Dark Victory - eARC (14 page)

“I did,” she says. “Is he all right?”

“He’s dead,” I say. “But my primary job, before my colonel told me to watch you and your brother, was to escort Manson and his bag to the Capitol. So put that together. On a train to the Capitol is an important escort with an important package, and a Creeper ambushes this train in daylight. Don’t like that at all.”

“You think the Creepers found out something important is going to the Capitol?”

“Maybe so. I just don’t like coincidences.”

She looks down at the leather case, looks up at me again. I say, “And another thing I didn’t like was the Creeper. It was too tough.”

“Too tough? Meaning what?”

“Meaning I saw two Marines with M-10s set up a perfect firing solution, and they fired two rounds at the Creeper. The rounds went in and exploded, right in front of the Creeper’s breathing membrane. One exploding round should have killed it right off hand. Two rounds should have knocked it into next Wednesday. But the Creeper shrugged it off, kept firing.”

Her face is pale under the soot on her cheeks and chin. “The Creepers have found a way to get around the M-10.”

“Sure looks like it,” I say.

“We need to get word to your C.O. or any other Army unit, Sergeant.”

Another nudge of my foot to the satchel case. “Eventually.”

“Eventually? What the hell do you mean by that?

“It means I’m following my orders, Specialist,” I say. “I was tasked to escort Manson, his satchel, and you two to the Capitol. Mister Manson is dead, but I still have orders to follow. We’re going to rest up here, have something to eat, and then make our way to the Capitol on our own. There was an intelligence leak somewhere, leading to that Creeper being there to ambush us.”

“Sergeant, look—”

“Not open for discussion, Specialist.”

She looks grim and looks to her brother, back to me. “Very well. Sergeant.”

“Glad to hear it,” I say.

“What can I do, Sergeant?”

Thor looks up at me, goes back to licking his paws. “Gather some firewood. Anything old and dry. While you’re doing that, I’ll clean out some of the leaves and debris here so we don’t burn the place up.”

“So we’re spending the night, then?”

“Yes.”

“And what about tomorrow?”

“I’ll handle tomorrow when the time comes.”

She looks down at the dispatch case. “Do you know what’s in there?”

“Nope,” I say. “But it’s from the governor of New Hampshire, and it’s supposed to end up in the Capitol. So it has to be something important.”

With the toe of her shoe, she moves the chain leading away from the case, ending in the closed bloody handcuff. “It must have been something, getting the chain off Mister Manson’s hand. Did you find a key?”

“No.”

“Did you pick the lock?”

“No.”

“Then how did you get the handcuff off his hand?”

I turn and go back to my assault pack. “Using my Blackhawk knife.”

Her words seem strained. “Your knife . . .”

“Yeah,” I say, looking calmly right at her. “I cut his hand off.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Later that afternoon, we have a small pile of firewood in one corner of our cleared area, which is about four meters to a side. Tight and cozy, but it’ll do. While Serena was out getting the wood, her brother joining her, I dumped out as much of the leaves and old branches as I could, so our fire tonight won’t spread out and torch us in the process. Bad enough Creepers want to do that on purpose, it’d be a hell of a thing to do it by accident. By now it’s quiet, and I haven’t heard any more noises, meaning the Creeper was on the attack or at work. No
click-click
sound, no smell of cinnamon, and even the smell of things burning has lessened.

Shadows are lengthening and we’re all enclosed in our little stone encampment. Thor has gone out and has done his business, and in one corner of our camp, I’ve set the fire. Serena says, “Why against the rock? Why not put it in the middle?”

“Because the heat will reflect off the rock and do a better job of warming us,” I say. “Plus the stone will absorb some of the heat so when the fire dies down later, it’ll still put out some warmth.”

“Oh,” she says.

Our dinner is the sandwiches and water Coulson salvaged from the diner car, and I take one called meat and another called cheese. I eat half of them and give the other half to Thor, who licks my hand in between his bites. I also take out a collapsible water dish from my assault pack, fill it with water and listen with contentment as Thor drinks his fill, lapping and lapping. Coulson sees me and says, “Ask you a question, Sergeant?”

“Absolutely, Specialist.”

“You did something . . . funny when you went into the train car after the Creeper hit us. Do you remember?”

“Not really, but I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

She chews some, swallows. “First time I heard your voice . . . you called out for your dog. For Thor. Not for me, or for Mister Manson. Why’s that? Why did you call out for your dog first, instead of one of us?”

I take a swig of water. “I’ve known him longer.”

As it gets darker, I grab my assault pack and see Serena and Buddy huddling together, getting as close as they can to the flames. I say, “I hope you take this as a lesson in proper planning, Specialist. You went on a train ride, expecting and hoping it would end in just a few hours. Now you and your brother are freezing your asses off in western Massachusetts. You know what they say, fail to plan, plan to fail.”

She’s hugging herself tight with her arms, but Buddy seems complacent, just taking everything in. He ate a meat sandwich and drank from the water bottle, but again, didn’t say a word. Looked at me, looked at his sister, looked at my dog. Then repeated.

“Thanks for the reminder, Sergeant.”

I sigh and take pity on them. From my pack I take out a folded reflective space blanket, lightweight, but good enough to keep them warm as it gets cooler. I toss it over to Serena and say, “This’ll keep you and your brother warm tonight, Specialist.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” she says, catching the blanket and carefully unfolding it, draping it over herself and her brother. “But what about you?”

I say, “I’m a tough old sergeant. I’ll make do. But remember one thing.”

“What’s that?”

I nod to the space blanket. “That blanket’s probably as old as you are. Don’t tear it, don’t burn it, and for God’s sake, don’t lose it.”

“I won’t.”

“Good,” I say, scratching Thor’s head. “Don’t be offended, but it’d be a heck of a lot easier to replace you than that blanket.”

She doesn’t say a word, just eyes me oddly as she pulls the blanket up around her pretty chin.

* * *

I take Thor out to do his late evening business, then look back to check our hiding place, such as it is. Firelight is flickering through the large open areas among the boulders, but I’m not that concerned. We’re not an apparent target for any Creeper roaming around in these woods, and my only concern is to run into a random Coastie gang who might notice our camp, but they’d be coming up against me, Thor, and Italy’s finest gun manufacturer.

Course, not sure what—if anything—Italy is manufacturing nowadays.

I spare a glance up at the night sky, seeing the random bursts of light and flares as space debris continues its orbiting, hitting each other, burning into the atmosphere. I think about silent Buddy and his job in the Observation Corps. Tremendous patience and skill, standing night after night in front of a telescope, week after week, month after month, for more than a year . . .

I think I’d draw back and keep my mouth shut, too, after enduring something like that.

“Knox coming back in,” I call out, and Thor and I get back in among the boulders. Thor finds an open spot and flops himself down, starting to lick his paws. I scratch at his head and shoulders and he wiggles under my touch. It’s toasty warm and Buddy is sleeping, and his sister has the space blanket up around her chest, and she’s rummaging around in her large black purse. I wonder what she’s looking for and I’m surprised when she pulls out a glossy magazine.

A magazine!

I say, “Where did you get that antique?”

She gingerly turns one page, and then another. “From my older sister. She had a subscription before the war started.”

“What’s it called?”

She shows me the cover. In the firelight I make out the letters—
Seventeen
—and a photograph of a young woman model, impossibly dressed, impossibly well-groomed, and so beautiful it almost hurts to look at her.

“Over ten years old,” I say. “Why are you reading it?”

“Re-reading,” she corrects. “I just like to look at it, see what I’m missing.”

“That’s pretty funny,” I say.

Her voice cuts at me. “I don’t find it funny at all, Sergeant.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Don’t think I understand.”

She flips another page. “I’m fifteen. Get that? Fifteen. Before the war started, girls my age had everything. Everything! They were safe, they had plenty to eat, plenty of clothes . . . and my God, the luxuries, stuff we can only dream about. Tiny computers you could carry around that you could make phone calls, take photos, go to the Internet and get any kind of information you wanted. Do you know you could type a message on those phones, and your sister or boyfriend halfway across the world, they’d get the message, instantly? Can you imagine that? Instantly! I got a letter from my mom just the other day. Took almost a month to get across the country.”

Another furious flip of the page. “Girls could go to school, go to any school they wanted, and what did they worry about? Boyfriends. Being popular. Being thin and pretty and having the right clothes. And, oh yes, thinking about getting a driver’s license. That’s it! Didn’t have to worry about starving, about getting scorched, about your friends or family being scorched . . .”

I didn’t care to hear any more. “That’s the way of the world, Specialist.”

“Maybe so, but doesn’t mean I have to like it. I hate the damn Army. No offense, Sergeant.”

“So why did you enlist?” I ask. “You could have stuck it out, see what your draft board said when you turned eighteen.”

She snorts. “Sure. Stuck it out. Doing what? Going to school and doing mandatory volunteer work at a local farm, worrying about your clothing rations, food rations, all that. At least the Army you get better fed, for whatever’s that worth.”

“Then what do you want, Specialist.”

Surprisingly enough, it looks like there’s tears in those pretty blue eyes. “Tell you what I want,” she says, her voice soft and strong at the same time. “I want what was taken away from me and everybody else. I want a sweet soft life. I want out of the Army. I want to be a girl, not a soldier.”

“See what you mean.”

She says, “Really, Sergeant? Do you? How long you’ve been in service?”

“Since I was twelve.”

“Four long years. Don’t you want out as well?”

The thought makes me pause. Become a . . . boy? A teen? Not a soldier? I say, “Don’t know what I want. Right now, just following orders, killing Creepers. That’s enough for me.”

Okay, maybe a lie. But I wasn’t going to talk to her about my English teacher and my writing and the terror that awaits me in civilian life. Thor yawns and glances up at me, like he wishes we humans would shut the bleep up so he could get to sleep. I add, “You’ll probably be out of the Army soon enough, Specialist. President said last month the war was over. Remember?”

She shoots me a look. “Sure as hell didn’t look like the war was over at the train today, did it.”

I don’t argue the point.

I load up the fire for the night with a couple of thick chunks of tree branch, and Coulson puts her old magazine back into her black purse. She turns and pulls the space blanket over her and her brother. I move around, get as comfortable as I can, and Thor snuffles some and gives me room. Some remaining leaves rustle as I move about. From my assault pack I remove my journal, make a quick scribble of the day’s events, and then put it back in. Next out is an extra fatigue jacket and I drape it over my torso, stare at the orange coals, try not to think of all the times I’ve seen things burning over the years, my ear throbbing at some memories that want to come out to play, and I think instead of the train and the ambush and before that, the Special Forces captain, Diaz.

My dad. He saw my dad just a few a weeks ago, and was sorry for his troubles.

What kind of troubles?

And where the hell is Dad?

I close my eyes.

Thor moves in closer, and I enjoy the smell of his fur and the body heat rising up from his body. It helps relax me, eases the thoughts in my mind. So many times before, Thor and I have been out on a mission, and on those occasions, after some dark deeds have gone on, his presence has been a comfort when I’ve tried to go to sleep.

My boy doesn’t disappoint me tonight, and I soon drift off.

* * *

Something touches me and instead of jerking to full attention, I bring my right hand down to my Bianchi combat holster, grip my 9 mm Beretta. I open my eyes. Only a few coals are still glowing there, at the other side of our stone hidey-hole. I don’t move my head. Just move my eyes. Thor is snoring softly. Buddy is curled up, also asleep.

But no Serena.

Where’s Serena?

Another touch, and I know where she is. I raise my head and she’s near me, whispers, “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What’s up?”

“Buddy’s sleeping lousy. He’s kicking and squirming, waking me up. And I’m cold.”

I whisper back. “Roll over then.”

She rolls over and I put my hands on her shoulders and say, “Squirm over there, next to Thor.”

Serena moves and I cuddle up next to her, drape my coat over the two of us. I say, “Body heat should help out.” I think and say, “Specialist, I’m not being forward here, but I’m going to put an arm around you. It’ll help.”

She says, “If it warms me up, do it, Sergeant.”

I put my free arm around her, pull myself tight against her, my coat over the two of us. She moves around a bit and whispers, “Thank you.”

“Not a problem.”

We lay there, still and quiet, and I clear my throat. “The name is Randy.”

“Sergeant?”

“We’re out on a mission, don’t need to be so damn formal. So call me Randy. Until we get hooked up with an Army unit or post and have to act official again. Deal?”

“Deal,” she says. “So call me Serena.”

“Get to sleep, Serena.”

“All right, then.”

In a few minutes it seems like she’s fallen asleep. I wish I could say the same. Still thinking about the train. Captain Diaz. My dad, in trouble. The ambush. The Creeper attack. The Marines dying by the train.

So much wrong.

So much wrong.

Serena shifts and I stay with her. A couple of strands of her fine blonde hair tickle my nose. Her body is warm against mine. I’m positive I can smell perfume on her. Perfume! Only once in my discreet dates with Abby had she ever worn perfume, a night I managed to get a reservation at a McDonald’s in Concord and dropped a week’s pay for our meal. I had on my clean Levi’s and a striped shirt that was worn at the elbows, while Abby had on a simple black dress that had been repaired with stitchwork on the back. Before we ate I smelled something nice and Abby shyly admitted she was wearing a bit of perfume that had been left to her by her mother. I said she smelled fine all the time, even after bicycling all night on a long op, and that got me a long, sweet good-night kiss back at the post.

But Serena smells just as fine, and I’m quite conscious of her slim body against mine. Feels pretty damn good.

I don’t consider I’m cheating on Abby.

But I don’t think I’ll tell Abby later, just the same.

In the morning we all do our business in the nearby woods, and for a couple of minutes I’m alone with Buddy. He looks at me with a bland expression, and I say, “I want to take a look at your forehead. Is that okay?”

No change in his expression. I go over and check the bandage. Looks fine. Buddy doesn’t move. I go back. “Observation Corps . . . tough gig. Can’t think of how tough that must have been.”

Buddy just sits there. I say, “Your sister. She seeing anyone?”

Still nothing.

Which is fine. No answer means there’s still a fifty-fifty chance she’s available.

Not that it means anything at all. Just gathering information.

The night before I had a meat sandwich and a cheese sandwich, and for breakfast, I decided to do things differently, so I had a cheese sandwich and then a meat sandwich. Not sure what’s in the meat sandwich—beef, pork, horse, chicken—but Thor eats his portion with enthusiasm. Serena feeds her brother and then herself, and after we police the area, she says, “Sergeant . . . Randy, what’s on for the day?”

“We follow the railroad tracks back until it crosses a road. Take the road, find a town, go on from there. We’re pretty close to the New York border. I’m hoping it won’t take too much effort to get transportation to the Capitol.”

“All right, Randy.” But there’s something about her voice that isn’t right. It’s like she’s almost . . . disappointed to be on the move. Waiting for rescue? Waiting for someone to show up?