Nuclear Winter | Book 2 | First Spring Page 27

  Just before reaching the Prestons and the growing crowd around the poultry trailer they passed a large open box. It was filled with a mass of squirming shapes: all wagging tails, high pitched whines, and sharp barks. He stopped immediately and moved in closer.

  The puppies had the look of sheepdogs, although not exactly. Probably mutts of some kind. Which could be good, since it would lower their price. And a properly trained dog could be a massive help with herding and guarding their animals, not to mention the major emotional value of having man's best friend around.

  Aspen Hill had a few dogs, but mostly pets. They or their puppies might be trainable to do more, but getting a breed more specifically suited to the task would be ideal. Also the little mutts were adorable.

  “Oh. My. Gosh,” Carrie said, stepping up beside him and crouching to pet one of the puppies, who all immediately crowded her hand hoping for their own share of affection. “These are adorable. Want!” She gave the man standing beside the box a hopeful look. “I don't suppose he's just giving them away to a good home?”

  Yeah, Lewis seriously doubted that. The young woman had directed the question to Gutierrez, who glanced Lewis's way to confirm whether it was actually worth asking about. “The town could use one or two dogs to help manage our herds,” he replied.

  His friend shrugged and struck up a conversation with the dogs' owner, a stream of rapid fire Spanish going back and forth. “He admits they're mutts, but their mom has a good pedigree, is well trained, and won some show competitions.” Gutierrez shrugged again. “Or so he says.”

  That was all well and good, but there was only one real question. “Price?”

  Gutierrez's expression when he got the man's response was enough of an answer. Looked like avocados weren't the only things selling high.

  “We can check again before we leave,” Lewis offered. “People have a way of lowering their prices if they still haven't sold out just before it's time to pack up.”

  Disappointed, Carrie nodded and gave the wiggling little puffballs of affection one last pat before straightening. “No way I can afford a dog anyway,” she said wistfully. “Even if you got one for Aspen Hill it wouldn't really be mine.”

  There was that. Lewis wondered if he couldn't look into asking one of the town's dog owners about sharing one of their puppies. Carrie was still living with Jane's group, and he knew the kids in that cabin would probably love to have a pet as much as she would. It would be a nice thing for the entire shelter group.

  A thought for when they got back.

  The Prestons were too swamped with potential customers to spare a moment to chat. Lewis nodded to them in passing and continued on into the livestock pens. In spite of the low number of available animals there was a decent variety. Horses, cows, donkeys, mules, even a few alpacas. All ludicrously priced.

  It didn't take long for Lewis to dismiss the options. Maybe now that Canada was supplying fuel they might be better off taking the truck roaming in search of stray livestock they could catch and take home. Probably a better return on their effort than wasting resources when livestock prices were at their highest. Or they could save up and wait a few years for ranchers to replenish their herds before trying again.

  They spent the next few hours getting to know vendors who had goods they might end up buying. Along the way Lewis immediately jumped on a few necessary items, things in high demand at what seemed to him to be reasonable prices that would be gone if they waited. He used some of the town's precious metals for those purchases, since their value was well established and sellers were more willing to accept them.

  Finally they reached the point where Carrie needed to head back to go to this formal reception with Grimes. Gutierrez agreed to accompany her back and see if Ned wanted him to watch his truck for a few hours to give Paul a break, while Lewis continued his bartering. They agreed to meet up at the feast their hosts would be throwing for them after the formal reception.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mingling

  Carrie had regretted accepting Grimes's offer pretty much from the moment she did it, and now she felt like a complete fool.

  Ever since losing her eye she'd done everything she could to avoid being looked at, and now here she was agreeing to be the center of attention. Not only that, but as a means of scoring political points between nations. What had she been thinking?

  At least it provided her with an opportunity to score some personal points against the people who'd destroyed her country, killed so many of her friends, and ruined her face. Not just the grunts in the trenches she'd been shooting at before her injury took her out of the fighting, either, but the actual bigwigs who'd made the calls that caused so much suffering.

  It probably wouldn't be socially acceptable to spit on them, more's the pity.

  At the moment she was waiting outside the headquarters tent for General Erikson's delegation to emerge, nervously fiddling with the document case she'd been given while trying to pay attention to a lieutenant on Grimes's staff who was filling her in on what her duties would be.

  On the plus side she thought she looked very nice, aside from the inescapable obvious. She was in uniform again, a dress uniform provided by the colonel's staff that fit surprisingly well. It looked brand new, and almost seemed too nice for the world she lived in now. She'd also been given a chance to wash up and thoroughly brush her hair, and had even been loaned a basic makeup set. When it came to trying to cover up her scars the expression “lipstick on a pig” came to mind, but she'd done what she could.

  Carrie often wondered if she really looked as horrific as she thought she did. The way everyone always flinched when they saw her face, then tried to look anywhere but at it, seemed to suggest so. That hurt even more after a lifetime of drawing gushing compliments and fawning admirers, and she was vain enough to admit it.

  She kind of wished her friends were here. Once Lewis had gotten used to her scars he barely seemed to notice or care about them, and treated her normally. As for Raul, the vague hints that he was hitting on her had pretty much crystallized into certainty when he seemed happy to hold her hand for several minutes. Although she wasn't sure how she felt about having someone actually looking at her with interest, after sending the villagers running away shrieking for so long.

  It hurt, she was terrified it was all in her head and she was going to humiliate herself with him . . . and she sort of hoped he'd make the next move soon.

  Although she wouldn't admit it even under torture, she'd been attracted to Raul almost from the beginning. Appearance-wise he pushed all her buttons, she'd always been drawn to men in uniform, and from everything she'd learned about him he was not only skilled and courageous, but he was also a good man. And it definitely helped that she could see in his eyes that he understood pain, and had become a kinder person for it.

  It had taken a while for Carrie to admit that attraction to herself, though. He'd flinched and looked away when he first saw her, same as everyone else, and it was hard not to take that personally. Well, obviously she should take it personally, but it was hard to move past the memory of it even though he now seemed to like the way she looked.

  To her relief there was a sudden flurry of activity around her as the General, his senior staff, and their aides finally emerged from the tent. That took her mind off uncomfortable thoughts and back to her current assignment.

  Of course, she wasn't sure that was any more comfortable to think about.

  Grimes gave her a warm smile as she hurried to take her place beside him. “Ah, Ms. Grant. You look lovely.”

  She'd worked hard to make herself presentable, and he seemed sincere, and still the compliment cut deep and pissed her off. “Thank you, Sir,” she replied in as professional a tone as she could muster. “Any instructions before we get there?”

  “Just follow my lead,” he assured her. Erikson had started moving, pulling the others along in his wake, and they fell into place in the entourage.

  Follow his lead. As if tha
t advice wasn't singularly useless: she'd never had training as a staff member to a senior officer, let alone as a personal aide. Still, she supposed all she really needed to do was shadow him and be on hand if he asked her to do something. That and be ready to find herself put front and center when introduced to other dignitaries.

  They circled around the bustling market towards the summit tents erected nearest the Mexican camp. Their destination was the largest structure, essentially two connected tents that created a space comparable to a large, if low-ceilinged, auditorium.

  The inside had been simply but tastefully decorated, lit with strings of lightbulbs connected to a generator. Several tables were scattered around, but the décor was definitely arranged to encourage moving from group to group and mingling. As were the tables against one canvas wall that were lined with trays of finger foods with the expected small plates to hold them, along with an assortment of juices, sodas, wines, and mixed alcoholic beverages at a bar in one corner, poured by an overworked bartender and being carried to waiting guests by a dozen busy servers.

  The space was already full of dignitaries from Mexico, Canada, and the CCZ, all dressed as formally as their US counterparts. As Carrie followed the others in she looked around, feeling more than a little dazed and intimidated.

  When Colonel Grimes had first invited her along as an opportunity to rub her war wounds in the faces of the people who'd given them to her, she'd expected to be doing it in more of an informal setting. Not this fancy soiree attended by leaders of the four nations on the North American continent.

  Sure, all the dignitaries were swarmed by aides and surrounded by an armed escort, but even so she felt conspicuously out of place.

  “Ah, General Erikson!” the secretary, Rodriguez, called as he hurried over, bowing over his ample girth. “Welcome, welcome! Please, allow me to introduce you to your counterparts from the other nations.” He turned to Grimes and the other members of the senior staff and bowed again. “Welcome, honored guests! Please, feel free to enjoy our refreshments and mingle.” He turned to motion to a gaggle of assistants attending him. “If you are in need of anything, please contact a member of my staff.”

  At the secretary's urging the General and his personal aide broke away, accompanied by an escort of two seriously dangerous looking Special Forces soldiers. Once they were gone the US delegation broke up slightly, people wandering off or pausing to take in the setting and decide what they wanted to do.

  Several members of the senior staff were instructing aides to fill plates of food for them, so Carrie wasn't surprised when Grimes turned to her and rattled off a list of delicacies he'd like to sample. “Fill a plate for yourself while you're at it,” he offered. “And what would you like to drink if a server comes by to take orders?”

  “Any soda's fine, sir,” she said. More than fine, honestly, considering how long it had been since she'd had some.

  The colonel nodded and headed off briskly, leaving Carrie to wind her way through the tables and pick up a couple of the small plates, beginning a scavenger hunt for the things he'd requested. She mostly filled her own plate with the same things, although she did go for a few appetizers that looked good.

  The task didn't take long, but finding Grimes in the press of people did. She finally tracked him down facing off against an officer in a Gold Bloc uniform, both sets of guards tense and on edge as the two men smiled and exchanged pleasantries through gritted teeth.

  Oh boy, so they were diving into it already. Carrie sucked in a steadying breath and closed the distance, standing a bit to Grimes's side where she was in his view but wouldn't interrupt.

  The colonel immediately turned to her, holding two glasses. One had root beer or some sort of cola, hers she supposed. She was amused to notice that Grimes had gone for an alcoholic drink for himself, after his hardline stance talking to Rodriguez earlier. It wasn't exactly hypocrisy, but it stood out.

  “Ah, thank you,” he said, doing an awkward shuffle to swap his plate for her drink. He nodded to the blockhead. “May I introduce District Commander Mikhailov, CCZ.” Then he motioned to Carrie, speaking with more than a bit of relish. “District Commander, this is my aide, Carrie Grant.”

  “A pleasure, ma'am.” Mikhailov smirked slightly, taking a sip of his whiskey as he turned back to Grimes. “I see you go for eye candy, Colonel.”

  Carrie did her best to push down her outrage. Grimes looked annoyed as well, but also somewhat triumphant: the man had set up an ideal comeback. “Ms. Grant fought on the front lines and was wounded by artillery fire from your side.” His voice hardened. “During your unprovoked invasion of our country.”

  “Ah.” The blockhead turned back to her. “So she is eye candy of a different sort, a blatant attempt to tug at our hearts.”

  “Assuming you had one,” Carrie shot back.

  “That will do, Ms. Grant,” Grimes said stiffly.

  Carrie nodded in apology and took a half step back.

  Mikhailov's smile had vanished. “My heart shattered when I learned my family was vaporized in a nuclear strike, one of the many that completely wiped out my beloved country. So yes, I am lacking one. Where the suffering of my enemies is concerned, at least.”

  “You want to play the aggrieved party after you invaded our country when we were at our weakest and imprisoned millions of our citizens in inhumane conditions?” Grimes demanded. “We gave you an opportunity to leave before resorting to the nuclear option.”

  Then Rodriguez was there. “Gentlemen,” he said in a slightly chiding voice. “We are here for trade, no?”

  “With you,” the blockhead leader shot back, pointedly turning away from Carrie and Grimes to face the secretary. “I don't know why you invited these others.”

  “Says the pot to the kettle,” Grimes replied.

  Rodriguez tsked softly and moved to usher the other dignitary away. “Permit me to introduce you to members of the Canadian delegation, Senor Mikhailov. I believe you'll have useful things to talk about.”

  “Well that was worth the trip,” Carrie said after he was gone.

  “Anger and resentment are often common responses to guilt,” Grimes replied, unperturbed. “If he really didn't care he wouldn't have made such a show of it.” He motioned. “Come on. The blockheads may be satisfying to confront, but they're the least beneficial for our purposes. Let's go introduce ourselves to the Mexicans and Canadians and see if we can score some sympathy points.”

  Carrie didn't love hearing it described like that, but she did agree that if they could garner some aid from their neighbors, or at least make them less kindly disposed towards the blockheads, then this farce would be worth it.

  They spent the next hour drifting from group to group, chatting with their counterparts from other nations in between steadily emptying the food tables and tapping out the bar. Carrie was relieved that in spite of Grimes's stated intent to parade her around, aside from that confrontation with Mikhailov he was a lot more circumspect about it. He'd introduce her, leave it to whoever they were talking to to ask about her scars, then depending on the situation either explain her injuries himself or ask her to tell her story.

  She did garner plenty of sympathy, and a lot of outrage about the viciousness of the blockheads that segued nicely into discussions about the atrocities they'd committed and were continuing to commit. It was obvious the CCZ had few if any friends in the room, even among their hosts. She got the impression from the Mexicans they talked to that the blockheads were an unpleasant but unavoidable necessity at the summit.

  Finally the chance to enjoy good food and soda, as much of both as she wanted for the first time in over a year and a half, caught up with her. She excused herself to find the toilets, tracking down one of Rodriguez's staff to find out where they were.

  The camp had several locations for latrines, but they were the really crude, basic kind, although at least they had toilet paper, soap, and water. But the toilets attached to the summit tents were much nicer. They were
n't plumbed, of course, but they flushed similar to the little toilet she remembered from her grandparents' RV, surprisingly clean and with almost no smell. The little cubicles were also vented, and compared to what she was used to it was downright luxurious.

  If she'd thought to bring along that novel she'd borrowed from Lewis she would've been tempted to stay in there a while reading, to avoid returning to the reception for as long as possible.

  The toilets also had small sinks, again running off a tank and into another one, with soap provided. They even had small mirrors so she could check herself over and touch up her makeup. Then, having delayed as long as she could, she made her way back to the big room and started through the crowd to rejoin Grimes.

  There was a palpable tension in the air, which she understood once she found the colonel; the man was with Erikson and most of the senior staff, facing off against District Commander Mikhailov and several other blockhead dignitaries.

  “You're taking civilians who had nothing to do with what happened to your countries as slaves, then doing unspeakable things to them,” Erikson growled at the CCZ leader as she came within earshot. “Do you even know the meaning of mercy?”

  Mikhailov smiled thinly. “I believe that is how you say “thank you” in French, da?”

  The General's face became stone cold. “You realize that if you keep on this way you'll force a war of extermination.”

  The District Commander also became grim. “That war began the moment your people launched nukes. At our best guess you've killed 1.7 billion citizens of Gold Bloc nations, and who knows how many others in our treaty nations and neighbors. If you started to list the names of every person you killed you'd have to live two lifetimes, to a ripe old age each time, to come anywhere close to naming them all.”

  Erikson started to reply, but Mikhailov spoke right over him, pointing at his chest. “You obliterated my home, my loved ones. The homes and loved ones of all of my soldiers.” His lip curled upward in contempt. “A war of extermination is just fine with me. We both know how such a war will turn out.”