“Falcon, listen to me. I’ve been in this position just a few hours ago, and we had a fortified location with enough food and water to last for weeks. We had several Special Forces hooahs and troops from the 160 SOAR to keep the goblins at bay, and we still got pushed out. These things, they can bring a hell of a lot of mass to bear. I’m in a fourth floor apartment, man. If these things decide they want to come up and see what’s on the menu, the only thing that’s standing between the stenches and a kid and his mother is me, and I’ve got about ten seconds of combat time before I’m weapons dry. I don’t mean to sound like my mascara is starting to run, but you get what I’m saying here? Over.”
“Roger that, Terminator. Get what you’re saying a hundred percent. But I’m telling you the truth, we don’t have the assets to get you out just yet. I’ve heard there are some Chinooks spooling up from a Pennsylvania National Guard unit-other ‘Hook units from Connecticut and upstate New York are standing up now. Those are your best shot, but they’re not here yet. As soon as they come in, we’ll send something your way. Even sooner if another unit makes it on site, but for now, you have to wait. Over.” Falcon sounded sincere enough, but Gartrell knew the man was just a public affairs officer. How much horsepower could he possibly have? Even though PAOs were part of the Army structure, Gartrell had very little faith in a media wrangler whose only job was to blow sunshine through innocuous press releases.
“Falcon, this is Terminator. Roger your last. We’ll keep our heads down and do the best we can until we can get some support. What do you recommend for a contact schedule? Over.”
“Terminator, Falcon Four. Let’s talk in sixty minutes, hooah?”
“Roger Falcon, sixty minutes. Terminator Five, out.”
Gartrell slowly removed his radio headset and rubbed his eyes. Despite having fallen into a dreamless sleep, he still felt exhausted. And his body ached-all his joints were stiff and sore, and his thigh muscles twitched and burned. He forced himself to his feet and walked into the microscopic bathroom that adjoined the bedroom. A shower stall was to his left. To his right was the toilet, and dead ahead was a small sink with a medicine cabinet. He looked at his face in the mirror there, and was surprised to see just how haggard and run-down he looked. His cheeks, chin, and neck were covered with blond-brown razor stubble that was sprinkled liberally with gray. The creases in his forehead and the wrinkles around his dark eyes and mouth seemed as deep as canyons. The skin beneath his eyes was puffy, and dirt marred his features, serving only to exacerbate his overall unhealthy look. He looked at his hands. They were covered with grime, as was his uniform. First Sergeant David Gartrell definitely looked like a troop who had been to hell and back again.
He opened the medicine cabinet. Inside was a box of cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, a tiny bottle of Tylenol that expired almost a year ago. He opened it and dry-swallowed two of the caplets inside, then turned to the toilet. After he lifted the lid and undid his trousers, he hesitated for a moment. The water in the toilet bowl was clear and clean. Water might soon become a precious resource. He turned and pissed into the sink instead, and listened to his urine wind its way down the drain. He was certain the lady of the house would disapprove of his measures, but if she ever discovered his transgression and made to complain, he would remind her of his foresight should it ever come to pass they needed the water in the toilet bowl. Just the same, when he was finished he opened the sink faucet. A small stream of water trickled out before the pipe started burping air, and he turned it off quickly. At least enough water had run down the drain to reduce the smell of his urine.
He then inventoried his gear.
The rest of the apartment was dark and gloomy with the shades drawn. Gartrell stepped quietly into the kitchen and took a quick inventory of the items out in plain view. Ignoring the usual fixtures-microwave, toaster, coffee maker (
Jolie was on her knees before a small boy with hair the color of russet that made Gartrell think of copper. Jolie looked over at Gartrell as he stood in the doorway. Her red hair hung in her face as she pulled up the boy’s jeans and buttoned them. She still wore the clothes from the night before. Her face was pale, drawn, and her gaze was uneasy. The boy turned to him as well. He was absolutely beautiful, that kind of beauty that only small children seemed to have, completely unsullied, almost angelic. His skin was fair, like his mother’s, and totally unblemished. His blue eyes widened when he saw Gartrell, and he took a step toward his mother and put a hand on her cheek. He made a small mewling sound in the back of this throat, and Gartrell watched his beautiful expression become marred by the onslaught of sudden fear.
Gartrell slowly leaned forward and smiled as gently as he could, ignoring his protesting knees and back. He knew he looked like hell, and he didn’t blame the kid for being scared. Hell, he was only a few steps away from having Hershey squirts in his drawers himself.
“Hey there,” Gartrell said, his voice low and friendly, a tone he didn’t have much occasion to use outside of his family. “How’re you doing, little guy?” He didn’t move any closer, and kept the silly smile on his face. He had only one chance to make a passing impression, and he didn’t want to blow it. There was no telling how long the three of them would be cooped up together, and if most of that time could be spent without the boy screaming and yelling in terror because a strange man was in the apartment, Gartrell was ready to move heaven and earth to make it happen.
“His name’s Jaden,” Jolie said.
“Hiya, Jaden. I’m Dave, and I’m very happy to meet you.” Gartrell kept a bouncy, bubbly tone in his voice.
Jaden moaned again and pushed himself into his mother’s arms, his face pressed against her shoulder. She smiled and hugged him against her, whispering into his ear. The boy did not cry, but he held onto her for dear life. His small body shook.
“Do you want me to go back into the bedroom?” Gartrell asked.
Jolie shook her head and continued whispering to Jaden, rubbing his back as she planted small kisses on his head. Gartrell straightened up and watched them in the gloomy living room. From the corner of his eye, he saw the goods piled up on the dining room table. He stepped toward it silently and took a quick inventory. More water. Batteries, of all sizes. Cleaning supplies, and Gartrell wondered idly if things such as oven cleaner could somehow be used as a weapon. Bottled juices. Boxes of bandages, over-the-counter medications, and someone’s Oxycontin prescription. A box of shotgun shells, which brightened Gartrell’s day until he saw they were.410 caliber, far too small to be used in his AA-12. Paper towels, toilet paper, paper napkins. A bag of apples, still hard to his touch. Three containers of wet naps. Gartrell opened one and used several sheets to clean his hands, then ran a few over his face for good measure. The moist, white towelettes were almost completely black by the time he finished.
When he looked up from his work, he saw both Jolie and Jaden were watching him from the living room. Gartrell smiled at the boy, and this time Jaden didn’t look away. He made good eye contact with him, and Gartrell knew that was a good sign.
“You look more human now with some of that grime scrubbed away,” Jolie said.
Gartrell felt suddenly self-conscious. “Well. I really don’t clean up all that well, but I guess anything’s an improvement. I’m sorry if I interrupted you, and I’m sorry I frightened Jaden.”
“It’s okay. It was going to have to happen sooner or later. I want him to see you, so he gets used to you. It’s probably better to have it happen now, while there’s still some light.”
Gartrell nodded, and he smiled at the boy again. Jaden only stared back, his face impassive. He studied Gartrell for several long moments, then slowly turned away and reached for a plastic Sippy cup equipped with a straw. He put the straw in his mouth and took a long drink, his gaze back on Gartrell.
“So he can’t speak?” Gartrell asked.
Jolie shook her head. “Only a few words. No real sentences yet. He goes to a special needs preschool on Second and Sixty-Eighth, but school’s obviously out now.” She ran her fingers through Jaden’s hair, brushing it into place. “He loved it there. He was starting to make friends with some of the other children, and they had children there without disabilities, so he could interact with them. He came a long, long way in less than a year.”
“He’s beautiful,” Gartrell said.
