Dark Victory: A Novel of the Alien Resistance

by Brendan DuBois

  “If that won’t be much trouble, ma’am.”

  She briskly stands up. “No trouble at all, Sergeant. In the meanwhile, I’ve arranged your discharge from the hospital and your transfer to a local hotel.”

  “I’d rather be discharged to a local army post.”

  The smile now has humor about it. “Sorry, Sergeant, it’s already been arranged. You have nothing to say about it.”

  Then she leaves, and I feel like throwing up, having gone up against the most powerful woman in the nation.

  Riley, the more talkative of her bodyguards, comes in, carrying my assault pack and a black clothing bag, which he puts on the bed and unzips. “There you go, young man. Fresh uniform and your assault pack. It was left unclaimed in your bus from Adams. Time to get dressed.”

  He stands there and I say, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Riley shakes his head. “I was told to stay in here until you get dressed and packed.”

  I shrug, get back up on my bed, stretch my legs over the clothing bag. “Then it’s going to be a long wait. I don’t get dressed in front of an audience.”

  Riley narrows his eyes. “You’re in the damn army. When did you get so damn shy?”

  “Not shy around my buds,” I say. “I make an exception for hired guns.”

  He says, “I can make you get dressed.”

  I don’t blink, reach over and pull my brand new uniform bag over on my lap. “In these clothes here?”

  Riley blinks. “That’s right, you snotty kid. Those clothes right there.”

  “Molon labe,” I say.

  “Hunh?”

  I say, “This snotty kid is a commissioned sergeant in the National Guard, attached to the United States Army. I’ve had years of education in the military arts and sciences. Molon labe. That’s what King Leonidas of Sparta said to the Persians as they massed in Thermopylae.”

  I sense his confusion and hesitation. I go on. “The Persians demanded the Spartans surrender and give up their weapons. The king replied by saying, ‘Molon labe.’ Come and get them. So that’s what I’m saying to you, Mister Riley. You want my clothes to dress me? Come and get them.”

  The air in the room crackles and I sense Riley is evaluating his options, and I’m under no illusions. If he decides to go forth, it’s going to get bloody and violent in a matter of seconds. But I’m gambling Riley is going to back down.

  He does.

  “You got five minutes, kid.”

  “It’s Sergeant Knox,” I reply, but he leaves, and I decide not to press him.

  I get up, close and lock the door. I strip off my hospital pajamas, wash up some in the private bathroom that I’m fortunate to have, and then I get dressed in the clean utility uniform that was provided to me. I grudgingly admire Tess Conroy and her crew, for my uniform is correct in all particulars, from my name to my rank to my unit badges. But I have to add one more thing. From the pillow I undo the Purple Heart and put it in the right place on my uniform.

  After getting dressed, I put my assault pack on the bed, go through and see that everything’s pretty much in place, except for my journal, which I had passed over to Serena back in the rain by that steam-powered Greyhound bus. My souvenir from my first Creeper kill is there as well, on a chain, and I slip it around my neck, and my blessed rosary beads go in a pocket.

  My throat suddenly thickens. But no photo of mom, dad and Melissa. That’s gone.

  Gone forever.

  I have a desperate fear that at some point—without that photo—I’ll eventually forget what Melissa and Mom looked like, but I push that thought away. A problem for another time, a long time down the road, for I got more serious problems, staring right at me in my face.

  I look over. The door’s still locked. I go to the nightstand and take out my Beretta, check to see it’s loaded, and it is.

  “Molon labe,” I repeat, and put the 9 mm pistol in a side pocket of my pack, zipper it shut.

  Outside in the hospital hallway, Riley is waiting for me. My pack is over my shoulder and Riley says, “You clean up nice, kid . . . Sergeant.”

  “Nice to be back in uniform,” I say.

  He goes one way and I go another. He turns quickly and says, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Saying so long to some buds, that’s what.”

  I go through the corridor doors, past the patients’ rooms and the nurse’s station, and make my way to my old room. But when I go in there’s a surprise: Slim and his fellow platoon members are gone, but the beds are occupied with new patients. The bandaged and burnt and stitched faces turn in my direction as I stand in the door.

  My friendly nurse Carrie—the one who located Thor—passes by and I ask, “Where’s Slim and the others?”

  “Off to a rehab center,” she says. “We’re short of beds, always are. You know how it is, Randy.”

  “Yeah,” I say, picking up my pack. “I know how it is.”

  I catch up with Riley and he’s standing in front of an open sliding door. I hesitate before going in.

  “This is an elevator, right?” I ask, eyeing the tiny room inside past the sliding doors.

  The sliding doors start to move and Riley holds out a large hand to block them. They bounce back. He says, “That’s right, Sergeant. What’s the problem? Haven’t you ever been in one before?”

  The door slides back again. I say, “Sure. A few days ago, when I was admitted here. But I was pretty drugged out. Don’t remember it much.”

  Riley said, “Happens, don’t it. Come on, Sergeant, let’s get a move on.”

  I step inside, swallow. A moving room that goes up and down, held by cables I can’t even see.

  The door slides shut, Riley pushes a button. There’s a lurch and I feel queasy, as we get lowered through the building. Lights on a panel flash. “One of the nurses, she told me the reason the hospital has power is because of some sort of shielding.”

  “That’s right,” Riley says, large hands clasped before him. “The white coats have come up with shielding that protects some power lines and generators. The killer stealth satellites can’t detect it.”

  “Then how come it’s not everywhere?”

  “Expensive stuff,” Riley says. “Only the high priority places get it. Like the Capitol. That’s how things work, Sergeant.”

  The little room comes to halt, and the doors slide open. If I was by myself, I’d push some of the buttons to go for another ride, but instead I follow Riley out into the lobby.

  An Excerpt From the Journal of Randall Knox

  Dad late last night for dinner. No phone calls, no message from a runner, nothing. So I kept supper warm the best I could—potato soup with a side of old bread from the dining facility—and when he showed up, he sat down at the dinner table, slumped, and didn’t say a word as he slurped the soup and ate the bread. I thought he might go to sleep right after that and I didn’t like that idea. Usually when he works late and goes to sleep, that’s when the nightmares start. Lots of moaning, trembling, and harsh whispers of I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I screwed up. And I know he’s dreaming about Mom, because he’s got some guilt about how the two of them got separated when the war started.

  But tonight Dad surprised me when he said, dessert? Sure, I said, and I grabbed a salvaged can of Hershey’s chocolate syrup, that I split with dad, both of us spooning out the syrup after I cut open the top. Tasted okay but a bit stale. When we were done Dad sighed, stretched out his legs and said, you know, Uncle Malcolm can be a jerk in so many ways, but sometimes, he knows his duty.

  Really, I asked. Dad said, I’ll tell you, but between us, all right? Sure, I said.

  Another sigh from Dad. He took off his glasses, the pair with the tape holding one of the arms, and he said, your uncle got an urgent phone call from both the governor and the mayor of Concord. Protestors were marching on the Capitol building. They were worried the protests would get out of hand. Wanted your uncle to send over a platoon or two to keep order. H
e refused. Said he would only deploy them if there was immediate danger of a riot breaking out, people getting hurt or killed. Mayor and governor are P.O.’d, but colonel held firm. If the protests were peaceful, troops would stay on post. Gotta give him credit for that.

  Dad just sat there as I cleaned up, and I said, what were they protesting about?

  Dad said, martial law, upcoming elections, that sort of thing. Politics.

  I laughed. Politics. Don’t give a crap about politics.

  Dad’s mood changed. You know your history? And I said, c’mon, Dad, got an A last term. And the term before that. Dad said, you know about Trotsky? Sure, I said. One of the leaders of the Bolshevik Revolution. Head of the Red Army. Worked with Lenin and Stalin. And Stalin later had him murdered in Mexico when he was in exile.

  Dad nodded. Not bad. But Trotsky’s known for a famous quote about war. Somebody said to Trotsky that they weren’t interested in war, and Trotsky said, well, war is interested in you.

  His voice got sharp. You might not be interested in politics, Randy, but politics is definitely interested in you.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I’m put in a nearby hotel that was once a Hyatt and is now called Capitol Arms, and this place is apparently not a priority, since I have to walk up four flights of stairs to get to my room. A sweaty boy of about ten or eleven, wearing a baggy dark blue uniform, insists on carrying my pack up all four flights of stairs. In my room, he points out the bathroom, the television— “Works fine,” he says. “Gets three channels. Can you believe that? That’s why this is one of the best places in the Capitol”—and then he picks up a telephone by the bed.

  “This works, too,” he says proudly. “You can call down to the front desk, and some hours, you can actually order room service.”

  “What do you mean, room service?”

  The kid goes to the door, and I give him two pre-war quarters. “You can call the kitchen and you get food brought up to your room. Costly, though.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and after he leaves, I go to my bathroom and wash my hands and face. The water is nice and hot. I come back to my assault pack and look at the television. A real television that works, all for me.

  I sigh. No time for entertainment.

  From my assault pack, I take out my Beretta, strap it to my waist and go down the four flights of stairs, taking two steps at a time.

  After spending a few minutes at the front desk, I’m outside of the hotel, watching the traffic go by. There are bicycles and horses, but still, I’ve never seen so many gasoline-powered vehicles moving around in one place. All of them pre-war, but most in good shape, with repaired bumpers or fenders or side panels. Fords, Cadillacs, Chevrolets. My dad once went to the Capitol for an intelligence briefing with the Joint Chiefs and when he came back, he said seeing all the pre-war cars was like taking a time machine back to his childhood. The sidewalks are crowded, the most well-dressed and well-fed population I’ve ever seen, but the place sure is hilly.

  A boxy yellow car comes up, pre-war and gasoline powered, with a black and white checked pattern along the sides and a B ration sticker on the windshield. The driver rolls the window down and calls out, “Sergeant Knox?”

  I go to the rear door, open it up. “That’s me.”

  Then I hear laughter, a familiar voice. I turn and three men are exiting the hotel, bulky, large, scarred here and there but still in good humor. They’re wearing civvies but it takes less than a second to realize they’re military, and it’s not because of their bearing and haircuts.

  It’s because the lead soldier is Captain Ramon Diaz; the Special Forces officer I met on the train.

  I run after them, but the crowd blocks me; and when I get to the corner, they’re gone. I look up and down the streets, clench my fists, and then race back to the hotel. Think about going inside and back to the front desk, ask the clerk about Captain Diaz. Was he staying there? Did the hotel know him? Did—

  A horn blares out. It’s the driver of the taxi cab, who’s got on a light yellow cap with a brass shield in the center. He says, “Are you coming or what?”

  “I want to go into the hotel for a couple of minutes. I need to check on—

  He interrupts. “Sorry, soldier. I’ve got a schedule to maintain. I got a dozen fares lined up for the rest of the day and I’m already behind. So step in or walk away, your choice.”

  My dad. I just saw the captain who knows where my dad is and what kind of trouble he’s in, leaving my hotel.

  But I had something else important to do. I got into the rear of the cab, which smells slightly perfumed, and the cabbie starts driving even before I close the door.

  * * *

  It’s only a ten-minute drive, which is great, because my eyes widen at seeing little plastic numerals flip by on the dashboard, indicating the increasing fare, and thank God, we get to our destination before the numerals outnumber what I have in my pocket. I pay and remember my dad saying something about taxi drivers being tipped, and I take care of him, and he takes care of me by giving me an active military discount.

  In a few minutes, I’m in the back of a building that’s filled with the smell of urine, fear and medicines, and there’s lots of barking nearby. I’m in an empty room with tile flooring and three plastic molded chairs, and I stare at my feet. And wait. And wait.

  The door pops open and a gaunt old woman in light green surgical scrubs come in, but actually she’s being dragged, and tears come to my eyes as I see who’s doing the dragging. It’s my Thor, my good old Thor, and I fall to my knees. He yelps and the veterinarian unsnaps the leash and Thor stumbles over. He has a green cast on his right front leg, fur around his head and ears have been burnt off, the left side of his torso has been shaved off and he has a wide bandage wrapped around his midsection.

  I grab him and gently hug him, bury my face in the side of his head. “Oh, you stupid brave, dummy,” I whisper into him, trying to speak through the tears. “When are you ever going to listen? Hunh? When are you ever going to listen?”

  Thor licks at the side of my face and with a sweet old lady voice, the vet gives me a run down of his injuries: broken front right leg, burn injuries, and severe lacerations on his side.

  I lift up my head. “Can I take him now? Can I?”

  The vet smiles and gently shakes her head. “Too soon, Sergeant. He needs a week of care, at least.”

  I scratch at Thor’s head and he licks and licks my hand and then my face. “Okay . . . I just . . . I just miss him, that’s all.”

  She kneels down on the dirty floor, scratches him as well. “Of course you do. You’re a dog person. I can tell. Just like me. Just like so many others. Can’t imagine what it’s like to be without a dog. Has he been yours for a while?”

  “Two years, since I got to Recon Rangers,” I say, noting Thor’s brown eyes seemed filmy, from the painkillers, I’m sure. “When the training started there were six of us . . . we had six dogs to choose from, and Thor . . . he chose me. Funny, hunh? He looked at me and came running right over. We’ve been together ever since, training and missions, and in between, lots of swimming and ball tossing.”

  She smiles, keeps on gently stroking my boy’s fur. “Dogs . . . in some ways, they’re a mystery, in how their ancestors bonded with ours. But in other ways, they’re so transparent. They’re pure innocence. They want to be loved, to be rewarded, to be part of the family . . . or pack. All they ask in return is to be fed, watered, taken care of, and when the time comes . . . to let them go peacefully and without pain. That’s our duty, you know. To take care of them to the very end, to make sure they’re not afraid and alone.”

  Her words strike something inside of me, as Thor’s brown eyes stare at me, his face showing joy. My throat refused to move. She says, “And how do we repay them? We train them, we send them into battle, to be cut, stomped or charred. Poor creatures. And when they die on our behalf, we quickly find another one to take their place.”

  I kiss the top of Thor’s
head. “Nobody can ever take Thor’s place,” I manage to stammer out. “He’s one of a kind. He’ll . . . he’ll play with kids, jump into bed with me, and when he smells a Creeper, he goes all out to protect me.”

  I look over at the veterinarian. “You take good care of him, all right? You take good care of my Thor.”

  The vet pauses for a long, long moment, and she starts talking again, her voice no longer sweet. She says, “Ten years ago, I was a volunteer at an animal shelter in Pompton, small town on the Hudson River. The war had just started and it was all so confusing. No power, no TV, no Internet. I could see smoke where West Point was burning. The Creepers had hit that right away from space, along with Annapolis and Colorado Springs, and so many other military targets. Didn’t know much of what was going on. Then one of the low-powered AM radio stations that was still broadcasting reported on the tidal wave that had hit Manhattan.”

  I’m still rubbing Thor’s head and I stay quiet. She falters, goes on. “We all knew that the wave that hit Manhattan was coming up the Hudson River. We didn’t have much time. I could have gone with my husband and kids . . . but I went to the animal shelter instead. Using a bicycle, of course. No cars were running. No one was there. They had all left. Who could blame them? I did, at the time . . . but later, who could blame them? It was cold, raining. The river was rising fast and I didn’t have much time. I opened up the cages and tried to get the cats and dogs out, so they could make a run for it. Some did, but the water came up so fast we were cut off. Luckily the shelter had a flat roof. I got the dogs and cats that were left up on the roof . . . got bitten and scratched plenty of times. But I got them up there, by God, I did. The water eventually came up to my ankles but I kept it together. Took a couple of days for the water to drop enough so I could scrounge some food from the shelter . . . that’s what we all lived on, for week, soggy cat food and dog food.”