by J. F. Halpin
Logan glanced over. “Is it about the leg?”
Summers noted the tone in the man’s voice and realized it was probably a touchy subject. He’d have to file that possible landmine away as something to avoid. “Uh, no?”
“Then go for it.”
“Asle was doing this . . . thing earlier. I kind of got the impression it had some meaning I didn’t catch. Something about many thank-yous? You know anything about that?”
“Did you accept it?”
“Accept what? The thank-you?”
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ, yes. You have to accept it.”
“I did.”
Logan looked over at Asle. She was a good distance away, still talking with Nowak. “She did the same for me after I woke up. It’s . . . I think it’s sort of like a life debt thing. She says thank you, and if you accept it, you’re acknowledging that you don’t regret what you did. It’s like telling her you think her life was worth whatever it was you sacrificed.”
“Oh. Oh shit.” It occurred to Summers that he’d almost made a mess out of that. He should really start asking about local etiquette before they got to the city.
“Yeah. Just keep in mind she’s still a kid. I get the impression that our situation is a massive overload for her and things like this are her way of trying to ground herself, of making things a little more familiar.”
“Huh, that’s a lot more psychology than I’d have expected from you.”
“Oh, I’m actually a licensed therapist.” Logan smiled back at him.
Summers couldn’t hide his surprise. “No shit?”
“I think that’s why they paired me with her.” Logan’s smile faltered for a moment. That made a sort of sense. The military no doubt saw Asle as an asset. They’d want to make sure she was adapting to whatever situation they put her in.
“You’re not, uh . . . analyzing all of us, are you?”
“It doesn’t work like that.” Logan laughed. “But if you did want to talk . . .”
“Nope. No offense, but whatever is inside my head was put into a dark corner for a reason. It does not need to see the light of day, thank you.”
“All right. Just an offer.” Logan held up his hands in mock surrender.
“Get ready,” Nowak called, and Summers looked up to see the wagon in the distance. He lost his smile, moving up to stand beside Nowak.
“Right hand up, palm facing toward you. That’s apparently a wave,” Nowak said.
“How will we know if they’re friendly?” Summers looked at the quickly approaching wagon. It was being pulled by something that looked like a cow who’d eaten nothing but a mixture of steel-cut oats and anabolic steroids from the moment it was born. It was jacked.
“If they wave back, that’s basically permission to approach. If they come at us with their spears, that’s typically their way of saying ‘I don’t like you.’”
“Noted.” Summers double-checked his weapon as they continued down the road.
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Nowak smiled as he “waved” to the group. They halted for a moment before waving back.
“Don’t bother with the shit-eating grin. Watch their shoulders, not their faces.” Summers had spent enough time with Asle to know that, whether it was cultural or just some genetic difference, her people weren’t big on facial cues. Based on the placid looks on the guards’ faces, they were much the same.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with my face then?” Nowak asked.
“Just copy the kid.” Summers nodded to Asle, who was looking a little tense now that he was paying attention.
They walked toward the wagon and Summers noted the relaxed posture of the guards. Some even looked curious. That seemed off to him. Hell, the few times he’d interacted with locals in his world, even the sight of a few soldiers was enough to put them on edge.
As they approached, one of the men stepped forward. He was wearing something that resembled scaled leather armor around his chest, with leather belts securing metal plates to his arms and legs. His helmet was a long, straight gray iron that covered well below his jaw. The man himself was stockier than Summers would have expected. He yelled something that may as well have been Chinese, but it had an enthusiastic tone to it.
“He asked what business we have,” Asle said.
Nowak considered for a moment.
“Tell him we’re travelers from far away. We saw them and were hoping to trade for some supplies if they can spare them.”
Asle said something in her own language. Summers looked around at the men in front of them. There was something off about the group. Their armor was in excellent shape, but it looked haphazard on a few of them. And it wasn’t uniform. Hell, one guy was wearing two different sets of leather greaves. There was something else, too. Something he couldn’t quite place . . .
“He wants to know what you have.” Asle gestured to their packs. They’d been over this and had settled on selling some of the random crap they’d found in the town. They had of course washed it of the fog’s residue first.
“Clothes, metal instruments, and a few small blades,” Nowak provided.
Asle nodded and relayed the message. As the man replied, Asle tensed.
“He asked if I’m for sale.” Asle stepped a little closer to Logan. The spearman gave a look to the others beside him.
“Tell him no. And if he asks something like that again, let him know we’re going to have a problem.” Nowak was now holding his gun a little closer.
Asle spoke again, and it clicked in Summers’ head that he was smelling blood. It was old, but it didn’t smell like the wolves. It smelled more like Asle. He’d have to parse the implications of being able to do that later. For now, he took a second look at the people in front of him, at the mismatched clothes, the blood . . .
“Sarge, I think these guys are criminals. Bandits, or whatever this world’s equivalent is,” Summers said quietly.
Nowak nodded. “All right. Fucking wonderful.”
“What do you want to do?” Summers flicked his rifle’s safety off.
“Nothing. They haven’t done shit to us, no reason to start shooting,” Nowak answered.
He was right. Summers was still too eager to get into a fight. He could feel a little of the giddiness from the fog creeping back as his adrenaline spiked. He’d have to watch that.
“Asle, ask them how far it is to the city. Once they answer, let them know we’ll be on our way.”
“We’re heading the same way, Sarge. We leave, we’re going to lead them straight to the Humvee,” Summers reminded him.
“Shit. All right, just—”Before Nowak could get the words out, the man in front lunged with his spear aimed directly at Nowak’s chest. Summers didn’t think, he acted. It was as if his entire body was a loaded spring, waiting for this exact moment. He fired one quick burst into the man’s chest before his arm could fully extend, allowing Nowak to get back in time to avoid being skewered. Summers snatched the head of the spear up with his free hand, pulling the man’s soon-to-be corpse forward and blocking the second thrust from the bandit behind him. Nowak put that guy down the very next instant.
As he looked up, Summers noted that the others around the wagon hadn’t moved. They just stood there, staring as if in shock. Oh. Right. They didn’t know what guns were. They might have thought his group was unarmed. Well, their mistake.
Two of the bandits snapped out of their fugue and rushed Summers. He fired into the first man’s chest, and the expression of sheer terror on his face was satisfying in a way that genuinely worried Summers. The second collapsed before he could fire, the distant bang an indication that Cortez and Adams were paying attention.
The whole thing was over in seconds. Summers looked around to see that every one of the bandits were either dead or dying at his feet. The man Cortez had shot was trying to get his legs under him. Apparently, his shield and armor had taken the brunt of the impact.
Summers lev
eled his gun on the wounded man. There was a voice inside him screaming for him to finish it, but he refused to give in to that. Not out of any moral sense of right or wrong; he was just stubborn.
“Asle, tell him that if he surrenders, we’ll let him li—” The man lunged impossibly fast. In one fluid motion, he stabbed his spear into Summers’ chest. He felt the steel tip scrape against the ceramic plate underneath his Kevlar.
Summers unloaded into the man before he could move again. Between him, Nowak, and Logan, the previously injured man now had a mostly liquid consistency.
“Never mind.” It should have occurred to Summers that those who survived in a world that had the kinds of monsters he’d seen would not be easy targets. He’d have to be careful not to make that mistake again.
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Summers dragged another body away from the wagon and into a ditch at the side of the road. He was hungry and doing his best to convince himself it was not because of the smell in the air.
Apparently, he had the nose of a goddamn bloodhound now, and certain smells set off fireworks in his brain. It wouldn’t be a problem for him. Hell, it might even be pretty damn cool, if he weren’t salivating over the smell of a person’s corpse. He tossed the body into the ravine with a grunt and moved back to the wagon, skirting past the absolute unit of a cow that stood idly grazing beside it. He’d expected the thing to run off, but so far, it didn’t seem terribly concerned with the death of its companions.
“Great first contact, Sarge!” Cortez yelled. She and Adams were coming down from the hill that was their vantage point.
Nowak was busy looking through the wagon, which was filled with spices of some sort. He still managed to yell out a “fuck you” to Cortez, though.
Summers was looking at one of the spears from the bandits. It seemed well-made, and well-maintained. He admittedly didn’t know much about weapons like this, but he did know what it meant to keep steel clean and oiled, and this spear was sharpened and shined to perfection. He saw an inscription at the base of the head.
“Hey, Asle, what’s this say?”
Asle came over and glanced at the spear in his hands.
“Don’t know. It’s a . . . name?” She nodded. “Soldier’s weapon.” She pointed to him.
“They were soldiers?”
“Deserters, maybe. No soldier’s going to be hauling around random shit like this,” Nowak called, tossing something metal to the ground.
“Do we have any idea what these guys were doing heading to the city?” Summers asked. “If they were bandits, it’s not like they would just let them in, right?”
“Maybe,” Asle said. “They have badges.” She held up a small medallion at the lead bandit’s hip. “Probably kill traders. Want to sell in city, then leave.”
“I don’t think we were their only victims,” Nowak called out. “Some kids’ toys in here, too. I’m officially not sorry.”
“So, why would they bother? Besides trying to rob people like us on the road?” Summers looked back at Asle.
“Cities like traders. Let them in easy. And they might have a . . .” Asle paused, trying to think of the word. “Price? At the gate? Some cities expensive. Traders don’t pay.”
“A toll?” Logan asked.
Summers looked at the wagon. “Huh. Hey, Sarge, what are we planning to do with the Humvee?”
“We’re going to have to stash it somewhere once we get close. We can’t go into the city with it. Well, we can, but I don’t trust that someone wouldn’t try to screw with it.” Nowak poked his head out of the wagon. “Why?”
“Because the guards might start asking us questions that we really can’t answer. Might not be a problem, but I don’t think we should stick out any more than we have to.”
Summers looked in the back of the wagon. Their food wasn’t going to last forever, so they’d agreed to make a pit stop in the city. “How do you feel about being traders?”
Chapter 8: DEFCON 1
“What if we just trade some weapons for a ride? Not like they know how to make gunpowder, right?” Adams asked.
“So, you want to hand someone a gun and hope they play nice?” Nowak responded.
“I mean, yeah?”
“And what’s to keep them from shooting us and taking the rest of the crap we’re hauling around?” Summers called back from the driver’s seat.
“Pretty sure it’s a war crime, too?” Cortez added.
“I mean, even if it wasn’t, the brass would find a way to string you up,” Nowak started. “Shit, with guns, a few of them might just decide to take over the world. They ain’t really that hard to make, just mass produce. If they did figure out gunpowder, they’d have a real chance.”
“Or they’d start WWI,” Summers pointed out. “Actually, more like the Trail of Tears, only with elves and machine guns.”
“Tears?” asked Asle.
Logan ran a finger down from his eye to his cheek. “Tears, crying. Uh, sad?”
Asle nodded in understanding. Logan had been trying to expand Asle’s vocabulary while they traveled. It had been going fairly well. They’d even managed to explain a few idioms and had learned some in her language. Though, the few that Asle could relay were a little disturbing, with a lot of focus on bones and hides. It was painting a picture of a culture that was not known for its peaceful ways.
“All right,” Adams relented. “No trading guns. Got it. Message clear.”
They’d been setting up the Humvee and the wagon for the road that morning. Summers popped open the driver’s side door as they started to load up; everyone had more or less agreed that he was back to normal, so he was once again the team’s designated driver.
Summers had failed to mention his newly augmented sense of smell, aggression, and the disturbing change of appetite, however, for which he felt an immense amount of guilt. He of course had a good reason for keeping those details to himself. He was a coward and didn’t want them to think he was a freak. And, he was holding on to the hope that it would wear off like the other effects of the fog.
Nowak tossed a bag of something that resembled coins into the back of the Humvee. There were a few of its like in the back of the wagon, so they assumed it was the local currency. They only had an assumption to work from because Asle, in her usual form, had no idea what they were. Apparently, being so far from home and in a different “land” as Asle called it, meant they used different currency. And without any information of the denominations they were carrying, or how much spending power they’d have, they were happy to have the merchants’ passes. At least they could avoid being fleeced by a couple of perceptive guards.
“So, tell me again why I’m the one doing this?” Adams asked from atop the wagon.
“You said your family owned a farm,” Nowak called back.
“That doesn’t mean I know what I’m doing.” Adams held a set of reins in each hand, trying to will the cow forward.
“Well then, because you’re the private and it’s your God-given duty to do the things no one else wants to,” Cortez answered.
“Besides, you still have more experience with animals than the rest of us,” Summers added.
“We had chickens,” Adams responded.
The cow paid him little heed as he continually flipped the reins. As far as cows went, it was a little frightening. It stood about twice as wide as the cows of their world, with toned muscle in its legs, back, and well, pretty much everywhere. Suffice to say, they were happy to let it work at its own pace.
“You’ll figure it out.” Summers climbed into the Humvee, and they started off. Sure enough, the cow took that as its cue to start walking. Adams still held on to the reins in the hopes it would do some good.
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Creatures that looked like mottled green deer crisscrossed in front of the road as they drove. They were moving slower than their usual pace, so they wouldn’t leave Adams and the wagon behind. Summers guessed these were this wor
ld’s version of herbivores. He almost hit a group of the more curious ones, but managed to avoid them with only minimal bitching from the back of the Humvee. His fine motor skills still weren’t up to what they used to be, but he was making do—although, he’d avoided trying anything like handwriting up to this point and wasn’t optimistic about the results.
“Pull over, here,” Nowak instructed, tapping the dash for emphasis.
“You are not going to kill those things, are you?” Adams asked from the wagon, more tension in his voice than Summers would have expected.
“Why do you care?” Nowak responded.
“They’re fucking adorable.” Adams pointed to three of the deer, standing a good distance away. “There’s a family over there with a little green Bambi.”
Summers stepped out, looking at the scattered herd on the hill beside them.
“That’s a buck bed over there.” Nowak indicated a small bed of leaves beneath a larger horned deer. “Usually, it means there’s water nearby, and we need to resupply.”
“All right, Wild Man, which way?” Cortez asked.
Nowak took a moment to look over the herd. “Summers, think you can hit one of them from here?”
Summers hefted his rifle, then looked through the scope at the relaxing buck.
“Sure can.”
“Aw, come on, guys. Bambi!” Adams protested.
“Just need to wing it, any of them. Thigh shot would be best. Hunted enough to know the little bastards always head to water when they’re hit. These things are probably the same,” Nowak responded.
Adams made a strained noise beside Summers.
“It’s all right. I’ll hit one of the old and weak ones. See? That one’s already limping.” Summers fired as he said this. “Well, it is now, anyway.”
Adams watched the deer scatter, Summers’ target scrambling away in a mad panic.
“You people are monsters.”
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They ate deer by the river that night, cooking over a fire that was well away from the Humvee. A landmark a few hours before signaled that they’d soon be inside the red area of their map. Nowak had decided they should stock up on water, food, and make a game plan before heading into a place that even the locals thought was dangerous.
