James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

The soldiers took the corner with a crunch of boots and rushed down the alley to the glass back door. As they put their hands on the handles Weasel and Renny shot them through the glass.

Weasel gestured and Renny followed him deeper into the building. “How many more are out there?” Weasel said, grunting more than talking.

“At least four.” Renny saw the blood running down Weasel’s side, soaking his pantleg. “You got hit?”

Weasel didn’t answer and instead pointed at Renny’s abdomen, which was bloody. “You got hit?”

Renny shrugged, and Weasel shook his head. “Well, we’re in sorry fucking shape,” he said, but he was smiling. “But I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.” Renny snorted. “You want to see if we can get some more of these assholes, then get the fuck out of here before we bleed out?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Out-fucking-standing.”

Ed fired twice and saw chunks of concrete fly right next to the soldier’s head. The Tab ducked back behind the building. “Dammit!” he swore.

The enemy soldiers had worked their way steadily closer. The man he’d just missed was maybe forty yards away. The Tabs had lost three men working their way up the street, but Ed had caught glimpses of at least five more soldiers out there, not including whoever was in the Growler, if anyone was, which was tucked in-between two buildings maybe a hundred yards out.

“Jason!” Ed called out. When the boy looked over Ed pointed at the far side of the restaurant. None of them had checked that side recently.

Jason crouched and ran to the far side of the dining area and popped his head up. He didn’t see anyone. Just to be sure, he made for the kitchen, to check the back door.

He’d just entered the kitchen when he heard a sound, off to the side. Jason shouldered his rifle and moved forward, frowning. Where he’d thought he’d heard something, the kitchen was empty. But then he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and looked over and out the drive-thru window. There were two soldiers creeping along the building. He lunged forward and fired a volley of shots. The two men went down, one instantly dead, the other kicking wildly, blood spraying from his neck in crimson jets. Jason forced himself away from the carnage and went to check the back door. With all of the shooting he was nearly deaf, they all were, and someone could have forced it open without them noticing. But it was still secure.

There was shooting, a lot of shooting, very close by, but none of it was at them. Early moved slowly up the alley behind the building, rifle up, and paused before the corner. It wasn’t the shooting he was most interested in, it was the low rumble of the idling Growler. From the sound, it had to be right around the corner. Then he heard talking, and static. Someone was using a radio.

He pulled his long rifle back, tucked it against his body, and slowly peeked his head around the cinderblock wall of the building. Early took in the sights for two seconds, then pulled his head back just as slowly.

Making a decision, he bent down and leaned his rifle against the building, then pulled the suppressed .22 pistol from the shoulder holster across his chest. He looked over his shoulder and signaled Seattle to cover him. Seattle nodded.

Early counted down with his fingers, 3, 2, 1, and then went around the corner smooth and low, pistol up in a two-handed grip. The Growler was parked between one-story commercial buildings, nose out. The driver’s door was open, and the man behind the wheel had a radio microphone in his hand.

Early moved to the rear of the idling vehicle, then rushed forward. The soldier heard his boots on the gravel and turned. Early shot him in the eye four times before the man had time to react, then transitioned over to the soldier in the passenger seat and emptied the rest of the magazine into his surprised face.

The suppressed gunshots were impossible to hear over the Growler’s rumbling exhaust echoing off the buildings and the near constant gunfire beyond. Early was hidden from view on three sides by the building, vehicle, and the open door. Crouched low, he looked out at the street but didn’t see anything. The shooting, the intensity of which seemed to ebb and flow, was further down the street near the end of the block. There was a distant explosion, then a flurry of gunfire, which ended suddenly. He backed up and went around the rear of the vehicle to the passenger side, staying low. Then he peeked over the tall hood, up the street.

Early ducked back down, turned, and gestured to Seattle. The man scurried to his side and Early pointed up the street. One look was all it took. Seattle raised his suppressed DMR and laid it across the hood of the Growler. The running engine provided a slight vibration which would have been unwanted if he’d had to do any real precision shooting, but the three soldiers he saw, crouching down behind cover, their backs to him, were just seventy-five yards away or less.

Early had loose .22 rounds in a pocket with which he could reload his pistol magazine, but didn’t have the time. He stuffed it back in the holster as he ran back around the corner, grabbed his M1A, and continued down the alley, hoping to flank the Tabs. He had a pretty good idea who they were shooting at. He’d moved thirty feet when he heard the first hissing crack of Seattle’s rifle.

Weasel fired several aimed shots on semi-auto at the Tab who’d circled around the far side of the building somehow without getting spotted. The soldier was in the doorway of a small burned-out restaurant, across a parking lot. The Tab responded by firing another burst, and Weasel ducked as shards of glass pelted him. “Fuck this guy!” he spat, shaking glass out of his hair.

“I think I can get an angle on him,” Renny said. He jogged, wincing, down the hall further into the building, then through a door into what had been a coffee shop. He was peering around a display board, trying to decide if he needed to climb onto a counter, when there was a huge volume of full-auto fire seemingly right on top of him, and screaming.

Renny ran for the door, pain forgotten, flipping the selector on Sarah’s SBR to full-auto. He barreled through the doorway into the corridor and found himself behind three Tabs, two of whom were advancing on Weasel. His eyes took the scene in at a glance—one of the Tabs was down on a knee, blood pouring out of him. Weasel was on his back, scrambling backward, MP5 nowhere to be found, eyes wide, blood all over the wall behind him.

With a wordless shout Renny opened up on the two soldiers from six feet away. They spun as the bullets hit their armor and helmets, necks and shoulders, one man falling away, the other firing a wild burst even as he went down. Renny slipped on spent cases and fell to the marble floor, landing hard.

He saw stars and fought to sit up. As he did he raised his weapon and tried to fire at the soldiers but nothing happened. Renny looked stupidly at his rifle, after a few seconds realizing he’d emptied the magazine. With a grunt he pulled his Glock, shot the one thrashing soldier, then swung his gun over to the man Weasel had injured and put a round in the back of his neck. He heard pounding feet and twisted his body to see a Tab soldier come running around a corner into the corridor, his rifle up. The man Weasel had been shooting at outside.

The man’s rifle actually blocked his view of Renny on the floor, just for a fraction of a second, but that was enough for Renny to start firing his Glock. He hit the man three times in the thighs and the soldier fell and skidded across the slick marble floor. Renny stuck his gun out and, one-handed, the muzzle of his suppressor four inches from the man’s face, emptied the rest of the magazine.