Hicks nodded. “That he does. Caught me on the temple one time. Damn near knocked me out.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“You weren’t mad at him?”
He shrugged. “Five second rule. He’s a big guy, strong as hell, seen a lot of combat. I shouldn’t have been standing so close.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It’s the world we live in.”
The hand fell away. “Come on. Enough sad talk. How about you buy a girl a drink?”
Hicks stood up and kissed her on the cheek. “Sounds good to me.”
`
*****
The good thing about the enlisted club at Fort McCray was they accepted federal credits, the currency by which soldiers were paid.
The bad thing about the enlisted club was it was full of grunts.
They had taken a booth in the back, out of sight of the bar. Nevertheless, people still kept finding excuses to wander close to their table and stare. Hicks was not quick to anger, but the attention was beginning to wear on his nerves. When soldiers wandered too close, he shot them a look that informed them in no uncertain terms they were not welcome. A few weeks ago, it would not have done any good. But now, in the wake of what Miranda had termed The Wilson Incident, Hicks had a reputation among the men of Echo Company.
“We are not going to have another Wilson Incident, Caleb,” Miranda said, as if reading his mind.
He looked down and spun his glass, remembering.
*****
Private Randall Wilson was a giant, standing six-foot-ten and just shy of three hundred solid pounds. Hicks knew his story the same as everyone in Echo Company. He had played inside linebacker for Alabama, and after a stellar, record-setting junior year, was expected to go early in the draft.
Then the Outbreak happened.
He fled the University of Alabama when the National Guard showed up to evacuate the campus. The convoy he traveled with made it all the way to Colorado, only losing a few dozen people along the way. Not long after arriving, with his only job prospects being to hunt salvage or join a federally run farming or construction corps, he opted to join the Army.
By then, Fort Bragg had been secured, and after basic training in Colorado, he and many other newly minted soldiers were flown to Bragg for advanced infantry training. Shortly thereafter, he had been assigned to Second Platoon of Echo Company.
While Hicks’ platoon wintered in Hollow Rock, the rest of Echo Company had traveled to Kansas to assist with revenant extermination efforts. Due to Kansas’ proximity to Colorado, its wealth of good farmland, and the overcrowding in Colorado Springs, the President had proposed a bill to help settlers relocate to the mostly abandoned state and begin growing crops to support the burgeoning population. The idea was met with great support and enthusiasm, but faced a serious problem.
The infected. Over two million of them.
So the President, facing the end of his term in office and concerned with his legacy, did the only thing he could. He called his generals and staff into a meeting, explained what he wanted, and told them to find a way to make it happen. A month later, they had a plan drawn up and were mobilizing troops and assets to carry it out.
At the beginning of the offensive—dubbed Operation Relentless Force—General Phillip Jacobs, head of Army Special Operations Command, wrote a brief, now-famous speech that he sent to all commanding officers at the company level. From there, every platoon CO in the Army read it to their soldiers in an effort to motivate them and mitigate their fears.
“I won’t mince words,” General Jacobs wrote. “You all have a tough job ahead of you. There are roughly 2.8 million infected in the state of Kansas, and only 100,000 brave men and women being sent to kill them. Which, when expressed in those terms, may seem like an insurmountable task. But I assure you, it is not. To prove this assertion, let us do the math. As I pointed out earlier, there are 100,000 troops being deployed. Therefore, in order to exterminate every infected in Kansas, each of you needs to rack up a body count of no more than 28. Put that way, it doesn’t seem quite so difficult, now does it? So before you head out, I want you to check the magazine in your rifle and make sure you have at least 28 rounds in it. You should have several more magazines also loaded with at least 28 rounds on your person. If you don’t, talk to your supply sergeant. Then grab your gear, lace up your boots, and go kick some ass. Your country is counting on you.”
Despite the general’s encouragement, it was a long, brutal winter marked by hardship, hunger, constant danger, and the loss of many comrades. The battles of Wichita and Topeka were especially bloody. But the Army and their accompanying volunteer militias got the job done, and thousands of settlers had applied for land grants.
After leaving the front and arriving at their new forward operating base (FOB) at Fort McCray, Second and Third Platoon had initially treated First Platoon with disdain. Their impression was that while the rest of the company had spent the winter half-frozen, half-starved, and up to their eyeballs in walkers, First Platoon had been fat and happy and snuggled next to a warm fire banging hot civilian chicks. First Platoon was quick to inform them that while they had not fought as many walkers, they had faced more than their share of trouble from insurgents and marauders, and had taken casualties.
Upon hearing the stories, most of the soldiers of Second and Third Platoon eventually accepted that First Platoon had not spent the winter in quite as much luxury as originally thought. And while Second and Third Platoon had killed thousands of walkers, they had run into very little trouble from the living. It only took a few encounters with marauders after the spring thaw for them to realize just how tough life had been for First Platoon. Consequently, for most of Echo Company, the subject had ceased to be grounds for argument.
Except for Private Randall Wilson.
For whatever reason, he never got over his animosity and tried to start trouble with First Platoon at every given opportunity. Eventually, Sergeant Isaac Cole finally grew tired of his mouth and invited him to disregard rank and settle the matter behind the mess hall. Wilson agreed, and promptly found himself on the wrong end of a very thorough, very one-sided beating. After the fight, under scrutiny from his squad mates over his fighting ability, Cole reluctantly admitted he had been a heavyweight Golden Gloves champion back in his teenage years. Hicks had the feeling it was a sore subject, and while curious as to why, he respected his friend enough not to ask.
Most people who witnessed the fight agreed it would be enough to shut Wilson’s mouth.
They were wrong.
Wilson steered clear of Cole, but anyone else was fair game.
Including Hicks.
Hicks avoided trouble by simply staying out of Wilson’s way when he could, and ignoring him when he couldn’t. In most cases, all it took was a few stern words from Cole and Wilson backed off. There was one night, however, when Cole wasn’t around and Hicks had brought Miranda to the enlisted club to hang out with some of the guys from Delta Squad.
It was supposed to be a quiet, fun evening of knocking back drinks, sharing old stories, and relaxing after a long, strenuous day. When it was Miranda’s turn to buy a round, she kissed Hicks on the cheek and walked around the corner to the bar. Hicks didn’t like the idea of her doing this by herself, but knew Miranda valued her independence and remained in his seat. A minute went by. Then two. Three.
Hicks knew she should have been back by then. So he stood up and walked over to the bar and saw Wilson standing with his back to him. Miranda’s blonde head poked around his side as she tried to step around him, but Wilson cut her off. Hicks tapped the much bigger man on his shoulder.
“Fuck off, dipshit,” Wilson said over his shoulder, barely sparing Hicks a glance.
“That’s my girlfriend you’re talking to. Step away. Now.”
The former college football player turned, a joyfully vicious grin on his face. “Your girlfriend? No way. First Platoon is all fags. Go jerk off with your boyfriends over there.”