Odyssey

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  “Homer. This is Sarah.”

  All four shook hands. If the man’s grip had been too dominant, the woman’s lingered too long on Homer’s wrist – and her look said not so much that she found him interesting, but that she expected him to find her hot. And she was hot, in a kind of trashy, military-porn, post-Apocalyptic way.

  Sarah’s face, when taking the woman’s hand, remained tight and controlled, probably meant to be unreadable to the others. But Homer could read it perfectly. She didn’t like this woman, not one bit.

  In addition to all of that, and in what was to Homer a worse sign than the drug smell, he could make out a crusader tattoo on the man’s forearm: a medieval knight in full plate mail, behind a tall shield with a red-and-white St. George’s cross on it.

  Homer had seen more than a few of these on American service personnel in the Middle East. They had sometimes been accompanied by the word Infidel in Arabic – or “Time for Another Crusade.” Homer wished he could say these had only shown up on conventional soldiers, or Fobbits, but the fact was more than one special operator had succumbed to this kind of religious-war thinking.

  This guy looked like he might be one of them. Above and below his crusader ink was the text, “Praise be to the LORD my Rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle.” The quote wasn’t attributed, but Homer didn’t need it to be.

  “Psalms 144:1,” he said, nodding at the tattoo.

  “Is it? Okay.” Luther smiled, revealing neglected teeth. But the lines in his cheeks and around his eyes also revealed low body fat. He probably fancied himself a warrior – or maybe a warlord. He nodded at the others in the group, gearing down around the periphery, getting settled back into camp. “Guys said you got into a little trouble down the Autozone.”

  “Yeah, actually—” Sarah started, but Homer cut her off.

  “A little bit. Thanks for bailing us out.”

  “No problem,” Luther said. “Glad to do it. You find what you needed there?”

  “Yep.” He looked at Sarah.

  “I’ll make the repair,” she said, squeezed Homer’s arm again, then turned and started back down the trail.

  “I’ll tag along,” Jewel said.

  “No need,” Sarah said over her shoulder.

  “Nobody goes anywhere alone,” Luther said.

  Sarah looked back to Homer, obviously pained. He smiled and gave her a Do me a favor and deal with it look.

  The two women disappeared into the dark.

  * * *

  “So,” Luther said, eyeing Homer’s weapons and gear. “Nice rifle mods. You ex-military?” The two of them now sat on logs beside the fire pit, which Homer now saw had glowing embers at its bottom. While Luther poked at them with a stick, bringing the fire back to life, Homer dodged the question.

  “A long time ago. One of your men said something about having ammo available here.”

  “Yeah, me?” Luther said. “I was Three ID.”

  Third Infantry Division. A big formation. “One of the BCTs?” Homer asked. He meant the brigade combat teams, infantry and armored, that were the major combatant elements of the division.

  The man’s expression hardened. “Six-four-eight MEB.”

  Maneuver Enhancement Brigade. That meant this guy could conceivably have been an MP or an engineer. But there was a higher likelihood he’d been a truck driver. Of course, Homer didn’t care if he’d been a food service specialist – everyone who wore the uniform served. And Homer knew most of them had harder jobs than he did. Not only did his team get everything they needed at all times – training, resources, weapons, gear, and support. But they also largely served on their own terms, almost always calling the shots, the tactical particulars, of their missions.

  Not to mention that truck drivers did the indispensable work of creating the logistics trains that made it possible for Homer, or any of the shooters or ground-pounders, to do their jobs.

  But he was pretty sure this guy was going to be self-conscious about it, probably even touchy. Homer also happened to know that while 648th MEB had been detailed to 3ID, it had actually been a subordinate command of the Georgia Army National Guard. But, again, he knew better than to bring any of those facts out in the open.

  “Great to meet a soldier,” Homer said. “No surprise you guys have stayed alive so long.”

  Luther nodded, looking mollified.

  Homer went on. “And I know supplies are critical to that. But if you’ve got any five-five-six you can part with, or two-two-three” – the civilian designation for the same caliber – “we’d be grateful.”

  “Yeah. Not really any to spare, man. Sorry.” Luther squinted across at Homer in the glow of the burning logs, then down at his helmet, which he’d placed on the log beside him. “Might be willing to trade you for those NVGs, though. One thing we’ve never been able to lay our hands on.”

  Homer smiled. “Sorry. Not something I can spare.”

  “Too bad.” Luther stabbed at the fire again. “Listen, all the local gun stores got cleared out of ammo a long time ago. But we’ve been thinking about a mission farther out. You should come along, help us get some. You could be a big help. And there’d definitely be some for you then, if we strike it rich.”

  “Yeah – no. We’ve got to be on our way.”

  This was not Homer, but Sarah speaking, appearing from out of the darkness, wiping grease on her thighs. She had also replaced the radio she lost in the Autozone. Jewel walked behind her, not looking happy. Whatever had passed between these two back at the truck, it didn’t look like sisterly bonding.

  “We’re good,” Sarah said, nodding at Homer. “To go.”

  Homer stood up, retrieving his helmet. But before he could open his mouth to say thanks and bye, Sarah tossed her head behind her toward the vehicles, and spoke to Luther.

  “Where’d you get the Bearcat?” she said.

  “What?” Luther said, also standing up.

  “The Lenco Bearcat back there,” she said. “It’s a police vehicle. Ottawa Police Service used to have two of them. Yours has police markings – but painted over.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Luther said. “Hey! Brad.”

  One of the others emerged from a tent, and approached the fire. Both Sarah and Homer could see he was wearing what looked like police tactical gear, rather than military.

  “And,” Sarah said under her breath, “here comes Shane.”

  Homer poked her in the ribs with his elbow.

  “Hey,” the newcomer said. “What’s up?”

  “Sarah, here—” Luther said. “It’s Sarah, right?”

  She just nodded.

  “Sarah here wants to know about the APC.”

  Homer gave her a warning look, but she ignored this, instead stepping forward and asking, “So, you’re OPS?”

  He initially just gave her a blank look, but finally said, “Yeah.”

  “SWAT team, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay.” She gave Homer a look. “We’ve really got to go.”

  “Road probably won’t be clear yet,” Luther said.

  Sarah hefted her rifle. “We’ll get on the highway farther up.”

  Homer lifted his own weapon, and nodded at the others. “Thanks for letting us regroup here. We really appreciate it.”

  None of Luther, Jewel, or Brad responded to this. They just stood in silence in the flickering firelight, hands by their sides. Homer and Sarah moved away slowly down the trail.

  “Tactical unit, not SWAT,” Sarah whispered to him. “Canadian police don’t have SWAT teams. He would have known that.”

  “Yeah,” Homer replied. “I got that.”

  When they were out of sight of the fire, both turned and picked up the pace. But, five seconds later, when the forest opened up again and the parked-up vehicles came into sight – their Ford had a group of four men standing between them and it.

  All of them armed.

  One was the first guy, the stubby one who’d sugge
sted Homer got his trident on eBay. Holding his AR low across his torso, he took a step forward and said, “You guys can go.” He nodded at Homer’s helmet. “But the NVGs stay. Think we’ll keep that Gucci rifle, too. Always wanted me a real EOTech.”

  “Fair enough,” Homer said, nodding, walking forward smoothly – and then stabbing the man in the throat with his rifle barrel. The guy went down with a sickening wheeze, but before he even hit the dirt, Homer had already pivoted, seized the rifle of the man next to him and wrenched it free, then broke his arm while swinging him around and hurling him into the two men behind.

  Pivoting again, he darted around the screaming second guy, spun the third one around by grabbing his head and twisting – then wrapped his left elbow around the man’s neck and held him as if in a vise. As the fourth man finally reacted and brought his rifle up, Homer closed the distance, knocked the weapon away, and delivered another barrel strike with his full weight behind it, this one to the man’s head.

  It knocked him cold instantly.

  This left only the one still struggling in the crook of Homer’s arm – but his struggling wound down as he lost consciousness. That was four men taken down in six seconds, courtesy of the Close Quarters Defense system that SEALs master, mostly to avoid having to kill everyone everywhere they go. But before Homer could lower the last survivor to the ground—

  Rapid and raucous firing erupted behind him.

  He brought his rifle up one-handed as he dropped and spun – but quickly worked out it was only one weapon, it was oriented away, and it was Sarah doing the shooting. She was hosing down the trail back in the direction of the camp and, judging from the shouts, screams, and thuds up the trail, more of the survivors had been coming down it.

  Past tense.

  When she finally stopped firing, she dashed around the truck, threw herself in, and fired the engine. Keeping his weapon trained on the trail, Homer climbed in the passenger seat. The tires slung mud and dirt toward the dark dome of heaven, as Sarah blasted them out of there.

  In seconds, they rumbled back onto hardball, heading not the direction they came, but farther into the forest. Homer figured Sarah was probably right that they could work their way around whatever was left of the herd, using the rural roads to reach the next highway interchange. As he punched up his map to verify this and plot a route, he opened his mouth to say something, but in the end just gave her a dark look across the cabin.

  As she flipped on the headlights and gripped the wheel with white fingers, she said, “Hey, don’t look at me like that.”

  Homer exhaled. “Like what?”

  “You know like what. And please don’t tell me I didn’t have to kill those guys. Because, yeah, I did.”

  Homer didn’t answer, instead focusing on the map. “Left in seventy-five meters.”

  “I told you right off the bat,” she said. “I know survivors. You may not want to shoot first, but you’d better. You do it for your family, if not for the two of us.”

  Homer sighed again, powered off his map, and looked across at her. “Yes. You did have to kill them. But we’ve really got to get you a suppressed weapon. How have you lived this long?”

  Sarah’s face broke into a smile, as the tension broke.

  She opened her mouth to banter back—

  —but instead a vicious SNAP sounded between their heads.

  Sarah didn’t know what that was, but Homer did. It was a supersonic round passing through the cabin – coming in the missing back window, and going out the missing front one. The gunshot itself sounded a fraction of a second later. And then the whole road lit up as vehicle-mounted spots splashed them.

  It was the Bearcat – growling, and gaining on them fast.

  Knob Toboggans

  “You see now?” Sarah said. “Seriously, I had t—”

  “This argument’s over,” Homer said, both of them ducking as another round smashed into the sideview mirror, then two more into the body of the truck. “And you won. Right now I need you to drive, and keep us between the ditches.” He was already climbing in back, rifle in hand, but helmet and NVGs discarded in the bright and shifting glare of the spots.

  “Check,” she shouted after him.

  “And keep your head down,” he added. This was mostly drowned out by the roar of full-auto firing, and the evil metallic clang of big rounds plunking into the truck body panels.

  But he figured she’d get the message.

  * * *

  Slithering over the middle passenger section to the cargo area in back, Homer burrowed himself into the piles of supplies, which he figured might provide a little additional protection. Peering over them and out, he quickly worked out the raking fire was coming from up in the turret of the Bearcat. He and Sarah weren’t really within effective range of this guy, who was still spraying and praying, as both vehicles raced and swerved.

  But he was well within Homer’s effective range.

  He slid his barrel onto the lip of the rear gate, felt the motion of both vehicles, and dropped the guy in the turret with a single headshot. He waited five seconds, at which point that guy’s replacement appeared. And then he dropped him, too.

  He didn’t have to wait longer to know there wouldn’t be a third gunner. No one was that stupid, not even these guys.

  But the Bearcat was still gaining. It was a heavier vehicle, but had a much bigger engine. And now there was additional sniping coming from its side firing ports. Those shooters probably couldn’t even see them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t a threat. They were shooting blind, but it was still incoming.

  Homer tried a couple of shots on the driver, through the windshield. As he expected, they flecked off the armor glass. And now he started to worry about his ammo situation. This was his second-to-last mag, and he really didn’t want to get into the last one. He thought of Ali, and how she somehow always managed to have a last one in reserve, no matter what – like she could conjure a full magazine out of the aether.

  But now the pursuit vehicle was on them – and Homer knew if they pulled alongside, those side-turret gunners were going to become a legitimate threat. He touched his radio.

  “Hey, whatever happens, don’t let them pass, okay?”

  “Roger,” she shouted back, not bothering with the radio.

  Confounding Homer’s expectations, a third figure did appear up in the turret, but he wasn’t on the mounted MG. Instead, he cocked his arm back – and as Homer moved to re-engage, disappeared down the hatch again. A small dark shape flew by Homer’s head, making him flinch and duck – but then, almost as quickly, coil, spin, and dive into the back seats.

  That was a either a really lucky throw, Homer thought, scrabbling around for the grenade down in the footwell…

  Or else a really good one.

  * * *

  “What?” Sarah shouted back at him, as she swerved from side to side, trying to block both lanes, having to trust there’d be no oncoming traffic, and also hoping they didn’t get rammed from behind. But even with everything else happening, she could see Homer digging madly around in the back. “What is it?”

  She had a sinking feeling she already knew – and that it might be the last thought she ever had. She gripped the wheel and steeled herself for whatever was coming – then levitated an inch out of her seat when, right beside her ear, she heard:

  “Ha!”

  Homer was leaning into the front compartment again, holding a small, dark, cylindrical object.

  “What?” she shouted, annoyed and terrified. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”

  Homer laughed even louder at this. “It’s only a flash bang – and, not only that, they didn’t pull the pin.”

  Sarah looked rapidly between the headlit road curving and spooling out ahead of them at high speed, and the unexploded grenade in Homer’s hand.

  “Sometimes you’ve just got to love Airsofters,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Bunch of knob toboggans.”

  More rounds p
lunked into the truck around them.

  “Okay,” Sarah said, her mirth dying. “So how the hell do we get them off us?”

  “Yeah, that’s a problem. I can’t shoot through the glass.”

  “No. It’s ballistic, rated up to fifty-cal I think. The floors are also blast-resistant—”

  “And the firing ports are tiny.”

  “Yeah. The only real vulnerability—”

  “Is the top turret. Okay, here’s what I need you to do.”

  * * *

  The old Ford thrummed and bounced as Sarah accelerated even faster, taking them up to a speed perhaps unsafe on any road, never mind this narrow, twisting, tree-lined one.

  Meanwhile, Homer climbed in back again, ignoring the wild fire from the Bearcat’s side ports. He was more worried about the physical danger from the plan he was about to execute than the shooters engaging them. This was probably going to be, if he was honest with himself, the most dangerous part of his day.

  Keeping low, he unclipped his rifle, crouched down at the back, and put his hand on the gate release. Then he hit his radio.

  “Now. Do it.”

  Sarah braked, hard, Homer clinging to the gate to keep from sliding away from it – and the lights, engine roar, and black bulk of the Bearcat loomed up in his face.

  Sarah stopped braking, and the other vehicle stopped accelerating, just in time to prevent a collision, which wouldn’t have been great for Homer’s health. As it was, this was his moment, and exactly as he intended. For an instant, both trucks were going the same speed – less than five feet apart.

  He dropped the hatch.

  And with a powerful shove of his back leg, he launched himself through open air and onto the hood of the Bearcat, the surface of which proved both smaller and more slanting than he might have liked.

  Fighting for balance, trying to avoid falling backward over the grille and going under the Bearcat’s wheels, he threw his body across the roof – ignoring the open mouths behind the windshield – and stretched himself far enough to stick his head and arms down into the roof turret, around the mounted machine gun. Sure enough, it was wide open, all the way down to the main cabin. But there was also a guy standing inside it. He wasn’t sticking his head up over the gunner protection shields, but he was taking up most of the space below that.