Brotherhood Protectors: Soldier's Heart Part One (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Ilsa J. Bick

  When the sickness passed, he cleaned the last two fish then skinned and dried them over a fire to make jerky. Not much meat when he was done, only four ragged pieces that were each about three inches long, but better than nothing. That morning, he’d had a single shred of fish for breakfast. Around noon, he spooked a red squirrel that was ripping apart a pine cone. Dropping the cone, the squirrel skittered up to the safety of a tree and scolded as Gabriel prized out the few pine nuts that remained and choked them down.

  And that was all he’d had the entire day.

  The smart thing would be to keep to the lower elevations. There were fish down there as well as deer and other game. But no one had ever accused him of being smart.

  Now, tired to the bone, he dragged up his head. Ahead, the path was brightening. Coming to a clearing? That tallied. If he and his compass agreed, there ought to be a stream close by, and not a moment too soon. The last of his water sloshed in a plastic jug, and he needed to make camp. Parse out what little remained of his fish. If he wasn’t too tired, maybe think about shelter. He was down to his last two matches, and snow was on the way. He felt the pressure of it in the air, and that distinctive scent that always preceded a storm. Shelter would be good, but a lattice lean-to of branches and leaves would take too long. Perhaps he could find an overhang or a cave. Even a hollowed-out tree would do. When he was younger, he’d read a book about a kid who’d spent an entire year or so on a mountain, living in a tree with a deer skin for a door. And there was that other book, the one about a boy who’d survived with nothing but a hatchet. He had the problem of trying to keep a fire burning, which was his problem, too. Could I carry coals somehow? Indians did it. If he could figure out a way...

  Or he might just be done. Finished. End of the line.

  Maybe I’ll find a spot. He stepped into the clearing, weary gaze sweeping over scrub, rocks. Maybe I’ll lie down and wait to...

  There was someone there.

  “Jesus!” Gasping, he floundered back, nearly fell on his ass. His right hand reflexively whipped to a hip holster that wasn’t there. “What the hell?”

  “Easy, take it easy.” The woman held up a hand but low, palm out, as if she understood this was the most non-threatening thing she could do. “It’s okay. I just... I heard you coming and...”

  “You could have said something.” His heart thrashed in his chest. “What are you doing here?” As soon as that was out of his mouth, he realized how dumb that was. Like, duh, what was his excuse? “I mean...” Swallowing—embarrassed at how easily he’d spooked—he used the back of his hand to blot sweat from his upper lip. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you or something.” Idiot. Give it away, why don’t you? “I mean, with my...my bow.”

  “I know. I should have made some noise, but...” She let that go.

  Silence.

  He studied her. She was very tall, five nine, maybe five ten. Her hair was the color of blood and hung in a long braid down her back. A widow’s peak accentuated the strong square set of her jaw and face. Even in the dim light, her eyes were an amazing shade of green that reminded him of newly-mown grass after a summer’s rain.

  She was also very muscular, though not with the artificial, oiled bulk of a body-builder or the sleekness of someone who sweated only in a gym and on machines. Broad in the shoulders, her body tapered to a trim waist and powerful thighs. A swimmer’s build and someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. Although there was something a little off about her. What was it?

  She broke the silence. “I’m sorry I startled you.”

  “Uh-huh.” He saw no need to tell her it was all right. First off, it wasn’t. Second, she looked like she could take care of herself. Third, she really was lucky to still have a head. A lot of hikers packed some serious heat. Other than a boot knife and another at her left hip, though, no weapons on her that he could see.

  Although she looks ready for action. He eyed the cords of muscle standing out along that left arm. That left wrist and hand were bulked up enough she could do some serious damage. But her right arm... and, come to think of it, her legs from the thighs down... Weird. Couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The right arm was toned, all right, but a little disproportionate when compared to her left, almost as if the muscles of her right refused to get much larger. As for her legs—his eyes quickly slid down their length—not quite...

  “Anyway...” She brushed her right hand on the seat of her pants. “I’m Mac.”

  He couldn’t tell if that was a trail handle or not. Most backcountry hikers had them. You could argue it was for safety, but he’d always thought it was stupid. Much more prudent to give out your real name. That way, if you didn’t show up when you were supposed to, people might know where to start looking.

  “Gabriel Dane.” And now they know where to start looking. He took her hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Let me guess.” She favored him with a shrewd look. “Army.”

  “Uh, yeah.” Jesus, she’s strong. That right hand might not look like much, but that grip wasn’t a limp little thing either. Not crushing but... he somehow imagined she could if she wanted. Was she trying to impress upon him not to mess with her? “What gave it away?”

  “Your clothes and gear. That camo parka’s standard military issue. So are your BDUs, the boots, your bedroll, and that pack is canvas.” Her eyes sharpened, her gaze direct and a little clinical. “And unless you’re some ultra-light fanatic, which I don’t think you are, then either that’s a tarp draped over your pack, or a nylon poncho. And”—for some odd reason her green eyes flicked to her left, there and back and so fast he thought maybe it was just a nervous tic—“you’re very polite.” Then she cocked an eyebrow. “When you’re not pissed off, that is.”

  That made him laugh. The sound came out strange, half-gargled, like he hadn’t done that for a long time which, come to think of it, was true. Okay, she was capable, strong—and pretty damned observant. “You got family in the military?”

  “Just me.”

  “You deploy?”

  “Afghanistan. Sixty-two Whiskey at KOP Kessel in Helmand.” Her eyes, so direct before, suddenly hooded as if someone squatting just behind her sockets had pulled down the shades. “We closed up shop about three months before they turned over Leatherneck and Bastion to the Afghans. You?”

  “MP.” He held up three fingers. “Iraq first, then JTF Gitmo for a year, then Afghanistan as an advisor before I got out. You still active duty?”

  She arched an eyebrow in a pretty good Spock imitation. “In a way.” That odd little tic of her eyes to the left.

  Okay, be evasive. That tic wasn’t nerves, either. Almost as if she was looking at someone? Or listening, maybe.

  “Were you tracking something?”

  “What?” He was so confused about how quickly she changed the subject, it took him a second to remember his bow. “No. Just walking. Most of the game’s below us.”

  “Yeah, and with the storm coming, they’ll hunker down. Fishing will still be good, though,” she said, gesturing toward the fishing pole that jutted from a sling-strap over his back. “If that’s where you’re headed... I mean, if you want to go down, the next connector isn’t for five or six miles. Be faster if you backtracked.”

  “No, I’m good. Just passing through. You know, tanking up on water, and then I got to scout out a place for the night.”

  “Uh-huh.” That careful look again, not of someone who was afraid but taking stock. If those eyes had been green lasers, she’d have burned holes through his skull. “Well, I’m camped near the stream. You want to follow me?”

  “Sure. Would you like some help, ma’am...uh, Mac?” As he bent over her canvas carry, a sudden swoop of dizziness blasted through his skull. His head went airy, and his ears rang with a sudden high whine. He staggered as his legs tried to buckle.

  “Hey.” Her voice reached him from very far away, and then he felt her grab an arm to keep him from falling. “Easy,” she said, and then s
he was steering him, half-carrying him to a thumb of rock, her right arm slipping around his middle so it seemed his boots barely touched the ground. “Come on, sit here. Put your head down between your knees.”

  “No, no, I’m...” He’d wanted to say okay which would’ve been a lie because his vision was whiting out, too. A second later, when he came back, he was sitting, head hanging, breathing hard. “Jesus.”

  “You’re hyperventilating. When was the last time you ate anything or had something to drink? Have you been rationing your water? Is that all you’ve got, that jug? Are you out?”

  “A-ate this...this m-morning. Kind of...l-low on water.” His feeble laugh only made his head spin. Oh God, please don’t let me pass out. “I’m f-f-fine.”

  “Uh-huh.” The sound of a zipper being worked, of something else being torn, and then she was pressing a small foil packet into his hands. “Here, let’s get this into you. Just suck on it... it’s already open, careful.”

  “What...” He was having hard time focusing, and his arms were suddenly as substantial as a wobbly Jell-O mold. “What is it?”

  “Gel pack. You need some sugar and fast calories.” She unhooked her canteen from her belt. “I hope you like lemon.”

  “I l-love lemon.” He sucked at the open pack, almost moaning at the tart sweetness of citrus and sugar on his tongue. As he swallowed, though, his throat tried to rebel. “Ugh.” He bowed his head again. A sudden oily sweat filmed his face and neck. “Sick.”

  “Don’t go so fast. There’s no rush. Here”—she poked a canteen from which she’d pulled out a plastic drinking tube under his nose—“drink. Small sips.”

  The cold water traced an icy finger down the middle of his chest and felt good until the water hit his stomach. Wincing at a sudden cramp, fearful he’d vomit, he tried pushing the canteen away, but she held firm. “You’re feeling sick because you’re so dehydrated, Gabriel,” said, “Come on, take it easy. It’ll pass.”

  After another five minutes of slow sips, his head stopped whirling, his vision firmed, and he felt better enough to think of how he must look: like a frigging moron. Some great soldier you are. He sucked in a deep breath. “I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that crap, Gabriel. You’re running on fumes.”

  “No, I...” There was no meanness in her tone, but pride made him pull himself straighter. “I mean, okay, yeah, I needed water, but...”

  “You need a lot of things. I’ll bet you haven’t peed since morning, and your piss smelled bad and was real dark, right?” When he didn’t answer, she nodded. “Right, and that pack of yours is as empty as your stomach, and don’t bother denying it. You don’t have enough left in there to feed a tick much less make another five or six miles. Now, I don’t know what’s going on with you or why you’re up here, and that’s fine. It’s your business. But you’re not prepared for the weather, and I’d be no kind of medic if I didn’t know a guy who hasn’t eaten a decent meal in so long he’s burned up every ounce of fat he’s got left.” When he opened his mouth, she silenced him with a look of those laser-green eyes. “Shut up. I was a medic. I’m an EMT. Starvation ketosis has a very characteristic odor, and your breath, my friend, smells like rotten apples.” Her nose wrinkled. “You’re pretty ripe, too, but I don’t hold that against you. We could both use a shower, and anyway, there’s no stink a little more wood smoke can’t cover. So, here’s the deal. I have plenty of food. I’m camped near a good water source. Come on back with me, and let’s get some calories into you and hydrate you so your kidneys don’t shut down, and then you stay the night. What you do in the morning, after breakfast, is completely up to you.”

  “I... I...” He couldn’t decide what he felt. On the one hand, he was grateful, but he felt the weird urge to cry, too. His buddies in the squad would’ve done exactly this. Given him the straight poop and then told him to shut up and get with the program. He blundered on, “I don’t have a tent.”

  “And I’m not offering to share.” She did him the favor of not smiling. “Well, unless it really starts to snow, which it might. But I’ve got a good tarp, and between it and your bivy, we can jury-rig something. I’ve got a whole roll of aluminum roll. Build you a nice reflector wall.”

  It was a decent plan, and all of a sudden, he was tired of all this. That beaky sensation was stronger, too, the gel-pack serving mostly to wake his hunger. Still, he hesitated. This will only prolong things. To what end, though? Where was he really headed? Well, Dead Man, if he made it. No real reason but what better place for a ghost, a man existing alongside, than a lost town, a mass grave?

  Something else occurred to him. Maybe this was the way a vision quest worked. What if she was his spirit guide? Did they always have to be animals? He should look this up. He bet starving warriors talked about people-guides, too, and... Jesus. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. What the hell are you going on about, you idiot?

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Huh?” Then he dropped a hand to his mouth, felt the grin he hadn’t realized he wore. His skin was taut, though, drawn down tight over his skull. How much weight had he dropped? Enough so he’d punched extra holes in his belt, but he hadn’t really stopped to think. “Nothing. I was just...it’s nothing.” He let his hand drop and then tilted his head at her canvas carry. “We’ll need more wood.”

  “Then I guess we’d better get started, Soldier.” Pushing up on her thighs, she extended that strong right hand. “Hooah.”

  9

  Sarah and Hank ate by the light of a Coleman lantern at a small table made of old vegetable crates. Clearly having decided they really did need to keep a close eye on their humans, just in case something went to ground, the dogs settled onto their haunches and watched with great interest. All things considered, dinner was wonderful, the steak juicy and medium-rare with just the right amount of char, the potatoes soft and buttery, the salad finished with a drizzle of olive oil and balsamic. From the happy swish of their tails, as Hank scraped the leavings into their bowls, the dogs also approved.

  “They are good eaters.” Swinging back into his chair, he picked up the second bottle of wine and raised his eyebrows. “You, too. More wine, or are you ready for pie?”

  “Ohhh.” She patted her belly. “No pie yet. I need to digest or wind up in a hyperglycemic coma. Just some wine, please, half a glass... Whoa, whoa, good enough.” As he refilled his own glass, she tipped wine into her mouth, let it roll around her tongue. The wine was a smooth, warm pinot noir that tasted of ripe berries with just a hint of spice.

  Cinnamon. Sighing, she let her head loll back on her chair and closed her eyes. A girl could get used to this. She was fed and warm. Even the knot in her chest had loosened a smidge. Hank had visited a dozen times, probably more. Being with him was easy and uncomplicated, and he was steady, a good friend.

  Which is probably why the sheriff sent him, said a mean little voice. This way, you won’t put up as much of a fight.

  Oh, shut up, you. The damage was done, though. Her good mood curdled the way milk clumped with a squirt of lemon. Fine, let’s get this over with.

  “Okay.” Opening her eyes, she straightened. She felt the strain ratcheting tight across her shoulders and neck. Move too fast, and her muscles would snap. Relax. This is not an attack. Although, why it did feel like one? “We had dinner.”

  Hank cocked an eyebrow. “And it was very nice.”

  “And it was very nice. So, come on.” She rapped her knuckles on wood. “Hit me.” When he took another swallow of wine, her insides shriveled. “Oh, crap. It’s that bad.”

  His lips turned down in a half-moon. “Yes and no. It’s not bad, but it’s not great. Look, we both know Soldier’s had his moments, but by and large, he’s been pretty well-behaved whenever you’ve come into town. When I spoke with Josie and James—”

  “Oh, come on, seriously? Why drag them into it?”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, this all happened in front of them and a ton o
f other witnesses. As the first on scene, I had to get their statements.”

  “But there was no crime.”

  He kept on as if she hadn’t interrupted. “And, according to Josie and James, Soldier’s never displayed this kind of aggression to them or their animals. Josie was very insistent we get that down on the record.”

  “Oh.” She fidgeted. “Well, good.”

  “As far as that goes. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that you and the dogs live on top of a mountain with no neighbors. Kind of limits the chances of a slip-up and exposure to triggers.”

  “I’m sorry, but can we just cut to the chase? What’s the bottom line, Hank? Are you supposed to bring Soldier back with you, or shoot him right now?” She heard the nastiness. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

  “Yeah, it was pretty high school. Look”—he covered one of her hands with his own—“believe it or not, we’re not there yet. Sheriff talked to the county animal control people, and they said that so long as Soldier didn’t bite anyone, he didn’t really qualify as vicious.”

  “He’s not vicious.”

  “No, he’s only a former military dog who just happens to forget, from time to time, that he’s no longer at war.”

  “He’s sick. He’s got a disorder that sometimes, sometimes interferes.”

  “I know that, hon.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “You know that. But it doesn’t and won’t matter the next time, especially if he succeeds in actually biting someone. We’re only lucky he didn’t.”

  A weak laugh escaped. “Was that the good news, or bad?”

  “Call it middling. Under Montana law, you are still liable for anything the dog does.”

  “But he didn’t do anything.”

  “No?” Hank held up a finger. “He knocked down a little kid.” Another finger. “And he did bite him.”