by David Lucin
Before Brown Beard could respond, one of the men at the trucks laid his weapon on the ground. A second and a third soon followed. Brown Beard glanced back, seemingly stunned, then unslung his AR and dropped it to the asphalt. “You win, Mr. Commander. You win.”
* * *
Jenn bit down on the handle of the flashlight and dug through a box of weapons in the Major’s trailer. There were other things in here, too: ammunition, blankets, some water. But no food.
“Did you find it?” Sam asked, one hand on her side. He hadn’t stopped touching her since their reunion, like she’d float away if he let her go.
Triumphantly, she held up Espinosa, then pulled the flashlight from her mouth and said, “Success!”
She dropped the magazine. Still full. The chamber was empty, and she left it that way for now. The Major’s men in Anthem had surrendered and were sent south with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The punishment was inadequate, Jenn thought. Without food, water, or vehicles, exile was as good as death, but the Militia had done the same to thousands of innocent refugees. But what other options were there? Execution? No, she wasn’t a murderer. Exile would have to suffice.
Outside the trailer, Sam took her by the hips. The question was obvious on his lips: Are you okay? If he asked, how would she respond? She was angry, yes, but with the Major dead and his gang defeated, she had nowhere to direct that feeling, so she simply let it go. Nightmares of being trapped in her horse stall, of Tobias and the Major hurting her, would come eventually, she assumed, but today, she only wanted to be happy—happy she had Sam, happy she could count on such selfless, reliable people. People who would give their lives to save hers.
Sam put his hands into the small of her back. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” she interrupted. He lifted an eyebrow in suspicion, likely recalling their spats from the days after she killed Yankees Hat, so she clarified, “I’m sort of high on adrenaline. Once I come down, I promise I’ll tell you everything that happened.” She touched her cut lip and the tender spot on her cheek. “Including how I got these. No half-truths like after I came back from Phoenix in May. I just want to process it all and figure out how I feel first. Okay?”
He kissed the top of her head. “Okay.”
She led him toward Dylan, who sat on the truck’s bed rail. His hat was off, shaggy orange hair free. “You found it,” he said, referring to Espinosa. “Any other goodies in there?”
“Tons. Lots of ammo.”
“Nice. We’ll get some of the grunts to go through it later.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She leaned against the fender. “I know I’ve said this like a hundred times already, but thanks again for coming for me.”
“Don’t mention it. You would’ve done the same for any of us.” Dylan yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Although I’ve got to say, Jansen, I’ve reached my lifetime quota for hostage situations. Two in three months? Come on now.”
Sam jumped in with, “Yeah, if you could not get yourself involved in another one, that’d be great. I think the stress of the last day knocked five years off my life.”
“I feel the same way,” she said. “Trust me.”
Dylan took a sip of water and handed the bottle to Jenn, who did her best not to guzzle the rest. Next, she wet her sleeve and washed her cheek. Sam had already gotten most of the Major’s blood off her face, but even a single molecule of his hemoglobin left behind was too much. She wanted to be done with him once and for all.
“How did you guys find me, anyway?” she asked as she worked. “Random luck or what?”
“It was all Sam. Tell her.”
Sam explained how he’d used the recon drones’ infrared capabilities to identify the bonfire burning in the center of the Major’s compound. From there, they happened upon Freddie and his team as they escaped.
“Genius,” Jenn said. “I’m honestly impressed. You’re actually smart.”
The skin on his forehead crinkled, and then he apparently caught on that she was alluding to what Maria had said weeks ago, on the day Gary first told them about the coup. “Maybe I should study robotics engineering instead of history.”
“Sure, I can be your tutor this time.” She assumed he would pick up on the reference to how they met. “We’ll start with calculus. How about the chain rule for solving derivatives? Something easy to warm you up.”
He wore a contorted expression, like she’d just spat in his food. “I changed my mind. I’ll stick with history, thanks.”
“Good, because I don’t know if I have the patience to teach you.”
Laughing caught her ear. Quinn and Freddie sat on the hood of the Humvee, sharing a cornmeal cookie. Both had killed for the first time today, and Jenn knew all too well how they would be feeling. She’d helped Bryce cope after the Battle of the Farm. If her fire team leaders needed help, too, she should be there for them.
“You okay hanging out with Dylan for a bit?” she asked Sam. “I need to do some squad leader stuff.”
He clutched her defensively, but she read the gesture as playful. Mostly. “Sounds good. But can we compromise and you don’t leave my line of sight?”
“Sure, but you’ll have to drop this rule eventually. I’ll have to go to the bathroom at some point.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” He patted her butt. “Now go do your thing.”
Crossing the parking lot en route to the Humvee, she heard Freddie say, “The premise is that a mysterious alien species conquers Earth, and the surviving humans have to flee into colonies throughout the solar system, but there’s still lots of infighting, and they need to learn how to work together if they want to defeat the aliens.”
“That sounds incredibly complicated.” Quinn bit off a chunk of the cornmeal cookie. “You sure you can cover all that in one script?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I might have to turn it into a trilogy.”
Quinn spotted Jenn and said with a wave, “Jansen, were you aware that Freddie here is a writer?”
“As a matter of fact, I was. I’m glad he’s decided to tell you about it and isn’t being so secretive anymore.”
“It’s not like I’m announcing it to the world,” Freddie said and scooted over on the hood of the Humvee, making space for Jenn, who climbed up and sat beside him.
“Have you ever thought of writing novels instead?” Quinn asked him. “Nobody’s filming movies, but we still need entertainment. If you wrote books, I bet you could get people to read them.”
“That’s a good idea,” Jenn agreed. “You should talk to Dylan’s girlfriend. She’s a huge bookworm. Maybe she’d volunteer to be your editor.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.” Freddie stroked his chin. “Writing a few hundred thousand words on a typewriter doesn’t sound like much fun, though.”
“You never know. You might be able to convince Liam to spare some juice from the solar panels at HQ to charge your computer. Now’d be a good time to bring it up, after you took down the Major.”
Freddie smiled stiffly while Quinn studied her cookie. The bodies of the Major and Lip Ring had been moved inside the fire station, but spots of blood still adorned the sand where they died.
“You guys did good,” Jenn continued. “I realize it sounds corny, but I’m proud of you. Honestly. I seriously lucked out by getting you two as fire team leaders.”
Quinn pretended to brush dust off her shoulder. “I won’t argue with that. We’re both pretty awesome. Even Teddie over here.”
Freddie whirled on her. “Did you just call me Teddie?”
“Yeah, it’s what Sam—”
“So,” Jenn cut in, throwing Quinn a side-eye, “what I’m trying to say is, when all the excitement wears off and things calm down, the reality of what happened might hit home. If it does, you know you can come talk to me, right?”
Quinn popped the last of her cookie into her mouth. “Yeah, we know.”
Freddie added, “And we appreciate it.”
/>
“Okay, good.” Jenn lay back on the windshield, hands behind her head.
“Oh, shoot. I almost forgot.” Freddie snapped his fingers, dug into his pocket, and handed Jenn her watch.
Emotion clogged her throat, making it difficult to speak, but she squeaked out, “Thank you.”
“I tried giving it to Sam, but he said I should hold onto it for you instead.”
“Oh yeah?” She slid on the watch and held out her arm to admire it. There was some blood on the face and the band. Victor’s blood. She’d have to scrub that off. “Did you guys become buds?”
“I wouldn’t say buds,” Freddie said. “Acquaintances who mutually respect each other.”
“I’ll take that to the alternative.” She returned to lying on the windshield, feeling whole once again now that she had her watch. “So, Quinn, did Freddie tell you how we escaped?”
“Just the basics. You pretended to be dehydrated and stabbed a guy with a bucket handle.”
“That’s it? Nothing about throwing a bucket of pee?”
Quinn coughed like she’d inhaled a mouthful of water. “Excuse me?”
“Jansen,” Freddie started. “I don’t know if—”
Jenn talked over him: “The guard was about to shut my cell, so Freddie literally threw pee in his face. I wish I was joking, but I can’t make this stuff up.”
Quinn narrowed her eyes at him, then broke into a fit of laughter so fierce she almost fell off the Humvee. A few times she tried to speak, but the words came out garbled and unintelligible.
Freddie’s cheeks went bright red. “It’s not that funny. I had to do something, and it was all I could think of.”
“It was pretty brilliant,” Jenn said. “And it worked. We’ll have to start calling you the hero of the horse place escape.”
“Barbary Equestrian. That’s what it’s called, apparently.”
“Oh, okay then. So the hero of the Barbary Equestrian escape?”
Quinn had recovered from her laughing fit and asked, “Or how about, you know, the guy who took out the freaking Major?” She put her hands on his shoulder and shook him. “You’re a legend.”
He played it cool, his mouth a flat line but the corners ticking upward. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“It’s a huge deal. Freddie Parker, the Major-slayer.” Quinn leaned forward so she could see past Freddie. “Sorry, Jansen, but that is so much cooler than hero of the Battle of the Farm.”
“I won’t argue with that,” Jenn said. “Not one bit.”
23
“How’d last night go?” Liam asked Dhaliwal, who sat on the other side of his desk in the command tent. Baker and Morgan had also joined him for this morning’s meeting.
“Still nothing, Kip,” Dhaliwal said and yawned. His platoon had recently finished its overnight shift and would be heading up to Cordes Lakes soon. “Not a soul.”
A week had passed since the Major’s death. Four nights ago, no refugees were sighted at the roadblock for a full twenty-four-hour period. Then forty-eight. At seventy-two, Liam decided to begin withdrawing units, beginning with Baker’s First Flagstaff Platoon, which was due to leave Sunset Point later today.
Dhaliwal added, “So if you feel like sending me and my kiddies home, I wouldn’t be upset.”
“You’ll be going next,” Liam said. “Then Morgan. Murphy’s happy keeping the Guard down here a little longer to make sure none of the refugees try pulling a fast one on us, but I’d say we’re well past the moment of crisis. Everyone should be home by the end of October.”
Morgan wrote furiously, her glasses falling down her nose. “That’s excellent, Commander. I’ve been eager to help in the conversion of houses and businesses into winter shelters.”
“And you’ll have time for this when?” Dhaliwal asked. “Or now that we have, you know, actual infantry officers in the company, are you thinking about hanging up your boots?”
Her writing hand froze, and she shot the ex-Marine an icy stare. “I absolutely will not ‘hang up my boots,’ as you say. I have made a commitment to the Militia and the commander, and I intend to honor it.”
Liam folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, its wooden legs creaking beneath him. “That’s good, Morgan, because I think your platoon would mutiny if you left. I heard they’ve taken to calling you Mom.”
“Indeed,” she said proudly and straightened her posture. “I’ve fostered an effective relationship of trust and mutual respect with my unit.”
Dhaliwal blew air through his nose. “If one of my grunts called me Dad, I’d be running them until they passed out.”
“Maybe that’s why they haven’t given you an endearing nickname,” Liam said. “Because they don’t like you.”
“Fine with me. Isn’t there something about it being better to be feared than loved?”
Morgan held up her pen, quoting theatrically, “It is much safer to be feared than loved. Love is preserved by a link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage. But fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails.” Her voice returned to normal, and she lowered the pen. “However, I believe the context in which Machiavelli wrote is far different from our own, with our long history of democracy and political enfranchisement, so it’s not always wise to take his word at face value.”
“Uh,” Dhaliwal started, gawking at her blankly. “What? Was that even English?”
“Machiavelli was a political theorist in Renaissance Italy,” Baker said. He’d been so quiet Liam almost forgot he was here. “But don’t worry, we didn’t expect a Marine to know that.”
“What did I tell you, Maple Syrup? Those jokes aren’t funny when they’re coming from you.”
“They’re kind of funny.”
“Agreed,” Liam said. “Kind of funny.” He saw Dhaliwal forming a retort, so he slapped his hand on the desk and added, “On that note, let’s keep this meeting on target, shall we? The First Flagstaff is heading home today, so that means we’ll need to thin out our forces in the valley. Do you think—”
The tent flap opened, and a National Guard private poked his head inside. “Sir, sorry to interrupt, but Mayor Gary Ruiz and Sheriff Jordan Wilson are here.”
The sheriff, busy commanding his deputies around Prescott, had yet to see the roadblock firsthand. Gary had visited on several occasions, most recently on the day after Jenn’s rescue, so he’d offered to give Wilson a tour. The whole thing reminded Liam of the congresspeople who would visit the front lines in West Ukraine to score political points in their districts. While the practice annoyed him back then, he welcomed it today. Closer ties between Prescott and Flagstaff could only benefit the two communities.
“Thank you, Private,” he said. Then, to Baker, Dhaliwal, and Morgan, “We’ve come to the end of yet another productive session, folks.”
Dhaliwal cupped a hand over his face and said to Baker in a loud whisper, “I think he’s being sarcastic.”
As his platoon leaders filed out of the tent, Liam stood up to greet his guests. Gary came in first, wearing a heavy ski jacket. The snow Debbie had mentioned in her letter last week still hadn’t melted and probably wouldn’t until April. Nuclear winter had arrived.
“Good to see you again, Commander,” Gary said, and they shook hands.
“Twice in one week. You keep showing up like this and I’ll have to put you on the duty roster.”
Gary gave a hearty chuckle, unzipping his coat. “Nothing too strenuous, if possible.”
“No promises there.” Liam gestured to Dhaliwal’s old chair, so Gary draped his jacket over the back and sat with a low groan. “Where’s the sheriff?”
“Bothering that poor private of yours for some cups.”
“Cups?” Maybe Wilson had brought some whiskey. Liam hoped not; he hated the stuff but would choke it down if necessary, the same as when his Irish father-in-law used to force glasses of Bushmills on him.
“
You’ll see.”
Liam settled into his seat, massaging his left thigh. His Free Knee was plugged into the charging trailer, so he wore his backup prosthesis instead. Since this one had no microprocessor and no hydraulics, the joint felt stiffer, less natural, and he had to modify his gait while walking. Wearing it for more than a few hours was exhausting. “It gives me great pleasure to report you’ll have Jenn home tonight. The First Flagstaff’s scheduled to leave later this afternoon.”
“I’ve heard. Maria will be happy about that.”
“I imagine so. How’s she holding up?”
“She’s okay.” Gary’s eyes fell to his lap. “We’re concerned about the flu. Two new confirmed cases in the hospital yesterday. That makes thirty-eight in total. We had our third death last night.”
Liam licked his lips. He’d taken precautions to prevent his forces from contracting New River flu, but apparently not enough. Younger people showed few symptoms—a runny nose and a cough, mostly, sometimes the chills, all of which could be chalked up to standing outside in the chill autumn air for hours on end—so identifying the infected and isolating them was next to impossible. Now the virus had hitched a ride into Flagstaff via a supply run or a messenger team.
“We’ve quarantined the sick,” Gary continued, “but with so many people beginning to move into shelters to stay warm, we’re creating ideal conditions for the virus to spread. I’m afraid we’re in for a rough winter.”
The air seemed to cool a few degrees, and a thoughtful silence filled the tent before Liam heard Wilson say, “Thanks again, son.” The sheriff slipped inside, his beard fuller than when Liam last saw him nearly a month ago. He carried a stack of three clear plastic cups in one hand and a glass decanter in the other. Red wine sloshed around in the bottom as he rushed to the desk and set it down. “Commander Kipling,” he said and shook Liam’s hand. “Good to see you.”
“Likewise, Sheriff.” Liam pointed at the decanter. “What have you got there?”
“This,” the sheriff began, pouring two fingers of wine into the first cup, “is a 2041 Rioja Gran Reserva.” He placed the cup in front of Gary. “For the past fifteen years, I’ve been saving this for a special occasion, and I can’t think of a better one than this.” He poured Liam a cup as well, careful not to spill a single drop. “It’s primarily Tempranillo, with some Grenache, aged in oak for a minimum of twenty-four months. Been decanting for a few hours already. It’s a shame we can’t enjoy it with roast pork or a nice cheese, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
