vehicles failed to start after a rest stop that morning. A few of their number jumped in with the Polish mobile hospital, the rest remained with their vehicles hoping to effect repairs. In any case, they no longer deserved a listing in that all-important roster.
A fuel truck kicked a wooden plank from the road which rattled into the remains of a concrete divider wall a dozen feet from Alexander. The noise drew his eyes away from the clipboard and to the column of trucks. He wanted to believe the fuel trucks carried topped-off tanks, but he knew differently.
Fuel. Gasoline.
Reserves from stockpiles in eastern Germany and Romanian refineries alleviated the petrol problem for a few days, but even the tanker trucks needed gasoline to keep moving. He could not fathom how they would make it all the way to the Urals without a significant influx of petroleum.
On top of that, fuel for the thousands of horses and mules also grew scarce. He hoped the fertile grasslands of Ukraine would provide some relief, but only time would tell.
Fuel for the soldiers-the human soldiers-was less of a problem than the other two kinds. Word spread of the great march east. Thousands of volunteers continued to join and those settlements who could not spare fighters sent foodstuffs: canned goods over a decade old, recently harvested grains, smoked meats from game hunts, and bins of seafood all found their way to the army. While the diet lacked consistency, at least the marchers ate.
Another reminder.
Alexander penciled a question mark alongside “5 ^ th Highlander Brigade.” While those Scotsmen remained in the march, a bout of dysentery kept a fair number of their rank confined to a few select-and isolated-wagons. Medicine, for the Scotts as well as everyone else, remained a rare commodity. Most of the supply wagons that did not carry ammunition or fuel stayed at the rear where they were far from those in need and subject to guerrilla attack, which increased in frequency each day.
Alexander stopped walking and gently banged the clipboard off his head in a sign of frustration. At the same time, a half-track loaded with Albanians singing a marching song and swigging bottles of scavenged wine drove by and covered him in a layer of dust.
“What’s wrong, Father? Did we not win the battle?”
Jorgie’s observation lacked his usual enthusiasm for the marching armies of humanity. Perhaps the fast pace had finally taken its toll. Perhaps he did not sleep well in the back of a van. Perhaps the strange surroundings-a world away from home-made him uncomfortable.
“We won the battle, yes.”
Trevor suspected something else deserved the blame for JB’s lack of enthusiasm. After all, Jorgie used to love hearing the stories of war, of aliens routed, of heroic human soldiers. He ate the tales like a kid munching popcorn at the movie theater.
But now he lived those stories. Now the battles raged around him. Many of those heroic soldiers died fast and violent or-worse-lay on the ground begging for morphine while blood and hope spilled from their gored bodies.
“Was it-was it glorious, Father?”
Jorgie’s eyes tried to widen as if forcing zeal.
Trevor told him the truth as they sat together in the back of a parked armored van. Bundles of supplies, ammunition, and several footlockers filled the rest of the space. JB lay atop a tiny mattress on a small cot while Trevor sat beside a wooden crate.
“No.” Trevor coughed and then repeated. “No, it was not glorious.”
“Did people die, Father?”
“Yes, Jorgie. Many people died today. But the army is still marching. We pushed through.”
“How many people died?”
Trevor felt it good that his boy finally started to understand the consequences of war. But he wondered if his fascination might go too far.
“Don’t worry about it, JB. You just get some sleep.”
“How many?”
Trevor ran his hand over his son’s forehead; his fingers through blond hair. Those big blue eyes remained locked on his father.
“A couple of dozen, Jorgie. A lot more wounded.”
Jorgie turned his eyes to the ceiling of the van. He whispered, “Some of them were kids, weren’t they?”
Trevor tried to answer, “I don’t know. Depends on what a ‘kid’ is. We were all kids once, JB. Me, your mother-every person. When I was a kid I didn’t have to worry about fighting and killing and all that.”
“What did you worry about?” The boys eyes found his father again.
“Little league and schoolwork; chores around the house and summer vacations. Point is, Jorgie, this isn’t how things are supposed to be. Kids shouldn’t have to grow up learning how to shoot a gun at the same time they’re learning to read and write. It’s not how the world was meant to be.”
JB’s head cocked slightly askew in an expression of curiosity.
“But, Father, if it had not been for the war you would not be a great leader.”
Trevor placed a fatherly hand on this son’s cheek.
“I’d trade it all for a normal day, JB. I would have loved to have been a normal dad to you. The way a father and son are supposed to be.”
“But you’re a hero.”
Trevor could not be sure that word fit. But instead of arguing he suggested, “Every dad is a hero to his son. My dad was my hero, and he never saved the Earth. He was just a dad. That’s how life is supposed to be. The little things, Jorgie. That’s what this invasion has stolen from us. From me-and you.”
“And Mommy.”
“And Mommy, too, yes. Now you get to sleep. Once the fuel trucks get here we’re going to be on the road again.”
“Father, what is it you’re expecting to find when we get to where we’re going?”
Trevor pulled his hand from the child’s cheek and sat stiff.
“I don’t know for sure. I’m desperate, JB. I don’t know what else to do. What you did at The Order’s base last year gave me an idea. You’re a very special boy, you know that, right?”
”Because you’re my father, yes.”
Trevor smiled.
“I think you have a great power inside you. Sort of-I don’t know-sort of a culmination of everything our world is. As if a part of the force that caused life to start on this planet is collected in you. I think that’s very powerful. I think Voggoth is afraid of it, to be honest.”
“And what will I do when I get there?”
Trevor did not offer an answer. Jorgie rested his tiny hand on Trevor’s strong arm and offered a stroke of assurance.
“It’s okay, Father. I trust you. And I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Two heavily armed Royal Marines stood sentry outside the armored van that functioned as a mobile apartment for Trevor and JB. One nodded at Trevor to acknowledge his presence but otherwise stood stoic. Yet beneath that seemingly passive stare Trevor saw the man’s eyes darting from broken wall to smashed car to pile of rubble in search of any threats.
Rick Hauser sat with a can of something hot to eat in front of a nearby campfire that cast all of it-the van, the marines, the rubble-in a gentle yellow glow isolating the scene from the rest of the world as if it were a stage on which a performance played surrounded by a dark theater. From that darkness came a steady drone of rumbling engines and rolling wheels as the convoy moved through Zhytomyr. Trevor knew that he and Jorgie would rejoin that convoy as soon as their van received another helping of petrol.
Ahead, just beyond the remains of a one-story brick wall standing alone at the edge of the campfire’s glow, Trevor spied movement. Neither the watchful Marines nor Rick Hauser-his attention focused on some kind of soup or stew-saw that movement and Trevor knew why: The Old Man came to call him off-stage.
As he had done often during the last 11 years, Trevor followed the commands of his stage director and strolled away from the fire’s glow and into the shadows. The Marines remained at their post.
Trevor stumbled on a chunk of steel-reinforced concrete and then made his way around a jumble of wire
