by David Lucin
“But we’re getting meat in return.” Maria trailed off, possibly thinking of how sheep and goat meat from the Navajo Nation could have helped Ajax, at least for another month or two. “Are you worried about Tuba City? Gary’s told me what’s going on up there. So sad.”
That prickle of angst became a painful sting. Recently, Tuba City, a community of four or five thousand, the largest in the Navajo Nation, had begun raiding its neighbors for supplies. This came as no surprise to Jenn, but it sickened her all the same. Whereas Flagstaff had come together and stabilized in the wake of Vincent Grierson and CFF, the Navajo played by the rules of Leviathan, with the strong preying on the weak and petty kings leading armies of thugs and murderers.
“Tuba City hasn’t attacked as far as Window Rock yet,” she said while thinking that raiders might see a convoy of supplies from Flagstaff as a juicy, irresistible target. “But we’ve got a platoon of Militia coming, so we’ll be fine.” I hope.
“And Sam’s going, too?”
“Yep. Ever since he helped find me in Phoenix, Dylan brings him along pretty much every time he needs a driver.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you two are together.” A light breeze blew Maria’s silvery hair across her face. She pushed it away and repositioned the cannula in her nose. Jenn wondered if the cold air bothered her, if it made breathing more difficult. “And how are you otherwise? Are you doing okay, all things considered?”
Jenn’s answer came out automatically: “I’m fine. Don’t really feel like doing this thing tomorrow, but orders are orders. Other than that, having a third fire team in the squad’s taken some getting used to, but Aiden’s doing well as a leader, so it’s all good.”
Maria cocked her head to the side, glasses low on her nose. “That isn’t what I mean.”
A muscle under Jenn’s eye twitched, and she sighed. “Okay, I’m tired. Tired of sleeping in a barracks with a hundred stinky Militia troops instead of here at home, tired of being hungry all the time and freezing cold at night, tired of all the training and the news about people dying or getting sick.” She tugged at a corner of her mask. “Tired of having to wear this whenever I’m out in public. Tired of acting like I’m not tired in front of my squad.”
“It’s okay to be tired, and it’s okay to be vulnerable sometimes. You don’t always have to be the strong one.”
“Yes I do,” she said reflexively. “Val was always strong. Dylan’s always strong. Gary’s always—”
“He’s not. Gary, I mean. With you, yes, he’s strong, but with me, he’s himself. He’s strong with you because he can open up to me. Do you tell Sam about how you’re feeling?”
Jenn peeked around the house. There was no sign of Sam, but she could hear him and Gary in the front yard. “Yeah, I complain to him so much he’s probably sick of hearing me talk.”
Maria pushed up her glasses. “I highly doubt he’s sick of you. That boy would follow you to the ends of the Earth.”
“Oh, I know.” Jenn ran her thumb along the band of her ring.
On cue, Sam returned to the backyard. Mask off, he blew into his hands to warm them. “Ready to go?”
No, I’m not. “Yeah, sure. You all done with that firewood already?”
He put his mask on and made a show of pretending to flex a bicep. “Believe it or not, I’m actually very strong.”
Jenn rolled her eyes and said to Maria, “Okay, I guess we’re headed out.”
Maria reached out and touched the sleeve of Jenn’s jacket. A sad substitute for a hug. Jenn wanted nothing more than to fall into Maria’s embrace, but she had to remain vigilant about safety. It’ll all be worth it in the end.
As she touched Maria’s sleeve in turn, unexpected emotion clogged her throat. She found herself missing her parents. They would have been so happy for her, so excited for her future with Sam. Maybe Barbara had a point. Maybe they shouldn’t wait until spring. Jenn needed a boost, too. Besides, when had she last done something for herself? In March, when she bought a new Diamondbacks hat in celebration of the 2062 season?
Politely, Sam asked, “Should I wait for you out front?”
“No, we need to get going.” Jenn took a long step away from Maria and swallowed hard. “Love you.”
Maria held her hands over her heart. “I love you, too, sweetie. See you in a couple days.”
2
As planned, the trading convoy, a collection of twelve trucks with attached trailers carrying three squads of First Platoon as defense, left Flagstaff at 7:00 a.m., traveling eastward along I-40. It was flat out here, with no mountains on the horizon like down in the valley. The sky was its usual gunmetal gray, except for where the sun lit it ablaze. Cyan bushes and stands of brown grasses lay beneath a thin dusting of snow. The familiar scent of sagebrush and herb lingered in the air, but it was more subdued than in the summer. Jenn loved the desert, and she saw no small amount of beauty in this scene, but mostly, it felt empty, desolate, and dangerous.
After a slow, cautious five-hour drive, the convoy stopped at the junction with Route 191, the border of the Navajo Nation, where it would meet an escort into Window Rock. That was the plan, at least. Three hours had passed, but the Navajo escort remained MIA.
“Maybe they just forgot,” Quinn said from beside Jenn on the open tailgate of a Tesla pickup that formerly belonged to the Major. A cream-colored beanie topped with a fuzzy pom-pom covered her long, straight hair, which she’d recently dyed an electric blue.
Jenn gnawed the inside of her cheek, tasting blood; she’d been chewing it furiously since the trucks arrived and found no Navajo waiting for them. Her gut told her something was wrong. Had raiders from Tuba City captured Window Rock’s escort and set up an ambush for the convoy? Or had they attacked Window Rock directly and the escort never left? She had no proof either way, only hunches, but those same hunches had kept her alive thus far, so she always took them seriously.
“Forgot? I doubt it.” She slapped an old, black-painted beer keg that had been transformed into a makeshift woodstove. “They’re pretty desperate for these stove parts and firewood, or so I’ve heard. Plus all the food. I assume they’d be smart enough to write this meeting down in a calendar somewhere.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Quinn tucked her gloved hands between her thighs. “You think it’s Tuba City?”
Jenn glanced over her shoulder. Near the front of the truck, Tanis, Aiden, and a few of her other squadmates were chatting and passing around a jug of water. Quietly, she said, “That’s what I was thinking.”
After an audible swallow, Quinn asked, “But Tuba City’s also been raiding for a while, right? It’s not like they started yesterday. We’ve sent how many convoys to Window Rock? Five? Six?”
“I think six.”
“Then why try something now, of all times?”
Jenn returned to chewing her cheek. “Maybe they’re getting desperate.”
“Maybe,” Quinn echoed. She reached over and pulled up Jenn’s sleeve to check her watch. “It’s after three already. If we have to turn around and go home, we need to leave, like, now, or we’ll be driving the whole way in the dark. We should call Dylan, see what he thinks.”
“Good idea.” Jenn pressed the talk button on the mic clipped to her jacket and said over the radio, “Jenn for Dylan.”
Dylan responded a second later: “Jansen, if you’re calling to ask about the holdup and what the plan is, we’re figuring it out. Stand by.”
The impatience in Dylan’s tone surprised her. Or had she heard irritation?
Quinn frowned, saying, “He doesn’t sound like a happy camper today, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t. Yannick’s probably been nagging him, too. We’ll give him ten or fifteen minutes, then go see what’s up.”
“Sounds good.” Quinn blew a strand of blue hair off her lip.
Suppressing a shiver, Jenn flexed her toes to keep them warm. In fall, when temperatures began to drop, she quickly discovered the importance of dressing in layers
. Today, she wore a tank top, a long-sleeve shirt, a sweater, and her parka; two pairs of socks, boots, tights, and jeans; and finally her black Minute Tire beanie. Regardless, if she didn’t routinely stand up and move around, the cold would seep into her bones, so she hopped off the tailgate and did a few air squats.
“You happen to know what the deal is, Sergeant?” Wyatt asked, ambling over from the front of the vehicle. His hair had grown even shaggier, and now he reminded Jenn of the grubby climate and anti-war protesters who used to set up booths on campus and shout at passersby through megaphones. “Hippies,” Gary called them. Wyatt’s thin, patchy beard was the butt of endless jokes among the Militia, so in true Wyatt form, instead of shaving, he grew it out. Jenn admired his tenacity, if nothing else.
“If you’re asking about the holdup, Private,” Jenn shot back, “I just talked to Lieutenant Baker, and he pretty much told me to hurry up and wait. Me and Quinn will check in with him in ten.”
Quinn snorted out a laugh and kicked her feet, which dangled off the Tesla’s tailgate.
“Something funny over there, Corporal Novak?”
“I still can’t get used to the fact that we have ranks. It’s actually so cringe-worthy. What was wrong with just using our job titles?”
Jenn returned to doing air squats. “For one, it’s a lot easier to say ‘corporal’ than ‘fire team leader.’ And there’s like three hundred of us now, in two companies. There’s a reason armies use ranks. What would you call Courtney if you couldn’t call her sergeant first class? Platoon second-in-command? Dylan’s freakishly tall assistant?”
“How about platoon mom?” Wyatt offered. “She’s always on my case about something.” His voice rose in pitch and became whiny. “Wyatt, make your bed. Wyatt, fold your clothes. Wyatt, take a bath.”
Quinn asked, “You ever think you should be doing those things anyway since, I don’t know, you’re a full-grown man?”
“Man? Full-grown? That’s a stretch,” said Beau Davis as he peeled away from Tanis and Aiden. He stood no taller than Jenn, but he had the wide frame of a weightlifter. His stubble was thick and dark, and he sported a purple Colorado Rockies hat. Jenn wondered if, as his squad leader, she had the authority to toss it in a barrel stove. After the bombs, Beau spent some time volunteering at the hospital, where his experience in vet school proved invaluable. When he joined the Militia in November, he logically became First Squad’s medic.
Wyatt waved him off. “Whatever. All I’m saying is, she needs to chill out. She can be kind of mean sometimes.”
“Oh, poor baby.” Quinn hopped off the tailgate and reached for his face, intending to pinch his cheek, but he dodged her and stepped back.
They shared a laugh. Legs warm, Jenn finished her air squats and noticed that the anxiety lurking in her belly since yesterday had subsided. Banter with her squad always brightened her mood.
“You guys hear the latest numbers?” Beau asked. “Heard they broke three hundred in the hospital last night. Eight more dead.”
And with that, after only a few brief minutes of reprieve, the anxiety returned. Jenn didn’t want to talk about the flu. The crisis was a near-continuous source of worry, what with Maria’s COPD and the outbreak at the barracks.
When no one answered, Beau added, “Five had New River flu. Two froze. Cops found them alone at home, dead. Been there for weeks. Eighth was a suicide. Guy’s wife tracked him down to their old house after he went missing for two days. He hanged himself in the bathroom.”
Hearing about death hardly fazed Jenn anymore. People died every day. So many, in fact, that Flagstaff had begun burning the bodies en masse on large pyres, as the refugees had done in New River. The suicide, though, made her stomach hurt. A husband had taken his life, leaving his wife behind. How could he do that to her? Why would he do that to her? She couldn’t fathom doing something so awful to Sam. This horrible winter was driving people past the brink.
Furiously, she rubbed her finger with her thumb, feeling for her ring through her glove, but it wasn’t there; she’d stowed it safely in her backpack, like always when she was on duty.
Beau tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. “Most people who die of the flu really die of pneumonia. The virus damages the bronchial tubes, and bacteria that live in the upper respiratory tract get into the lungs and cause infection. Nobody’s entirely sure, but there’s a theory the virus is an H1N1 strain, like the Spanish flu in 1918 or the—”
“Okay,” Jenn interrupted and hopped back onto the tailgate. “We got it. That’s enough science for now.”
“You sure? I thought you’d want to know more about it since we’re dealing with it on a daily basis.”
“We don’t care,” Quinn barked through clenched teeth. “It doesn’t matter to us if the flu causes pneumonia or whether it’s H1M1 or—”
“H1N1,” he corrected.
“Whatever.” Her jaw pulsed, and her thin lips drew into a flat line. “Are you actually this tone-deaf, man? How are you not picking up on our signals? Like, we obviously don’t want to hear about this right now.”
Beau’s brow knit together. “If you’re worried about Freddie, don’t be. Data shows that people between about ten and fifty aren’t really at risk.”
“Data? Last I heard, over four hundred people have died of the flu. They’re just data to you?”
He threw up his hands, palms open. “Whoa, I didn’t say that. All I’m saying is, according to the stats, Freddie should pull through.”
“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You even talk about Freddie like he’s a number.” Quinn swiped her AR from the box of the truck. “I’m done with this. Come on, Jenn. It’s been about ten minutes. Let’s go see Dylan and find out what’s going on.”
“Sure.” Jenn grabbed her weapon. The incorporation of the National Guard into the Militia and the defeat of the Major had brought a windfall of equipment, and Jenn was assigned an M4. Technically, the short barrel made the M4 a carbine, but everyone, including Guardsmen, still referred to it as a rifle. Compared to her Gunsite Scout, her M4 lacked personality, so she hadn’t bothered giving it a name. The Militia had also allowed her to keep Espinosa, which had since become more Sam’s than hers. It’s a fine firearm, Gary always said, and she tended to agree. Performance-wise, though, it had nothing on her M4.
Beau, apparently surprised by Quinn’s show of frustration, let his mouth hang open.
“No offense,” Jenn said to him, “but she’s right. You really need to read your audience better.”
She left him and Wyatt at the Tesla and rushed to catch up with Quinn, who’d already stormed past two vehicles on her way to the front of the convoy. Militia troops, all of them in heavy winter clothing, milled about, chatting, checking their weapons, fidgeting to keep warm. A group of eight or ten sat around a small fire in the middle of the road. One of them held a metal pot over the flames. Potato soup, maybe. A Flagstaff winter staple, it was starchy and utterly flavorless. Jenn missed real food. Well, as real as it came during the war. Oh, the things she’d do for a lab-grown chicken breast that tasted suspiciously like rubber.
Sadly, her mouth watered at the thought.
In the bed of a red GMC pickup, Sam tightened a blue tarp. He caught her eye and started to hop down, but she shook her head and jerked a discrete thumb toward Quinn.
Okay, he mouthed at her before returning to his work.
“You all right?” she asked as Quinn threaded two troopers sharing a milk jug of water. “You kind of snapped back there.”
“I’m fine.” Quinn slowed her pace to a saunter. “It’s Beau. He’s a grade-A wiener sometimes.”
“Yeah, he is. The guy’s got zero emotional intelligence, but we all know that—you better than most, since he’s in your team. You sure everything’s all right?”
Quinn came to a stop and exhaled loudly, her breath a cloud in the February air. “I’m just running out of batteries. The further we get into winter, the further away spring feels.
Part of me wonders if there will even be a spring. We don’t know anything about nuclear winter. It could go on forever, couldn’t it? Like an ice age.”
“Come on, you know that’s not true. Average temperatures are down by seven or eight degrees. Spring might not come until May, but it’ll come. You were a math major. Graph it out or something.”
That got a smile out of Quinn.
“If it’s any consolation,” Jenn added, “I feel the same way. Tired. I’m not sure how I’m gonna make it through the next four or five months, either, but I will, and so will you. I mean, it can’t get any worse.”
“No, it really can’t.” Quinn drew a line in the snow with her boot, and her attention wandered toward the GMC. “Your fiancé is staring at us.” She emphasized the final syllable of “fiancé,” making the word sound particularly French.
Jenn looked over to see Sam not-so-subtly peeking over the box of the truck and pretending to work. He’s cute when he’s being nosey. “He’s just worrying, like always.”
“About who? Me or you?”
“Both of us, probably. You two are buddies, remember?”
“Right, right.” Quinn gave Sam an exaggerated wave. “I’m okay, Samuel,” she called out to him. “I appreciate your concern, though. Go back to whatever you were doing.”
