James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

George patted John on the shoulder and made his way through the house and out the side door. Number Two’s side door was about twelve feet away directly across a narrow driveway that was half weeds. George quickly crossed the space and had to blink as bright sunlight was once again replaced by dim interior. Mark, Early, and the new kid were all inside the front room of the stuffy house, talking to two of Tony’s men. Tony’s kids, really; not one member of the squad was over twenty-five. Franklin and Theodore had only worked together once, about six months previous, and Tony’s young people had been competent, if a bit overeager for George’s taste.

“Gentlemen,” George said with a nod all around. Jeff and Tavon, he was pretty sure those were their names. They seemed in good spirits.

“How long you reckon we’re here, Cap’n?” Early asked George. He was keeping watch through tattered curtains pulled across the living room window.

“Just long enough,” George told him. Early nodded. No one who had any experience liked to spend time close to the Ditch. Too much chance of being noticed. And they’d packed a lot of Irregulars into a very small space, which was never a good idea. “You check if there’s any water?” George asked the big man.

“I think there’s a little bit left in the trap,” Jeff said.

“Don’t suppose y’all got any extra ammo laying around?” Early asked.

“We’re a little short of that ourselves,” Tavon admitted. “I was just about to ask you.”

“You okay?” George asked the young man. Tavon actually carried a Tavor; George was convinced that was God making some sort of cosmic joke. The Israeli-designed bullpup rifle looked odd, but was fed by standard AR-15 magazines. He wondered how many of the kid’s ammo pouches actually contained loaded magazines. Jeff carried an RPG, a launcher and three cone-shaped rocket-propelled grenades. It was an AirTronic copy of the classic Russian model, the design now more than seventy-five years old. The grenades themselves had been upgraded over the years, and would defeat most light armor. Toads, unfortunately, weren’t lightly armored except in a few, very hard-to-hit spots.

“Can’t complain,” Tavon said with a shrug, then smiled and added, “but sometimes I still do.”

George’s brows moved together, and he looked at Mark, who had a strange expression on his face.

“ My Maserati does one-eighty-five ,” George astonished the young men by singing softly. His voice was a little gravelly, but even.

“ I lost my license, now I don’t drive ,” Mark sang out, finishing the verse for him. Jeff, Tavon, and Jason all swiveled their heads around to look at the SAW gunner, as he and George burst out in harmony, “ Life’s been good to me so far ….” Stunned silence greeted their spontaneous outburst.

“Was that a song?” Jason finally asked.

“Christ,” Early muttered.

“Yes, it’s a song,” George growled, scowling. “You never heard of Joe Walsh? How about The Eagles?”

“What’s a Maserati?” Jeff asked.

Mark made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “I’m going to go kill myself now,” he announced, and stomped out of the room.

George traded a commiserating look with Early and then carefully picked his way through the jagged hole in the kitchen wall. He stepped out next to Franklin’s transportation wedged between Two and Three. The Toyota was dusty and a bit dented but overall appeared in good condition. George felt a pang of envy.

He stepped through the matching hole in the red bricks of Three—he didn’t know if it had been a grenade or something else that had damaged both houses, but other than the two ragged holes in their brickwork the four residences were in good shape. Inside Three he found Bobby, Quentin, and Arnold, one of Tony’s people. Arnold was a legendary asshole to anyone and everyone he met, but he’d proven himself under fire time and time again. The thick man hadn’t shaved in three days and sported a nearly full beard. He was happily eating a military nutro-bar and, of course, the thought of asking if anyone else wanted a bite never occurred to him.

“Hey Bodycount,” he said to George, his mouth full of food. “Thought you fellas had your tickets punched by a Toad.”

George gritted his teeth at the old nickname. “Just a little banged up, that’s all,” George said, never stopping. He found Ed in Number Four conferring with the other squad’s leader.

“George,” Tony said in greeting. He studied the compact man. “Pissed off as usual, I see.” The teenager keeping watch out the back door stifled a laugh.

“You got a whole squad of comedians here,” George said to him without humor. The young soldier in the room immediately grew serious. The lean intense man had earned the Bodycount nickname.

Tony smiled and just shook his head, then got back to business. “We’ve been talking about going across. Staggered over an hour or whatever, or all together?”

“All together,” George said without hesitation. “If anybody is out there watching I want all of us across before they have a chance to plan any surprises. And if they try something, it’ll be both of us pouring fire into them.”

“Well, I’ll defer to your guys’ judgment,” Tony said, frowning. “You’ve got the experience.” As far as he was concerned, two cars together was far too big of a target, but George wasn’t wrong either. There was no way to cross the Ditch without putting a big target on your back.

“I don’t want to burn too much daylight here.” George said.

“No,” Ed agreed. He dug out the small tablet and handed it to George. “That photo we downloaded earlier is over an hour old now. See if you can pull up a more recent one. I’m going to go up and get eyes on.”

Mark or Mike visibly straightened as Ed paused in the bedroom doorway. Theodore’s squad leader had as much of a reputation as anyone could have in their compartmentalized organization, and the young man eyed him appraisingly as the thin, bespectacled man stood in the center of the dim room and peered out the small window set high in the far wall.

“You Mark or Mike?” Ed asked without turning around.

“Mike.”

Ed glanced over his shoulder at the young man sitting at the table behind the spotting scope, then back out the window. Mike looked nervous.

“Seen anything?”

“Half a dozen on foot, and two vehicles in the past half hour or so.”

“Vehicles?”

“Passenger cars. Small, scooting along the far service drive.”

“Hmmm.” Ed lifted his binoculars to his eyes. He was far enough back from the window that light wouldn’t reflect off the lenses, but he still took a careful half step back as he studied the crossing.

The Interstate known as the Ditch, with its eight lanes split by a four-foot cement wall, was out of sight, a concrete channel carved into the earth thirty feet below street level. Once it had been the area’s busiest road traveled by tens of thousands every day, cutting through the meat of the northern suburbs. No one used it anymore; rubble from damaged and downed overpasses had rendered it impassable, at least to anything larger than motorcycles. The service drives on either side were used regularly.

The President where it crossed the Ditch was pockmarked by explosive damage so old nobody remembered if it had been caused by grenades, mortars, or an IED. Pedestrians could navigate its span safely, but vehicles had to use the intact crossovers a hundred yards to either side. Residential streets ran off the service drive to the south, the houses so close to the Ditch their second floor windows almost overlooked the abandoned traffic lanes far below. At the southwest corner of the intersection was the wreckage of a gas station, destroyed in a fire near the start of the war. Across the Pres from the station was a small strip mall, the stores now dusty and vacant.