Red Vengeance

by Brendan DuBois

  * * *

  Dinner is at six p.m. and I’m stunned to hear we have two meal choices: lake trout or chicken. We all go for the chicken, except for Major Coulson, who goes with the fish. Our dads get a table and I share a table with Serena and Buddy, while Thor patiently sets up a begging station underneath. We have the dining area to ourselves, and I marvel at the white tablecloths and the cheerfully burning fireplace.

  We even have a choice of drinks—water, locally made root beer, or cola—and I decide to splurge and go for the root beer. Buddy eats in silence and Serena, while still wearing her BDUs, is freshly washed and looks good. When our chicken, fresh-cut fried potatoes and salads are finished off, Serena says, “Why are you in such a hurry to get back to New Hampshire?”

  “That’s where I belong.”

  “To do what?”

  “Serve out my term.”

  “Answer the question, Randy,” she says. “To do what? What happened yesterday…the war’s over. My brother has the ability to talk to the Creepers, to command them, to tell them to surrender. Their orbital base was destroyed last month. Your job in the Army…it’s to kill Creepers. With no more killing to be done, what are you going to do? What’s your real talent?”

  “Not sure, but I’m sure I know what your talent is, Serena, and that’s to irritate the hell out of me,” I say, slipping the rest of my chicken to Thor, who gently licks it from my fingers. “Congratulations, you’re an expert at it.”

  She laughs and a little while later, Lucianne comes back, clears our dishes, and offers us dessert, which is homemade vanilla ice cream with blueberries scattered on top. When she comes back and distributes the little bowls, I say to her, “What kind of place is this, ma’am?”

  “It’s a bed and breakfast,” she says, expertly holding a tray in one hand.

  “I know that, but…there’s no sign on the road. Or outside the building. And except for us, the place is pretty empty. How do you make do?”

  “We have clients in the area,” she says.

  “Like the government?”

  Her smiling eyes don’t reveal a thing.

  “We have clients in the area.”

  * * *

  It’s getting dark, and our respective fathers go upstairs. I take Thor out to do his business, and Serena volunteers to keep me company. Out front there are two gas lanterns flickering their light, and Thor stays at my side. I walk around the side and to the rear of the house, and Serena slips her arm into mine.

  We’re at the rear of the building, with the mowed lawn and the woods before us. It’s darker out here, with some flames visible from inside, where the kitchen must be. I lift my head, look up at the familiar and distressing night sky. Ten years ago, when the Creepers first came, it seemed like they were a constellation of comets, unexpectedly coming to give us one hell of a nighttime show. Well, that was pretty much true, for when the Creepers revealed themselves, their first assignment was to destroy every satellite in Earth’s orbit, including the unfortunate crewmembers of the International Space Station, the first official victims of the war.

  Now, even a decade later, the night sky isn’t truly night. There are streaks of light, burning tails of flame, bright and unexpected explosions, as the debris from those hundreds and hundreds of satellites finally come home. And to add to the mix, last month, the last remnants of our Air Force launched a surprise strike against the Creepers’ orbital base, destroying it. So that means a lot of the debris we see burning now are the chunks from that orbital base, including no doubt several thousand Creepers, the remains of the missiles the Air Force used, and the six pilots who flew them, each one of them knowing they were going on a suicide mission.

  My hand finds Serena’s and I squeeze it tight. Thor does his night business and trots back to us. Up above us the sky is lit up with the burning reentry of objects both man-made and alien-made, and I pull at Serena, wanting to bring her back into the house. I realize that save for Thor, I’m unarmed out there, and I don’t like it.

  But Serena doesn’t move. “Some nights,” she whispers. “Some nights it’s almost beautiful up there, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe,” I say, but now I really want to get moving. My arms are tingling and I feel Thor move, and I know he’s on alert. I move around and then, Serena is in my arms, and damn, I’m kissing her, and everything gets fuzzy and mixed up and quite warm, and at first, all I can realize is her sweet taste and sensation.

  And then we’re lit up by something that turns the backyard into day.

  Chapter Four

  A voice—human, thank God—says, “Freeze!” and I say, “Shut the damn light off, now.”

  The light remains on, but at least it’s lowered. I blink hard a few times and Thor growls, and I say, “Easy, boy, easy.”

  The voice comes from the rear of the bed and breakfast, and then the light moves, as a young man comes into view. It’s one of the kitchen staff we saw earlier, and he says, “Sorry about that. We keep a tight perimeter around here, for thieves or Coasties.” He has a Remington pump-action 12-gauge shotgun on a sling over his shoulder.

  My arm is around Serena’s slim waist. “That’s all right,” I say. “Understandable.”

  He says, “No offense, but it’s pretty late now, at least for us. You should probably head back in.”

  “No offense taken,” I say, and Serena nudges me with her hip, says with a lowered voice, “Speak for yourself, soldier boy,” and we follow the kitchen guy back into the building.

  * * *

  My room is toasty warm and I get things ready for bed. My M-4 and M-10 are unstrapped and put up against the wall, and I check my 9 mm Beretta and put it on the nightstand. Thor watches me with interest as I get my gear together, and I’m thinking of what this fine place might make for breakfast. I’m already hungry thinking about it.

  I wash up and brush my teeth, and I’m tempted to take another hot bath—never waste an opportunity to eat or wash up, one of the many lessons I learned in Basic when I was twelve—but that bed looks damn inviting. There are two lights burning in my room, both gas lanterns, and I shut them off and see there’s a big lump in my bed.

  “Thor,” I say. “Really?”

  He doesn’t answer, of course, but he graciously moves to the side and gives me room. The sheets are crisp and clean and smell of soap. Once upon a time nearly everyone here in this country slept on similar sheets and didn’t worry about dinner, or breakfast.

  Yeah, once upon a time.

  I stretch out, rest my head against my hands, and stare up at the ceiling, thinking of how in hell I had ended up here, in upstate New York, lots of miles away from my home station of Fort St. Paul. It had all started with a simple courier job, escorting a representative of the governor to Albany, along with Serena and her younger brother. Yeah, simple, no such thing as a simple order. I had gotten them to Albany—after an apparent Creeper ambush that destroyed our train and killed the governor’s man—only to learn later that getting Buddy to Albany had been my real mission. Quiet Buddy, who had once worked in the Observation Corps, tracking the Creepers’ killer stealth satellites via telescopes, binoculars, and eyeballs, and who also had a talent for memorizing and learning the Creeper language.

  Quiet Buddy, who had convinced the Creepers back there to open their Dome and to surrender, and to end this damn war.

  Quiet, dangerous Buddy.

  I can’t get comfortable and I don’t feel sleepy, so I switch on the AM radio and find two stations: Armed Forces Radio and Voice of America. The VOA station’s playing old rock music from the 1980s, and the other station is doing a news program. Both stations fade in and out as their signals bounce from one transmitter to another, to avoid being targeted by a Creeper satellite. Every now and then a civilian station comes back on air, and it usually lasts a week or two before getting smeared.

  I skip the news station for now and work through the tuning knob, hearing crackles and bursts of static. Sometimes if there’s a skip or somet
hing going on with the ionosphere, you can hear broadcasts from overseas. I’ve picked up stations from someplace in Eastern Europe more than once, but I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. One time I heard a show in Japanese that went on for a while, the male broadcaster almost shouting in a way that sounded damn spooky.

  For me the best ones are from the BBC, with news about battles along the English Channel and the Highlands of Scotland.

  But no skips tonight. Just noise.

  I turn the station back to Armed Forces Radio, and it must be the top of the hour, for they’re broadcasting a round-up of the latest news from the United States and from bits of the world that can still be reached. The lead story, of course, is the recent attack on the capitol by the Creepers, and the escape of the President, most of Congress and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Most military units in Vermont and New York are responding to the area for R&R—back in the day, known as rest and recreation, but nowadays known as relief and recovery.

  Then some more headlines, about relief convoys trucking into Denver after its years-long siege had been lifted, optimistic reports about wheat output coming from Kansas, Montana and the two Dakotas, and increased oil production in Texas and Louisiana. From around the world, rumors of a Creeper offensive nearing Beijing, reports of Argentina increasing its beef exports, and the latest on the medical condition of the young King of Great Britain, wounded a couple of weeks ago while leading troops against a Creeper offensive line south of Manchester.

  More news drones on and I finally switch off the radio, settle in. Thor moves and lets loose a heavy sigh, like he’s finally happy that I’ve turned off the other voices out there in the ether, yapping and talking and keeping him awake. I roll over, pull up the blankets, and something is bothering me, something is nibbling at the back of my mind, and I finally realize it.

  Not once during the news hour that I had been listening to, not once was there any mention of the Creeper and Dome surrender, something that should have been at least story number two.

  I move the pillow around. Then again, what the hell do I know?

  Like I keep on insisting to Serena, I’m just a soldier.

  * * *

  My morning starts with a thumping at the door. I roll out, toss on a pair of BDU pants, and in bare feet go to the door, pistol in hand. Hell of a breakfast service this place had planned.

  I open the door and surprise of all surprises, Sergeant Bronson is standing there, in full battle rattle, Colt M-10 hanging off his shoulder, helmet on, gear hanging from his harness, muddy boots on the nice rug outside of my door, stairway behind him.

  “Morning, Sunshine,” he says. “Time to roll.”

  “Sorry?”

  He looks at the pistol in my hand. “What, you expecting a baby Creeper to come up those stairs and piss on your bare feet? Saddle up. We’re moving out.”

  “What the hell do you mean, moving out?”

  His face creases into a knowing smile. “Get the hell dressed, grab your gear, and get the hell out. Captain Wallace is waiting on your skinny ass, and you never want to keep the Captain waiting. Move, Knox, move.”

  Bronson turns around, clomps his way down the stairs, and I whisper a few obscenities and go back in to do as I’m told.

  * * *

  A few minutes later I’m out in the cold morning air, and there’s an old 6x6 truck at ease, belching smoke and steam, the command Humvee, and one of the Stryker vehicles I had seen yesterday, its two flags hanging limply from the rear staffs, the American one and the Scottish one. Captain Wallace is talking to my dad, looking down at a topo map spread out on the hood of the Humvee. I come down off the porch, yawning, with Thor by my side.

  Dad spots me and says, “Morning, sport.”

  “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

  Captain Wallace says, “What’s up is that we need to get you moving.”

  I’m not so tired anymore. “I’m sorry…ma’am. It was my understanding from Mr. Cranston yesterday that I was going to be sent home, back to Concord.”

  “Really?” Captain Wallace asks. “Well, it’s a new day, and a new reality. You and the colonel are accompanying me up the road to Amsterdam. There’s a Creeper Dome waiting for us.”

  “Dad?”

  He says, “Cranston and his folks, they debriefed Buddy, and they’ve recorded his messages. We have a PsyOps Humvee attached to Captain Wallace’s unit. We’re going there to broadcast the message, get those Creepers to surrender. When it works, that same message is going to be duplicated and sent throughout the Army. That’s what we’re doing.”

  “Buddy and Serena,” I say, looking to Drake House. “Where are they?”

  “They and their father are with Cranston and General Scopes, going for additional meetings and briefings.”

  “They’re already gone?”

  “Yes, Randy.”

  I look back again at the quiet building. Not even a chance to say goodbye, not even a chance to see how she was doing, no chances at all.

  “Dad, it isn’t fair,” I say, knowing my voice sounds weak and pathetic.

  Captain Wallace seems amused by our little spat. I say, “It’s been a long time since we were both back in Concord. We should go back.”

  “Things change.”

  “Dad, you know it isn’t fair!”

  My dad’s eyes tighten and he picks up a new helmet, used to keep one edge of the map stretched out, puts it on his head. “Sergeant,” he says, voice cold. “You and I have been officially detached to Captain Wallace’s company. You have your orders.”

  I take a breath and since his head’s covered, I salute him.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, and I turn and head to the vehicles, their engines grumbling.

  Chapter Five

  At the vehicles I head to the Stryker, and Bronson can’t wait to set me straight. “Up to the M35, Nat Guard boy. And make sure your mutt doesn’t piss and poop.”

  My ears—including the scarred one—burn with embarrassment and I go to the old truck, powered by wood and steam, and go to the open tailgate. Bronson looks me over and says, “You Nat Guard guys always run around overarmed?”

  “Not sure what the hell you’re talking about, Bronson.”

  He laughs. “Look at you. Pistol at the side, M-4 and M-10 over your shoulders. Big bad doggy running alongside. What? The Creepers peek into your dorm room back at Fort St. Paul and make you wet yourself, you gotta carry so many weapons?”

  The soldiers up on the truck are pretending not to see or hear what’s going on. I say, “So what’s your beef?”

  “The beef is,” he says sharply, “is you’re humping too much. All that stuff hanging off of you, it’d be easy to fire off an M-4 round and take off the top of one of my troopers, or to send an M-10 round up in the air and waste it, when it could be used on a kill. You know how much those rounds cost?”

  “Ten new dollars each,” I say. “Anything else you want to know?”

  He steps forward. “Yeah. The M-4 or the M-10. Take your pick. You can’t carry both.”

  I pause for a moment, wondering how in hell I had gotten on Bronson’s bad side, and decide it’s a waste of time trying to figure it out. So I take my M-10 off, lean it up against the rear of the 6x6. I take the M-4 off, clear the chamber, remove the magazine, reinsert the 5.56 mm cartridge, and with two spare magazines in a cloth pouch, I hold the whole kit out to Bronson.

  “Here it is,” I say.

  “Hell, no, don’t bother me with that,” he says. “Hump it back to the ordnance officer.”

  I say, “I don’t know who or where the ordnance officer is, so if you want my M-4, Bronson, come and take it.”

  “Don’t mess with me, Knox.”

  I say, “Not messing with anything…Sergeant. Thing is, I was content to carry the M-4. You got all pissy about it. You want it, here it is. Otherwise, leave me the hell alone.”

  He glares at me but steps forward, jerking it out of my hand, examines it and shakes his head. “Damn thing is
a piece of crap. Is this what they’re issuing from your Nat Guard unit nowadays, Knox?”

  “No,” I say, walking past him. “I got it off a Coastie in Massachusetts.”

  Bronson barks out a laugh. “How? You strip it off him after he was dead?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” I say. “I stripped it off him after I killed him.”

  * * *

  Bronson leaves and host of unfriendly faces look down at me, and a voice from the past, an old drill instructor when I was just twelve years old, says, suck it up, Knox, and that’s what I do.

  “Give me room, fellas, all right?” I ask, and there’s some grumbling, and first I lift up my injured Thor and bring him to the truck. One of the soldiers rubs his head and I’m proud of my boy, the way he accepts unwanted attention. I swing up my pack and weapons, and I grab a dangling chain and work my way in. There’s more grumbling, but there’s a tiny space on a wooden bench, and I squeeze myself in.

  “Thanks,” I say, and the corporal next to me, with a black eyepatch and a nametag stating DE LOS SANTOS says, “Whatever.”

  Thor lies down on the wooden floor, avoiding the booted feet, and Bronson comes by, looks up and says, “Hey, Knox, riding in style, ain’t ya. I hear most Nat Guard units still use horses and wagons. Welcome to the Army of interstellar warfare.”

  Other guys in the truck laugh and he lifts up the tailgate with a grunt, fastens it with a couple of chains, and walks around the side. A few shouts and the truck jolts, burps, and grumbles, and we’re on the move.

  * * *

  Out on the road we join up with the rest of Captain Wallace’s company, with four other up-armored Humvees—one with a trailer marked with the Red Cross—two more troop-carrying 6x6 trucks, two support trucks, and the other Stryker, plus a Humvee with loudspeakers mounted on the roof. PsyOps, I guess. Prewar an Army company consisted of three platoons and a heavy weapon platoon, and the same is true today, save most of the Army operates at about half-size, with platoons taking on jobs usually left for companies. Too much fighting and dying, and not enough replacements. The constant history of this damn war.