Dark Victory - eARC

by Brendan DuBois

“Good,” I say. “We’re going to lay low for a while.”

  She says, “Has the Creeper been killed?”

  “No,” I say.

  “What’s going on back at the train?”

  “Everybody’s dead back there,” I say. “Come on, let’s move.”

  I push her ahead of me and we get up the tree line and further in, to the rocks, the boulders about the size of a large kennel cage. Thor is right with me and Buddy is at Serena’s side. We climb in among the boulders and I look around, my chest hurting from breathing so hard. Looks pretty good. I say to Serena, “You hurt?”

  “No, but Buddy’s been cut.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Hold on, I’ll take care of it.”

  I drop my pack, unzip it and take out a first-aid kit. Buddy stands there stoically. “Specialist, will you assist? Is he all right with me touching him?”

  She says, “It’ll be fine. Do what you have to do.”

  I take her hand away and use the handkerchief to wipe away the blood. Doesn’t look that bad. Forehead and head injuries tend to bleed like hell, even though the wounds aren’t necessarily that deep. I wipe the wound clean again, wash it with an anti-bacterial cloth, and then tape on a bandage. Looks good. Throughout it all, Buddy stands there in his suit and tie, just staring ahead, not saying a word.

  Looking around, I take stock. We have a nice hiding place here, but of course, if a Creeper were to amble by, we’re in an open barbecue pit with the only defense being me, my attitude, Thor and my 9 mm Beretta. But that doesn’t concern me at the moment. Some brush and birch saplings hide most of the rocks, and inside there’s a good wide spot covered with last year’s fall leaves on the ground. I note the plastic bag Coulson’s been carrying. “What do you have there?” I ask. “Didn’t think you had any baggage when you got on the train.”

  She says, “Buddy and I, when we were making our way out, we went by the dining car and saw some water bottles and bagged sandwiches sitting on the ground. I picked some up, figured we might need it later.”

  “Some might call that looting, specialist.”

  “Some might call that salvaging, sergeant,” she shoots back. “If what you said is true, then everybody back at the train is dead and everything’s burned.”

  True enough. “You expert in salvaging?”

  “Girl Scouts, Troop 414.”

  “Where did you work?”

  “Portland, mostly. You?”

  “Boy Scouts, outside of Boston.”

  Things seem to lighten up with our shared tales. Buddy’s standing quietly, watching his sister, while Thor’s on the ground, taking a break, licking his paws. “Specialist, we’re going to be here for a while.”

  She says, “Why’s that, Sergeant? A Quick Reaction Force should be coming here in a bit. Those Marines sent up a lot of flares, and the stations down the line are going to see our train is missing. We keep on moving, we’ll run into that QRF force.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” I say. “But we’re not taking that chance.”

  “I still think we should get moving. We’ll run into friendlies, soon enough.”

  “No, we stay put,” I snap back. “Look, Specialist, when’s the last time you heard of a Creeper making a daylight attack?”

  She ponders that for a moment. “Not sure.”

  “Usually they attack at night, though they do carry over into the daylight, when necessary. So this attack was unusual, right?”

  “Seems like it, Sergeant.”

  I gently kick the dispatch case on the ground, chain leading away from the thick handle. “I’m sure you noticed Mister Manson had this chained to his wrist.”

  “I did,” she says. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s dead,” I say. “But my primary job, before my colonel told me to watch you and your brother, was to escort Manson and his bag to the Capitol. So put that together. On a train to the Capitol is an important escort with an important package, and a Creeper ambushes this train in daylight. Don’t like that at all.”

  “You think the Creepers found out something important is going to the Capitol?”

  “Maybe so. I just don’t like coincidences.”

  She looks down at the leather case, looks up at me again. I say, “And another thing I didn’t like was the Creeper. It was too tough.”

  “Too tough? Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I saw two Marines with M-10s set up a perfect firing solution, and they fired two rounds at the Creeper. The rounds went in and exploded, right in front of the Creeper’s breathing membrane. One exploding round should have killed it right off hand. Two rounds should have knocked it into next Wednesday. But the Creeper shrugged it off, kept firing.”

  Her face is pale under the soot on her cheeks and chin. “The Creepers have found a way to get around the M-10.”

  “Sure looks like it,” I say.

  “We need to get word to your C.O. or any other Army unit, Sergeant.”

  Another nudge of my foot to the satchel case. “Eventually.”

  “Eventually? What the hell do you mean by that?

  “It means I’m following my orders, Specialist,” I say. “I was tasked to escort Manson, his satchel, and you two to the Capitol. Mister Manson is dead, but I still have orders to follow. We’re going to rest up here, have something to eat, and then make our way to the Capitol on our own. There was an intelligence leak somewhere, leading to that Creeper being there to ambush us.”

  “Sergeant, look—”

  “Not open for discussion, Specialist.”

  She looks grim and looks to her brother, back to me. “Very well. Sergeant.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I say.

  “What can I do, Sergeant?”

  Thor looks up at me, goes back to licking his paws. “Gather some firewood. Anything old and dry. While you’re doing that, I’ll clean out some of the leaves and debris here so we don’t burn the place up.”

  “So we’re spending the night, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what about tomorrow?”

  “I’ll handle tomorrow when the time comes.”

  She looks down at the dispatch case. “Do you know what’s in there?”

  “Nope,” I say. “But it’s from the governor of New Hampshire, and it’s supposed to end up in the Capitol. So it has to be something important.”

  With the toe of her shoe, she moves the chain leading away from the case, ending in the closed bloody handcuff. “It must have been something, getting the chain off Mister Manson’s hand. Did you find a key?”

  “No.”

  “Did you pick the lock?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you get the handcuff off his hand?”

  I turn and go back to my assault pack. “Using my Blackhawk knife.”

  Her words seem strained. “Your knife . . .”

  “Yeah,” I say, looking calmly right at her. “I cut his hand off.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Later that afternoon, we have a small pile of firewood in one corner of our cleared area, which is about four meters to a side. Tight and cozy, but it’ll do. While Serena was out getting the wood, her brother joining her, I dumped out as much of the leaves and old branches as I could, so our fire tonight won’t spread out and torch us in the process. Bad enough Creepers want to do that on purpose, it’d be a hell of a thing to do it by accident. By now it’s quiet, and I haven’t heard any more noises, meaning the Creeper was on the attack or at work. No click-click sound, no smell of cinnamon, and even the smell of things burning has lessened.

  Shadows are lengthening and we’re all enclosed in our little stone encampment. Thor has gone out and has done his business, and in one corner of our camp, I’ve set the fire. Serena says, “Why against the rock? Why not put it in the middle?”

  “Because the heat will reflect off the rock and do a better job of warming us,” I say. “Plus the stone will absorb some of the heat so when the fire dies down later, it’ll still put out some
warmth.”

  “Oh,” she says.

  Our dinner is the sandwiches and water Coulson salvaged from the diner car, and I take one called meat and another called cheese. I eat half of them and give the other half to Thor, who licks my hand in between his bites. I also take out a collapsible water dish from my assault pack, fill it with water and listen with contentment as Thor drinks his fill, lapping and lapping. Coulson sees me and says, “Ask you a question, Sergeant?”

  “Absolutely, Specialist.”

  “You did something . . . funny when you went into the train car after the Creeper hit us. Do you remember?”

  “Not really, but I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

  She chews some, swallows. “First time I heard your voice . . . you called out for your dog. For Thor. Not for me, or for Mister Manson. Why’s that? Why did you call out for your dog first, instead of one of us?”

  I take a swig of water. “I’ve known him longer.”

  As it gets darker, I grab my assault pack and see Serena and Buddy huddling together, getting as close as they can to the flames. I say, “I hope you take this as a lesson in proper planning, Specialist. You went on a train ride, expecting and hoping it would end in just a few hours. Now you and your brother are freezing your asses off in western Massachusetts. You know what they say, fail to plan, plan to fail.”

  She’s hugging herself tight with her arms, but Buddy seems complacent, just taking everything in. He ate a meat sandwich and drank from the water bottle, but again, didn’t say a word. Looked at me, looked at his sister, looked at my dog. Then repeated.

  “Thanks for the reminder, Sergeant.”

  I sigh and take pity on them. From my pack I take out a folded reflective space blanket, lightweight, but good enough to keep them warm as it gets cooler. I toss it over to Serena and say, “This’ll keep you and your brother warm tonight, Specialist.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” she says, catching the blanket and carefully unfolding it, draping it over herself and her brother. “But what about you?”

  I say, “I’m a tough old sergeant. I’ll make do. But remember one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  I nod to the space blanket. “That blanket’s probably as old as you are. Don’t tear it, don’t burn it, and for God’s sake, don’t lose it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good,” I say, scratching Thor’s head. “Don’t be offended, but it’d be a heck of a lot easier to replace you than that blanket.”

  She doesn’t say a word, just eyes me oddly as she pulls the blanket up around her pretty chin.

  * * *

  I take Thor out to do his late evening business, then look back to check our hiding place, such as it is. Firelight is flickering through the large open areas among the boulders, but I’m not that concerned. We’re not an apparent target for any Creeper roaming around in these woods, and my only concern is to run into a random Coastie gang who might notice our camp, but they’d be coming up against me, Thor, and Italy’s finest gun manufacturer.

  Course, not sure what—if anything—Italy is manufacturing nowadays.

  I spare a glance up at the night sky, seeing the random bursts of light and flares as space debris continues its orbiting, hitting each other, burning into the atmosphere. I think about silent Buddy and his job in the Observation Corps. Tremendous patience and skill, standing night after night in front of a telescope, week after week, month after month, for more than a year . . .

  I think I’d draw back and keep my mouth shut, too, after enduring something like that.

  “Knox coming back in,” I call out, and Thor and I get back in among the boulders. Thor finds an open spot and flops himself down, starting to lick his paws. I scratch at his head and shoulders and he wiggles under my touch. It’s toasty warm and Buddy is sleeping, and his sister has the space blanket up around her chest, and she’s rummaging around in her large black purse. I wonder what she’s looking for and I’m surprised when she pulls out a glossy magazine.

  A magazine!

  I say, “Where did you get that antique?”

  She gingerly turns one page, and then another. “From my older sister. She had a subscription before the war started.”

  “What’s it called?”

  She shows me the cover. In the firelight I make out the letters—Seventeen—and a photograph of a young woman model, impossibly dressed, impossibly well-groomed, and so beautiful it almost hurts to look at her.

  “Over ten years old,” I say. “Why are you reading it?”

  “Re-reading,” she corrects. “I just like to look at it, see what I’m missing.”

  “That’s pretty funny,” I say.

  Her voice cuts at me. “I don’t find it funny at all, Sergeant.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Don’t think I understand.”

  She flips another page. “I’m fifteen. Get that? Fifteen. Before the war started, girls my age had everything. Everything! They were safe, they had plenty to eat, plenty of clothes . . . and my God, the luxuries, stuff we can only dream about. Tiny computers you could carry around that you could make phone calls, take photos, go to the Internet and get any kind of information you wanted. Do you know you could type a message on those phones, and your sister or boyfriend halfway across the world, they’d get the message, instantly? Can you imagine that? Instantly! I got a letter from my mom just the other day. Took almost a month to get across the country.”

  Another furious flip of the page. “Girls could go to school, go to any school they wanted, and what did they worry about? Boyfriends. Being popular. Being thin and pretty and having the right clothes. And, oh yes, thinking about getting a driver’s license. That’s it! Didn’t have to worry about starving, about getting scorched, about your friends or family being scorched . . .”

  I didn’t care to hear any more. “That’s the way of the world, Specialist.”

  “Maybe so, but doesn’t mean I have to like it. I hate the damn Army. No offense, Sergeant.”

  “So why did you enlist?” I ask. “You could have stuck it out, see what your draft board said when you turned eighteen.”

  She snorts. “Sure. Stuck it out. Doing what? Going to school and doing mandatory volunteer work at a local farm, worrying about your clothing rations, food rations, all that. At least the Army you get better fed, for whatever’s that worth.”

  “Then what do you want, Specialist.”

  Surprisingly enough, it looks like there’s tears in those pretty blue eyes. “Tell you what I want,” she says, her voice soft and strong at the same time. “I want what was taken away from me and everybody else. I want a sweet soft life. I want out of the Army. I want to be a girl, not a soldier.”

  “See what you mean.”

  She says, “Really, Sergeant? Do you? How long you’ve been in service?”

  “Since I was twelve.”

  “Four long years. Don’t you want out as well?”

  The thought makes me pause. Become a . . . boy? A teen? Not a soldier? I say, “Don’t know what I want. Right now, just following orders, killing Creepers. That’s enough for me.”

  Okay, maybe a lie. But I wasn’t going to talk to her about my English teacher and my writing and the terror that awaits me in civilian life. Thor yawns and glances up at me, like he wishes we humans would shut the bleep up so he could get to sleep. I add, “You’ll probably be out of the Army soon enough, Specialist. President said last month the war was over. Remember?”

  She shoots me a look. “Sure as hell didn’t look like the war was over at the train today, did it.”

  I don’t argue the point.

  I load up the fire for the night with a couple of thick chunks of tree branch, and Coulson puts her old magazine back into her black purse. She turns and pulls the space blanket over her and her brother. I move around, get as comfortable as I can, and Thor snuffles some and gives me room. Some remaining leaves rustle as I move about. From my assault pack I remove my journal, make a quick scribbl
e of the day’s events, and then put it back in. Next out is an extra fatigue jacket and I drape it over my torso, stare at the orange coals, try not to think of all the times I’ve seen things burning over the years, my ear throbbing at some memories that want to come out to play, and I think instead of the train and the ambush and before that, the Special Forces captain, Diaz.

  My dad. He saw my dad just a few a weeks ago, and was sorry for his troubles.

  What kind of troubles?

  And where the hell is Dad?

  I close my eyes.

  Thor moves in closer, and I enjoy the smell of his fur and the body heat rising up from his body. It helps relax me, eases the thoughts in my mind. So many times before, Thor and I have been out on a mission, and on those occasions, after some dark deeds have gone on, his presence has been a comfort when I’ve tried to go to sleep.

  My boy doesn’t disappoint me tonight, and I soon drift off.

  * * *

  Something touches me and instead of jerking to full attention, I bring my right hand down to my Bianchi combat holster, grip my 9 mm Beretta. I open my eyes. Only a few coals are still glowing there, at the other side of our stone hidey-hole. I don’t move my head. Just move my eyes. Thor is snoring softly. Buddy is curled up, also asleep.

  But no Serena.

  Where’s Serena?

  Another touch, and I know where she is. I raise my head and she’s near me, whispers, “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Buddy’s sleeping lousy. He’s kicking and squirming, waking me up. And I’m cold.”

  I whisper back. “Roll over then.”

  She rolls over and I put my hands on her shoulders and say, “Squirm over there, next to Thor.”

  Serena moves and I cuddle up next to her, drape my coat over the two of us. I say, “Body heat should help out.” I think and say, “Specialist, I’m not being forward here, but I’m going to put an arm around you. It’ll help.”

  She says, “If it warms me up, do it, Sergeant.”

  I put my free arm around her, pull myself tight against her, my coat over the two of us. She moves around a bit and whispers, “Thank you.”