But he had to rest for minutes in between swings, and it took the carriers forever to reach the surface. They weren’t going to make quota. Hell, that was for healthy, well-fed prisoners. The guards shambled among them. They didn’t look all that great either. Their uniforms hung on them, scarecrow-style. They coughed and blew their noses constantly, and perched shivering on rocks. Teddy kept eyeing their rifles. A snatch, when they were nodding off, would be easy. But then what? Down here in the pit, the other troops would mow them down like weed-whackers clearing a highway divider.
The sun came out and hung pale and cold as a frozen opal. He blinked up at it between swings, savoring the faint warmth on his skin. The dust-haze was clearing. Before, he hadn’t been able to see the sun at all.
Around noon a truck coasted down the ramp, silently, engine off. Teddy had a bad turn seeing this, but was reassured when the guards started handing down the familiar tureens. Only three, though, and the prisoners who’d worked in the pit before murmured that there would not be enough.
And it wasn’t corn mush, but the brown soup, the kind that made his turds prickle like he’d been eating briars. A soggy leaf was threaded through the grains, and one tiny slice of what might have been an actual vegetable — turnip, or parsnip. As the whistle droned, Teddy fished it out with his fingers and wolfed it, then inspected the rest like a finicky cat. Squatting on his haunches, he stared into the bowl. Hungry as he was, he didn’t want to eat this crap. It hurt too much when it came out the other end.
He lifted his eyes to the sky. Was that blue? He’d never seen blue here before. Maybe it was a good omen.
Or maybe, just the last blue sky he’d ever see.
They got a break to eat. No more than fifteen minutes, but it was always observed. If nothing else, he understood now why eating was sacramental. When they had their bowls in hand, the prisoners drifted to the shade of the parked equipment. His unit settled against one of the trucks. He examined his ration again, and almost threw it on the dirt. But, finally, forced himself to lick the last grains off the cold metal. If they went tonight, he’d need every erg of energy.
Getting up to return the bowl, he caught a flash of movement above him and cringed. Then hesitantly glanced up, arm lifted to protect himself.
He was staring into red-rimmed, terrified eyes set in a black-smeared, hair-covered face. It was gaunt. Filthy. Only the radiating scars under the grime informed him, after a shocked second, that this was his own visage, reflected in the truck’s side-view mirror. He dropped his gaze.
Then raised it again, struck by a thought.
He looked around. The guards were on lunch break too. The only one visible was across the quarry, facing away.
He reached up. Pressed the button on the driver’s-side door handle, and eased it open. Then, swiftly as a snake, glided up and into the cab, greasing the door closed behind him. Crouching, so his head wouldn’t show.
The cab smelled of diesel and old sweat. He plundered through the glove compartment, then pawed behind the seats. A white metal box: a first-aid kit. But when he unlatched it, it was empty. Next: a tool roll. He unrolled it, hoping for something weapony. Crank rods, a rusty socket wrench set. “Fuck,” he muttered.
Then he saw what lay beneath it.
A nylon towing strap, neatly made up with zip ties.
“Ted-ti?” A familiar croak. He flinched and rolled out of the cab, stuffing the bundle hastily down his pants.
Old Lew was in what looked like gray pajamas. He nodded to Teddy in an avuncular way, and held out a small package wrapped in brown paper.
“Tíngzhi! Nà shì shénme?” shouted the hard-faced guard, strolling over. Lew flinched but stood his ground, chattering so rapidly that Teddy couldn’t follow. He unfolded the paper, displaying the contents. The guard smiled and took some. The old man grinned and bobbed. The guard nodded, spat on the ground, and turned his back to them.
“Ted-ti,” the old man said again, “zhè shì gei nín de. Yigè liwù. Wo bù chouyan de yancao.”
Which he didn’t get, but the way the codger held it out in both hands, bowing, made his intent clear. Teddy bowed too, unfolded it, and sucked air. His astonishment must have been clear, because the old man chuckled as he tottered away.
Leaving Teddy staring down at two slightly bent, obviously well handled, but perfectly genuine Winston cigarettes.
That night he laid out his gear. Just like before a mission. Only this time, instead of Knight’s Armament SR-25 and magazines of M118 heavy-bullet sniper rounds, suppressor, and cleaning kit, a screwdriver sharpened on a shard of flint. Instead of his thin-blade, a stone axe cobbled from a piece of bone and a chunk of black quartz he’d hand-flaked to a point. Instead of battle dressings and a bugout kit, a faded quilt rolled and tied with string woven of braided grass. A discarded plastic bottle filled with water. And the towstrap. Instead of MREs and Power Bars…
For breakfasts, before a mission, he’d liked to eat heavy. Ribeye steaks, or thick slabs of pink fried ham. Fried potatoes, ice cream. Protein and fat you could burn for fuel while humping overland, or up a cliff, or busting down doors clearing a compound.
Fuck that, Oberg. Fuck it. It was probably a lie, but he told himself, Get up that cliff, and you’ll be eating roasted goat. He twisted grass into a plug and tucked it into a cheek. Next to the left upper bicuspid, which was dying, loose in its socket. He scooped ash from the firepit, spat into it, and worked the paste into his skin. Not camo paint, but it would work.
Ragger, at his elbow. “Ready?”
“All set. Maggie?”
Pritchard was gagging in the far corner, where they pissed when they were too sick to stagger outside. Teddy rolled over. “Up for this, Digger?”
“Just lemme cough.… I’m game. I’m game.” He wiped his face and pushed up to hands and knees.
Outside, for the first time in days, the stars were visible. Light to steer by. On the other hand, better for any guards at the top of the bluff to pick them out. He’d never seen any night vision equipment here, but if there was, it would be in the towers. Teddy muttered that he’d take point, to maintain a five-yard interval, and to stay low and hug the cliff.
They went slow, which his foot appreciated. He’d wrapped the prosthesis even tighter than usual, and it quickly numbed. That worked. He slid along the bluff, trying not to turn his good ankle on the scree littering its base. That tuff, or whatever it was, was going to make it hard to climb, but he thought he could make it. Maybe by cutting in steps with the axe. Once he got to the top, the others could haul themselves up by the towing strap.
The stars glittered down. The wind was cold, but not as sharp as before. Spring was on the way, all right.
Would he be here to see it?
He figured the odds were about fifty-fifty.
An hour later, the stars had wheeled on. They passed fire-flickers, but most huts were dark, untenanted. From these blew a cold stink like rotting meat.
At last, his leg aching, they reached the ravine. Here the bluff curved in and steepened, but in such a way that they were screened from overhead view. Here, too, a line of poles ended. Which meant either power or communication. From the size of the wires, carefully observed day after day from where he’d been entowered, like a hungry, ugly Rapunzel, atop the breaker, he guessed power. This was confirmed by a sixty-cycle hum.