“My notes say it was a rescue mission.”
Troy scoffed, “On paper, sure.”
Dr. Jones waited.
“They’re all supposed to be something else. At the start, it’s never about what it actually comes down to. Everyone says hooah and we ride out. For the Republic, to find survivors. To find food, medicine. To explore the world around us. To discover, learn.” Troy looked her pointedly in the eye. “That’s the bullshit we’re fed.”
Dr. Jones made a note. “You think your superiors are sugar-coating, or lying to you, even?”
Troy quickly said, “No. I think they don’t even admit it to themselves. So, as far as they know, they’re telling us the truth. As far as anyone knows.”
“Alright, I see.”
Troy didn’t like where this was going. He felt sure he’d already screwed up in a big way.
“What happened in Bakersfield, Troy?” Dr. Jones smiled at him in a way that was supposed to be calming and reassuring.
It irritated him.
“My unit met a bunch of hoods who thought they were something special. We realized pretty quick that the people we’d been coming to meet in that hospital had lost control of the building and were probably dead.”
“How did you discover that?”
“When Blake and Philip got gunned down in the front parking lot.” Troy clenched his fists. “We busted in, in groups of two. Me and Barker were together. We were partners, unofficial-like, even back before we were Scouts. Clearing the hallways was easy with him having my back.”
“You think highly of your partner.”
Troy allowed himself to smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re the same stock?”
“He’s my brother from another mother.”
“What did he say about when you reached Pediatrics?”
Troy blinked. “What’s that now?”
“In the report — sorry, Troy, I forgot to mention I have your commanding officer’s report in front of me, for referential purposes. In the report it says you and then-Private Barker fought your way into the Pediatrics Unit.”
Troy clutched the water glass in his hand. “The group we contacted, the one we were headed out to retrieve, they were keeping children in there.” He took five or more heavy gulps, draining the glass. “I’m sorry. What was the question?”
“What did Private Barker, and you — what were you thinking, in that moment?” said Dr. Jones, leaning in ever so slightly.
“Can’t speak to what Barker was thinking. What he said was, ‘Take that corner, and don’t stop shooting until we can’t recognize ‘em.’” Troy’s voice softened. “What we saw in those rooms, I hadn’t seen in a couple years. Maybe even a few. I’d hoped to never see it again. I’d hoped that Sac represented some kind of break from the past. A rebirth.”
“They murdered the children, didn’t they?”
He nodded. “And much worse. They used ‘em like no person should be. Especially no fucking child. Pardon the language, ma’am, but you asked what I felt. What I was thinking.”
“Afterward? What did you do?”
“I made it as slow as I could, once the last few dropped their weapons. They were a bunch of posers. Fucking pussies, all of them. When they came up against real soldiers, they couldn’t stop shaking and crying.” He was staring into nothing. “I made it slow as I could, with my knife. Barker helped. Cowards.” He set the clear, empty glass down on the table between him and Dr. Jones. “After that, we strung them up by their guts and hung them out the windows.”
“As a warning.”
“As a reminder.”
“To whom?”
“Ourselves. About who you can trust in this world.”
“And?”
“Almost nobody.” Troy shrugged. “We reported back, and Staff Sergeant Irish wrote the report you’re reading now. But we had to go back not too long after.”
“Why was that?”
“The treaty with Yuma. ‘Mutual non-hostility,’ right? So, someone in Command thought hanging Yuman corpses out of windows would probably be considered hostile. At least we didn’t bury them. Burnt ‘em. Pissed on the ashes. No one was gonna tell me and Barker we couldn’t.”
Dr. Jones smiled. “Would you like me to strike that last part from the record?”
“I honestly don’t give two shits.” He crossed his arms. “I didn’t mean that to sound like it did. Sorry.”
“No offense taken. I know this is tough for you to relive, Troy. You have to understand, though. I’m just trying to do my job, just like you are yours.”
“I get it.”
“Good.” She flipped back to the second page of her notes. “I have just one more question for you, and I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sensing that we haven’t hit the worst part of your Bakersfield mission. You’re leaving something out. What happened directly after you cleared the hospital and the order was given to pack up and return to base?”
Troy didn’t want to answer that. He didn’t want to dredge up all the details. He’d never wanted to think about that day again.
“Troy, let me be blunt for a sec.” Dr. Jones took off her glasss and set them on the table. She rubbed her eyes, put her glasses back on, and said, “Your continued service requires my stamp of approval. You have been a great asset to our fledgling nation, but we know from experience that long years in your position can embed trauma. And we don’t want you getting hurt. We owe it to you to keep you safe.”
Sure, lady, Troy thought.
Dr. Jones continued, “And your case has the added complexity of your half-lifetime of experience outside these walls. I know you’ve seen a lot of bad shit.” Troy focused on her. “Stuff I’m sure I couldn’t really understand. But you have to let it out, or it’ll eat you up.” She smiled again. “Think of me not as someone you’re forced to deal with. Let me try to be a sympathetic ear. I promise, I’m not terrible at it. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years.” She laughed. “How bad could I suck, really?”
Troy grumbled for a second, then stopped. He knew he would have to spill his guts. They wouldn’t let him serve, otherwise. And he didn’t know what he’d do if they retired him.
Might as well pretend to be okay with all of this.
“Alright, Doc.” He forced a smile. “You’ve won me over. I’ll tell you what we found in Bakersfield.” He clamped down on an involuntary shudder at the memory. “Have you ever walked through a graveyard? Imagine there’s no grave diggers, no mourners with flowers. Ain’t even a crow on any of the branches. Imagine that this graveyard is in a labyrinth where the walls are blasted black by napalm and pock-marked with bullet holes. Imagine alleyways where the tracks left by rain wind around dams made of human bone. Dog and cat and chicken, too. Imagine you have to walk in this white nothingness, with all of your best friends, waiting for a sniper to scope you from a rooftop at an angle you can’t see. You don’t know if you’re going to run into bandits, Runners, Hunters, more of those Yuma bastards, or what.” A fit of coughing overtook him. “Imagine you do all that for three fucking hours.” The cough subsided. “That’s Bakersfield.”
Christopher Troy Myers
January 22nd, 2070
Bakersfield
The place was just like Troy remembered: city of the damned dead.
A storm of silence he fought to forget.
Christopher Troy Myers
January 22nd, 2070
Route 223 East
“We’ll huff it up to 223, like it says here,” Troy had pointed at the relevant spot on the map, “then take that east and out.”
“Great,” was all Morris would say.
Dara Meadowlark had observed, “Mid afternoon. We lost a lot of time.”
Morris shot her a sour look. “Thank you for that observation, Corporal.”
150 miles later, the last moments of twilight were fading.
Troy had wanted to stop. Several times he’d trie
d to get Agent Morris to see reason.
“Sir, no disrespect meant, but we’re going at it real slow now, dodging junk cars and other debris. It’ll be dark soon, and, this far east, there’s no telling what we’ll run into. We don’t want to be caught in the open by Wild-Childs, or something worse.”
“Oh, we’ll stop soon, Sergeant.”
Troy tried to restrain his sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir.”
“But not here.”
Troy didn’t respond. Would have been unwise. Any eye-rolling would be caught by Morris, who was now lounging in the back seat. Troy chewed on the bits of cashews that he’d wiggled from between his teeth to pass the time.
After a while, he could hear the Bag Man snoring.
From time to time, Troy cast a glance at Dara, who had what he’d guessed you’d call a “thousand-yard stare.” Either that, or she was spacing out the whole time.
Troy could let it bother him that his superior was literally asleep on the job. He could be worried that his partner was probably a Sleeper, or, at least, on her way to becoming one. Here’s the deal, though: anyone of Troy’s generation was by definition the ultimate survivor badass. He’d waded through forty years of bullshit, the most hellish, mind-snapping horror that you could imagine. Actually, most people alive today couldn’t imagine it.
These fucking kids, safe behind their walls.
So, as he drove into what might be his last sunset, he’d reminded himself that he’d had that same thought nearly every, single, goddamn day for the last forty years.
No, he didn’t feel better afterward, but he did rediscover that his anger was still the strongest part of him.
I’m not scared of nothing. Nothing.
“Do you think we’ll ever make it to Resurrection City?” Meadowlark said, out of the blue.
“At this rate,” Troy trailed off. “Should’a made it to Fortaleza by now. Had hoped to camp there for the night.”
“Fortaleza?”
You’re trying to catch me off guard. Being all nice, all curious. Catch me off guard. Ain’t gonna happen. Troy answered, “In my day, used to be called Barstow, a nice, little town, probably. You can tell by how the buildings were laid out. One road, wide median. Probably had trees and shit. Little shops. Cute.” Troy cleared his throat. “Fortaleza is what happened when people from Old Mexico were running from the armies of El Azteca. You probably heard of him.”
“No,” she admitted, finally looking him in the eye. “Who’s that?”
Troy blew a raspberry. “Ask Maureen.”
“Maureen?”
“Jesus Christ,” he snapped. “She’s a historian, a school teacher, back in Sac.”
Meadowlark stayed quiet.
Aw, hell. Even if he was talking to a Sleeper, he didn’t have any excuses to be a royal asshole for no reason. Mom taught him better than that. Taking a breath, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m tired, and more than a bit PO’d. Shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
“I understand.”
Troy tried again. “Anyway. An old buddy of mine is the sheriff of Fortaleza. Sort of. It’s complicated there. They follow a much different set of rules than you’re familiar with.”
“Don’t worry, Sarge. I’m familiar with all kinds.”
“Where you from?”
“We were set up at Washington State University.”
“The community you lived with?”
“Yeah. More a group than a community. The guy in charge wasn’t very organized. Nothing like in Sac. Not even close.” She paused before adding, “Turned out he was a vector.”
Troy took his eyes off the road. “Dude was a Sleeper?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Didn’t. Not until later.”
“So, what happened?”
Troy told himself he was only trying to keep her talking to get her to expose herself, but it was becoming more by then. He actually wanted to get to know her. Was this some new kind of Sleeper trick? Was he just going senile?
Meadowlark said, “He shot one of us, my friend, Larissa. Then he attacked my boyfriend. Finally, somebody blew his brains out. After that, Tony and I decided to leave. Most stayed.” She looked out the window, into the darkness. “Larissa had heard rumors from a drifter that there was a safe place down south, in California. Told her how to get there, she said. She couldn’t remember all the details. I, uh, I told Tony we could go there. To live. To honor her memory, in our own way.”
Troy waited a good two minutes for her to finish the story. But that was okay. He’d heard enough like it to know that you didn’t interrupt someone’s thoughts. Not when they were remembering everything that was before.
Finally, she said, “We didn’t know where we were going, except generally. But we were picked up by Squad Five, who gave us water. Took us all the way into Sacramento. To refugee triage.”
Troy could see where this was going, but he said it anyway, “And then?”
“It took us a long time to get from Washington State to the Republic’s border. Tony had almost fully turned by then. He was just waiting for a chance to kill the six of us, me included. That’s what the field doctor told me as she handed me a granola bar.”
The flatness of her voice told Troy to not trust her, never trust her. A monotonous tone of voice was one of the clear signs you were dealing with a Sleeper. But he couldn’t stop himself from letting slip a sympathetic, “Fuck.”
“Yeah. Fuck, indeed.” She rubbed her nose. “Well, it’s officially dark, Sarge. What now?” She leaned forward. “Wait, d’you see that?”
“I’ll be damned,” said Troy.
“Lights. A fire, looks like.”
“Well, it ain’t Fortaleza, but it might do us just fine. So long as the wackos who lit that fire are wacky in a non-murdering kinda way.”
Troy cut the lights and slowed way, way down, watching the road and its surroundings like a hawk for traps, people, coyotes, whatever might be out there.
Meadowlark said, “Think they saw us?”
Troy sniffed. “If they were looking this way, sure they did. But they ain’t shooting at us yet, so we might be lucky.”
They stopped in front of a gas station — abandoned, of course. But, ahead, there was a shop whose sign read “ANTIQUES.” Troy could make it out because the bonfire burning in front lit up the letters.
“What’re we getting ourselves into?” said Meadowlark, quietly.
“No idea,” said Troy.
Then Agent Morris sputtered to wakefulness. “Why have we stopped?” He yawned. “Where the hell is this?”
Meadowlark held up the map. “I think it’s Kramer Junction, sir.”
Morris grimaced. “We were supposed to arrive at Fortaleza by or before sundown.”
“It’s dark, sir.”
“I’m aware of that, Sergeant. Are you aware that we have a mission? We can’t deviate from schedule.”
“Captain Jack made that impossible.” Still keeping his eyes on the Antiques shop, Troy said, calmly as he could, “As your military attaché and advisor, I’m calling it. Permission to speak freely?”
“Whatever.”
“We will get our asses killed in the dark. Forget about not being able to see cars, rocks, and other obstructions. There’s no telling what kind of bastards are running around out here. This is north of Yuma territory. No one’s keeping the local tough guys in check. Cannibals, psycho drifters, guys who think they’re coyotes wearing people-suits, maybe even migrating bison. Believe me, I know. Sorry. Sir.”
Morris crossed his arms, again reminding Troy of a toddler about to throw a tantrum. The Bag Man said, “What do you propose, then? Knock on that door over there and throw ourselves at the feet of whoever opens?”
“I have a plan, sir. Let me and the Corporal slip out. We can scout out the surroundings.” Deciding it was just on the borderline of insubordination, he added, “It’s kinda what we do.”
Rolling his eyes, Morris said, �
��Go, then. Be quick about it.”
“Yes, sir.” Troy turned to Meadowlark. “Gear up.”
She nodded.
Armed with M4 carbine rifles, side arms, and knives, the two Scouts pulled their night vision goggles over their eyes and each flipped the switch.
Meadowlark was instantly rendered from a dull, blue blur into a collection of sharp, fuzzy gray, green, and black dots.
First, Troy scoped out the area around the bonfire, sweeping the barrel of his rifle all around. Nobody was out, and there didn’t seem to be anybody answering nature’s call nearby.
A fire with nobody near it. Wasteful. And stupid, he thought. Like a beacon in the night. Which is exactly what it had been to him. Luckily for whoever was inside, if anyone, Troy, Morris, and Meadowlark weren’t the bad guys. Or, depending on who was in that Antiques shop, maybe they’d be unlucky tonight.
Troy whispered into his headset, “Check. Check.” And Meadowlark did the same.
Satisfied that they were both prepared as well as possible, Troy gave the signal to move out. He swept left, she right.
The squat, square building was not much to look at. The windows were boarded up. It wasn’t easy to spot in the dark, and with the bonfire so close, but faint light filtered out from the thin slits between the boards. As Troy drew close, he heard voices. They sounded upset, but not violent. Yet.
“Corporal,” Troy whispered, “fall back.”
Thirty seconds later, they were back at the Humvee and Meadowlark murmured, “Three adult males, one teenager. Two women. One on the bed, the other moving around, but strained. Sprained her ankle, I think.”
“Did they look like kind, welcoming types to you?” said Troy.
“Couldn’t tell you, sir.”
“Good.” He grunted. “You’re learning.”
“They weren’t armed, though. Didn’t have rifles, at least.”
“We’re going to take advantage of their hospitality for a little bit. Feel out the situation. If it smells wrong, we’re out like a flash.”
Bag Men Page 7