Chapter Eleven: Infiltration is a Nice Way of Saying You're Screwed

Just when you think your situation can't get any worse, you drop a Sloppy Joe sandwich in your lap. Thanks to Gravity Dog, at least you won't have to worry about deep-set stains from saucy beef, mustard, and pickles. Too bad he just ate your trousers, too…

Jonny and I didn’t speak during the outbound leg of the mission. The previous time was due to suspicion and resentment, but this time was because of shock and dread. Our assignment was huge—the biggest of the war. It was a desperate attempt by the United State to achieve through daring covert action, what could not be achieved on the battlefield. We had as much chance of winning as threading a cat though the eye of a needle, but we had to try. Thinking about threading cats through small openings usually cheered me up, but not tonight. I peered through my webbing at the evening sky above the jetchopper, and lost myself in the full moon rising above the flat emptiness of Arkansas. As I watched the cold light ripple over the rice paddies and razor wire below, I thought again of my coyote cousins.

Our mission was simple in its conception, but daring in its execution. It possessed an uncomplicated, magical quality similar to a plan of waiting until no one was home, and then knocking over a kitchen wastebasket to raid its contents. So too would we be raiding the Super-Mart empire’s fragrant trash receptacle to eagerly feast upon its delicious scraps.

A dozen separate assault teams were to be inserted into enemy territory in a simultaneous and highly coordinated incursion. The shared goal of each of the teams was to infiltrate the one fusion power station that was solely responsible for transmitting all power and purpose to the raging zombie armies. These sub-infrared emissions provided strict mind control, as well as the electrical energy that supplied essential life force to the reanimated corpse mercenaries. You couldn’t kill people who were already dead, but you could stop them from wanting to kill you. That, at least, was the theory.

Struggling to hide the feelings in my troubled heart, I looked across the cabin of the JC-125TAC and attempted to gauge Jonny’s mood. I wagged my tail through the webbing as best I could in an effort to cheer him up.

“Jonny,” I said, as casually as possible, “Where is home?” I didn’t know where I was born, and dogs as a species do not care, but I knew that it was a subject humans liked to talk about, like sports, wagering on the outcome of sports, and sex. Some of them even wagered about the outcome of sex.

My partner did not reply. He just dangled in his cocoon of webbing straps, swaying gently with the gentle pitching motions of the jetchopper. Whenever we hit minor turbulence, he bounced and jiggled like ripe fruit on a tree branch.

“Jonny,” I tried again, “This fight hard. Worst fight ever. You go home soon!” The stress of the mission, and the boredom of the long trip, compelled me to deliver this long dissertation. I hate it when I can’t shut up.

Something about the word “home” seemed to connect with the human. Dogs don’t think about home; home is where it’s warm and where the food is good. Home is with a human, wherever they might be. Jonny sighed and removed his helmet. I had never noticed that he was almost as hairless on the top of his head as he was on the front. I tried to ignore this repulsive deformity as he spoke.

“Gravity Dog, there is a big difference between us, and I don’t mean my height or your long tail. It’s about the way we have lived. You were bred and conditioned to be a soldier. It’s your life, the reason for your existence. Things are different for me. I’m an aircar mechanic who lives with his mother, and I’m a soldier because I was made to be one. I did not choose it.”

Jonny paused, looking down while rubbing his stubbly shaved head with one of his clawless hands. Maybe it was the moonlight, maybe I was just getting used to him, but he really wasn't such a bad-looking human.

“All I've wanted to do since I got here was get out as soon as possible, even if the fastest way was to take dangerous missions. If I don’t fight, I don’t go home. Now it's different: if I don't win, I don't have a home to go to. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

I have to admit, as much as I had come to like Jonny, I didn’t understand what he was talking about almost half the time. Maybe more often. My mind had kind of wandered; I was looking out the jetchopper window and thinking about the endless trees that flew past. He and I were friends, though, so I replied with the kind of thing only a friend would say.

“Jonny,” I said, with sincerity that surprised even me, “You fight good. You die, Gravity Dog not eat you. Promise!”

I did not mean to be so sentimental, but the situation seemed to call for it. We were warriors, but we were also friends. In this crazy, dangerous new world, friends simply did not eat friends.