saluted back. Then he watched them go: Holk to his tank and Zeller to the hover.
There had been a few setbacks these past few days: nothing major, but enough to have called the meeting. Soon now, he would blow open the campaign.
Len Zelazny helped his corporal down a trembling sewer line. Every time someone shined a light on the water to their left, they saw ripples. The young lad Zelazny helped used a crutch with his other arm. His right was draped around the general’s shoulders.
A line of weary American and Canadian soldiers marched along the underground chamber. It stank down here. Dust drifted in the air and the thud and crash of artillery kept shaking the ceiling above. They had flashlights. Seven beams played on the walkway and sometimes on the damp walls and soiled water. The soldiers and Marines carried personal weapons only. A few had grenade launchers. They were out of Javelins and heavier machine guns.
The GD soldiers had finally broken the pocket and mopped up survivors. It was a rat war now. The stars shone outside, but Zelazny wondered if he’d ever see them again. How many countless good boys had died in Toronto?
He shook his head, and he concentrated on helping the corporal one shuffling step at a time.
A shout came from ahead. Then Zelazny heard screams.
“What’s going on, sir?” the corporal asked.
“We’re losing the war, son. That’s what is going on.”
“At least we fought hard, didn’t we, sir?”
“Yes,” Zelazny said. But there was a taste of defeat in his mouth like old mothballs. He didn’t like it. Maybe it even tasted un-American. In his youth, his country had won all the time. They had stood astride the globe, the dominant world power. It sure wasn’t like that anymore.
“Tanks!” a man shouted from the head of the column.
“Down here?” someone else shouted.
“Tanks,” the first man repeated. “I hear them, so they’re down here.”
The line of soldiers stopped. The seven beams played along the sewer line.
“What are we going do?” a soldier asked.
Zelazny took a deep breath, making him scowl at the odor. This was the last battle. “Listen up!” he shouted. “We’re going to set up an ambush.”
“Maybe we should surrender,” one of the soldiers said. “We can’t do anything more. Not down here.”
Zelazny hesitated. The boys had fought hard in horrible conditions. He didn’t have the heart to call the man who’d just said that a quitter.
Before Len Zelazny could speak the words, a violent explosion hammered against the ceiling. Chunks of masonry rained down and plunked into the water. Debris drifted like doom and soldiers and Marines went down under the hail…
Zelazny found himself blinking. He didn’t know how much time had passed as he lay on concrete. He had a terrible sense of deja vu. He strained and he saw the corporal dead beside him. Zelazny struggled to bring up his weapon.
He heard treads squeal. It was so close. Was this another terminator? A GD search beam played across his body. Zelazny looked up and saw a camera peering at him, a robotic eye with a red light in its lens. He hated these things. This wasn’t how men should fight wars: through soulless machines.
A 12.7mm tri-barrel aimed at his head. He didn’t care anymore. The long slog was over. Some kid was probably doing this to him from his remote-control set.
With a desire to go down fighting, Zelazny tried to bring up his weapon for one last shot.
The Sigrid tri-barrel whirred with thunderous noise, and Marine General Len Zelazny died as he’d begun—a regular grunt with a gun. Only this time, for the first time in his life—and the last—he utterly lost.
Colonel Stan Higgins sat in a plush rail car, staring out at passing cornfields when he read the news about Toronto. The last formations were surrendering. For the Toronto Pocket, the fighting and the war had ended. Now came the POW cages for the survivors.
Stan set down his e-reader. He still hadn’t heard about Jake. He’d been making calls though, and had found out the new penal battalions had headed for Buffalo and Hamilton, while others had gone north to New England.
Stan watched the passing cornfields and slowly, they became a blur. After a time, he shook his head and leaned back, closing his eyes. He remembered Pastor Bill who had died in Alaska back in 2032, fighting the Chinese. Bill and he had been best friends for so many years. Their wives had been best friends. Bill and he had had fierce ping-pong matches down in Stan’s basement. He’d never found anyone as competitive as Bill. If the pastor were sitting beside him now, he’d tell Stan to pray about Jake.
Breathing heavily through his nostrils, Stan didn’t know if he cared to pray. How could God have let this happen to his son? His boy had been through Denver this winter. That should be enough pain for one man’s lifetime, especially that of his son.
The miles slid away as Stan thought about it. Finally, sighing, he decided this showed him the Devil was alive and well on Planet Earth. Bill had been right about that.
Opening his eyes, Stan smiled sadly. He missed Bill. They’d had long talks together, usually while fishing or while riding up the interstate together to go hunting. Bill had made some cogent arguments.
Ultimately, what was the origin of evil? Was it relative as they taught in the universities? Was one man’s evil another man’s good, just depending on his point of view? That was too philosophical for Stan, and he didn’t buy it, not after Bill had explained it. If evil was relative, did that mean Hitler’s burning of the Jews wasn’t absolute evil? If evil changed depending on what fifty-one percent of a people said it was at any one moment, than people could argue that Hitler had been right for his time and place. Who were we to judge them right or wrong?
No. Stan couldn’t accept that. He believed what Bill had told him long ago. There was evil because there was good. God created everything and it had been good, at least according to the Good Book. The Bible taught evil had an origin, a starting point, and that was when the Devil had rebelled against God. The Devil had brought the rebellion to Earth by tempting Adam and Eve. Because evil had a starting point, good had a starting point, an ultimate source. Therefore, one could say this or that was absolutely evil all the time. Therefore, one could say that Hitler had been evil to burn the Jews, and that was Truth with a capital “T”.
Stan shook his head. What would his fellow passengers think if they knew what he was debating with himself? The point for Stan was this: instead of blaming God for evil, he would blame the Devil and Stan would blame himself. That meant Stan could also blame the Militia Detention Center people. And against them, he could use some help.
Therefore, Stan closed his eyes and silently asked God to be with his boy.
“And help me get him back,” Stan muttered.
He exhaled, opened his eyes and stared at the passing cornfields. America the bountiful: this was the reason China, Brazil and the German Dominion attacked. They wanted to feed their people off America’s plenty.
It was a good question. Time would tell.
Jake threw himself into a depression in the ground, with his chest striking a half-buried stone with a point. It hurt like a son of a bitch, the edged point digging into the flesh over his heart. He clenched his teeth to keep from yelling. He wore the old Army coat, old baggy pants and worn boots. He had an intact helmet, and that surprised him. He clutched an M16, carried extra magazines and even had a few ancient grenades. In other words, he was inadequately armed to destroy Sigrids and GD drone tanks.
Charlie thudded beside him, grunting painfully. At the same instant, enemy artillery shells landed with explosive and deadly force all around them.
