Ed had discussed possible ways down with George, and they’d settled on a route that would avoid most of the known trouble spots. Once they crossed the Ditch, though, any plans they made became mere wishful thinking. Anything could happen in the city, and usually did. What was that famous quote? ‘No plan ever survives contact with the enemy’? Something like that.
With the light he traced their proposed route. Jason looked on excitedly, still a little off-balance, a little pissed, but pumped to have finally made it. He looked around the circle, studying the faces. They all looked so comfortable, so natural in their gear—even Bobby—sporting pistols and knives and spare magazines in addition to the ever-present military rifles they carried so unconcernedly. Jason still felt self-conscious whenever he picked his rifle up, like he was playing a role, even though he’d carried it hunting dozens of times. The squad displayed an easy familiarity with each other that he envied. Even though—post striptease—they’d been polite to him, or at least not antagonistic, he knew he was still the outsider, the unproven element, and he didn’t know how long that might last.
George, the second-in-command, was the scariest one of the bunch. He was maybe forty but had the wrinkles of someone ten years older. Above a compact, wiry body was a face that stared out with absolutely dead eyes. Every time he looked over at him Jason felt like George was measuring him for a casket. While his personal gear showed some serious use—there was a fresh, bright silver scratch in his stubby rifle’s handguard, to go along with the dozens of older scratches—his stuff looked top notch. Bobby’d said George had been fighting since day one, and Jason believed it.
“We’re just gonna dump our wheels?” Weasel looked up from the map.
“Can’t take it into the city,” George spoke up. “Half the streets are too choked to pass, and you know anything rolling is fair game, fuck the rules of engagement.”
“Wait, what?” Jason said.
George looked up sharply at the interruption. “If the Army sees a moving vehicle inside the city limits, outside of the approved travel corridors, they’re just as likely to light it up as not, even if they don’t see any weapons. Just in case.”
“But… aren’t there… don’t people live in the city?”
Ed nodded. “Thousands, still, even after years of fighting, no power, and no water. Some are diehard residents who refuse to leave, others are just crazy, but they’re not involved in the fighting. Army doesn’t care. Ninety percent of the ‘guerrillas’ killed in the city these days are just civilians in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think they feel it’s the only way they can maintain what little control they have over the place, keep everybody on foot.”
“What, that’s not what the government-approved news sources are telling you?” Early said to Jason’s surprised face. “Color me shocked.” He shook his head. “Almost nothing’s rolling on wheels south of the border, not since the government had every automaker shut down every satellite-connected vehicle inside the city limits like they used to do when the cops reported them stolen. OnStar, Ford SYNC, all of them. Which was pretty much every car made in the last twenty years. Cars just stopped dead where they were. And then the government never turned them back on again,. Martial law, all the same excuses. Sad fate of a city, you ask me, that was once known for its cars.”
“There are checkpoints all around the city if you need to drive into or through it,” Mark told him. “The soldiers manning them will take your DNA and scan your fingerprints and while they’re waiting for those results to come back they’ll search your vehicle down to the welds. Maybe steal some of your shit, if you’re bringing in anything they could use. Needless to say, it takes forever, and it’s better just to go the long way around. The only place you see vehicles going through those checkpoints with any regularity is on the south side of the city where the trucks are coming in, bringing supplies to the military and local government, such as it is. And then they’re required to stay in restricted travel corridors. Stray outside those and you’re likely to get turned into slag by a Kestrel.”
“Downtown’s really the only place you see people driving around,” George told Jason. “They call it the Blue Zone and it stretches from the New Center area to the Army base to the riverfront. Maybe half a mile wide by three miles long, and it’s all commercial buildings, parking garages, government offices, restaurants, the stadiums, although half of everything or more is empty. The New Center area is about the only place in the city where you’ll see actual stores still in business in any number, and almost the only place in the city you’ll see a static Army presence outside of their base. Almost all of the businesses still operating in the city are in the Blue Zone, but a big chunk of the workers there are city employees and government support staff. They live there, and down at the riverfront. The sight of the soldiers makes them feel safe, I’m told. Amazingly enough they have power in the Blue Zone, and running water, and cell phone service. It’s like a separate city inside the city. There are some jersey barriers put down on some of the side streets, limiting traffic, but unlike the Army base the area isn’t restricted. It’s more a psychological separation. Inside the Blue Zone they can pretend there’s not a war on, and that the rest of the city doesn’t look like I Am Legend.” He looked at Jason. “That’s zombies,” he explained.
“I think I saw that movie, actually,” Jason said.
“Anyway,” Ed said loudly, getting back to the briefing, “Uncle Charlie said to come in quiet. A vehicle will only draw attention. We find a spot near the border to hide it, disable it like usual, and hopefully it’ll still be there when we get back, with more or less the same amount of parts and fuel.”
Quentin snorted, indicating what he thought the chances of that happening were.
Weasel was scratching his head. “Boss, near as I can see it it’s ten miles in a straight line, double that if we take a roundabout way in. Why are we leaving in the morning? There’s no way it’ll take us six days to get here. That’s a two-day foot patrol, tops, even if we’re creepin’ along. I could use a rest. We all could.”
“No way? You’re so sure?” George growled. He squinted at the dark-haired man. “How’s the rib?” he asked pointedly.
Weasel frowned, leaned to the side, and made a face. “Could be better.”
Bobby leaned close to Jason and whispered. “He cracked a rib last week. Lucky bastard.”
“Lucky?” Jason didn’t see how getting injured required any luck.
Bobby murmured. “We hooked up with another squad and ambushed a small Army column, but it turned out they weren’t alone. Killed six, maybe eight of them, but we burned up most of our ammo getting out of there. A Toad nobody saw coming took a wild shot at Weasel’s group through a gap between buildings.”
“A Toad. That’s a tank?”
“Yeah. Weasel got nailed by some flying bricks, that’s how close it was. If the Toad had had an HE round loaded instead of whatever he was using he’d be dead.”
“Wow.” Jason was pretty sure HE meant high explosive, but he didn’t want to ask and sound stupid.
Ed had been staring at the map and straightened up. He looked around the circle at their drawn faces. “You’ve been getting the shit end of the stick from day one. Always outnumbered, always outgunned, thirsty, starving, half the time out of ammo, rarely able to do much more than harass them riding around in their goddamned armor. The only thing that’s kept this little police action anywhere close to fair is that occasionally, eventually, they have to get out from behind that armor. We’ve had more luck than some, but that column we hit last week was the first time in two months we were actually able to do some real damage. And the very next day we lose our wheels. Charlie said he was calling everybody in. He wouldn’t do that unless something big was up. Something we don’t know about.”