by James Cook
“Mind if I ask you something?”
The dark black eyes focused on me. “Shoot.”
“What did your father do while he was gone those eight months?”
“Guess I forgot to mention that, huh? Turns out he found work in Asheville right away. Problem was, the job was washing dishes in a diner. Couldn’t raise a family of six on five bucks an hour, even back then. So he got a second job loading sodas onto trucks at a distribution center. While he was doing all this, he made a plan. When he had enough money, he took a bus down to Charlotte, rented a cheap apartment, and put himself through truck driving school. Couple of months later he had a class A license and headed back to Asheville. Got a job with a carrier there. Guy that owned the restaurant he used to work for let him sleep on a cot in a storage shed so he could save money. Couple of months after that, he finally had enough to rent the double-wide. Then he came up and got us.”
My steak was mostly gone. The potatoes were untouched, but I figured I’d done enough. Tyrel’s plate looked to have gone cold. He realized it and tucked into his meal.
“Well, enough of that depressing shit,” he said. “What’s new with you?”
NINE
“So let me make sure I got this straight,” Tyrel said half an hour later. We had left the restaurant and were walking through the wealthiest district in the city. “The ROC has moved every American they could get their hands on into internment camps. They’re holding them hostage so the Union doesn’t attack.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Mike Holden is leading the Resistance. The government is helping him by providing supplies and special operations support.”
“Correct.”
“And the president and joint chiefs have cooked up a plan to bring down the ROC, but you don’t know what it is.”
“Not yet.”
“Of course not. So General Jacobs wants you to go out there as a military liaison for JSOC, and he want’s Gabriel to go with you.”
“That’s right.”
“He wanted this fella Eric Riordan too. But he ain’t having it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Tyrel looked at me. “What’s so great about this Riordan guy? He’s just a civilian, right?”
“He never served in the military, but Gabriel and a few other very qualified folks trained him and turned him into a certifiable badass. He’s saved my life a few times, and I’ve done the same for him. We’ve been on missions together.”
“What kinds of missions?”
“I’ll give you an example. You may have noticed the Midwest Alliance is conspicuously absent from the list of our nations enemies lately.”
“I have so noticed. Heard there was some kind of coup up in Illinois. All the leaders were killed, and the Alliance fell apart.”
“That’s the official story.”
Tyrel stared straight ahead. “Which is utter bullshit.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“You were there. There weren’t no damn coup, those leaders were assassinated. Who was with you?”
I casually looked around and kept my voice low. “Gabriel, Eric Riordan, an ex-SEAL contractor, and a bunch of Green Berets.”
“Jacobs sent a civilian with you?”
“Eric is no ordinary civilian. He’s as good as they come.”
“As good as you?”
“Put it this way. I wouldn’t want to be downrange of him.”
We were quiet for a while as we walked. Tyrel was deep in thought, and I did not want to interrupt him.
I observed the city around me and was struck by how much this part of town had changed. It was a far cry from the bombed out ruin it had been when I first arrived here in the early days after the Outbreak. Where once was rubble and ashes and artillery craters now stood newly constructed buildings, oil-fueled street lamps, and warm lights shining through the windows of successful establishments and upper class homes. The potholes and craters had been repaired, there was a strong police presence, and people walked the streets unafraid. Couples strolled hand in hand, children ran around getting underfoot, groups of laughing, boisterous men and women flitted from one tavern to the next in a constant swirl of hormones and flirtation. I liked the atmosphere of the place. It felt like civilization.
We kept walking away from the restaurant towards a livery nearby. Tyrel’s personal carriage was there. Unlike his office, there was nothing ornate about it. The carriage was well-constructed, comfortable to ride in, and pulled by a sturdy draft horse. It was not in any way ostentatious. From what I had gathered about Tyrel so far, with the exception of his training facilities, he did not believe in flashy displays of his newfound wealth. I didn’t blame him. No sense making a target of himself for those desperate enough to make a run at him.
When we reached the livery Tyrel asked the stable boy to bring his carriage around. When he ran off into the barn, I noticed the kid had a small clipboard stuck in his waistband at the small of his back. I asked Tyrel about it.
“It’s for tips,” he said.
“Tips? What do you tip people with around here?”
“Federal credits. Most places around here accept them these days.”
My eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yep. There’s six exchanges in town now, all of ‘em pretty well stocked. It’s easier than bartering. Just give a few credits and let people buy what they want.”
“Sounds an awful lot like a monetary system. You know, like money.”
“Seems to be the direction things are headed.”
I laughed skeptically. “Maybe here. Out in the wastelands, you better have something to trade or you’re up shit creek.”
“Give it time.”
Tyrel sounded confident, so I didn’t bother arguing with him. But I did not necessarily believe him either. I had the feeling maybe he didn’t get out of the Springs enough.
The stable boy brought the carriage around, Tyrel tipped him, and we rode back toward Peterson AAB. Tyrel offered to let me stay in one of his guest rooms, but I had to turn him down. I had a meeting with General Jacobs in the morning.
“About that meeting,” I said. “Would you be interested in coming?”
Tyrel’s face remained neutral, but his hands tensed on the reins. He didn’t say anything for almost a full minute. The carriage wheels clattered over the pavement, punctuated by the clip-clop of the draft horse’s iron shod hooves. Pedestrians noticed us and casually got out of the way. These were people accustomed to sharing streets with horses and carriages and wagons. I felt as though I were glimpsing a fragment of the past, long before the invention of the automobile. It made me wonder if the streets of the future would resemble the narrow, winding lanes common in old European cities.
“And what would be my interest in going?”
“Gabe lost a lot of trade to the Storm Road Tribe.”
“I know. He told me.”
“We’ve got a fix on them.”
Tyrel glanced at me, then returned his attention to the road. “Gabe told me that too. Jacobs is offering to help get his trade back in exchange for Gabe’s professional services.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Well, since Gabe works for me, I guess the Blackthorns will have to render assistance. For a small fee, of course. Otherwise, I’m afraid Gabe will have other obligations that will prevent him from assisting the government against the ROC.”
“Don’t think you’ll get too much pushback on that. The government’s got plenty of trade, but they’re short on troops right now. Big recruiting push isn’t going so well. Retention is low. Jacobs will probably be glad for the help.”
“They’re not so hard up they need Gabe for Jacobs’ mission. Why is the general asking for him?”
“They need operators with the right kind of experience. Gabe fits the bill.”
“Bullshit. JSOC has plenty of people who could do the job just as well.”
“True. But Jacobs doesn’t want to
send them.”
“Why not?”
“He hasn’t said. My guess would be plausible deniability. If the mission fails, there’s no proof he sent Union forces to challenge the ROC. The president could blame the whole thing on Resistance fighters.”
“Maybe,” Tyrel said. “Or maybe he wants people he can count on to keep their mouths shut.”
“Jacobs doesn’t know me that well, and I’m going.”
Tyrel gave me a level stare. “And just exactly how important do you think you are to him?”
“Important enough to warrant a black card.”
A shake of the head. “That don’t mean shit, Caleb. He can give a black card to anybody he wants. Face the facts, kid. He says the word, and you’re out of the Army. And you know what that means.”
I didn’t say anything, but I knew exactly what Tyrel meant. With the stroke of a pen, General Jacobs could have me sent to prison. It was leverage, plain and simple. I realized I had been pretty naïve to think Jacobs would bring me on board without some way of keeping me under control.
The fence around the base came into view ahead, the main gate lit by electric streetlights. The carriage stopped in front of the gate. I remained in my seat and looked over at Tyrel.
“So?”
“What time?”
“Ten hundred, in his office. I assume you know where it is.”
“Yeah.” My old friend heaved a sigh. “Fuck it. Tell him I’ll be there.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
“See you.”
I jumped down from the carriage. “It’s good to see you again Tyrel. Been too long.”
He smiled thinly. “Yeah. Have a nice night, Caleb.”
TEN
Caleb,
The Wastelands,
June, Present Day
We spent four days and nights on the road.
Convoys make a lot of noise, and noise attracts the infected. Ergo, the trip back to the Springs was not a leisurely one. Rather, it was a stark reminder of the dangers still inherent in the wastelands.
Six times we ran into large hordes and had to stop, send up a drone to get a birds-eye view of the enemy, hastily deploy into defensive positions, and kill the dead. Two of the HEMTTs in the convoy were full of ammo; nearly a million and a half rounds altogether. I thought it was overkill at first, but after spending hours firing round after round into the heads of ghouls—most of them Grays, which I found immensely worrisome for reasons I could not quite name—the plentitude of ammo was a comfort.
Rifles were another problem. One can only put so many rounds through a weapon before it needs a cool-off period. Shooting heats up the barrel and internal components, and letting a gun get too hot is a good way to ruin it.
Beyond that, the M-4 carbine, which was what we were using, has a limit to its service life. It is made of moving parts, and those parts sometimes break. Additionally, the direct gas impingement system that operates the weapon necessitates it be cleaned regularly to maintain good operation. Otherwise, it will eventually foul up and jam. So while guys like me were standing on top of Humvees and other vehicles shooting for everything we were worth, there was another entire cadre of soldiers running around with ammo and fresh weapons. If a gun jammed or began to overheat, or if a soldier ran out of ammo, he or she raised a hand and someone came over to help them.
One of the hordes was over eight-thousand strong. If the convoy had been fighting company strength, we would have worked in shifts. But we were not fighting company strength. In fact, we were barely over platoon strength. So once the battle was joined, there were no breaks until it was over. There were only a hundred and ten of us in the convoy. It was a good thing we had plenty of fuel and bullets.
After four days of sleep-deprived hell, when the ring of slums around Colorado Springs came into view, I was glad to see them. It was the first time I had approached the city by land since first arriving here over two years ago. Back then, there had been flat, barren plain all the way to the outer perimeter. Now, an endless shanty-town populated by hostile, gaunt figures occupied the plains as far as the eye could see.
Ahead, beyond the slums, the wall, and the city within, the Rocky Mountains were a sudden, massive contrast to the flatness of eastern Colorado. As we drew closer, soldiers went topside on their vehicles to man M-240s and fifty caliber machine guns. I heard the rattle and clank of someone loading a MK-19 automatic grenade launcher behind us (MK in military parlance being pronounced ‘mark’).
“Fuck’s sake,” I said. “Is all this really necessary?”
“It is,” Gabe said. “Slummers like to throw pipe bombs and molotovs at convoys. A few warning shots are usually enough to make them keep their distance.”
I shook my head. How could the government be so inept as to let things get this bad? I suppose, considering human nature, I should not have been surprised. Compassion is well and good when there is nothing on the line. But let the plight of the downtrodden conflict with moneyed interests, let it stand in the way of the insatiable addictions of greed and influence, and one sees quickly which strata of society holds the reins of power.
I could never be a politician. I’m too temperamental, and too quick with a gun.
*****
There were showers on base, but I did not feel like waiting in line. After arriving with the convoy and sending a runner to notify General Jacobs that Gabe and I were back, I took a carriage to an inn near the caravan district. There were no caravans in town at the moment, so I had the bathing facilities to myself. I showered, and then sat in a tub of heated water for nearly an hour. The water was kept warm by a small fire burning underneath it. A layer of bricks protected the tub from getting too hot. The tension in my muscles slowly faded to a dull ache.
Dressed, shaved, refreshed, and poorer by a handful of .22 rounds, I headed back to base. A runner had slipped a letter beneath my door. It was from General Jacobs, telling me to be in his office by no later than 1000 hours the next morning. But otherwise, I had the day off.
I did not need to be told twice.
It was late afternoon, so I hopped a carriage to The Sixgun, a bar a grill I had discovered not far from Base. Not many military types frequented the place because of its high prices, but I still had most of the trade Eric had paid me for traveling with him from Hollow Rock. I wasn’t worried about going broke any time soon.
The place was busy. I took a seat in the bar area at a table for two. I had a couple of beers and ordered some roasted chicken and grilled vegetables. The food was good, and the beer, which was stronger than I thought it would be, gave me a dull glossy feeling.
A girl seated at the bar was eyeing me as I ate. She was petite, had straight brown hair, was about my age, slender, and very pretty. A couple of equally attractive girls, probably her friends, flanked her. I made eye contact and she smiled at me before looking down.
The part of me that notices whether or not women are attractive sat up and demanded attention. Not that I wanted it to, it just happened. Men are wired that way. We notice an attractive woman and our brain says, Hey, stupid, look over there.
So I looked, and then returned my attention to my meal. My libido said something along the lines of, Hey, what the fuck? Go talk to that girl! I told it to consider a few things. First, how did I know she was not a prostitute? The counter argument was that if she was, one of the drunken and clearly horny bastards at the bar would already have made off with her by now. Not to mention she was with two other girls, all of them dressed in expensive clothes. So chances were pretty good she was just a single girl out on the town, and not a whore paying her way through life on her back.
My second argument was I was spoken for. More to the point, I was in love. The little voice in my head told me what Miranda didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. I replied that I would know, and it would hurt me. My libido cursed me for a fool and finally left me alone.
The waitress saw I was finished and came over to see if I wanted anything else.
“No, thanks. What do I owe you?”
“How are you paying?”
“Federal credits okay?”
“Sure.”
She told me how much. I had expected a high bill, but I still grimaced a little as she handed me the clipboard and I signed my name to the slip of paper. The girl at the bar was now staring at me openly. She caught me looking and smiled again. This time she did not break eye contact. I nodded to her and hurried out the door.
My feet carried me through the merchant district, past an affluent new housing development, and then northward on Academy Blvd. I looked up as I reached East Platte Avenue and stopped. I had walked over two miles from The Sixgun, and it was a little more than a three mile walk back to Peterson AAB. Before the Outbreak, that would have seemed pretty far. Now, it was nothing. People walked farther than that to go to work in the morning. Back at Fort McCray, twelve-mile training marches were considered recreation. Running eight or more miles in full battle gear across rough terrain was just a way for our platoon sergeant to kill an hour or so when there wasn’t anything else going to do. The soldiers of Echo Company, to a man, ate like horses and never gained any body fat.
So I wasn’t worried about the trip back. I could run it at almost a sprint if I had to. But there was no reason for me to go any further. There was a bench nearby. I walked over and sat down on it, gazing up the street.
Ahead of me was an empty, bulldozed swath running from I-25 in the western part of town all the way to the southern edge of Cimarron Hills to the east. The undeveloped space ran northward from East Platte Avenue to Galley Road, nearly a half mile wide and six miles long. The ground was flat, the asphalt and concrete in good repair, the spaces for stalls and parking and government vehicles all clearly marked and carefully delineated. Planes and other aircraft could land here, troops could assemble, festivals could be held, farmer’s markets set up—any function requiring an abundance of open space.
On most days, as long as no government functions were occurring, people did not even need a permit. They just showed up, and as long as the event dispersed by sundown, the cops left them alone. Caravans often set up shop in the massive thoroughfare during the spring and summer, and traders would come from as far away as the Kansas plains. It was here that the fall harvest festival was held every year. Nearly the entire city turned out for it, from what I understood, and no one had to fight for elbow room.