Valentine's Rising

by E. E. Knight

  “Excuse me, would you?” Valentine said, hurrying off to investigate. Shouts blended in with the screams.

  It was what he dreaded. The two guards captured in the tower had been strung up by their heels inside the hut. One had blood pouring down his body. Amid the bustle of Beck’s prisoners grabbing weapons and anything else remotely useful, some of the vengeful prisoners had taken matters into their own hands. Two women, thin and hollow-eyed, stood in a circle of hooting men. Both had knives; one held the wounded guard’s severed genitals before the other’s eyes. Some of the male prisoners were tying together the legs of another man with a bloody wound in his leg, ready to string him to the ceiling fixture when the castrated man died.

  “Stop that!” Valentine shouted. “Lieutenant Nail!”

  Nail sat on an overturned desk, smoking a captured cigarette as he watched the show. “You want to interfere with those hellcats, you go right ahead,” Nail said.

  “Nail, you’re relieved. Sergeant Rain!”

  “You’ll just have to relieve me too, sir,” Rain said.

  Valentine went over to the woman with the bloody knife. She’d already opened the trousers of the next man, who was babbling for mercy. Valentine took one look at his red, contorted face and held out his hand to the woman. “You there, hand it over.”

  She tried to give him her bloody trophy, with a smile. Valentine felt sickened, the way some go faint at the sight of another person’s blood but can calmly hold a bandage over a pulsing wound of their own. Not many months ago he’d been the one mutilating corpses. He lifted his hand to push the slimy object down, out of sight of the others—

  She flinched at the gesture, flinched with the fear in her eyes of someone who had been hit before, many times. Valentine felt a hard hand on his arm.

  “Mister Bear,” the other woman said. She had wide-set round eyes set beneath short white hair and a hard line of a jaw. “Yolanda has to wear a diaper all the time now. These men gang-raped her. They said her ass was too tight. So they took a knife and cut it so it’d open wider. That man bleeding to death, he had the blade, and this other piece of shit helped hold her down.”

  “Wasn’t me, sir,” the inverted man said. “We surrendered proper n’all.”

  Valentine looked into the haunted eyes of the woman who had stayed his arm, and then to Yolanda’s face. He studied the profile; her darkly beautiful features reminded him of his mother’s in another time and place.

  “It’s justice, sir,” Nail said.

  “No. It’s not justice. It’s vengeance.” He looked down at the flushed face of the guard. “You decided to live like a savage, soldier. For that you get to die like one. Nail, I’m going to go out and talk to Lieutenant Zhao. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. I want this camp ready to move then.”

  As Valentine walked out, he heard Yolanda’s friend address the strung-up man. “Fifteen minutes. Boy, you’re getting off easy.”

  They left the camp with one of Zhao’s platoons in front of, and one behind, the liberated prisoners. The third platoon walked to either side of the files. Some of Zhao’s men had already managed to lose their red-tape sashes. Beyond the column, in the darkness that matched Valentine’s mood, Nail and his Bears reconnoitered.

  Valentine walked beside Zhao. The lieutenant had made a hash of things, and Valentine’s anger could easily give way to what Zulu Company’s Sergeant Patel used to call a “two-boot stomp” dressing-down. It might let Valentine blow off steam, but whether it would do the rattled Zhao any good depended on the resilience of the man. Dawn was still hours away, but already the Quislings were reorganizing. Here and there in the dark, isolated snipers were taking potshots at the column. So far all the shots were misses, but they were unsettling—especially to the unarmed prisoners.

  “Sir, the company hasn’t had enough time together,” Zhao explained. “It’s not like all these men have combat experience. Some were militia called up during the invasion. I’ve only got a handful in each platoon trained as infantry.”

  “Lieutenant, I know you feel like you’ve been asked for miracles. That you even got everyone to the camp, in the dark, along a route you weren’t that familiar with is a credit to you. You got all this going at a moment’s notice. Don’t worry about the rest.”

  “That Captain Beck—”

  “Beck’s not in charge.”

  “What’s going to happen at Omega, sir?”

  “A lot of work.”

  “More fighting?”

  “I expect. They’ll be coming for us, though. We’re going to play defense for a while.”

  “That’s good, sir. I’ve had some experience with that.”

  “What was it like when you hit the camp? The first time, that is.”

  “I was scared. I saw their rifle barrels everywhere. I was scared more troops were going to come rolling down the road behind me while I was looking at the camp. When we started toward the wire and the machine gun opened up—I just lost it, sir.”

  Somewhere behind him Valentine saw the Abica brothers embracing. The younger playfully cuffed his older brother across the back of the head. The green flare was the right decision . . . .

  “You acted according to your judgment. You were there and I wasn’t. A machine gun can kill a lot of men in a few seconds. But remember what was in your head next time you see the enemy coming at you. I know it sounds like they’re howling for your blood and nothing can stop them. Remember how you felt; sometimes the noise is just fear let loose. Now that you know their fear you can work it.”

  “How do you stop from being scared in the first place, sir?”

  “Zhao, I asked my old captain in the Wolves that exact question. I’ll tell you what he told me: Don’t. It’ll keep you sharp.”

  “Send a runner ahead to that post,” Valentine said to Zhao, pointing into the darkness around the warehouses. “Make sure they’re our men.”

  While Zhao organized that, Beck and Kessey rested their prisoners. Some of them had surreptitiously gorged themselves on food from the Quonset hut and were being quietly sick along the roadside.

  “Once we’re across the river, we’ll be back in our own lines?” Beck asked.

  “Captain, you’re addressing a fellow captain, you know,” Zhao put in, after his messenger moved off.

  “Never mind that, Lieutenant. Captain Beck and I go back far enough that the niceties don’t matter. In answer to your question, Captain, the only lines in the neighborhood are the ones we’re about to draw. This is a deep penetration raid, you might say. My orders are to tie down as many troops as possible.”

  “Where do we fit in?” Colonel Kessey asked. “Don’t worry about my rank, Mr. Valentine, as far as I’m concerned I’m under your orders. This is your op. I’ll do as you say.”

  “Couldn’t stand to see friends behind barbed wire, Colonel.”

  Beck shook his head. “Seems to me I once criticized you for rounding up strays, Va-Captain. Looks a little different to me now. Thanks for getting me out of the frying pan.”

  “We in the fire are glad to have you. What sort of mix do you have?”

  “There’s a few Wolves, incognito. They put on militia uniforms in case of capture. The rest are mostly guards. I have infantry, heavy weapons, signals, some engineers and mechanics. Backwash from the big bugout that didn’t make it to the mountains.”

  “And you, sir?” Valentine asked Kessey.

  “The usual mix. I’ve got a first-class gunsmith, you might find work for her. A couple of doctors and a nurse.”

  A runner interrupted their talk.

  “We were hoping to link up with the prison party, sir,” the private reported. “Captain Styachowski didn’t know you’d be with them. She sent out a scouting party to observe the Kurian Tower, but they came back and said nothing had happened there. I’m to take you to her; she’s down by the docks. She’s made space for the prisoners on a barge.”

  “Good. Captain Beck, Lieutenant Colonel Kessey, if you could get them up
again, please.”

  Valentine heard an explosion in the darkness. “What’s that?”

  “I think it’s mortars from the Heights. They’re dropping shells around the docks. It’s blind fire, sir, they’re not hitting anything but rubble.”

  “When the sun gets up that’ll change. Zhao, get them moving. Best pace the prisoners can manage.”

  Styachowski was in the wheelhouse of the barge, using the radio there. The barge was to be used to get the men across in case of catastrophe at the railroad bridge. She held the microphone in one hand, a cane in the other, her face lit by instrument telltales. She visibly sagged in relief when Valentine appeared in the doorway.

  “The train’s almost empty now,” Valentine heard Post crackle from the radio. “Still no action here. You want me to send it back? Over.”

  “Yes, send it back. Over and out.

  “Thought something had happened to you, sir,” Styachowski said.

  “Some confusion at the prison yard.” Valentine was relieved to see her alive and well.

  A soldier ran up the side stairs and entered the cabin.

  “Should the people from the work camp be put on board?”

  Styachowski looked at Valentine. “You’re in charge of the warehouses and docks,” he said.

  “Yes.” The private backed out of the cabin and made a noisy exit down the stairs.

  “What’s the situation, Styachowski?”

  Another mortar shell landed amongst the Ruins.

  “The supply train to go north was just waiting there. I figured we could use what was on it as well as the opposition. Here’s the juicy part. There were four 155mm guns loaded on flatcars and ready to go, along with a bunch of other goodies. Post had his men ride the rooftops, it was quite a sight.”

  “Have you heard from Ahn-Kha?”

  “They took the bridge, no problem; just a couple of corporal’s guards at either end. After securing it he went overland to Omega. Called us on Solon’s own transmitter. There was a little shooting. Someone was wounded up there, but he took the Residence intact.”

  “So where are the Quislings?”

  “Sitting tight, waiting to be told what to do. I don’t think it’s sunk in to anyone what’s happening yet, except maybe your Kurian in his tower. The prisoners we took here said they sent everyone with a gun there to guard him.”

  “How many prisoners?”

  “A few dozen. Night watchmen type MPs making sure nobody pilfers, at least without giving them a cut. They’re sitting under guard in the canteen here. We hauled Xray-Tango back, he was conscious for a few minutes and cursing you up and down. Seeing his headquarters on fire could have had something to do with that. I’ve collapsed into a little pocket here. I wasn’t sure if I should burn the headquarters; I didn’t want to give the mortar guys another reference mark.”

  Valentine wondered if he could have handled it half as well. “Nice work, Styachowski. I’m—we’re lucky to have you with us. Really lucky.”

  She flushed to the corners of her eyes and wavered a bit in her at-ease pose. “It’s been a nail-biter every second.”

  “What’s this about sending the train back? That wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “It was loaded. We couldn’t fit everyone without dragging boxcars around. There’s still plenty of stuff in the warehouse we can use.”

  “Do you have the manpower to load it before dawn?”

  “We can try.”

  “Use the men we took out of the camp. Medical supplies, food, ammunition—especially for those guns. In that priority. Forget the rest. After the train pulls out send every pickup you have after it. They can bump their way over the bridge easily enough. We’ll need transport to get it all from the station up the hill to the Residence. At first light set everything else on fire.”

  “Can do, sir. Excuse me, I’d better start giving orders.”

  “I’ll give you my standard speech,” Valentine said to the thirty-odd men under guard in a corner of one of the warehouses. The warehouses were shells of better-built structures that had survived the blast. Their drafty, burned-out interiors smelled of rat feces and cat urine, but they were space out of the rain. New walls of corrugated aluminum were wired onto the reinforced concrete. Styachowski’s soldiers and the liberated POWs were filling hand carts and shuttling goods out the door in a frenzy.

  “Anyone who joins us gets a new life in the Free Territory. You’ll come with us as civilians. You’ll work harder than you did under the Hoods, but you’ll be able to do it with a clear conscience. This isn’t an ‘or else’; we’re going to leave you somewhere safe. You might want to think about what’ll happen when they start investigating all this. Angry Hoods aren’t particular about allocating blame where it belongs. Heads are going to roll for this one. You might think about the chances of it being yours.

  “This is Corporal Lopez,” Valentine said, bringing forward the noncom after he gave his words a moment to sink in. “Any of you who want to take us up on the offer of a fresh start, just speak to him. Again, we’re not threatening you with anything if you don’t stand up. We leave that to the Kurians. Maybe you’ve got family back in the KZ, I don’t know. Choice is yours, but make up your minds fast—we’re in a hurry.”

  Valentine walked over to the sliding doors to the main aisle of the warehouse. One of the advantages of higher rank was the ability to stand around where and when you chose, just observing. He looked at the carts going out to the pickups and vans, rattling out their machine-gun-fire exhaust through straight pipes. Sacks of rice, cases of ham, tins of butter, dehydrated fruit, cotton balls and motor-oil . . . His real intent was to get a read on the faces, especially Xray-Tango, who had sat through his lecture in contemptuous silence. If anyone had his neck in a noose, it was he.

  Xray-Tango remained seated, holding a washcloth to the side of his head.

  Only three volunteers stood up to join Lopez. Valentine wondered if they knew something he didn’t.

  Two men, both POWs of Beck’s, were wounded by long-range fire while the second train was being loaded. Valentine sent Nail and his Bears out to find the snipers, but they returned to report they’d shot and run.

  There was only one company left, spaced out wide to cover the roads, rail platform, warehouses and dock. They knew they had to pull back and get across the river when Valentine’s flare went up, or dawn, whichever came first. Valentine was watching the road leading to the Kurian Tower, where the remaining flames of Xray-Tango’s headquarters gave him a good view of the road. The road wasn’t concerning Valentine; what was approaching on it had him worried.

  “Armored cars,” Valentine said. “Snowplows, I think. Two of them. Pickups behind, double axles with light armor tacked on.”

  “Snowplows” was Southern Command shorthand for long, heavy armored cars with pointed prows for pushing through roadblocks. Armored cupolas with machine guns, or sometimes a 20mm gun nicknamed a “Bushwhacker” stood high and gave the gunner a towerlike view. They were built on the skeletons of garbage-truck-sized vehicles.

  “They’re in for a shock,” Nail said.

  “As long as our heavy-weapons guys know what they’re doing.”

  “Two minutes,” Valentine said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Valentine gave his men, squatting next to their stovepipelike recoilless rifles, a thumbs-up and ran back to the train platform.

  “Styachowski! Roll, roll, have everything roll!”

  She nodded and signaled to the man working the engine, a Quisling officer’s machine gun bumping at her hip. A soldier helped her into the back boxcar. “The rest of you, fall back to the barge. The barge! Follow the women!”

  Styachowski had used the female POWs after all. They stood along the road holding emergency candles. The lights weren’t bright enough to be seen by the distant snipers, let alone the mortars on Pulaski Heights, especially with the warehouses beginning to burn. The men began to pull out, some carrying a last load between them, guided to sa
fety by the candle-holding women.

  Valentine pulled the flare gun from his shoulder bag and broke it open. He fired it. Before its parachute opened, he was already running back to the Bears. He glanced up and the white glare traced an angry scrawl on his retinas.

  “Here they come!” Nail called, the growl of motors growing louder. Valentine could see the turreted tops of the armored cars above the rubble, coming toward them like the dorsal fin of an attacking shark. The Bears had arranged rubble to cover their heads and shoulders.

  Valentine joined one of the teams with the light artillery. A box of forearm-sized shells was laid out, ready for loading, and a soldier knelt next to the tube, looking down a crosshairs bracket as he adjusted the barrel with levers.

  “Let them have it as soon as you can,” he told the gunner.

  “Yes, Colonel,” the man said. “Err . . . Cap—”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just put a shell into them.”

  The first armored car rounded the corner, the pointed prow on it filling the street.

  “Clear!” the gunner yelled, but the other two in the crew were already well away from the back of the weapon.

  It fired with a whoosh, more like a rocket than a shell. The backblast kicked up a shroud of dust, blinding Valentine for a moment. He heard an explosion somewhere down the road. The loaders opened the crossbars at the back and slid in a brassy new shell.

  Valentine heard the Bears shooting. The front snowplow had been stopped, and smoke poured from the front. It was firing back; tracers arced from the turret, their brightness leaving strange echoes on his retinas. He saw vague shapes of troops exiting the armored car behind it before the recoilless rifle fired again.

  “That’s it. Wreck the tube,” Valentine said.

  “One more shell, sir,” the gunner said, as the others loaded.

  “Shoot and fall back.” He raised his voice. “Nail, get out of it!”

  More tracer streaks lit up the street. The gunner fired again, blindly. Valentine waited to see Nail and his Bears run for the burning warehouses, and pulled the gunner out by his collar. The loaders put another shell in the tube, and placed the spares beneath its massive tripod.