The Reaper Plague (19 page)

She could see three immobile tanks out by a
clump of trees, and another halfway to the clubhouse. Its main gun
spoke again, pointing to her right, and the flimsy steel
groundskeeping barn disintegrated.
If he aims at this building,
I’m dead. Have to stop that damn tank somehow.

She started trying radio nets – her platoon,
her company, then Battalion. All she heard was confusion and
transmissions stepping on each other. Discipline had crumbled. The
Battalion might as well be a kicked-over anthill for all the
organized resistance it was putting up.

She tried the Force Recon freq. “Swede here,”
she heard him rasp. “That you Repeth?”

“
Roger that. Any chance
someone can get that last tank? We got nothing to stop it back
here.”

“
I’m looking for an intact
weapon right now. This Eden Plague is some shit, by the way. Got me
back on my feet in no time.”

“
Glad you like it.” The
tank gun roared again, this time aiming at the row of golf carts.
It appeared the tank gunner was just blowing things up for the fun
of it. “But you better do something soon.”

“
I’m your huckleberry, Top.
Here I come.”

Repeth reminded herself how glad she was that
Larry Nightingale had gotten the bugs worked out of the Armorshock
rounds he came up with. Not only were they less lethal, they were
actually more effective in knocking out heavy tanks. They packed a
penetrating but relatively low-power kinetic shock to stun the
crew, then an enormous high-voltage discharge designed to burn out
electronic systems.

She watched as a lone figure, ragged in
mangled Ghillie, broke from the copse of trees behind the tank and
ran, antitank missile launcher in one hand, assault rifle in the
other.
Swede.

He sprayed short bursts of full-auto fire at
the nearest enemy infantry, some of whom were crowding close to the
sixty-five-ton monster. She saw him let go of his rifle as he went
to his knees. He sat back on his heels and lined up the rocket.
Nearby grass whipped and shredded as the enemy infantry sprayed
fire in his direction, then the launcher spoke. A cloud of smoke
wreathed the Recon Marine and the rear of the tank exploded,
destroying its turbine engine.

The beast ground to a halt, but there was no
accompanying burst of blue sparks. The electrical discharge must
have malfunctioned. The turret still operated on battery, and it
slewed rapidly around.

Swede grabbed his rifle, leaped up and
charged forward. It was a race, the Marine switching magazines and
ignoring bullets fired by the rattled Fredericksburg men as the
tank gun came around inexorably to aim directly at him.

She didn’t know why it did not fire
immediately, or why the coaxial machinegun didn’t cut him down.
Perhaps the gunner was faster than the loader. Perhaps the tank had
lost some internal systems. Whatever the reason, Swede expertly
popped each human target in turn, for all the world like a dynamic
range exercise –
bang,
swivel
bang
, swivel
bang
bang
, aim,
bang
. The Needleshock rounds put them down
with brutal efficiency.

Then the tank gun roared.

The whole tableau disappeared in smoke and
flame as the high-explosive round plowed up the ground behind the
Marine, throwing dirt high in to the air.

“
Swede!” Jill cried
involuntarily, but there was no answer from her radio. Then she saw
the turret was still functioning, turning, the muzzle questing for
another target.

I have to get out of this window before
they slew that gun back around and hit the building.
She
emptied her magazine in the general direction of a squad of
infantry working their way cautiously forward, then heard an
ominous hammering to her left.

Straining to look out at an extreme angle,
she spotted a light armored vehicle sending groups of 25mm shells
into the clubhouse. She could hear the rounds rattling the
structure, poking fist-sized holes in walls. She had to get
out.

Reslinging her PW10, she lizard-crawled to
the floor and rapidly out into the hallway, dragging her useless
legs afterward. Her back twinged and she prayed once again that the
bullet would work itself loose and allow her EP-boosted body to
heal so she could walk and run again.

God said no again.

She crawled onward.

Bodies littered the hallway, some dead, some
torn up but living. She had to leave them, could do nothing for
them.
Damnit, I’m helpless,
she thought,
like nothing
since I looked down at my missing feet eleven years ago. I think I
took life for granted for too long. And it could all end right
here.

At the back door she stopped, sliding her
head out to survey the situation. The tactical ops center tent was
in ruins, charred and collapsed. Something moved beneath the
material, though. Seeing no enemy, she scrambled across the
debris-littered ground, pulling her carbon-steel blade from her
boot and slicing carefully through the waterproofed cloth. “Hold
still,” she hissed, “I’m cutting you out.”

When the hole was big enough a muscular arm
came through, then a shoulder and head. “Nice to see your smiling
face, Jill.”

“
You too, sir,” she said as
she cut more hole for Colonel Muzik to worm his way
through.

He rolled out and carefully worked his way to
his knees. Something seemed odd to her, about the way he moved.

“
Your arm!”

Muzik looked at the empty space at his left
shoulder. “Yeah. Misplaced it somewhere. You got some water?”

“
Holy shit. Aren’t we a
pair. Gimpy and one-arm.” She handed him the canteen off her web
gear.

He guzzled the whole quart. “Sorry. Lost a
lot of blood. Knocked me out. What’s our situation?” As if in
answer a burst of 25mm came through one building, passing over
their heads and poking holes in the far treeline.

“
They got some kind of
LAVs, old Strykers or something. Swede’s team immobilized all the
tanks but there’s at least one with an active main gun. Their
infantry have stopped advancing, though. They’re shaken, they’re
not pros. Content to let the 25-mike chew us up for a
while.”

Muzik nodded. “Yeah. We have to gather up as
many as we can and fall back to the south. They hit us from the
north. If they were smarter they would have used their vehicles to
get in blocking positions, surrounded and annihilated us. If we
move fast, we might be able to get some of our folks out.” He
reached down, grasping both straps of her webbing from the front
with his one big hand. “This might hurt.” He lifted.

She screamed as her lower body exerted
traction on her vertebrae. The pain spread up her spine and along
her skeleton like electric fire, then cut off abruptly, leaving
nothing but a throbbing heat. “Don’t worry about it, sir,” Jill
gasped out. “Just go. They can fix me later.”

He didn’t waste time with sympathy, just
threw her over his good shoulder like a sack of potatoes and
started yelling. “Battalion!” he bellowed. “All Civil Affairs
troops, rally to me! We’re falling back!”

Muzik worked his way southward, picking up
two dozen shaken stragglers. Jill kept her abdominals tight, trying
to stay stable as she jounced, staring at the Colonel’s heels. The
broken building burning behind bought them some time. With their
tanks dead or immobile, the Fredericksburg troops apparently had no
stomach for further assault.

They could hear the tock-tock-tock of the
25mm cannons as they fired into the wrecked structure. Stray rounds
whizzed over the retreating US troops’ heads, struck the ground
around them, or in one case took a Civil Affairs lawyer’s hand with
it as it flew.
First, disarm all the lawyers,
Jill laughed
giddy to herself as her surreal, pain-filled journey continued. She
saw Donovan loop the man’s good arm over his shoulder and haul him
along.

From her crazy angle they all looked like
drunken contestants in a three-legged race as they stumbled across
the golf links and into the woods. Smoke and fire and intermittent
explosions from the Battalion’s ammo and fuel stored inside the
barn shielded their march, and now with trees hiding them Muzik
stopped and gathered his people around him after putting Jill
gently down among the scrub-oak.

“
Listen up, people,” he
began. “This was a disaster, but we’re not dead, and we’ll all
heal. Even you, Master Sergeant.” he said, turning his grim face
toward hers. “And I’m going to need every one of you to stay
positive and focused if we are all to stay that way – and to help
our people back there. We have to regroup, and figure out a way to
rescue them.”

What if they kill their prisoners?
Jill thought, but held her tongue.
No need to bring that up.
She glanced around, looking for Rick among the faces there, again
not seeing him.
Like looking for something you lost in your
house you keep looking in the same places, over and over, expecting
it to be there.
She threw a quick prayer skyward again, for her
love and her commander and her people and all the people with them.
And smite these evil people, Lord. And protect the prisoners
they took.

It seemed a fair request.

“
Anyone hang on to a
radio?” Muzik asked. Three people raised their hands but Donovan
handed his over first. “Good, three is good. Not sure what we’ll
do, but…” he muttered as he selected a frequency and began calling
for anyone to respond.

Jill rolled over, away from the cluster
around their commander, and dragged herself to a sitting position
near a tree. Donovan noticed her moving and rushed to help her, but
she waved him off. “Thanks, Corporal. I’m just as good and bad as I
am, until they can get this bullet out of my spine.”

“
Sorry, ma’am. Master
Sergeant, I mean. You oughter be an officer anyways.” The concern
in his eyes was touching and his Appalachian drawl was comforting
but it wasn’t a leader’s place to be coddled by her
subordinates.

At least not until I’m actually dying.

“
Don’t you worry, Corporal.
Colonel Muzik’s a better man with one arm than most are with two…”
She trailed off and stared at something deeper in the woods. Stared
harder.

What is that?

A face. A small boy’s dark face. It was his
eye whites that she had noticed.

Jill raised a tentative hand.

The body attached to the face waved back,
fingers curled and bobbing, a child’s gesture. He looked about six
years old.

Jill beckoned him. “Donovan, get behind me
and make sure no one comes this way. Keep them back.” Her eyes
still on the boy, she dragged herself forward on her palms and
thighs, feeling nothing as her knees scraped along the forest
floor. When he showed signs of bolting, she stopped and sat, her
back to a tree. She heard the noise and conversation die down
behind her and knew the others were watching from a distance.

She reached into a cargo pocket and pulled
out a granola bar, tearing off the wrapper, her eyes never leaving
the child’s. She nibbled, mimed eating. Smiled.

The boy stared, and crept forward. He was
wearing torn jeans and a Tupac t-shirt, and the remains of tennis
shoes. The exposed parts of his feet were callused but not
bleeding.

She looked for signs of wounds, scratches, or
blood, but saw none. She began to hope, and held out the granola
bar. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’m not one of the bad people.”
Whoever they are, I’m not one of them. Come on, kid. Say
something. Don’t be a Twosie.

He stepped up with within arm’s length and
slowly extended his hand. Delicately he took the bar and, never
taking his eyes off hers, ate a piece, solemnly handing it back.
That was almost a ritual,
she thought. She took another
bite, then held it out again, chewing slowly. They continued this
way until it was gone and he had popped the last corner onto his
tongue.

She reached for her canteen, then realized
Muzik had drunk all her water. “Canteen,” she said softly, and
Donovan brought one slowly over. The kid didn’t run. Jill took a
drink then handed it to the boy.

“
Master Sergeant!” Donovan
hissed. “What if he’s got a plague?”

“
I don’t think so. Not a
Demon Plague. Look at him. His clothes are all torn up but there’s
not a scratch on him. I think he’s an Eden. Besides, I’m
inoculated.”

Some movement from behind her startled the
boy, and he backed away. He didn’t seem afraid, just cautious, but
the spell was broken. He nodded to her once, a wise old gesture in
such a young visage, then turned to vanish into the deep
undergrowth.

One of the survivors stepped up to lean
against Jill’s tree. Her name tag read “Horton,” and the caduceus
on her collar marked her as a doctor. She asked, “How do we really
know what a Twosie looks like? We were supposed to capture some and
run some basic tests but we never got a chance.”

Jill shrugged, then focused on the doctor’s
insignia with sudden determination. “Doc,” she said, “You gotta get
this bullet out.”

The doctor squatted down to look Jill in the
face. “If you’re sure, I’ll try. It’s dangerous but being carried
around like this may do permanent damage anyway.”

“
Worst case is no worse for
me. Maybe better, since I keep getting shooting pains as the bullet
moves around in there.” Jill shrugged. “I’m a burden right now. We
need everyone contributing.”
And if Rick is still alive I can’t
very well rescue him parked on my butt, can I?
“Can you do it
right away?”

Doc Horton masked her distress well but there
was plainly a war going on inside of her. With a touch of relief
she objected, “I don’t have anything to operate with.”