Free A Time to Die by Mark Wandrey Page B

sees. Few in the valley look up at the buzz of the drone, many are too tired or hungry to wonder what it means. All they know is it isn’t screaming death from the south. After a time, the drone continues southward.
    More camps follow, steadily growing in size as it moved southwards and finally encountered the first military presence. The drone plays it cautious, answering to remote control relayed from satellites. The military presence was disorganized, almost as if they were refugees as well. They sat in camps centered around supplies or heavy weapons. Small vehicles moved between the camps attempting to coordinate and organize the ragtag survivors, with little success.
    After a short time, the Nightwing turned southward again. A low mountain pass caused more energy to be expended and the drone drew close to its range. But just over the pass, paydirt was found. Another army, only this one was not well organized, or even in uniform.
    The roadway was clogged with legions of men, women, and even children shambling along the road. The Nightwing orbited slowly, filming all the while the vast tide of humanity moving at a slow yet steady pace towards Monterrey only dozens of kilometers farther along.
    The drone continued to loiter, running dangerously past its point of no return. Its operators were mesmerized by the scene they were witnessing. A short distance in front of the advancing hordes were two aged station wagons crowded with at least a dozen people. They’d tried desperately for hours to get their cars running again and were about to give up when the first of the shambling mob crested a hill and spotted them.
    The drone’s high definition cameras caught in perfect detail a man in a tattered business suit, his face flaccid and expressionless as he walked, until he saw the pair of cars and the huddled refugees around it. His face instantly split into a horrendous mixture of rage and hunger. He shook his head violently from side to side before bearing his teeth. There were no microphones to pick up the primal scream or hear it picked up by the others behind him as dozens broke into a crazed headlong rush down the hill.
    The refugees looked up in terror, several instantly turning to run while others, struck with indecision, either jumped into the cars to lock the doors or continued to struggle with the broken engine in vain. As the cars were hit by the first of the runners, the people in the open were tackled by headlong leaps while others tried to use any weapon that came to hand to defend themselves. Brutal images were caught frame after frame as the hopeless battle proceeded, and the refugees were torn literally limb from limb. The scenes of people ripping men, women and children apart with hands and teeth were caught in shocking detail, and relayed far away to be recorded.
    The Nightwing continued to circle the action and follow the advancing mob mile by mile until it was almost within sight of the Army defenders near Monterrey. Just as the first artillery rounds begin to fall among them, sending torn bodies flying into the skies, the drone finally ran out of juice and spiraled into the ground.
     
    * * *
     
    “Jesus, Kathy!”
    Kathy Clifford sat staring at the monitor, unable to move. Even after the streaming video from Mexico City two days ago she couldn’t actually believe what she’d seen. The video had been taken down by the streaming service after only a few hours online. Maybe she’d made a mistake making it available live without first watching the content. She’d agonized over the recordings ever since, having experts review it same as the other news services who’d gotten ahold of it second hand. Of course their versions weren’t the original feed, like she possessed. Experts said they believed it must be faked. The ones who reviewed hers agreed with that assessment, only they could find no signs of tampering or FX enhancements.
    “Jesus Christ, Kathy!” the voice behind her repeated, louder and