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Authors: Brendan DuBois
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out.”
I keep staring at the Creeper over the sights of my M-10. Don’t think I’ve ever seen one so clear and out in the open like this, going up the road like a damn tourist or something.
I whisper, more to keep the Creeper steady in my sights than because I’m worried about sound, “What’s the word, Sergeant?”
He joins us on the edge of the battlement. “Observe and report. That’s it. Observe and report.”
The Creeper stops. Its two main claws rotate in the air like cobras, seeking a target, seeking a meal. Dunlap finally says, “What’s the goddamn point?”
“What do you mean, Dunlap?” I ask.
“A decade ago the damn aliens come across light years to Earth, drown our cities, kill millions, zap aircraft and ships, throw us back to nineteenth-century technology . . . and for what? So they can crawl freely at night in the state capitol?”
Muller says, “Doesn’t have to be a reason.”
Hating to admit it, I agree with Muller. “Staff sergeant’s right, Corporal. They’re aliens. There you go. Aliens. Whatever they do, however they destroy, it makes sense to them. Doesn’t have to make sense to us.”
She laughs slightly, but it’s a brittle sound. “You’d think after ten years, if they’d wanted us all dead, they could design a virus or plague to kill us all off. Why take all this time just to, what, burn a few cows and a dairy farm like they did the other day?”
Muller’s voice is sharp. “Stop thinking so much. Focus. Observe and report, and keep your damn weapon trained on that bug.”
I shift my weight slightly, slowly, from one foot to the next. It’s cold and damp out. Wish I had put a jacket on underneath my protective vest. “What I’d like to observe and report, Sergeant,” I say, “is that I wish we had an Air Force to call in some close air support. Or an Apache gunship. Hell, even a self-propelled howitzer. Sort of even up the odds.”
Dunlap eagerly joins in. “How about some M1-A1 tanks, with special Colt-made shells. With laser-resistant armor so that—”
A flash of bright light dazzles my eyes, and a flame blossoms out from one of the houses on the road. The house roars into visibility and the Creeper’s claws move in a sweeping motion, as the house explodes and flaming shingles and wood get tossed up in the air in a blossom of smoke, flame and debris.
Muller is quickly on the field telephone, “Urgent, urgent, urgent. This is Battle Twelve. Creeper firing civilian houses on Jefferson Street. Repeat, Creeper firing houses on Jefferson Street.”
I say to Dunlap, “We’re way out of firing range, Corporal, don’t you think?”
“That’s right, Sergeant. Way out of range.”
Another house explodes. Someone is screaming out there in the flaming darkness.
Our staff sergeant comes back to the battlement. “Are we good to go?” I demand.
Muller says, “Observe and report. That’s all.”
It seems like two voices are screaming in the distance.
“Sergeant, there are people dying out there,” I say. “Me and Dunlap, we can get across the moat, through the open space . . . be there in a minute or two.”
Muller’s voice is tight. “We’re to stay put.”
A third house is now a ball of flames. The Creeper is up on four of its eight legs, like it’s trying to gain a height advantage over the poor homes in front of it. “Well, did they say if a quick reaction force is going out there? Did they?”
Muller said, “I didn’t ask. I’m sure one’s gonna be dispatched, Knox, so hold tight.”
Right. Hold tight. Any quick reaction force means one of the precious few diesel trucks might be spared—doubtful, even in an attack like this—which means a steam-powered truck has to be lit off, which means long minutes as the firebox gets hot enough to make steam and—
I turn around and say, “Sorry, Sergeant Muller, my bum ear. What did you just say?”
“Knox, I don’t care who you’re related to, don’t you dare move!”
I move past
I keep staring at the Creeper over the sights of my M-10. Don’t think I’ve ever seen one so clear and out in the open like this, going up the road like a damn tourist or something.
I whisper, more to keep the Creeper steady in my sights than because I’m worried about sound, “What’s the word, Sergeant?”
He joins us on the edge of the battlement. “Observe and report. That’s it. Observe and report.”
The Creeper stops. Its two main claws rotate in the air like cobras, seeking a target, seeking a meal. Dunlap finally says, “What’s the goddamn point?”
“What do you mean, Dunlap?” I ask.
“A decade ago the damn aliens come across light years to Earth, drown our cities, kill millions, zap aircraft and ships, throw us back to nineteenth-century technology . . . and for what? So they can crawl freely at night in the state capitol?”
Muller says, “Doesn’t have to be a reason.”
Hating to admit it, I agree with Muller. “Staff sergeant’s right, Corporal. They’re aliens. There you go. Aliens. Whatever they do, however they destroy, it makes sense to them. Doesn’t have to make sense to us.”
She laughs slightly, but it’s a brittle sound. “You’d think after ten years, if they’d wanted us all dead, they could design a virus or plague to kill us all off. Why take all this time just to, what, burn a few cows and a dairy farm like they did the other day?”
Muller’s voice is sharp. “Stop thinking so much. Focus. Observe and report, and keep your damn weapon trained on that bug.”
I shift my weight slightly, slowly, from one foot to the next. It’s cold and damp out. Wish I had put a jacket on underneath my protective vest. “What I’d like to observe and report, Sergeant,” I say, “is that I wish we had an Air Force to call in some close air support. Or an Apache gunship. Hell, even a self-propelled howitzer. Sort of even up the odds.”
Dunlap eagerly joins in. “How about some M1-A1 tanks, with special Colt-made shells. With laser-resistant armor so that—”
A flash of bright light dazzles my eyes, and a flame blossoms out from one of the houses on the road. The house roars into visibility and the Creeper’s claws move in a sweeping motion, as the house explodes and flaming shingles and wood get tossed up in the air in a blossom of smoke, flame and debris.
Muller is quickly on the field telephone, “Urgent, urgent, urgent. This is Battle Twelve. Creeper firing civilian houses on Jefferson Street. Repeat, Creeper firing houses on Jefferson Street.”
I say to Dunlap, “We’re way out of firing range, Corporal, don’t you think?”
“That’s right, Sergeant. Way out of range.”
Another house explodes. Someone is screaming out there in the flaming darkness.
Our staff sergeant comes back to the battlement. “Are we good to go?” I demand.
Muller says, “Observe and report. That’s all.”
It seems like two voices are screaming in the distance.
“Sergeant, there are people dying out there,” I say. “Me and Dunlap, we can get across the moat, through the open space . . . be there in a minute or two.”
Muller’s voice is tight. “We’re to stay put.”
A third house is now a ball of flames. The Creeper is up on four of its eight legs, like it’s trying to gain a height advantage over the poor homes in front of it. “Well, did they say if a quick reaction force is going out there? Did they?”
Muller said, “I didn’t ask. I’m sure one’s gonna be dispatched, Knox, so hold tight.”
Right. Hold tight. Any quick reaction force means one of the precious few diesel trucks might be spared—doubtful, even in an attack like this—which means a steam-powered truck has to be lit off, which means long minutes as the firebox gets hot enough to make steam and—
I turn around and say, “Sorry, Sergeant Muller, my bum ear. What did you just say?”
“Knox, I don’t care who you’re related to, don’t you dare move!”
I move past
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