Chain Breakers (Nuclear Winter Book 3)

by Nathan Jones

  “All right, men!” Rawlins shouted as he stomped back into the barn, wiping snow off his coat. “As you can guess, this white stuff all over me isn't dandruff. We're looking at a major storm that's going to get worse fast, so we'll be hunkering down in this barn until things clear up.”

  “The roads will only get worse the longer we wait, Sarge,” Jack argued.

  The sergeant glared at him. “We'll be driving in the middle of a nuclear winter blizzard if we leave now.” He waved expansively. “Relax, boys, get some sleep. Play some cards. We're not going anywhere.”

  The soldiers all looked at each other. Pete cleared his throat. “By that do you mean “anytime soon” or “this winter?”

  The grizzled noncom's scowl deepened, although not at Pete specifically. “I mean we'll leave when we can. But let me tell you honest, Childress: have you seen the winters up here?”

  Great. Pete had been resigned to wintering in Saskatoon, but he hadn't pictured it as being snowed in on some random farm they'd driven by and helped out. He supposed it was better than being caught by this storm out in the middle of nowhere and freezing to death before they had time to starve, but it still wasn't great.

  “And what exactly do we do if we are trapped here until spring?” another soldier asked. “We're not equipped for this.”

  For the first time since Pete had met Rawlins the man showed a bit of humanity, but only in the slightly deflated sag of his shoulders as he did his best to bark out an answer. “I've talked to Mr. Roy. We've got the barn if it comes to it, and we have that truck of supplies we captured from the slavers. We have the gear and supplies we brought with us. And we've got our rifles and even one or two higher caliber weapons; if possible we can hunt any game to be found around here in the winter. Even rats if we have to.”

  Randall spoke up mildly. “I've heard with the extreme cold a lot of the big game that normally roams even farther north has been making its way south. Caribou and elk, bears, moose, goats, even polar bears have been spotted around here.”

  The sergeant clapped his hands. “Well there you have it. And if worse comes to worst this is a farm, after all, and they seem pretty well set up to survive the winter and then some. We can throw ourselves at the charity of the Roys and their friends and family, accept whatever food and other aid they're willing to offer.” He straightened in determination. “But whatever happens, for the near future we're stationed here at this farm and our mission is to protect it and survive. I'll do my best to contact our unit to let them know what happened to us and confirm our mandate.”

  Pete somehow had a feeling that survival was going to be more of an issue than protecting the farm, since only madmen would try raiding across the border in this weather. But he joined the squad in preparing their accommodations for long term living.

  Meanwhile Rawlins spoke to Mr. Roy and the other farmers about putting the soldiers to work helping out however they could. There was plenty to do on a farm, and while Mr. Roy didn't seem overjoyed at the thought of having eleven new mouths to feed he reluctantly accepted the idea of taking on new farmhands. At least until the snows cleared enough for the squad to roll out and head back to Saskatoon.

  Which didn't seem like it was going to happen any time soon, since it snowed for four days straight.

  By the third day most of them realized they'd be wintering here. If they'd driven here in a snowplow then maybe, just maybe, they'd have some hope of traveling around this winter. By they hadn't, and Mr. Roy had apologetically admitted that neither him nor any of the nearby neighbors had a plow either. Likely his regret was less about being unable to help them and more about being unable to send them on their way.

  Pete was one of the first to read the writing on the wall. The first nuclear winter had come with a fury few had expected, even though most had known it was coming. And up here in Canada he was several hundred miles farther north than he'd been last winter. It was only going to be worse.

  No, it wasn't just a matter of being stuck here for a while. Pete was pretty sure they'd be here until spring. Or more accurately until the first thaw, which could actually be closer to summer. Nuclear winter was quick to arrive and slow to leave, and it had even less mercy than slavers.

  Over the first few days Pete noticed that Abella kept finding excuses to hang around him while he worked, or get him off by himself during breaks or when the work was finished. He was a lot more ambivalent about her attention now that he knew he was stuck here for the winter; it was no longer harmless flirting before he continued on his patrol, and with the prospect of anything more serious the specter of his breakup with Kathleen loomed much heavier.

  Not to mention the girl's dad hated his guts, and he knew firsthand that the old man owned a shotgun.

  At the same time he enjoyed spending time with her. Even girls raised on farms out in the middle of nowhere had internet, it turned out, or at least had before the Gulf burned. Thanks to that she shared a lot of the same interests he did, and was easy to talk to for hours.

  There were definitely complications there, things that made it messy to slip into another relationship. But at the same time Pete found himself not minding so bad that he was trapped here for the winter.

  PART TWO

  HOMECOMING

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  Chapter Eleven

  Lafayette, Again

  “Meanwhile, a tidbit from across the continent in the US. H&S Reloading has accepted a bid on the construction of their planned munitions factory. Work is expected to begin within the next few weeks.

  A spokesman for the company has revealed that the factory aims to produce ammunition in the calibers more commonly used by civilians. Such ammunition is often hard to find or needlessly expensive these days since other munitions factories have exclusive contracts with the military, in spite of the fact that privately owned weapons of those calibers remain numerous.

  If successful the venture should be profitable enough on that merit alone, although there is also talk of negotiations with the Lassiter administration to produce ammunition for the military. If such a deal is reached it could significantly boost the value of-”

  Pete sighed and flipped off the radio, then reached over for the CB's mic. “Childress here.”

  After a short pause the radio crackled. “Go ahead, Corporal,” Sergeant Morris replied. From the bored tone of his voice he likely already guessed what he was going to hear.

  “Slaver sighting was a false alarm. Some farmer in a truck driving by a neighbor who got spooked.”

  “Copy that.” It was his squad leader's turn to sigh. “Better a false alarm than an ignored raid, I guess. Bring your team on back.”

  “Right. Childress out.” Pete slammed the SUV's driver's side door and reached out the window to sharply slap the side. Moments later Jack slid into the front passenger's seat, while Harding and Frank piled into the back.

  “We are soldiers, right?” Jack muttered, stuffing his weapon into the foot space. “We do fight bad guys sometimes?”

  Pete ignored him, gunning the engine to life and pulling a sharp turn to head back to their base. Or border outpost, or whatever.

  Harding wasn't about to let that go, though. “You're seriously complaining, Porter? Any day where an enemy's not shooting at me is a good day. I'm happy to be on border patrol in an area slavers don't care about.”

  Jack scowled. “If they're not raiding us we should be taking advantage of that to raid them. We haven't even been across the border into CCZ territory in over a month, and that was to intercept a slaver party.”

  Frank snorted. “Raid what, Jack? The targets on their side are as bad as the ones over here. All the action has headed south.”

  Pete nodded sourly. The slavers tended to operate heavily in an area, stripping it of resources before moving on. Because of that the Canadian military had dubbed the moving hotbed of activity the “Locust Swarm”. Over the last five years the swarm had gradually shifted from operating within Canada's old
borders down to the northeastern States, then to the eastern States.

  Ironically the Locust Swarm was now active in Missouri and Illinois, the same spot where the fighting had been thickest when Pete was there with the Chainbreakers five years ago. And since not far south of that point was the South, controlled by Mexico, it looked as if the swarm was going to stick around in that area for a while.

  Or maybe not: Mexico didn't have quite as much influence as it had, with nuclear winters becoming milder and the US, Canada, and the CCZ more stable and able to grow more food to feed themselves. For all Pete knew the slavers might decide Mexico had gone undisturbed long enough and it was time to start bleeding their fat, prosperous lands.

  Which meant the CCZ would be surrounded by enemies on all sides, but that had never seemed to stop the insane SOBs before.

  “Well again, that's a good thing as far as I'm concerned,” Harding persisted. “Keeping this border secure is still an important job, one we can be proud of. If we weren't here the CCZ might flood through this area anyway just to raid stuff farther east and south.”

  “I'm so glad you're here to explain basic tactics to us, Captain Obvious,” Jack snapped. “A dozen yokels with a radio could be doing our job here. We should be somewhere we can be useful.”

  Harding snorted. “They could be doing our job, up until slavers threw something at them they couldn't handle. Then us being somewhere else wouldn't be so useful, would it?”

  “If slavers threw something at them they couldn't handle we probably wouldn't be able to handle it either.”

  Pete felt like he should probably be stepping into this, given his position as team leader and second in command of the squad. But it was the same argument he'd heard a dozen times before between Jack and the rest of the squad, and he knew it usually petered out before long.

  “So what exactly is your point?” Harding demanded, scratching his head. “Are you just arguing for the sake of arguing?”

  Jack opened his mouth, then shut it. “I just want to be fighting slavers,” he muttered.

  A brief, uncomfortable silence settled, heralding the argument fizzling like Pete had predicted. He turned the radio back on, flipping through the few channels they got up here for anything that wasn't boring news about businesses in the US.

  He got his wish, kind of. Instead it was news about some massive raid gone wrong down in the eastern States. Apparently the body count was high, and not on the enemy side. Pete felt bad for his fellow soldiers down there but it was hard to stir up any real interest, same as with his squad mates squabbling.

  The last five years had seen to that.

  Jack wasn't so calm about the news. “Will the CCZ ever run out of steam?” he muttered. “I don't get it. We've been fighting them for over half a decade now. They've had vehicles all that time, using them at least as much as we are, but they don't have Canada's fuel production or refining capabilities. How are they still going?”

  Pete shrugged disinterestedly. “Dunno. Maybe Mexico broke their word and are secretly selling the CCZ fuel under the table. Wouldn't put it past them if the price is right.”

  Jack seemed to think that through, then shook his head. “How does that work? We give Mexico enough for their own needs, and we'd notice if they were going short to provide fuel to the slavers. Is it possible they got their hands on fuel reserves we don't know about?”

  Harding scoffed. “What reserves? The US ran completely dry not long after the Gulf burned, and Canada needed help from the Gold Bloc ourselves before we got our refineries up and running.”

  “You mean our refineries,” Jack muttered.

  “Yeah whatever, man. Anyway unless they had a huge stockpile for the war, enough to last them years, I don't see what reserves they're pulling from.”

  “Maybe an expedition to Russia or China braving the radiation to get what they need?” Frank suggested.

  Pete shrugged. He didn't really care, but it was something to talk about. “Or maybe a bit closer to home. They hold Alaska and western Canada, and they've got all that slave labor. They might've been able to drill for their own oil and build their own refineries.” He shook his head. “They might even be outproducing Canada for all we know, and they can use it all for themselves instead of sharing it around with the US and Mexico like we're doing.”

  Jack obviously didn't like that thought. “Wouldn't we know if they'd managed something like that?”

  Harding snorted again, more bitterly this time. “Maybe we do. You think the higher-ups are going to tell a bunch of rifle toters out in the boonies like us anything?”

  Frank spoke up again. “Well if the blockheads were kind enough to develop our country's natural resources for us, it seems only fair we go and take them for ourselves.”

  Jack finally laughed, with real humor this time. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

  About a half hour later Pete rolled the SUV into the tiny settlement that served as the patrol outpost for his and another of 3rd Company's squads. A few heads turned to watch their arrival, but nobody seemed particularly impressed; months of patrols returning empty-handed tended to blunt even the sharpest curiosity.

  He parked outside the small but snugly built barrack, and his team piled out to head inside. But as Pete moved to follow his squad mates Sergeant Morris emerged from the entrance pulled him aside, looking grave. Pete recognized that expression and it sent an icicle of dread stabbing down his spine. That was the “someone you care about just bit it” look. He'd seen it far more often than he'd like in the six years he'd been a soldier.

  “I understand you were a Chainbreaker before being assigned up here,” his squad leader said.

  Ah, crap. “I was. Did something happen?”

  Morris nodded grimly. “We just got word they attempted a major raid deep into CCZ territory. It went FUBAR in all the worst possible ways and the 103rd lost dozens of men.” The sergeant hesitated, then continued reluctantly. “Including someone I'm told was a friend of yours. Sergeant Saunders?”

  Pete swore softly. So that was what he'd been listening to on the radio on the way here. They hadn't named the company that suffered losses, but he should've realized which company down along the Mississippi would be in the thick of the fighting to suffer those losses.

  And Saunders. On the one hand he supposed it was a miracle the poor guy had been in the grinder with the Chainbreakers all this time and his number had only come up now. It still cut deep, though.

  Saunders had been a good friend, one of the best he'd had during his time with the 103rd. The sort of friendship you didn't forget in just five years. Pete would have to raise a drink or two for his buddy and the rest of the 103rd casualties once he got off duty. “Thanks for letting me know, Sarge.”

  His squad leader nodded and rested a hand on his shoulder. “That's not all. I know now's a terrible time to bring this up, but the option won't be there for long and I know you've wanted to rejoin your old unit.”

  Pete perked up at that. “What?”

  “When it comes to fighting the 103rd sees more action than just about any other company. At the moment they're right in the heart of the Locust Swarm, and when they're not repelling attacks they're driving deep beyond the border with the CCZ to give as good as they get.”

  Morris stepped away, looking slightly irked. “Captain Renault doesn't want to have to reform the company, practically from scratch, by replacing all his lost soldiers with fresh recruits who'd be more of a liability than an asset on the types of missions the Chainbreakers perform. Especially not when slaver activity in the area is at its peak. So he's pushing to get veterans to transfer into the 103rd, anyone who knows how to tie his boots and can point his rifle in the right direction. Then he'll fill up any remaining empty slots with recruits if he has to, since a good squad can usually carry one or two scrubs.”

  “That's on his end,” Pete said slowly. “Could I actually get permission from 3rd Company to transfer to the Chainbreakers?”

  His serg
eant sighed. “So you do want to leave us, huh?” He shook his head. “Yeah, in case you haven't noticed we're not exactly at the center of the action up here. You're a good soldier, Corporal, and you've done a good job managing the squad as my second. I hate to say it but you're wasted here. So if you want to go I won't blame you.”

  He felt bad about it, but he had to ask. “And Jack?”

  Morris snorted. “Him I won't miss. Yeah, he's a good soldier too, but for anyone who's not a madman his constant complaining about not being able to find a fight is getting annoying. He'll be overjoyed to hear he's going to a place with nonstop fighting.”

  Yeah, he probably would be, at that. For his part Pete was mostly just interested in getting back into the Chainbreakers: it would be like returning home after exile.

  He sorted out the details with the sergeant, who agreed to make the arrangements, then headed into the barrack and pulled Jack aside. “Want to hear the good news or the bad news?”

  His friend gave him a lopsided grin. “Surprise me.”

  “You have a chance to transfer down to Missouri and join the 103rd.”

  Jack perked up. “Your old unit?” His grin widened. “Okay, what's the bad news?”

  Pete fought the urge to shake his head. “You'd be joining the Chainbreakers and throwing yourself into fighting every day.”

  “Okay, so what's the bad news?”

  He finally did shake his head. “Well for one thing, the reason the Chainbreakers have openings for us is because they were just decimated in a failed raid. My friend was one of those lost.”

  His friend's smile faded, and he swore in sympathy. “I'm sorry, man. Was that what we were just listening to on the drive?” Pete nodded. Jack sighed and squared his shoulders. “Well I'm still in. Will the 3rd actually let us go?”

  “I've already talked it through with Morris.”

  “Okay.” Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “When do we leave?”