“Always the optimist,” Tony said, grinning but shaking his head.
“You call them ‘war tourists’ now, but those solos were the first ones to fight. They’re the ones who lit the fire. And I’d wager they’ve killed as many Tabs as ARF with its tanks and planes and uniforms, all told.”
“You think?”
The squad came in slowly, one man at a time. George was last, signaling to Quentin as he crossed the street at a jog. George stood watch at the corner of Number One, the northernmost house, as Quentin rolled the Ford down the street.
“Christ, what the hell is that?” Tony exclaimed as he watched the abused SUV slowly hop the curb. Quentin pulled it between the third and fourth houses and cut the engine, hoping it would start back up when they needed it. Just to the south of Number Four was a long, low brick building, a dentist’s office still sometimes open for business, and it shielded the ground floors of the four houses from any prying eyes that might be across the Ditch.
“We lost our wheels,” Ed told him. “That’s all we could find on short notice.” His squad was spread out among the four houses, as was Tony’s.
“I’m impressed you could even get it running.” Mark or Mike snickered, and Tony turned toward the young man.
“Get back upstairs and get an eye on the Ditch,” he said shortly. The boy sobered up immediately and disappeared.
George stepped into One and found Weasel talking quietly with John, Franklin squad’s SAW gunner.
“John, how you doing?” George shook his hand, checking him over. The small man looked healthy, and was recently shaved. His equipment appeared in good condition. “Franklin in good shape?”
“Nothing that couldn’t be fixed by a week on the beach,” John said, his smile missing a few teeth. He’d written FREEDOM ISNT FREE in big block letters with a black magic marker across the back and front of his plate carrier.
“Sign me up for that too,” Weasel said wistfully.
“Who’s upstairs with the eye?” George asked.
“Sheila.”
“Oh yeah?” Weasel said, glancing at the stairs, suddenly interested.
George was short with him. “She saw you coming in. If she wanted another go-round with you she’d have come down. And you’ve got birds to clean, we can’t afford for that meat to go to waste.”
George’s attempt to discourage him had zero effect on Weasel. “She’s on lookout, she can’t come down,” he told George as explanation. “The birds’ll keep for a bit.” He laid pleading eyes on John. “Can you relieve her?” he begged.
George patted John on the shoulder and made his way through the house and out the side door. Number Two’s side door was about twelve feet away directly across a narrow driveway that was half weeds. George quickly crossed the space and had to blink as bright sunlight was once again replaced by dim interior. Mark, Early, and the new kid were all inside the front room of the stuffy house, talking to two of Tony’s men. Tony’s kids, really; not one member of the squad was over twenty-five. Franklin and Theodore had only worked together once, about six months previous, and Tony’s young people had been competent, if a bit overeager for George’s taste.
“Gentlemen,” George said with a nod all around. Jeff and Tavon, he was pretty sure those were their names. They seemed in good spirits.
“How long you reckon we’re here, Cap’n?” Early asked George. He was keeping watch through tattered curtains pulled across the living room window.
“Just long enough,” George told him. Early nodded. No one who had any experience liked to spend time close to the Ditch. Too much chance of being noticed. And they’d packed a lot of Irregulars into a very small space, which was never a good idea. “You check if there’s any water?” George asked the big man.
“I think there’s a little bit left in the trap,” Jeff said.
“Don’t suppose y’all got any extra ammo laying around?” Early asked.
“We’re a little short of that ourselves,” Tavon admitted. “I was just about to ask you.”
“You okay?” George asked the young man. Tavon actually carried a Tavor; George was convinced that was God making some sort of cosmic joke. The Israeli-designed bullpup rifle looked odd, but was fed by standard AR-15 magazines. He wondered how many of the kid’s ammo pouches actually contained loaded magazines. Jeff carried an RPG, a launcher and three cone-shaped rocket-propelled grenades. It was an AirTronic copy of the classic Russian model, the design now more than seventy-five years old. The grenades themselves had been upgraded over the years, and would defeat most light armor. Toads, unfortunately, weren’t lightly armored except in a few, very hard-to-hit spots.
“Can’t complain,” Tavon said with a shrug, then smiled and added, “but sometimes I still do.”
George’s brows moved together, and he looked at Mark, who had a strange expression on his face.
“My Maserati does one-eighty-five,” George astonished the young men by singing softly. His voice was a little gravelly, but even.
“I lost my license, now I don’t drive,” Mark sang out, finishing the verse for him. Jeff, Tavon, and Jason all swiveled their heads around to look at the SAW gunner, as he and George burst out in harmony, “Life’s been good to me so far….” Stunned silence greeted their spontaneous outburst.
“Was that a song?” Jason finally asked.
“Christ,” Early muttered.
“Yes, it’s a song,” George growled, scowling. “You never heard of Joe Walsh? How about The Eagles?”
“What’s a Maserati?” Jeff asked.
Mark made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “I’m going to go kill myself now,” he announced, and stomped out of the room.
George traded a commiserating look with Early and then carefully picked his way through the jagged hole in the kitchen wall. He stepped out next to Franklin’s transportation wedged between Two and Three. The Toyota was dusty and a bit dented but overall appeared in good condition. George felt a pang of envy.
He stepped through the matching hole in the red bricks of Three—he didn’t know if it had been a grenade or something else that had damaged both houses, but other than the two ragged holes in their brickwork the four residences were in good shape. Inside Three he found Bobby, Quentin, and Arnold, one of Tony’s people. Arnold was a legendary asshole to anyone and everyone he met, but he’d proven himself under fire time and time again. The thick man hadn’t shaved in three days and sported a nearly full beard. He was happily eating a military nutro-bar and, of course, the thought of asking if anyone else wanted a bite never occurred to him.
“Hey Bodycount,” he said to George, his mouth full of food. “Thought you fellas had your tickets punched by a Toad.”
George gritted his teeth at the old nickname. “Just a little banged up, that’s all,” George said, never stopping. He found Ed in Number Four conferring with the other squad’s leader.
“George,” Tony said in greeting. He studied the compact man. “Pissed off as usual, I see.” The teenager keeping watch out the back door stifled a laugh.
“You got a whole squad of comedians here,” George said to him without humor. The young soldier in the room immediately grew serious. The lean intense man had earned the Bodycount nickname.
Tony smiled and just shook his head, then got back to business. “We’ve been talking about going across. Staggered over an hour or whatever, or all together?”