Our War

by Craig DiLouie

  “Kid,” said Shook, “you hit the nail right on the head.”

  “What I don’t get is why.”

  Alex watched with mounting fear as the big sergeant stood and crossed the dim room. The man smiled like a snake.

  Then Shook slapped him.

  His head snapped back. His cap flew off his head. Alex cupped his stinging cheek, his eyes watering with surprise and shame.

  Shook slapped him again. “You gonna cry?”

  Alex tried to laugh it off. “Okay, you made your—”

  Another crack. The pain was one thing. The humiliation and panic that surged through him felt worse. The squad watched with interest, eyes burning in the dim red light, like they wanted in on the action.

  Alex took a step back and raised his arms to protect himself. He wasn’t allowed to run. Fighting back would only get him an even harsher beating.

  Shook matched his step and hit him again even harder. “You gonna cry, faggot?”

  “No, Sergeant.” Trying to sound tough and failing.

  Another slap. “What are you gonna do?”

  Alex pictured Shook doing this to his mother. He pictured doing this to Shook. He lowered his arms and stepped glaring into Shook’s space.

  Go ahead and hit me again, he thought. Hit me as much as you want. Because tomorrow, I’m going to kill you.

  Then he smiled at his own private joke.

  Without breaking eye contact, Shook held out his hand. “Beer.”

  A militiaman handed him one from the cooler. The sergeant cracked it open and gave it to Alex. “Now you know why. Now you know everything.” He returned to his seat on the floor. “Take over for Blister. Why? Because I said so.”

  Alex put his cap back on and went to the window.

  Blister passed him his night-vision goggles. “You got to earn your beer in Bravo.”

  Alex pulled on the goggles and powered them up. He wondered where Bravo had gotten the batteries. While the goggles had a binocular visor, the lens was monocular. Immediately, his field of view shrank to forty-degree tunnel vision on a phosphor screen.

  The LED lantern flared in his eyes, and he turned to the window, peering out from the edge so as not to offer a target. He could see outside now. The gen-3 goggles rendered the snow-covered landscape in shades of green.

  He pictured the libs hosing the house with gunfire tomorrow. Shook standing here laughing as he blazed away at them with his SAW.

  That’s when he’d empty his rifle into the man’s back.

  His face stung in the cold night air. He remembered Tom telling him to be smart. He had to make it look like the libs did it.

  Tom had grenades.

  Toss one in the room and run. Grab Jack and keep running until he’d gained his own liberty. Keep going until he reached Sterling. There, he’d wait for the war to end and Hannah to come home.

  He tilted his head for another swallow of his beer and stopped. Somebody was moving outside.

  A figure made a dash toward the house.

  He tucked his AR-15 into his shoulder and pointed it out the window.

  God, it was a kid.

  Gunfire popped in the distance, making his nerves tingle.

  The kid wasn’t armed. He was carrying a messenger bag. Just some refugee trying to get out of town. Alex hunkered behind his rifle just in case, finger twitching next to the trigger.

  Another round of shots broke the stillness. Something was going on.

  The kid had crossed the street and paused to reach into his bag before breaking into a mad sprint.

  Alex flinched as his vision flared a blinding green and an explosion roared in the night, followed by a clatter of debris raining across the neighborhood. Another blast erupted on the road.

  “What’s going on?” Shook said. “You see anything?”

  The kid was carrying some kind of bomb. Alex aimed at him center mass, finger on the trigger now.

  The kid wasn’t a boy.

  “I don’t see anything.” His voice sounded far away in his ears.

  Bravo squad stirred anyway, gathering up their weapons and gear.

  Hannah’s face, grim and determined, in crisp shades of green.

  “I have to get back to Alpha.”

  “You stay right there until we’re in position, fucknuts,” Shook growled.

  He couldn’t run, couldn’t yell at her to stop, couldn’t shoot.

  Every second brought her closer. Sweat trickled down his ribs. No choice. Just a little pressure on the trigger—

  He fired.

  Hannah flinched at the warning shot but kept coming.

  She was all he had left, and she was going to make him kill her.

  Shook and Mitch had taught him that life wasn’t fair. Beneath all the noble ideals, this truth was where all the anger and paranoia came from, and guns and limited government would never cure it. Even if the patriots won, they’d never really win, and while the shooting might stop, the war they fought would never end.

  They’d taught him another truth. Life was dog-eat-dog, survival of the fittest. You didn’t whine or complain. You toughened up so you could do the dishing. You didn’t rationalize or make excuses, as there were only two ways to look at everything, right and wrong, and a man deserved the freedom to choose either one.

  Kill or not kill, Hannah or him.

  She’d made her choice.

  He fired again.

  She didn’t stop.

  She’d buried Mom and Dad and wanted to pay back the men who’d killed them, and now she was here, about to die for what she wanted. Vengeance for the parents he’d abandoned because he didn’t know how important his family was.

  He did now.

  Alex wheeled and bolted for the back door. The messenger bag thumped on the floor behind him.

  Shook yelled, “Hey! Where are you—?”

  FIFTY-SIX

  One by one, explosions banged down North Holmes like the Fourth of July.

  Walls flashed and burst in a hot wind, belching dust and bodies across front yards. Sections of roof blew into the air. The ground trembled.

  The bangs echoed into an eerie silence that rang in Hannah’s ears. She regained her feet on the sidewalk as pieces of lumber clattered around her like artificial hail.

  Kristy lay in the street, shot dead.

  The last bits bounced off the road. A massive pall of dust hung over the shattered hulks of the houses. The silence returned at a deafening volume.

  Then a savage cheer went up along Holmes Avenue. The Indy 300 had their revenge.

  In reply, muzzle flashes lit up the windows of the houses that escaped destruction. The cheering disappeared in the crash of automatic weapons. The Indy 300 fired back. Bullets snapped through the air.

  Hannah drew Sabrina’s handgun from her holster and ran toward the house she’d bombed. She wanted her own revenge.

  The window where she’d tossed the bag was now a large hole exhaling a settling dust cloud. A man staggered out in a daze.

  Hannah raised the gun and fired. He spun and crumpled to the ground.

  Her ability to shoot to kill on reflex stunned her. While letting her loved ones go grew harder each time, killing only became easier.

  She skirted the body and stepped into the blasted house. Shredded corpses lay scattered around, half buried in rubble.

  Today was Hannah’s lucky day.

  The giant sat slumped against a twisted metal support. Parts of him were missing, the rest charred and smoking, but he was still alive.

  She aimed the gun at his face. “Do you remember me?”

  “Need a medic,” he rasped.

  “You hurt my mom. You hurt her on the road to Indianapolis.”

  The giant didn’t answer. His good eye stared off into empty space. His breath whistled in his lungs.

  Hannah called upon her rage to help her do what she’d imagined doing for nearly an entire year of her life. While her love had many faces, her hate had only two, and his was one of them.r />
  Instead, she wavered at the brink of justice.

  His eye flickered to take her in. “Nope.”

  “You can’t say you didn’t do it. I was there.”

  “Nope,” he repeated. “Don’t remember.”

  What he’d done was so trivial to him he didn’t remember doing it. Or he’d victimized multiple women, making Hannah’s mother impossible to single out for recall. To him, Hannah’s mother was just roadkill.

  His eye settled on his machine gun. He tried to reach for it. “Let me… die with my—”

  Hannah emptied the 9 mm into his body and stood panting in the aftermath.

  She’d done it. There was nothing to do now but secure the house and wait for the Indy 300 to show up. She slid a fresh magazine into her gun and crept toward the kitchen. After clearing it, she’d check the upstairs.

  Another body lay near the back door.

  Hannah knew who it was before she even reached him. Knew this would happen when she picked up the AK-47 at the burning house and then accepted Sabrina’s bag of bombs. Knew it would happen the moment she found out he was still alive.

  Because everything she loved got destroyed. For everything the war gave, it took away far more. Gaining the ability to kill hadn’t protected her like she thought it would. Now she was the one killing what she loved.

  Hannah fell to her knees next to him. “Alex?”

  He was still breathing. He lay crumpled on the floor, his arm trapped under him at an odd angle, but alive.

  “Alex!”

  His eyes flickered to her face. He whimpered.

  Hannah pulled out her med kit and pushed a handful of gauze against his leg, which was bleeding. She pressed her other hand against a second wound on his hip.

  It wasn’t enough. He’d been hit everywhere.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

  “Scared,” he managed.

  “I’m sorry. Don’t die.”

  “Really scared.”

  “Help!” Hannah screamed. “Somebody help me!”

  “Joke,” said Alex.

  He shuddered. Then the lights in his eyes went out.

  Crying, she heaved at him until he sat upright, and hugged him. He’d never liked it when she’d try to hug him. He’d push her away, but his irritation only spurred her laughing to keep trying until he laughed too and called her a maniac.

  This time, he didn’t protest.

  “I’m sorry.” She was wailing now. “I’m sorry.”

  All she’d wanted was to feel safe and serve a cause bigger than herself, a world where nobody shot people from far away or got sliced by shrapnel in the road.

  Hannah had killed her brother for it.

  A ripping sound in her brain—

  Her tenth birthday party, the last time she felt safe before her world ended and her war began. Her friends sat around the dining table and sang to her. Allie, May, and Jenny.

  Allie was her best friend, though they had a crush on the same boy at school. She was really smart and funny. May wasn’t but was the kindest girl Hannah knew. Jenny was a wild card, super cool but a prankster.

  Tonight was going to be great. Alex had locked himself in his room and was playing some violent shooter game. Mom was ordering pizzas. Her friends were staying over for a slumber party. They’d stay up all night giggling and talking about life.

  Dad came out of the living room and said to Mom, “The president won’t resign. He said the Senate conviction is illegal. He said he’s not leaving.”

  “What?” Mom said. “What does that mean?”

  The look on Dad’s face told Hannah everything. Helplessness and panic she’d never seen before. His wild eyes roamed across the girls and settled on her with a fierce love.

  Then his eyes flashed back to Mom. “The protesters camped at the National Mall… Something bad happened.”

  The phone rang. Minutes later, her friends’ moms showed up to take them home. Her birthday ruined, Hannah burst into tears.

  Dad hugged her and told her not to worry.

  “I’ll keep you safe no matter what,” he said.

  Farther back she went. Dressing up as Hermione for Halloween, waving a plastic wand and yelling, wingardium leviosa! Making cookies with Mom in the kitchen, sneaking chocolate chips, the counter a mess of flour, the warm smell of baking in the air. Dad tossing a football to her and Alex at the park. Her parents beaming at her from the audience during a school concert.

  Then even farther to settle on a perfect summer day at the beach. Mom and Dad smiling on a blanket, enjoying this rare time off with family. Alex aloof at first but later laughing. Hannah wearing goggles, splashing through the water and going under to see what there was to see down there. She and Alex made castles in the sand and watched the tide wash them away.

  Hannah’s family and childhood were gone, but they were always there in easy reach for her to remember. Her mind retreated deeper until they came alive again, and this new world, this horrible, cold world, faded away to nothing.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Mitch drove the platoon HQ truck toward the roar of gunfire.

  The libs had hit one out of three houses along Holmes Avenue and blown it sky-high. The survivors were hitting back with everything they had.

  It was time to bug out for Fairfax. They had plenty of prepared firing positions there. They knew the ground, and they’d be less vulnerable to flanking.

  With the losses they’d taken, they had no choice. Unless the colonel’s recruiting efforts hit pay dirt, the Liberty Tree would be playing defense for the duration.

  Mitch wondered if they could even hold Fairfax.

  He’d expected the libs to celebrate their victory over the Angels and go back to trading potshots, but the war had suddenly entered a new phase. The Angels had punched a hornet’s nest with their shock and awe. The libs were united and out for blood, and they had a commander who knew what she was doing.

  The same simple math applied now just as it did then. His side had greater training, weapons, supplies, discipline, and unity. Theirs had more people. The difference now was they were uniting behind this commander who seemed willing to fight hard until one side lost in a brutal war of attrition.

  The kind of war his side couldn’t win.

  He parked the truck and limped into a house, where he found his old squad in the midst of a vicious gunfight. Tom left his firing position at the window and scurried to meet him.

  “We’re dumping ammo to keep them back,” Tom shouted over the rattle of gunfire. “But we got gaps in the line. You really thinking about pulling out?”

  “We can’t hold this ground.”

  “If we stretch out, we can.”

  He shook his head. That kind of thinking had already created a disaster. It was time to cut their losses. “That’s a no go. Get ready to move.”

  Jack stepped aside from the window and put his back to the wall. “They sent a runner at the house with a satchel charge. I killed her. Just a kid.”

  “Where’s Alex Miller?”

  “He went next door to talk to Bravo. They got hit.”

  Mitch limped to the next house over, now just a shattered hulk. When he twisted the doorknob, the door fell out of its frame and flopped to the ground.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said.

  Hannah Miller knelt on the debris-strewn floor amid shredded bodies, staring into space and hugging her brother’s body.

  Something inside Mitch broke.

  The kid had thrown her charge into the house and wiped out Bravo. The fortunes of civil war had ordained she kill her brother in the process.

  He raised his rifle and aimed at her head.

  Hannah kept on rocking the boy in her arms. Past her, Mitch saw tracers flash in the dark. The libs let up an eerie banshee howl, their version of the rebel yell. A squad of Indy 300 fighters was making its way toward the house. One of them had a flamethrower.

  Out for blood.

  “Goddamnit
,” he said.

  He grabbed Hannah Miller by the scruff of her jacket and hauled her to her feet. He dragged her out into the snow.

  “All Root units, this is Root Six,” he said into the radio. “Clear the net, clear the net. Commence withdrawal immediately. Bud, do you copy?”

  “I copy, over,” the RTO said.

  “Tell Colonel Lewis that Second Platoon is pulling out now.” The colonel had to trust his judgment and order the other platoons to withdraw as well.

  “Roger,” Bud said.

  “Root Six, out.”

  Fire teams were already exiting the houses. Mitch opened the truck’s door and tossed Hannah Miller inside. Then he climbed in and started driving toward the rear.

  He didn’t know what to do with her. This was one of those rare times you owned it if you didn’t break it. He leaned over to open the door and kick her to the curb. Easiest solution for all concerned. He stopped himself.

  If only she didn’t remind him of Jill. If only she wasn’t Alex’s sister. If only he didn’t feel partly responsible for what she was. When he looked at her, he couldn’t see a soldier. He saw a little girl who shouldn’t be at war.

  Hannah slowly swiveled her head to gaze at him.

  “You,” she said dreamily. She had a Band-Aid on her forehead.

  “Take it easy. I’m trying to get you somewhere safe.”

  She reached to her empty gun holster.

  “Goddamnit,” he said. “Give it a rest.”

  The clinic was a madhouse. The wounded writhed on the floor, triaged by frantic nurses close to the breaking point.

  He contacted Bud by radio. “I’m at the clinic.”

  “Negative contact, Six. Send again, over.”

  “I’m at the clinic. Request Colonel Lewis have a vehicle recover our wounded and transport them to our new forward base. Over.”

  “Roger, Six.”

  “Six, out.”

  He scooped Hannah Miller like a football and carried her through the chaos. Dr. Walker was operating in his office by the light of oil lamps.

  “Doc, I need your help.”

  “Clamp that bleeder,” the doctor told his assistant. “Sergeant, I thought I told you how I prioritize my patients.”

  “It’s ‘lieutenant’ now.”

  Walker kept working. “Uh-huh.”