Dark Victory: A Novel of the Alien Resistance

by Brendan DuBois

  I flip the switch on, catch a low hum, and I point something out to Serena: a faded bit of scratched graffiti, above the old dials that didn’t mean anything and near an old-fashioned ball compass: baghdad or bust.

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means this thing’s older than you and me put together,” she says. “Randy, please, drive.”

  I flipped the selector to D, and with a soft surge, we go out of the crowded parking lot.

  “Look at me,” I say. “Driving twice in two days.”

  “Goodie for you,” Serena says, arms crossed.

  I speed up as we approach the main gate, and the MP there just waves me on. I turn right and join the rest of the traffic getting out of the arsenal. Serena says, “You know how to get to Schenectady?”

  “Nope.”

  “You got a map?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how the hell do you plan to get there?”

  “Ask someone who knows.”

  It’s full morning when I arrive back at the farm where I had departed some hours ago, being driven out on a raspy Vespa scooter, and the dirt driveway before the barn is crowded with horse-drawn wagons and one battered Ford pick-up truck that looks to be nearly a century old. I park at an open spot near the barn and get out, jostled by some folks going in and out of the barn. I spot Billy Whittum and he fetches his mom, she’s coming out of the barn, on crutches, looking much more tired than from before.

  “Sergeant,” she says. “Looks like you’ve been at your rally point and back. Good for you, but if you’re looking for breakfast, sorry, we’re all out.”

  “No, ma’am,” I say. “Just directions, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  She looks at me, and then the Humvee. “I see. You’re coming up in the world . . . where are you going?”

  “Schenectady.”

  “What for?”

  I feel like a dick, but I can’t do anything else. “Sorry, ma’am. You know how it is. OPSEC.”

  She sags some in her crutches. A passing breeze tosses the loose pant leg where her stump is and she says, “OPSEC. Terrible bitch, ain’t she. Billy! A piece of paper and pencil.”

  Leaning onto the hood of the Humvee, she laboriously draws out a map, and she passes it over. “Anything else?”

  Time, time, time. But I say, “Yes. Thor.”

  Andrea seems to understand. “Sure. This way.”

  ‘This way” is an attached stall at the side of the barn, and God love my boy, I hear him whine as I approach. He knows I’m here. Behind me I see Serena get out of the Humvee, hurrying over to us. I go into the stall and Thor lifts his head, smiles, starts panting and wagging his tail. He’s resting on a dog bed made from a large canvas sack stuffed with something, resting upon soft hay, and I motion him to stay still. Behind me Andrea joins me and he says, “We changed his dressings and the pup didn’t give us no mind at all. Ate some dinner scraps and drank right up. That’s one fine boy you got there, Sergeant.”

  The rest here has done Thor well. His eyes are bright and shiny. Serena joins us and says, “Randy . . . I mean, Sergeant, we really have to get moving.”

  “We certainly do,” I reply. “And we’re all moving together.”

  “Sergeant . . .”

  I want to look at Serena but my eyes are filling, and I don’t want her to see that. “Back in the Humvee, in the rear. I’m sure I spotted a collapsible stretcher. Bring it back.”

  My boy’s tail thumps and thumps, and damn it, how does he know what I’m thinking?

  “Thor’s coming with us,” I say.

  A few minutes later Thor is in the rear of the Humvee, and Buddy smiles in enjoyment, and rubs and rubs his head, and Thor licks his hand in response. I fold up the collapsible stretcher and shove it in where I can, and return to the front of the vehicle. I turn the Humvee around and head out to the end of the driveway. To the south are columns of smoke and the orange glow of fires out of control, at our nation’s latest capitol.

  Serena raises her voice. “How are you feeling?”

  “On top of the world,” I say. “Now let’s go get our dads.”

  In a while we’re on Route Seven, also known as the Troy-Schenectady Road, and Andre’s directions are clear and to the point. The road is four lanes, with a turning lane in the center, with deserted office buildings and complexes on each side, overgrown trees, abandoned cars in parking lots and dead traffic lights at some intersections dangling low. There’s a detour she’s noted that I take—due to a long-ago bridge washout that’s never been repaired—and there’s a backup due to an Oldsmobile that took out a farm wagon. Now we’re on a typical narrow country road, houses and farms off at a distance, untrimmed trees and brush closing in on each side of the road. On-coming traffic is relatively heavy, with horse-drawn wagons, some folks on bicycles and two old cars passing us. One car honks and a couple of people wave.

  I wave back and start puzzling out the map. Serena says something but I’m too focused on the map, so she has to say, “Sergeant, damn it, will you listen to me?”

  I’m startled. “Yeah. What’s up?”

  She points out the grimy windshield. “The traffic. Haven’t you noticed it?”

  Heatedly I say, “Yeah, I have. They’re refugees. What’s the problem?”

  Serena says, “Refugees? Heading in the direction of Albany?”

  I feel like an idiot. I slow down. Another horse-drawn wagon rattles by, the farmer in front holding the reins yelling something at us.

  “Specialist.”

  “Yes.”

  “Make sure you’re ready with the M-4. And get that M-10 within easy reach.”

  She says nothing and does as she’s told. I look back and Thor is stretched out on Buddy’s lap, and Buddy is rubbing and rubbing his head. Serena rests the M-4 across her lap, and props up the M-10 and a bandolier of rounds next to her seat. I slow down the Humvee, lower the driver’s side window. Behind me Thor whimpers, and then sets off a low growl that makes the back of my hands and neck itch.

  “Randy,” Serena says, voice strained.

  “Quiet.”

  The road turns and then slopes to the left down to a four-way intersection. The smell of burnt things suddenly assaults us. At the crossroads, a statue had once been erected of a Civil War soldier, standing bravely in a tiny grass square, and the statue is on the ground, shattered and smashed, the granite stand cracked wide open. At the right a dirty white pick-up truck is on its back, both doors open, one of them gently swinging back and forth in the morning breeze.

  “Oh, Randy . . .”

  A bus is on the other side of the small intersection, pushed over to the side of the road. It’s been shattered and burnt. The windows appear barred, but the glass is either broken or melted. The scorched and torn open frame is on four flat and melted tires. On the rear of the bus the white letters a r m y are blackened.

  I don’t remember putting the Humvee in park. I’m outside, on the cracked and old pavement, M-10 in hand, bandolier over my shoulder, looking, evaluating, moving slow, sniffing the air.

  Cinnamon.

  I move closer to the destroyed bus, sensing Serena next to me. She stays with me and—

  A burnt body on the ground, arms out-stretched. Another one a few meters away. Uniforms burned away, boots and helmets only recognizable. And huddled over a half-melted steering wheel, the charcoal-black arms of a headless driver leans to one side.

  Serena screams and screams.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I grab her arm, give her a shake. “Sort it out. Knock it off.”

  She sobs some more. I let go of her, take a glance back to the Humvee. Buddy is at the near open window and Thor has raised his head. He’s sniffing the air, whining. Unlike the attack on the train the other day, this is no fake Creeper assault.

  The stench nearly knocks me back, but I force myself to go closer. Besides the two bodies on the ground, and the headless driver, I find another body in the wreckage, halfwa
y out the door. The roof of the bus has been torn off.

  Serena’s sobbing goes on. Thor barks. I step carefully around the bus, M-10 still at the ready.

  “Specialist!”

  She sniffs and rubs at her eyes with her fists. “What?”

  I take a deep breath, go back to the Humvee, grabbing her elbow. “There’s four bodies there. Four.”

  “So?”

  “Three of them have helmets on their heads. And the other one is behind the wheel. Our dads aren’t there. I was told four MPs were in the transport. Four.”

  I give her another firm shake. “You hear me? They aren’t here!”

  I roughly push her ahead of me, thinking, looking again. No sign of Creeper trail in the near woods and fields. The bastard must have come down the road, and returned the same way. I get into the Humvee, leave the M-10 over my lap, slam the door. Think. Think. Serena gets in and closes her door and I turn left, drive down the road slow, turning to make sure Thor’s head is out the open rear window, sniffing.

  “Where are you going?” Serena asks.

  “Nowhere. Anywhere.”

  “Randy . . .”

  I don’t look to her but keep on talking as I do down the road. “Don’t you get it? The Creeper attacked the bus. The four MPs were killed on the scene. Our dads . . . they’ve been captured.”

  She starts sobbing again.

  My hands are cold, my feet are cold, and I feel like I’m going choke in fear and frustration. How far down the road should I go? Would Thor pick up the trail? And how long ago was the attack?

  I spin the wheel, make a bumpy U-turn, head back to the intersection. Nothing much has changed. I take a left. Serena’s stopped sobbing, but she’s staring out the window. Thor’s panting. I can’t smell anything.

  One more road to take.

  Are we too late?

  Are our dads still alive?

  Another U-turn, this time I speed up, and make a final left.

  Thor starts barking and whining after we’ve gone about a hundred meters.

  I speed up.

  And stop. Creeper sign to the right, a fence post torn free, grass burnt, saplings tossed aside, and I flip the steering wheel and accelerate, and we plow across the field, and Thor’s barking increases.

  Cinnamon. That damn smell.

  The field comes up across a section of woods, and the going gets rough, and I can’t go any further. I slam the Humvee to a halt, switch off the engine, grab the M-10 and say, “Specialist! With me!”

  She bails out without a word and is at my side. My breathing cuts at me, as I curse and run and stumble through the broken trees and branches, forgetting all my training about moving slow, moving sure. All I know now is my dad is up there, as well as Serena’s, and I’m not going easy, not going slow.

  More smell of burnt things, ashes. Serena’s shouting something and I ignore her. A broken branch tears at my face, the slashing pain making me tear up, but I press on, and press on.

  The woods suddenly thin out, and end. All before me are ashes, burnt buildings, destroyed military equipment—105 mm howitzer, M-1A tank, an overturned truck—a broken stone wall, and a pockmarked landscape. A Battle Creeper is on the move about fifty meters away, firing away bursts of flame from its arms, herding two human figures before it.

  Herding the two humans to the dull blue-gray dome marking a Creeper base.

  I whirl, grab the M-4 out of Serena’s hands. “Stay put!”

  She yells again and I run harder across the broken and burnt field, stumbling, falling, picking myself up, running past a long trench with bones and uniform scraps jumbled together, ammunition boxes, melted barrels of heavy weapons. I run and run and run. The two men are in tattered uniforms, heads bent down. Hard to tell which one might be Dad.

  I stop, flop myself down on the scorched earth, ignoring the M-10. The Creeper is moving away from me. I don’t have a target solution, I don’t have a target, I don’t have anything at all. I need the damn thing to turn around!

  I flip the safety off, bring the M-4 up to my shoulder, squeeze off one round, then two, and another. Aiming right at the rear of the main arthropod.

  The Creeper keeps on moving, spurting out bursts of flame, keeping the humans in check.

  I’m ignored.

  I stand up, fire off three more rounds.

  “Right here!” I scream. “Right over here, you bitch! Turn around and take me on! C’mon! Are you scared? Hunh? Scared?”

  Two more rounds from me.

  Two more bursts of flame the alien’s arms. The Creeper ambles on.

  Something is going on with the Creeper base.

  A sliver has appeared in the smooth surface.

  An opening is beginning to dilate.

  My dad and Serena’s dad. One of the two men tries to move and screams as a flame scorches his right side.

  They’re close to going inside the base and never coming out.

  “Oh, Dad!” I sob.

  I throw myself down to the ground again, where I’ll have a better shot, recall the shouts of my DI from years back:

  Nobody left behind.

  Nobody captured.

  Nobody.

  I wipe at my eyes, and again. I bring up the M-4, bring the familiar stock against my shoulder. The barrel wobbles. I take a breath, settle down, aim through the sights.

  There. Clear shot to the man on the left.

  Is it Dad or Serena’s father?

  What difference does it make?

  I’m not going to let a fellow soldier get into that dome.

  Clear shot.

  I start squeezing the trigger, the sights not wavering, the man clear in my eye—

  A noise to my right. A shout. A clicking, whirring, sputtering sound.

  I can’t help myself.

  It’s Buddy.

  Buddy!

  And he has his hands around his mouth, and he’s yelling something that sounds like gibberish. Clicks, whirs, sputtering and spits.

  Up ahead the Creeper has stopped.

  It starts to move.

  I drop the M-4, take the M-10 off my back.

  The opening to the dome gets longer and wider.

  The two men have fallen to their knees.

  I open the breech of the M-10, take out a round, click it from the safe position, go pass the ten-meter setting, and set it onto the twenty-five meter position.

  The Creeper is now facing me, its two forward weaponized arms extended up and out, the main arthropod rising up.

  I slam the breech shut.

  Bring it up. Something sparking emerges from both of the alien arms.

  BLAM!

  I quickly eject, grab another round, spin it to the same twenty-five meters, and—

  BLAM!

  The second chemical cloud bursts just as the first one is spreading, and I’m grabbing another round, when the Creeper starts shaking, its arms extending up, legs collapsing.

  I don’t stop.

  Eject the second cartridge. I flick the setting for the third round to fifty meters, slam it into the breech, and fire off one more round.

  BLAM!

  My shoulder throbs and tomorrow it’s gonna hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but the last round flies out and over the dying Creeper, descends, descends, and hits the ground, bounces once, and rises up and soars into the Creeper base, as the dilation begins to close.

  I don’t see or hear anything after that, and then the Creeper base is now back to one smooth surface, and I’m pretty sure my Colt round has exploded inside the base, but who knows for sure.

  I yell to the dome. “Courtesy of Second Recon Rangers, assholes!”

  The chemical cloud has drifted away, and the two men are coming my way, limping, one holding up the other. I pick up the M-4 and sling it and the Colt M-10 over my shoulders. Buddy is still standing there, a quiet smile on his face.

  “You,” I say, voice shaking. “What the hell did you say back there?”

  The smile on his face doesn’t
change a bit. I walk the other way.

  My Dad is on the left, black-rimmed eyeglasses with one stem tape repaired, limping. He has on plain BDUs. His face is black with soot and smoke. He’s holding up another man, also in plain BDUs. Serena’s dad, I’m sure.

  He stops, and Serena’s dad stops as well. He’s breathing hard, and parts of his uniform have been scorched away.

  Dad takes a breath. “Doctor Coulson, may I present my son, Sergeant Randy Knox?”

  An Excerpt From the Journal of Randall Knox

  The other night my squad and a few others had choir practice. Sounds cute, don’t it, but it’s something we need to do to blow off steam and just be teen boys for a while. We get leave and such, but there’s not much for us to do in Concord, and the USO does what it can, but sometimes, a bunch of us just wander off to an empty stretch of woods on our base and kick back. That means a fire gets lit, some stolen chocolate bars get eaten, and if we’re real lucky, some trooper has some ’shine smuggled in from trading with the local farmers.

  That night there were about a half-dozen of us, and I’m always pleased that I get invited. Officially, of course, I’m in charge, but I know enough to forget my sergeant’s stripes back at my barracks. But I do step in if things get out of hand.

  The fire was roaring along nicely, a bottle of ‘shine was passed around, and after a discussion of the cutest girls in the outfit—and I’m secretly pleased to see Abby made the top five—we get to a familiar subject: what would you do personally to end the war, if you could?

  There was the typical—swim across the still-drowned island of Manhattan, go up against a Battle creeper naked save for a jockstrap and a dull spoon, that sort of crap—and a bunch of pretty obscene suggestions that made us laugh and laugh.

  Then somebody asked Harrison, “Hey, Harrison, what would you do?”

  And we get quiet then, because Harrison was new. Oh, he’s not a rookie—he’s got the burnt scar tissue and other wounds to prove it—and he’s a year older than me, but still a private. Word was, he was with a Vermont unit that got roasted a few months ago, and the higher-ups decided to transfer the survivors around New England instead of keeping them in Vermont.