James Axler – Zero City

“Hey, Marv, play something snappy,” a corporal asked, dry shaving with a straight razor.

Tapping the moisture out of his harmonica, the musician seemed offended. “I was.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

Playing poker at a table with other sec men of various ranks, a lieutenant muttered, “Son of a bitch only knows four songs, and we’ve heard them all twice by now.”

“Better than quiet,” the private said, drawing a new card.

A snort. “That’s your opinion. I bet two cigs.”

“Fold.”

“I’ll cover that. Whatcha got?”

“Read them and weep.”

“Shit.”

Using a paper clip to scrape the warm ashes out of his corncob pipe, a private asked, “Anybody got some corn silk? I can trade.”

“Whatcha got?” a corporal asked, stitching a hole in a sock.

“Token from the gaudy house for an hour with the new girl.”

The quartermaster looked up from the sizzling onions. “You mean Laura? The one who’s so wild they gotta tie the bitch down to keep her from breaking your back? I’d trade a whole cig for that.”

“How about a nice lizard?” the hunter offered hopefully, proffering his filleted catch at the end of a bloody knife.

“Dream on, gleeb. I’ll take the cig.” The exchange was made.

“One day,” grumbled a private off by himself, stabbing at the carpet with a knife. There was concrete under the flooring so the blade couldn’t gain purchase and kept falling over. “We leave the ville, the tunnel explodes, ten guys croak and now we’re stuck in a freaking sandstorm. In a single day. Shitfire!”

“Could be worse,” another sec man suggested.

“Yeah?”

The man winked and nudged his friends. “Sure. Might also have to listen to some loud-mouthed blow-hard whine like a mutie with a broken bottle up its ass.”

The knife took on a more aggressive posture. “Oh yeah, lard bucket?”

“Cork it, the lot of you,” Sergeant Jarmal said low and menacingly. He was sitting against the wall, his thick arms crossed, with his battered cap covering his scarred face. But that didn’t always mean the coldheart was asleep. “Any more chatter and you’ll both walk the perimeter. Outside. Get me?”

That dire announcement stopped conversation for a while, but over the long hours the voices slowly returned to the usual mix of lewd jokes, dreams, suggestions, bitching, yawning and lies, the ageless talk of bored soldiers.

Reading a paperback war novel found in a desk, Leonard was sitting on a cot in the vault of the bank, the open door letting him listen to the troops. They were restless, but had good reasons to be. Luckily, he had the foresight to bring along extra provisions and supplies. Leonard thought they might be needed if the chase went into the desert. Now the rations were keeping them alive while trapped by the storm, although they were low on water and he was getting mighty sick of fried onion soup and baked potatoes.

Outside, lightning flashed and the winds howled.

“How bloody long will this last?” the young baron growled, placing aside his book. Too many of the words in it were unfamiliar to him, and he detested feeling like a stupe. In a fit of pique, he tore the volume into pieces, the pages fluttering to the floor like dead leaves in autumn. There, who was the stupe one now?

Thunder rumbled again.

“Seen worse,” Jarmal drawled from under his hat.

“I doubt it,” Leonard snarled. “Captain Kelly, any word on the tunnel? Have the civvies broken through yet?”

The officer turned from the poker game. “Unknown, my lord. I twice sent men to check.” He hesitated. “But none ever returned.”

“Then send more,” the baron ordered impatiently. “Lash them together with ropes, tie bricks to their feet, but get me some information!”

“As you command, my lord,” the officer said coldly.

Then Leonard saw the faces of the sec men, the fear, the unwillingness to do the job, that first fledgling trace of resentment, the brother to hate.

“Cancel that, Captain,” the youth stated, fear a knot in his belly. Then, in forced gaiety he added, “Quartermaster, break out some wine. That’ll cut this dust from our throats. There were a couple of bottles in the trunk of my wag. Use them all! Give every man a half cup, starting with privates, then the officers. I’ll be last.”