John Ringo: When the Devil Dances

Thomas held his hand up in front of him and squinted. Yep, he could sort of see it, time to get back to work.

The nuke had trashed his sight. He didn’t know if it was the EMP or the light overload, but the sight was flickering like a bad TV. Which meant he had to do the rest with iron sights. Okay, he’d grown up with iron sights. He could do it. If he could see at all.

The moon was coming up, but it wasn’t going to shine under the bridge. And the Posleen weren’t making any light. What he needed was a flare down there or something. If he could just see to shoot.

Finally he decided to just try putting one in the area to see what happened. The worst that could happen is they’d tag him on the return fire.

This time Buckley heard the crack from the ridge before the Posleen opened fire. Their fire was also much less directed; they seemed to be firing in every direction. He hunkered down for a moment then used the disturbance to move again.

His vision wasn’t really back; he still had much of his field of view blocked out by a negative image of his hands. He’d heard about “knowing something like the back of your hands,” but he seemed to have the inside of his hands superimposed over everything.

But he could sort of see and he sort of knew where he was going so it was sort of time to move. He squatted down and duck-walked to the end of the chunk of granite and then paused. When he stuck his head out he would probably be looking at Posleen from less than ten feet away.

The question as usual was fast or slow. Finally he decided on fast. Pulling a grenade out of its pouch he pulled the pin and took a breath.

“Once the pin is pulled, Mr. Grenade is no longer your friend,” he whispered and leaned out.

Thomas pushed himself back up the hill and wiped at his mouth. That time a plasma round had impacted just to the side and a big chunk of oak had hit him square in the lips. He would be spitting teeth for weeks.

As he leaned into the rifle, though, a grenade went off under the bridge. In the brief light from the explosion he could see three forms right in his target line. He squeezed off a round then ducked back awaiting the return fire, but the Posleen seemed to have a different aim. Pushing forward again and getting a good brace he started to hunt for more targets.

Joe waited for the expected flurry of fire to subside then leaned around the concrete pylon and hammered off all five grenades in his AIW as fast as he could pull the trigger. The Posleen were firing before he even pulled back, but over the racket of the railguns — all the plasma gunners seemed to be gone — he could hear a Barrett punching out round after round. Pulling another grenade from his harness he tossed it in the general direction of the trench as he reloaded. One more burst should do it.

He jacked the first grenade into place and leaned around the concrete obstacle just as the HVM round hit it.

Thomas closed his eyes at the explosion, but it was too late; his vision was gone again. Blinking through the tears, though, he could see that the Posleen were gone too. He wasn’t too sure what had just gone off under the bridge, but the north span had collapsed as well and was now lying canted to the west side so he didn’t have a shot at all. It looked like the whatever it was had blown down the west, center pylon. Just smashed it in half. There might be Posleen under there, but it didn’t really matter; the road was so blocked it would need a heavy engineering unit to clear it.

There was no sign of that last soldier and no fire from the Posleen. So he decided it was time to limp his ass down there. He got to his feet, but his knee buckled immediately. “That’s what comes of being old and fat and wore out,” he muttered.

He sat down on a tree and shook his head. Let somebody else take the pass. He’d just sit here till his leg felt like moving.

Cally fit the last package in the rucksack and prepared to exit the cave. Cache Four was designed to provide all the materials necessary for just such an escape and, after crying her eyes out and then sleeping, she had carefully prepared for a long journey. The route seemed to be up through the Coweeta area then cut across to Highway 64, assuming it was clear, then west to the defenses around Chattanooga.

Now it was time to leave but she hesitated. Despite finding Papa O’Neal’s body, she was still having a hard time believing he was gone. Or that that life was over. She just wanted one more argument, one more morning. And once she left the cave it would be an acceptance that there was no more farm, no more Papa O’Neal.

Finally, she set the pack down and pulled out a book. There was enough food and water for her to sit here for a year and the cave was both secluded and secure.

She’d think about leaving tomorrow.

The Himmit watching her from the top of the cave gave an internal shrug of puzzlement. She had been well on the way to leaving and now had paused. This made no sense to the Himmit. But that was why humans were so endlessly fascinating; they did things for no apparent reason.

He settled in for a long wait. But Himmits were good at that. And this was going to make a fine story someday.

Mosovich paused as Mueller raised a closed fist and settled on his heels. Then the master sergeant cocked his head quizzically and Jake could hear the sound as well. There was a large stream just ahead, part of the Coweeta Hydrological lab area, and the rush of the waters overwhelmed most other noises. But, faintly, he could hear what sounded like female laughter.

Wendy sat up sputtering and lowered the MP5 she had managed to keep out of the stream.

“Very funny, Shari,” she snapped, shivering. “This water is frigging freezing.”

“I can tell,” the older woman said with another laugh. “ Anybody would be able to tell.”

Wendy looked down and had to chuckle. Her clothes had taken a beating in the exit from the Urb and from the vegetation of the mountains. So between the tearing and the water and the thinness of her shirt it was… more than evident that the water was cold.

“I look like a friggin’ Packed and Stacked girl,” she said, shaking her head.

“You sure do,” Mueller said, sliding down out of the underbrush. “I wish I had a camera!”

“Jesus!” Shari said, spinning in place. “Don’t do that to me!”

Mueller raised his hands at the three leveled weapons. “Hey, friends.”

“Lord, Mueller, I never thought I’d say this,” Wendy said, standing up and lowering the barrel of the submachine gun. “But you are a sight for sore eyes.”

“Likewise, I think,” the master sergeant replied. He glanced over at Shari and shook his head. “Who’s your… Shari?”

“It’s a long story,” Elgars said, raising her hand. “We’re headed to the O’Neal caches. You?”

“We’re supposed to scout forward to the Gap,” Mosovich said, coming out upstream. “But we’re moving fairly fast and light.”

“Were,” Elgars said. “We’re moving fairly fast, but we could use some help. And you’re hired.”

“Captain,” the sergeant major said severely. “We’ve been given our mission by the Continental Army commander.”

“Okay,” she said, gesturing at his AID. “Call him up. Tell him that you’ve been shanghaied by a bunch of guurrls with their kids and you don’t like it.”

“I’m supposed to be scouting ,” Mosovich said. “I can’t do that dragging a bunch of refugees.”