Excerpt

Smithy dreamed about the lights again.

This dream, like all the others, had the peculiar effect of collapsing time, burning away all the years that came after. He wasn't Smithy at all in the dream; he was still just First Lieutenant Nat Smith, eighteen years old and just as green as hell. The others weren't any older or more experienced; they barely knew each other, having been airlifted in from various corners of the US and plopped down in a barracks. They were still shy with each other, but still dying to prove themselves, even though back then they weren't any better than kids playing soldier. Boys, Wizard would later say of their earlier selves, smiling a little.

That night, the night Smithy was dreaming about, the five of them were moving through a night-shrouded field in Montana. The field belonged to a rancher named Clemson Bartlett, and the spot they were moving toward was at the exact center of his property, though they wouldn't learn that till later. When the boys reached the spot, they stood staring at each other, shifting unloaded rifles from hand to hand. Flatfooted in their fatigues and muddy boots, unsure of what to do next.

They didn't feel like heroes. They weren't even ROTC; lately that fact had begun to rankle. US Defense Reserve Corps was the organization that had snatched them away before they'd had a chance to make up their minds. The recruiter had been a genuine four-star general, and he'd told each and every one of them they had a unique opportunity before them: not just an automatic scholarship to the university of their choice, not just military careers upon graduation, but the chance to serve their country in a unique and unusual way.

The problem was, he never told them exactly how they would serve, or in what way it was unique and unusual. Worse, it had quickly become clear nobody knew what USDRC really was, or even what branch of the Services it belonged to. Everybody knew the Marines, the Coast Guard, the Navy…they damned sure knew what the Army was, especially impressionable girls. Smith had dug into the internet via his school's computer library before he left his mom's home in North Carolina, just Googling his brains out—and got zilch for his efforts.

First Lieutenant Smith looked his companions over glumly. His older, sleeping self took in their faces with pleasure, wondering how in hell they could have ever been so young. Except for Wilson, they were all First Lieutenants. Wilson, who had been recruited before any of them, was Captain, and their leader for this maneuever. At least he wasn't an asshole, something Smith had been worried about. He was a jug-eared, soft-spoken fellow, but something about him made the others comfortable, gave the impression he knew what he was talking about and could be trusted. When he said, "Run," they ran. When he said "Down" they flopped down on their bellies and kissed dirt. No questions asked.

Lucian Evermore was black, tall with deep-set eyes that never seemed to miss a beat, and a deep voice. Graham Albrecht was heavily built, a ginger-haired Boston native who despite his lack of height and good-humored, almost impish demeanor looked like he might be a formidable fighter. Jesus—Jesse—Maldonado was a Filippino. Smith had thought he was either Mexican or Chinese, and had been mildly corrected the night they met. He kept fingering his stubbly crewcut with the air of missing something. He was from somewhere in California and liked talking about punk bands. It seemed like a strange background for someone bound for a military career; Smith gathered that Jess, like most of them, had joined the Corps mainly at the behest of his parents. None of them were rich, and it was their best chance for a college education, if not the actual career Flynn had promised them.

Their orders had just been to get to this spot. They'd had the idea there would then be action of some kind; another squad to engage with, or something. But there was nothing out here but cold open space and cow pats; Bartlett ranched cattle, but the animals were all put up for the night, their smell lingering in the cool air. No crickets. The silence was deafening, Smith would say later.

"Now what?" That was Albrecht, and it was the only thing Smithy remembered anyone actually saying in the dream. Maybe because it was what they were all thinking. If any of them had answered, it would have been with the same note of paranoia rising in their voices. This manuever was supposedly just an exercise, not much different from the yahoos who went out in the woods on weekends shooting each other with paint-guns. Sure. They'd all have a good laugh, then go back to the barracks. They had been promised a week's leave later; in that time, they'd be on the bus, bound for home and some good home cooking. But somehow this exercise had changed into something else. Maybe something a little more dangerous. Maybe something a little suspicious.

Smithy remembered Evermore shaking his head, like, Man, I don't like this. I don't like this a'tall. Maldonado was looking from one to the other; he had proven himself probably the most aggressive of them, even more so than Albrecht, but right then he put Smith in mind of a dog who smelled something dangerous out in the dark. Any minute he'd start whining, snarling if you got too close. Captain Wilson was looking around, sucking his teeth, looking more nervous than any of them.

Then the lights came, and everything went to hell.

As always, this effectively marked the end of the dream. Everything had been leading up to that point, falling towards it like ants tumbling down into an ant-lion nest, ready to be sucked dry. There was nothing now but the lights flashing, searing his eyes dry, and an impossibly fast-moving parade of images snapping by, as starkly uncomplicated as those in a textbook, as surreal as something from a horror movie. Animal-images, but not like anything you saw in the Zoo: teeth, leather wings, rolling white eyes…

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch…

And that was it. Smith's eyes snapped open and it was twenty years later. He was lying in the utter darkness of his cabin, and the sound of someone banging on his door, making a lot of noise about it. It didn't sound like the sound either knuckles or fists would make; it sounded as though someone were slapping his door open-handed, daring someone to do something about it.

There were other noises, too; loud snufflings, grunts and streams of barely-human babble some sources termed "samurai chatter." It would have been funny if the sounds hadn't been so hair-raisingly strange, like gossip you'd hear in Hell.

Smithy kept a loaded rifle on the floor next to his hard, narrow bed, right by his boots. He picked it up now before heading to the cabin's door. He was whistling through his teeth, pretending to be cheerful, pretending he wasn't sick to his stomach with apprehension.

The Old People seldom came to him, but when they did, it was rarely good news.