Dark Victory - eARC (6 page)

“So you shot him,” Knowles says.

“I wounded him. In the leg. He and his friend, not only were they jeopardizing the mission, they were jeopardizing me and the other civilians in the area. They were trying to attract a Creeper’s attention and planned to capture it by using some chains and a fire extinguisher. They refused to move. I did what I had to do.”

“By wounding a civilian,” Knowles says.

“By saving him,” I reply. “If they had attracted a Creeper, in about ten seconds, they both would have been flamed.”

Knowles angrily writes something down and Fernandez quietly speaks up. “Let’s move on.”

So knowing my face is flushed, I go on and tell them about the hunt, and the kill, but seeing how Knowles is being a dick about the whole matter, I leave out the part about Thor coming to save my young butt. Dogs are trained never to attack a Creeper, and seeing how Knowles is reacting to my mission, I wouldn’t put it past him to take Thor away from me for remedial training or something.

Like I’d allow that to happen.

Asshole.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Finally back in my barracks, which used to be a student dormitory, I get to my room and unlock and roll in, Thor behind me. I’m fortunate to have a single and I close the door, make sure there’s water and food for Thor—some dried venison—and I unload my gear, put my 9 mm on my small desk, and even though I’m about ready to fall asleep, I spend the necessary time to make the weapon safe and clean it.

When I’m done cleaning I take my family photo and put it back up on the small bookshelf over my bed, and reach behind a row of books and take out a slim leather journal. There’s a Bic pen inside the cover and I jot down some sentences about the day. I close the cover, put it back, and flop down on my bunk, look up at my meager collection of possessions. At one end of the shelf is plastic model of what was once called a cell phone. It was a toy I got eleven or twelve years ago. Dad tells me that when I had the toy cell phone, I’d pretend to call Mom and tell her to come home early and make me mac and cheese.

I remember playing with that toy a lot during the first year or two of the war, hoping against hope that my Mom would somehow hear me and find her way to my Dad and me.

I want to stop thinking about that and I close my eyes and fall asleep in a couple of minutes.

Something furry and wet presses against my face. I push it away, it comes back.

I open my eyes.

Thor is by the side of my bunk, panting, looking on with an expectant look on his face.

“Oh, come on up,” I say, and Thor seems to grin as he jumps up on the bunk. He rotates twice and then thumps down, wags his tail, and lies down.

“And don’t snore,” I warn him, but it’s too late, as he starts sawing wood.

I wake up with someone knocking at the door. I yawn and toss off my olive drab wool blanket. Thor rolls over with a doggie sigh and I say, “Some damn hunting dog you are,” as I step barefoot across the cool tile floor to the door. I unlock and open it up, and in front of me is the oldest man I know. He’s in standard fatigues that hang on him like they’re a size too large, and he has almost no hair on his freckled pink scalp. His nametag says MANNING and his rank is corporal. He’s the “batman” for the barracks.

“Sergeant Knox,” he says, “just checkin’ to see if you got any laundry.”

“Sure, hold on,” I say. I duck back into my room and grab a canvas bag, which Manning takes from me with a wrinkled, shaking hand. Nobody knows how old he is, but I did hear him say once that he had served in Korea, which means he’s
old.
Like a lot of other vets, he re-upped after the war started. Once upon a time the U.S. Army and the National Guard didn’t have batmen for their troops, but now we supposedly experienced fighters aren’t supposed to worry about cleaning, laundry and other necessary chores.

Manning says, “Also wanted to let you know that Lieutenant May has canceled your 1600 meeting.”

My stomach feels cold. “Dead?”

He sighs. “Yeah. They found Ruiz a couple of hours ago. Shot to death, body stripped. Hell of a thing. Damn Coasties killed his dog as well. Bastards. But at least the morons had the good sense to leave his M-10 behind. No way they could sell or trade that.”

“Any leads?”

Manning shrugs. “Not sure. Word is, the State Police and the county sheriff have joined the hunt, plus some militia types. Figure it out, Sarge. You think the locals want the Army folks defending them getting ambushed and robbed?”

I remember the protestors out at the main gate, and say, “You’d think.”

Manning starts to walk down the hallway, dragging my canvas laundry sack along with a few others, and I call out, “Mail call come?”

“Yep.”

“And . . .”

He turns, thin lips pursed. “So sorry, Sergeant. Nothing for you.”

My throat thickens and I close the door. The silence from my dad continues.

I sleep pretty deep for a good chunk of the day, and when I wake up I get a chit for a hot shower later in the day. I bring Thor back to the kennels and then I work out in the gym, lifting weights, working some reps on my legs, biceps and back. It’s a weekend so it’s relatively quiet. Then I cash in the chit for a ten-minute hot shower, and then head off to the D-Fac, or dining facility, which is pretty much the same school dining hall. I see Abby chatting it up with Dewey, a plump mess officer with short blond hair who had slipped Abby a rare Red Bull the other day.

I nudge Abby as I get in line with a scratched plastic tray and say, “Still trolling for Red Bull?”

Abby nudges me back. “Keep it real, dear sergeant. Keep it real.”

Dinner tonight is some sort of chipped-beef slop over stale toast and watered down iced tea, and my stomach grumbles as I think of those thick juicy steaks I had passed over to my aunt earlier this morning.

With dinner quickly and thankfully over, I go over to the kennels and retrieve Thor. Although the PFC on duty is reluctant to let him go—all dogs on post are supposed to be housed overnight in the K9 quarters—I convince him that I’m taking Thor out for a confidential night training mission, which isn’t much of a lie.

On the way back to my barracks, I see two flaming chunks of space debris light up the southern night sky, and then it’s to bed and lights out.

I’m dreaming about hearing my mother’s voice, as we’re on a ferry heading out to Edgartown on Martha’s Vineyard, when the ship’s siren cuts in and starts screaming and screaming and screaming.

I wake up, Thor across my legs, sheets piled up and I realize it’s the base warning siren.

Creeper attack.

I kick the blankets off, roll out of bed, fumble for a second with the matches at my nightstand, and light off a candle. Thor is already by the door, tail moving furiously, waiting to get into action. I dress quickly, but take the time to pack my battle-rattle gear, the rosary, family photo and Creeper toe joint; and buckling on my Beretta, I launch myself out the door, as Corporal Manning races down the hallway dousing the gas lamps.

Outside now, the rest of the troopers from my barracks are following me, buildings around us going dark, the only illumination coming from hooded lamps along the walkways and roads. By the time I get to the Armory its double doors are propped open, and there’s little talking as Colt M-10s and bandoliers of 50 mm rounds are tossed to us. To keep some sort of order, we yell out our last names as we pick up the gear, as overworked Armory personnel keep the weapons flow going.

“Ouellette! Magsaysay! Gagnon!”

I grab my weapon with one hand, bandolier with the other, shout out: “Knox!” and then run outside, as Thor races along with me, tail wagging, keeping quiet as I run to my attack duty station. All around me are the sounds of boots slapping on the pavement, and the
click-clack
of M-10s being loaded with the anti-Creeper rounds, as my fellow Rangers prepare for an attack.

This isn’t like the other night, when I was on my own, hunting for a Creeper. I’m with two other troopers from my platoon, Corporal Joyce Dunlap and Staff Sergeant Hugh Muller. Dunlap and Muller are dressed like me, with a mix of battle rattle and personal clothing; not much time for uniform. But we’re all in helmets and protective vests, even though Dunlap is wearing baggy khaki shorts and Muller is wearing light pink shorts that look tight and damn uncomfortable. I’m the only one with a dog, and Thor settles down in one corner of the battlement.

Muller picks up a field telephone, turns the crank a few times, and whispers, “Battle Twelve, up.”

He’s a year older than me, outranks me, and seems to take delight in reminding me of this most times we’re thrown together. He listens for a moment, nods, and whispers, “Battle Twelve, out.”

Then he tosses the phone receiver back into its slot. “Listen up. Two civilians separately called in a Creeper sighting. On approach out of woods adjacent to the interstate, then started moving northwest along Clinton Street.”

“On the street?” I ask. “You sure they weren’t drinking?”

Dunlap laughs and Muller says, “That’s what got reported. So here we are.”

I pick up my Colt M-10 and peer sideways over the battlement. Turning your head sideways exposes less of your skull, especially if you just expose one eye for a quick scan, then duck back down.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

It’s a hell of an understatement, but the Army had to adjust day to day to a new type of enemy, and one of the lessons learned was not making defensive bunkers. When your opponents had mortars, AK-47s, RPGs—even T-72 tanks—heavily fortified bunkers made sense. When your opponents were nearly impregnable exoskeletons with laser and flame weapons, heavily fortified bunkers were quickly called barbecue pits, and for good reason.

So the defensive perimeter of Fort St. Paul consists of moats, trenches OPs, and battlements like the one were in, scattered along the rim of the moats. Made of concrete blocks and bricks, it’s a good place to hide behind while keeping view of the moat, and the cleared areas of fire on the other side. Like the battlefields back in the Great War, early in the last century, before we started numbering them.

The plan, such as it is, is to hope that if a Creeper comes at us, it has to clamber down into the moat, come up, and expose the main arthropod to three troopers with M-10s. If any incoming fire erupts from the Creeper, it’s hoped that by ducking behind the brick and concrete, we’d have a chance to survive.

Hope. Chance. Hell of a way to run an interstellar war, especially when we’ve been on the losing side for most of my life.

I grab a pair of binoculars, scan the field of fire set up in front of us. There’s a range card, a simple sketch of our sector that lists exact distances to various terrain features, and highlights both “kill zones” and “blind spots,” fastened to the wall in front of me, but I have it memorized. The “mound” is 80 meters away. The “double stump” is 140. A slight depression running north-northwest from the moat is deep enough for a man to crawl through unnoticed, but not for a Creeper. Trees, brush and buildings long ago have been cleared out. Every couple of weeks, convicts from the local state prison come by to cut down the growth. There’s a road out there, Jefferson Street, and I note a few homes scattered along the length that I can see.

“Knox.”

There’s a tone to his voice. I say, “What’s up, Sergeant.”

“Mind telling me why you have a dog with you tonight? It should be in the K-9 kennels.”

“Guess he didn’t like the film they were showing in the kennels, Sergeant. I hear it was an old Rin-Tin-Tin movie. Thor thinks Rin-Tin-Tin is way overrated.”

Another laugh from Dunlap, which seems to piss off Muller. “Knox, you know the regs. Dogs are only issued for operational reasons. Not as playthings or toys or to be your best buddy.”

“Tell the truth, Sergeant, don’t like the term ‘issued.’ Thor isn’t a piece of gear, like an M-10 or a canteen.”

Muller says, “Don’t like your attitude, Knox. Never have. Just because of who you are, doesn’t mean that—”

Dunlap says, “Guys, shut up.”

Muller turns. “What did you say?”

Her voice tight. “Movement. Movement on the road, heading north.”

As one we move to the front of the battlement, and Thor gets up right next to me. I focus the binoculars, say aloud, “Tracking. Good eyes, Dunlap.”

Dunlap nods in appreciation, as she raises up her Colt M-10, rests the barrel on top of the battlement, brings her cheek to the butt stock, takes a sight, and scans her sector. I immediately hear her breathing change, become more measured, ready to pull the trigger—slowly—right in between the rise and the fall of her breathing. We all do it. It’s second nature now.

About 300 meters out the Creeper scurries from the left side and moves in a straight line, right along the road, its legs moving almost as one, the claws out, the main arthropod sticking straight out. My mouth dries right out. I hear the
whir-whir
of the field telephone behind me, as Muller reports in a harsh whisper: “Battle Twelve, Battle Twelve. Confirmed Creeper sighting. Battle version. Three hundred meters, walking speed, northbound on Jefferson Street.”

He listens for confirmation from the Command Post and then says, “Battle Twelve, out.”

I keep staring at the Creeper over the sights of my M-10. Don’t think I’ve ever seen one so clear and out in the open like this, going up the road like a damn tourist or something.

I whisper, more to keep the Creeper steady in my sights than because I’m worried about sound, “What’s the word, Sergeant?”

He joins us on the edge of the battlement. “Observe and report. That’s it. Observe and report.”

The Creeper stops. Its two main claws rotate in the air like cobras, seeking a target, seeking a meal. Dunlap finally says, “What’s the goddamn point?”

“What do you mean, Dunlap?” I ask.

“A decade ago the damn aliens come across light years to Earth, drown our cities, kill millions, zap aircraft and ships, throw us back to nineteenth-century technology . . . and for what? So they can crawl freely at night in the state capitol?”

Muller says, “Doesn’t have to be a reason.”

Hating to admit it, I agree with Muller. “Staff sergeant’s right, Corporal. They’re aliens. There you go.
Aliens.
Whatever they do, however they destroy, it makes sense to them. Doesn’t have to make sense to us.”

She laughs slightly, but it’s a brittle sound. “You’d think after ten years, if they’d wanted us all dead, they could design a virus or plague to kill us all off. Why take all this time just to, what, burn a few cows and a dairy farm like they did the other day?”

Muller’s voice is sharp. “Stop thinking so much. Focus. Observe and report, and keep your damn weapon trained on that bug.”

I shift my weight slightly, slowly, from one foot to the next. It’s cold and damp out. Wish I had put a jacket on underneath my protective vest. “What I’d like to observe and report, Sergeant,” I say, “is that I wish we had an Air Force to call in some close air support. Or an Apache gunship. Hell, even a self-propelled howitzer. Sort of even up the odds.”

Dunlap eagerly joins in. “How about some M1-A1 tanks, with special Colt-made shells. With laser-resistant armor so that—”