Dark Victory - eARC (13 page)

An Excerpt From the Journal of Randall Knox

Lecture today from visiting Air Force officer. Said to be an expert on astrophysics. Short little guy, looked pretty nervous. Not hard to understand; since the war started, AF has taken the heaviest casualties. Started talking about where the Creepers might have come from. Two theories: nearby star system, or part of a culture that’s been spaceborne for centuries. Either way, why did they come here? What prompted them?

Current idea is that Earth started announcing its presence through various means: first radio broadcasts in early 1900s, atomic weapons testing in 1945, wide-scale television broadcasting in the 1950s, H-bomb test in 1953. Creepers or anybody with right detection gear would know industrial civilization was present on third planet in our solar system. If our neighbors were mean and paranoid—like European empires in 15th century—they might decide to come over and raise some hell.

AF guy started going through star systems in a huge bubble about our sun, listing various stars that could be home to a Creeper civilization. Pretty dry stuff. Started yawning some and found out I wasn’t the only one. When AF guy was done, Professor Falconer went to back row, kicked the legs of Jefferson, large black kid, refugee from Roxbury. Falconer asked him why he was sleeping. Jefferson said it was boring, not worth listening to. Professor said, why’s that, Private? Jefferson shrugged: don’t care where the buggy bastards came from. Just want to know how to kill ’em better.

Have to admit, I like Jefferson’s attitude. He got ten extra days, KP duty at the dining facility, but I guarantee most of the guys and gals in the lecture hall agreed with him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I’m stunned and bite my tongue, and the lunch bag flies out of my hand. There are screams and shouts from the passengers as the carriage roars off the rails, hitting the ground, rattling and bouncing, the train whistle screeching in one long bone-rattling wail. The carriage tilts and bucks and finally grinds to a halt, on its side, passengers and luggage and papers and sacks tumbling to the right, more thumps and shouts. I jam my ankle into one seat and there’s another explosion, and up front, a woman starts screaming, “It’s a Creeper! It’s a Creeper! We’re gonna get burnt!”

More shouts, screams, panic rushing through the tilted-over carriage. Too much of a mess up forward with passengers bunched up against the far door, so I reverse course and push my way through the rear door, stumble to the ground, take in the quickening horror. Up ahead the locomotive with the cheerful Wal-Mart sign is on its side, its boilers broken, steam and smoke billowing up into the overcast sky. The coal car has crashed up into the locomotive, and the carriage cars are a twisted tumble, windows broken, flames roaring along the roof and side. Screams and shouts pierce through the air, passengers stumbling out of the doors or hauling themselves through broken windows.

We’re in a shallow valley, the near slope rising up to a line of woods, the far slope being overgrown grass and brush, and as the screaming woman had warned, a Creeper is skylining itself at the crest of the hill. Its two main arms are firing down on us; one arm using its flamer, the other a weaponized laser, firing off short bursts that are burning and killing my fellow passengers as they scramble away from the derailed train. I frantically look around for Captain Diaz, the Special Forces officer who knows my dad, and he’s nowhere to be seen.

More shouts. The Marines sprint by me, two dogs keeping pace, led by a sergeant screaming, “Alpha, get up on that ridge!” The tail-end Marine looks at me and says, “Come on, Recon boy, haul ass!”

I pull out my 9 mm, start running, heading to the near carriage. The Marine says, “War’s over here, bud!”

“Orders!” I shout back, hating how weak the excuse sounds. “I got orders!”

He replies with a loud obscenity, and joins his squad.

Right then I hate myself, and I hate this job.

I climb through a broken rear door. Flames are dancing overhead from slats torn away from the old roof. More screams, and the harsh
snap/sizzle
of the Creeper’s weapons at work. Seats have been ripped away and in the smoky haze, people are stumbling about.

“Thor!” I call out. “Thor, come!”

A bark and my chest feels immediately lighter. Even with the carriage tilted to one side, Thor scrambles across to me, dragging his leash. I unsnap the leash and call out again: “Coulson! Specialist Coulson!”

“Here!” comes a voice. From the smoke Serena emerges, holding her brother’s hand, holding her large purse in the other. He has a bloody handkerchief pressed to his forehead, but he’s not crying or sobbing. “Out,” I say, “we’ve got to get out.”

In the tangle of luggage I see my pack, grab it. “Manson!” I yell. “Mister Manson, are you here?”

Serena tugs at my arm. “He’s gone. I saw him run out right after the train derailed. Damn near trampled a kid to do it.”

I push her ahead of me, Thor moving along, the pack over my right shoulder, pistol in hand. The air is choking. Outside there’s another
snap/sizzle
of the Creeper firing down at us. More screams. On the far slope smoldering bodies are at rest. A young girl, about three or four, is sitting up, holding the hand of a burnt body, crying and tugging at the dead hand of her mother or aunt or older sister, the tan skirt miraculously untouched, the upper torso smoking and sizzling.

Most of the passengers huddle down, trying to hide behind the derailed cars. I push Serena again. “Take your brother and go! Get away from here! Head down the tracks, find shelter.”

“Why can’t we stay here?”

Most of the carriages are on fire. I say, “If the Marines can’t kill that Creeper right away, everyone here is going to be dead in a few minutes.”

“Are you staying to fight?”

“No, damn it!” I yell again, my tongue hurting bad from when I had bitten it. “Following orders! Just like you’ve got to do
now,
Specialist! Keep down and move!”

She turns and grabs Buddy’s hand, scrunches down and starts running down the far end of the railway tracks, moving around the passengers and debris from the derailed train. I move forward, to where most of the passengers are, calling out, “Manson! Manson! Mister Manson! I’ll get you out!”

Through open areas of where the carriages are tumbled over, I see the Creeper hasn’t moved from its elevated point. Its two weapon’s arms are still moving, the laser flashing out, dazzling my eyes, the flames streaming out, dancing around the locomotive and carriage cars. The Marines are moving fast, executing a precision example of old Battle Drill 1A: one element provides suppressing fire to pin down the enemy, while the second element attempts a flanking maneuver. While old tactics are generally for old wars—ones fought against other humans—they are executing this tactic here and now and I think it just may work. I stand for a second. But something is wrong. I look down at Thor. He’s panting, at my side, looking around.

Looking around.

I move forward, the shouts of the Marines cutting through the other sounds, the steam escaping from the ruined train, the flames now roaring along the carriages, the cries and screams of the other passengers shrieking at my ears. Up on the nearest slope, the woods are burning. There are at least a dozen blackened corpses up there, from people who just a few minutes earlier had been sitting safe in their well-paid seats.

Now they were smoked and charred bones and flesh, flames dancing through their clothing.

Move
, I think. Move your ass. Find your Mister Manson.

Colored flares launch up into the sky, as the Marines on the other side of the train wreck signal to whomever might be out there that a Creeper attack is underway. More
snap/snizzle
of the Creepers’ weapons firing.

The acrid stench of sweat, smoke and fear are blasting through my nostrils, along with the sweet smell of burning flesh, as I get closer to the locomotive. A lumpy charred body is dangling out of the train cab. I quickly look around.

“Manson! Manson!”

There’s a heartening sound of
BLAM!
followed by
PLOP!
and then another series of the same sounds, as the Marines return fire with their M-10s. I can’t help myself, and I yell out, “Get some, jarheads! Get some!”

I move ahead, fires warm on my face, and there’s Manson.

On the ground, hiding behind a blasted piece of wood, arms stretched out, the leather dispatch case still chained to his wrist. I drop my assault pack, holster my pistol, and go to ground, crawling up to him, Thor mirroring me as well, his belly to the ground. Smart dog. I pull at Manson’s shoe. Oil and water and lubricant have soaked the dirt and grass around us.

“Hey, Mister Manson!” I yell. “Let’s get out of here.”

A man is screaming. I turn my head, through the gap of the wreckage, see a Marine stumbling back, aflame. I clench my jaw, turn back to Manson, grab his foot and give it a good hard tug.

“You damn idiot, we’ve got to move, now!”

The foot is stiff in my hand. I crawl up further.

His head is gone.

Take a couple of deep breaths, try not to start sobbing in fear and frustration, and then I get back to work. I go through Mister Manson’s pockets, find a keychain with six keys on it. Desperately avoiding looking at the burnt stump of his neck, I go to the chain and—

None of the keys fit.

None of the keys fit!

Another shout from the Marines. I snap my head around, see two Marines lying down, in perfect firing position as the suppressing element, M-10s braced against their shoulders, then two shots go downrange, a perfect solution and in a one-two punch, the 50 mm rounds explode right in front of the main arthropod’s breathing membrane.

Perfect!

I yell out, “Hooh-AH, jarheads!” and I look to see the Creeper pause, shake and tremble and collapse, as the two rounds do their work.

One arm moves, and then another,
flash/flash
from the lasers, and the Marines are dead.

More
snap/sizzles
from the Creeper, and the bodies of the dead Marines burst into sticky blue flames.

The Creeper is still alive.

It’s all wrong.

I chew on my bit tongue, trying to get my mouth moist again, and go back to Manson. Still dead. I tug at the chain, attached a handcuff on his wrist.

Nothing doing.

Orders, I think. Orders.

From my boot, I tug out my Blackhawk knife, and get to work.

Minutes later, Thor at my side, I’m running back down the length of the wrecked train, as passengers look up at me, and one young boy in the arms of his sobbing mom yells out, “Are you gonna kill it, soldier? Are you gonna kill the monster?”

Tears pop up in my eyes as I race past his hopeful face, heading down the railway track, Thor at my side, the precious satchel case tight up against my chest, assault pack thumping on my back. The passengers stare at me in disbelief as I run away. I glance back one more time as I run down the side of the railroad tracks. All of the carriages are now burning merrily along, and the Creeper is still at work. The near woods are burning as well. There are lines of smoke drifting up from the positions the Marines had so bravely taken. One more colored flare pops up but the Marine must be injured or dying, for the flare sputters up at an angle and bounces along the grassland into the woods.

Another move from the Creeper’s arms, and the place where the flare was launched from is drenched with flames.

Panting, heart blasting, legs and arms heavy, I’m out of sight of the ambushed train, and yell out, “Coulson! Coulson! Where the hell are you?”

About me civilians are straggling and running along, and I look around again, trying to see Serena, trying to see Captain Diaz, but the only uniform around is mine.

“Coulson!”

“Here!”

Up on the left is a treeline and Serena and Buddy emerge, coming down to see me. Serena is still holding a handkerchief to her brother’s head, her other hand holding a bulging plastic bag. His clothes and her uniform are disheveled and stained with smoke and soot. I look back up the length of tracks. We’ve gone far enough so that I can’t hear or see anything, but I still have the stench of burnt things strong in my nostrils.

Serena comes to me and I say, “Back up to the trees. You see anyplace up there to hide out?”

“There’s a bunch of boulders deeper in that might work.”

“Good,” I say. “We’re going to lay low for a while.”

She says, “Has the Creeper been killed?”

“No,” I say.

“What’s going on back at the train?”

“Everybody’s dead back there,” I say. “Come on, let’s move.”

I push her ahead of me and we get up the tree line and further in, to the rocks, the boulders about the size of a large kennel cage. Thor is right with me and Buddy is at Serena’s side. We climb in among the boulders and I look around, my chest hurting from breathing so hard. Looks pretty good. I say to Serena, “You hurt?”

“No, but Buddy’s been cut.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Hold on, I’ll take care of it.”

I drop my pack, unzip it and take out a first-aid kit. Buddy stands there stoically. “Specialist, will you assist? Is he all right with me touching him?”

She says, “It’ll be fine. Do what you have to do.”

I take her hand away and use the handkerchief to wipe away the blood. Doesn’t look that bad. Forehead and head injuries tend to bleed like hell, even though the wounds aren’t necessarily that deep. I wipe the wound clean again, wash it with an anti-bacterial cloth, and then tape on a bandage. Looks good. Throughout it all, Buddy stands there in his suit and tie, just staring ahead, not saying a word.

Looking around, I take stock. We have a nice hiding place here, but of course, if a Creeper were to amble by, we’re in an open barbecue pit with the only defense being me, my attitude, Thor and my 9 mm Beretta. But that doesn’t concern me at the moment. Some brush and birch saplings hide most of the rocks, and inside there’s a good wide spot covered with last year’s fall leaves on the ground. I note the plastic bag Coulson’s been carrying. “What do you have there?” I ask. “Didn’t think you had any baggage when you got on the train.”

She says, “Buddy and I, when we were making our way out, we went by the dining car and saw some water bottles and bagged sandwiches sitting on the ground. I picked some up, figured we might need it later.”

“Some might call that looting, specialist.”

“Some might call that salvaging, sergeant,” she shoots back. “If what you said is true, then everybody back at the train is dead and everything’s burned.”

True enough. “You expert in salvaging?”

“Girl Scouts, Troop 414.”

“Where did you work?”

“Portland, mostly. You?”

“Boy Scouts, outside of Boston.”

Things seem to lighten up with our shared tales. Buddy’s standing quietly, watching his sister, while Thor’s on the ground, taking a break, licking his paws. “Specialist, we’re going to be here for a while.”

She says, “Why’s that, Sergeant? A Quick Reaction Force should be coming here in a bit. Those Marines sent up a lot of flares, and the stations down the line are going to see our train is missing. We keep on moving, we’ll run into that QRF force.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” I say. “But we’re not taking that chance.”

“I still think we should get moving. We’ll run into friendlies, soon enough.”

“No, we stay put,” I snap back. “Look, Specialist, when’s the last time you heard of a Creeper making a daylight attack?”

She ponders that for a moment. “Not sure.”

“Usually they attack at night, though they do carry over into the daylight, when necessary. So this attack was unusual, right?”

“Seems like it, Sergeant.”

I gently kick the dispatch case on the ground, chain leading away from the thick handle. “I’m sure you noticed Mister Manson had this chained to his wrist.”