Red Vengeance

by Brendan DuBois

  Morneau says, “The driver for that truck…Private Clinton. He has driving experience but he was a recent transfer. This was his first deployment to a front-line unit. I believe he may have panicked, ma’am. He may have seen the other vehicles leaving, and decided to join them before unloading the supplies.”

  Wallace taps a finger on the map. “Then I suppose when this is over, he’ll be reassigned, am I right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Morneau says, relief in her voice.

  “All right,” Wallace says, picking up her helmet. “Let’s go outside.”

  We all troop out of the cabin into the approaching dusk and line up, looking down at the parking lot, and then the near slope, where my platoon is still working on their foxholes. Wallace says, “First Sergeant, where do we stand on the field telephone setup?”

  “About fifteen minutes, Captain.”

  “Good. I want a line from each platoon leader, right back to the command post. Platoon Leaders, I want test calls as soon as the lines are in place.”

  We three murmur our acknowledgments, and Wallace says, “Okay, First Sergeant, light up the sky. Let the world know where we are…and then run up the colors.”

  Hesketh goes to a supply trailer that’s been placed near the cabin, works around in the rear for a few seconds, and comes out with a flare pistol in hand, and something folded under his other arm. Working quickly, three flares are fired up into the cloudy sky: red, red, and blue. He holsters the flare gun and looks up at the cabin’s roof, where a rusty radio antenna sticks up from a corner.

  “Corporal Turcotte,” he calls out.

  A middle-aged man in a tight and dirty uniform comes from around the cabin, wiping his hands on a rag, helmet bouncing on his MOLLE vest. “First Sergeant?”

  He hands the folded package to him. “Take this, secure it up on that antenna. And when you’re done, put that helmet back on that bony thing you call a head.”

  “Yes, First Sergeant.”

  He takes the fabric, moves over to the parked trailer, and with a quickness of movement that surprises me, he climbs up the trailer and makes a half-meter leap or so to the shingled roof. In a few minutes an American flag is flapping from the antenna. As one, we all salute. The flag is torn, scorched, and ragged at one edge, but it still flies.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Morneau and Jackson go back to their people, and then Captain Pulaski ambles out, and I’m surprised to see her smoking a cigarette. A doc—okay, a veterinarian—smoking? Then it strikes me that, what the hell, if it gives her some pleasure or relaxation in this mess, why not.

  Pulaski takes a deep drag from her cigarette, comes over, scratches Thor’s head, checks his bandages and the cast on his front leg.

  “How’s your boy doing?” she asks.

  “Finest kind,” I say. “He’s really bounced back pretty well.”

  Pulaski’s head is still lowered when she says, “You’ve got a voice command for your dog, to send him back to base if things go to shit, right?”

  I don’t like her tone of voice, don’t like her question. “Just like every other K-9 unit, yes, I do.”

  “What’s the word?”

  I say, “Sorry, Captain, I’m not going to tell you.”

  She continues working Thor’s head, and he leans in, knowing he’s in the grasp of someone experienced in the care of animals. “I see. Afraid I might use it?”

  “I don’t like saying it in front of him. I don’t want to…confuse things.”

  She says, “Amazing how these dogs can find their way back. Where’s your base again?”

  “Fort St. Paul, in Concord. New Hampshire.”

  Pulaski ponders that, and says, “Read a story in Stars & Stripes last year. A dog survived an ambush outside of the old NORAD base in Colorado Springs, and managed to trot its way back to base, at a former Boy Scout camp in New Mexico, place called Fort Philmont. About two hundred miles, and he got there. Starved, dehydrated, and sore paws. He made it.”

  She looks up and her cold eyes lock with mine. “How far are we from your base in Concord?”

  “Not sure,” I say. “Probably under two hundred miles. Maybe a hundred and fifty.”

  “Good,” she says. “Then it’s possible. Now Sergeant, this is what you’re going to promise me, and no arguments. When the Creepers overrun us and we’re burning and dying, you send your boy home. Got it?”

  My voice is bleak. “We’re not going to get overrun. We’ve got good defensive positions.”

  She takes a deep drag from her cigarette and does something I’ve never seen: she lets the smoke dribble out of her nose. “You ever hear of a company-sized unit holding their ground against a Creeper attack? No? That’s because it’s never happened. Units this size only survive by doing hit-and-run attacks, not by staying in place.”

  Hard to say anything in reply when she’s making sense. She says, “The Creepers are out there now, rounding up reinforcements, and when they come at us, they’re going to steamroller over us like a goddamn road project.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Me? It’s my job, and my duty.”

  “But…Thor. You seem more concerned about my dog.”

  “Hah,” she says. “Of course. I’m a vet. I love God’s creatures. They’re lively, full of love, and most of all, they’re innocent. Got that? The Creepers didn’t come here to kill dogs, cats, or horses. They came to kill us. Fair enough. Humanity’s sins could fill a thousand-page book, and maybe we deserve what we’re getting. But not the creatures. And if I can save even just one, well, I can get lased into pieces and be one happy doc.”

  * * *

  After that cheery message, I go back to the foxholes, check on my platoon. The foxholes are nicely dug in, mounds of dirt and rocks have been placed in front, and I find that if I keep hunched over, I can go from spot to spot without exposing too much of my carcass to whatever Creeper presence is out there. But even though there are still the occasional flares of light in the distance marking their advance, Thor remains calm, meaning not yet, not yet. I locate two soldiers—an older guy named Morris and a young soldier named Crotty—and send them back to the CP, as ordered by the Captain. Both silently pick up their gear and go up the slope, across the parking lot, and to the cabin.

  In the last foxhole before the one belonging to Second Platoon, I say, “Sergeant Bronson? Platoon huddle-up in five minutes, back at my foxhole. Pass the word.”

  He grunts and climbs out, and I go back to my pit, which I plan to share with the young and frightened Private Tanner. I sit up on the hole’s dirt lip, wait for the platoon to straggle in. And straggle they do, but I don’t blame them. This isn’t their kind of war, not their kind of fight.

  I clear my throat, think about what to say. When the war started there wasn’t much need for those chest-pounding, verb-abusing, inspirational speeches. Everyone could see that we were in the fight for our lives, and one of these days, someone should write a book about the thousands of civilians who turned out on their own to fight the Creepers once they landed. They didn’t have much success, and often got in the way of the regular military, but I’m sure they fought in the way other civilians in other nations didn’t.

  But once the war started dragging on, those speeches of inspiration came back, but they could only do so much. Rumor has it that some U.S. Army reserve general, up in Washington state, would often come out and make those kinds of speeches, borrowing from Patton and Shakespeare’s Henry V, and when the battles started, he’d climb back into his armored Humvee and watch the battle from a distance. That went on for a while, until after one battle, when his body was found in a ditch, head missing, apparently from a sharp blade.

  Who knew Creepers used metal cutting instruments for close-in combat, hunh?

  So I keep it simple. “We’re in for a long night, no doubt about it. I’ll be right here, and we’re going to have a field telephone hooked up to Captain Wallace. Guys, take turns sleeping, but make sure both of you
aren’t sleeping at the same time. Keep your eyes and ears open, but especially your noses. We’re fortunate that we have Thor, but still, anybody smells cinnamon, come over and tell me soonest.”

  I pause, look at the tired, burnt, and worn faces, all the way from twelve years old to fifty years old. What an Army. What a platoon. I say, “Captain Wallace has sent out couriers, contacting Battalion and any other forces out there. Relief is on its way. In the meantime, keep your heads down, eyes open.” In my next sentence, I almost start off by saying “If” but I don’t intend to insult these veterans.

  “When the Creepers attack, you M-4 troops keep up a nice, harassing fire, three-round bursts. M-10s…you guys know what to do. Keep watch on the aiming stakes out there on the slope, and adjust your rounds accordingly. Everybody got antiflash cream?”

  A few nods. “All right, everybody goop up, and help out anyone who’s low on the cream. Any questions?”

  Corporal Balatnic says, “Sergeant, I heard a rumor our food truck left without unloading. True?”

  I don’t fuss around. “Very true, I’m sorry to say. But the Captain is trying to scrounge something together, so we at least we get something to eat before nightfall. Anything else?”

  No more questions, and I say, “One more thing. Except for Thor, I want everyone to use the latrine. Third Platoon is digging one as we speak. Got it?”

  From the rear someone says, “How come that damn dog gets special treatment?”

  I say, “Because he never talks back to his sergeant.”

  That gains me some smiles and a couple of laughs, and I take that as a victory.

  * * *

  After First Platoon heads out, I climb into my pit and I’m happy to see Tanner has enlarged the place to make room for Thor. I dig out a container of antiflash cream and we each goop up our faces, necks and other exposed skin. It makes us look slightly ridiculous, like we’re putting on white-faced makeup for some kind of minstrel show, but I’ll take the ridiculous along with the slight protection it offers us.

  By the rear of the pit is a canvas-covered field telephone. I lift up the cover, take out the receiver and give the side crank a few whirls.

  The phone’s quickly answered by the first sergeant. “CP.”

  “First Platoon up.”

  “Hear you five by five,” he says. “Captain wants hourly updates, beginning at eighteen hundred.”

  “Got it, First Sergeant.”

  “CP, out.”

  I hang up the field phone, grab my M-10, check my bandolier. Seven rounds. The sun is starting to set. The sky is still overcast, and there’s a flickering light in the east, where another chunk of space debris has come home to Mother Earth.

  To the south there are brighter flashes of light, reflecting off the bottom of the clouds. Creepers on the move, burning as they go, heading this way.

  Tanner stands next to me, M-4 in his hands. He wipes at his eyes, and then takes a deep breath.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  * * *

  At eighteen hundred I check in, and about ten minutes later, a detail comes by with our rations for the evening: clear chicken broth, water, and two stale rolls apiece that can only be eaten by dipping them into the broth until they get soft. I soften up one such roll and pass it on to Thor, and Tanner does the same thing.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say. “He’s my responsibility.”

  “No offense, Sergeant Knox, but I hope if I feed him, he’s happy. And if he’s happy, he’ll hunt Creepers better.”

  I can’t argue with that, and I put my metal bowl on the ground for Thor to lick the broth I’ve left behind. So does Tanner. A good kid, I think.

  Our messware is picked up a little while later, and we settle in, and I tell Tanner, “I got first watch. You try to get some sleep.”

  His laugh is a bit high-pitched. “Yeah. Try. Good word, Sergeant Knox.”

  “No worries, Tanner. Think of it this way. The other foxholes only have one soldier to cover the guy sleeping. You’ve got two.”

  It looks like that little bit of confidence building works, for he rolls himself up in a blanket, curls up in a ball, and in a while, he starts snoring. Thor gives me a look and I say, “Oh, lighten up. Let the kid sleep.”

  * * *

  I feel wired up, tense, my eyes and ears working hard, even the one missing twenty percent of its hearing. It’s a lead-pipe cinch—whatever the hell that means—that we’re going to be hit at some moment, and I might screw up and get some of the people in my platoon, trusting in my experience and leadership, smeared as hot ashes across this New York landscape.

  “Damn,” I whisper. “Wish I was back home.”

  Home. Fort St. Paul. Heavily guarded, with comfortable beds and a real dining facility, which was usually able to feed us well. Schoolwork and Army training, the occasional raid or support of a larger offensive by a regular Army unit. But…routine. Hard to believe, but routine. I knew my place, knew my buddies and their places, and…

  Abby.

  Abby Monroe. I feel guilty about not having thought about her for some time. She’s a combat courier in my platoon—one of the best—tough and fearless, with pretty long legs scarred with old burns and shrapnel hits. We’ve been dating for months, have enjoyed some great times. The last time I saw her was when she was standing on a train platform in Concord, waving to me as I left for a supposedly safe trip to Albany, accompanying Serena and her brother and a man from the governor’s office, who was later killed in an ambush.

  Abby.

  I had gotten one letter from her in my travels, a short one, but it ended in the phrase, “Love, Abby.” Something she had never written before. I had sent her a letter as well, but God knows if it got to her. But Abby…Unless she’s out on a nighttime drill with her modified Trek mountain bike, or doing shooting practice at the fort’s range, or just doing homework, I hope she’s safe. And that she’s thinking of me.

  And that she doesn’t suspect anything about me and Serena.

  * * *

  I let Tanner sleep an extra hour, and then I wake him, and I’m pleased to see him jump up, startled, M-4 in hand. “It’s okay,” I say. “Your turn.”

  He checks his watch and says, “Hey, Sergeant. You’re an hour late getting me up.”

  I take a blanket out of my pack. “Thought you could use the sleep. Nothing’s going on. Do me a favor, contact the CP, tell them nothing to report.”

  “How do I do that?”

  So I demonstrate how a field telephone works, and he whirls the hand crank with obvious enthusiasm, and as coached, he says in a loud whisper, “First Platoon up. Nothing to report.”

  He nods and hangs up. I say, “Anything from their end?”

  “Nope. I think it was the first sergeant grunting at me.”

  “Sounds good.”

  * * *

  I sleep and I think Tanner wants to pay me back the same courtesy, but my internal clock wakes me up in exactly one hour. He says, “Nothing going on, Sergeant. Except the flashing lights out there…they’ve stopped.”

  “Really? For how long?”

  “About thirty minutes.”

  “Did you tell the CP?”

  With pride in his twelve-year-old voice, he says, “Yes, Sergeant. I did.”

  “Good job,” I say back, though I’m slightly embarrassed that I hadn’t heard him work the telephone crank. I must have been sleeping on my good ear, with my bum ear up. I look at the time, see I have a few minutes before checking in with the CP, and I say, “I’m going to walk the line. You stay put, all right?”

  “Will…will you leave Thor behind?”

  I squeeze his thin shoulder. “No, he’s going with me. No worries, Private, you’ve got everything well in hand.”

  I can almost make out his smile in the darkness. “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  “Yeah, well, you can thank me by not falling asleep. Thor, come.”

  He’s at my side as I roll out of the foxhole and the
n head to the left, down where the access road is located. Somewhere out there is Third Platoon, and I want to make sure we’re watching each other. I rustle my way and in the dim light, see a rise of dirt, and in a whisper, call out, “Hey, Third?”

  “Right here,” comes a woman’s voice. “Who’s approaching?”

  “Sergeant Knox, First Platoon, coming in. Got my dog with me.”

  “Okay.”

  I crouch down, make my move, and then lower myself into the foxhole. “Thanks,” I say. “Just checking in.”

  “Specialist Carr, Specialist Holmes,” comes the woman’s voice. There’s a younger woman with her, and I say, “Both awake?”

  “Shit, you think we can sleep, knowing the Creepers are coming?”

  “Well, the light flashes have stopped. Could be a good sign.”

  “If it’s a good sign for this Company, it’ll be the first in a long time.”

  We talk for a few minutes more, each of them taking a couple of minutes to rub Thor’s head, and then I’m back outside in the darkness. I can make out the cabin up on top of the flat peak, and there’s a faint haze of light. Must be warm and comfortable in there.

  Right, I think. And Serena’s in there, too.

  I go back up the line.

  * * *

  It goes fairly quickly, and I’m very pleased to see that no one’s slacking off, that in each foxhole, one of my troopers is wide awake. It’s confirmed that no Creeper sign has been seen in nearly an hour, and at my last foxhole, a Corporal Melendez says, “Things okay, Sergeant Knox?”

  “All quiet,” I say. “How’s Sergeant Bronson?”

  There’s a long pause, and Melendez says, “He’s sleeping.”

  “All right. And how are you?”

  Another pause. “Glad he’s sleeping.”

  Then I leave with Thor, hook up with Second Platoon—one of the two soldiers in their foxhole has an ancient, and I mean old, Thermos bottle—and I get to take a few mouthfuls of hot sweet coffee, and then after I thank them, I go back to my platoon and my foxhole, and that’s when things start to slide into the shits.