James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

At the corner of The Pres was a two story cube of red brick and white siding, the first of four stretching from the side street nearly to the service drive along The Pres. Ed didn’t know if they’d originally been rental units or privately owned homes, and didn’t care. He only cared about who might be inside them, especially the furthest one south. Its second-floor window provided a great view of the Ditch, both service drives, and The Pres for over a quarter mile past the expressway.

Ed signaled to the men behind him and across the street to give him more of a lead, then stood up and carefully moved forward once more. He had no doubt many of the closed garages he was passing contained cars, but nobody parked a car with gas in it—unguarded—where it could be seen. Gas was in perpetual short supply, but siphon hoses were not.

Ed reached the last house and paused underneath the gnarled branches of a flowering crab tree. Ahead of him was an expanse of grass and beyond it the row of four block houses. The fire-gutted hulks of two cars sat on their frames near the brick edifices, weeds growing through the ragged holes in their bodies. The rear doors of all four houses were gone or splintered into uselessness, and most of the glass was gone from their window frames. Ed couldn’t see anything in the shadows within the houses, but he was on high alert; parked between the center two houses, hidden from casual observation, was a battered full-size Toyota pickup.

The north-side lookout was in the second-floor window of Number One and had spotted George about ten houses away from the corner. Word had been passed, and by the time Ed paused at the last house and stared at the dark interior of Number Four half a dozen weapons were trained on him.

Standing well back from the empty window frame, the tall man peered through his binoculars at Ed. The lenses brought the squad leader’s thin face into sharp focus. The man made a sound and let the binoculars fall on their strap around his neck. With one hand on the carbine slung over his shoulder, slowly chewing a piece of turkey jerky, the man stepped forward and stopped in the open doorway in full view of their visitor.

Ed blinked as the man, wearing a plate carrier and magazine pouches, appeared suddenly in the doorway, looking right at him. The two men stared at each other for a second, then he was gone, sliding back into the shadows of the house. Ed signaled for his squad to stay put and slowly rose. He looked around once more, then, keeping both hands on his carbine but pointing it at the ground in front of him, carefully walked across the open grass to the house.

Ed stepped through the doorway and blinked as his eyes adjusted. There were three men in the room with him, two of them pointing rifles at the floor near his feet. The third was the man who’d shown himself to Ed. Ed looked at the two men covering him, his face unreadable, not moving his hands from his carbine, then moved his eyes to the tall man with the binoculars around his neck.

“Theodore,” the man said.

“Franklin,” Ed said. “You got room at the inn?”

The tall man’s face cracked open in a huge grin. “Shit, Ed, I thought you were dead. I heard you had a nasty run-in with a Toad.” He stuck out a bony hand and the two men shook.

Ed shrugged. “Weasel’s got a cracked rib, but we didn’t lose anybody.” Even inside the house they spoke quietly out of habit.

“The geriatric squad pulls one out again,” one of the two rifle-toters said, slinging his weapon over his shoulder. Ed couldn’t remember his name, Mike or Mark, but he was just a kid, maybe twenty years old. “You move pretty quiet in those silver sneakers.” Someone nearby chuckled. Ed ignored him.

“Clear to roll ‘em up?” Ed asked.

“Yeah, it’s pretty quiet today.”

Ed stepped into the doorway and signaled to George across the street. He couldn’t see George, but he knew he was somewhere over there, hunkered down, watching.

“You get a call too?”

Ed stepped back into the darkened room and looked at the tall man. “We’re compartmentalized for a reason, Tony,” was all he said.

Tony tried to suppress a grin. Ed was still Ed.

“Jesus,” Mark or Mike said in exasperation, with perhaps just a hint of admiration. His partner leaned his rifle against the wall and pulled out a canteen.

Tony tried a different tack. “Charlie said everybody was invited.” He looked at Ed with raised eyebrows.

Ed didn’t change his sour expression, but did say, “Well, then, I guess that includes us.”

Tony’s eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. “You ever wonder how many of us there are? Not just us ARF Irregulars, necessarily, but who all else is out there. Because you know they’re out there, people that just showed up, on their own, alone or in pairs, guns in hand. I’ve seen them. We’ve all seen them. More at the start of the war, but they’re still out there.”

“War tourists,” Mark/Mike said dismissively.

“It’s not tourism if they’re fighting,” Ed said sternly. “Hell, just heading into the city can get you killed whether or not you’ve got a gun in your hands. They’re not getting Uncle Charlie’s intel, but then again if they’re unaffiliated… if our network gets compromised, the Irregulars wiped out cell by cell, it won’t affect them at all. They’ll still be out there stirring up trouble. Fighting for what’s right.”

“Always the optimist,” Tony said, grinning but shaking his head.

“You call them ‘war tourists’ now, but those solos were the first ones to fight. They’re the ones who lit the fire. And I’d wager they’ve killed as many Tabs as ARF with its tanks and planes and uniforms, all told.”

“You think?”

The squad came in slowly, one man at a time. George was last, signaling to Quentin as he crossed the street at a jog. George stood watch at the corner of Number One, the northernmost house, as Quentin rolled the Ford down the street.

“Christ, what the hell is that?” Tony exclaimed as he watched the abused SUV slowly hop the curb. Quentin pulled it between the third and fourth houses and cut the engine, hoping it would start back up when they needed it. Just to the south of Number Four was a long, low brick building, a dentist’s office still sometimes open for business, and it shielded the ground floors of the four houses from any prying eyes that might be across the Ditch.

“We lost our wheels,” Ed told him. “That’s all we could find on short notice.” His squad was spread out among the four houses, as was Tony’s.

“I’m impressed you could even get it running.” Mark or Mike snickered, and Tony turned toward the young man.

“Get back upstairs and get an eye on the Ditch,” he said shortly. The boy sobered up immediately and disappeared.

George stepped into One and found Weasel talking quietly with John, Franklin squad’s SAW gunner.

“John, how you doing?” George shook his hand, checking him over. The small man looked healthy, and was recently shaved. His equipment appeared in good condition. “Franklin in good shape?”

“Nothing that couldn’t be fixed by a week on the beach,” John said, his smile missing a few teeth. He’d written FREEDOM ISNT FREE in big block letters with a black magic marker across the back and front of his plate carrier.

“Sign me up for that too,” Weasel said wistfully.

“Who’s upstairs with the eye?” George asked.

“Sheila.”

“Oh yeah?” Weasel said, glancing at the stairs, suddenly interested.

George was short with him. “She saw you coming in. If she wanted another go-round with you she’d have come down. And you’ve got birds to clean, we can’t afford for that meat to go to waste.”

George’s attempt to discourage him had zero effect on Weasel. “She’s on lookout, she can’t come down,” he told George as explanation. “The birds’ll keep for a bit.” He laid pleading eyes on John. “Can you relieve her?” he begged.