The Invasion Trilogy (Book 2): The Shadows Read online

  “Three… two… one… Everybody back down!” the drill sergeant said.

  They stopped where they were and dropped back into the pushup position. “Now this has got to be the stupidest bunch of privates I have ever dealt with. Maybe all the good men are dead. You must be the remaining cowards that ran for the hills at the first sign of danger. Oh, I so hope I am mistaken. Now give me a formation before you piss me off,” the drill sergeant said. “Move!”

  This time when the recruits leapt to their feet, the sergeants again stepped in and forcibly arranged them into evenly spaced rows. Jacob tried to remain in the back but was quickly ushered into the center of the first row. He found himself standing face-to-face with the leathered drill sergeant. Jacob averted his eyes and tried to look beyond the man. Focusing on a far off light pole, he tried to become invisible.

  When the sergeants had them formed up, they stepped back off to the side and the drill sergeant paced around the group, walking up and down the rows, yelling at them individually. “Stand up straight, recruit. You look like two hundred pounds of chewed bubble gum. Untuck your shirt, hero. Where’s your headgear, private?” He stopped directly in front of Jacob and stood so close he could smell the drill sergeants nasty breath. “You ever show up for my formation with that stubble on your chin again, I’ll shave it for you with a rock! Do you understand, recruit?” he growled.

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant!” Jacob shouted back.

  The older man grunted and shook his head before stepping back to the head of the formation and turned so that he could face the group.

  “Let me introduce myself. My name is Master Sergeant Masterson. You will know me as Drill Sergeant. These men around you are my cadre; you will know them as Drill Sergeant. Are we tracking?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

  “Now, I don’t think you all understand what’s going on here; the seriousness of the situation you all are in. Less than two hundred miles south of here, there are soldiers worth far more than you maggots. These skilled warriors are fighting and dying while you rest your disgusting bodies in my cozy bunkhouse. I used to be out there myself, holding that line between The Darkness and our people. I was plenty happy doing just that, but it seems we are running out of soldiers and somebody higher up thought it a good idea to have me shape you soft, worthless civilians into fighting men in two weeks.

  “Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why, that’s impossible! To turn a soft piece of lard civilian into a fierce fighting man in two weeks? Now normally, I would agree with you, and normally we have sixteen weeks to convert a turd into a trained killer. But like I said, unfortunately, I have only two weeks. The good news is we get to skip the bullshit. All you need to learn to fight The Darkness is to shoot, move, and communicate. I will teach you how to kill and how to die like a soldier; you can learn the rest when you report to the suck. Now… are we still tracking?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant!”

  “Good. Now, I noticed not a single one of you dirtbags made your bed. We don’t have maid service here, and your momma ain’t gonna stop by to pick up after you. When I say fall out, you will have five minutes to get your bodies inside and square away your rack, then I want you back out here, formed up and ready for PT—five mile run in five minutes.

  “Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant!”

  “Yeah, okay, we’ll see. Fall out!”

  Chapter 2

  Jacob bent over and used the belly of his gray T-shirt to wipe the vomit from his chin. The run had been hard but he’d finished it. Although men half his age fell out, he had managed to push through. He wouldn’t allow himself to quit or let his mind accept failure; even if he did fall into the grass to puke his guts out seconds after Masterson ordered them to halt, he was still here. And after completing the run, he knew the score… Masterson could make him miserable, he could wear him down with pushups, get in his head, and break his mind and body, but he couldn’t kill him… only The Darkness could do that.

  As bad as Drill Sergeant Masterson was, he knew The Darkness was worse, and as long as Jacob stayed tough and absorbed the training, his family would be safe. Jacob wiped away the rest of the mess from his face and stood upright. He took a deep breath and turned back to the barracks. As he walked, he saw Masterson standing in the shadows, watching the recruits gather and return to the squad bay. Jacob felt the Drill Sergeant’s stare. He ducked his head and went to a jog, rushing for the door.

  Inside, men had already dumped their issue bags of clothing to the floor. They scrambled to arrange uniforms and take showers, pushing their way through lines to get cleaned up and prepared for the morning chow formation. Exiting from the showers, Jacob moved to his rack, his green duffle bag at the foot of his bed. He looked across at a pair of legs dangling from the top rack. The man scooted and fell to the floor, springing up like a cat. He was at least ten years younger than Jacob, broad shouldered, greasy blonde hair, and blue eyes. He looked more like a football player than a soldier.

  The man reached a large hand across the rack to Jacob. “I’m Winslow, Jesse Winslow. Looks like we’re bunkmates,” he said.

  Jacob returned the handshake and tugged his own green bag open, digging for his uniform items.

  “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself last night; guess I didn’t hear you come in,” Jacob said.

  Jesse nodded and yanked on a brown T-shirt before hopping into a pair of camouflage trousers. “Didn’t get in ‘til way past dark. Just got word they drew my number yesterday.”

  “Drew your number?” Jacob asked.

  “The lottery,” Jesse said. “I was lucky enough to get drawn for military training. Damn, I’m glad to be out of the camp.”

  Jacob nodded; he didn’t even know such a thing existed. He knew there were more volunteers than space for training, but a lottery surprised him. “Sorry, I was recruited from in here. I haven’t been to the camps.”

  “Damn, you lucked out! They’re filling up classes fast. There are lines of us trying to find ways out of the evacuation camps. Military duty is the top choice right now; most everyone else gets pushed into labor. The last resort is with the militias, but that’s just as bad as the camps, and it don’t get your family moved onto a military base.”

  “You have a family then?”

  “Me? No. Probably why they took me; cheaper for ‘em—no extra mouths to feed. What about you?”

  Jacob looked away; dodging the question as he pulled a T-shirt over his head then looked back. “I have a wife and daughter. They can stay here as long as I don’t fail,” Jacob said, his tone changing. “Who knows if I’ll ever see ‘em again?”

  Jesse forced a grin and finished buttoning his uniform jacket. “Hey man, you’ll do fine, and they’ll be here waiting when this is all over.”

  A door slammed behind them as, once again, men were on their feet running for the exit. Jacob tugged his bootlaces tight and scrambled to his feet. “Let’s go, Jesse, it’s chow time.”

  ***

  The sun rested high over the horizon, the air brisk but clear. Jacob’s new boots crunched on the crushed limestone bed. They fell in proficiently this time, learning from their previous failures. A drill sergeant moved to the front of the formation and called them to attention. They froze, standing perfectly straight with their shoulders squared and their chests out. Jacob looked straight ahead, concentrating and not allowing his eyes to wander.

  Masterson moved into view, stopping just in front of the younger drill sergeant before taking charge of the platoon. He stepped forward and stared into them. Jacob was sure they would be dropped for more pushups, but the man looked away to a high-backed pickup truck. A door opened and a uniformed man stepped out with a clipboard.

  “Listen up, turds. I told you this would be an accelerated course. When your name is called, report to the armorer and sign for your weapon,” Masterson said.

  Jacob waited as men were called and fell out of formation, running to the back of the truck, si
gning for M4 rifles. Jacob waited his turn. After being called, he ran to the truck and stood at attention. A supply sergeant in the back looked at his name on the clipboard and grinned before turning to open a footlocker. Reaching in, he pulled out a heavy, black, scoped rifle with a synthetic stock. He turned and stepped to the back of the truck then released the empty magazine and drew back the bolt, verifying the rifle was empty.

  The man stretched out his arm, offering him the rifle. Jacob put up his hands and stepped back apprehensively. “What’s that?”

  “It’s your weapon, dummy.”

  Jacob shook his head. “Can’t I just get one like all the others?”

  “Are you Private Jacob Anderson?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Jacob said.

  “Then no, you get the M14. It says so right here.” The man flashed Jacob the clipboard with one hand while tossing the rifle at him with the other. Jacob caught it and staggered back.

  “Is there a problem?” Masterson’s voice boomed, causing Jacob to turn on his heels and nearly fall.

  “No, Drill Sergeant,” he shouted, running back to his place in formation.

  Jacob stopped in his place next to Jesse just as the younger man’s name was called. Jacob watched as his new friend ran to the back of the truck. When Jacob heard a similar argument, he dared turn his head slightly and watched as Jesse was handed a large machine gun, much heavier than the other men’s weapons. Suddenly Jacob felt relief, his own M14 losing the extra weight he was worried about just moments earlier. Jesse returned to the formation. Breathing hard in frustration, he stopped and fell in.

  More men took their turns at the truck, receiving weapons and returning to the formation before Masterson broke them into two equal lines and formed them up on opposite sides of the road. He moved them out, cautioning them to walk spread apart. Jacob was on the right-hand side of the road, the fifth man back from the front. He could see Jesse on the other side of the street, only two men ahead of him. The drill sergeants stomped down the lines, yelling at them to keep their weapons up off their chests and muzzles pointed out at the sides of the road as they patrolled.

  “From this moment on, everywhere you go, you will move tactically,” Masterson said. “If you pass training, when you report to your units, you will move tactically. If you fail to be tactical, The Darkness will kill you. This is the world we live in now. No place outside of these camp walls is safe. Do you understand, turds?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant,” they shouted back.

  The platoon was road marched for three miles. Jacob could tell by the heat on his feet that blisters were forming. As they moved, the drill sergeants marching at the center of the road sped them up. Sometimes shouting at them or yelling out different warnings, causing them to have to run into the tall grass at the sides of the road and drop into the thick vegetation before lying down with their weapons up and ready to fire at an imaginary enemy.

  They would be shouted back to their feet, then forced to run forward for hundreds of meters to avoid a pretend artillery attack. Again dropped and formed into a hasty ambush, they waited behind their rifles for an invisible enemy to approach from the road. As they patrolled on, phrases became more and more familiar to them. They learned their part in every battle drill. Jacob’s motions became clear; just as in his former life as an engineer when he knew how to break down and assemble a production line, he now knew what to do when attacking or under attack.

  They drilled until their bodies ached and their blistered feet bled. They were fully immersed in the training, stopping at the side of the road to eat and hydrate before again moving out on the trail. Masterson called out battle drills, and the platoon reacted.

  “Near ambush!”

  The men at the front screamed and ran through the kill zone yelling pew, pew, pew—firing imaginary weapons as the men at the back of the patrol dove for cover before laying heavy suppressive fire, covering their teammates as they assaulted through and destroyed the enemy.

  “Far ambush!”

  Soldiers in the kill zone took cover and provided suppressive fire while those at the rear of the formation maneuvered around and destroyed the enemy.

  They learned to break contact, to initiate contact; different patrols and traveling formations; when to ambush and when to hide; how to react to chance contacts and how to pursue and run down the enemy. After a particularly difficult round of chaotic drills, Jacob overheard Jesse laughing with the other men. “This is just like football practice.” Jacob could see that the big man was loving it, memorizing plays like it was all a game. Meanwhile, Jacob felt his own tired body breaking down… and it was only the first day.

  The patrol finally ended at a long gravel road. They were halted and moved back into a formation. Jacob’s pants were covered with dirt and grass stains, the elbow of his shirt torn, and the toes of his boots scraped, the raw leather showing through. Masterson range walked back to the front of the formation and faced them to the right, marching them to a grassy field where the pickup truck and supply sergeant were waiting.

  The supply sergeant was standing behind the truck with the tailgate down. Cans of ammo were stacked in the back with more soldiers positioned over them. Masterson fell them out and they formed a training circle around the back of the truck. The supply sergeant stepped forward and removed his hat, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

  “Okay, Privates, you will form into three lines and draw ammo.” He pointed to three tables just behind him with soldiers standing over them. “Little guns, big guns, and bigger guns. If your weapon fires non-belt-fed 5.56 go to the first table.”

  Men with the M4s and M16s fell out and ran to the first table. Jacob waited for instructions and moved to the 7.62 table with four other men while Jesse and the other machine gunners moved to the third. Jacob stood looking at the others; other than all holding scoped rifles—M14s as the supply sergeant had called them—he couldn’t find anything in common with the group he found himself in.

  A man wearing a dark-red ball cap with a yellow badge paced behind Jacob’s table, picked up a clipboard, and then wended around it. Without introducing himself, he ordered the five men into a line, standing shoulder to shoulder. He tossed the clipboard back to the table before walking up and down the line. He ordered them to hold their weapons out then, one at a time, inspected each recruit’s rifle. As he walked down the line, he stopped to ask them questions while he looked over their weapons. He stopped in front of Jacob and snatched away his rifle. Expertly, he opened the bolt and inspected the chamber.

  “You a veteran? Done time in the military?” he asked without looking away from the weapon.

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “A hunter?” he asked.

  “No, Sergeant. I’m an engineer.”

  “Then why are you in my designated marksman group?”

  Jacob dropped his head, subconsciously moving away from the table, embarrassed. The instructor pushed the rifle back into Jacob’s chest then reached back for the clipboard. He flipped through pages then stopped. “Jacob Anderson,” he said as his finger traced the lines of text. “Says here you were in Chicago—at the Battle of Museum Park.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Then that is why you are here. With only fourteen days to train up recruits, we are forced to pull some troops ahead in their training to go over advanced skills.”

  “But, Sergeant, seriously, I… I don’t know shit,” Jacob stammered.

  “Don’t matter, you will soon enough; I can promise you that.”

  Chapter 3

  “Hey, you awake?”

  Jacob forced open his weary eyes, blinking to clear his senses, and found himself staring into the darkness of the room. The furnace blower was once again roaring, mixed with the snores of exhausted men. “I am now,” he whispered into the dark.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “Damn, Jesse, what time is it?” Jacob said.

  “Seriously, do you think we made a
mistake?” Jesse asked, rolling in the bed so that his head hung over the top bunk, looking down at Jacob.

  “Hell, man. I don’t know. It isn’t like we had a choice—not really, anyway.”

  “I was just wondering, you know, is it worth it? I mean, the camp was rough but at least those things were far away from us. They’re going to push us right into the fight, you know. We won’t be sitting safe being gate guards or something,” Jesse said. “They’re planning to put us right in the middle of it.”

  “No use worrying about it now; it’s done, right?” Jacob said.

  “Yeah, guess you’re right. I won’t go back to the refugee camp, and no way could I go back to Detroit again.”

  “Detroit? That where you’re from?” Jacob asked. “Chicago myself.”

  “Yup… worked in the Ford plant. Good job too. Wish I had saved some of that money for a rainy day. Maybe I would have gotten farther. When the shit hit the fan, I was dead broke from a weekend at the casino. Then the plant halted production after the attacks started. I was stuck at home with no paycheck and no money in the bank… those kinda odds won’t get ya far.”

  “Things happened fast in Chicago too,” Jacob whispered. “By the time we realized what was going on, it was too late.”

  “Detroit was a nightmare, bro. I thought I could make do, hold out in the city. Yeah, that was a bad idea—real bad. I watched them from my apartment, watched them attack the police. I didn’t know what to think of it. I just wanted to get away. People said up north was safe, so I crossed the river into Canada and just kept moving.”

  “Come on, man, shut up,” a soldier shouted from up the bay, silencing Jesse.

  Jacob lay back; he raised the green wool blanket to his chest, listening absently as Jesse continued to tell his story. He turned his head to the side and looked down the row of bunks. They all had a story, all different but still the same. Now they all found themselves here, like soldiers in any war from the past, united against a common enemy.