James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

The tattoo had gotten him through the worst of times. Injuries, death of his men, the horrors of war, the despair of fighting in a conflict that never seemed to end. But every time he felt his body or his resolve grow weak he looked at that tattoo, stared at it, and remembered others who had sacrificed far more than he ever had or even could.

NEVER AGAIN

The words were simple, as was the message, and they’d kept him strong for years. Because ‘Never Again’ meant nothing if you weren’t willing to do something about it. He wouldn’t let them down, he wouldn’t, couldn’t let himself down either. His eyes strayed upward to the bill of the stained, battered baseball cap on his head. Not exactly a yarmulke, but if he was destined to head upstairs in short order for his final interview with the Man, it would have to do….

“Look at this sad piece of shit, he looks like he pissed himself.” The soldiers laughed at the guy sitting slumped in a pool of his own blood, empty pistol in his lap.

“Did he bleed out? We should have just grenaded his ass.”

“You don’t have to tell me, jack, but they want prisoners to interrogate. No, look, he’s fucking breathing. Medic!” he called out. “We’ve got a live one over here.” The speaker stepped close to the guerrilla and bent down to snag the pistol sitting on the man’s thighs as a war trophy. The injured man startled him by grabbing at his arm, and the soldier saw his eyes were now open. The guerrilla’s bloody hand clamped onto the side of the soldier’s armored vest.

“Get the fuck off me, man!” the young soldier said, more startled than scared. He jerked back and the guerrilla fell forward, then rolled onto his side. Most surprising of all, the man who seemed near death was actually… laughing.

“The fuck you laughing at, dickhead?” one the soldiers surrounding him demanded.

“Wolverines,” Major Phillip Abraham Stein croaked, the smile on his bloodied face radiant. Then the grenade, which he’d had wedged under his thigh until five seconds earlier, the pin pulled, detonated.

Late the next morning, Weasel left the shelter of the house first, just ambling along through the overgrown yards, keeping close to the houses. They hadn’t heard an aircraft or vehicle since just after midnight, and Ed decided moving was safer than staying in place any longer.

Ed hadn’t been joking; he staggered the departure of the rest of the squad so that it took ten minutes for them all to exit the house. Ed took it upon himself to leave last. Quentin was half a block away, nearly invisible as he swished through the thigh-high grass. The men from long experience were moving in the shadows wherever possible, and at that hour of the morning the shadows from the houses on the south side of the street stretched almost halfway across their front yards. Everyone was moving slowly with the weight of the gear they’d taken from the ambush site.

Ed had been on the move for fifteen minutes when he stopped and tucked himself between two houses. He’d had a strange feeling all morning, like being watched or even followed, but he hadn’t seen anything. Hadn’t heard anything. But still….

He peered out past a crumbling porch column down the street he’d just traveled, rifle butt at his shoulder, uneasy. The military didn’t do subtle or sneaky—they rolled up in armor or came in with helicopters firing missiles and miniguns—so even if he wasn’t imagining it, whoever or whatever was following him wasn’t Army. Could it be that damn bear? He shivered at the thought, then dismissed it. They were far away from where they’d run into that beast, and he couldn’t imagine there was more than one in the city. On the other hand, there’d been ten thousand dogs roaming the streets of the city before the war. Seeing dog packs was a daily occurrence for the squad, or near to it, but they were rarely a problem. Dogs were smart and they’d learned early on that men with rifles were not an easy source of protein. Ed hadn’t had to kill a dog in years.

“I thought you’d spotted me day before yesterday,” Ed heard from behind him. He spun around, rifle coming up. A dozen feet away was a man with his hands up, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

Ed’s mind raced. “Passing by on foot, the house we laid up in?” He spotted the barrel of the rifle slung over the man’s shoulder. “You’re the sniper.”

“That’d be me. You boys looked a mite jumpy, thought I’d give you some time to relax so I didn’t catch a bullet in the face. You stayed holed up longer than I thought you would. But it gave me some time to check you out, see if you were serious.”

If Ed had wanted to put a face to their mysterious sniper, it wouldn’t be this man. He was in his early sixties and thickening with age, nearly bald, and wearing glasses. In addition to the huge barrel of sniper rifle sticking up behind his back he wore a large backpack, and had a pistol in a holster across his chest.

“You by yourself?” Ed’s eyes darted left and right.

“By my lonesome,” the man said pleasantly, his hands still up, palms facing Ed. “I’m Renny.”

“Renny?”

The man shrugged. “Actually, it’s René, but that’s a girl’s name, or so I was told all through grade school. Renny saved me from having to punch a lot of guys in the face.”

“You just wander into the city by accident?” Ed squinted at him, trying to get a feel for the man.

“Just finally got tired of sitting on the sidelines. And I’m not getting any younger.”

Early appeared soundlessly behind Renny, M1A in his hand. As quiet as he’d been Renny still turned his head and nodded in Early’s direction.

“I’m sorry if I gave you boys a start, but you were blown one way or the other. I thought it might help if I took the initiative. Took out the roof gunner for you. Did I get the driver? I didn’t think my rifle would get through that armored glass.”

Ed took a breath, then lowered his carbine. He’d developed good instincts for judging people after years of combat and sneaking around the derelict city, and Renny wasn’t giving off any danger signs. “No, driver got hit by shrapnel.” He frowned. “You sat and waited on us for a day?”

The man shrugged. “Your team handled itself well, but you sticking in one place allowed me to do a little surveillance, figure out if it was luck or skill that got you through that.”

“It was a little bit of both. Where you were holed up, across the street?”

The older man nodded. “But I snuck in close after dark, listened to you talking for a couple hours. Wanted to get a feel for you gentlemen, see if I could trust you.”

Early’s face grew dark. “You snuck in?” It was obvious he didn’t believe it. They’d had people on watch continuously.

Renny turned and looked at him. “From your voice, you’re Early. You’ve got a kid in there, sounds like a teenager. And what the hell kind of name is Weasel?”

Early fought back his anger, realizing it was counterproductive. “You find that peashooter just leanin’ in the back of your closet?” he asked the man, staring at the rifle on his back.

A smile crept across Renny’s face. “Not quite.”

“Mind if I…?” Early held out a hand.

“Not at all.” Moving slowly, the man unslung the rifle from his shoulder and held it out to Early, who slung his M1A over his shoulder to take it. Ed blinked. The bolt action sniper rifle made Early’s big M1A appear dainty. The stock wore a gray camouflage pattern.

Early opened the bolt and verified the chamber was empty, then removed the loaded magazine from the rifle. “Sweet baby Jesus, what is this?” Early turned the magazine so Ed could see the big cartridges stuffed inside.