James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

“What?” Weasel looked over his shoulder, but he couldn’t see her. “How bad is she?”

“She’s dead.”

The pursuing Growlers were right on his ass. His one tire had completely shredded itself and now the gunfire was accompanied by the shrieking sound of a wheel rim grinding against the cement.

“Dammit dammit dammit! Fuck! Can you get her gun?”

“She’s on top of it. It’ll take me five minutes crawling over the seats and bouncing around.”

“Fuck!” Weasel shouted again, pounding the steering wheel. He looked at Renny. “We gotta stop and make a stand, they’re just gonna keep chewing us up doing this.” Almost as if in response to his statement more bullets thudded into the passenger side of the Growler.

Renny grunted, and nodded. “I’m with you.”

Weasel studied the street ahead of them as he raced along. “When I stop you bail out your side and try to get to her rifle,” Weasel told him. “I’ll keep them busy. You got a knife? Might be quicker just to cut the sling to get it off her.”

There was a big building up ahead, two stories, which looked like an elementary school. Mark and Early broke from the tree line and ran toward it. Their panting was harsh. The grass in the playground was knee high and slowed them down. They were horribly exposed but had no other options—the Tabs were pushing up behind them through the small patch of wildlands, they’d lost sight of the rest of their squad, and weren’t about to take on an unknown-size force of Tabs with just the two of them and no cover but the narrow trunks of trees which probably wouldn’t stop the incoming rifle bullets anyway.

The two men were through the grass and running across the parking lot when bullets started whipping past their heads. They ducked and then dove behind a tan Toyota Tercel that seemed to be melting into the gravel lot. More bullets hit around them and they heard shouting.

Early was gasping for air and Mark was so out of breath he was seeing spots. They sucked in huge lungfuls of air, traded a look, then got up on their knees behind the car. A half dozen or more soldiers were spread out in a skirmish line, just exiting the trees, jogging their way. They seemed confident that they had the numbers, and they were right. Mark shouldered George’s little carbine and began firing shots, the red dot bouncing with each pull of the trigger. Beside him, Early’s big rifle boomed. Two of the soldiers dropped prone and began firing rapid semi-auto shots, two took their knees and used full-auto suppressive fire, and the remaining men sprinted for the cover of the playground equipment, closing the distance. Mark and Early ducked back behind the car as bullets hit all around them.

They traded another look. Mark was in too much pain from his ribs, too tired, and too out of breath to swear. He swung back around and fired rapidly at one of the kneeling soldiers forty yards away. He scored a hit and the man fell to the ground. Early was up, pounding rounds through his M1A. The two runners made it to the long grass of the playground and dove out of sight.

Suddenly there were whipping cracks above their head, but they sounded wrong. Mark and Early ducked back down, and looked behind them, at the school. “Move!” Seattle shouted from one of the second-floor windows, his voice echoing across the parking lot. He shouldered his scoped DMR and fired again at the soldiers, swinging his muzzle back and forth.

Thankful for the covering fire, Mark and Early got up and ran in a crouch to the back of the school, diving through the open doorway there as Seattle burned through the last of his magazine and dropped back from the window. He’d hit one, maybe two of the Tabs, which meant there were several more out there, close, and who knew how many in the block beyond.

Weasel roared up, then at the last minute stomped on the brakes. The Growler wanted to skid sideways but he fought the wheel. They were almost stopped when the grille crunched against the corner of a building, the vehicle blocking the mouth of an alley. Renny bailed out of his door into the alley, and Weasel jumped out his door onto the sidewalk. As the pursuing Tabs raced up he ran forward and took cover in the doorway of a commercial building.

Not much more than his eye and his MP5 were exposed as he fired bursts at the lead Growler, which was armored. It slid to a stop on the far side of the street as the second Growler stopped a hundred feet further back. The soldiers hanging out of their windows fired at him and Weasel jerked out of sight. Bullets smacked against the cement all around him.

He’d been all out of grenades… but Quentin had had one left. Weasel pulled the pin, let the lever fly, counted to two, then heaved it around the corner at the armored Growler, which was still sitting there in front of an ancient church. He had no idea what they thought they were doing just sitting there. The men hanging out of the other Growler fired at him and Weasel grunted, then folded back out of sight.

The driver of the armored Growler saw the grenade coming but couldn’t put it into reverse fast enough. The grenade exploded four feet in front of the vehicle, blowing off one of the front wheels. The men inside it shoved open their doors and jumped out, firing madly at Weasel, who was pinned in the front entranceway of the building.

Renny finally got Sarah’s suppressed carbine off of her and fired at the soldiers over the hood of the Growler. They were barely fifty feet away and completely exposed. He dropped two of them, and the rest ran inside the church, which with its arched doorways, impossibly whole stained-glass windows (apparently there was something to be said for living in the Blue Zone), and ornate brickwork looked like it had been constructed for King Arthur’s court.

Out of sight inside the darkened church the men fired at Renny and Weasel. Weasel looked behind him, then kicked at a door and forced it open. He staggered inside the building.

Ed stumbled through the door and fell to the floor, scattering years of debris. Jason grabbed him and dragged him inside a few feet, into cover, then stepped over him to fire a few shots. Return fire thudded into the walls behind them.

Wheezing and hacking as he lay on the floor, Ed felt like he was dying. In all his years of fighting, he’d never seen anything like it. Tabs came at you in vehicles, behind armor, and only got out on foot to search buildings. But these soldiers today, they only had a few Growlers, and everyone else seemed to be on foot. He’d rarely seen so many Tabs on foot, and no matter how many they’d killed they kept coming. And coming. It had been a fighting retreat that had lasted… forever. Shoot and move, shoot and move, covering fire, short rushes between cover, zig-zagging through the neighborhoods, in-between houses, running through waist-high grass and over piles of bricks and wood that used to be homes, unable to breathe, legs leaden with exhaustion, eyes burning from sweat…

Ed rolled over onto his hands and knees and threw up for the third time, but there was nothing left in his stomach. Sweat was pouring off of him like he’d left a faucet on somewhere inside his armor.

Jason fired twice more and then there was a loud crash. Ed looked over to see Mark on the floor next to him, his face red and shiny. He looked like Ed felt. “I can’t… I can’t…” Mark gasped. His chest bucked as he fought for air like a fish out of water.

Ed staggered to his feet and joined Jason in the doorway, using the exterior bricks for cover. The street they’d been running down had ended here, in a T-intersection. The street stretching away from them was two lanes in each direction, low commercial buildings lining each side of the road past the cement sidewalks. There was a Growler less two hundred yards down, and Tabs on both sides of the street ahead of it, advancing in quick rushes, using the building doorways for cover. Ed saw at least ten soldiers on foot, plus however many were in the Growler.