The North (#wattys2016)

Chapter 15

Doug told me our radio was the reason for the drained battery. A damned freaking ancient vehicle radio set dating back to the early 1960’s. Something inside its pre-transistor era circuitry had sucked the juice on our carrier’s battery set dry and it was a miracle Ark Two’s batteries hadn’t been sucked dry as well. As long as the carriers were moving, the engine generated enough power to recharge the batteries but not when they were shut down. We decided to use man packs for communication from now on whenever we went to ground.

We kept on driving for another 90 minutes. Our APC’s rolled across acre upon acre of farmland and, every few miles, fording streams of ice-cold water flowing in from the mountains 200 km away. We’d gone hatches up at first light, each of us armed with a carbine and a new determination to make sure we’d never have another close call like the one we’d just lived through.

Every military history book I’d ever read said that soldiers have always dealt with the aftermath of a battle in their own private way. Some write letters home to family, while others immerse themselves in cleaning their weapons or sharpening their bayonets, preparing for the next inevitable skirmish.  But the only thing going through a soldier’s mind during these relatively silent periods is a gambler’s game, wondering what the odds are of making it out of the next battle alive. It’s probably how the human mind is hard-wired. Nobody has time for post-traumatic stress disorder anymore – we’re all too busy trying not to get torn to pieces.

For our team of survivors, there was vehicle maintenance to perform as soon as we reached a safe place to stop.

I swung my hatch door in front of me to act as a wind screen as I gazed over at Ark Two. Pam Cruze was standing tall and proud, her face a mask of determination as her carrier bounded over the uneven ground. I felt a small nudge of envy as she glanced my way, sending me a short nod that told me everything was okay with her team. Even though Cruze was the same age as me, she possessed qualities that I didn’t. She always kept a sharp, business-like approach to those of us left alive, and it didn’t matter if she was doing something as insignificant as drawing up a sentry list or assigning tasks for her team. There was purposefulness to Pam Cruze that I lacked, and I secretly wished I could be even one tenth as brave as she was.

I’d have been happy if Pam was leading our group and I’d even pushed for her to take command but she told me to get my head out of my ass.

We kept a healthy distance from the small farmhouses that dotted the landscape. Dead livestock lay rotting in the fields, fallen victim to either starvation or disease. Most were ripped open, their ribcages exposed to the dry, dusty air, and we couldn’t tell whether they’d been eaten by creeps or coyotes. We could have gone scrounging, but after our run-in on the outskirts of Airdrie, I think every one of us wanted to put as much distance as possible between our APC’s and built-up areas.  I pulled my map out and oriented it to the rolling farmland. By my estimation we’d pushed on a further 30km from where we’d gone to ground. We were probably somewhere between the tiny village of Cremona and the town of Carstairs. I folded up the map and stuffed it back in my pocket as I hailed Cruze on the radio.

“Ark Two, how’s your levels?” I asked.

Cruze ducked down into her hatch and reappeared a few seconds later, her eyes fixed firmly on the way ahead. “We’re about three quarters full. My boat is running a little hot, though.”

“Roger,” I replied. “We’re closer to Cremona than we are to Carstairs – it’s probably a good idea for us to stop and check fluid levels.”

“Sounds good to me,” she answered. I raised everyone in our carrier on the intercom.

“Bring her to a stop, Doug. Listen up, everyone … we’re going to do some quick carrier maintenance before we press on. Get out the oil, the coolant and the tool kit. Sid, you’ll help Doug while Dawson and I keep watch. Be ready to move out on a minute’s notice.” The air brakes hissed as the carrier pulled to a stop, and Doug lowered his driver’s seat and removed the engine panel. I climbed up top along with Dawson, our weapons at the ready.  We’d stopped in the middle of a field that probably had gone fallow the year before; the ground was chalk-colored and the chill morning breeze kicked up small plumes of topsoil that drifted across the front of our carrier. An old barn, grey and weathered after decades of unrelenting prairie wind, stood about 500m to our right. The closest farmhouse had burned to the ground and the only sign that human beings had ever lived there was the crumbling foundation poking up out of the scorched grass.