Grunt Traitor Page 4

  Rosamilla made a face. “No such thing as movies anymore.”

  “Unless you count reruns.”

  “Fuck nostalgia.”

  I grinned as Bruce Willis, Clint Eastwood and Woody Harrelson rolled over in their Cray-made graves. I was starting to like Rosamilla. He said what he wanted and didn’t hold back. I found that unique in a lieutenant. They were normally so tightly wound that even swearing in public would send them spinning into a panic.

  “Back to GNA.”

  “Right. Their strength is about four thousand. They operate like a brigade, with four battalions of eight hundred people at remote stations and one battalion of eight hundred on site. Remote locations are Turnbull Canyon in Whittier, Chino Airport, Knott’s Berry Farm in Buena Park, and Seal Beach.”

  Looking at a map, I noticed something. “So it looks like the 605 is their front. Are they actively fighting the Cray?”

  “Negative. They stay away, and the Cray leave them alone.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The population west of the 605 is evidencing extraordinarily violent behavior. Reports are that they’ve become quite savage, attacking anything that moves.”

  “Jesus, you’re talking like they’re zombies.”

  “Perhaps their behavior is similar, but these people are alive. And we don’t think it’s behavioral. We believe its chemical.”

  I frowned. “So there’s something in the water.”

  “Or in the air.” Rosamilla shook his head. “We just don’t know.”

  “Tell me about GNA. What’s their mission?”

  “They’re led by none other than Paul Sebring.”

  “The Paul Sebring? The guy who hosted that amateur singing show called Sing America?”

  “Same one. Turns out to be a pretty effective demagogue.”

  “I’d have expected it to be run by a general.”

  “The chief of staff is retired Major General Carlos Murphy, who once commanded the 4th Infantry Division.”

  “That would explain it. You know, I watched the show and wasn’t aware that Sebring was religious.”

  “He’s not. God is just a rallying point. He’s built a core group, a cult of personality, which serves as his inner circle. We have a source inside, but given the challenges of distance and radio, our reports are weekly.”

  “Any thought of putting up some relay antennas?” I asked.

  Rosamilla shrugged. “It’s on our list of things to do, but it’s a long fucking list.”

  “I hear ya,” I said.

  “Back to GNA. Right now they’re doing what we can’t. They’re trying to establish a zone in which law and order is the rule, and are fighting back incursions from those west of the 605, as well as smaller groups in the area.”

  “What about these other groups? GNA doesn’t sound so bad. There must be some that are more... how should I put it... like The Road Warrior?”

  “There are. You’ll have to pass through Fontana, which means you might come across Devil’s Thunder. They were a biker gang, but after the alien invasion, they became a militia. They’re your standard rape, pillage, and burn happy group of fellows. They control the I-15 corridor between Fontana and Victorville.”

  “Splendid. We’re going to have to cross I-15. Why is it we can’t land further west?” I sighed. “Oh, yeah. The Cray and their nasty EMPs. Speaking of, should there be any concern?”

  “The Twin Hives give off a pulse of EMP with a coverage area between the 405 and 605 to the east and west and the 405 and Angeles National Forest to the north and south. It fires every seven hours like clockwork.”

  Over the next hour Rosamilla continued showing me the different players in the game.

  Palm Springs was controlled by a battalion-sized element of Marines who had looted the supply depot-rail head at Yermo. Their policy was to shoot first and ask questions never. With the great windmills still running, they had a corner on the electricity market. If the Cray ever found them, their hedonistic, shoot-’em-up fuck-fest would forever change, but until then, they were a happy lot of Marines with enough booze and women to fuel them into the next century.

  Rancho Cucamonga had a group called the Caspers. These white supremacists were trying to bring back the KKK and use the opportunity to ethnically cleanse their little suburban area.

  Corona had the New Panthers, named after the local high school mascot. These guys seemed to be the only ones without an agenda. Just trying to keep families together and figure out a way to survive.

  Then, of course, there were roaming bands of looters hitting houses and businesses. They were coming north from as far south as Anaheim. It was ridiculous, really. Rosamilla believed it was consumer habit. Now, with all the stores looted or destroyed, they were forced to push into the interior to achieve serotonin release.

  On the walk back to my tent, I couldn’t help wonder what we were fighting for. Back at Kilimanjaro we’d been fighting for those to our left and right. We gave it all so that they wouldn’t die. But in the back of our minds we were also fighting for our families, our communities, our countries. We fought for the things with which we identified.

  What was I fighting for now?

  America was gone.

  I had no family.

  Our entire way of life was shattered.

  Everyone was at war with each other.

  Survival of the fittest was the theme of the day.

  So what was it?

  But I knew. I was fighting for Michelle. I was fighting for Thompson. I was even fighting for Olivares. I was fighting for every member of OMBRA Special Operations North America. I was fighting for them because they were my mates, my partners, my peers.

  I knew what I was fighting for. So what was I fighting against? I’d never been a law and order guy. I didn’t much care about anyone’s belief systems or their private thoughts. Everyone had the right to believe in whatever stupid invented entity they wanted. They had the right to be wrong, too. But what I didn’t like were bullies. I hated those who would take advantage of those who couldn’t properly defend themselves.

  Rapists and bullies.

  Just like whatever alien race was orchestrating this attempt to end humanity.

  Intergalactic rapists and bullies.

  Never forget that no military leader has ever become great without audacity.

  Carl von Clausewitz

  CHAPTER SIX

  WE FLEW NAP-OF-THE-EARTH through the clear full moon night, never more than thirty feet from the dirt to avoid hostile notice. Although Cray shouldn’t be out this far, we didn’t know what else might be watching. For all we knew, our every movement was being watched and recorded by spaceships in orbit.

  The interior of the Blackhawk was dimmed. Her running lights had been turned off. There was no reason to announce our presence; the sound of the rotors would do that. I was able to convince flight control to divert to a secondary landing site instead of Twin Peaks. A ski resort on Mount Baldy was our target, not only because it was reported as abandoned and put us that much closer to our target area, but also because it allowed us to bypass any possible interaction with Devil’s Thunder.

  “Five minutes out,” came the words through my headset.

  I tapped Dupree on the shoulder.

  He turned to me and nodded.

  I noted the nervousness in his eyes. Good. I’d rather he be a little scared than overconfident. My plan was to find some mode of transport, perhaps a motorcycle or something similar, then hug the mountains and traverse west. I knew that anything in the vicinity of Interstate 10 was a target. It was just too major a corridor. Even 210 would be dangerous. I wouldn’t be surprised to encounter armed groups on those roads, if not roadblocks... or both.

  “One minute out.”

  I turned to check Dupree’s pack, making sure all the pockets were closed and snapped and that it was secure. Then I turned so he could do the same for me. I tightened my ANPVS-7 night vision goggles over my reversed baseba
ll cap. Like enclosed goggles, the NVDs allowed both eyes to stare into a chamber in which a single telescoped lens gathered light so that I could see in the dark. The universe was green through the NVDs, and I watched as the ground came up to meet us. The helicopter sat down, the door slid open, and Dupree and I leaped out. We ran to the woodline as the helicopter rose and spun back the way it had come. When we reached the trees, we knelt, breathing heavily, searching for any hostile force who might have witnessed our infil.

  “You good?”

  Dupree was heaving beside me. “Could afford to lose a few pounds. Not in Marine shape anymore.”

  “Well, it’s all downhill from here.” It was literally true; Mount Baldy was about ten thousand feet above sea level and we were going to drop 8800 feet in the space of nine miles as we traveled south down the mountain to the city of Upland.

  After we were certain that we hadn’t been seen, we began the trek, hugging the edge of Mount Baldy Road. I kept my head on a swivel as we made the descent. I caught sight of several deer, as well as a startled coyote, but so far no humans. We were fifteen minutes into the journey when we turned a corner and the whole of Los Angeles was laid out before us. I halted, unable to move as I stared at a city that had once been a blaze of lights rolling all the way to the ocean. Now great swathes of darkness curled through intermittent lights. The largest area of light was a cluster in Covina which could only be the location of God’s New Army. To the west lay a wall of darkness, which I knew had to be the 605. Not a single light flickered beyond the demarcation line the Cray called home. I hoped I’d get to see one. I hoped I’d get to kill one. Killing something might just fill the hole expanding in my chest.

  We heard the sound of an engine. The hillside met the road to the left and to the right was a copse of trees.

  I bailed off the road to the right.

  Dupree took the left, absolutely the wrong way. Unable to get up the escarpment, he lay down in the ditch and hugged the ground. A motorcycle rumbled around the curve, lights off. The bike looked and sounded like a 650. The rider wore night vision goggles like mine. He geared down, then stopped about ten feet past our position.

  I raised my rifle and put my sights center mass.

  He turned the engine off, then pulled a pistol from a holster on his chest.

  There was no doubt now that he’d seen Dupree. But had he seen me? I considered taking him out with my rifle, but I didn’t know if there was anyone following him. I was also aware that the shot could be heard from a long distance. I made a decision and laid down my rifle.

  His steps crunched on the gravel at the edge of the road as he strode over to where Dupree lay ignobly in the ditch. The man stopped and raised his pistol.

  “Get up or I’ll shoot you dead.”

  I pulled my knife from its sheath and crept across the road.

  He cocked the trigger.

  “I said get up.”

  I didn’t wait. I brought the knife around and sunk it into the man’s ear. He grunted, then fell to the ground.

  “Get up, Dupree.”

  He peeked from where his hands covered his head, then climbed unsteadily to his feet. I dragged the man across the road and into the trees. Then I got his bike and rolled it in the trees as well. All the while Dupree stood in the ditch, frozen. I grabbed him and walked him across the road.

  When we were deep in the trees, I turned to him. His face was pale and slack in the green universe of my NVD. “Listen, Dupree. This is real. Snap out of it.”

  No reaction.

  I slapped him. Then I slapped him again. I was about to slap him for a third time when he stopped my hand.

  “Stop slapping me.”

  “Are you back?”

  He nodded and licked dry lips.

  I pulled a canteen free and gave it to him.

  He opened it and took a tentative sip, then slung back some more. He closed and returned it, then made a disgusted face. “I froze back there.”

  “Yes. You did.” I wasn’t about to give him a break. “We can’t have that.”

  He shook his head. “No, we can’t. It just happened so fast.”

  “It always happens fast.” I grabbed him by the collar. “Listen to me. From now on, if I do something, you copy it. Whenever something happens, look to see what I’m doing. Got it?”

  He nodded.

  I slapped him on the shoulder, then said, “Let’s see what we have here.” I knelt at the body. Caucasian, about forty years old. Plain features with a Fu Manchu mustache. Nose had been broken. He was bald beneath his do-rag. He still gripped the .357 Ruger Blackhawk. I removed the pistol and then took off the holster and put them in a pile. He carried a cell phone, which I found strange. It must have been out of habit. He had a ring of keys, which I also placed in the pile. He had a boot pistol; I didn’t recognize the model, but it was a pearl-handled chrome derringer with two barrels filled with .22 long rounds. I rolled him over and saw the words Devil’s Thunder wrapped around a stylized devil head with crossed lightning bolts behind it. I took the jacket as well.

  I checked the bike next and noted its bulging saddlebags. On the left were foodstuffs. On the right were clothes and survival gear. He’d had enough food to last a week, as long as he could find a water source. Was he supposed to be a lookout? Was Devil’s Thunder expanding their territory, or had they already?

  I removed the saddlebags and tossed them deeper into the woods. I placed the pistols in my pack and shoved the biker’s vest into Dupree’s hands.

  I glanced at the body. We’d been on the ground for less than fifteen minutes and we’d managed to kill someone. I couldn’t help but smile. Things were looking up already.

  It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience.

  Julius Caesar

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE MOTORCYCLE ALLOWED us to cover a lot more distance than had we been on foot. Instead of leaving the mountains, we took advantage of their cover. At the end of Mount Baldy Road, we headed back up, taking Cobal Canyon Mountainway. My goal had been to get us to Marshall Canyon Golf Course before sunrise, which would put us thirty miles from the 605—the supposed infected zone. On the mountain roads we passed several campfires, but never stopped to see who was there. Once, we saw oncoming lights, and I was able to slip the bike into some trees. Four motorcycles and a truck roared by, heading back the way we came. I wasn’t able to see if any of them were wearing Devil’s Thunder vests. They could have been anyone. Still, we didn’t want any interaction. We just wanted to get in and out as fast as we could.

  We arrived at the course about 4 AM. We’d killed the engine on the bike half a mile out and coasted the rest of the way in. I didn’t see any lights in the clubhouse or hear any sound, except for the bubble of a brook somewhere. I parked the bike about thirty meters away from the clubhouse and had Dupree stand watch while I did recon.

  Skirting around the outside I peered in the windows, listened for any sound, and continually sniffed the air, trying to get the scent of food, or cigarettes, or sweat. But there was nothing here. I’d hoped we’d have the place to ourselves, and it looked as if we would.

  I returned to the bike, but I didn’t see Dupree anywhere. I went to one knee and began to scan the area. I’d been gone fifteen minutes. A lot can happen in that time. I saw the bushes rustling and sighted in. They parted and Dupree walked out, zipping up his pants.

  Seriously?

  I stood and went over to the bike. For a brief moment, I thought about haranguing him for leaving his post, but then realized it would be wasted. I could see from his goofy smile that he was happy to see me and probably proud that he hadn’t fucked up his job, even if he had.

  We took the bike into the garage where forty golf carts sat, never to be used again. We checked inside the clubhouse. The kitchen had been ransacked. All the knives and food were gone. The store had also been gone through. Someone with a sense of humor had created a crazy t
ower of golf clubs. It seemed to sum it up. Not much to do with them otherwise. Who would play golf at the end of the world?

  Once we were sure the place was empty, we found a spot near some windows with a view of the road over a couch and a pair of leather chairs. I left Dupree for a moment, took the radio up on the roof, and called in our position. Five minutes later I was downstairs. Dupree sat on the couch, staring at his pistol, which lay on the table in front of him.

  He spoke without looking up. “I gotta tell you how sorry I am for what happened.”

  I shrugged. “It’s behind us.” I took off the rest of my gear until I was only in boots, pants and a t-shirt. I took the derringer and slid it into my own boot, then put my knife, a canteen of water, and my 9mm on the table in front of me. I leaned back and closed my eyes for a few moments. Finally, I opened them.

  “Tell me about yourself, Dupree. What made you join the Marines and become a scientist?”

  He grinned, a gesture that seemed more normal for his wide face than anything else. “My mom. We were living in Hixon, Tennessee. I didn’t have a job and no place was hiring. I suppose I could have worked at a fast food restaurant, but I didn’t want to be that guy, so I was applying for jobs like accountant and mechanic.”

  “Were you trained as an accountant or mechanic?”

  “Hell, no. But that didn’t stop me. I applied for all sorts of jobs I wasn’t qualified for.”

  “Did you get any offers?”

  “Hell, no. I wasn’t qualified!”

  I gave him a quizzical look.

  “You see, I didn’t realize that people had to be trained in these things. I just thought they went to a job and learned how to do it.” Seeing my look, he shrugged. “I know, right? What rock was I hiding under during my childhood? Suffice to say I finally realized that I didn’t have any training at all, so I needed to go to college. It was about that time my mom showed me where the military offered to pay for free college classes.”

  “Why the Marines?”