Marine Summer: Year 2041 (7 page)

After waiting in line for morning constitutionals, we packed up the back of the bus. We emptied Houserman’s rucksack and persuaded the dog to get in—well, not so much persuaded as forced him. Sarge didn’t even notice as we snuck by; he was sitting in the driver’s seat with a map spread out over the steering wheel trying to locate the outpost. I just kept my hand inside the sack, consoling the dog as we boarded the bus.

With the dog beside me in the very last seat, our situation was almost perfect, and we would have gotten away with it if the dog hadn’t decided that it was time for his morning constitutional. He jumped down onto the floorboards and dropped what I would call the nastiest crap I’d ever smelled. It took less than a second for Sarge to notice.

“Who the fuck did that?” he asked, placing his hand over his nose. “The gee-dunk [junk food] ripped one of your asses. Holy shit that’s foul!” he said, pivoting in our direction.

“Sorry Sarge,” Houserman confessed. “It slipped.”

“You need to get your ass off my bus!” Sarge said, rising and tromping to the back to retrieve him.

Houserman was too slow. He didn’t get out of his seat in time to block his view, and as soon as Sarge took ahold of Houserman’s coat, he discovered our furry stowaway.

“Well bust my nuts, what do we have here?” he said, releasing Houserman from his clasp. “Butler, did you disobey a direct order?”

“Sarge, I can explain.” But I actually couldn’t. I needed to think fast.

“I can’t wait to hear this. By all means, fuck-nut, explain. Tell me why I shouldn’t stomp your ass into a puddle for disobeying me!”

“I was hoping that someone at the outpost could take him,” I lied.

“And why would you think that?” he said, sticking his finger in my face.

The dog snarled, showing its teeth.

“Stand down!” he yelled at the animal, causing it to whimper and sink into the seat behind me, its pitiful eyes raised up.

“I promise Sarge, I’ll dump him off at the camp. He won’t be an issue, I swear.”

Buckley just stood there, thunderously tapping his foot, his top lip twitching as he looked sternly at the mutt.

“Sarge?” I said.

“Fine. That fleabag is your responsibility and the first time it acts up, out the door it goes!”

The guys cheered at Sarge’s softened heart.

“Shut your holes and sit the fuck down before I change my mind!” he said, stomping his way back to the front of the bus.

With my arm around my new best friend, we both watched out the window as we headed to the outpost. The thing about Montana was it was a lot different than where I came from. Indiana was flat, and Wisconsin wasn’t much different. Montana was beautiful in winter, with white-capped pine trees, deep valleys and snow drifts taller than houses. The aliens didn’t even like the cold, and I didn’t understand why they had come this far north just to ruin such a wonderful place.

“Damn it to hell!” Sarge’s voice rolled through the bus as he brought it to a halt.

Breaking out of my trance, I looked up to see a sign covered in snow. In the top left corner we could make out the letters ‘Cam’, but the rest was unreadable.

“Houserman, go clean off that sign! Boys, if this is our stop, we’re screwed. We’ll be humping it from here.”

Sure enough it was. Camp Stanley, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. With the sign brushed clean, Houserman returned to the bus.

“Sarge, no way you’re climbing that hill in this thing,” he said, gasping for air.

“No shit, dumb-dick! Get your ass back to your seat.”

We sat there a few minutes before he decided on our next move.

“Butler, leave that mutt with Houserman. He’s staying behind to watch the bus. The rest of you gear up. If you got ammo, you’ll be up front with me!”

“Sarge do you think that’s wise?” Houserman asked.

Buckley leaned over, flicking him on the nose with his finger, “Does your nose hurt?”

“Yeah…”

“Then there’s your answer! The rest of you, let’s move out!”

Slugging through the deep snow was one thing, but going uphill was grueling. Every step took my breath away. I was sinking to my knees, fighting to keep my balance. The pace was close to a slow crawl.

“Should be around this next corner,” Buckley said.

As we approached the camp, we could see that it wasn’t much different than Fort Rice after the attack. Cut timber lined the front gate some twenty feet high, a crow’s nest nestled to the left of their self-built gate, and a huge sign hung frozen in place. On it, ‘NO TRESPASSING’ was spray-painted in bright orange letters.

“I think this is lost cause, boys,” Buckley said.

“Halt!” a voice rang out from somewhere behind the wall.

Buckley studied the wall to locate the source of the voice.

“State your business!” the voice said again, followed by giggles, like that of a child.

“I’m Staff Sergeant Christopher Buckley, United States Marine Corps. My men and I are looking for refuge! We need to speak to your commanding officer!”

“There’s no refuge here or a commanding officer! Go away!” the voice said, giggling again. “Or I’ll shoot!”

“Show yourself! Who are we talking too?”

A single shot sent us all diving, but Buckley stood his ground, the round landing a few feet in front of him.

“You want to see me? I see you!” the childlike voice said.

A man with a long scraggly brown beard raised his head out of the crow’s nest, then stood smiling foolishly as he looked down at us. Wearing a camouflage uniform, tattered and filthy, he fumbled with his shirt’s breast pockets like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“What’s your rank, soldier?” Buckley asked.

“Private. What’s yours, soldier?” he said mocking Buckley.

“Staff sergeant. I already told you that!”

Another man peeked over the wall to the right of the gate, his beard longer than the first man’s. His teeth were yellow and stained as he smiled, his bug eyes pointing down his nose.

“Go away or will eat you,” he said in a deep monotone.

“All right, all right, we’ll leave,” Buckley said, about-facing. “Get around the corner and take cover,” he whispered to us.

“But Sarge…” I began to protest.

“Shhhhh…just move your asses.”

We could still hear the two men’s evil laughter echoing through the hollow as we backed out.

Once Buckley was sure we were out of sight, he had us halt and kneel.

“This is crazy,” I said.

“No, those two up there are crazy, fruitier than bat shit. So listen, I want you guys to crawl through these woods on the left side. Stay down and out of sight. Don’t go over that ridge till you see a sign from me.”

“What sign?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something. Just be ready.”

We tried to be quiet, but at the bottom of the ditch ran a little stream, and a couple of guys broke through the ice covering it, giving away our position.

“I hear you,” one of the men sang.

“Shoot them already,” said the man with the deeper voice.

We crawled up the side of that ditch, finding a small patch of brush to peek through. I had a good line of sight on the wall, but the others had to stay further down in the ditch.

A few minutes later we heard a commotion. The silly-voiced man was screaming. Looking up, I saw him come flying over the wall. He landed flat on his back with a thud as he disappeared in the snow.

“Put it down!” we heard Buckley shout. “Down motherfucker, down—now!”

“Get him, boys,” I ordered the others.

They hustled from the ditch, capturing the fallen man.

“Oh my god, he stinks,” Johnson said, laying atop the man.

Then a shot from behind the wall rang out.

“Told you to put it down!” Buckley said.

“Holy shit, did Buckley kill him?” Allen asked.

I shrugged. I didn’t know, but I thought it sounded like it.

Within a few seconds, the right door pushed open, snow plowing up behind it. Buckley stepped through.

“Drag that fuck in here,” he said with a lazy smile.

Inside the gate, the other man was holding onto a wooden pole, struggling to stay on his feet. An obvious look of pain spread across his face as he mumbled, “The Sarge shot me—the Sarge shot me.”

“Find something to tie these two up with,” Buckley said.

The camp was in disarray. Small cabins lined the foot of the stone face to our right. A few stick huts were sprawled around the center of the grounds, encircling a large fire pit.

“How’d you get in?” I asked.

With a little snicker he answered, “Well I was going to scale the wall, but if you turn around…there is no damn wall. The front one is just a prop to scare people. I’d say these two deranged dip-shits built it before they went stark raving mad.”

I looked out that side of the camp. It overlooked the valley below, and it was by far the most amazing part of Montana I’d seen yet. It looked like heaven, a deep valley covered in snow set in front of mountains. It was like a painting.

“Well it seems these two privates are the only ones here. I wonder what happened to the others,” Buckley said, his forehead wrinkling up as his eyebrows scrunched inward.

“They were taken. They were supper for our visitors,” came a voice from behind us. It was the man Buckley had shot.

“What’s your name, private?” Buckley asked, swinging around to confront him.

“Roy,” he answered, his far-away gaze staring up at the Sarge.

“Roy what?”

“Private Roy is all,” he chuckled.

“And this guy?” Buckley said, pointing to his unconscious friend.

“Oh him, he’s…now what is his name? I don’t remember.”

“If I shoot you in the leg again, will that help you to remember?”

“Oh it’s coming back to me,” Roy’s head now going around in circles, “I think it’s…Mary…no…it’s Mark, yes…Private Mark.” His sickening laugh irritated me. I wanted to shoot him myself.

“Sergeant, you got to see this,” Wilson called from one of the shanties.

“Someone secure this man! Let’s go, Butler. You’re with me,” Buckley said.

I could hear vicious growls as we neared the hut. With each step we took, they became louder. Wilson shined his flashlight inside, “What do you make of this, Sarge?” he asked.

Two German Shepherd watchdogs were chained by the neck, foaming at the mouth, almost skeleton like, with patches of hair falling out. They were trying to break free of the chains binding them.

“Damn!” I said, pointing to the one on the left. I could see his bare lower jawbone exposed. “How is this possible?”

Buckley pulled out his pistol, placing two shots right in the center of the dogs’ heads, between their eyes, dropping them. Injured but still fighting, both dogs wrestled to get back to their feet, Buckley fired again.

“Burn it!” he ordered.

“How were those things still alive?” I asked, dumbfounded.

As they dragged Roy behind us he sang, “The—aliens—did—it.”

“Stop!” Buckley commanded the men attending to him. “The aliens did what?” he asked, grabbing a fistful of the man’s beard, raising his head up. “What did the aliens do to them?”

He grimaced. “They made them stronger, fed them the…you know…the green.”

“What’s the green?” Buckley pulled his head higher.

“The green, the green, the green! Ha—ha—ha…you’ll soon find out. If you’re not dead.”

Buckley violently pushed him away. “He’s mad, out of his head. Take him away!”

At that moment, Allen ran out of the last cabin at the end of the camp, his mouth foaming like the dogs Buckley had just shot, howling like a wolf. He attacked Johnson, driving his thumbs deep into his eye sockets. Johnson’s screams made me weak in the knees. I watched his legs jerk as Allen rode him. As Allen’s jumped off Johnson, Buckley put a round in his shoulder, but it didn’t faze him and he charged at us. I pulled my ax, swinging it behind my head then hurling it at him as Buckley fired two more rounds into his chest. The ax stuck from his nose to his neck, dropping him to his knees.

“Nobody go in that cabin!” Buckley ordered, walking up to Allen and kicking him over.

I felt paralyzed, watching as Sarge put his foot on the man’s chest. Grasping the handle, he dislodged the axe. The ripping sound it made weakened my stomach as he pulled it free.

“Here,” he said to me, holding the ax up. “Don’t touch the blade; find something to wipe it off with.”

Parts of Allen’s flesh were hanging from the edge of the ax. I felt myself wanting to gag as I retook possession of it. I let the blade drop into the snow and dragged it. Pulling a bandana from my coat pocket, I wiped it off, throwing the bandana in the fire afterwards.

“Don’t put that thing away just yet,” he told me. “Let’s see what’s behind door number one,” pointing to the cabin.

The cabin was stuffed with rations, enough food to keep our platoon for a year or so.

“Well, that must be the green. Check out that can of beans,” Buckley said.

I started to reach for the can, but he quickly grabbed my hand.

“You don’t want to do that. You saw what it did to Allen,” he cautioned.

“Yeah…”

“This place is a trap. They sprinkled that powder on everything. Do you see it?” he asked me.

“See what?”

“Everything’s open, every can, every fucking package. Whatever this green shit is, it drives people crazy, they go completely insane.”

“Wait a second, Sarge, then how come the two out there haven’t killed each other?”

He pondered for a second, “Good question. Let’s go ask them.”

Roy and Mark, if those were their real names, were propped up against a log by the fire. Buckley walked up, pulled out his pistol, and placed it directly against the smaller man’s forehead.

“How the fuck are you two still alive?”

“Whatever do you mean, sergeant?” Roy playfully asked.

“This is what I mean. I’m going to ask you first, fuck-face, and if you don’t answer I’ll kill you where you sit. Then I’m going to ask you, doughboy, and if you don’t answer, you’re dead too. And guess what: I don’t ask more than once!”

“Don’t say nothing, Mark!” Roy said.

“Shut it, asshole,” Buckley whipped the man in the side of the face with his pistol, knocking him over.

“Wyatt!” Mark cried out, his voice sounding more normal.

“Wyatt, is it? Hmmm, you boys been lying to me,” Buckley said as he put the gun back to the smaller man’s head. “So, how are you still alive?”

Not heeding the Sarge’s orders, the man began to act crazy again. “The aliens did it! It’s the green—the green—the green!”

Boom. Buckley pulled the trigger. It was like slow motion for me, seeing the man’s head jerk back, exploding blood, flesh, and brains onto the frozen white ground behind him. Steam rose off the matter and into the cold winter air.

“Morgan!” the other man screamed, starting to weep. “No, no, no,” he cried.

“I told ya, I only ask once!” Buckley said, now forcing the pistol under Wyatt’s chin.

“Please don’t kill me,” he begged. “He was my brother…Morgan,” he whimpered, trying to catch his breath, “Morgan James.”

“Well I’m truly sorry about your brother. But this isn’t a game. How the fuck are you still alive?”