Light Ice
A Real Bastard
- Joined
- Feb 12, 2003
- Posts
- 5,397
“I can’t believe I keep letting you talk me into this.” James Hacker’s boyish face was contorted with hesitation and worry.
Owen wasn’t surprised. James was young. Twenty one, maybe. Not older. He wore his blond, blond hair in a short high-fade. He was a Specialist but didn’t act it. The rank seemed to sit new on him. Unfamiliar. He moved with a distinct jitter that seemed to suit his lanky frame too well. There was nothing of James’ manner that suggested he was capable of surviving on his own. Owen didn’t spend much time thinking of it. Instead, as the kid handed him boxes, he worked to stow them in the back of the Havoc.
“When this all gets put straight they’re going to court marshal us both.” He said. “If they put it straight.”
To that, Owen said nothing. Nothing was going to be put straight. The radio, net, and TV had been flooded with reports before it’d struck them. Mobilization had started early that morning. 36 hours ago. Owen had made his choice early. It hadn’t been much later when the first local reports hit. The entire world seemed as though it’d turned upside down. Beyond the Havoc, and James’ grunts and complaints, a sea of abandoned clothes racks sat atop short-pile store carpet. The pluck and warble of country music was still playing. Jason Aldean’s drawl hung heavy in the air along with the odd, foreign feel of the empty store.
Racks lay abandoned. Clothes on them. He could see kayaks along the far wall, empty registers. The camping goods section. A few of the rifles and handguns had been taken before they’d arrived but there’d been a few worth scavenging. Outside, thudding in the distance, he heard explosions. Artillery. There were no screams and hadn’t been for awhile. It’d been too quick. Whatever the battle looked like it was one sided. The entire area had been overrun within an hour. The rest had been madness. All that was left of the world that he’d worked to come home to was the empty store, abandoned racks of clothes and goods.
It had been their scant hope to find survivors from the start. Hours ago. They’d found nobody. Not a single soul. It was as though the entire population of Watertown had up and left the world in a great and ironically fitting hurry. Owen continued to watch the gaping hole where the glass doors to the store had been. The Havoc had punched clean through without any impact, hardly, at all. The noise, he had been certain, would have brought some. It hadn’t. No survivors. None of them, either.
“That’s it.” James said.
“Check in back.” He answered.
“Alright.”
The boy didn’t argue much and aside from concerns over being arrested – James had seldom complained. He’d first met the kid when they were overseas. He’d always been the one up to his elbows in grease with a tool in hand. The kid had worked hard to keep the machines running. He’d chatted incessantly, pleasantly, when Owen and the other Operators spent time in camp. He’d started reading the books Owen had suggested and then talking to him about them. He’d been sweet. It hadn’t been long before he’d noticed that James was something of a wiz when it came to machinery. Owen turned briefly to watch James test the swinging door leading into the back of the store. He was smart. Patient. When the boy finally began to move further inside he did it only when he had confidence in moving at all. The rifle slung to his shoulder came up smoothly, steadily. And then, with the door swinging after him, he was gone.
Looking out, considering the mess they’d made, Owen surveyed the ruins of the store. He imagined the people standing in line, or trying things on. He imagined them bullshitting with employees about ammunition or vacuum packed food. And then, when the televisions that hung near the registers broadcasted the emergency and it came to the door, he imagined the panic. A few of the display cases had shattered. The registers had been robbed. He could imagine people stealing things they thought they could need and rushing to escape, or get home, or to schools to check on kids.
From what he’d heard on the Havoc’s radio it’d passed through the area like a wave. He imagined that for now most of –them- had moved onwards, south or west towards Syracuse and Rochester. Their numbers up. Thousands, it’d been, and they’d overwhelmed the tiny town so quickly there’d been hardly any resistance at all. The troops at Fort Drum hadn’t known what was coming. Most had probably fallen in the first ten minutes. The rest – he didn’t know. They hadn’t been there to witness it. They’d stolen the Havoc and the trailer, taken their own gear, and left.
To his right, about twenty feet away, he saw Wyatt’s sleek form moving amidst the hunting department’s pet section. He watched the dog pace the isle loaded with trainer’s toys. Those things hadn’t shown any interest in the dog at all. They’d hardly paid him attention. Still, he couldn’t have abandoned him. Wouldn’t have. James hadn’t even asked and Owen was glad of it.
“There’s more.” Said James from behind him. “A lot more.”
“Load the .223 and .308 into the Havoc and put the rest in one of the safes. Take the keys. We’ll come back for it.”
The dog ended the conversation between the pair by drawing up to Owen’s side and sitting. In his mouth, a splash of color in his otherwise dark muzzle revealed a rope toy he’d taken from the dog aisle. Owen didn’t even think about it as his hand reached down and spread strong fingers through the short fur at the top of Wyatt’s head. The animal’s one good eye looked on to where James had been.
--------------------------------------------------------------
The entire stop had taken almost an hour and daylight was almost gone. In the glow of the store’s fluorescent lights everything looked eerily normal except for the crumbled ruin of the front. When they’d seen the Gander Mountain he’d surprised James when he didn’t slow or stop at the front of the building. The weight of the Havoc has plowed through the large glass entry hallway as though it hadn’t been there, tearing down the frames of steel that had held the large doors. Safety glass had exploded everywhere in a shower of small particles. He’d driven right to the firearms counter while James had looked out through the Havoc’s viewports to see if there had been any of them. There hadn’t been.
Now, as James tossed Owen one of the keys to the safe he’d used, he felt himself nodding almost absently.
“We sleeping in the Beast again?” asked James.
Owen nodded.
“Where are you going to park it?”
When it had happened, when it’d started in Watertown, they’d been on base. It wasn’t an option to return. Still, there wasn’t much by the way of population density. They’d find a place. He wasn’t worried. A few things came to mind earlier that morning. One thing was certain – he didn’t want to continue to park in the same place. As long as they kept moving they’d be safe.
“Trailer park.” Owen answered. “What else was back there?”
“We took all the guns, like you said. They had a few bows and a couple crossbows, took those, too. All the arrows. There were a bunch of different types – I don’t know the difference. I didn’t take the time to count the boxes but they’re pretty much cleaned out of ammunition, too. Shouldn’t we leave some out for anyone who comes by?”
“No.”
“Couldn’t we go back to Fort Drum and hit the armory?”
Owen looked up to the boy, his blue eyes and boyish features. He had a cleft chin. James had the look of a kid that could have grown up the quarterback of his school’s varsity team.
“I mean,” he said again. “They’re all gone now, right?”
“Maybe.” Owen agreed. “But anyone who came here looking for weapons wouldn’t have been well-equipped or had reason to arrest us.”
“And they probably would want our help, anyway.” Said the kid.
Owen found himself regarding James intently. It was easy to read his expression. The worry and concern and fear all present in James’ face and in how he moved. Still, the kid had kept working. Owen didn’t regret inviting him along. It’d been too much with one person and in the end the kid had made the choice to let him take the Havoc. He’d been prepared for that part to go so much worse than it did.
“We need to get sleep.” Owen countered, shouldering his rifle.
“What are we looting tomorrow? Best Buy?”
“No. Grocery store.”
“You’ve the worst sense of humor, boss.” James muttered as he got into the back of the Havoc, pausing briefly to look down at Owen. “What about survivors?”
“One thing at a time,” Owen said.
-------------------------------------------------------
The trailers all looked abandoned. A few had lights on and bled their yellow glow into the darkness of the narrow street but their doors were swung open. It all told the same story. A blue double-wide to their left sat open with the front door knocked off the hinges. He couldn’t see far into the trailer but didn’t need to. A mess of suburban debris lay on the carpet opposite the door.
“Do you think anyone got out?”
James looked for survivors with a relentless and desperate intensity. Owen had felt it, all along, and hard it now in the almost pleading inquiry that left him. There wasn’t an answer he cared to give him. It was enough to hear that desperation and know that somewhere inside the younger man he already knew.
They were pretty far in when he went up onto a lawn and turned around. The Havoc’s engine cut out, abandoning that low diesel rumble and he leaned back briefly in his seat to consider Wyatt in the passenger seat beside him. The dog’s tongue hung forward out of his long black muzzle, one good eye finding him in turn.
“Good enough.” He said to Wyatt.
“I’ve never seen a German Shepherd that looks like that.” Said James from one of the twelve seats in back.
“He’s not a Shepherd.”
The back of the Havoc was meant for troops, not cargo, and it was mostly clear. He’d only wanted the ammunition inside so that it could be used, or kept safe. The trailer itself was holding cargo of a different sort. It was mostly taken up by the generator and tools, James’ idea. A good one, too. James stood hunched inside, one hand on the armored roof of the cabin, the other at the headrest of the nearest seat.
“What is he?” he asked.
“Belgian Malinois.”
Owen found Wyatt’s jawline in his hand, felt the dog lean into the touch. He considered its face. The Rangers in the Korangal Valley had called him Two-Face. It wasn’t hard to get it. One half of Wyatt’s face was handsome, dark and smooth fur. That black mask had once been the entirety of his face. The other half, though, was now a ruin. A large bare spot stretched from his muzzle up to his right ear, which was intact. The hairless skin was a mass of ruinous scar-tissue. The dog’s right eye was milky-white and sightless.
He loved the dog so fiercely that it ached.
“He looks like a bad ass.” James was smiling some. There was a boyish sincerity in the way he spoke.
“Yeah.” Owen said.
The dog let his tongue hang out again. It rolled out of his mouth, a pink animal, and hung sidelong to its right. The length of that muscle was suddenly framed in the silvered-titanium of its teeth.
“I bet some of these trailers have propane.” The kid said, leaning once again to look out the periscope and consider the circle of trailers that flanked the cul de sac. In a moment, then, he was reaching for his rifle and headed towards the rear hatch of the Havoc.
“People! There are people coming. And some of –them- on their six!” James shouted and then jumped outside.
“Wyatt.” He said and got out of the driver’s seat, picking up the rifle at his side. The dog didn’t hesitate.
James stood at the back of the Havoc near the open hatch, curling an arm to gesture the people on. They were tired. Owen could see that at his first glance. Three of them. At least one was a woman. They moved well but they were tired and the others weren’t. And wouldn’t be. He looked back, past the nose of the Havoc, and saw the yards were empty.
The kid was a good soldier, a great mechanic, but he wasn’t much with the M4. More than the average, sure. He was a Ranger. Still, Owen knew why he wasn’t shooting and admired the kid’s restraint. They were about a hundred and fifty meters off and closing. The rifle bucked against his shoulder. The lead runner, the female, flinched. One of the ones behind her collapsed, head snapping back amidst a plume of blood and bits of pale white skull and pink brain matter. He hardly heard the rifle’s powerful crack anymore.
He fired again. Missed. He hadn’t had time to adjust his scope and was compensating on the fly. The next one dropped another one of –them-. It was heavier. Running hard. Untiring. He couldn’t put a kill shot on a third, the survivors were in the way, but he tagged it in the shoulder and watched as the force of the shot took it clean off its feet. Two more shots and two more of –them- fell before he felt comfortable they had enough room.
“Get them in and close that door. We’re leaving.”
He didn’t hear James’ answer.
(This thread is closed.)
Owen wasn’t surprised. James was young. Twenty one, maybe. Not older. He wore his blond, blond hair in a short high-fade. He was a Specialist but didn’t act it. The rank seemed to sit new on him. Unfamiliar. He moved with a distinct jitter that seemed to suit his lanky frame too well. There was nothing of James’ manner that suggested he was capable of surviving on his own. Owen didn’t spend much time thinking of it. Instead, as the kid handed him boxes, he worked to stow them in the back of the Havoc.
“When this all gets put straight they’re going to court marshal us both.” He said. “If they put it straight.”
To that, Owen said nothing. Nothing was going to be put straight. The radio, net, and TV had been flooded with reports before it’d struck them. Mobilization had started early that morning. 36 hours ago. Owen had made his choice early. It hadn’t been much later when the first local reports hit. The entire world seemed as though it’d turned upside down. Beyond the Havoc, and James’ grunts and complaints, a sea of abandoned clothes racks sat atop short-pile store carpet. The pluck and warble of country music was still playing. Jason Aldean’s drawl hung heavy in the air along with the odd, foreign feel of the empty store.
Racks lay abandoned. Clothes on them. He could see kayaks along the far wall, empty registers. The camping goods section. A few of the rifles and handguns had been taken before they’d arrived but there’d been a few worth scavenging. Outside, thudding in the distance, he heard explosions. Artillery. There were no screams and hadn’t been for awhile. It’d been too quick. Whatever the battle looked like it was one sided. The entire area had been overrun within an hour. The rest had been madness. All that was left of the world that he’d worked to come home to was the empty store, abandoned racks of clothes and goods.
It had been their scant hope to find survivors from the start. Hours ago. They’d found nobody. Not a single soul. It was as though the entire population of Watertown had up and left the world in a great and ironically fitting hurry. Owen continued to watch the gaping hole where the glass doors to the store had been. The Havoc had punched clean through without any impact, hardly, at all. The noise, he had been certain, would have brought some. It hadn’t. No survivors. None of them, either.
“That’s it.” James said.
“Check in back.” He answered.
“Alright.”
The boy didn’t argue much and aside from concerns over being arrested – James had seldom complained. He’d first met the kid when they were overseas. He’d always been the one up to his elbows in grease with a tool in hand. The kid had worked hard to keep the machines running. He’d chatted incessantly, pleasantly, when Owen and the other Operators spent time in camp. He’d started reading the books Owen had suggested and then talking to him about them. He’d been sweet. It hadn’t been long before he’d noticed that James was something of a wiz when it came to machinery. Owen turned briefly to watch James test the swinging door leading into the back of the store. He was smart. Patient. When the boy finally began to move further inside he did it only when he had confidence in moving at all. The rifle slung to his shoulder came up smoothly, steadily. And then, with the door swinging after him, he was gone.
Looking out, considering the mess they’d made, Owen surveyed the ruins of the store. He imagined the people standing in line, or trying things on. He imagined them bullshitting with employees about ammunition or vacuum packed food. And then, when the televisions that hung near the registers broadcasted the emergency and it came to the door, he imagined the panic. A few of the display cases had shattered. The registers had been robbed. He could imagine people stealing things they thought they could need and rushing to escape, or get home, or to schools to check on kids.
From what he’d heard on the Havoc’s radio it’d passed through the area like a wave. He imagined that for now most of –them- had moved onwards, south or west towards Syracuse and Rochester. Their numbers up. Thousands, it’d been, and they’d overwhelmed the tiny town so quickly there’d been hardly any resistance at all. The troops at Fort Drum hadn’t known what was coming. Most had probably fallen in the first ten minutes. The rest – he didn’t know. They hadn’t been there to witness it. They’d stolen the Havoc and the trailer, taken their own gear, and left.
To his right, about twenty feet away, he saw Wyatt’s sleek form moving amidst the hunting department’s pet section. He watched the dog pace the isle loaded with trainer’s toys. Those things hadn’t shown any interest in the dog at all. They’d hardly paid him attention. Still, he couldn’t have abandoned him. Wouldn’t have. James hadn’t even asked and Owen was glad of it.
“There’s more.” Said James from behind him. “A lot more.”
“Load the .223 and .308 into the Havoc and put the rest in one of the safes. Take the keys. We’ll come back for it.”
The dog ended the conversation between the pair by drawing up to Owen’s side and sitting. In his mouth, a splash of color in his otherwise dark muzzle revealed a rope toy he’d taken from the dog aisle. Owen didn’t even think about it as his hand reached down and spread strong fingers through the short fur at the top of Wyatt’s head. The animal’s one good eye looked on to where James had been.
--------------------------------------------------------------
The entire stop had taken almost an hour and daylight was almost gone. In the glow of the store’s fluorescent lights everything looked eerily normal except for the crumbled ruin of the front. When they’d seen the Gander Mountain he’d surprised James when he didn’t slow or stop at the front of the building. The weight of the Havoc has plowed through the large glass entry hallway as though it hadn’t been there, tearing down the frames of steel that had held the large doors. Safety glass had exploded everywhere in a shower of small particles. He’d driven right to the firearms counter while James had looked out through the Havoc’s viewports to see if there had been any of them. There hadn’t been.
Now, as James tossed Owen one of the keys to the safe he’d used, he felt himself nodding almost absently.
“We sleeping in the Beast again?” asked James.
Owen nodded.
“Where are you going to park it?”
When it had happened, when it’d started in Watertown, they’d been on base. It wasn’t an option to return. Still, there wasn’t much by the way of population density. They’d find a place. He wasn’t worried. A few things came to mind earlier that morning. One thing was certain – he didn’t want to continue to park in the same place. As long as they kept moving they’d be safe.
“Trailer park.” Owen answered. “What else was back there?”
“We took all the guns, like you said. They had a few bows and a couple crossbows, took those, too. All the arrows. There were a bunch of different types – I don’t know the difference. I didn’t take the time to count the boxes but they’re pretty much cleaned out of ammunition, too. Shouldn’t we leave some out for anyone who comes by?”
“No.”
“Couldn’t we go back to Fort Drum and hit the armory?”
Owen looked up to the boy, his blue eyes and boyish features. He had a cleft chin. James had the look of a kid that could have grown up the quarterback of his school’s varsity team.
“I mean,” he said again. “They’re all gone now, right?”
“Maybe.” Owen agreed. “But anyone who came here looking for weapons wouldn’t have been well-equipped or had reason to arrest us.”
“And they probably would want our help, anyway.” Said the kid.
Owen found himself regarding James intently. It was easy to read his expression. The worry and concern and fear all present in James’ face and in how he moved. Still, the kid had kept working. Owen didn’t regret inviting him along. It’d been too much with one person and in the end the kid had made the choice to let him take the Havoc. He’d been prepared for that part to go so much worse than it did.
“We need to get sleep.” Owen countered, shouldering his rifle.
“What are we looting tomorrow? Best Buy?”
“No. Grocery store.”
“You’ve the worst sense of humor, boss.” James muttered as he got into the back of the Havoc, pausing briefly to look down at Owen. “What about survivors?”
“One thing at a time,” Owen said.
-------------------------------------------------------
The trailers all looked abandoned. A few had lights on and bled their yellow glow into the darkness of the narrow street but their doors were swung open. It all told the same story. A blue double-wide to their left sat open with the front door knocked off the hinges. He couldn’t see far into the trailer but didn’t need to. A mess of suburban debris lay on the carpet opposite the door.
“Do you think anyone got out?”
James looked for survivors with a relentless and desperate intensity. Owen had felt it, all along, and hard it now in the almost pleading inquiry that left him. There wasn’t an answer he cared to give him. It was enough to hear that desperation and know that somewhere inside the younger man he already knew.
They were pretty far in when he went up onto a lawn and turned around. The Havoc’s engine cut out, abandoning that low diesel rumble and he leaned back briefly in his seat to consider Wyatt in the passenger seat beside him. The dog’s tongue hung forward out of his long black muzzle, one good eye finding him in turn.
“Good enough.” He said to Wyatt.
“I’ve never seen a German Shepherd that looks like that.” Said James from one of the twelve seats in back.
“He’s not a Shepherd.”
The back of the Havoc was meant for troops, not cargo, and it was mostly clear. He’d only wanted the ammunition inside so that it could be used, or kept safe. The trailer itself was holding cargo of a different sort. It was mostly taken up by the generator and tools, James’ idea. A good one, too. James stood hunched inside, one hand on the armored roof of the cabin, the other at the headrest of the nearest seat.
“What is he?” he asked.
“Belgian Malinois.”
Owen found Wyatt’s jawline in his hand, felt the dog lean into the touch. He considered its face. The Rangers in the Korangal Valley had called him Two-Face. It wasn’t hard to get it. One half of Wyatt’s face was handsome, dark and smooth fur. That black mask had once been the entirety of his face. The other half, though, was now a ruin. A large bare spot stretched from his muzzle up to his right ear, which was intact. The hairless skin was a mass of ruinous scar-tissue. The dog’s right eye was milky-white and sightless.
He loved the dog so fiercely that it ached.
“He looks like a bad ass.” James was smiling some. There was a boyish sincerity in the way he spoke.
“Yeah.” Owen said.
The dog let his tongue hang out again. It rolled out of his mouth, a pink animal, and hung sidelong to its right. The length of that muscle was suddenly framed in the silvered-titanium of its teeth.
“I bet some of these trailers have propane.” The kid said, leaning once again to look out the periscope and consider the circle of trailers that flanked the cul de sac. In a moment, then, he was reaching for his rifle and headed towards the rear hatch of the Havoc.
“People! There are people coming. And some of –them- on their six!” James shouted and then jumped outside.
“Wyatt.” He said and got out of the driver’s seat, picking up the rifle at his side. The dog didn’t hesitate.
James stood at the back of the Havoc near the open hatch, curling an arm to gesture the people on. They were tired. Owen could see that at his first glance. Three of them. At least one was a woman. They moved well but they were tired and the others weren’t. And wouldn’t be. He looked back, past the nose of the Havoc, and saw the yards were empty.
The kid was a good soldier, a great mechanic, but he wasn’t much with the M4. More than the average, sure. He was a Ranger. Still, Owen knew why he wasn’t shooting and admired the kid’s restraint. They were about a hundred and fifty meters off and closing. The rifle bucked against his shoulder. The lead runner, the female, flinched. One of the ones behind her collapsed, head snapping back amidst a plume of blood and bits of pale white skull and pink brain matter. He hardly heard the rifle’s powerful crack anymore.
He fired again. Missed. He hadn’t had time to adjust his scope and was compensating on the fly. The next one dropped another one of –them-. It was heavier. Running hard. Untiring. He couldn’t put a kill shot on a third, the survivors were in the way, but he tagged it in the shoulder and watched as the force of the shot took it clean off its feet. Two more shots and two more of –them- fell before he felt comfortable they had enough room.
“Get them in and close that door. We’re leaving.”
He didn’t hear James’ answer.
(This thread is closed.)
