Red Vengeance

by Brendan DuBois

  Most of the other soldiers are smiling. I press on. “Plus, if you’re driving, if you’re scared of where we’re going, why, you can just drive away. Would you like that Sergeant Bronson? Something I could arrange?”

  He turns away and I speaker louder. “Sergeant Bronson, I asked you a straight question. What’s your answer?”

  Bronson turns back to me, face red. “No, Sergeant Knox. I’m fine where I am.”

  “I can’t tell you how relieved that makes me,” I say, and there are a few laughs, and even Thor looks up at me, like he senses I’ve done something right for a change.

  * * *

  We travel west along the Troy Road, also known as State Highway 7, which is an old, rough and crumbling three-lane road, with the center lane designed for the time when there were plenty of vehicles looking for a turning lane. The surroundings are mostly single-family homes, some farmstands, and a number of farms. The closer we get to a city called Schenectady, we join other vehicle traffic as well, including a few diesel trucks, some precomputer cars with A or B gasoline ration stickers on the windshield, and a fair number of horses and horse-drawn wagons. Some of the underbrush and trees have been cut away, and I’m impressed to see that abandoned vehicles from ten years before have either been dragged away or pulled to the side of the road.

  That demonstrates organization, a government, and considering what few bits of news comes from overseas about tribal and ethnic slaughters in former nation-states, it’s a good thing to see. Some kids on bicycles even stop and wave at us as we go by. Another good thing to see.

  I say to no one in particular, “What’s the deal with Schenectady? They seem to be hanging in there.”

  A soldier named Buell with wispy-thin black eyebrows says, “Last century they were known for General Electric and also for making train locomotives. GE still has a presence—doing a lot of government stuff—and they’ve gone back to making trains and shit like that.”

  “Good for them,” I say, noting a couple of smokestacks spewing gray and black smoke up into the cloudy sky. The convoy slows down, makes a few more turns, and we’re on Erie Boulevard, with the Mohawk River on our left. Buell says, “Got an uncle there, at GE. Rumor has it, they’re working on making shielding material so the bugs up in orbit won’t zap computers or anything electronic in nature.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Bronson says.

  I’m pleased to contradict him. “No, it’s not. I was in a V.A. hospital in Albany last week. Most of the floors have power. I even rode in an elevator. And I stayed a night at a hotel that even had television.”

  “The hell you say,” Buell says, awed. “Then how come it’s not widely used? Shit.”

  “Supposedly it’s very expensive, hard to produce, and is only used here and there. What does your uncle say?”

  Buell smirks. “He says he could tell me, but then he’d have to kill me.”

  “Might be a fair choice,” comes a voice from the other side of the truck, and there’re some laughs as the convoy starts to slow down and haul over to the side of the road. There’re a couple of horn signals and our truck finds a spot underneath a big spread of maples.

  We wait, engine gurgling.

  We continue to wait.

  I say, “Hang tight, I’m going to see what’s going on. Thor, stay.”

  With my M-10 over my back, I swing off the tailgate and jump to the ground, wincing at the pain in my left knee, which had been dinged up a couple of years ago back in Nashua, and which had earned me my second Purple Heart. I walk up the road, noting how the rest of the convoy has dispersed, and the ground falls some down to the Mohawk River, and I see why we’ve stopped.

  There’s not much of a bridge there, leading to the other bank, and to where the Air National Guard base is located. There are some cables, pontoons, grating, but no sure way across.

  For the moment, we’re stuck.

  By the edge of the road are two dull yellow New York Department of Transportation dump trucks, along with a road grader and two other large Army trucks, with trailers attached to the rear. It looks like the crew here—a mix of Army Corps of Engineers, City of Schenectady workers and workers from the DOT—are building a pontoon bridge at this crossing. Wallace is talking to heavyset woman wearing captain’s bars as well, and as I get closer I hear her end of the conversation.

  “…should have it up and ready for you in a few hours.”

  Wallace looks over at the floating pontoons, the slabs of metal grating being lowered in, and she says, “Can’t you move it along? We’ve got to be someplace and soon.”

  The Corps of Engineers captain says, “Going as fast as we can, but we want to do it right. About six months from now, a permanent bridge is gonna be installed here, Lord Jesus and the State of New York willing, and we want to be able to take ’er out as quick as we can when the time comes.”

  There’s a DOT worker and a city worker standing behind the captain, and I say, “How did the original bridge go? Creepers?”

  “Hell no,” the state worker says. “Ice buildup this past winter.”

  Wallace looks to her map. First Sergeant Hesketh is standing behind her. “Says here there’s a bridge on…Route 5, spanning the river, just south of here,” she points out.

  This time it’s the city worker’s turn to speak. “Nope, that bridge is down, too.”

  “Winter ice again?” I ask.

  Nobody answers my question, and I have a pretty good idea why. In the first frantic months of the war, when columns and waves of refugees swept across the Interstates and state roads, looking for any kind of safety or shelter, some cities and towns destroyed bridges in a last-ditch attempt to prevent themselves from being overwhelmed.

  It happened, but still, nobody likes to talk about it much.

  Wallace steps back and says to Hesketh, “Get the company dispersed as best as possible. Tell Second Platoon they have picket duty. Everybody else can stand easy until we can get moving again.”

  She spots me. “Sergeant Knox?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to see what was going on.”

  Wallace says, “Not your problem. Meanwhile, your platoon needs you. Get back to them.”

  I salute her and trot back, still not used to the expression “your platoon.”

  * * *

  We find shelter in an old service station that used to hold a convenience store, and pretty much everything’s been stripped or stolen over the years. I grab a blanket from my battle pack, find a corner that’s not being used, and roll up in it to get some sleep. I’m almost snoozing when something thumps into my side, and I open my eyes and see its Thor, cuddling up next to me.

  “All right,” I say, patting his hindquarters. “Just let me sleep, all right?”

  He doesn’t sigh, pass gas or move, so maybe he is paying attention, and despite the hard floor and my pillow made from my pack, I quickly fall asleep.

  * * *

  Then the nightmares come. No need to describe them, except I always know when I have them, when I start panting heavily. Dad has heard me before, and my fellow soldiers, and I’m told it’s like I’ve just run a marathon and can’t catch my breath, and with every deep breath, there’s a moan to go along with it.

  “Knox!”

  I can’t move, I can’t really see much, but all I know is that I’m being chased, and I had an M-10 round in my hand, and it’s fallen into the snow, and—

  “Knox!”

  Something’s coming something bad something’s coming—

  “Knox, wake up!”

  I start to, and look up at the face of Wallace, peering down at me, a concerned look on her face, and I’m instantly embarrassed. I sit up and rub my face and say, “Sorry, Captain. I was having a bad dream.”

  “I can tell,” she says, “and so can half the county.”

  I make to get up but there’s something in her face that keeps me still, and she shakes her head. Her helme
t is off and her red hair seems freshly washed, and she says, “How old are you, Sergeant?”

  “Sixteen, ma’am.”

  “How long have you been in the Army?”

  “Four years, ma’am, when I joined the National Guard.”

  “Your parents both allowed you in?”

  I shake my head. “My mom and sister died in the first week. My dad was the one that let me join.”

  She nods, an odd expression on her face. “Your dad…has he always been in the Army?”

  “No, ma’am,” I say. “He was in the Reserves, and was also a history professor at Boston University.”

  “A smart man,” she says.

  “He is.”

  “But pretty secretive.”

  I say, “Well, he is in Intelligence.”

  She smiles at me, and right then I realize that she’s probably the age my mom was, when the war began. Old enough to be my mother, and something warm and squirrelly slides around in my chest, and she says, “All right, get your platoon together. The bridge is ready and we’re heading out.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, getting up, rolling up my blanket and getting the rest of my gear, and we start off to the truck, where our old soldier Sully is talking to Balatnic. Apparently he found an old magazine back at the service station—something called TV Guide—and he’s showing it to a skeptical Balatnic.

  “Look,” he says, “Right there. It’s listed. Do you see what I mean?”

  She says, “You’re telling me that there was a television program, I mean, a real television program, where people volunteered to get dumped in a jungle or on an island with no clothes, and no food.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sully, you mean people actually volunteered to sleep outdoors? With no clothes? And to starve to death? In front of cameras?”

  “Look, it’s right on this page,” he says, pointing to a soggy page. “It’s listed right here.”

  “And the people who volunteered, they’d starve? How come the folks there taking the pictures—”

  “Recording the video.”

  “Whatever,” Balatnic says as they approach the truck. “Didn’t they feed the people when they started getting hungry?”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “You mean they stood there and watched them starve?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Didn’t they have enough food to share?”

  “Yeah, but that was the point, you see—”

  Balatnic shakes her head, tosses her battle pack into the rear of the truck. “Sully, give it a rest. I can’t believe any people would be that stupid.”

  Sully throws the old magazine onto the ground. “Trust me, we were.”

  He gets up on the truck—puffing and panting—and when I’m sure everybody’s aboard I help Thor up. I’m about to join my platoon when I hear, “Excuse me,” and I turn around, spotting a woman in her thirties or thereabout, with a knapsack on her back, but dressed in civvie clothes—but good civvie clothes—heavy boots, dark khaki slacks and camo jacket with a hood at the rear. Still, she’s got a leather belt around her waist with a knife and holstered pistol. Her face is engaging but worn, like she’s been outdoors a lot, and she has a wool Navy watch cap on her head.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you,” she says, and I see she has a pencil and notebook in her hand, “but I’m working on a book. My name is Pam Lockwood…I’m on leave from my job at USA Today.”

  “A book?” I ask, intrigued. “What’s it about?”

  “Ten years later, that’s what,” Lockwood says. “And I’m traveling around the country, talking to people, finding out how they’re going on after the war started.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “And I was hoping maybe I could talk to you and—”

  The truck grumbles into life and there’s a honk of horns up forward. “Sorry,” I say. “I gotta join my platoon. Good luck on the book.”

  She turns and steps back, watches as I get up on the rear of the truck, Thor looking happy I’m with him. Another blare of horns and we go back out onto the road to join up with the rest of the company, and as it’s true most days in the Army, it’s hurry-up-and-wait time. I’m not sure what’s going on up ahead, only that there’s a traffic jam of horse-drawn wagons and some civvie vehicles, mixed in with our lead Stryker and Wallace’s Humvee. I stand up, looking for the woman who’s writing a book about what things are like ten years after the start of the war—still sucks, would have been my contribution—but I can’t see her.

  I sit back down, and wonder how Serena and Buddy are doing, and I’m also wondering about their dad.

  Dead.

  Dead while trying to help them escape from the compound where they were being held.

  By the man from Langley, who also seemed ready to torture Buddy in the CIA’s approved method.

  Earlier Wallace said she wanted to put Hoyt Cranston’s head on a pike, and I was ready to help hold the base secure.

  A couple of enterprising young folks are going up and down the convoy line, holding up things for sale, from sandwiches to fruit to…

  One young girl, wearing overalls and in bare feet, topped off by a New York Mets T-shirt, holds up a plastic bucket filled with ice. And in the ice, all by itself, is a twelve-ounce bottle of Coca-Cola.

  Wow.

  She gets to our truck and holds up the bucket, and I say, “How much?”

  “Fifty cents,” she says. “And I get the bottle back.”

  I look to my platoon and no one says a word, and I start digging through my pockets, and two side pockets of my battlepack, and I scrape together a quarter, two dimes and five pennies.

  I lower my hand, and thinking better of it, I say, “Take the bottle out, will you? We’ll make the trade at the same time.”

  She says, “Show me your money.”

  I count out the coin from one hand to the other, and she puts the bucket on the ground. Up comes the Coke bottle and down goes the change, and the bottle feels nice and cold in my hand. I twist the top and give it a smell.

  The real thing, it smells like.

  I can sense everyone looking at me. I turn, hand the bottle to Balatnic. “Have a sip. Pass it around. Everybody gets a sip, okay?”

  She nods, smiling, and smacks her lips when she’s done. Up the bottle goes to the rear of the truck, and down it comes, every soldier getting a good little swig, until it reaches Bronson. He takes the precious bottle, which has just barely enough Coke to cover the bottom. Bronson lifts the bottle to his lip, swigs, and lowers it.

  I’m surprised. It looks like he barely took a sip.

  “Finish it off, Sergeant Knox.”

  “Thanks, I will,” I say, and the Coke is still cold, frosty, and all too soon, gone.

  * * *

  I return the bottle to the young girl, and she races off, and the convoy lurches into action, and we slowly go over the pontoon bridge spanning the Mohawk River. We take our time, spacing out our vehicles so that there’s not much strain on the cables and connections.

  On the other side, we maneuver to the right, pass traffic ready to cross over to where we were, and there are two old Schenectady cops, holding the wagons and civilian trucks up. Blank, tired and dirty faces look up at us as we cruise on by, and I turn and look ahead. The Mohawk River is on our right, and we’re now on State Highway 29, and through the trees and brush out there, I can make out a flat area that looks like airstrips.

  Finally. The base we’re going to is an Air National Guard base, which is just fine, since most active duty military bases were blasted during week one of the war. Most of the military action now takes place from Reserve or National Guard bases, or forts like my home back in New Hampshire, taken over from a prep school. Whatever. We do what we can, and right now, I don’t care much about weaponry or military bases. My thoughts are pretty basic: Hot showers, hot food, and a soft bed.

  The road gets rougher as it rises up. There are railroad tracks to the left
, and beyond that, a chain-link fence. All right, lukewarm showers, food at any temperature, and a relatively comfortable bed, that’ll do. Honest. Dusk is approaching and there’s shadows stretching out on the road.

  “Not long now, it looks like,” Sully says, leaning over the side. “Hey, who found this place?”

  I say, “My dad. Colonel Knox. He’s in Intelligence.”

  “Unh-hunh.”

  There’s a Y intersection, and we bear left. Up on the right is a gate sign made of cement that says:

  STRATTON

  AIR NATIONAL GUARD BASE

  109TH AIRLIFT WING

  Behind the sign is another chain-link fence, and a static display of a four-engine C-130 Hercules aircraft.

  The gate sign is pockmarked with bullet holes and disfigured with splashed black paint. The C-130’s wings are torn off on the grass, the grass about knee-high. To the left of this display is a guard shack, burned out. The gate is open. We slowly pass through, with hangars and buildings on either side.

  The windows are broken, the roofs are collapsed. Our convoy slows down. There’s a huge hangar to the right, and over the wide doors is another sign:

  STRATTON

  AIR NATIONAL GUARD BASE

  ELEVATION: 376 FEET

  That hangar has been blasted as well. Stretching out in front of us is a cracked runway, serving as some sort of parking area for aircraft. I count eleven C-130s stretching out, their tail structures and wing edges painted orange, and each four-engine aircraft is destroyed, the center fuselage burnt and crumpled. The convoy grumbles to a halt. The sky is growing dark. The runway is cracked, buckled, and small trees and brush are growing in the cracks as far as one can see.

  A dog trots across. There’s not a sign of life, nor a single light, or anything.

  Sully says, “Your dad should have chosen better.”

  An Excerpt from the Journal of Randall Knox

  Civilians, God love ’em. Sometimes they love us, more often than not they ignore us, and sometimes, well, sometimes it can get nasty.