Fletcher nodded. “He obviously didn’t know Frost wasn’t coming back from the meet.”
“True, but it’s also possible Doc might have still bugged out, even if he did.”
“Because of me?” Fletcher asked.
“Not sure how he views your disciplinary techniques, sir.”
“Good point. Though most of the time, I was just following Frost’s orders.”
“I doubt Doc would understand the difference.”
“Of course not. All he saw was the result. Men like him can’t handle all the violence. More so when it might be aimed at them.”
“You should know I ran a quick inventory of the fuel reserves.”
“What’s the status?”
“Only ten percent left.”
Fletcher sighed, then blew out a long breath of air. “The timing couldn’t be worse. Need to start rationing.”
“Already in place, sir.”
“I guess there’s no choice, now.”
“Craven?”
“I want a meet—ASAP.”
“I’ll let him know.”
“In the meantime, send out a patrol and see if we can locate Doc. Drag him back here in chains, if you have to, but I want him alive and still able to work. Understood?”
“Copy that. Do you want me to use our men or Frost’s?”
Fletcher’s tone turned sharp. “Ours. You know what needs to happen with the others.”
“Just wanted to be sure that was still the plan, in case something changed.”
“What needs to be done needs to be done. This bullshit with Doc has nothing to do with any of that. Just sped up the timetable a bit, that’s all.”
“What’s the backup plan if we can’t find the asshole?”
“Same as if we do find him. That refinery will take time to get working again, so we need more fuel either way. Go to the Trading Post and grab what you can from Heston’s stock. Don’t forget the tank on that old backhoe. And his generators, too. Syphon off everything you can.”
“I’ll get right on it, boss.”
‘Oh, and Dice?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Double the men assigned to each truck, too. We need to get lean and mean to make the fuel last,” Fletcher said. “And press that damn source of yours. Whatever intel he has for us, we need it now.”
“And if he has nothing?”
“Then he has nothing. We are out of options at this point, other than Craven’s trackers.”
“Assuming they’re reliable.”
“Craven says he’s tested them.”
“He said that before about the spray and we know how that turned out,” Dice said.
“He did eventually get it working.”
“But at what cost? We can’t afford to lose anyone this time.”
“You’re right. But unless your source comes through, we really don’t have any other options.”
“He’ll want payment, regardless of the reliability of the intel.”
Fletcher pinched his eyes, looking the part of an old wise man, someone who was always ten steps ahead of his adversary. “Now that’s not really up to him, is it?”
“He won’t trade without the fuel.”
Fletcher took a minute before he spoke again. “Does he check the drum before he leaves?”
“Not that I recall.”
“I’m guessing it’s all about the weight.”
“And our history.”
“Then there’s your answer, Dice. It’s all about the eye test. What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.”
Dice paused, making sure he heard the words correctly and understood Fletcher’s meaning. He thought he did. “At least, not until we decide.”
“Exactly. Might just need him later.”
“Understood. I’ll get that arranged as well.”
CHAPTER 13
The Nomad hiked up the next hill as he crisscrossed the south side of his patrol area, looking for signs of activity. So far, he hadn’t spotted much on this frigid day during what he assumed was one of the summer months. July maybe. Or August, closing in on summer’s end.
Then again, that was only a guess, having lost track of the calendar long ago. He wondered if anyone else knew the true date, their lives awash in a blanket of gray, each new sun climb a carbon copy of the one that came before.
His days were just like theirs—filled with malaise—only for different reasons: his endless treks across the landscape, looking for more of the disadvantaged who needed his unique skills.
When the world is besieged by misery, there comes a time when someone has to rise up and bring about a modicum of balance, otherwise there’s no chance of hope’s return. Without balance, only the strong will get stronger, while the meek disappear from existence, with nary a whimper.
That was the rule that applied to everyone unlucky enough to have managed to draw breath this long, even if they didn’t recognize it as such.
In truth, though, when you live in an unforgiving place such as this, these types of journeys were nothing more than a wandering haze of cold and loneliness.
Hours turned into weeks, and days ran into years, everything blurring together in an expedition to nowhere in particular. Only when he found himself facing the unexpected did it make getting up each morning worth it.
His quest wasn’t a normal one, but it was exactly that—his. A quest he thought important enough to dedicate what remained of his life to it, even if it meant occasionally compromising his own principles to achieve the mission. Today was one of those occasions.
A half a mile back he had come across a fresh trail, leading him here. It hadn’t been made in a straight line. More in a snake-like pattern, winding from left to right and back again, as the owner of the footprints battled their own paranoia in a tentative advance forward. A bleak, empty existence can do that, turning purpose into nothing more than random desperation. Or the hunt for one’s own end. He wasn’t sure.
The trail eventually led him to a scattering of snow, still clinging to life after the overnight drop. The trail only held small footprints from a four-legged rodent—another desperate creature foraging alone for its very existence.
He hadn’t run across anything yet from two-legged creatures, but he knew they were in the area. Both the hostile variety and the friendly types, though sometimes it was difficult to know which was which.
Motivation was usually the tell, but that assessment required a prolonged reconnaissance to make certain he didn’t misread a target’s intentions.
A misread usually meant someone would experience the edges of his blades when they didn’t deserve it, or a villain slipped away unscathed.
He wasn’t sure what was worse: maiming an innocent or freeing the guilty. Neither met his agenda, though his purpose had evolved in recent months, transforming into a new mission, as if he were closing in on something profound. Whether that change would lead to some kind of defining moment in history—his or the world’s—he didn’t know and wasn’t noble enough to judge or quantify.
It may have only been a lingering premonition of his own death, confusing his thoughts in such a way as to morph his terms of duty and honor.
The Nomad worked his way down the hill, then hauled his legs up the next incline, getting a sense he was close to his destination.
GPS satellites were long since extinct, as was the technology that took advantage of them, forcing him to become adept at navigating by the stars at night and using his heightened sense of location during the day.
Daytime was the more difficult, more so now than before The Event, with the landscape missing many of the landmarks he’d come to know and trust during his formative years.
Before his next step, a gust of wind smacked him in the mask, attempting to lift the cover from his head. He brought his feet to a halt and grabbed hold of the homemade disguise to secure it in place. Once the burst was over, he resumed his march.