“Now dig,” the sergeant ordered, staring at them with his arms folded. “’Cause this is the only chance you’re going to have to rest for—let’s see,”—he looked at his watch—“five hours. Dig foxholes for yourselves. I don’t think I have to demonstrate how. If you’re too stupid to do what a mole does without thinking, then you deserve whatever happens to you. And if you can, sleep. I’ll be back in five. I have to go have me some whiskey—and a steak, I’m hungry as a bear.” The sergeant laughed at them, just to rub it in a little more. “Oh, by the way,” he shouted as he walked off, “there will be two machine-gun posts watching you at all times, and every once in a while they’re going to let loose with a stream of slugs about two inches above the ground. So dig deep. Dig deep.” He chuckled again as he headed off, leaving them to their own devices.
“I ain’t going to dig no damned foxhole,” several voices whispered to one another through the semi-darkness. The men were tired, starving, feeling rebellious and ready to kill. Stone didn’t pay them any heed. He tied the tarp around his waist, found the least muddy spot he could and slammed the shovel in. Although the ground was muddy it was a thick hard mud, almost half-frozen with the rapidly dropping temperature as the moon popped up half-hidden behind a tree and a north wind blew down from the great Arctic steppes. It was hard going, like shoveling almost dried cement, but he was able to get some small amount of the stuff with each load.
“Say mister,” Bo said, wandering over to him with a sheepish expression on his face, somehow sensing that while the others boldly proclaimed that they were tired of working and weren’t going to move a muscle, Stone was one of the few who really knew what he was doing. “You think maybe me and you could team up for the night; you know, make a foxhole together?” It was obvious that the kid didn’t know shit about shinola. But though huge, he seemed basically like a decent guy. Stone took pity on him—with a frame that big he’d surely take a hit when the machine guns started firing.
“Sure, Bo, just start digging,” Stone said as he took another shovelful. “The quicker we get our condo built the quicker we can get some shut-eye.” Bo wasn’t quite sure what a condo was but smiled at the acceptance of his company and slammed into the thick mud and dirt with a vengeance. Some of the others kept up their I-ain’t-gonna-do-shit attitude, but many of the recruits took Stone’s cue, teamed up and started digging. Within ten minutes Stone and his roommate had created a space about eight by six by two, just big enough for the two of them to squeeze in and—if they kept their asses down—wake up with their flesh intact.
The sides of the hole kept slowly sliding down but Stone took his tarp, spread it over as much of the inside of the space as he could. It seemed to help. They both got inside and after getting all their feet and legs in the right place it appeared usable. The mud squished beneath Stone’s tarp, making them feel like they were lying on a waterbed, but it kept out the water oozing in the dirt just below them. All the recruits who were digging kept glancing over at Stone to make sure they were doing it right, and followed suit, putting down their tarps over as much of the muddy interior as possible.
“Now give me your tarp,” Stone told Bo, who handed it over. Sitting up, Stone placed it on each side of the ditch over them and put some of the mud along the edges to hold it in place. Then he pulled his head back under, pulling the tarp along with him over his head until they were almost sealed in. Within minutes their body heat began collecting so that they actually felt warm.
The rest mimicked Stone down to the last detail. Then they all got in, pulled the movable roof tarp over them and presto: instant home with all the amenities. Bull and three of the “tough guys” of the lot who had sat on their tarps watching it all and making obscene comments at the assholes who were doing more work suddenly heard loud clicking sounds coming from the shadows at each end of the mud field. Suddenly a hailstorm of slugs came migrating across the ground. The four macho men dove into the dirt, pressing their faces into the earth for dear life as they could hear countless bullets whistling by overhead. The firing kept up for nearly two minutes. At last it stopped and a voice yelled out from the darkness.
“That time we fired a yard above the ground. Next time it’s going to be twelve inches. Get your foxholes built, assholes.” But Bull and the others had gotten the message. They teamed up and grabbed their shovels and started digging like steam shovels. Within ten minutes they had likewise created underground homes that, following Stone’s design, were not all that uncomfortable, considering. The next machine-gun burst came exactly fifteen minutes after the first. And true to word, it was a foot off the ground. Someone whose ass was poking up just a little too high took a flesh wound and let out a quick scream. They all pulled down a little deeper, squashed their faces a little harder into the mud-bulging tarps and lay motionless in the oozing holes as a thin drizzle descended through the now moonless night like a dark gossamer veil of the gods. And thus, some of them were even able to get a little sleep between machine-gun firings.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
WAKEUP CALL was two small artillery shells going off at each side of the mud field, ripping the recruits from their semi-dozes and making over half of them bolt upright, so they sat up straight and ripped the tarps from right over their heads.
“That’s the WRONG thing to do, idiots,” Sergeant Zynishinski screamed at them as he stood in the center of the vaguely circular pattern of foxholes. “When you hear an explosion, get your head DOWN, not up. Now everybody rise and shine ’cause today’s the day we really have some fun.” The men groaned and burped and farted and slowly emerged from their muddy holes in the earth like zombies rising from the dead. And with their mud-splattered clothes, their hair covered with dead grass and twigs—a few of them even sporting various species of beetles and grubs that had crawled onto them during the night, seeking warmth and perhaps a few bites of something tasty—they looked like something out of a horror movie, like something that should just crawl back into its grave and die.
The sergeant walked back and forth in front of them, inspecting the recruits. “So you cowbrains figured out to stay dry. Better than I expected,” he commented, spitting a gob of the chewing tobacco he seemed to always have in his mouth at their feet. “And maybe you even got a few minutes sleep, that’s good. Because you’ll need everything you got for today—everything.”
“What about food,” one whining voice asked from somewhere.
“No food,” the sergeant said brusquely. “All right, let’s go. Leave the tarps and shovels where they are. Follow me!” The D.I. started jogging off and Stone and Bo took off right behind him, followed grudgingly by the rest of the trainees. They ran along the side of the electric fence, about two yards from it. Along the bottom Stone could see blankets of dead insects—moths, flies, wasps—that had touched the high-voltage wire. Here and there along the outside was a dead animal—raccoon, prairie dog, even a deer or two. Their faces were still stuck to the steel-mesh structure as the current created a magnetic pull between their bodies and the electricity surging through the metal. Stuck forever as if kissing that which had killed them.
Sergeant Zynishinski led them right up to the side gate, protected by two guard posts on each side. The guards shut off the electricity for their section, opened the gate, let them all through and when the last man was out closed it again and started the current up. There had been a number of attacks lately. They couldn’t afford to slacken for a moment. It was the first time Stone had been outside the walls of Fort Bradley in almost a week—and it felt wonderful. He hadn’t realized how cramped being inside of walls made him until he was out. But the bush land and nearby forest gave him a sudden jolt of joy. They ran for about half a mile down a dirt road and then came to a clearing with a number of NAA troops gathered around, along with various vehicles, including a tank parked on the grassy shoulder to the side.
“This is it,” the D.I. said. “You went to school yesterday; today is the graduation exam.” He
pointed toward what looked like hardly more than a deer trail leading off through some low thorn bushes. “That’s the test. We call it the “manbreaker,” because it’s broken plenty, believe me. It’s an obstacle course. But like none you’ve ever seen or heard about. This one’s different. But I’m not going to tell you all about it and spoil the fun. That’s for you to find out. Suffice it to say, you will be forced to use everything you learned yesterday—and every other bit of knowledge you got crammed into those amoeba-sized brains.” He looked around at them as if he had never seen a more incompetent gathering of fools and shook his head with mock sadness.
“There are arrows pointing the way. Just follow them. If you get wounded or maimed, stay where you are. We’ll get to you when we can—if we can. See you on the other side, idiots. If you make it all the way, you’re in this man’s army.” The big trooper’s face softened for just a second. “Good luck,” he mumbled. Then with gusto, “Now get your dumb asses in there… and keep your fucking heads down.” Stone walked up to the first arrow pointing into the thorn patch, breathed out to relax himself and started in. Behind him Sergeant Zynishinski was already in a jeep and heading off down one of the several roads that intersected at the clearing. The rest of the recruits followed one by one after Stone, looking paranoically around although there was nothing more than a few birds diving for insects amongst the vegetation, chirping angrily at the humans who dared disturb them.
It was easy going at first but after several minutes Stone found that the thorns got thicker and longer, their entangled branches higher and harder to push through. The tips of the barbs kept biting into his legs, nipping little stabs into his flesh. Seeing that it only got thicker ahead, Stone stopped in his tracks, took off the heavy NAA combat jacket and spread it around as much of his lower part of his body as he could, tying the sleeves of the garment around his ankles. It was a strange arrangement and made it hard for him to move, almost like being in a potato sack. But it worked, for as he moved on ahead, the jacket protected him from ninety percent of the thorns and the extra protection enabled him to force his way right through the ripping plants as if he were armor-plated. The others behind him took heed and followed suit and the whole crew stomped on behind their involuntary leader.
The thorns lasted for about a half mile, then were gone. Stone saw a sign with an arrow and moved on ahead onto a one-lane dirt road that passed between two low mountains. He started jogging at a slow speed, letting everything hang loose. He was still sore as hell from the events of yesterday and he didn’t want to cramp up. The other recruits stumbled out of the thorns and took off after him. They had all come to depend on Stone for knowing what the hell to do, and didn’t want to be left behind. Bo came up beside him, running hard, and Stone grinned over at the man who stood inches over him but couldn’t have been over seventeen. Bo grinned back. He should’ve been out feeding the cows, Stone thought with pity, rather than out here learning how to kill men. The guy didn’t have it cut out for him.
“Why you here, Bo?” Stone huffed as he heard other recruits breathing hard yards behind them. “What the hell the NAA have that you want?”
“Well, Mr. Stone.” The mountain lad thought hard for a second, keeping an even pace alongside of him. “Tell you the truth, I probably wound’t be here exceptin’ a gang of bikers came through my hills, killed my ma, pa, all my brothers—I had nine of ‘em. No sisters. I come back from hauling coon, and there was no one left. Just bloody carcasses with—with their scalps missing.” Stone’s head jerked when he heard the words.
“Scalps were missing? Well, I can tell you one thing if it’s any consolation at all: the man who did that to them is dead; I killed him with my own hands. His name was Straight, named after the straight razors of which he carried dozens.”
Bo could hardly believe the words but was too dimwitted to even imagine Stone might be lying. “I—I—I’m grateful for that,” Bo stuttered, almost faltering for a second and losing pace. “I ain’t one for words, but if I wasn’t a man I’d cry from them words you just tol’ me. I thank you. I won’t forget it.”
But there wasn’t time for emotional displays, for as the last man came out of the bramble thickets, the first explosion hit just behind them. Then another. Stone picked up speed and the rest followed behind. They tore down the road as there was no place really to hide on the steep rocky slopes of the mountains on each side. Still the explosions followed them—going off just behind them or to one side—and Stone realized they were being channeled, guided like hamsters, made to run with exploding prods. The thought disgusted him, but he sure as hell didn’t slow down. They followed the road for a half hour and the barrage didn’t let up; if anything it came closer so they had to haul ass as if they were doing wind sprints. After another five minutes of full-blast running, just as they came to the end of the five-mile-long valley, the shelling stopped. The air seemed bizarrely quiet with the explosions gone and each man could hear his own heart beating like a metronome gone mad.
Stone rested for exactly one minute, knowing there would be something to prod them along soon enough. He saw the next arrow sign pointing toward a fairly thick forest about a hundred yards off and headed toward it. None too soon. For those who had dawdled two stench bombs landed in their midst, sending out an acrid, nauseating odor that made them gag and vomit as they staggered toward the woods. But the moment he reached the edge of the dark forest—a canopy of twisted leafless branches woven into a maze of wooden webbing—Stone saw that this wasn’t going to be so easy either. Stakes filled the forest floor with what looked like excrement or something foul smeared on their pointed tips. They were everywhere. It appeared that the godlike beings who were guiding their every move wanted them to play Tarzan for a while.
Stone started up the side of the nearest good-sized tree and then along a branch that extended nearly thirty feet into the forest and mingled with the other high branches. He started along it and though the branch shook up and down slightly it was thick enough to hold him. The branch of another tree was just within reach and he grasped it and jumped across to the other. It wobbled wildly but as Stone hung upside like a bat for a few seconds, the branch slowed down and he oozed out a sigh of relief. The wooden stakes below stared up at him with sharp eyes that seemed to see right into his heart. At least the concept worked. He edged down the branch to the middle trunk of the tree, still about twenty feet up, and searched around through the smaller branches for another bark bridge on which to continue his journey forward.
Most of the other recruits, after doing a double take when they saw Stone do his monkey man thing into the trees, started up after him, following the exact route he was taking. A few, of course, Bull included, had to try things the hard way first. They started into the forest, walking on the ground, trying to weave their way between the spears that appeared to grow out of the hard soil. But it was no go. They had scarcely gone ten feet when Bull, in the lead, got wedged in between two chest-high sets of spikes. When he pulled back one of them ripped into his upper arm, going in a good two inches. He howled and ripped it out and then slowly pulled out backwards. Though he hated Stone and everything he did, Bull knocked the next guy on line out of the way and started up the first tree.
With Stone in the lead, whether he wanted it or not, the entire crew made their way through the high branches of the forest. It was rough going. Especially for the larger men, whose weight seemed to pull the branches to their limits. But somehow it all held, and slowly, like aged gorillas who had forgotten quite how to do it, they headed along branch by branch, tree by tree, through the spider web of wood. It seemed to go on forever, at least growing lighter as the sun started coming up far to the east, dimly lighting the dark entanglement of wood into a mosaic of a million shadows. Stone heard a sudden scream and stopped, turning around. He could see that one of them had fallen and was lying on the ground below, pierced through the side of his leg. The man just kept screaming, reeling this way and that, standing on one leg on the g
round, the other pierced cleanly through by a stake. The recruits stared down dumbly, frozen above on different branches.
“Tie some belts together and pull him out. Someone strong… like you, Bull,” Stone screamed the fifty feet through the thicket where he could dimly see the scene unfolding. Bull at first glared at Stone but then thought better about it and saw an opportunity for himself to be a hero. He ripped his belt out from his pants, took three more from the other men perched in his tree and attached them all together, then lowered the homemade vine down to the bellowing wounded man below.
“Take it, asshole,” Bull screamed down, which even Stone agreed was about the appropriate word for the situation. The screaming man calmed himself enough to grab hold of the belt ladder and wrapped both of his arms firmly around it. Bull leaned back against the base of the tree and set both his legs up on branches ahead of him for leverage. “Now hold on to this as strong as a scumbag around a hardon,” he yelled and started pulling. Luckily for both of them the recruit who had fallen, one Doug “Badluck” Evans, all the way from Montana, was light—with clothes on, around one-fifty—whereas Bull weighed in at over two-fifty and had the biceps to show it, not to mention the eyes of the rest of the team focused on him, glowing, half-hidden in the rolling darkness of this neo-jungle world.
Straining and cursing with every heave, Bull pulled the man up one mighty take at a time. The veins in his neck looked like they were going to explode and his cheeks grew red as lobsters just thrown into the boiling pot, but he kept pulling, hauling the man right up and off the stake, and up into the tree. Arms reached out from nearby branches and they jockeyed the wounded recruit onto the base of a thick branch. But there was no way he could go forward—or back. You could see into the bone through the puncture in his leg. He’d have to stay. But that was his problem. They tied him to the branch so he couldn’t fall out if he lost consciousness and then moved on ahead. They had their own problems.
The Rabid Brigadier Page 10