March in Country

by EE Knight

  Cigarettes were hurriedly extinguished. If the guards had looked any more alert, they would have pissed voltage.

  Silently, Valentine turned out to the boom. He felt as naked as if he’d stepped out of the shower under all those eyes, but the ruse, whose effects were invisible to him, seemed to be working.

  They found some floats and old, moldy life jackets helping hold up one of the wrecks. With them, they formed a makeshift float for the rope.

  Then it was time for Valentine and the ratbits to go into the water. He cheked their gear one last time. Everything depended on a Miskatonic researcher and her chittering little creatures with brains that would fit into the palm of his hand.

  They came at first light, sure as sunrise.

  Valentine stood on the prow of Cottonmouth Four, daring the tracers to intersect on him. Cottonmouth Two pushed a little ahead of Four on a turn, wetting him with spray, before Captain Coalfield opened her full out.

  According to Pellwell, the ratbits had done their job and fixed the lines to each of the rudders. From there, they swam back to the boom. He’d warmed their tiny little bodies, hugging them tight while they chittered and gave him little thumbs-up gestures.

  The Delta trailed soggy hulks like a puppy with tin cans tied to its tail. Its prow swerved this way and that under the drag. Catamarans were not famous for their ability to tow.

  He could tell the river sailors were nervous at their guns. Coalfield was busy directing the boats, especially deciding on the key moment for the fire tug to get under way, so it was up to him to do something colorful.

  He clambered up onto the slick cabin roof at the front of the racing boat and took hold of the fore anchor line.

  “Hiy hiy hiy-yup!” Valentine hallooed to the line of boats, closing fast on the Delta. Not that they could hear him.

  Some feral part of him lost itself in the yelling. If he yelled, he didn’t think about the second stream of tracers emerging from the Delta, or the third, or what would happen in the next few seconds once the radar control on the guns corrected for wind and temperature.

  Here it comes ...

  Two streams converged, fast, ready to tear him and Cottonmouth Two into scrap, blood, and food for the catfish and gars.

  Flowers of bullet-torn water closed on Cottonmouth Two as though a phantom horse approached. All Valentine could do was howl defiance, hanging on as Captain Coalfield worked his throttles to dart out of the way.

  The streams lifted from the water, passed overhead with the low susurration of torn air.

  Valentine forced himself to believe his eyes. The Delta lurched; one of the boom boats it was towing was hung up.

  With the beast pinioned, Valentine played his floating trump card.

  The fire tug motored forward, shielded by barges piled high with rusting containers full of sand. The Golden Ones had labored through the night, while Valentine was occupied on the river, filling the containers with tree limbs, driftwood, brush, rocks, anything that might stop or deflect a bullet once it punched through the thin side of the shipping container.

  The Delta managed to get one gun pointed at the approaching hulk. A stream of fire lit up the glimmering dawn.

  From across the water, Valentine heard the buzz-saw sound of bullets striking the containers.

  But still the tug pushed on, absorbing the punishment of the cannon fire. All around it, river combat raged as the smaller craft tore each other to pieces with machine-gun fire. Valentine saw blood splattered on windscreens, dead men lolling at their guns, debris, dust, and splinters kicked up by bullets tearing through boat superstructure. Without the support of the big catamaran, Cottonmouth was winning, as two of the River Patrol boats had gone to the aid of the Delta.

  It closed, and the fire nozzles started. The first few seconds of flow came limp and desultory, little more than a drinking fountain. Then the water went bright white, and arced up into the air over the barrier of container ships.

  Three mighty jets of water fell across the Delta, with such force it pushed even the triple-hull of the catamaran over into a list.

  The Delta crabbed sideways, pushed into the shallow banks and riverside snags.

  Valentine saw two crewmen, caught on deck, swept overboard by the torrent.

  The barge with its single container full of Grogs pushed forward, smaller boats whizzing around protectively.

  It sidled up to the Delta under the arc of water, an oddly festive maneuver.

  The fire tug shifted the flow of water, rather than cutting it off and having a few hundred gallons dropped on the boarders, knocking them down and interfering with their footing.

  The boarders threw lines up and grapples fell across the rails of the catamaran. The barges were of such a height that the necks were nearly equal, and the handpicked Golden Ones and Gray Ones were more than equal to the task of bridging the gap with leap and grasp.

  They splashed through the water still pouring off the decks and seized the guns. With the guns under control, the Delta was defanged. They could round up the remaining crew in a few minutes of blows.

  Valentine watched figures drop over the side, chancing the Doublebloods on the Illinois shore over the fury of the Golden Ones.

  They learned from captured crew members that the Delta had been rushed upriver by the Georgia Control. Somehow they’d learned of the approaching reinforcements for Western Kentucky, and decided to stop them weeks short of the target, in overland terms.

  Coalfield was all too happy to transfer command of Cottonmouth to the big catamaran.

  “Let’s give it a new name,” Valentine said.

  “There is only one,” Pellwell said. “The Goliath. After all, David slew it.”

  “The ratbits slew it,” Valentine said. “I just paddled for them.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Epilogue: The exact provenance of the word Kentucky is a matter of dispute. The popular translation used by Civil War historians that the word means “dark and bloody ground” is almost certainly false.

  For purposes of this history of Vampire Earth, it may be most appropriate to use the alleged Iroquoi-Wyandot phrase “land of tomorrow.” What began to take shape at what Lambert called the heart of North America’s great rivers as summer came on hot and dry and lush, was the first sprout of the new world that would have to take shape, should the Kurians be overthrown.

  Man and Grog, ratbit and Reaper, horse and legworm, radio and newspaper, clattering petro-fueled engine and brown-water-churning propeller, community and its defenders came together that spring in something the world hadn’t seen before, at least at the scale envisioned by Brother Mark. Like the ingredients in a stew, each took on some flavor from the other after the heat of action.

  Kentucky would see more violence. Atlanta wouldn’t give up their plans for the conquest and incorporation easily. Kentucky lived up to its misnomer as a dark and bloody ground in the following years, but like a vigorous new hybrid, its thrived in the churned-up soil.

  After false starts in the swamps of Arkansas, the plains of Central Asia, the shores of Lake Victoria in Africa, and the islands and coasts of Japan and Alaska, the seeds of the future at last fell on fertile ground in Kentucky. Fate and the necessities of duty would soon separate some of the actors who gave what would become the Great Rivers Freehold its vigorous birth from their newborn republic.

  But most would return, in time.

  For now, we shall return briefly to the last few steps of a series of weary marches and passages by our no-longer-so-young major.

  David Stuart Valentine felt each of his thirty years as he walked back up from the river landing to Fort Seng. His leg and back hurt. An old pain, one he hadn’t had since a Reaper nearly took his head off during the escape from Xanadu, throbbed at his jawline.

  Even echoes of the stomping he’d taken in a jail cell in Haiti courtesy of Boul brought a dull ache to his ribs.

  Fort Seng buzzed as he crossed the old highway on its west border, at the edge of th
e thick woods on that side. The Kurian Missionary’s doughnut stand had been turned upside down, looking like an odd mushroom with its tacked-together wood-pallet foundation.

  He smelled cordite and shell everywhere. Clearly, there’d been some kind of action.

  The fragrant smell of dough in hot fat set his saliva running.

  “Kur bless you, Major,” the missionary said.

  Fort Seng looked like a whirlwind had hit it. It was the air raid all over again, redoubled. Headquarters was more or less intact, but looked scorched with several windows blown out and a hole in the roof.

  The road to the fort was lined with cheering Bears and a healthy smattering of Wolves, drawn up in neater company lines. Valentine had never seen so many Hunters gathered in one place before.

  The barbecue pits were ringed by furry lumps of hair, muscle, and weapons clothed in the ragged mix of Reaper cloth, Kevlar, leather, chain, and pig iron that passed for Bear duty uniforms—rumor had it that the entire Bear regiment had only three A uniforms, cleaned, swapped and returned as needed like a rental tux.

  A rough count numbered them in the hundreds.

  “Stevens, acting captain, Company A, First Bear regiment,” a bearded little man said, stepping forward with a rather abashed and bootless Major Grace behind. “Only why it’s called the first when there’s only one nobody ever told me, Major. Elements of Companies C and D. Bravo’s still down around Houston. Them Texans said they’d leave the UFR if the Bears got pulled out of the fighting line.”

  “Acting?”

  “Formerly top sergeant,” Connoly said.

  “So you’re here without orders?”

  “Oh, I got you beat on that, Major. We’re here specifically against orders. Written, verbal, signal flags, smoke signals. I think they tried everything.”

  “Except shooting at us,” another Bear called.

  “Nobody dared.”

  “Then you’re volunteers,” Valentine said.

  “Men who want to fight. Seems like you’re the one piece of Southern Command still in this war to win it. Though when we got here we were a bit surprised to find the place turned over to them Atlanta jaspers. Major Grace here was in the middle of surrendering it to a crew of them. We lit our fires and ran ’em off.”

  “Hear tell it, you’re gunning to take on Atlanta,” a Bear corporal with a strange facial hair pattern—he’d shaved off one eyebrow and half of his pencil mustache on the opposite side—put in. “We thought we’d get the ball rolling for you.”

  “We’ll be glad to have you at Fort Seng.”

  “Infestations of Quislings is pract’lly our speciality,” a Bear chimed in. He tightened a hook-studded leather glove.

  Lambert greeted him in front of the bullet-riddled headquarters, Ediyak at her knees keeping order among the messengers reporting in and asking for instructions. The elegant old mansion had fire damage around two windows and smoke still trickled up from one glassless window frame. Lambert had an interesting dirt pattern about her eyes and smelled of sweat and gunfire. No one could accuse her of being unbloodied in battle ever again.

  “Hail the man who opened up the Missouri-Ohio junction,” Lambert said. “My map’s looking better and better.”

  “I’m glad we have something to come back to, sir.”

  He saw Gamecock and a couple of Bears stacking captured weapons and equipment in the parking lot. There were several Pooters and some new light armor vehicles parked there, not much the worse for battle damage. Blood caked on the window of one.

  “Atlanta rolled the dice. They almost won, too. Most of the Evansville milita collapsed—there was another air attack, and I don’t think anyone expected them to be able to fight helicopter gun-ships. But half the Lifeweaver-trained hunters of Southern Command showed up at an opportune moment, and nobody objected to attacking without knowing much about the opposition. Luckily it was just recon stuff backed up with garrison troops.”

  He could tell she was holding something back.

  “Who did we lose?” Valentine asked, suddenly anxious. “Where’s Captain Patel?”

  “Patel’s fine, according to his last transmission. He’s handling the pursuit with some Wolves and legworm riders.”

  “Then what?”

  “From the very top, Valentine,” Lambert said. “I just received new orders. I guess Major Grace gave us the thumbs down right before he surrendered the joint.”

  She handed him the communication tech’s transcription. Block pencil lettering had a date, time, and code confirmation. Below that were the bare words:

  WITHDRAW TO RALLY BASE. AT ONCE.

  CONFIRM SOONEST.

  (S) MARTINEZ, GHQ

  Valentine didn’t know whether to retch, faint, or shoot himself. Gamecock, up to show him a vintage combat shotgun, steadied him with an arm. “After all this? The river’s open now. Between the Goliath and the boats, we can hold the river, now.”

  “Not ‘defensive stance’ enough,” Duvalier said, appearing from nowhere, in her usual style.

  “What about the Golden Ones?” Valentine asked. “We’ll just abandon them here?”

  “Must have been garbled. Doesn’t make any sense,” Lambert said. She turned to her communications staff. “The equipment must be to blame. Find the fault in our long-range gear. Take it all apart if you have to, and go over it piece by piece. I don’t care if it takes a year to finish the job.”

  “That transmission was confirmed received,” Valentine said. “Somebody might call that mutiny. They can shoot you for that.”

  “You seem to be healthy enough with a death sentence,” Lambert said. “Operation Javelin’s going to succeed. Maybe it’ll just take a couple tries. But if they want me to stop, they’ll have to drag me out by the heels.”

  “Us by the heels, suh,” Gamecock said.

  “Dots Lambert ignoring orders,” Valentine marveled.

  “Can’t withdraw anyway,” Ediyak put in. “We’re in action.”

  “And will be the rest of the summer, I expect,” Lambert said.

  They watched Fort Seng fill.

  The Golden Ones filed in, walking in the football-shaped formations of the fighting Grog march. A ratbit rode on broad, faun-colored shoulders here and there. The Gray Baron led his Grogs in, Snake Arms dancing with her reptiles at their head to Bear whistles, the warriors perhaps not as orderly as they’d been at the Gray Stronghold, but time would improve them from war band into soldiers.

  What fascinating pieces to a yet-unknown future mosaic, Valentine thought. Smelly, disorderly, ragged—like Kentucky, with a full year of warfare washing over it. But toughened and slowly coming together, and unlike the silent, oppressed masses to the south, every one of them could be trusted with a gun and a knife.

  He almost felt pity for the Kurian Order. He certainly felt it for the poor bastards who’d be sent up against them.

  GLOSSARY

  Bears—The toughest of the Hunter classes, Bears are famously ferocious and the shock troops of Southern Command, working themselves up into a berserker rage that allows them to take on even the Reapers at night. Also famous for surviving dreadful wounds that would kill an ordinary man, though how completely they heal varies slightly according to injury and individual.

  Cats—The spies and saboteurs of the Hunter group, Cats are stealthy individuals with keen eyesight and superb reflexes. Women tend to predominate in this class, though whether this is due to their bodies adapting better to the Lifeweaver changes, or the fact that Cat activities require the ability to blend in and choose a time for acting rather than more aggressive action is a matter of opinion.

  Golden Ones—A species of humanoid Grog related to the Gray Ones. Golden Ones are tall bipeds (though they will still sometimes go down on all fours in a sprint) mostly covered with short, faun-colored fur that grows longer about the head mane. Expressive, batlike ears, a strong snout, and wide-set, calm eyes give them a somewhat ursine appearance, though the mouth is broader. They are considered b
y most to have a higher culture than their gray relations. Their civilization is organized along more recognizable groups, with a loose caste system rather than the strictly tribal organizations of the Gray Ones.

  Gray Ones—A species of humanoid Grog related to the Golden Ones. Their hair is shorter than their relatives, save for longer tufts that grow to warm the forearms and calves/ankles. Their bodies are covered in thick gray hide, which grows into armorlike slabs on some males. They are bipeds in the fashion of gorillas, with much heavier and more powerful forearms than their formidable Golden One relations, wide where their cousins are tall. Unless organized by humans otherwise, they tend to group into tribes of extended families, though in a few places (like Saint Louis) there are multitribe paramountcies.

  Grogs—An unspecific word for any kind of life-form imported or created by the Kurians, unknown to Earth pre-2022. Some say it’s a version of “grok” since so many of the strange, and sometimes horrific, life-forms cooperate. Others maintain that the term arises from the “graaaaawg!” cry of the Gray Ones when wounded or calling for assistance in a fight. In most cases among the military of Southern Command, when the word “Grog” is used it is commonly understood to be a Gray One, as they will use other terms for different life-forms.

  Hunters—A common term for those humans modified by the Lifeweavers for enhanced abilities of one sort or another. Up until 2070, the Hunters worked closely under the direction of the Lifeweavers in Southern Command, but after so many of them fled or were killed during Consul Solon’s incursion, the Hunter castes were directly managed by Southern Command.

  Kurians—A faction of the Lifeweavers from the planet Kur who learned how to extend their life span through the harvesting of vital aura. They invaded Earth once before in our prehistory and formed the basis for many legends of vampires. Although physically weak compared to their Reaper avatars, Kurians are masters of disguise, subterfuge, and manipulation. They tend to dwell in high, well-defended towers so as to better maintain mental links with their Reaper avatars. Face-to-face contact with one is rare except for their most trusted Quislings. Some have compared the Kurian need for vital aura with an addict’s need for a drug, especially since the consumption of vital aura sometimes leaves the Kurian in a state of reduced sensibility. Most Kurians live life on simple terms—are they safe, do they have enough sources of vital aura, and how can they gather a large supply and keep it against their hungry and rapacious relatives?