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(Page 3 of 9) Dirty Guns, Part II by Charles James
 (7 ratings)
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Like everything else, it looked pretty deserted.
Grier followed King a little closer now moving almost like a shadow. He hadn't said much since the Whistler strike. His face had lost a lot of colour and his usual quips and gripes went unsaid.
"Talk to me Grier," King said. "How you doing?"
"Fine."
"You're not my ex. Talk to me."
Grier took a deep breath. "I'm fucking scared, King." The words came out quiet. "How am I supposed to keep my eyes on my scanner, and on what's ahead of us and behind us all at once? Every time I see something moving in the wind, I get all tense. I hate not knowing what's out there, man."
King peeled his combat goggles from his face. With his naked eyes, he could hardly see Grier, who was only about arm's length in front of him. It was that dark. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and fit them back on.
He didn't say anything at first. Grier was an eye man, a spotter. It was his job to keep scan for the enemy or any humans left out here. It was a tough job. You had to watch about seven different things all at once, and if you saw something, you had to call it outright away – just like that new guy in Three Squad. If you're too slow or if you don't notice an enemy, the platoon can take a hit – a tough load to shoulder, when it's not a game of sit out for ten seconds and then come back to life. On the other hand, you can't get jumpy either. No one likes a Wolf Crier. King's experience was that guys who signed up for that job were the information junkies, the guys that couldn't take being out of the loop. The real good eye men had kind of a sixth sense for what was out there. Grier hadn't developed his yet.
"You're doing fine," King said. "You just gotta trust the platoon a little. You can't see everything. You see what you need to see. We'll see the rest."
Grier nodded.
"What's your long range say?"
"Nothing." Then Grier cocked his head to the side. "Turd in a can. No. Something's moving, King." The long range sweep gave them a two kilometre radial picture of anything giving off heat superimposed on map. "There's a lot of them."
"Enemy?"
"Not human."
King glanced upside down at the little display. There must have been an entire company of them. They were fanned out, working in small groups of four to six and covering several blocks. No doubt they were investigating whatever had taken out their Whistlers. They were still over a kilometre away, so the platoon had some time to make a decision.
Fight or flight?
They were outnumbered three to one. With those odds you only engage if you have to. The problem with running was that the Rhiorc could catch up... and run them down. If they stayed and fought, at least they could organize a defence, but risk being outgunned.
"Two Squad," Lieutenand Zettler came on, "assume the left flank out to the corner of Regal and Main. Fire teams assume covered positions, but be ready to move on command."
It was fight.
"Go go!" Randal shouted. When she barked, her voice squeaked.
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