Red Vengeance

by Brendan DuBois

  A nice big chunk burns through and the shadows move along with its descent. Melendez keeps quiet. He knows the difference.

  The rock is damn cold against my belly and chest, and I hope we have something hot for breakfast. Even hot, weak coffee. Or hot, weak tea. Or hot water with a couple of spoonfuls of honey in it.

  Anything hot.

  Melendez whispers, “I swear to God, Sergeant, I heard it.”

  “Relax. Besides, gives me a chance to stretch my legs.”

  * * *

  The night slides along. Another piece of debris really lights up the joint, and I can easily make out the wood line, the churned-up ground, and the dead Creepers scattered in front of us, looking almost like those post-battle Civil War photos, showing the dead stretched out, sometimes in a formal-looking line.

  My legs are cold.

  So are my hands.

  I turn to see if Melendez is still awake, and he is, and—

  Snap.

  “That’s it, that’s it, did you hear it?” he whispers fiercely.

  “Shhh,” I say. “Yeah, I did.”

  Now what?

  The sound didn’t come from the slope, and didn’t come from Second Platoon.

  It came from the rock cliff.

  Oh, how I hate heights.

  “Corporal, I’m crawling over to take a look. Stay right here. If I…fall or disappear, raise hell, okay?”

  “Hoo-ah, Sergeant,” he whispers back.

  My M-10 is too large and bulky for me to crawl silently across this flat rock, so I shrug it off and slowly move forward, away from the line of foxholes, away from Melendez. Alone again. I’m beginning to think it’s a habit I need to break.

  The flat rock angles down. My breathing gets harder and faster. I’m thinking of a small spring suddenly opening up, wetting everything and causing me to slide and fall…

  I bite my lower lip, the snap of pain putting everything into focus. I keep on crawling, my hands in front of me, and damned if I don’t hear something else, something…whispering? Voices?

  I find the edge of the cliff with my left hand, and then the right. I take a break, no longer cold, now warm and sweating. My heart is thudding so hard I think it could actually crack the rock I’m pressed up against.

  One more deep breath, and I slide forward about a half meter or so, and then I peer over the edge of the cliff and look down.

  Right into the center arthropod of a Battle Creeper, looking right up at me, its weaponized arms at its side, so close not only can I smell the cinnamon, but I can also hear the gentle whir of machinery from inside the bug’s exoskeleton.

  * * *

  I pull back, wait wait wait, and then I grit my teeth and slide forward again, trying not to panic at what I see, and what I see is more than one Creeper. It’s a whole line of Creepers, in a formation I’ve never seen before. Four of them are up against the base of the cliff, holding up three more, and in turn…holding up the Creeper I’ve just spotted. Other Creepers are milling about. They’re making a goddamn pyramid, they are, trying to sneak through, working to get one of their Creepers over the edge.

  And now they’re damn close.

  I slide back to Melendez, grab his shoulder, and whisper in his ear, “Haul ass to the CP. Tell Wallace or Hesketh we’ve got a half-dozen Creepers coming up the cliff. I need a satchel charge, a couple of hand grenades, anything that can make an explosion. And two more soldiers with M-10s…and go!”

  He went.

  I back up some, retrieving my M-10. Everything that’s me is shaking. I think of that damn bug coming over the cliff edge, followed by other bugs, and right now it’s just me. In the darkness I retrieve a round, unsafe it, and click it to ten meters, not your usual optimal range, because if you miss after ten meters, what’s left of you can be scraped together and bundled in a small canvas bag.

  I could alert First and Second Platoon, but to what point? They’re in a lousy firing position, and if I get them stirred up, the damn bugs might just charge, right past me, right up to the CP.

  I adjust myself in the approved firing position, and wait.

  And wait.

  The whisper of booted feet on gravel. Two soldiers I don’t recognize drop themselves next to me, and then there’s Melendez and First Sergeant Hesketh.

  “Situation?” Hesketh whispers.

  I tell him what’s what and I spot the square canvas bag he has next to him, which is an M183 demolition charge, basically sixteen M112 demolition blocks of C4 explosive—twenty pounds worth—packed in a carrying case.

  “First Sergeant, if you want, I can slip over there and drop the charge. It should disrupt the hell out of them.”

  Hesketh whispers back in his gravelly voice, “You mind it here, Knox. When I was in the Corps I was using these babies in Fallujah before your parents ever met. I’ll take care of it. When I duck it means I’ve dropped it, and when it blows, you fellas come over and let them have it. Savvy?”

  “Yes, First Sergeant.”

  Hesketh fiddles with the fuse on the side, slides forward, and then with a gentle movement, tosses it over the side, and I swear, I think I hear a click-click before a teeth-rattling BOOM! shakes the cliff top and nearly liquefies my guts. A cloud of dust and smoke rises up and like it was planned, an illumination flare is fired up from the CP, back up there on the hill.

  “Go!” Hesketh yells, and me and the other two M-10 soldiers move forward, lean over, and start firing rounds down at the mess, and God, what a glorious mess it is, the harsh light of the illumination flare highlighting everything below us. Of course the satchel charge didn’t kill them or crack open their exoskeletons, but it caused the pyramid to collapse, and there are five or so Creepers in a tangled mess, and we fire off round after round, ten meters to twenty-five meters, and the clouds of gas drift down to the trapped Creepers, killing them all, and before the survivors can open up on us, Hesketh orders us back and says under his breath, “Think ya used enough dynamite there, Butch?”

  I don’t know who he’s referring to—maybe one of those two soldiers is named Butch—and I go up to Melendez, slap him on the shoulder and say, “When this is wrapped up and done, Melendez, I’m going to recommend you to Captain Wallace for a field promotion. Good work back there.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant Knox.”

  I lead him back to his foxhole and Bronson is there, M-10 at the ready, and I suppose I should stick around and chew out his ample ass, but I’m too tired, so I just say, “Sorry we disturbed your beauty sleep, Bronson, and sorry to say, it doesn’t look like it took.”

  I get back to my foxhole, rub Thor on his belly, slap the top of Tanner’s helmet, and he says, “What happened over there?”

  “Creepers tried to sneak up on us. We beat them to it. Anything happen over here?”

  Tanner says, “CP called about a minute ago. Says there are couriers infiltrating through the woods and such. Warned us not to shoot them.”

  “Good,” I say, lying down, finding my poncho, ready to wrap myself in it and go back to sleep. “And Private?”

  “Sergeant?”

  “The day you shoot at a two-legged human and think it’s a six-legged alien, I’ll shoot you. Got it?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Good. You keep your watch going, then.”

  And I sleep for exactly seventeen minutes, and I’m woken by voices, and I don’t mind at all when I’m disturbed.

  For it’s a young woman’s voice, out there by the foxhole, and she whispers and wakes me up. “Hey,” she calls out. “Is this the First Platoon?”

  Tanner whisper back, “Sure is.”

  “I’m looking for a Knox. Sergeant Randy Knox.”

  I cough, toss off my poncho. “He’s here. Sleeping.”

  “Oh.” The young woman laughs. “Maybe I should come back later.”

  Mother of God. Could it be?

  “Don’t do that,” I say, standing up. “Don’t.”

  She laughs, lowers herself in my fo
xhole, and in the dim light from the moon, I see who it is, right away.

  Corporal Abby Monroe, 2nd Recon Rangers, the best combat courier I know, from my unit in New Hampshire and—

  “Tanner.”

  “Sergeant.”

  “Go inspect the latrine.”

  “Sergeant?”

  “Don’t make me say it twice. Go…and be careful.”

  He goes, and I bring Abby into me, and we kiss, and we kiss, and we kiss, and she tastes of old food and maybe a forbidden cigarette, and she tastes wonderful.

  * * *

  “Abby…”

  “Shhh,” she says. “Not much time. Make it quick.”

  “How the hell did you end up here?”

  She gives me a good hug and I hug her back. She says, “Are you kidding me? What’s going on here has been in all the newspapers and across the telegraph wires. ‘The brave stand of Kara’s Killers.’ The Creepers are all in an uproar in this part of New York, and there’s a shortage of combat couriers. I heard that you got detached to K Company and I volunteered to come out on a special troop train and see what kind of fun you’re having, silly boy.”

  I bend forward to kiss her once more and our helmets strike each other. Laughing now, we both take our helmets off and kiss and fall to the ground, and Thor is yelping with joy at seeing his old friend come back, and he sticks his big nose between us, laps at her chin and face, and she giggles, and oh God, does that sound good, and all this fun and pleasure is stabbed with the knowledge of Serena up there in the CP. What should I do? What should I say?

  “Off, you big smelly lump of fur,” she says, laughing and sitting up, and Thor is burrowing his snout into her side, and Abby moves a hand and comes out with a fistful of dried venison strips. She tosses one, two, and three in the air, and Thor expertly snaps and devours each one before it hits the ground.

  Abby says, “Something for you, too, sport,” and she passes over two Hershey bars in their dark green wrapping and two MRE packages.

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  “How did we not know?” she says. “You guys…you’re famous, you’re cut off, making a stand against overwhelming odds. We know you’re running low…all us couriers are doing our best to hump in some supplies with our messages. I dropped off two bandoliers of M-10 rounds up at the CP.”

  Someone on the other side of the hilltop fires off a few M-4 rounds. I sure as hell hope they haven’t just taken out a courier. Abby says, “Upper New York Military District is trying to get a couple of relief columns your way, but the Creepers are knocking down bridges, cutting up roads, doing everything to delay them.” Thor settles down and Abby rubs at a special place behind his ear, and Thor starts moaning and thumping his right rear leg. His sweet spot.

  She says, “The news reporters…they’re calling this another famous battle, like that one in South Africa, back in the 1890s. ‘Battle of Rorke’s Drift.’”

  “Oh, great,” I say. “Abby, about a hundred and fifty British troops were facing three or four thousand Zulu warriors during that fight. If there’s even thirty or forty Creepers out there, getting ready for a mass attack, this place will be scorched to bedrock.”

  “Then it won’t happen.”

  My heart is flipping right along with love, affection and happiness, and I go forward and we kiss some more, deep, soul-satisfying kisses, and my hands move under her jacket and her Firebiter vest and she sighs, “Randy, come run away with me.”

  “Would if I could.”

  She giggles again and it’s only been a couple of weeks since I’ve last seen and held her, and it seems like forever, and then a man’s voice up near the CP yells out, “Monroe! Get a move on! Now!”

  Abby says, “Shit,” and breaks away, gets on her hands and knees, retrieves her helmet. “Gotta run. That’s my new best friend, Sergeant Fong from the 14th Calvary, and he doesn’t like any of his couriers being out of sight.”

  I feel fuzzy and out of sorts, not too sure what to say or do, and I blurt out, “I got your letter, about me getting my Silver Star. Did you get mine?”

  “No, I didn’t,” she says, strapping on her helmet. “When did you send it?”

  “A few days back, when Albany got hit.”

  Abby shakes her head. “Nope. Probably waiting for me when I get back to Fort St. Paul. Did it say anything important?”

  I think of what I had written back then, up on the side of a hill, watching the capitol city burn, remembering…

  Abby, Off to see the elephant again, big time. Not sure if I’ll be back to Fort St. Paul. Being with you this past year has been the best of my life. All my love, always, Randy.

  I wimp out. “It’ll wait.”

  She’s done. I kiss her one more time and she says, “But I can’t wait. Now I gotta get out of here and Randy?”

  I’m holding her hand. “Yes?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you stink. Even Thor smells better than you. I bet I’ll be able to smell you all the way back to the CP.”

  I squeeze her hand. “Always the romantic one, Corporal.”

  “Don’t get scorched, Sergeant,” she says, and I grab her slim hips, help her up over the foxhole, and Thor barks his displeasure at seeing her leave, and then she’s gone.

  And in about ten minutes, so am I.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Private Tanner comes back, all smirking and full of questions, and I shut him up by passing over a Hershey’s bar, which does the trick, and he says something about how the reserve force is now digging a trench line around the CP. I tune him out and remember what Abby had just said, and I remember being back at the Air Force base, seeing that Creeper, and then I remember our night bivouac, that little squad after we had ambushed the three Creepers advancing on that dirt road, killing…

  Peterson?

  Petrov?

  No. Picard. That had been her name.

  For just a brief moment I’m happy I’ve recalled her name, and then I keep on remembering, and then I make the decision.

  “Tanner.”

  “Sergeant.”

  I hand him the two MRE packages and he whistles in appreciation. “When dawn comes, bring these up to whoever’s doing mess duties up at the CP.”

  “All right, Sergeant.”

  “In the meantime…” I sling my M-10 over my shoulder, pick up my battlepack, and say, “I’m going up to the CP. You stay put…and whatever you do, keep your damn head down.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” he says, and I climb out of the foxhole, say, “Thor, come,” and my boy comes right with me.

  There’s a lightening to the east that marks another day coming.

  Tanner says, “Sergeant?”

  “Make it quick.”

  “Don’t…don’t be long, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say, hating myself, for this is the last time I’ll ever speak to Tanner.

  I make a crouched walk up to the CP, see the digging going on up there, and then I suddenly veer right, making my way down the access road, doing my best to carefully slip through the Third Platoon’s lines. I take my time, moving slow, using whatever cover I can—a boulder, a tossed-over tree trunk, even a Creeper exoskeleton—and then I’m free.

  Thor stays with me. I pause for just a moment, take off my Firebiter vest and shove it into my battle pack, and I slowly walk down the road, officially and without a doubt, a deserter from the armed forces of the United States.

  My good boy doesn’t ask any questions, which is sweet, for I’m not sure what kind of answers I can provide.

  * * *

  About ten minutes later, a voice from the left of the access road loudly whispers, “Freeze, or I’ll drop you right there.”

  Shit.

  A ten-minute desertion. How pathetic. No matter, though, if it was ten minutes, ten hours or ten days, the Army won’t like it, and if I’m very, very lucky, I’ll get sentenced to life at hard labor at the remaining sections of Leavenworth.

  “I’m s
tanding still,” I say.

  “Okay,” the voice says. “You stay, and your mutt stays, too. I don’t want to shoot either you or the dog, but I will.”

  “Got it.”

  The soldier emerges from some low saplings and brush, and he has a crystal night-viewing device over one eye. Very pricey, very expensive, and not as good as the prewar stuff, but it’s not run by electronics, so there you go. And as crude as it might be, it was good enough for this trooper to spot me.

  “I.D. yourself,” he says.

  “Knox, First Platoon.”

  “You’re the guy that came from New Hampshire, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You heading back to New Hampshire tonight?”

  I’m not about to explain my motivations to this picket line soldier, so I say, “It was a thought.”

  “You thought wrong, bud. I’m here to watch for couriers coming up and soldiers slipping out. You’re the first one heading out…coward.”

  Unlikely, I know, but I’m not in a mood to argue the point.

  He says, “Somebody told me that you got the Silver Star, for killing a Creeper with a knife.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sounds like a bullshit story.”

  “You’re half-right,” I say. “Getting the Silver Star was bullshit. But everything else is true.”

  “Fine, whatever,” he says. “You turn around, you head back up that trail, keep your hands out in the open. We’re going to see Captain Wallace. You do what I tell you…or I’ll have to eliminate a threat. And that threat is your pooch, okay?”

  “Understood,” I say.

  Then his voice quickly changes, almost a pleading, and he says, “Knox, I lost my dog Harry back when the war started. Had to leave him behind when our house got flooded back in Connecticut. Don’t make me have to shoot your dog.”

  I find the words. “I won’t.”

  * * *

  The walk back to the CP is quicker than the walk out, and now dawn is starting to break. There are five wounded soldiers sitting up or on stretchers outside the small building, and a medic is checking on their bandages and giving them sips of water. Some heavy shovel and pick work is still being done around the CP by another half-dozen soldiers, but it doesn’t look like the number of heavy and sagging poncho-clad bodies under the tarp has increased.