That triggered a distant memory for Hastings. A lot of weird things had been happening prior to the reeker uprising, and it was hard to keep them all sorted. “Okay, I do seem to recall something like that going on right before all of this kicked off, but I didn’t pay it much attention. So you think this is the same John Mosby?”
“I’m pretty sure of it. But I want to talk to the president first. I’m sure he’d have a better inside line on this—I heard rumors that the State Department was in the process of declaring The Movement a terrorist organization. At a minimum, he needs to know about this guy and who we suspect he might be. He might even be able to shed more light on the subject.”
Hastings nodded and took another look around. “Can’t disagree with anything you said. I’d like to know more details too. I don’t want to cut this guy loose if he’s who you say he is. Let’s kick this to War Eagle.”
“Agreed,” Slater said.
###
“Guys? Gather in,” Ballantine said called to the lightfighters after the train was underway. The lightfighters slowly filed into the vestibule area between train cars. Ballantine watched them approach as they walked up the aisle between the coach’s seats. They moved cautiously, taking care not to bean any of the civilians with their heavy rucksacks or weapons despite the train’s occasional swaying. They’d spent the past ten minutes ensuring the coach’s occupants had been taken care of in their absence. While they had been doing that, Ballantine had a quick chat with the wounded cavalryman sitting in the priority seating club area. The sergeant had confirmed that the Guard had been on point and ready in Everson’s absence.
“Only wild card is the lady and her kid,” Trevor had said, indicating Diana and Kenny. “She can’t go anywhere while he’s awake, not even to the latrine. We tried distracting him and stuff, but it never worked. Once she was out of sight, he started screaming. Even punched himself. Pretty scary, Sergeant—seeing a little kid like that actually whaling away on his own face.”
Ballantine had nodded. “Yeah. Kenny’s always been our wild card.”
“We need to circle our wagons around him, you know? He’s defenseless. Has no idea what’s going on. And the lady, she can’t handle him full time solo. I mean, no one could, even if this wasn’t the zombie apocalypse and all that.”
“We’ll get that under control, cavalry,” Ballantine had said. “Trust me, we’re all pretty experienced when it comes to Kenny.”
The cavalry sergeant didn’t seem moved by the sentiment. “Truthfully? Don’t know how anyone can handle him, man.”
“Don’t sweat it. You know what he likes most in life right now?”
“What?”
“MRE jalapeño cheese spread. Kid lives for it.”
Trevor frowned. “Well, hell. So do I.”
Ballantine had laughed and clapped the younger soldier on the shoulder as his men drew in as instructed. “We’ll try and save some for you, dude.”
“Much appreciated,” Trevor replied.
“Catch you later, troop.”
“Hey, who you calling ‘troop’, you lightfighter wimp?”
Ballantine laughed again before stepping into the vestibule. He held the door open for the rest of the guys: Guerra, Hartman, Reader, Tharinger, and in the rear, Stilley. Once they were inside, he let the door slide closed.
“What up, Carl?” Guerra asked.
“Just a pep rally, Hector. First off, is everyone all right? Zombie apocalypse aside, is everyone physically okay? Don’t bring up the mental shit, I know you were all psycho to begin with. The only reason you didn’t shoot up elementary schools is because you couldn’t smuggle your shit off a federal reservation.”
Reader raised his hand. “Actually Sergeant, Tharinger and I went to school at Columbine.”
“Yeah, Dylan and Klebold? Those guys were amateurs,” Tharinger added.
Guerra turned in on him like a tornado on a trailer park. “Tharinger, you need to seriously stop talking shit like that.”
“Hey, going for some levity here, Sergeant G,” Tharinger said.
“Look at your audience, Seinfeld. Do we come across like the kind of people who want to hear that shit?”
“Uh...” Tharinger looked as confused as a rubber-billed woodpecker in a petrified forest. “Well ... yeah? I mean, Stilley smiled?”
Guerra glared at Stilley. “This man is a hundred and ten percent retard. He couldn’t even leave me permanently deaf after dropping a concussion grenade inside an enclosed vehicle. You really shouldn’t be taking your social cues from him.”
Ballantine shook his head. “No, Jay. To answer your question, we’re not the kind of people who want to hear that shit,” he said. “Not sure I was expecting to hear that bit about Columbine, but okay. Anyway, seriously. Troops ... this is all that remains of Tenth Mountain. The guys standing here on this train are the remnants of one of the Army’s most storied divisions. It’s a shit show, but all I need to know is this: Is everyone okay?”
“Um...” Stilley stirred uncomfortably at the question. “Like, um, okay. How exactly, Sergeant B?”
Ballantine tapped his helmet with his index finger. “Like are you guys still sane, or what?”
“Or what,” Reader and Tharinger said in unison.
Ballantine nodded. “Okay, that’s about what I expected to hear. Hartman? Got anything to add to this?”
“No, Sergeant.”
“You can speak freely here, Hartman. We’re all getting our shot.”
Hartman shook his head. “No, I’m good.”
“Dudes. We’re all fucked up here. We’ve been through the wringer, and we’re all hurting one way or the other. Guerra, you’re freaked out about your people in California. Reader, you’re still fucked up over shooting that woman who crawled out from under the car, even though she looked like a damn zombie. The captain is still messed up over losing his family—trust me, even though he’s not with us, I know how he feels. Because the day we pulled out of New York, I was thinking my family was gone too.” Ballantine looked around at the assemblage. “We’re all messed up, one way or the other. We’re all hurting. Me? Maybe less than the rest of you, but I was there for a bit. I know what it feels like. And I want you guys to know I’ll get you squared away any way I can.”
The lightfighters looked at each other, then at Ballantine. Then their gazes wandered, locking onto the floor, the overhead, their hands.
“Brothers ... we’re all that’s left,” Ballantine said. “We have to be straight with each other if we’re going to get through this.” He turned to Stilley. “You and I don’t really know each other. You’re with the battalion, but you’re not in my company. Right?
“Ah, no Sergeant. I was a vehicle maintainer.”
“Right, right. Motor pool guy. Wrench turner on the five tons?”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Stilley’s voice was curiously muted, which aside from being a miracle delivered by Jesus Christ himself was also a bit unsettling given that his ears still had to be ringing.
“But still a lightfighter,” Ballantine said.
“Oh yeah, hooah on that,” Stilley replied.
“Stilley, where you from?”
“Where’m I from? Ah, Harlem. East 130th Street.”
Ballantine was surprised by that. “Stilley. You’re from New York City?”
“Well, yeah. But I didn’t grow up there, you know?”
Ballantine sighed in relief. “Oh, good. Where did you grow up?”
“Well, in Canarsie, Sergeant.”
Jesus ... what? Ballantine didn’t know what to say. Canarsie was part of Brooklyn, which had been overwhelmed by the dead.
“Stilley.” Guerra’s gruff voice was uncharacteristically calm. “Where was your family during the emergency?”
“Same place as always, Sergeant G. Paerdegat Street 4th Street.” When he saw the address didn’t really register with the rest of the troops, Stilley hurriedly added, “That’s in Canarsie, right? Still in New York. In Brookl
yn.”
“They get out, man?” Hartman asked. “Your folks?”
“I don’t really know,” Stilley said after a long moment. “I kinda think not. My dad, he worked hard to get that place. He wouldn’t have left it for the world. It was all he and my momma and sister had.”
Ballantine was rocked by the sudden discovery. “Stilley. Your people were down there, and you still stayed with the battalion?”
“Well ... yeah, Sergeant B. The battalion, it was family. You know? Couldn’t leave the unit when the shit was hard and heavy. Right?”
Ballantine and Guerra exchanged glances. This was a bit more fealty than they’d ever expected to encounter, and especially from a troop like Stilley. Ballantine took in a deep breath.
“Stilley. Craig—when this shit blows over, we’ll help you find out where your people are.” He looked at Guerra. “Hector, am I right?”
“Absofuckinglutely,” Guerra said. “Stilley, you surprise me, man.”
“Why’s that, Sergeant G?”
“Because frankly, you’re more retarded than I thought you were,” Guerra replied. “Sticking with the unit while your own family’s in trouble? What the fuck guy, you could’ve gone to your commanding officer, told him about it, and bailed. Hell, you coulda just taken all your shit, mounted up in a five ton, and driven there! It’s what, five, six, ten miles away? I don’t know, where the fuck is Canarsie?”
“But then I would’ve had to leave my team, Sergeant G,” Stilley said, becoming suddenly animated in a way Ballantine hadn’t seen before. “I know you guys think I’m a total fuckup, but I’m not gonna go AWOL! This shit means something to me, man!”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Guerra said, a dismissive tone in his voice.
Stilley practically flew across the vestibule and slammed into Guerra, chest to chest. It was pretty comical, actually. Stilley wasn’t the most substantial soldier to make it into the US Army, but Guerra most certainly was. Just the same, Guerra stepped back more in surprise than anything else. “Whoa, Stilley—”
“You think I don’t know what shit was going down, Sergeant G?” Stilley shouted. “You don’t think I didn’t know what my people might be going through? Your people are, what, in fucking California lookin’ at coconuts and stuff? They’re probably good, right? I fucking knew my people were in trouble, and I stuck with you!”
“Stilley, back the fuck up,” Guerra said, and there was danger in his voice.
Before Ballantine could intervene, the other troops were there. Tharinger yanked Stilley back while Reader and Hartman braced Guerra, their faces hard. Guerra was taken aback by their sudden presence, and his face darkened.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he thundered.
“Getting ready to pound the shit out of you, man,” Reader said.
“Oh really, cupcake? Your balls are dropping now?” Guerra grabbed Reader’s wrist and twisted it at a vicious angle, causing Reader to cry out. Ballantine lurched forward then, essentially channeling his high school football years as he caught Guerra across the chest with his elbow and slammed him up against the vestibule’s bulkhead. There was no way a soldier standing five foot ten and weighing in at a buck seventy could stand up against a man massing a solid two hundred twenty pounds. Guerra hit the bulkhead hard. Just the same, Ballantine was in his face instantly.
“Get your fucking shit squared away, you stupid motherfucker!” he thundered, even though he knew the civilians in the passenger car could likely hear him. “You stand down, right this fucking second or I will break every bone in your miserable body! You read me, lightfighter?”
Guerra struggled for an instant, then realized he was overmatched as Reader and Hartman closed in. He shot Ballantine a lazy, angled smile.
“Yeah, I read you, Sergeant First Class Ballantine,” he said, drawing out the remainder of his name. There was something insouciant about it, as if Guerra was telling Ballantine he didn’t really take his senior NCO all that seriously when shit was serious.
Ballantine did something he’d never done in his entire career as a soldier. He cuffed one of his subordinates across the head, and hard. Guerra’s head snapped to the side and the smaller man actually gasped at the ferocity of the strike. He staggered to his right—Ballantine had lashed out with his left hand, his weaker one—but he didn’t exactly fall to his knees. Guerra was as tough as they came, and it would take more than just a love tap from a much bigger man to cow him. Deep down, Ballantine was satisfied with that. Guerra was a campaigner, and Ballantine didn’t want to bust him up. He just needed to reassert his dominance over him, and in so doing, the rest of the men.
“Have I made my fucking point here?” Ballantine snapped.
Guerra had had enough. “Yeah, Carl. You’ve made your fucking point.”
Ballantine eased up after a moment. He pushed Reader and Hartman back, then turned back to Stilley.
“Okay, Motor. We really need to have a heart to heart here.”
Stilley looked frightened after what he had just watched go down. “Okay, Sergeant B.”
“You need to get your shit under control, Stilley. Like seriously. When we’re in a fight, you seem to stand up and deliver, but when we’re off the line you fall apart and do stupid crap. Like playing with grenades in enclosed vehicles. I get where you’re coming from, but when did that ever seem like an okay thing to do?”
“I don’t know what happened, Sergeant B! I know better to pull the pin on a grenade, seriously! It musta, musta been corroded or something—”
“You stupid shit,” Guerra snarled then. “Who the fuck cares if it’s corroded or not? You still don’t play with explosives! Never, ever! A fucking five year old as more sense than you. Even Kenny has more sense than you do, and he still shits his pants!”
“Hector, knock that off,” Ballantine shouted, and he was rewarded by seeing Guerra look away. “Stilley: you know what the stakes are here. You don’t stop fucking off, you’re going to seriously injure someone. Or outright kill them. Like I said, we get where you’re coming from. But if something like that happens, I will kill you myself. It’s important you understand that I’m not saying this for shits and giggles. I will fucking shoot you in the face. Count on it. I can’t have the court jester in the backfield hosing everyone from behind.”
“Sergeant B, I don’t mean to be a fuckoff,” Stilley said, his voice tight. “I just ... I just can’t control it, sometimes. I want to be a good lightfighter, a good soldier. Do my duty, for my family if nothing else. But sometimes, I just can’t...” Stilley struggled for the words, then shrugged and gave up. “I don’t know, man. Maybe I just shoulda stayed in the neighborhood.”
“The fuck you say,” Guerra said. “I’ve seen you, man. You do shit like a fucking boss.”
Stilley looked at him with wide, wet eyes. “Really?”
Guerra groaned. “Yes, Stilley. When the shit’s stacking up, you do it right.”
“Gosh, thanks Sergeant G!”
Guerra shook his head. “Don’t think I’m not going to continue to dog your black ass, Stilley! Here’s some wisdom from a wise man: shut the fuck up!”
Stilley nodded like a confused bobble-head toy. “Okay! Okay!”
Ballantine sighed loudly and glanced through the window to the coach’s passenger compartment. If anyone heard the soldiers sniping at each other, they were either ignoring it or just didn’t care. Either was fine with him.
“Here’s the deal, brothers. When we get to Carson, we’re probably going to be reassigned to a local infantry unit. I’ll try and see if we can’t get cut back to Hastings somehow, but he’ll be on the other side of the country with Victor. If they can lock down Bragg and get it stabilized, then we might be able to get to him. Or maybe, him to us. Thing is, we’re not going to get a lot of rest once we get to Colorado. So what I want you guys to do is get as much of it now while you can. As long as the train is moving, we’re probably good. Get all your shit squared away. There aren’t any seat
s left, but my fam is saving one for me. We’ll rotate in and out of that. Guerra, you go first and catch some rack time. I’ll give you two hours before I send in Hartman.”
“You can send him now,” Guerra said.
“No. You first. I need you bright and sunny—no telling what’s gonna happen next.” When he saw Guerra gearing up to decline, Ballantine shook his head. “Not a suggestion and never a request. Do that shit, Staff Sergeant.”
“I can’t sleep with your kids looking at me,” Guerra offered.
“You shit in a bag in Afghanistan while snipers were trying to blow your balls off and you returned fire,” Ballantine said. “I kind of think my boys are going to leave you alone, so don’t sweat it.”
Guerra grunted. “Yeah, okay.”
Ballantine looked at the rest of the troops. “Rotation is this: Guerra, Hartman, Reader, Tharinger, Stilley, then me ... presuming we’re not in Colorado by then. Power nap your asses off. Get enough food and water while we have time, and attend to personal hygiene wherever possible. Is everyone all right? Any issues I need to know about? Any busted toes, teeth, kneecaps?”
“I got a headache from being bitch-slapped by some big bastard named Ballantine,” Guerra offered.
“I’m good,” Reader said, holding up his hand. “Takes more than a gorilla named Guerra to hurt me.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, you stupid hump,” Guerra snapped. “I was just saving you from yourself.”
“Is that what that was,” Reader said.
“Guys, stay with me here,” Ballantine said. “Hector, I’m sorry for going belt-fed on you, but you weren’t listening. Time’s short, you guys don’t fall into line, my size fourteens are gonna be all over you. Like I said before, we’re the last of Tenth Mountain. We’ve got to stay together here and be as icy as we can.”
These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation Page 13