Jay Allan - Tombstone

I couldn’t have gotten more than a couple klicks at most. I don’t know how they didn’t find me, but they didn’t. I woke up – it must have been hours later because the sun was high in the sky. My back hurt like fire, but I managed to drag myself to my feet and start heading south. I had no idea where I was going; south was an arbitrary decision. I just kept stumbling on my way, putting more kilometers between me and that damned megafarm.

I knew most water outside filtration plants was polluted, sometimes dangerously so, but I didn’t have much choice, so I drank from the streams I passed. Most of them seemed OK, except for one that smelled so badly of chemicals I passed it by. I did my best to wash the wound every time I reached a body of water, but it got infected anyway. I had a few feverish days when I was too weak to do anything, but finally it broke, and I started to feel better. I’d been eating what I could scavenge, but that wasn’t much. The fear first, and then the fever had blunted my appetite, but now I was ravenous.

I started looking around, paying attention to my surroundings and trying, for the first time since I ran, to figure out where I was. I found a mag-rail line, and I decided to follow it, figuring it had to lead somewhere. The mag lines were huge plasti-crete structures, suspended about five meters above the ground. As it turned out, I had stumbled onto the freight line serving the megafarms all over the area. It wasn’t long before the rail line led into the next agri-complex. I managed to sneak in after dark, and for the first time in my life I stole something. That first theft wasn’t anything of great value, just three loaves of bread. But to me, alone, terrified, and hungry, they were priceless.

I made my way south, following the rail line, sometimes even sneaking onto a train and riding it to the next stop. The line terminated in New Houston, and by the time I got to southern Texas I was getting pretty good at stealing. I had found a way to survive.

Over time I got better at stealing, and I moved past just surviving. I put together a small team so we could hit bigger targets. We did pretty well for a long time by limiting our ambitions. We stole enough to get by comfortably, but not enough to make it worthwhile for the authorities to get too interested. Once in a while a few of the other guys wanted to get more aggressive and go for some more lucrative jobs, but I always managed to keep control.

The Marine Corps’ main training facility was just a few klicks west of our basecamp, and it was a huge complex. There were transports moving in and out of there constantly carrying all sorts of supplies. We’d avoided targets that made us a problem for powerful people, but that wisdom finally failed me. I think I just gave in to the desire of the crew to ramp up our efforts. Caution gave way to greed, and we started intercepting their convoys, laying in wait for them a few kilometers outside the camp gates. We’d hit three of them and gotten away with it – it was almost too easy. But the night we hit the fourth they were waiting for us. That was the first time I’d ever seen a soldier in powered armor. They came out of the brush and surrounded us. Despite the fact that they were fully armored, they came streaming out of the forest quickly and quietly. I was amazed that soldiers in such heavy gear could move so gracefully. They worked flawlessly as a unit, each seeming to almost predict the actions of the others. I turned and tried to run, hoping to make it into the heavy brush and somehow sneak away. But the first step I took was the last. All I remember was the blinding flash and then the darkness.

“OK, everybody keep grabbing some dirt. We’re going to maneuver to the right flank by fire teams, so nobody move a centimeter until your team leaders order it.” The lieutenant sounded rock solid, like he was sitting in base calmly assigning us a duty roster. I was amazed, and that voice, so firm, so assured, reached out to me and drew me back from the fear and despair. It was like a beacon in the darkness, and I clung to it, forcing myself to focus, to remember my training, and the responsibility I had to my fellow Marines. That was my first lesson in command, the way the lieutenant held us together that day with nothing more than his voice. I don’t think I completely understood it until years later, when I was in his shoes, and there were troops on the line waiting for my steady voice, needing it as much as I had that day on Tombstone.

The gully behind the ridge was slightly deeper to the right. We’d have enough cover there to deploy and return the fire. We didn’t have a lot of time; it was pretty certain the enemy would hit us as soon as they’d picked off everyone they could with their auto-cannons. They’d planned these fields of fire, so knew exactly where they covered. They’d be able to advance in the dead zones, forcing us to keep our heads down until they were almost on us.

The lieutenant’s voice had been a lifeline. Now that I was focused again, the training started flowing back. While I was waiting I doubled-checked my weapons, just like they told us to do. It wasn’t more than a few minutes before Corporal Clark was on the line.

“Alright, fire team A, we’re going to turn 90 degrees and work our way east behind this outcropping.” He was definitive and in command, not quite like the lieutenant, but still solid. He spoke slowly and clearly so there was no chance any of us would misunderstand him. “We’re going to go slow, and I want you all to pay attention and stay low. No one gets picked off on this move.” He paused for a few seconds. “That’s an order.”

My first thought was, you don’t have to remind me to stay low! But then I considered how easy it is to lose focus for a second…and that was enough to get you killed. They pound that into your head in training, over and over again. You can be meticulous for hours, days, weeks…but it only takes one careless second to get yourself scragged.

I made damned sure I stayed low, though it was difficult to move that way in armor. It felt like forever, but it was really less than ten minutes before we reached our new position, which was only about 200 meters from the original one. But the rocky spur was higher and thicker here…much better cover, and big enough that we could go prone behind it and start returning some of this fire.

Harden and James were already setting up the SAW, positioning it on a small ledge just below the outcropping. They’d found a spot with a small notch in the stone they could shoot through. Their field of fire would be somewhat restricted, but anything coming up at us would be right in their sights for at least part of the time. The enemy could have come up through our old position to try and flank us – but they’d also have to go right through their own field of fire to get there. So we’d know they were heading that way if the auto-cannon fire stopped.

I slid over a meter or so to a spot where I had my own break in the rock wall. I’d be able to shoot pretty well from there, so I ground my knee into the loose gravel and braced myself. I peered through the crack and looked out. In front of the rock spur the chopped up, broken ground dropped off gradually, reaching a low point almost a klick from our position. The valley was pockmarked with small craters, about half of them filled with bubbling acid and other nasty-looking liquids. The entire landscape was obscured by slowly moving clouds of greenish gas, which an advancing enemy could try use to cover an advance. The gas interfered with our scanners, making it difficult to either detect or see anything hidden within one of the patchy clouds. Of course anyone moving through would have a hard time keeping their own bearings too.