his tail and barks, and I scratch his ears, and gently hold him back as he sniffs at the wrapped meat. Corinne gently takes the package. “Randy . . . that’s so generous. Would you like to stay for dinner?”
I shake my head, start to turn. “Sorry, Aunt Corinne. Gotta run.”
She calls out as I walk up the uneven flagstone path. “You’re always welcome to move in and stay with us, Randy! Always!”
As if , I think, as I get back to the war.
In one of the brick classroom buildings, the S-2 shop—the intelligence section for our battalion—is in a couple of rooms on the first floor. I have two debriefers, one an old-timer named Fernandez and the other a new guy named Knowles, both captains.
I sit in front of a wooden desk that no doubt once belonged to a teacher, the two of them sitting across from me. Thor flops himself down on the dirty tile floor, panting, looking around. The officers are using paper and pencil as old-style manual typewriters are being pounded in one corner of the room by some enlisted men. There are plenty of filing cabinets and wall-maps depicting Creeper sightings and killings in New England, and photographs of the nearest Creeper bases: three outside of the suburbs of Boston, one in the western part of Massachusetts near Springfield, one in northern Connecticut and two along the coast of Maine.
None in New Hampshire, though trust me, we’ve never complained about being overlooked.
There are also large blown-up photos of the three types of Creeper exoskeletons, and one photo, marked Top Secret, that shows a living Creeper, pulled out of a disabled exoskeleton, deep in snow somewhere.
I look away from that horror and Fernandez says, “Care to describe your engagement last night?”
“Not a problem, sir,” I say, and spend the next fifteen or so minutes recalling the hunt and the battle, and Knowles raises a hand and interrupts. “Hold on. You say you shot a civilian?”
“I did.”
“Was he threatening you?”
I say, “He was threatening the mission.”
“But was he threatening you personally, Sergeant?”
Fernandez’s face is impassive. Knowles looks angry. I reply. “Sir, he was threatening the mission. When the Creeper was sighted, the county automatically became a military reservation. I had the authority to get him to leave the area. He refused to leave.”
“So you shot him,” Knowles says.
“I wounded him. In the leg. He and his friend, not only were they jeopardizing the mission, they were jeopardizing me and the other civilians in the area. They were trying to attract a Creeper’s attention and planned to capture it by using some chains and a fire extinguisher. They refused to move. I did what I had to do.”
“By wounding a civilian,” Knowles says.
“By saving him,” I reply. “If they had attracted a Creeper, in about ten seconds, they both would have been flamed.”
Knowles angrily writes something down and Fernandez quietly speaks up. “Let’s move on.”
So knowing my face is flushed, I go on and tell them about the hunt, and the kill, but seeing how Knowles is being a dick about the whole matter, I leave out the part about Thor coming to save my young butt. Dogs are trained never to attack a Creeper, and seeing how Knowles is reacting to my mission, I wouldn’t put it past him to take Thor away from me for remedial training or something.
Like I’d allow that to happen.
Asshole.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Finally back in my barracks, which used to be a student dormitory, I get to my room and unlock and roll in, Thor behind me. I’m fortunate to have a single and I close the door, make sure there’s water and food for Thor—some dried venison—and I unload my gear, put my 9 mm on my small desk, and even though I’m about ready to fall asleep, I spend the necessary time to make the weapon safe and clean it.
When I’m done cleaning I take my family photo and put it back up on the small bookshelf over my bed, and reach behind a row of books
I shake my head, start to turn. “Sorry, Aunt Corinne. Gotta run.”
She calls out as I walk up the uneven flagstone path. “You’re always welcome to move in and stay with us, Randy! Always!”
As if , I think, as I get back to the war.
In one of the brick classroom buildings, the S-2 shop—the intelligence section for our battalion—is in a couple of rooms on the first floor. I have two debriefers, one an old-timer named Fernandez and the other a new guy named Knowles, both captains.
I sit in front of a wooden desk that no doubt once belonged to a teacher, the two of them sitting across from me. Thor flops himself down on the dirty tile floor, panting, looking around. The officers are using paper and pencil as old-style manual typewriters are being pounded in one corner of the room by some enlisted men. There are plenty of filing cabinets and wall-maps depicting Creeper sightings and killings in New England, and photographs of the nearest Creeper bases: three outside of the suburbs of Boston, one in the western part of Massachusetts near Springfield, one in northern Connecticut and two along the coast of Maine.
None in New Hampshire, though trust me, we’ve never complained about being overlooked.
There are also large blown-up photos of the three types of Creeper exoskeletons, and one photo, marked Top Secret, that shows a living Creeper, pulled out of a disabled exoskeleton, deep in snow somewhere.
I look away from that horror and Fernandez says, “Care to describe your engagement last night?”
“Not a problem, sir,” I say, and spend the next fifteen or so minutes recalling the hunt and the battle, and Knowles raises a hand and interrupts. “Hold on. You say you shot a civilian?”
“I did.”
“Was he threatening you?”
I say, “He was threatening the mission.”
“But was he threatening you personally, Sergeant?”
Fernandez’s face is impassive. Knowles looks angry. I reply. “Sir, he was threatening the mission. When the Creeper was sighted, the county automatically became a military reservation. I had the authority to get him to leave the area. He refused to leave.”
“So you shot him,” Knowles says.
“I wounded him. In the leg. He and his friend, not only were they jeopardizing the mission, they were jeopardizing me and the other civilians in the area. They were trying to attract a Creeper’s attention and planned to capture it by using some chains and a fire extinguisher. They refused to move. I did what I had to do.”
“By wounding a civilian,” Knowles says.
“By saving him,” I reply. “If they had attracted a Creeper, in about ten seconds, they both would have been flamed.”
Knowles angrily writes something down and Fernandez quietly speaks up. “Let’s move on.”
So knowing my face is flushed, I go on and tell them about the hunt, and the kill, but seeing how Knowles is being a dick about the whole matter, I leave out the part about Thor coming to save my young butt. Dogs are trained never to attack a Creeper, and seeing how Knowles is reacting to my mission, I wouldn’t put it past him to take Thor away from me for remedial training or something.
Like I’d allow that to happen.
Asshole.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Finally back in my barracks, which used to be a student dormitory, I get to my room and unlock and roll in, Thor behind me. I’m fortunate to have a single and I close the door, make sure there’s water and food for Thor—some dried venison—and I unload my gear, put my 9 mm on my small desk, and even though I’m about ready to fall asleep, I spend the necessary time to make the weapon safe and clean it.
When I’m done cleaning I take my family photo and put it back up on the small bookshelf over my bed, and reach behind a row of books
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