Nuclear winter book 4 go.., p.7
Nuclear Winter | Book 4 | Going Home, page 7
part #4 of Nuclear Winter Series
Torm's harsh, wracking laughter silenced him. “You're such a boy scout, Corp,” he mumbled, letting his head loll back to look out the window.
Although he'd been called a lot of things in his life, Pete honestly had to say that it was a first for that one. Then again, compared to Torm he probably was. “Sweet dreams, Private,” he said quietly. Torm didn't respond, and he drove on through the morning in silence.
They were entering the most dangerous part of the trip, the endless flat expanses of mostly prairie that characterized Oklahoma and northern Texas. Hiding would be much more difficult, if not impossible, along this stretch. On the plus side the roads were in better condition and were mostly straight, allowing for better speed; Pete thought the car might be able to outrun most military vehicles they encountered.
And if they could get across this stretch they'd just have to get through New Mexico and then they'd hopefully be able to get across the border into Colorado, which was claimed by the US.
It meant they hadn't gotten very far in these last few days of driving and the bulk of the trip was still ahead of them, and the most difficult part as well. But since there was no other option Pete woke Torm up and handed him the binoculars, then ventured off the small roads and back onto the larger highways, although still hopefully the less traveled routes.
There was no point going slow anymore, so Pete once more pushed the car up into the 90s and stayed there, hoping that speed and the unexpectedness of venturing out onto open ground would catch their pursuit by surprise.
With any luck they'd finally be able to outrun the manhunt and get lost on the prairie. He also kept the radio on, listening for any telltale traffic from border guards that would give away that they'd been spotted.
Around noon Torm, who'd been showing increasing signs of discomfort, abruptly announced that he needed a pit stop. Pete obligingly found a spot to pull over, deciding that it would be a good opportunity to refuel the car and eat lunch as well.
But when he moved around to the passenger door to help his squad mate out of the car the bitter, almost hateful look the man gave him made him pause in confusion, which gave way to slow, uncomfortable realization. “You don't need to go number one, do you?”
“No, I do not,” the interrogator said through gritted teeth. “And lucky me, I don't think I can manage on my own. So congratulations, you're volunteered.”
Yeah, because this is exactly the sort of thing I just love helping with. Pete carefully maneuvered Torm out of the car and half-carried him to a more secluded spot. Then was obliged to hold his squad mate under the shoulders as he squatted with his wounded leg stretched out straight in front of him.
It wasn't exactly an enjoyable experience for either of them, but it obviously took a serious toll on Torm. He was already exhausted even after a morning spent sitting in the passenger's seat, and by the time they finally finished up and Pete pulled him back upright so they could hobble their way back to the car the man was gasping for breath and drenched in sweat.
They only made it halfway before Torm stumbled and dropped, hitting the ground with a cry of pain before Pete could catch him. He stooped to help his squad mate back to his feet, but the interrogator waved him away sharply.
“Give me a minute here,” he panted through gritted teeth.
Pete immediately went for the first aid kit, although he wasn't sure what exactly he could do with it. He returned and carefully began unwinding the bandages around his companion's leg, wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell and feeling a surge of alarm.
Even though he knew what he would find when he uncovered the wound, Pete still hissed in a sharp breath at the sight of the ugly black lines spiderwebbing out from it, along with the stinking pus that had crusted on the bandage and continued to leak from around the clamps.
Blood poisoning, and it was advancing quickly.
“That's about what I figured,” Torm mumbled. He was sweating buckets, the T-shirt under his uniform shirt already soaked. He chuckled, then sucked in a pained breath. “Guess I won't be a problem for you much longer, Corp.”
It felt useless, but Pete still carefully washed and re-bandaged the wound. It was a good thing he hadn't waited for the manhunt to die down, and probably just as good that he was making a break for it across the plains. He needed to get his squad mate to a hospital immediately, and even then hope he wasn't too late.
“This is going to suck,” he said, straightening to open the passenger door, “but I need to carry you.”
Torm laughed, almost a giggle. Delirious? “Change your mind about lunch?”
“I can eat on the way. Looks like we need to make a quick trip to the hospital.” Pete ducked down to get an arm under Torm's shoulders and another under his knees, then hesitated. “Ready?”
The man swore. “You think I care about pain? Get it over with.”
Right. Pete took a few quick breaths, then as smoothly as possible stood beneath his squad mate's weight.
For all his bravado Torm still gave a strangled cry, which he quickly cut off. After that he cursed through gritted teeth as Pete maneuvered him around the open door and manhandled him inside, screaming once more as his swollen leg bumped the side of the door.
In just a few seconds Pete had him in his seat. He pulled the seatbelt out all the way so it would stay tight, then buckled it and pulled in all the slack, pinning Torm back against the seat. Then he used the private's backpack to prop up his leg, shoved his rolled sleeping bag between the leg and the underside of the glovebox to cushion it and hold it in place, and used a bit of cord to tie it all together as best he could.
He dumped a gas can into the car's tank as quickly as he could, then hopped back behind the wheel and started the engine. As he peeled away and accelerated them back to almost 100 miles an hour Torm began singing a country song about going home.
✽✽✽
“You know it's weird, Kid,” Torm mumbled, head lolling against the seatbelt. “We're soldiers. We look death in the face every day. But you know how often I've actually thought about just how delicate a balance it is, our existence? How fast we go from breathing to stopping, completely?”
Pete wasn't sure whether it was worth answering. His squad mate had become more delirious by the hour, and the pain pills didn't help with his lucidity. But on the plus side they were almost through Oklahoma and about to enter Texas, which meant that as long as they kept going this speed, and fingers crossed nothing happened, they should reach Colorado in five or six hours.
Of course, then the question became how to get across the border into the US, but one thing at a time.
The man held up a shaking hand and raised two fingers. “Two times.” He lowered one. “My first combat, first time I had men with guns shooting at me and shot some back.” He raised it again. “And right now, realizing this stupid gunshot wound, not even as bad as the others I've had, could actually kill me. Fast, too.”
“Not as fast as I'll get you to help,” Pete said.
Torm didn't seem to hear him. “It's kind of BS, if you think about it,” he mused. “You know your life's FUBAR when you find yourself thinking about how you're actually going to die, not at some vague distant point but soon. And you know exactly how and why it's happening. Why aren't people always thinking about it?”
If Pete had to venture a guess, it was because it wasn't a fun thing to think about. He certainly wasn't enjoying this conversation. “I suppose dwelling on it is kind of pointless. Not like you can think up a way to stop it from happening eventually, so you just keep going and when it happens, it happens.”
In reply his squad mate let his head loll around to stare out the window again.
A moment later the squawk of voices on the radio made him jump, and even Torm jerked his head slightly in surprise. Pete had been expecting to hear Spanish, and it was a vast relief to hear English instead. The conversation on the radio was heavily garbled, but from the sound of it was just mundane sharing of information between vehicles.
A convoy.
Pete glanced at the gas gauge again. Another worry that had been eating him, which he hadn't bothered to share with Torm, was that he didn't think they had enough fuel to make it all the way. Fuel efficiency plummeted the faster you drove, and going 90 to 100 for hours was guzzling it like crazy. He'd been wrestling with the prospect of either slowing down or trying to find a place to refuel, but it had been in the back of his mind that if he could find a convoy that might be the best solution.
Especially an American one, from the sounds of it. Pete wasn't sure he was willing to risk trying to join up with them, and there was no guarantee they were even heading to the US and not to San Antonio or Canada, but maybe he could talk them into selling a bit of gas.
He didn't see many other options at the moment. If the Federales had spread word about the manhunt then anyone Pete contacted might report them, thinking they were doing the right thing. But some risks had to be taken, and this seemed like a reasonable one.
As he was pondering this decision the car crested a rise and he saw the unmistakeable flash of sunlight on vehicles on the road far ahead. It looked as if they'd caught up to the convoy they'd been listening to.
Torm immediately fumbled the binoculars in front of his eyes and gazed through them blearily. “It looks like a half dozen trucks and SUVs, escorting a single semi with one trailer in the middle. They don't look military.”
It turned out he and his squad mate weren't the only ones paying attention to their surroundings: barely been ten seconds after the convoy came into view the radio crackled with a woman's no-nonsense voice. “Unidentified vehicle riding our tail, please state your intentions.”
Well, looked like the choice of whether or not to make contact had been made for him. Pete reached over and lifted the radio, inwardly crossing his fingers. “This is Corporal Peter Childress of the US Army 103rd Company stationed in Canada. Requesting assistance.”
The reply was slow to come, and when it did the woman's voice held a hint of suspicion. “Unusual to see any vehicle besides Mexican border guard driving around alone out here. Not a wise decision.”
Torm snorted in derision at that, shooting him an almost smug look. “So I've learned,” Pete replied.
Another pause. “Our contact among the guards says they've been tearing their northeastern territory apart looking for a car full of bandits.”
Pete closed his eyes against a sinking feeling. If they tried to run now they might buy a bit of time before the convoy reported their presence to the Federales, but on these open plains evading pursuit would be next to impossible.
He was already all in, no reason not to show his cards. “So they're saying. I'd be happy to tell you the real story if you'll give me a chance. In the meantime I've got a seriously wounded companion who needs a doctor and antibiotics ASAP.”
This time the response was almost immediate, as if the woman had made her decision. “We don't have either of those things. Approach the convoy but stay a hundred yards back. We'll be making a brief rest stop soon and then we'll have ourselves a chat.”
Pete supposed he couldn't hope for more than that, and appreciated that a wise convoy leader would be cautious. “Understood. And thanks.”
“Thank us once you've explained your situation and I've decided what to do. Grant out.”
Chapter Four: Final Stretch
“Soon” turned out to be only five or so minutes. In fact, Pete had barely caught up to the hundred yard distance Ms. Grant had demanded before he noticed the line of vehicles gradually slowing.
There was a rest area up ahead, and although he had his doubts that it was still useable the convoy seemed to be turning off to make for it. He kept pace as they pulled in front of the ramshackle buildings, staying back on the off ramp to maintain the required gap.
“All right, Corporal, time for our chat.” The woman said over the radio as the last truck came to a complete stop ahead. “Exit your vehicle and stand in front of it, we'll come to you.”
Pete parked the car and switched off the engine. All things considered it was probably a good idea to leave his weapons behind, although he did think to grab their orders before opening his door and climbing out. “Sit tight,” he told Torm before slamming it.
Up ahead a well-armed group was assembling near the back vehicle, chivvied into place by a tall woman Pete judged was the convoy's leader. Even compared to her people she was by far the best equipped, wearing helmet, flak jacket, and holding a M4 with a grenade launcher attachment. It didn't take long to order her people, and she took the lead as they approached Pete at a brisk walk.
Ms. Grant turned out to be around Pete's age, maybe a bit older, with walnut brown hair down to her shoulders escaping her helmet. Once the group got close enough for him to see her features beneath the helmet he noticed that the left side of her face was heavily scarred from what had to have been a nasty wound. A bit closer and he saw that her left eye was also a slightly different color of rich chocolate brown than her right.
Mismatched eyes was a rare naturally occurring condition, so he assumed she'd lost an eye and her glass replacement wasn't a perfect match. No surprise these days, when custom orders were unlikely and she would've had to take what she could get. The heavy scarring immediately around the eye and on the eyelid supported that guess, since he couldn't imagine her suffering injuries that severe so close to the eye without losing it.
She stopped at about the distance where he could get a good look at her eyes. “Corporal,” she said in a clear, confident voice. “I'm Carrie Grant, in charge of this trade convoy.”
Pete was about to respond when a blistering curse from behind made him jump in surprise and whirl around. Torm, face pale and sweaty and eyes slightly unfocused, was leaning out his window staring at the woman. “Holy cow, lady,” he slurred. “You get that in combat?”
Grant smiled wryly. “Yes, and thank you for bringing it up.”
Face flushing, Pete motioned for the idiot to shut up. “I'm sorry, Ms. Grant. Private Torm is on serious pain medication and-”
The convoy leader waved that away. “No worries. I've had years to get used to the fact that I used to turn heads but now I turn stomachs.”
Pete was caught a bit flat-footed by the lighthearted comment. He instinctively wanted to protest, but he couldn't think of a way to do so without sounding patronizing or insulting her. “I wouldn't say that,” he finally offered.
Grant smirked. “Of course you wouldn't, even if you might think it.” She smoothly moved on before he could recover his composure to rally another response, eyes roaming over his uniform, Torm still leaning out the window, and the bullet holes riddling their car. “So, you promised me a story. Let's hear it.”
Pete wouldn't exactly call it a story, but he wasted no time handing over his orders for her to inspect. As she read through them he relayed the events of their disastrous foray into Mexico, beginning with their encounter with the guards in New Memphis who tried to steer them onto a different road and continuing on to when they were attacked on the main route.
“Ah,” the woman interrupted, looking up from the papers she held. She didn't seem surprised. “And let me guess: as soon as you fought them off they suddenly became shining paragons of honesty and discipline, and immediately called in to report on the villainous bandits who'd so viciously attacked them.”
“Pretty much,” Pete agreed. Grant waved for him to continue, and he finished telling about their failed break for the river, the second fight, and Torm's injury and sending the rest of his team back to New Memphis on foot while he and his wounded squad mate continued on towards Utah. “I imagine we've got every soldier in Mexico chasing us by this point,” he finished.
“And you want to join my convoy,” Grant said flatly, handing his orders back.
Pete could only shrug. “I don't see how else we'll be able to get across the border now.”
She sighed. “Even if you're telling the truth, which you very well might not be, if I tried to help you I could land my people in the same trouble you're in. That's a big risk to take when it means I could get my seven valuable vehicles filled with a fortune in trade goods confiscated, wind up in a Mexican prison until my partner comes and bails me and my people out, and worst of all have to endure his mockery at my stupid decision.”
Pete wasn't sure what he could say to that. “I'm carrying valuable intel on the CCZ raiders and their tactics,” he offered.
“That's very relevant to me,” Grant replied, in a tone that wasn't quite sarcastic.
He flushed. “My squad mate is dying,” he snapped. “And if we're caught we'll probably be executed as bandits for the crime of defending ourselves. I realize there's a risk to you, but this is our lives.”
The woman looked between them, eyes tight as they settled on Torm hanging out the window, delirious and pale and sweating buckets. “It's not a matter of wanting to help,” she began. Then she sighed and swore under her breath. “What kind of veteran would I be if I didn't help brothers-in-arms in need?” Pete perked up at that, although some of his good mood fled when she continued. “You'll have to leave the car behind, though. It's what everyone's looking for.”
It was hard not to wince at that. Military careers had been ended for less than losing a vehicle, and he and his squad were already in the doghouse with Renault. Still, he supposed Grant had a point that taking the car was impossible; if it was found with the convoy they'd all be in hot water, and to get out of Mexico they'd have to endure at least some scrutiny at the border checkpoint if nowhere else. The fact that she was willing to try to smuggle him and Torm into the US was risk enough, and more than he could've hoped for.
“Fair enough,” he said.
Grant turned away, gesturing curtly. “See the abandoned cars over there? Go park near them.”
Pete nodded and got back behind the wheel, starting his vehicle and carefully pulling it around the convoy guards as they watched with expressionless faces. “So I was so busy staring at the scarred chick I'm not sure I caught all that,” Torm said thickly. “What's going on?”
