“Yes, colonel,” said Major O’Malley. Nicole studied the major intently as he walked toward the helicopter.
She turned her attention back to Colonel Starkes. “Umm, colonel—Hannah, if you’re now the President of the United States, why don’t they call you Madam President?”
Colonel Starkes smiled and took her time before answering, primarily to calm her own curiosity about Connor Mac. She bit delicately into another stale cracker. She tentatively reached out, touching the pink and rosy cheek of CJ.
“Well, Nicole, I’ve explained this many times, so the answer’s pretty easy.”
“Yeah?”
“The way I figure it, I earned the title of full bird colonel. That’s a pretty big deal, by the way. I worked hard for that rank and I’m proud of it. Believe me, I was fast-tracked for my ability in the field and in the lab. It had nothing to do with the fact that I’m a woman, but many people thought that. Besides, there’s no one we’ve found who outranks me.”
“Oh.”
“So being Colonel Starkes is better than being Madam President.”
“Umm, how so?”
“Well, because the military wouldn’t have let the H5N1 Avian Flu become the political clusterfuck that it became. And, being the highest ranking military officer in the United States makes me golden in the eyes of these men.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“It’s the only way we’ve kept things together so far. Nicole, this was once a great country and I really think that we can rise above this devastation point. You and your child will be a big part of it.”
“Wow.”
CHAPTER 1.6-Dusting Off the Old Blue Quilt
Snuff rested atop Connor, her body content and her breathing regular and deep. Hesitant to wake her, he decided not to move for a time, suspecting that the deepness of her sleep had further to go—she was exhausted. After a few more moments, he gently shifted, easing her onto the carpet. With care, he placed her rifle next to her right hand, as previously instructed in situations like this, and walked naked to the back bedroom. Retrieving a large blue quilt, he shook it sharply to rid it of dust, and returned to the living room. Amanda was sleeping soundly on her side and Connor took a few seconds to admire the beautiful lines of her naked body before gently covering her. He snatched a cigarette from the open pack near the fire and moved quietly through the kitchen. Standing at the kitchen window, he stared out at an empty field that was lit softly by a half moon hanging low in a cloudless sky. He flicked his cigarette ashes onto the floor, cupping his hand over the cigarette when he took a drag. On guard, he searched vigilantly for any movement that shouldn’t be there.
CHAPTER 1.7-Return to Boot Camp
Marty left the farmhouse at about two o’clock in the morning. Nobody heard him leave. The men he had assigned to guard duty were all sleeping. Abandoning your unit by falling asleep on guard is a court martial offense in the military. There was absolutely nothing worse than finding out you couldn’t trust the people with whom you kept company. He took off on his own, thinking that he’d be safer without this bunch of low-lifes. He wondered why he had considered hooking up with them in the first place. He walked east through the darkness for an hour and bedded down for the night, a bit on the hungry side, but confident about the prospects of the nearing day.
He woke from a light sleep into a clear dawn. He heard a soft noise and when he opened his eyes, he spotted a fawn nudging the ground near a small maple about ten feet away. The mother fed on leafy weeds a few yards beyond the young one. Nothing on Marty’s body had moved except his eyelids. He had slept with his unsheathed knife in his hand, a habit for the last few years, and he tracked the fawn with his eyes, willing the animal to move closer to his position. As each minute passed, the fawn moved closer to Marty as if his thoughts controlled the animal. The fawn turned broadside to Marty and continued its turn until it faced its mother. By pure insane luck, the fawn backed up a step, presumably to capture a particularly tasty morsel, and Marty chose this time to act, knowing that there would be no better opportunity. At his first movement, the fawn and its mother became aware of him. While the mother escaped easily, the fawn had wandered too close. Marty salivated as he cut its throat.
Wasting no time, he dragged the fawn to the maple, roped its hind legs with a thin nylon cord from his pack, and tied it upside down to a low limb. Aided by gravity, the fawn’s blood drained quickly and Marty began skinning with practiced ease. He built a small fire and began cutting short strips of meat from the draining carcass. He laid the strips of meat on the small grill grate he carried for that purpose. He’d have to find a new grate—the steel rods that crisscrossed his were nearly burnt through.
When the meat was cooked to his satisfaction, he wolfed down a half dozen pieces and salted the rest for later. He needed to find more salt; his supply was running low. He untied what was left of the fawn, letting the butchered remains fall to the ground. He gathered his weapons and gear, settled his backpack comfortably on his shoulders, and exited the treeline. He moved due east through what were once surely the neat furrows of a cornfield. The human scum he left at the farmhouse were no longer his concern.
It was difficult for him to believe his own luck with the fawn. It wasn’t as if deer were scarce, but killing one wasn’t as easy at it seemed. Sure, he could have easily shot one, but ammunition for the sniper rifle or his Colt was much too valuable to waste in the killing of game when other means were at hand.
As he walked through the field, his thoughts turned to his disturbing dreams of the night. He hadn’t thought of boot camp for many years and he was surprised at the emotions that his thoughts dredged up. In the dream, he felt exceptionally tired and terribly hungry. He was lying in thick, wet mud and his exhaustion made him unsure of his ability to continue. Shivering in remembrance, he braced himself for the harsh words of the drill sergeant as the dream sequence flashed again.
“Get up, soldier!” Incongruently, the staff sergeant reached down into the mud to hand him a bright blue towel, embroidered with the name “Sarah”. The real-time Marty’s knees weakened with the memory. In the dream, Marty accepted the towel while he tried in vain to rise, his exhausted arms refusing to obey. Yanked roughly to his feet, he came face to face with the scowling countenance of Connor. “You stayin’ and playin’ or leavin’ and sceamin’?” growled Connor, oddly smiling.
Marty felt naked before Connor’s smile. Yet, he also felt a renewed sense of energy seep into his exhausted body. Shaking his head, he broke free from the dream images and increased his pace into the rising sun. It was still early in the morning and the sun was low, painting his view with bright golden hues. Mesmerized by the vista, he slipped back into the clear memories of the dream.
“Stayin’, sir!” Marty yelled loudly, mimicking the words he’d said in the dream.
“Damn right! I’m gonna need good men to get where I’m going, but I’ll only take the best. You got it in you?”
With his head tilted, Marty listened again to the words still fresh in his mind. “Yes, sir!” Unbidden, Marty screamed the words again into the morning air.
“Then move it, you maggot piece of shit!”
A sudden noise broke further reverie; Marty tracked a plump squirrel skittering across a decomposing log twenty yards away. He shook his to clear the last vestiges of the dream. And for the first time in many months, he discovered he was somewhat content with his own thoughts. He sensed he’d found some definitive direction. Deep down, he was surprised at the strength of this conviction. He hadn’t realized he’d been that lonely. Mercifully, for a few moments, he discovered an ability to forget his own incredible pain and loss before the weight came seeping in like a brutal, cold shower. Sarah. Adjusting his pack and rifle, he set off east. He decided he would find this Connor Mac. If for nothing else, it might give him an opportunity to hide from the pain.