James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

The IMP rolled forward slowly, keeping pace with the soldiers on foot to either side. Its top hatch was open, providing cover to the rear for the soldier manning the roof gun, in this case a belt-fed grenade launcher. The dismounted infantry fanned out as they approached the intersection, looking up and down what, to them, was a cross street. Ed glanced back across the street needlessly to make sure his own people were still out of sight.

The IMP rode on eight big rubber tires and had a well-designed engine. Even with its top and back hatches open it was a quiet vehicle. What had alerted Ed was the four-wheel-drive passenger vehicle behind the IMP—everyone, even Army troops, called it a Growler because of its diesel engine, which was shockingly loud at speed. Even at barely more than idling its rattling exhaust echoed off the houses. It had been around a corner, over a hundred yards away, and Ed had still heard it.

This IMP—and in fact every IMP Ed had seen in the city in the last five years, without exception—wore slat armor around its exterior. The standoff armor was a simple defense against rockets, and it looked like someone had welded a fence around the exterior of the armored personnel carrier, about a foot away from the surface of the vehicle. Incoming rockets or grenades would detonate upon hitting the metal slats, and the explosive force would spread out across the surface of the armor rather than penetrate it. The end result was awkward and ugly, and made the IMPs look like giant grocery carts. It also significantly increased their already large footprint, which meant they couldn’t fit down some alleys and narrow streets.

“Keep going, keep going, keep going,” Ed murmured, thinking he was the only member of the squad that could see what was coming. But George, after darting between the houses, had circled around the back of the one holding Ed and Weasel. He made his way to the south side of the house, which faced the intersection. It was overgrown, and he slid along the brick hidden by gnarly yew bushes until he was nearly underneath the raised porch. George was on the ground and therefore didn’t have quite as good a view as Ed, but he could see enough. He cursed silently.

Ed watched the Army patrol approach the intersection. They were in standard formation, a well-spaced line of troops to either side of the street, supported by—in this instance—two vehicles. They were still too far away to get a good head count, but whatever their numbers he knew his squad did not have the resources to take them on.

The troops on foot seemed to spread out and pause in their forward advance, letting the IMP enter the intersection. Without hesitation it turned left and began rolling up the street right at Ed.

“Shit,” Ed whispered, pressing his forehead to the warm brick. He collected himself and looked back up the street. Still coming, with the Growler now making the turn. His position on the porch now seemed ill-advised and untenable. The house’s front door was in place and intact. Weasel was on his side in the far corner of the porch trying to become invisible. Ed gestured at the door.

Weasel stretched out, staying low, and extended a booted foot. He pushed against the door, then again, harder. The door didn’t budge. Weasel shook his head and rolled over onto his stomach, clutching his subgun and peering sideways out the opening in the wall where the front steps rose up.

Ed peered over the wall again, heart hammering in his chest. He had a good view of the patrol and didn’t like what he saw. He counted five men on foot on either side of the street, on the sidewalks and with proper intervals. There were three in the Growler, a driver with two bored-looking men in back. It was an open-topped Growler, not one of the up-armored hardtopped models he was used to seeing in the city. One of the men inside was probably the ranking officer, but they were too far away to read insignia. As for the IMP, it had a driver somewhere out of sight behind the narrow slit filled with thick armored glass that provided him protection in exchange for poor visibility. The roof gunner was the only other occupant of the personnel carrier Ed could see, but he was well aware there could be more inside. The rear hatch was open, but until the vehicle passed his location he wouldn’t be able to see into it.

Between the IMP and the Growler, in the street and on foot, were two more soldiers. That made at least seventeen men in the patrol, versus his poorly armed seven. One of whom was a cherry who’d never pulled a trigger on another human being, but Ed didn’t want to think about that now. He signaled seventeen plus to Weasel, who shook his head.

“You stay the hell away from that window boy,” Early murmured, his voice so low Jason almost missed it. The inside of the house was like a cave, even with the big window in front and half the south wall gone. The two of them stood in darkness to either side of the empty window frame, peering out past the overgrown bushes and over the long grass.

Early’d snuck a peek up the street and had seen what was coming their way, but Jason was on the wrong side of the window to see anything but the street back the way they’d come, and then only if he craned his head out. His quivering body was wedged tight into the dark front corner of the room, hands so sweaty he was afraid his rifle would slip out and bang onto the floor. All he could do was listen to the ominous growing sounds.

Early stole another glance out the window—yep, still coming. He didn’t know what kind of patrol it was—they didn’t seem to be checking the houses to either side—but they definitely had his boys outnumbered and outgunned. But weren’t they always? Though he hated to do it, best thing would be to hide and hope they kept on going. He moved back into the dark corner and glanced at the boy, who looked ready to wet himself. Early’d already told him to hug the wall no matter what, unless he saw him start shooting. Well, whatever happened, happened.

There was a big hole in the far wall of the small house. Through it he could see the bungalow next door, also crumbling, sunlight, and a lot of waist high weeds. He was pretty sure Quentin and Mark were in there, but things had been pretty hectic there for a few short seconds and he wasn’t totally sure who had scurried where. Ed and Weasel were most likely near that raised porch across the street, but he hadn’t a clue as to where George had disappeared to. He just hoped that if any shooting started that nobody found themselves in a crossfire.

Mark had almost popped Quentin as he came crawling in through the jagged hole in the side of the house. They each had a window to peek out of and neither liked what they saw. They caught sight of the IMP about the time the Growler made the turn, and both faded back away from the windows, trading hand signals. They stayed on the ground floor of the house—on the ground, you could always retreat out the back. On the second floor, if someone got in the house the only options were to fight your way down the stairs or jump out a window. Mark had had to do that once, and didn’t wish to again. His knees were already in bad shape, and even with only half a belt of ammo left the SAW was not light.

As the IMP and dismounted soldiers drew closer George cursed his own judgement and tried to disappear into the undergrowth. He was dressed in earth tone clothing, his plate carriers tan, his Springfield AR painted a nice camo pattern, backed into a privet bush, behind a big, seven-foot yew, standing in thigh-high grass and day-lilies that reached past his belt, but still he felt naked.

The IMP rolled inexorably on and in a few short seconds had drawn abreast of the house next door. George stood frozen in the bushes as the soldiers on foot drew close. The grunt on point was a few steps in front of the IMP and glanced at the space between the houses but never left the sidewalk. George was just starting to breathe a little easier when the second man in line broke formation and walked straight toward him.