He hawks a black gob of phlegm onto the ground. “Why’d you wake me up at all, Corporal?”
“Captain Rhodes wants to see you, Sergeant. I’m supposed to take you to her.”
Christ, he thinks. We just got here. Why are they sending us back out so soon?
“All right,” he says. He spits again and takes a swallow from his canteen. He can’t get the burned charcoal taste of ash out of his mouth.
“Here, Sergeant. Try this.”
The kid offers a packet of flavored powder, which Rod accepts with a nod. He pours a little into his canteen and swirls it around. Instant fruit drink. He take another swallow. Better.
“Outstanding,” Rod says, spitting again. “Thanks for that.”
“Close of business is in an hour, so you have time to get cleaned up, Sergeant,” the kid says quietly, adding the hint: “Captain Rhodes is in Major Duncan’s office.”
Rod sighs loudly, suppressing another surge of rage. You’d think the rear echelon motherfuckers like Major Duncan would change their tune and try to be useful during the end of the world, but some things never change, even during the apocalypse. The infantry often looks down on all the POGs—everyone in the service believes they are part of an elite unit and winners of the big dick contest—but they don’t hate them. Rod does not hate the kid standing in front of him, nor does he hate the mechanics who keep his Stryker operational, the guys who cut his hair, the cooks who load his plate in the chow line. What Rod does hate is officers who bust men returning from combat for dirty uniforms and stubble and flaring sideburns. Officers like Major Duncan, the chairborne ranger the boys call Major Dookie.
The minute Fifth Dragoons returned to the forward operating base, many of them headed for the mess hall. They hadn’t eaten since the previous day, and they were starving. Major Duncan pulled them out of the chow line and told them to get cleaned up. Outside the banquet hall being used as a dining facility, Rod told his squad to hit the showers and put on some clean uniforms, and then go get something to eat if there was still time. This done, he walked into a nearby park, stretched out on the ground at the base of a tree, and fell fast asleep. Screw it, he thought just before he went under.
“You work for Major Duncan, Corporal?”
“That’s right, Sergeant.”
“Did he order you to tell me to get cleaned up before reporting to Captain Rhodes?”
The kid swallows hard. “No, Sergeant.”
“Then mind your own business. Nobody likes a busybody, even if your intentions are good. Understand?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” the kid answers, paling. “My bad, Sergeant.”
Rod sighs, letting go of his anger. “What’s your name, Corporal?”
“Sam Carlson, Sergeant. Corporal Sam Carlson.”
“Well, then, drive on.” Translation: Carry on with your mission, soldier.
The kid smiles at this and leads him through the park toward the massive building across the street—the old Harry S. Truman Building, former home of the Department of State—that now houses the headquarters staffs of Rod’s regiment and several other large units operating in the area. Along the way, he sees the familiar base personalities hard at work and play: chairborne rangers and the cheesers who suck up to them sunning themselves in the park, sick call ninjas smoking outside the infirmary, gung-ho-mo-fo lieutenants drilling their platoons mercilessly toward perfection, treads terrorizing the enlisted just for the fun of it, tough Jane Waynes out jogging and the shit patrol cleaning latrines, almost everyone sandbagging to stretch out the long, hot day. Observing the dicked-up routine he’s known for years, Rod feels something like fondness for it. It feels normal; it feels a little like home. If nothing else, he knows he is safe here, safe enough to sleep.
Some of the boys from Third Squad call to him as he passes. They’re cleaned up and heading back to the mess hall to get their supper.
“What’s on the menu at the DFAC tonight, vatos?” he says.
“I heard cigarette soup, Sergeant,” Tanner tells him with a laugh, referring to onion soup.
“Sergeant, we got mail,” Davis says. “I think there’s some for you.”
Rod waves the boys on and turns to Corporal Carlson.
“We got about an hour, right?”
“That’s right, Sergeant.”
“Then take me to wherever you’ve put my company clerk.”
♦
Dear Rod,
We’re all okay.
Rod smiles. Gabriela always starts her letters this way when he is deployed, and they have an immediate healing effect on him. This last letter is dated a week ago. While he’d rather it be dated today, he feels assured his wife and children are alive and safe.
He leafs through the handwritten pages hungrily, as if getting acquainted with a brand new book by his favorite author. He has a lot of reading to do. Pages and pages of life.
Back to the beginning. He picks a spot at random in the first letter, and reads:
We’re too close to Columbus, and can’t handle all the refugees and Infected coming south. Shooting kept the kids up all night. I doubt anyone on base slept at all. I sure didn’t. Today we were told that we’re evacuating to Fort Hood in Texas. The trip is going to take a while since we’re going to avoid the major highways, so we’re being told to bring as much food and water as we can carry, while we can only bring a few personal effects. I didn’t know it would be so hard to walk away from our home with almost nothing, Rod. I was allowed to bring a photo album and some toys and books for the kids to keep them occupied during the trip. Sitting on the bus as I write this, everyone is quiet, scared. We’re all diving off a really high diving board and we have no idea of what’s down there, you know?
Rod stops there, sniffing and wiping his eyes. He feels restless, but fights it. He wants to read the entire stack of letters in a single glance, but wants to savor every word. As a compromise, he skips ahead to the middle of another letter.
Fort Hood is serving as a refugee camp for military families, and it’s huge. I heard there are something like thirty thousand of us here, pulled together from bases all over the country, and still growing. It’s even hotter than Georgia, if you can believe that. Hot and dry. We’ve been here six days and we’re still not used to it. I spend half my time chasing the kids around, making them drink plenty of water. The barracks are all full, so we sleep on cots in a big tent they put up for us. You can imagine what that’s like: babies crying all night long, and the cot murder on my back. There’s a lot of resentment between the families that were already here, who have houses and call this place home, and the newcomers like me who showed up scared and with nothing. I’m not getting caught up in any of that nonsense; the Army is taking good care of us. We’ve got everything we need. Things could have turned out a heck of a lot worse. We’re all being given work—help with the daycare, tend the garden, type up memos, empty the latrines, collect firewood, wipe the dust that gets into everything, and laundry, laundry and more laundry —all sorts of jobs. The list of chores is endless. I feel like we’re in the Army too. We eat, sleep, shower, work together. Almost everything we have is government issue and we share everything. I miss our house and old life but in a way it’s kind of fun, like being on a camping trip. We tell stories about our men and it really helps to know so many of these people are feeling the exact same things as I am every day. Last night, some of the wives put on a play that had us all laughing for the first time since the Screaming. The kids are also making the most of it, and my only regret is I did not bring more clothes for them; they are wearing out what little I could bring as fast as they can. Oh, by the way, some drill sergeants are teaching us to shoot. I have a 9-mm and fired it a few times at a target and the drill sergeant told me to tell you that I’m good enough to earn the Bolo Badge, whatever that is, so there! You’d better watch your ass, Cool Rod! Mustang Sally is packing heat.