Dogsoldiers

by James Tarr

  The stench rising from the rotten carpet, a combination of mold and animal droppings intermittently soaked by rain and left to bake in ninety-degree weather, only days ago would have been enough to make Jason vomit. Now he barely noticed it. In fact, he was grateful to be in the house, for it brought them out of the baking sun.

  Food they could make do without, and he’d been hungry for days, but water was a necessity. They weren’t out, not yet, but each member of the squad had at least one empty canteen hanging off him. While the others ate George and Early prowled the neighboring houses, looking not just for forgotten canned food but standing water, concealed rain traps, anything they could run through their water purifier. They did this every time the squad stopped, security permitting. Usually the searches turned up zero food, but water was a different story. After moving stealthily through the city for years, the squads had set up hundreds if not thousands of rain traps in abandoned residences and commercial buildings. Most of them were simple, a pot or pan placed where it would catch the runoff from a hole in the ceiling, but every little bit helped. Also, just about every house had a water heater, and even if it wasn’t whole there was usually an inch or two of water inside. Of course, they weren’t the only thirsty souls wandering the streets, and while the military handed out jugs of water at the distribution centers it was never enough. George and Early returned dusty and sweaty and handed back most of the squad’s canteens still empty. Not all, though; they’d managed to get enough out of one rusty water heater to fill two canteens, which was better than nothing.

  The squad passed one of the full canteens around, everyone taking a few big gulps, and by the time they’d all taken a turn the plastic container was empty again. Ed hung it on his belt in back and they moved out.

  As they headed south, the prevalent single-story wood frame houses clad in siding slowly gave way to bigger, older residences. Brick became the exterior of choice, red and dark brown mostly, the houses square two-story affairs with raised, covered front porches and detached garages in back. The garages were usually in worse shape than the houses. Very few trees were to be seen; most were ornamentals planted up close to the houses, now shaggy and uneven.

  Ed took the left side of the street, on point. He preferred to stay in the tall grass near the houses but many of them had yards bordered with chain link and he had to keep weaving down to the sidewalk and back. Weasel was behind him, George bringing up the rear. Across the street Mark led that column and was having the same trouble with fences. Early trailed far behind, watching their rear.

  Ed glanced up to the right at the sun beating down on him, then across the street at the rest of the squad. Should’ve chosen that side, he thought to himself selfishly, not really meaning it. Mark’s line of men weaved in and out of cool shade thrown by the houses. He guessed it was close to ninety degrees, with high humidity. Which wouldn’t have been unpleasant at all, if he’d been in a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. The armor plates front and back trapped heat like an oven door.

  Walking slowly in the sun, the only sound they heard was the buzz of cicadas, the chirp of birds, the distant bark of a dog, and the rush of swaying grass. Fat bumblebees dipped and wove in the air above the grass. Every once in a while they’d hear the fierce chitter of an unseen squirrel announcing his displeasure at their arrival. Now that nature was halfway back to reclaiming the city, the wildlife was abundant; Ed had seen squirrels, rabbits, pheasants, chipmunks, turkeys, even deer in the decaying neighborhoods thick with vegetation. Plus packs of wild dogs. Not to mention the bear they’d seen the day before.

  They were slowly approaching the only car on the block, a burned-out hulk sitting near the right curb. All that was left of it was the frame sitting on dented rims, brown rust slowly eating the black scorch marks. Ed scanned the street ahead, the houses to his left, then the ones across the street. Nothing but the squad could be seen moving, unless the bugs dancing over the grass counted. There were signs of foot traffic all over the neighborhood, cutting back and forth from the sidewalk to the street, but it seemed to be the work of individuals rather than a patrol moving in formation.

  The trails in the grass didn’t appear to be fresh – they were all a day old, at least. Ed had gotten good at reading sign, and if he’d taken the time to confer with George he would’ve concurred. Ed preferred patrolling in late summer, not because of the heat, which he despised, but because of the grass. In their muted clothing he could hardly spot the rest of his patrol across the street slowly moving through the green and brown stalks waving slightly in the breeze, brushing past overgrown bushes, and he knew right where to look. When they paused in the shadows, they simply disappeared.

  As he passed abreast of the rusting hulk in the street another fence pushed him back down to the sidewalk. Ed glanced across and saw a rusting fence line forcing Mark and his column to do the same thing. They’d been on the move half an hour, and had covered maybe four-tenths of a mile, when Ed, still on point, froze and reflexively held up a fist. Everyone stopped immediately, even Jason, who’d been looking across the street past Ed at the dilapidated houses overgrown with weeds. They slowly crouched in the long grass and gripped their rifles tighter, wondering.

  Ed stared down the street, not sure what had brought him up short. He hadn’t seen anything, nothing was moving in the heat, but there’d been something…he cocked his head.

  “Move!” he hissed, afraid to shout, charging blindly at the nearest house. The adrenaline surge had his heart in his throat as he ran all out. He found he was angling toward a raised brick front porch with low walls and prayed he’d make it in time.

  The rest of the squad had heard it at nearly the same instant and reflexes took over. They scrambled away from the open street toward the cover of the houses. Weasel was right on Ed’s heels and landed on him as both men launched themselves up the steps onto the crumbling porch. George darted between the houses just behind them, nearly falling in the grass. Across the street Mark bolted into one of a pair of houses that had crumbled into each other. Quentin dashed into the rubble between the two, nearly impaling himself on a jutting splintered two-by-four.

  Jason saw the squad disappear in the blink of an eye, bounding through the grass like jackrabbits. Then Early had him by the collar and was shoving him toward the nearest house.

  “Go!” the old man grunted as he passed Jason on the run. Jason automatically glanced up the street, still not seeing anything, but he ran after Early all the same. As big as he was Early moved like a man possessed, and was through the open doorway of the nearest house before Jason reached its porch.

  “Unhh!” The concrete floor of the porch did nothing to soften the impact as Weasel landed on top of Ed. The men rolled away from each other to opposite sides of the small porch, panting.

  The low brick wall that encircled the porch gave them more than enough cover, and Ed hated to poke his head out, but he had to do it. An overgrown half-dead privet bush stuck up six inches past the top of the porch wall and afforded him even more concealment as he turned his head sideways and slowly raised it to peer out.

  Ed had just enough time to see his squad was out of sight before he spotted movement at the end of the block. The cross-street was just four or five houses down in the direction the squad had been heading. Peering through the browning leaves of the privet, at first all Ed could see was indeterminate movement. After a second, though, the shape of a soldier dressed in camouflage revealed itself to him. Then another, on the far side of the intersecting street. Then the blunt nose of an IMP armored personnel carrier rolled into view.

  “Fuck,” Weasel whispered, sinking back down below the wall. He patted his chest, reassuring himself that his spare magazines were still there. He’d have felt a lot better if more than two of them had been fully loaded.

  The IMP rolled forward slowly, keeping pace with the soldiers on foot to either side. Its top hatch was open, providing cover to the rear for the soldier manning the roof gun, in this case a belt-f
ed grenade launcher. The dismounted infantry fanned out as they approached the intersection, looking up and down what, to them, was a cross street. Ed glanced back across the street needlessly to make sure his own people were still out of sight.

  The IMP rode on eight big rubber tires and had a well-designed engine. Even with its top and back hatches open it was a quiet vehicle. What had alerted Ed was the four-wheel-drive passenger vehicle behind the IMP—everyone, even Army troops, called it a Growler because of its diesel engine, which was shockingly loud at speed. Even at barely more than idling its rattling exhaust echoed off the houses. It had been around a corner, over a hundred yards away, and Ed had still heard it.

  This IMP—and in fact every IMP Ed had seen in the city in the last five years, without exception—wore slat armor around its exterior. The standoff armor was a simple defense against rockets, and it looked like someone had welded a fence around the exterior of the armored personnel carrier, about a foot away from the surface of the vehicle. Incoming rockets or grenades would detonate upon hitting the metal slats, and the explosive force would spread out across the surface of the armor rather than penetrate it. The end result was awkward and ugly, and made the IMPs look like giant grocery carts. It also significantly increased their already large footprint, which meant they couldn’t fit down some alleys and narrow streets.

  “Keep going, keep going, keep going,” Ed murmured, thinking he was the only member of the squad that could see what was coming. But George, after darting between the houses, had circled around the back of the one holding Ed and Weasel. He made his way to the south side of the house, which faced the intersection. It was overgrown, and he slid along the brick hidden by gnarly yew bushes until he was nearly underneath the raised porch. George was on the ground and therefore didn’t have quite as good a view as Ed, but he could see enough. He cursed silently.

  Ed watched the Army patrol approach the intersection. They were in standard formation, a well-spaced line of troops to either side of the street, supported by—in this instance—two vehicles. They were still too far away to get a good head count, but whatever their numbers he knew his squad did not have the resources to take them on.

  The troops on foot seemed to spread out and pause in their forward advance, letting the IMP enter the intersection. Without hesitation it turned left and began rolling up the street right at Ed.

  “Shit,” Ed whispered, pressing his forehead to the warm brick. He collected himself and looked back up the street. Still coming, with the Growler now making the turn. His position on the porch now seemed ill-advised and untenable. The house’s front door was in place and intact. Weasel was on his side in the far corner of the porch trying to become invisible. Ed gestured at the door.

  Weasel stretched out, staying low, and extended a booted foot. He pushed against the door, then again, harder. The door didn’t budge. Weasel shook his head and rolled over onto his stomach, clutching his subgun and peering sideways out the opening in the wall where the front steps rose up.

  Ed peered over the wall again, heart hammering in his chest. He had a good view of the patrol and didn’t like what he saw. He counted five men on foot on either side of the street, on the sidewalks and with proper intervals. There were three in the Growler, a driver with two bored-looking men in back. It was an open-topped Growler, not one of the up-armored hardtopped models he was used to seeing in the city. One of the men inside was probably the ranking officer, but they were too far away to read insignia. As for the IMP, it had a driver somewhere out of sight behind the narrow slit filled with thick armored glass that provided him protection in exchange for poor visibility. The roof gunner was the only other occupant of the personnel carrier Ed could see, but he was well aware there could be more inside. The rear hatch was open, but until the vehicle passed his location he wouldn’t be able to see into it.

  Between the IMP and the Growler, in the street and on foot, were two more soldiers. That made at least seventeen men in the patrol, versus his poorly armed seven. One of whom was a cherry who’d never pulled a trigger on another human being, but Ed didn’t want to think about that now. He signaled seventeen plus to Weasel, who shook his head.

  “You stay the hell away from that window boy,” Early murmured, his voice so low Jason almost missed it. The inside of the house was like a cave, even with the big window in front and half the south wall gone. The two of them stood in darkness to either side of the empty window frame, peering out past the overgrown bushes and over the long grass.

  Early’d snuck a peek up the street and had seen what was coming their way, but Jason was on the wrong side of the window to see anything but the street back the way they’d come, and then only if he craned his head out. His quivering body was wedged tight into the dark front corner of the room, hands so sweaty he was afraid his rifle would slip out and bang onto the floor. All he could do was listen to the ominous growing sounds.

  Early stole another glance out the window—yep, still coming. He didn’t know what kind of patrol it was—they didn’t seem to be checking the houses to either side—but they definitely had his boys outnumbered and outgunned. But weren’t they always? Though he hated to do it, best thing would be to hide and hope they kept on going. He moved back into the dark corner and glanced at the boy, who looked ready to wet himself. Early’d already told him to hug the wall no matter what, unless he saw him start shooting. Well, whatever happened, happened.

  There was a big hole in the far wall of the small house. Through it he could see the bungalow next door, also crumbling, sunlight, and a lot of waist high weeds. He was pretty sure Quentin and Mark were in there, but things had been pretty hectic there for a few short seconds and he wasn’t totally sure who had scurried where. Ed and Weasel were most likely near that raised porch across the street, but he hadn’t a clue as to where George had disappeared to. He just hoped that if any shooting started that nobody found themselves in a crossfire.

  Mark had almost popped Quentin as he came crawling in through the jagged hole in the side of the house. They each had a window to peek out of and neither liked what they saw. They caught sight of the IMP about the time the Growler made the turn, and both faded back away from the windows, trading hand signals. They stayed on the ground floor of the house—on the ground, you could always retreat out the back. On the second floor, if someone got in the house the only options were to fight your way down the stairs or jump out a window. Mark had had to do that once, and didn’t wish to again. His knees were already in bad shape, and even with only half a belt of ammo left the SAW was not light.

  As the IMP and dismounted soldiers drew closer George cursed his own judgement and tried to disappear into the undergrowth. He was dressed in earth tone clothing, his plate carriers tan, his Springfield AR painted a nice camo pattern, backed into a privet bush, behind a big, seven-foot yew, standing in thigh-high grass and day-lilies that reached past his belt, but still he felt naked.

  The IMP rolled inexorably on and in a few short seconds had drawn abreast of the house next door. George stood frozen in the bushes as the soldiers on foot drew close. The grunt on point was a few steps in front of the IMP and glanced at the space between the houses but never left the sidewalk. George was just starting to breathe a little easier when the second man in line broke formation and walked straight toward him.

  As the IMP grew close Ed set his rifle on the porch and slowly unslung the grenade launcher. The one round they had for the stubby weapon was already loaded and his hands clenched the wooden stock nervously. Weasel eyed the weapon and squirmed, perhaps hoping that with enough effort he’d be able to dig through the porch’s concrete with his knees and elbows.

  Ed’s eyes darted this way and that, gauging, calculating, as the IMP rolled sedately on. His head sunk down until just half of one eye showed over the wall.

  George was afraid to blink as the soldier stopped right in front of him, fiddling with the button-fly of his fatigue pants. He was young, not much older than Jason, but t
he rifle slung over his shoulder made his age meaningless. George could have reached out and touched him, he was that close.

  “Whaddaya doin’?” one of his squadmates called out to him. The soldier turned halfway back, still fiddling with his fly. George’s right hand, unbidden, left the grip of his rifle and crept up toward the knife strapped upside down over his left breast.

  “Takin’ a piss.” George’s hand froze, five inches short, as the soldier turned back.

  The two men were so close George didn’t know how the soldier couldn’t hear his heart thumping in his chest, much less the ragged breathing he labored to subdue. They were practically eye to eye, and George knew if the young soldier looked up he’d be caught for sure. The soldier, however, was more interested in playing his urine over the grass and daylily blossoms. George felt drops hitting his boots but didn’t dare look down, instead slowly closing his eyes to mere slits so that when he did have to blink the movement would be less noticeable. He prayed he didn’t stink so badly the soldier could smell him.

  Even though every cell in his body was telling Ed to get the hell down behind the wall, rationally he knew that none of the soldiers would spot his sliver of skull and eyeball behind the patchy shrub. Not unless they started up the steps to the porch, which was why he needed to keep a lookout. If any of the troops on foot headed his way he wanted to know about it before the man stumbled over them.

  As to what kind of patrol it was Ed couldn’t be sure—the open-topped Growler confused him—no armor, and not even a roof? He had no way of knowing the troops inside weren’t happy about it either, but fully a third of the Army’s up-armored Growlers in the city were down for repairs, and the others were out with other patrols.