Dark Victory - eARC

by Brendan DuBois

  “It’s been there safe for nearly three years,” I say.

  “Then it’s overdue,” he says. He tears off three tickets and passes them over. “There you go, soldier. Three tickets for the Capitol. Leaves in two hours.”

  “Two hours?” I ask, looking at the tickets. “I heard buses leave here on the hour, every hour.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a bridge out, up by North Adams. And another bus is stuck in Greenfield with a burst boiler. So we’re doing what we can.”

  I take the tickets and an older man strolls by. He’s wearing a white shirt that’s better fitting than the young boy’s, with a clean blue necktie, and his steel gray hair is cut high and tight. His skin is leathery and wrinkled, and he says, “A problem?”

  The boy says, “Not really, uncle. Sergeant Knox here, he was hoping to catch an earlier bus. I told him the next one won’t be by for two hours.”

  The older man holds out a hand. “Dell Callaghan,” he says. “Sorry for the delay, but sometimes it can’t be helped.”

  I shake his hand, which is callused and worn. “I understand. Just not sure what we’re going to do for the next two hours.”

  “That can be fixed,” he says. He fishes around in his pants pocket, takes out a roll of orange tickets. “How many in your party?”

  “Three,” I say. “Four, if you include my K-9.”

  He tears off three tickets. “Here’s three chits, coffee and doughnuts in the rear. And the coffee is real, not diluted.”

  I take the tickets. “Thanks, Mister Callaghan. Appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” he says, and his voice thickens. “Always glad to help out a soldier. You see, my brother Craig, he was stationed with the 101st in Afghanistan, just before the Creepers attacked. Haven’t heard from him since. Always figured if God sees me helping out somebody in uniform, maybe somebody on the other side of the world will do the same for Craig.”

  Callaghan walks two steps, turns, and says, “Course, all depends on you believing in God. For me, it depends on what day it is.”

  After we take a coffee break in the rear of the store—and Serena and I savor the hot, strong liquid, though Buddy turns away at being offered a sip—I let Thor have a couple of doughnut chunks and we go outside to wait for our bus. I take a few minutes to clean and inspect my weapons on a park bench underneath a sheet metal overhang. The rain is starting to come down. Serena looks at me with irritation and I say, “I may be your escort, and I may be delivering important documents to the Capitol, Serena, but I’m a soldier first. One of the first things you learn in basic is to take care of your weapons, so they can take care of you.”

  From my assault pack I take out my cleaning kit, and disassemble and clean the M-4 I took off the dead Coastie, and I’m surprised to see the barrel is pretty decent looking, all things considered. By now there’s a steady light rain, and Serena stands by as I run a cleaning rod through the M-4 barrel, settling down with the old scent of gun oil. It soothes and comforts me. Odd, I know, but routine is good and relaxing. When I reassemble the M-4, I check the two spare magazines. Some skill here as well, for the magazines have a 30-round capacity, but the dead Coastie had only loaded 28 rounds; a good way to save wear and tear on the magazine spring and prevent jamming.

  My 9 mm doesn’t take as long and by now, near the entrance to Callaghan Enterprises, a small crowd of people has joined us under the overhang, as the rain comes down harder. A blackboard has a white chalk marking saying bus nineteen and approx six pm. A farmer with a wooden crate jammed with chickens snorts. “Why don’t they just say whenever it gets here? Damn aggravating, that’s what it is.”

  Serena has one of my jackets on and she shivers, standing next to me. “If you want, you could borrow a pair of pants.”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  “You like being cold?”

  “I like the way I look.”

  A bell is ringing down the sidewalk, and a bearded man shambles up, wearing a ratty terrycloth bathrobe that used to be white and sandals made from rubber tires. Next to him is a boy of about nine or ten, ringing a brass bell, dressed just the same, only in miniature. The man stops before us and starts preaching, and as one, we either turn away or stare at our feet, willing the pair to just go away. The man has a bellowing voice, full of vim and vigor, whatever the hell vim is.

  “We are sinners, all of us!” he calls out, with the boy ringing the bell after each sentence. “God has told me so, for God speaks to me daily! The Creepers were sent here by God to punish the wicked, punish the arrogant, punish us for all we have done to the peoples of the world! For what we did to Baghdad and Bagram and Kabul, it was paid back to us in New York and Seattle and Los Angeles! For the people of Iraq and Afghanistan and Yemen that we burned and destroyed, our own people were destroyed in Kansas and Kentucky and Oregon! For polluting the airwaves with pornography and violence and the cable television, the Creepers silenced us, to keep us from further corrupting the other peoples of the world! And if we do not repent, if we do not recognize our sins, tenfold upon tenfold of the Creepers will continue to make war upon us all!”

  He stands there, silent, rain making his beard soggy and flat against his chest. The boy with the bell comes before us, holding out a Tupperware plastic bowl. A few coins are dropped in, and then, ringing the bell, the preacher moves along, calling out, “Repent, sinners, repent! Repent!”

  One farmer says crossly to her wife, “Why in hell did you give him a quarter?”

  “Just in case,” she says stubbornly, one hand holding a sack of potatoes.

  “Hunh?”

  She shifts the bag from one hand to the other. “Just in case he really does talk to God.”

  Then there’s a hissing sound of steam and the scent of smoke, as the Greyhound bus finally appears.

  The driver steps out, a man with a thick moustache, dirty gray slacks, and a soiled Greyhound jacket that has sewn patches on the sleeves. He also wears a Greyhound cap on his head. Around his waist he has a holstered Colt .45 pistol. He goes to the middle of the bus, opens up the cargo doors for luggage, and he turns.

  “If I can say, folks, let’s move it along,” he says in a high-pitched voice. “Already behind schedule, want to see if we can make up some time along the way. All big pieces of luggage, let’s put them in, please.”

  The crowd moves forward and eventually I get my assault pack stored underneath, and the driver says, “You want to bring that weapon aboard, soldier, you’ve got to unload it and make it safe. Sorry, company rules.”

  “Not a problem,” I say. “How long before we can get to the Capitol?”

  The bus driver shrugs. “Depends. Three hours. Maybe four or five. We’ll have to see what the roads are like. Just one damn flood can take out a bridge or two.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I release the magazine from my M-4, work the action to make sure the chamber is clear, and then put the rifle in safe. I stow the magazine on my utility belt, and with Serena, Buddy and Thor in tow, climb into the bus.

  Inside it’s dark, damp and crowded. We push our way back until I locate two rows of seats, side by side. Buddy goes to the right and grabs the window seat, and I’m surprised to see Thor jump up and join him. Behind me in the narrow aisle Serena laughs and says, “Looks like your best friend is cheating on you.”

  “He’s his own man,” I say.

  “You forget he’s a dog.”

  “He’s what he thinks he is, and that’s what counts.”

  Buddy raises his hand, starts rubbing the back of Thor’s head. Thor grins and pants in contentment.

  I move past the empty row, point to the seats. “After you, madam.”

  She smiles, curtsies, and then goes in and sits down. I sit next to her and the seat is old and smells musty, but it feels comfortable. I stretch out my legs and take in the rest of the passengers. A mix of men and women, some farmers, maybe a couple of businessmen in repaired suits, with serious looks and battered briefcases in
their hands. The bus smells of sweat, smoke and grease. A little girl comes by, escorted by an older man and woman who could be her grandparents, and she pauses to stroke Thor’s back.

  The little girl looks over at me. “Is this dog a monster hunter?”

  “He sure is,” I say with pride in my voice. “The very best.”

  She looks up at her escort. “See grannie and grampie? We don’t have to worry. This dog and soldier will protect us.”

  Below us the cargo doors slam shut and the bus driver comes back up, and slowly comes up the aisle, collecting our tickets. He then comes back down the aisle, sits in his chair, and adjusts some levers and valves, and with a belch and thump, we’re on our way.

  The warmth of the bus’s interior and the motion of the wheels make me sleepy, and I ease my head back. I think of my dad and my mom and sister, and the Creepers, and dead Mister Manson and the dispatch case at my feet, and I fall asleep. I can’t remember my dreams but I wake up with a start, with whimpering in my ears.

  Serena is cuddled up against me. The inside of the bus is dark. She cries softly again and I put my arm around her, and she wiggles some, working her way into me. Her hair is freshly washed and is against my face and nose. I take a deep breath. I feel slightly drunk, like the time Dad let me drink beer at his birthday party last year. Serena opens her eyes and says, “I had a bad dream.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  Her eyes are wide and inviting, keeping me frozen. There’s nothing else, no bus, no war, no Creepers. Just the fair skin and fine hair and blue eyes, and I lean down to kiss her. She doesn’t move, doesn’t protest, so I kiss her again. And again. She sighs and purrs with pleasure. Serena presses her lips up against mine, and we kiss again and again, my arm tightening around her shoulder, her free hand stroking my hair, and I think of Abby and think of her dancing with that mess officer back at Ft. St. Paul, and I kiss Serena again.

  So a pleasing several minutes passes.

  Eventually we’re just holding hands, my head spinning from the sensations and tastes and memories, and Serena’s head is on my shoulder and she says softly, “Back at the checkpoint, afterwards, when I gave you hell about me being a soldier . . . I meant it, but I didn’t really mean it.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Then listen better,” she says. “What I’m trying to say is thank you. You saved my life, Buddy’s life, even Thor and Edgar. You saw the threat and responded. Me, I froze. I’m a soldier, but I didn’t do anything except to hit the bottom of the carriage with Buddy. So I owe you, Sergeant.”

  “Don’t owe me a damn thing,” I say, but decide it’s time for another round of kissing and caressing. When there’s another pause, she says, “Word I hear, with the war over, discharges are going to start in about six months or so.”

  “We’ll see,” I say.

  “What will you do when you get discharged?”

  “Not sure,” I say. “My English teacher, back at Ft. St. Paul, he thinks I should go to college. Says I have a talent for writing.”

  “What kind of writing?”

  “Anything, I guess.” I think for a moment and say, “Maybe I could write a history of the Creeper war. If it’s really over.”

  “It’ll be a hell of a long book.”

  “Somebody’s got to do it. Why not me?”

  She softly laughs. “That’s a winning attitude, Randy.”

  I think for a moment, and then decide to trust her. A good decision? Who knows. I still have the taste of her on my lips. “Thing is, for the past couple of years, I’ve been breaking regs.”

  “How? Smuggling rations to civilians? Speaking ill of your commanding officer? Not polishing your shoes?”

  “Keeping a journal.”

  She says, “Really?”

  “Truly.”

  “I’d like to read it some day.”

  “We’ll see,” I say, secretly pleased that somebody would like to read my writings.

  She moves in closer against me, if that’s possible. The bus drones along, the headlights on, illuminating the bumpy state road, the old highway signs still in place, though they’re faded and streaked with bird droppings.

  Serena says, “School. I want to go to a real school, with no uniforms, no reveille, no salutes.”

  “Sounds nice,” I whisper back, my right hand stroking her fine, shampooed hair. “What do you want to study?”

  “Computers.”

  I can’t help it. I laugh. “Silly girl, there’s no more computers.”

  “Maybe so, but you know the rumors. That some of the deep military bunkers that weren’t hit when the war started still have some computers. Or even some remote mines or storage facilities for company records. That there are enough computers out there to use them as models to start assembly lines.”

  “It’ll take a while,” I say cautiously.

  “Silly boy,” she retorts. “I know that. But if I can get some education in school, and when the killer sats are destroyed and the last of the Creepers and their bases are hit too . . . then they’ll start making computers again. We have the book knowledge. It’s not all gone. It can happen fairly quickly, Randy. You just have to believe.”

  “Sometimes all I believe in is the Army, Serena. That’s it.”

  “You’re being narrow-minded.”

  “No,” I say, kissing her nose. “I’m being realistic.”

  And I get a kiss in return.

  I fall asleep with Serena in my arms, and I wake up when the bus comes to a halt, brakes squealing, steam hissing. The armed driver gets up from his seat and announces, “Fuel stop, folks. We’ll be here for thirty minutes, no longer. There’s a diner if you’d like to grab a quick bite. I’ll blast the horn for a five-minute warning.”

  Serena leans back and yawns, and in the faint light from the bus’s interior bulbs, I like the view. I say, “I’m going out with Thor, give him a bathroom break.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “I’m also going to see what the diner has to offer. Can I bring you back something?”

  She nods. “That’d be great, Randy. Thanks.”

  She smiles and I kiss her, and then I unfold myself from the seat, reach down and pick up the dispatch case. Thor jumps down into the narrow aisle, and we go out with some other passengers, and in a matter of minutes, it all goes to hell.

  An Excerpt From the Journal of Randall Knox

  Field trip today for my Current Military Events class. Three squads from our platoon bundled into an old school bus. Yellow paint faded nearly white, black letters stating first student. Long time since regular students got to ride in a bus like this. Drove down Interstate 89 through Connecticut, then to a state road that’s all cracked and bumpy. Came to a roadblock, we filed out, stood in a row outside the bus. Got a lecture from a Connecticut National Guard captain with no legs in a wheelchair. Told us what to do, what to expect. Field glasses handed out, captain crossly told us that they better all come back in one piece.

  Moved out in a single file, up a packed earth path on a hill, brush and burnt trees, on both sides. Dispersed to left and right as we approached the crest of hill. Local National Guardsmen escorted us. Flattened down on stomachs. Crawled up to top of hill, peered down. Saw the Creeper base, about two klicks away. Dome in the middle of a housing development. Homes all burnt to timbers over cracked concrete foundations. Some rusting cars still in driveways on flat tires. Couple of twisted piles of wreckage, looked like Apache helicopters. Dome the color of Creeper exoskeleton, blue-gray. No openings. No symbols.

  Behind us a lecture started from a National Guard captain. Creeper bases located all over world. Apparently dropped from LEO, from main orbital battle station, able to set up within seconds upon landing. Creeper exoskeletons come out when side of dome suddenly dilates open. Bases under constant surveillance, but sometimes killer stealth satellites zap nearby military units whenever they feel like it. Rare occasions we get lucky when we have adjacent attack
units on standby when dome opens up, and outgoing fire goes into dome. Not sure how much damage that causes, but sure screws up their day.

  Somebody in platoon said, hey, what about stories about Special Forces being able to go in on raids when opening pops out, get prisoners and intel. Silence from our lecturer. Then he said, looking at his watch, time for our daily love-tap.

  Couple of minutes later, hear whistling of incoming round from a 155 mm howitzer. Impact on side of dome. Smoke rose up and drifted away. I focused in with borrowed field glasses. Not even a scratch, it looked like. Another question: what are we doing with this kind of attack? Are we hurting the Creepers?

  A sigh. Doubtful. But hey, we’re fighting, so that’s something, right?

  Nobody answered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  In the night by the idling bus, a light rain is falling. The diner is called the Bel-Aire, and it’s lit by gas lamps and torches. The nearby parking lot has a couple of dozen cars that have been here for ten years, resting on flat tires, the windshields cloudy. A hitching post holds five horses at bay, and there are a number of carriages and wagons parked on the side. Thor comes by me, lifts up his leg and does his business by a low bit of shrubbery.

  I scratch at the base of his tail. “Stay classy, pal, stay classy.”

  Other passengers are going up the crushed stone walkway, and the doors are held open by two young diner boys dressed in black slacks and white shirts, who are smiling and waving their hands, inviting us in.

  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.