Nuclear winter book 4 go.., p.6
Nuclear Winter | Book 4 | Going Home, page 6
part #4 of Nuclear Winter Series
“Screw our mission!” Torm spat. “If you care about that stupid box so much you can take it with us, but I say we should all try to make our way back to New Memphis. Once we're there we can tell Command the truth, that it was too dangerous to carry out the mission.”
“Dude, you've been shot in the leg,” Jack pointed out. “You're not walking anywhere.”
“I'll manage if I have to, and the delivery isn't worth our lives. It's just some stupid documents. Unless the US military is full of complete morons they already know all about the Locust Swarm and how to handle it. Let's just get out of here.”
Jack glared right back. “Look, Torm, are you a complete moron? Pete doesn't care about the orders, he's doing it this way because you're injured and can't walk and he refuses to abandon you. At least show a little gratitude.”
“Actually I really do care about the orders,” Pete said. “But yes, Torm's injury is the bigger consideration.”
“Aw Corp, I didn't know you cared,” the man said sarcastically.
Pete ignored him. Whatever he felt for the man it was his duty to see him safely out of this situation if he could. And as for Jack and Monty, as much as he hoped they'd be able to send help his bigger motivation was making sure they got back to Canada safely.
Lily would never forgive him if he got his friend killed, and he'd never forgive himself.
“This is how we're doing things,” he said firmly. “So shut up and pack up your gear, then grab the map and start planning your exfil.”
Jack grabbed his shoulder and pulled him out of Torm's earshot. “Dude,” he whispered, giving him a conflicted look, “you sure about this? You seriously want us to leave you alone with this guy?”
Pete did his best to smile. “Don't worry, we'll make it out. You just focus on getting back into Canada and reporting what happened.”
His friend shook his head and glanced over at Torm. “I'm serious, Pete. That guy's so off the deep end he's doing belly flops from the high dive, and he's got a nasty injury to boot. I've got as much sympathy for a wounded feral dog as the next guy, but you wouldn't catch me trying to pet one.”
He couldn't help but think his friend was being a little hard on the interrogator. “Don't worry, I'm not planning on trying to pet Torm,” he joked. Jack glared at him and Pete firmed his tone. “He can't walk and we can't stay here. We need to get word back to Canada and we need to get away, so this makes the most sense. Just go . . . I'm counting on you to get Monty safely back.”
After a few reluctant moments his friend sighed. “Be careful,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I'm going to hold you to your promise that you'll make it out.”
Pete nodded and returned to Torm, doing his best to be quick but thorough as he went through the laborious process of cleaning, clamping, and bandaging the wound. By that time Jack and Monty had their gear prepped and had spent a while poring over the map.
As Pete cleaned up the other two carried Torm to the backseat. Then Pete took the wheel and followed Jack's directions as they made their way to the most suitable spot on this road to drop his squad mates off so they could make their break for the river.
They were back to traveling cautiously, stopping often and looking and listening for vehicles. They now had to be wary of ambushes as well, and while that was harder to prepare for they did their best by taking the smallest, most inconvenient roads they could find, even ones that were barely passable.
After a half hour of driving Pete pulled over next to a thick copse of trees within stone's throw of the wide Mississippi and Jack and Monty piled out, hefting their packs. With a few solemn handshakes and some final waves the two disappeared into the trees, and Pete wasted no time driving on.
He and Torm were on their own now, heading deeper into what was effectively enemy territory. In spite of his assurances to his friend Pete had more than a few doubts that they'd be able to make it out.
✽✽✽
Torm was in no condition to get out and scout, and for Pete to abandon the driver's seat to scout himself would be worse than useless; it would be counterproductive.
So instead he opted for more of the same, driving at a slower pace with the windows down listening carefully. He also took any small gravel or dirt road leading off into the middle of nowhere that he could find, even ones leading a different direction than the one he wanted.
Even those precautions probably wouldn't be enough, but his options were limited. It seemed to work for a while, giving him enough warning to find an alternate route or a hiding place as their pursuit blasted past, once a convoy of four vehicles.
After about a half hour Torm's complaints about the pain wore Pete down, and he tossed back the first aid kit and gave him permission to take something stronger. “Go easy, though.” The pain must've been worse than he'd thought, because the interrogator's usually caustic responses weren't forthcoming. Torm simply dug out the prescription meds and took a pill, swigging from his canteen.
Pete turned his concentration back to the road, and enough time passed with nothing said that he assumed the painkiller had knocked his squad mate out. So he was almost surprised when Torm abruptly spoke up. “Do you know why I'm here?”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. The private had used his pack to prop himself up across the backseat, right leg wrapped in his sleeping bag so it wouldn't get jostled around. His eyes were closed and his breathing shallow.
Loopy from the painkillers? Or was this a hint of shock or some other issue? That would be a bad sign. “Let me guess, because I screwed up and got us into this situation?” Pete replied.
His squad mate's eyes snapped open, face twisted in annoyance. “That goes without saying. I meant in the Army.”
Ah. Pete shrugged uncomfortably. “I've heard a bit.”
“Maybe you have, but do you know?” Torm stared murder at the passing scenery, hands clenching. “My hometown was raided and dozens of us were taken by slavers. Family, friends.”
“I know what the slavers do,” Pete said quickly. He didn't want to hear it.
“You don't know jack!” Torm leaned forward to catch Pete's gaze in the mirror and trap it. His dark eyes blazed. “They kept us in an old warehouse. Half of it was the slave pens, lined with cages, the other half was the brothel. There was only a curtain separating the two halves.”
The man looked away, face twisting in agony. “My cage was right next to the curtain.”
Pete immediately got it. He remembered his own helpless rage when he learned that Alice had almost been raped by Razor's gang and he hadn't been there to help her. He remembered nights in Saskatchewan fretting over Kathleen and Lily, worrying for their safety. He'd seen the aftermath of slaver depredations often enough, heard the tales from traumatized freed slaves, and it fueled his nightmares.
Even with all that he couldn't even imagine what Torm had gone through. To be in a cage, trapped, having to hear everything as people he knew and loved suffered unspeakable things just out of sight. Unable to do anything to stop it. For days, weeks, maybe months. He couldn't see how anyone could live through something like that without it breaking their mind.
Which certainly explained a lot.
Torm's head lolled back against his pack, his breathing rapid, harsh. The angle of the mirror was now wrong to see his face, and Pete couldn't tell if his labored breath came from pain or grief. Maybe both. “My sister Elise was captured with us. She was sixteen. After about a month one of the camp officials decided he liked her, so he took her out of the brothel and kept her for himself. I never saw her again. She wasn't in the camp when the Chainbreakers staged their rescue and got the rest of us out.”
The man fell silent. After a few minutes Pete spoke quietly. “And that's why you joined up? That's why you torture slavers? You're looking for her?”
His squad mate laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. “If this screwed up world has taught me one thing, it's to be realistic. I know I'll never see her again. If she's still alive she's probably deep in the CCZ where I could never get to her. Assuming the slaver who took her didn't get bored of her and hand her off to someone else, or toss her back in a brothel.”
Torm's voice abruptly turned chilling. “No, I joined up to kill slavers. I torture slavers to get information I can use to kill more slavers.” His head suddenly whipped around to glare at Pete in the mirror. “And yeah, I enjoy it. And yeah, I went as far as Sarge allowed even if they didn't have useful information.”
Pete had hoped hearing some of the man's past would show him a glimpse of his humanity, but that admission made all his doubts come rushing back.
Torm wasn't a stable person, and the fact that his victims were slavers wasn't enough to justify the monstrous things he did. Chavez had made a mistake letting the man interrogate prisoners, not just a moral one but a practical one. Pete wasn't sure he could keep Torm in check, and it was probably dangerous to try, but he wasn't about to let a rabid dog off his leash.
Is this how Matt had seen him at least a little?
He didn't even want to think about that. He'd outgrown his wild rage, worked through it and come out the other side a better man. “Can you really tell me none of your motivation is to free innocent people, so they don't have to suffer what you and your sister did?” he asked, hoping against hope it was just the man's grief and hatred talking.
Torm snorted. “Not really. I'd rather make sure the slavers suffer what we did, and more. If I manage to free some slaves in the process that's great, but I'm not doing it for them.”
It was almost a relief when the sound of an engine killed the conversation as they stopped to listen tensely. It was coming from somewhere up ahead, probably not on the gravel driveway Pete had been using to get to another road. He hastily killed the engine and let the car drift to a halt behind the house they'd been passing, careful not to brake and cause more noise on the gravel.
Then he popped out with his gun and crept up to the edge of the house, listening intently.
It didn't take long to determine that the vehicle would just drive on past, which was the good news. The bad news was that the road it was on wasn't a particularly large or well used one, and if the border guards were checking so carefully along it even this far away from the jeep full of guards Pete and his squad mates had neutralized earlier, that meant the search was hotter than he'd hoped for.
Once the engine noise had faded to background sounds, nature curiously free of any human voices or devices, Pete got them back on the road and kept going. He turned onto the road the pursuing vehicle had been on, his only option, but wasted no time getting off it at the first turnoff.
The rest of the day passed like that, frustratingly slow progress frequently paused while hiding from other vehicles. Through it all Torm lay sprawled across the backseat, saying little aside from once asking Pete to help him out of the car to relieve himself. He didn't sleep much, and just about every time Pete glanced back at him he was staring out the window with a curiously blank expression.
Pete kept driving until dark, a bit worried by how many of the fuel cans in the trunk they'd gone through. With what they'd taken from the jeep he thought they might still have enough to get to Utah, but they'd have to take a more direct route than the meandering course he'd followed all day.
With nightfall he found another reason to be worried, with how often he saw headlights passing on the roads around them. Either their pursuit had found some clue about which direction they were going, or they were just going insane scouring the entire region trying to find them.
Either way, and given the fact that they'd managed to get a good distance away, Pete decided to lie low for the next few days and see if the heat died down a bit. If they could wait out the manhunt they'd be able to take a more direct route to the US, which was desirable anyway because if they waited long enough Jack and Monty might get through and send them help.
He found a secluded spot along a dirt road and pulled over to rest. They couldn't risk a fire Torm was already asleep anyway, so he just lowered the driver's seat as much as he could and unzipped his sleeping bag to tuck around himself. He kept a window cracked for fresh air and so he'd be able to hear any approaching vehicles, then settled in and waited to fall asleep.
It took a while. For one thing he hadn't had enough chances to stretch his legs and he was jittery from the adrenaline that had been pooling in his system all day. For another he couldn't help but notice that Torm's breathing was faster than it should be for a sleeping person, and he even thought he heard the man shivering and his teeth clacking together.
He rummaged around in his pack for his jacket and draped it over his squad mate, discovering when he brushed Torm's arm that he felt a bit feverish.
That was a bad sign.
✽✽✽
The next morning Pete changed Torm's bandage.
The sight of the wound wasn't reassuring. The flesh around it was red and swollen and hot to the touch, the clamps crusted with dried blood. Pete did his best to clean the area before applying a clean bandage, but he couldn't hide his worry from his squad mate.
“Yeah, you don't have to tell me it's not good,” Torm said, face flushed and breathing still worryingly fast.
Considering the man's condition, Pete was forced to rethink his plan about lying low for a few days. Torm's leg showed all the telltales of blood poisoning, and that wasn't something they could just wait out. He needed to get his squad mate to a hospital, the sooner the better, which meant reaching Utah had become a priority for more reason than just to deliver a box of intel.
He sorted out the gear he'd pulled out for sleeping, ate a hasty meal and made sure Torm ate as well, then helped the private relieve himself and tended to his own needs. With all that done they were ready to go, but to his surprise instead of taking his place in the backseat again the interrogator painfully slid into shotgun, once again tucking his sleeping bag around his injured leg.
At Pete's questioning look he scowled. “There's not enough room back there, even stretched out. Besides, if we're going to survive this I should probably contribute whatever I can.” To suit his words he pulled out his binoculars and rested them in his lap, ready to check out the area ahead whenever they reached a stretch long enough to need it.
Pete just shrugged; having something to do would distract the man from his pain, which wasn't the worst thing. Speaking of which . . . “You dosed yourself yet?”
Torm grimaced. “Did it in the middle of the night. It's probably been long enough, but since I didn't check the time I want to wait to be sure.”
He took in his squad mate's pale, sweaty features and the pained set of his jaw. “Don't wait too long.”
They set off as the sun rose behind them, chasing them westwards and occasionally blinding Pete in the rearview mirror. More small roads, more cautious driving; the stress of it was taking its toll, combined with last night's bad sleep, but Pete did his best to stay alert to the possible dangers.
After about an hour Torm finally gave in and popped a pill, chasing it down with a long drink from his canteen.
“Well at least there's one thing,” Torm said in a thick voice fifteen minutes later. The meds must've been kicking in. “Command in their infinite wisdom might've decided not to include antibiotics in their first aid kits, but at least they gave us some serious painkillers. Like, sell them on the black market to junkies serious. Dying never felt so good.” He burst out with a full-bellied laugh, not seeming to care about disturbing his leg. “And I won't even have to worry about the danger of forming an addiction. Or taking too many in a short period of time, actually.”
As Torm finished saying that he wiggled in his seatbelt, stretching his arm to try to get at the pill bottle still sitting in the cupholder.
Maybe the man had been right to worry about taking another dose too soon. Pete hastily snatched the bottle away from him and put it in his shirt pocket. “Let's stick with the prescribed dosage for now.”
Torm sat back, disappointed. “Probably a good idea. I'll need plenty after you're forced to amputate my leg.”
Pete grimaced. “Don't be morbid. We'll have you to a hospital soon.”
“Sure we will.” The interrogator rested his head back against the headrest and pulled the lever to lower the seat all the way, shutting his eyes. “We'll get this all sorted out and be back in Missouri in no time, getting screwed over by petty tyrants who can't hold a gun but sure know how to hold a grudge.”
Silence settled in the car as the sun rose behind them and Pete drove them along one rundown road after another, the only sound the wind whistling through the open windows. It had to have been almost an hour and Pete thought Torm had succumbed to his meds and passed out, so he was surprised when the man spoke in a dazed murmur. “You know what I've learned from life, Corp?”
“What's that?” Pete asked, sparing a glance for the wounded private. He saw Torm staring out the window at the sky, eyes glassy and expression slack. Almost completely out of it.
“What I've learned, Corp, is that the real pieces of work, you know, the ones that just have a hard on for tormenting anyone they can, just making people's lives a living hell?” The interrogator's head lolled his way, although Pete doubted he was actually looking directly at him. “Those sorts always get away with it. They don't get punished, ever.” He wheezed a bitter laugh. “Actually, they're usually praised as the sort of person all the other little kiddos should strive to be like. A real standup guy.”
He had to admit that Torm wasn't completely wrong there, although he wasn't about to say so. “And those are the sorts you “interrogate”? Give them the comeuppance they deserve?”
Torm laughed again. “Yeah sure, Corp. The monsters that kidnap innocent people and beat, rape, starve, and overwork them to an early grave, and the sick world that lets them get away with it, those are all just dandy. But it's the guy who tears a few screams from very, very deserving throats is the real problem.”
Pete sighed. “I always get the heebie jeebies when people start trying to explain to me why the ends justify the . . .”
