They were slowly approaching the only car on the block, a burned-out hulk sitting near the right curb. All that was left of it was the frame sitting on dented rims, brown rust slowly eating the black scorch marks. Ed scanned the street ahead, the houses to his left, then the ones across the street. Nothing but the squad could be seen moving, unless the bugs dancing over the grass counted. There were signs of foot traffic all over the neighborhood, cutting back and forth from the sidewalk to the street, but it seemed to be the work of individuals rather than a patrol moving in formation.
The trails in the grass didn’t appear to be fresh – they were all a day old, at least. Ed had gotten good at reading sign, and if he’d taken the time to confer with George he would’ve concurred. Ed preferred patrolling in late summer, not because of the heat, which he despised, but because of the grass. In their muted clothing he could hardly spot the rest of his patrol across the street slowly moving through the green and brown stalks waving slightly in the breeze, brushing past overgrown bushes, and he knew right where to look. When they paused in the shadows, they simply disappeared.
As he passed abreast of the rusting hulk in the street another fence pushed him back down to the sidewalk. Ed glanced across and saw a rusting fence line forcing Mark and his column to do the same thing. They’d been on the move half an hour, and had covered maybe four-tenths of a mile, when Ed, still on point, froze and reflexively held up a fist. Everyone stopped immediately, even Jason, who’d been looking across the street past Ed at the dilapidated houses overgrown with weeds. They slowly crouched in the long grass and gripped their rifles tighter, wondering.
Ed stared down the street, not sure what had brought him up short. He hadn’t seen anything, nothing was moving in the heat, but there’d been something… he cocked his head.
“Move!” he hissed, afraid to shout, charging blindly at the nearest house. The adrenaline surge had his heart in his throat as he ran all out. He found he was angling toward a raised brick front porch with low walls and prayed he’d make it in time.
The rest of the squad had heard it at nearly the same instant and reflexes took over. They scrambled away from the open street toward the cover of the houses. Weasel was right on Ed’s heels and landed on him as both men launched themselves up the steps onto the crumbling porch. George darted between the houses just behind them, nearly falling in the grass. Across the street Mark bolted into one of a pair of houses that had crumbled into each other. Quentin dashed into the rubble between the two, nearly impaling himself on a jutting splintered two-by-four.
Jason saw the squad disappear in the blink of an eye, bounding through the grass like jackrabbits. Then Early had him by the collar and was shoving him toward the nearest house.
“Go!” the old man grunted as he passed Jason on the run. Jason automatically glanced up the street, still not seeing anything, but he ran after Early all the same. As big as he was Early moved like a man possessed, and was through the open doorway of the nearest house before Jason reached its porch.
“Unhh!” The concrete floor of the porch did nothing to soften the impact as Weasel landed on top of Ed. The men rolled away from each other to opposite sides of the small porch, panting.
The low brick wall that encircled the porch gave them more than enough cover, and Ed hated to poke his head out, but he had to do it. An overgrown half-dead privet bush stuck up six inches past the top of the porch wall and afforded him even more concealment as he turned his head sideways and slowly raised it to peer out.
Ed had just enough time to see his squad was out of sight before he spotted movement at the end of the block. The cross-street was just four or five houses down in the direction the squad had been heading. Peering through the browning leaves of the privet, at first all Ed could see was indeterminate movement. After a second, though, the shape of a soldier dressed in camouflage revealed itself to him. Then another, on the far side of the intersecting street. Then the blunt nose of an IMP armored personnel carrier rolled into view.
“Fuck,” Weasel whispered, sinking back down below the wall. He patted his chest, reassuring himself that his spare magazines were still there. He’d have felt a lot better if more than two of them had been fully loaded.
The IMP rolled forward slowly, keeping pace with the soldiers on foot to either side. Its top hatch was open, providing cover to the rear for the soldier manning the roof gun, in this case a belt-fed grenade launcher. The dismounted infantry fanned out as they approached the intersection, looking up and down what, to them, was a cross street. Ed glanced back across the street needlessly to make sure his own people were still out of sight.
The IMP rode on eight big rubber tires and had a well-designed engine. Even with its top and back hatches open it was a quiet vehicle. What had alerted Ed was the four-wheel-drive passenger vehicle behind the IMP—everyone, even Army troops, called it a Growler because of its diesel engine, which was shockingly loud at speed. Even at barely more than idling its rattling exhaust echoed off the houses. It had been around a corner, over a hundred yards away, and Ed had still heard it.
This IMP—and in fact every IMP Ed had seen in the city in the last five years, without exception—wore slat armor around its exterior. The standoff armor was a simple defense against rockets, and it looked like someone had welded a fence around the exterior of the armored personnel carrier, about a foot away from the surface of the vehicle. Incoming rockets or grenades would detonate upon hitting the metal slats, and the explosive force would spread out across the surface of the armor rather than penetrate it. The end result was awkward and ugly, and made the IMPs look like giant grocery carts. It also significantly increased their already large footprint, which meant they couldn’t fit down some alleys and narrow streets.
“Keep going, keep going, keep going,” Ed murmured, thinking he was the only member of the squad that could see what was coming. But George, after darting between the houses, had circled around the back of the one holding Ed and Weasel. He made his way to the south side of the house, which faced the intersection. It was overgrown, and he slid along the brick hidden by gnarly yew bushes until he was nearly underneath the raised porch. George was on the ground and therefore didn’t have quite as good a view as Ed, but he could see enough. He cursed silently.
Ed watched the Army patrol approach the intersection. They were in standard formation, a well-spaced line of troops to either side of the street, supported by—in this instance—two vehicles. They were still too far away to get a good head count, but whatever their numbers he knew his squad did not have the resources to take them on.
The troops on foot seemed to spread out and pause in their forward advance, letting the IMP enter the intersection. Without hesitation it turned left and began rolling up the street right at Ed.
“Shit,” Ed whispered, pressing his forehead to the warm brick. He collected himself and looked back up the street. Still coming, with the Growler now making the turn. His position on the porch now seemed ill-advised and untenable. The house’s front door was in place and intact. Weasel was on his side in the far corner of the porch trying to become invisible. Ed gestured at the door.
Weasel stretched out, staying low, and extended a booted foot. He pushed against the door, then again, harder. The door didn’t budge. Weasel shook his head and rolled over onto his stomach, clutching his subgun and peering sideways out the opening in the wall where the front steps rose up.