“Dulles,” I hissed, “move it! We’ve got company!”

He grunted softly.

I threw my pack at him as I whipped out my Grease Gun. I checked it—sure enough, it was locked, loaded, and ready to go, just as I knew I had left it. Dulles sat bolt upright and reached under his pack, producing an M1. He rapped on it twice, nodding.

I peered cautiously up from the foxhole, not daring expose more of myself than I had to. I couldn’t see very much, and all that I was able to discern was the abyssal black of the night. Whatever intruders were out there were as nameless and faceless as an entry in an obituary column upon which I would never set my eyes.

“Pie?” I heard again. There were other voices.

Dulles shot me a look that said, We all in?

I hesitated a second, then nodded my head twice. In response, he tensed.

I brought my weapon up and fired.

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