named Thornton with gray hair in his ears, takes my belt and winks. “Nicely done, pal. One missing cartridge, one dead alien. Fair damn trade, eh?”
By now I’m so tired all I can do is murmur, “Yeah, that’s it,” and then I go out, brushing by other members of my squad—Smith, Millett, Chang and Zane—and Zane catches my elbow as I go through the swinging doors.
“Not following regs, Sergeant, are we? Leaving your dog unleashed?”
During a base tour a couple of years ago, one of our hunting dogs bit the previous governor of New Hampshire, a pompous jerk who deserved it, but as a result all dogs on base need to be leashed. But not Thor. Not ever.
“He’s well trained,” I say. “Some would say better trained than you, pal.”
Zane’s hand is still tight on my elbow. “Speaking of training, Sergeant, why did you let Ruiz go out alone? It was his first op. You should have buddied him up.”
I pull my arm away from his grasp. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda. The C.O. signed off on his training and experience, and so did I. Got a problem, take it up with him.”
He grabs my elbow again. “He looked tough, but he was just a scared kid, Sergeant. Just a kid.”
I pull away. “Just like us, Zane. Just like us. You grab my elbow again, you’ll be losing it. Do I make myself clear, Private?”
He storms into the armory and I walk out, Thor with me, feeling sour and even more tired.
My next stop should be south, towards the Intel shop.
I go west instead, to the post housing.
The housing once belonged to the teachers and administrators of the school before the war, and now it belongs to the base’s senior officers. In the confusing and horrifying first months after 10/10, surviving military units all across the country set up alternate posts after the Creepers had flattened their home bases.
In Concord, the state capitol, the National Guard units withdrew from their main armory and eventually ended up at St. Paul’s, where most students and faculty had already fled to whatever safety was supposedly out there. Only a couple of armories across the state were eventually hit, but there’s still no rush to get back to the surviving armories. Even with the orbiting Creeper battle station destroyed, the killer stealth sats are still at work—probably, hopefully—on automatic.
As I walk along the paths to the housing, I think of what it must have been like to be here back before the war. To have been one of those privileged and safe students in this wonderful school in rural New Hampshire, where all sorts of classes were taught, from medieval art history to philosophy to the history of Greek plays.
Now survival and the bloody art of war have been added to the curriculum.
I yawn. I’m too tired to feel jealous of my coddled predecessors.
At a small white Colonial house among a row of similar houses, I pound on the front door, using a brass knocker. The paint is peeling and shrubbery about the front and side are overgrown. Grass is growing in cracks on the driveway.
A girl about eight years old answers and looks up at me. She has on a white T-shirt and clean jean overalls. Her black hair is freshly washed and she seems suspicious. “You looking for mom, Randy?”
“I sure am, squirt.”
She turns and yells, “Ma! Cousin Randy is here!”
I wince from the loud yell. Heidi has the lungs of a drill sergeant, and she turns and says, “Can I play with Thor?”
“Not right now, hon,” I say. “He’s tired and so am I.”
“Later, maybe?”
I rub the top of her head. “Later, no problem.”
My Aunt Corinne shows up, smiling hesitantly, wiping her hands on a towel. She’s wearing black slacks and plain gray sweatshirt, and her eyes look tired.
“Randy, good to see you.”
I squat down, unzip the side pocket of my assault pack, pull out the wrapped paper package from the dairy farmer. “Here you go. A treat for you guys, if you haven’t planned your meal tonight. Fresh steak.”
Thor wags
By now I’m so tired all I can do is murmur, “Yeah, that’s it,” and then I go out, brushing by other members of my squad—Smith, Millett, Chang and Zane—and Zane catches my elbow as I go through the swinging doors.
“Not following regs, Sergeant, are we? Leaving your dog unleashed?”
During a base tour a couple of years ago, one of our hunting dogs bit the previous governor of New Hampshire, a pompous jerk who deserved it, but as a result all dogs on base need to be leashed. But not Thor. Not ever.
“He’s well trained,” I say. “Some would say better trained than you, pal.”
Zane’s hand is still tight on my elbow. “Speaking of training, Sergeant, why did you let Ruiz go out alone? It was his first op. You should have buddied him up.”
I pull my arm away from his grasp. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda. The C.O. signed off on his training and experience, and so did I. Got a problem, take it up with him.”
He grabs my elbow again. “He looked tough, but he was just a scared kid, Sergeant. Just a kid.”
I pull away. “Just like us, Zane. Just like us. You grab my elbow again, you’ll be losing it. Do I make myself clear, Private?”
He storms into the armory and I walk out, Thor with me, feeling sour and even more tired.
My next stop should be south, towards the Intel shop.
I go west instead, to the post housing.
The housing once belonged to the teachers and administrators of the school before the war, and now it belongs to the base’s senior officers. In the confusing and horrifying first months after 10/10, surviving military units all across the country set up alternate posts after the Creepers had flattened their home bases.
In Concord, the state capitol, the National Guard units withdrew from their main armory and eventually ended up at St. Paul’s, where most students and faculty had already fled to whatever safety was supposedly out there. Only a couple of armories across the state were eventually hit, but there’s still no rush to get back to the surviving armories. Even with the orbiting Creeper battle station destroyed, the killer stealth sats are still at work—probably, hopefully—on automatic.
As I walk along the paths to the housing, I think of what it must have been like to be here back before the war. To have been one of those privileged and safe students in this wonderful school in rural New Hampshire, where all sorts of classes were taught, from medieval art history to philosophy to the history of Greek plays.
Now survival and the bloody art of war have been added to the curriculum.
I yawn. I’m too tired to feel jealous of my coddled predecessors.
At a small white Colonial house among a row of similar houses, I pound on the front door, using a brass knocker. The paint is peeling and shrubbery about the front and side are overgrown. Grass is growing in cracks on the driveway.
A girl about eight years old answers and looks up at me. She has on a white T-shirt and clean jean overalls. Her black hair is freshly washed and she seems suspicious. “You looking for mom, Randy?”
“I sure am, squirt.”
She turns and yells, “Ma! Cousin Randy is here!”
I wince from the loud yell. Heidi has the lungs of a drill sergeant, and she turns and says, “Can I play with Thor?”
“Not right now, hon,” I say. “He’s tired and so am I.”
“Later, maybe?”
I rub the top of her head. “Later, no problem.”
My Aunt Corinne shows up, smiling hesitantly, wiping her hands on a towel. She’s wearing black slacks and plain gray sweatshirt, and her eyes look tired.
“Randy, good to see you.”
I squat down, unzip the side pocket of my assault pack, pull out the wrapped paper package from the dairy farmer. “Here you go. A treat for you guys, if you haven’t planned your meal tonight. Fresh steak.”
Thor wags
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