Dark Victory - eARC Read online

  I remember a joke from Wolwoski, one of the guys in my squad. “Insect bastards come all this way across interstellar space and they don’t have good lubricants? Is that it? Cripes, maybe we could have avoided all of this crap if we had offered them a WD-40 trade deal or something.”

  I look at the torn bodies of the man and woman again. Hah-hah.

  I watch the Creeper, feeling everything else slip away except for me and for it, getting into the zone. And I shake my head in frustration.

  I don’t have a good shot.

  The only weakness Creepers have is a section of the center arthropod, where there’s a metallic membrane of some sort that helps them process the Earth’s atmosphere and breathe. But the way the Creeper is facing, rooting around in the rubble of the cottage, I can’t see it.

  I inch backward down the slight slope of land, evaluate my options. My flare gun is digging at my side. Think about taking it out, inserting a yellow cartridge, finding an open spot to shoot it up into the busy night sky. Yellow flare, meaning Creeper in sight. Abby would spot my signal out on the dirt road, would ride furiously to a local telegraph station, signaling for other units to arrive here, set up a perimeter. If I was lucky, the first guys on scene would be other members of my Recon Ranger platoon. They’d fan out as trained and set up an overlapping field of fire.

  But that would take time.

  Lots of time.

  Hissing and clicking sounds from over on the other side of the slope.

  One other thing. Hard experience over the years had shown that a one-on-one fight has the best chance of success against a Creeper. For some reason, Creepers either know or sense when there is more than one armed human out there. Lots of squads, platoons and companies of brave soldiers and Marines had died to learn this very important lesson.

  A bark.

  And they usually ignored dogs.

  I climb back up, eyeball the Creeper. About fifty meters away, it’s still doing its alien work. If I move to the right, and if it stayed in roughly the same position, and if I’m not detected, I could get a good shot off.

  Lots of ifs. Not many choices.

  I ease myself down the slope, touch the front of my vest, where my rosary and picture of my family are hidden away.

  Take a deep breath, and another.

  Finally put my hand to my bandolier, I take out a 50 mm round for my Colt M-10. In the faint light from my goggles, I easily grab the base. It’s set on safe. I twist it once to the right. It clicks into place. The round is now set for ten meters. There are two other settings, twenty-five meters and fifty meters. I slide the bolt open, insert the round, close the bolt.

  “Rock and roll time, baby,” I whisper, getting up.

  I move to the right, taking my time, moving through a stand of saplings. Another bark from Thor in the distance. Keeping an eye on the Creeper for me. The ground opens up; I slowly slosh through some mud. Gauge in my mind’s eye how far I’ve gone. Look up to the sky. More chunks of debris, burning into the atmosphere, lighting up this stretch of forest with ghostly shadows.

  I clamber up the slope, steeper now, my breathing getting harder, the Colt M-10 firm in my hands. Ten or so meters, I guess. That’s how the rounds were designed to work. A lot of research, a lot of experimentation, and a lot of dead soldiers led to this round in my Colt. It’s a binary chemical weapon, two types of chemicals contained in one cartridge. When fired, it flies to the pre-selected distance and explodes, the two chemicals blending into one. A cloud envelops the Creeper right around the center arthropod, where the breathing membrane is, and if you had a good shot, and there wasn’t much of a breeze, then you end up with one dead Creeper and one relieved, sweaty soldier.

  What kind of chemicals? Damned if I know; one of the many things that are on a “need to know” basis, and I didn’t have a need to know. Didn’t care either; so long as it worked, the chemicals could be salt and sugar. Not technically correct of course, but so what.

  Up the slope, getting closer, passing by some rotting wooden fence posts, ground getting steeper, the protective vest tight tight, tight, around my chest, my legs heavy, my arms heavy, the family photo and blessed rosary safe inside and just a few feet more and—

  I fall flat on my face.

  I can’t move. My MOLLE vest and all its pouches, loops, and hooks has caught on old bailing wire that was wrapped around the fence posts. The more I pull forward, the more the wire pulls back—and the more I risk the fence posts springing free, snapping back and giving away my position.

  Damn it to hell!

  I stop, breathe, then slowly start to pull the wire off each individual snag on my vest and gear, focusing on quietly pulling the wire off, and then holding it so that it slides gently back into place without springing violently—and obviously—back.

  A piece of wire snaps back, catching me in the face, surprising me so that I slide back some, my M-10 falling free, and I—.

  Roll over. Look up.

  Creeper standing right over me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I freeze.

  Stay frozen.

  Don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe. Pretend to be a stone.

  The main arthropod is right overhead. The two claws are in motion, rotating, like separate dog heads, sniffing and sniffing for their prey. The faint whir of machinery working inside the Creeper.

  I’m a dead man. That’s all she wrote.

  I have a sudden urge to piss my pants.

  Instead I roll, scramble, roll and grab the barrel of my Colt. I keep my head down and instead of running down the slope, I run uphill, whispering “oh God, oh God, oh God” as I push myself underneath the Creeper.

  No other choice.

  Going the other way means I’ll be scorched flesh in a manner of seconds. This way, at least, I have a chance, as small as it is.

  I bend over low, run run run, my Kevlar helmet scraping a couple of times on the Creeper’s underside, the Colt M-10 in my hands, and I’m out on the other side, breathing through my mouth so I don’t pass out from the cinnamon stench.

  Just when I think I’m going to make it, I’m slammed in my back and go airborne.

  I hit hard on the opposite slope, dirt in my mouth and eyes, left ankle hurting like hell, and I tumble, roll, and fall, landing on my back, the chin strap from my helmet digging so hard into my throat it chokes me.

  The clicking noise is louder, accompanied by a harsh buzzing. I sit up, pushing myself with my left hand, seeing the Creeper flick around, knowing one of its rear legs had kicked out and caught me. The two claws are up rotating and a bright flash and hissing sound bursts out from the weapon claw, as a wide-beamed flame zips over head, catching the top of the wrecked cottage and a nearby birch tree, sparks and flames boiling over.

  Can’t find my Colt.

  Can’t find my Colt.

  I race back as the Creeper is now facing me and damn it, I’m almost close enough for a good firing solution, but I can’t find my Colt.

  The Creeper crawls down the slope—I pull out my Beretta, useless, but better than sitting and waiting to get scorched. I bring up my pistol and there’s a flash of fur and barking, and damn me, it’s Thor!

  The lunatic dog knows from his training he’s not supposed to get close to a Creeper, but he’s running right among the Creeper’s metal legs, barking and snapping. As the two claws and main arthropod lower, I holster my Beretta, get up and run, then trip and fall, and I see I’ve fallen over my Colt.

  Weapon in cold, shaking hands.

  Looking back, gauging the distance.

  Not quite there.

  Damn!

  I trot some more, get behind the wreckage of the destroyed house, more flames erupt overhead, heat baking my back and neck, and the barking stops, and I turn, drop to one knee.

  Still not there! The damn alien is low to the ground, and—

  Thor races through, the brave little bastard, dodging around the Creeper’s legs, and it moves and rises up and the M-10 fee
ls invincible in my hands.

  Bring it up and through the iron sights, see the Creeper standing still, rotating its two claws in my direction. I look right up and pull the trigger.

  BLAM!

  I’m used to the recoil but the punch in my shoulder still makes me gasp, and before I can breathe again, there’s a smaller POP! and a gray-white cloud appears in front of the Creeper, drifts right up against the main arthropod. Training kicks in and I snap the bolt back, ejecting the spent shell, grab another 50 mm round from my bandolier, and the Creeper is still moving.

  Still moving right at me.

  I push the side of the round against my leg, rotate the base so I can get that first setting, and put the round in and—

  Miss the open chamber.

  Round drops to the ground.

  I stare up and look and feel for the round with my free hand and—

  The Creeper stops moving.

  The claws shake, tremble, and then sag.

  The main arthropod vibrates as well.

  I take a deep, satisfying breath, get up, legs woozy.

  One of its six legs starts shaking and shaking, like the machinery and electronics inside of the exoskeleton has gone crazy. Something I’ve seen before and which always fills me with a sharp and fierce feeling of joy. I lower my Colt, kneel down and retrieve the fallen round. Other legs of the Creeper are now shaking, trembling, and the whole main structure is swaying back and forth, then forward and back, and then side-to-side again.

  A high-pitched whining noise pops out of the Creeper and then it drops forward, into the dirt and slope, and slides towards me a few yards. A few more quivers of the legs and that’s it.

  The exoskeleton is still. The Creeper inside is dead.

  There’s a brief, hard stink of burnt cinnamon. A passing breeze thins it out. Flames and sparks continue to flicker and fly from the burning trees and debris from the destroyed home. I put the dropped round back into my bandolier, stroll up to the dead Creeper. From the light of the burning fires I make out the exoskeleton pretty well, seeing marks and discolorations along the joints and legs that means this one is fairly old, which improves my mood even more. Nice to know I’ve snuffed out one of their vets. From the mid-section of the main arthropod, some green and brown goo is oozing out. That’s the section where the breathing membrane is located.

  I whisper, “Nice shooting, Tex,” and step closer. Above and below the breathing membrane are articulated joints for the main arthropod. Another Creeper weakness, but one desperately hard to exploit. There’s a gap between the joints where a careful, disciplined and very, very skilled sniper could send in a depleted uranium round and kill a Creeper. During the frantic early years of the war, sometimes those snipers were the only ones bringing the war home to the invaders, and I don’t think a single one of them has ever bought a drink or meal for him or herself since then.

  I met a sniper like that two years back, at the Battle of the Merrimack Valley, where a number of Creepers were moving from a base in Connecticut and where I earned my first Purple Heart. The sniper was a heavy-set guy named Woods with a beard down his chest and wearing blue jeans and a dirty fatigue jacket. He was clearly out of uniform, but no one bothered him. His spotter was his plump wife, who quietly told him range and windage with the aid of a spotting scope and her experience. In the space of an afternoon, he had nailed four of the Creepers. Each time he sent a round downrange, he and his wife would pick up and race to another hiding spot, just in case a Creeper or one of the killer stealth sats was tracking him. All he said to us admirers as he packed up his Model 300 Remington long rifle when the day was done was, “Well, we sure did God’s work today, fellas, didn’t we.”

  I walk over to the burning wreckage of the home, shake my head. Looks like a nice little place. Near a stream bank for fishing and fresh water. Lots of ice in the winter to store and trade with some of the farms and local stores. Maybe a field nearby for some crops in the spring. A quiet, peaceful place to hang out and survive.

  I call out. “Thor! Come, boy.”

  The man and woman have been tossed to one side, like broken dolls being thrown away. Their clothes have been stripped away except for their footwear and it looks like the Creeper had performed some type of rudimentary autopsy, using a narrow laser beam from one of its claws. Blood and organs are still oozing out. Hard to tell their exact age, maybe 40’s or 50’s. In the faint light I can make out wedding rings on their dead-white fingers. I squat down, wipe at my forehead, look at two of my dead fellow Americans.

  “Sorry I didn’t get here in time,” I say. “Honest to God.”

  I stand up, move back to the dying flames from the shattered house. When I get back to base, I’d report the bodies to Graves Registration, who’ll either take care of it themselves or deputize a sheriff’s deputy or local cop to do it. At the dead Creeper, more ooze is coming out of the membrane area. Always happens. When a Creeper is killed, there’s nothing for its Graves Registration to pick up. The body immediately disintegrates into a soft liquid within seconds of death. Must be hell for morticians back on their home world.

  But it also makes it difficult for the white coats on this world to figure out who the hell the Creepers are, why they’re here, and how best to hurt them and kill them. Again, “need to know” and Operational Security and all that, but it’s easy to figure out that the binary Colt M-10 round I just used to kill this Creeper was developed because extraordinary brave men and women had actually captured some of them alive.

  Don’t know how they did it. Just glad they did.

  It looks like the fires are going to die out on their own. Good. Stories we hear every now and then tell about Creepers raising hell out in the west during drought season, causing huge forest fires. Hell of a thing for those states out there, having to fight both fires and Creepers.

  I go up to the dead Creeper. The oozing has slowed down. The cinnamon smell is almost gone. An Intelligence Recovery team would eventually come here and drag it out of the woods, to be probably studied at one of the exiled Harvard or MIT campuses.

  I rear back and kick the nearest jointed claw. “Sucks to be you, hunh?”

  When I had killed my first few Creepers, I had made it a point to do a victory dance around the dead exoskeleton, calling out the names of my mom and sister, kicking and kicking, sometimes pissing over the cold metal. All that’s past now. It’s just good enough that I’m alive and it’s dead.

  Which is fine by me.

  I sit down on the nearest, outstretched leg of the dead Creeper, and—

  Something grabs my foot.

  I scream.

  Tug away and start laughing.

  “Damn it, Thor!” I say. “Damn crazy dog, I could have taken your head off.”

  I rub his head. He moves his head against my hand, licks my palm.

  Pure joy and love.

  From somewhere out there, the tears just roll out. I can’t help it. Always happens after a mission. I kneel on the dirt ground, this battleground, and I hug Thor tight, my face buried in his fur, the scent and the feel of the fur so comforting. I sob and sob, my face wet with tears, and smell the fur of my boy, and for a while, I try to think of nothing, nothing at all.

  Can’t help it.

  Some time passes. I let Thor go and wipe at my eyes and face, and find an open space past the dead Creeper. I take out my flare pistol, break open the action, insert a red cartridge, close it up tight and fire it up into the sky, which is graying out as dawn approaches. The flare shoots right up into the air, telling Abby and everybody else in my Recon Ranger squad that we have a dead Creeper and a live trooper.

  Nice equation.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Back in the old Army transport truck once again, except this time, Thor and I are riding up front with Lieutenant May and his driver Schwartz, our reward for having killed the Creeper. Behind us in the truck is the rest of my Recon Ranger squad, and after a successful kill mission like this, there’s usually laughing a
nd singing from the rear.

  But not during this gray dawn. We’re down one trooper. PFC Raymond Ruiz didn’t return to muster and neither did his dog. Not sure what happened. Desertion, possible but doubtful. Not from Recon Ranger. Maybe another Creeper attack but Creepers are hard to overlook, so the thought is that a Coastie gang might have nailed him somewhere in the woods. Later today there’ll be a search party, and we’ll join in after some rest, but we’re a subdued crew as we head back to Concord.

  Schwartz—who boasts he could convert an old washing machine into a hot tub—drives expertly along this stretch of Route 112, juggling valves and switches to keep the engine running, his black-rimmed glasses with one cracked lens constantly sliding down his nose. Here dead cars from a decade ago have been successfully pushed or dragged over to the sides of the road. We then get onto Interstate 89, and there’s even more abandoned vehicles, and we have to do a bit of maneuvering as we approach the state capitol, passing in and out of the lines of dead traffic. Each car or truck has a faded slop of white paint on the windshield, the letter C. Means that after the Creepers deployed their airborne nukes on 10/10 and fried the world’s electronics, search teams went through these cars and either led away the living, or pulled out the dead. C stood for Cleared back then.

  At one point we pass a chain gang from the state prison, the prisoners in faded orange jumpsuits working on a line of cars, pulling them off to the side of the pavement, using a team of State Highway Department horses with block and tackle, clearing the highway.

  Grass and small brush are growing knee-high in cracks in the pavement.

  Some clearing.

  Some progress.

  As we get closer to Concord, I keep a hand on Thor, who’s been sniffing and clawing at my assault pack ever since we left the farmhouse over in Montcalm. Thing is, when I emerged from the woods a few hours ago, Gary Parker, the grateful dairy farmer who once lived and worked in a now-dead city, passed over a brown paper package, tied tight with string. “Here you go, soldier,” he had said. “A couple of fine steaks for you and your pals. Doubt the County Rationing Board will miss ’em, if you know what I mean.”