The Last Server Read online

  Then Greg saw Guo Li’s head sticking out, both fearful and curious. Some of the approaching survivors lifted what looked to be javelins and spears for a toss.

  Greg yelled, dashing out from behind the barricade. Sliding himself bodily across rough, painful road, he aligned the makeshift sights of his gun and fired at the advancing force.

  Two of the men went down at once, too shocked to even cry out. The rest scattered against the roadside partition and Greg rolled himself behind one. The sniper fired once more, though his shot went wide, scattering tarmac. Wesley could be heard fumbling with the motorbike, and Greg wondered if for all of his efforts, the cultist had decided to make a run for it.

  With a gush, smoke erupted around the bike. Not the white smoke that pours out of a standard smoke grenade, or even a fumigating machine, but bright red smoke more akin to that used to mark a landing zone.

  Or the smoke used by the RSAF for National Day Parades.

  “Get your ass in the sidecar now!” came Wesley’s voice. Greg shook himself out of his amazement. Already the smoke had spread out, given him a zone of safety he could run right through. He dashed towards the epicentre of the smoke screen, flinching slightly as the sniper fired wildly into the smoke. Wesley had taken the chance to drag the spike strip aside, flinging it to the side of the road.

  “You doing okay, Guo Li?” asked Greg. The boy’s eyes were wide as he looked about him, and Greg could only imagine how he felt, being surrounding by a fog the colour of blood, while gunshots erupted around him.

  Wesley dashed back to the bike, and revved it. A survivor dashed towards the sidecar, brandishing a steel pole. Greg had no time to dodge even as the assailant swung it against his skull. A flash of stars erupted across his vision, and already the survivor grappled with him. The ex-soldier tried to fight him off, but his head was hurting too badly.

  So he did the only thing he could. Gripping the barrel of his fallen AV-2, he clubbed the survivor on the head. Once. Twice. Even after his victim’s hands grew limp, Greg didn’t stop.

  The bike finally sputtered and pulled out, still emitting smoke, and the survivor fell away. The remaining survivor screamed in fury, and Greg saw the look in Guo Li’s eyes. Not disgust, but fear.

  Wesley adjusted a knob, and the red smoke spewed at a 60-degree arc behind them, concealing them from shooters, and yet allowing them to see. Sure enough, not one more shot was fired upon them. Ammo was too precious these days.

  There exists a saying that one must not become a monster while fighting them. Sadly, kids didn’t understand just how harsh the real world was. Guo Li had refused to speak about what happened, shooting Greg angry looks every now and then. Greg was not worried—Guo Li was going to have to get over it, as long as the world remained this way.

  Wesley had decided the coastal route was no longer safe; sooner or later, they would run out of smoke, which also acted as a beacon that signalled where they were. As Greg had guessed, the canister had been salvaged off a grounded fighter jet retrofitted for the Singapore Airshow. They passed through what was left of the Outram Park area, where the gaping eyes of ruined buildings stared forlornly, broken segments open in gaping screams. Greg kept his weapon at the ready, but no movement of any kind could be seen. Plastic bags and years of crap littered the street, and to his surprise, people still found the time to paint graffiti upon the cars and walls in the area. He supposed the old laws didn’t matter anymore when there’s no one to cane you.

  Wesley stopped at the side of a street corner, his shoulders slumped. The sputter of the motorbike died down.

  “Wesley?” Greg asked. As always, the guardian’s eyes were covered by his goggles, making it hard to read his expression. But his shoulders and arms were shaking, as if by a great loss.

  “The Sanctum’s been silenced,” whispered Wesley. “The voices that lead from it to us, now gone.”

  It took a moment for Greg to realise what the guardian was saying. “You lost contact with the Sanctum? Since when?”

  “Right before we encountered the thugs on the highway. The 418 has found my brothers, I’m sure of it. Our faith can only do so much against tech and steel. I’ll kill them all!” The yell reverberated around them, a faint echo bouncing off the surrounding buildings.

  Greg had never seen Wesley in such a state. But then, he really didn’t know much about the Brotherhood to begin with. But he knew they had communion with each other via digital means, plugged into the intranet that allowed their minds to meander with one another, closer in being than anyone could ever be. Besides, one could hardly deny the camaraderie members of a brotherhood had. As close as kinship, if not more so. To many of them, this was probably their only family. Before he had arrived, they lived in relative peace.

  But now …

  “How exactly are your communications broadcasted, Wes?” asked Greg.

  “The hell do I know? N33r and ITm4ster set it all up,” snapped Wesley. “Probably some form of 5G or radio transmission.”

  “If the signal is piggybacked onto the 418 comms frequency, the 418 may have cut it off Manually,” explained Greg. “The Brotherhood might still be alive.”

  “But if they’re not …” Wesley’s voice rose to a growl.

  “If they aren’t, do you really think fighting in the name of vengeance is going to do anything for the cause?” asked Greg. “You’ll still a member of the Brotherhood. Getting control of the Server is just the start; a beginning to further your Brotherhood’s goals. Don’t let’s stop now.”

  Wesley raised an eyebrow, the one that could be seen above his goggles, anyway. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were trying to further your own cause.”

  “Aren’t we all? At least our goals are aligned in that aspect. And I’ll say snatching the Server from the 418 is a pretty good opportunity for vengeance.”

  The distant sound of explosions could be heard, and the three of them whipped their heads in that direction. It was coming in the direction of the old city.

  Mortar fire? That can’t be good. Wesley gave a huff and rode on.

  As they neared the source of the ruckus, it was obvious that the explosions were part of a coordinated effort. From across the river, the three of them could see the city lit up sporadically by fiery blasts, the dust of old concrete fogging the air. Guo Li looked worried, and even Greg was starting to have a sense of foreboding about the whole thing. The explosions were loud enough that it jarred the very metal of the bike, and it was far too risky to drive the bike right into the city. Even with silenced engines, it would attract far too much attention.

  “It seems they’ve let loose the dogs of war,” said Wesley simply. “Sounds like 120mm HE shells too. These guys aren’t messing around.”

  “They use dogs for war? I thought they got guns what?” said Guo Li, his brow wrinkled.

  “He doesn’t mean actual dogs. Wesley’s quoting Shakespeare,” explained Greg.

  “Shakespeare’s a dog?”

  “Never mind,” said Greg hurriedly. “Wesley, I think we’d better go on foot. The bike’s gonna be an obvious target if we bring it in.”

  “N33r would be pissed,” said Wesley. His voice carried no emotion.

  “N33r would want you to stay alive. The bike’s already done its job on the highway,” reminded Greg. “It’s nearing nightfall. We have a better chance of making it through without it.”

  Wesley sat in silence for several moments. “Fine. Get out, the both of you.”

  Greg helped Guo Li out of the bike, and the two of them stood a respectful distance away. Wesley himself knelt before the bike, placing a hand upon the handlebars. He muttered a long string of syllables, of which Greg could assume was some kind of Codist mantra. It had high and low notes, and after a while, Greg realised Wesley was speaking in binary code.

  “May The Cloud preserve you,” finished Wesley, popping a switch. He made his way over to where Greg and Guo Li stood. The bike flashed bright white, so bright that Greg and Guo
Li squealed, shielding their eyes. When the flames died down, all that was left of the bike was a steaming, melted mess. The acrid smell of burnt plastic and a chemical smell which Greg recognised as phosphorus hung in the air.

  “His will was done,” said Wesley dully, and Greg guessed he was either talking about N33r, or the bike that had brought them this far. “Let us continue, and speak no more of this.”

  Wesley hefted his carbine in his hands and strode off towards an underpass that led under a bridge that used to stand over the Singapore River. Beyond him, the skyline of the post-Storm city stood, framed by the ruins of the old city. Once, the buildings stretched out to the sky, competing for space where land cost several thousand dollars per square foot. Now they stood crooked and forgotten, billions if not trillions of dollars in real estate gone forever. Just like civilisation, and COE.

  Greg turned to Guo Li, whose mouth was open in confusion.

  “Best save your questions for later, kid.”

  As they got deeper into the city, the sound of mortars got louder, such that dust from the buildings regularly rained in a choking mess upon the three. Much of the city was levelled to piles of rubble that rivalled hills, with bent beams and cracked columns holding up what remained of it. Greg started to worry that the shockwaves caused by the mortar shells would pry loose a supporting beam, or worse, tip a building down upon them. But for all the dust and smaller bits of rubble that came loose, not once did anything larger tumble out of place. Compared to the effects of The Storm, the rumbling probably rated low in damage capability.

  “What’s going on here?” choked Greg as another cloud of dust settled. Wesley had passed around some old face masks people used long ago during the annual haze, but the dust was all- encompassing in its coverage. The swimming goggles they wore helped to prevent them from going blind, but quickly fogged up. It was already starting to get cold as night fell.

  “I’m guessing your actions in the labs had a bigger impact than expected,” said Wesley. “The 418 aren’t just gun-toting tattoobacks; they’ve got stuff from the old SAF camps too.”

  “But what are the mortars targeting?” asked Greg. “Surely the 418 aren’t expecting to level the whole city in the hope of getting us. It’ll take far too much time and ammo for that.”

  “In all the time since I’ve been blessed by The Cloud, I’ve never been inside the Old City, only the outskirts,” said Wesley. “It is said you can’t get more than ten metres past the river without being stopped by the Old Guard. Have you noticed that we haven’t been challenged so far? We’ve got to be at Raffles Place already. The Old Guard has their home somewhere around, and I’m pretty sure the shelling’s to keep them busy. Something big’s happening.”

  Sounds of gunfire could be heard around the corner of a road junction, followed by shouts and yells. They hunkered down against the collapsed roof of a bus stop, rifles at the ready. Several figures ran past about, 50 metres up ahead, rifles gripped tightly in their hands. They wore what looked to be an assortment of grey and dark-green pants, as well as running vests of different colours. Greg’s eyes boggled. He had seen those clothes more often than most. Back before The Storm, each military formation had their own colour-coded running vests. It wasn’t uncommon to see civilians using them out of camp, a souvenir of their enlisted days.

  “Fall back! There’s too many!” shouted one of the runners. Unlike the rest, who were equipped with no more than a rifle and waist pouch, this one wore his SBO, complete with helmet and LBV. He wore a full grey No. 4, the camouflaged combat dress of the Singapore Armed Forces, with its sleeves rolled, the dust and grime of the city greying it further.

  One of the men crumpled, following a loud report of fire. The section IC turned to him in shock.

  “This way!” The leader swung an arm towards where Greg, Wesley and Guo Li were hiding. “It’s the safest way back to the City!”

  “They’re coming this way!” hissed Greg. “We got to move!”

  Greg and Wesley made their way to the edge of the street, where they would be less noticeable. That was when all hell broke loose.

  First, the ragtag assortment of a squad dashed down the street they were on, arms and legs a blur even as they escaped their pursuers. Their eyes widened in mingled anger and shock as they spotted the two interlopers, both dressed in a manner never seen before. Their leader yelled a warning, raising his rifle as he did.

  Second, their pursuers appeared around the street corner. Two pickup trucks with retrofitted front grills and off-road tires, complete with fighters hanging off the siderails. Bare-chested and spotting red armbands, they were, without a doubt, 418 troopers. And they were packing heat, if the Ultimax 100s and GPMG were anything to go by.

  Third, Guo Li tripped over and fell, his high-pitched squeal resonating in the otherwise quiet street.

  Time seemed to freeze, so Greg did what he had been doing for the last six years: follow his instinct. Whipping the 25mm launcher from Wesley’s hip holster, he raised it up and fired.

  Compared to the more common 40mm grenade, the 25mm grenade was not as suited for use against vehicles, given its smaller payload. But it was not the weapon that matters so much as its target.

  The engine of the first pickup erupted in flames, throwing its passengers all over the place. The second pickup behind it failed to stop in time, colliding in a mass of bent metal and glass. The uniformed leader and his squad looked from Greg to the chaos, and back again, confusion creasing their features.

  “Another grenade!” yelled Greg, even as he disengaged the catch of the break open system. The spent casing of the 25mm remained stuck, and he fought vainly to rip it out.

  “No time for that, fuckers coming in hot!” barked Wesley. “Fire for effect!”

  Greg shoved the 25mm launcher into his own waistband. The passengers on the second pickup hadn’t wasted any time. Despite their disorientation, they had started spreading out to whatever cover could be found. Some had let out bursts of fire as they did, sending Greg and Wesley ducking.

  “Get back! We’ll cover you!” yelled Greg to the uniformed leader. He had no idea who this was, but any enemy of the 418 deserved a chance in his book. He raised his rifle to eye level, squeezing off his trigger. A 49er stumbled into another, both of them toppling. Greg yelled as an aimed shot shattered the concrete before his face, spraying it in choking dust. He would have gone blind without his goggles. He fell back into cover, and Wesley took over his spot. Without breaking cover, the Guardian stuck his carbine out above himself, squeezing off a volley of shots. Yells pierced the air.

  “You weren’t even aiming!” gasped Greg in surprise. “Practice much?”

  Wesley looked disdainfully back at him. “GoPro camera. Provides real-time footage of weapon sights to my neural stream. Helps a ton with blind firing.” Greg now knew why Wesley had gotten that weapon from N33r instead of him.

  A loud squeal pierced the air. Greg chanced a look. One of the 49ers had gotten to Guo Li, and was snatching him up despite his fighting back. Greg aimed his AV-2, but knew it was hopeless. There was a big risk of hitting Guo Li in the process. A lousy caretaker he proved to be.

  A blur dashed towards the 49er, descending upon him as he vaulted a block of concrete. It was the leader of the escaping squad. He swung an arm with almost martial proficiency against the thug. A flash of steel, and the 49er gurgled, clutching his neck. Keeping low, the squad leader threw Guo Li over a shoulder, dashing back towards where his men had fled.

  “Come with us! There’re more on the way,” he barked to Greg and Wesley.

  “And go where? This street’s far too open!” Greg yelled back.

  “Follow me if you want to live.” The leader plodded on away from the fighting.

  Greg fired off one more burst, before dashing after the leader, Wesley close behind. Seconds later, the cover they were at erupted in a cloud of dust and concrete shards, a 418 frag grenade having gone off. They ducked into a side alley of what had been one of
many office buildings, now littered with piles upon piles of rubble. Another right turn, and they found themselves beside a collapsed building. Miraculously, a shorter building still stood, metal slats making up its walls. It took a moment for Greg’s memory to recall what it was. One of the many air exhaust outlets for the underground MRT system, it was something the public walked by each time they commuted to school or work, never giving it much thought.

  Only this time, the squad leader ran up to the door set in its side, fumbling with the lock.

  “Get in, the two of you!” yelled the squad leader as the door popped open. “Jun Hao, set up a tripwire and claymore in the dust. The rest of you, fall in!”

  Greg and Wesley squeezed through the door. Almost immediately, the echoes of the fight were softened, dull thuds resounding against the walls of the confined space. Greg could see this entrance had been used before; footprints in the dust showed that much. A large grill took up most of the floor, a great unmoving fan rotor beneath it. Beyond it, darkness loomed, darker than the darkest night. Several planks of wood lay against the wall. A hardhat still hung on its hook, with missing outlines showing tools that were missing. An electrical control box sat against the wall, dim and lifeless.

  The rest of the squad bundled into the room. One of the guys threw the lock, slotting planks across the door handles. Greg saw that the door had been reinforced with sheets of metal, all haphazardly affixed to the surface. A loud boom erupted from the outside followed by screams, the claymore mine having done its deadly work.

  “Get into the tunnel,” ordered the squad leader. The grill across the fan was pulled away, revealing a ladder. Two soldiers went first, followed by Greg and Wesley. The click-clack of feet on ladder felt unfamiliar, strange even. Back on flat ground, they passed several more fans as they walked, their footsteps giving off an echo as they did. Guo Li was ushered along by the squad leader, his eyes wide as they walked.

  “What were the 418 doing here?” asked Greg as they came into a wider tunnel. “We heard the explosions from afar.”