The Rust

Jethro surveyed the dead whiteness: an empty, desolate plain devoid of life and shelter. He rotated his head almost mechanically, his hardened features scanning the land ahead. Below his eyes, his grizzled jawline was set in a permanent grimace, as if everything he had seen, saw now, and would see was grim at best.

He didn’t feel the cold, at least that’s what he and his men kept telling themselves. What kept the boys marching on was Jethro. What kept Jethro going was duty. Duty kept that spark, that fiery resolve burning in him just enough to melt away the cold.

From atop the Jeep, he could just barely make out the treeline. Beyond that was the wood. The wood was the mission. What lay beyond was just rumor. Or was it a promise? He grunted. It didn’t matter. It was the mission. Push on, as always, for the mission.

Hobbs interrupted his thoughts as he marched up and saluted. “Sarge! Batteries are charged, and we’re ready to roll out, sir!”

Jethro cocked his head down and saluted back. “Good work, Corporal. Wheels up, on my command.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Hobbs stiffly marched off, barking orders to the troops as he went. His arms and legs looked awkward and weary as he swung them.

Won’t last much longer out here. They had to push on.

The men decoupled the charging cables from the second Jeep and secured the heavy solar panels to the back of the six-wheel HET. The cables were coiled and lashed down to the HET atop the panels. They could only charge one vehicle at a time, so they had to do it on a rotation.

Hobbs and two privates piled into the command Jeep. The other Jeep and the HET were fully loaded, the last men jumping aboard just as Sergeant Jethro gave the order to move out. The three electric motors whined in unison as snow flicked off the treads of the oversized tires. Jethro clutched the roll bar, still standing, as the platoon bumped along the plane.

The conditions worsened, the sky graying and darkening as large frozen chunks of slush fell from it. The headlights were obscured enough to be nearly useless, and the men took turns wiping the windshield off with their sleeves. Still, they pushed on.

Just before dawn, the platoon met the edge of the wood, the plain giving way to monstrous pine trunks. Each one towered over the Jeep by an immeasurable distance, disappearing into the gray-black heavens. Ice and snow clung to them, sticking to the evergreen needles until they sagged enough for some of it to drip off. The storm raged even more violently now, each man’s green uniform plastered with white.

Jethro scanned the trees and the darkness ahead. Not a sign of life, but the trunks offer some protection on the leeward side. The HET would be mostly covered, but more importantly, his men needed rest.

“Corporal,” he hollered over the whine of the motor. “Status report!”

Hobbs called back, “Sir, battery levels at 21 percent, sir!”

“We’ll make camp behind that trunk up there, bring us around, and shut it down.”

Corporal Hobbs echoed the command and signaled to the other vehicles. The troops dismounted and helped their Sergeant down from his chariot, his pelvis creaking and popping as he did. He hissed as his brittle joints seared with pain. Try as he might to hide it, he was old and worn out, and just as afflicted as the next man. Moving helped some, but he refused to sit. Partly because he refused to show weakness in front of the men, and more importantly, if he was going to freeze, he was going to do it standing.

He was infected. They all were, and each and every one of them knew their days were numbered. That’s what the disease did to you: froze your joints up. Back at base camp, two men had already succumbed, their bodies locked like a skeletal prison for their minds to wither away in. Unable to move. Unable to die. Unable to do anything but gaze ahead, panicking at immobility until you slipped into madness with the new hell you were stuck in.

Not to me. And not to them either. Their salvation lay ahead; they just had to reach it.

The strongest men unloaded and set up the solar panels, coupling the heavy cables to the HET’s batteries so that at sunup it would get a head start at charging. The healthy ones were busy arranging the Jeeps, setting up tents, and creating as much shelter and protection as they could. A few stood guard. The weak ones huddled together in tents, massaging their aching limbs, which slipped, popped, or crunched when they moved them too far.

Jethro didn’t sleep that night. He stood guard, observing the path ahead while he thought and calculated. He surveyed his men, too, ensuring they got the shifts and rest that they needed. The next leg of their trip would take them to the bridge. No doubt Caecelav would be skulking nearby, and they needed to be ready. Today was the journey, but tomorrow would come the battle.

The next morning, the men got a late start. Even less sunlight penetrated the piney canopies far above them, providing only a trickle of power to the solar panels. Sarge gave the order to move out at exactly 60% charge, not a lick more. They would reach their goal before nightfall and have plenty of time to juice up tomorrow.

Corporal Hobbs wheeled the command Jeep along the muddy path, black clumps of sopping dirt kicking up and splashing the plastic fenders where it mixed with the snow. Occasional stony outcroppings in the trail staved off their progress, but they managed to crawl over them with some confidence.

It was after the eighth rock crawl that Jethro heard the river down the trail, and around a couple more trunks, the platoon sighted the bridge. He gave the signal to slow up and look sharp.

The bridge was a rickety old arched crossing, the rotting green boards lightly dusted with fresh snow. There were no tracks or prints, but Jethro steeled his men regardless. Ambush. Has to be.

They stopped short of the bridge as he dismounted from the Jeep and picked up a machete. Hobbs armed himself with a shovel while his private wielded a pickaxe. Brass left them unarmed and under-equipped for years, so it was the best they had. Not nearly enough, but it would have to do. Jethro didn’t think about the odds. This was their last chance.

Nobody made a sound, padding softly as they could along the white earth. Every move they made, they checked around the next tree trunk, using hand signals to indicate they were clear. The vehicles inched forward, barely humming as the snow crunched underfoot. The private feathered the accelerator with his foot, nudging the bumper closer to the bridge.

It was close enough now that they could make out the rotten spots where entire pieces had fallen away, exposing the grainy, splintered holes that remained. Jethro continued to tread carefully, twisting his head left and right as he listened. The frigid water rushed below them, and chunks of ice bumped up against dead branches as they danced along the seething torrent.

The private’s foot slipped. All four tires broke loose, kicking up chunks of muddy snow. His ankle froze up! The Jeep lurched forward and slammed into the base of the bridge, sending splintered woodchips flying as it did.

“Halt, private, halt! Shut it down!” Jethro shouted as the Jeep bounced up and slid up the ramp.

An unearthly roar rumbled up from the holes in the bridge. A large, purplish shadow swayed and loomed beneath. Long, violet, clawed fingers scraped at the border of the railing, digging into the green wood.

The Jeep stalled out, and the private yelled, “I got it, it’s off!”

Then he screamed, any bravery and sense of might shattering before the amorphous, wretched figure of Caecelav. The beast heaved itself up onto the deck, its purplish skin rippling and glistening against the white-brown backdrop. Its rubber-like muscles flexed to hold itself upright as it caught the whole platoon in its eyeless gaze.

Caecelav’s toothless maw hung open for its gurgling, abyssal voice to utter, “No. Go. Further.”

The private continued to shriek with fear. He feebly tried to lift his torso out of the seat with his arms, his legs fixed in place. Caecelav grabbed the bumper and strained, bellowing as it did. It heaved and lifted the Jeep up onto two wheels with its long, tendril-like fingers.

Jethro exploded, “Strike! Strike! Strike!” He dashed across the path toward the driver's side of the Jeep.

Hobbs and the other private took the right. They let out a battle cry and furiously hacked away at the monstrous purple blubber with shovels, axes, wrenches—anything they had. It recoiled but only briefly, and let go of the Jeep long enough to swipe at them with its clawed tendrils.

The sergeant grabbed his driver by the bandoleer, straining to yank him out of his seat. The man’s leg was trapped, his toes jammed under the dash. Caecelav regained its grip on the bumper and tipped the Jeep on its side. The private dangled upside down, his head hovering inches from the edge of the bridge. He yelped and clambered back into the Jeep, grasping and clutching at Jethro.

“Take it down!” he shouted, pointing one finger at Hobbs while he fumbled with the man’s boot.

By now, the HET had unloaded, and the whole platoon rushed the beast with their weapons. They hacked away at the rubbery purple skin of the monster, opening gash after gash. It didn’t bleed, although it roared in pain.

It lifted the Jeep even further. Two more troops grabbed onto the running board, trying to keep it pinned to the deck of the bridge. The whole Jeep skidded and hit the railing. Hobbs leapt up and grabbed hold of the beast’s neck, digging in his axe.

With a sudden buck, the monster shunted the Jeep over the railing. Jethro’s hands slipped, his man and the vehicle turning completely over as the railing snapped and shattered beneath the weight. The overturned Jeep slammed into the riverbed below with a splash and a sickening crunch of the doomed private.

“Man down!” Jethro bellowed as he bolted across the bridge to reach the opposite bank.

Two privates, along with their sergeant, slid down the bank to the overturned Jeep. They grabbed hold of the bumper in an effort to lift it out of the water.

Hobbs widened the gash he had started and then renewed his digging, slicing deeper still. The monster slashed and swept its arms at the troops. Each in turn dodged and jabbed at tendrils, torso, anything that looked open. Finally, Caecelav slumped to the deck. It gargled and wailed, clutching its neck. Hobbs lost his grip and jumped off, scrambling to his feet. He took a step back and admired his handiwork, resuming his stance as he did. The wound was enough.

“Guess you shouldda stayed back in the bath, punk. So much for freedom fighting, huh?” he jeered.

The eyeless purple face twisted up at him, the crooked grin widening. “I die free, I stay free. You survive. Not so lucky.” It coughed and continued massaging its neck with its tendrils.

Corporal Hobbs sobered. “The hell do you mean? We’re free now, we’re never going back! We find a cure, and we’re gone, that’s the mission!”

Caecelav chuckled, the ragged rubbery flesh of its neck undulating as it did. It coughed again and croaked, “Hell? Devil take you back to Hell—”

Jethro’s machete cleanly took the monster’s head off in one sweep. The lifeless husk made a wet slap on the bridge planks as it flopped over. The corporal eyed his sergeant warily over the body as the purple head rolled down the other end of the bridge.

He was panting and trembling with exertion. After a pause, he took a deep breath and sheathed the machete. He straightened up as best he could with his joints.

“Private Anderson is dead. Get down there and pay your respects.”

Jethro’s men obeyed the command and marched down the bank.

The service was rushed and messy. The Jeep sank ever lower into the muddy bottom of the river. The platoon extracted as much of Anderson as they could. Parts of him had been carried downstream already, and what was left was badly crushed. The men doffed their helmets long enough to say a few words, toss some soil into the makeshift grave, and then trudge back up the bank, some slipping or tripping as they did.

The Jeep was out of commission. The battery and motor were both waterlogged. There was no chance of salvaging them quickly, and they were losing light, so they abandoned the wreck where it sank.

Jethro loaded more men onto the HET and packed as many as he could into the new command Jeep. They pushed on over and beyond the bridge. They had to. Can’t lose any more men to this mission. Not now. If they doubled their efforts, they could be there before sunup.

The headlamps cut through the black night. Snowfall had let up, and an eerie hush fell over the wood, aside from the motors’ humming. The men were silent. Not that they were chatterboxes on a good day, but now they were determinedly silent. They exchanged glances, and once Jethro caught one eyeing him from the other vehicle. He forced himself to look ahead; there wasn’t time to reprimand. Once they reached their target, there would be no need to.

The shed, their target, at last loomed into view ahead. Its peeling beige paint and ruddy shingles gave it away. It was exactly as the scouts described back in camp. The sergeant only dreamed of seeing it himself one day, and now he hungrily laid eyes on it. The orange glow of a new dawn crept up behind it, projecting yellow beams over the roofline.

The men whooped and hollered, some clapped each other’s backs, and others banged on the dashboard. Mission accomplished. Only Corporal Hobbs was quiet, although his covetous eyes and grin betrayed his satisfaction and deep relief at the sight of the shed.

The vehicles wheeled all the way up to the doors. The shed’s bulk projected hundreds of feet above the platoon like some great cathedral promising heavenly gifts. Two privates who could still stand hooked the HET’s winch onto the first massive door. It yanked open without resistance, bearing the interior to the weary, haggard faces of the men.

Jethro stood gallantly, fixing his eyes on the shelves above. About damn time. The dim light illuminated labels on boxes, cans, and sacks. He scanned them rapidly, the earthy smell of potting soil and chemicals tingling his nostrils. Up high in the northwest corner, he found it.

With one hand on his belt, he outstretched the other and pointed right at the blue-and-yellow label, ordering, “There, bring it down.”

A few minutes later, the can clanged down onto the dusty floor of the shed. It rolled over yard trimmings until it was right up against the sarge’s face, and the men brought it to a halt. The clear, bold, unmistakable letters shone out in the gloom: WD-40.

“Alright, gents, take a bath.”

Jethro torqued on the spray nozzle, and the gargantuan can hissed out a mist of oily, sweet-smelling spray. Every man got his turn in the fog, rubbing the fluid into his joints. Immediately, they limbered up, working their arms and legs until they no longer squeaked, crunched, or seized. The men felt younger and stronger by the second, emboldened by the promise of new life. The sarge and his corporal took their turn too. Jethro felt the years flaking off as he massaged his sockets and stretched out.

When every soldier had his fill, they stepped one by one back out into the light. They saluted the sergeant as he stepped out, rigid only with pride and uniformity, to bask in their revelry. He returned their salutes and at last wheeled around, clicking the heels of his boots as he did.

The much younger-looking veteran regarded his platoon with a high chin as he dove into his debrief.

He boomed with a congratulatory voice, “Gentlemen, our hope is restored!”

The platoon applauded, letting out whistles and shouts.

“Your dedication to this mission has assured not only your own survival, but that of your brothers in arms!”

More applause followed, and rhythmic stomping as heads turned, some of the men elbowing Corporal Hobbs for his lackluster celebration.

“Now we rest, rejuvenate, and plan our next mission carefully. The return voyage will not be easy, but time is on our side again. The recovery of the command Jeep–”

Hobbs stepped out of the line of silent privates, his face mustering enough courage to mask its graveness compared to the men beside him as he interjected, “Pardon me, sir, but I feel obliged to remind my sergeant that our final destination is to escape beyond the wood, per our mission briefing at base.”

Jethro scrutinized his corporal, his painted features scratched into a stony scowl.

“The mission,” he replied icily, “is and always has been to return to base.”

“Then the briefing at base camp was inaccurate, sir,” Hobbs retorted with a slight edge to his rising voice.

Out of line, Hobbs.

“Hold your tongue, Corporal. I will court-martial you, make no mistake,” he reprimanded before turning to the line of privates. “Gentlemen, in case I did not make myself crystal clear, our mission has always been to save our platoon. Whether by the contents of this shed or other ones beyond in the deep unknown. But under no circumstances are we to venture further from the borders of our yard.”

The platoon began murmuring, some men leaning over to whisper to one another. Out of line!

“Did I order you at ease?” Jethro roared. “I most certainly did not, and you maggots will stand at attention until I order you to do otherwise!”

Hobbs stepped completely out of the rank and file. “Sir, we can’t go back there, not for another winter like this one. Not to be handled like a plaything and then discarded by that child! We should push on, find our way out of this yard, build a settlement, something! For the good of the platoon, we must push on.”

Sarge gripped the pommel of his machete, “You get back in line! If that ‘child’ wants to treat us like ‘play-things,’ then he may do so for as long as he damn well pleases. And you will respect him as your General so long as he holds command, he has earned that rank!”

Hobbs ignored Jethro and wheeled around to plead with the other men. “We don’t need to do this. You men don’t need to do this. We don’t have to take orders from that psychotic kid, praying to God we don’t get buried in sand or mud or blasted with fireworks. We were built for more than that. Caecelav was right when he left the tub for good! He was right when he said we don’t have to go back to that hell, not with this dev—”

The words stopped short, and the new silence was punctuated by a thump as Hobbs’ head rolled back off the plastic stem of his neck. His tin joints buckled as he collapsed into a heap in the snow. Jethro’s machete hovered over the corpse midair, his hand shaking and his face uncontrollably wild.

“There’ll be no mutineers here,” he sheathed the sword and clicked his heels together. “Atten-tion!“

The troops snapped their legs together and saluted. “I want wheels up in five. Dismissed.”

The wheels of the command Jeep carved out a path through the snow, the piney edge of the wood shrinking behind. The sun was shining bright high above, the good weather aiding their progress. The hum of the electric motors was the only noise in earshot. Beside the Jeep, the HET lumbered along, towing the crumpled remains of the waterlogged Jeep. Brass’ll want it back. We’ll fix what we can at base camp.

It didn’t matter; duty pushed the sergeant on. The Jeep and the HET were just accessories. Jethro was the real deal, limited edition. Now that they functioned again, it was only a matter of time. The boy would finally play with him again. He just needed to loosen up a bit. Now he was as good as new, just like the other new toys. He and his troops would be fun to play with again. The privates would understand once they got back to base. After all, that was the mission.