Chain Breakers (Nuclear Winter Book 3)

by Nathan Jones

  Lily abruptly threw her arms around him, crying harder. “I still wish you could stay,” she said in a tiny voice. “I'll miss you.”

  Pete hugged the girl back, trying to keep the emotion out of his own voice. “I'll miss you too. Be safe, okay?”

  “You be safe, wherever you're going!” she shot back fiercely. “And try to write to me when you can. I'll send lots of letters, too.”

  He had to admit that even though Lily was sometimes a pain, he was going to miss her. He'd come to think of her as the little sister he'd never had, and that made it all the harder to finally extricate himself from her hug and walk away.

  Back at the squad's barrack he said his final farewells to his squad mates, accepting their commiseration over his BS situation and enduring a last bit of ribbing at his expense. It didn't take long for him to pack up his gear and few possessions, and he was able to carry it all himself as he made his way to Lafayette's motor pool.

  He'd be leaving in the same convoy Vernon's 102nd squads were escorting, obviously. It was the only one in camp at the moment. He approached with a bit of trepidation about putting himself in the hands of Lancers, especially those under the command of the former sheriff, but thankfully Tremblay was there to shove him in with a few civilian drivers and issue a stern warning to Vernon to keep his soldiers away.

  Either the Lancer officer took Tremblay's orders to heart or he was satisfied with how he'd already screwed up Pete's life. Either way there was no trouble as the final preparations were finished and the vehicles rumbled to life.

  Buried under all his worldly goods and crammed against the passenger door in the cab of one of the last trucks in the convoy, Pete watched in the rearview mirror as Lafayette and everything he'd known in life faded away behind him.

  Chapter Nine

  Farm

  Pete slammed against the private next to him as the truck lurched over a bump. The man started to fall into the narrow foot space between the two benches in the back of the truck, which were currently crowded by a squad of mingled US and Canadian soldiers, and Pete reached out and caught him, helping him back up.

  “Thanks,” his benchmate said, straightening and adjusting his gear. From his gaunt appearance Pete would've pegged him as in his mid-20s, but a closer look showed he was was about Pete's age, maybe slightly older.

  “No problem.” Pete leaned back and planted his feet, bracing against the side of the truck behind him in case they hit another bump.

  He'd been driving nonstop for the last week, bouncing from military camp to outpost to fortified village in a vaguely northward direction and snatching whatever food and sleep he could. It was only yesterday that he'd reached Saskatoon, where he joined a newly formed squad that had promptly been folded into the proud but humble 3rd Company of the Canadian Army and sent almost a hundred miles northwest to man an outpost with two other squads.

  This was his first patrol at his new post. The three squads covered a lot of ground, hitting every settlement and isolated farm in a 50 mile radius. The Canadian/CCZ border was tenuous here, since everything was so isolated and neither side had the troops to guard it anywhere near as vigilantly as they did in the States. Not to mention there was no real natural barrier like the Mississippi River.

  From what Pete had heard, that meant that the raids flew thick and fast from either side here, since while targets of opportunity were few and far between the border was open enough for raiding parties to easily slip through. It meant the fighting was more sporadic and you had to travel farther to find it, but in the end Pete hadn't been relegated to benchwarmer status like he'd feared.

  Although the “warmer” part of that was dubious. He'd been reassigned on the 19th or 20th of September, he thought, which meant fall had only just begun. Even so the temperatures here had hit freezing last night, and soldiers native to the area warned that the first snows would probably be falling within the next few weeks if the first nuclear winter was any indication.

  The thought that he'd arrived just in time to get buried under several feet of snow wasn't a fantastic one. Sure, it meant the raiding would pretty much stop for good until spring, since even if any soldiers on either side were insane enough to tramp out on foot or get their hands on snowmobiles, the distances involved and the difficulty of finding a target would make it a waste of time and precious resources.

  Not to mention being stupid dangerous to attempt in subzero temperatures.

  Small surprise, it turned out Pete wasn't the only one thinking of snow. “Not liking the look of those clouds we saw on the horizon when we set out,” the soldier he'd helped up muttered. “Wouldn't it be just our luck to get socked in by the first snowstorm of the year the day after we make it up here?”

  “Seems like it would be just about my luck,” Pete replied, only half joking.

  The man snorted. “Yeah, same here actually.” He offered his hand for an awkward sideways-facing shake. “Jack.”

  Pete took it. “Pete.”

  In spite of Jack's malnourished appearance his grip was surprisingly strong. “Well, Pete, how'd you end up way out here in northern Canada, patrolling the border with the CCZ while nuclear winter breathes down our necks?”

  Pete couldn't help but smile. Judging by Jack's question and tone, he had to guess the guy had done something himself and assumed Pete also had. Well in this case he was right. “Punched a lieutenant in the face.”

  There were a few chuckles from soldiers Pete had traveled with over the last few days who knew his story. Jack whistled. “Really? And you only got reassigned to the worst possible place in Canada?”

  “It was before he got promoted.” Honestly, Pete had to wonder about the world when a coward and thief like Fred Vernon could end up as an officer just because he'd brought two squads of volunteers with him. But he didn't really want to talk about it. “You?”

  Jack settled back, scowling. “I was assigned as part of the convoy going to the trade summit in Mexico last spring,” he said.

  It was Pete's turn to whistle. “Quite the honor.”

  “Yeah, sure.” The gaunt soldier looked as if he was going to spit, then reconsidered in these crowded conditions. “I ran into a bandit down there whose group raided a community I was part of and killed my friend. So of course I called him out on it, and for some reason everyone took his side. Next thing I know I'm up here freezing my butt off as I get passed from unit to unit like I've got leprosy.”

  “Sounds like we both stepped in it for going after someone who deserved it, then,” Pete replied.

  “Yeah. Probably a lesson in there somewhere.” Jack leaned his head back against the side of the truck and closed his eyes.

  Pete was about to respond when Corporal Westman, seated near the back of the truck, tapped his headset and gestured curtly. “Can the chatter,” he snapped.

  The general rustle and murmur of voices stilled as everyone waited to see what he was getting. A few seconds later Westman radioed back an affirmative and stood, leaning against the opening in the back for balance. “All right, men!” he called. “We've got fresh tire tracks on a dirt road ahead, and we're coming up on one of the only farmsteads in the area. We're going to assume that's a slaver vehicle and approach cautiously, so stay sharp and be ready to move.”

  There was an immediate rattle of weapons as the soldiers around Pete checked their gear. He felt his pulse quickening, less with fear than with excitement.

  Even though he knew it would be dangerous, he always looked forward to a chance to kill slavers. He'd been sitting idle in Lafayette for months and it was past time to get back in the action.

  A small silver lining to being exiled to the frozen boonies?

  They turned onto the dirt road, the bumping and shaking getting drastically worse on the poor surface, and after another minute or so of driving the engine abruptly died. They kept moving, coasting down a hill and going as far as they could after they reached the bottom. When the truck finally slowed to a stop Westman hopped out, m
otioning for the squad to follow.

  Pete dropped lightly to the ground, gear secure and weapon ready. He was no stranger to this kind of action, although judging by the nervous clumsiness of many of his fellow soldiers they obviously were.

  Jack joined him beside the truck, looking around in confusion. “Where's this farm?” he asked.

  It took some effort for Pete not to roll his eyes, but he let Westman answer. “We're still a couple miles out, hopefully far enough that they won't have heard our engine. We'll continue on foot and leave a couple men here in case we need them to bring the truck in for a quick assist.” The corporal glanced around. “Speaking of which, any volunteers?”

  Three or four soldiers quickly raised their hands. Pete didn't, and neither did Jack. The doors to the truck's cab opened and they were joined by the private who'd been driving and Sergeant Rawlins, an older, grizzled soldier who seemed to know what he was doing. As the two joined the group Westman singled out a weedy, nervous looking kid who was about Pete's age but looked years younger, and an older man who was probably a volunteer.

  The two soldiers quickly hopped in the cab, seeming grateful to escape the chilly wind and looming danger. As the doors slammed shut Rawlins looked around. “We go in at a jog,” he said tersely. “If you can't handle the pace lugging gear for two miles we'll slow down, but only as much as necessary. If you're too pathetic you get left behind to catch up.”

  The sergeant looked around. “I don't intend to walk into anything. Anyone think they can manage to scout the way ahead without getting themselves shot?”

  Pete immediately raised a hand. “I was with the Chainbreakers down in Missouri raiding slave camps, and I was part of the fighting in the eastern States before that.”

  Rawlins looked amused. “I've got your file, Childress, I don't need your life's history. You volunteering?” Pete nodded. The sergeant turned and pointed along the road. “At the top of this hill you'll see another, taller one a couple miles to the west. Just on the other side of that is the farmstead.”

  The older man then pointed along the hill to the south, where a stream ran with trees growing thick alongside it. “We'll circle around through there and go in by a less visible route. Go careful, get an idea of the situation, and come back to us. If you see anything coming our way or get into trouble you can use the radio, but only then; no telling what tech the enemy might have, and the comm gear we have isn't exactly top of the line.”

  Pete nodded and broke into a trot for the top of the hill. Just before reaching it he dropped down, edging off the road to where a few trees would block his silhouette on the horizon. From that cover he quickly scanned the area ahead, confirming no signs of movement. The fresh truck tracks that had brought them here ran on down the road ahead, which circled around the hill Rawlins had mentioned and presumably continued on to the farm. But Pete noticed the tracks ran off along another dirt road before reaching that point.

  Were the slavers circling around to come at the farm from a different direction, or did the vehicle belong to someone else who lived around here and his squad was wasting their time?

  Either way he had his orders. He slipped over the hill using the brush as cover, then kept a sharp eye on his surroundings, especially in the direction the truck had gone, as he broke into a run for the hill in the distance. He did his best to move from cover to cover, but with his squad mates coming quick behind him he favored speed over caution.

  Hopefully the enemy would be busy planning their attack on the farm. Hopefully they hadn't already staged their attack and got away clean; the tire tracks looked fresh, but even so could be hours or even days old.

  Either way, if he came under fire he was confident he'd spot the threat before he got close enough that they could get a good shot off on him, since a moving target was hard to hit. And if not he'd serve his new squad by being advance warning they were walking into an enemy that had people posted watching the road.

  No shot came, which was a relief but not really a surprise. Way out here the slavers wouldn't be expecting company, and if they'd gone to the effort of circling around the farm that meant it was a difficult enough target that they couldn't just rush in guns blazing like they preferred, so they'd be wary about leaving scouts scattered around that could be discovered by locals who'd raise the alarm.

  Although if they did leave a scout, that hill would be the place to put him. So Pete was extra cautious as he climbed up through the best cover he could find.

  But it looked like he had all it to himself. When he crested the top he shimmied the final distance and peered down at the farmstead below.

  The farm was a prosperous one by the looks of it. Like most Canadian farms suffering the effects of nuclear winter they'd switched to cold weather crops even during the summer, and relied on hardy livestock that could handle the lower temperatures and bitter winters.

  Although it was immediately obvious why the sergeant and corporal had called it a “farmstead”. Rather than what Pete had expected, which was a single farmhouse, a barn, and maybe a few sheds all surrounded by a couple fields, what he saw was a sprawling complex of neatly cultivated fields and scattered outbuildings circling a small cluster of houses that probably hosted three or four multigenerational families.

  The place looked surprisingly frontier-like, and from the looks of it had been around long before the Gulf burned. The few men he saw doing chores in the late afternoon sunshine, out in the fields or moving in and out of the outbuildings, and the women doing chores around the house while children played nearby, all looked surprisingly modern and out of place in jeans and t-shirts with brightly colored winter coats.

  Although he couldn't spare much attention for them or their orderly farm; off to the northwest, nearly across from where Pete perched on the tall hill, the stream meandered by the farm nearly hidden by a thick copse of trees growing almost to the fences surrounding the fields.

  On the other side of that copse distinctly Gold Bloc trucks were parked, and a score or more enemy soldiers were filtering into the copse. It was obvious they were making plans to attack the farm, although from the looks of things they intended to scope the place out first.

  Pete pulled out his binoculars and did some scoping of his own, mindful of sun reflecting off the lenses. He checked the gear the slavers carried, the way they moved in their preparations, and any other pertinent details.

  The enemy looked competent, most wearing body armor and all carrying standard issue AK-47s. The farm had a few lookouts, and many of the farmers were armed, but if Pete had to put odds on a fight he'd say the slavers would tear through the place like wolves among sheep.

  Good thing his squad had happened by.

  Once he was confident he'd gotten as much information as he could from a quick inspection Pete put away his binoculars, then carefully slithered down the hillside until he was far enough below the horizon line to safely stand without being seen. Rising, he quickly navigated the steep, densely vegetated slope down to the road below. He'd spotted the rest of his squad in the trees coming up fast, and he trotted over to intercept them and reported his findings to Sergeant Rawlins.

  “They're staying put for now,” he concluded. “But they're definitely planning to hit that farm. Probably after dark.”

  Rawlins cursed. “I knew those tire tracks meant no good; I'd recognize a blockhead vehicle's treads anywhere.” His gaze drifted northwest, as if he could see through the hill to where the enemy lurked. “Can we get to the farm without them seeing us?”

  Pete hesitated. “I think so, if we follow the road around the south side of the hill and keep to the cover of outbuildings on the approach. And we should probably have someone up on the hill to watch them in case they spot us.”

  “Thanks for telling me how to do my job, Childress,” the sergeant said in a dry voice. “You volunteering?” Pete gave him a disappointed look and Rawlins smiled flatly, then gestured to an ashen-faced soldier who was panting like a bellows, as if the short jo
g had completely taken it out of him. “You're on lookout, Murrell.”

  The guy sighed in resignation, then gripped the strap of the rifle over his shoulder and scrambled up the slope, taking the same route Pete had.

  Rawlins glanced around the rest of the squad. “Listen up, folks. Our objective is to reach the farm without being seen, then deploy to repel the slaver attack. They're expecting to slaughter a few poorly defended families, so when they walk right into us all bunkered up for a fight we should mow them down like grass. Obviously the main priority is stealth, but if we do get spotted we switch to driving them off rather than eliminating them entirely; our job is to protect those farmers above any other consideration. Questions?”

  Pete cleared his throat. “There were those farmers still outside doing chores.”

  The sergeant frowned. “We'll try to sneak up on them, too, and when we reach the farm do our best to reassure them without tipping off the slavers.” He motioned for Pete to lead on.

  Taking a deep breath, Pete held his M16 at the ready and started down the road. He didn't lead the squad to the side of the farm exactly opposite from the copse where the slavers hid waiting to attack, but instead off to one side a bit where the largest barn would obstruct view of their approach from any enemy lookouts.

  Maybe he should've felt nervous, going into a situation where they might be outnumbered more than two-to-one, with two squad mates back at the truck and one serving as lookout. And he was, a little. But he'd been doing this for over a year, now, and that was just his time in the Army. Before then he'd helped fight off raiders and blockheads, back in another life.

  To be fair, most of his nervousness came from being with a new squad, which aside from Rawlins and maybe Westman didn't seem very experienced or competent. If he'd been with Epsilon he would've walked into this without a care in the world.

  But however good they were he could only concentrate on his own part of things, and if possible find ways to pick up the slack if his squad mates stumbled. So he led the eight other men around the barn and broke into a trot for the largest house.