“Don't have to tell me twice,” Lewis grumbled. He already had a notebook out and was going over a list. “I'm assuming that since you paid the defenders to hang flags and pull weeds you'll also pay them to do a bit of useful work?”
Matt gave his friend a long-suffering look. “Yes, yes I will.”
Chapter Four
Shifting Gears
Epsilon and Foxtrot squads returned from their raid across the Mississippi in the late afternoon, weary but exultant.
Sure, they hadn't accomplished anything like the 103rd and 51st managed at Lost Home. In fact they hadn't managed to free any slaves at all. They'd been assigned to prowl the area west of the river about fifty miles north of St. Louis, searching for targets of opportunity.
They'd found one in the form of a CCZ patrol, and with a bit of scrambling managed to pull off a successful ambush. In the end they'd wiped out eight enemy soldiers, managed to steal their vehicle and equipment, pulled back to their designated crossing point, and got safely back east of the Mississippi before the enemy could respond.
The attack hadn't been flawless, unfortunately: Pete's squad mate Jerry had taken one to the helmet and was seeing double, and in Foxtrot one of their men had been shot in the thigh and was being driven directly to the field hospital, while their corporal had been hit in the vest and had such a nasty bruise he could barely lift his arm.
In spite of that spirits were high as Epsilon rolled into camp, parking the captured truck as well as their own vehicle in the motor pool before heading off to report the day's takings to the quartermaster.
The standing deal was that the squad would all chip in to buy drinks for the first person to get wounded in combat, fingers crossed such a thing should happen, and crossed even more firmly that he remained alive to enjoy the dubious reward. Unfortunately for Jerry the drinks would have to wait, since alcohol and head injuries were a bad combination. Instead he would also be taking a trip to the field hospital, then would either join the squad at the camp's canteen for a dry night or would turn in early to get what rest he could.
Of course Pete was no stranger to not drinking, as his squad mates were quick to point out after they dropped Jerry off at the hospital tent and started for the canteen.
Saunders draped an arm across his shoulders. “Going to try to sneak a shot while nobody's looking?” he teased. “Maybe wheedle the bartender into having pity on you?”
The other soldiers of Epsilon laughed and tossed in their own gibes. Pete endured the ribbing as graciously as he could, considering that anything he did to try to stop it would just egg his squad mates on. Even if he'd wanted to have a drink, which he admitted he sometimes did after making it through a particularly hairy fight, nobody at the canteen or anywhere else in camp would've sold “the Kid” one. It had become something between a prank and a tradition at this point, and his attempts to get a buddy to buy for him just gave the squad fresh ammunition for their teasing.
But what really rustled his jimmies was that several of the newer soldiers were about his age, and even some of the veterans weren't much more than a year older than him. Nobody said a word about them drinking themselves under the table whenever they wanted.
He swore the only reason he was singled out for babying was because of the stupid nickname Faraday had given him. And like all the worst nicknames, how much he hated it was directly proportional to its chances of sticking like glue.
Pete wasn't sure if it was a relief or a further annoyance when a shriek from down the street, quickly growing closer, resolved into a small scrawny shape throwing herself against him.
He endured the hug with more than a little embarrassment, aware that his squad mates were even more amused now. He wasn't sure whether it was against regulations to hug a civilian while on duty, but he doubted he could've convinced Lily not to either way. No matter what time his squad returned, somehow she was always there to greet him.
At least it was good to see that the girl was looking much better, even less than a week after being freed from the slave camp. Her face was less pale and gaunt, her limbs less like knobby sticks, and her clothes weren't absurdly baggy. It helped that Kathleen, taking advantage of working at the laundry, had pulled some strings to find Lily a better fitting outfit.
That wasn't the only way the young woman had helped Lily, though. After seeing what conditions were like at the refugee camp Kathleen had managed to get the girl moved into the tent she shared with several of the camp's other laundresses, who'd all seemed happy to take the kid under their wing.
Pete actually felt a bit guilty at how little he'd done to help Lily after all, although he was glad her situation seemed secure. Which didn't stop her from following him around like a lost puppy whenever he let her. Like she probably wanted to do now.
“Are you going to visit Kathleen?” the girl asked. “Do you want to have dinner with us?”
That actually didn't sound too bad. Although Pete was tired and shell-shocked from the earlier ambush, and wasn't sure he was in the mood for even an informal evening. “I might visit later,” he said, finally disentangling from her hug and stepping back. “I'm going to head to the canteen with the squad first.”
“Oh, okay.” Lily gave him a hopeful look. “Can I come?” A few of his squad mates chuckled, a few more grumbled, and over the girl's shoulder Saunders shook his head frantically.
“Absolutely not,” Pete said firmly. He wasn't about to bring Lily around a bunch of drinking soldiers. Even if Epsilon kept her perfectly safe it wasn't the sort of environment he wanted her in.
The girl pouted, green eyes shimmering with all the hurt of a kicked puppy. Pete remained unmoved, gently turning her around and prodding her back down the lane towards her tent. “I'll visit later,” he promised.
As Lily stumped away, shooting sulky looks over her shoulder at him, Pete rejoined his squad. Saunders threw an arm over his shoulders again, leaning on him heavily. “Sure you don't want to go play with the other kids?” he teased.
Pete's reply was less than eloquent, and only made the other soldiers laugh harder.
To his further annoyance his team leader ruffled his hair. “I'll buy you a root beer, how does that sound? You can pretend you're having a drink with the grownups.”
“I'm going to throw your boots in the latrine while you're sleeping, you know that?” Pete growled.
His friend laughed and ruffled his hair again. “Don't sulk, Kid. You don't pull it off nearly as well as your urchin charity case does.”
Muttering a few more choice words, Pete gave up and endured the ribbing.
The camp canteen was a large tent full of tables, benches, a few chairs, and even a corner with a rug and a couple of ratty old couches where soldiers could lounge. A radio near the couches played an announcer speaking in the dry tones of someone reading from a page, something about the Presidential race back in the US. Apparently Lassiter had been on a tour all day, and the tour was planned to go on for two more days before he headed back to the Manti refugee camp, which was effectively the capitol of the reforming country.
Pete supposed that as an American citizen he should care, and the military had announced that all US soldiers in Canada would be given the opportunity to vote for their candidate, and the results would be relayed back home. He probably wouldn't take them up on that offer, though; he just didn't really care, and anyway from the sounds of it Lassiter was guaranteed to win.
The canteen had a small store partitioned off behind the bar, where soldiers could buy liquor and other luxuries they weren't usually afforded as part of their usual rations. But it was also the place where off-duty soldiers could gather and socialize, if they were in the mood.
After ordering their drinks at the bar, where Saunders made good on his promise to buy Pete a soda, Epsilon found its way over to an empty table. Not too long after that about half of Foxtrot Squad showed up and joined them, and for a while they shared news and BSed and unwound from the adrenaline of combat.
&
nbsp; Some of that news was that a few other Chainbreaker squads had found and liberated a small slave camp earlier today, freeing around 40 slaves. There'd been some fighting to get them back across the border, and several of the freed slaves had been killed or injured when their truck was hit by an enemy RPG, but on the whole it had been a successful raid.
Pete and Saunders were sitting near the end of the table, and as the talk turned to other things his friend took a pull at his bottle of beer. “For the fallen,” he murmured.
Pete took a drink of his root beer and repeated the toast.
“We got a lot of our people back, at least,” Saunders continued. “That's cause to celebrate.”
“And we got back at a lot of slavers,” Pete added, not able to completely hide a feral grin.
“Yeah.” His friend looked away. “I'm glad they got what was coming to them, don't get me wrong, but vengeance only leads to more violence.”
Pete snorted. “Isn't it a bit early in your binge to wax philosophical? Where'd you pick up that tidbit of wisdom, anyway?”
Saunders glanced back sharply. “I grew up in a bad neighborhood in Detroit,” he snapped. “And close to some even worse ones. Lots of crime, and I'm lucky I wasn't a victim of more of it than I was, or got dragged into taking part in it.”
“I had no idea,” Pete said, a bit defensively.
“Yeah, well it's not something you brag about. At least not if you've got your head on straight.” His friend tipped his bottle back and gulped down more than half of what was left before going on. “Anyway I got to see enough firsthand to know what I'm talking about, country boy. Some kids beat up some other kids. Those kids trash one of their attackers' cars. That guy and his friends get a gun and pick a kid off as he's leaving his house, and the victim's friends weapon up too. Soon you've got a mini war getting worse by the day, and innocents caught in the middle of it.”
Saunders finished off the rest of his bottle and plunked it down, almost triumphantly. “No matter how justified, vengeance usually leads to more violence.”
Pete shrugged. “I wasn't saying you're wrong.”
His friend took a breath and looked away again. “Like I said, I don't mind if slavers end up reaping what they sow. But if we can keep the hurt on them until they finally decide they want peace, then leave it at that, I'll be happy to see an end to the fighting.”
Pete was quiet for a while. “Our leaders nuked their countries,” he finally said. “Killed billions of their people, friends and family. Destroyed their homes. They'll never want peace, no matter how much we punish them for keeping this war going.”
Saunders sighed. “You're probably right.” He pushed to his feet and headed over to the bar to get another drink. Pete noticed he went for a double shot of whiskey this time.
And here he was sipping at root beer. He'd turned eighteen last month, he'd been fighting to defend his home for over a year now, he'd made his way hundreds of miles behind enemy lines picking off blockheads as he went, and nobody would let him buy a stupid drink.
A lot of his jubilant mood had faded. Pete leaned back on the bench, closing his eyes and listening to the radio in the corner. The announcer was describing Lassiter's visit to some town up in the mountains, a pretty barbaric place from the sounds of it with stick-and-mud houses, crude log cabins, latrine trenches, and people in ragged clothes.
But when the announcer began reading off Lassiter's speech, it sounded like the Presidential candidate was praising the place as somewhere other communities should try to emulate. Some little snowbound village in the middle of nowhere, run by a blond poster boy of a Mayor with a pretty wife at his side bouncing a baby girl, smiling and waving next to Lassiter and soaking up his glory . . .
Pete jolted upright on the bench as the announcer finally got around to naming the town. No way. No effing way.
He accidentally jostled Griggs, seated next to him, and his squad mate jostled back harder. “Watch it.”
He barely heard the man, grabbing his soda and wandering over to stand near the radio listening to the rest of Lassiter's speech. Emotions roiled inside him, capped by a sort of numb daze. When the announcer finally went on to talk about something else Pete chugged the rest of his drink, tossed the empty bottle in the nearest bin, and turned to stalk out of the canteen.
Saunders was only a few steps away, drink in hand, and Pete had to swerve to avoid hitting him. “Hey man,” his friend said. “Something interesting on the-”
“I'm done for the night,” Pete cut in, not even slowing. “See you later.”
“Oh, uh, okay?” Saunders called from behind him as he continued his beeline for the door.
Outside Pete looked around. He didn't want to go back to the squad tent, since he was in the mood to be alone and Sergeant Branson would probably be there. He spotted a canvas camp chair in the shadow of a tent nearby, close enough to hear the noise coming from the canteen but out of easy sight of the soldiers coming and going.
Hopefully the owner wouldn't mind. Pete made his way over and settled in, slumped low with his forehead resting on one fist.
That was definitely homesickness he was feeling. And grief. More than a bit of bitterness. Pride, to hear that his town was doing well enough to be publicly recognized for it like that. Longing, a sense of being trapped. If he hadn't run away he'd be there now, living in one of those crude houses building a future in a little mountain valley.
He might be married to Alice, with a baby of his own like Matt and Sam seemed to have. Or at least expecting one. The life he'd left behind suddenly tried to surge up and smother him.
A shadow fell across him, blocking the light spilling out from openings in the canteen tent, and Pete looked up in annoyance. For all their teasing, Saunders and the others should know him well enough to realize when he needed some sp-
It was Kathleen, light glinting through her glasses. “Didn't expect to see you out here all alone,” she said quietly. “Bad one?”
Pete hastily straightened in his chair. “No more than usual.” The young woman just waited patiently for more, and he bit back a sigh. He really didn't want to talk about Aspen Hill, so he opted for a more vague explanation. “Sometimes I just need time to myself to decompress.”
“Oh.” He could hear the uncertainty in her voice. “I can go.”
He tried to smile. After being hit hard by thoughts of the past he desperately needed to be in the present. “I'd rather you stayed.” A look around confirmed that there weren't any other chairs. “Although, uh, this looks like the only seat . . .”
“That's fine, we can share.” Kathleen motioned. “Scooch.”
Surprised at her boldness, Pete did his best to comply. The camp chair was normal sized, and he would've sworn there wasn't room for another person. But somehow, with a bit of wiggling that he didn't find at all objectionable, the young woman managed to squeeze in beside him, half in and half out of his lap. To help make room he lifted his arm, and she didn't waste a second pulling it around her with his hand on her waist, settling in against him with a contented sigh.
For a while they just sat there in silence. Pete wasn't sure how Kathleen felt, but his feelings of awkwardness at the sudden close contact with a girl he'd only spoken to a dozen times, who still hadn't quite agreed to be his girlfriend, were quickly being replaced by enjoyment at having her warm, soft presence pressed against his side. He could feel the movement of her breathing, slow and peaceful, against him, and tried to keep his own breathing somewhat under control.
In the semi-darkness, with muted conversation and laughter drifting over to them from the canteen, Pete had to admit he wouldn't mind if this moment lasted for as long as possible.
“How did you get here?” Kathleen asked quietly after a few minutes. Pete looked down to see her gray eyes were hidden under the reflection of light off her glasses.
“Hmm?” he replied. He had a general idea what she meant, but the question was pretty vague.
“How did you end up
fighting in the Chainbreakers?” she clarified. “How long have you been a soldier, and what made you join up young enough to earn the nickname “Kid?”
Pete turned his head slightly so she wouldn't see his grimace. And . . . back to the subject he wanted to avoid thinking about. Still, it was a fair question, especially coming from an almost-girlfriend who was currently sitting in his lap.
“If you want the whole story it might take a while,” he warned.
In answer the young woman wiggled slightly, settling more comfortably against him. “I'm in no hurry to go anywhere.”
Okay, then. Slowly, haltingly, and still feeling painful jabs from the tumult of emotions the memories stirred up, Pete began telling the story of his life.
He glossed over everything before the Gulf burned. Just a normal childhood growing up in a small town, although he was flattered that Kathleen seemed interested in the details. After reaching the point of the Gulf refineries attack he explained his role helping defend the town, struggling against starvation and losing his mother to hunger and illness during that first winter, then losing his dad during Turner's first attack against the town. How he'd joined Matt and the defenders in ultimately defeating the raiders, then struggled to build a future for himself when it didn't quite seem worth it.
The story got a bit easier when he reached the point where he'd gone with the volunteers to fight the blockheads. He didn't mention Alice, and Kathleen seemed only vaguely interested in the fights he was involved in. Then the story got difficult again when he reached the point where in the heat of the moment he shot the two blockheads trying to flee and surrender, and how Matt pulled him from the fighting and exiled him back to the main camp to chop potatoes and dig latrines.
Pete was a bit worried how the young woman would react to him admitting to shooting the enemy soldiers like that, but Kathleen didn't give any hint of taking issue to it. He hurriedly kept going.
Still leaving Alice out of it, he went over how he got sick of being benched and left to wage his own one-man war, fighting his way east behind enemy lines until he finally ambushed blockheads who knew how to shoot back. How Lieutenant Faraday had found him wounded and offered him treatment, as well as an opportunity to sign up and fight the blockheads in the eastern States.
Nuclear Winter | Book 3 | Chain Breakers Page 8
