James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

Renny worked the bolt and swung back to the IMP. There was a Tab atop it trying to wrestle the body of his fallen comrade out from behind the fifty cal. Renny’s shot took him below his armor through his hips and the man fell back atop the big vehicle screaming.

Renny pulled the bolt to the rear, dropped his spent magazine, and grabbed a fresh one. It was only then that he became aware of all of the incoming fire. Tabs had bailed out of the other IMP and several of the Growlers and were firing in his direction. Then there was a massive explosion nearby and shouts to displace. He recognized Ed’s voice.

Ed struggled to his hands and knees, hearing the chatter of Mark’s SAW as the man fired short controlled bursts from the nearby apartment. The other members of his squad were firing rapid semi-auto shots, and the noise was tremendous. He looked over his shoulder through the debris-laden air. The apartment where Harris had been standing when he fired the Spike was simply gone.

Even though he knew he should have gotten the hell out of there Ed grabbed his binoculars and quickly scanned the distant intersection. Harris must have hit his mark because the tank which had fired at them was slowly rolling off at an angle. Not only wasn’t the presumed commander visible in the open hatch, both he and the machine gun he’d been firing were simply… gone. The open hatch was both blackened and spattered with something gooey. Ed suppressed a shudder. Both tanks seemed to be out of commission and one of the IMPs was very visibly damaged. The other had two bodies draped over the roof gun. The Growlers were being soundly chewed up by small arms fire. A few seem to be disabled and several had their windows shot out; the remainder were scrambling, some racing north and some south. It seemed the perfect time to get the hell out of Dodge before the enemy regrouped.

“Toads down, IMPs down, let’s get the fuck out of here!” Ed shouted, glancing once more at the gaping wound in the face of the building where an apartment used to be. He saw dark speckles on the walls that might have been Harris. “Go go go!” he yelled down the hall where he could see Early and Sarah. She’d run halfway down the building to get away from the incoming Toad shell. “Grab Quentin,” he shouted at Early and the man gave him a thumbs up. “Let’s go,” Ed told George and Weasel and they ran down the hallway.

Ed saw Jason, braced against the doorway for shooting but looking their direction. Ed grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him down the hallway. “We’re leaving,” he told the young man. Then he looked into the apartment. “Let’s get while the getting’s good,” he shouted to Mark.

“I heard that.”

George ran to the last apartment. “Time to move,” he told Renny.

The men pounded down the northwest stairwell, guns up, but reached the ground floor without incident. Right outside the stairwell entrance on the north side of the building was a Growler. Weasel checked it—not only were the doors open, but the keys were in the vehicle.

“Can we all fit in?” Ed asked. Just then they all heard a sound, and looked up.

“Motherfucker,” Weasel spat.

“Mark, on me!” George shouted. The grizzled veteran pointed at the remainder of the squad, his face stony. “You stay here.” Then he took off at a run, Mark on his heels.

Early and Sarah ran to Quentin and they went down the stairwell together. Quentin was in the lead, bouncing down the dimly-lit stairs, and as he came around a corner a soldier in camouflage fatigues popped out of the third-floor door and fired a burst at nearly point-blank range. Quentin went down with a yell.

Early, coming around the corner right behind him, fired four rounds from the hip and the soldier flipped backwards through the doorway, his face suddenly gone.

“Oh no, no, no,” Early said, kneeling down beside Quentin. Sarah knelt on the other side of them.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Quentin said wheezing, but the spreading red on the concrete floor underneath him told a different story. His skin already looked ashy from blood loss.

“Let’s go, let’s get him up,” Early said, and started to lift him.

Sarah stopped him. “No, I’ve got to bandage this here,” she said, and her tone stopped Early. He held Quentin’s quivering hand as she pulled out a packet of gauze and fought to pack his wound under his armor plates and webgear. The bullet had gone in at an angle by his left shoulder, just missing the edge of his armor. She checked, but there was no exit wound. She grabbed a compress and pressed it down over the packed wound, which was still bleeding heavily.

“Do what you can, darlin’, but we’ve got to move,” Early said softly.

“Leave me,” Quentin said through gritted teeth.

“You shut up, you,” Early told him.

Sarah realized there wasn’t much more she could do, not in a dim stairwell. His body armor would help hold the compress in place, and that would have to do. Together she and Early dragged Quentin to his feet and started moving down the stairs once again, holding the wounded man up by his shoulders. They reached the ground floor and roughly shoved through the exterior door, looking around wildly. They saw a Growler by the far corner of the building and the other members of the squad were between it and the building. Early saw the Growler’s door was open and just from the body language of the men by it, the men he’d fought alongside for so many years, he knew that it was drivable.

“This way,” he told Sarah. “Wounded get to ride in luxury.” They were halfway to the vehicle, struggling to hold up Quentin who seemed to be fading fast, when Early saw his squadmates scatter, most heading back inside. A familiar sound echoed off the parking lot asphalt. He traded a frowning glance with Sarah.

“Kestrel,” she grunted unhappily.

“What happened?” Weasel asked from behind the wheel of the Growler as they arrived.

“He fucking got shot,” Sarah snapped at him.

“Well, get him in the back,” Weasel said, not perturbed at all by being yelled at. He looked out the windshield. There were slopes on both sides of the freeway from the service drives down to the freeway itself and they were wildly overgrown with grass, shrubs, and trees. At ground level the far service drive, and the Tab vehicles there, weren’t visible at all. Which meant the Tabs couldn’t see the Growler he was sitting in, although Weasel was well aware of their drone above his head. He spotted the Kestrel to the west, doing a loop high above the damaged Toads and IMPs. He was torn between driving away—where he’d be sure to be targeted by the helicopter—and running back into the building, cornered once again. A glance at the door showed him the rest of his squad hunkered down in the stairwell, Ed looking as indecisive as he felt.

The interior of the police station smelled like a mildewy barbecue pit. The fire which had roared through it at some point in the past had seriously damaged the building. Most of the interior seem to be shades of grey.

“Where the fuck are the stairs?” Ed said, looking around.

“Over there,” Mark said, pointing.

As they reached the third floor the noise of the Kestrel was briefly loud above them as it made a pass right over the building. As they reached an office on the west side of the former police precinct they saw the Kestrel hovering five hundred feet above the damaged Tab column. It rotated in their direction and immediately fired two rockets. Both men threw themselves to the floor as the rockets headed straight toward them.

The rockets passed over the police station and exploded against the sixth floor of the apartment building they’d just vacated. The Kestrel wasn’t hovering in one place, the pilot didn’t want to make a target of himself or his aircraft, it was moving back and forth, side to side, and doing small circles, almost like an impatient man pacing.