James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

“Jesus, he could be anywhere,” Ed breathed, thinking of the sniper. He tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Go on back and gear up,” he told him. “We’ve gotta move.”

He stood behind the rusting car husk which smelled of charcoal, staring at the street and listening to his men behind him. He could hear the clank and rattle of metal, the gurgle and splash of water, and the groans as they tried to get used to the weight of much-needed gear and water and ammunition.

“Hey. Ow!” Early was just throwing things into Jason’s backpack. Hard metal corners were jabbing at him. Everyone jumped at a nearby gunshot and turned to see Weasel stuffing a snubnose revolver back into a pocket. Jason realized he’d been hearing a low groaning sound nearby, and now that sound had stopped. Fresh blood seeped from the head of the soldier at Weasel’s feet.

Jason turned to Early, but the big man cut him off before he could say anything. “We don’t take prisoners, boy,” he said roughly. Beyond Weasel George was rising from a crouch, a bloody long-bladed knife in his hand. He was cutting the throats of the wounded, as it was quieter and didn’t use any ammunition. Jason was shocked.

Every vehicle in the army’s inventory was equipped with a GPS transponder that broadcast its exact position day and night. As soon as someone in headquarters realized they’d lost contact with the column they’d be able to get a fix on the IMP accurate to within one square meter. They’d see the column was stopped, and when further attempts to raise the vehicles on the radio were unsuccessful a phone call would be made. Airborne reconnaissance would be next, unless another patrol was close by. The column of black smoke rising from the burning Growler would make a spotter’s job just that much easier, but depending on how close the nearest fighter or helicopter was, it might be another five or fifteen minutes before they had eyes on target. The squad needed to be long gone before then.

The Army would probably assume they were using the standard guerrilla tactic of hit and run which meant they’d also assume they’d head back north. At least, Ed hoped so. He swept the street with his eyes one final time, then backed up to the IMP. Quentin grabbed him by the shoulder straps of his plate carriers and hooked the lever of a grenade through a MOLLE strap. Quentin had two hanging from his chest already. Ed smiled at him, then grabbed an ammo can, surprised at its weight. “Let’s go. Doubletime.”

The squad spread out and began jogging down the sidewalk. They didn’t have time to be discreet; what they needed was distance between them and the ambush site. They needed to move .

The extra water and weapons and ammo were heavy and awkward but time was their enemy now, not noise. On the sidewalk at least the tall grass to either side would shelter them somewhat from inquisitive eyes. Ed was in the lead, setting the pace, watching the houses to either side and scanning the sky. His carbine hung across his chest by its sling and he kept one hand on its grip both to keep it from bouncing and to remain ready for any other surprises that might pop up. The grenade hanging from his webgear bounced around a little but seemed firmly attached. He glanced behind him and saw the rest of the squad spread out in a ragged line, jogging along with good intervals between them. They were all carrying extra gear, ammo cans, backpacks, even a few rifles.

The squad neared the end of the first block and Ed, in the lead, paused. He checked the cross-street, glancing both ways, paying close attention to the direction from which the patrol had come. Nothing, but then he hadn’t expected to see anything—if there’d been another patrol anywhere nearby they would have raced up as soon as they heard the first shot. He sprinted across the intersection, breath loud in his ears. The rest of his squad followed, dashing across the street singly and in pairs. After checking that the rest of the squad was still coming Ed jogged on.

It was ninety degrees in the shade and every man had been carrying thirty to forty pounds of gear before they’d started looting the soldiers’ bodies. In the baking sun their burdens doubled in weight, then quadrupled. The heat and the long days without adequate food or water had them gasping for air after two minutes. By the end of the second block so much sweat was running into Ed’s eyes he was having trouble seeing but he didn’t dare slow down.

“C’mon! Go! Go!” George urged his squadmates, his breath coming out in rasps. Between his own gear and what they’d taken off the bodies he was carrying a hundred pounds on his back. His thighs felt like they wanted to seize up. Instead he helped Mark, grabbing the big man by his webbing when he tripped over a buckled sidewalk slab and almost fell.

Two blocks covered, then three. Ed checked his watch without stopping, barely able to focus on the dial as he fought for air. To do it he had to lift the ammo can to shoulder height and his arm, already on fire, started shaking. His fingers were cramping up, yet one more burning pain shooting through his body.

They’d been on the move for just over four minutes. His urge to put distance between themselves and the ambush location was tempered with the knowledge that if they didn’t slow down, they could run into something nasty and never spot it until it was too late.

At least half a mile. That’s how far Ed figured they needed to be from the ambush site before they went to ground. They hit another cross-street and dashed across it in pairs. The houses here were in bad shape, some nothing more than piles of rubble. There’d been a lot of fighting here once. They could still smell the smoke from the fires that had charred them years before. Charred timbers shot skyward from jagged clots of broken brick. The curbs were choked with mangled vehicles and Ed eyed their dark interiors suspiciously until he heard something bump in a house as he jogged by. He gripped his carbine tighter. Running headlong into unknown areas of the city was the closest thing to suicide he’d ever attempted, but they couldn’t stop, not yet.

George was having trouble keeping up under his payload and Early dropped back in the pack to give him a hand. “C’mon boss,” Early urged the compact man between gasps. Early grabbed hold of George’s shoulder strap and pulled him on. George was panting hoarsely with the effort of running and he didn’t have the air to argue.

Ed reached the end of the block and peered out past the tall grass, trying not to gasp for air too loudly. The cross-street dead-ended a block to the left at what once had been a park. To the right, about two hundred yards down, was a jumbled pile of cars that had perhaps once been part of a roadblock. With a grunt Ed jogged across the open space toward the safety of the tall grass on the far side. Three houses down from the corner he checked his watch and slowed to a walk. Sweat dripped off his nose.

The squad formed up behind him, gasping and coughing. Mark vomited quietly but angrily waved off worried looks. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Ed checked to make sure everyone was caught up and looked past them. The column of smoke from the Growler no longer seemed close. He pointed at the houses to their right. The squad silently disappeared into the shadows.

On either side of the crumbling ruin of a house they swished slowly through the grass. There were fences separating many of the back yards, but most of them had been knocked down or ripped up for reasons unknown.

Behind the house they spread out and paused, watching and listening. Insects, birds, and the distant hollow hammering of a woodpecker were they only sounds they heard. Slowly and carefully they began moving southward through the backyards between two rows of houses. They crouched low, staying in the shadows and grass, peering into the houses and between them, listening. Gradually their pounding hearts slowed, and their breath came easier.