The train had been almost empty for this trip, and now it was just Gunter and one other man in the car. Gunter had dozed off for part of the way, but there was only so much sleep anyone could take, even if it helped pass the time through the badlands. Gunter had seen plenty of bare southwestern exposure already.
Now they approached a small town – Teufort, according to the schedule. He looked forward to stretching his legs; it had been a long ride from Chicago.
The other passenger, a handsome blond man in his late 20s, had seemed as bored as Gunter on this trip, and both men had kept to themselves. With only the two of them in this car, the train had decreased its amenities (like food) as the passengers had debarked and the line had extended into the wilderness. Gunter had eaten the last of his sausages and bread rolls he'd bought in Chicago. He had other, nonperishable food, but he'd rather hold onto that for emergencies.
He wished his parents understood his decision, but he doubted they would. Still, he'd sent them a letter with the good news about the job.
The train slowed and at last stopped at a railway station that was in good shape. The town looked more prosperous than Gunter had expected. Good. He might come into town for more than mail pickup and dropoff.
The other man also debarked here. Gunter was surprised; the man looked more like a movie star than a manual laborer, such as might be found on a construction site, and surely someone backing the dig or the construction would've chosen better transport than the train. Well, maybe there were other concerns in the area than the dig, remote though it seemed.
Gunter exited the train, collected his suitcases, and looked for the promised contact, someone to get him to his lodgings and get him oriented. A young woman in purple blouse and black skirt, with dark hair and cat-eye glasses, was the only person who appeared to be waiting at the station. She held a folder and clipboard and a ballpoint pen which she clicked twice. While a few people boarded to get out of Teufort, the young woman approached Gunter and his fellow passenger.
"Gentlemen?" she said, approaching them. "I'm Miss Pauling of Builders League United. Which of you is Herr Doktor Schlachterhauser?"
"Just Doctor," Gunter said. "That's me. Doctor Gunter Schlachterhauser."
Miss Pauling made a tick-mark on her form. "Good to meet you, Doctor. Your English is very good. Do you have any other luggage?"
"No." Everything he'd brought with him fit in his rucksack and two suitcases. He let the slight about his English pass. Of course he spoke good English, he was Amideutsch – American-born, not European German.
Miss Pauling turned to the other man. "And you must be Herr Krieg, then?"
"Ja, ich bin er," said the blond man. "Though surely, as we are speaking English, 'Mister' would be more appropriate?" The words could have been a reproof, but there was nothing in his tone or manner to imply anything but a casual suggestion.
"Very good, sir," Miss Pauling said.
"That would make you one of my new teammates then, Dr. Schlachterhauser?" He offered Gunter a disarming smile, and held out a hand to shake. "Erasmus Krieg. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
Gunter shook Krieg's hand. War. Well, his own last name was slaughterhouse. "Pleased to meet you too, Mr. Krieg. What function do you – "
"Excuse me, gentlemen," Miss Pauling interrupted, "We need to get you to the base, and our driver would prefer to be back here before dark. If you have all your baggage? Good. This way, please. I'll give you an orientation as we drive."
An unmarked van that had seen better days was waiting for them, with a dozing black driver in the front seat. A bench lined either long side of the interior space. The driver sat up and stretched when Miss Pauling knocked on the side. Gunter and Krieg loaded themselves and their bags into the back; Miss Pauling boarded behind them. The driver made sure all the doors were closed and started the engine.
Gunter ended up on the same side as Miss Pauling, facing Krieg. "The base – " he began, as the van lurched on its way.
"Yes, BLU HQ." Miss Pauling smiled. "You'll find Builders League United referred to as just 'BLU' and yourselves as Blues. Your opponents at Reliable Excavation and Demolition are similarly called Reds. Don't try to fraternize with them, they're not sociable and will probably try to kill you if you're on-base."
"What?" None of that made sense. "Reds? Like Communists? Why are they at our site?"
Miss Pauling looked askance at him. "Your hiring agent was supposed to explain the situation to you before you signed up." At Gunter's continued blank expression, she added, "BLU and RED are fighting over the property? You're part of a team of mercenaries hired to take over the property? …Oh, God."
The atmosphere was now tense. "I, I signed up to excavate a site before construction begins," Gunter said, trying to hold his voice steady. This wasn't happening. This – no, this was a mistake, some huge mistake. He was both nervous and angry. Surely it wasn't his fault if the recruiter hadn't told him what was really going on! He retrieved his BLU hiring papers from his vest pocket and presented them to Miss Pauling. "See?"
"It says here you've signed on for two years with BLU as a contractor for special services," she read. "Nothing about what kind of services, except you were hired to be the Medic." She looked at Krieg. "Mr. Krieg, I assume you know why you were hired?"
"To be the Pyro."
"At least that's settled." She turned back to Gunter. "Please tell me you at least know something about medicine, because that's what you were hired for."
Gunter swallowed. That was it? Simple as that? 'Contractor for special services' when he could've sworn, no, he knew that he hadn't been signed up as any kind of medical personnel. "I'm an archaeologist."
Miss Pauling put her hand to her face and sighed.
By the time the van reached the base on the long, dusty dirt road, Gunter had been filled in on the situation (a private war over private land) and his duties (keep his team alive on the battlefield), and he wasn't happy about it. He also wanted to be released from his contract.
"That isn't my decision," Miss Pauling said as the van stopped. The driver kept the engine running as Krieg disembarked with his luggage.
Gunter wasn't going to get out. He had to get back to town and the train and get out of here, or at least get to a phone. "But I didn't sign up for any war! I'm not a mercenary, and – " his trump card here – "I don't know medicine!"
"Neither did some of your predecessors," Miss Pauling said.
A group of blue-clad men had come out of the blue and steel buildings to inspect the newcomers.
"Soldier!" Miss Pauling called. "Here they are. Come get this one."
A stocky, hard-faced man in military haircut and bearing stomped up. "Medic and Pyro, huh? It's about time. What's the matter, are you shy?" he bellowed at Gunter. "Which one is he?"
"Medic," Miss Pauling nodded at Gunter.
"Well, golubka, get out here!" The soldier pulled on Gunter's arm and hauled him bodily out of the van. Gunter wasn't expecting a physical assault, wasn't prepared, and realized this man could probably beat him to a pulp in a fight. Archaeology might keep you lean but it didn't make you a fighter.
His suitcases were thrown out after him, and Miss Pauling slammed the back doors shut. The van revved suddenly and roared back down the dirt trail.
Gunter looked at the receding van with doom knelling in his heart. He was trapped here, in a war zone, and he was supposed to be a doctor?
"What's the matter, golubka?" the soldier barked, grinning. "Cold feet?"
That word had to mean something derogatory, but Gunter didn't know what – yet. "I can't be a medic, I'm not a medical doctor!"
"You're not a doctor?" The soldier's grin vanished, and his voice was cold.
"I'm a doctor of archaeology," Gunter said, clearly and patiently, despite his shock. He had to get this out in the open now, before it was too late. He reined in the impulse to scream at them all and bolt back into the van. He was a professional and he could get through this with reason. He hoped. "Not medicine."
There was silence while all eyes watched. Suddenly the soldier laughed. "Hell, you're still a doctor! You've gotta be a smart guy, right? Able to figure things out?" He put a hand on Gunter's shoulder in a friendly way. "Because if you don't," he said, still grinning like a wolf, "a lot of good men will get killed, and it'll be all your fault."
"You can't – " Gunter began. They couldn't saddle him with this!
"You!" The soldier looked at Krieg. "Any confusion over your job, Pyro?"
Krieg shook his head. "Nein. Just show me my room and equipment, please. Will we have time to… practice? Before the next battle?"
"Yeah, two days. We have to get you pigeons ubered and trained. Get your bags, ladies."
Gunter still felt anger over the situation – trapped in the middle of nowhere, miles from town, and now what? He'd be forced to fight in this war if he couldn't get out of it.
"Is there a car or truck for me to get back to town?" he asked.
"Not until a shuttle weekend," Vlad said, eyeing him. "Can't wait to sample the delights of Teufort?"
"I don't belong here," Gunter snapped. "I didn't sign up to be a medic, or in charge of keeping people alive. That's not what I signed up for and if – "
"If what? You want to walk back to town? There isn't another way, Doctor. We're all stuck here, just like you." Vlad stood in front of Gunter, hands on hips. "If you want off base, you'll have to wait with the rest of us. If you want out, I'm not going to help you, because I need a Medic and I need one yesterday, and if you're at all competent, that's what you're going to be. Do you understand me?"
Gunter glowered at the Soldier. Oh, he understood all right. As soon as he could get a lawyer on the phone, there'd be hell to pay. But for right now, he needed to locate a phone on this base and figure out what he was doing for the night. It was already late afternoon.
Hefting his bags, he looked to the near-distant reddish-wood buildings. This area was all metal and blue; that was all wood and red. The two groups had physically distinctive bases. There was a glint of light in a tower – metal or glass reflecting the sun. The soldier noticed his gaze.
"That's their sniper, checking on us," he said. "They've been waiting for you, too. Can't have a war when a team's short. Bastards won't mind their own business." He aimed his middle finger at the sniper's roost. A moment later the finger exploded in a bloody mess as a gunshot echoed across the valley.
Gunter stared in horror as most of the Blues laughed, and the soldier cursed a string of colorful multilingual obscenities. "Spy!" he finally yelled, clutching his bloody hand. "Go piss in his coffee tonight! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, MUNDY!" he bellowed toward the Red base.
Gunter threw up.
Soldier's hand required immediate medical attention, so after Gunter cleaned his mouth, Soldier made him come to the infirmary with Krieg – Pyro – in tow. It turned out Soldier was the man's name, or codename… like Gunter was now Medic and Krieg was Pyro.
"Was a good shot," Gunter heard one of the Blues say as he followed Soldier. English? Irish?
The infirmary was large and clean, with an operating table and strange equipment, file cabinets, and a desk and typewriter. A combination mini-clinic and office, Gunter realized.
"Medic, this is where you'll work when you're not on the field," Soldier said. "You don't sleep here, you'll get the room next to the showers, since you're a sissy-boy with a tender tummy." Gunter bridled but didn't get a chance to respond, as Soldier pointed at a bazooka-looking item. "That's your medigun. The portable one. That one," he pointed to a device mounted from the ceiling, on moving bars and cables, like a crazy oversized dentist's drill. "That one's for accidents off duty, like my finger."
Nobody spoke for a moment.
"Well?" Soldier snapped. "I'm bleeding here, golubka!"
"I don't know how to use this," Gunter said, aware that the other Blues were hanging around the doorway. He was angry now, still nauseated, but pissed off. This was what he'd been tricked into? Random acts of mutilation and bloody violence? No. He didn't want any part of this "war."
Yet as he looked at the device, he realized that like a drill, this had only one usable end. There were switches and a faint hum. He put a hand on it; he could feel the thrum of electrical power. It was already on.
The others watched him intently, some might say resentfully, but he took little notice. Part of his job was determining an item's purpose, often with few clues to go on. He pulled the medigun down to eye level and studied it. The switches were unmarked except for raised dots on one surface.
Gunter pulled Solder's mangled hand in front of the device and tried one switch: nothing. He tried another, and a blue light wavered out like steam. Before his eyes, the finger re-formed and healed. Within seconds it was as though it had never been blasted apart, except that there was still blood on the sleeve and drops on the floor. That was impossible. Gunter was too shocked to speak.
"See? You're a Medic!" Soldier enthused. "You'll be fine." With that, he gave a perfunctory introduction to the rest of the team.
Soldier's own name was Vlad Janos, "Though you can call me Sir or Soldier, and if you call me anything else I'll cold-cock your sorry ass." He seemed to be the leader of the team.
Erasmus Krieg, the Pyro, Gunter had already met. He knew pyro- meant fire; what position could Krieg be in this group?
The Scout, Sasha Emsky, was a skinny kid with an East Coast accent, Boston from the sound of it. Youngest of the team but with more than enough attitude for his size.
Sniper – wasn't the sniper on the other side? no, that's right, there was one of each on each team – was introduced as Finn. "Doesn't speak English, helluva thing, trying to get him to understand what he's supposed to be doing." Finn was the tallest, lean and lanky and bore an expression that was best described as 'polite.'
Demoman, or Demo, was an East Indian young man with a dark brown Beatle moptop and a wide, easy grin. The Irish lilt as he introduced himself as Liam was disconcerting.
The Engineer was Lonnie Workitt. Gunter recognized Lonnie's type: hard, taciturn men of the earth. These men knew more about local history and conditions than most people gave them credit for. He'd have to treat Lonnie with respect from the beginning. Lonnie, for his part, grunted, refused to uncross his arms, and returned to the back of the pack as soon as he could.
"Spy isn't here, but you'll meet the sneaky bastard soon," Soldier said. "And Heavy's still in his room, probably. We'll leave him alone for now. Didn't get your name, Doc."
"I didn't give it." Gunter heard pigeons nearby coming to roost. "Dr. Gunter Schlachterhauser."
"Hell of a mouthful," Soldier said. "As far as I'm concerned you're Medic or Doc from here on. Okay, pigeons, get outta here," he bawled at the Blues. "Gotta get these two to quarters. Liam, get dinner ready. See, ladies," Vlad put one big hand on Gunter and Krieg's shoulders, "We're just a big happy family here. Yes we are. Everyone's got duties, we all share in the work, and it makes life easier. It's a good thing for everyone to know what to do, and to do it." He squeezed hard on Gunter's shoulder; Gunter wondered if Krieg got the same treatment.
Vlad stopped them at a corridor of doors. "This is the barracks. Each of you gets a room." Wooden plaques with blue and yellow symbols hung on the doors. "Medic, you've got the cross; Pyro, the fire." The Soldier took two plaques from his pocket and hung them on different doors. Gunter noticed his was at the end, next to the labeled showers, as promised. None of the rooms looked immune to noise from the neighbors, and this one would be worse, but it didn't matter. He was getting out of here as soon as he could.
"Get settled, mess is in 30," Vlad said. "Follow this hall back the way we came and look for the signs. You can't miss it."
Gunter entered his room, more to get away from the situation than anything. There was a key in the lock, which he pocketed. He felt strained to the breaking point. He set the bags on the floor and flopped on the bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. This was insane. There was no way a machine could make a finger whole again. No way he was in a place where people could be shot at any moment. The next time he faced the Soldier he'd give him a slug in the mouth if he kept up with the names.
