SNAFU: Future Warfare

by Geoff Brown

  Mother looked at me and frowned.

  “I mean all the time,” I corrected. “She’s fit. She even wants to go. I can get us into the Malibu Hills and back out in no time at all.”

  “But her arm,” BJ began.

  “What about it? You going to tell her she can’t go because she has missing pieces? That she’s less of a person?” Now it was my turn to beam. “She needs to figure out the hard way that she can find ways around what’s missing and use what she has.”

  When Mother nodded, I knew I had her and there wasn’t a single thing BJ could do. He saw it as well, and his triumph dimmed a bit. She called out to Franklin who stood at the door to the room. “Bring Junebug in. I want Benji to talk to her.”

  A moment later, a young woman about my age joined us. Dressed in a summer dress, bare feet, windblown blonde hair, freckles dotting her nose, she said everything she knew, which was virtually nothing.

  When she was done, I asked, “Who told you?”

  When she spoke, it was with a bright drawl. “Fredericks of Hollywood. He’s a peddler. Rims the radioactive zone and grabs things he thinks might be of value. Entertainment goods mostly. DVDs. Books. That sort of thing.”

  “Why did he tell you? Are you a couple?”

  She glanced shyly at Mother.

  That was the answer I’d expected.

  “Does he have any reason to lie to you?” I asked.

  She shook her head and toed the carpet with her left foot. “I mean, I know he has girls everywhere, but he’s sweet on me and he’s always nice to me.”

  “Is that where you got that dress? Fredericks of Hollywood?”

  She nodded.

  “And how did it come up? I mean, it’s not something one would normally share.”

  “I was talking about the beach and how I missed it. How I missed the feel of those little rocks in the sand between my toes, cold and slippery with water. He then warned me and said to stay away from the Malibu Hills. He said even he doesn’t go up there because there’s some sort of new alien that a bunch of people are talking about.”

  I nodded, then turned to Mother. “I got what I needed. We’ll leave tonight.”

  I moved to leave, but she stopped me by lifting her hand an inch from her lap.

  “Benji?”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Be careful.”

  “Yes, Mother,” I said, then I stepped out of the building to where Suzi waited. I nodded as I passed her. “You can come,” I said.

  Had I not been looking for it, I would have missed it, but her right hand made a fist and moved ever so gently into what could have only been the world’s smallest fist pump.

  “We leave at ten tonight,” I called after her. I had no idea if she’d heard me. I supposed I’d find that out if she showed up and was ready.

  * * *

  The camp was better organized than many forward operating bases I’d seen. There was a place for everything – from the armory, to the barracks, to the garage, to the command and control building. The garrison was run by a retired sergeant major named Scott Marshall, who made everything run as smoothly as could be expected at the end of the world. They’d assigned me to recon, because it let me be alone most of the time and it was something I was good at. Being an eleven bang bang in the Army was my own charm school. Bosnia, Afghanistan and Iraq were my finishing schools. The invasion was my master’s thesis.

  There were six of us recon specialists. There were also the scroungers who were always out searching for items we could use, usually carrying long lists of things for which we were desperate. The welcomers handled new personnel. The wrenchies took care of our sparse motor pool. We even had a police department run by a former highway patrolman named Venditto.

  “Hey, wait up,” came a voice from behind me.

  I turned, already recognizing the voice, dreading what he was about to say.

  Crefloe Johnson skittered to a stop. All bone and gristle he couldn’t have weighed more than a buck forty. He’d been a crack addict in recovery when the invasion happened. That his recovery unit had been in Palm Springs was why he’d never died. Like all crack addicts with street cred, he’d kept his ears and eyes open, watching as some folks were helped and others weren’t. He’d eventually found his way to Mother where he’d promised her he’d long ago gone straight and would excel at being a scrounger. Which he was, but I didn’t believe for a second that he didn’t use his time away from the Family to lay up somewhere stoned out of his mind. He also had the strangest of appearances. He had vitiligo, which can throw a person off when they first see him. The skin across his eyes had lost its pigmentation making him look like a reverse raccoon. Other white spots dotted his chin and neck. Most of his arms and fingers were white with streaks and dots of his original pigmentation. Overall, he had more of a spotted-man appearance.

  “Black Johnson sent me,” he said, speaking addict fast.

  Which is what I’d figured. Although not related, BJ used Crefloe as his eyes and ears. I had no doubt my every move from here on out would be reported back.

  “Is that supposed to impress me?” I made it clear I wasn’t happy.

  “Whoa there, Nelly. Cref ain’t your enemy. I’m just doing what I’m told, just same as you. His majesty wants me to help and I think I can. I’ve been to that area scrounging and know some of the back ways in.”

  “Did you ever see any strange aliens when you were there?” I asked.

  “No sir,” he shook his head fast and hard. “No sir. Not even a little alien. No aliens for Cref. Just the homes of the rich and famous.” He leaned in like we were on a street corner. “Know whose house I scrounged? Barbara Streisand’s. Do you know how much gold she had in that place? Gold tub. Gold shower. Fucking gold refrigerator door. Gave me a work out opening and closing it. It’s a crying shame that gold ain’t worth nothing any more. Was a time I could get rich off something like that.” His words had tumbled out so fast, it took a second after he finished for my mind to catch up.

  I thought about telling him to go pound sand. Part of me said I should, but another part of me, the part that knew Black Johnson would find a way to stop the mission if I did, made me hold that thought. Instead, I said, “We’re leaving at ten tonight.”

  He almost leaped for joy, a vicious smile raking his face. “Thank you. Thank you. Ten tonight. Ten tonight. I’ll be there with bells.” When he saw my face, he shook his head. “No. Scratch that. No bells. Bells bad for recon. I’ll be there but wearing no bells. That good, Mase?”

  No one had ever called me Mase, but as long as it wasn’t Benji, I’d let it slide. I nodded.

  Crefloe bounced away like Tigger on his way to a party.

  I thought about calling after him, but instead merely shook my head and went to find the chief of the scroungers. They were also the ones who controlled the maps. First, I’d need to get a map and plot primary and secondary routes. Then I’d have to go to supply and draw enough for all three of us to survive a six-day recon. My plan was three days there and three days back. Within a week we’d know what was up there or if it wasn’t anything more than a ploy from a man named Fredericks of Hollywood to get a free frolic under Junebug’s skirts.

  * * *

  We met by the back gate. Suzie showed first, carrying a pink Hello Kitty pack. Crefloe arrived wearing all black, including black Nike basketball shoes. I was glad to see that his pack was a blacked-out military mollied pack. At least he knew how to travel. Now to see what was inside them. I had both empty their packs.

  Suzie carried toiletries and blankets. She also had a seven-inch gravity knife. Interesting. But no food. No other weapons. No first aid kit.

  Crefloe carried four days’ worth of rations. Five gallons of water. A head lamp and a week’s worth of spare batteries. He also had two changes of clothes, one of which was an LA pimp version of what John Travolta might have worn had Saturday Night Fever taken place in Compton, not New Jersey. When I held it up, Crefloe smiled weakly an
d murmured something about a disguise. I noted he also carried a double holster with Browning 9mm pistols and had ten magazines. Finally, came a book filled with notes and maps, something he’d probably been working on since he’d first started scrounging. This I handed back to him with respect.

  I tossed Suzie’s pack aside and brought forth one I’d already made for her. I added her toiletries and changes of clothes to this, as well as her knife. I also handed her a shoulder holster with a 9mm Sig Saur pistol and eight full magazines.

  For Crefloe, I removed his disguise and replaced it with a field medic kit.

  He didn’t seem too happy, but said nothing.

  Neither did Suzie, watching the process with all the interest as if it were paint drying.

  Once everyone had their packs ready and adjusted on their backs, I went around, checking for metal on metal, taping when I found them. Being in the forest alone was one thing. The idea was for us to get to our target area, conduct recon, and return with no one ever realizing we were there. Silence would be our best friend. Silence and speed.

  Content with the way the load was distributed and our chances of stealth, I shouldered my pack, checked my nine on my hip, slung my M4 around my neck, and led them out the gate. After about a mile, I led them off the road, then had them kneel.

  “I’m only going to say this once. Suzie, you wanted to come. Crefloe, you were told to come. But I can send each of you back in a heartbeat if I feel your behavior or actions will compromise the mission. We’ve been told there is some sort of new alien threat. We’re going to get to the bottom of it, then return with information to Mother. No heroics. No taking chances. Everyone is to follow my orders to the letter. Do you both understand?”

  Crefloe licked his lips and nodded hastily.

  Suzie stared at the ground, eye unblinking.

  I cleared my throat and the effect startled her.

  She nodded. “Yes. Sure.”

  I stared at her and wondered for the thousandth time what had happened to her. I was hoping this trip would be a breakthrough. That something would happen to get her to open up. I could only hope.

  Crefloe and I did a radio check with our walkies, then I stood, hand signaled Crefloe to move forward and take point, then had Suzie walk ahead of me.

  Both Crefloe and I had Geiger counters and watched them closely. We would have liked to use the 210, but there were parts that were flooded with deadly radiation from where the Hollywood Hive had blown. Although most of the blast had been protected inside the hive, enough radiation had leaked out to cause pockets and waves of invisible death. We’d seen the occasional refugee try and get into the camp, radiation sores on their skin indicating they were in the final stages of radiation death. We didn’t want to share the same fate. So we had to head north, hugging the national forest, taking side roads through empty communities. Mostly empty. Here and there I noted a house barricaded, wood and roof tin nailed over the inside of ground-floor windows. We left them be.

  The dog packs were the worst. Left to their own accord and without anyone to make them pets, they reverted to their precursors, making them dangerous enough that I’d seen packs of them take down an armed band of scroungers. When I could, I avoided them. I hated shooting dogs. So when he heard even the smallest bark, we moved in the opposite direction.

  We trekked without incident through Bradbury, Monrovia, Sierra Madre, and Kinneola Mesa, until the sky began to lighten. I had Crefloe find us a hide spot. Not that we wouldn’t move during the day, it was just that a lot of things came out at dawn and I wanted to make sure we had a hide so we could see exactly what those things were. We ended up in a copse of trees on the edge of what the map read as Rocking Horse Ranch.

  We heard an inhuman scream coming from the direction of Los Angeles about noon, but nothing else.

  We left mid-afternoon, skirting the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. I remembered when we’d last been here with Sandi, Phil and Dupree. They’d all been alive back then. I closed my eyes and smelled burning flesh as Phil set fire to the infected children, their skin popping, hair sizzling. They hadn’t screamed. They hadn’t even run away. They were infected by the spore and had no control over their bodies. But they could still feel the pain. They could still see themselves engulfed in flame.

  We were forced to stop because I found I couldn’t move.

  Crefloe watched over me as I lay on the asphalt, hugging my shoulders, reliving my own time with the spore, and how it had grabbed my soul by the throat and not let go. Then I was burning, burning, burning, my own skin popping, my own hair sizzling, feeling every microsecond of pain, but unable to release it. My insides churned until they were emptied on the street.

  An hour later found me stripping my clothes and cleaning myself.

  Suzie watched me the entire time, like I was a rare insect who was sometimes a dragonfly and sometimes a pill bug.

  Crefloe didn’t say anything so neither did I. For all I knew, he had his own set of symptoms and episodes.

  Once I was ready, I moved out, and they followed.

  We’d traveled about two miles when I heard the screams. Someone, somewhere close, was dying a horrible death.

  Crefloe gave me a look and I nodded. He took off, running forward, a pistol in his hand, carried low and pointed to the ground. He was gone two minutes before he squelched the walkie.

  “What’s going on?” I asked

  “Cray. Someone winged one and they’re trying to take it out.”

  “And the scream?”

  “These fools are going to get themselves killed.”

  I glanced at the sky. Where there was one, there were usually more. Drones had been outside and away from the hive when I’d blown it, killing their queen and leveling their home. Without it… without her… they became much more aggressive, killing anything that moved. Some of them had gone crazy as well. If they had a Cray, it was definitely dangerous.

  “What do you want to do?” Crefloe asked.

  I glanced at Suzie, who merely stared blankly at the horizon.

  “I suppose we should be Samaritans.”

  “You say that now,” he said. “Wait until you’re seeing what I see.”

  Two minutes later, I was standing beside him in the shadow of a long-ago abandoned eighteen wheeler. There were six of them, all dressed like they’d stepped off the set of a medieval movie. One was on the ground, bleeding out, while another frantically tried to staunch the flow of blood. The four remaining – all dressed in either chainmail or hard metal armor like I’d seen knights wear in film – held long poles with axes on the end, shoving them menacingly into the face of a Cray whose leg had been trapped by what could only be a metallic-toothed bear trap.

  “Knights of the Holy Cray,” I murmured.

  The Cray had a torn and bloody wing. Standing nine feet tall, it looked vaguely like a praying mantis, if mantids had deadly elbow and knee spikes, razor-sharp talons that could rip through flesh like a hot knife through butter, fanged mandibles, and the ability to self-generate an EMP pulse that destroyed any electronics within their vicinity. That final weapon was the reason Earth hadn’t been able to put up much of a fight. So I guess it only made sense there’d be knights from the middle ages fighting the beast as if it were a dragon from yore.

  “SCA,” Crefloe said. When he saw my confusion, he added, “Society for Creative Anachronism. Group of nerds who got together to pretend they were knights and bards and ladies and shit like that. No self-respecting brother would get anywhere near that nerd shit, but I was in lock up with this guy once who’d gotten popped for selling X at a jousting tournament.” When he saw my raised eyebrows, he added, “I shit you not, a certified for reals jousting tournament.”

  Now the scene was starting to make sense. Two of the men wore chain mail and had what appeared to be Norman helms. The chain mail over their torso was a shirt, while a chain mail skirt protected their bottoms. Beneath these were leather leggings that ran into knee-high boots. A third man was d
ressed in a classic knight’s outfit, the Ferrari symbol emblazoned on his chest. He carried a sword and was busily ordering the two men who were attacking the Cray. A fourth man stood beside the knight with a cumbersome crossbow holding a bolt that looked as if it could take down a charging rhino. On the ground was the second man in a knight’s outfit. His chest had been ripped open by the Cray’s claws. Had I been there to confer with them prior to their insane attack on a Cray, I would have let them know that nothing short of an anodized Faraday cage-protected EXO would protect them from its weapons. But then again, no one ever asks me shit. Another chain-mailed warrior was trying to save the armored nerd on the ground.

  “What do you want to do?” Crefloe asked.

  “Remove your radio and leave them here with your ruck. Let’s go save these knights.”

  After a few moments, we were ready to join the fray.

  I held my M4 at low ready and moved forward with purpose.

  The knight saw me when I was about twenty feet away from the Cray.

  “Stop, good sir! We have this under control.”

  I ignored him. Took another six steps, fixed my gaze through my ACOG and fired a short burst into each of the Cray’s eyes.

  It didn’t cry out. It didn’t lunge. It merely fell to the ground.

  I turned to the two men with halberds. “You can leave off that shit now.”

  They looked at each other, backed away, then turned to their knight.

  I could see Crefloe over by the downed man. He was shaking his head and moving the knife edge of his hand across his neck.

  “How dare you interfere in a knight’s work,” came a shout, a little too imperious for my liking.

  I aimed my M4 at him, wondering if the lead-tipped bullets would make it through the armor.

  The crossbowman aimed at me as well.

  “You can’t go around playing with these things,” I said. “Someone’s bound to get hurt.”

  “Sir Porsche was trying to make a name for himself,” the man said. “I am his liege.”

  Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. Two men who’d named themselves after expensive luxury cars. By the insignia on this one’s chest, I had no doubt what to call him.