“What the hell is this?” Weasel studied the brown chunk in his hand as he chewed. “I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a brownie or beef jerky.”
Mark had his head tilted back against the wall and rolled it over so he could see what Weasel was talking about. “I don’t know. What’s it taste like?”
The hawk-faced man chewed for a while. “Cardboard,” he concluded finally.
“Then it’s a brownie,” Mark told him. “The beef jerky tastes like dirty socks.”
“You get some?” Weasel held up what was left of the bar.
“I got an entrée, some noodle thing, and a packet of crackers. I don’t know if I want to eat it or not, I think it’ll be just enough to remind my stomach how hungry I am.”
“I hear that.”
The two men were sitting in the upstairs hallway with their backs to opposite walls. They’d tacked up the heat-reflecting sheets on the ceilings in the hallway and the front bedroom, and had the wet mildewed mattress leaning up against the wall in the hallway, just in case. They could pull it down over them in just a few seconds. Quentin’s rifle lay beside Mark. It looked small compared to the SAW, which was still set up on its bipod on a table looking down out a second-floor window. Quentin was with it, taking his turn on watch.
Mark scratched at his forearm, and Weasel’s eye was drawn to his tattoos. He squinted in the dim hallway.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Mark looked down and twisted his arm. The black and red design was now no more than an unreadable splotch. “That’s sign of a misspent youth,” he said. “Was part of a biker gang. Used to think I was tough.” He snorted. “Then I got married and had kids. Tough is getting a real job and sticking to it even if it sucks, and then working double shifts of suck, so there’ll be food on the table and money for clothes.”
“Kids? I thought you just had one.”
Mark stared down at his tattoo, then rubbed a hand self-consciously over the artwork. “I had two boys, teenagers. Toby got killed in the riots. Still not sure what happened. My wife left with the younger to live with her sister until ‘all the craziness stopped.’ That’s how she put it. That was years ago.”
“How are they doing?”
Mark shook his head. “Haven’t spoken to them since November. Fine, then.”
The two men sat in silence for several minutes. Somewhere outside they could hear a blue jay protesting loudly. “I don’t have anybody. Not any more,” Weasel said after a while, looking up at Mark. Mark returned his gaze but didn’t say anything. “I… I don’t know if that’s better or not,” Weasel finally finished.
Mark didn’t answer him, and both men stared at the floor, alone with their thoughts.
“I remember when I used to run five miles for fun,” Parker gasped, the sweat streaming down his face. He looked at the readout on the treadmill as he cooled down after his workout. Three miles, at ten minutes a mile. Pathetic. But still better than not jogging. And he hadn’t thrown up, so there was that.
Lydia was on the treadmill next to him and she’d kept up with him effortlessly. Well, maybe not effortlessly, but she wasn’t gasping, and she wasn’t sweating as much as she was glistening. She gave him a smile, and her big white teeth were brilliant.
“It’s not like you’ve been sitting on your ass watching TV and eating Cheetos, General,” she told him. He gave her a small smile. She’d been telling him almost since they’d met that he should be a General, with all the responsibilities he had, and she liked calling him that when no one else was close enough to hear.
“Still,” he said. He glanced around. He had a four-man security detail—one man by the front door of the big gym, the only formal gym in the Blue Zone, one by the back near the locker room, one about twenty feet away trying to be inconspicuous, and one waiting in the Growler outside. She was the reason he’d started working out again, after however many years it had been. She was younger than him by five years, but looked at least ten years his junior. In her white athletic top and black yoga pants she looked simply fabulous, and he didn’t think she was wearing anything under those pants. Oof. If he ever met the man who had somehow convinced women everywhere yoga pants weren’t lingerie and were acceptable to wear in public he’d put him in for a Presidential Medal of Freedom.
She noticed him checking out her ass, which he did frequently. “You want to do another mile? Looks like you’ve still got some energy.”
“No, please, I surrender. You win. Let’s hit the showers, then maybe we can walk down Grand and grab a cup of coffee? I don’t have time to do much more than that today.” Coffee was too damn expensive to splurge on a cup just for himself, but he’d happily spend the money on her.
“Absolutely.” Him ending up behind her as they walked toward the locker rooms was no accident.
He’d never been with an African-American woman before, and he’d treaded very carefully, doing his best to make sure he never said or did anything that could be construed as offensive, sexist, culturally insensitive or, God forbid, racist. Until she’d made it clear that she had no time for the political correctness that seemed to be strangling the officer corps of the military.
“Of course this skirt looks good on me!” she’d told him after he’d given her a vague compliment on her outfit prior to them heading out to dinner on their third or fourth date. “I’ve got a black girl’s ass. And it’s a good thing, too, since I’m a black girl. Wouldn’t be right to have some flat-as-a-board white girl’s butt, I’d have to go around calling myself Britney or Karen and talk about Starbucks and soccer or whatever.” If he remembered correctly, it was that night after the dinner and wine they’d first had sex. And he’d quickly learned she was completely unconcerned with gender pronouns or racial stereotypes when they were behind closed doors and naked.
Twenty-five minutes later they were walking up 2nd Avenue toward West Grand. The huge 15-story Cadillac Place office complex was on their right, and the massive 30-story tower of the art deco Fisher Building was directly in front of them. Two of the men followed behind them in the Growler, while one was on foot in front and behind. There were a few people walking on the sidewalks in the warm afternoon sun, and the occasional vehicle, making this part of the city appear almost normal.
Directly across from them was the front entrance to the Fisher Building. The façade was three stylish stories of glass panes with gold lattice figurines just above the doors and black stone ravens on the exterior columns. The massive edifice was on the National Register of Historic Places and had somehow, so far, come through the war unscathed. Parker didn’t feel like walking a block to the nearest pedestrian walkway over the street, so he waved the Growler forward and had it block traffic as he and Lydia walked across West Grand. It was three eastbound and three westbound lanes separated by a grassy boulevard dotted with low trees.
Foot traffic passed in both directions, and there was actual vehicular traffic as well, personal vehicles as well as delivery trucks. West Grand was perhaps the busiest street in the city during business hours as so many corporations and city departments had their offices in nearby buildings. There were regular foot patrols in the area, to keep the civilians feeling happy and secure, as well as a few static posts that were more for visibility than function.