Dark Victory - eARC (5 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Back in the old Army transport truck once again, except this time, Thor and I are riding up front with Lieutenant May and his driver Schwartz, our reward for having killed the Creeper. Behind us in the truck is the rest of my Recon Ranger squad, and after a successful kill mission like this, there’s usually laughing and singing from the rear.

But not during this gray dawn. We’re down one trooper. PFC Raymond Ruiz didn’t return to muster and neither did his dog. Not sure what happened. Desertion, possible but doubtful. Not from Recon Ranger. Maybe another Creeper attack but Creepers are hard to overlook, so the thought is that a Coastie gang might have nailed him somewhere in the woods. Later today there’ll be a search party, and we’ll join in after some rest, but we’re a subdued crew as we head back to Concord.

Schwartz—who boasts he could convert an old washing machine into a hot tub—drives expertly along this stretch of Route 112, juggling valves and switches to keep the engine running, his black-rimmed glasses with one cracked lens constantly sliding down his nose. Here dead cars from a decade ago have been successfully pushed or dragged over to the sides of the road. We then get onto Interstate 89, and there’s even more abandoned vehicles, and we have to do a bit of maneuvering as we approach the state capitol, passing in and out of the lines of dead traffic. Each car or truck has a faded slop of white paint on the windshield, the letter C. Means that after the Creepers deployed their airborne nukes on 10/10 and fried the world’s electronics, search teams went through these cars and either led away the living, or pulled out the dead. C stood for Cleared back then.

At one point we pass a chain gang from the state prison, the prisoners in faded orange jumpsuits working on a line of cars, pulling them off to the side of the pavement, using a team of State Highway Department horses with block and tackle, clearing the highway.

Grass and small brush are growing knee-high in cracks in the pavement.

Some clearing.

Some progress.

As we get closer to Concord, I keep a hand on Thor, who’s been sniffing and clawing at my assault pack ever since we left the farmhouse over in Montcalm. Thing is, when I emerged from the woods a few hours ago, Gary Parker, the grateful dairy farmer who once lived and worked in a now-dead city, passed over a brown paper package, tied tight with string. “Here you go, soldier,” he had said. “A couple of fine steaks for you and your pals. Doubt the County Rationing Board will miss ’em, if you know what I mean.”

“Just doing my job,” I had said.

He had pressed the steaks in my hand. “You gave my little girl the sweetest treat she’s had in months. Didn’t have to do it, but you did. So call it a trade, okay?”

So I had said okay, and now I was doing my best to keep Thor from having a huge breakfast in the truck’s cab.

Schwartz takes the Clinton Street exit off the Interstate, and after navigating through some side streets, comes to the main gate of Fort St. Paul, formerly known as St. Paul’s School, a prep school that’s been here since 1856, and which has been a National Guard base for ten of those years. As Schwartz downshifts and slows, we approach a group of protesters outside of the gate. The signs are handmade with paint on wood or large pieces of plastic.

END THIS ENDLESS WAR

ACCOMODATION, NOT CONFRONTATION

PEACE NOW

END MARTIAL LAW

And a smaller one, at the end of the protest line, its plaintive words being held by an elderly man, in gray slacks and a long tan coat, light blue cap on his head:

GIVE US OUR SCHOOL BACK

Around the grounds of the school deep moats have been dug, one of the few things known to slow down Creepers on the move. Unlike forts in the past, there are no guard towers looking out. Too easy for Creepers or their killer stealth satellites to burn. But there are battlements, there are OPs—Observation Posts—out among the 2,000 acres of the school grounds, and there’s lots of net camouflage to cover walkways and pieces of equipment.

The truck slows down and the gate opens up, and the protesters look at us going in, tired and a bit dirty, and it’s like they don’t have much energy left to protest us.

I crossly say, “Didn’t they get the word the war’s over?”

Schwartz says a spectacularly foul obscenity and the lieutenant just grunts. “Maybe they don’t know what to do if the war really is over.”

The truck grumbles onto the grounds of the base, and the gate closes behind us. I still hold onto Thor’s collar. “Really over, sir?”

We round a corner. Troops are on the march, doing P.E., and there are horse-drawn wagons hauling gear off to the different buildings, and other personnel on bicycles. In the distance there’s a skateboard park and some guys and gals off-duty look like they’re having fun, skating up, down and around. Once upon a time the brick buildings here were dormitories, classrooms and administration buildings. Now they are barracks, training centers, and whaddya know, administration buildings.

My boss says, “Just because the orbital station got whacked doesn’t mean there’s not a lot of fighting left ahead. Last night was just an example, Randy. How many more Creepers are out there in their bases? Or roaming in the wilds of Africa or Siberia or Canada?”

I keep my mouth shut. I’m too tired to think of much of anything, and seeing those protesters pissed me off. I know, I know, First Amendment and right of protest, but last night, when I was that close to getting my head burned off by a Creeper for the benefit of those protesters back there, guaranteed they were sleeping warm and safe, pretty confident they’d wake up in one piece the next morning.

Lieutenant May’s mood seems to brighten. “But hey, maybe the President is right. Maybe the war is over. You’re still a teenager, Randy. Any idea of what you’ll do once you get out of the Guard?”

Thor whines some, as he keeps frantically sniffing at my assault pack.

“Haven’t thought that far, sir,” I say. “Pretty much all I know is killing Creepers.”

Lieutenant says, “Lucky for us.”

We get off at the disbursement area before Schwartz takes the truck back to the motor pool. Standing loosely in a group is a tired and worn five-member Recon Ranger squad, weapons slung over our shoulders, dogs on leashes, except for Thor, and Abby standing by herself, yawning, holding her Trek bicycle. Nobody says anything, but we’re all painfully aware that one of us is missing, Ruiz, the new guy.

The lieutenant stands before of us. “We did well, Rangers. We got a Creeper report, responded in less than a day, and ended up with one Creeper dead. Good job, team.”

I try not to yawn. Earlier on, when I was younger and dumber, I would have been upset that I wasn’t being singled out for killing the Creeper. Now it doesn’t matter. The lieutenant is right. We were a team last night, and when my flare soared up, they came in my direction, to help me out, provide support, have my back. Any one of us could have been in the barbecue seat last night; it just happened to be my turn.

The lieutenant goes on. “Get your M-10s back to the armory, go to the S-2 shop for debrief, take a rest, and report back to me at 1600 hours. Then we’ll saddle up and join the search for Ruiz. Any questions?”

Not a word.

“Make it happen, Rangers. Good job.”

I walk over to Abby and she smiles, though she looks as tired as I feel, and we fist bump one more time. I say, “I survived. No crispy critter for you.”

Her smile gets wider. “So you did. And I keep my promise. First dance tomorrow night, soldier.”

I glance to see if anyone’s looking, since what I’m about to do is terribly out of order, but I don’t care and kiss her cheek. She giggles and says, “Later,” as she wheels her Trek away down one of the paved school paths.

The rest of us disperse and straggle over to the Armory, which used to be a student assembly building. At a long metal counter, one by one, we turn in our M-10s and bandoliers. The armorer, a balding old master sergeant named Thornton with gray hair in his ears, takes my belt and winks. “Nicely done, pal. One missing cartridge, one dead alien. Fair damn trade, eh?”

By now I’m so tired all I can do is murmur, “Yeah, that’s it,” and then I go out, brushing by other members of my squad—Smith, Millett, Chang and Zane—and Zane catches my elbow as I go through the swinging doors.

“Not following regs, Sergeant, are we? Leaving your dog unleashed?”

During a base tour a couple of years ago, one of our hunting dogs bit the previous governor of New Hampshire, a pompous jerk who deserved it, but as a result all dogs on base need to be leashed. But not Thor. Not ever.

“He’s well trained,” I say. “Some would say better trained than you, pal.”

Zane’s hand is still tight on my elbow. “Speaking of training, Sergeant, why did you let Ruiz go out alone? It was his first op. You should have buddied him up.”

I pull my arm away from his grasp. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda. The C.O. signed off on his training and experience, and so did I. Got a problem, take it up with him.”

He grabs my elbow again. “He looked tough, but he was just a scared kid, Sergeant. Just a kid.”

I pull away. “Just like us, Zane. Just like us. You grab my elbow again, you’ll be losing it. Do I make myself clear, Private?”

He storms into the armory and I walk out, Thor with me, feeling sour and even more tired.

My next stop should be south, towards the Intel shop.

I go west instead, to the post housing.

The housing once belonged to the teachers and administrators of the school before the war, and now it belongs to the base’s senior officers. In the confusing and horrifying first months after 10/10, surviving military units all across the country set up alternate posts after the Creepers had flattened their home bases.

In Concord, the state capitol, the National Guard units withdrew from their main armory and eventually ended up at St. Paul’s, where most students and faculty had already fled to whatever safety was supposedly out there. Only a couple of armories across the state were eventually hit, but there’s still no rush to get back to the surviving armories. Even with the orbiting Creeper battle station destroyed, the killer stealth sats are still at work—probably, hopefully—on automatic.

As I walk along the paths to the housing, I think of what it must have been like to be here back before the war. To have been one of those privileged and safe students in this wonderful school in rural New Hampshire, where all sorts of classes were taught, from medieval art history to philosophy to the history of Greek plays.

Now survival and the bloody art of war have been added to the curriculum.

I yawn. I’m too tired to feel jealous of my coddled predecessors.

At a small white Colonial house among a row of similar houses, I pound on the front door, using a brass knocker. The paint is peeling and shrubbery about the front and side are overgrown. Grass is growing in cracks on the driveway.

A girl about eight years old answers and looks up at me. She has on a white T-shirt and clean jean overalls. Her black hair is freshly washed and she seems suspicious. “You looking for mom, Randy?”

“I sure am, squirt.”

She turns and yells, “Ma! Cousin Randy is here!”

I wince from the loud yell. Heidi has the lungs of a drill sergeant, and she turns and says, “Can I play with Thor?”

“Not right now, hon,” I say. “He’s tired and so am I.”

“Later, maybe?”

I rub the top of her head. “Later, no problem.”

My Aunt Corinne shows up, smiling hesitantly, wiping her hands on a towel. She’s wearing black slacks and plain gray sweatshirt, and her eyes look tired.

“Randy, good to see you.”

I squat down, unzip the side pocket of my assault pack, pull out the wrapped paper package from the dairy farmer. “Here you go. A treat for you guys, if you haven’t planned your meal tonight. Fresh steak.”

Thor wags his tail and barks, and I scratch his ears, and gently hold him back as he sniffs at the wrapped meat. Corinne gently takes the package. “Randy . . . that’s so generous. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

I shake my head, start to turn. “Sorry, Aunt Corinne. Gotta run.”

She calls out as I walk up the uneven flagstone path. “You’re always welcome to move in and stay with us, Randy! Always!”

As if
, I think, as I get back to the war.

In one of the brick classroom buildings, the S-2 shop—the intelligence section for our battalion—is in a couple of rooms on the first floor. I have two debriefers, one an old-timer named Fernandez and the other a new guy named Knowles, both captains.

I sit in front of a wooden desk that no doubt once belonged to a teacher, the two of them sitting across from me. Thor flops himself down on the dirty tile floor, panting, looking around. The officers are using paper and pencil as old-style manual typewriters are being pounded in one corner of the room by some enlisted men. There are plenty of filing cabinets and wall-maps depicting Creeper sightings and killings in New England, and photographs of the nearest Creeper bases: three outside of the suburbs of Boston, one in the western part of Massachusetts near Springfield, one in northern Connecticut and two along the coast of Maine.

None in New Hampshire, though trust me, we’ve never complained about being overlooked.

There are also large blown-up photos of the three types of Creeper exoskeletons, and one photo, marked Top Secret, that shows a living Creeper, pulled out of a disabled exoskeleton, deep in snow somewhere.

I look away from that horror and Fernandez says, “Care to describe your engagement last night?”

“Not a problem, sir,” I say, and spend the next fifteen or so minutes recalling the hunt and the battle, and Knowles raises a hand and interrupts. “Hold on. You say you shot a civilian?”

“I did.”

“Was he threatening you?”

I say, “He was threatening the mission.”

“But was he threatening you personally, Sergeant?”

Fernandez’s face is impassive. Knowles looks angry. I reply. “Sir, he was threatening the mission. When the Creeper was sighted, the county automatically became a military reservation. I had the authority to get him to leave the area. He refused to leave.”