“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.