I go up to the open front door of the CP and take in what’s there. To the right Captain Pulaski is on one of the cots, snoring, and her other medic is sitting up against the wall, slumped, also sleeping. Dad is on the other bed, wrapped up in a blanket. Serena is also sleeping but her brother Buddy is sitting on a chair, calmly taking everything in. The gas lanterns seem empty, for it’s nothing but lit candles inside.
First Sergeant Hesketh and Captain Wallace both look up as I shadow the door, and Hesketh says, “Knox, what are you doing here?”
“Ask him,” I reply, stepping aside so the corporal who had stopped me—BUD LONG—steps forward and says, “First Sergeant, caught Sergeant Knox trying to desert. He was walking out the access road with his K-9 unit.”
Even though I’m in the doorway, the smell of burnt hair and flesh is pretty thick, and I see the high windows have been broken to allow fresh air in. Hesketh gets up, face red, and Wallace says, “I’ll handle it.”
She looks beaten, tired, worn, and I flash back to the time I saw her alone at the stream, hugging herself and crying, and then to what her Air Force friend had told me, that before joining up after the war started, Kara Wallace had been a kindergarten teacher.
“Knox?”
“Captain…” and now I feel stupid, like I’ve been called up in class back at Fort St. Paul to write out an algebra problem from homework that I had skipped. “Ma’am…Begging the Captain’s permission, could I have a moment?”
She wearily stands up, her face stained with soot, scratches on her chin and cheeks. She picks up her helmet and says to Hesketh, “I’ll be right outside.”
“Yes, ma’am,” and he sits back, and she says, “Besides, I could use some fresh air.”
Outside the eastern sky is now tinged pink and red as the sun comes up, and she says to a soldier nearby standing watch, “Roberts, any signal flares?”
“None, ma’am,” she says.
“Damn. All right,” and she turns to me. “Knox. Desertion. Really?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then what were you doing? Chasing after your courier friend, looking to get back to New Hampshire?”
I’m surprised that she knows about Abby Monroe, but I guess I shouldn’t, because good officers know everything about their personnel. “No, ma’am.”
“Sergeant, spit it out right now, or I’ll have you sort through those wrapped ponchos and have you start digging out personal effects from our KIAs. Got it?”
Thor flops down on the dirt and starts to snooze, and I envy him. “Ma’am, I wasn’t deserting, and I wasn’t running back to New Hampshire. I was leaving here to save all of you.”
Her helmet is held against her waist, and she rubs the back of her neck and says, “Mind repeating that, Sergeant? What do you mean, save us? We’ve got about a half-dozen combat couriers out there, trying to find routes to allow a relief force to come in. What do you know that they don’t?”
“Why the Creepers are letting us live.”
She turns in fury and grabs my shoulder. “Live? Like those seven over there? Is that what you mean?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t mean that,” I say. “But the Creepers…if they wanted us dead, they’d blast off the top meter of this hilltop. You saw what they did to the relief force with their killer stealth satellites. If they wanted everyone dead up here, they could have done it days ago. Why haven’t they done that?”
She lets go of my shoulder. I say, “We’ve been followed and stalked by the Creepers, ever since we left that destroyed horse farm and the two Domes. They’ve chased us and chased us, something the Creepers have never done before. They’ve cut us off, and sure, they’ve attacked us…but never with an overwhelming attack. It’s like…Ma’am, it’s like they’re trying to overrun us, and make a capture. Not a clean kill.”
“That boy and her sister,” she says. “All right. You think the Creepers are after them?”
“No, ma’am,” I say. “The way the Creepers reacted oddly happened before Serena and Buddy showed up.”
“And?”
“Ma’am, they’re after me.”
* * *
That really gets her attention and she slowly says, “Sergeant Knox…”
“Ma’am, they know who I am. They saw me at the Dome where that Creeper squad surrendered. And they know I was at the horse farm…and I told you, when I was leading that squad back to you, I spotted a Research Creeper examining clothing and torn bandages. Sounds crazy, but I think…I think they can smell me. And they were tracking me.”
“Smell?”
“Captain, since I’ve been with your company, I haven’t used my own Firebiter vest. I was issued one that had been used by a previous soldier. It had his smell on it, the smell of sweat and blood. I think that masked most of my scent. And back at the Air Force base, I was with a group, interrogating a captured Creeper. I took my vest off, and…something happened. The Creeper responded, and soon afterwards, they were coming after the Company. They can smell me.”
“And you were walking away because…?”
I say simply, “I was going to draw them away from your position, ma’am. A single soldier…I was going to lead them away.”
“Until what? Until you were surrounded by Creepers, somewhere out there on a road or field?”
“I guess so,” I say. “I hadn’t thought that far.”
“Apparently not,” she says, now putting her helmet back on. “Why do you think they’re after you?”
“No idea, ma’am. But they know I killed a Creeper with a knife…and that I was present when that Dome surrendered…maybe they’re just pissed at me.”
“Join the club,” she says, pulling her chinstrap tight. “All right, Knox. Get along.”
I feel a hell of a lot better, though I still don’t know what’s facing me. “Go on back down that road?”
She shakes her head. “No. Get back to First Platoon, get back to your foxhole.”
“But Captain…”
“That’s an order, Sergeant.” She takes a deep breath, looks back at the open door leading into the CP, like she would do or say anything to avoid going back in. “You’re with Company K, and under my command, until I say otherwise. And if that means defending you along with everyone else, that’s what we’re going to do. So get back to your position, you and your dog.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and I call out, “Thor! Come!” and head back down to where I had earlier left, feeling hungry, tired, and a little bit awestruck that the Captain is sticking with me.
* * *
I say, “Knox, coming in,” and there’s no answer as I roll back into my foxhole. Tanner is standing looking down at the now-deserted slope, his M-4 pointing up at an awkward angle, and when I put my M-10 and gear down, I say, “Private, what, are you bird hunting this morning?”
No answer.
I smell cooked meat.
“Tanner?”
I go over and touch him and his M-4 falls to the ground, and his head lolls to the left, and below the rim of his helmet and above his small nose is a round, puckered burned hole, right through the front of his head.
“Oh, Tanner, damn it,” I say.
I slowly lower him to the ground and check his dog tags, and take one of the two medallions, slip it into my pocket. I rub his shoulder for a moment. I close his eyes and say, “Kid, I told you to keep your head down. Ah, shit.”
I drag him into the far corner of the hole, and Thor watches me impassively, not whining, not panting, not doing much of anything. I pull out a poncho from Tanner’s battlepack and a folded stiff piece of paper drops out, and in the dim morning light I unfold it, see it’s an old color photograph of what looks to be a mom and dad, sitting in their best clothes in a photo studio, a very young boy sitting on Mom’s lap, laughing and holding a brightly colored toy in his chubby hands. I stare at it for longer than necessary, and then I fold the photograph back up, slide it down the front of his coat—I should strip him of his gear and Firebit
er vest but not now—and then drape and tug the poncho around him.
Damn.
Left alone, he was probably scared out of his twelve-year-old mind, wondering when his sergeant was coming back, wondering why he was alone, and maybe he panicked or heard a noise, but whatever happened, he was killed, and it’s my fault.
All mine.
I go to the field telephone, crank the handle a few times. Hesketh answers it with a brusque, “CP, go.”
“First Platoon, Knox,” I say. “Private Tanner is dead.”
Hesketh says, “We’ll send you a replacement. CP, out.”
I put the phone back down and I should stand watch, but all I do now is sit down in the dirt, back up against the foxhole side, and I stare at the kid’s body. Thor sees I’m upset and gets up and flops his head down on my lap, but I refuse to rub his head. That would just make me feel better, and right now, I don’t want to do that.
* * *
Dirt trickles down and a soldier thumps his way into the foxhole, stumbling, and more dirt showers down, getting into the back of my neck, and I stand up and say, “Jesus Christ, didn’t anybody train you on how to enter a foxhole?”
The soldier stands up, adjusts his black-rimmed glasses. “Sorry, Sergeant. It’s been a while.”
It’s Dad.
“Dad…what the hell are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” He spots Tanner’s M-4, picks it up and says, “The CP needed someone to replace your dead soldier. They’re short-handed, and they need to get that trench system finished. So I volunteered.”
“Dad…”
He checks the M-4, manages not to shoot himself in the foot, and says, “Randy, my background is Intelligence. Captain Wallace and the rest of the company don’t need those skills right now. What they need is a rifleman, and I’m your man.”
“Dad…”
He snaps, “Sergeant, I’m on the line here, with you, M-4 at the ready. Do you mind telling me what the situation is, and what we might expect? Or do you expect me to find out for myself?”
I settle down and say, “Colonel, we’re on the far left side of First Platoon. Second Platoon is off to the right, and Third Platoon is over there, to the left. Keep your head down, as best as you can. You need to hit the latrine, let me know, but keep down on the way out and the way back.”
I point through one of the aiming holes. “The Creepers have occupied those woods. That’s where they come up when they strike. It might be hard to make out, but there’s aiming stakes pounded in the ground at fifty meters, twenty-five meters and ten meters. You’re job is to provide harassing and suppressing fire.”
Dad peers through his slit. “Does it do any good?”
“In hurting or killing the Creepers? No. But hearing and seeing gunfire helps morale, and also gives those soldiers who aren’t qualified for the M-10 the feeling they’re doing something.”
Dad glances over to the poncho-covered form. “What happened to your man there?”
“That man was twelve years old,” I say. “He died because he poked his head up over the edge of the foxhole, and because I wasn’t here to tell him otherwise. He’s dead because of me.”
“No, Sergeant,” he says. “He’s dead because of the Creepers. Not you. Did he have any spare magazines for his M-4?”
“Check his battlepack.”
Dad squats down, moves over and says, “Hey, Thor, sorry to bother you,” and he gets two spare magazines in his hands, and when he comes back, there’s a shout from down the line.
“Here they come!”
And in a few minutes, we’re fighting once again.
* * *
Some long, long minutes later, this latest skirmish is over, and I share some water with Dad, who has done some pretty good shooting, much to my amazement. I was concerned that he’d “pray and spray”—lifting his M-4 up over the dirt and fire at full auto without proper aiming—but he showed good fire discipline, sending off two- or three-shot bursts as the Creepers rolled toward us.
He says, “Randy…”
“Yes?” My shoulder hurts, I’m down to three rounds for my M-10, and there are four more dead Creepers out on the slope, but we’ve taken some hits as well. The frantic cries of, “Medic! Medic! Medic!” seem to be all over the hill, from Third Platoon and my own.
“Randy, you—”
“Hold on, Dad, okay?”
I gingerly look up and about, seeing two medics down the line hauling a soldier up to the CP, and then I look down at the slope. The wood line seems busy, with Creepers moving in and out, and Christ, if I don’t get any more ammo, this next attack might be the last, at least from where I’m standing.
“Randy, I heard part of what you said back there, about the Creepers hunting you. I think you might be right. We still don’t know much but I do know—”
I say, “Dad, that’s great. Really. But I’ve got to check the rest of the line, okay? Keep your head down, keep watch, all right?”
“Sure,” he says. Then he says, almost shyly, “That boy’s body…sorry, it’s starting to smell, Randy. When can it get moved?”
“You and I will move him when it’s time,” I say. “Hold tight. Thor, stay.”
I’m out and go up the line, checking on the tired, frightened and exhausted members of my much-reduced platoon, and I learn that the wounded trooper was a quiet teen girl named Lileks, who was scorched on the side of her face. Not fatal, so that’s a bit—a tiny bit—of good news. But I don’t make any friends when I inventory the remaining M-10 rounds and try to even them out. It pisses off the troops who’ve been carefully hoarding their ammo, but at least it gives everyone the same number of rounds.
Back to the foxhole, and Dad says, “The CP called a couple of minutes ago. When we see a white flare, we’re to pull back to the ditch line.”
“All right,” I say.
He looks around, rubs his chin, and says, “Two more things, okay, Randy?”
“Sure, Dad,” I say. My feet are hurting and my stomach is grumbling loud.
He says, “I…I’ve always known you were sharp, that you were tough, that you were good. But I’ve never seen you in the field. You were amazing. You were…you were incredible.”
I guess I should feel all warm and tingly and like the good son, but I chamber a round into my M-10, and I put my two spare rounds on top of the dirt lip to my foxhole. There’s more movement down at the edge of the woods. Damn bugs are starting to form up again.
“Thanks, Dad. You better saddle up, it looks like the bugs are getting ready to do something.”
“And the other thing. It’s time you know what happened to your mom. And your sister Melissa. Back when the war started. After I’ve seen you in action…You deserve to know. Right now.”
That nails me and I start to ask him, when the shouts of “Creepers on the move!” comes up, and I’m quickly very, very busy. One Creeper is moving right along, and then he’s leading right up to the fifty-meter line, and BLAM! and my shot arcs out, and the damn bug jogs to the right and my exploding round sets up a cloud that misses.
I eject the round, grab another one from the dirt and—
And I knock the third one over, which flies off the dirt and hits the slope and rolls.
Damn it!
And damn it again, Dad sees it and starts going out of the hole, and I yell, “Dad, don’t!”
He doesn’t listen to me.
He’s outside the foxhole, standing for shit’s sake, and he takes three quick steps, triumphantly holds up the cartridge, and as he turns to come back to the foxhole, a Creeper laser cuts him down.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Dad!” I scream, and he flops right over, and I see the Creeper that nailed him is still skittering up the slope, and I fire off a round—BLAM!—that stops the Creeper dead in its six tracks, and I climb up the foxhole, roll over, and crawl down the slope, and there’s Dad, flattened right out.
And I hate myself but the first thing I do, I grab the
spare round and shove it into my pocket, and I say, “Dad? Dad?”
I grab his coat collar, start trying to drag him back, and Christ, he’s heavy, and I’m dragging, trying to get some traction, but it’s tough, so goddamn tough.
“Dad!” I yell. “Are you awake? Can you move?”
Nothing.
I try to drag him some more, back to my foxhole, and there’s gunfire all around me, M-4s being fired off, M-10s booming, and the smell of cinnamon, the click-click sound of the Creepers, smoke drifting across, and I focus on Dad, trying to drag him, and shit, I’m just not doing it.
“Dad!”
For Christ’s sake, I can’t believe how heavy he is, and—
Somebody’s helping me.
Somebody’s next to me.
I turn.
It’s Thor, splayed out but with his strong jaws clamped around the loose jacket cloth above Dad’s shoulder, and he growls and pulls back—like he’s playing with one damn large chew toy—and the two of us manage to keep down, working Dad back, and then Thor leaps into the safety of the foxhole, and I get Dad’s upper torso over as I go first, and then I pull him in.
His body flattens me right out.
I smell burnt flesh.
I crawl out from underneath him, check him out.
His left leg is gone below the knee.
* * *
I stand up. “Medic! Medic!”
Nothing’s moving along the line.
Nothing.
And nobody’s coming out from the CP.
The Creepers are close now, three of them in front of our line, and from the sounds coming from other parts of the hill, it’s clear we’re being attacked on all sides.
I leave Dad for a moment, sight in the best I can, and one more blasting shot, and one more dead Creeper, and the other two Creepers flip around and race back to the safety of the tree line.
From the CP I see movement, and a white flare flies up, and there are yells of, “Move it, move it, move it!”
Red Vengeance Page 29
