James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

Food they could make do without, and he’d been hungry for days, but water was a necessity. They weren’t out, not yet, but each member of the squad had at least one empty canteen hanging off him. While the others ate George and Early prowled the neighboring houses, looking not just for forgotten canned food but standing water, concealed rain traps, anything they could run through their water purifier. They did this every time the squad stopped, security permitting. Usually the searches turned up zero food, but water was a different story. After moving stealthily through the city for years, the squads had set up hundreds if not thousands of rain traps in abandoned residences and commercial buildings. Most of them were simple, a pot or pan placed where it would catch the runoff from a hole in the ceiling, but every little bit helped. Also, just about every house had a water heater, and even if it wasn’t whole there was usually an inch or two of water inside. Of course, they weren’t the only thirsty souls wandering the streets, and while the military handed out jugs of water at the distribution centers it was never enough. George and Early returned dusty and sweaty and handed back most of the squad’s canteens still empty. Not all, though; they’d managed to get enough out of one rusty water heater to fill two canteens, which was better than nothing.

The squad passed one of the full canteens around, everyone taking a few big gulps, and by the time they’d all taken a turn the plastic container was empty again. Ed hung it on his belt in back and they moved out.

As they headed south, the prevalent single-story wood frame houses clad in siding slowly gave way to bigger, older residences. Brick became the exterior of choice, red and dark brown mostly, the houses square two-story affairs with raised, covered front porches and detached garages in back. The garages were usually in worse shape than the houses. Very few trees were to be seen; most were ornamentals planted up close to the houses, now shaggy and uneven.

Ed took the left side of the street, on point. He preferred to stay in the tall grass near the houses but many of them had yards bordered with chain link and he had to keep weaving down to the sidewalk and back. Weasel was behind him, George bringing up the rear. Across the street Mark led that column and was having the same trouble with fences. Early trailed far behind, watching their rear.

Ed glanced up to the right at the sun beating down on him, then across the street at the rest of the squad. Should’ve chosen that side , he thought to himself selfishly, not really meaning it. Mark’s line of men weaved in and out of cool shade thrown by the houses. He guessed it was close to ninety degrees, with high humidity. Which wouldn’t have been unpleasant at all, if he’d been in a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. The armor plates front and back trapped heat like an oven door.

Walking slowly in the sun, the only sound they heard was the buzz of cicadas, the chirp of birds, the distant bark of a dog, and the rush of swaying grass. Fat bumblebees dipped and wove in the air above the grass. Every once in a while they’d hear the fierce chitter of an unseen squirrel announcing his displeasure at their arrival. Now that nature was halfway back to reclaiming the city, the wildlife was abundant; Ed had seen squirrels, rabbits, pheasants, chipmunks, turkeys, even deer in the decaying neighborhoods thick with vegetation. Plus packs of wild dogs. Not to mention the bear they’d seen the day before.

They were slowly approaching the only car on the block, a burned-out hulk sitting near the right curb. All that was left of it was the frame sitting on dented rims, brown rust slowly eating the black scorch marks. Ed scanned the street ahead, the houses to his left, then the ones across the street. Nothing but the squad could be seen moving, unless the bugs dancing over the grass counted. There were signs of foot traffic all over the neighborhood, cutting back and forth from the sidewalk to the street, but it seemed to be the work of individuals rather than a patrol moving in formation.

The trails in the grass didn’t appear to be fresh – they were all a day old, at least. Ed had gotten good at reading sign, and if he’d taken the time to confer with George he would’ve concurred. Ed preferred patrolling in late summer, not because of the heat, which he despised, but because of the grass. In their muted clothing he could hardly spot the rest of his patrol across the street slowly moving through the green and brown stalks waving slightly in the breeze, brushing past overgrown bushes, and he knew right where to look. When they paused in the shadows, they simply disappeared.

As he passed abreast of the rusting hulk in the street another fence pushed him back down to the sidewalk. Ed glanced across and saw a rusting fence line forcing Mark and his column to do the same thing. They’d been on the move half an hour, and had covered maybe four-tenths of a mile, when Ed, still on point, froze and reflexively held up a fist. Everyone stopped immediately, even Jason, who’d been looking across the street past Ed at the dilapidated houses overgrown with weeds. They slowly crouched in the long grass and gripped their rifles tighter, wondering.

Ed stared down the street, not sure what had brought him up short. He hadn’t seen anything, nothing was moving in the heat, but there’d been something… he cocked his head.

“Move!” he hissed, afraid to shout, charging blindly at the nearest house. The adrenaline surge had his heart in his throat as he ran all out. He found he was angling toward a raised brick front porch with low walls and prayed he’d make it in time.

The rest of the squad had heard it at nearly the same instant and reflexes took over. They scrambled away from the open street toward the cover of the houses. Weasel was right on Ed’s heels and landed on him as both men launched themselves up the steps onto the crumbling porch. George darted between the houses just behind them, nearly falling in the grass. Across the street Mark bolted into one of a pair of houses that had crumbled into each other. Quentin dashed into the rubble between the two, nearly impaling himself on a jutting splintered two-by-four.

Jason saw the squad disappear in the blink of an eye, bounding through the grass like jackrabbits. Then Early had him by the collar and was shoving him toward the nearest house.

“Go!” the old man grunted as he passed Jason on the run. Jason automatically glanced up the street, still not seeing anything, but he ran after Early all the same. As big as he was Early moved like a man possessed, and was through the open doorway of the nearest house before Jason reached its porch.

“Unhh!” The concrete floor of the porch did nothing to soften the impact as Weasel landed on top of Ed. The men rolled away from each other to opposite sides of the small porch, panting.

The low brick wall that encircled the porch gave them more than enough cover, and Ed hated to poke his head out, but he had to do it. An overgrown half-dead privet bush stuck up six inches past the top of the porch wall and afforded him even more concealment as he turned his head sideways and slowly raised it to peer out.

Ed had just enough time to see his squad was out of sight before he spotted movement at the end of the block. The cross-street was just four or five houses down in the direction the squad had been heading. Peering through the browning leaves of the privet, at first all Ed could see was indeterminate movement. After a second, though, the shape of a soldier dressed in camouflage revealed itself to him. Then another, on the far side of the intersecting street. Then the blunt nose of an IMP armored personnel carrier rolled into view.

“Fuck,” Weasel whispered, sinking back down below the wall. He patted his chest, reassuring himself that his spare magazines were still there. He’d have felt a lot better if more than two of them had been fully loaded.