The woman’s name is Andrea Whittum, and she assigns her other son Billy to bring me to the arsenal. It’s only an hour or so before dawn, and I want to get there when it’s still dark, for one can always do more when things can’t be easily seen.
Billy is about my age, dressed in filthy jeans and a leather jacket. He rolls out an old Italian Vespa scooter, painted yellow, and I sit on a little square leather saddle as we roar away from the farm. My blanket roll is on my lap, pistol holstered at my waist, and Billy has a shotgun in a sling at his side.
I close my eyes as we go out on the road, and Billy opens the throttle wide. Not as much traffic as before, and on the southwestern horizon is the orange glow of Albany burning. The passing wind and the high-pitched whine of the Vespa’s motor makes conversation impossible, which is fine, because I’m running through plans and options as we get closer to the arsenal, located near the western banks of the Hudson River.
The farmland gives way to more houses and suburbia, and buildings within the town of Watervliet, and we’re on a side street off the main drag of 10th Street, when Billy brings the Vespa to a halt. Traffic is heavy with deuce-and-half trucks, Humvees, and horse-drawn wagons. National Guardsmen and regular Army personnel trot by us, heading to the arsenal. Some civilians stand on their scraggly lawns, watching the activity. He pulls his goggles up from his face, skin reddened from the drive.
“’Bout as close as I can get,” he says. “Don’t want to get any closer, in case some smart-ass Army guy wants to seize my scooter for the good of the nation. Assholes.”
I swing off the rear of the Vespa, and Billy adds, “No offense.”
“None taken.” I grab my blanket roll and Billy says, “Go down one block, take a left, there’s the main gate. Can’t miss it.”
I offer him my hand, and he gives me a quick shake back. “Thanks again, and tell your mom the same.”
Billy pulls his goggles down. “Glad we could help. You be careful, all right?”
I say nothing as I start walking. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.
I join in the lines of the other soldiers, reporting to the Watervliet Arsenal. I follow Billy’s directions and the gate is up ahead, on the left. It’s old, with dark gray stone, with a road leading in and a road leading out, with an enclosed stone and glass gatehouse in the center. Black wrought iron fence stretches on both sides. I get closer and it’s—
Chaos. Just like I had hoped. Vehicles are trying to get out, MPs are trying to direct traffic, and uniformed men and women are streaming in. The arsenal has been building artillery pieces here for about two hundred and fifty years, and it’s still doing so today. There’s also rumors of research laboratories located on the campus, looking for easier and better ways to kill Creepers, but I don’t care. I just want to get in.
Which I do, running alongside a couple of other troopers, flashing my military ID at a young and overworked female MP corporal with a flickering flashlight, and I’m on base.
I keep on trotting, pretending I know where I’m going. The roads are in pretty good shape, and from gas lanterns and other lights, I make out brick buildings that look to be centuries old, with newer buildings built right alongside. There are also little parks and displays of some of the howitzer and artillery pieces that they’ve built over the years.
Overhead is netting and camouflage. It’s still a puzzle why this arsenal and several other military facilities across the country were never hit during the opening days of the war, and I was taught back at Ft. St. Paul that it was probably due to the relatively primitive nature of the work being done here.
Primitive or not, there’s a lot of traffic on the move, and I feel itchy on my back and hands, like I’m entering one giant bulls-eye.
Up ahead at an intersection, another MP corporal—this one a boy about twelve or thirteen—takes a quick break from directing traffic. There’s a gas lantern at his feet and I trot up to him and say, “Corporal! Where’s the base stockade located?”
His helmet’s too big and his eyes are wide with terror, but he gives me a snappy salute and points up the road. “Two blocks this way, Sergeant, and it’s on your right. Small brick building, sign out front.”
“Thank you, Corporal.”
I turn and stop trotting. I start running instead.
Sirens are beginning to sound.
Exactly two blocks later, past large administrative and workshop facilities, I come across the stockade, just as described. It’s a small, two-story old brick building that looks like one of the original structures from when the arsenal was founded, and the windows are barred. It’s a simple flagstone path up to the front door, and there are lights inside. I drop my blanket roll, advance and open the door.
A lobby area, with scuffed tile floor, some plastic chairs. There’s a small office area with metal desks, some flickering gas lights, and a woman corporal, about thirty or so. She’s sitting by herself, hands folded, eyes darting back and forth, back and forth, looking down at some papers. Her uniform is neat and clean, but a couple of sizes too big. Her red hair is cut short. Off to the rear of the office is a door made of metal bars.
“Corporal.”
No reply.
“Corporal!”
She looks up, startled. “Oh. Sergeant. Sorry. Didn’t hear you come in.”
I take a deep breath, start out with my rehearsed story. “Corporal, I’ve been tasked by the Chaplain’s Office to do a personnel inventory of the prisoners here before any transfer.”
“A personnel inventory?” she asks. “What for?”
“To make sure the Chaplain’s Office records match who’s actually being kept here.”
“I don’t have—”
I make a point of checking my watch. “Corporal, the Creepers have just burnt Albany. This base may be next on the target list. I’ve got a butt-load lot more important things to do, so you better give me the sixty seconds I need to check on your prisoner population, or there’ll be hell to pay.”
She opens a desk drawer, comes out with a thick key, attached to a block of wood. “Sergeant, no offense . . . go back there and knock yourself out. We had exactly two prisoners earlier today, a couple of old guys, and they’re gone.”
A hammer of ice hits me straight in the chest. “Gone . . . where the hell are they?”
“An MP transport picked them up about thirty minutes ago. Four MPs came in and took them out. Off to the train station at Schenectady. Heading west.”
She tosses the key to me. “Go take a look . . . and don’t be surprised if I’m not here when you come back. My relief was due two hours ago and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sit here and be zapped into charcoal.”
I grab the key and go to the metal door, insert the key, give it a twist. Sirens are still sounding, and there’s the sound of engines roaring by. The door opens up. I get into a tiled corridor. I start down the hallway, looking left, looking right. Severe looking cells, made of stone and stainless steel, with drains in the center, and their own gated doors, and steel toilets and washbasins.
And every one of the cells I pass is empty.
Empty!
“Damn it to hell,” I whisper.
I turn and go back to the stockade’s office.
It’s now empty as well.
I’m all alone.
The sirens outside wail and wail.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Outside of the stockade I stumble around, find a bench, sit down, my blanket roll on the ground, and I allow myself a good cry. The dark sky is lightening up and I don’t care. For months I had kept alive the hope that my Dad was alive and well, and during those long months, I had reoccurring fantasies of what it would be like when we finally got back together. There would be laughs, hugs, handshakes, back slaps and a long night back at his quarters, talking and gossiping and catching up on our missing half year apart.
I pick up my belongings, start walking away from the stockade. Now I knew where he had been, where Serena’s dad had been
.
And I had missed them by thirty minutes . . . not even a damn hour!
The sirens have stopped their wailing. Part of me hopes that’s a good sign and another part really doesn’t care.
But the arsenal’s roads still have traffic, from Humvees to horses, and I’m ignored as I walk, lost in what I have to do. Get safely out of here. Get to Troy, see if I can find Serena and Buddy at the USO. From there . . . ?
Work it through, one step at a time.
It’s getting lighter. With all of this about me, I’m still thinking about Abbie, back at my home base. Poor wounded Thor, hopefully not thinking I’ve abandoned him. And the people I’ve met, from Colonel Minh to Captain Diaz to—
A cluster of Humvees up ahead, around a barracks or a maintenance garage. Soldiers are gathered in small groups, talking and smoking, and they’re not soldiers, no.
They’re Marines. And one Humvee has a Marine flag, flying off a pole on the rear bumper.
I quicken my pace, go up to the nearest group, and ask for Lieutenant Sinclair. I’m directed to an area on the other side of the building, and there he is, bent over a picnic table, looking at some maps with two other lieutenants. I step forward and he spots me, smiles.
“Hey, it’s the sergeant from New Hampshire,” Lieutenant Sinclair says, genuine surprise in his voice. “How the hell did you get here?”
“Long story,” I say. “Sir, if I may, have you already been to Troy and back?”
He shakes his tired head. “No can do, sergeant,” he says. “The bridge over the Hudson is blocked with a massive pile-up, happened right after Albany got smacked. Goddamn civilians. We’re tryin’ here to figure out the best way to get up there.”
“Your passengers . . . the specialist and her brother . . .”
A shrug. “Last time I saw, they were back there in the garage, taking a breather.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He goes back to the maps. I go into the garage. Humvees and other vehicles in various stages of repair are clustered closely around the floor. There’s shouts and the whine and buzz of tools, overhead gaslights flicker, making strange shadows. I take my time and after a few minutes, I find them both: Serena and Buddy, sitting in a corner, all tucked in behind a large red tool box on casters, like they’re trying to hide. Serena has her arm around Buddy and her face shows me that she’s been crying. My pack is nearby.
She looks up and bursts into tears, and I put a finger to my lip. “Zip it, Specialist,” I say. “We need to get out of here, but we need to do it quietly. Come on.”
I extend a hand and she grabs it, as I help her up, and Buddy stands up as well, and maybe it’s the flickering lights or my own exhaustion, but it seems like he’s awarded me with a brief smile.
“I was so damn worried,” she says, brushing her BDUs clean. “I wasn’t sure when the Marines could get to Troy, didn’t know if we’d be picked up by the MPs, but—”
“Enough,” I say. “We need to get going.”
She picks up my knapsack and says, “The only thing that went right is that I got your letter to that Abby posted.”
“Thanks.”
Serena shoulders my pack. “Our dads? Did you find them?”
“No,” I say. “They’ve been transferred. I was about a half-hour late.”
“Oh, Randy . . .”
I offer her a tired smile. “What? You think that’s it? You think I’m giving up?”
She takes Buddy’s hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Our dads are being taken to the train station in Schenectady,” I say. “You think they’re going to get there and get on a train right away? Some express train to Leavenworth? Chances are, they’ll have to wait, and while they’re waiting, we’re going to scoop them up.”
We start out of the maintenance garage and Serena keeps pace with me. “Just like that? You think the MPs will give them up, just like that?”
“Why not?” I ask. “I can do anything I want. I’ve just gotten the Silver Star from the President of the United States.”
Serena murmurs, “At least he did something useful before Albany got hit.”
Outside of the garage the sky is graying out nicely. I go back to the squad of Marines, looking here and there, until I see the Marine I’m looking for: Private Chang, the Marine who had spoken up for me back at the burning hillside. His helmet is off and he’s washing his face from a basin balanced on the hood of a Humvee. Other Humvees and tied up horses are tangled around the parking area. A haze of smoke is in the air. One Marine says to another, “Listen up, bud, you catch that smell? That’s Albany burning.”
His mate says, “How the hell can you tell?”
“Burning chickenshit and red tape, how else?”
Chang recognizes me again and says, “Hey, Sergeant, didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
“Me neither,” I say, Serena and Buddy trailing behind me. I go up to him. “Look can you do me a favor?”
He shrugs. “Depends, I guess. What’s going on?”
I make a point of looking around the crowded area. “How about we go someplace a bit more private?”
Another shrug. “Up to you.” He dries his hands on a gray towel, grabs his helmet and M-10, and I follow him to the rear of the garage. There are oil drums filled with scrap metal and broken parts, some low trimmed shrubbery at the rear by locked Dumpsters. He turns, putting his helmet back on, tightening the chin straps. “What’s up?”
“Private, after what you did for me back in Albany, I hate to do this to you, but I need a Humvee, along with an M-10, rations, and an M-4.”
Chang starts to laugh and stops when he sees I’m not in on the apparent joke. “Sure. Why not. Let’s go see my ell-tee, fill out some paperwork, and we’ll send you on your way. Even give you some Hershey bars to pass out to any civvies you meet. Bet we can get you out in five minutes or less, if you say pretty-please.”
I move fast and sure, slipping out my Beretta, cocking the hammer. I don’t point it at Chang, but I don’t try to hide it. “Private, I owe you one, but I really need that Humvee and those weapons. Now.”
Chang stands still. He’s about my age, and in the quickening light burn tissue and scars on his neck become visible. “Or what. You going to shoot me?”
“It’s a thought.”
Now he laughs for real. “Go ahead. Put me out of my misery. I’ve been fighting those damn bugs, off and on for five years, and just when we’re told the war’s over, time to get back to civvie life, time to relax, Albany gets smoked. War’s back on. Think I’m gung-ho for that shit again?”
I point the Beretta at a leg. “Or maybe I just put a round through your knee, cripple you for the rest of your life.”
His smile is wider. “Why not? Get me disabled, get me out of the Corps. Oh, yeah, and my platoon will hear the gunshot, see me on the ground bleeding out, and you won’t live to get to a stockade. Gotta do better than that, Sergeant.”
I don’t move. He’s got me trapped, damn it.
“What’s the deal then?” Chang asks. “You looking to bail out? Head off to the Catskills or something, become a deserter? With a Humvee and military-issued weps?”
The rumble of a Humvee starting up startles me. Each second I’m spending here, means another second wasted while my dad and Serena’s dad get closer to the train station. So, tell him the truth? That me and that scared young girl and quiet boy I’m escorting have the keys to ending this war? Tell him the truth? Chang’s eyes are staring right at me, no fear, not much of anything.
Tell him the truth.
“I’m after my dad,” I say. “And the specialist’s dad. They were in the arsenal’s stockade, and now they’re being shipped to Schenectady. We haven’t seen them for nearly a half year.”
Chang’s expression changes. “Your dads . . . they’re alive?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re trying to get to them?”
“Yes.”
His eyes and expre
ssion soften, like a hard candy or something, exposed to sunlight. “My dad . . . he’d been in the Corps, years before. When the war started, he got me and Mom and my two sisters, he got us out of Cincinnati, one of the few diesel buses still running . . . he had on his BDUs and his gut was hanging out, but he was off to the war . . .”
He snaps to. “Last time I ever saw him. You want to get to your dads? Should have told me right away. C’mon.”
After a few minutes, Chang leads us to the end of the parking lot, to the last parked Humvee. He tosses me his M-10, along with a bandolier of five egg-shaped rounds. “Going into harm’s way?”
“You know it,” I say. I open the doors and Serena gets into the front, and Buddy is in the rear. There’s a jumble of packs and equipment, and Buddy squirms his way in. Chang steps away, comes back with an M-4. “Best I could do. You’ve only got one magazine, so don’t waste your shots.”
I make sure the M-4 is in safe, give it to Serena. Chang ducks down and looks at the console, and says, “This baby’s old, has been converted to electric, and I don’t know how much of a charge you got, and the transmission’s cranky as hell. Best I can do, Sergeant, wasn’t gonna let you take one of our better ones.”
I shake his hand. “Appreciate it.”
He gives my hand a hard squeeze. “Get the hell out of here.”
“How are you going to explain this to your lieutenant?”
Chang laughs, waves an arm at the busy and confusing parking lot, the road in front of the garage, the sounds of shouts and yells and engines, the clop-clop of horse’s hooves. “Fog of war, how else? Now, git.”
I go.
* * *
The interior of the Humvee stinks of sweat, burnt things, and gun oil. The set-up was pretty simple. An on/off switch for the electric motor, and a sliding shift lever on the transmission lump between me and Serena that had four markings: P, D, N and R. Much, much easier than that old Impala I had struggled with back in Albany.
Dark Victory: A Novel of the Alien Resistance Page 31