by Glynn James
Handon smiled gently. “No, I guess you won’t.” He looked across at the woman’s belt – at the radio and side arm clipped on it; and then at the assault rifle, which she carried over one shoulder, with her right hand easily on the strap. Basically, she looked tightly wired. He said, “So Toronto Police – one of their specialized units? Emergency Task Force? Gangs and drugs?”
She looked back at him briefly. “Nope. Just a good old street copper – constable first class, Fifty-Two Division, Central Field Command.”
“That downtown?”
“Right downtown, station house on Dundas Street itself. But if you’ve ever been there, you’ll know that mean the streets of Toronto ain’t…”
“I have been there,” Handon said. “But not for many years. It was beautiful. I remember it being the cleanest city I’ve ever seen. Like you had elves sweeping up the dirt at night.”
Sarah laughed quietly. “Well, much good the elves did us.” She gave Handon another look – wondering why he might know about things like their force’s ETF. Americans would call it a SWAT team. Maybe he’d been some kind of special forces soldier, and kept up with such things. He certainly didn’t seem like a grunt.
And he definitely wasn’t stupid. Even while he said little, she could see that behind his eyes.
With that, they reached a bend in the dirt road. Sarah didn’t go around it. The others pulled up in formation. Sarah said, “You wait here. I’ve got to brace the crew for boarders.”
Handon figured her family probably hadn’t seen living people in a long time. They’d be unnerved, at best. As she turned to go, he said, “Thanks for bailing us out. Back in town.”
Sarah paused, then tossed her head toward Ali. “Thank her.” Then she turned and was gone.
“Huh,” Predator said, looking bemused, and looking at Ali, while getting the weight off his bad leg. “Why you?”
Ali took a couple of easy steps forward. “My guess is she was going to leave us to our fate. But then she saw me, and changed her calculation.”
“And why do you add up differently?” Handon said.
Ali blinked once, seeming pretty relaxed as always. “A male in the presence of a female is, almost by definition, better news than a male or males alone.”
“Why’s that, then?” Henno looked skeptical.
“Four reasons. One, he’s less likely to rape, since he already has sexual access to his own female. Two, he’s less likely to steal – which for men is usually about gaining wealth and status, and thus sexual access to females. Three, he probably won’t try to kill you in a dominance contest.”
“The winner of which,” Handon said, getting the drift now, “gets sexual access to the women.”
Ali nodded. “And four, basically, he’s a lot less likely to start any shit – and risk the safety of his woman, and the child she may be carrying.” She checked her watch. “Basic evolutionary psychology.”
“But there’s six of us,” Juice said plaintively. “And only one of you.”
Ali shrugged. “Guess I’m better than nothing.”
Sarah reappeared without fanfare. “Okay,” she said. “Everyone inside the wire…”
The Cabin in the Woods
And there was in fact a literal wire to get inside – a sturdy wire fence, just above head height, around the forest clearing in which the cabin sat. The fence looked to Handon to be Zulu-proof – not locked, but with a latch that would defeat anyone without a working brain. Sarah held it open while the team entered, then closed and secured it behind them. The cabin itself was a one-story job, with a peaked roof that might hold a storage attic. Handon guessed four rooms, maybe a thousand square feet.
A man and a boy stood on the tiny porch, both with hands in pockets. They wore camping or hunting clothes, hiking boots, no visible weapons. They looked a little frayed around the edges, but no worse than what a long camping trip might do to you. They both looked wary, which seemed natural enough to Handon. But, underneath it, the man looked somehow glum, and the boy, fourteen or fifteen, looked surly. Somehow this made the two of them seem more like father and son – as if you could see what the surliness would turn into after twenty-five years.
Handon nodded carefully and respectfully at the two.
Sarah said, “This is my husband, Mark, and our son. Guys, this is Handon, Predator, Juice, Henno, Ali, and Dr. Park.” Handon whistled internally at her perfect recall. But then he remembered that being a cop was awesome for the memory – the ones he’d known effortlessly absorbed license plates, phone numbers, custody numbers, and then kept them in their heads for years. Sometimes whether they wanted to or not.
Ali surveyed the scene – and then she clocked the look the man gave her, which was way less subtle, and way slower to move on, than he probably imagined it was. This was a common failing with men, and Ali wasn’t so long out of the world as to have forgotten it. Worse, she saw that the wife had also clocked the look the man gave her – and Sarah gave both of them a quick look of her own. It was somewhere north of sharp but south of withering. And she was subtle about it, much unlike her husband.
The man, Mark, nodded to the group, but didn’t venture anything like a smile. Then he said, in an aside to his wife, “Quick word inside?” She nodded, made a one-minute gesture to Handon, and then the whole family disappeared inside again.
“And then again,” Ali said breezily, as she scanned the forest around them, “there’s also a certain kind of woman who doesn’t readily like or trust other women.”
“And what makes you think she’s one of them?” Juice asked, his gloved hand resting on the pistol grip of his rifle.
Ali answered deadpan. “You can tell them because they spend all their time around men.”
“And because you’re one of them,” Handon added.
Ali shrugged.
The door opened again, and Sarah reappeared, without her rifle this time. “Come on in, gentlemen.” She paused a half a beat. “And Catwoman there.” She turned and went inside, leaving the door wide for them.
Ali exhaled mournfully as she mounted the stairs. “Everyone’s always gotta be hating on the assault suit. It’s not my fault you can’t do this job in baggy clothes…”
* * *
There weren’t enough chairs at the little breakfast table in the alcove kitchen, but there were places in the main room taken as a whole. So Alpha sat, and they accepted the Camerons’ hospitality. That was the family’s name, as Handon worked out from a framed cross-stitch on the wall, which also welcomed them.
The tired, hungry, grimy, and battle-weary operators accepted bowls of homemade stew, which they now spooned up. They learned that this had been made with beans from cans, kale from the garden, and venison from the forest – or rather, Handon figured, from Sarah’s rifle.
“This is excellent, ma’am,” Juice said, with his usual bearded babe-in-the-woods innocence. The others made echoing noises, from their various points around the room. There was something surreal about the world’s deadliest squad of commandos suddenly on their best behavior as luncheon guests.
The interior of the cabin was halfway between country-home cozy, and apocalypse-bunker practical. A full kitchen bulged off the main living room, and two bedrooms, one bigger, took up the back of the structure. A wood-burning stove glowed in the corner – Handon guessed they kept it burning continually – and a rotisserie, grill, and Dutch oven in the fireplace indicated it was also a hearth, used for cooking. There was a refrigerator in the kitchen – but Handon imagined a basement did for most of their cold storage. He’d seen a good-sized diesel generator outside, but not running; as well as solar panels on the roof. But the room was also dotted with oil lamps, so he guessed they minimized their power usage.
Handon turned his soup spoon. There was barley in there, too. He’d also seen some big mylar casks to the side of the cabin. He guessed that was where the grains came from.
The Camerons didn’t eat. The stew, from a huge pot, had evidently been
their dinner last night. Sarah sat at ease at the head of the table, at Handon’s right side – or, rather, with him at her left. Mark Cameron sat on a stuffed chair on the far side of the room, regarding the others, and the boy held up a wall, looking like he was too cool to stay, but too curious to leave. His hands hid out in his pockets, and a sweep of brown hair didn’t quite cover his eyes.
Handon put his spoon down and looked at Sarah. “Looks like you’re extremely well provisioned,” he said – and immediately regretted it. Admiring their provisions wasn’t exactly the way to come across as non-threatening.
The woman arched an eyebrow, but only for a second. Screw it, she said to herself. They’re already here, better or worse. And she felt like she knew enough to know these guys weren’t marauders. Another thing being a cop did for you was give you an instant sense of when people were up to no good.
And when they were the sort who were dangerous to those up to no good. Sheepdogs, rather than wolves. But definitely not sheep.
They were still a bit of a puzzle. But Sarah would bet the ranch they weren’t bandits. Hell, she’d already bet the ranch – her home, her family, and her very life…
She smiled warmly, if tiredly, at Handon. “We’re not fixed as well as we were two years ago. Of course, we long ago went through the cached food – it was originally supposed to be a year’s worth, for the three of us. Only lasted ten months, in the end. Never really thought we’d put that to the test.” Her gaze grew a little wistful before she went on.
“The garden has helped some, and we’re just now tilling a proper field nearby, to put in grains for the spring. And there’s still plenty of game. Fish in the river, though we don’t trust the lake anymore. God knows what’s running off into it at this point. Or, as you saw, living at the bottom of it. The forest provides plenty of fuel for the stove – if not for the generator, which needs diesel. We’ve inevitably had to do some scavenging, from the town you saw – and from farther afield. But it’s dangerous. If we ever led them back here…” She shrugged.
Handon glanced out the kitchen window, outside of which a big vehicle could be seen. It looked like a 90s-era Ford Expedition.
Sarah saw him looking. “That was actually why we were back in town today, before first light. Timing belt’s about shot. And there are a lot of vehicles in town.”
“Did you get one?” Handon asked.
She laughed. “Are you kidding? With you nutjobs shooting up the place, and riling up the dead? Rambo himself wouldn’t have ventured into that.”
The boy spoke for the first time. “I can go back and get the belt,” he said. “I know right where that Ford is parked.”
Sarah shook her head slowly. “No one goes into town alone, kiddo. You know this.”
He retreated slightly beneath his flop of hair. “You go alone…”
“That’s because Mom’s an idiot,” she said. “But everything will still be right where we left it later. Believe me.”
Handon saw the boy go back to what he was doing before – staring with naked hunger at Alpha’s weapons and kit. He evidently thought he’d landed in a Boy’s Own Adventure, but with more serious small arms.
“Anyway,” Sarah went on breezily, “yes, we’re decently provisioned, and we’ve got all the critical stuff: tools, med supplies, including antibiotics, weapons, and a lot of ammunition…” Handon clocked a shotgun on a rack by the door – a very sleek Mossberg Tactical with fixed stock and pistol grip, side by side with the Mini-14. “…cooking utensils, fishing gear, radios, chargers. A lot of salt, seeds. Warm clothes. I imagine you know the routine. The usual doomsday manifest.”
“Usually,” Handon said, “we carry all of that on our backs.”
She laughed, more warmly now.
Handon nodded at an elliptical trainer machine in the corner, beside a small rack of free weights. “We left the cross-trainer at home this time.”
She laughed again. “I expect the guys wish I had. They wake up to it clanking most mornings. The worst thing about the apocalypse is that I can’t go out running safely.” She leaned toward Handon conspiratorially. “Don’t tell them, but I sometimes get up really early and do it anyway…”
The boy looked even more embarrassed at this, and removed himself now to his room. Come to notice it, actually, Handon didn’t think either of the Cameron “guys” was thrilled with the rapport he seemed to be developing with their wife and mother. He made a note to tone it down. Shakespearean family drama was about the last thing he needed right now. And amiable female companionship was hardly why he had come.
“About that radio set…” he said, putting his neutral face back on.
“Right,” Sarah said, pushing herself up and away from the table. Handon started to see the effects of the free weights, with her jacket off. But just as she got up…
The cabin door knocked. Three times, strong and steady.
* * *
Everyone in the room briefly looked at everyone else, at a loss.
“Neighbors?” Juice asked.
“Well, it’s not the bloody postman,” Henno said. But even as he was saying it, Ali was springing lightly to her feet. She knew who it was. Before anyone could move to stop her, she opened the door.
Homer actually did look a bit like the mailman, or maybe a gentleman caller – tentative, polite. He seemed like he ought to have his hat in his hand, except that he’d lost it. Ali forgot all protocol, not to mention the subterfuge around their love affair, and fell into his arms. The reunited couple stood holding each other in the doorway for… well, Handon figured it was a bit less than they would have liked, but a little longer than senior non-commissioned officers usually got away with.
Handon noted that the one who seemed to be made most uncomfortable by this display was actually… the husband, Mark Cameron. He squirmed where he sat, and looked away.
When Ali dared let go of him, Predator spoke, from his position on the couch, where having his right leg stretched out was obviously making him very happy. “Late to parade as usual,” he said.
“Yeah,” Henno said. “Care to fill us in, mate?”
Homer nodded as he stepped inside. He quickly worked out who the owners of the cabin must be, and nodded to each of them.
“About like you’d guess,” he said. “Swam out to a safe distance and depth. Then I paralleled the shore for a mile, swam back in where it was clear. Then patrolled back into town. Saw the remains of the party you obviously threw at the church. Then I picked up your trail in the woods behind it. Tracked you here.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you on ambush,” Ali said.
“Hey, swabbie,” Predator said. “Come here.” From his tone and posture, it was obvious Predator had no plans to get up off the couch – perhaps ever. Homer followed his instruction. As soon as he was in range, Predator firmed up and punched him in the gut, evacuating the air from his lungs. “That’s for running out on a goddamned firefight.” He hit him again, less hard, in the arm. “That’s for screwing off for so long. Welcome back.”
Predator looked across at Sarah. “Begging your pardon for the language.”
She stood and walked to a radio set in the corner of the kitchen. “Mark, would you mind firing up the generator for us?” Her husband looked like he was worrying how many more soldiers, or sailors, were going to walk through his front door. But he nodded, rose, and exited. “No problem,” he said over his shoulder on the way out.
When he’d gone, Sarah looked back at Predator. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I would have kicked his ass myself for running out on a goddamned firefight.” Handon, following her into the kitchen, smiled again despite himself.
Ali stole a glance at her team leader. By her unofficial count, this made four more times that Handon had smiled today than in the entire rest of the Zulu Alpha before today.
Careful, boss, she thought to herself. These in-theater romances can be damned awkward…
Old Timer
Wesley and Derw
in stepped out of the small hangar and into the sunlight, both of them looking tired and disappointed. Their search had not gone well. Between them and the other Marines that Fick had assigned to the task, they had searched what they believed to be every hangar on base, and found nothing. To top it off, the engineers who arrived with Coles had confirmed that only one of the helos was in working condition, and only just. They had been left on the tarmac for a reason.
“That’s all of the hangars empty, isn’t it?” Wesley asked.
Derwin nodded.
Wesley looked out across the vast plain of grass that was the center of the sprawling facility. “You would think, with an air station this big, that there would be something lying around of use.”
Derwin shrugged. “I guess they used everything available to get the hell out at the end. They would have had a lot of pilots on base, and no reason for them to leave any aircraft behind.”
“They left the munitions dump behind.”
Derwin regarded him with a wry smile. “Everything they could take with them. That dump is massive.”
Wesley scanned out to the horizon, or what he could see of it. What had likely once been a carefully manicured field of grass was now two years overgrown and up to waist-level in places. There were a heck of a lot of buildings on the base, and even more if you went out into the areas surrounding it. There were research facilities, administration buildings, and everything that had popped up to support them, but none of those was going to help. Even if there were records of some sort inside some of the buildings, it would take them months to search, and they didn’t have the time.
He was about to turn and start walking back over to the main building, where Fick would still be running his show, when his scan of the surroundings stopped on a large, sheet-metal warehouse in the distance. He frowned. It wasn’t a hangar, or at least not like any of the other ones. It looked to be just inside the perimeter, but didn’t appear to have a runway leading up to it.
