James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

“Maybe they’ve decided to sit out the rest of the war,” Early drawled.

“They’ve got a lot of wounded to deal with,” Ed said. He nodded at Jason and Early to head out.

They jogged down the alley and took up positions on the far side. Beyond it was a big parking lot, then a lot full of collapsed, heavily vandalized U-Haul trucks, then a series of low attached buildings. They made it to the buildings without incident. Early shoved open a splintered door and they entered a tan brick edifice that appeared to have been used for light industrial machining back in the day. They were peering out the grimy front windows when someone called out behind them.

“Golf ball.”

The four men spun around and saw a figure silhouetted in the back door, hands up and empty.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jason said.

“Outlier,” Seattle replied. “What’s left of it.” He had a long suppressed rifle slung across his chest. “Why are you heading this way?” He’d been working his way north and west.

“Because north is out,” Ed replied. “Lot of pissed off people. We need to cross over the freeway without any more drama and disappear.” He pointed out the dirty window. Across the street was an old office building dating from the 1930s, a cube of red brick. “Far side of that building, isn’t there railroad tracks, and a bridge over the freeway?”

“Yeah, but they’ve got drones up,” the man told them.

Ed didn’t think they had a lot of options. “They can’t be everywhere at once, and I don’t know how long they want to follow us. I’m thinking instead of wasting their time following a handful of guys they’ll keep their eyes on those tall buildings until they make sure that there aren’t more of us hiding in them. If we can get far enough away I want to head north and jump back in that Six Mile Relief sewer line, then the drone won’t matter.”

Seattle shrugged. “Better than my plan.”

“What’s your plan?” Jason asked him.

“Try not to get shot.”

“That’s a good plan too,” Mark said, listing slightly. “Wish I’d thought of that.”

Weasel wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and the Tabs they’d so violently molested, as quickly as possible, so he considered jumping on the Lodge Freeway and taking it north. However, he had concerns. The first was he knew the freeway was an “approved travel corridor” through the city. While that meant it would be relatively clear of debris and abandoned vehicles, it also meant they’d have a much higher chance of encountering additional Tab forces in their own vehicles, which was the last thing he wanted. The second was that it angled too far to the west.

As he floored the Growler and it took off through the parking lot he tried to pull up the map of the city he had in his head after years of crawling around its ruins. The hospital was on One Way, Woodward Avenue, maybe ten miles north of where he was, and Woodward was just a quarter mile or so to his east, but he wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to take that street all the way up. It was wide open. He knew if there were any Tab forces in the area, or if there were any more surprise Kestrels in the air, that they’d be a juicy target roaring up Woodward.

Before he’d cleared the parking lot he decided to head north on the service drive to the next major north-south street, and take that up until it hit either the city limits or it ran into Woodward. “How’s he doing?” he shouted over his shoulder.

“I gave him a shot for pain but he’s still bleeding badly,” Sarah told him. “I’m afraid that if I don’t do something, go in there and try to stop the bleeding, that he’s going to die before we can get him to the hospital. How long will it take us to get there?”

Weasel barked with a bitter laugh. “Theoretically? Theoretically only ten or fifteen minutes, but who the fuck knows, we’ve got the whole city after us. I thought RoadRunner took out all the Kestrels, so I’m afraid of what we’re going to run into around the next corner, you know?”

Diesel engine of the Growler roaring loudly, Weasel swerved around potholes and random piles of rubble in the street. Sarah was still atop Quentin trying to tend to his wounds and was being tossed around the back seat.

“Can you drive any smoother?” she yelled at him as Weasel veered widely around a twelve-foot motor boat upside down in the middle of the street.

He turned his head to stare at the boat as it went by then shook his head. “This fucking city, man,” he mumbled. “Yeah, I’ll try,” he called back to her. Out the windshield maybe a quarter mile up there was an intersection with dark traffic lights hanging inert above it. He wasn’t positive but he thought he’d be able to turn right on that street and take it north almost as far as he needed to go. And it was a much more minor road than Woodward, so maybe they’d avoid detection.

“Tabs!” Renny suddenly shouted, pointing across Weasel’s chest.

Weasel looked out his side window and saw another Growler pacing them on the opposite service drive. “He’s driving the wrong way,” Weasel said. “He’s gonna get a ticket.”

He stomped the accelerator harder, hoping that he could somehow outrun the other Growler. Everyone in the vehicle had eyes on the vehicle across the freeway, which is why they didn’t see another Growler race up behind them. They didn’t hear its roaring engine until it was nearly on top of them, and then it rammed them in an attempt to make them crash.

“Shit!” Weasel shouted as the wheel twisted in his hands, but he kept control of the vehicle. “Shoot those fuckers!” he shouted, looking at Renny, but Renny was at a loss. He wouldn’t be able to bring his big rifle into play unless he opened his door. It stretched from the floor to the roof.

“Give me your subgun,” Renny said, reaching out for it.

“It’s on a sling,” Weasel told him.

“Sarah,” Renny said, fumbling with the MP5, trying to figure out how to unhook the complicated sling, “keep them busy.” The Growler shuttered under another impact and went briefly up on two wheels. Renny bounced away from Weasel against his door.

“Shit,” she swore, but stopped trying to tend to Quentin and grabbed her suppressed SBR with blood-slick hands. The Growler was right behind them, racing up to ram them once again. Sarah flipped her selector to auto and did a full mag dump into the windshield of the pursuing Growler. The Growler was armored, but her accurate fire so unnerved the driver that he swung the wheel to the side in a blind panic, barely able to see out of the spider-webbed armored glass in front of him.

In his panic the soldier was able to do accidentally what he’d been trying to do on purpose—the front bumper of his vehicle clipped the rear of the vehicle in front of him. The back wheels of Weasel’s Growler lost their grip. The Growler swung into a long sideways slide, the tires shrieking. Just as it seemed the Growler was going to come to a stop the tires hooked on the edge of a pothole and the vehicle flipped, almost in slow motion, landing heavily on its roof.

For all of its faults, and all the complaints the soldiers voiced about it, the Growler was a robust vehicle and the roof did not collapse. It was, however, deformed and all of the windows cracked. The pursuing vehicle skidded to a stop, then the driver threw it in reverse and backed up fifty feet. He opened the door and got out because he couldn’t see anything through his bullet-pocked windshield. He grabbed his rifle, shouldered it, and emptied a magazine on full auto into the side and undercarriage of the flipped Growler.

“Fucking traitor bitches!” he swore as the two other soldiers in his Growler got out, their rifles ready.