Nuclear winter book 4 go.., p.30
Nuclear Winter | Book 4 | Going Home, page 30
part #4 of Nuclear Winter Series
Pete was just about to reach for his and get started when Jack stiffened. He turned to follow his friend's gaze and saw a few Lancers filing into the bar. The men smirked Pete's way and headed towards a table in the far corner.
“I was wondering why it suddenly smelled like rat in here,” Jack called after them. The only response was a mocking wave from one of the Lancers as he headed over to the bar to order drinks from Jeremy.
Pete watched as the man returned to his friends clutching three mugs of beer, and they all settled down to drink and watch Epsilon squad as if expecting huge entertainment.
“Look at them sitting there grinning like morons,” Monty muttered. “I wonder if I can peg that dude on the left in the face with my shot glass from this distance.”
“Leave it,” Pete said sharply. “Vernon probably sent them to spy on us, see if he could shovel any more dirt on our graves. Let's not make it easy for him.”
“Well I hope they tell him all about how we got wasted and cursed his miserable name all night long.” Jack slapped Monty sharply on the back. “Why are these drinks still sitting here? How bout you start us off with a toast, man.”
Pete nodded and raised his glass, joined by Jack and Lily. Monty reluctantly lifted his own glass and gave it a dismal look. “Here's to my brief military career,” he said with a sigh before tossing the shot back in two quick gulps.
Pete, glass raised to join him, paused and shook his head fiercely. “Hey, you're not getting drummed out over this. Like I said earlier, if this goes the wrong way I'm the only one who gets hit by it. I'll make sure of that.”
Jack, in the middle of working down the burn of swallowing his own shot, swore at that and shook his head. “No way. You saved our lives down there, then put your own neck on the line to get Torm out. We're not letting you toss yourself on a grenade for us.”
Pete gave his best friend an impatient look. “You know how it works. If they decide to start dishing out punishments they either drop them on me or on all of us. I know you want to have my back, but don't tell me you're willing to toss Torm and Monty under the bus with you. It all lands on me, and only me.”
Jack swore again. “Torm I wouldn't have much of a problem with,” he muttered, staring across the bar to where the interrogator sat drinking on his own. Then he sighed. “I suppose you're right, though.”
After a few grim seconds Pete drained his own glass. “Next round's on me.”
He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when, while he was alone at the bar ordering drinks, one of the Lancers decided to mess with him. “Corporal Childress!” the man called, grinning broadly and standing from his table to approach with arms outstretched as if offering a hug.
That was a familiar voice, actually. Pete thought he recognized it from a confrontation in the night weeks ago, when he'd been attacked by Vernon's cronies in the dark. And hearing it now Pete would've liked nothing more than to grab a bar stool and smash the smug grin from the guy's stupid face.
Now wasn't the time, though. Not when his head was on the chopping block. But it was nice to know this Lancer was one of his assailants, in case he found a chance to “thank” him later.
So he bit back angry words and ignored the man, keeping his attention on Jeremy. The Swamp's proprietor had paused pouring Pete's drinks to stare warily at the Lancer, but at Pete's reaction he got back to work, although keeping half an eye out in case of trouble.
The Lancer held up his hands placatingly, as if Pete could be fooled by his intentions at this point. “Hey, I don't want any trouble. The LT just told me if I happened to see you that I should send on an apology from him. Never let it be said he doesn't admit it when he's wrong.”
He paused as if waiting for a response. Pete continued to ignore him, refusing to take the bait, and after a moment the man continued unperturbed. “Five years ago the LT told your captain you'd never amount to anything, and that was wrong.” The Lancer chuckled. “He should've said you'll never amount to much.”
Okay, this conversation had been exactly as productive as Pete had guessed. “Well you Lancers would be the experts on that,” he said. The man's smile slipped, and Pete used the opportunity to take the tray of refilled shot glasses from Jeremy and head back to his table.
As expected the Lancer couldn't let him get the last word. “A smart man would be careful of the fights he picks. You really should've figured that out by now.”
I'm not the one who picked this fight, Pete thought as he settled down at his table. Well, unless the guy was talking about something that had happened half a decade ago that Vernon didn't have the maturity to get over. And that was in spite of the fact that even from a cockroach like Vernon's perspective he had to have more than gotten even with Pete by now.
But nope, still trying to destroy the lives of Pete and his friends simply because he could. Pete shrugged the confrontation off and began handing out the glasses to his friends.
“You know, I kind of wish I was a poet,” Jack muttered, glaring into his glass. “Then I could think of a million clever ways to call Vernon a broken sewer pipe.”
Lily snickered and nudged her boyfriend's shoulder with hers. “Ah, I love seeing your romantic side.”
“Sounds like a good toast,” Jack said, raising his glass and downing the contents with a hiss of contentment. “Couple more like this and I'll start giving some serious thought to whipping us up a batch of The Chavez.”
Pete groaned exaggeratedly, but with feeling. At the wake for their lost squad mates his friend had snuck behind the bar and poured together a bunch of the nastiest stuff there, naming the concoction after their fallen squad leader. It was the grossest drink Pete had ever tasted, and hands down the strongest, but Jack had been smashed enough to think it was delicious. “In that case I'll make our next round pints of beer. I'd prefer to stride manfully into oblivion, not sprint face first.”
“I'd rather be like our buddy over there,” Jack grumbled, pointing at Torm. Pete saw that the interrogator had already downed almost a quarter of that huge bottle and was in the middle of taking another long pull.
“Relax, we've got the whole night ahead of us,” he said, ignoring his friend's further complaints and heading to the bar for round three. Thankfully the Lancers left him alone this time.
Pete had to admit that in spite of the situation it was good to be back with his squad again, and with his friends. Good to see with his own eyes that Jack and Monty had made it out of Mexico in one piece, good to hear Lily laughing at one of Jack's stupid jokes. Good to have his squad around him exchanging jibes and grousing about the unfairness of what was happening.
After maybe an hour, a more than slightly drunk Jack decided it was finally time to make The Chavez. When Pete, Lily, and Monty all ganged up on him refusing to even consider it, voting instead for another pint, he hatched on a new idea instead.
Pete watched in amusement as his friend staggered over to Torm's table in the shadowy corner, reaching for his bottle. The interrogator swore and snatched it away, nearly falling out of his chair. “What're you doin'?” he demanded.
“Oh come on,” Jack replied, grinning lopsidedly. “You going to finish off that entire giant bottle by yourself? Those lightweights over there just want to drink weak stuff all night and I need to keep this buzz going.” He grabbed at it again. “Come on, it's a party! Just share a bit.”
This time Torm shoved Jack hard enough to make him stumble and nearly fall flat on his back. “Sersly, go 'way!” The interrogator drank directly from the open bottle, taking several gulps before coughing and choking and slamming the bottle back on the table as he hunched over it.
Jack held up his hands. “Okay fine. I'm sure the camp hospital can pump your stomach after you drink an entire bottle of . . . what is that anyway?” He blearily peered at the label. “Tequila? Dude, that so wouldn't be my first choice for drinking straight from the bottle, but whatever. Just wanted to save you from alcohol poisoning by taking a couple shots for you.”
Torm hugged the bottle protectively to his chest. “'s mine. Go 'way!”
With a shrug Jack made his way back over to their table. “He's gonna be hating himself in the morning.”
Monty snorted. “That'll be a change for him.”
Pete fought down a surge of irritation. “Knock it off, guys.”
Everyone turned to look at him. “You're defending him?” Jack demanded. “You? The guy hates your guts.”
“Yeah but he still has his moments.” Pete made his way over to Torm's table, leaning close and speaking in a quiet voice. Or at least what he thought was a quiet voice in his current inebriated state. “Hey take it easy, Private. Tonight's not the best night for you to be passed out on the floor.”
Torm responded by taking another swig, then retching once before swallowing his gorge. “Screw you, Corp,” he mumbled. “Don' hafta take orders from you. Prolly be in prison waiting for court-martial proceedings tomorrow.”
Pete grit his teeth and gave up. “Drink deep, then. How you feel tomorrow will be its own punishment.” He returned to his table and replied to his friends' questioning looks with a shrug.
They got back to drinking and fretting over the future while trying to pretend like they were having a good time. None of them noticed a few minutes later when Torm painstakingly lifted himself on his crutches and shuffled towards the hallway leading to The Swamp's bathroom, clutching his half-empty bottle of booze in one hand.
None of them saw him go straight past the bathroom and out the bar's back door. And in the dark alley behind the seedy establishment no one saw him pour out the remaining contents of the large bottle, which had actually been filled with water, and set it on the ground at his feet. Then he carefully leaned his crutches beside the door and limped away without their aid.
He walked at the quickest pace he could manage, teeth gritted with each step, but it was obvious his wound wasn't as bad as everyone had assumed. Or at least it was healed enough for him to do what needed doing tonight, if he was willing to put up with the pain.
And if there was one thing you could say about Private Torment, it was that he and pain were old friends.
✽✽✽
“All right, Lieutenant. I'll take your concerns under advisement.”
Fred Vernon felt a warm sense of satisfaction. “Thank you, sir. I hate to do this, but I honestly believe the boy is in need of serious disciplinary action. I'm sure you can see his behavior warrants it.”
Major Higgens, commander of the 102nd, frowned thoughtfully. “It does appear that way. I'll look further into what happened down in Mexico and what Captain Renault is doing to fix this mess . . . the last thing we need is another incident. Dismissed.”
Fred saluted, receiving a curt salute in return, and hurried from the office.
Childress had gotten out of everything else Fred had thrown at him, but he had a feeling this would be the blow that finally brought down the Kid.
It wasn't about petty revenge or wounded pride, but the fact that the boy was sincerely a risk to himself and others. He needed to be discharged, preferably dishonorably, and find some job that didn't put a weapon in his hands and victims in his path.
Fred snorted to himself. Maybe the Kid could become a latrine digger; he'd be comfortable in his natural element.
He strolled through the military camp and out the front gate, making his way down the streets of Lafayette towards the Lancers' bar. There was another victory by the 102nd over the 103rd, one he was happy to have been a part of. Chasing the Chainbreakers out of the place where they'd jumped him and his men like wild dogs five years ago and making it a Lancer hangout carried more than a little satisfaction.
Chainbreakers really weren't fit for civilized company. Cutthroats, torturers, and looters, and likely perpetrators of rape and other atrocities in CCZ territory, Fred had no idea why the company hadn't been broken up, its worst offenders brought to justice while the rest were reassigned to unpleasant jobs far away from enemy lines.
Just showed the state of things these days, when monsters like that were considered a necessary evil. The fact that they'd ever been considered heroes absolutely boggled his mi-
He didn't see the shape that lunged out at him as he passed a dark alley, barely had time to stiffen in shock as a hand clamped over his mouth and he felt something cold press against his throat.
“Easy,” a low, mesmerizing voice whispered as his assailant dragged him back into the shadows. “You don't want me to use this.”
Fred fearfully complied as his mouth was uncovered, freeing one of his assailant's hands to cuff Fred's own behind his back. Moments later he flinched as a gag was stuffed into his mouth, then tied in place with a bandanna.
He was shoved deeper into the alley, to a spot where three buildings converged in a rubbish-strewn triangle far from any prying eyes. There Fred was shoved down to sit against a wall, cuffed hands crushed painfully between his back and unyielding stone.
Moving carefully, breath hissing menacingly from the shadows, his assailant dropped into a half-kneeling crouch in front of him. “Lieutenant Vernon,” he said. “I've been wanting to speak to you in private.”
Fred's terror, which had already been thick enough to choke him, ramped up another notch. This wasn't some random mugging; his attacker knew him, had likely planned this ambush in advance. Which was a very, very bad thing.
Who was behind this? Childress? Some other Chainbreaker? One of his other enemies on base? Cowering in that shadowy nook, far from any help, Fred decided it didn't really matter one way or another since he was probably about to be murdered.
The dead didn't really have to worry about enemies anymore.
“To start things off,” his shadowy assailant continued in that same hypnotic voice, “I believe you're due a beating.”
The man wasn't joking. Almost before he finished speaking one of his shadowy arms became a blur of barely seen motion, and Fred's head was slammed to the side by a solid elbow to his left temple. Stars flashed across his vision and he flopped helplessly onto the filthy ground of the alley, bound hands doing nothing to stop his fall.
Ideally that blow to the head should've numbed the pain of the beating that followed, but unfortunately the man knew what he was doing. Instead Fred sprawled on the ground with the world spinning dizzily around him, feeling every single punch that came his way as his entire body was worked over. He screamed uselessly into the gag, but those screams soon faded to agonized grunts and whimpers as the beating continued
It hurt in a way he'd never before experienced, had barely even imagined possible. But, again because the man knew what he was doing, Fred didn't think any of those precise blows seriously injured him. They were targeted at areas that would cause the most pain without doing much damage.
And, while it seemed like it lasted forever, he guessed it went on for less than five minutes before the beating abruptly stopped. Strong fingers grabbed him by the hair, nearly tearing chunks from his scalp as he was yanked back into a sitting position with his back to the wall.
Through his blurry vision, made worse by both his eyes swelling shut, Fred saw his assailant once again settle into a half-kneeling position in front of him, gloved hands resting casually on the other knee. “Okay, now that we've got that taken care of let's have a chat. I don't like to repeat myself so I trust you'll listen carefully, won't you?”
The matter of fact way the man spoke sent chills down Fred's spine. He nodded vigorously, wincing at the flashes of pain the movement caused in his head.
“Good. I understand you've been abusing your authority, Vernon. Sending your men to beat up and intimidate soldiers from other companies, making false reports, spreading lies and vicious rumors, calling in favors with the higher ups to screw over people you have no business messing with.”
Childress, Fred thought, fear giving way to relief and a bit of anger. The man in front of him had to be the Kid, finally coming after him in vengeance for problems of his own making. Fred would've expected that sort of pettiness from the corporal.
Did he think dressing up in a mask and dark clothes and altering his voice would hide his identity? He'd soon learn different, when Fred came after him for this and the boy had no alibi. And assaulting an officer on top of all the trouble he was in for his rampage down in Mexico? Phew! If the Kid thought being exiled to northern Canada for his last offense had been bad, just wait until he learned what happened when-
His assailant abruptly moved, and Fred's vision went blinding white for a moment as the heel of the man's hand connected with his face. Blood fountained from his nose and he twitched against the wall, struggling to stay upright and conscious as the pain faded.
“You weren't paying attention, were you?” the man said in the same passionless tone, settling back on one knee. “Please stop plotting your revenge and listen. It's a better use of your time since you'll never find out who I am. Nor should you be stupid enough to try. You're not stupid are you, Vernon?”
Fred shook his head frantically.
“Good. And since you're not stupid you're going to listen to a friendly piece of advice from someone you really don't want to meet in a dark alley again, aren't you?” He nodded even more frantically. “That's what I like to hear.”
There was a brief pause, as if the man was gathering his thoughts. Or letting the tension build. “Here's the thing, Vernon . . . you don't seem to mind lying and breaking the rules to get your way. Well I don't care about the rules, either, but I never lie.”
“So believe me when I say I've had a lot of practice causing pain. I could go into horrific detail if I wanted, but I've found that the imagination of miserable little cowards like you can supply all those details as well as I ever could. So I'm just going to give you plenty of time to think about what I'll do to you if you don't do exactly what I tell you. And believe me, your worst nightmare will be paradise compared to reality.”
The threat was delivered in the same flat, passionless tone his assailant had used this entire time. It made Fred's blood run cold, and if his bladder control had been a little worse something else would've run hot.
