Dark Victory - eARC

by Brendan DuBois

  “Not a problem.”

  We lay there, still and quiet, and I clear my throat. “The name is Randy.”

  “Sergeant?”

  “We’re out on a mission, don’t need to be so damn formal. So call me Randy. Until we get hooked up with an Army unit or post and have to act official again. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she says. “So call me Serena.”

  “Get to sleep, Serena.”

  “All right, then.”

  In a few minutes it seems like she’s fallen asleep. I wish I could say the same. Still thinking about the train. Captain Diaz. My dad, in trouble. The ambush. The Creeper attack. The Marines dying by the train.

  So much wrong.

  So much wrong.

  Serena shifts and I stay with her. A couple of strands of her fine blonde hair tickle my nose. Her body is warm against mine. I’m positive I can smell perfume on her. Perfume! Only once in my discreet dates with Abby had she ever worn perfume, a night I managed to get a reservation at a McDonald’s in Concord and dropped a week’s pay for our meal. I had on my clean Levi’s and a striped shirt that was worn at the elbows, while Abby had on a simple black dress that had been repaired with stitchwork on the back. Before we ate I smelled something nice and Abby shyly admitted she was wearing a bit of perfume that had been left to her by her mother. I said she smelled fine all the time, even after bicycling all night on a long op, and that got me a long, sweet good-night kiss back at the post.

  But Serena smells just as fine, and I’m quite conscious of her slim body against mine. Feels pretty damn good.

  I don’t consider I’m cheating on Abby.

  But I don’t think I’ll tell Abby later, just the same.

  In the morning we all do our business in the nearby woods, and for a couple of minutes I’m alone with Buddy. He looks at me with a bland expression, and I say, “I want to take a look at your forehead. Is that okay?”

  No change in his expression. I go over and check the bandage. Looks fine. Buddy doesn’t move. I go back. “Observation Corps . . . tough gig. Can’t think of how tough that must have been.”

  Buddy just sits there. I say, “Your sister. She seeing anyone?”

  Still nothing.

  Which is fine. No answer means there’s still a fifty-fifty chance she’s available.

  Not that it means anything at all. Just gathering information.

  The night before I had a meat sandwich and a cheese sandwich, and for breakfast, I decided to do things differently, so I had a cheese sandwich and then a meat sandwich. Not sure what’s in the meat sandwich—beef, pork, horse, chicken—but Thor eats his portion with enthusiasm. Serena feeds her brother and then herself, and after we police the area, she says, “Sergeant . . . Randy, what’s on for the day?”

  “We follow the railroad tracks back until it crosses a road. Take the road, find a town, go on from there. We’re pretty close to the New York border. I’m hoping it won’t take too much effort to get transportation to the Capitol.”

  “All right, Randy.” But there’s something about her voice that isn’t right. It’s like she’s almost . . . disappointed to be on the move. Waiting for rescue? Waiting for someone to show up?

  I’m stiff and chilled from sleeping on the ground, and it’s good to be moving again. We go down the slope and start following the railroad tracks. Thor bounds ahead, sniffing and poking his nose around, lifting a leg here and there to mark his territory. He seems to be enjoying the morning as just a dog, and not as a member of the Army’s K-9 Corps.

  Looks like fun, forgetting you’re in the Army.

  As we walk I keep watch, seeing ahead and behind us, on either flanks, but it’s a quiet morning. Along the side of the railroad ties are bits of trash and debris from passengers who had made it out alive yesterday. A shoe. An empty shopping bag. A baby doll. The air is crisp and cold. Pine trees and low brush are on either side of the tracks, with an occasional white birch tree reaching up, trying to add some color to the woods.

  Buddy walks well with his sister. Even after sleeping on the ground, face and hands soiled, his sister still looks pretty good. Her purse is over one shoulder and she holds the hand of Buddy as they go forward. My assault pack is on my shoulders and I’m carrying the dispatch case that ended up killing Mister Manson. I hope it’s going to be worth it. The chain and empty bloodstained handcuff dangles by my side.

  I say, “Tell me again why you’re going to the Capitol.”

  “To see my dad.”

  “Why’s he there?”

  She smiles, “OPSEC, Randy.”

  “Oh, I see. How long has he been there?”

  “OPSEC.”

  The trees thin out. Thor is ahead of us, head low to the ground. I say, “Is it hard, working for him?”

  “I—good job, Randy. OPSEC again.”

  “Maybe so,” I say. “But how’s his job, at Jackson Labs? Lots of long hours?”

  She stops, jerks as Buddy keeps on walking, holding her hand. Her face is red. She starts, halts once more, and says again, “OPSEC.”

  I shake my head. “You’re going to have do better than that, Serena. I told you about Manson and this package.” I hold up the leather satchel. “And I had to do something bloody and awful to get it. Could have kept my mouth shut about everything but I let you in. So here’s the deal. My overall goal is to get the dispatch case to the Capitol. Second goal is to tell someone in authority about the Creeper attack yesterday, how the M-10 didn’t seem to work. Sorry to say, Serena, you and your brother, you’re my third goal.”

  “But your colonel—”

  I interrupt. “My colonel is a state away. I’m here on the ground, making decisions based on the current situation, which tells me there’s been an intelligence failure somewhere. You and your brother . . . you could quickly become a distraction. Meaning I leave you behind when we reach a town.”

  She stops and Buddy tugs his hand away. Her brother goes a few steps further and stops as well. His face is still disinterested. His sister says, “That’s a shitty thing to say.”

  “Being in the Army, Serena, I think you’d be well acquainted with shitty things happening because of the mission. Depending, of course, on your experience. Jackson Labs. They treat you and your dad fine up there?”

  Her voice is just above a whisper. “How did you know?”

  “Educated guess,” I say. “Which you’ve just confirmed.”

  “How?”

  I say, “Remember back in Lowell, when the train stopped for refueling? When we talked about the Battle of Merrimack Valley? Me and the others, we got an intelligence briefing, of the important places and installations that the Creepers may be heading towards. A place like the shipyard in Portsmouth. The new Navy base up in Falmouth. And Bangor. That’s where you said you and your brother was from. What’s in Bangor? Used to be a famous writer named King lived there. But Bangor’s also the home of Jackson Labs. Lots of hush-hush black work going on up there, stuff that never makes the newspapers. Your dad?”

  She walks some and says, “Research scientist.”

  “What kind?”

  “Not sure. To do with the Creepers . . . everything is for the Creepers, Randy, from Jackson Labs to the Centers for Disease Control to whatever’s left of John Hopkins.”

  “And you?”

  “His assistant.”

  “Doing what?”

  She shakes her head with a show of exhaustion. “Reading. Research.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “It was pure boredom. Wish I were doing dishes instead. You want to know why?”

  Thor has stopped, looking back at us. He doesn’t seem concerned. He goes back to sniffing at the ground.

  “Of course.”

  She looks over at Buddy. “Going through old magazines, books, newspaper clippings, microfilm . . . the smell of mold and dust and mildew. Poking and reading, trying to find one little obscure fact, one little line of text, one formula that might help my dad and the others. E
yes hurting, nose dripping from the dust, back aching . . . and what really sucked was knowing what a waste of time it was. Ten years earlier . . . what I learned in a month I could have found out in an hour on that Internet.”

  “So?”

  “What the hell do you mean, so?” she says, her voice sharp.

  “Big deal. You had to go through libraries, books, magazines to find information. So what. Used to be it’d take several hours or so to get from the east coast to the west coast. Now it can take several weeks. We used to be the finest fighting force in the world. Now we’re fighting like we’re the Polish cavalry against Nazi tanks in World War II. Soldiers who get wounded are dying because the medics don’t have the drugs or equipment they had ten years ago, or even five years ago. So excuse me if I don’t get all concerned about your aching back.”

  We look at each other, and she says, “Enough, all right?”

  “Works for me.”

  She steps forward, takes Buddy’s hand, and I go on as well, knowing a bit more than before, but still not feeling right.

  Something is wrong, something that’s still nagging at me.

  We walk in silence for a few more minutes, and then the track curves right and goes over a paved road via a concrete overpass.

  The four of us go down to the road, and a few more minutes after that, I turn at the sound of an approaching pair of horses, pulling a carriage.

  An Excerpt From the Journal of Randall Knox

  Three months without a letter from Dad. Had a dream about him last night. Not much of a dream. Just him sitting at our kitchen table, little smile on his face, buttering a slice of toast for me. Lying that he already had breakfast; by then I knew his tricks pretty well, how he often passed his rations to me. Wearing a threadbare UMass-Boston sweatshirt, hair all gray and white, black-rimmed glasses with one stem repaired with a piece of white tape, sagging face clean-shaven. This was when we were in our old quarters, just before I moved out. Those quarters were tight, leaking roof, mice in the cabinets, had to share a bedroom with him. Got bumped there by post commander—my uncle and Dad’s brother-in-law—during a round of promotions that led to a shortage of officers’ quarters.

  Woke up after this dream, in bed, in my barracks room. Feeling blue. Remembered why I had left Dad. I had gotten a lot of grief from my squad and platoon members that I was still Daddy’s boy, living at home. So I requested a transfer. Dad was shook up at the time but put a brave smile on it. Said, yeah, it was probably time for me to be out on my own. Hated to admit it, but did like being out on my own, with own room, dining with my buds and gals. Didn’t think of how dad felt with me gone, where he went out to eat without me.

  Dad went out on intelligence assignments, here and there. Rhode Island. Maine. Pennsylvania. If he was deployed for a while, always managed to drop me a letter.

  Three months now. If he was dead or injured, I would have gotten an official telegram.

  Hard to get back to sleep after the dream. Still feel blue about leaving him all alone. But Dad never complained. Never.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The carriage is a four-passenger coach, colored shiny black, and has a small blue Ford logo on the side. A pair of Morgan horses is leading the wagon, with plastic shoes covering their hooves, and a well-dressed man with a thick black beard is holding the reins, a pump-action 12-gauge shotgun hanging from a harness at the side of his carriage. He’s dressed in clean jean pants and a light yellow barn coat, and his hands are large and hairy. He brings his Morgan pair to a halt and says, “Offer you a ride, soldiers?”

  “That’d be great,” I say. “Where’s the nearest town?”

  “That’d be Adams, but my farm’s closer.” He peers down from the coach. “How did you end up here, soldiers?”

  Serena says, “Train wreck yesterday, a few miles back. Creeper attack.”

  The wagon driver shakes his head. “Heard about that in town. Bad business. Any one of you need a doctor?”

  “No,” I say. “Excuse me, but—”

  “Looks like you folks could use a ride, a bath and a good meal. Interested?”

  Serena speaks up, “Sir, thank you . . . thank you very much.”

  I keep my mouth shut.

  He smiles, gestures with one hand. “Climb up then, and your dog, too. Love dogs.”

  In a matter of moments we make the necessary introductions, and the farmer is Eddie Carlson, who owns a farm on the outskirts of Adams, a city on the western end of Massachusetts. I settle in at the rear of the carriage with Buddy and Serena sitting across from me, Thor sitting next to me, tongue hanging out, enjoying the ride, looking out at the scenery. I rub his furry neck. The seats are comfortable, cushioned leather. Even Buddy seems to be enjoying himself, though it’s hard to tell from the look on his young face.

  Eddie turns and says, “Pretty smooth ride, isn’t it.”

  “Sure is,” Serena says.

  “Should be, paid enough for it, even with new dollars,” Carlson says. “Latest Ford production model, called the Henry. Took six weeks for it to be delivered from Michigan, but it was worth the wait.”

  I keep quiet as our host maneuvers his wagon to the right, onto a wide dirt driveway by a mailbox marked carlson, and he says, “Home mail delivery started last month. Pretty good sign of progress, don’t you think?”

  “Sure is,” I say, but I don’t really mean it. Even with the comfortable ride I’m feeling grumpy, and it’s Serena’s fault. I crook my finger at her and she leans to me, just inches away.

  “Specialist,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  She tries to smile it away. “You mean Serena.”

  I give her my best ticked-off-sergeant look. “Specialist, you should have known better, back there. No reason to tell him how we ended up here.”

  “You don’t think he could figure it out?”

  I say, “Enough. I don’t want word getting around about us being survivors from that Creeper attack.”

  She leans back. “You’re being paranoid.”

  “Doing my job. You should do the same.”

  Up on the dirt road, the farmhouse comes into sight. It’s a comfortable-looking two-story home, painted white, with a wraparound porch. There are fenced-in pastures on both sides of the farmhouse, and a barn and another outbuilding towards the rear. A silo and a windmill are nearby. In the pastures are horses and cows. Out beyond the buildings are fields with crops, looking like corn and low vegetables, maybe potatoes. By the barn is a huge oak tree, and there’s a tiny white picket fence there, surrounding a stone.

  In a few moments Carlson has unhooked his team and says, “My boys are out in the fields, getting the morning weeding done. But if you’d like, give me a few minutes, I’ll bring you into the house. How does a hot bath and lunch sound? My wife Beth puts on a good feed.”

  Serena makes to speak and I say, “We really don’t want to impose, Mister Carlson. What we want is to get to Adams as soon as possible.”

  Carlson grins, scratches at the back of his head. “Tell you what. You let me and the missus take care of you, and then I’ll have my boy Edgar take you to Adams, just as soon as you finish eating. How does that sound?”

  I reluctantly nod. We really should be getting on our way—between the dispatch bag and passing on the news of the Creeper surviving the ambush, there’s a lot to be done—but a meal and a hot bath sounds wonderful.

  “All right, Mister Carlson,” I say. “You’ve got a deal.”

  “Great.”

  Later we’re in the front parlor of the house, meeting Beth Carlson, a pleasant but tired-looking, heavy-set woman with white hair and horn-rimmed eyeglasses, wearing baggy jeans with patched knees and a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing thick and muscular forearms. I let Serena and Buddy go before me to the bath, and Beth comes out, their clothes in her hands. “When you take your bath, dump your clothes out in the hallway. I’ll do laundry and have your clothes dry before you leave.”

  She goes off and
I gingerly sit on the edge of a couch. There are three chairs, a coffee table, two bookshelves and a dead big-screen television in a wooden console in one corner, being used as a shelf for some plants. On one of the bookcases are a number of photographs. I recognize a younger Eddie and Beth Carlson standing in front of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, with big grins on their faces, holding the hands of two little boys. There are other family portraits as well, including a black-and-white photo of a little girl, sitting on an older Beth Carlson’s lap. The photo looks like it was taken on the front porch, and not that long ago.

  The room is still. I think I hear Serena talking to her brother. I wait some more, the dispatch case and my assault pack at my feet. I’m tired, my tongue is still sore from me biting it yesterday, and my back aches from sleeping on the ground.

  Thor is being a good boy, lying down on the carpet, taking a snooze. I envy him. I close my eyes and lean back against the couch. Time passes. I jerk awake and Thor is still sleeping, and I see why.

  It’s warm, safe, and comfortable. There are no weapons, no battlements, no moats, no netting to hide weapons and vehicles from the killer stealth satellites. This is just a quiet farmhouse in a rural county in New England. Outside there are horses and cows, quietly grazing and meandering in the fenced-in pastures. This clean house smells of soap, of baked bread, of a quiet life. The rooms back at my barracks smell of sweat, gun oil, and through it all, the dull cold scent of fear. So this is what civilian life could be.

  Serena is laughing from another room. I like the sound. She comes into the parlor, rubbing her blonde hair with a towel. Her brother is walking in with her. Buddy is wearing gray slacks and a faded New York Yankees T-shirt, and he still has the bandage on his forehead. But I look at Buddy for barely a second. I’m staring at Serena. She has on sandals and her bare feet have painted toenails. Painted toenails! She has on a khaki skirt that’s cut high above her knees—one of the shortest skirts I’ve ever seen on a girl or a woman—and a yellow knit blouse that’s snug about her chest and a bit low cut. I move my head away. I shouldn’t stare.