by Alma Boykin
That’s weird, Alexi thought. Most people, even the Amish, welcomed the Guard when disaster struck, at least during the first emergency.
“So we’ll do our thing, but a little differently than planned.” He held up one hand. “No, I don’t know yet. The captain’s still working on that.”
That night everyone stayed in the old barracks at Ft. Hays; old in this case dating to WWII, since the historic fort itself had mostly disappeared. The barracks had seen better days, but the plumbing worked and there weren’t any bugs or rodents. After what he’d been through in the Horn of Africa and Southwest Asia, Alexi didn’t really mind stiff cots and tepid water. The roof didn’t leak and no one was shooting at him. He ignored his men’s under-the-breath grumbles for the most part. If they didn’t grouse, they’d probably explode, and yeah, he didn’t like the delay either. The Higher Ups had decided to wait and start the drill in the morning, rather than at sundown as planned.
The sound of the wind hissing and whistling past the window woke Alexi. He peered blearily into the darkness. The tree wasn’t moving. He shrugged and started to go back to sleep. The tree wasn’t moving even though he could hear wind and a swishing sound. Oh shit. As he stared into the darkness, he caught a glimpse of movement, and greenish-bluish lights a few yards above the ground, bobbing, then turning and rushing away to the southeast. For an instant he thought he heard a thumping sound, as if something pounded the ground. “Oh no. Oh crap no. No, no, I am having a nightmare. Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered under his breath. Baba Yaga had not just passed by the barracks, driving her mortar with the pestle and sweeping away the tracks with her broom. The lights he dreamed he saw did not come from a skull on a stick. Absolutely not, it had to be a nightmare, not the Sweeper.
He returned to bed. When he woke to his watch’s alarm, vague memories of a crimson horse with flaming eyes and nostrils, and of a coyote talking to him, faded like fog under the sun. He heard barracks-in-the-morning noises, and Marty’s voice saying, “Well, that wasn’t in the forecast.”
They drove south in the thickest fog Alexi could recall seeing outside of New England or a bad horror movie. He kept waiting for the radio to squawk that some civilian had driven into the back of the truck at the rear of the line, or the lead vehicle had hit something. Instead they reached the hamlet of Blackland without incident and prepared to respond to the imaginary tornado. It would flatten the town of Galitia farther to the east, and Blackland served as the parking area and as a base of operations. As Alexi got out of the six-by and checked on his soldiers, he noticed a group of civilians watching them.
The black clad men looked as if they had stepped out of a Russian historical movie. They sported full beards and wore loose black shirts that reached their knees, and loose black pants tucked into black boots. One man, a little taller with grey in his reddish-brown beard, grey streaks in his lighter brown hair, and bright black eyes, seemed angry. He growled something in what sounded like a form of Russian and stalked off, disappearing between two plain, wooden houses.
“What gives, Sarge?”
Sergeant Major Jason Young appeared as if out of nowhere, spooking everyone. Alexi hoped Young would teach him the trick someday. But for the moment he concentrated on not acting surprised. “These farmers are not Mennonite or Amish.” He raised his eyebrows, or rather the two red wooly-bear caterpillars that served to separate the senior NCO’s hair from his eyes ascended a quarter inch or so.
Alexi made a wild guess. “I think, Sar-Major, and I could be wrong, but I think they are Russian Orthodox Old Believers. There are a lot of Doukhobors, Amish, old-school Roman Catholics, and other religious refugees in this part of the state, or so I’ve read.”
“In other words, clannish people who prefer to be left alone.”
“Yes, Sar-Major.”
“Then we’ll do just that.” The big redhead gave everyone one of those looks that only career NCOs seemed to master, suggesting that since the men had tasks to be doing, they’d best go do them or he’d find an even less desirable occupation for them.
Marty Krehbiel leaned over. “What’s Sar-Major doing out here with us?”
Babysitting Captain Wonderful, probably, Alexi thought. “No idea, but I don’t want to catch his eye again.”
“Point. No, Private Nucatelli, that loads last.” Marty rushed off; intent on preventing an expensive and messy mistake.
The drill went pretty well, at least until afternoon. Medics from Hays and Victoria had come down, along with a theater teacher and some students from Ft. Hays State College, and the makeup on the “victims” was quite convincing. A little too convincing in one case, and Alexi fought off a wave of memories that threatened to drag him back to Eretria, north wind and fog notwithstanding. “This is not real,” he told himself, pinching the back of one hand. “This is not real, that kid was not caught by the IED, this is not real, this is a tornado civil defense drill, this is not real.”
Lt. Domzowski stopped, reached over with the hand not holding a walkie-talkie, and thumped Alexi on the shoulder, making him jump. “You are in Kansas, Toto,” he said, then continued on past. The dumb joke helped.
Trouble did not begin until 1630 or so, as the Reservists, regulars, Guardsmen, and local paramedic volunteers were loading up to leave. The wind out of the north cut worse than a runaway table-saw, and it smelled wet, and not fog wet either.
“I don’t like this, Sarge,” Cpl. Martinez said, ducking his head, back to the bitter wind. The rest of the dozen or so soldiers nodded.
“This stinks.”
“It had better not snow before we get back to the fort.”
“So much for the forecast.”
“So much for the Cap’n’s forecast you mean.”
Alexi took a deep breath. “Load up. The sooner your tails are in the trucks, the sooner we’re headed back to someplace warm.”
Private Jones, recently demoted from corporal (again) grinned, his teeth white against his coffee-with-no-milk skin. “No thanks, Sarge. My Mamma and the Preacher-man’s told me about that warmer place. I’ll just stay here, if it’s all the same with you.”
“Load up, wise-ass.”
Jones kept smiling, waved what might have been a salute, and returned to the fourth truck in the row of five.
Two civilian vehicles joined the procession, tucking in between the military trucks. “What’s up?”
Martinez pointed to the next truck in line. “Sarge Krehbiel says they’re the ‘medics from Hays. They’re comin’ with us in case the weather gets really bad.”
“Got it.”
The fog shifted to snow and the wind began howling, clawing at the trucks and ripping loose the cloth top of one of the cargo trailers. The land around the county road disappeared into white, swirling bluish white that grew darker and darker as night crept in behind the storm. Alexi and Martinez could barely hear each other over the storm noise. Nothing existed outside the taillights ahead of them and the drafty cab of the truck. Snow drifted across the road and the convoy crawled west. Good thing the road’s straight, Alexi thought, otherwise they’d have been in a ditch kilometers ago.
After far too long, the taillights ahead of them flared. Martinez and the car between the trucks stopped. A parking light came on. Alexi and his driver both frowned. Why had they stopped in the middle of nowhere? They needed to keep moving so they didn’t get drifted into the road. Or had the other civilian car gotten stuck? The wind cursed and shrieked: driving snow into the drab green and desert tan trucks.
A figure in dark green appeared beside the truck ahead of them. He staggered to the blue civilian pick-up, leaned in the window, and continued to Alexi’s truck. He kept one hand on the vehicles, but even so the wind made him stagger. Martinez opened the driver’s door and leaned out.
“We’re in Blackland. We’re stopping here. The road’s closed ahead and the storm’s supposed to get worse.”
“Stopping here, got it.”
“Capt. Wunder’s gettin
g us shelter. Stay with your vehicle until you hear otherwise.”
“Wilco.” No shit, Alexi thought, rolling his eyes. Only someone with a death wish would get out of sight of their shelter in this storm.
Fifteen minutes later, Sar-Major Young appeared out of the snow, followed by a private with a rope and a black-wrapped bundle on legs that Alexi took to be a civilian.
“How many you have?”
“Ten.”
The NCO said something to the civilian, who frowned, then gestured. Jones frowned as well before looking back up at the truck. “You’re in a barn. Brand new, has a heater but no animals yet. You and the civilians from this car. Peter will show you once you get everyone rounded up.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” The wind pounded so hard that Alexi didn’t bother trying to open his door. Instead he hauled himself and his small bag over the gearshift and climbed out the driver’s door. The wind and cold swept the breath out of his body and he staggered. He and his ten charges clustered together beside the truck, hands tucked under armpits, shoulders hunched. A maroon-haired, heavyset civilian woman with a medic’s bag and a pale, leaner man encumbered with two bags and a small cooler stood beside the local.
“Come,” the black-clad man snapped. He held a small red cord in one mittened hand. The others linked hands and followed him into the storm. The wind-blown snow cut through Alexi’s uniform and his long-johns, numbing his hand and bringing tears to his eyes. His ears ached, his feet felt cold, and his brain seemed to stop working. He concentrated on breathing the needle-filled air. Their leader rolled the red cord up as they moved, and at last, after an eternity of white and pain and cold and nothing but vague moments of glimpsing ghosts of something, the wind dropped and a dark wall appeared in front of them. “In,” the man said, shouldering open the door.
In was dark as pitch but warmish. Most of the soldiers had flashlights and light sticks, as did the medics. “Water here, heat here.” The barn smelled faintly of sulfur, and the red emergency light at the end of the barn by the heater cast a dim glow that bothered the heck out of Alexi. But no wind managed to get into the sturdy wooden and steel structure. “Will come back when can. Do not leave. Dangerous for strangers.” With that the local departed, sliding the door shut behind him. Alexi waited for a minute and checked. The door was not locked, but the snow piling up in front of it might block them in.
“Sarge, I found another door.” Jones called.
It seemed unlocked and clear of snow, so Alexi relaxed a little. “OK, folks, let’s see what we have.”
“What do you mean?” the civilian woman asked. She sounded concerned, and kept one hand on her medic bag.
“Food, heat-packs, spare gloves, extra socks, sleeping bags, ma’am. Not personal or medical gear, unless someone needs attention?” He looked around at the nine men and three women.
The soldiers shook their heads. “OK, inventory time.” The soldiers and civilians compared loads and came up with three sleeping bags, ten heavy coats or parkas, two dozen heat packs, and a large assortment of jerky, protein bars, nuts-n-stuff, chocolate bars, and hard candies. And a few MREs that dated to the Guard unit’s last deployment in Southwest Asia. “Damn, and no Bradley or Abrams to heat them with,” someone muttered.
The civilian woman looked puzzled. “Your vehicles have microwaves?”
“No, ma’am, not exactly,” Alexi replied, not wanting to go into detail. Some people didn’t react well to recipes that started with “after unwrapping, stuff meal into vehicle exhaust manifold for three minutes.”
They got themselves sorted out. The rotund civilian woman EMT, Mrs. Pollyanna Helen Nelson, preferred to go by Helen and guarded her medical equipment the way Ivan the Purrable guarded his tuna cans. Over her uniform she wore a coat that reminded Alexi of photos he’d seen from the 1960s and 1970s, and he could imagine her in fringe and a beaded headband. Some people refused to admit that time might be passing them by. Nelson’s medic partner, Rolf Pryce-Davies, did his best to stay out of her way. He seemed a little uncomfortable with the soldiers, and after a few minutes explained, “I’m sorry if I came across as rude, Sergeant Zolnerovich. I belong to the Society of Friends, the Quakers, and I’m not used to being around military personnel.”
Alexi explored the barn and found the water and the heater. A small composting toilet eased one of his worries, and he made a point to let the others know to follow the directions or else. The barn boasted in-floor heating, and he wondered how much it had cost, and how much of a pain in the ass it would be to repair when a pipe broke. The temperature felt chilly but survivable, and anything beat freezing to death in the trucks. “And once they get the cows in here, it’ll be plenty warm,” Pryce-Davies observed, answering someone’s comment or question. The group settled on a down-wind corner, away from the doors, and set about making themselves as comfortable as possible. Private Washington found an electric outlet and half the group took turns charging their phones and gizmos. Mrs. Nelson claimed the second outlet for her medical equipment. “I’m sure you understand,” she cooed, but Alexi could hear an edge to her voice and decided not to push it.
Half an hour or so after they settled in for the night, the side door opened and a flashlight beam and a gust of cold air warned of visitors. Lieutenant Domzowski followed two civilians into the barn and shouldered the door closed behind them. The locals removed their scarves and lowered the hoods of their coats. Alexi recognized the grey-bearded man from earlier. “This is Mr. Ivan Popovich, the mayor,” Domzowski explained. “And Father Boris.”
Father Boris studied Alexi. Alexi watched him in return. The priest shared Alexi’s build, but with more height, and had blond hair with a very dark red-brown beard, or so it looked in the dim light. His dark, almond-shaped eyes carried a shadow, and Alexi wondered just how much Mongol the priest’s family tree contained. Probably a dose of Cossack as well, just based on the man’s size. The priest spoke in archaic Russian, “You are Believer,” and pointed at Alexi.
“What did he say?” Mrs. Nelson demanded.
“I think he asked if I am Russian Orthodox, ma’am.” In halting, badly accented Ukrainian Russian Alexi said, “Yes, am Russian Orthodox.” The two locals didn’t need to know just how fluently he spoke.
The priest frowned and muttered something unflattering, as best Alexi could decipher. “Then you are not a Believer.”
Oh great, Alexi sighed. A heretic is calling me a heretic. Charming.
The mayor, Popovich spoke English. “Do not foul the barn, please. Your other people are in the community center and two houses. The storm will end by sunrise, so the radio says, and you will leave as soon as the roads open. Do not light any fires, do you understand?”
“No fires, yes, sir, and we’ll leave when the storm eases. Thank you for letting us stay here. We’ll take care of your very nice barn.” Alexi was sincere about the barn.
A chorus of, “Yes, thank you sir. “We really appreciate this,” and other noises came from behind him.
“Is there a possible chance that I might be able to stay in a house?” Mrs. Nelson demanded, brushing past Alexi. “My medicines need to be refrigerated and some things must be kept warm.”
“It is not possible. We have no more places for women without husbands,” Popovich said. Fr. Boris gave Mrs. Nelson the evil eye, which she ignored.
“What do you mean, no place for women without husbands? Why should I need to have my husband with me?”
Lt. Domzowski stepped in. “Ma’am, it is a religious matter. We’re not in a position to argue.”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?” She fluttered at Domzowski, all sweetness and maternal understanding. Alexi kept his eyes on the priest, who seemed a little too interested in the older woman. The mayor as well. Something about the men made Alexi not nervous but wary; they reminded him of someone, but he could not quite place whom.
“Sgt. Zolnerovich, is there anything you need?” Domzowski asked. “Besides feather beds, a hot shower, a hot
buffet, and a big-screen TV so you can root for whoever’s playing the Broncos, that is.” He winked, and the troopers snickered.
“No, sir, we’re set. A little more food would be nice, but we can make do with what we’ve got.”
“Then you’re better off than most of us, Sergeant. We’re not moving until the county clears the main highway, so don’t worry about getting up for PT.”
The corner of Alexi’s mouth twitched as he imagined who had insisted on that useless information being passed along. “Very good, sir.”
“Good night.” The three men left. Fr. Boris muttered something under his breath as he left, and made an odd hand sign as he walked past Mrs. Nelson and Pvt. Jones, both of whom had moved away from Alexi and the others.
After sharing out their food and carefully, oh so carefully heating the MREs using the chemical packs, the group bedded down. Alexi rolled up in his coat, wondering how Martinez had managed to sneak that big sleeping bag past everyone. The parkas stuffed easily into a nook or gap in the back of the trucks, or under the seats, but an extra-large, arctic-weight sleeping bag? Never underestimate the sneakiness of a good corporal.
Silence woke Alexi. Then quiet footsteps eased past him as if going to one of the doors. Alexi started to sit up, but his stiff back caught a little and he stopped, biting his tongue in frustration. He rolled onto his side and bent his knees, releasing the catch, then eased up into a sitting position. The barn’s side door opened a touch, and a dark shape slipped out. Damn it, he growled silently, yanking on his boots and feeling around for his coat and other kit. His knife remained on his belt. As he dressed, a second, shorter and louder person wrestled the door open and dropped it shut.
“What’s up?” Martinez asked from the darkness.
“Shh. Someone being stupid. I’ll go bring them back.” And then stomp up and down on my trooper and remonstrate with Mrs. Nelson about wandering around cold, hostile territory. The whole drill had turned into a disaster. He laced his boots and eased onto his knees, then got to his feet, wincing at how stiff he felt. He crept across the floor, mindful of sleeping people and gear. He got to the door, slid it open enough to get out and closed it behind him. What did those fools think they were doing?
