A smile and gentle tap to my shoulder. “We get to the Capitol and my job is done, I’ll buy you and your two friends the best meal you’ve ever had. Promise.”
I nod and return to my seat.
The ride west is slow and grinding. The train stops because a section of track is being repaired, or a wagon is stuck at a crossroads, or a tree is down across the right-of-way. Thor is a good boy and rests on the padded seat, and Serena and her brother Buddy stay together, Serena sometimes rubbing his shoulder or the back of his neck. Her brother sits quietly, staring out at the Massachusetts scenery as we rumble our way along.
Manson gets up from his seat and comes back to see me. “Sergeant, it seems to be lunch time.”
I check my watch. “It certainly does.”
Manson waits, and then says crossly, “Well?”
“Not sure what you mean, Mister Manson.”
“Lunch. I’m hungry. I want you to get something for me to eat.”
I rub Thor’s fur. So much for the reasonable Mister Manson I had talked to earlier. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mister Manson.”
I sense Serena looking at me. He says, “The hell you can’t. Your colonel ordered you to—”
“My colonel ordered me to escort you, sir. He didn’t order me to fetch your meals or your laundry. If you wish to go back to the dining car, I’ll gladly go with you. But when it comes to securing your chow, you’re on your own.”
Manson looks like he wants to argue, and then a couple of passengers start coming up the aisle behind him, and he snorts and moves out as well. I get up and say to Serena, “Can I get you and your brother anything?”
“I thought you weren’t fetching chow.”
“Not for him,” I say. “For a fellow soldier, that’s not a problem.”
She blushes. I like the sight. She says, “I’m sorry, Sergeant, I can’t say yes. I have no money. Just my ration book.”
I say, “I’m on account. I’ll take care of it. Keep a view on Thor, all right?”
Then I follow my charge through the rear carriage door.
I go through to another carriage, pass the Marines I had met earlier at the train station, and after two more carriages, I make it to the dining car, a small carriage with a countertop and three overworked and harried Amtrak women employees wearing black checked pants and white jackets. A number of tables are already packed with passengers, including a few Army officers. Manson is talking to one of the dining car workers and I elbow my way up, see a printed menu under glass on the counter: bottled water, meat sandwich, cheese sandwich. Not a bad menu, considering. I order lunch for the three of us and after the coupons get torn out of my ration book, I pay with a new ten-dollar bill, President Reagan’s face smiling up at me, and then drop an extra fifty cents for a deposit on the plastic bag once I get my change back. With lunch and receipt in hand, to account for my expenses to Lieutenant Bouchard, I turn around and—
Bump right into an Army captain.
“Oh,” I say. “Excuse me, sir.”
“No problem, son,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”
I take in his uniform and feel my hands tingle. His shoulder flashes denote RANGER and SPECIAL FORCES, while Combat Parachutist, Air Assault, and Combat Infantryman Badges are stacked on his left breast. On the right, his nametag says DIAZ. I’ve never met a Special Forces soldier before, and for good reason: they’re legendary, and move in different combat circles than the National Guard. Special Forces perform quite dark and secretive missions. Rumors have it that occasionally they’ve been able to raid inside Creeper bases, and have sometimes taken alien prisoners. Amazing stories, if true, but damn it, some of them must be true. Otherwise how was our Colt M-10 cartridge developed without having prisoners to test on?
I quickly take in three things from Captain Diaz: he’s old and bald, with lots of burn tissue around what’s left of his misshapen ears and eyebrows. Atop one of his badges is something I’ve heard about but have never seen before: the Diamond Eagle, denoting someone who’s been on active duty for the past ten years. Understandably, not many of those have been awarded.
And the third thing is that he’s looking at my nametag with undisguised interest.
“Knox?” he asks through his scarred mouth. “Sergeant Knox? Any relation to Colonel Henry Knox?”
I drop my bag of food and water, bend over clumsily to pick it up. “Yes, he’s my father.”
Captain Diaz says, “I’m Captain Ramon Diaz. Your father’s a good man. A very good man. I just saw him last week. Sorry for his troubles.”
“His troubles? Sir?”
We’re jostled some from other passengers pushing into the meal counter. He says, “Later, Sergeant. I’ve got two buds of mine who are ready to faint if they don’t get some food into them. I’ll meet up with you later and we’ll talk.”
The Special Forces captain moves forward and I stand still, shocked and surprised and filled with a mixture of excitement and dread. Someone knows where my dad is, and my dad is alive, and—
He’s in trouble.
What kind of trouble?
Don’t know, but after I get lunch back into Serena and her brother’s hands, I intend to track down Captain Diaz and find out exactly what’s going on.
I practically trot back through the carriages, seeing Mister Manson at a distance through the glass windows of the doors. One carriage away from my seat and my two younger charges, there’s an explosion, a wailing screech of steam, and the carriage tilts and I slam my back and head against the side wall.
An Excerpt From the Journal of Randall Knox
Lecture today from visiting Air Force officer. Said to be an expert on astrophysics. Short little guy, looked pretty nervous. Not hard to understand; since the war started, AF has taken the heaviest casualties. Started talking about where the Creepers might have come from. Two theories: nearby star system, or part of a culture that’s been spaceborne for centuries. Either way, why did they come here? What prompted them?
Current idea is that Earth started announcing its presence through various means: first radio broadcasts in early 1900s, atomic weapons testing in 1945, wide-scale television broadcasting in the 1950s, H-bomb test in 1953. Creepers or anybody with right detection gear would know industrial civilization was present on third planet in our solar system. If our neighbors were mean and paranoid—like European empires in 15th century—they might decide to come over and raise some hell.
AF guy started going through star systems in a huge bubble about our sun, listing various stars that could be home to a Creeper civilization. Pretty dry stuff. Started yawning some and found out I wasn’t the only one. When AF guy was done, Professor Falconer went to back row, kicked the legs of Jefferson, large black kid, refugee from Roxbury. Falconer asked him why he was sleeping. Jefferson said it was boring, not worth listening to. Professor said, why’s that, Private? Jefferson shrugged: don’t care where the buggy bastards came from. Just want to know how to kill ’em better.
Have to admit, I like Jefferson’s attitude. He got ten extra days, KP duty at the dining facility, but I guarantee most of the guys and gals in the lecture hall agreed with him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I’m stunned and bite my tongue, and the lunch bag flies out of my hand. There are screams and shouts from the passengers as the carriage roars off the rails, hitting the ground, rattling and bouncing, the train whistle screeching in one long bone-rattling wail. The carriage tilts and bucks and finally grinds to a halt, on its side, passengers and luggage and papers and sacks tumbling to the right, more thumps and shouts. I jam my ankle into one seat and there’s another explosion, and up front, a woman starts screaming, “It’s a Creeper! It’s a Creeper! We’re gonna get burnt!”
More shouts, screams, panic rushing through the tilted-over carriage. Too much of a mess up forward with passengers bunched up against the far door, so I reverse course and push my way through the rear door, stumble to the ground, take in the quickening horror.
Up ahead the locomotive with the cheerful Wal-Mart sign is on its side, its boilers broken, steam and smoke billowing up into the overcast sky. The coal car has crashed up into the locomotive, and the carriage cars are a twisted tumble, windows broken, flames roaring along the roof and side. Screams and shouts pierce through the air, passengers stumbling out of the doors or hauling themselves through broken windows.
We’re in a shallow valley, the near slope rising up to a line of woods, the far slope being overgrown grass and brush, and as the screaming woman had warned, a Creeper is skylining itself at the crest of the hill. Its two main arms are firing down on us; one arm using its flamer, the other a weaponized laser, firing off short bursts that are burning and killing my fellow passengers as they scramble away from the derailed train. I frantically look around for Captain Diaz, the Special Forces officer who knows my dad, and he’s nowhere to be seen.
More shouts. The Marines sprint by me, two dogs keeping pace, led by a sergeant screaming, “Alpha, get up on that ridge!” The tail-end Marine looks at me and says, “Come on, Recon boy, haul ass!”
I pull out my 9 mm, start running, heading to the near carriage. The Marine says, “War’s over here, bud!”
“Orders!” I shout back, hating how weak the excuse sounds. “I got orders!”
He replies with a loud obscenity, and joins his squad.
Right then I hate myself, and I hate this job.
I climb through a broken rear door. Flames are dancing overhead from slats torn away from the old roof. More screams, and the harsh snap/sizzle of the Creeper’s weapons at work. Seats have been ripped away and in the smoky haze, people are stumbling about.
“Thor!” I call out. “Thor, come!”
A bark and my chest feels immediately lighter. Even with the carriage tilted to one side, Thor scrambles across to me, dragging his leash. I unsnap the leash and call out again: “Coulson! Specialist Coulson!”
“Here!” comes a voice. From the smoke Serena emerges, holding her brother’s hand, holding her large purse in the other. He has a bloody handkerchief pressed to his forehead, but he’s not crying or sobbing. “Out,” I say, “we’ve got to get out.”
In the tangle of luggage I see my pack, grab it. “Manson!” I yell. “Mister Manson, are you here?”
Serena tugs at my arm. “He’s gone. I saw him run out right after the train derailed. Damn near trampled a kid to do it.”
I push her ahead of me, Thor moving along, the pack over my right shoulder, pistol in hand. The air is choking. Outside there’s another snap/sizzle of the Creeper firing down at us. More screams. On the far slope smoldering bodies are at rest. A young girl, about three or four, is sitting up, holding the hand of a burnt body, crying and tugging at the dead hand of her mother or aunt or older sister, the tan skirt miraculously untouched, the upper torso smoking and sizzling.
Most of the passengers huddle down, trying to hide behind the derailed cars. I push Serena again. “Take your brother and go! Get away from here! Head down the tracks, find shelter.”
“Why can’t we stay here?”
Most of the carriages are on fire. I say, “If the Marines can’t kill that Creeper right away, everyone here is going to be dead in a few minutes.”
“Are you staying to fight?”
“No, damn it!” I yell again, my tongue hurting bad from when I had bitten it. “Following orders! Just like you’ve got to do now, Specialist! Keep down and move!”
She turns and grabs Buddy’s hand, scrunches down and starts running down the far end of the railway tracks, moving around the passengers and debris from the derailed train. I move forward, to where most of the passengers are, calling out, “Manson! Manson! Mister Manson! I’ll get you out!”
Through open areas of where the carriages are tumbled over, I see the Creeper hasn’t moved from its elevated point. Its two weapon’s arms are still moving, the laser flashing out, dazzling my eyes, the flames streaming out, dancing around the locomotive and carriage cars. The Marines are moving fast, executing a precision example of old Battle Drill 1A: one element provides suppressing fire to pin down the enemy, while the second element attempts a flanking maneuver. While old tactics are generally for old wars—ones fought against other humans—they are executing this tactic here and now and I think it just may work. I stand for a second. But something is wrong. I look down at Thor. He’s panting, at my side, looking around.
Looking around.
I move forward, the shouts of the Marines cutting through the other sounds, the steam escaping from the ruined train, the flames now roaring along the carriages, the cries and screams of the other passengers shrieking at my ears. Up on the nearest slope, the woods are burning. There are at least a dozen blackened corpses up there, from people who just a few minutes earlier had been sitting safe in their well-paid seats.
Now they were smoked and charred bones and flesh, flames dancing through their clothing.
Move, I think. Move your ass. Find your Mister Manson.
Colored flares launch up into the sky, as the Marines on the other side of the train wreck signal to whomever might be out there that a Creeper attack is underway. More snap/snizzle of the Creepers’ weapons firing.
The acrid stench of sweat, smoke and fear are blasting through my nostrils, along with the sweet smell of burning flesh, as I get closer to the locomotive. A lumpy charred body is dangling out of the train cab. I quickly look around.
“Manson! Manson!”
There’s a heartening sound of BLAM! followed by PLOP! and then another series of the same sounds, as the Marines return fire with their M-10s. I can’t help myself, and I yell out, “Get some, jarheads! Get some!”
I move ahead, fires warm on my face, and there’s Manson.
On the ground, hiding behind a blasted piece of wood, arms stretched out, the leather dispatch case still chained to his wrist. I drop my assault pack, holster my pistol, and go to ground, crawling up to him, Thor mirroring me as well, his belly to the ground. Smart dog. I pull at Manson’s shoe. Oil and water and lubricant have soaked the dirt and grass around us.
“Hey, Mister Manson!” I yell. “Let’s get out of here.”
A man is screaming. I turn my head, through the gap of the wreckage, see a Marine stumbling back, aflame. I clench my jaw, turn back to Manson, grab his foot and give it a good hard tug.
“You damn idiot, we’ve got to move, now!”
The foot is stiff in my hand. I crawl up further.
His head is gone.
Take a couple of deep breaths, try not to start sobbing in fear and frustration, and then I get back to work. I go through Mister Manson’s pockets, find a keychain with six keys on it. Desperately avoiding looking at the burnt stump of his neck, I go to the chain and—
None of the keys fit.
None of the keys fit!
Another shout from the Marines. I snap my head around, see two Marines lying down, in perfect firing position as the suppressing element, M-10s braced against their shoulders, then two shots go downrange, a perfect solution and in a one-two punch, the 50 mm rounds explode right in front of the main arthropod’s breathing membrane.
Perfect!
I yell out, “Hooh-AH, jarheads!” and I look to see the Creeper pause, shake and tremble and collapse, as the two rounds do their work.
One arm moves, and then another, flash/flash from the lasers, and the Marines are dead.
More snap/sizzles from the Creeper, and the bodies of the dead Marines burst into sticky blue flames.
The Creeper is still alive.
It’s all wrong.
I chew on my bit tongue, trying to get my mouth moist again, and go back to Manson. Still dead. I tug at the chain, attached a handcuff on his wrist.
Nothing doing.
Orders, I think. Orders.
From my boot, I tug out my Blackhawk knife, and get to work.
Minutes later, Thor at my side, I’m running back down the length of the wrecked train, as passengers look u
p at me, and one young boy in the arms of his sobbing mom yells out, “Are you gonna kill it, soldier? Are you gonna kill the monster?”
Tears pop up in my eyes as I race past his hopeful face, heading down the railway track, Thor at my side, the precious satchel case tight up against my chest, assault pack thumping on my back. The passengers stare at me in disbelief as I run away. I glance back one more time as I run down the side of the railroad tracks. All of the carriages are now burning merrily along, and the Creeper is still at work. The near woods are burning as well. There are lines of smoke drifting up from the positions the Marines had so bravely taken. One more colored flare pops up but the Marine must be injured or dying, for the flare sputters up at an angle and bounces along the grassland into the woods.
Another move from the Creeper’s arms, and the place where the flare was launched from is drenched with flames.
Panting, heart blasting, legs and arms heavy, I’m out of sight of the ambushed train, and yell out, “Coulson! Coulson! Where the hell are you?”
About me civilians are straggling and running along, and I look around again, trying to see Serena, trying to see Captain Diaz, but the only uniform around is mine.
“Coulson!”
“Here!”
Up on the left is a treeline and Serena and Buddy emerge, coming down to see me. Serena is still holding a handkerchief to her brother’s head, her other hand holding a bulging plastic bag. His clothes and her uniform are disheveled and stained with smoke and soot. I look back up the length of tracks. We’ve gone far enough so that I can’t hear or see anything, but I still have the stench of burnt things strong in my nostrils.
Serena comes to me and I say, “Back up to the trees. You see anyplace up there to hide out?”
“There’s a bunch of boulders deeper in that might work.”
Dark Victory - eARC Page 13
