Dark Victory - eARC (28 page)

We’re near a pine tree with overarching branches. I gently slide Thor over to the base of the tree, he whimpering some. I try not to think of our missions together, the play times, the training, and the most recent fights, against Creepers and renegade Coasties. He lives to make me happy, to protect me, to do his job and his duty.

Duty.

I turn to Serena. “Get my pack. Start up the road with your brother. I’ll be along.”

“Sergeant, I—”

“Just do it.”

She moves back, grunts as she picks up my assault pack. She takes Buddy’s hand and they start up the road. I stroke Thor’s head. He sighs and licks my hand.

I reach down for my pistol.

A while later I catch up with them, take my pack away from Serena and as we reach another crest of the hill, the rain has stopped. For the past several minutes I’ve been saying one prayer after another, praying for a savior, praying for a miracle, praying for something. But the only thing I see is that the road has widened and there’s a dirt turnoff to the left, with a picnic area. I go to the nearest picnic table, dump my assault pack on the table.

Serena looks to me and starts to talk, and I interrupt her. “Shut up. All right? Just shut up.”

I slump down, put my head in my hands, say one more prayer, once again seeking a miracle.

But no miracle occurs.

There’s a grumble of approaching engines. Headlights cut through the gloom. I recognize the shape of the vehicles. Humvees.

No miracles. But the next best thing.

Marines.

I say to Serena, “Do you have that flashlight handy, Specialist?”

She fumbles in her large black purse. “Here, Randy.”

She passes it over and I switch it on, start waving it back and forth. I slowly walk out into the road and call out, “Army sergeant here, guys! Army sergeant!”

A larger flashlight beam catches me and the lead Humvee grumbles to a halt. It and its two mates are a rarity; diesel-powered craft that somehow either survived the 10/10 attack, or were successfully salvaged afterwards with spare parts. The first Humvee is also flying a large Marine flag on a pole at the rear; being the few and the proud, the Marines hate being misunderstood for Army or National Guard units, so they fly their red banner with the anchor and globe as much as possible.

Doors open up and Marines fan out, expertly setting up 360-degree security around the trucks, and I’m conscious that weapons from the lead vehicle are pointing at me, and they are certainly locked and loaded. A voice says, “Identify yourself.”

“Sergeant Randy Knox, Second Ranger Recon, New Hampshire National Guard.”

“And those two behind you?”

“Specialist Serena Coulson and her brother Robert. Detached duty from the Jackson Labs, up in Bangor, Maine.”

A Marine steps up to me, and I note his name—SINCLAIR—and rank, lieutenant. His helmet is large on his head and he looks to be about eighteen or so, exhausted, with heavy eyes and a faint stubble of beard. Two other Marines flank him. “You three sure are the hell far away from home.”

“We sure are, Lieutenant,” I say quickly. “Sir, if I may, where are you going?”

“Troy,” he says. “Rally point after what just happened at the Capitol. But we’re in a hurry, Sergeant Knox, so if you excuse us, we—”

“Sir, we’re in the middle of an emergency,” I say. “Could I talk to you for a second?”

He offers a bitter laugh, waves an arm at the fires on the horizon. “Hell, buddy, look over there! Whole damn place is one big emergency, and we’re hauling ass to get away from this one, so move it and—”

Another Marine steps to him. “Sir, I know this guy.”

Sinclair turns, surprised. “Chang, you sure?”

“Not personally, but yeah, he’s the guy who knifed that Creeper a few weeks ago. Remember?”

The lieutenant looks back at me. “That true?”

“Yes, sir, yes it is,” I say.

He takes a breath. “All right, I’ll give you a minute, and only that.”

I ask him a question and he says, “Impossible. No room.”

I ask again, one more time, and the other Marine chimes in, “We can do it, Lieutenant. It’ll be tight, but we can do it. Christ, the guy nailed a Creeper with a damn knife. That’s gotta count for something.”

My heart seems to stop as I look at Sinclair considering his options. My hands feel worthless, the flashlight pointing its beam to the ground. The fires seem to grow larger in the distance.

“You got one minute, Sergeant Knox. One minute and that is it.”

I’m so relieved I feel like sitting on the ground. “Thank you, sir. Sixty seconds it is.”

Back at the picnic table I open my pack and toss the contents onto the table, spreading out the spare food, clothing and other gear. I pass the flashlight back to her and say, “How about some paper and a pen?”

“Sure,” she says. “But what’s going on with the Marines?”

“You just hold on,” I say. With paper and pen given over to me, I flatten out part of my assault pack and scribble a quick note, folding it in three pieces. On the outside I write a special name, and from the beam of her flashlight, Serena reads out the name and address. “’Corporal Abby Monroe, Ft. St. Paul., N.H.’ What’s this all about, Sergeant?”

I shove most of the gear back in the pack, slide the pack over to her. “Those Marines are going to Troy. You and your brother are going with them. They’ll protect you and take you to a USO office. You and your brother . . . you get to that USO office, quick as you can, and stay there. Keep a damn low profile.”

I point to the letter. “Somewhere along the way, mail that letter. It . . . it’ll mean a lot to me.”

Serena looks up at me, eyes wide. “You . . . what are you doing? Where are you going?”

I make a quick blanket roll of my remaining gear, toss it over my shoulder. “Off to get our dads.”

“Randy!”

“Serena, you and Buddy can’t come with me. I’ve got to move light and fast. One of those Marines recognized me right away, and I’m sure more people will do so the closer they get to Troy. I’m a Silver Star recipient but I’m also a wanted soldier. You and your brother are still fairly anonymous. You get to Troy, hang tight. Captain Diaz told me our dads are being held at an Army stockade up at Watervliet Arsenal. I’m going to get them out, and them I’m coming for you and your brother, with our dads in tow.”

“Randy, that’s impossible! You just said too many people know who you are!”

“Right,” I say. “But there’s also chaos out there, with the Capitol being attacked. You learn anything in military history, Serena? With chaos comes opportunity. By the time I get to the arsenal, maybe my Silver Star will open some doors. Maybe word won’t have gotten there yet about me and Tess Conroy. But you and me . . . we’re going to do what it takes to end this goddamn war. I’m off to Watervliet and I don’t know how, but I’m going to get our dads sprung, and then we’re going to hook up Troy.”

A horn blares from the first Humvee. She looks to me and despite all that’s gone on, there’s something about that face, those eyes, those sweet lips. I hope Abby would understand. I lean over and kiss her, and she kisses me back. “Duty. We’ve all got our duties to perform. I’ve lightened up the assault pack, that’ll make it easier for you. Now go.”

She slings my pack over her shoulders, takes her brother by his hand, and starts walking to the Marine unit. She looks back just once and says in a mournful voice, “Duty, then.”

“That’s right,” I say, and wave to her.

And as I pick up my blanket roll, I walk away from the grumbling Humvees, off to take care of one more obligation before heading north to the Army arsenal.

My feet hurt, my back hurts, and my eyes are burning and watering from the approaching flames. I find my way back down to the road and to a certain pine tree, and there’s my boy, my partner, my Thor.

I sit down next to his still form. I rub his fur. The tears are really rolling out.

The flames are so near that I can feel their warmth.

“You and me, pal,” I say. “You had my back all these years, and now it’s my turn.”

Thor lifts his head, sighs once more, and settles down next to me.

I sit still and watch the alien fires burn and burn, and then take out my pistol again, and pull back the hammer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Thor looks up at me, love and trust in his eyes, and he turns his head away, like he’s making it easier for me.

My boy.

I lower the pistol to the base of his skull, and pause.

I can’t.

I can’t.

I lower the hammer back, rub his fur, and Thor sighs again, squirms some against me. I take in the approaching fires and the trees and the branches, and—

Adapt. Adjust. Overcome.

Fool.

I slowly detach myself from Thor, holster my pistol, and get to work. From the light of the fires it’s easy to get what I need, which are lengths of narrow pine tree trunks or branches, whatever works. I manage to get two three-meter lengths and with my knife, manage to hack off the branches. I drag the poles back to Thor, who watches me with drugged interest as I remove a coat from my pack, thrust the poles through the coat’s sleeves, and with a bit more work and tying together, I’ve made a travois, used by the Plains Indians to haul gear and people across their lands.

I’m hoping I’ve done a good enough job to transport a wounded dog. I pick him up and he whines some, and I rub his head. “Yeah, pal, I know it hurts. Just hold on.”

I made a harness out of a spare belt and necktie, and with my thick blanket roll next to Thor, I pick up the travois, and start walking, going up the road. I have no firm destination in mind. I know I need to get to the Watervliet Arsenal, but Thor is also my responsibility. No one is ever left behind on the battlefield, and that especially includes our K-9s. The smoke gets thicker and embers fly through the air, like fireflies seeking some dry place to land and set fires.

I move steadily and slowly, the fires of the current capitol city for the United States of America burning fiercely behind me.

Thirty, maybe forty-five minutes later, there’s a low grumbling of an engine coming up the road. I drag Thor and my gear to the side of the road, hoping it’s another Humvee or military truck, something I can use to get the hell out of here, to get my mission back on track, find a place where I can safely leave Thor.

I see a single light. It comes closer. Reveals itself to be a sole headlight, attached to a dirty green and yellow John Deere tractor. It’s hauling an open wagon, with high wheels, and two lanterns hanging from either side of the wagon’s sides. The tractor slows and I stand there, note the wagon is loaded with people.

A woman’s voice from the tractor’s high seat: “Need a ride, soldier?”

I cough. Smoke is getting thicker. “Only if my dog can come along.”

“Shit, yes,” she says. “You think I’m gonna leave a fine looking boy like that behind? Jack, get off and give ’em a hand, and be quick about it. Not sure how much more fuel I got here.”

I drag Thor over to the rear of the wagon, and a boy about my age comes over, in torn khaki pants and faded blue sweatshirt. He helps me lift up Thor to the wagon, where we lay him down on a bed of straw. I disassemble the travois, retrieve my jacket, belt, necktie and everything else, and I climb up into the wagon. Faces look up at me. Old men and women. Young boys and girls. Some with plastic bags of belongings or suitcases. A couple of the younger ones quietly bawling, being held by a friend or relative. It’s crowded but I have enough room to sit at the rear, legs dangling free. Strangely enough, there’s no talking, no whispering. Just the quiet realization among these fellow Americans that once again, they were refugees.

A burp and a belch from the tractor, and we start moving.

Some time later the tractor is going through wide pastureland, with farms out beyond the road, past barbed wire fences and posts. Some motorized traffic is humming along the road, most coming from the direction of Albany. We turn gently down a dirt lane, leading to a farmhouse and several outbuildings, the tractor and wagon bouncing such that the lights flicker and make long, odd shadows. All through the trip Thor is on his good side, awake but not moving, not making a fuss. I keep a hand on him all the way to the farm, stroking his back in long, soothing strokes.

When the tractor shudders to a halt, other people come from the barn, holding lanterns. A light drizzle starts to come down. I jump off the wagon and turn around, and help other people off, handing small boys and girls to their relatives or guardians. A farmhand with a straw hat and patched overalls says, “Get to the barn, folks. Get to the barn. There’s water and some apples in there.”

The driver of the tractor is helped off. She’s a heavyset woman, also wearing overalls, but one leg is pinned up to the knee. From the lanterns she comes into focus as she limps over to me, leaning in on two metal canes. I’m standing by Thor and she says, “Oh, your poor puppy. What happened?”

“Creeper attack a few days ago,” I say. “He was being treated at the Hero Kennels outside of the Capitol, but I got him out before the attack.”

She brings a hand to Thor’s muzzle, and he gives her a sniff and puts his head down. “Not sure how many people got out, but we did what we could,” she says.

“Did you get orders from Civil Defense to go in there after the strikes?”

A brief laugh. “Oh, hell no,” she says. “I saw there was trouble, and we went to help. What else could I do? That’s what we Americans do, right? Head for trouble without waitin’ for orders.”

She turns and I realize she’s wearing a BDU jacket with name WHITTUM and captain’s bars on the collars. I say, “Oh, excuse me, Captain. I didn’t see your rank.”

She laughs again, leans in on her canes. “No worry—” and she peers closer to me “—Sergeant Knox, I’ve been on the inactive reserve list since losing a leg and getting some of my innards rearranged. I wanted to re-up, but the all-knowing command thought it’d be best for me to get back to farming, so that’s where me and my boys are. But that doesn’t mean we sit on our behinds when there’s a Creeper attack.”

Thor squirms some, probably trying to get a comfortable spot. I say, “Ma’am, I need to get to the Watervliet Arsenal as soon as I can. It’s near here, isn’t it?”

“Just a handful of klicks,” she says. “Your rally point?”

“You could say that.”

She looks to Thor. “And what about your boy?”

I stand, frozen. I had rescued him from the kennels, had come close to snuffing him out over an hour ago, and now he was here, wounded and alive. But what I had to do . . . my dad and Serena’s dad. Somehow get them out. See what can be done with Serena and Buddy and his all-important message. Exhaustion and fear both settle into me, and before I can say anything else, the former captain says, “If you want, you can leave him here.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” she says, this time gently stroking Thor’s head. “I love dogs. The company I was in . . . we had two K-9 units assigned to us, and they must have saved our collective asses a half-dozen times by alerting us that Creepers were on the move. You can trust me, Sergeant. We’ll take good care of him . . . until you come back. A day, a week, a month. It don’t matter.”

I flashed back to the swamp after the Creeper battle, where I had threatened those two men with death if they didn’t take care of my boy. I had meant it back then, boy, had I meant it. But looking at the calm eyes of the woman before me, I know that no threats are necessary.

“I owe you a lot,” I say.

She shakes her head. “No, no you don’t. Just think of me paying back a big-ass debt.”

“Thank you.”

“Fair enough,” she says. “Now, let’s get you to your rally point.”

“Just a sec,” I say. I go to my boy Thor, rub his head, let him lick my face, and a few minutes pass this way, as I whisper to him. “My boy,” I say finally. “Be good. Always be good.”

The woman’s name is Andrea Whittum, and she assigns her other son Billy to bring me to the arsenal. It’s only an hour or so before dawn, and I want to get there when it’s still dark, for one can always do more when things can’t be easily seen.

Billy is about my age, dressed in filthy jeans and a leather jacket. He rolls out an old Italian Vespa scooter, painted yellow, and I sit on a little square leather saddle as we roar away from the farm. My blanket roll is on my lap, pistol holstered at my waist, and Billy has a shotgun in a sling at his side.

I close my eyes as we go out on the road, and Billy opens the throttle wide. Not as much traffic as before, and on the southwestern horizon is the orange glow of Albany burning. The passing wind and the high-pitched whine of the Vespa’s motor makes conversation impossible, which is fine, because I’m running through plans and options as we get closer to the arsenal, located near the western banks of the Hudson River.

The farmland gives way to more houses and suburbia, and buildings within the town of Watervliet, and we’re on a side street off the main drag of 10
^th
Street, when Billy brings the Vespa to a halt. Traffic is heavy with deuce-and-half trucks, Humvees, and horse-drawn wagons. National Guardsmen and regular Army personnel trot by us, heading to the arsenal. Some civilians stand on their scraggly lawns, watching the activity. He pulls his goggles up from his face, skin reddened from the drive.

“’Bout as close as I can get,” he says. “Don’t want to get any closer, in case some smart-ass Army guy wants to seize my scooter for the good of the nation. Assholes.”

I swing off the rear of the Vespa, and Billy adds, “No offense.”

“None taken.” I grab my blanket roll and Billy says, “Go down one block, take a left, there’s the main gate. Can’t miss it.”

I offer him my hand, and he gives me a quick shake back. “Thanks again, and tell your mom the same.”

Billy pulls his goggles down. “Glad we could help. You be careful, all right?”

I say nothing as I start walking. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

I join in the lines of the other soldiers, reporting to the Watervliet Arsenal. I follow Billy’s directions and the gate is up ahead, on the left. It’s old, with dark gray stone, with a road leading in and a road leading out, with an enclosed stone and glass gatehouse in the center. Black wrought iron fence stretches on both sides. I get closer and it’s—

Chaos. Just like I had hoped. Vehicles are trying to get out, MPs are trying to direct traffic, and uniformed men and women are streaming in. The arsenal has been building artillery pieces here for about two hundred and fifty years, and it’s still doing so today. There’s also rumors of research laboratories located on the campus, looking for easier and better ways to kill Creepers, but I don’t care. I just want to get in.

Which I do, running alongside a couple of other troopers, flashing my military ID at a young and overworked female MP corporal with a flickering flashlight, and I’m on base.

I keep on trotting, pretending I know where I’m going. The roads are in pretty good shape, and from gas lanterns and other lights, I make out brick buildings that look to be centuries old, with newer buildings built right alongside. There are also little parks and displays of some of the howitzer and artillery pieces that they’ve built over the years.

Overhead is netting and camouflage. It’s still a puzzle why this arsenal and several other military facilities across the country were never hit during the opening days of the war, and I was taught back at Ft. St. Paul that it was probably due to the relatively primitive nature of the work being done here.

Primitive or not, there’s a lot of traffic on the move, and I feel itchy on my back and hands, like I’m entering one giant bulls-eye.

Up ahead at an intersection, another MP corporal—this one a boy about twelve or thirteen—takes a quick break from directing traffic. There’s a gas lantern at his feet and I trot up to him and say, “Corporal! Where’s the base stockade located?”

His helmet’s too big and his eyes are wide with terror, but he gives me a snappy salute and points up the road. “Two blocks this way, Sergeant, and it’s on your right. Small brick building, sign out front.”

“Thank you, Corporal.”

I turn and stop trotting. I start running instead.

Sirens are beginning to sound.

Exactly two blocks later, past large administrative and workshop facilities, I come across the stockade, just as described. It’s a small, two-story old brick building that looks like one of the original structures from when the arsenal was founded, and the windows are barred. It’s a simple flagstone path up to the front door, and there are lights inside. I drop my blanket roll, advance and open the door.

A lobby area, with scuffed tile floor, some plastic chairs. There’s a small office area with metal desks, some flickering gas lights, and a woman corporal, about thirty or so. She’s sitting by herself, hands folded, eyes darting back and forth, back and forth, looking down at some papers. Her uniform is neat and clean, but a couple of sizes too big. Her red hair is cut short. Off to the rear of the office is a door made of metal bars.

“Corporal.”

No reply.

“Corporal!”

She looks up, startled. “Oh. Sergeant. Sorry. Didn’t hear you come in.”

I take a deep breath, start out with my rehearsed story. “Corporal, I’ve been tasked by the Chaplain’s Office to do a personnel inventory of the prisoners here before any transfer.”

“A personnel inventory?” she asks. “What for?”

“To make sure the Chaplain’s Office records match who’s actually being kept here.”

“I don’t have—”

I make a point of checking my watch. “Corporal, the Creepers have just burnt Albany. This base may be next on the target list. I’ve got a butt-load lot more important things to do, so you better give me the sixty seconds I need to check on your prisoner population, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

She opens a desk drawer, comes out with a thick key, attached to a block of wood. “Sergeant, no offense . . . go back there and knock yourself out. We had exactly two prisoners earlier today, a couple of old guys, and they’re gone.”

A hammer of ice hits me straight in the chest. “Gone . . . where the hell are they?”

“An MP transport picked them up about thirty minutes ago. Four MPs came in and took them out. Off to the train station at Schenectady. Heading west.”

She tosses the key to me. “Go take a look . . . and don’t be surprised if I’m not here when you come back. My relief was due two hours ago and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sit here and be zapped into charcoal.”