The War After Armageddon

Nasr lugged his body through the streets. There were no lights now. Blackout conditions. Only the stars and a moon hidden by buildings, and the lightning flashes of shell bursts beyond the ridges. His eyes were swollen almost shut, worse than they’d been before he’d gone unconscious among the bedbugs. An exasperated girl-friend had once told him he was blind. Well, now he just about was.

Tina. Oh, yes. So demure in public.

Tina, Tina. Nicest bad girl I ever met. Carnivorous.

He smiled at himself. Until his lips, gums, and teeth ached. Which didn’t take long.

He’d actually been worried about bedbugs in his room. The truth, which Nasr hid from his comrades, was that he was a clean-freak. Concerned with getting the bedbugs out of his clothing after he exfiltrated. What a joke. Glad to share many more nights with all the little guests in his bed, if only.

The bedbugs would’ve loved Tina.

For a long moment, he wasn’t even sure he was at the right place. But it smelled right. Even with his nose smashed up. The local piss lane. He limped into the corridor, the ammonia smell searing his nostrils. Doing the best he could to check that he was alone. Aware that he was incapable of judging whether he’d been followed.

Nasr reached down into a crumbling foundation and jimmied out a brick with his good hand. Wondering if he’d be able to work the stylus on the keypad.

He meant to bend over to hide the tiny glow of the device but found himself on his knees. With the dizziness on him again.

Twelve fragmentary sentences. Begin.

In the beginning was the Word…

And the word was: Minimum.

Minimum 23 busloads…

Even though he’d reasoned that they wanted him to transmit, he expected to feel a hand upon him. Or a club. To hear footsteps. Anything. Except being left alone to do his work.

He was left alone. He fired the burst transmission, waited, then sent it again. Hoping it would get through.

He didn’t want it all to be a waste.

From sheer discipline, he hid the transmitter again. Because that was how soldiers did things. Right to the end.

And he turned back down the stinking corridor, waiting to die.

Instead of being murdered, Nasr made it back to the house where the lovely bedbugs awaited him. He found the front door open and the landlord trying frantically to find any working channel on an uncooperative television.

Nasr muttered, “Salaam Aleikum,” and, still expecting to die, went to sleep.

HEADQUARTERS, III (US) CORPS, MT. CARMEL RIDGES

“The SeaBees say they can do it, sir,” Colonel McCoy, the corps logistician said. “As soon as the grungies clear the ridges east of the Haifa Gap. They tell me they can lay double flexi-pipe into the Jezreel in twenty-four hours and start pumping. Service with a smile.”

“All right, Real-Deal,” Harris said. He’d stepped outside of the deserted houses commandeered as the corps’ forward command post. Thirsty for fresh air.

The night stank of war.

Harris watched the silhouettes of ammo carriers pass along the road. “All right. But I don’t want any of our soldiers playing chicken with gamma rays. Or sailors, either. No short cuts on the protective gear while they’re on the ground in Haifa. And rigid adherence to dwell times.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And remember what I told you last night. I need you. I don’t want you turning into a night-light on two hind legs. Stay out of there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And tell the SeaBees good work.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell them. As soon as the POL starts flowing.”

“Anything else?”

“Water. The doc and I are tight on this, sir. We’ll get the water down to the troops. But you’ve got to hammer ’em: no drinking the local stuff. I mean, no bottled water from Ahmed’s refrigerator. It’s going to be tempting, if they run into something halfway cold. But the doc’s a hard-ass about this — he’s worried about radiation, not the runs.”

“Got it. But you’ve got to get that water out there. It’s push, not pull, Real-Deal. I don’t want full pallets sitting at division or brigade.”

“I’ll put the fear of God into all the Fours, sir.”

Harris grimaced, although his G-4 couldn’t see the expression in the darkness. “We’ve all had enough ‘fear of God,’ Sean. Just put the fear of Real-Deal McCoy into them, all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You getting any sleep?”

Before the logistician could answer, a helmeted figure loomed from the shadows. The parade-ground posture, even under the weight of body armor, was unmistakable.

“Over here, Scottie.”

The 1st Infantry Division’s commander pivoted as if he were still a cadet captain at West Point.

The G-4 saluted, a dark bird-swoop, and stepped away.

“Evening, sir.”

“What’s up, Scottie? I thought you’d be down in your CP harassing your staff and complicating the planning process.”

Major General Walter Robert Burns Scott took off his helmet and ran his palm over his hair. By the light of day, it was as red as the field of Bannockburn. Now he was a shadow, paler where flesh caught starlight.

“That’s what I need to speak to you about, sir.”

“Talk to me.”