Eleven
Ten miles outside of East City, they find the convoy waiting by a stalled train. The sergeant overseeing the unloading and loading of supplies singles them out for conversation, standing stiffly at the truck's back wheel, nose whistling with every exhale.
"Road gets rough going south," he says, slapping both thighs smartly to stay warm. "Much further for you, then?"
"Resembool," Miss Riza says. They stand at the edge of the road, having climbed down to make space for the cargo. She keeps one hand on Ed's shoulder while Al and Winry huddle behind, as out-of-the-way as they can manage.
The sergeant nods.
"Rough," he says again. "Quite rough. Good on you both for taking the charitable view."
He's addressing Mr. Havoc and Mr. Breda with the last statement, and they both pause in loading crates.
"Plenty of lieutenants wouldn't even bother with civilians—easy to forget we're meant to serve the people as well as protect them."
"Yes, sergeant," Mr. Breda says slowly.
"Just trying to help where we can," Mr. Havoc adds. They exchange a fast glance between themselves and then hurry on with the loading. Ed had offered to help, but they had said no, smiling at him widely. As though the offer were somehow silly.
"Where we can," the sergeant repeats, nodding and giving his legs a final slap. "Well, on with you, then. Convoy's bound south soon."
This encounter, at least, seems to give Mr. Breda leave to relax. Once they're on their way again, Winry gets to sit up in the cab while Mr. Havoc walks ahead, pointing out ruts to avoid. The trucks cobble together something of a formal line on the pockmarked road, inching along half as slow as the meager winter sun.
Ed feels too confined by the gently swaying cargo, so after a few minutes huddled up, he hops down easy enough and runs out ahead in the narrow ditches that line the road, keeping a sharp watch. Nervous of such freedoms, Al hovers between joining him and staying with Miss Riza, who keeps pace with Mr. Havoc.
"Are you from Resembool originally, Miss Riza?"
"The children are," she replies, adjusting the delicate fingers of each glove. "I'm a westerner myself."
"Coal-mining country. I guess you have that look."
Miss Riza arches a brow, and she gives Mr. Havoc a smile that seems to be both laughing and frowning at once.
"Wellesley," she says. "A few miles out. Not farmers, though. My father was an academic."
"Escaping the drudgery of the big city?"
Miss Riza looks away at this, and Ed slows, winding back up to Miss Riza's other side.
"Something like."
"And you didn't want to be a mountain wife?"
"Bride of coal, wife of woe," Miss Riza says, as though quoting something. Mr. Havoc laughs and then gestures towards Miss Riza with a jut of his chin.
"So what is he, then? Another academic?"
Miss Riza looks down, hand on her belly.
"An alchemist."
"State-certified?"
"Yes."
Mr. Havoc holds a thoughtful look.
"Hear tell they're surrounded by squadrons. Most valuable men on the field."
"If a man's worth is to be measured by how many others must die for him—"
"I meant no offense."
"I take none, Mr. Havoc. I..."
Miss Riza takes a breath, and Ed reaches up for her hand.
"I haven't heard from him in months."
Mr. Havoc beams at her.
"I doubt there's a thing in the world would keep a good man from such a pretty wife and the promise of a pretty baby."
Miss Riza smiles, but when she turns her head, there is something strained in her expression.
They make another twenty miles before nightfall, Mr. Havoc and Miss Riza trading idle chatter all the while. Dinner is sandwiches and a few apples that Mr. Breda portions out with a short knife. Mr. Havoc melts a few cupfuls of snow with his lighter, and they all drink deep.
"Should make decent time tomorrow," Mr. Breda says. "They said the snow'll let up overnight."
But it doesn't let up—they open the canvas flap at dawn to find the whole world painted brilliant white. The trucks ahead resemble nothing so much as low mountains, radiator grills overhung with icicles.
"We'll be on in a couple minutes more," says a corporal from the line's front. "Bit of blockage up ahead."
"A bit," Mr. Breda snorts, shaking his head.
That day, they make only five miles, and for the last two, Ed and Al and Winry are cooped up in the cab, wedged shoulder-to-shoulder. It's Mr. Havoc's turn to drive, and he drums his fingers on the wheel all the while, obviously on edge without the usual cigarette clamped between his teeth.
"Give it up," Mr. Breda says, climbing up the runner and leaning into the cab. "They're starting to shut down ahead, and I don't like the way the old girl's growling."
He nods towards the passenger seat.
"Why'n't you kids hop in back—check on Miss Riza?"
They climb through the slot window, one by one, to reach Miss Riza who is sitting upright against a crate, legs stuck out straight and hands clenched in her lap. Her face is twisted in a grimace.
"Miss Riza?"
She seems to be radiating heat—and she doesn't open her eyes until Al touches her shoulder.
"Are we stopped for the night?" she asks, shivering, and there is a thin sheen of sweat on her pale face.
"Mr. Breda?" Winry calls forward. "Mr. Havoc?"
They pull to a stop beside a stand of trees—hardly enough cover from the wind, but better than nothing. Mr. Havoc comes first, through the back, peeling off his ice-stiffened gloves with his teeth.
"Alright, Miss Riza?"
She flashes him the same grimace, shaking her head.
"No fuss," she says. "I'm—alright. Just a little fatigued, is all."
Mr. Havoc nods slowly, and he looks her up and down, brow set with tension. His gaze focuses on her feet, just peeking out past the edge of the blanket.
"You taken these boots off all day?"
"Why would she do that?" Ed snaps, suddenly defensive of the looming men.
"I didn't," Miss Riza confirms "Is that—?"
"Not the best idea," Mr. Havoc says. "Sorry 'bout this—I'll owe you a new pair, alright?"
He pulls a small knife from his sleeve and without another word saws neatly through the laces on Miss Riza's boots. She stifles a quiet groan against her hand, as Mr. Havoc gently pulls the loosened boots from her feet. Mr. Breda joins them then, shaking snow from his head and shoulders.
"What are you doing?" Ed demands, while Al and Winry stay quiet. "What's that?"
"It'll help Miss Riza," Mr. Havoc says.
"Winry," Miss Riza says with a violent shiver. "Would you mind giving him a little help?"
They work together, disjointedly. Winry peels off Miss Riza's soaked stockings, while Mr. Havoc rummages through the crates.
"Gotta stay dry," Mr. Havoc mutters. "Which one had the—ah, there!"
He brings them blankets—tearing one in half and handing the pieces to Winry.
"Make sure her skin's nice and dry," he says. "Then you boys get on either side, and snuggle up close, alright? You keep Miss Riza warm."
Wind whistles sharply through the canvas, and Miss Riza's voice wavers with chill.
"I'm so sorry—I didn't mean for this—"
"I'd sure hope not," Mr. Havoc interrupts, kindly jovial. "Hate to think you'd gotten sick out of some sense of not putting us out."
"I got trench foot once," Mr. Breda chimes in, bringing in water and what passes for dinner—strips of salted beef and hard biscuits. "Third day of training. Laid me up a couple days."
"Civilian shoes aren't made for long marches," Mr. Havoc says, shaking out another blanket. "Go on, boys. And you, too, Miss Winry."
Al is on the left as always, molded into the corner formed by two crates and the truck-cab's back wall. Then Miss Riza, eyes closed and hands over her belly. Ed beside her, his own hand between hers, wishing he could transmute warmth into her fingers. Winry folds two blankets loosely over Miss Riza's legs and then crawls into the pile, settling up against Ed. While they eat—Miss Riza takes a few shallow bites, grimacing—Mr. Breda and Mr. Havoc sit at the edge, talking too quietly for Ed to hear.
He stares at their mouths, trying to read what they might be saying, but it's too dark. Mr. Havoc spins his cigarette around and around, never lighting it.
"Tomorrow," he says to Mr. Breda, as they turn back into the truck. "Right? Tomorrow."
Ed sleeps fitfully. Miss Riza seems to improve during the night, but she's still pale and shaky in the morning, and she eats little of the offered breakfast.
"When will we be moving again?" she asks with a tight smile.
"Soon," Mr. Breda says. "Get you home nice and quick."
But when they unfasten the canvas flaps, it is abundantly clear that they will not be moving anywhere at all. Snow reaches up past the truck's high bumper—the whole world swallowed up in white. Mr. Havoc jumps down with a low swear and a quick apology to Miss Riza. The snow reaches up past his waist.
"Back to the blankets," Mr. Breda tells him, ushering Ed away from the edge. "You'll fall right in and be lost."
An hour passes before Mr. Havoc has dug out a path wide enough for the sergeant to come by. He speaks to Mr. Breda and Mr. Havoc in hushed, hurried tones before moving on through the ditch. Ed catches his eye briefly, and as the sergeant looks away, snow starts up again.
"Stuck," Mr. Havoc explains. "North and south. Storm's blowing in off the lake and the mountains. Lots of people headed the other direction, and these trucks aren't exactly Amestrian finest. They're going to dig out the more essential cargo up front and move on without us."
"What are we to do?" Miss Riza asks.
"We're expected to wait it out. We've got rations enough, but..."
Mr. Havoc sighs sharply.
"To be honest, Miss Riza—I don't much like the idea of you and these kids freezing out here with us. And before you say—it's no imposition. I expect the boys at the front could use blankets and bandages as much as ammo."
"We passed a little farming village about a half mile back," Mr. Breda says. "Might be they could help dig us out. Maybe give us some food that isn't packed up in salt."
"We don't have anything to trade or offer as compensation," Miss Riza says with a little shake of her head. Ed turns to glare at Winry.
"Actually, Miss Riza," Winry says, glaring back, before turning to the adults with an embarrassed shrug of her shoulders. "We've got something to offer."
Slowly, she pulls the five hundred cens note from her collar and holds it out.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I wanted to buy some candy with it—I know I should've showed you earlier, but I just—"
"It's alright, Winry," Miss Riza says soothingly, tucking a stray bit of hair behind Winry's ear. "The important thing is that you remembered it now."
Mr. Havoc smiles at the note but takes it nonetheless, tucking it inside his coat.
"I'll go in the morning. Shouldn't be more than a few hours. Breda here'll take care of you, in the meantime."
"I'm going with," Ed says sharply. "I can help."
"You're going with?" Miss Riza says, brow arched.
"May I please go with?" Ed amends peevishly.
Miss Riza sighs, tapping her fingers against her leg.
"Alright," she says. "Mr. Havoc could probably use the extra hands, but you stay close to him."
"Yes, Miss Riza."
"And you listen to everything he says."
"Yes, Miss Riza."
She stays silent a moment—probably testing his sincerity. Ed stares back, trying to look solemn.
"How does that sound, Mr. Havoc?" Miss Riza asks.
"Works for me. We'll leave in the morning, alright boss?"
Mr. Havoc beams at Ed, who tries hard not to frown.
