Nomad's Force

by Craig Martelle

  But that had nothing to do with wanting to fight. The two were different concepts. Marcie and Kaeden nodded reluctantly at their realization.

  “We’ll have to make two trips in the pod. You need to get ready, so get yourselves back to the barracks today. Insertion will be tomorrow night. Team leaders, we’ll meet at the pod tomorrow morning to review the maps. Dismissed!” Lacy turned and went back into the house. The team leaders were issuing orders to their teams in her wake.

  She stopped when she was next to Cory. “Are you going with Ramses?”

  “I think so, all the way to Jamaica,” she replied.

  “As I thought,” Lacy said before turning and going back into the house to gather her things and roust her people. She was returning home to North Chicago, as well.

  Manhattan

  Butch woke up first, stretched and kicked Skippy. He sat up straight as if he’d been shot. “Fuck,” he said, eyes half-open. “What?”

  “Time to go to work, bitch,” she told him.

  “Holy shit. I just fell asleep!” Skippy whined.

  “Go to bed earlier, next time. It’s amazing that we got jobs, so we better not lose them. Now get the fuck out of bed. Mama needs a new pair of shoes. And dinner,” Butch said as she brushed her hair and straightened her clothes.

  The communal living arrangement wasn’t as bad as she had thought it would be. They had a sectioned off area of one of the shops within the long-abandoned mall. They only had a square of cloth for a door. Someone tried to enter the first day they were there. That person got their teeth smashed in and nose broken for their efforts. There’d been no intrusions since. Butch and Skippy stopped other casual visitors from walking through by applying the appropriate level of violence.

  In one case, hard words sent the individual on his way. In every other instance, the person demanded to be body-slammed, not verbally but through their actions. Butch and Skippy sensed that none of the intruders were from the Unknown World.

  Butch and Skippy were alone in the middle of New York City, unlike when they lived there long before. The city had been vibrant with life, filled with Were, Forsaken, and the odd Nosferatu, the ones who didn’t properly become Forsaken but instead were mindless, violent eating machines.

  Keeping that in mind, they almost preferred the new city.

  Butch and Skippy walked from their space with heads held high. Butch started chanting the seven dwarves’ work song. Skippy joined her as they walked in step from the building, nodding to others as they passed.

  Once outside, they assumed their neutral faces, looking neither happy nor angry to attract the least amount of attention. They strode quickly toward lower Manhattan, making good time to reach the steel mill early.

  They reported in and were told to report to the superintendent’s office. Butch and Skippy hesitated, but were encouraged to hurry because he was waiting.

  They rushed down the hallway of the administrative building through which all employees passed on their way to the foundry and the other buildings of the sprawling complex. One way in and one way out.

  It gave the masters of the mill some control over the workforce, but there were so many that the foremen held the real power.

  The superintendent’s door was open, but Butch and Skippy stopped and knocked before being impatiently waved forward. The silver-haired man looked up from a sheaf of hand-written reports that he’d been reviewing.

  “How long you been here?” he asked gruffly.

  “Three days,” Butch said in an emotionless voice.

  “Well, you’re already being noticed. I’m promoting you to foreman,” the superintendent said, pointing to Skippy.

  “Why me?” the Werewolf asked, throwing his hands up. “Why not her?”

  “That works, too,” he answered with a shrug, tipping his chin at Butch. “You’re the foreman, and you’re the gutter slug. Now get to work.”

  “What am I foreman of?” Butch wondered.

  “The area where you worked yesterday, the foundry. Stop fucking off and get to work!”

  Butch and Skippy were intercepted when they left the superintendent’s office. The secretary attempted to give Skippy a foreman’s badge, a simple orange square with a lanyard, but he pointed to Butch. She handed it over without hesitation.

  Butch put it around her neck, and they went to work. When they arrived in the foundry, the old foreman was nowhere to be seen. The new shift was gathered and waiting.

  “I’m the new foreman. All of you have been here longer than me. I don’t know why the superintendent picked me to fill this role, but he did and that’s the end of it. I will guarantee you one thing. I am going to work hardest of anyone here. If I catch anyone sluffing off, there will be hell to pay.” She finished by sending the people, including Skippy, to their various workstations. Then she went into the small office from which the foreman planned the work and reported the results.

  She found that her predecessor hadn’t done any of the paperwork; she couldn’t even tell when the last report was done. She took a small clipboard and headed to the floor to build a plan from scratch, put order to chaos, and create a way to report progress.

  When the superintendent stopped by and asked her for the status, she was able to show him what she’d done and tell him that she’d get to the day’s final report after lunch.

  “It’s quitting time,” he told her.

  She stood and looked dumbfounded, before she realized that the next shift was trickling in.

  “You better tell your relief what he has to look forward to and then hit the hay. You look tired,” he noted before walking toward the smelted product dock.

  She returned to the office with her notes, knowing that she wouldn’t be leaving for a while. The new foreman was there, sitting back in the chair.

  “I didn’t see your notes on the production line,” she said cautiously.

  “Don’t need no notes, sister,” he said, whistling through the gap where his two front teeth should have been.

  “I expect not,” Butch conceded before telling him what her shift had done. He started to scowl.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I won’t be happy if you make my shift look bad,” he warned through narrowed eyes.

  She held her hands out in a calming gesture, smiled, and leaned on the table. She watched his eyes as they focused down her shirt.

  “If you look bad, it’ll be because of you. For the record, I could give a fuck whether you’re happy or not.” Butch continued to smile.

  The incoming foreman looked past Butch. She stepped back and turned to see Skippy giving the foreman an icy glare.

  “Time to go,” Butch said loudly, stuffed her papers into her shirt and walked out, dragging Skippy with her.

  “What a fuck,” Skippy said, looking back over his shoulder in the hopes that the incoming foreman would try something.

  “Forget him. You know he’ll crash and burn as he tries to go head to head with Team Butch!” She laughed and slapped Skippy on the back.

  “I guess he will. He’s still a fuck.”

  “Of course he is, darling,” Butch agreed. When they were outside the mill, they found a dark corner on the water, away from other prying eyes. Skippy used the communication device to call Terry.

  “We are moving up in the steel mill,” he reported.

  “And we’re sailing toward Cuba for a quick trip around it. We should make Havana by tomorrow. We’ll stop in to see if any bad guys are making that their home,” Terry said.

  “There’s nobody here who is linked with the etheric. When we get a day off, we’ll walk around all of Manhattan, but I’m telling you. It’s only regular people here.”

  “It’s ripe for harvest as they grow. Make yourself at home. I expect you’ll be there for a while,” Terry told him.

  “We feel like we’re home, Terry. Thanks. I’ll call in a week or two, even though we won’t have anything new to tell you,” Skippy said, shutting the device down.

  “D
inner’s on me,” Butch said, thinking about splurging with their minimal number of square tokens.

  “Why not?” Skippy agreed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Caribbean

  “Gene! My large friend, how are you?” Terry asked gregariously. The voice that came from the comm device was clearly the Werebear’s.

  “My tiny friend. Where are you? Sounds windy,” Gene asked.

  “Sailing the Caribbean, Gene. We are on our way to Cuba,” Terry replied.

  “Ahh, Cuba. I have good memories. We wrestle them long ago,” he said.

  “Did you win?” Terry wanted to needle Gene as he sounded too comfortable.

  “We stomp them into mat like blini,” Gene claimed. Blini were Russian crepes. Terry preferred American pancakes with a rude amount of maple syrup. He tried to remember the last time he had them.

  And couldn’t.

  “Anything new to report?” Terry asked.

  “Nothing at all. We settle in to new home. All comfortable. Life good. Fu happy, but maybe winter change her mind. We will see,” Gene replied in his heavy Russian accent, which seemed worse than usual.

  He’s only been there a few days and he’s already gone native on us! Terry thought, trying not to chuckle out loud.

  “Give me a call in a week or two and let me know how things are going,” Terry requested.

  “Will do, boss.” Gene shut down first.

  Char had heard the conversation. She wanted to be relieved, but knew the longer they went without finding a Forsaken, the more anxious Terry would get.

  He called Aaron and Yanmei and found them hiking through the mountains on their way to Yanmei’s hometown. They’d also sensed nothing. They promised to call in a week or two, just like the others.

  Sue and Timmons were busy running the city. Terry was surprised that they answered, but they’d sensed nothing and would call if they needed anything. They hung up on him without him getting a single word in.

  The new tactical teams were headed to Cuba and Jamaica. Terry and Char weren’t worried about putting their kids in harm’s way. The enhancements had put their minds at ease, plus the islands were probably minimally dangerous.

  Terry and Char were less than a day away if they needed to get there in a hurry, less if they had the pod come get them.

  They stopped for a while to fish, bringing in two large greater amberjacks. The deckhands fought the fish carefully, taking it easy not to lose their lines, which were difficult and expensive to replace. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the fish were brought on board.

  The sailboat returned to full sail on a general bearing north by northeast. Terry intended to sail to Havana to give Char an opportunity to sense the area. They’d go ashore and see what there was to see if they wouldn’t look out of place.

  Terry considered it as part of his duties to show the flag, as he called it.

  They’d continue clockwise around the island until they reached Guantanamo Bay on the southeastern coast. Terry wanted to see if the bunkers were intact, although he expected they wouldn’t be. From there, he thought they could reach Kingston in less than a day of sailing.

  He and Char both looked forward to seeing their children and the FDG. They were grown up and in a position to make a difference for the world.

  TH and Char would be the proud parents enjoying a reception in a distant port. They’d have to fish more to make sure they had enough to feed the squads if they could find a secluded beach to have a barbecue.

  Even if they couldn’t, they could deliver the fish. Wasn’t that what parents were supposed to do? In the before time, they would have taken them all out for pizza.

  Although the execution was different, a parent’s responsibilities remained the same. It was a universal constant to feed your kids and their friends.

  Terry made one last call.

  “What?” an impatient voice answered with a question.

  “Ted! My main man, how’s it hanging?” Terry threw out the slang because it distracted Ted from whatever had made him angry moments earlier.

  “Hanging? You are such a troglodyte. What do you want?” Ted was abrupt.

  “We’ll need you to ferry two squads to Gitmo and two outside of Kingston, Jamaica, tomorrow morning,” Terry stated, enunciating clearly.

  “No. If that’s all, I have to get back to work,” Ted replied. Char took the comm device from Terry.

  “Listen up, Ted. You will fly those squads in the pod and drop them off where I tell you to!” Char snarled, contorting her face as she was forced to deal with Ted’s belligerent outbursts.

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “I just hope the engines are charged by then. It’s taking longer and longer to get my pod airworthy after each trip. I always knew your abuse of my pod would shorten its life, but no! Who listens to Ted? No one, that’s who. Sometimes I really dislike you people.” Ted stopped talking.

  “I always like you, Ted, but sometimes you make me angry. In any case, thank you very much for taking care of our children. Fly them safely. On a different note, how’s Felicity?” Char knew how to get under Ted’s skin, too.

  There was a long delay. Terry and Char looked at each, wondering if Char had gone too far.

  “She’s pregnant,” Ted finally replied. “Gotta go.”

  “Is he fucking with us?” Terry had to ask.

  “I honestly don’t know, but if he is, that would be the most epic joke he’s ever played,” Char suggested, before adding. “I’m speechless.”

  Terry nodded before turning his attention back to the sailboat and her crew.

  “Let’s see what she can do!” Terry yelled into the wind. The deckhands trimmed the sails, and Terry ran the boat on the edge, keeling it over to increase speed. The boat raced across the wind, cutting its way through the growing surf. It would have been a rough ride for someone unaccustomed to the sea.

  Terry, Char, and the crew loved it. They raced from wave top to wave top, even going airborne twice. That was when Terry decided to slow down. The last thing he wanted was to dip the mast into the water. They wouldn’t be able to recover from such a mistake.

  “Where are they, Char?” Terry wondered, turning serious. She shrugged, unsure of what Terry was thinking. “The Forsaken have gone to ground. Maybe they’ve all gone to sleep. That’s what I’d do if I’d just had my whole operation blown. Hide and come back after they’ve lowered their guard.”

  “I think you’re probably right. We might need to reduce the op tempo, cut back on operations while we stay frosty, stay trained and ready, but let’s not burn our people out for no reason.”

  “We’ll be ready when they stick their ugly heads out of their hidey holes,” Terry said in a cold, deadly voice.

  South Side of Chicago

  “I have to say, it’s been a pleasant walk, but weren’t we supposed to find something?” Andrew asked.

  “Depends on how you look at it,” Joseph replied, stroking his chin as he put on his philosophical look. “Information is information, facts are facts, and some require more action than others when they are revealed. In this case, we know enough to sleep peacefully because the bogeyman isn’t coming.”

  “The bogeyman? You mean people like us,” Andrew said softly, looking at the ground.

  “Not at all. I mean those who would eat their fellow humans. That is not us. We’re different now, better than them,” Joseph responded quickly and firmly. He gripped the younger Forsaken’s arm. “We’re not like them.”

  “I guess not, because we have better friends.” The two chuckled.

  “Maybe that will be our rock band’s name—‘Our Friends Don’t Wear Black.’ We can play gothic rock,” Joseph suggested.

  “Screaming guitars and screaming vocals. It’ll be a scream,” Andrew added.

  “Indeed it will be. Let’s walk the shore on the way back, shall we?” Joseph turned east, where they’d hit the shore in less than a mile, then turn north for the forty-mile jaunt back to North Chicago.
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  “Maybe we should go west? We can take a boat and check the shore from the lake side,” Andrew said. Joseph stopped and turned around. He crossed his arms.

  “West it is,” he agreed.

  Joseph pulled his communication device and called TH.

  “Joseph! I was wondering what you were up to, but I had my hands full of sailboat so couldn’t call. What’s up?” Terry asked.

  “Chicago is Forsaken free, as far as we can tell. Well, there are two of us, but we seem to be the only ones here. That wanker Jonas is the only Were type we found. We’re heading to the west side and then following the city north to give that area a look,” Joseph answered.

  “Keep on keeping on, my man,” Terry told him.

  “Keeping on, aye,” Joseph replied before powering the device down.

  “Well, that’s that, then,” Joseph said as he looked at his communication device. “Shall we?”

  Joseph motioned for Andrew to take the lead.

  “Don’t mind if we do.” Andrew stepped out smartly into the early evening darkness. “What do we do if we don’t find anything out here?”

  Joseph hurried to catch up. “We find the FDG and help them train. There’s always something else they need, like practice in defending against Forsaken mind tricks.”

  “I could use some of that. Akio looked right through me and there was nothing I could do.”

  “Akio is stronger than all of us combined. You only need to learn how to block me, and then you’ll be able to keep our brothers out,” Joseph answered.

  Andrew nodded sullenly.

  “And then maybe we’ll sleep, Andrew,” Joseph suggested. “For a long time, we’ll rest, regain our strength. Come back to the world when the world and Terry Henry Walton need us again.”