Slaughterhouse

FORTY-ONE.

Another truck, another road, another day. Muldoon sagged against the side rail, dog-ass tired but unable to sleep as the truck with twenty-five other troops barreled down yet another back country road, just one vehicle in a convoy of over a hundred. They’d been travelling for two days straight, only calling a halt every four hours or so for chow, latrine duty, and to swap out drivers.

Out in the country, the Klowns were fewer but no less dedicated. Twice, they’d been attacked by “country Klowns” driving giant combines and other farm equipment so big that it had taken TOW missiles to stop them. Fortunately, they had a lot of those to go around at the moment. The cavalry motor pool had been pretty well stocked with anti-tank weapons, since those weren’t the handiest implements to use against ground attackers. The battalion had scarfed them up, along with pretty much everything else that wasn’t nailed down, as long as it could fit on a HEMT cargo truck.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad trip. There was still plenty of action to be seen, but they’d only lost two troops and a car full of civilians. The Klowns weren’t very discriminate when it came to attacking, so unarmed women and kids were fair game for them. That kind of pissed off Muldoon. He thought—hoped—that if he ever became a killer clown, he’d at least still be a man about it and go after the guys with the guns.

He closed his eyes and tried to forget about it. He needed sleep, and most of the soldiers in the truck with him were eyes shut, mouths open. Four of them were still manned up in MOPP gear, weapons out, watching the countryside roll by at forty miles per hour as the convoy wound its way down yet another rural road. They were in Pennsylvania, Muldoon’s home state. His parents had left long ago, for Georgia of all places. They’d grown tired of the winters, but Muldoon still loved them. That was one reason he’d joined the Army, so he could get into a unit like the 10^th Mountain. Winter was what they lived for, even if it had been in places like Afghanistan as opposed to, say, Aspen, Colorado.

Just the same, in an odd way, it felt good to be closer to where he’d grown up.

“Muldoon… go to sleep, man.”

Rawlings looked at him blearily with bloodshot eyes. She was sitting across from him, her M4 between her legs. She’d been asleep when he’d last looked over at her and had been for a good hour. There was grime all across her face and her uniform, and she didn’t smell very good at the moment. None of them did. The Army wasn’t for body spray addicts—that was why God had created the Air Force. But Muldoon thought that if Rawlings ever had the opportunity to get cleaned up and get those busted teeth taken care of, she might rate a seven or so on the hotness scale.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m good to go,” Muldoon said, even though his eyes felt as if sandpaper was being dragged across them every time he blinked. He attributed that to the fact his sunglasses had wound up a combat casualty, and as such, the only shades left available to him were his goggles. And since they weren’t tinted, what was the point?

“Not worried about you, man. Just telling you to get some sleep,” Rawlings said.

“Like I said, I’m fine.”

Rawlings shrugged. “Hey, whatever.” She closed her eyes again and slumped back against the side rail.

“You handled yourself pretty well, Rawlings,” Muldoon said, after a long moment. “You sure busted some heads out there.”

Rawlings didn’t reply. Muldoon realized that she’d already fallen asleep.

“So, like, are you guys dating now?” Nutter asked. He was leaning against the front of the truck bed, eyes closed.

“What, you jealous or something, Colonel Nutter?”

“Hell no, Duke. I don’t fancy you one bit.”

Muldoon snorted and looked back at Rawlings. He really wondered what kind of woman she was, when she wasn’t trying to be a man and kill every Klown she saw.

He didn’t wonder for long. Sleep finally laid its claim, and deep blackness enveloped him like a mother coddling a favored child.