Blood Memory (Mongol Moon), page 31
“Preston, what? What is it?” she asked, searching her friend’s face.
Any answer coming from Preston was preempted by the arrival of the bandaged soldier. His head wrapped with a beige bandage nearly soaked through with blood. He wore a uniform covered in dirt and blood, and inside his mouth was the largest hunk of tobacco Meredith had ever seen in her life.
He lifted a bottle to his lips, spit some odorous liquid in, and spoke without introduction.
“It’s fucked, sir.”
“Give me more to work with, Sergeant Emmet,” Major Frey replied.
“Lieutenant Betz’s vic is all jacked up, sir. Got a hole in his radiator core somewheres, I dunno, but it’s pissin’ fucking coolant.” The man’s drawl was uniquely Western, but mixed with hillbilly and not aided in intelligibility by the giant ball of tobacco in his mouth. Never before had Meredith heard a real-life human being speak English like this.
“That, and I’m pretty sure the LMTV I’m driving has damage to the low pressure side of the turbocharger. I can feel it. I bet dirt or dust or some shit got into the air induction system an’—”
Frey cut the man off. “How long until you can get them back running?”
Sergeant Emmet stared at the major like he’d asked the question in French. “Runnin’? Sir, both these vics are deadlined and need like depot-level maintenance.”
“You are the only depot we have, Sergeant. Can you do it?”
“Let my Marines take a look at it, sir, I think we can do it,” interrupted the man whom Ambassador Brown had introduced as Gunny Harmon. Even speaking in a small group, his voice was loud and carried a tone that instilled confidence that Gunny could accomplish the task.
“The fuck do you crayon-eaters know about maintenance? Hell, if you could do PMCS, we wouldn’t be in this problem to begin with,” Sergeant Emmet replied.
Sergeant Major Sweeney coughed, obviously a signal to Sergeant Emmet who followed up with a, “With all due respect, Gunny. Look, I’ve been in maintenance in this Army for twenty-four years. I can fix anything. I’ve been in the Army longer than your Marines have been alive. If I get in there and find something that needs to be killed or fucked, I’ll call your Marines over. If not, keep your grubby dick-beaters off a’ these trucks.”
Sweeney shook his head in defeat.
“I’ll get into both of them,” Emmet continued, “just give me one or two dudes, maybe that Joe cat from the ambassador’s staff who drives Vic Three, the one with the beard, he seems like he comes from somewhere blue collar. If the Hummer don’t get fixed, it’ll blow a head gasket, or have catastrophic engine failure, all bad. If CIA boy had told me it was runnin’ like that, we coulda done somethin’ sooner. If I can find the damaged tubes in the radiator, I can crimp ’em. It may still leak a lil, but it’ll hold ’til we get to Rwanda.
“We’ll need to keep coolant in it. We can use water, or maybe just piss in it, that works too. Plenty of piss bottles in the back there. We’ll need like two gallons at least. It’ll run hotter, normal range is 185 degrees to 205, but it won’t boil, especially piss.
“The LMTV, shit, I dunno. If it is a hole in the low pressure side, I could mebbe seal it, or if’n the hole is too big, I can make a filter with a T-shirt and tape the shit out of it. It should probably maybe hold. If it’s on the high side, and I don’t think it is, ’cause we don’t see any black smoke yet, we’ll need to cut some sheet metal out and wrap it on the hole with a buncha rigger’s tape.”
The man raised the bottle back to his lips and spat.
“Jesus,” John said, dumbfounded.
“What the fuck did you just say, Sergeant?” Gunnery Sergeant Harmon asked, shaking his head, any anger at being told off lost in a sea of wonderment.
“Fucking National Guard,” Major Frey, the group’s undisputed leader, finally spoke again. “How long?”
“Hours, sir. Many. Can’t tell you for sure, but it is gonna be a ton of work just me.”
“Get to it, take whoever you need, make it happen, Sergeant.”
The sergeant nodded and was off, letting loose a storm of profanity as he organized a work party.
Major Frey looked at Meredith for the first time, his eyes softened, but still bearing a cold iciness that unsettled her.
“It looks like we are going to be here a while. We are going to need your help.” As quickly as he had addressed her it ended, and his eyes returned to his group, but in that moment she felt included, like she was part of the team. He had, in his own way, that same magnetism John had.
“Get the drone up in the air and back down the road. Gunny, get me a four-man OP down the road long enough to get us a heads up, give them a radio. Rotate through it frequently. Green suits only. Sergeant Major, get us in some sort of defensible position around the damaged trucks. It looks like it’s about to rain, so get some overhead cover set up. Also, get the back of the LMTVs cleaned out. Not just washed, scrubbed. Find a way, see if Meredith has any bleach. They are covered in blood back there.”
Sergeant Major Sweeney nodded, making notes as the major talked. If he felt any squeamishness at the task, it didn’t show.
“Also, let’s keep our people close. We don’t need them wandering off God-knows-where. Just here, and the OP, and the aid station.
“Lieutenant, put together six green suits—bring some of the Agency guys if you need to. I want a patrol through the village, and then about a hundred yards into the jungle, the entire perimeter. I want to make sure nothing is sitting out there. And stay away from the river. Got it?”
The youthful-looking lieutenant smiled widely and nodded, as if being given this task was a badge of honor.
“You get with the village, make sure they understand there is a reward if no one does anything dumb. Make sure no one leaves.” He looked at John as he spoke. The blond man nodded, as if he already knew what the task would be.
The thunder rolled one more time, and the beginnings of the rainstorm pattered on the group. Already the wind from the east had picked up. Meredith could see both John and Lieutenant Betz heard it. The distant metallic clanging that the breeze always carried with it. The smell came too. A burning acidic taste that lingered in the mouth. She felt her heart sink as John turned again in her direction, the friendly disposition gone, replaced by a more stern visage. As if he knew what the sound was.
“If there is nothing else, Ambassador, got anything?”
Ambassador Brown shook his head no and the group broke up, each going about their task. Meredith turned towards John, calling out to him as he started to walk off.
“What did you mean when you said I didn’t know?”
The man’s stare was no longer stern; wheels were spinning in his brain.
“You won’t need all of those supplies,” he slowly said. “No one is coming. The world ended.”
Day 8
Mutanga, Congo
Planned Route: Maintenance Operations, Mutanga, Congo
631 Miles to Rwanda
The post-storm humidity squeezed Preston Brewster as he backpedaled in the open African field. Scanning the open space, he found his target standing only ten yards away. The Congolese man was, like most men he had seen in this area, skinny and perhaps malnourished. Despite these drawbacks, the man moved with the unmistakable bearing of a soldier. The man’s jawline was impressive, his skin tight and firm. Preston stared at his target as he took aim, focusing on the open buttons of the man’s uniform shirt, and let loose.
The ball sailed through the air in a tight spiral, a product of years of practice, and hit the African man in the chest with a thump. To his credit, the African did not drop the ball, but got his arms up in time to catch it.
“This is not the football we know,” the man said, looking around at the small group of Americans standing in the field throwing the ball. “You cannot even kick it.”
Preston laughed. “Just throw it like Trevor showed you, man.”
Denis reared his arm back, before pushing it forward quickly. The ball wobbled through the air like a wounded duck. Yet he had managed to put enough effort behind the abominable throw for it to reach its target. Trevor snatched it out of the air.
The two American USAID workers laughed. “You throw worse than Ainsley,” Trevor said, before wiping his damp hand and getting a better grip on the ball’s laces.
“Whatever,” Ainsley fired back, defending her honor. “I played soccer at Brown. I could destroy you both.”
“Good gravy, did all of you nerds go to some fancy school?” Sergeant McCoy asked. “I met more of you Ivy League weirdos in the last week than I have in thirty years living in Montana.”
“Montana has schools too,” Preston said seriously, watching Trevor throw the ball across the lazy circle the group was standing in to Ainsley. “Some of them even teach you to read and write.”
The entire group laughed. Sergeant McCoy’s upbringing may have been far from Preston’s own upper class neighborhood life outside of Baltimore and his time at an elite boarding school and then Johns Hopkins, but he was glad the group had these Montana cowboys with them.
Preston brushed his long brown hair out of his eyes as the ball traveled in his direction. He caught it easily. He had played lacrosse in both high school and college, and had been an athlete his entire life. He had taken a gap year between school and worked an internship at his father’s law firm, and had come to Africa to change the world. As he threw the ball to Sergeant McCoy, he pondered how much of the world he had left still existed.
He had never expected this to happen, but then again, who could have? He’d had his entire life planned out, and now everything he had done, everything his family and status had prepared him for, meant nothing. He had checked all the boxes, and it was as if someone had come and thrown those boxes away. The truth pained him. The cold and honest truth was that, despite all of their limitations in the old world, Sergeant McCoy and the young Marines were better equipped to survive and flourish in this new world than he was. His heart twinged with jealousy, but also a resolve to make up for the ground he had lost. He would thrive in this new world too.
“You have schools in this place, Montana?” Denis asked, half jokingly, but proving his point. The Congolese soldier chuckled, watching the ball fly in another perfect spiral out of Preston’s hand. Denis had been on the Congolese bus when it had hit the mine. His traveling partner had been one of the wounded who came to the Doctors Without Borders aid station, and he had ridden with the man the entire way. His comrade hadn’t survived the night. Denis had borrowed a shovel and wordlessly buried the man’s body near the river with Preston’s help. He still wore his blood-covered uniform shirt, complete with the shoulder boards bearing the two stripes of a sergeant. He had refused Sergeant Major Sweeney’s offer of a borrowed uniform top, saying that whatever condition his might be in, he would wear his own country’s uniform.
Preston bent over, stretching his back and legs. After a week trapped in the back of the bumpy and cramped LMTV, spending a day on the ground at this village had been a godsend. The rain had stopped early in the morning, allowing the group to dry out a little. The USAID team of Trevor, Ainsley, Alyssa, and himself had been able to reconnect with little to do. Despite Alyssa spending most of the day whispering and flirting with Corporal Adams, it had been good to spend time with them all again.
Major Frey had even relented on keeping everyone inside of the small perimeter of vehicles, and they had been just as happy to explore the tiny village of Mutanga as they had been to get away from Sergeant Emmet’s incessant cursing and banging. Preston looked over towards Alyssa and Corporal Adams, sitting in the grass next to the circle, their fingers intertwined. Barely twenty-three, Corporal Adams was nearer the age of the USAID workers than anyone in the convoy. Some of the Marines were still teenagers, while most of the National Guard and embassy workers were older. Preston, despite being nominally in charge of the USAID group, didn’t think it was his place to tell Alyssa who she should or shouldn’t consort with.
“There’s that smell again,” Ainsley said. She was right; the acidic smell had come and gone since they had arrived, with no explanation for its presence.
“Probably just Emmet farting,” Trevor joked. There was nothing they could do about the smell. It, like their present circumstances, simply needed to be endured.
“Aw, yeah, I love this song,” Sergeant McCoy cheered as the music poured from the loudspeaker John had somehow found and attached to his gun truck. “Yeah, hoss!”
Preston glanced at Trevor, who gave a shrug. Neither was familiar with the song.
“Man, you don’t know this? It’s Waylon Jennings, college boy! Greatest American singer-songwriter to ever live! Dude was supposed to be on the plane that crashed with Buddy Holly on it. This is real outlaw country.”
“Yeah, I’m not really an outlaw,” Preston said, throwing the ball to Denis.
“You sure about that? Look around you,” McCoy said with a smirk of superiority.
“Okay, but this song is about a dude named Hank. He’s asking, are you sure Hank done it this way, which, in addition to being grammatically incorrect, is kind of a weird thing to ask, right? I mean, at least in a red-blooded country song.”
“What, a man loving another man is too much for you sensitive East Coast liberals?”
“Goodness, are you three done? It’s like Twitter in here. Or, whatever Twitter was like,” Ainsley interjected.
Suddenly the music stopped. Everyone turned to see Major Frey standing by the truck, the phone connected to the speakers in his hand. He scrolled through, and a more modern, less country song began to play. He walked back towards his family, telling Private Barsamian over his shoulder, “You know the rules.”
Sergeant McCoy shook his head in disappointment. “Fucking officers.”
“I knew I liked him.” Trevor grinned.
Denis watched the scene unfold. He had never met Americans before, and this introduction to such a diverse group was wild to him. He had learned English in the Army, a prerequisite to being an officer, which he hoped to someday be. These Americans, especially the soldiers, fascinated him. They were so loud and talked so informally to one another and yet there was never any pushback to the demands of their leaders. When Sergeant Major Sweeney said to shave, they did, and when Major Frey demanded the music changed, it was. This discipline without ruthlessness impressed him greatly.
He saw a group of children from the village sneaking around the group, their curiosity pulling them closer to the vehicles. He shouted at them in Swahili, and the group fled, giggling back to their thatched, cone-shaped homes. The women and children of the village had spent the day mingling with the convoy, selling fish, rice, and fruit to the hungry Americans, but his intuition told him this group was up to no good. These villagers seemed overly eager to please the Americans, and it unsettled him. He had grown up in the northern city of Kisangani, where Swahili was also the native language. He was proud he could, in some way, help repay the Americans who had given his friend a chance at survival. He could not say whether his unit would have done the same.
“There it is again,” Preston said, his ears perking up. The sound of metallic banging overcame the music from the loudspeakers. “What is that?”
Sergeant McCoy gazed over at the huts. “Y’all notice anything odd about this village, man?” he asked, lowering his voice in case these people who had lived for centuries without electricity or running water somehow spoke English.
“Like what?” Ainsley replied, kicking the ball instead of throwing it to a grateful Denis, who caught it on his chest.
“Like, it is just… all women and kids. I haven’t seen a single man under forty since we’ve been here.”
“Looking for a nice man to keep you company at night?” Trevor teased the sergeant.
“Naw, that’s why I have you two! I’m just saying, it’s weird. In Iraq, if the kids disappeared, you knew an IED or an ambush was close. What happens when the men disappear, I don’t know.”
“It is… what is the word? Maybe…” Denis started. “It is, maybe they fight with rebels somewhere.”
“Possible,” Preston said, helping him find the word.
“Yes, possible,” Denis replied, committing the word to memory.
“I dunno, man… I dunno,” Sergeant McCoy said, shaking his head. “You going to that fancy officer dinner tonight?” he asked Preston.
“Yeah, are you? Fearless leader?” Ainsley asked, teasing him. Preston had been in Africa precisely one week longer than the rest of them, which, according to Sergeant Major Sweeney, was enough to make him their leader. It didn’t bother any of them; it wasn’t like Preston was leading anyone. His entire job seemed to be counting them in the morning before they left the embassy and passing on whatever news the ambassador and Major Frey handed out.
“Meredith will be there, right?” Trevor added, making a kissing face at Preston. They all knew that Preston and Meredith had, for lack of a better term, a “situationship” at the embassy, which had ended when she left for the Congo.
Denis and McCoy kept quiet, the intuition telling both soldiers this was not their time to interject. They shared a look. Both men had wives and children at home and neither missed this stage of their lives, save the endless energy of youth.
“Have you guys noticed, anything, I don’t know… different about her?” Preston asked, throwing the ball underhand to Denis again.
“Different, like, she lost ten pounds?” Trevor smiled, looking over at Ainsley, who rolled her eyes as he knew she would.
“No, I mean like, different. I dunno. I get it—you live here for months, almost a year, and you will change. We definitely have.” He paused, remembering the night they had buried Juaqim behind the tiny abandoned hospital outside of Chingali. He had seen death before, mostly at funerals, and as a child of the internet age, was no stranger to brutality in the world. But this was different. To lower a young man into his grave, to see his body drained of so much blood that the young black man had almost turned gray, had been a life-changing experience. Preston had rejected Sergeant Major Sweeney’s offer to bury Juaqim and had done the work with his friends. He knew that until his last day, he would remember the way the gangly man’s limbs flopped as he was folded into his grave. “I mean, like there is something else, something she’s keeping from us.”
