The extra water and weapons and ammo were heavy and awkward but time was their enemy now, not noise. On the sidewalk at least the tall grass to either side would shelter them somewhat from inquisitive eyes. Ed was in the lead, setting the pace, watching the houses to either side and scanning the sky. His carbine hung across his chest by its sling and he kept one hand on its grip both to keep it from bouncing and to remain ready for any other surprises that might pop up. The grenade hanging from his webgear bounced around a little but seemed firmly attached. He glanced behind him and saw the rest of the squad spread out in a ragged line, jogging along with good intervals between them. They were all carrying extra gear, ammo cans, backpacks, even a few rifles.
The squad neared the end of the first block and Ed, in the lead, paused. He checked the cross-street, glancing both ways, paying close attention to the direction from which the patrol had come. Nothing, but then he hadn’t expected to see anything—if there’d been another patrol anywhere nearby they would have raced up as soon as they heard the first shot. He sprinted across the intersection, breath loud in his ears. The rest of his squad followed, dashing across the street singly and in pairs. After checking that the rest of the squad was still coming Ed jogged on.
It was ninety degrees in the shade and every man had been carrying thirty to forty pounds of gear before they’d started looting the soldiers’ bodies. In the baking sun their burdens doubled in weight, then quadrupled. The heat and the long days without adequate food or water had them gasping for air after two minutes. By the end of the second block so much sweat was running into Ed’s eyes he was having trouble seeing but he didn’t dare slow down.
“C’mon! Go! Go!” George urged his squadmates, his breath coming out in rasps. Between his own gear and what they’d taken off the bodies he was carrying a hundred pounds on his back. His thighs felt like they wanted to seize up. Instead he helped Mark, grabbing the big man by his webbing when he tripped over a buckled sidewalk slab and almost fell.
Two blocks covered, then three. Ed checked his watch without stopping, barely able to focus on the dial as he fought for air. To do it he had to lift the ammo can to shoulder height and his arm, already on fire, started shaking. His fingers were cramping up, yet one more burning pain shooting through his body.
They’d been on the move for just over four minutes. His urge to put distance between themselves and the ambush location was tempered with the knowledge that if they didn’t slow down, they could run into something nasty and never spot it until it was too late.
At least half a mile. That’s how far Ed figured they needed to be from the ambush site before they went to ground. They hit another cross-street and dashed across it in pairs. The houses here were in bad shape, some nothing more than piles of rubble. There’d been a lot of fighting here once. They could still smell the smoke from the fires that had charred them years before. Charred timbers shot skyward from jagged clots of broken brick. The curbs were choked with mangled vehicles and Ed eyed their dark interiors suspiciously until he heard something bump in a house as he jogged by. He gripped his carbine tighter. Running headlong into unknown areas of the city was the closest thing to suicide he’d ever attempted, but they couldn’t stop, not yet.
George was having trouble keeping up under his payload and Early dropped back in the pack to give him a hand. “C’mon boss,” Early urged the compact man between gasps. Early grabbed hold of George’s shoulder strap and pulled him on. George was panting hoarsely with the effort of running and he didn’t have the air to argue.
Ed reached the end of the block and peered out past the tall grass, trying not to gasp for air too loudly. The cross-street dead-ended a block to the left at what once had been a park. To the right, about two hundred yards down, was a jumbled pile of cars that had perhaps once been part of a roadblock. With a grunt Ed jogged across the open space toward the safety of the tall grass on the far side. Three houses down from the corner he checked his watch and slowed to a walk. Sweat dripped off his nose.
The squad formed up behind him, gasping and coughing. Mark vomited quietly but angrily waved off worried looks. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Ed checked to make sure everyone was caught up and looked past them. The column of smoke from the Growler no longer seemed close. He pointed at the houses to their right. The squad silently disappeared into the shadows.
On either side of the crumbling ruin of a house they swished slowly through the grass. There were fences separating many of the back yards, but most of them had been knocked down or ripped up for reasons unknown.
Behind the house they spread out and paused, watching and listening. Insects, birds, and the distant hollow hammering of a woodpecker were they only sounds they heard. Slowly and carefully they began moving southward through the backyards between two rows of houses. They crouched low, staying in the shadows and grass, peering into the houses and between them, listening. Gradually their pounding hearts slowed, and their breath came easier.
The area was either devoid of people or they’d learned long ago to stay out of sight whenever they heard gunfire nearby. Halfway down a block Ed held up a hand and the squad hunkered down. For half a minute they squatted, waiting, watching, listening, then Ed pointed at a house. The squad rose as one man and moved forward.
Ed took the left side of the house, Quentin the right, as the rest of the squad quickly entered the battered abode and checked it. After determining the perimeter was clear Ed slowly backed up to the house. Its side door was half off its hinges and he sidestepped inside.
The brick-sided bungalow was in better shape on the inside than its exterior led them to believe. Although nothing but slivers were left of its windows, and both its front and side doors had been kicked in, the interior walls and floors hardly showed any damage. It was over three-quarters of a mile from the ambush site, and looked unremarkable. It should do. Ed sent Mark to the front of the house to keep watch and Weasel to the back. After dumping their extra gear in the center of the house the two men moved out.
Jason helped a staggering George onto a chair in what had been the dining room. George fought his way out of his pack straps and slid onto his butt on the floor, chest still heaving.
“Christ I’m out of shape,” he murmured. He allowed himself another thirty seconds to recover, then took charge of inventorying their booty. He glanced around, finally deciding the kitchen, with its counters, would be the best spot. “I need a magazine count,” he announced.
Even though he knew his men had already checked it Ed crept up the stairs to the second floor and made sure it was clear. The top floor contained a master bedroom with its own bath and a tiny second bedroom hardly larger than a closet. The roof seemed to be intact, keeping the interior dry except for a leak in one corner which had soaked the mattress there, making the whole room smell of mildew. Ed peered out the windows front and back, then went back downstairs.
Mark was in the living room in the shadows six feet back from the bay window’s empty frame. The SAW was set up on its bipod next to him. Shards of glass littered the stained carpet, glinting faintly in the light. They’d all been cut by broken glass so many times it hardly seemed worth mentioning. George set an ammo can next to him just as Ed was coming down the stairs.
Mark cracked the can open and nodded. He opened the top of the SAW, then unhooked the soft-sided ammunition box from underneath the SAW’s receiver, revealing a belt of linked ammo barely six inches long. From the ammo can he pulled a fresh, gleaming belt of 200 rounds and wound it carefully into the soft-box. After reloading the light machine gun Mark pulled a second full belt of clinking ammo from the can. He sent Ed back to his pack for the spare soft-box he’d kept, never really believing he’d have the ammo necessary to fill it. He wound the second belt of ammo into the spare box.