Freehold Read Free Page B

There were hundreds of them, all dressed in disposable white camouflage suits, which were gradually turning black as the flares burned down. They moved quickly to surround and isolate each vehicle in the convoy. Then they opened up with slug throwers and energy weapons that cut the night into a thousand streamers of light and dark.
    Stell chinned his mic switch. “Automatic weapons, left and right flank, fire. Grenade launchers, left and right, fire. Snipers, pick targets ahead and fire. Clear a path for your vehicle but watch out for those in front of you, there's enough people shooting at us already.” If the joke got a laugh, it was lost in the roar of sound as the troopers opened up. Thanks to Como, they were all hand-picked veterans. A quick glance told him casualties were light so far. Only one of the troopers in his truck was down. The others were cutting down Zonies in swaths like wheat at harvest. But as quickly as they died, more boiled up out of the sewers, dropped from rooftops, and surged out of dark passageways to join the fray. There was a burst of static, followed by Sergeant Como's calm voice. “Green four to green one.”
    “Go ahead, green four,” Stell replied, squeezing the trigger on his assault rifle and stitching a line of white holes through one of the infrared blobs surging toward him.
    “We have a prisoner, green one, and he's been egoed.”
    “Understood, green four,” Stell replied, churning over the new information. Some, if not all, of the Zonies had been ego suppressed, probably through use of illegal drugs, and then memprinted with a hatred of the brigade, or all people wearing A-suits, or whatever. It really didn't matter. What mattered was that the Zonies wouldn't react the way they should. Instead of realizing they were being decimated and running or surrendering, they would just keep coming until they won, or until they were all dead. Ego-suppression techniques were illegal everywhere—except, of course, in the Zone.
    Sweeping his gaze over the convoy, Stell saw the greatest danger lay in being swarmed under. His troopers were better armed and trained, but the Zonies outnumbered them at least ten to one. Given that advantage, plus their suicidal frenzy, they couldn't lose. Unless ... Suddenly a Zonie landed right in front of him. With a shock he realized she was just a teenager, her camouflage suit hanging in folds on her skinny frame, eyes enormously dilated, lips drawn back in a snarl. He watched, fascinated, as she brought up her cheap, disposable power gun, aware that some remote part of himself had reacted, wondering vaguely who would win. Then he felt himself pull the trigger and watched the side of her head disappear in a spray of blood and brains. Stell forced his eyes away from her crumpled form as he spoke. “Green one to green four.”
    “Go ahead, green one,” Como replied.
    “Stand by to drop trooper Smith on my command. Initiate program D with a ten-minute hold.”
    “That's affirmative, green one; trooper Smith on your command.”
    Peering over the truck's cab, Stell was cursing the darkness when a sudden flood of white light washed over him. Startled, he thought another flare had gone off. Then he realized the last truck in the convoy, the one just behind the limo, was on fire. The surviving troops bailed out and ran forward, trying desperately to catch up with the moving limo. As he watched, one stumbled and fell, then another, both quickly disappearing under a wave of advancing Zonies. Pounding the side of the truck in frustration, he issued new orders. “Green one to green four. Stop the limo, drop trooper Smith, and pick up survivors.”
    “Affirmative, green one,” Como replied.
    Raising his glasses, Stell saw the limo silhouetted against the burning truck. Trooper Smith stood, unfolding himself into vaguely human form, and stepped down onto the pavement. Meanwhile, the rearmost troops laid down covering fire as survivors from the burning truck caught