« . . . the next Robert E. Lee,» Tommy translated.
«Oh.»
«I've been training to be a soldier since most kids were learning to play T-ball. My dad made a big thing about giving me my first pistol when I was eight. I'd asked for a new computer.»
«Yeah,» said Wendy, in a questioning tone. «I thought you were a computer geek, not a gun geek.»
«Gun geek, that's rich,» he said bitterly. «I am a computer geek, actually a computer super-geek. I'm nationally ranked number eleven at Death Valley and the smart money was on me going into the top five next week. I've been coding practically since I could write. I live for computers. Knowing that, Dad requires that I give equal time to this kind of training. I have to put in exactly as much time on the range or in the field as I do on a computer.
«I was the youngest member of the Junior Militia and basically quit after two years because I was so far ahead of the rest of those slow-assed bozos. I can run well enough to go out for track, but it was track or computer time. And, hell, football? Lifting weights is considered 'military training' so I can press well over my body weight and Dad wanted me to try out for the squad. It was the one time I basically told him to stuff it. If I was a jock it would cut into either range time or computer time and I knew which one my dad would choose.»
He shrugged philosophically. «So, here I am, the most dangerous kid in school, and an outcast computer geek. Go figure.»
«Well,» said Wendy carefully as they stopped by Goolrick's drugstore on the corner of George Street, «I guess you've come to your moment.»
«My dad's moment, you mean. He's out there, somewhere, holed up, waiting for the Posleen to come into view and just living for it. Mom and Sally will go into the hole and I'll 'give 'em as good as I get,' « he quoted in a false baritone.
«Fucking bastard,» he spat, bitterly. «The bitch of it is, I'm sitting here figuring angles of fire as well as any infantry lieutenant, and as if it's going to do any good.» He shrugged and looked around, still figuring the angles.
«What about Alesia's Antiques?» he asked, gesturing across the street with his chin. «It's got a good shot across the courtyard behind it. We might even move into the Bank Museum. That would give us first and second positions. We might even survive three minutes,» he finished with a laugh.
«I've been thinking about Alesia's,» she answered speculatively. «You know when you asked if I wished I was going in the Bunker?»
* * *
«Jesus,» said Tommy, as the rebar went through the brick wall next to an antique safe, «it really is here. How did you know about this?»
«Well, your love is computers and the military. Mine is local history and research.»
He poked his head through the small hole and into the musty tunnel beyond, shining a Maglite around. «It's about five, five and a half feet high. Brick arch, dry earth floor. Amazing. What were these things for?»
«Nobody's sure. There's no written records about them, but they date to the Eighteenth century at least. The best guess is that they were used to bring cargo up from the docks. The streets back then were dirt and they got awful boggy in the rain. The romantic story is that they were for transporting contraband. Smuggled silk and untaxed tea, stuff like that. The really stupid story is that they were created by the slaves as escape routes. No way. They might have been used as hiding places for the Underground Railroad, but they were not created by it; they're from an earlier period.»
He turned and looked at her in the dimness of the antique shop's basement. «I guess I'm not the only one surprising people today.»
«I usually get complimented on my intelligence just before I get dumped,» she said, frowning.
He swallowed a lump of his own resentment. «Maybe you were hanging out with the wrong guys.»
«Yeah,» she answered, «maybe I was. Look,» she continued, pulling out the Glock, «this isn't going to do me much good against the Posties. You got anything heavier in there?» She gestured at the duffel.
«Yeah, good point. The only problem is these are a little more complicated.» He unzipped the duffel and started emptying it. He had set aside his armor and backpack to move the heavy sideboard blocking the tunnel wall and now gestured at the backpack. «Open that up and start laying the stuff out. We'll need to divvy it up.»
In a few minutes the two bags were emptied out on the floor and their contents neatly arranged. It made an impressive arsenal.
«We're not going to get to use a third of this stuff, but I believe in being truly prepared.»
«I can see that,» she said, picking up one of the assault rifles that had been stowed in the duffel bag. «What's this one?»
«That's a Galil .308. It's a good anti-Posleen weapon. Do you want to try it?»
«Okay, it looks less complicated than that one.» The other weapon appeared to have more than one rifle on it.
«It is. This one is my baby.» He hefted the rifle. «It's an Advanced Infantry Weapon, a 7.62 rifle with a twenty-millimeter grenade launcher underneath. Thirty-round magazine for the rifle and five rounds for the grenade launcher. Laser designator. Definitely the thing.»
«I'll take this one,» she said, lifting the Galil. «Is it loaded?»
«No.» He took it and went through the basic steps to arm, fire, reload and safe it. «Pull it into your shoulder and squeeze the trigger. This one has a laser designator, too, but it's low infrared so you can only see it through the scope.»
He safed the weapon and handed it back. «It's empty. Point it at the far wall and squeeze the trigger while you look through the scope.» He helped her get a good cheek-to-stock position. «See the dot?»
«Yeah, it's all over the place.»
«Take a deep breath,» he said, forced to notice the pleasant things it did to her anatomy even under body armor, «let it out and squeeze the trigger gently . . .» He almost continued with the standard line but snorted instead.
«Don't laugh at me!» she snapped, dropping the rifle to waist level. «I'm trying!»
«I know you are. I wasn't laughing at you,» he said, snorting again. «I was trying not to continue the saying that goes with that.»
«With what?» she asked, confused.
«Look, when you're teaching trigger control the way the saying usually goes is 'let your breath out and squeeze it gentle, like a tit,' okay? That was what I laughed about, I almost said it. Okay?»
«Okay,» she said, mollified. «What a crude and stupid thing to say,» she continued.
«I tried not to! You badgered me into saying it, okay?»
«Like you would know what squeezing a tit felt like!» She stopped and her hand flew across her mouth as she realized what she had blurted.
«Thanks,» he smiled grimly, «thanks a lot. If you must know, I guarantee I know more about squeezing tits gently than you do.»
«Oh, sure. I don't think you've gone with a girl since Kathy Smetzer in fifth grade!»
«Jesus, you really have been keeping up with my life, haven't you,» he snarled.
«It's a small town,» she answered, lamely.
«Right. Well, for your general fund of information, my dad also had very . . . different ideas about summer camp . . .»
It took a moment for the gist of what he had said to sink in. «Oh, sure, a camp story.»
«The camp I go to is a coed combat-training camp in Montana, run by the National Militia Association,» he continued, firmly. «Although sex is not specifically encouraged, sex education, as in, 'this is how you do it, boys and girls' is taught. In detail. And there are no restrictions except those relating to consent. Okay?»
«You're kidding.»
«You wish. Every year I get through the year's insults, slights and put-downs knowing that the big man on that campus is the best shot, the best at hand-to-hand or the most stealthy. And I generally come out somewhere close to the top. And all the girls are in great shape.»