BREN

Tonight, I am going to my grave.

Well, almost, if everything didn't pan out the way it's supposed to. I do not deny that it would be a fucking strenuous slope to climb, but you know me. I am not in the habit of making myself an easy target—not for the vectors, not for the Alphas, and certainly not for the United States Army.

It was eight o'clock in the evening, the sun was still up and bright, and I had observed and watched all forty-two soldiers within the camp for hours. I had mentally tabulated their duties, routines, and patterns, how they took breaks and where they went for one, and who was close with who or who was more annoyed with who.

Contrary to popular belief, men gossiped twice as much as women, and we do love to talk crazy shit about other people, no matter how minuscule.

They called that locker talk.

I merely had to ask a couple of soldiers who had pliable tongues. It took me two minutes to get their lips moving, and boy did they unpack a lot of baggage. Sure, some soldiers were wary about my personal questions, but I had to be careful with my words. I had to sacrifice my self-esteem to deprecate myself. If you're willing to share your insecurities with someone, chances were, many of them share theirs too...and then some.

It helped that Garrett mostly did the talking. Since he trusted Peter and Haskell, his loose tongue went off, painting a pretty picture of the entire unit in just eight hours. So all I had to do was sit back. At the same time, Peter and Haskell chatted him up like whisking butter about West Point, harking back to their early-morning training sessions, to their favorite teachers, and to the memories of their classmates. Then it diverged into questions about the soldiers.

Peter did a phenomenal job pulling Garrett's strings by comparing their classmates with the other soldiers' skills and behaviors. It was clear Garrett wasn't happy working with them (or at least uncomfortable), especially with what he had to say about the "fuck tent" and Drucker and Garcia's willingness to let such a thing fly. If the top brass willingly turned a blind eye, they wouldn't complain if it improved morale. The lack of morale could quickly destroy an army as much as a bullet could.

"I can understand Drucker putting that tent up, but not with Garcia. She's a woman," Garrett spat. "How could she let that kind of thing happen, you know? She should be offended by it." But his opinions were the minority. The soldiers liked having the women around since, according to them, it killed their boredom.

I now got a good read of everyone: Who had the best shot, who could snipe from a hundred meters away, who was more attentive and intelligent, and who acquired more skills with a weapon. I guessed it's pretty standard to ask these types of questions in the military, mainly when you worked with these men for many months and then expected to encounter many life-and-death situations. It was good to know who had your back and who didn't, so Garrett gave Peter, Haskell, and me the rundown information with volition, as well as who he hated the most (and make no mistake, he was not ashamed to say it). Berry and Donahue's names cropped up a few times, one of the regular patrons of the "fuck tent."

I was happy with my work in such a short time frame, given that I am winning most of them. In fact, I would do myself one better and say I am fucking proud of what I had just achieved. Though, I did have a brief talk with Haskell at least twice to make sure he was still on my side. Being in the apocalypse made you paranoid about your allies' allegiances when that needle could swing chaotically to another direction you didn't want. I needed my plan to go off without a hitch.

And it better be.

Aside from Garcia and her crew, most of the soldiers were young, barely hitting the age of twenty-one. Either they joined the Army fresh out of high school and then went straight into boot camp, or some were willing (or unwilling) volunteers from President Marshall's grand initiative to "reclaim the freedom and integrity of the country."

I could only imagine how annoying it would be to see the endless recruitment ads and propaganda on TV that cropped up after the president's address days ago (or perhaps, months ago when the outbreak occurred). Instead, I only saw the aftermath: strewn flyers everywhere, distributed and thrown off the planes and helicopters (I found a lot within the woods—talk about littering), propaganda posters set up around the camp, and then the way the soldiers talked about the war...it was as if they genuinely believed they could clean out and smash their enemies in the Red Zone—against the millions of multiplying vectors heading their way through standard warfare.

I reckoned that kind of blind trust had their way of stringing you along toward that fabled finish line. Even the slightest qualms about the campaign were squashed away if someone slapped a red, white, and blue-striped banner over it. People would go wild when someone sang the song of freedom.

It was something I could work with.

Still, Captain Drucker had formed a tight ship, drilled in a strict schedule that all soldiers within the camp must adhere to, and Garcia tightened that grip at all cost. They always had four soldiers guarding the gates at all times. One on each watchtower and two on the platform above the gates. Every hour they would have two teams of two soldiers patrolling the perimeter for break-ins and weak points along their makeshift barricades. Still, according to Garrett, it had been three weeks since their last encounter with a vector, and the soldiers had been remiss of their duties, to which he complained endlessly about.

"They were busy lining up to have an appointment with the women than going about looking for monsters," Garrett said as if using the word 'appointment' wouldn't make yourself gag. "Sometimes, I'd find myself thinking that there's actually no war going on like this is just an adult summer camp. You forget so easily around here."

Again, another thing I could work with.

The women avoided me. They had probably heard about Aria and me going into the "fuck tent" earlier, perhaps thinking that Peter and I had done the dirty with here since Berry and Donahue kept teasing us about diving for the goods when we only got here.

"Aria is off-limits," Berry said. "That's Captain Drucker's girl. I mean, if she willingly went in there with the two of you, then, I guess, she's not waiting any longer. Garcia's gonna give him an earful about you two. Better be careful and step on your tiptoes when he comes back tomorrow." He let out a thunderous laugh.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Berry and Donahue shared a knowing grin. "The captain wants Aria's virginity, I bet. He seems to go wild about that, even saving that other chick. What's her name? Holly, yeah?"

"Quit your bullshit, Berry. Captain Drucker never once went into the tent with the other women. He's not that type of guy," Garrett said, shaking his head.

Donahue scoffed. "That's because he wants the women in his private sex den."

Berry rubbed his fingers together. "And the captain likes them young and ripe."

Donahue slapped him on the arm. "Shut up," he hissed. "Or we're gonna get in fucking trouble."

Fortunately, Berry never mentioned that again. I had no intention of meeting this Captain Drucker, and Aria would certainly never talk to him again if I could do something about it.

I wondered if Aria had spoken to the girls yet about tonight (hopefully, without giving me away). I wished she had already. It would save me a lot of trouble. But, unfortunately, I had not seen Aria for a while since our talk, so I assumed she was busy dragging some of the girls for a private chat.

Still, I didn't stop the soldiers from running with their assumptions about me, letting them believe what they wanted to believe. It was easier to warp their image of me, especially when they still thought of Peter as the intimidating figure. No one would take a second look at the short, skinny kid next to a towering guy like Peter Gauthier.

Yes. Something I could definitely work with, long enough to make a good plan.

No.

A survivable plan.

A plan on how to get rid of forty-two soldiers so that we could enter the city.

The soldiers had to die.

It was the only logical conclusion after Garcia barred the gates against us after the entire military barred the gates against desperate civilians seeking refuge. There was no way I could convince her again to let them pass—she made that pretty straightforward—and there's no way I would abandon all our vehicles and supplies with still a long way to go to Pittsburgh. If we abandoned our resources now so that we could sneak in undetected, we would be stranded not only on the road, but perhaps we might never leave the city!

So, they had to die.

I'm going to kill them.

All forty-two of them.

——

"Here are your ACUs," said Donahue, gesturing to the neatly folded combat uniforms on our cots. "I don't know if any of them fit, but these are the ones that we have. We might have more if Captain Drucker gets back tomorrow with the fresh supplies."

"Who's badges and insignia are these?" Haskell asked.

"Believe it or not, there's a ton of guys who went AWOL back in the safe zone when we started building up the walls and the outposts, but it had died down since then. If you get caught, you pretty much will get court-martialed, and the punishment is harsh. One guy got six lashes on the back in view of the public, and he passed out on the second whip and pissed himself."

I gave Donahue a sour glance. Haskell opened his mouth and closed it again. However, Peter was nonplussed.

"Where is he now?" I asked.

Donahue grinned. "You're looking at him."

Haskell gasped. "And they let you serve again?"

"Look around, man. We're not exactly swimming with manpower when there's a war going on, especially a war that's supposed to end civilization itself. They sent me here, and, for the record, I feel like an idiot for getting myself worked up over what those monsters looked like that I decided to run away without even seeing a single one of them yet. Once I was here, Captain Drucker showed me there was nothing to be scared of." Donahue strode toward the entrance. "I'll see you three in the mess hall. Chow time is in twenty-five minutes, so don't be late. Garcia will chew you out in front of everyone if you do." He paused before he went out. "Are you three good runners by any chance?"

"Why'd you ask?"

Donahue shrugged. "Just asking in case she asks you to run around the parking lot nonstop until midnight as your punishment. She does that a lot to the newbies, says it teaches them life lessons or some bullshit. Gah! Just be in there before the dinner bell rings. Go get changed."

We changed into our respective uniforms in silence. Peter and Haskell fitted perfectly in theirs, but mine was a bit off, my jacket was a little baggy, yet the sand-colored shirt pressed against my skin so tight that I wanted to tear it off right away against this heat. But, on the other hand, I was glad the trousers were just right. I didn't want to waddle around like a penguin, much less run around with it around my ankles. I peered at the other two men, sort of jealous that they now looked the part. I mean, Peter and Haskell were actual soldiers. But, of course, they looked comfortable wearing the uniform, like a nail to a hammer or a fish's tail to a mermaid.

"For a second there, I thought they were never going to hand us any weapons," Haskell said, breaking the silence.

He checked the clip in his magazine, nodded once he's satisfied with what he saw. The number one rule in the camp was that all soldiers must be armed at all times, so we were required to carry a pistol. I had Betty on my pillow, took it, and put it in my holster. It was already one of the military standard-issue pistols for a SIG M17. Both Peter and Haskell got the Beretta M9. I sheathed my tactical knife around my belt and also snuck a fixed-blade knife under my ankle just in case.

"Besides Alex, some actually recognized us from West Point, but they're a couple years older," said Peter. He put the beretta in his holster and fiddled with his belt straps. "I think one guy's name is Frankie? I completely forgot. He's the one with that weird crooked thumb."

Haskell chuckled. "No offense, Gauthier, but you kind of stand out in our class. Just about everyone recognizes you. That's why you can't skip any of our classes because the professors were bound to notice!"

"Well, it's a good thing someone recognized the two of you," I said. "It would be a lot harder if it was only Alex."

I had a sneaking suspicion that Alex Garrett wasn't well-liked by the others. After all, he was the only vocal dissent against using the "fuck tent," to which none of the soldiers would hear of it once the topic arose. Funnily enough, this made him much friendlier in the eyes of the women. Once they realized he was serious that he wouldn't force such business on them, they were willing to have a civil conversation with him over breakfast. At least that was what he told me.

We left the sleeping quarters and went straight for the mess hall, located in the suburb's small community center. I could smell the food being cooked rising out from the chimney already, and it smelled like it would include meat. My stomach grumbled audibly once I pictured a steaming plate of juicy steak and grilled shrimp. It had been a long time since I had real, proper meat or seafood. I frowned when I realized it would be quite a while that I'd be able to eat lobsters since they were harder to catch. The one crucial thing that the end of the world tore away from me was all my favorite dishes I could no longer devour.

I continued walking all the way to the front door, reminiscing of all the dishes I wouldn't be able to eat anymore, like sushi. Still, I had time to observe that the two gates were each manned by four soldiers even though most everyone would be eating dinner inside the mess hall. I also caught a glimpse of the patrols following their designated routes. Unfortunately, I forgot to ask Garrett how many laps they had to take until they called it in, and I mentally smacked my head for letting that slip out of the list.

We were the first three to step inside the building.

"Uh, Bren... nobody's here yet," Peter whispered to me, his glare asking me what we're gonna do now.

"Just play it cool," I hissed. "We're playing it by ear, remember?"

Peter thinned his lips and nodded glumly. Unlike me, Peter was the by-the-books kind of guy, the one who would instead plan endlessly every minuscule maneuver and battle plans before engaging the enemy like some tabletop RPG, which would bore me to the fucking death. Better be over-prepared than dead, he would say. Perhaps he was right. Some of my stunts could be considered reckless and detrimental to someone's health (not saying names, but it's mostly me), but when life gives you shitty, misshapen lemons...well, you know the drill.

"I guess we're sitting down and wait?" Haskell asked, eyebrow raised. I nodded. He took a tentative step forward but then stopped. "Er, which table?"

I shrugged. "Let's take the second to the last. It's closer to the door and far enough from the others," I said. I reckoned many soldiers would want to sit closer to the kitchen, where the cook began putting out the trays on the serving counter. Peter and Haskell followed me to the table.

Before my butt even planted on the seat, I heard someone bellowed, "Oy! You!" A man shouted from the kitchen.

I turned to find the cook pointing at me, though I wasn't sure if he really meant me. So, I looked around, thinking perhaps he didn't mean me, and then pointed my own finger at my face, you know, just to be sure. He impatiently nodded and gestured for me to come closer and then pointed at Haskell, too. So, I gave a slight shrug to Peter and ambled toward the kitchen with Haskell close to my heels, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Peter calmly sat down; his gaze never left us. He's like a snake waiting to strike for any slight, hand closely resting by his hip in case he needed to draw his weapon. It was kind of scary to watch, and I was tempted to scream at him to act natural. He's like a secret service agent you could spot in a crowd the minute you entered the room.

Too late.

The cook waited by the door leading into the kitchen. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with this panic-stricken, crazy eyes, his balding hair was unkempt, and his face was all sweaty, and it was clear he had been frantic about finishing whatever he was making behind the stove.

"You three must be the new guys!" The cook exclaimed. I nodded. "No one's usually this early. Oh, well! Chow time isn't until fifteen minutes, but those men will be coming in and lining up pretty soon. I want you two to help me finish the food. I am running a little late than usual after I burnt the meat. Here. Taste it." He took a spoonful of the mystery meat pot and handed it to Haskell, who hesitated at first before slowly taking it into his mouth.

"Hmmm," Haskell hummed a little enthusiastically. After a couple of bites in and he gulped it down his throat to get over it.

The cook was not impressed. "Who are you kidding, kid? You can just say it's shit."

"No... it's...edible..."

"Oh, god. Just don't tell the others, then. I'm sure they can push it down their stomachs with the Mac and cheese. Here. You try it."

After he forced me to try the Mac and cheese, it was actually better than I assumed.

The cook wiped the sweat forming over his brow. "Well, I guess that's salvageable. I might have to broil it in the oven for a minute or so. If any of those men complain, they can just suck it up and complain to Captain Drucker. I can't always cook a five-star meal every day for these pussies, like they ever deserve it. But for now..." the cook added more spices to the mystery meat. He then handed that ladle to Haskell. "Stir the meat. Make sure it really forms in the pot. Since you already tasted it, you're free to add salt and spices until it's more edible, okay?"

"Uh, okay." Haskell winced while I stifled my laughter. It was not the job I would choose by a long mile.

Then, the cook handed me another spatula, which I took hesitantly. "You handle that chicken tortilla soup. I was hoping it would be ready by now, but I kind of overdid the water and added the chicken late. Make sure the broth simmered and thickened and tasted right, but not burnt! Easy to burn, yes. Have you ever had chicken tortilla soup before?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Well, good. Make sure it tastes exactly how you had it. And remember, make it edible! Oh! Holly! You're here!"

A woman—Holly—appeared by the kitchen door. She was a couple inches shorter than me, with raven-black hair and green eyes with a bit of dimpled chin. She meekly said hello to the cook before he handed her a plastic bag filled with six Tupperwares, listing all the foods he had prepared inside. Once she left, the cook went back to finish the mashed potatoes.

"Are the girls not gonna eat with us?" Haskell asked.