CHAPTER SIX
Thor is loping right next to me as I race through the woods, occasionally whining and letting off a high-pitched bark, and I know why he’s reacting this way, because he’s sensing my fear, and my trying very hard to push back the panic that’s about to cripple me.
Since I was six, all I’ve known has been war, war, and more war. I’ve learned about the Creepers, how they attack, how they move, and in the past several weeks, I’ve also learned part of the reason why they’re here, on some sort of quasi-religious mission to kill us and injure us and do all of this for some unknown reason.
I’ve also learned about the history of war, conflict, tactics and strategy, but never, ever have I seen Creepers act this way, coming in groups of four or five or even larger, attacking a remote and barely armed convoy, and then chasing after a squad, and then chasing after one freshly minted Lieutenant Randy Knox, of the New Hampshire National Guard. In the past several days I’ve encountered Creepers both close and far—once killing one with knife and luck, and another time yelling at one being kept prisoner at an underground Air Force base—but to be chased like this . . .
Either they’re smelling me, or sensing me, or something, but the damn things are on my track and I’ve got to lose them.
The woods start to thin out, branches whipping at my face, Thor dodging around the trunks of the pines and the hardwoods, and I keep up a pace, the ineffective M-10 in my hands, the empty bandolier thumping along my back, my 9 mm Beretta holstered at my side.
Think, I yell at myself, think!
I can’t outrun the Creepers. With eight mechanized legs, it’s impossible.
Terror is really tugging at my heels as well, and the stories come back to me, told around campfires, during break times in basic, tales of how even the most experienced and hardened military forces from around the world—from ours to the Brits to the Russian to the Chinese—how so many dropped their weapons and ran when the Creepers first attacked.
Stories that will never appear in print.
I flip my head back, see there’s a glow back there. Creepers setting the trees ablaze, like they’re pushing me, propelling me . . .
I need to get someplace safe, and fast.
Thor is still with me, and then the woods suddenly end, to a wooden fence. I climb over and Thor squiggles underneath, and we’re in a farmer’s field. Off to the left, up on the top of a rise, is a barn, an outbuilding, and a home. Smoke is coming up from two chimneys and there’s lights on. It’s getting dark and rain is starting to come down.
“Come along, bud,” I say. “Looks like we might have a way out of here.”
I run across the field, filled with stubble from corn, and now we’re on a dirt road, I’m running more, legs pumping better without the trees and brush tugging at me.
Run, don’t ever stop running.
I smell manure, I hear the lowing sounds of cows, and this is one fine-looking farm, and I skitter around, find another fence, a wooden gate, and I undo the gate, and there’s even a flagstone path leading up to the front door.
And sweet God, I can’t believe it, but there’s a wooden garage attached to the left, there are lights on in there, and there’s a truck, with a man standing next to it.
A truck!
I go up, bang on the door, bang on the door, gasping for breath, and from the garage, a side door opens up and a flashlight beam hits me.
“Who’s there?” comes a man’s voice.
I gasp again. “Sergeant, I mean, Lieutenant Randy Knox, U.S. Army . . . I need your help. Can you help me and my dog?”
The front door to the house flies open and two more men come out, and then I step back, for these two have shotguns, pointing right at me, and the guy from the garage has come over, flashlight in hand, revolver in the other.
I step back again. “Sir, Lieutenant Randy Knox . . . I, there was an ambush, back over there by the river. Creepers attacked . . . and they’ve crossed the river, and they’re coming this way.”
One of the guys says, “Dad, he’s right. Look over there. Woods are burning.”
Dad was the man who had been in the garage, tending to his truck. “Shit. You’re right.”
I say, “Please, can you give me a ride. In your truck. Get me and my dog out of here.”
Nobody says anything, and I see a woman peek from the side of the open door, who talks to the duo. “Kelly? Mike? Stay right there with your father. Don’t move.”
Dad comes closer. “You alone?”
“Yes, my squad has dispersed.”
“What happened?”
“Creeper ambush,” I say. “Look, sir, I know I’m asking a lot. Give me a ride, I’ll make sure you get a fuel chit to replace whatever’s been used.”
“Dad,” one of his sons says. “The fires are coming closer.”
The older man says, “Yeah, I see that.” He gestures with the revolver. “Get the hell off my property, and take the Creepers with you.”
My mouth is so damn dry. “Sir . . .”
“You hear me? Get moving. Get the hell out or I’ll tell my boys to shoot you dead, and I’ll drag your body to the edge of my property. Then the goddamn Creepers can have a barbecue over your corpse for all I care.”
“Sir, I—”
“Now, or we’ll shoot your dog, too. And I’ll sell his body to my neighbors the Quaids. They’re not as queasy as we are when it comes to meat.”
My eyes are swollen and I’m crying, damn it.
“Why? Why?”
The man with the flashlight and revolver says, “Why? Look at what I’ve got here. I’m one lucky son of a bitch I am . . . I used to be an investment banker in the city, before the war started. Ate at the finest restaurants, could fly anywhere in the world where I wanted. I thought food came from supermarkets, wrapped in plastic. Farms were a place where I could take my boys on a tour when they were kids.”
I can’t think of anything to say.
He goes on. “We starved, I stole, I . . . killed, all to keep my family together. All to keep my family alive.”
“Dad . . . the fires are getting closer.”
“Now we’re safe, we’ve built something, we’re not going to starve. And son, I’m sorry, I’m not going to let a soldier like you get everything crisped. I don’t care about the war, I don’t care about you, I don’t care about the country no more. Now, move.”
“Derek!” the woman yells out, and he goes up to the front of the house, and there’s a brief conversation, and he comes back, bearing something for me.
“Here,” he says. “Now get going.”
What he’s offering is an apple, and my mouth waters and my stomach grumbles. I take it, look at it, and then toss it back at him. One of his boys catches it.
“Go to hell,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Already been there and back. Go.”
I find a roughly paved road, and my running has slowed to a trot. No other farms, buildings, or places of safety in sight. My feet hurt and all of the running is causing stabbing pains in my lungs.
I take a break, sitting on a broken piece of stone wall, as Thor comes to me, looks back at where we’ve run.
He growls.
I rub his head, the tears coming back.
“Yeah,” I say. “They’re still chasing our respective asses.”
Thor, my boy, named after a Norse God, and one of the Norse realms is a mythical place called Asgard.
Asgard.
Could I say that word aloud?
I rub my dog’s head again.
A glow of light from down the road.
I will if I have to.
“Come along,” I say.
More running, more resting, and now I’m hearing the familiar and deadly sounds.
Click-click.
Click-click.
Click-click.
Fear and exhaustion, dueling inside of me, each trying to take control, take command. I can even sense Thor is running out of steam. The road is fairly straight and I try to keep a pace of running, and then walking, and running some more.
But the glow back there grows brighter.
Click-click.
Click-click.
Click-click.
This isn’t right. This is so wrong.
Creepers don’t act like this, or move, or attack.
There must be four or five back there, and they’re chasing . . .
Me?
A single soldier?
I rest, bend over, try to catch my breath.
But not just a single soldier. There have been incidents, experiences, where I forced a Creeper Dome to surrender to me, when I later came face-to-face with an imprisoned Creeper back at a hidden base in Stratton, where we even managed to communicate through the skills of young Buddy Coulson, and when I saw two Creepers examine pieces of bloody clothing and bandages, like they were seeking a single soldier . . .
Me.
Click-click.
Click-click.
Click-click.
I wipe at the drool running down my chin. My sides ache so very, very much.
I get up and keep on running.
And I keep on being chased.
Another few minutes later and I’m on my hands and knees, panting. Thor is whining, poking his nose into my side. I wipe at my face again and glance back, and now I’m smelling cinnamon.
So close, so very close. More flames and smoke. I think I can even hear their damn claws skittering on the road.
Rain is coming down hard.
I’ve been alone in my fights with the Creepers over the years, but never this alone. I’ve had the rest of my platoon out in the woods, I’ve had my girlfriend Abby Monroe, combat dispatcher, ready to seek help. I’ve had a variety of colored flares to send up to mark my position and request assistance.
Now . . . it’s just the empty bandolier, my M-10, and a 9 mm Beretta holstered at my waist.
Not even a water bottle.
I slowly get up, realizing what a fool I’ve been, what a mistake I’ve made.
Fool.
The road has been good for running, but it’s also been even better for chasing.
“Time to go cross-country,” I say. “See if we can get some distance.”
Thor pants, and the tears come to me, as I rub and rub his brave head.
“Let’s go.”
I thrash through the woods and saplings, and then I start running, and then—
The land quickly drops away.
I fall.
Fall.
Tumble and roll, dirt in my mouth and eyes, and I land flat on my back.
Stunned.
I try to catch my breath.
What the hell?
I’m soaked through, and I get up.
A stream, with steep, loose embankments going up on both sides. Thor splashes through the stream, barking.
Click-click.
Click-click.
Click-click.
I climb up the dirt and mud, and the glow from the near fires lights up everything.
Two Creepers before me, the center arthropods swaying back and forth.
Thor is nearly howling he’s barking so hard, and I spin and there’s a Battle Creeper, right behind me, not more than ten meters away. Even though it’s useless I tear my Beretta out, hammer off three shots, as flames roar over my head, nearly scorching my helmet and shoulders.
I drop down.
Panting.
I’ve fired off three rounds. Nine left.
Thor’s growling, whining, running back and forth along this stretch of the stream.
I climb up again, slowly this time. The Creepers have boxed me in, four of them.
Four!
Thor whines some more.
I drop back down.
Tears are suddenly coming down my face so hard it surprises me.
This is it.
This . . . is . . . it.
Stories, always the tales.
When the time comes, I’m never going to surrender, never . . .
I’ve heard that dozens and dozens of times.
Tales of squads, isolated on a hilltop, all of them suicided.
A line of troops being led into a Creeper Dome, one of the soldiers taking out a grenade, the troops hugging him so they’re all killed when the grenade goes off.
Bodies found after a skirmish, self-inflicted gunshot wounds into the mouth or at the side of the head.
I’ll never surrender.
Thor comes to me, licking my face and hands.
But Thor has a chance.
A slim chance, but a chance . . . better than me.
All that training in K-9, getting used to working with a dog, and one cold day, being told . . . “All of you are pretty useless, compared to your dogs. They’re smarter, tougher, and braver than you. And if the time comes when all hope is lost, when the Creepers are coming at you . . . do one last thing. Send your dog home. Save your dog . . . for his or her next partner.”
“Thor!”
His ears stand straight up, he looks at me with hope, trust, and love. I’m his partner, his Alpha leader, the one who heads the pack. Thor knows we’re in trouble, knows the Creepers are right out there, and he’s trusting me to make it all right, to find a miracle, to find a solution.
I rub and rub his head.
“Thor . . .” And I manage to choke out the word I’ve never wanted to utter in front of him.
“Asgard, Thor, Asgard!”
He hesitates, looks confused.
“Asgard! Now!”
He trots, stops, turns like he wants me to run along with him, and he whines again.
Asgard. The command to send him back home to Ft. St. Paul in Concord, to go back to his home turf. A long distance away but if any K-9 unit can make it, it’s my Thor.
Who will someday be somebody else’s partner.
I rub my sleeve across my eyes and nose. I’m bawling like a baby, and I hate myself.
“Asgard, you damn fool! Move!”
He stands there.
Frozen.
Tail wagging, like maybe I’m joking with him, playing with him, slightly panting.
I toss a rock at him, nearly hitting him. I toss another rock and it strikes his hip, and the surprised and hurt yelp makes me sick to my stomach.
“Asgard, get the hell out! Move!”
He whines.
I fire a shot over his head, and he yelps again and finally disappears, and I’m bawling even more, and I climb up the side of the embankment, a Creeper is leaning over, right down at me, and I hold my Beretta in my hands, fire off six rounds, yelling all the time, and then I drop back, pistol in my hand, and one more yell:
“You’re not getting me, you bastards!”
I fire off one more shot, and move my hand, and a bright flare of light and darkness.