Red Vengeance

by Brendan DuBois

  “Glad to hear it.” I yell across the lane. “Corporal Stoll! The first Creeper will crawl over that barrier…it’s ours. You and Picard take the second one as it tries to get over its mate!”

  “Got it, Sarge!”

  Click-click.

  Click-click.

  Thor growls even louder. I bring up my loaded M-10, take a breath, quickly lower my left hand, rub his head and back.

  “Stay,” I say. “Stay.”

  From surrendering Creepers the day before, to attacking Creepers today.

  One hell of a way to run a war, interstellar or otherwise.

  “Here they come,” Stoll announces, at about the same time the whiff of cinnamon comes our way.

  “Yeah.”

  The lead Creeper is moving quickly on its six mechanized legs, two weaponized claws up in the air, the center arthropod—where the alien is centered—raised upright as well. The exoskeleton is the same blue-gray color as the Dome, and there are two Creepers riding herd right behind her. All three are Battle Creepers, and I don’t think they’re in the mood for surrendering.

  “Ready up,” I call out.

  The Creeper column is approaching the downed trees. I have a brief, random thought of what this horse farm must have looked like, ten years ago, nice and peaceful and prosperous, plenty of water, power and food, the horses running around safe and free and—

  Stop it.

  Here we go.

  Almost there.

  Waiting for the lead Creeper to crawl over the tree trunks, and when it’s on the ground—exactly fifty meters away—me and Private Juarez will nail it, just as Stoll and Picard fire at the second Creeper crawling up.

  My finger on the trigger.

  To Juarez, “When I call it.”

  “Sergeant.”

  Right at the tree trunks.

  The heavy M-10 is rock-solid in my hands and against my shoulder. Juarez is right next to me, unmoving as well. Thor pants and whines.

  There.

  And the first Creeper doesn’t hesitate, flying over the tree trunks—not crawling, not slowing down—coming right at us.

  Chapter Eight

  “Fire, fire, fire!” and I pull the trigger, knowing our targeting is off, but we don’t have to time to change out the rounds.

  BLAM!

  BLAM!

  Juarez and I eject the spent shells, and I yell, “Fire at will, choose your own range!”

  I take another round, spin the base and arm it and see the second Creeper is faltering on the near side of the tree trunks, partially engulfed in a gas cloud from the outgoing rounds. The first Creeper is on the ground. I eyeball where it’ll be approaching, and set the round to twenty-five meters—letting Juarez, Stoll and Picard choose their own ranges and targets—and there’s another series of loud BLAMS! as we all fire once more.

  Shouts, yells, and the flickering flashes of laser beams pulse out from the tangle of Creepers in front of us. Juarez and I duck down behind the boulders. I spin the next round to ten meters—after that, we’re cooked—and I pop up see the lead Creeper faltering, and I fire off, and so does Juarez, and I duck down, mouth dry, panting, and Juarez looks at my way and says, “Well?”

  “Wait,” I say. “Let me eyeball.”

  I peer around the boulders. Two dead Creepers are tangled up by the tree trunks, exoskeleton legs quivering and shaking. Classic dying Creeper moves. It makes me very happy to see that.

  But I don’t see the third Creeper.

  Now I’m not happy.

  Did it run back down the driveway? Did it blast its way into the woods, and is it now outflanking us?

  I know who can find out.

  “Thor! Close hunt! Go!”

  Thor blasts out from the boulders, starts going down the driveway, dodging the dying Creepers. On the other side of the gravel and dirt road, I spot Stoll, hunched over. “Private, let’s go.”

  Juarez joins me and I move a few meters and catch a whiff of burnt meat. I bite my lower lip, keep on moving.

  Corporal Stoll looks up, eyes wet. Private Picard, the cute girl who reluctantly gave up her private stock of Detcord, is on the ground next to Stoll, not moving. I get off the road and Stoll has Picard’s booted feet in her lap. Stoll’s hands are shaking.

  “I need to get her dog tags,” she says. “One set’s in her boot laces. I can’t find the other set.”

  I walk around Stoll and my chest feels so heavy it’s like it’s sagging down my entire torso. Picard is there on the ground, all right, but everything above her upper torso is gone, lasered off. Not much blood because of the instant cauterization, but lots of exposed and burnt bone, muscles and tendons. There are scorched chunks spread about a meter or so from where her body rests, including her helmeted head.

  “Give me a sec, Corporal,” I say, breathing through my mouth. Juarez is behind me, kneeling down next to her comrade. I walk gingerly, not wanting to touch…anything I shouldn’t, and I note a small, oblong object. I pick it up and there’s a length of chain on it. The surface is scorched but I’m sure it’s her ID.

  I go back to Stoll, who’s still tugging at the tight laces on Picard’s right booted foot. “Corporal,” I say. “Here’s her dog tags. Come on, we’ve got to get moving.”

  Her fingers are still tugging at the laces, and Juarez covers one of Stoll’s hands with her own scarred fingers. “Corporal, we gotta get outta here. We gotta.”

  Stoll lowers her head for a second, and I wonder what in hell I’m going to do, when she quickly moves the dead soldier’s feet out of her lap and says, “Got it, Sergeant.”

  She stands up, wipes at her eyes, and says, “Where did the third bug go?”

  “Not sure,” I say. “My K-9 is out there now, hunting. Let’s…salvage what we can and get moving.”

  Stoll says, “Okay, I—”

  I say, “No. You and Juarez, you start off. I’ll catch up. Do it.”

  “Her body—”

  “I’ll take care of it. Get a move on. Now.”

  Stoll stands still but Juarez picks up her corporal’s M-10 and battlepack and starts pulling at her arm. They get moving and I take a glance back at the two dead Creepers and the downed tree trunks. No movement, and no barking, either. A good sign. Thor knows that a “close hunt” means working in a hundred meter circle, and unless the Creeper is close or on the move toward him, he keeps quiet.

  The stench of burnt flesh seems to get stronger. What to do?

  I could call Thor back, get a move on, and no one would know that I had left the body uncovered, except for Graves Registration, but I’m not too sure when or if they would ever get here. They’re one busy outfit.

  The empty driveway leading to the roadway, where the company was gathering, looks so damn inviting. It’s getting dark. Overhead, some sparks sputter as another chunk of space debris roars through our upper atmosphere. Picard’s battlepack is a burnt mess, the only thing surviving a half-burnt Book of Mormon and some socks. Her M-10 is a fused mess. But there are two M-10 rounds that I salvage from her bandolier and slide into mine.

  Light’s fading fast. The paved road is so very, very close.

  So close.

  I load up my M-10 with a round aimed for fifty meters, and rest it against a near boulder. There’s a dirt depression at the boulder’s base, and I kneel down, and start digging and digging. At some point I get up, go over to Picard’s boots, pick them up, and drag her over to the hole. She doesn’t fit—and I haven’t even picked up her head yet—so I go back to digging.

  * * *

  When I finally finish and start back down the driveway, I hear a slight noise and turn and see Thor trotting back, tongue out, looking pretty pleased with himself. I stop, rub his head, and say, “Good boy, good boy,” and with no treats or rewards in my coat, I say, “Later, pal, okay? I promise.”

  I like to think he knows what I’m saying, but his moist brown eyes still look disappointed.

  I move at a quick pace down the driveway, over an
other little bridge, and then it widens. There are two old stone pillars on either side of the road, and a broken wooden gate I hadn’t noticed before. A sign rests against the base of one of the pillars, and in the dimming light, there are some letters saying RING FOR ACCESS and I’m thinking, yeah, I’m sure the goddamn Creepers really rang your bell when they arrived.

  Then I step out onto the paved road, and there are Stoll and Juarez, waiting for me, on the other side. The two young boys—Hopi and Beverly—are gone.

  And so is everyone else.

  * * *

  I go across and say, “You guys okay?”

  Juarez says, “Hanging in there, Sarge. You find that third Creeper?”

  “Nope,” I say, “and that’s fine by me. I think it skittered back to its Dome.”

  Juarez stands up and so does Stoll, and I look up and down the empty road. By where we’re standing there’s a mess of discarded bandages, burn ointment packages, some bloody clothing, and a few other pieces of trash. “Corporal, any idea where Captain Wallace would have gone?”

  She says, “A number of places. I’d imagine right now she’s going to a telegraph office to report what’s happened, and to see where Battalion wants her to go.”

  The road is still empty. “Big view, that makes sense. Small view…where in hell should we go? Up or down?”

  Stoll says, “Either one, Sarge.”

  “I see.”

  I walk back out to the center of the road, right across from the entrance to the long-ago horse farm. Something catches my eye, a couple of meters up. I walk over and call back to Stoll.

  “Your captain…she seems pretty smart.”

  “Smartest officer I know.”

  I point down to the cracked asphalt. There’s a large arrow, spray-painted in orange, and beneath that, two letters: KK.

  Kara’s Killers.

  “That’s where we’re going. Saddle up.”

  * * *

  We move in a long line along the side of the paved road, with Thor and me on point. Juarez and Corporal Stoll follow behind. The sky is darkening and around us are nothing but fields, pastures and woods. An empty farmhouse, garage or cottage would have been perfect, but it seems like perfect left a long time ago.

  Over in the east there’s a long stream of sparks and flares, as more things come back to earth. When we cross over a stone bridge that spans a stream, I say, “All right, this is a good place to hole up for the night.”

  Juarez and Stoll follow Thor and me into woods that thankfully thin out. There’s a slight bowl-like depression that will hide us some from sight, and I say, “This is it.”

  My two companions don’t say much and I’m sure I know what’s going on: the usual comedown after a battle, the pain of losing a friend, the jumpiness that comes from knowing you’re separated from your unit. I push them so we have a fair site built up, with a small fire hidden in the center, after cleaning out pine needles, pine cones and other flammable materials.

  Our meal is bread with meat spread, a soft sloppy quarter-piece of a Hershey’s Bar that I’ve been saving for a special occasion, and water. I give half of my ration to Thor and Juarez rolls herself up in a blanket and instantly falls asleep. I envy her. Stoll stays awake, blanket around her shoulders, staring into the fire.

  “What’s up, Corporal?”

  “Thinking,” she says. “Doris, she was a good soldier.”

  “Doris?”

  “Picard,” she says. “The one that got barbecued at your little ambush.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, I bet you are.”

  I reach over, rub Thor’s belly. “Something on your mind, Corporal?”

  “Just wanted to make sure you knew something about Doris,” she says. “Her family was from Utah, here as refugees once the war started. One of five girls, the oldest one. Was pretty religious, which I always ragged her on, considering how God’s been otherwise occupied these past ten years. Lately she’s been looking for a transfer, provide security and support to the Red Cross. Now…well, what’s left of her is dumped in an unmarked grave, and for what?”

  “To give the rest of the company time to bail out.”

  “So says you.”

  I rub Thor’s belly even more. “Sorry it happened, Corporal, but that’s the way of the world. We blocked the Creepers long enough for the company to get away. Hard facts, but a simple equation.”

  Thor starts to snore. She folds her arms. “Thing that bugs me…is who’s gonna remember her, besides her family? Who’s going to remember her service, what she did for this country, how she died on some crappy driveway from a burnt-out horse farm?”

  “We will,” I say.

  “And what happens if we get scorched tomorrow?”

  I say, “I don’t plan on dying. And neither should you.”

  * * *

  Later she says she’ll take first watch, which is fine, and I say I’ll take the second watch, in two hours. I curl up with Thor at my back, trying my best to doze off, with the heat of the flames before me. I don’t have a blanket in my battlepack, and I do my best with a spare jacket, which I toss over myself. I also keep on my Firebiter upper body armor, as pre-used as it is, for it’ll help keep me warm. As my eyes grow heavy, Stoll is still there, awake, staring and staring into the fire.

  * * *

  A nudge. I wake up. My turn for watch, then.

  But Stoll and Juarez are both sleeping, both snoring.

  What the hell?

  Another nudge, and it’s Thor, pushing his nose against the back of my neck.

  I wake up, tossing off my spare jacket, and check my watch, a wind-up Timex Retro Dad got for me when I was promoted to sergeant. More than three hours have passed. Stoll should have woken me up an hour ago. Damn.

  I wonder how much of a fuss I should make when there’s another nudge from Thor, and I turn to him, barely visible in the glowing embers, and from his chest is a low, rumbling growl.

  “Got it,” I whisper.

  I gather up my M-10, spare rounds, and make sure my 9 mm Beretta is holstered at my side. I slide away from the fire and say to my K-9 friend, “Thor, lead.”

  He moves past me but doesn’t run. Thor slips through the woods and I do my best to follow, not wanting to trip over a root or to have a branch snap at my face.

  We don’t go far, ending up at the road, and I make out lights and I think, hey, the company’s doubled back, let’s run out and get picked up.

  But Thor freezes.

  And so do I.

  I step back, quietly open up my M-10, and by practiced feel, I remove a cartridge, spin it off safe, and set it for ten meters, the closest point allowable for detonation. The snapping back of the bolt seems quite loud in the woods, almost loud enough to drown out what I hear.

  Click-click.

  Click-click.

  I walk slowly to the edge of the woods and brush line, peer through, and then I kneel down, for my legs start shaking.

  There are three Creepers out there on the road, close enough for me to toss a rock at them.

  Deep breath.

  Focus.

  One of the Creepers is illuminating the roadway with…some sort of lighting device at the end of one if its claws, and I recognize this Creeper is a model we’ve come to call Research. Over the years, this particular model has been seen examining human artifacts, buildings, bridges, doing live vivisection of human prisoners, and other delightful tasks. This one is lighting up part of the roadway.

  Two other Creepers—regular Battle—are standing on each side.

  Click-click.

  Click-click.

  I smell cinnamon, nice and thick.

  What the hell is going on here?

  The Research Creeper’s other arm—the one not holding the light—is up in the air, moving around in circles, around and around, like it’s looking for something. The two Battle Creepers rotate as well, moving on either side of the Research one.

  I nearly scream when something brushes
against my arm, and then I calm down.

  Only Thor.

  He whimpers.

  I stroke his head and muzzle, hoping he can’t sense the depth of fear coursing through me, for in my years in war and combat, I’ve never seen anything like this.

  And what the hell is that Creeper lighting up anyway?

  I shift, get in a better position, and it looks like a discarded bandage.

  That’s all.

  A bandage probably tossed aside or fallen off as the company raced up along this road, driving way from the ambush site.

  So what’s the interest?

  Then the Research Creeper stops, moves around, and the light—

  Lights us up like a goddamn bonfire!

  I don’t dare move.

  Don’t even dare breath.

  Thor is well-trained, and sits still as well.

  Click-click.

  Click-click.

  The damn bugs…it’s like they’re looking for something.

  The other arm is still up in the air, moving around.

  Or…smelling something.

  Smelling a trail, then?

  The light suddenly moves away from us, and I blink my eyes. I want to reassure Thor, but I don’t dare move.

  Click-click.

  The Research Creeper lowers the moving arm, and then it sprints up the road, followed by the two Battle Creepers.

  Following the trail of the company.

  Damn.

  * * *

  Back at our little bivouac, I sit and think and brood, and Juarez bestirs herself and says, “Sergeant?”

  “Yeah?”

  Beside her Corporal Stoll is still sleeping. Juarez says, “Isn’t it time for me to take watch?”

  “No,” I say. “Go back to sleep.”

  She yawns, rubs at her eyes. “You sure?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “You know how it is. Burden of command and all that.”

  Juarez murmurs something and rolls back to sleep. Thor is sleeping as well.

  I stay awake.

  * * *

  In the morning breakfast is bread and water and, after policing our bivouac area, we start off with the breaking dawn. We get out to the paved road and I recall last night, seeing that squad of Creepers, checking out the roadway. I had never, ever seen anything like that, and I don’t share what I’ve seen with the two other soldiers. Why give them something else to worry about?