Nuclear Winter | Book 2 | First Spring Page 28

  “Yeah?” Grimes cut in. “You're welcome to come back to the Rockies and try your luck again anytime.”

  The blockhead leader gave the colonel a murderous look. “Your country is a lot larger than a single mountain range, American.”

  “You mean like the Eastern States?” Grimes shot back. “You took a pounding trying to hold that, and now you have less than a third of our country's territory and you're surrounded by enemies. The only people producing and refining fuel are unwilling to trade with you, and once you finish picking over the ruins of what you hold you'll have nothing to trade for food, because you produce nothing. You're parasites, you're losing, and you're giving us every reason to wipe you off the map even if you ever decide you're done with your war and finally want peace.”

  Mikhailov wasn't happy to hear that. At all. “And we have all the weapons and soldiers,” he hissed. “Maybe we've decided that if we can't win, we're happy just making sure this entire continent burns.”

  The colonel started to reply but General Erikson cut him off curtly. “I can see why your people sent you as an envoy, Mikhailov. You have a unique talent for diplomacy.” Carrie was impressed the man could say that without the slightest trace of sarcasm.

  Before any more could be said Rodriguez and two similarly dressed men, likely the secretaries assigned to the other nations, abruptly interposed themselves between the two groups.

  “Gentlemen, please!” Rodriguez nearly shouted. “We asked you to keep your people from interacting to avoid unpleasantness, and this is the example you provide for them?”

  Erikson turned stiffly to face the secretary. “My apologies, Mr. Rodriguez. I'm not accustomed to just ignoring it when someone brushing past me calls me a murderer of women and children in a stage whisper loud enough for half the room to hear. The cowboy in me itches to challenge the gutless piece of trash to pistols at 20 paces.”

  Carrie had hung back at the edge of the confrontation, and now she backed away even more as both sides exploded in angry shouting. A few of the armed escorts had their hands on their firearms, and things were looking dangerous.

  Rodriguez's piercing whistle cut through the noise, loud enough that a few of those near him covered their ears. A temporary silence settled, and in that silence the secretary spoke, voice polite but firm.

  “I thank you all for attending our reception. I hope you had an enjoyable time.” He turned and motioned curtly towards the entrance. “The welcome feast will begin soon, and all are invited to attend.” His voice hardened slightly. “You'll be pleased to know that the US and CCZ have been assigned seats as far away from each other as possible.”

  Mikhailov muttered something in Russian and turned, pushing through his own people to leave the tent through another exit. Once he was gone Erikson took a sharp breath. “Thank you, Mr. Rodriguez. We're looking forward to it.”

  If the situation wasn't so tense Carrie would've been almost amused at the veneer of civility over what basically amounted to the Wild West. Still, considering she was unarmed and in the middle of a camp with armed factions surrounding them on four sides, she was glad it hadn't gotten violent.

  Erikson turned and made for the entrance Rodriguez had pointed out, and the Americans in the room who hadn't been in the face off with him drifted through the crowd to join him. Grimes took a moment to pick Carrie out from the crowd, and with a curt gesture motioned for her to catch up as he followed.

  * * * * *

  Lewis was talking with an appraiser about the value of his archives when they started setting up for the feast.

  It was a cleared area between the summit tents and the Mexican side of camp, large enough to fill with over a hundred long plank tables and benches that could accommodate thousands of people. Grills, propane burning flat stovetops and ranges, and firepits had already been set up nearby, and enough food to feed an army filled the air with delicious smells as it cooked.

  It was hard to concentrate while bombarded by tantalizing hints of such a wide variety of flavors. Lewis noticed the appraiser had stopped browsing his files and was giving the kitchen area a longing look as well. So he retrieved the drive and excused himself to join the growing crowd standing at the cordon around the area.

  There were a lot of soldiers hanging around. They'd obviously been detailed to keep the peace and make sure the feast remained festive. Not the worst idea considering blockheads and the people they'd attacked were going to be mingling over food.

  Or not, hopefully; Lewis was glad that everyone seemed to agree the CCZ and everyone else should keep to themselves, because he wasn't sure he'd be able to speak to the people who'd destroyed his home and killed his friends without losing it. And he'd always prided himself on being rational and not acting rashly.

  This place was potentially a powder keg waiting to go up, and it was good to have plenty of sand around to put out sparks.

  He met Gutierrez in the crowd, who'd similarly been drawn by the smells. He couldn't help but notice that his friend already seemed to have sold some stuff and picked up a few luxuries, specifically a bottle of tequila with a homemade label that he was taking a solid belt from when Lewis approached.

  “Want a swig?” Gutierrez asked, offering it.

  “I'm good, thanks,” Lewis said, waving it off.

  His friend shrugged and capped the bottle, then tucked it into the pack over his shoulder. “I've got sangria too, if you prefer that.”

  “Nah.” It wasn't that Lewis had anything against the act of drinking itself, but it genuinely frustrated him when his mind was foggy. He got enough of that due to fatigue from insomnia, poor nutrition, concentrating hard on a thought-intensive project for too long, or anything else that made it hard to think clearly. He didn't want to go out of his way to produce that effect. Besides, there was also his religious upbringing that made it less appealing as a personal choice.

  “No problem. More for me I guess.” Gutierrez straightened, glancing towards the summit tents. “Looks like the big party is over.”

  Sure enough people were pouring out of the main tent. In fact, from their haste and the tense expressions on their faces Lewis had to wonder if they were being evacuated due to some threat. Only there was no sign of a panic or people in charge shouting warnings or instructions.

  He caught sight of Carrie, looking military in a dress uniform and trailing a step behind Colonel Grimes. As General Erikson and his staff moved over to enter the feast area, the Mexican guards moving the cordon to admit them and guiding them to seats at one end of the tables, he sidled over to walk beside her.

  “Something happen?”

  The young woman nodded, expression sour. “About what you'd expect. Unpleasantness with the blockheads that almost turned violent. Rodriguez decided to can the party early to keep things from escalating out of control.”

  Lewis noticed the CCZ contingent was also entering the feast area, on the opposite side and being seated at the opposite tables. That left a wide buffer zone between the two convoys, and from the looks of it the Mexicans would be seated near the blockheads while the Canadians would be closer to the US. A good way to arrange things to avoid tension.

  Gutierrez was also looking that way. “Think our hosts are still confident in their reasoning about inviting everyone at the same time?”

  It was a flippant remark, but Carrie took it seriously. “I wonder if they realized how deep the animosity goes. I mean it's one thing to know it intellectually, it's another to see it.”

  “Yeah,” Lewis agreed. The guards were opening up the cordon to let in the growing crowd, who flowed in to sit in their assigned sections. Carrie started over towards where the senior officers were sitting, and he and Gutierrez trailed after her. Unless some military aide had an argument with them sitting together he was going to try for it, although it looked as if the seating was more informal here; a few civilians had already moved in to sit with the officers.

  Gutierrez had fallen into step on Carrie's right, looking a bit emba
rrassed as he sneaked glances at her. “You cleaned up really well,” he said out of the blue.

  The young woman responded with a scowl, but Lewis could see a flush creeping up her neck. “As opposed to before?”

  “Yeah, actually.” The former soldier grinned. “No shame, we've all been living grungy for the last year and a half. Even if you look good roughing it, and you do by the way, there's alway-”

  “You!”

  * * * * *

  Raul jumped at the sharp cry, along with most of the people around him.

  He turned towards it with everyone else, although his thoughts were still focused on getting over his blunder with Carrie. He didn't consider himself a lightweight, but he definitely must've drunk enough to loosen his tongue just the right amount to make an idiot of himself.

  He identified the voice as coming from the Canadian area of the tables not far away. Then his surprise turned to confusion as he realized the man who'd shouted was looking their way.

  No, not their way. His way.

  The guy was a couple years younger than him, 18 at the most, with a lean, somewhat haunted face. Oddly enough he was in US Army uniform in spite of the fact that he was obviously part of the Canadian convoy. A member of the units loaned out to the occupying Canadians in the eastern States, maybe, to keep the peace and look out for the remaining Americans there?

  Either way he looked pissed, and also slightly familiar. Raul couldn't put his finger on it, and he didn't have time to think it through because the shouter was heading his way. “I thought it was you,” the man continued. “I can't believe you have the guts to show up in polite company!”

  Lewis stepped in front of him, voice calm. “Our hosts asked us to avoid confrontations. Whatever this is-”

  The man interrupted him. “I don't want a fight,” he spat. “I just want to call out this bandit scum for the death of a good man, and a lot of other suffering and death he didn't stick around to see.”

  Raul felt his body stiffen as if he'd just stuck a fork in an electrical socket, and recognition finally dawned.

  Murmurs broke out from the crowd around them, and his companions turned worried looks his way. “Raul?” Carrie asked quietly, one of the few times she'd actually used his real name. “Who is this guy?”

  Raul remembered back to the first winter after the Gulf burned. A miserable neighborhood being looted and ransacked, a crowd of residents shivering in the snow as their belongings were taken from them at gunpoint. Their leader shot dead by Turner practically on a whim, for offering the slightest resistance.

  And this kid's pleading glare darting among Ferris's raiders looking for someone, anyone, who'd stop the murder. Raul didn't know his name. “I don't know-” he started.

  The man swore at him. “Liar! I saw you recognize me.” Before Raul could explain what he'd meant to say the guy continued, speaking to the crowd. “My name's Jack Porter. I was part of a community this scum's group attacked. They took all our food, offered to pay some of it back to any women willing to degrade themselves, killed the only man who'd showed me any kindness after the Gulf burned.” He pointed a shaking finger at Raul. “And you got away Scot-free, didn't you?”

  Raul looked away. He supposed he had, aside from the memories that haunted his every solitary night. Aside from the guilt that no amount of attempts at restitution could alleviate.

  Lewis cut in, tone still reasonable. “Can we take this conversation away from the spotlight?” he asked, glancing around at the crowd of curious onlookers.

  “Why, so you and your bandit friend can get me somewhere alone and slit my throat?” Jack laughed, although not in amusement. “I want everyone to know what he did. And if there's any justice in this world, I want someone to arrest him for it and hang him!”

  Raul's guilt momentarily flared to anger. He'd take whatever abuse this man wanted to dish out for his crimes, but he wasn't about to let him go after his friends. “My friends are some of the most decent, generous people out there,” he said harshly. “Say what you want about me, but leave them out of it.”

  To his surprise he felt Carrie slip her hand into his, offering a supporting squeeze.

  Lewis had more than moral support to offer, though. He waved sharply to cut off the growing murmur of the crowd. “You want to put this in the spotlight? Fine, then I want everyone to hear this.” He looked around at the onlookers, meeting people's gazes without any sign of shame. “Raul Gutierrez volunteered to fight against the blockheads, and did so from the moment they surrounded the Utah Rockies to the moment they retreated. He reported his previous history to the military, and for his service was offered a full pardon for any crimes he may have committed.”

  “Convenient,” Jack spat.

  “There's more I could say in my friend's favor, because he's also one of the most decent, courageous men I know,” Lewis continued as if he hadn't heard. “But I don't need to say any more. He's been pardoned, you're part of another convoy, and our hosts asked us to avoid mingling for just this reason.”

  His friend softened his tone slightly, taking in the grief etched across Jack's face just as deeply as his fury. “Unless you want to talk this over reasonably, I would ask you to leave us alone.”

  Jack's eyes hardened. “I won't. For Lon's sake, if I have to I'll personally tell every person in this camp your crimes, then follow behind you shouting them no matter where you go.”

  “No, you won't.” Grimes pushed his way through the crowd from the table where the senior officers had seated themselves, stepping forcefully between Raul and his friends and the other man. To his credit, in spite of his anger Jack reluctantly stood to attention and saluted his superior officer.

  “I don't think your superiors invited you on this trip to go causing trouble with other factions, Private,” the colonel continued coldly. “You're probably disobeying orders talking to these men in the first place.”

  Jack's momentary hesitation seemed to confirm that. “I just-”

  It was his turn to be interrupted. “I'm not even saying your complaint isn't justified, son,” Grimes said, almost kindly. “But it's the wrong time and definitely the wrong place.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice so Raul could barely hear him as he jerked his head towards the CCZ tables. “Besides, you want to go after people on our side when we're literally eating next to invaders, slavers, rapists, and murderers?”

  Jack shot a baleful look Raul's way, then an even more murderous glance towards the blockheads. He hadn't dropped his salute, but now he stiffened it even more. “Understood. Permission to be excused, Sir?”

  The colonel nodded curtly. Without hesitation the young soldier dropped his arm, turned on one heel, and stalked away.

  Once he was gone Grimes sighed and turned to Lewis. “Shouldn't be surprised you're at the center of this commotion. I trust you were telling the truth, and your friend really was offered a pardon?”

  “I was,” Lewis replied.

  “I suppose that's that for now, then, although you can bet I'll be following up on it.” The colonel turned his glare to Raul. “Who did you volunteer under fighting the blockheads? Who'll vouch for you?”

  “Sergeant Ethan Davis.” Raul sincerely hoped Davis had done the paperwork. Something like that could easily get lost in the shuffle when there were more important problems to worry about, and the sergeant had never really liked him. Raul supposed he couldn't blame the man for having a low opinion of a deserter and reformed criminal like him, as long as Davis had sent the request for a pardon to whoever needed to receive it, and made sure the request was granted.

  If he had. Blast, Raul should've followed up on that himself, made sure he got some sort of document he could wave around in a situation like this. But at the time he'd been worrying about more important problems too, like keeping himself and his people alive against overwhelming odds.

  “And Sergeant Peter Harmon,” Lewis added.

  Grimes actually pulled out a notepad and spent almost a minute jotting down d
etails. As he did most of the onlookers, deciding that the excitement was over, drifted away. When the colonel finally flipped the pad shut and strode away muttering to himself, Raul and his friends were in their own small bubble of space.

  Lewis jerked his head towards a table and started for it. “Let's get some food.”

  Raul barely heard him, eyes unconsciously going back to the young soldier sitting with the Canadians. All the guilt he'd spent over a year burying had come back in a surge, leaving him numb and shaken.

  Carrie started after their friend, tugging at Raul's hand, then paused when he didn't follow. She turned back to him with worry in her single chocolate brown eye. “Hey,” she said quietly. “It's behind you.”

  Raul shook his head slowly, eyes still on Jack. “I remember what he's talking about. Turner shooting the leader of a community just for asking a question, that kid looking around desperately, silently begging someone, anyone, to step in and stop the murder. I didn't.”

  She squeezed his hand again. “There was nothing you could've done then. But when it mattered, when you had a chance to go over to Aspen Hill and fight on their side, you made the right choice.”

  The right choice. Raul hadn't lived long in the grand scheme of things, but he'd lived painfully. He'd come to realize that most people didn't make the right choice. They made the easy choice, the selfish choice, the comfortable choice, the one that carried no personal risk. Even those who made good choices were usually faced with the fact that they could've done more, tried harder, found a better solution.

  The right choice was hard. It was painful. It had a high cost. And even after all was said and done there was no way to really say whether it was the right choice after all. Even hindsight couldn't see with perfect clarity.

  For Raul the right choice would've been standing up to Turner. He probably would've gotten shot himself without even saving the old man, but he could've died with a clear conscience. Only he'd already been with the raiders for a while by that point, so he'd already missed dozens of right choices. He should've left before they even began, no matter how frightening it was to think of trying to survive on his own. Better to try and fail than to give in, go along, and be a tacit perpetrator of all the atrocities Ferris and his people had committed.