Dark Victory: A Novel of the Alien Resistance

by Brendan DuBois

  “Which is?”

  I scratch Thor’s back. “To build our own star craft, to travel to their home world and turn it into glass that glows in the dark.”

  Some time later the carriage hits a bump as we go around a tight curve, and the dispatch case slides across the floor. I bend down to retrieve it and my pistol tumbles out of my holster. My face warms right up from embarrassment; nothing like losing your weapon to get you into serious hack. I pick up the pistol, sit back up, and the road is blocked by two wooden sawhorses across the road with three soldiers standing next to it. A few meters ahead of the sawhorses is an old-style Humvee, parked to the right. Weapons are slung over their shoulders. A painted sign hangs below one of the sawhorses. stop for army inspection. Edgar pulls the horses to a halt and Serena turns to see what’s going on. Her brother stares ahead. Thor sits up, ears at attention.

  One of the soldiers ambles over to Edgar. He looks to be about twenty, slim, wearing muddy boots, fatigues and he unslings his weapon, an M-4 automatic rifle. On his head is a soft cap, a size too large. His name tag says mullen and his rank is lieutenant. His nose is small and his face is pudgy and worn. His two companions fan out and come at us, from either side of the road. I can’t make out their name tags. They both appear to be sergeants, and one has a shoulder flash for the 45th Infantry Division, and the other is from the 26th Division. A sergeant with a wide smile and good teeth goes to the pair of horses up forward and holds their bridles. The other one, who has a shadow of a beard and carries a pump-action shotgun, comes to the opposite side of the carriage. He stares at Serena’s legs and he starts smiling as well.

  Mullen says, “Afternoon, folks. Just a routine traffic stop.”

  Edgar says, “Just going into Adams. That’s all.”

  Mullen looks to me. “And you?”

  “Going to Adams, sir, looking for transportation,” I say.

  “And your friends?”

  Serena looks to me, face pale. Buddy is still, hands in his lap. The sergeant up forward by the horses comes around and quickly takes Edgar’s shotgun. Edgar says, “Hey,” and I quickly say, “Sir, if I may, what’s the word for the week?”

  The sergeant looking at Serena’s legs, laughs. Mullen says, “What did you say, kid?”

  “The word for the week. Code and counterword. Procedure for encountering troops from other units out in the countryside.”

  Mullen rubs at his nose. “Code word I got this week was Zulu.”

  “Oh,” I say, and I slap Thor on his back and yell, “Thor, strike!” and I pull out my Beretta and shoot Mullen in the chest.

  After the loud boom! Serena screams and I yell, “Down, get down!” and I roll out and follow Thor to the asphalt, landing on my shoulder and side, as my partner leaps out and nails the nearest man in his throat with his jaw. He falls back, screaming and gurgling, as Thor growls and works his strong jaw into the soft throat tissues. The sergeant up forward should move to the left, to get the carriage between us, but he’s either too eager or too stupid, and comes at me from the right. From my vantage point on the asphalt, I shoot him twice in the legs, dropping him to the ground. The horses back and whinny, as Edgar swears and tries to control the frightened horses. I scramble up, go to the guy on the ground with the wounded legs, who’s trying to grab his rifle—a .22 Remington—and I nail him in the chest with another shot. He stops moving.

  The guy with Thor on his throat is screaming, and I yell, “Thor, off!” and my bud instantly backs away. The guy moans some more but I roll and duck as a burst of automatic rifle fire zips overhead. Damn it, I knew I shot Mullen in the chest!

  Behind me now, Serena is on top of her brother in the carriage, and Mullen is peeking from around its end, and he takes off, M-4 in hands. I run off after him, and in a few seconds he’s deep in the woods, out of sight. Serena yells out, “Leave him be!”

  “Not on your life!” I yell back.

  I splash through a drainage ditch, stop, catch my breath. Trees are spread out before me, a mix of pines and hardwoods. I take stock, slowly watch and evaluate, recall my basic training. If danger is afoot, there’s no need to rush in, because more likely than not, you’ll be dragged out by your ankles, ambushed and dead.

  To the left. A low oak tree branch is bent funny. I slowly move, looking down.

  Drops of blood. I kneel down, giving it a good look. The blood is frothy. Lung shot.

  Serena is still calling out. I ignore her.

  I slowly move ahead, scanning left and right and above.

  More drops of blood. Larger and closer together.

  I take my time. I don’t think Mullen is going far, but he’s got an automatic rifle and I have a pistol.

  I whisper, “Always outmanned, but never outgunned.”

  I move a couple of more meters, see a splash of vomit, and more blood.

  Getting damn close. I try to ease my breathing.

  Up ahead. Mottled green. I circle around, still taking my time.

  A choking cough.

  There’s an opening in the trees.

  I step through. Mullen is sitting up against a white oak, legs splayed out. His M-4 is on his lap. He looks up at me and his hands start working at the automatic rifle, and I kick it free.

  “Bastard,” he whispers.

  “Doubtful,” I say. “I’ve seen my birth certificate.”

  He doesn’t reply. He’s bleeding from his chest. Curious, I reach down, tear open his fatigue shirt. Underneath he’s wearing an old Kevlar bulletproof vest, but it’s old, with previous pockmarks from earlier gunshots, and my round must have torn open the vest by going through a weak part. Lucky for me, unlucky for him.

  “Where you from?” I ask.

  Blood is dribbling down his chin. “Jersey City.”

  “Far from home.”

  “Yeah. But damned if I was going to stay in a refugee camp, rest of my life, starving every day . . .”

  “So being a Coastie, robbing and killing, that was a better choice?

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his head lolling some. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. More blood down his chin. He coughs again. “Gotta tell me, man, what’s the code word for the week . . .”

  I shrug. “Damned if I know.”

  I wait to see if he’s going to say anything more, but there’s a loud, rattling noise from his chest, and his head lolls once again and he doesn’t move or say a damn thing.

  Out on the road, I walk slowly, Mullen’s M-4 slung over my shoulder, two extra magazines stripped from him now hanging from my utility belt. Serena calls out and once again, I don’t pay her any mind. I’m curious about the Humvee. I go around to the front and spot a tow bar set below the grill. Interesting. I pop open the hood and there’s a large empty spot where the engine used to be. In the nearby woods is a trail. The M-4 is in my hands as I slowly walk up the trail, filled with curiosity.

  Which is satisfied rather quickly. The trail opens up to a patch of grassland, and two heavy horses—Belgians, it looks like—are quietly grazing in patch of grass, ropes from their bridles tied to some brush.

  A snap of a branch and I whirl around. Edgar is there, holding his shotgun, the weapon trembling in his hands.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “They were a Coastie gang,” I say. “Had a sweet little gig, it looks like. They had an old Humvee, stripped the engine to lighten it up, and used a team of horses to drag it around. Set up a checkpoint and rob and rape and kill at their pleasure.”

  “The one that ran away?”

  “Dead over there,” I say. “I’ll show you.”

  He shudders. “I’d rather not.”

  I say, “Don’t be stupid. You and your family, you hit the jackpot.”

  He lowers his shotgun. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  “In New Hampshire, a homeowner gets a reward for killing Coasties. Imagine Massachusetts has the same law on its books.”

  “But you . . . you took care of them!”
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br />   I shoulder the M-4. “Yeah, but there’s a crapload of paperwork to fill out, and I don’t have the time. Plus, you get salvage rights on those two horses. Bet you and your folks can use them back at the farm.”

  That’s gotten his attention, and his eyes lighten up. “That doesn’t sound bad at all. Hell, let’s get going on.”

  “Yeah, let’s,” I say.

  Back at the carriage Edgar helps me dismantle the sawhorses and the sign, while Serena is sitting in the carriage, gingerly washing Thor’s mouth and paws. He’s panting in contentment. Buddy is sitting up once more, but the bandage on his forehead has slipped. Something to fix before we leave. Serena ignores me as she works on my dog. I hand the pump-action shotgun and .22 rifle to Edgar, who puts them on his seat. He and I drag the bodies of the other two men to the side of the road. One dead by me, the other by my dog. We’re still a damn fine team. Edgar says, “Pity their boots aren’t in better shape.”

  “Yeah, well, you take what you can get.”

  He cocks his head at me. “How did you know? I mean, I really didn’t get suspicious until that one in the middle grabbed my shotgun.”

  “Too sloppy,” I say.

  “The way they looked, then?”

  “The way they looked, the way they acted. Their patches were from different units. Nothing out of the ordinary in a large-scale operation, but damn suspicious for a three-man squad. Their weapons weren’t right, either. It was a mix. In a squad, everyone should have the same caliber of weapon. That way, in a firefight, you can share ammo. Their tactics sucked, too. All three came up to the carriage. One should have stayed behind, in cover, to support in case there was trouble.”

  “So when did you decide to start shooting?” he asks.

  “At the right time, I’d say.”

  In the carriage I fix Buddy’s bandage and rub the back of Thor’s head. “Good boy,” I say. Serena stares at me for fifty meters or so as we resume our trip to Adams. Finally she says, “I guess I should thank you.”

  “If you’d like,” I say.

  “But you could have warned me. I could have helped.”

  “I didn’t have time,” I say. “And forgive me for saying this, Specialist, I don’t think I needed your help.”

  That’s good for a score of meters or so, and she says, “Last winter, back at Jackson Labs, a scheduled convoy of potato trucks from Aroostook County never showed up in Bangor. There were food riots. The cops and state police couldn’t control it. Then they were rumors that food was being stored at warehouses at the labs. The mob was coming through the main gate. We were all given weapons. I shot at least two, maybe three trying to come over the fence. Two men and a girl about my age.”

  I keep quiet. All I hear are the clop-clop of the horse’s hooves on the cracked pavement. She says, “So I know how and when to fight. I’m a soldier, Sergeant, don’t forget it.”

  “I won’t.”

  Then she seems to relax. “You can also stop staring at my legs.”

  “Not sure if I can do that.”

  We reach the center of Adams about an hour later, and Edgar says he’ll report our firefight to the Adams police, which is fine by me, because too much time has already passed and I don’t want to waste hours answering questions. Edgar leads his carriage and horses down Commercial Street, past the post office, where since it’s the first Tuesday of the month, Social Security payments are being distributed. A number of elderly men and women are gingerly stepping out of the post office, carrying bags of cheese, rice and beans. Two Adams police officers are on hand to make sure they’re not robbed.

  The street has a few steam-powered cars and trucks thumping by, and other horse drawn carriages as well. Mounds of manure are piled up on the old pavement. There’s also a constant stream of bicyclists, and something stirs inside of me, thinking of Abby, my favorite bicyclist. I still feel bad about not having waved at her back at the Concord train station. It’s now overcast and a fine drizzle has started to fall. We go beyond the City Hall and there’s a building on the right that has a faded sign stating Adams Cooperative Bank. A newer sign states callaghan enterprises and underneath that sign, a Greyhound bus logo is dangling from two cords. A number of other wagons and carriages are in the parking lot, and Edgar halts his team.

  Edgar says, “In there is Dell Callaghan. Dad told me that before the war, he owned a couple hundred acres down by the Housatonic River, lived in a trailer, and was on welfare. Now, he’s the richest man in the western part of the state. Owns most everything in town, including the Greyhound franchise. He’s sharp but fair, just so you know.”

  “Thanks,” I say, grabbing my assault pack, the dispatch case, and with the M-4 slung over my shoulder. I help Serena down, and she in turn helps Buddy. Thor jumps out, sniffs about the carriage wheels, comes over to me. I rub the back of his sweet head, my killer bud. Edgar says, “Thought maybe that M-4 would be part of the salvage.”

  “You got the .22 and the shotgun, plus the horses,” I say. “Don’t be greedy.”

  He smiles. “Had to try. Good luck on your trip.”

  “Thanks,” and as he guides his horses out to the road, we walk to the old bank building.

  There’s a table outside and a sign stating no weapons inside with a hand-scrawled message underneath that says, This means you! A grandmotherly-type woman is sitting in a leather chair behind the table, wearing eyeglasses with a thin chain around her neck and a multi-colored cardigan sweater. On the table are enough pistols, shotguns and long rifles to equip a platoon. As I approach she smiles sweetly at me and says, “Planning on going inside?”

  “I am,” I reply.

  She holds a clipboard with a pencil slid in. “Then sign over your weapons before you go inside, son.”

  I hesitate and Serena says, “Randy, you can leave everything with me. Buddy and I can stay outside and wait.”

  I unsling the M-4 and remove my 9 mm, pass them over to Serena. The automatic rifle over her shoulder seems to overwhelm her. I drop my assault pack and keep the dispatch case in hand. “Sounds good, Serena.”

  To the older woman I say, “We okay, then?”

  She motions to my right hand. “What’s in the bag, soldier?”

  “Documents.”

  “Can I look inside?”

  “Sorry, you can’t,” I reply. “It’s locked, and I don’t have the key.”

  She smiles again. “Then go in, sonny, but just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  The grandmotherly smile is still on her face. “If you’re trying to smuggle a weapon in there, the cops won’t be called. The hard boys inside will just put a cap in your ass.”

  She pauses. “I think that’s the phrase. Am I right?”

  I walk past her. “Close enough.”

  An Excerpt From the Journal of Randall Knox

  Movie night last week. Usually we get black-and-white films from the 1940s and 1950s. Up to speed on Bogart films, Casablanca being a favorite. Somehow post Quartermaster got a hold of a color film, called Independence Day. About alien invasion of Earth, made way before I was born. Kinda spooky at first, seeing the big-ass ships come in and set up in Earth orbit. Then alien ships descend over major cities. Giggles start breaking out. Can’t believe screenwriters were so stupid. All these aliens hovering over cities and military doesn’t start lobbing nukes at them? President of the U.S., played by a soft-looking guy with good hair, wants to play nice. After a scene of him in Oval Office, somebody in back of gym yelled out, “Whaddya think, Mister President, they came all this way for bread and milk?”

  Loud laughs and shouts. Laughs dribbled out when alien craft started blasting Earth cities, then more giggles eventually returned as a black actor punches out an ugly alien that could be a relative of a Creeper and said, “Welcome to Earth.” Then laughter really returned when President meets up with an alien at a secret military base. Even after millions have been killed, cities destroyed, President wants to be friends with the aliens. Laughter
so loud it drowns the out film dialogue, laughter continues until some male soldier stood on a chair and started screaming: “Not funny! What’s so damn funny? Why are you all laughing? My mom and dad and sisters are all dead! What’s so damn funny?”

  That’s how movie night ended last week.

  Tonight they’re showing Road to Morocco with Bing Crosby and Bob Hope.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Inside I stand shocked. Electric lights. The place has electric lights! I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen such luxury. The interior still has the outlines of a bank, with teller stations and wide counter in front of me in a large lobby, and open offices off to the right. There are people milling about, some in fine clothes, others in farmer styles or hand-made clothing. Manual typewriters are being hammered and in the near corner of the lobby, there’s a small desk with a cardboard Greyhound bus sign. A boy about my age wearing a too-big white shirt and a long blue necktie is sitting at the desk. His black hair is thick and combed over one side. I take a chair across from him and he says, “What can I do for you, soldier?”

  “Need three tickets to the Capitol,” I say. I hand over my orders and he gives them a glance, and starts flipping through a ticket book, checking the schedule.

  I take in the electric lights. “Impressive. How do you pull it off?”

  The boy says, “Small hydro station on the river. Charges up batteries that we bring to the building, helps light up the place. Even runs a refrigerator and stove. Pretty cool, hunh?”

  “Damn cool,” I say.

  He looks to my orders again and says, “Can only write one ticket based on these, soldier.”

  “I’ve got two other soldiers outside,” I say, thinking quickly. “We were on a train yesterday, got attacked by a Creeper. Their orders were lost.”