by James Cook
The CLOSED sign hung in the window when he reached the general store. Undeterred, he went around back and knocked three times, paused, knocked twice more, paused again, and knocked three more times. There was a shuffling sound, the clicks of locks disengaging, and the door opened.
And there she was.
If he could have seen through Miranda’s eyes, he would have beheld a subtle shift in his features. A brightening of the eyes, a slight curving of his lips, a gentle gaze that held Miranda’s and said much without saying anything at all. Caleb was not a terribly expressive young man, but Miranda had learned to read him. She stood in the doorway for a moment, hand on outthrust hip, head slightly tilted, smiling sweetly, and let him take her in. She had lived in her own skin long enough to know what men saw when they looked at her, and in most cases, she hated being stared at. But with Caleb, it was different. She liked it when he looked at her. And touched her.
Among other things.
“Mind if I come in, pretty lady?” Hicks asked.
She reached up, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and pulled him down for a kiss. It was only when she stood close to him that she realized how tall and broad he was. He had a slouching, lazy, head-lowered manner that made him look slender, narrow, and a little awkward. It was deceptive until you looked at the thickness of his forearms, the breadth of his shoulders, or the understated springiness in the way he moved. He looked thin and light, but in truth, he was six-foot-two, two-hundred-ten pounds, and very good at concealing his physical prowess. And she loved every inch of him. Scars and all.
“How was work?” she asked.
Hicks shrugged. “Dug a latrine. Cleaned my gun. Shot some infected. Captured a few insurgents. Same old, same old.”
Miranda shook her head. “You’re crazy.”
“It’s part of my mystique.”
The heel of her palm rebounded gently against his forehead. “Get in here, soldier boy.”
Hicks stepped into the back room of the store and looked around. Several rows of metal shelves dominated the space, bearing inventory stacked to the roof. Sunlight filtered in through a window near the ceiling, highlighting dust motes floating in the air. Hicks reached up and passed his hand through a golden ray, sending the little white flecks swirling. He watched them turn and shift while Miranda shut the door and locked it.
“I just have a few things to finish up. Why don’t you have a seat?” she said.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He took a seat on a stool under the window and watched her work. She had tied her light blonde hair back in a loose ponytail, a few errant strands framing her pale, oval face. She wore no makeup. Her clothes were loose, designed for comfort, and durable. Her boots had steel toes.
Hicks couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He remembered the first time, at her invitation, he had gone to visit her at her trailer. She had answered the door with her hair styled in loose curls, slender body clad in a skimpy little red thing, scarlet high heels on her feet, flowery perfume making his head swim. He stopped breathing. His hands shook when Miranda laughed at him and led him inside. He smiled at the memory. No one had made him feel that way since-
No. Don’t go there.
He closed his eyes and willed the memory away, took a few deep breaths, and pictured an empty black void in his mind, deep in the shadows where the demons live, where no light ever shines. The emptiness swelled and stretched and cast aside the pain of loss and regret. In a moment, he was warm, and quiet, and in control again.
A hand touched his face and he jumped.
“Are you all right, Caleb?”
“Yeah, sorry. Think I might have dozed off. You startled me.”
Miranda cupped his chin in her hand and ran a thumb over the mess of scars on his left cheek. “At least you didn’t come up swinging. I heard Thompson does that sometimes.”
Hicks nodded. “That he does. Caught me on the temple one time. Damn near knocked me out.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“You weren’t mad at him?”
He shrugged. “Five second rule. He’s a big guy, strong as hell, seen a lot of combat. I shouldn’t have been standing so close.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It’s the world we live in.”
The hand fell away. “Come on. Enough sad talk. How about you buy a girl a drink?”
Hicks stood up and kissed her on the cheek. “Sounds good to me.”
`
*****
The good thing about the enlisted club at Fort McCray was they accepted federal credits, the currency by which soldiers were paid.
The bad thing about the enlisted club was it was full of grunts.
They had taken a booth in the back, out of sight of the bar. Nevertheless, people still kept finding excuses to wander close to their table and stare. Hicks was not quick to anger, but the attention was beginning to wear on his nerves. When soldiers wandered too close, he shot them a look that informed them in no uncertain terms they were not welcome. A few weeks ago, it would not have done any good. But now, in the wake of what Miranda had termed The Wilson Incident, Hicks had a reputation among the men of Echo Company.
“We are not going to have another Wilson Incident, Caleb,” Miranda said, as if reading his mind.
He looked down and spun his glass, remembering.
*****
Private Randall Wilson was a giant, standing six-foot-ten and just shy of three hundred solid pounds. Hicks knew his story the same as everyone in Echo Company. He had played inside linebacker for Alabama, and after a stellar, record-setting junior year, was expected to go early in the draft.
Then the Outbreak happened.
He fled the University of Alabama when the National Guard showed up to evacuate the campus. The convoy he traveled with made it all the way to Colorado, only losing a few dozen people along the way. Not long after arriving, with his only job prospects being to hunt salvage or join a federally run farming or construction corps, he opted to join the Army.
By then, Fort Bragg had been secured, and after basic training in Colorado, he and many other newly minted soldiers were flown to Bragg for advanced infantry training. Shortly thereafter, he had been assigned to Second Platoon of Echo Company.
While Hicks’ platoon wintered in Hollow Rock, the rest of Echo Company had traveled to Kansas to assist with revenant extermination efforts. Due to Kansas’ proximity to Colorado, its wealth of good farmland, and the overcrowding in Colorado Springs, the President had proposed a bill to help settlers relocate to the mostly abandoned state and begin growing crops to support the burgeoning population. The idea was met with great support and enthusiasm, but faced a serious problem.
The infected. Over two million of them.
So the President, facing the end of his term in office and concerned with his legacy, did the only thing he could. He called his generals and staff into a meeting, explained what he wanted, and told them to find a way to make it happen. A month later, they had a plan drawn up and were mobilizing troops and assets to carry it out.
At the beginning of the offensive—dubbed Operation Relentless Force—General Phillip Jacobs, head of Army Special Operations Command, wrote a brief, now-famous speech that he sent to all commanding officers at the company level. From there, every platoon CO in the Army read it to their soldiers in an effort to motivate them and mitigate their fears.
“I won’t mince words,” General Jacobs wrote. “You all have a tough job ahead of you. There are roughly 2.8 million infected in the state of Kansas, and only 100,000 brave men and women being sent to kill them. Which, when expressed in those terms, may seem like an insurmountable task. But I assure you, it is not. To prove this assertion, let us do the math. As I pointed out earlier, there are 100,000 troops being deployed. Therefore, in order to exterminate every infected in Kansas, each of you needs to rack up a body count of no more than 28. Put that way, it doesn’t seem quite so difficult, now doe
s it? So before you head out, I want you to check the magazine in your rifle and make sure you have at least 28 rounds in it. You should have several more magazines also loaded with at least 28 rounds on your person. If you don’t, talk to your supply sergeant. Then grab your gear, lace up your boots, and go kick some ass. Your country is counting on you.”
Despite the general’s encouragement, it was a long, brutal winter marked by hardship, hunger, constant danger, and the loss of many comrades. The battles of Wichita and Topeka were especially bloody. But the Army and their accompanying volunteer militias got the job done, and thousands of settlers had applied for land grants.
After leaving the front and arriving at their new forward operating base (FOB) at Fort McCray, Second and Third Platoon had initially treated First Platoon with disdain. Their impression was that while the rest of the company had spent the winter half-frozen, half-starved, and up to their eyeballs in walkers, First Platoon had been fat and happy and snuggled next to a warm fire banging hot civilian chicks. First Platoon was quick to inform them that while they had not fought as many walkers, they had faced more than their share of trouble from insurgents and marauders, and had taken casualties.
Upon hearing the stories, most of the soldiers of Second and Third Platoon eventually accepted that First Platoon had not spent the winter in quite as much luxury as originally thought. And while Second and Third Platoon had killed thousands of walkers, they had run into very little trouble from the living. It only took a few encounters with marauders after the spring thaw for them to realize just how tough life had been for First Platoon. Consequently, for most of Echo Company, the subject had ceased to be grounds for argument.
Except for Private Randall Wilson.
For whatever reason, he never got over his animosity and tried to start trouble with First Platoon at every given opportunity. Eventually, Sergeant Isaac Cole finally grew tired of his mouth and invited him to disregard rank and settle the matter behind the mess hall. Wilson agreed, and promptly found himself on the wrong end of a very thorough, very one-sided beating. After the fight, under scrutiny from his squad mates over his fighting ability, Cole reluctantly admitted he had been a heavyweight Golden Gloves champion back in his teenage years. Hicks had the feeling it was a sore subject, and while curious as to why, he respected his friend enough not to ask.
Most people who witnessed the fight agreed it would be enough to shut Wilson’s mouth.
They were wrong.
Wilson steered clear of Cole, but anyone else was fair game.
Including Hicks.
Hicks avoided trouble by simply staying out of Wilson’s way when he could, and ignoring him when he couldn’t. In most cases, all it took was a few stern words from Cole and Wilson backed off. There was one night, however, when Cole wasn’t around and Hicks had brought Miranda to the enlisted club to hang out with some of the guys from Delta Squad.
It was supposed to be a quiet, fun evening of knocking back drinks, sharing old stories, and relaxing after a long, strenuous day. When it was Miranda’s turn to buy a round, she kissed Hicks on the cheek and walked around the corner to the bar. Hicks didn’t like the idea of her doing this by herself, but knew Miranda valued her independence and remained in his seat. A minute went by. Then two. Three.
Hicks knew she should have been back by then. So he stood up and walked over to the bar and saw Wilson standing with his back to him. Miranda’s blonde head poked around his side as she tried to step around him, but Wilson cut her off. Hicks tapped the much bigger man on his shoulder.
“Fuck off, dipshit,” Wilson said over his shoulder, barely sparing Hicks a glance.
“That’s my girlfriend you’re talking to. Step away. Now.”
The former college football player turned, a joyfully vicious grin on his face. “Your girlfriend? No way. First Platoon is all fags. Go jerk off with your boyfriends over there.”
Hicks set his feet. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
Wilson reached out and seized Hicks by the front of his shirt, obviously not expecting trouble from the smaller man. But half a second later, Hicks was behind him, one hand on his wrist and the other on his shoulder, twisting Wilson’s arm until it was barely an inch from ripping out of socket. He buckled the bigger man’s knees and dropped him to the ground.
“You motherfucker-”
Wilson’s voice cut off with a squeak as Hicks cranked up the pressure on his arm. “I’m done messing around with you. I’ve been putting up with your bullshit for weeks, and I’m sick of it. Now here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to let you up, and you are going to do the smart thing and walk away. If you choose not to, I’m going to beat you within an inch of your life. Do I make myself clear?”
“Okay, okay. Jesus, man, I was just messing with you.”
Hicks knew what was coming before he let go. He could feel the tension building in Wilson, waiting to be unleashed. The big man sprang up amazingly fast for someone his size and swung a backward elbow at Hicks’ head. The young soldier ducked it easily, hooked a foot behind Wilson’s ankles, and shoulder-checked him in the chest.
It would have been just as easy to rupture Wilson’s testicles, stomp his knee in the wrong direction, or break his teeth with an upward elbow strike, but Hicks only wanted to teach him a lesson, not maim him for life. So when Wilson crashed to the ground, instead of stomping on his neck, he delivered a sharp kick to the big soldier’s kidney. Wilson writhed in agony, a hissing cry erupting from his throat. While he was stunned, Hicks grabbed him by the front of his shirt and started hitting him.
He knew punching someone in the face full-force was a good way to end up with a broken hand. But long training had toughened his knuckles, and he knew exactly how hard he could hit someone without risking more than a few bruises to himself. He let Wilson have six of them, then bashed the back of his head on the concrete floor hard enough to make his eyes roll up.
The room went silent.
Hicks let him lie groaning on the floor a few seconds, then grabbed the nearest drink and dumped it on his face. Wilson came back to himself, sputtering and coughing.
“Had enough, or do I need to bust you up some more?” Hicks asked.
Wilson said nothing. He simply struggled to his feet and began stumbling and weaving his way to the door.
“Hey,” Hicks called.
Wilson stopped, blood dripping from his face.
“You’re done talking shit to my platoon. I took it easy on you tonight. Next time, I won’t be so nice.”
After that night, First Platoon had no further trouble from Private Randall Wilson. Or anyone else, for that matter.
In the wake of the incident, Hicks fully expected to find himself standing at attention in front of his company commander, Captain Harlow. Fighting was grounds for an Article 15, which could result in reduction of rank, forfeiture of half a month’s pay for up to two months, and 45 days restriction and extra duty. But days went by and nothing happened. Finally, a week after the incident, Lieutenant Jonas approached him just after dismissing the platoon for the evening.
“Specialist Hicks, a word with you,” he said quietly. Staff Sergeant Thompson looked on but said nothing.
“Yes sir.” Hicks dropped his equipment and followed his lieutenant.
“I heard about what happened,” Jonas said when they were out of earshot of the rest of the platoon.
Hicks nodded. “Yes sir.”
“I’ll tell you I’m not happy about it. I know Wilson is a royal pain in the ass, but you are well aware the rules, Specialist.”
“Yes sir.”
“I talked to Lieutenant Chapman. He’s willing to let the matter slide, but there are to be no more altercations between the two of you. Any further incidents will be punished harshly. And just so you know, Wilson is getting the same speech from his CO you’re getting right now. The message to both of you is that these hostilities are to cease and fucking desist. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
Lieutenant Jonas straightened. “You’re a good soldier, Hicks, and that’s why I’m cutting you some slack this time. But in the future, I expect better from you. Disappoint me at your very great peril. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Now I need you to answer me a question.”
“Sir?”
“How in the hell did you beat that big son of a bitch? I mean, the thing with Cole doesn’t surprise me. He’s huge. But Wilson must outweigh you by at least eighty pounds and none of it fat.”
Hicks shrugged. “If you want, I can show you sometime. The techniques are simple. Wilson’s problem is he relies too much on strength. All things being equal, in most cases, the bigger guy is gonna win. But if one fighter has better technique, and he’s big and strong enough not to be overwhelmed, it’s possible to beat the bigger guy. Wilson’s big, but I’m not so small myself, and I know how to fight. He doesn’t.”
Jonas gave him a long, measuring look. “You know, Specialist, I get the feeling there’s a hell of a lot more to you than meets the eye.”
Hicks looked away and said nothing.
*****
“Earth to Caleb,” Miranda said, tapping a finger against the back of his hand.
He looked up. “Sorry.”
“You went away for a minute there.”
“Yeah. I do that sometimes.”
“I noticed. Where did you go?”
He shook his head. “Nowhere good.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You were thinking about the fight with Wilson.”
Hicks said nothing.
“I was afraid for you. He was enormous. I thought he would snap you like a twig.”
“He’s an idiot. All brute strength. Doesn’t know the first thing about fighting. If he had, I might have been in trouble.”
“When I saw what you did to him I was surprised, and kind of turned on.”
Hicks raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
Miranda smiled. “Then I got to thinking, where did he learn how to do that?”