“I want to be like you,” Hannah blurted. “A sniper.”
“Please don’t say that.”
“But you’re…” She was embarrassed to say it. Cool.
“I’ve killed more than a dozen men looking them right in the eye through my scope. What I am keeps me up at night. You want to do your part for the cause?”
“Yes.” Hannah was light-headed now, her mind swirling with big ideas.
“Grow up in a sane world when this is all over. Keep fighting for yourself. Survive long enough for everything to be normal again.”
Do whatever it takes. Her mother’s words. Hannah wondered what a normal life would even look like after all this. Another change, maybe the biggest yet.
The sniper ground out her cigarette and gazed at the door at the other side of the roof, which led to warmth, community, connection.
“Some of us will have the chance to live a normal life again,” she said. “The rest of us I’m not sure will be able to go back.”
EIGHTEEN
Aubrey pedaled past weary protesters on her way to the office. Her head buzzed. Child soldiers. In America.
She’d seen kids pitching in here and there, helping with chores and the like. Never, though, carrying weapons. Gabrielle had explained it was the same thing. Either way, children were directly participating in the war.
It was a hell of a story.
Besides that, she had UNICEF’s meeting with the Quakers. That and maybe one or more tearful stories about the Peace Office reuniting families across the contact line. In Indy, nobody said, “It’s going to be all right,” like they did in the first days of the war. The city had run out of platitudes along with everything else. But they craved good news, which still offered hope.
Eckert would eat it up. Babysitting Gabrielle Justine had turned out to deliver more than the chance to drive a car with heat and a radio. She still regretted her outburst. Garcia had covered the demonstration. He was a sharp reporter. She couldn’t do everything. And it appeared she’d have plenty to show for her time.
Still buzzing, Aubrey braked her bicycle and called to a young woman walking past. The protest had ended; they were all going home. Maybe she could pull a few quotes for Garcia.
“Indy Chronicle,” she said. “Can I ask you a few questions about the rally?”
The woman trudged over with a sign reading, ALL OR NOTHING. Her name was Zoey Tapper, she was an anarchist, and she was protesting partition.
“The governor is as much our enemy as the fascists,” Zoey said. Aside from a swollen belly suggesting pregnancy, she was thin and had delicate features. “You can’t separate the war from the revolution.”
Aubrey started writing on her pad. “What revolution are we talking about?”
“People like you look at anarchists as people who want to smash stuff. That’s a form of direct action, but that’s not what we’re about.”
“People like me, huh?” Aubrey found the woman’s assumption presumptuous but not far off the mark. A lot of young people struck her as all fight and no substance. “What are you about then?”
“We want everything owned by the people, with no central government.”
Now that sounded like millennial bullshit. Aubrey found their ability to be both naive and judgmental grating. “No government? Do you think that would work here in America?”
Zoey laughed. “Seriously? Look at the militias. The trade unions taking over the factories. The communes. It’s already happening, and it works. The city and the police and the bourgeois want everything to go back to normal. That’s not what I’m fighting for.” She patted her swollen belly. “I want my baby to grow up in a world that’s just.”
Aubrey wondered how anybody could be happy about bringing a life into the world right now. “How far along are you?”
“Six months!”
“Congratulations.” Aubrey might be able to turn that into a story on its own: Protester fighting for change brings new life into dangerous world. “What about democracy?”
“We believe in real democracy. People making decisions together at the grassroots level. In the workplace, where we’ve never had it before. Liberty—”
Her head exploded across Aubrey’s notepad.
Aubrey fell backward and hit the road hard, her legs tangled in her bike. Screams and pounding footsteps filled the air. Then another rolling shot.
She kicked at the bike and scrambled on all fours to the sidewalk. There, she sat huddled against a wall hugging her knees and shivering with adrenaline.
Gloved hands reached for her. She batted them away.
“Let me help you,” a voice said. “You’re hit.”
She pawed at her bloody coat. No bullet hole. “It’s not mine. I’m okay!”
“You’re lucky,” the man said. “Jesus. Who was she?”
Zoey lay crumpled on the road, eyes turned toward Aubrey even in death, as if waiting for her to come back so she could finish her answer. Something about liberty.
“I didn’t really know her,” Aubrey said.
Just another girl. Just some poor, idealistic girl who wanted to bring another life into the world in the midst of so much madness.
Aubrey still clutched her notepad. She wiped blood off it with the sleeve of her coat. As it all sunk in, she realized how close she’d come to dying. She cursed her own stupidity. In Indy, you never stopped moving as fast as possible until you reached cover. She’d taken chances and shortcuts without harm for so long, she’d begun to think it could never happen to her.
When a bomb went off, she was one of the few who ran toward the blast. As press, she was supposed to be Switzerland with eyes, but bullets didn’t care about one’s neutrality. More than one reporter had already died in the fighting.
In her mind’s eye, Zoey’s brains splashed across her pad.
“Oh, God.” She hugged her ribs. “Oh, shit.”
Another few inches, and the bullet would have punched through her face. She tried to remember what Zoey had been doing while she’d been scribbling her notes. Had the woman moved at the last second, blocking the sniper’s shot? Had Aubrey been the intended target?
Bad enough, knowing a hostile army surrounded the city. It became truly horrifying when you realized one of them was trying to kill you.
Seeing Zoey Tapper lying dead on the street reminded her that no matter how experienced she got at surviving, no matter how much hutzpah she showed toward danger, one day her luck would run out.
NINETEEN
After breakfast, Alex crawled into his tent and sat on his sleeping bag to clean his rifle. He removed the magazine, locked the bolt to the rear, and eyed the chamber to make sure a round wasn’t stuck in it. Then he released the bolt and set the rifle to safe.
The first thing the Liberty Tree had taught him was the chain of command. The second was how to shoot and take care of a firearm. God forbid he fail to respect either one. A part of the job was keeping his AR-15 clean and lubed.
Like everything about this war, rifle cleaning was cool the first time but then became just another mind-numbing ritual. Between the cold, hunger, stink, sickness, and endless hours spent with the same guys, war had turned out to suck even harder than high school. Never enough sleep, always some bullshit thing to do.
He pulled his backpack toward him and opened a pocket. Inside, he kept his brushes, rods, solvent, and cleaning patches. Wind rippled along the tent’s forest-green nylon walls like a reflection of his wavering nerves. The squad was going on patrol into No Man’s Land today, and he was going with them.
Jack poked his head in and sniffed. “Jeez. Did you cut one in here?”
“Wait.” Alex angled his rear and let out a loud grunt. “Nope, I got nothing.”
The kid laughed. “Your first time out today, huh.”
“Yeah. Well, second, if you count my solo recon.”
“You scared?”
He’d been terrified during the recon but didn’t think it would be as bad going out
with the squad around him. He wondered if that was part of the reason for the initiation test. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. More nervous than scared. Really nervous, actually.”
“You don’t have to be either one, bro.”
“I guess.” Before Alex could clean the gun, he had to take it apart. He took a punch from the box and used it to push the takedown pin, which separated the rifle’s upper and lower receivers. “Are you just going to sit there and watch me do this?”
Oh yeah, privacy. War meant kissing that goodbye too.
Jack disappeared for a moment before poking his head back inside. He said in a stage whisper, “What I’m trying to ask is if you ever get high.”
Alex stopped what he was doing. “Does the Pope crap in the woods?”
The kid laughed again. “What?”
“You could have asked before I took the pin out. Wait for me.”
“I’ll be right out here.”
Alex put his AR-15 back together and returned the magazine to the well. He’d clean it later. He crawled outside.
He wondered where Jack had found a place one could actually be alone. “Who’s your supplier?”
The kid threw him a look that warned him to zip it. “Come on, let’s bounce.”
Jack led him through the encampment, which bustled with uniformed men and women fetching water, brewing coffee, and hanging clothes to dry. They walked behind a house that had been hit by an Angel mortar strike. The blast had sheared off the western wall and revealed its insides like a giant dollhouse. A broken-down, rusting horse trailer sat on bricks in the backyard.
Jack opened the trailer’s door and went in.
Alex shook his head. “Are you kidding? Gross.”
The creaking door slammed shut behind him. Jack was already rolling a reefer on the floor amid dried bits of straw. The trailer smelled faintly of horse dung. Weak winter light leaked in through the slatted windows.
“You like it, bro?” the kid said.
“You know, they use this trailer as a morgue. They put bodies in here.”
Jack licked his cigarette and sealed it. “Which is why it’s a perfect spot to fire up a fatty, dumbass. Nobody comes out here unless somebody croaks.”
He lit the joint and sucked on it before passing it over. Alex toked and held the smoke in his lungs before blowing it out with a smile. It smelled like skunk piss, but he didn’t mind.
He passed it back. “Where’d you get it?”
“You won’t believe this. Sergeant Shook.”
“Oh.” Alex hated that guy. Shook was every bully he’d ever known in school rolled into one.
“All I have to do is find him something when we’re out on patrol. Any kind of jewelry. The wedding ring I found in that house bought me this whole bag of weed.”
“You need a partner in crime?”
Jack coughed out a cloud of smoke. “I was hoping you’d want in. Two’s better than one.”
The front line hadn’t moved in six months. Neither side had much in the way of artillery or an air force. The libs had more fighters, while the patriots had more firepower and supplies. Stalemate.
The patriots rotated on and off the line, sent out patrols, and skirmished in the ruined neighborhoods. Otherwise, they sat around and talked about how stupid liberals were and what America would be like after the final victory.
Alex welcomed anything that would take the edge off the constant boredom and anxiety. “Cool. Count me in.”
“Patrols are so much easier when you’re stoned.”
Alex closed his eyes, feeling good now. “You have it all figured out, Jack.”
“Oh yeah, bro. I’m woke.”
They laughed.
Alex said, “You ever do online gaming?”
“Yeah, but I’m more a role-player—”
The door creaked open. Alex blinked at the rush of light.
Tom shook his head. “You kids are a special kind of dumb. Put that shit away.”
Alex’s heart settled to a lesser gallop. If Mitch had caught him lighting up, there’d be an ass kicking. Tom was a wild card but okay for the most part.
Jack pinched off the end of the joint and pocketed it for later. “It’s creepy the way you always seem to know what I’m doing.”
“Because I pay attention, Combat Jack. Now get your ass in gear. We’re moving out.”
The boys grabbed their weapons and followed him into the back of a tattoo parlor, where the rest of the squad had congregated around Mitch.
“Listen up,” the sergeant said. “For this patrol, we’re going to proceed along the alley next to the liquor store until we make contact. Then we egress in stages. This is a practice run, a chance to gather intel before the big push in three days.”
The eight fighters in his squad nodded and checked their weapons.
“Three things to remember at all times,” Mitch added. “First is we’re fighting in somebody’s house. We call it No Man’s Land, but people still live in this area. You see somebody armed, you shoot. Otherwise, this ain’t a free-fire zone. We’re here to change things and win hearts and minds, not massacre the locals.”
The men nodded as they continued their last-minute equipment checks. They acted like they’d heard this speech before at the start of many patrols.
“Second, IEDs are always a worry, so I want good dispersion out there. And lastly, we probably still have the Indy 300 ahead of us. I don’t need to remind you they’re good. Say what you want when you’re off the field, but respect them while you’re on it. Ready?”
“Hooah,” the men shouted, locked and loaded.
“Donnie, you take point.” Mitch set his eyes on Alex. “Kid, you’ll provide security in the rear on this run.”
“But not mine, homo,” Grady said.
Alex reddened as the men laughed at him. Always this bullshit.
“Let’s go,” Mitch ordered.
The squad filed outside in an atmosphere of excitement. Even after a year, they never tired of this. They loved it.
Wearing Ray-Bans, Sergeant Shook grinned at them. “Get some.” He blocked Alex’s path. “First combat patrol, huh, Mary?”
“Yeah.” Alex added a nervous chuckle because he never knew what the guy was going to do next.
“Just because Mitch gave you a gun don’t make you one of us. Think fast.”
He faked a punch at Alex’s groin, making him double over.
“Sergeant Shook,” growled Mitch. “You are stepping on my op.”
“Just kidding around with my buddy here.”
“Go kid around somewhere else.”
“Oh yeah?” Again the psycho grin. “And if I don’t?”
Mitch’s face darkened as he strode up to the giant and leaned in.
“I’ll fuck you up,” he said in a quiet voice, though Alex heard it. “Like I did on the road to Indy.”
Shook smiled down at the soldier while his eyes took on a murderous gleam. He shot a look at Alex, who turned away to mind his own business. His squad slowly rose to their feet and fingered their weapons.
“Hello, men,” a voice said.
Alex stiffened and saluted.
“At ease, soldiers,” Lieutenant Taylor said. “What’s the word?”
Shook smiled into Mitch’s glare. “Alpha was just getting set to show us how to do a combat patrol.”
Taylor was a rich donor’s son. He commanded the platoon but spent most of his time in a heated RV behind the lines, which he called his headquarters.
“That’s right, sir,” Mitch said.
“Outstanding,” Taylor said. “Good hunting, gentlemen.”
Mitch gave the lieutenant a look that was difficult to read. Then he gave Shook one that wasn’t. “Let’s go, Alpha. Move your asses.”
The squad filed into a house that would serve as the patrol’s staging point. Mitch went upstairs to take a final look at No Man’s Land. The militiamen milled around exploring, though there wasn’t much to see. The place had been cleaned out. Bits
and pieces of somebody’s life littered the warped and filthy carpet, broken plates and a bowling shoe and a few dusty photographs.
Jack sat with his back to the wall. “That guy is nuts.”
Alex parked next to him. He wished they could get blazed again. His buzz from the poor-quality pot was already fading. “You mean Sergeant Shook?”
“Yeah.”
Tom said, “You can’t choose your family. You can’t choose your army either.”
Alex thought the militia was more like high school than a family. While they revered the official chain of command, the men mostly followed a few alpha dogs. Mitch and Shook’s hatred went deeper than basic rivalry, though. There was history there that had caused bad blood between them, though Alex couldn’t guess what had happened on the way to Indy.
Grady nudged Alex with his boot. Middle-aged and overweight, he was already wheezing from the exercise. “Watch and learn, kid. You do this right, we’ll see about getting you a scope for that rifle.”
“I’d be happy if you guys let me have a beer.” The squad always partied after a successful combat patrol.
The men laughed.
“Kid’s smarter than he looks. You ever been laid, kid?”
Alex reddened. He’d never passed second base but brazened it out with a white lie. “Came close once.”
Another laugh.
“I’m fifteen years old,” he reminded them.
“Well, first time you shoot a lib, we’ll get you squared away,” Grady said.
Alex scanned their grinning faces. What were they talking about?
“There’s a big house behind the line,” Jack explained. “Girls.”
“Tiffany will get him manned up,” Tom said.
The militiamen hooted.
Mitch stomped downstairs. “We’re heading into a combat zone. That means shut up, get in line, and watch your sectors.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” The men jostled into formation.
“Now move out,” he growled. “Let’s do this.”
Then he surprised Alex by tossing him a wink.
TWENTY
Eckert’s office was a chaotic mess of file cabinets, stacks of paper, and multiple In and Out boxes. Sitting at his cluttered desk, he gaped at Aubrey with his good eye. “What the hell happened to you? Is that blood on your face?”
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