By Dawn's Early Light

by Jason Fuesting

  Eric rolled his eyes and the pair started through the woods homeward.

  “Actually in that case, I was lugging mortar rounds on top of my normal load. Was attached to a mortar company for a bit before I went explosives. Mortars, plates, their ammo, none of it is light,” Chris said and chuckled. “Hell, even light infantry isn’t light. Unless you’re the officer in charge anyway.”

  “Sounds like I dodged a bullet getting raised on the Fortune. Heaviest work I did was helping move cargo onboard. We had lifts for most of it, though.”

  “Pirates. I’d call you guys pussies, but I’ve seen boarding action footage, some of it was pretty brutal. You know what? I don’t think I ever expected there’d be a day I’d call a pirate friend.”

  Eric grinned. “You’re surprised? Before I ended up here, every pommie bastard I met tried to kill me. This place makes for strange friends. Good thing though, you’ve taught me a lot. Where’d you learn to hunt?”

  “Back home. Grew up with a rifle in my hands. My parents lived out on the outskirts of Twyland. We were ranchers. You make decent money, but it’s not always dependable so when you’re twelve hours from any reasonable sized town, you learn to live off the land.”

  “Guess that makes sense. Still, happy I asked if you wanted to come. I wouldn’t have gone for the elk by myself.”

  “Shit, I’m just happy to be out of that house and out here. All that busy work was driving me nuts. You sure Hadrian isn’t going to lose his shit over you letting me shoot?”

  “Nah, I talked to him before I asked you. You’re good. He made it sound like they were going to release you from the whole prisoner bit here soon.”

  “Sweet. Tired of feeling like a second class citizen because of shit I have no control over. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I get it. Security first, feelings whenever. Just gets old after a while. What do you think they’ll want me to do around here?”

  “Well, if I have any say in it, you’ll be hunting or scouting with us. We’d be idiots not to use your skills.”

  The duo continued through the woods in silence for a while before Eric asked, “So what all did you do in the Corps? You talked about mortars earlier.”

  “A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Spent most of my first two years in that mortar platoon. My LT wanted me to try out for sniper, but I liked explosives better. Figured I liked hunting too much to hunt people. Didn’t want to ruin my hobby. Blowing shit up is a lot more fun than the stories I heard from the snipers anyway. Who wants to spend three weeks in a ditch pissing on yourself waiting for some dumb unlucky bastard when you could light off three thousand kilos of expiring advex? So EOD it was. You?”

  “I’m not really sure how to translate it. Life on the boat was different for me than you guys. Based off what Hadrian and Elizabeth have said, I was something of a mix between midshipman and a private. So yeah, I did a little bit of everything. But I wasn’t a full member of the crew up until right before the Fortune was lost because of my age, so they wouldn’t let me do lot of the directly dangerous stuff. I trained for repelling boarding parties and the like, but that was pretty much it. Supervised stuff here and there, but it was all small shit none of the officers wanted to do.”

  Chris held out a small jar. “Here, take a sip of this, tell me what you think.”

  “What’s this?” Eric asked suspiciously as he took the proffered jar and sniffed the clear liquid inside. Definitely alcohol.

  “Joint project. Something I convinced Byron to work with me on. Go ahead, try it.”

  Eric peered at the container a moment, took a sip, and immediately stumbled to his knees in a coughing fit from the surge of fire through his mouth and sinuses.

  “Hey, don’t spill it!”

  “I--didn’t spill it,” Eric gasped. Still coughing, he weakly offered the container to the laughing marine.

  It was almost a minute later before the burning faded and he finally found his voice.

  “What is that shit? Rocket fuel?” Eric croaked.

  “First pull from the Taylor distillery. Should be about ninety-five percent alcohol by volume. How’s it taste?”

  “Other than liquid sun and hand sanitizer?”

  “We’re still working on the recipe.”

  “I’ll have to apologize to Turing,” Eric said as he lurched to his feet. “I know what regret tastes like now.”

  “Hey, I said we’re still working on it.”

  Day 160

  “Good morning,” Eric said to the group assembled before him on the open field outside Turing’s manor. This round of drop-offs so far had turned out to be far larger than expected. Turing’s plans figured on adding another twenty people to his guest list over the course of the summer. They’d added that on the first day. They’d recovered sixty so far, and many of them had volunteered.

  Eric subconsciously rubbed at the new rank insignia pinned on his collar as he resumed, “Thank you for volunteering for the Solitude Militia. I am Lieutenant Friedrich. In the coming weeks, myself or other cadre will be putting you through some strenuous training. It will not be easy, nor will it be fun. It is, however, necessary. No doubt, you’ve all heard about the Legion. They are not a scary story we tell people to keep them in line. They are a reality that cannot be ignored. A reality we must prepare against.

  “By the time this group finishes training, you will be minimally qualified in small arms training, small unit tactics, and have a modicum of physical conditioning. Those of you who show promise will be asked to stay for additional training and reassignment to active duty. The rest will be counted as militia in the event of an attack on the Manor. While continuing your conditioning and expanding your knowledge after the end of phase one is largely your responsibility, I cannot stress enough that every ounce of sweat you sweat now is likely several pints of blood you don’t bleed later. The same applies after phase one. Are we ready to begin?”

  The group looked about at each other. A few nodded.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear a response,” Eric said.

  “Uh, sure?” one of them timidly managed.

  “Sound off,” Eric barked. “Sound off like you have a pair!”

  “YES, SIR!”

  “Better. Still not good enough, but it’s something I can work with at least. Jamis, Perkins, why are you here?”

  Jamis blinked and said, “Sir?”

  “It’s a simple question. Why are you here? Both of you have already dealt enough with the Legion.”

  Jamis swallowed. “Sir,” he said, “They owe me a few pints of blood.”

  Eric nodded and glanced over to Perkins.

  “They nearly worked me to death last year. Never again, sir.”

  Day 183

  “So, where are you fuckers?” Eric whispered as he adjusted his binoculars, a matching pair for the set Turing had given him months ago.

  He scanned the pass before him three times. Once on visual light, once on thermal, and once again with ultraviolet. Visually, the pass was empty. Thermal said otherwise. A group of mountain goats had been grousing over a section of short grass, mostly hidden behind taller growth. Probably getting ready to bed down for the night. Two hundred meters below them, a highland wolverine lay in a collection of fallen trees. Several birds of prey dotted the sky behind clouds, their calls interrupting the incessant wind periodically. Ultraviolet failed to be any more informative, but Byron was insistent that it be checked, just in case the legionnaires had tech of their own.

  “I understand you said I’d know it when I saw it, if I saw it, but, shit, UV is a waste of time.”

  Normally Eric avoided talking to himself, but he hardly noticed it now.

  For the last week he’d traveled no further than a dozen meters from where he lay, alone on a rock ledge overlooking the pass Chris said the legionnaires had used to cross over. Eight days had crawled by since Byron left him here to watch the pass.

  Check complete, he rolled his head slowly to one side to minimize movement an
d pressed the transmit toggle on his throat mic.

  “Mountain home, Eagle Two. Nothing to report.”

  Several seconds passed. Eric’s skin crawled and he scanned the sky for drones. Byron had reassured him multiple times that the laser relay he’d set up on arrival would minimize any chance of attracting drones. Eric still worried about Byron’s choice of wording. Minimize.

  “Eagle Two, Mountain Home. Acknowledged. Eagle One en route with package. ETA one hour,” came the reply. Julien’s voice was a welcome reprieve from his own.

  Numbed by the monotony of the last week, Eric almost reflexively started to reach for his packaged food when a glint of sunlight from the top of the pass caught his eye.

  “Standby, Mountain Home,” Eric whispered as he brought his binoculars up. “Mountain Home, how copy?”

  “Go ahead, Eagle Two.”

  “I have twelve foot mobiles carrying small arms under observation in the pass. Unaware of my presence, over.”

  “Copy. Standby.”

  A bead of sweat dribbled down his cheek as he lased the group. Rear is seven hundred forty three meters, front is six hundred twelve. Deliberate and slow, Eric shifted over to his rifle. With a quick glance at the range card to verify the number of clicks for distance and angle, he adjusted the elevation knob on his scope for the farthest target and mentally noted the change in point of aim on the nearest from the new setting. Patiently he eyed the foliage around the legionnaires below. Minimal movement, no change in windage. The legionnaires were strung out in a staggered line almost a hundred meters long. Most of the group wore torn camouflage or ratty clothing. Probably taken from their victims. Eric blinked the sweat out of his eyes and placed his crosshair center mass of the rearmost legionnaire.

  “Mountain Home, Eagle Two. Please advise.”

  “Eagle Two, Mountain Home. Cleared to engage. Eagle One has been advised of your situation. ETA unknown.”

  The rifle bucked against his shoulder, its bark muffled significantly but not silenced by the suppressor. One and a half seconds later, Eric’s crosshair was settling on the next man in line when the legion rear guard staggered and grabbed at his throat in the background. Shit. Aim lower. Eric’s rifle bucked again just as his new target paused and started to turn around. Moments later a puff of pink mist appeared in the center of the second target’s chest.

  Next target.

  Seconds later, the formation’s point man made an ungraceful pirouette and fell to the ground as the rest of the group scattered for cover that simply wasn’t there. Eric’s crosshair settled on another target trying to get behind a patch of stubby bushes. Concealment is not cover. His rifle chuffed again. Rock spattered inches away from his target’s head. Shit. He sent another round down range. The man was not as lucky the second time. Neither were the next two targets.

  Eric was searching for his seventh target when he saw the muzzle flash of the first burst of return fire. Aiming the wrong direction dumbass. Look up. Eric’s reply put a round through the man’s arm and into his chest. Seven down, five to go.

  Going by feel, Eric snagged a fresh magazine from his pack beside him with his off hand while searching for target eight through the scope.

  Another muzzle flash got his attention. A bullet buzzed by moments later like an angry hornet. Shards from the rock face above fell around him as Eric put a bullet into that assailant’s shoulder. He followed up with another center mass. Four.

  A hooded figure broke from cover, attempting to sprint back up the pass in a zig-zag fashion. Eric squeezed the trigger. Miss. He squeezed again. Shit. Another. Goddamnit, stand still asshole. Again. Motherfucker, seriously? Pull. His target jerked and toppled bonelessly. About goddamn time. The fall forward bounced the target’s head off a rock, yanking back the hood of his jacket. Long black hair spilled out. Wait, that’s a wo--no. Not going there. Not even. Finish the mission.

  Eric forced down the sudden acrid taste in his mouth looking for number ten. He caught the tenth man trying to crawl into a shallow depression that would have been better cover. A bullet ended that attempt. Only a few rounds left, Eric loaded his fresh magazine and went back to scanning.

  Fuck. Number nine was dragging herself across the stony ground, legs trailing limply behind her. Her faint wailing needled his ears. Eric grit his teeth and kept looking for the other two.

  Eleven had slid behind a pair of rocks. Eric’s first shot missed cleanly. Shards of rock sprayed from his second miss and the dust concealed his target. Shit. Writhing in pain from the spalling, number eleven rolled back far enough to expose himself for a third shot a few seconds later. Neither of the targets hands gripping his face slowed the bullet.

  Where are you twelve? Where’d you go? Damnit nine, shut the fuck up. Eric scanned the area but found nothing. Shit. Forcing his breathing to slow, Eric deliberately inspected the area around each of his targets again. Wait a second. His crosshairs returned to number five. Twelve was using five as cover. You sneaky bastard.

  Eric pulled the trigger just as the target disappeared behind a muzzle flash. Something pinged in front of his face and his head snapped back. Stars filled his vision. Ow, fuck. Panicked, he scooted back, and an acrid taste surged into his mouth while he tried to drag the rifle with him. He violently lost what little food he’d eaten in the last few hours as the world wobbled and spun about him.

  He wretched again and lay panting. Above the ringing in his ears, nine’s now hoarse wailing slackened. Shit. What do I do? Pop out again? No, he’s got my number. Eric’s hand brushed the binoculars as he made to roll over. Wait. He cautiously scooted forward, held the binoculars just far enough to see over the rock face he’d been using as cover and pressed the photo button. Nausea didn’t make zooming in any easier, but the motion-blurred image told the rest of the story: he’d hit his target squarely in the head. Got them all.

  Eric swallowed back another set of dry heaves when he noticed something warm dripping down his face. He brushed at it and found his gloved hand glistening with blood. Eric realized a notch was missing out of the top of his scope at the front. He reached up, feeling the helmet under his ghillie hood. Low profile helmets weren’t intended to stop bullets. Technically, his didn’t stop this one, it had only deflected it a little further, cracking along the groove the bullet left. Eric groaned and pressed his transmit key.

  “Mountain Home, Eagle Two. Targets down. Need medical assistance, I don’t think I’m getting down from here without help.”

  “Say again, over?”

  Someone knocked on his door. Eric jerked awake. The sheets were wrapped around him, smothering him. His cheeks burned. Ugh, so hot. Half trying to get up to answer the door, half just wanting the suffocating heat to go away, he tugged at the sheets. Fuck, when did someone stitch me into bed? When did I get home?

  The door to his room opened a crack.

  “Eric?” Elizabeth poked her head inside.

  Eric tried to speak but found he could only manage a tired grunt.

  “Doc wanted me to check on you. Leah had to go help at the fields,” she said, closing the door behind her. Eric saw the worry hiding in her eyes behind the cautious smile.

  “Water,” Eric managed to finally croak. “Burning up.”

  Elizabeth grabbed a pitcher from the nightstand and came to sit at the stool by his bed. Longing screamed through him as the glass filled with crystal clear water. She leaned forward and held the glass to his lips.

  “Careful, don’t drink too fast. You’ll choke, silly,” she warned. He didn’t listen and paid the price.

  “When did I get back here?” he gasped once the coughing fit sputtered out.

  “Four days ago,” Elizabeth said as she pressed a wet washrag against his head. “You’ve been through a lot, Eric.”

  “Four days?” Eric started and nausea swept over him.

  “Hadrian found you on the ledge barely conscious about an hour after your last radio call. Do you remember that?”

  Eric tried to remem
ber, but only found fog and emptiness. He shook his head slowly.

  “Doc said this would be likely. You lost a decent amount of blood, had hypothermia. We had to wake you up every hour the first two days because of the head wound. You picked up an infection, too. Doc treated it the best he could, but it’s been touch and go.”

  “Got infected, huh. How did he treat that?”

  “One of the shipments in the bunker had veterinary supplies. Doc gambled that the expired antibiotics would help. You’re still breathing and not deaf, so that’s a start right?” she said with a nervous laugh.

  Even his attempted smile hurt. He realized someone had bandaged his head.

  “And this cocoon?” he asked.

  “Doc wasn’t sure if the meds would help or make things worse. He didn’t want you to hurt yourself if you started having convulsions.”

  “Great, well, can I at least get the sheets off me? I’m broiling to death in here.”

  It took several minutes of untucking and rolling him over to get him out. He felt better almost immediately.

  “You’re a lucky guy,” Elizabeth said, dabbing his forehead with the rag again.

  “Yeah, I remember that much now. Bullet hit my scope first. If it weren’t for that,” he said trailing off.

  Elizabeth shook her head with a faintly concealed grin.

  “Well, yes, but that’s not what I meant. Leah’s watched over you since the moment they put you in that bed.”

  At a loss for words, Eric blinked a few times with his mouth open.

  “You know, I’ve spent the last, what, four or five months trying to help that girl through her problems? It’s obvious she cares about you, Eric. Even if she’s too scared to admit it to anyone yet.”

  Eric smiled as memories of Leah’s easy smile over the last few months came to him.

  “Yeah, I suppose she’s calmed down quite a bit. I think it’s been two months since she’s snapped at me.”