Earth Alone (Earthrise Book 1) by Arenson Daniel

Author:Arenson, Daniel [Arenson, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Moonclipse
Published: 2016-06-17T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After the longest, most painful twenty-four hours of Marco's life, the Dragon Platoon's recruits finally abandoned their rusty, antique radios and hobbled back toward their tents. Marco had never imagined that a tattered old military tent in the desert would ever seem beautiful, but right now it looked like an oasis. He yearned to lie on his old cot between Addy and Lailani, rest, and maybe finally—after days of this hell—get a chance to write a few paragraphs in Loggerhead.

When he saw the corporals standing outside the tents, he knew it was not to be.

All three of the Dragons' corporals were there: the slender and dark Webb, the stern St-Pierre, and the tough-as-old-leather Diaz. All three held their guns in hand.

"Attention!" Corporal Webb shouted, pacing on her bladed prosthetics. For somebody barely larger than Lailani, she had a voice that made even the mighty Beast stiffen and raise his chin.

"Formations!" St-Pierre shouted, and the recruits—blistered, sunburnt, parched, and famished—formed rank in the sand.

"All right, recruits!" Corporal Diaz said, stepping toward them. "Now that you're back from your little vacation, we've got a treat for you. You're about to fight some scum. March behind me! Emery—you call out time."

Marco could barely walk. His back screamed with every step. His feet felt shattered, not only blistered but crushed, the bones ground to shards. But he followed. After the pain of carrying the radios for a day, he would tolerate this too. The platoon formed two lines and marched behind the corporals. Marco walked by Corporal Diaz, calling out time.

"Three, two, one, march! Three, two, one, ma—"

"Louder!" Diaz said.

Marco shouted as loudly as he could—which wasn't, he thought, nearly as commanding as the corporals' voices. "Three, two, one . . ."

They marched on, leaving the tents behind. Many of the soldiers lagged, limped, and broke formation, only for the corporals to shout and goad them back in line. With every step, as his feet and back ached, Marco looked at Corporal Diaz. The veteran had suffered three scum claws ripping through him, shattering his spine. That spine was now bolted together. If the corporal could march here in the sand, Marco—who had never suffered an injury aside from Addy knuckling his head—certainly could.

Corporal Diaz survived the Appalachian Trail, one of the worst battles of the decade, he thought. I can survive basic training.

They marched toward a sandy field, and Marco nearly lost his count.

"Fuck me," Addy whispered behind him.

Three scum—actual, real scum, not just wooden figures—rose in the sand ahead, balanced on their bottom segments.

Marco reached for his gun. A few other recruits did too. Curses rose across the platoon.

"Calm down, soldiers," rose a voice from ahead. "They're dead."

Ensign Ben-Ari emerged from behind the massive black centipedes. The officer's silver plasma gun hung on her hip. The weapon looked far more elegant than the crude, bullet-spraying machines the other soldiers carried. Ben-Ari wore her helmet, and dark shades hid her eyes.

"Attention!" Corporal Diaz shouted, and all three corporals saluted their commander. Ben-Ari nodded and returned the salute.

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