James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

As the IMP grew close Ed set his rifle on the porch and slowly unslung the grenade launcher. The one round they had for the stubby weapon was already loaded and his hands clenched the wooden stock nervously. Weasel eyed the weapon and squirmed, perhaps hoping that with enough effort he’d be able to dig through the porch’s concrete with his knees and elbows.

Ed’s eyes darted this way and that, gauging, calculating, as the IMP rolled sedately on. His head sunk down until just half of one eye showed over the wall.

George was afraid to blink as the soldier stopped right in front of him, fiddling with the button-fly of his fatigue pants. He was young, not much older than Jason, but the rifle slung over his shoulder made his age meaningless. George could have reached out and touched him, he was that close.

“Whaddaya doin’?” one of his squadmates called out to him. The soldier turned halfway back, still fiddling with his fly. George’s right hand, unbidden, left the grip of his rifle and crept up toward the knife strapped upside down over his left breast.

“Takin’ a piss.” George’s hand froze, five inches short, as the soldier turned back.

The two men were so close George didn’t know how the soldier couldn’t hear his heart thumping in his chest, much less the ragged breathing he labored to subdue. They were practically eye to eye, and George knew if the young soldier looked up he’d be caught for sure. The soldier, however, was more interested in playing his urine over the grass and daylily blossoms. George felt drops hitting his boots but didn’t dare look down, instead slowly closing his eyes to mere slits so that when he did have to blink the movement would be less noticeable. He prayed he didn’t stink so badly the soldier could smell him.

Even though every cell in his body was telling Ed to get the hell down behind the wall, rationally he knew that none of the soldiers would spot his sliver of skull and eyeball behind the patchy shrub. Not unless they started up the steps to the porch, which was why he needed to keep a lookout. If any of the troops on foot headed his way he wanted to know about it before the man stumbled over them.

As to what kind of patrol it was Ed couldn’t be sure—the open-topped Growler confused him—no armor, and not even a roof? He had no way of knowing the troops inside weren’t happy about it either, but fully a third of the Army’s up-armored Growlers in the city were down for repairs, and the others were out with other patrols.

The soldiers weren’t searching the houses to either side, that much was clear. If their goal was just to make their presence felt in the outlying neighborhoods, Ed would’ve thought they’d all be packed into armored Growlers and cruising along at ten or fifteen miles an hour. Cover a lot more ground that way; he’d seen it done more than once.

The troops Ed was watching didn’t seem to be especially on edge; in fact, they looked rather bored. Bored, and painfully young, although maybe that was just him. They were wearing their ballistic helmets, though, even in the heat and humidity, which gave some indication as to their discipline. It also looked like they all had on the standard body armor with composite plate inserts at chest and back. As they kept coming Ed could see they were all sweating buckets. It was damnably hot, but this late in the season they should have been used to the heat. They were either new replacements or spent too much time in air-conditioned barracks.

He spotted a Sergeant on foot behind the IMP as it drew close, and the way one of the soldiers was slouching in the back of the Growler he had to be an officer, although he was too far away to see any rank.

Suddenly Ed twitched, realizing a soldier had veered off the sidewalk and was heading toward the side of the house, his house. There was another tall privet shielding that side of the porch as well, but Ed could tell the man had stopped just feet away. Spitting distance.

The IMP drew abreast of Ed, the exhaust a low grumble, its big tires quiet on the pavement. He stared with envy at the belt-fed grenade launcher on its roof. It was the perfect weapon for these neighborhoods and fired the same round as the weapon he held in his hands, but his was a break-open single shot. Theirs could fire a hundred rounds a minute. Its only drawback was that it was too big and heavy to be carried; it had to be mounted on a vehicle or a tripod.

One soldier had passed by on the sidewalk and another was drawing close as the IMP slowly swung past. Ed caught a glimpse of a gesturing hand at the back of the armored personnel carrier and then the roof gunner jerked in his perch and slumped over. A meaty smack combined with a loud SPANG!echoed down the street, then another, more recognizable sound. Gunshot.

Everyone froze for half a second, then someone yelled “Sniper!” and all hell broke loose.

The street looked like a kicked anthill as everyone scrambled. The soldier on the sidewalk in front of Ed charged directly at the porch, eyes wide. Weasel rose up and fired a long burst into the man’s upper chest and neck before he’d cleared the top step, aiming above the soldier’s armor plate. As the dead-on-his-feet soldier flew by him Ed straightened up and fired the grenade launcher at the rear of the IMP. The round exploded inside the open rear door just as several panicked soldiers were about to dive inside. Bodies flew and gunfire erupted all around.

George felt lightheaded from lack of oxygen as the soldier in front of him finally emptied his bladder and tucked himself away. In just a second he’d be able to take a normal breath, blink his itchy eyes, and…

The sound of the bullet impact and following gunshot was totally unexpected, and both men jumped. The young soldier saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head. For a fraction of a second George was still invisible to him, then his eyes went wide in shock and disbelief. George yanked his knife from its sheath and buried it in the boy’s neck, wrapping his other arm around his head. As he dragged him behind the bush George roughly sawed outward and felt the soldier kicking. He left him flailing on the ground and spun to face the street, finding the squad’s last hand grenade in his palm. Straight across from him was the Growler and he yanked the pin and heaved.

Whether he saw George, the incoming grenade, or both, one of the soldiers in the back of the Growler shouted a warning and jumped over the side. As he landed a blast at the back of the IMP knocked him off his feet, and then George’s grenade went bouncing by him to explode under the Growler. Both his legs were sheared off at the knees as the Growler lifted two feet into the air with a thunderous flash. Both men inside the vehicle died instantly from the shrapnel, as the underside of the vehicle was not armored. By the time the Growler was airborne George had his carbine up and was firing at the soldiers on the sidewalks. Most of them were less than fifty feet away, practically point-blank range.

The explosion at the IMP caused both Mark and Quentin to duck back from their windows, then they were firing at the troops on their side of the street. Mark let loose a long burst from the SAW. Two soldiers went down immediately. The others charged off the sidewalk and ducked between the houses.

“Fuck!” Mark yelled, hurtling himself across to the far side of the rotting living room. Just as he neared a small window one of the panicked soldiers appeared outside it. Mark fired a short burst, bringing the man down, but another soldier ran past the window and disappeared from view.

“Shoot boy, shoot!” Early yelled, dropping one of the soldiers on the sidewalk before the man could take two steps. Explosions near the two vehicles had bodies all over the road, men screaming. There was black smoke coming from the Growler. He heard what had to be the sniper’s weapon again, something heavy and distant, but still had no idea where the shots were coming from. He poured fire at every soldier he saw not flat on the ground, then heard shouting next door. He looked across his shouldered rifle to see Quentin trip and fall trying to exit the next house through the ragged hole in the wall. Early instinctively lunged that way. By the time Early reached the gap in his own house Quentin was up and suddenly there was a soldier running between the two houses, looking for an escape route. They shot him in the back and he slid to a stop in the tall grass.