Gears of war, p.2
Gears of War, page 2
“Yep, but that’s okay.” Marcus raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “This is where our tomorrow is. We’ll build it brick by brick, so we can make it exactly what we want it to be.”
2: STROUD ESTATE
NEAR EPHYRA, SERA
11 HARVEST 18 A.E.
Marcus leaned on the shovel and used his left forearm to wipe sweat from his brow. Anya had departed early for Ephyra to tie up a few loose ends of the work she’d been doing with Colonel Hoffman. They’d been poring through lists of equipment caches that the COG military had hidden over the last fifty years, hoping to organize an effort to track them down and salvage any they could find. Anya didn’t expect finalizing the list to take that long and planned to be back by nightfall.
He’d spent the morning making a quick survey of the immediate grounds, happy to have his heavy Gear boots to crunch through rubble. Destruction on the estate appeared more random than systematic, and he didn’t see any signs of squatters or looters in what was left of the main building or the carriage house. I guess the old woman wasn’t lying.
He paid special attention to the greenhouse at the far end of the garden. Slightly more than half of the glass panes had escaped destruction, which struck him as remarkable. In his experience, glass seemed to have a magnetic quality as far as bullets were concerned. He didn’t see any signs of a fight around it, suggesting that a Locust had blundered in and then bashed its way back out again.
The scattered gardening books and little brass plaques on planter beds suggested that the greenhouse had once housed a variety of orchids, which seemed completely in keeping with the people the Strouds had been. Anya hadn’t said much about her mother’s family, other than the fact that they became distant when Helena joined the armed forces, and had not warmed up to Anya when her mother died in the service.
Marcus had seen people like that his entire career. They had no idea what it took to be in the trenches, fighting to keep them safe. They thought soldiers were all dumb grunts or murder-minded individuals who got off on watching others die. Such people had little connection to the practical world.
For them, growing a flower that is only ornamental is an art, while growing something practical, like tomatoes, is beneath them. They don’t understand why we fight, or that they’re just like their orchids.
He’d checked the carriage house to see if the storeroom there had any extra glass panes lying around. It didn’t, but the windows on the ground floor had panes the same size as those in the greenhouse. He also found a dogcart, and a larger one meant to be drawn by a horse. At first glance he thought they were quaint antiques, but they appeared to be sturdy and, if he could find such animals, likely the best way to get around.
That prompted him to check the other outbuildings. To the north lay the stable and barn, at the base of a terraced hillside. The Strouds had raised grapes and made their own wine. Marcus walked straight across fields tangled with waist-high grasses, broken up by gray slashes where Locust had gouged scars through the earth. He saw no animals in the corral as he approached, but the fencing had gone down in a couple of places, so any livestock would have been able to roam free. As he drew closer, everything became preternaturally quiet.
He dropped to a knee about two hundred yards out.
Idiot, are you trying to get yourself killed? In his fatigues he’d made himself a big, beautiful target as he walked down. You don’t have a gun, you don’t have a knife. You’re losing it. Sharpen up, Fenix.
In an instant the bucolic scene of grasses dancing in a light breeze became a battlescape, with enemies lurking in the shadows. He advanced, staying low, moving to put an old tree between him and the stables. Remaining in a crouch, he dashed to the tree, then squatted at its base. He peeked out around the side, but saw nothing. Slowing his breathing, he stood with his back to the trunk, then glanced out from the other side.
Nothing. Twenty-five yards to the stable. Relatively flat terrain. I can cross that distance in no time. Another glance. Is the grass hiding a mine?
Something thumped inside the stable. Someone jumping down from the loft? He strained his ears, but heard no repeat. His blood pounded in his skull, so he took a moment to slow his breathing, then nodded to himself. To the corner, then the door. Go!
He cut around the tree, head down, arms and legs pumping. Two steps left, then hard right for three, left again, then bursting forward. Boots crunched gravel on a stretch of track the grasses had hidden, then he was into the stable yard. Marcus reached the corner of the stable, glanced down the building’s long side, then cut left and ducked in through the open doors.
The stench hit him immediately. Someone had died in there, and not too long ago. He looked around, then snatched a pitchfork from a wall rack. Holding it out and wishing it was a Lancer, he advanced deeper into the building’s cool interior. He inspected each stall as he worked his way forward and there, on the left side, third one down, he found the bodies.
The child had died first. Couldn’t have been more than six months old. His mom had wrapped him up in a blanket and placed a knitted cap on his head. She’d laid the child in a nest of hay. Then she’d taken a pair of overalls, fashioned a noose, and hanged herself right there beside her child.
Marcus slid to the ground on the other side of the stall, staring at them. He’d seen death a million times in his life. He’d dealt death. It had always seen tragic, but this case… The child, given his age, had to have been born so very close to when Delta put an end to the Lambent Pandemic. The mother had gotten pregnant at a horrible time. She had carried the child to term, and given birth, in what could have been the last days of mankind. And then she had struggled on. She found the stables, and her child had died. Out of grief she killed herself. She had died all alone, her hope having perished with her child.
Anya and I had just returned to the main house. Had she looked out, had she looked up, she could have seen light, couldn’t she? Why didn’t she? Why did she surrender when we would have helped her? Marcus’ hands balled into fists.
We could have saved her. Why didn’t she keep on fighting?
* * *
He sat there with them for a while, then walked back up to the main house. Belting on his pistol, he tucked a knife in his boot. He grabbed a shovel from the greenhouse and returned to the stable. Finding a spot at the base of the hill, he began digging. It wasn’t the first grave he’d dug, but seemed to take a lot longer than any of the others.
Returning to the stable he looked for canvas or something he could use to wrap the bodies. His search took him into the loft, and there he found a space where someone had been living. A loose shutter on a loft window had been what made the original thumping sound that attracted him. The half-open window provided enough breeze to rid the loft of the stench of death.
Marcus gathered up a worn blanket, then searched through the other stuff, hoping there might be a photo or letter or something to tell him who they were. He found nothing that would let him pin a name on them, but he got the impression the mother and child had not been alone. The space that had been cleared out was larger than the two of them needed, and the window had been pried open, but Marcus couldn’t find the pry bar that had done the job.
The scenario unfolded in his mind easily enough.
They’d been traveling together as a small family. The baby got sick, but they didn’t know what to do. They didn’t have any medicine. Then the child’s mother, maybe she got sick, too. Their traveling companion said he was going to go find help or medicine. He’d be back real soon. And then he just disappeared.
Her hope turns into despair. Then her child, her reason for living, dies.
He cut the woman down, laid the child in her arms, then dragged them to the grave. He eased them down into it, pulling the blanket up and around them both. He started filling the grave at her feet, working his way up, the whole time hoping she’d make a sound. She’d push the dirt away. She’d find hope again and fight against death.
He dropped the last shovelful of earth on top of the mound and tamped it down with the flat of the shovel. A good winter rain and that will settle. Next spring no one will know it’s here. Green grasses will grow up and the memory of them will evaporate.
Marcus shook the sweat off his forearms. He knew he should say some words, something comforting, but he had nothing. Words like that had gone, same as Dom. His grief, his ability to be of comfort, he’d lost them somewhere out there. These people he’d buried, they’d loved each other. Someone had to love them, would miss them. And Marcus had fought for them. He’d sacrificed for them, sacrificed so they could live and, despite that, they hadn’t.
Marcus bent forward, forearms leaning on the shovel’s handle. His chest tightened and his heart began to pound again.
Is that the joke? We fought so hard, Dom died, my father died, so people could live—and it turns out that they don’t have the will for it? That whoever abandoned her and the child could just walk away and leave them to die. What is wrong with people?
Something crunched behind him. Marcus spun, shovel raised, ready to see some wretch of a man crawling back to where he’d abandoned his wife and child. In a heartbeat Marcus would have happily crushed his skull.
At the sight of a large, angry man, the ground squirrel turned and dashed away through the grasses.
Marcus exhaled, his breath ragged, and sank to his knees. He leaned forward and wanted to howl and scream and rage, but choked all of those things down. No! You will hold it together. You’ve been through the worst of it. No more. You didn’t fall apart when the pressure was on, you’re not doing it now.
He slowed his breathing down and closed his eyes. He concentrated on the rustling of the grasses. He felt the breeze drying his sweat and heard the clumsy return of the ground squirrel, the flicking flutter of dragonfly wings as the insect whizzed past and then disappeared as another breeze teased the grasses.
He stayed there—for how long he wasn’t certain—then he levered himself to his feet with the shovel. Marcus stared down at the grave, and exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry I didn’t know you in life. I would have helped.”
He shouldered the shovel and began the long walk back up to the main house.
* * *
That evening Marcus smiled as Anya alighted from a long, low-slung limousine. She emerged from the back compartment hauling two black garment bags. She spoke with the driver, who tossed her a quick salute. Marcus remained in the doorway while Anya waited for the vehicle to turn around, and she waved as it headed down the long drive to the main road.
Her long legs ate up the distance between them.
Marcus smiled. “I see Colonel Hoffman has some priorities straightened out. New uniforms?”
“Not exactly. It’s been a weird day.”
“You, too, huh?” He enfolded her in his arms and hugged her tightly. “I am so glad you’re here.”
“Oh, Marcus, me, too. I’m sorry I’m so late. We actually finished compiling the list early, then people arrived from the Shin Museum of Modern Culture.”
“Is there actually any Modern Culture left on Sera?”
Anya laughed. “A little, maybe. I have two scraps here.”
“I can’t wait to hear, but first, I’ve actually cooked.”
“Oh my.”
He took her hand in his. “Come on.” He led her inside to the kitchen, where he’d cleared out a small area and set up a table made of a door and legs he’d fashioned out of debris, then nailed on. He’d found mismatched plates and silverware, and two identical wine glasses. “I couldn’t find a corkscrew, so I had to take the neck off the bottle.”
She hung the garment bags on a nail in the wall. “Oh, Marcus. You even found flowers.”
“Nasturtiums. They were growing wild, but I found a book in the greenhouse that identified them.” He crossed to the oven and pulled out two bowls filled with steaming food, then sprinkled some orange nasturtium petals over them. “They’re also edible.”
Anya arched an eyebrow. “But the food looks like you found some old ration packets.”
“Yeah, and these date from the Pendulum Wars. Your grandfather, or his father, stashed a bunch down in the wine cellar.”
“There’s a wine cellar?”
“Two.” Marcus set the bowls on the table. “Over in the west wing, in what was a big dining room, there was access down to one wine cellar. People have gotten in there and pretty much cleaned it out. What’s left is mostly vinegar. But over in the east wing, in what was his study, there was a panel behind bookcases. Someone had found it, but didn’t have the tools to open it. I got curious. It was where your grandfather put the very best wine.”
Anya picked the bottle up and studied the label. “That would be, what, five B.E.?”
“A good year for your vineyard. As for the food, well, when we can grow our own, things will be better. There’s some game out there, too.”
Anya poured wine into the glasses. “Seems as if you had a most productive day.”
“It had its ups and downs.” Marcus stared at the dark wine. “There was a body… two bodies. They died in the stable.”
“Are you hurt?” She reached over and squeezed his hand.
He shook his head. “They weren’t… I didn’t have to kill them. Just folks who had built a home in the loft. Probably just passing through, but they just didn’t make it. I buried them.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“No, no sign. I think they might have been traveling with someone, but he’s long gone.” Marcus forced a smile and looked at her. “But you have to tell me about your day. Remember, today I was the house husband here. I live vicariously through you and your adventures.”
“Believe me, your day was far more exciting than mine.” Anya sighed. “As I said, we were doing accounting work, finished it up, then the museum folks arrived. They hauled me off to the museum and had me going through fashion archives.”
Marcus blinked. “Civilization has pancaked, and you’re being tasked with inventorying fashion archives?”
“Worse, Marcus, not inventory. They had me there for a fitting!”
“Anya, that’s really not making a lot more sense than inventory.”
“I know, and, you’ll love this: one bag is for me, and the other is a uniform for you!”
“I’m going to kill Hoffman.”
“I don’t think this is his doing, Marcus.” Anya quickly drained her glass of wine and reached for the bottle. “In the midst of all this, someone has decided to throw a reception in Ephyra. And, worse yet, they’ve decided that you and I have to attend.”
3: SHIN MUSEUM OF MODERN CULTURE
EPHYRA, SERA
15 HARVEST 18 A.E.
Marcus Fenix checked his six. The stone wall behind him looked solid enough for cover. The vast chamber had four exits—one at each of the cardinal points on the compass. He’d come in from the west and had a clear line of sight east and south. North would be the issue—people packed that quadrant.
“Do you read me, Marcus?”
The warm tones of Anya Stroud’s voice, the teasing trace of humor in her words, brought him back to reality. A reality.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry.”
She smiled easily and stroked his left arm. “I know, you were drifting.”
“No, no, I’ll get better. I’ll focus.” He frowned, feeling one hundred percent naked without his body armor and the weight of a Mark 2 Lancer assault rifle slung over his back. He felt off-balance, and not only physically. He’d lost the weight of his combat kit, but the gravity of warfare still clung to him. “Seriously. Mission and objective, that’s me.”
“You didn’t toss in an ‘affirmative’ or ‘Roger,’ so we’ll take that as progress.” Anya shook her head, tucking a lock of blonde hair back behind her ear. “No one here is going to be shooting at you, Marcus.”
“You’ve had a little more time to get used to life without your shell.” Marcus rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. In the six months that had passed since they’d deployed his father’s invention to destroy the Lambent and Locust, Anya’s work had acquainted her more completely with the needs of the post-war world. Her communication, organizational and logistics skills, which had been vital during the fighting, counted for far more in the post-invasion world. Worth more than the ability to shoot straight. Which is fine. She’s done enough fighting. Saved my ass more times than I want to count. She’s earned her peace.
Marcus’ wind-down had focused more on getting his people to their homes and helping out where he could. Locating and disarming booby-traps, locating and recovering ordnance, helping the other Gears search for their families and setting up secure communities had filled his days. In some ways that work exhausted him more than the gory grind of blowing through a Locust E-hole.
At least, with the Locust and Lambent, we knew there would be an end, he thought. We had a goal. But now?
Now I guess this is the new world.
As he’d promised Anya, he focused. He looked around the vast room—not a chamber—at the assembled people. A couple hundred, he estimated, all wearing the finest clothes they could find. The kind they’d have worn to weddings or graduations, benefits or balls. Bright colors showed here and there, but more often somber, with many of the outfits ill-fitting, since few still had their wardrobes from a decade and a half previous. Much of the clothing had been salvaged and altered as best as possible.
The room had survived the wars better than Marcus could have imagined. The Shin Museum of Modern Culture had once been a gem of the modern world. They gathered in the main gallery, beneath a high-domed ceiling and checkerboard marble floor, with centuries-old paintings hung on the walls. The gallery had survived, but the museum’s wings had not. In preparation for arrivals that evening, crews had cleared narrow paths through the rubble for the guests.
That was one aspect of the fighting that always astounded Marcus. Whole neighborhoods could have been reduced to smoking rubble, with barely one brick left stacked atop another, yet a random building would stand there, pristine, as if anchoring the past so that men would be forced to acknowledge all the destruction they’d created. Marcus could sense no rhyme or reason for what got spared and what got obliterated.
