by Nathan Jones
It had been his job to sweep the house. Sure, this was the section Rawlins had covered, but Pete could've gone a few extra feet and checked it too.
He slumped down to sit on the top step leading down into the garage from outside. “And you would've,” he replied tiredly, “along with us. As it is she's alive and the threat's gone.”
He knew that after this encounter he should do another sweep of the house, just to be sure no other slavers had survived and were lurking out there. Or at the very least he shouldn't just sit there with his back to the world. But to be honest he wasn't sure his legs could hold his weight, yet. It was taking most of his self control to keep them from shaking.
After a few seconds he toggled his radio. “Westman is down. He went to investigate a noise in the farmhouse's garage and a slaver cut his throat. The slaver's down as well.”
There were curses over the radio. “On my way back,” Rawlins said grimly. “Take over guarding the civilians, Childress.”
Pete was too numb to reply, and Jaques was still glaring at him. He kept going trying to explain himself to the farmer. “You can't rely on the mercy of someone desperate enough to take a hostage. Especially not a slaver. If we'd done as he demanded and given him our weapons, you know we'd be giving him not just us but everyone in the cellar. We'd all be dead right now, or trussed up like Christmas turkeys ready to be shipped off to the nearest slave camp. And I don't have to tell you what life would be like there.”
The older man hesitated. “What was all that talk about letting him go if you were just going to shoot him?”
“It doesn't take much to inflict a lethal throat injury,” Pete replied woodenly. Mrs. Roy squeaked again. “Even with a headshot, the target can still do one last reflexive action. With him tense and the knife tight to her throat, that reflexive action might've ended up opening her jugular. I had to wait until he relaxed and moved the knife away, so he'd be more likely to drop it or jerk it in a safe direction.”
“You didn't know that!” Jaques snapped. “What if you'd missed, or that “reflexive action” of his ended up killing her anyway?”
“What if he had a hidden gun, and got the upper hand while we were trying to figure out a hostage exchange?” Pete's voice was still wooden. He couldn't seem to inject any feeling into it. “What if his friends who escaped in the truck came back while we were distracted, bringing with them even more slavers, and suddenly we were the ones outgunned and he had a hostage? What if everything went smoothly, but after we let him go he came back tomorrow with a few squads of slavers and some dogs, so even if your people started running right now they'd still hunt you down?”
Pete stood, swaying slightly, and started for the cellar to guard the civilians. “The one thing I do know is at that range I don't miss.” He left the garage door open behind him, calling over his shoulder. “There might be more enemies lurking out there. I'd recommend you rejoin the rest of the civilians.”
Chapter Ten
Staying Over
All the other slavers were dead.
Seventeen enemies for one of them was a phenomenal win for Pete's squad, especially since no one else was even wounded. But none of them thought of it like that: Westman hadn't needed to die, and if Pete's squad mates were anything like him he knew they had to be wondering if the blockhead who'd made it through was one of the ones they'd shot that they'd failed to finish off, or if they'd dropped the ball in some other way.
The civilians were all unharmed, at least, aside from a shaken Mrs. Roy who'd allowed Rawlins to tend to the cut on her neck. And the captured slaver truck had been full of supplies, no doubt looted from other victims they hadn't bothered to take prisoner. Pete knew he should regret the fact that they hadn't found any prisoners to free, but the cynical side of him still appreciated the food and other necessities.
Rawlins had ordered Randall and the two Privates with him to bring the slaver truck and their own vehicle around to a secure spot near the house. He planned to stay at the farmstead for the night, and maybe tomorrow and the next night too, just in case the slavers decided to return. Then the squad would go back to scouring the area searching for troublemakers and protecting the Canadian citizens here.
Pete had tried to hide how messed up in the head he was about what he'd just been through, but the sergeant had a good eye for that kind of thing. He'd given Pete some time to get his act together, excused from helping the squad secure the farm and set up sentries and patrols. Pete had spent the time trying to doze in the cab of the squad's truck, which hadn't helped much.
Even now, sitting down to a late meal with his squad as guests of the Roy family, he couldn't keep his hands from shaking slightly as he worked his fork. Especially when he looked towards the head of the table where Jaques, his wife, and their daughter sat eating.
The truth was that he wasn't nearly as confident about how he'd handled that hostage situation as he pretended to be. All the things that could've gone wrong kept flashing through his head, his imagination dredging up horrific scenes of Mrs. Roy dead on the ground beside the slaver he'd shot, or the man shifting at the last second and using the missed shot as an opportunity to kill them all.
Almost as if Jaques was reading his mind, the man abruptly spoke up. “Incredible how we don't seem to learn from our mistakes,” he said, taking a heaping mouthful of greens. He didn't look at Pete, but Pete still ducked his head slightly and focused on his food.
“In what way?” Rawlins asked politely around his own mouthful of elk roast.
The farmer pointed at the table in general with his fork. And maybe he really hadn't been thinking about Pete's earlier actions, judging by what he said next.
Although what he talked about instead turned out to not be any better. “The Retaliation, right? Over 2 billion dead according to our best estimates. Entire continents devastated, mass extinction of who knows how many species most likely. You'd think that sort of cataclysmic event would be enough to shock people to their senses. And yet the US and Gold Bloc don't miss a beat from trying to kill each other.”
A somewhat brittle silence fell over the table as Pete and his squad mates exchanged glances, unable to believe what they'd just heard. Sitting to either side of Jaques his wife and daughter were staring uncomfortably at their plates.
Pete cleared his throat. “Last I checked Canada was also part of this fight.”
The farmer snorted contemptuously. “Dragged into it against our will and forced to defend ourselves. You don't see us showing the same sort of greed and bloodlust, raiding innocents and conquering territory like everyone else.”
The temperature around the table dropped another couple degrees, and a few soldiers made angry noises. Like Pete, they all had to be thinking that the US had been dragged into it just as much as Canada, and they were also fighting to defend themselves.
Pete realized Rawlins had introduced them as acting under the authority of the Canadian government, and they were dressed in Canadian Army uniforms. But had Jaques not realized that some of the soldiers he was talking to were Americans? Or did he just not care?
Probably a bit of both considering the way the man had acted so far. Pete was well aware that he should probably keep his mouth shut, but common sense was never his strong suit. “I suppose you've got a point there,” he said, trying to keep sarcasm out of his voice. “Canada has always had a deserved reputation for being peaceful. Especially your historically rich Eastern United States Province, which has been part of your great nation for months now.”
Jaques turned beet red as he realized he'd just had his words about conquering territory thrown back in his face. But instead of trying to argue his position he glared at Rawlins. “Sergeant.”
Rawlins had already transferred that glare to Pete. “We're guests in this home, Private,” the sergeant growled. “Mr. Roy has extended his hospitality to us and is offering us food and a place to stay tonight. Apologize to him and excuse yourself.”
Of course. Pete shouldn't hav
e expected anything more.
He stood stiffly. “My apologies, sir,” he said, directing the words at the farmer's plate. “Thank you for your hospitality and this delicious meal. Please excuse me.” He strode out the door leading to the front porch.
Just before he slammed the door behind him he heard Abella speak up. “Papa, the 3rd Company is a mixed unit. Some of our guests are soldiers of the U.S. Army.”
Pete paused closing the door and glanced back to see how Jaques would respond to this bombshell. As expected the man turned an even deeper shade of red, almost an unhealthy purple. Whether he'd known that or not, the fact that his daughter was pointing it out to him in front of everyone had to be yet another humiliation.
“It looks as if you're done eating, girl,” he said with forced calm. “Go to bed.”
Abella stiffened, and Pete didn't blame her: if she was his age she was legally an adult, and anyway no teenager liked to be talked to like that. But whatever she felt she stood without a word and disappeared up the stairs. After she was gone Jaques turned his glare towards Pete, standing outside the partially open door letting frigid air into the room.
Pete hastily finished closing the door, then made his way over to the swinging porch chair and slumped down onto it. He was barely aware of rocking it absently with his toes as he silently fumed.
He'd just spent the last year risking his life and watching friends die for the benefit of hemorrhoids like that farmer. He and his squad mates had just got done saving the man's life, family, and property. Pete had just personally saved the man's wife! And Jaques had the stones to call them greedy and bloodthirsty?
The wind had picked up, and the clouds that had been looming on the horizon now covered the sky in all directions, blocking out the evening stars that should've been emerging. The air was cold and Pete hadn't bothered to grab his coat, and he was just about to go in search of it when a soft creak sounded behind him.
Still jumpy from the earlier fight he whirled to investigate the noise, then nearly fell off the swinging chair at the sight of someone climbing over the porch railing. Immediately his thoughts turned to the slaver who'd snuck into the garage and killed Westman, and his hand reflexively jumped to his sidearm.
Then the dark silhouette moved into the light streaming through the front windows, and he realized it was Abella. She must've left by another way and circled around the house.
“Sorry, didn't mean to startle you,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”
Pete obligingly scooted over, giving the young woman plenty of space to sit. She settled down and slouched low in the swing, taking over swinging it and pushing them a bit harder than he had.
“Sorry about that in there,” she said, staring straight ahead. “Papa's got his opinions and he's not shy about letting you know them, but that was just rude.”
While Pete certainly agreed with that, he didn't really want to dump on the girl's own dad the first time he ever talked to her. “He's got plenty of reason to be on edge. Especially with me.”
She turned to him, green eyes glinting in the faint light. “Why, because you saved Mama's life?”
He hesitated. “It could've ended badly.”
“But it didn't, and if you hadn't been there it definitely would've.” She solemnly held out her hand. “I'm Abella.”
Pete took it. Her hand was soft and warm, although she had a firm grip and callouses from hard work along her palm and fingers. “PFC Childress, ma'am.”
Abella smirked, holding the handshake as she cocked her head quizzically. “You really want me to call you that, Private Childress?”
He flushed. “Pete.”
She finally took her hand back, although Pete was aware she hadn't been in a hurry about it. “Well, Pete, I wanted to thank your squad for coming when you did to save us.”
As Abella said that she shivered violently, as if imagining her fate if the slavers had succeeded in their attack. Their reputation was well known, and they had to be the worst nightmare of a young woman living on an isolated farm near the border like this.
“I'm just glad we were here to do something,” he said sincerely. He'd seen plenty of ruined settlements in the aftermath of a slaver raid, and the sight fueled his own nightmares.
Her voice lowered with deep feeling. “And I wanted to thank you personally for saving Mama. Even if Papa can't be grateful, you have no idea what it means.”
Pete knew. He'd lost his own mother the winter after the Gulf burned, although to sickness and not to violence. Even so the pain had never left him, and probably never would. “I'm glad she's okay.”
Abella nodded and slouched down again, going back to pushing the swing. “Do you think they'll come back?”
That was a hard question to answer, since the truth probably wasn't reassuring. “Not if this storm hits as bad as everyone's saying. Nobody's going to be out in that.”
“Yeah.” The young woman shivered again, from cold this time, and abruptly stood. “Speaking of which, I'm going to head inside before I catch a chill.” She rested a hand on his knee. “You should, too.”
Pete watched as she hopped back over the railing and disappeared around the house, feeling unaccountably guilty. He could tell she was interested in him, and he had to admit he was just as interested back.
And he was also less than a week out from a serious relationship with Kathleen that would've led to marriage if he hadn't screwed it up. He was still hurting from that, and felt like he should be getting rebound vibes or something. Of course this was just a bit of harmless flirting with a girl he'd never see again once his squad rolled out from here.
But still, what kind of guy hit on another girl barely a week after a breakup?
Although to be fair his foremost memory of Kathleen at the moment was her cold back turned to him as soon as she realized it was over. No hint of pain or regret, just a “it was what it was.” And while that was painful, it was also just about the cleanest break he could expect under the circumstances.
Why feel guilty for moving on when she obviously wasn't losing any sleep over him, aside from maybe a slight pique at not getting her way?
Taking that attitude about it when it was all his fault just made Pete feel worse. He heard some laughter from inside, apparently the Roys and his new squad mates well on their way to becoming best chums, and decided he really could do with an early night. A week of travel and the chaos of getting folded into this squad yesterday hadn't left him many chances for a solid eight hours, and combat and a hostage situation on top of that had just been the icing on the cake of his exhaustion.
To his surprise Jack was already in the barn, which Mr. Roy had generously donated to the squad for as long as they needed it. His new squad mate was bundled up in his sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling in the dim light of one of the camping lanterns the squad had been issued.
“Don't mind me,” Pete said quietly, heading over to his own gear to grab his sleeping pad and bag.
“All good,” Jack replied, eyes still on the ceiling.
Aside from them the barn was also occupied by stalls full of animals, hardy stock that looked as if it could weather the cold better than any of them. The livestock added a unpleasant smell to the air, piss and dung as well as the animal odors themselves. But they also filled the barn with a slightly damp heat that Pete actually found pretty pleasant after the icy, cutting wind he'd just escaped.
Pete unrolled his bag not far from where Jack lay, then kicked off his boots and removed his weapon belt and other gear before climbing inside. The increased warmth was surprisingly calming, and his growling stomach reminded him he'd only managed a few bites of the Roys' generous dinner before being asked to leave.
He dug around for some rations in his bag and grabbed some dried meat. When he offered to share Jack accepted, and they settled into their bags chewing the tough strips.
“So where you from?” Pete asked around a mouthful.
The man grimaced. “Nowhere, really. Grew up in
the system. The state was providing me and a few other boys from the home rooms in an apartment complex in Salt Lake City when the Gulf burned.”
“SLC, huh?” Pete saluted lazily. “Aspen Hill here.” To his annoyance all he got in response was a blank look. “Central Utah, near Price.”
Jack's confusion cleared. “Oh, right. Guess that makes us neighbors, then.”
“Guess so. And now here we are out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Which hasn't seemed to slow you down, judging by what I saw on my way out here a few minutes ago.” His squad mate gave him a half amused, half irritated look. “Seriously, man, what's your secret? We've barely been here for a couple hours and you just got finished pissing off her dad, and the cute French Canadian farmgirl is all over you.”
Pete flushed in embarrassment, with a bit more guilt thrown on top. “Guess it's just my stunning good looks.”
Jack glanced at him, then shrugged. “Probably. We can't all win the genetics lottery.”
He blinked. “Wait, you actually think it is good looks?”
“Well it's not your personality.” Jack tossed him the remaining strip of jerky and rolled over, going still.
Pete ate a bit more, drank some water, then burrowed into his sleeping bag as well. He slept so soundly he barely even heard his squad mates returning from dinner and preparing for bed.
* * * * *
The storm hit during the night, dumping almost eight inches of snow by the time Mr. Roy's kin and farmhands came stomping into the barn to do morning chores, waking up a squad full of soldiers who were used to being early risers.
Just not that early.
Sergeant Rawlins had intended to have them out patrolling bright and early, as well as having a few of the men that slept replace those who'd been on watch last night. But while the squad ate a hasty meal provided to them by Mrs. Roy the sergeant went out to inspect the sky and converse with a few of the farmers about local weather.
As if past trends could help predict nuclear winter reliably. Either way he didn't seem pleased by the conclusion he reached.