, buried under debris.

  He clenched his fists, jaw tight as anger simmered in his chest. Frustration gnawed just a fiercely.

  The attackers lay dead. Yet their deaths brought him little comfort. If he could trade their lives for the time lost, for the work he'd have to do all over again, he would.

  A faint sound broke the silence.

  The barest brush of something on rock.

  It didn’t sound right to be the little flyer.

  Spinning around, Davy dropped into a low fighter’s stance. Knife low, cradled, ready.

  Shadows shifted before him, resolving into twenty or so greys. More than he thought were left in the valley. They stood around in a loose arc, their eyes glinting like tiny mirrors in the dark.

  When they moved, it was with unnervingly fluidity. Efficient and soundless, like a pack encircling prey.

  Each had a pistol or musket at their side or strung over their back, hands empty.

  Davy’s gaze darted behind him, his nerves on edge.

  The rocky crag loomed just a few paces away. There was no escape.