James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

Four hundred yards into the burnt wasteland they passed the reason for the firestorm; two bomb craters. The blasts had leveled half a block. The craters were overgrown with weeds, with standing water at the bottom, but there was no mistaking what they were. Officially no bombs had been dropped in the city, much less the surrounding suburbs, but the resulting fire had stretched for nearly half a mile east, blown by the strong winds that day. No one knew how many residents had been killed in the fire; at that point in the war local law enforcement had nearly disintegrated and the military was too busy fighting to investigate something that, officially, had nothing to do with them. The suspicion was that the military had bombed the headquarters of one of the instigators of the ethnic cleansing going on in Thunderdome but just didn’t want to admit it, especially after the fire had erupted and spread out of control.

Even nearly ten years later there was very little wildlife in the area. No birds, no small game, nothing but the smell and taste of smoke and charcoal and burnt plastic which coated their tongues and nasal passages with gray-black slime. After another ten minutes they reached the far edge of the burned wasteland which someone long ago had dubbed the Fire Nation. The fire, helped by the wind, had jumped across a number of residential streets in its passage east, but a wider four-lane road running north-south had been enough of a fire break that the flames continued spreading north and south but stopped their eastward progress.

Fear that the military would drop more bombs and cause more fires had driven many of the residents living in surrounding homes undamaged by the fire to leave, so the adjoining neighborhood, even though it was unburnt, was more thinly populated than the number of homes would suggest. Plus, the proximity to the continuing craziness in Thunderdome drove away all but the most stubborn.

The squad stopped and stared across the four-lane road at the undamaged houses on the far side. Ed pointed. “Check it out,” he murmured to Quentin and Mark, and Mark nodded.

The two men jogged across the street. They knew Ed had pointed not at the first house on the corner beyond the border of the fire zone, but instead the one behind it. The residence he’d indicated was a tall two-story cube clad in red and brown brick. It was a duplex, with great views out the windows in every direction, and they’d used it before.

The rest of the squad hunkered in the shell of a house. The second story had collapsed into the first, and if they brushed anything their hands or clothing came away black. They tried not to touch anything.

Ed had his binoculars in hand, and watched Quentin and Mark move the hundred or so yards to the house in question. He raised the binoculars as the men disappeared around the corner. After perhaps ninety seconds, Mark appeared in one of the second-floor windows and gave a wave.

“Looks like it’s still open for business,” George said ten minutes later, using the binoculars to stare out an east-facing window of the duplex. “I see foot traffic. Not a lot, but then again we’re coming in the back way.”

“Where are we?” Jason asked.

“The general store’s about a quarter mile east of here,” Mark said. “It’s a big market in a warehouse. Fruits, vegetables, sometimes meat, gas generators, appliances, anything and everything. Stuff grown here, stuff funneled in here, stuff liberated from the Army stores like antibiotics, stuff looted out of empty houses. It’s a combination farmer’s market, flea market, and garage sale.”

“And whorehouse,” Weasel added with a smile.

“There is that. We’re coming in the back way, almost in what you’d call a blind spot. Everyone avoids Thunderdome and there’s nothing in the Fire Nation but charcoal. Most of their customers come from the east or north and go in the front door, on the other side of the building. You been here before?” he asked Renny.

“Never made it this far south,” the older sniper said. “What’s Thunderdome?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Mark said to him.

“Well, we go in covert, concealed handguns only, no rifles, nothing that looks like military clothing. There’s nothing illegal about the market being there and occasionally they’ve got a military presence hanging around. They drive through, or stop and harass people, or maybe just buy a few things. Visit the hookers. Sometimes sell the stuff they steal from their own warehouses or each other. Sometimes seize contraband, which could be illegal stuff, or could just be something that they want and don’t want to pay for. Point is to not get noticed by the soldiers or, more importantly, shot.”

“I’ll head in with Weasel and Quentin,” Ed said. “Any more than three and it’ll draw attention. If the crusty bastard is still running the joint, we’ll see if he’s got anything interesting to trade.”

“I’d like to see this place,” Renny said. He spread his hands and gestured at himself. “I don’t exactly look threatening.”

Ed nodded his head once. “And I’d like for you to see it. Some day. But the truth is, fancy rifle or no, until I actually see you kill someone or commit a war crime I don’t trust you.”

Renny pursed his lips together, blinked twice slowly, then nodded. “Fair enough.”

“How many magazines and grenades can we afford to part with?” Ed said to George. He started stripping off his armor.

“What is he going to have that’s more valuable than grenades and ammo?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? I guess we’ll find out. How many?”

“We’ve been short on ammo for so long I hate to trade any of it, but we’ve got ninety thirty-round AR mags, and only four of us are using ARs,” George observed. “I’d say we could part with ten without blinking. Maybe as many as thirty, and a handful of frags. But just thirty loaded AR mags should put us in hookers and blow for a week, forget the grenades.”

Ed nodded. “I’m aware.”

“I’ve got a big wad of cash I looted from the bodies,” Weasel admitted.

“You did?”

“Where do you think I got the cigarettes?’

“Unless you filled a wheelbarrow with the stuff I don’t know how valuable it is with the hyperinflation we’ve got going on,” George observed. “It’s good for starting fires, I guess.”

“With all the ammo we’ve got to trade I doubt we’ll need that cash, but that’s good to know,” Ed told him.

“Don’t spend it in the whorehouse,” Mark admonished Weasel, with a grin.

Weasel flashed a grin, then it died. An image of Sheila popped into his head. The two of them in that upstairs bathroom overlooking the Ditch… then her body, burning and popping inside the engulfed Toyota on the overpass. He swallowed, muscling the grief and tears down, and forced a fake laugh. “You’re not my real dad,” he told Mark, who snorted.

“Hey,” Mark said suddenly. “You see some boots in there, or some gently used cross-trainers or whatnot, you want to grab me a pair?” He lifted his foot up. There was a hole in the top of his right boot, and the sole was nearly worn through. “Size fourteen.”

“Fourteen?” Weasel said dubiously.

“Don’t be jealous. I didn’t do anything to earn it, I was just born this way.”

“What way?”

Mark shrugged. “It says right in the Bible that guys with big feet have huge dicks.”

“The Bible?” Ed questioned.

“Bullshit,” Weasel called out.

“It’s in the book of Leviticus. Or maybe it’s Phallus.” Mark kept a completely straight face. Weasel frowned at him.

“We wagerin’ on willies?” Early said. “I’ll jump in. What’s up for grabs? Food, cash?”

Weasel looked at the older man. He wasn’t quite as tall as Mark but he was over six feet, with a big head and huge hands. “Seriously, you too?”