James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

“Loaded? After this little dustup? One. Barely. Got six or seven empties on me.”

George handed the can to Quentin. It was passed down the stairs to Early, who sat against the cool basement wall to open it.

“Gonna be a pain to de-link all that, but I didn’t think you’d mind,” George called out with a smile.

Early pulled a shiny belt of ammo from the can and a big smile broke across his face. It was the real stuff, not the popgun rounds everyone else carried, and the same type of ammo he had in his rifle now, so he wouldn’t have to re-zero. “Naw, don’t think I will. Hot damn!” He preferred using a hammer to de-link, but a loose brick would do the job just fine.

“Oh. Weasel, here.” Weasel moved to the bottom of the steps and George dumped several objects into his hand. Weasel looked to see four fully-loaded pistol magazines. “Nine millimeter. That’ll fill at least a couple of your MP5 mags.” George headed back into the kitchen.

“Hell yeah. Sweetness!”

Ed chuckled and stared at the huge pile of confiscated gear still in the kitchen. “Jesus, how much did we get?”

George shook his head. “Enough to share, if we need to. Or trade. Who knows what kind of shape other squads’ll be in once they make it to the RP. Half the guys on that patrol were armed with old M4s for whatever reason. Between what I stripped off their bodies and an ammo can full of loaded mags in the IMP we’ve now got over ninety mags of five-five-six between the four of us that’re using them, if you can fucking believe it. And at least two spare canteens of water each.” He laughed and shook his head. “No food, of course. Well, three meal packs to split between seven guys. What’s that, about five hundred calories a person?”

“More like a thousand. And better than nothing.”

George shrugged noncommittally. “Thirteen hand grenades, mostly frags, plus eleven rounds for your grenade launcher. We grabbed three M4 carbines that look older than I am, but at least that means they were never fitted with chips. I’m thinking we pull the bolt carriers out of two for parts and give the third to Jason.”

Ed continued shaking his head as he stared at all the looted gear. “Jesus, we’re rich.”

Early knelt in the dim living room and helped Jason wrestle on the gear someone had stripped from a fallen soldier specifically with the young man in mind. There was a spot of blood on one strap that Jason eyed warily, but he didn’t say anything as Early helped him into the uncomfortable harness. He hated the new rifle they’d given him, it didn’t point naturally at all, but he knew he’d have to get used to it.

Early helped him stuff the pouches of the vest with magazines for the rifle and then told him to walk around so he could get used to the weight. Between the armor plates and magazines and the four full canteens it was a struggle for Jason even to get to his feet. Early hid a smile and watched the kid walk away, then turned to peer out the back windows of the house.

“Early?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t we take prisoners? Why were Weasel and George killing their wounded?”

Early looked and saw the teenager was seriously bothered. “Well, there’s two answers to that. First one is… where would we take them? It’s not like we’ve got a base. Or vehicles to transport them. We wander around, causing trouble, living in empty houses and borrowed basements, and then when the cold rolls in either do more of the same or we hol’ up with friends or relatives or in our own houses, far away from the trouble.”

“We could let them live, let the Army treat their injuries.”

Early nodded. “And that’s the other part of it. At the start of the war we let them be, tried to do the civilized thing. Let the Tabs recover their wounded. Not now. Not after ten years. Because they just keep coming back, like the tide. At this point we’ve all realized we’re in a war of attrition—that means neither side is going to surrender, the war only ends when one side has been ground down so much they’ve got no one left who can fight. They’ve had their chance. Any Tabs still fighting are either too mean or too stupid to know they’re on the side of evil.”

“And after the war? In any other war, you capture POWs, at the end of the war you send ‘em home. Which is somewhere else, a whole ‘nother country. Over there somewhere.” He waved his hand vaguely. “After World War II the Germans were sent back to Germany, where they could be Germans, and be nowhere near us. That’s not what this war is. The Tabs live here; win or lose, they’re not going anywhere. Even if they’re not fightin’, and we’re all peaceable and neighborly, they’ll still believe the same things that caused the war in the first place—socialism, communism, vegan grocery bags, twenty-seven genders, guns are evil, America has never been great, never hit back, government should be in charge of everything, all of it. That’s not peace or victory, that’s just a temporary ceasefire. Their beliefs aren’t just evil, they’re a poison, a cancer, a rot. Winning doesn’t just mean the war stops, we want to have a healthy country after all this.”

“It ain’t pretty, son. It ain’t even nice. Maybe it’s our own brand of evil. You don’ like it? Good. That means you’ve got a soul. But it’s the only way we not just win the war, but win the peace afterward.”

“Cap’n?” Ed turned to see Early squatting nearby. The squad leader was sitting on the floor in the kitchen, studying his map.

“Yeah Earl?”

“We spendin’ the night here?”

Ed looked out the small kitchen window, then glanced through the doorway into the dining room. Mark was up on the second floor again, and George was somewhere out behind the house keeping an eye on their back door. The rest of the squad, having received their share of the gear, had spread out through the house. Ed caught snatches of their murmuring conversations and wished they’d get some rest, but they were probably still as wired as he was. He hadn’t heard a helicopter in almost an hour, but it was far too easy for him to imagine an armored search column rolling right for them. He hadn’t been able to sleep properly since he’d put on his first plate carrier.

“Yeah. I’d like to put more distance between us and the column, but they’re going to have high-flying fixed-wings and probably a satellite or two spinning overhead all night looking for something that looks bomb-able. Or missile-able, if that’s a word. We were a little too lucky today. Twelve KIA without so much as a scratch. Well, one scratch. And who knows how many with Weasel’s little present.” Although at least one of the soldiers had been killed by the unknown sniper. Ed would like to have a talk with him. Or her, he’d known two women over the years who had racked up a lot of kills behind a scope. Sniper-initiated ambushes were actually a military tactic, except Ed didn’t like surprises. Then again, would the patrol have passed by without spotting one of his men? Maybe not. Maybe that’s why the sniper had fired.

The tanned southerner nodded, and squinted at the window. “Thought I’d head out for a bit, see if I can’t find us something to eat.” He patted the suppressed .22 pistol in the holster under his arm.

Ed chewed on his lip for a while in thought.

“We’ve been running on empty for almost a week, Cap’n,” Early said in a quiet voice. “It’s a big city. Lot a people still running around that don’t want nothin’ to do with the war. One man alone, even if they spot me from the air, ain’t gonna give ‘em much pause. I’ll leave the rifle here.”

Ed chewed his lip for another second, then nodded. He stuck a finger at Early.

“You watch yourself. For some reason you get cut off, don’t try to make it back here. You know where we’re going.” He rubbed his nose, then looked past Early. There was no one else in sight.