Red Vengeance

by Brendan DuBois

  As we step out Corporal Stoll says, “This is one screwed-up war.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I mean, last month, we were told the war was over, that the Air Force destroyed the Creepers’ orbital base. That was their main base, their headquarters, their…everything. And with the base destroyed, it was just mopping up.”

  “Yeah, we got told the same thing. War was over.”

  “Then…shit, Albany got hit. What the hell was that, then, if the war was over?”

  Juarez speaks up. “Two to make peace, only one to make war. I’d say the surviving aliens didn’t think the war was over.”

  I say, “That sounds about right. At least that one Dome surrendered.”

  Stoll says, “Yeah, and we were supposed to do it again, back at that farm. The Humvee with the loudspeakers…it was broadcasting something in Creeper, right? But they came out, pissed and ready to fight. So what happened?”

  “There was something wrong with the Humvee’s recordings.”

  Juarez spits on the ground. “Damn understatement there, Sarge.”

  “You know how it is,” I say. “Mistakes were made.”

  Stoll says, “That could be the name for this war once it ends. The Mistake War.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  We move along and I keep an eye out for a farmhouse, or crossroads or anything that will allow us to scrounge for some food, or to find a landline or telegraph station, but this is one deserted patch of New York landscape. That’s easy to understand, with the two Domes just down the street.

  Juarez says, “Sarge?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You smell that?”

  I unsling my M-10, bring it around to my front. “Cinnamon?”

  “No, diesel.”

  “Got it.”

  I hold up my hand, check it out. Up ahead, to the left, some crushed brush and grass. Tire tracks. We move across the road, I sling my M-10 over my shoulders, and pull out my Beretta. Creepers don’t use diesel.

  Pulled in is a battered Humvee, and on the side, spray-painted in black stencil lettering, is KARA’S KILLERS.

  Creepers ain’t named Kara.

  I peer in the near window. A private is sprawled out in the front seat. His chest is slowly rising up and down. I pound my fist on the hood of the Humvee and he sputters awake, grabbing an M-4, swearing, and I say, “Hey, pal, we seem to have lost K Company. You know where they might be?”

  The specialist looks out and says, “Shit, yeah. Up the road a bit.”

  Stoll looks in as well. “Murphy, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m supposed to be rounding up any stragglers from that ambush,” he says sheepishly.

  I go to the rear, open up the door, help Thor get inside.

  “Outstanding, Specialist,” I say. “A job well done. Let’s get going, all right?”

  Chapter Nine

  We travel a few more klicks away from that old horse farm. I keep my M-10 at ready access, and a close watch on Thor. But he’s content to squeeze in between me and Juarez, and he droops his head over my lap. She rubs the back of his neck, just above his bandages, and he seems to enjoy the attention.

  But I still can’t get the thought of that Creeper squad last night out of my mind. The way they were moving, the way they were somehow communicating with each other. I’ve seen Creepers out in the open singly, and operating as a combat line, but I’ve never seen a trio at work like that, with two Battle Creepers escorting a Research Creeper.

  And one other thing I’ve never seen before is the way that first Creeper had leaped over the log barrier back at the driveway. Creepers can crawl, run, and move at various speeds. But jump like that?

  Two unseen things in one day. I didn’t like that.

  Murphy knows where he’s going, and we go down one unmarked road, take a right at another unmarked road. There are a few farmhouses now, with early morning wood smoke rising up into the gray sky. Nice to see some life, even if it is hidden away. The land thins out and for a minute or two, we travel parallel to a set of railroad tracks. Right near the tracks is a long line of overturned Amtrak passenger train cars, and the sides of the train are scorched and lasered-open, windows shattered, metal rusting. It looks like the train had been attacked right after the war started. Based on what I know, it was probably one of the last of the refugee trains, desperately getting out of the Hudson Valley to some mythical place of safety.

  I turn away.

  The Humvee turns as well, down a dirt road. Our driver comes to a complete halt.

  Waits.

  Waves an arm out of the open side window.

  Waits.

  Ahead I think I see a flicker of light, like a flashlight or lantern being used, and then, after the hidden sentries clear us, we start going down the dirt road again. We head to the left and find Company K.

  “Nice driving,” I say from the back.

  He says, “Don’t get paid to get lost in this woman’s Army, that’s for damn sure.”

  The vehicles from the convoy are scattered around a wooded area that has plenty of open, flat spaces for parking. The near vehicle is one of the Strykers, its grenade launcher pointed down the road. Camouflaged netting is overhead, and small fires are lit. Our driver says, “Let me get you to Second Platoon,” and I say, “I need to see Captain Wallace first.”

  “But she told me that I was gonna bring any stragglers back to their platoons.”

  “I’m not a straggler,” I say. “I was fighting a rear-guard action, and I need to see Captain Wallace.”

  He shrugs, turns us down a lane. “Whatever. You get to face her, not me. She’s in a mood, for damn sure.”

  * * *

  I say so long to Stoll and Juarez, and Thor stays by my side and I notice his bandages are dirty. Time to get them changed. Up ahead is the command Humvee, with a tarp and camouflaged netting stretched overhead. At a table covered with maps and dirty mess dishes I find Captain Wallace and my dad, along with two platoon lieutenants—Morneau and Jackson—along with Sergeant Bronson and First Sergeant Hesketh. Dad sees me and calls out, “Randy!”

  “Good morning, Colonel,” I say, conscious of him being around this unit’s command structure.

  He gets up and comes around the table, shakes my hand, slaps me on the shoulder, and then squats down, rubbing Thor’s ears. “How about a treat, buddy?”

  My stomach is grumbling but I say, “That’d be great, Colonel. He’s overdue.”

  Dad picks through his plate, picks up a couple of bacon rinds, and walks over to Thor, as Bronson says, “Where the hell have you been, Knox?”

  “Nice to see you, too, Sergeant Bronson,” I say.

  Bronson says, “I asked you a question, Sergeant Knox.”

  “I was unavoidably detained,” I say.

  Captain Wallace’s face is scarlet, and her eyes are reddened. “Knox, stop it right now. Answer Sergeant Bronson’s question.”

  I say, “With the…redeployment from the two Domes, I encountered five troopers from the Second Platoon. I believe we were among the last to leave the area. We were proceeding along the dirt driveway, following K Company’s vehicles.”

  “But you didn’t get there in time,” she says. “Why?”

  “Ma’am, we came across a narrow spot in the driveway that seemed to be a good place to set up a counter-ambush, to slow down Creepers in pursuit.”

  “What did you do?”

  “With the assistance of two troopers from the First Platoon, we dropped tree trunks across the road,” I say. “Three Battle Creepers came at the barrier approximately five minutes later.”

  Dad says, “That’s…unusual. Creepers usually return to their Dome after an attack.”

  “That’s what happened,” I say. “We engaged the Creepers, killed two. One retreated.”

  “Any casualties?” Wallace asks.

  “Specialist…” God, don’t let me forget her name, and thankfully, it comes up. “Picard. Doris Picard. Kill
ed instantly. Corporal Stoll secured one set of her dog tags.”

  Bronson doesn’t look too happy and Wallace rubs at her eyes. “Damn…that makes four KIA and seven wounded from that screwed-up mission. We’re already thinned out…we can’t be effective with these casualties…especially unnecessary ones.”

  Wallace seems to snap into focus and her green eyes bore right into me. “You. You’re the one who warned me that something was wrong, that the voice from those speakers wasn’t right. Explain yourself, Sergeant.”

  Dad catches my eye and I’m not sure what he wants, so I decide to tell the truth. “Two days ago, when we got the Dome opened and the seven Creepers surrendered, it was due to Buddy Coulson and his knowledge of their language. He told them to surrender, and they did.”

  She says, “That was the son of that major from Special Projects…Coulson.”

  “Correct, ma’am.”

  “How did he learn the Creeper language?”

  Dad is really staring at me, even though Thor is licking his fingers. I say, “I’m not sure. All I know is that he learned the language, and I…encouraged him to talk to the Creepers and have them surrender, ma’am.”

  Her eyes slightly widen. “You’re telling me that a boy that’s not even old enough to shave got those Creepers to surrender? After ten years of war?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And did he come up with this idea all on his own? Just decided to stroll up to that Creeper Dome and start talking to them?”

  I pause. “No. I encouraged him, ma’am.”

  “I see. And what brought you to this realization?”

  “It seemed…there was an opportunity at the time. With Buddy and his language skills. With a Creeper Dome nearby. And…the Creepers, they had captured my dad and Major Coulson and were bringing them both to the Dome. There was a skirmish. I killed a Creeper…and I was determined to exploit the situation.”

  Everyone in the tent is staring at me. I’m sure Wallace was briefed on what happened but I don’t think she’s heard all of the details. Wallace says, “You said you encouraged young Buddy Coulson to speak to the Creepers. I understand he has difficulty…talking to people. How did you encourage him?”

  I say, “I put my Beretta against the back of his neck and threatened to blow his head off.” A pause. “Ma’am.”

  Wallace returns to the map and says, “We’re going back to Battalion, back to S-2, to give them a full debrief of this fiasco. And then I’m going to track down that Langley man, Cranston Hoyt, and…”

  She doesn’t have to finish what she’s saying. While I enjoyed the comfort and food of Hoyt’s Winnebago, I sure as hell don’t envy what’s approaching him. Wallace scribbles something down, Dad returns to his spot by the table, and I say, “Ma’am?”

  She doesn’t look up. “Yes, what is it, Sergeant?”

  “I…saw two curious events yesterday, ma’am, that I think you should know about.”

  Bronson steps in. “Save it for later, Knox. We’re going back to the First Platoon.”

  She looks up. “No, go on. What did you see?”

  “At the ambush site on the farm’s driveway,” I say. “A Battle Creeper approached the trees that had been dropped across the road. The Creeper didn’t crawl over it. It flew.”

  I feel everyone’s look is right on me. Wallace says, “It…flew?”

  One of the platoon lieutenants, the black guy Jackson, says, “Creepers don’t fly.”

  “Or jumped,” I say. “The barricade didn’t slow it down. It went right over it.”

  Bronson seems to be trying to hide a smile. So does Lieutenant Cooper. Wallace says, “I see. That was the first incident. What was the second?”

  “Last night, with the two troopers with me, we bivouacked at the side of the road. I had the watch. My dog Thor responded to Creeper sign. The two of us went out to the edge of the woods, by the road, and observed three Creepers.”

  Wallace says, “Where were they heading?”

  “At that point, ma’am, they weren’t heading anywhere. They…were stopped. One was a Research Creeper. It was examining a piece of clothing…from a wounded trooper, I’m sure. It…it was studying it. The other two Creepers, they were Battle Creepers. It was like they were escorting the Research Creeper.”

  “How long did they examine the piece of clothing?”

  “About five minutes or so.”

  Bronson says, “Why didn’t you attack?”

  Good question. I say, “Sergeant, we were exhausted. Corporal Stoll and Private Juarez were fast asleep. I decided the best approach was to leave them be.”

  Wallace says, “What happened after the clothing examination?”

  I hesitate for the briefest of seconds. There was that moment last night when I felt like the Research Creeper was staring right at me, even past my hiding place, and didn’t do a thing, and moved on. But how could I say that without them thinking I’ve gone nuts?

  I say, “They kept the piece of clothing. They moved on up the road.”

  Dad looks to Wallace and says, “This report should get up to S-2 Battalion, as soon as possible, Captain. With the failed ambush at those two Domes, and this unusual Creeper behavior, something is going on.”

  “Agreed,” Wallace says. “Sergeant…write up your report, present it to me, and then get something to eat. We’re going to be on the move in an hour…” and for a brief moment, she smiles. It’s a wonderful sight. “We’d hate to leave you behind for a second time.”

  * * *

  The meeting breaks up and although I don’t want to, I sidle up to Bronson and say, “The Captain wants a report from yesterday and last night.”

  “Yeah, I was there,” he says. “A report about dreaming shit, that’s what she’s gonna get. Flying Creepers. Creepers sniffing clothes.”

  I gently place my hand on his upper arm and say, “Bronson, what did I ever do to you? Huh? Give it a break. I need to file a report. Where can I get some paper around this joint?”

  He shakes off my touch. “You’re so smart, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  Bronson stalks away from me and Thor is by my side, and I look to him. “I’ve said it once if I’ve said it a million times. The more I spend time with you, bud, the better I like dogs than humans.”

  Thor doesn’t look up. His nose is twitching, and I think he’s trying to find some more bacon.

  I say, “If you’re going to sniff something out, how about some paper?”

  I start walking.

  * * *

  I don’t think I’m that smart, but after a few questions I hook up with the quartermaster’s truck, the one that had supplied me with a spare uniform and the soiled Firebiter protective vest that I still have on. I tell Corporal Cellucci what I need and she goes back into the truck and comes back with a white legal pad of paper. “How’s your handwriting?”

  “Passable.”

  She eyes me from her perch up on the rear of the truck. “A report for the captain.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you type?”

  “Sure,” I say. “At Fort St. Paul, we take classes when we’re not on duty. One of my best ones was typing.”

  “Here,” she says. “Take this.”

  I take the pad. She goes back into the truck and comes out with something that looks like a small, metallic suitcase. She jumps down, puts the suitcase on the truck floor, unsnaps and opens it up. It’s a small, portable typewriter. I whistle in appreciation.

  “You promise not to pound the crap out of it, and if you can write your report on a single page, do it here,” she says.

  I gently tear a sheet of paper off the pad. “Thanks a lot, Corporal.”

  “No problem,” she says. “Besides, I hear Bronson’s been riding your skinny ass since you hooked up with us. You deserve a break, I guess. Sergeant.”

  I take the precious sheet of paper, roll it into the typewriter. “He sure is. Any idea why? He doesn’t like New Hampshire or something?�
��

  “No, he hates you,” she says.

  I stop rolling the sheet of paper. “C’mon. I’ve never met him before. Why in hell would he hate me?”

  Corporal Cellucci hoists herself up back into the truck. “Because he blames you for his family. You see, his mom, dad, and younger sister, they lived outside of Albany. This company was ordered right to that neighborhood, to help with relief and recovery. Then we got detoured to meet up with you folks.”

  I go back to working the piece of paper into the typewriter.

  “Not my fault.”

  “Yeah, I know, but that’s logical. And when does logic have anything to do with the Army?”

  * * *

  I type slowly and deliberately, not wanting to make any mistakes or strikeovers, and I pause a lot between sentences, knowing I only have a single sheet of paper to do my report. I carefully gauge the sentence length in my head, and then, just when I’m finished, I pause, fingers over the keyboard.

  Corporal Cellucci sees that I’ve paused. “What’s up, Knox?”

  “I’m trying to decide how to sign it.”

  “If you can’t write your name, make an X and I’ll witness it,” she says.

  “Hah hah,” I reply. “No…I’m wondering if I should sign this under my name and unit, or my name and your unit.”

  “Sorry, don’t understand the issue.”

  I say, “Yesterday Captain Wallace said I was assigned to Company K, First Platoon.”

  “She say that official?”

  “Yeah.”

  She picks up a clipboard and pencil. “Then best you sign it like you’ve been with us since you were twelve, or Captain Wallace will be one pissed-off c.o. And you might end up in armory support, cleaning weapons. That sound like fun?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I say.

  I type in SGT. R. KNOX, FIRST PLATOON, K COMPANY, 14TH RGT. I gently roll the sheet of paper out, and feeling like I’m an imposter, I scrawl my signature above it.

  I fold the sheet in thirds, the quartermaster corporal staples it together, and I say, “Do you know where Captain Wallace is?”

  She smiles. “Sorry, not my day to watch her. Wander around, you’ll find her. That’s what she likes to do…wander around, sticking her big nose in things, keeping us on our toes.”