Dark Victory: A Novel of the Alien Resistance

by Brendan DuBois

  As I go up to the warm-looking interior of the diner, I feel like I’ve had twelve hours of sleep and a hot, long shower. I ignore the cold, the rain and the wind. The touch, the scent, the sounds of Serena rattle around in my mind. I think about the next few hours, of getting rid of this dispatch case, seeing if I can track down that Special Forces captain to see what he knows about my dad, but most of all, to see Serena again once she meets up with her own father. Maybe she’ll need an escort back to Concord. Maybe we could get a real meal together somewhere. Maybe tour the Capitol. So many possibilities, so many choices. I’m almost dizzy in anticipation of what’s ahead.

  I get to the diner’s door and realize my money and ration book are back in my assault pack, stored under the bus. Damn. I turn around and Thor looks up at me. My best boy smells things cooking and no doubt wonders why I’m turning around, with the possibility of good treats ahead.

  “Gotta get the right papers, bud,” I say. “Money and ration book. You know how it is.”

  I walk back to the bus, sloshing through a puddle, but before going to the luggage area where my assault pack is located, I think back for a moment. Serena didn’t tell me what she wanted from the diner. The options at the Bel-Aire were probably limited but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. I go through the open door of the bus, up the steps and look down the aisle.

  No Serena.

  No Buddy.

  I walk down the aisle, see some of the passengers sitting still, realizing these folks didn’t have money to spend at the diner. They look up at me—old, young, male, female—with a slight sense of shame.

  But still. No Serena, no Buddy.

  I step out and see the driver talking to a guy dressed like a mechanic, dirty overalls, work boots, wiping his hands on a white rag. I catch the driver’s eye and say, “I’m looking for a girl, about fifteen, and her younger brother. He’s well-dressed, with a bandage on his forehead.”

  The driver scratches at his moustache. “Yeah. Sure. Left the bus a couple of minutes ago. I reminded her we didn’t have much time.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Over there,” he says, pointing to the front of the bus. From the still-lit headlights all I see is the falling rain and trees.

  “What the hell is over there?” I ask.

  “There’s a short trail. Leads to a lean-to, holds some of the wood we use for the bus.”

  Damn, I think. What the hell is going on? I nod in thanks and go around to the front of the bus, get to the woods and see a wide trail before me. From the light of the bus a wooden structure comes into view. The rain is falling harder. Thor is beside me and I sense his unease. This isn’t right.

  As I get closer to the building I slow my pace. It’s an open lean-to and I hear Serena talking to someone.

  I stop. Take it all in. I should just go around the front of the building and see Serena and ask her what’s going on with her and her brother, and bring them back to the bus and get on with it.

  I don’t like it.

  I move closer. The side of the building is rough wooden planks, and through gaps in the side I peer through. Buddy is sitting carefully on a pile of cut logs. Serena is kneeling in front of him. A candle’s been lit. Serena is holding Buddy’s right hand. She’s speaking low but forcefully.

  “Buddy, please, we’re going to be at the Capitol in just a couple of hours. You’ve got to be ready for daddy. All right? Are you ready? Are you?”

  Buddy stares at his sister with a slight smile. Rain is dripping down my neck. Serena takes his other hand. “Buddy, let’s go, okay? Let’s try it. Okay?”

  Not quite believing it, I watch as Buddy lowers his head slightly and nods at his sister. Serena exhales loudly in what looks to be relief.

  “Here we go,” she says. “Authentication Tango Bravo Bravo X-Ray Hotel. Report message synopsis. Repeat, authentication Tango Bravo Bravo X-Ray Hotel. Report message synopsis.”

  Buddy nods. Starts speaking in a low, deep voice, not the voice of a boy. It’s the voice of a weary old man. The back of my hands and the rear of my neck start to tingle.

  “From Task Force Jackson Labs to Major Thomas Coulson. Message synopsis follows.”

  He pauses, continues looking at his sister. Begins again. “Interview with captured alien fighter successfully concluded on this post five days ago. Note Appendix A for list and qualifications of interrogation team, including lead interrogator. Alien fighter was captured three months ago near alien base located near Portland, Maine, by Special Forces Group Four. Nearest translation of alien’s name is ‘She-Loves-Scent-of-Sacrifices.’ She has been deployed on Earth since initial attacks ten years ago. Her position with the Creeper force can be roughly translated as legate. She claims she is not in a position to negotiate on behalf of invasion force, but she does have knowledge of Creeper tactics, strategy and ultimate invasion goals. Her outlining of Creeper invasion goals matches those secured from interrogation two months ago near Denver of alien named ‘She-With-Sharp-Tooth-And-Claw.’ Interrogation team spent nearly a month with alien fighter, using coercive interview techniques to secure intelligence information. Note Appendix B for copy of Presidential Directive authorizing such techniques. End of synopsis. End of message.”

  Then Buddy looks up, his face blank again, and Serena squeezes both of his hands, and then snuffs out the candle. I slide away, Thor obediently trotting next to me.

  In the diner I’m trying to keep my thoughts straight and clear. I feel cold and vulnerable and very, very exposed. Just like the first time I went up against a Creeper, all by myself, with a new and fairly untested M-10 in my hands. The diner is crowded and there’s a waitress of about twelve or thirteen, in a too-large pink dress, going by me, carrying a notepad in her hands.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I need to see your manager, right away.”

  “All right, soldier, I’ll see what I can do.” She looks beside me, smiles. “Cute dog.”

  “That he is.”

  The manager comes over, a harried-looking guy in his fifties, wearing the same type of black slacks and white shirt of his younger help. His face is sweating and he needs a shave. “What’s up, Sergeant?”

  “Need an empty room or office, and a tool box.”

  He takes a white towel from his belt, wipes his face. “You got it. Want something to eat?”

  About ten minutes ago, yeah, but not now, I think. “Got any scraps you can spare for my partner?

  He shrugs. “Sure. Give me a few seconds.”

  I stand still and watch the hustle and bustle of the young waitresses moving around on the tile floor, past the stools and booths. There’s a low hum of conversation from the diners and by the door, there’s a poster for a Red Cross blood drive, a notice seeking a refugee family called Simpson, and another poster listing the three kinds of Creepers. That poster is old and faded.

  The manager comes by, leads me to a back room. There’s a desk, chair, boxes and a bowl on the ground that Thor dives into, biting and chewing some meat and bone pieces. On the floor by the desk is a toolbox, and when the manager leaves, I go to it. I poke around and find what I’m looking for: an awl and a long, thin flathead screwdriver.

  I put the dispatch case on the desk, on top of some time cards and invoices and carbon slips. The chain and bloodstained handcuff are still attached, and there’s a leather clasp and lock in the center of the case.

  Take a deep breath. There’s doing a mission and keeping your nose clean and embracing the suck, and then there’s going rogue, going off the reservation, disobeying orders. Door number one or door number two. And instead of going through a certain door, I was thinking about blasting it wide open.

  Awl in one hand, screwdriver in the other, I look down at the lock, hesitate. There’s a thin bright blue plastic line wrapped around the lock. If I were to break into the lock, I’d snap the plastic line, letting the intended recipients know that it had been broken into.

  Orders.

  Damnable orders.

&n
bsp; I put the awl and screwdriver away into my pack.

  From outside comes a blast of a horn. Five minutes to go.

  Thor licking the bowl clean nearby.

  Thor looks up at me, wags his tale. I scratch his ears.

  “Thanks for the reminder, pal,” I say, and I go out into the diner, following the passengers out back to the bus.

  Inside the bus Buddy is sitting in his seat, and Thor bounds up and joins him. Serena is sitting like she had never left the bus, and she frowns at me as I come up.

  “Well?” she asks. “No food? Or water?”

  I sit down heavily, put the dispatch case between my feet. “Sorry. Got crowded in the diner and when it was my turn, forgot that my money and ration book were in my assault pack. Then the horn blew. Didn’t want to miss the bus.”

  She says crossly, “And you didn’t think of that before leaving?”

  A sharp bite of guilt, of thinking about Abby. Once we were on a recon mission that came up blank. As usual, rain started up in the afternoon, and we took shelter underneath an oak tree, waiting for our pick-up, me with Thor, she with her trusty bike. Neither of us had any rations left but it was okay; we scrounged around and found some fiddlehead ferns, whose roots we washed and ate raw, and for dessert, I went to a nearby abandoned orchard and salvaged a handful of dried McIntosh apples. In the driving rain we ate our meager meal, rain dripping down on us, Abby’s strong and scarred legs stretching out before her. We had shared laughs, stories about previous recons, and despite the rain and cold and rough meal, it had been a special day.

  I spare a glance at Serena’s legs and the short skirt she’s wearing. Only a few short minutes ago, I had found her and her legs appealing and oh so sexy. Now, in the smelly and smoky interior of the wood-fired Greyhound bus, heading towards a wartime Capitol, she looks ridiculous.

  “So?” Serena demands, repeating herself. “You didn’t think of that before leaving?”

  The driver gets in, shuts the door behind him, and gets into his seat.

  “Apparently not,” I reply.

  She snorts and says, “Whatever.”

  Sure, I think. Whatever. I look over at Thor, who’s sitting calmly with Serena’s brother. Buddy looks at me and I feel a flash of fear. He looks impassive and quiet and so very dangerous, with a power and talent I don’t understand.

  Serena sighs loudly again and settles herself in her seat, and I feel alone and vulnerable, a feeling I don’t like. It’s going to be a couple more hours before we get to the Capitol, and I’m wondering what to do and what to say when I get there, and in less than a half hour, that decision is thankfully taken away from me.

  Serena and Buddy and even Thor are dozing when the Greyhound bus makes a sudden stop, sliding over to the right. Through the windows I make out torchlights and even an electric flashlight or two. I get up and through the windshield, I see we’ve come to a checkpoint. Recalling what we had encountered earlier in the day, I take my Beretta pistol from my holster.

  Serena wakes up. “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t know,” I say. “Looks like we’ve been stopped by cops or something.”

  “Well, why don’t you find out, Randy?” she asks.

  “Why don’t you shut up, Specialist?” I snap back.

  The door opens up and Serena sits up, angry, and the driver steps out, and then comes back with an older woman, wearing an orange rain slicker and a round-brimmed uniform hat. Her face is drawn and her gray hair is matted from the rain. Water drips from her slicker, and in one hand, she’s holding a luxury, a flashlight.

  “Folks, Lynn Hanratty, of the Albany County Sheriff’s Department,” she says in a strong voice, despite the exhaustion about her eyes. “We’ve got a situation here tonight, was looking for some help. Are there any active duty military here?”

  I call out, “Right here, ma’am.”

  She looks slightly relieved. “Oh. Son . . . I mean, Sergeant, that’s good. Can you join us for a moment?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. I reach up to the luggage rack and take down my unloaded M-4 automatic rifle. I sling it over my shoulder and go down the aisle of the bus, Serena behind me, Thor coming along, but I tell him to stay with Buddy. The deputy sheriff steps out and I follow her. There’s a roadblock and gas lanterns are hung on the barricade and nearby tree limbs. She leads me to a tarp stretched from a decaying billboard advertising a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts, and there’s a fire and table and maps and other police officers and a couple of men with long rifles hanging off their shoulders. The Greyhound bus is still, steam and smoke rising up from the rear. By the tarp a few horses are hitched, and there’s an old dented, brown police cruiser with a cracked windshield.

  I duck underneath the tarp and the deputy sheriff takes off her hat, shakes off some of the raindrops and wipes at her eyes. “This is what we got, Sergeant. We got a Creeper on the attack, less than a half mile away.”

  She points down to a creased and stained topographical map that’s spread out on the table. I ask, “What do you have for a fighting force?”

  A harsh laugh. “What you see here, and a few hardy boys, out there in the woods, laying down some harassing fire without getting scorched or their heads burned off.”

  “Military?”

  Another cop speaks up. “So far, you. We can’t send up signaling flares with this damn rain, and the telegraph line’s down. We’ve sent out couriers, but it’s gonna be a while for help to come.”

  I look at the map again. “Maybe I’m dense, but what’s the problem? Just get out of the Creeper’s path until a QRF shows up.”

  Sheriff Hanratty shakes her head. “That sounds good, Sergeant, but unfortunately, the damn Creeper, while he’s moving slow, he’s heading straight to a relocation camp. Brooklyn North. Got a few hundred elderly, disabled and children in those tents. Middle of the night like this, we can’t get ’em all out in time.”

  The map is a fine piece of work, at least ten years old, of course. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, including Serena, who’s touching my elbow. She’s whispering, “Randy, look, Randy . . .”

  I say, “Best we can do is to slow it down, then. Until reinforcements arrive.”

  “That’s right,” the deputy sheriff says.

  Crazy and odd and no doubt strange, but at this moment, I almost feel relieved, at peace. The way forward for me is clear. The time for being in the shadows and facing uncertainty and secrets and coded messages and mistrust is over.

  It’s time to do what I know best.

  I look at everyone for just a moment, making sure all are paying attention to me.

  “Then under the current National Emergency and Martial Law act, I’m taking command of this situation,” I say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There’s a sudden intake of breath and Serena whispers, “Randy, you can’t be serious,” and one of the civilian men with a long rifle on his back says, “Hell you say, you’re just a kid.”

  “Kenny, shut up,” the deputy sheriff snaps. Glancing at my nametag, she says, “Sergeant Knox is correct. He’s the senior military official on site, and it’s his . . . responsibility. And duty. No matter his age. What now, sergeant?”

  A very good question, I think. A little needling voice inside says, all right, Randy, you hot shot, what now? These good and scared folks are waiting for you to do something.

  So do something.

  “All right, I need to get back to the bus, get some gear. I’ll be back here in about five minutes, and I’ll look for the latest situation report. Deal?”

  The deputy sheriff nods. “It’s a deal, Sergeant.”

  I turn around and go back to the bus, and Serena is tagging along, trying to get my attention, and I ignore her and as I get closer, I say to the driver, “Need you to open up the middle baggage compartment.”

  He nods and gets to work and snaps open the side door. I tug out my pack, open it up in the rain, start getting some of my gear out. Thor prances out of the open bus door, si
ts at my feet, and then gets up, sniffing the air. He starts whining, tail wagging. Serena’s hand is on my arm again, desperately saying, “Randy, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Getting ready to go into battle, Specialist,” I say. I unzip some of the side pockets, take out my family pic, my set of rosary beads and my souvenir from my first Creeper kill. They go into my coat pockets.I also take out Serena’s carefully folded uniform and place it in her hands.

  “But Randy, you’re supposed to escort me and my brother to the Capitol.”

  I gesture to the bus. “You’re probably less than an hour away. You’ll be just fine.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “A gamble we’re going to have to take,” I say. “We’ve got a Creeper out there, raising hell and threatening a couple hundred refugees. I’m not going to get back on the bus and be a good little passenger to the Capitol. I’ve got more important things to do than be a tour guide.”

  In the rain her hair is sticking to her angry face. I go through my pack again. No body armor, of course, or anti-burn cream. Damn. As somebody once famous said—something I should have remembered from one of my military history classes—you go to war with the army you have, not the army you want.

  “Why are you doing this?” she demands.

  “It’s my duty, that’s why.”

  She steps closer to me. “No, there’s something else going on. You’ve been cold and pissy ever since we left the diner. What’s up, Randy?”

  I adjust my belt, take one of the magazines and insert it into the M-4 and work the action, then put the automatic rifle in safe, put it back over my shoulder. “What’s up, Specialist, is that my mission has changed. My original mission was to escort Mister Manson and you and your brother to the Capitol. Mister Manson is dead. You and your brother can go on your own.”

  “But—”