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Jill’s ears rang and the building shook, raining ceiling tiles, shards of glass and pieces of light fixture onto her. She rolled out of bed and slid underneath, the IV ripping painfully out of her arm. Right now the threat of the second story coming down on top of her was greater than that of enemy fire. She was just about to slide out from under the bed when a stronger shock and a blast of debris swept the room. Two inner walls collapsed, and pieces of the ceiling and floor above rained down. The outer wall leaned drunkenly, sunlight pouring in.
She heard weapons fire, frantic and close. Screams and cries of triumph mingled with the smells of blood and the stink of death, smoke and cordite. We’re being overrun. She racked her brain for a way out, pleaded with God for a miracle that would fix her broken spine and free her legs to move. Christine said God always answers prayer but don’t sit around on your ass and wait for Him. Good advice in my book.
She looked around, then upward to the hole in the ceiling. Maybe... She slung her PW10, pulled on her gloves and started climbing. Five hundred pull-ups a day paid off.
Up a slanted wooden beam she dragged herself, slithering along its inclined plane like a snake to emerge into the room above. It was some kind of office, disused and dusty. Bracing herself awkwardly, she shoved the desk over to the window so she could climb up on it using only her upper body strength. Lying on the flat surface, she knocked the jagged remnants of the window glass out and took stock.
She could see three immobile tanks out by a clump of trees, and another halfway to the clubhouse. Its main gun spoke again, pointing to her right, and the flimsy steel groundskeeping barn disintegrated. If he aims at this building, I’m dead. Have to stop that damn tank somehow.
She started trying radio nets – her platoon, her company, then Battalion. All she heard was confusion and transmissions stepping on each other. Discipline had crumbled. The Battalion might as well be a kicked-over anthill for all the organized resistance it was putting up.
She tried the Force Recon freq. “Swede here,” she heard him rasp. “That you Repeth?”
“Roger that. Any chance someone can get that last tank? We got nothing to stop it back here.”
“I’m looking for an intact weapon right now. This Eden Plague is some shit, by the way. Got me back on my feet in no time.”
“Glad you like it.” The tank gun roared again, this time aiming at the row of golf carts. It appeared the tank gunner was just blowing things up for the fun of it. “But you better do something soon.”
“I’m your huckleberry, Top. Here I come.”
Repeth reminded herself how glad she was that Larry Nightingale had gotten the bugs worked out of the Armorshock rounds he came up with. Not only were they less lethal, they were actually more effective in knocking out heavy tanks. They packed a penetrating but relatively low-power kinetic shock to stun the crew, then an enormous high-voltage discharge designed to burn out electronic systems.
She watched as a lone figure, ragged in mangled Ghillie, broke from the copse of trees behind the tank and ran, antitank missile launcher in one hand, assault rifle in the other. Swede.
He sprayed short bursts of full-auto fire at the nearest enemy infantry, some of whom were crowding close to the sixty-ton monster. She saw him let go of his rifle as he went to his knees. He sat back on his heels and lined up the rocket. Nearby grass whipped and shredded as the enemy infantry fired in his direction, and then the launcher spoke. A cloud of smoke wreathed the Recon Marine and the rear of the tank exploded, destroying its turbine engine.
The beast ground to a halt, but there was no accompanying burst of blue sparks. The electrical discharge must have malfunctioned. The turret still operated on battery, and it slewed rapidly around.
Swede grabbed his rifle, leaped up and charged forward. It was a race, the Marine switching magazines and ignoring bullets fired by the rattled Fredericksburg men as the tank gun came around inexorably to aim directly at him.
She didn’t know why it did not fire immediately, or why the coaxial machinegun didn’t cut him down. Perhaps the gunner was faster than the loader. Perhaps the tank had lost some internal systems. Whatever the reason, Swede expertly popped each human target in turn, for all the world like a dynamic range exercise – bang, swivel bang, swivel bang bang, aim, bang. The Needleshock rounds put them down with brutal efficiency.
Then the tank gun roared.
The whole tableau disappeared in smoke and flame as the high-explosive round plowed up the ground behind the Marine, throwing dirt high in to the air.
“Swede!” Jill cried involuntarily, but there was no answer from her radio. Then she saw the turret was still functioning, turning, the muzzle questing for another target.
I have to get out of this window before they slew that gun back around and hit the building. She emptied her magazine in the general direction of a squad of infantry working their way cautiously forward, then heard an ominous hammering to her left.
Straining to look out at an extreme angle, she spotted a light armored vehicle sending groups of 25mm shells into the clubhouse. She could hear the rounds rattling the structure, poking fist-sized holes in walls. She had to get out.
Reslinging her PW10, she lizard-crawled to the floor and rapidly out into the hallway, dragging her useless legs afterward. Her back twinged and she prayed once again that the bullet would work itself loose and allow her EP-boosted body to heal so she could walk and run again.
God said no again.
She crawled onward.
Bodies littered the hallway, some dead, some torn up but living. She had to leave them, could do nothing for them. Dammit, I’m helpless, she thought, like nothing since I looked down at my missing feet eleven years ago. I think I took life for granted for too long. And it could all end right here.
At the back door she stopped, sliding her head out to survey the situation. The tactical ops center tent was in ruins, charred and collapsed. Something moved beneath the material, though. Seeing no enemy, she scrambled across the debris-littered ground, pulling her carbon-steel blade from her boot and slicing carefully through the waterproofed cloth. “Hold still,” she hissed, “I’m cutting you out.”
When the hole was big enough a muscular arm came through, then a shoulder and head. “Nice to see your smiling face, Jill.”
“You too, sir,” she said as she cut more hole for Colonel Muzik to worm his way through.
He rolled out and carefully worked his way to his knees. Something seemed odd to her, about the way he moved.
“Your arm!”
Muzik looked at the empty space at his left shoulder. “Yeah. Misplaced it somewhere. You got some water?”
“Holy shit. Aren’t we a pair. Gimpy and one-arm.” She handed him the canteen off her web gear.
He guzzled the whole quart. “Sorry. Lost a lot of blood. Knocked me out. What’s our situation?” As if in answer a burst of 25mm came through one building, passing over their heads and poking holes in the far treeline.
“They got some kind of LAVs, old Strykers or something. Swede’s team immobilized all the tanks but there’s at least one with an active main gun. Their infantry have stopped advancing, though. They’re shaken; they’re not pros. Content to let the 25-mike chew us up for a while.”
Muzik nodded. “Yeah. We have to gather up as many as we can and fall back to the south. They hit us from the north. If they were smarter they would have used their vehicles to get in blocking positions, surrounded and annihilated us. If we move fast, we might be able to get some of our folks out.” He reached down, grasping both straps of her webbing from the front with his one big hand. “This might hurt.” He lifted.
She screamed as her lower body exerted traction on her vertebrae. The pain spread up her spine and along her skeleton like electric fire, then cut off abruptly, leaving nothing but a throbbing heat. “Don’t worry about it, sir,” Jill gasped out. “Just go. They can fix me later.”
He didn’t waste time with sympathy, just threw her over his good shoulder like a sack of potatoes and started yelling. “Battalion!” he bellowed. “All Civil Affairs troops, rally to me! We’re falling back!”
Muzik worked his way southward, picking up two dozen shaken stragglers. Jill kept her abdominals tight, trying to stay stable as she jounced, staring at the Colonel’s heels. The broken building burning behind bought them some time. With their tanks dead or immobile, the Fredericksburg troops apparently had no stomach for further assault.
They could hear the tock-tock-tock of 25mm cannons as they fired into the wrecked structure. Stray rounds whizzed over the retreating US troops’ heads, struck the ground around them, or in one case took a Civil Affairs lawyer’s hand with it as it flew. First, disarm all the lawyers, Jill laughed to herself, giddy as her surreal, pain-filled journey continued. She saw Donovan loop the man’s good arm over his shoulder and haul him along.
From her crazy angle they all looked like drunken contestants in a three-legged race as they stumbled across the golf links and into the woods. Smoke and fire and intermittent explosions from the Battalion’s ammo and fuel stored inside the barn shielded their march, and now with trees hiding them Muzik stopped and gathered his people around him after putting Jill gently down among the scrub oak.
“Listen up, people,” he began. “This was a disaster, but we’re not dead, and we’ll all heal. Even you, Master Sergeant.” he said, turning his grim face toward hers. “And I’m going to need every one of you to stay positive and focused if we are all to stay that way – and to help our people back there. We have to regroup, and figure out a way to rescue them.”
What if they kill their prisoners? Jill thought, but held her tongue. No need to bring that up. She glanced around, looking for Rick among the faces there, again not seeing him. Like looking for something you lost in your house you keep looking in the same places, over and over, expecting it to be there. She threw a quick prayer skyward again, for her love and her commander and her people and all the people with them. And smite these evil people, Lord. And protect the prisoners they took.
It seemed a fair request.
“Anyone hang on to a radio?” Muzik asked. Three people raised their hands but Donovan handed his over first. “Good, three is good. Not sure what we’ll do, but...” he muttered as he selected a frequency and began calling for anyone to respond.
Jill rolled over, away from the cluster around their commander, and dragged herself to a sitting position near a tree. Donovan noticed her moving and rushed to help her, but she waved him off. “Thanks, Corporal. I’m just as good and bad as I am until they can get this bullet out of my spine.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Master Sergeant, I mean. You oughter be an officer anyways.” The concern in his eyes was touching and his Appalachian drawl was comforting but it wasn’t a leader’s place to be coddled by her subordinates.
At least not until I’m actually dying.
“Don’t you worry, Corporal. Colonel Muzik’s a better man with one arm than most are with two...” She trailed off and stared at something deeper in the woods. Stared harder.
What is that?
A face. A small boy’s dark face. It was his eye whites that she had noticed.
Jill raised a tentative hand.
The body attached to the face waved back, fingers curled and bobbing, a child’s gesture. He looked about six years old.
Jill beckoned him. “Donovan, get behind me and make sure no one comes this way. Keep them back.” Her eyes still on the boy, she dragged herself forward on her palms and thighs, feeling nothing as her knees scraped along the forest floor. When he showed signs of bolting, she stopped and sat, her back to a tree. She heard the noise and conversation die down behind her and knew the others were watching from a distance.
She reached into a cargo pocket and pulled out a granola bar, tearing off the wrapper, her eyes never leaving the child’s. She nibbled, mimed eating. Smiled.
The boy stared, and crept forward. He was wearing torn jeans, a Tupac t-shirt and the remains of tennis shoes. The exposed parts of his feet were callused but not bleeding.
She looked for signs of wounds, scratches, or blood, but saw none. She began to hope, and held out the granola bar. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’m not one of the bad people.” Whoever they are, I’m not one of them. Come on, kid. Say something. Don’t be a Twosie.
He stepped up to within arm’s length and slowly extended his hand. Delicately he took the bar and, never taking his eyes off hers, ate a piece, solemnly handing it back. That was almost a ritual, she thought. She took another bite, then held it out again, chewing slowly. They continued this way until it was gone and he had popped the last corner onto his tongue.
She reached for her canteen, then realized Muzik had drunk all her water. “Canteen,” she said softly, and Donovan brought one slowly over. The kid didn’t run. Jill took a drink then handed it to the boy.
“Master Sergeant!” Donovan hissed. “What if he’s got a plague?”
“I don’t think so. Not a Demon Plague. Look at him. His clothes are all torn up but there’s not a scratch on him. I think he’s an Eden. Besides, I’m inoculated.”
Some movement from behind her startled the boy, and he backed away. He didn’t seem afraid, just cautious, but the spell was broken. He nodded to her once, a wise old gesture in such a young visage, then turned to vanish into the deep undergrowth.
One of the survivors stepped up to lean against Jill’s tree. Her name tag read “Horton,” and the caduceus on her collar marked her as a doctor. She asked, “How do we really know what a Twosie looks like? We were supposed to capture some and run some basic tests but we never got a chance.”
Jill shrugged, then focused on the doctor’s insignia with sudden determination. “Doc,” she said, “you gotta get this bullet out.”
The doctor squatted down to look Jill in the face. “If you’re sure, I’ll try. It’s dangerous but being carried around like this may do permanent damage anyway.”
“Worst case is no worse for me. Maybe better, since I keep getting shooting pains as the bullet moves around in there.” Jill shrugged. “I’m a burden right now. We need everyone contributing.” And if Rick is still alive I can’t very well rescue him parked on my butt, can I? “Can you do it right away?”
Doc Horton masked her distress well but there was plainly a war going on inside of her. With a touch of relief she objected, “I don’t have anything to operate with.”
Jill reached down to her boot and drew forth her slim, carbon-steel combat knife. Its design hearkened back to the classic KA-BAR of World War Two Marines, but it was a handmade custom blade her father had bought for her when she’d graduated from Basic. She handed it to the doctor hilt-first.
“I don’t think you’ll find anything sharper.” She looked over at Colonel Muzik on the radio, caught his eye. “Are they coming after us, sir?”
He shook his head. “I think they’re content to loot our stuff. One of our people is pinned in the wreckage and giving me reports. If they leave, we may be able to get him out. I’m hoping the enemy pulls back to their lines and we can sneak back in, try to salvage some equipment, save some people.”
“All right,” Jill said mildly, looking in the doctor’s eyes. “Let’s do some surgery. You up for this, Doc?”
She nodded sharply. “As long as you are. We have no anesthetic.”
“Damn.” Jill had forgotten about that. “Donovan. Grab three other guys and come over here. Anyone got a poncho in his ruck? Spread it out on the flat place. Okay, gentlemen, pick me up and put me down on my stomach on that poncho.”
Once they had done that thing she reached up to pull her tunic and t-shirt off, leaving herself bare-backed. She unbuckled and unbuttoned her trousers and shoved them down a couple of inches, exposing skin to her tailbone. “You understand what you have to do, Doc?”
“Sure.” She put a comforting hand on Jill’s back. “All right, I want each of you men to pin her down by a limb. Sit on her if you have to.” Once they had, Jill felt the doctor put her knee, with increasing weight, on her buttocks, immobilizing her lower back.
“Okay miss, this is going to hurt like hell. Don’t fight passing out. The best thing you could do is lose consciousness. Now tell me where it is.” The doctor started probing with her fingers, soon finding the place in Jill’s spine where the hot ache lived.
“My name is Jill, Doc.”
“And my name is Hazel. Someone find Jill something to put in her mouth – a smooth green stick, or a leather belt. Don’t want to aspirate broken teeth.”
When a piece of soft fresh wood was in place, tasting like nature and smelling of greenness, Jill put her head down on the poncho and mumbled, “Ready.”
That was a lie. Pain like this was a completely different animal from the hurts of blows, of a fight, or even the sudden searing touch of a bullet or the point of a knife. It began but did not end, and she could feel the blade going in slowly, feel the hot screaming bite of it. Her stomach protested with nausea and she fought to keep her muscles from seizing up, from deflecting the doctor’s razor probes and leaving her worse than before. Mercifully her vision grayed and she drifted off to a place where the pain was just a dream.
“Horse my body stumbled,” she quoted vaguely to herself before oblivion seized her.
