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Chapter Two
Private First Class Griffin was again cursing
his ill luck. The rain fell like a
black curtain of wet, and, as per Griffin’s
luck, it was windy enough that streams of rainwater constantly found their way
into the hapless Marine’s poncho. “Peter’s
beard, once, just ONCE,” he muttered, “I’d like to have something go my way!”
The rain patiently listened to Griffin
recount his latest encounter with Lady Luck even as it continued to drench the pitiful
Marine, “All I had to do was trade Simonson one weekend night of guard duty for
two of his weekday guard duties, then I got to go to the dance. That’s a no brainer! Who wouldn’t trade two nights of boring
weeknight duty for a chance to dance with Stephanie Harper at the Settlement
dance? Who wouldn’t?!” Griffin continued with a groan, “But here I
am stuck in the storm of the decade and for what? Stephanie wouldn’t even look my direction,
let alone dance with me.” The rain offered soggy comfort to the forlorn Marine.
Griffin
abruptly stopped his whine when he heard something unnatural. He desperately craved a set of coveted night
vision goggles as he vainly peered into the darkness to search for the source of
the noise. His hands began to sweat and he tightened his grip on the .50cal machine
gun. The continual patter of the rain on
his poncho reverberated in his ears like incessant rifle fire. This noise not only masked the sound he was
looking for, but also greatly amplified Griffin’s
already agitated state of mind. The
Marine restrained the nearly overpowering urge to turn a floodlight on the trail--in
a base this close to the Creep, blackout regulations were always in effect.
Griffin’s
guard post was located furthest from the Creep at the western end of the
encampment and, thus, the least likely to be attacked in a frontal
assault. Unfortunately, when this thought
entered his brain, another thought simultaneously planted itself in the fertile
imagination of his mind: “The west entrance would be ideal for a covert attack.” As the idea sprouted, Griffin’s tension mounted and he used his
trousers to alternately wipe the sweat from his palms. There was only one path
through the maze of barbed wire, mines and sensors and his machine gun’s field
of fire fully covers that path. The idea of sending multiple rounds downrange in the general vicinity
of said route was extremely tempting to PFC Griffin.
Griffin was a tall, lanky young man with a protruding
Adam’s apple and goggling eyes. If one were to see Griffin in his current pose--standing in
front of the machine gun with his elbows high in the air as his hands nervously
twist on the double-grips of the .50cal--one would be reminded of the long limbs
of a praying mantis. The night was wet but quite warm and Griffin’s poncho began to cling to his skin
like a too-thick blanket as the tension caused his temperature to rise. His
body mimicked the rain pouring from the sky as sweat formed a rivulet that ran
down his back. Griffin softly blew upward through his lower
lip to remove a drop of annoying moisture from the tip of his jutting nose. His thumb tensed on the trigger as he heard
the sound again.
“Tink, tink, tink.”
A bell!
He had it! The sound was definitely the tinkling of a bell. What
could it be? Who would be out at 0100 in
this kind of storm? Was the bell just a
distraction or trick of some kind? Should he radio the duty officer? His brain
lurched to a stop with the thought. Griffin
incredulously wondered why he hasn’t already tried that. He grabbed the wireless and began to bring the
handset to his mouth when a new sound rose above the thrumming rain.
“Clip-clop, clop-clop.”
The farm-raised Griffin easily identified the sound: Hooves! A horse! A horse with a bell? No, it has to be a cow! Griffin relaxed somewhat, removes his thumb
from the trigger, grabbed the wireless and depressed the switch on the side of
the handset, “Echo-five November, Echo-five November, this is Echo-two Golf,
over.” Nothing. Griffin
tried again with a touch of desperation, “Echo-five November, this is Echo-two
Golf, over...Please.” Still nothing. Griffin’s mind filled with
thoughts of ambush and betrayal as his thumb found itself firmly back on the .50cal’s
trigger. Nervous adrenalin flooded Griffin’s body as the
sounds drew closer.
A shape began to form. Griffin
spasmodically tried the radio while he inwardly debated whether or not to fire.
He certainly didn’t want to be responsible for killing some poor
dirt-warrior’s animal--likely a source of cheese and milk for the man and his
family. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be the victim of a trick attack
either. Griffin was
not sure if the cow was part of a sinister plot to assault his post or not,
but he was sure that it was a cow. The
shape continued to form, and Griffin was more than mildly surprised when he discovered what the creature truly was.
The nose was the first thing Griffin could see
clearly--which was mostly cow-like--but the ears were a dead giveaway, this was
definitely not a cow. “A burro!” Griffin
exclaimed. “Not just a burro,” he chuckled in relief, “a whole line of them!” Griffin smiled in relieved
amazement.
“Ho, the camp!” The shout caused Griffin to jerk, almost discharging
the machine gun as he swiveled the machine gun to cover the reemerging threat.
“H-hal-lt!” Griffin’s voice betrayed his nervousness as he
quickly returned to a stance of alertness behind the .50cal. The fifth burro in
the line carried a rotund man who was smiling and waving merrily as he
approached Griffin’s
position. “Halt, I said!” exclaimed Griffin with more
authority than he felt as he fixed the machine gun’s sights directly on the intruder.
The heavy-set man pulled back on the burro’s
reins, his smile barely faltering before it stretched wider, “Of course, of
course. I apologize for the scare, my
boy,” the man said as the donkey stopped and the man spread his empty hands in
the air for the Marine to see.
“You just stay right there while I call the
duty officer,” stated Griffin
with more steadiness than he thought he had.
“My pleasure,” said the man with a disarming
smile.
Griffin studied this unusual nocturnal visitor as he
tried the handset again. If the man
could be described with one word, the word would be ‘round.’ His body was round, his face was round, his dark,
flat-topped sombrero was round, and his goatee was round. Even the rain seemed to
form circles of water as it rolled off his clothes and face. His eyes formed merry half-circles as he
continued to smile expansively.
The wireless still didn’t work. Griffin was nearly in tears as he slammed the handset back into its receiver. He again cursed his horrible, horrible luck. When
Griffin had
times like these, times of doubt and confusion, his father’s advice rang clearly
in his ears, ‘If you don’t know what you’re doing, then fake it.’ Griffin
has faked his way more times than he can keep track. He stalwartly took out the log book from
under his poncho and asked the man, “Name?”
The man’s eyes twinkled even more as he
surmised the situation. His voice was
filled with amusement as he replied, “Why don’t you check your handset
cord?” Griffin was momentarily baffled but then looked
down. In the excitement, he had pulled
the cord out of the wireless.
“Mary’s kiss,” muttered Griffin as he secured the cord back into its
port.
The man interrupted Griffin before he could call the officer on
duty, “Do you still want my name?”
“Uh, yes, sir.” Griffin said as he searches for a pen.
“I’m called by many names. Which do you
want?” the man said mirthfully.
Griffin was in the middle of one of the worst nights
of his life and was not in the mood for jokes. “Just tell me your Christian
name...sir.” He replied bitingly.
“Ho! My Christian name? I don’t think so. No
one knows that one anyway. Most folk around here just call me Trader.”
“Okay, Mr. Trader, tell me what your business
is here at this time of the night.”
“Coincidentally, I’m here to trade,” replied
Trader with a sardonic grin.
Griffin glaringly replied, “Mister, I am one word
away from having you arrested! Why are
you here?”
Trader leaned forward from atop his mount and
responded with good-natured encouragement, “I’ll tell you what, PFC. You get on
that radio and call your uncle and tell him I’d like to trade.”
His uncle? How did the man know his uncle is
the commanding officer of this base? Griffin
responded jerkily, “Uh, I’m not able to do anything, um. I can’t do that. How did you...?”
“Listen, my boy,” the man said with affection,
“I know your mother, bless her heart, and there is no way in God’s creation
that she has not pestered her brother into giving you his private
frequency.” Actually, Trader only knew
of the boy’s mother, but he definitely knew how people like her operate. He took a risk with this tact, but
gambling was part of his nature. ‘You
have to bet big to win big,’ was a maxim that has served him and served him
well. He continued to smile confidently at the Marine in front of him.
For his part, Griffin was wide-eyed, tongue-tied and more
than firmly convinced this man was an intimate of his over-bearing mother. He had already switched over to the requested
channel and spoke into the now-working handset, “Um, Oscar-six Tango,
Oscar-six Tango, this is Echo-two Golf, over.”
Griffin
waited a few seconds before repeating the same.
“Peter’s beard! What in the name of Hades do you want, boy?!”
Bellowed a very angry voice. “If you’ve lost your rifle again, I’ll...”
“Sir!” Interrupted Griffin, “There is a Mr. Trader at the western
entrance requesting permission to trade with you, Sir!” Griffin’s self-congratulatory tone seeped
through the mike. He was sure he was doing the right thing.
The Trader stifled a chuckle as he pictured
the colonel’s teeth grinding on the other side of the handset.
“Michael.” The tone was colder than the devil’s
freezer.
“Y-yes, sir?” Griffin knew he’d stepped in it. Again.
Colonel Thompson’s voice rose gradually
until he was screaming by the end of his tirade, “Why in the name of the
apostle’s would you think I want to talk to a trader at oh-dark-thirty in the saint’s-forsaken
morning!!?”
The Trader’s voice lost its humor as he
softly but authoritatively said, “Private First Class Griffin, tell him ‘the
alligator has sunk.’”
Griffin’s uncle was yelling something about sending
him to the farm or to the brig over the hand set and Griffin was willing to try anything to get out
of trouble and he hurriedly shouted, “Sir! The man told me to tell you, ‘the
alligator has sunk,’ sir!”
The mike was silent for a long moment. “I’ll send Captain Holcombe right down. Griffin, point the man
and his donkeys to the stables and have him wait until Holcombe gets there.”
“Yessir!” Griffin said with obvious relief.
PFC Griffin gratefully did as his uncle
commanded. Not once did he wonder about
how his uncle knew the man had burros.
Nor did he question how a man and six fairly large animals managed to
walk through an area peppered with numerous seismic and laser sensors without tripping
any of them.
#
Colonel James Thompson sat at his desk and
prepared to write a necessary but dreaded letter while waiting for this
too-early visitor. Like most of the
blankets his men are forced to use, he feelt worn out and frayed at the edges. He knew the formula by heart and the words spill out too easily, “Dear Mrs. Smythe, I regret to inform you, your husband, Prescott,
gave his life in preservation of his country on March 21st in the
year of our Lord 2217. He died defending his countrymen...” He had written the
words so many times their meaning was deadened.
The Marine officer mourned his hardness of heart. At least writing them by hand made it feel
more personal, more caring, if just for a moment. He’s tired of writing these letters to
bereaved parents and spouses. He’s tired of sending good men and women to meet their
Maker. He’s tired of pretending he cares.
Thompson’s reverie was interrupted by his
orderlies’ knock on the door, “Sir, a Mr. Trader is here to see you.”
“Thank you, Captain Holcombe. I can handle
things from here.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the young officer dipping
his head as Trader walks past.
As the door to the office shut, Trader
strode into the colonel’s sparsely furnished office and cried out, “James!”
with an effusive smile on his face and his hands spread wide. The smile faltered
when he noticed the .45 in the officer’s hand.
“Lift the cape. Slowly.”
The Trader was adorned in dark clothing. He
had removed his black, flat-topped, Spanish sombrero when he came in the office. His
ebon cloak flowed over his shoulders to conceal his torso and then slid down
his body to fade into his sable jeans and jet-black cowboy boots. This stygian
ensemble was accented only by a silver-tipped red bolo tie, silver tips on his
boots, and a gold-trimmed strip of deep green around the bottom edge of his
cape. His hands raised each side of the
cape very carefully. The action revealed
the butts of two pistol-grips cross-strapped in black holsters attached to a gun
belt of the same color. The colonel continued, “Take them out and place them on
the desk. Make sure the barrels remain
facing you.”
The Trader noticed the tight lines around the
colonel’s eyes as he complied, “James?”
“Save it. Take ‘em out.” Thompson said brusquely
while keeping his pistol aimed at the large, ebon-covered man.
The firearms placed on Colonel Thompson’s
desk were twin double-barreled, 12 gauge coach-guns. They were duo-toned with black nylon fore ends
and pistol-grips, while the barrel and trigger were battleship grey. Thompson,
keeping his pistol aimed at the trader, removed each weapon to a drawer in the
desk.
“How did you get those monstrous things past
the guards?!” queried Colonel Thompson disbelievingly.
The
Trader smiled again, this time wryly, “The young man at the gate never asked,
and I never told.”
“Michael!” growled Thompson. “That idiot nephew of mine. I’m still trying to figure out how he was
stationed at the west post. He’s too stupid
to be armed and alone. If he wasn’t such
a brilliant mechanic, he’d still be on the farm.”
“Yes, well, we all have our strengths,” said
the Trader politely noting the officer’s odd digression.
“Enough of that,” Thompson said roughly as he
refocused, “why in Peter’s beard are you here and what does Colonel Rizzo have
to do with this?”
Trader replied defensively, “I’ve come to
trade, of course...”
The officer let out a snort as he interrupted
angrily, “Trade? Last time you came to ‘trade’ I lost eighty good scouts on
your information.”
The
Trader’s mouth curved into an unaccustomed frown, “Ah, at least I now
understand your greeting. Tell me what
happened.”
The colonel lost himself in thought for a
moment, sighed deeply, and then rubbed his hands over his head as he sat, “I
don’t know. They never returned. They left twenty-seven days ago. They had rations and filters for twelve.”
The Trader’s voice filled with sympathy--he
knew how this man cared for his troops, and he knew now why the colonel’s
behavior was so erratic, “Tell me their last known location, James, I’ll go and
see if I can tell what took place.”
The colonel stared hard at this longtime associate
he desperately longed to trust, “Yes, you will. And Sergeant Parker will escort
you.”
“I’d be honored, and, to show my good will,
I’d like to grab something out of my pack.
May I?”
The colonel shook his head, breathed deep
and decided both the pistol and his paranoia were superfluous. He gave the Trader his weapons back and nodded
his head in assent to the man’s request.
Trader
bent over and started rummaging through a large, and, of course, black,
knapsack, “Let’s see. Aha! Here it is!” he declares triumphantly as he
raises a small, brown bottle.
The Marine officer raised his eyebrows,
“Vanilla!?” he declared with obvious pleasure.
“And sugar,” the trader continued as he
raised four packets into the air.
His dire situation momentarily forgotten in
the hopes of this small pleasure, Thompson got up from the desk, “Let me get
the coffee.”
The coffee contained too much chicory for Thompson’s
taste but it’s the best anyone can get in this part of the world. Thompson prepared a healthy dose of cream and
anxiously anticipated adding the sugar and vanilla. The mix of sugar, cream and
vanilla masked the sourness of the chicory and let him pretend, if just for a
moment, that the world was normal again.
After an all-too-rare moment of sanity in their all-too-often
straightjacket existence, the men continued their discussion.
“Tell me about this, Parker, wasn’t it?”
the Trader queried as he raised the cup of coffee to his lips.
“Yeah, Parker. He’s made for the Creep. Goes in and stays in longer than anyone else,
gathers more intel, kills more Coalition troops, you name it. I wish I had a thousand of him. Sadly, due to
losses, I’ve had to assign him to training new scouts, but he’ll be going on
this trip with you.”
“I’d
be honored to have such an escort, and, James, my information was good. Something must have changed in the interim.”
“That’s my hope. I don’t want to put you in front of a firing
squad,” a grim expression filled the man’s face, “you bring too much light into
this dark world.”
Such gloomy thoughts were rare for the
lifetime military man and the Trader filed away the information for future
use--a lifetime habit of his own. The Trader’s face betrayed none of this as he
responded with an attempt at joviality, “Ha! That is what I am here for, to
bring hope to the hopeless and vanilla to the vanilla-less!”
The colonel’s eyes glazed and he continued as
if he hadn’t heard, “A lot of those men had kids. I had to write eighty letters to mothers who
lost their sons and to wives who had to tell their children, ‘daddy’s not
coming home.’” The colonel’s faraway stare caused Trader to choose his next
words carefully,
“Colonel, listen to me, you can’t lose it
now. You have hundreds more Marines and
their families who depend on you to make good decisions.”
The colonel shook his head minutely and
responded, “It’s been a long month.
Thanks for the reminder. From the
passcode you used, I’m assuming something went wrong with Rizzo in Florida?”
The Trader said a silent prayer for the colonel's sanity before continuing, “Ah, yes, that...”
Colonel Thompson was surprised to note obvious
discomfort cross the face of this normally positive man, “Go on,” he
encouraged.
The Trader’s eyes were full of uncharacteristic
emotion as he quickly blurted his dire news, “They have taken Florida
and established a beachhead in Alabama.”
“Mary’s kiss,” sighed Thompson as he looked at
the man across from him. Thompson’s forgotten
suspicion returned to his voice, “Are you sure?”
A flash of anger filled the Trader’s eyes and
voice as he responded, “James, again, my information was good. And this news
comes from a trusted associate in Alabama.” The Trader’s voice lost its edge
as he concluded, “She watched them execute Colonel Rizzo.”
It took a moment for the news to sink into
Thompson’s consciousness. Colonel Rizzo was
‘the alligator’ from the passcode and Thompson assumed something had gone wrong
but never did he dream it would be this wrong. Thompson and Rizzo were
inseparable for two years. They graduated
officer candidate school together. They had the same first duty station. They
saw their first combat together. Rizzo was there when Thompson’s wife met her
death. Rizzo and Thompson were more than friends; they were brothers of war and
blood. “Please, leave,” was all the overwhelmed colonel trusted himself to say.
After several minutes of racking sobs and
ribald cursing, Thompson regained some control of his emotions. He called Captain
Holcombe to draft Parker’s orders, and then prayed for forgiveness to a God whom
he believed had abandoned them all to this creeping hell.
#
“Sorry, sir, but I can’t do that.” Sgt Parker subconsciously shifted to a stance
of attention as Colonel Thompson leaned forward and fixed him with a displeased
glare.
“Would you care to reword that, Parker?”
warned the already frazzled officer.
“I understand, sir, but I’m not going to be
responsible for taking a civilian into the Creep,” Parker replied as
respectfully as possible.
The Trader was out of earshot as he watched
the two military men but guessed that he was the subject of their
conversation. He shrugged his knapsack off
his shoulders and carried it in his left hand as he approached the two arguing
men. “Sgt Parker?” he said extending his other hand to the enlisted man, “I’ve
been waiting to meet you for quite some time.”
Parker automatically returned the handshake,
“Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“The pleasure is mine! To meet the
legendary ‘King of the Creep’ is an honor indeed!” The Trader said with slavish
fawning.
Parker, as a general rule, had a low
opinion of civilians. In his mind civilians lacked discipline, they lacked
fortitude, and they usually had problems with respect. Most of all they didn’t understand the state
of mind required to purposely seek the termination of another human’s existence,
nor the toll such a state of mind took on a man’s psyche. The man’s sycophantic
attitude did nothing to raise Parker’s opinion of civilians. He glanced at his commanding officer with an ‘I
told you so’ look. When he looked back at
the darkly dressed civilian he saw a glint of amusement in the man’s
eyes.
“I suppose you’re not too happy about
having to escort a ‘sloppy civilian’ into the Creep are you, sergeant?”
Parker raised his eyebrow at the term usually
reserved for the military and watched the man reach into his backpack. The
Trader pulled out an antique child’s doll.
“Ma-ma!” cried the doll and Parker’s hairs
stood on end as his eyes widened perceptively.
“I can take care of myself in the Creep,
Sergeant Parker,” the man said as he put the doll back into the pack.
Parker’s eyes narrowed as he reassessed the
civilian. That same doll--or one just like it--saved Parker’s life in the Creep
two months back. Seeing the doll brought back spine-shivering memories to the
seasoned soldier. It had to be the same
doll, but how did the trader get it? Not just anyone could go into the Creep and
survive. Parker looked at Trader and then at the colonel before he responded, “Aye, aye, sir. I’ll be
ready in thirty minutes.”
“Dismissed, Sergeant,” said the colonel as
he and the Trader turn and walked away, leaving a confused and curious Parker
behind them.
#
Seven hours later, Parker found himself at
the edge of the Creep with a man who had not shut up the entire trip. He was either talking to Parker, about Parker,
for Parker, or--if Parker’s lucky--the Trader talked to the donkeys. Parker
found himself actually looking forward to suiting up and donning his gasmask,
at least then he could pretend to ignore this chattering Trader fellow.
For his part, the Trader was disappointed in
his efforts to learn more about Mr. Thomas Parker. He prided himself as a skilled gatherer of
information but this Sergeant Parker was as tight as a new chem-suit! He sighed
in disappointment as he realized it was time to prepare for the Creep. He wouldn’t be able to gain much new information
about Parker in there.
The Marine dismounted from his borrowed ride
and watched the Trader stop the rest of his burro-train by an unusually large
mesquite bush. Trader staked all but one
of his animals next to the bush and then used a shovel off one of the burro’s
packs to lever a large rock off of a hidden waterhole. Clean water was a treasure
this close to the Creep.
“I’ve been this way several times and never
seen that water,” Parker wondered aloud.
“Yes, well, I guess this one time I’ll
glory in the fact that I know something the vaunted ‘King of the Creep’
doesn’t,” the Trader grinned sardonically.
Parker shook his head sheepishly with a slight
smile as he responded, “Point taken, Trader.” After a pause, Parker asked, “So, how
does a civilian know so much about the Creep?”
The Trader chose his next words
carefully--this could be his chance to get some useful info on Parker. He had
to choose what tact to take. Was the
Marine a man who was motivated by principle?
Or was he motivated by gain? The
Trader didn’t have enough information to even make an informed guess, let
alone a decision--time to roll the dice again. “I was a child when the Creep hit,”
he nodded at the nearby wall of fatal dust, “I actually saw one of the CPIC
Raptors.”
Parker, who had never seen an air-machine except
in vids, asked, “Tell me about those.”
“There were lots of jets in those days but
the Raptors were years ahead of their counterparts. Their model designation was the ‘Raptor FB-7.’
How we learned to hate that name! They were faster and more efficient than any
other jet out there. They were
undetectable by any means other than sight--radar couldn’t see them, infrared
couldn’t see them, nothing but the naked eye or the camera could detect them. They were powered by wind turbines and coated
with a material that left no radar or heat signature. Oh, we figured out how to
deal with them but by then they had already delivered their payload.” Parker
watcheed with interest as the Trader placed a protective mask on the remaining
burro. The Trader offhandedly remarked,
“For some reason, equines only need their mucous membranes covered to be
protected from the Creep. But I digress.
Each of the Raptors had a payload of canisters filled with a bio-chem weapon our
scientists dubbed ‘CVX-chloride.’” The Trader paused to meet Parker’s eyes with
his own, “The canisters landed all over the country, opened, and a
brownish-yellow fog seeped, or ‘crept’ out of each one,” The Trader again
indicated the sickly yellow dust maelstrom in front of them, “and the Creep
began. The air strikes continued for
several weeks until the countermeasure was developed. China delivered the gas but we’re
still not sure who produced it. Whoever it was invented a gas that not only
overcame the low sustainability of bio-chem weapons; they also developed a
weapon that has the ability to replicate itself.” The Trader’s voice lost all its normal optimism and was tinted with an edge of exhausted finality, “It grows, Parker, the Creep is gradually
getting larger.”
#
Captain Morris’ remaining eye opened a squint.
He wished it wouldn’t. His squadmate was tied
chest down by wrists and ankles to four stakes.
He watched the bound Marine silently scream from his still bleeding and
now tongue-less mouth. He rotated his
eye to the right to see their tormentors dancing, laughing, and occasionally
waving the removed organ in front of his fellow Marine’s face. Morris wished
his eye would shut.
#
Ever practical, Parker met the news of an
expanding Creep with an action response, “Can it be stopped?”
“I assume so. The Coalition doesn’t want a United States
with no resources or labor population. They must have a way to stop or control
it. That’s why I’m in the Creep so much,
Sgt Parker, I’m trying to find information that will stop it. Eight weeks ago one of my personal sensors
picked up an odd and very powerful seismic reading in the area we’re headed. This company we’re looking for was sent to investigate
that anomaly.”
#
Morris wondered if his chem-suit was slashed
off before or after they hauled him to this safe zone. “Not that it matters,” he inwardly concluded,
“I’ll soon be dead.” His captors were CPIC-trained African regulars. They hated him and his entire race. The American males targeted by the African
troops were always brutalized prior to their deaths, but especially hideous were
the afflictions reserved for the American women and children descended from
these same people of Africa.
#
Parker watched in silent admiration as the
Trader prepared to enter the Creep.
Hidden in the folds of the Trader’s cape was a set of sleeves; he placed
his arms through these and then attached them to his gloves. He then zipped up the cape, squatted down and
attached the base of the dark mantle to his boots--the cape was voluminous
enough to still allow full movement. His
mask fit under his sombrero and the rebreather tubes wrapped behind his neck to
disappear into the back of his cape.
Parker wanted to ask how he could survive in the Creep as the black
clothing made the Trader stand out like a raven in the snow. However, Parker remembered the doll and refrained from
comment in case the stygian-attired man had another trick Parker didn’t know. Parker’s instinct about the man’s aptitude
turned out to be good. As they entered the
Creep, the tannish dust settled on and then clung to the Trader’s clothes. Everything on the man and his mount became
the khaki color of the poisonous terrain around them; everything except the
green fringe of his cape which repelled any dust that attempted to cling to it.
“It was you!” Parker blurted.
The Trader’s mask muffled his laugh, “You
almost found me that day, you know. It
was only Providence
that provided that green bag.”
“Why hide from me? You could tell my uniform was Marine issue.”
Parker remembered the sensation of being watched as he continued his query, “How
long did you shadow me?”
The mask didn’t completely hide the humor
that was never far from the Trader’s eyes, “Oh, about three days. You’re quite good; you actually saw me
several times but didn’t realize what you had seen. As for why I didn’t reveal myself: first, I didn’t
know for certain you were a Marine. It’s not unusual for you military types to
wear each other’s clothes. Second, I had
been tracking that Creeper group for a week.
I couldn’t face them alone and I wasn’t about to alert them or you to my
presence--especially when I didn’t know whether or not I could count on you for
aid. When that storm lifted, I saw the CPIC troops coming your way, threw a few
rocks to get you to stay down until you figured out they were there, and the
rest you lived through.”
Parker made no response as they headed
deeper into the Creep. This area had
several long, narrow strips of Creep-free land.
These safe areas were sure to have CPIC troops and Parker was already nervous
about the noise the animal and its bell were making. “Can you muffle that thing?”
Parker asked, pointing to the bell hanging off the neck of the donkey.
The Trader patted his burro’s neck and said,
“That bell is one of my favorite creations.
It dampens any and all seismic and noise detectors, and it shorts out any
active camouflage screens within one mile. It’s worth a little risk for those
advantages.” Parker warily agreed and strode toward the Creep alongside this
enigma named Trader.
#
Captain Morris writhed in helpless agony as
he watched Coalition soldiers pile wood under his fellow Marine. One of the captors grunted a cruel chuckle as
he lit the wood beneath Morris’ companion.
Morris flexed his hands in frustration only to be excruciatingly
reminded of his broken fingers and thumbs. He felt vaguely guilty when the
undeniable aroma of bacon crowded into his already overwhelmed senses. As Morris’ one eye watched, the torturers
began to chant gibberish as they carved symbols into the flesh of his
still-living friend. He wished his eye would shut.
#
The burro stopped abruptly. Even the bulky
protective hood didn’t hide the fact that its ears suddenly pointed skyward. The
trader’s left hand snapped out to warn Parker to stop. Parker had seen too many
surprises from this man over the past day to not comply immediately. The Marine’s mask-covered head swiveled as he
scanned the area for anything out of place.
The donkey hadn’t moved and stood stock still with its nose and ears
focused on the shell of an old fuel station about a hundred yards straight in
front of them. Parker silently signaled
he was going forward to scout the building and Trader nodded his head in
agreement.
Parker stealthily approached the station. The Marine peeked through a window to examine the building’s interior. Nothing.
Only Creep-covered boxes and scattered debris lined the empty shelves and
floor. Anything of value was taken or
destroyed years ago. Parker stood,
walked to the doorway and entered the building. Still nothing. He saw a doorway at the rear that served as
an entrance to a maintenance bay on the opposite end of the station. Parker
took a moment to return to the entrance and signal the Trader forward before
heading into the bay of the gas station.
He cautiously walked through the door-less doorway and entered the service
area.
The concrete floor was puddled in dark splotches of still drying blood. Spent magazines and
abandoned gear verified about fifteen of the missing Marines took a defensive position here. Parker estimated the skirmish had
to have taken place within the last twenty-four hours as the Creep had not yet
covered all the signs of combat. There were drag marks from bodies headed to the east. Parker
swiftly stepped through the room to pause at the support beam between the two
garage doors. He took advantage of the
shadows to scan the area on the eastern side of the gas
station. He saw no movement or other
signs of life but did see the drag marks heading towards the border of a
narrow safe-zone about twenty yards away. The tracks exited the Creep there.
A thin line of smoke wafted into the air from the safe area in front of
him. Smoke guaranteed humans--some
Marines could still be alive! Parker momentarily forgot the trader and his
normal penchant for patience and rushed ahead in the hopes of finding
survivors.
Parker reached the very edge of the safe zone
and assumed a prone position under a dust-covered sagebrush. Three hundred yards in front of him lay the
bodies of several Marines. Approximately
twenty CPIC troops were out of their armor and cavorting around a man they were
roasting alive on a fire.
#
Morris’ eye had seen too much. The past several hours were a haze of
bone-crunching knuckles and flesh-rending blades. His pain-filled senses were numbed and when
his still-cooking comrade’s head exploded in a spray of bone and blood, his agony filled brain barely
registered the gore. His torturers, however, leapt hurriedly
away from the now pain-free but still charring Marine on the fire. The
captain’s eye regained something he thought permanently lost: the light of
hope.
#
“Lock,” Parker whispered and his scope
highlighted an African’s head. “Lock,” an enemy’s chest exploded. “Lock,”
another soldier fell with two red blots exploding from his once white
t-shirt. “Lock,” a vital hit was
missed. “Lock,” that situation was
remedied. Parker’s silent hatred of all things China and the Princes of Islam
Coalition flows into each word, each shot, each target. “Lock,” a monster crueler than any Creeper
crumpled lifelessly to the ground. “Lock,” the enemy fell like ready wheat to
the reaper’s scythe. They fell to the
King of the Creep.
#
Morris’ remaining eye saw another Coalition trooper fall to the ground while grasping
at a new hole in his chest. The captain
saw another African soldier’s feet twitching in death spasms to his left. He looked straight ahead and saw another
enemy charging towards him! The CPIC soldier was carrying a long knife and had
it cocked behind his head to slice through the helpless captain. Morris could do
nothing but stare at this latest encounter with death. A look of surprise filled
the charging soldier’s face as his chest bloomed with two blossoms of liquid scarlet.
Another CPIC soldier ran through Morris’ line of sight so Morris only heard the crack
of a 6mm that sent retreating enemy to meet whatever gods these
demon-worshippers serve. The captain’s
eye finally shut.
#
The trader circled around Parker’s left
while pulling out his coach-guns. He
flicked a switch on the grips and the weapons’ load changed from razor-shot to
slugs. In his youth he could hit a
pine-cone sized target at fifty yards with a slug. Now he could do it at seventy-five. His burro
tensed in anticipation at the coming conflict, “The heart of a stallion is in
this one!” chuckled Trader as he dug his heels into the animal’s sides. The
last thing the next four CPIC soldiers saw was the Creep somehow forming into a
dun-colored, pointy-eared monster that filled the air with deadly plumes of fire
and lead.
#
Morris reopened his eye as the shots of the
6mm were joined by the booms of a twelve-gauge.
Captain Morris knew he was saved.
His ruined face attempted to form a smile as he tilted back his head and
emitted a croaking laugh! His was the laugh of the dead man who somehow
lives. His was the laugh of the man
terminally broken but impossibly whole. The Marine captain lowered his exhausted
head to his chest but continued to chortle inanely as Sgt Parker released him
from his bonds. The motto his father
drilled into him as a child filled his mind before he passed out, ‘Dum spiro,
spero--While I breathe, I hope!’
#
“Check for survivors,” barked Parker as he hurriedly
took off his protective gear. The
Marine instinctively assumed authority in the situation and the civilian
automatically obeyed. Once Parker made sure his suit was safely out of the way and his hands were not contaminated,
he removed the gurgling captain’s bonds and carefully laid the man to the
ground. He hastily removed a painkilling
shot from his pack and emptied it into Morris’ thigh. The captain’s face relaxed and his
odd-croaking sounds stopped as the meds took effect. Parker performed a quick field triage on the
injured officer. He administered a
general antibiotic, applied bandages to several wounds, and taped the captain’s
broken fingers onto makeshift splints.
He stopped when he reached the man’s face. Parker took a deep breath as he examined the
carnage that was Morris’ face. The horror
of the wounds made Parker acutely aware of his lack of medical skill. He decided the best he could do was wrap the
officer’s head with gauze treated with painkiller.
“There are no other survivors! Let’s go,
Parker!” the Trader’s voice interrupted in an uncharacteristically edgy tone as
he looked at the opposite border of the Creep.
Parker didn’t turn as he continued to
treat his fellow Marine, “We have time.
You just said we got them all.”
“We have to leave!” the Trader responded urgently.
Parker faced the Trader and hotly retorted,
“By the apostles’ teeth, I will NOT abandon a fellow Marine!”
Even through his protective lenses,
Trader’s apprehension was unmistakable.
He gestured to the corpses strewn about the area and asked, “They only
had the two live captives, why do you think they hauled all the corpses here?”
Parker didn’t want to consider what these
men had in mind for his fellow Marines so he ignored the question, knelt to
continue assisting Captain Morris, and commanded Trader, “Gather up any
chem-suits, filters, protein packs or other tech. I doubt if these scrubs have any night vision
but watch for...”
The Trader nudged his mount forward as he
interrupted again, “Sgt Parker, there’s no time!
If you insist on helping a man likely dead anyway I will assist you, but
hurry! Something is not right! Even
those regulars should have had someone on guard!”
Parker considered the civilian’s words and
his heart rate increased as his adrenaline began to flow but he calmly turned as he responded, “I
agree. Something is off. Belay scavenging the tech. Make a travois out of those chem-suits and
that PVC pipe; I’ll get him in a suit.”
Both men rapidly set about to their
tasks. Parker adroitly dressed Captain
Morris in a chem-suit and secured him to the hastily prepared travois. The
trader lifted the other end of the travois and fastened it to the donkey’s
saddle. Parker was donning his gear when he felt a slight but
sustained tremor beneath his feet. The trembling emanated from the Creep on
opposite side of the safe zone.
The trader slapped the burro on the rump,
causing the animal to quickly trot back the way they had come. Parker mournfully watched Captain Morris’s body bouncing
limply on the burro’s back and gave his civilian companion a concerned glance.
The trader explained, “Don’t worry; he’ll go straight to his friends.” After an
ominous pause he added, “If we’re lucky we’ll join them.”
The intensity of the tremors grew as
Parker and the Trader hurriedly returned the way they came. They both cast frequent looks over their
shoulders in order to watch the opposing edge of the Creep. Both men were hoping the source of the tremors
would delay its appearing until they were safely away. In the Creep, hope was often denied.
There was no warning, there was no gradual
appearing. One moment the opposite side of the safe-zone was empty, the next it
erupted in a trampling mass of Creepers!
Never had five hundred yards been so close! Parker had never seen or heard of a group
this large! Adrenaline again filled his
body as he looked for a place to take cover.
He lay prone between the shells of two cars and placed his spare
magazines on the ground next to him. He
knew they could never survive an attack from such a horde but, by Peter’s beard,
he also knew they were not dying alone!
Shrieks and sounds of all kinds emanated
from the group of rampaging Creepers. He even heard the dreaded “ma-ma!” cry
he had heard only months prior. The
beasts charged into the safe-zone at an amazing speed. Parker and his companion prepared for the
oncoming onslaught. Trader switched his ammo back to razor-shot and crossed
himself. Parker steadily took aim at
the nearest Creeper and muttered an amalgam of the Marine’s and Lord’s Prayer.
They stopped. The Creepers stopped charging! The reason for their sudden pause was all too
clear all too quickly. The air filled with red mist as hundreds of clawed hands
tore into the flesh of the Marine corpses.
Gaping jaws dripped crimson and the beasts’ howls gurgled with blood. The
monsters were so focused on the grisly bounty before them they failed to see the
two men on the opposite side of the safe-zone.
The Marine and civilian quietly grabbed their ammo and slowly backed away
from the hideous gorging before them.
#
Both men were still in stunned silence when
they returned to the trader’s secret watering hole. Sure enough, the trader’s burro was there with
the rest of the train and the still sedated Captain Morris in tow. Parker
and the civilian remained speechless as they stowed their chem-suits and then mounted
to return to Forward Base 7. Parker
broke the silence with the one question that mattered at the moment, “How many
do you think there were?” Scouts instinctively count groups of enemies and
Parker already had an estimate. He hoped the trader’s was lower.
For once,
the civilian found himself short on words, “At least four hundred.”
The affirmed count did nothing to induce
conversation or to satisfy Parker’s hopes.
The three survivors were largely silent for the remainder of the journey
back to Forward Base 7. The trader
wished he could forget what he just seem.
The no-nonsense sergeant mentally formulated his debrief for his CO. The sedated Captain Morris moaned periodically
as he dreamt of torture, vengeance and hope.
-End-
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