by D. J. Molles
She was a petite, dark-skinned woman with her hair pulled up into a tight bun. Sam didn’t think she was particularly attractive, but then, he doubted Jones would care.
Carl took a position over her shoulder, looking at her screen, and then up at the bank of monitors. Four of the monitors shared the same image, and Sam recognized it as the one on her screen. It was a map of Augusta, on which were displayed small truck icons, labeled with the squads they corresponded to.
“When did you have contact last?” Carl asked her.
She consulted a notepad to the right of her keyboard and mouse. “Twenty-three thirty.”
“About a half hour ago,” Carl observed. “Call up Sergeant Paige, please.”
Sam and Billings exchanged a glance.
Sam felt the mood tense. He wasn’t sure whether this was shared by anybody but him and Billings. Carl seemed mostly at ease. Hamrick seemed eager to prove them wrong, and thereby prove himself right.
Maybe Sam was just worried.
The tech—Staff Sergeant Lopez, according to her nametape and stripes—took up the handset of a SINCGARS radio, and held it to her ear, and transmitted. “Alpha Actual, Alpha Actual, this is Alfred.”
“Speaker, please,” Carl said.
Lopez flipped a switch on the radio console.
They waited.
Sam’s gut continued to tighten with each passing second.
“Yeah, this is Alpha Actual, go ahead with it, Alfred.”
He sounded busy…but otherwise okay.
“Got Alfred Actual and Master Sergeant Gilliard on the line,” Lopez said. “Standby.” She handed the receiver to Carl.
“Sergeant Paige, this is Master Sergeant Gilliard,” Carl transmitted. “Sitrep, please.”
“Roger that, master sern’t,” Paige came back after a pause. “Got a small group of primals playing hide and go seek with us. We’ve been pursuing them into center city. Last sighting was about fifteen minutes ago, around one of the towers. Reporting two CK’s for Alpha Squad. Looking to see if we can’t flush the rest of them out. Over.”
Carl contemplated the bank of monitors. Alpha Squad’s icon sat close to the downtown area of Augusta. “Copy two CK’s for your squad. Paige, can you advise the maximum number of primals you’ve sighted?”
“Uh, yes, sir. Highest number we’ve spotted is about eight in this particular pack we’ve been tailing. Minus the two we took out. Over.”
Hamrick sniffed and cast a derisive look in Billings’s direction.
Billings kept his eyes glued to Lopez’s screen.
Sam wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved for the squads still engaged in Augusta, or worried for himself and Billings for sticking their necks out like this.
Carl keyed the radio again. “Any sign of the larger group of a hundred or so reported by Squad Four earlier this morning?”
“No, sir,” Paige answered, sounding vindicated. “No sign of that many primals.”
“Copy. Standby.” Carl lowered the receiver, and didn’t look at anyone in particular, but seemed to offer up the next question to anybody: “Any reason we can think of that the primals would be on the retreat?”
Hamrick cleared his throat. “Because we went after them hard.” He gave a begrudging glance towards Billings again. “Sergeant Billings pulled the big red handle, and everybody went in hot. The primals aren’t dumb. They’re smart enough to know a fight they can’t win. So they backed off.”
A slight frown crossed over Carl’s brow. “Sergeant Billings, what brought you in contact with the place where you recovered Loudermouth?”
“Sir, we caught sight of a single primal,” Billings answered, his voice wooden. “It was the only one we’d seen since Loudermouth’s squad got taken out. We pursued it. Last sighting was around the building where we recovered Loudermouth—part of the Augusta Technical College. Then we heard Loudermouth calling out, recovered him, and pulled back to reassess.”
“And did you come into contact with any primals during that time?”
“No, sir.”
Carl nodded, and let out a slight sigh through his nose, as though resigning himself to something. He brought the radio up again. “Gilliard to Paige, you’re cleared to proceed until oh-three-hundred hours, and then I would like your troops to bring it back home and swap out with the other squads.” He hesitated, with the PTT still engaged. “Be advised, we had a brief conversation with Loudermouth concerning the possibility of a large group of primals numbering in the thousands. This is unconfirmed. Just keep your head on a swivel.”
“Wilco, master sern’t. Over.”
“Nothing further. Out.” Carl handed the receiver back to Lopez.
He turned to Billings and Sam. “You guys did the right thing by Loudermouth. I’m glad you were able to retrieve him and get him back to safety. Get some sleep. You’ll be on duty at oh-six-hundred to push out past Augusta with the rest of the squads.”
For a brief second, Billings’s mouth opened, like he had something else to say. But then he thought better of it, and gave a curt nod. “Roger ‘at, master sern’t. Thank you.”
Billings about-faced and headed out of the gymnasium, Sam on his heels.
They hit the corridor, and started heading for the nearest exit to the school.
Behind them, Sam heard the gymnasium door latch shut. He cast a glance over his shoulder to ensure they were alone in the hall.
“So what do we do now?”
Billings chuffed. “What do you mean, ‘what do we do’?”
“What about everything Loudermouth said?” Sam insisted.
Billings shook his head. “Loudermouth was high as fuck, Ryder. Just let it go. We got our orders. That’s all you need to worry about.”
***
A large brick building one street north of the high school had been converted to a combination motor pool and barracks for the Hunter-Killer squads. Butler didn’t have much else to offer with everyone crammed in together, so the squads made do with what they had and slept on cots if they were lucky, and blankets if they weren’t.
Most of the vehicles were stationed on one end of the warehouse, closest to the multiple bay doors. On the opposite side of the vast, open building, the squads had all claimed their individual spaces. Tents, sheets, and walls made of pallets delineated the territories of individual squads.
Sam and Billings navigated the dark building by the use of the weaponlights on their rifles. Squad Four was in a nice, cozy corner, so they had the luxury of two brick walls. A series of pallets and some camo netting completed their home.
All was quiet in the warehouse. All the other squads were getting their shut-eye, and Sam and Billings padded into Squad Four’s “Underworld,” as Jones had dubbed it.
Chris snored softly on a bare, twin mattress, a poncho liner pulled up to his chin.
Pickell slept silently in a hammock he’d made out of a reclaimed parachute, strung between two metal support pillars.
Jones had a cot, and he stirred when Sam and Billings ducked into the Underworld. He sat up and flicked on his headlamp’s red light.
“What’s the word, Sarge?” he whispered.
Sam and Billings had already doffed their armor before entering the warehouse, so that they wouldn’t wake everyone with the sounds of ripping Velcro fasteners. Billings laid his gear at the side of his own cot, while Sam settled onto his pile of blankets and cardboard—kind of like a homeless man, he thought—and started shucking off his boots.
“Word is,” Billings whispered back. “We’re pushing past Augusta, starting at oh-six-hundred. So go back to sleep.”
“Huh,” Jones murmured. “Well, that was anti-climactic.”
Sam thought about a shower, and how nice that would be. If he woke up at oh-five-thirty, he might be able to squirrel down to the high school and get one in. But then they’d be out in the field again. It almost seemed like a waste.
Of course, he could sleep in an actual bed and take a real shower in a real bathroom if he went to A
ngela’s house. She still insisted on referring to it as “home,” as though that title applied to both of them.
But Sam had changed. He’d become Private Ryder.
He wasn’t the same boy that needed to be taken in.
And he had his squad now.
Thinking about going back to being just Sam, and Angela’s kid, made him feel listless, like going back in time to a period in your life when you were powerless, and having to live through it again.
No, he wouldn’t be going back to Angela’s house. Not for showers or nice beds.
He settled into his bed, leaving the covers off for now. His skin felt tacky with dried sweat. He’d just have to ignore it.
“Hey, Ryder,” Jones breathed out into the darkness.
As Sam’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he began to make out the pattern of the camo netting overhead. “What, Jonesy?”
“Was she hot?”
Sam smiled, in spite of himself.
Some things you could always depend on.
Annoying though he might be, Jones was one of them.
“Yeah, man,” Sam said, because he knew that’s what Jones wanted to hear. Maybe it would give him sweet dreams. “She was hot.”
“I fucking knew it.”
“Night, Jonesy.”
“Night, Ryder.”
Sam closed his eyes and drifted for a time, his thoughts dispersing into a dozen different directions, but none of them strong enough to keep him awake. Exhaustion folded over him, as reliable as Jones, and he fell into it.
***
A horrendous rumble and clatter seized Sam from sleep, and ripped him into the world.
He didn’t even sit up. The second his eyes came open, his heart immediately dropped into high gear and he rolled. He grabbed his rifle and then hit the concrete floor on his knees.
Someone’s attacking, he thought.
And then, No, it’s a freight train.
And finally, as the others around him came awake with less urgency—which told him it wasn’t anything to fear—he was able to realize that it was the bay doors of the warehouse opening.
Jones husked out an early-morning laugh. “Jesus, Ryder. What were you dreaming about?”
There were shouts. But they weren’t panicked. Just commanding.
Billings squinted, though the interior of the warehouse was still dark.
No light was coming in through the open bay doors.
“What time is it?” Billings murmured, rolling into a sitting position.
Chris checked the glowing face of his watch—one of the few timepieces that anybody had. “Oh-two-forty-five.”
Cognizant again of his rifle in his hands, Sam lowered the muzzle and looked at Billings. “The other teams aren’t pulling back until oh-three-hundred.”
Billings stood up. “Something happened.”
A figure suddenly appeared between the two pallets that created the doorway of Squad Four’s Underworld. “Yo, Billings!”
“What happened?”
“Teams got hit. I don’t have the deets. They called for QRF. We gotta roll. Five mikes.”
Billings didn’t waste time, and neither did his team. He spun away from the door and said, “Strap up! We’re rollin’ in five!” But everyone was already moving.
Jones yanked his UCP pants on. “Who has QRF?”
“Five and Seven,” Billings answered, using their squad numbers.
Sam slipped his armor back over his head. It wasn’t even dry yet from wearing it earlier. And he thought, Can you even call it a Quick Reaction Force when it’s two hours out?
The sound of two vehicles roaring to life filled the warehouse. A horn blared. The engines revved and the vehicles sped out of the warehouse. That would be Squads Five and Seven.
Billings stamped his feet into his boots. “If five other squads couldn’t hack it, two more ain’t gonna make a difference,” he growled.
And Sam knew that Billings was thinking the same thing he was: Thousands.
By the time they got to where Chris had parked their Humvee the night before, nearly every squad was suited up and tumbling into their vehicles. Under the sound of squad mates calling to each other to make sure they had everything they needed, Sam heard the command channel crackling and murmuring.
Since Squad Four’s Humvee had been the last one in that night, they were positioned close to the door. The second that Chris sat in the seat, Billings pointed forward, switching on their own radio. “Head for the gates. We’ll get a sitrep on the way out.”
Sam had barely closed his door before they were moving forward.
They cleared the bay doors, and Pickell started climbing for the turret.
“Stay down here, Pickell,” Billings ordered. “Until we get a briefing.”
Pickell crouched in the narrow space between Sam and Jones.
The Butler Safe Zone was quiet and dark around them. The Hunter-Killers were the only ones moving, forming a line of vehicles rolling steadily towards the gates.
The command channel sounded again, one of the QRF reporting in. “Command, command, this is Stackers on QRF, leaving the gate. Can you advise what’s going on?”
“Alfred to Stackers,” said a male voice this time. There was a slight pause in his voice, and Sam heard someone else speaking in the background. “Alright. Squads Four, Five, Seven, Eight, Nine, and Eleven. Switch to secondary command channel.”
They were keeping the main channel open for the squads that were in Augusta, and apparently engaged.
Billings reached forward and switched to the secondary command channel.
The squads reported in, one by one. Billings called them in last, as they approached the gate. The sentries stood by, waving them through.
First Sergeant Hamrick’s voice came over the secondary channel. He sounded tired and pissed. “Alfred Actual to all responding squads, get your asses to Augusta ASAP. Standby on this channel for briefing.”
They roared through the gate, and out into the night-blackened world, the other squads nosing up close behind them.
Billings sat silent in his seat, shaking his head slowly.
Hamrick came back on the line. “Responding squads, your buddies in Augusta hit a major snag in the downtown area. They are currently pulling out of the city. Squad One issued a request for QRF about seven minutes ago. You are to head for Checkpoint Joker and go no further. Your job is to assist in their extraction, not to get directly involved. You are not to enter into Augusta, or go near the beltway. Engaged squads are reporting large numbers of primals active in the downtown area. Sound off if you copy.”
The squads sounded off again, indicating they understood.
Sam’s eyes stayed locked onto Billings, wondering if he was going to say anything.
“Squad Four copies,” Billings reported, and then ended the transmission. He was still shaking his head.
It was one of the other team leaders that asked the question.
“Stackers to Alfred Actual. Any idea on actual numbers, sir?”
There was a long pause over the airwaves, and Sam could imagine Hamrick standing there, gritting his teeth.
“No solid numbers, Squad Seven,” Hamrick growled. “Reports are that it’s several times larger than the hundred that was reported yesterday morning.”
“Oh, you sonofabitch,” Billings spat at the radio console. “You mean thousands! You self-righteous, vindictive piece of shit! Thousands!”
“Whoa,” Jones mumbled, casting a glance at Sam. “I take it this has to do with your wonderful conversation with our fearless leader last night.”
Sam only nodded in response.
“Enough of this bullshit.” Billings twisted in his seat, looking at his squad in the back. He didn’t shout, but his voice was forceful. “Cards on the table, gents. Loudermouth came to for all of thirty seconds yesterday before the sawbones took him. He said that he’d seen thousands. We reported this to Hamrick. He ignored us.” Billings’s eyes skewered each of them in turn.
“I don’t mind dying, but I’m not gonna do it because that prick is an idiot. I’ll stand in front of a firing squad before I comply with some shit I know is wrong. Hopefully that won’t happen today, but if it does, I’m giving you all fair warning, I might refuse an order.”
Pickell shifted in his crouched position. “All due respect, Sarge. You sound like a hammer lookin’ for a nail.”
Billings frowned at him, his face lit only by the glow of the headlights ahead of them. “I’m not looking to refuse an order, Pickell. You all know me better than that. I’m just giving you fair warning, if you don’t like what I do, you’re welcome to hitch a ride on someone else’s wagon when the time comes. I won’t hold it against you.”
Maybe it was because Sam had been there with Billings when they’d told Hamrick what Loudermouth said. But he surprised himself by being the first in the squad to speak up. “I’m with you, Sarge.”
“Yup,” Jones said, uncharacteristically serious. “I know you won’t lead us wrong.”
Chris and Pickell only nodded.
That seemed to be good enough for Billings. He turned back around.
“All squads,” Hamrick’s voice issued from the speaker again. “Switch back to main command channel and standby.”
As soon as the radio was switched back, another squad leader’s voice came over the line, tense but controlled: “…passing Checkpoint Scarecrow now, enroute to Checkpoint Joker. No visual over the course of the last mile or so. I think we lost them.”
“Roger that, Reaper Actual. Proceed to Checkpoint Joker and standby.” The TOC operator paused on the line. “All responding squads, hold your traffic unless it’s an emergency. We’re going to continue to attempt contact with Squad One.” The transmission went out, and then came back a moment later, the operator speaking slowly and deliberately. “Any member of Squad One, Alpha Squad, this is command. Please respond. Over.”
Everyone in Billings’s Humvee was silent, listening for a response.
The line remained empty.
Devoid of life.
Billings shook his head again. “We told them. We fucking told them.”
***
Carl was back in the TOC again.
