Barney:
The next morning I notice my eyepatch is starting to smell like sweat due to the buildup of heat in the tent, so I recruit Christmas to help me slap a new one on. "Still red as hell," he observes, taping my weeping eye shut.
"You're telling me," I reply grouchily, eyes stinging. "Mother fuck, that burns. It's one thing if it's a body wound, but eyes? Whole 'nother story." Even that little bit of exposure to light sends knives into my skull.
"Tell me about it, mate."
"Hey Barney, can I call you Patchy?" hollers Gunnar, who is passing around a bag of jerky.
"Only if you want to swan dive into the nearest ice crevasse," I shoot back blythely. Then I pause to let my murderously encouraging smile zing.
"He'd go staight to the earth's core, with a head that hard," jokes Toll, helping Ceasar break down the tent.
"Cleave the hemispheres," concludes Christmas, putting away the first aid kit.
Nadia looks up from her writing pad and pen and shuts down any joy with a Penance Stare to rival the Ghost Rider. "Eef you're all done painting each other's nails," she says sarcastically. "We have eighteen miles to cover before sundown today."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," mutters Toll, stuffing the tent back into the bag and strapping it onto his pack.
"Buzzkill," agrees Ceasar. He shoulders his own pack without needing to roll under it like the rest of us, the damn freak.
We walk on through fresh snow and clear skies, an even mix of bad and good. Good, the storm has passed and we can see past twenty feet now. Bad, the fresh snow makes it harder to move quickly, and causes travel to be slower, even with snowshoes. And sort of in-between, the clear weather makes it easy for potential enemies to see us, too. The team's triggerfingers are itchy all day. We scan the rises and mountainsides like hawks for the metallic glint of enemy guns, but the only glittering is the powder.
"Once we get through the valley between these two mountains," Nadia says, consulting her GPS. "We will be able to see the village."
"Super," mutters Christmas.
"Let me see that," I say, reaching for the device in her hands.
She holds it out of my grasp. "Why?"
"To double check your math." I have one of my own, but hers already is programmed with the coordinates.
"You doubt me?"
Clients can be incredibly infuriating. "No. So mistakes don't cost us time. You know, the three weeks your father is letting you off your leash?"
Nadia draws up staight, fury in her eyes. "I make my own choices. And you work for me."
"Wrong," pipes up Christmas with glee. "We work for your father. He signs the check."
Nadia stares at me angrily, but it's like trying to stare down a locomotive. I'm the king of this mountain, and every other one we intend to stand on. "Get used to being pissed at me, Miss Kresh," I warn, stomping on to take point. "Because if I have to chose between your safety, our timeframe, and your convenience...well, you guess which two of the three make the cut."
The young Russian woman resigns herself to glaring holes into the back of my skull the rest of the day. We chase the shadow of the mountains as it moves down the valley, stopping once for a brief protien bar lunch.
"It's kinda pretty out here," muses Ceasar, sitting down next to me.
"When it ain't in a blizzard," I agree, sipping Gatorade and returning it to my inner vest pocket. All liquids freeze solid out here, so we carry them next to our bodies. It's amazing how dehydration can sneak up on you when you're in a cold environment.
I look about twenty feet away to where Nadia has predictably seperated herself from the team, both in distance and through a camera lens. She is snapping pictures of the sun as it flows sluggishly behind the peaks. I sigh, and get up.
"Where you goin'?" asks Ceasar.
"To be the bigger man," I reply. I stomp over to Nadia, coughing to signal my approach in case the crunch of the snow crust did not. She still jumps almost comically high and whirls, the camera flash going off in my one good eye.
"Ow," I say evenly, rubbing the dancing dark spots away. "That thing's a weapon."
She glances down at the device. "Een the right hands, yes." Then remembering she is supposed to be pissed at me, she turns back around and continues to photograph.
I pull the flat canteen out of my vest and offer it to her, by way of peace. "Gotta remember to stay hydrated."
She eyes the canteen sidelong, then swallows her grudge admirably. Popping the top off, she swigs. "Thank you," she says stiffly.
"I'm sorry for embarassing you," I say. "There are nicer ways for me to promise to keep you safe and on schedule."
Nadia chuckles, eyes soft. "You deed embarass me, Mr. Ross. But I have not been the most friendly of clients." She hands me back the canteen. "Eet eez difficult for me to allow myself to be beholden to men." She fingers the camera strap. "I am an anomoly in my country: a woman with a prestigious job, moving up in the world. Eet seems the further I go, the harder eet gets to not push people away. You understand?" she inquires, accent thick.
"More than you think," I reply. Fearless leader: one. Race/gender/social class boundaries: zero. "Ready to move?"
"Yes." We trudge back to formation, and set off.
Sure enough, as we crest the hill and take in the view of the small village nestled in the foothills below us. Smoke curls from the chimneys, and people smaller than ants move about the buildings.
"Crios," confirms Nadia.
I exchange glances with my men. As one, we flip off our safeties, muffling the clicks with our thumbs. Let the real job begin.
Meera:
I see off January quite early, as she has to return to manage the warehouse by eight.
"I think I only slept four hours," she groans with a smile, leaning in to hug me one more time. "Meera, that was the most fun I've had in months. I needed it, girl. Thanks."
"I enjoyed it, too. Come by any time," I reply warmly, avoiding the points of her hair as I return her embrace. "Really. I have much time to kill."
"Hey, don't give me that sad-my-loverboy's-gone tone," she chastises, stepping back to wag a finger at me.
"I'm not!" I say. "After the lecture you gave me? I will do good to emote by the end of the week."
Airy laughs. "Send me your therapy bill. For that, and whatever you witnessed me do in my sleep."
"Are you referring to the Katy Perry concert, or the conversation with George W. Bush?"
"Yes," she says ambiguously, getting into her car. "Bye, girl. Call me!"
"Fo' sho', " I reply, using the slang she spent half night coaxing my linguistically challenged tongue into forming.
Airy taps her chin. "We'll work on it. It's still not natural, coming from you."
I giggle and shut her car door. "See you later."
I wave as she drives off, and the little VW's horn beeps in reply. In the wake of her leaving, the silence looms like a cartoon anvil over my head, waiting to cruch me.
"Back to square one, I guess," I murmur in Nepalese, snapping the quiet like a twig. "But at least now I have brownies and tea." Between chatting and brownies, Airy taught me how to brew as she learned it in England.
Your absence, Barney, seem a little less like knife in my diaphram. As I go inside and settle in for the noon news, I reflect with relief that I am not alone, friendless. "I have Lady Grey to keep me company," I tell the newswoman on the television, toasting her with a mug. This stuff is, as you would say, ah-fucking-mazing.
I grin when I envision your face when you realize I've cheated on coffee. "Sorry, love," I chuckle to the imaginary you. "But I have found someone else. A woman." The thought makes me snicker the rest of the day.
Yang:
"Hey! Hey, Yang! Wake up, mate!" comes the furtive whisper at the vent.
I jump up, instantly tight, and attempt to leap out of bed. The sheets have twisted around one of my feet, though, so I have to hop to regain my balance. It is easy enough: I am a black belt in a half-dozen styles, so whipping my leg around from a semi-balanced postion is nothing.
"What is it, Shawn?" I ask with a hint of grumpiness, having dragged my chair over to the vent.
"Breakfast is coming soon," replies the Australian. "Wanna eat together?"
I scrub my face, but quip, "That sounds very faintly gay, Shawn."
"Testy in the morning, are we?" comes the tease. "Don't worry, Yang. I can score better than a short Asian, if I even swung for that team."
"How do you know I am short?" I retort.
"I can hear it," he whispers in a creepy parody of a horror movie. Then he pants heavily down the vent until I start to laugh. "Heads up! Here come the cow bitches with the grub. Freshly butchered, no doubt."
The lock jiggles, and with my fast reflexes and movement I get the chair back in place. "Good morning," I greet the heavy woman politely.
She grunts once, sets down a tray on the floor, and walks out, locking the door behind her solidly. I hear the door next to my room close and lock a minute later, though with considerably more dialogue before.
Once I am sure they are gone, I pounce on my food. There are only plastic utensils and a paper plate and cup. Sniffing for additives, I detect none, but the cabbage is quite strong. With a little collaboration, Shawn and I each sit underneath our common vent, presumably back-to-back, and dig in.
"Yep," drawls Shawn. "You'll be smelling my gift to the porcelin gods all morning, mate."
"Oh my God, Shawn," I laugh. "You are worse than my teammates!"
"Got any soy, Chinaman?"
"Not a drop, sheep farmer."
"You know, this could get pretty heated. Maybe we should slow down."
"Whatever you say, Shawnette."
"You went there?"
"Yes. I went there, and your mom, and your sister..."
"Hey, now!" he says indignantly.
I stop chewing. Maybe I did go too far.
"Gotcha, didn't I?"
"Sullivan, you son of a bitch." We joke because it keeps the walls from closing in. All four of them. Damn, it is going to be a long three weeks, even when I do manage to see Sullivan.
"Yep. And apparently, you've already met her." We fall into friendly quiet, working through the sausage and saurkraut-esque shredded cabbage like champions. "So, is today the day we get to play that hand of rummy?" Shawn asks.
"Let us hope, my friend. Let us hope."
The heavy woman returns in a half hour to collect the plate, counting the utensils with a hard look at me, and leaves.
I listen at the door until I am sure she is gone, and start my thorough search of the room. I work my way around the walls, furniture, and floor like I am learning a new lover, and find there to be a stunning lack of anything useful for getting through that door.
The door.
My head snaps up as I realize I am missing a key piece of information. The door locks from the outside, but there is a handle on my side!
"Kresh, you just made your fatal error," I say aloud. "Hey, Shawn!"
"Yeah, mate? I'm working on my end of things, but no dice."
"I change my bet. One day, at the most."
"Cheeky blighter! Let's see what one of Ross' men is made of, heh?"
Barney:
The village of Crios is medium-sized but tidy. The sod and wattle houses are not aligned perfectly, but they are maintained as only people who have little maintain their possessions.
We encircle Miss Kresh as we walk through the narrow streets towards the middle, open square, eyes and ears peeled for anything threatening. It is difficult to find anything in that category, though. Children run up, touch our guns, and scamper off with peals of laughter. Women gather them into the houses, but not in a fearfully hastened way, more out of perfunctory safety. Men watch from their front doors, keeping their rare and antiquated weapons down, their eyes cautious and measuring. The world has had little to do with this place, and the people show it in their dress and mannerisms.
I make a point of meeting the eye of every man in my range of sight, nodding in a man-to-man way. Not here to harm. Just passing through. Most of them nod back, acknowledging the intent.
When we make it to the town square, Nadia steps forward and speaks quietly to the oldest woman I've ever seen on the stoop of the best corner house, who is stripping an indistinguishable small mammal of its pelt. The older woman smiles, showing nearly empty gums, and leans into the house to bark at someone inside.
Apparently, Nadia is expected. The old woman seems to know her, and the villagers do not seem overtly curious. She has obviously make contact here before, possibly several times, all to arrange this meeting with this rebel leader. Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to, but strangers make these people skittish. I imagine if we had not had Nadia with us, they would have shot first and asked questions later, even outgunned as they are.
In a moment, a well-aged man with a body roughened by work and clothed against all odds steps to the door. This is the infamous rebel leader Nadia talked up the whole way here? My Russian is rusty, but I get the gist of most of what they say. He looks at Nadia blankly until she introduces herself, and gets a sharp glint in his eyes when he looks at us, geared unashamedly for combat and cold. With a hard tone, he inquires about us. Nadia explains, with a hint of exasperation, that we are her bodyguards and are quite a package deal, but harmless until provoked.
He doesn't sound pleased about it, but Nadia follows up with smoothing-over words and the reminder that his story must be told. I have to smile to myself as she turns the situation around. If she wasn't such a busybody, entitled rich girl, she might even make a decent team member.
The rebel leader loosens up a bit after that, but not much. Motioning us inside, I signal Gunnar and Toll to stand guard. Toll says something in Russian that makes the old woman giggle, and I roll my eyes. The man urges us to sit, but we decline with respectful gestures while Nadia shakes her head. "This place is peaceful," she says tartly, like we're misbehaving children. "The rebels leave their fight at the border."
"Everywhere is dangerous," I reply, peeking into the only other room, which has a pallet mattress. "We're the pros. Let us do our job, Miss Kresh."
She sighs again with exasperation, but begins her interview with the man.
The whole thing is rather dull, really. Nadia shows the man a tape recorder, explains its use, and they talk for three hours. The man gets animated past the scope of my Russian dialect knowledge, but I can detect changes in inflection enough to generalize. War, peace, economics, religion, politics... all of it gets thrown into the mix. How Nadia expects to pick out the article-worthy bits and somehow weave together a story is beyond me.
Yep, it's all rainbows and roses, until...
I hear Toll call a warning, then a man's voice raised in aggravation outside, and Gunnar and Toll start to chorus progressively louder warnings. I don't like the sound of the Russian words I can pick out, or the tone in which they are conveyed. The rebel leader's jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker to mine as though begging for something. I am struck by how old he looks in that moment: a man of such internal fortitude and conviction, brought low by the young man raising hell outside.
"Barney! Problem!" yells Toll tersely.
"Stay here," I order Christmas and Ceasar. They've already snapped their guns into tactical readiness, switching gears like the pros they are. They sidle closer to Nadia, who adds to the growing chaos by insisting, "Do not overreact! Please!"
I whip back the cloth door and scowl at the pacing and raging teenager not feet away. Gunnar and Toll both have their guns on him, and Gunnar is telling him to get on the ground, but he doesn't seemed to care. I zero in on his Glock. His pistol isn't pointing at anyone yet, but he is gesturing with it emphatically. If he tries to point it at any of my men, there is no question as to what will happen. My men tighten their guns to their shoulders.
Nadia exclaims, and I realize the rebel leader is at my back. I turn around like lightning, but he holds no weapon save for the weight of his aged gaze. He nods past me, to the young man.
"He wants to calm down his son," explains Nadia quickly, clutching my sleeve as though to stop me from shooting anyone. "The son thinks your team is here to harm his father." She has an 'I told you so' tone that rankles me.
Giving the rebel leader/father a hard look that crosses language barriers, the kind that says "If you don't diffuse this situation, I will", I step aside.
The father barks his son's name. Seeing his father unhurt, the young man freezes. In a moment that is taut with tension, as my men tighten their fingers on their triggers, the son lowers his gun to his side. He seems to figure out what nearly just happened, and looks slightly afraid. Echoing my men's urgings with considerably more paternal force makes the son cringe slightly.
It occurs to me that the young man is both son and soldier to his father. The combination leaves no room for argument. The pistol clatters to the permafrost ground, and my team and I relax a fraction.
The young man is starting to look slightly ashamed of himself. I get the feeling someone is getting a ass-whopping tonight when company has cleared out. Nadia addresses the rebel leader, asking if she can interview the son as well.
I hold back an incredulous snort. Nadia goes from scared to journalist in 3-point-five seconds.
"Jesus, that was close," I mutter to Gunnar as the son slides into the house, earning a perfunctory cuff on the ear by his father.
"I thought we were gonna have red snow today," the Swede agrees.
Two hours and some wordless apologies later, we leave with an escort of rambunctious children, who wheedle pieces of candy from those who have them as we clear out of the village.
"Living up to your name, Christmas?" I joke as the last child bounds off with a peppermint, hat strings flapping.
"Ho, ho, ho," Christmas replies sarcastically.
"Think you and Lacy'll ever have some munchkins underfoot?" asks Toll.
Christmas shrugs. "Life can only happen." Then, after a pause, "Wait, what made you think of my girl like that: the 'ho' or the kids?"
We all snicker as Toll holds up his hands helplessly, pleading poormouth.
Having settled, Christmas asks, "What about you and Meera, Barney?"
The serious spirit of the question leaves no room for the sharp retort on my tongue, telling them all to buzz off. "We haven't made it that far," I reveal grudgingly. "But like you said, life can only happen."
That train of thought stays with me for the rest of the day as we cover the remainder of our miles. You've said that you love children. As we make camp for the night, I am taken by fantasies of little ones with your skin and eyes tugging at my pants leg, nursing at your breast, bouncing on my shoulders. I help Gunnar set up the tent distractedly. Tiny overalls and jeans, small pink dresses...
"Quit smilin' like a jackass chewing briars, loverboy," smartmouths Ceasar. "You'll be back and impregnating in no time."
"Oh, shut up," I laugh, frogging his rock hard tricep and starting a mock boxing match that tramples the snow around the camp.
Later on, I take first watch to get it over with, and the stark white moon gives almost palpable light. When I wake up Christmas to take my place and crawl into my cold sleeping bag, I fall asleep almost instantly.
The dream you visits me again, nude and regal, in the same clearing shadowed and guarded by twin foothill mountains. The glowing light brown of your skin is stark in contrast to the snow and ice, like a color from summertime appearing by surprise in winter. "Children?" you ask with part mild amusement and part sincere query, your hand fluttering over your bare belly.
"If you want, yes," I reply. Every word feels like it is written between us with the ethereal substance of my soul as ink.
You smile the way you do, all your teeth showing because every smile is worth doing fully. I wake up before you answer, but I feel like I already know.
Meera:
I am getting bored, shockingly. The thought is almost absurd, yet here it is. I am kept occupied with target practice (little bottlecap taunts me, but I am getting closer). Then, with silent apologies to Yang, I realize I have missed a day of defense training. The motions are dynamically rythmic and meditatively engrossing, and I go over them twice to make up for my indiscretion.
Then I run out of things to do.
And as this is a first for me, I find that when bored, I get rebelliously creative. As I tap the code into the door to lock it, it occurs to me that this might be a bad idea. I ignore the notion.
Your truck starts easy enough. I've seen you do it a dozen times. And having read the manual for the vehicle, I know that the fuel level is high enough to sustain a trip into town. I put the thing in gear and happen to see my reflection in the mirror. I look guilty, as though I am doing something wrong. In fact, I am: I do not possess a driver's license. But the beyond beckons to me with mental stimulation, and I cannot help but heed the call.
My foot slips on the gas pedal and the truck lurches forward like a wild horse. I yelp, stomp the brake, and come to a jerky stop. Peering into the footwell, I notice how short my legs look. My boots deaden my ability for fine control of my feet, so I take off one boot and this time, when I apply the gas, I can feel more easily how the pedal moves.
The tarmac is big, and moving this fast under my own power makes my heart stutter a bit. The roads are narrow, and I slow down to negotiate the familar route, even though no one is out this time of day.
I make it to town, and contemplate turning around again. That was the point, after all. To prove to myself I could be daring, and come out unscathed. As I pass a familiar alleyway, I get a notion so decidedly reckless, I have to appease it or it will gnaw at me. It seems my restless side will not be soothed, despite having fed.
"Hello? Tool?" I call to the empty shop, passing the neon signs that buzz faintly in the window.
"Just a minute! Meera, that you?" he calls from the back.
"Yes!"
I hear something in a cardboard box fall and Tool swears, coming out of the storeroom, rubbing his elbow and clutching a small box.
"What were you doing back there?" I ask,, wincing as something else falls.
Tool scowls over his shoulder at the storeroom door, and answers, "Digging out more needles. The bulb is busted, so I can't find shit. How you doin', girlie?"
"I am delightful, thank you," I reply, smiling at him.
"Did you - Meera, did you drive here?"
"Yes." Is that not obvious?
He stares blankly at me, then wickedly. "I oughtta call the cops on you."
Recognizing his teasing tone, I put my hands to my mock-horrified face. "Oh, no. Whatever shall I do?"
"Eh, you know an empty threat when you hear one, girlie. Barney would be pissed as hell."
"Maybe jail would straighten me out," I grin. I have watched enough television shows to formulate an opinion.
The grungy tattoo artist scoffs. "Ain't nothin' that can straighten you out." He bids me follow him as he refills his needle case. "What can I do for a pretty girl who darkens my door?"
I blush, but only faintly. "Do you remember what I said last time I was here?"
It takes him a moment to remember, and when he does, he stops refilling his needle case. "So you and Barney...?"
"I love him, Tool. And he loves me. It's time."
He straightens up and looks at me softly, warmly. "I suppose it is." He goes over to a bookshelf and pulls down several binders. I can tell they are design books. "Have you got any ideas?"
"Actually, I already know what I want."
His eyes tease me again. "How about where? Or does the artist get to pick?"
I shake my head and turn around. "Across my shoulders and back. Like Barney's."
"How romantic. What design, exactly?"
As I try to formulate the image in my head into words, Tool's smile grows. "Let me sketch up a few things. Have you got time?"
"Oodles of it."
Church:
I knew my time would come. The little birdy gets restless in her nest, and I watch from my stand of trees as she muddles her way through driving the truck out of the hangar and out of sight.
I rewind my camera's feed, looking for the fruits of my labors. There! Her fingers tap the buttons of the door's lock, and I capture the six-digit code in my memory with a wicked grin.
Finally.
I repack my bag, sling it into my hidden transport van, and emerge from my stand of trees. The door's code keys true, and Barney's living quarters open up to me like heaven's gates. The lock doesn't even know it just betrayed its charges, and gave up their protection.
I look around in disdain. This is where they live? The place is a mess, a mishmosh of eras gone and current focuses. I wander down the hall to my right and discover the walk-in closet, full of clothes. It will do nicely.
I settle in to wait, my tazer primed and my zipties ready. The syringe of roofies is capped, but within reach at my belt. Already, I can hear her shout of shock and fear, and feel her go limp in my hands.
One step closer to that corner office. One step closer to bending Barney over a barrel.
