Red Vengeance

by Brendan DuBois

  I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing and I say, “M1-A2 tanks? For real? I haven’t seen any of those in years.” I didn’t mention that the ones I’d seen had been wrecks, smashed by the stealth satellites. “Thought they couldn’t move in the open anymore.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Because of the onboard electronics. But these guys have been retrofitted. All of the electronics, anything high tech, all that stuff’s been stripped out. Just a battle tank with a diesel and bare-eyed targeting, that’s it. Even more primitive than the tanks we used to fight against the Krauts last century.”

  Jackson says, “But…They can’t kill the Creepers, can they?”

  Nicholas smiles once more, swirls around her cup of coffee. “Damn thing fires a 120 millimeter shell. Used to be able to fire a variety of rounds, from antiarmor to antipersonnel, but now it fires a solid chunk of tungsten.”

  I ask, “Does it penetrate the arthropod?”

  “Hell, no,” she says, still smiling. “But kinetic energy is our friend. It hits the Creeper in the right place, it sends it sailing right into the next county. Nope, you haven’t seen anything ’til you’ve seen one of these new tanks go up against a Creeper. Prettiest damn thing you’ll ever see.”

  Wallace says, “What are your recognition signals?”

  Nicholas says, “Three orange flares, three klicks out. Two orange flares, two klicks out. One orange flare, we’re knocking at your front door.”

  Wallace taps her fingers on the map. “Sounds too good to be true.”

  Nicholas finishes her coffee. “Every day walking and breathing is too good to be true. With your permission, ma’am, I’m gonna go hook up with the Third Mobile, tell ’em message delivered.” She hesitates and then speaks up again. “If I may, ma’am…”

  “Go ahead, Sergeant.”

  She puts her coffee cup on the crowded table. “I’ve heard from other dispatch riders that something’s stirred up those bugs something awful. I suggest…I suggest you be ready to move once we get here. Ain’t gonna be enough time to dick around.”

  Wallace says, “Understood, Sergeant. You can rest assured we won’t be dicking around.”

  * * *

  Once she leaves and there’s only the muttered roar of her motorcycle heading off, Wallace says, “All right, go back to your people, get them ready. We’ll do the same here for the CP. Remember the flare signals. The last orange one means they’ll be coming up that access road, and then we’re gonna have to move fast as hell. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Good. One more thing, though. Spread the word. If anybody spots a blue flare, in any direction, at any time, they’re to get me at once. Understood? At once. I don’t care if I’m sleeping, or dreaming about a cheeseburger, or my ass is hanging over the latrine pit. I want to know if a blue flare gets sighted.”

  The two lieutenants and yours truly acknowledge that, and Dad starts to get up and work his way around the table, but by the time he gets to the door, I’m already halfway down the slope to the gravel parking lot, ignoring his calls.

  * * *

  First Platoon had been resting or slumbering when I left, but the news I bring jolts them all awake, and there’s a lot of laughter and high fives exchanged as I go up and down the line of foxholes, making sure everything is policed, picked up and squared away.

  Now my guys and girls in the First Platoon are relaxed but a bit tense, knowing that relief is just minutes away. I know what they’re thinking: big guns are riding to them, hot showers and food and a comfortable bunk are going to be there at the end of the day, and finally, no more running.

  “Look over there!” comes a shout, and we look over to “there” and see a damn pleasing sight indeed, one-two-three orange flares are flying up into the overcast, leaden sky, trailing sparks and little bright twinkles of light.

  “Hoo-ah!”

  “There you go!”

  “Come on, Third Mobile, we’re waiting!”

  More laughs and canteens are drunk, and without any orders, one and then two and then all platoon members are out of their foxholes, weapons in one hand, packs in the other. They really should be under cover, but it’s been a long day and night, so I don’t say anything. They stretch out on the dry and brown grass, or a few sit on the edges of their foxholes, letting their feet dangle over. Someone has a rolled up sock and tosses it to Thor, who races back and forth in delight, sometimes not giving up the sock, growling and tugging back at whoever’s playing with him at the moment, who happens to be De Los Santos, grinning and teasing Thor, his black eye patch in place.

  “Hey, number two’s up!” comes another shout, and sure enough, two orange flares race up in the sky, and even I cheer and clap. Members of Second Platoon start wandering away from their foxholes, up to the gravel parking lot, and First Platoon looks to me and I say, “Sure, go ahead. Just get ready to haul your ass on the first empty truck that gets close to you. We’ve got to make some heavy time.”

  I join the soldiers as we go up the slight incline, and Thor runs over to me, panting, very happy indeed to be playing as a dog and not a K-9 hunter, and I stroke his back as we get to the lot.

  We’re bunching up.

  A big no-no.

  You never bunch up, allowing the Creepers to kill or maim lots of you with a laser beam or flaring torch, but we also have to be ready to get onto the transports and out as fast as we can.

  The door opens up to the CP and Wallace comes out, and yells, “Hey, you clowns! Scatter! Spread out…this ain’t no bus station.”

  There’s just the slightest movement and I sense Wallace doesn’t want to press the point, and like the viewers at an outdoor movie show or concert, we’re all staring to the east, where the two previous flares had fired off.

  We wait.

  The sky remains overcast.

  Nothing in view save the dead Creeper, the dirt access road, and lots and lots of trees.

  Wait.

  A murmur, “Where in hell is that third signal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe they got hung up.”

  “Bridge out.”

  “River flooded.”

  A stronger voice, “Maybe some peacers decided to block the convoy. You know, sacrificing us for the cause of peace and accommodation.”

  A couple of obscenities are tossed out in response to that. I peer around the other soldiers.

  Still quiet.

  Thor is by me, sitting quietly on the gravel parking lot. He’s not making a sound, not doing anything, but his intelligent eyes are flickering back and forth, back and forth, like there’s something out there, just beyond his senses, something there that has caught his attention.

  I don’t like it.

  “First Platoon!” I call out. “Back to the line. Now!”

  Boy, do they grumble, but they pick up their weapons and gear, and I wonder if the two lieutenants are going to follow my lead, and then—

  The sky lights up, a thundering noise slapping at our chests and ears.

  I drop and roll, covering my eyes, opening my mouth, just in case a nearby concussion rips through me and tears out my eardrums. More thundering explosions, rapid, like someone firing a pump-action shotgun, one shell after another, and I keep my eyes closed tight until it seems the light has faded.

  I open my eyes. All around me soldiers are getting up from the dirt, grabbing their weapons and packs, running back to the line. I run too, even though there’s nothing going on at the sloping hill before our empty foxholes.

  No.

  Everything is going on to the west.

  I spare a glance as I tumble into my foxhole, Tanner panting and joining me, Thor gracefully jumping in. To the west are rising plumes of smoke, and then, more distant explosions, as bright white lines shoot from the cloud cover, striking targets on the ground.

  Killer stealth satellites, still at work.

  More explosions.

  Tanner is next to me, breathing hard. “Sergeant?”<
br />
  Out beyond the rising plumes of smoke, a flare rises up, sputtering, and then going off at an angle, like the soldier firing it was using his or her last strength to do so.

  It’s the color of the sun, yellow, and it’s a sign of distress.

  “Sergeant?”

  I rub at my chin, still looking at the smoke out there, and I say, “Unpack your gear. We’re not going anywhere today, or tonight.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Once the sun sets the Creepers come back again, with quick, probing hits to our lines, like they were seeking out weaknesses or a gap. They attack at random, with no rhyme or reason, sometimes sending two at a time at one segment of the line, followed again by another two somewhere else, and then resting, and then sending one by itself at a completely different spot.

  And then they flee back to the tree lines, all but one making it back safely. Off to the right, Second Platoon nails one, and while that’s usually call for hoots and cheers, it’s quiet over there, like they’re too tired too care.

  But why attack and skitter back without pressing on?

  Why? Because they’re aliens, that’s why.

  Dinner is cold chicken broth and another stale roll, and I sip half of the broth, soften the roll in the broth, and then feed it to Thor. He laps my bowl clean. Tanner sees what’s left in his own bowl, and he nearly cries. “I’m sorry, Sarge. I’m so damn hungry.”

  “Go ahead, finish it off.”

  He finishes it off, turning his back to me like he’s ashamed of his hunger and weakness, and so we prepare for the long night.

  * * *

  I let Tanner sleep for as long as he wants, and then when he wakes up, looking like he might be in trouble, I say, “It’s okay. I’m going to check the line. Stay alert, stay tight.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  I roll out and keep my head down, and check in with my troopers, and I’m startled when I see a soldier named Tyson alone in her foxhole.

  “Hey,” I whisper. “What’s going on? Sully is supposed to be with you, right?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” she says, her M-10 in a good firing position through a gap of piled dirt in front of her foxhole, looking down the bare slope.

  “Where is he?”

  “Sleeping,” she says. “I’ve got the watch.”

  I peer in, seeing just darkness and a knapsack. “Is he sleeping back at the CP?”

  A grumble. “No, damn it, I’m trying to sleep here.”

  From beneath and to the side of the hole, Sully appears, like a woodchuck slowly emerging. He had dug further into a wall of the foxhole, making a shelter within the shelter. He drags his M-4 out and coughs.

  “Sullivan?”

  Another cough. “Look, Sarge. You saw those satellites scorch Third Mobile. I heard they weren’t using any high-tech stuff in their trucks and tanks. So why the hell did they get scorched?”

  That had been troubling me as well. “Don’t know, Sully.”

  “Yeah, well, I know I’m too old for this shit. If those satellites wanted to, they could melt this entire mountain top, and Mrs. Sullivan’s only son is gonna keep his head and body covered.”

  Not much to reply to that, and he says, “Tyson. How much time do I have left?”

  “Another hour.”

  “See ya.”

  He crawls back in, and I check out the rest of the line, and when I’m back and safe in my foxhole with Tanner, they attack again.

  * * *

  It turns out to be a long night, probing here and there, and we nail two of the bugs, and we hear that Second and Third have done better than us. We lose one trooper to a laser burst, Gould, who loses his right arm just below his shoulder. I spare two troopers to haul him up to Dr. Pulaski at the CP, and they come back a few minutes later, out of breath, saying two had been killed from Second Platoon, and one from Third Platoon.

  I move the line some so Tanner and I are covering a wider area, so that the gap from losing Gould can be covered. Over to the east the sky is lightening up, a nice thin red line and a spreading patch of pink and red, meaning another day is approaching. I take in a deep breath, wondering what the day is going to bring, and more importantly, if we might get something to eat anytime soon.

  Below us on the slope there are lines of mist, long flowing tendrils rising up from the grass and low brush, only disturbed by the site of three dead Creepers, in various stages of collapse, arthropod legs canted at odd angles, and some churned-up earth from their legs. The sun starts to make its appearance. Thor scrambles up from the foxhole and does his business over by Third, which is okay by me. He sits, sniffs the air, and then trots back, licks my hand and face, and climbs back into the foxhole.

  It’s quiet.

  Tanner yawns and says, “Sarge…okay if I take a snooze ’fore breakfast comes around?”

  Brave young lad, thinking that we might actually get breakfast. The sun rises higher and the mists start to move around, almost like there are ghostly phantoms on the move, rising in the air.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll wake you up…when breakfast comes.”

  He smiles and rolls himself in a ball, and in seconds, he goes to sleep.

  It’s still quiet.

  Movement along the line, and De Los Santos comes to me, weapon in hand, keeping himself low, and when he gets to our foxhole, he lifts his head and says, “Sergeant,” and then there’s a quick flicker of light to my left and he drops into the dirt.

  “Corporal?”

  He’s down, falling in a fetal position, the M-10 falling out of his hand.

  No movement.

  “Corporal?”

  Tanner wakes up. “What’s up, Sarge?”

  “Hold fast,” I say. “Keep watch down the slope.”

  I move out and Thor joins me. I crawl on my belly and reach the corporal, push his shoulder. “Hey. De Los Santos. What’s up? Did you trip? Are you okay?”

  The faintest whiff of burnt flesh.

  Thor moves around, whines, and pushes a paw against his back. I move closer, look at the rear of his torso, along the Firebiter vest, down to his buttocks and legs. All clear.

  But something’s wrong when I get up to his collar.

  There’s a scorch mark at the base of his neck. Burnt and flaking dark flesh.

  “God damn them all,” I whisper.

  That little flicker of light…from a laser beam shot from a hidden Creeper down there in the woods, a sniper shot, catching De Los Santos right at the base of his head, burning out his spine and lower brain.

  God damn them all.

  Tanner’s still in our foxhole and I say, “My pack. There’s a spare poncho. Take it out. Bring it over here.”

  Thor’s still whining, pushing at the body of De Los Santos. I turn him over and thankfully his good eye is closed, the eye patch still in place. Thor digs at a pocket, takes out a rolled-up sock that he had played with earlier with the corporal. Thor’s a smart pup; he knows De Los Santos is dead, but with the sock in his mouth, he stretches out and lies down next to the body. There’s a sudden stench as the muscles in De Los Santos’s trunk let go.

  “You poor guy,” I ask. “What the hell did you need so badly?”

  I close his mouth. His dark skin is smooth. Tanner crawls up next to me, poncho in his hands. Both hands are shaking and his face is white.

  “Unfold it, will you?”

  Tanner nods, starts working the old green poncho, flattening it out on the dirt and dead grass. Other members of the platoon are staring at us, and I shout back, “First Platoon, eyes front! And keep your heads down!”

  Tears spring up in my eyes. I blink at them. A dead trooper? I’ve seen plenty over the years. Thor’s reaction? Maybe. My boy is slow to make friends, but he sure as hell had a bond with De Los Santos. So what’s going on?

  I reach to his head, start unbuckling his helmet. De Los Santos was mine, that’s why. My platoon. My responsibility.

  “Tanner.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”
r />   “What was his first name?”

  “It…it was Pepe, Sergeant.”

  I take the helmet off, put it aside. Pepe’s hair is dark black, full and thick. “Where was he from?”

  “Puerto Rico.”

  Puerto Rico…“The hell he was.”

  “Nope, he was, Sergeant. He was up in Queens, visiting his grandparents when the bugs attacked. All three got out in time…Now they’re livin’ in a refugee camp in Vermont. He used to send his pay to them every month. Now what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I started undoing his Firebiter vest. On the other side of the hill, it sounds like another Creeper attack. I smell cinnamon and hear the clicking noise, shouts, and the heavy sounds of M-10s being fired.

  Moving the Firebiter vest off of him, something tickles at my mind. I don’t know what it is, but something is there.

  I work some more, gather up his Firebiter vest, helmet, M-10, bandolier of rounds, and a .38 Police Special revolver with a cardboard box full of spare rounds. The box is old, soggy cardboard, the colorful labeling worn away.

  Around his neck are his dog tags. I tug one tag off, keep it in my hand. There’s a rosary around his neck, and a chain with a crucifix.

  I leave them be.

  I slip the dog tag into a coat pocket. “Tanner, give me a hand.”

  “Sure, Sergeant.”

  The M-10 firing from across the way has stopped. With Tanner’s help, we drag Corporal De Los Santos’s body onto the poncho, and in a few minutes, we have him wrapped up. It’s good now, not seeing his face.

  “Tanner, you take his shoulders, I’ll take the legs.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “And keep your head and ass as low as possible.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Tanner moves forward, his helmet bouncing on his small head, and I say, “Thor, cover,” and my boy whines again, and then crawls back into the foxhole. We pick up the corporal’s body and move up to the CP, going way damn slow, with Tanner swearing as he drops De Los Santos twice on the way up the slope. But when we get to the gravel parking lot, we’re moving better, right up to the CP. The supply trailer on the left hasn’t moved, and the flag is still flapping some on the old radio antenna.