No Easy Hope - 01 (45 page)

“How they doing, doc?” Jonas asked.

“As good as can be expected, given the circumstances. I wish we could get them to a proper medical facility, but…” The old doctor held up his hands and shrugged.

“I understand, sir. Thank you for offering your help. Do you think they’ll recover?” Jonas asked.

“They should. They had a lot of puncture wounds, but none of them were deep enough to cause any serious damage. My main concern is blood loss. We will have to make sure that they get plenty of fluids and food, so that their bodies can replace what they lost. I stitched them up as best I could, but they are going to have a lot of scarring, not much I can do about that. I’ve started them on a round of antibiotics to treat their infection. If they can bounce back from the blood loss, they should make a full recovery. That being said, it’s likely to be two to three weeks before they’re back on their feet again. When were you planning on heading back to Fort Bragg?”

Lt. Jonas grimaced. “I was planning to stay out on patrol for another three weeks before those two got hit. Do you think I should go ahead and take them back? We have better facilities in the safe zone.”

Bill shook his head. “There is not much else that can be done for them at this point, regardless of where they are. If you need to keep searching for survivors, you can leave them here and we’ll look after them. They should be up and walking by the time your patrol is over, and you can pick them up on the way back to Fort Bragg.”

Jonas considered it for a few seconds, and slowly started to nod.

“That actually sounds like a good idea. Are you sure you don’t mind? I know things are hard for you folks, I don’t want you to stretch your resources on our account. We are supposed to be helping you, not the other way around.”

Bill gave him a weary smile. “We’ve been managing okay. We have some good people here.”

Jonas held a hand out to Bill. “I really appreciate the help, Doc. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You folks are the first people we’ve run into that didn’t shoot at us and run away. I glad to see that you’re doing well for yourselves.”

Bill shook his hand, and held it. “If you really are who you say you are, then these people are going to be very happy to welcome you in. If not, and you try anything, these people know how to fight. I don’t have any illusions about how it would end, but you
will
take casualties in the process. These folks have been through too much to bow down to would-be conquerors. Are we clear, Lieutenant?”

Jonas nodded. “Crystal.”

Bill stared at him for a moment, and then released his hand.

“Well, once you boys are all set up, come on in. We put together a nice dinner for you.”

Jonas smiled. “That sounds wonderful.”

The meal was a hodge-podge of venison steaks, canned vegetables, dried pasta, flat bread, and wild edibles scavenged from the forest. I helped myself to a hunk of deer meat, bread, and a bowl of slow cooked pinto beans. Bill sent Emily and Justin to fetch a few cases of wine and some plastic cups. As the wine flowed, the mood became festive in the compound. The soldiers were more than happy to sit down with other survivors and eat something other than MRE’s for a change. The compound’s residents were anxious for news from the outside world, and peppered Lt. Jonas and his men with a barrage of questions.

Stacy brought plates to the two injured men, but no wine. The pain-killers in their blood made it too dangerous for them to drink. They thanked her, and tore into their meal with gusto. Stacy sat down and kept them company while they ate. A warm meal and a pretty girl to talk to picked their spirits right up. I couldn’t help but wonder if Stacy was just being kind, or if she was avoiding me. Or both.

While we were clearing out dead bodies from the housing development a few miles away, I found a beautiful Taylor six-string, and brought it with me back to the compound. I’m no Eric Clapton, but I can play pretty well and I have a decent singing voice. To take my mind off of Stacy, I fetched my guitar and offered to play a few songs during the meal. I got a round of applause before I even picked the first note.

The show started with a paced acoustic version of
All Along the Watchtower
that got people tapping their feet, and bobbing their heads. I followed that up with a couple of Dave Matthews tunes, and a rendition of
Good Times
by Charlie Robinson. That one got people out of their chairs and moving. Andrea surprised the hell out of me by disappearing into her shack and returning with a violin. Or a fiddle, as she called it. Her husband bounced little Aiden on his knee in time to an impromptu acoustic version of several Flogging Molly and The Dropkick Murphy’s songs. I had no idea that Andrea liked Irish rock.

Before I knew it, people were breaking out private stashes of booze, and Justin brought out a few more cases of wine. Bill scowled at him, but didn’t say anything. He would never admit it, but I think the old man was having a good time right along with everyone else. Andrea and I played every song we could think of, and even took a few requests. After a couple of hours, Bill called in the guards on the roof. All of the people who could replace them were either drunk, or well on their way to it. There didn’t seem to be much sense in leaving them up there to miss the party.

People danced, and drank, and laughed, and drank some more. A few soldiers were lucky enough to catch the eye of what few single women lived in the compound, and joined them in their shacks for the evening. A tall soldier named Bryson, who looked like a cross between a male model and an NFL linebacker, sat down next to Cody and began chatting him up. At one point, I caught Cody’s eye, and gave him a smile and a thumbs up. He turned red and laughed as he held up his cup in return.

When it looked like things were starting to wind down, I called everyone over and asked them to take a seat. Once the boozed up crowd settled down, I strummed my guitar and played a slow version of
It’s a Great Day to be Alive
by Travis Tritt. I’ve never been a big fan of country western, but I like that song. Andrea accompanied on the fiddle, and by the last chorus everyone not unconscious or en coitus was singing right along. After we finished, Andrea leaned over to me.

“Do you know that old song by Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know it.”

I held up a hand to get everyone’s attention.

“Okay folks, one last song, and then I have to call it a night.”

That elicited a chorus of boos. I laughed and began to play. The opening notes rose and fell, and the drunken partiers began to sway back in forth in time with the tune. Andrea pulled heartache from her violin in slow, bitter sweet falls and crescendos. There was not a dry eye in the place by the time we got to the last chorus.

Andrea kept time with me and played the last notes on the violin in perfect harmony with my voice as I sang the last bar. Hallelujah is a long one, and my fingers were burning as I played the final chords. The other survivors were quiet for a moment, and then burst into applause. I tell you, ol’ Leonard sure as hell knew how to put a song together. I looked around and found Stacy seated near the back of the audience. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she gave me a smile and a little wave.

On the way over to my truck, I endured numerous enthusiastic back slaps and even a few hugs from the soldiers. Stacy pulled me aside and gave me a long, heartfelt kiss.

“That was beautiful.” She said.

“You’re beautiful.” I replied.

We lay down in her bed and fell asleep to the sounds of the last revelers settling down for the night. I felt better than I had in a long time. As I fell asleep, I wondered how long it would last.

Chapter 16

Last Straw

The next day, nearly everyone in the compound woke up with a hangover. For once, thankfully, I was not one of them. While everyone else was pounding the booze, I was sipping water to keep my voice from getting raw. I left Stacy sleeping and quietly slipped out the door to the common area. What few people that were not still snoozing and groaning moved around preparing a simple breakfast of flatbread and thin lentil soup. I spotted Lieutenant Jonas squatting down on his heels next to the two men that Bill had patched up the day before. They looked somewhat pale, but seemed to be doing much better. I made my way over to them. The Lieutenant stood up and smiled as I approached.

“That was some damn fine singing last night.” He said.

I tried to say, “Oh, it was nothing.”, but all that came out was a hoarse croak. I had to clear my throat several times before I could talk.

“Sorry, guess I overdid it.” My voice sounded like glass shards in a tin can. Jonas laughed.

“Well, you should probably go get yourself some water. I don’t think you’re going to be giving another performance any time soon.” He said.

I smiled ruefully and shrugged. “Hey, I can still play the guitar.”

Jonas laughed again, and clapped me on the shoulder. “Now that’s what I like to hear. I wish some of these useless slugs had your kind of gumption.” He said, gesturing at the rows of sleeping soldiers laid out in their bedrolls.

“Come on, LT.”  A voice behind me said. I turned and recognized the speaker. I had seen him barking orders at the soldiers setting up the barricade around their convoy yesterday.

“These guys have been through the wringer. They deserve to cut loose once in a while.” He said.

Jonas sighed and relaxed his posture, planting his hands on his hips. “I suppose you’re right Sergeant. That
was
a damn fine dinner last night, and I can’t remember the last time I drank a decent glass of cabernet. Give these apes another half hour, then rouse them up and get some of that damn disgusting coffee into ‘em.”

“Will do, sir.” The sergeant said, half smiling. He had narrow, craggy face that did not look at all accustomed to good humor. Seeing amusement in his expression was a bit like seeing the sun poke through a storm cloud. He turned to me as Lt. Jonas made his way over to Bill.

“Sergeant Will Cartwright, United States Army.” He said, extending one large hand.

“Eric Riordan, financial analyst, musician, and entrepreneur.” I shook his hand.

“Entrepreneur is it? What business are you in?”

“Not sure yet, but when I find out I’ll let you know.”

He let by another quick smile, and turned back to the recumbent forms of his comrades. “You got anything planned this morning, Mr. Riordan?”

“Not really. And please, call me Eric.”

“Fair enough, Eric. Call me Will. I don’t suppose you’d mind helping me brew up twenty two cups of the worst instant coffee ever to plague the face of the Earth, would you?”

I chuckled. “Tell you what, let me get a cup of tea down my gullet, and I’ll even bring you a stove and a teapot.”

The sergeant nodded, and set off toward the tables where Emily and a few others were serving breakfast. I stepped around the sleeping soldiers and walked over to my truck. I changed into a fresh set of clothes, strapped on my boots, and took a few minutes to look over my weapons and supplies. It had become something of a routine for me at that point, and I felt a lump in my throat at the thought of not having this as a part of my day anymore. I strapped on my load bearing harness, holstered my pistol, and slung a rifle over my shoulder. Ethan had scheduled me for guard duty from seven until eleven in the morning. After that, I would get some lunch and say goodbye to everyone.

After lunch.

No sense leaving early. Someone would have to take my watch, and that would just be rude. I could stand one last shift. That would give me time to tell everyone how much they meant to me, and how much I cared about them. How much it killed me to leave them. I wasn’t worried, though. With the soldiers here, they would be in good hands-

“Holy sh-
AAAAUUUUGHHHH
! Get if off me!
Get it the fuck off me
!”

Without realizing it, I had been staring at the ground. The shrill scream snapped my head up. I sprinted toward the other side of the warehouse, clutching the grip of my rifle. Sergeant Cartwright was standing half in the doorway and half out, grappling with a man in a brown shirt, like the color of dried…
fuck.