Read Online Dark Victory - eARC by Brendan DuBois - Free Book Online
Authors: Brendan DuBois
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tray and say, “Still trolling for Red Bull?”
Abby nudges me back. “Keep it real, dear sergeant. Keep it real.”
Dinner tonight is some sort of chipped-beef slop over stale toast and watered down iced tea, and my stomach grumbles as I think of those thick juicy steaks I had passed over to my aunt earlier this morning.
With dinner quickly and thankfully over, I go over to the kennels and retrieve Thor. Although the PFC on duty is reluctant to let him go—all dogs on post are supposed to be housed overnight in the K9 quarters—I convince him that I’m taking Thor out for a confidential night training mission, which isn’t much of a lie.
On the way back to my barracks, I see two flaming chunks of space debris light up the southern night sky, and then it’s to bed and lights out.
I’m dreaming about hearing my mother’s voice, as we’re on a ferry heading out to Edgartown on Martha’s Vineyard, when the ship’s siren cuts in and starts screaming and screaming and screaming.
I wake up, Thor across my legs, sheets piled up and I realize it’s the base warning siren.
Creeper attack.
I kick the blankets off, roll out of bed, fumble for a second with the matches at my nightstand, and light off a candle. Thor is already by the door, tail moving furiously, waiting to get into action. I dress quickly, but take the time to pack my battle-rattle gear, the rosary, family photo and Creeper toe joint; and buckling on my Beretta, I launch myself out the door, as Corporal Manning races down the hallway dousing the gas lamps.
Outside now, the rest of the troopers from my barracks are following me, buildings around us going dark, the only illumination coming from hooded lamps along the walkways and roads. By the time I get to the Armory its double doors are propped open, and there’s little talking as Colt M-10s and bandoliers of 50 mm rounds are tossed to us. To keep some sort of order, we yell out our last names as we pick up the gear, as overworked Armory personnel keep the weapons flow going.
“Ouellette! Magsaysay! Gagnon!”
I grab my weapon with one hand, bandolier with the other, shout out: “Knox!” and then run outside, as Thor races along with me, tail wagging, keeping quiet as I run to my attack duty station. All around me are the sounds of boots slapping on the pavement, and the click-clack of M-10s being loaded with the anti-Creeper rounds, as my fellow Rangers prepare for an attack.
This isn’t like the other night, when I was on my own, hunting for a Creeper. I’m with two other troopers from my platoon, Corporal Joyce Dunlap and Staff Sergeant Hugh Muller. Dunlap and Muller are dressed like me, with a mix of battle rattle and personal clothing; not much time for uniform. But we’re all in helmets and protective vests, even though Dunlap is wearing baggy khaki shorts and Muller is wearing light pink shorts that look tight and damn uncomfortable. I’m the only one with a dog, and Thor settles down in one corner of the battlement.
Muller picks up a field telephone, turns the crank a few times, and whispers, “Battle Twelve, up.”
He’s a year older than me, outranks me, and seems to take delight in reminding me of this most times we’re thrown together. He listens for a moment, nods, and whispers, “Battle Twelve, out.”
Then he tosses the phone receiver back into its slot. “Listen up. Two civilians separately called in a Creeper sighting. On approach out of woods adjacent to the interstate, then started moving northwest along Clinton Street.”
“On the street?” I ask. “You sure they weren’t drinking?”
Dunlap laughs and Muller says, “That’s what got reported. So here we are.”
I pick up my Colt M-10 and peer sideways over the battlement. Turning your head sideways exposes less of your skull, especially if you just expose one eye for a quick scan, then duck back down.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
It’s a hell of an understatement, but the Army had to adjust day
Abby nudges me back. “Keep it real, dear sergeant. Keep it real.”
Dinner tonight is some sort of chipped-beef slop over stale toast and watered down iced tea, and my stomach grumbles as I think of those thick juicy steaks I had passed over to my aunt earlier this morning.
With dinner quickly and thankfully over, I go over to the kennels and retrieve Thor. Although the PFC on duty is reluctant to let him go—all dogs on post are supposed to be housed overnight in the K9 quarters—I convince him that I’m taking Thor out for a confidential night training mission, which isn’t much of a lie.
On the way back to my barracks, I see two flaming chunks of space debris light up the southern night sky, and then it’s to bed and lights out.
I’m dreaming about hearing my mother’s voice, as we’re on a ferry heading out to Edgartown on Martha’s Vineyard, when the ship’s siren cuts in and starts screaming and screaming and screaming.
I wake up, Thor across my legs, sheets piled up and I realize it’s the base warning siren.
Creeper attack.
I kick the blankets off, roll out of bed, fumble for a second with the matches at my nightstand, and light off a candle. Thor is already by the door, tail moving furiously, waiting to get into action. I dress quickly, but take the time to pack my battle-rattle gear, the rosary, family photo and Creeper toe joint; and buckling on my Beretta, I launch myself out the door, as Corporal Manning races down the hallway dousing the gas lamps.
Outside now, the rest of the troopers from my barracks are following me, buildings around us going dark, the only illumination coming from hooded lamps along the walkways and roads. By the time I get to the Armory its double doors are propped open, and there’s little talking as Colt M-10s and bandoliers of 50 mm rounds are tossed to us. To keep some sort of order, we yell out our last names as we pick up the gear, as overworked Armory personnel keep the weapons flow going.
“Ouellette! Magsaysay! Gagnon!”
I grab my weapon with one hand, bandolier with the other, shout out: “Knox!” and then run outside, as Thor races along with me, tail wagging, keeping quiet as I run to my attack duty station. All around me are the sounds of boots slapping on the pavement, and the click-clack of M-10s being loaded with the anti-Creeper rounds, as my fellow Rangers prepare for an attack.
This isn’t like the other night, when I was on my own, hunting for a Creeper. I’m with two other troopers from my platoon, Corporal Joyce Dunlap and Staff Sergeant Hugh Muller. Dunlap and Muller are dressed like me, with a mix of battle rattle and personal clothing; not much time for uniform. But we’re all in helmets and protective vests, even though Dunlap is wearing baggy khaki shorts and Muller is wearing light pink shorts that look tight and damn uncomfortable. I’m the only one with a dog, and Thor settles down in one corner of the battlement.
Muller picks up a field telephone, turns the crank a few times, and whispers, “Battle Twelve, up.”
He’s a year older than me, outranks me, and seems to take delight in reminding me of this most times we’re thrown together. He listens for a moment, nods, and whispers, “Battle Twelve, out.”
Then he tosses the phone receiver back into its slot. “Listen up. Two civilians separately called in a Creeper sighting. On approach out of woods adjacent to the interstate, then started moving northwest along Clinton Street.”
“On the street?” I ask. “You sure they weren’t drinking?”
Dunlap laughs and Muller says, “That’s what got reported. So here we are.”
I pick up my Colt M-10 and peer sideways over the battlement. Turning your head sideways exposes less of your skull, especially if you just expose one eye for a quick scan, then duck back down.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
It’s a hell of an understatement, but the Army had to adjust day
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