CHAPTER ELEVEN

Near Fort Bragg

January 21, 1972

"Got any idea where we're headed?" Face asked, a step behind Hannibal as they trudged through the four inches of snow, past the dormant, barren branches of trees and bushes. It was the polar opposite of the Vietnam jungle. But somehow its threatening silence still seemed eerily familiar.

The sun had set. They'd stopped long enough to kill, prepare, and cook a rabbit on a small fire. The whole thing had taken less than an hour before they'd reluctantly left the warmth. Now, they were eating as they walked. They'd probably gone ten klicks- through the snow and without even shirts to protect them from the cold. It was January. It was freezing.

They had to keep moving; if their body temperatures cooled much more, they would die out here. As it was, Hannibal could already feel frostbite in his fingers, and his feet had numbed long ago. But if they stopped to build another fire, they ran the risk of being caught. Besides, a fire wouldn't help all that much if they didn't find shelter first. It was only going to get colder as they plunged deeper into the night.

"We're headed north," Hannibal finally answered.

"Right," Face managed. His teeth were chattering, audibly. "You know, given the weather? I think I'd rather be heading south. Warm beaches, nice resort hotels..."

"That's it, Face," Hannibal grinned, pushing aside a tree branch at eye level and holding it so that it didn't hit the men behind him. "Keep thinking warm thoughts."

"You just keep walkin'," BA ordered. "Soon as that sun comes up, they'll be able to follow our footprints."

Hannibal was shivering. It was sapping the energy out of his exhausted, abused body. But he didn't complain. There were only two options: keep moving or lay down and die. "You know, it's strange to be more concerned about the elements than what might be lurking in the trees," Face said. "I don't know which is worse."

Hannibal glanced down at the M-16 that he was hugging against him, arms crossed over his chest. It had taken him almost two hours of holding it at port arms before he'd finally realized he didn't need to do that here.

"You can at least shoot at Charlie," Face continued. "Not a whole lot you can do about the weather."

"At least there's no wind," Hannibal called back.

"Yeah," Face muttered forlornly. "At least."

Hannibal held his hands over his mouth and breathed on them, trying to coax some feeling back into his fingers. His chest and arms burned. Hypothermia. All at once, the thought occurred to him: he really could die out here. And after all of this, it just seemed so goddamn anti-climactic...

Vietnam

August 29, 1968

"Frostbite," Jessica repeated, arms crossed as she eyed the young sergeant skeptically.

Looking about as innocent as a fox in a henhouse, Templeton Peck nodded. "Well, I'm no expert, but yeah. I think so."

She wasn't quite sure that anyone could be naïve enough to think they might be suffering from frostbite at the tail end of Southeast Asia's monsoon season. But the straight-faced soldier - little more than a boy, really - had certainly piqued her interest.

"And uh..." She was trying very hard not to smile, just in case he was, in fact, that dumb. "What makes you think you have frostbite?"

"Ah," he replied, shifting uncomfortably on the edge of the exam table as if he hadn't quite worked this part of the story out yet. "Well, it feels kind of cold and it sort of stings," he stammered. "When I was a kid, I got frostbite once and this… this feels like that."

Arms still across, she nodded again. "And, uh, where did you grow up?" she asked out of sheer curiosity.

"Los Angeles."

She very nearly rolled her eyes, but couldn't conceal a muttered, "I might have known," that escaped under her breath.

He raised a brow. "Why do you say that?"

With a sigh, she set her hands on her hips. "You're not a very good liar. It doesn't even snow in Los Angeles and even I know that."

The wicked, mischievous grin he gave was vaguely unsettling. "Believe it or not, I'm a very good liar," he said confidently. "I'm trying to go easy on you."

"I hate to see what sort of lines you feed someone you're not 'going easy on'," she retorted.

"I could show you," he answered with a shrug, slipping off the table and landing hard on his boots. "But I'd rather feed you something more pleasant. Dinner, maybe?"

She blinked, caught momentarily off guard. It wasn't just that he was forward; he wasn't the first boy to hit on her out here. It was the confidence in his smile and his tone, and just how smoothly the invitation rolled off his tongue – a drastic change from the stammering of only a few moments ago. Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him carefully.

"If you're heading where I think you're heading with this," she warned, "I'm not interested in anything that could qualify as 'fraternizing'."

He laughed lightly and stepped closer, as if to pass her. But he stopped as their shoulders brushed, and leaned in to speak quietly. "I didn't say anything about 'fraternizing' you," he said in a low voice that somehow sent a shiver down her spine. "Although if you ever want to combine fraternizing with feeding -" he leaned in even closer and dropped his voice to a whisper "- I can think of a few places I'd love to taste."

She swallowed as his fingers brushed the back of her hand. Then, before she could think of the witty retort she wished was on the tip of her tongue, he was gone. Letting out a breath she hadn't even realized she was holding, she gave a nervous laugh and shook her head. But then a smile crossed her lips. Anyone with common sense would've been creeped out, and she knew it. But no one had ever talked to her quite like that before. In spite of the inner voice warning her, she had to admit that she kind of liked it.

Near Fort Bragg

January 22, 1972

Just a few more steps. But Hannibal had been telling himself that for hours now, and it was starting to lose its effectiveness. Just a few more steps and then just a few more. And ultimately, it just led to more footprints in the snow.

It was funny the way that pain altered one's state of mind - state of consciousness. He was aware of the world around him only insofar as to know that it was cold and wet... and empty. An hour or so ago, Face had started singing under his breath. Already growing delirious, more and more confused, Hannibal had joined him. Funny, the song that came to mind most readily.

"Hey Blue, you're a good dog you..."

Maybe it was their mind's subconscious way of trying to protect those things that were most important - rehearse them over and over so that they wouldn't be forgotten. Maybe it was just a song that they all knew. Or maybe it was the fact that the song was so closely associated with dead soldiers - which they were about to be if they didn't find shelter pretty soon.

The full moon was high now, and there was no warmth left from the day's sun. An icy breeze cut through the trees, and chilled Hannibal right to the bone. He didn't feel cold, though he was shaking violently. Hypothermia was setting in. If they didn't find shelter, they were going to die out here. But there was no shelter. And there was no place to make shelter. All they could do was keep walking. Keep singing. Keep praying.

"Dug his grave with a silver spade... Lowered him down with links of chain..."

Hannibal let his eyes close, just for a moment. He was so tired. Had he ever been so tired? Years and years in the jungle, and it had never crossed his mind once to lay down and die. But he could feel his will to live slipping through his frozen fingers. Confused and disoriented, he put one foot in front of the other and kept walking. It was hard to breathe, hard to think. Over and over in his mind, confused memories played back in no particular order. A flash from his childhood, from his first day at West Point, from that hot day in Korea when he first saw a man die. The images melted one into the next, jumbled and incoherent in his mind.

"Hannibal stop..."

He stopped. Confused, he looked back over his shoulder in time to see Face fall forward, onto his knees.

"Stop..."

Not good. Hannibal turned back. The young Lieutenant was shaking violently, head down and eyes closed. He swayed, unsteady, letting the weapon fall off of his shoulder and into the snow. "I can't do this," he gasped. "I can't walk anymore."

Something inside of Hannibal- something he could not explain, rose up at the sight of the younger man embracing death. Though he was only a few steps away from that resolution himself, he knew that he would not -could not - simply let him go. He'd seen men die - too many to count. He'd even held them while they slipped away. But Face would not be one of those men. Hannibal wouldn't allow it.

"Get up, Lieutenant," he ordered.

Face opened his eyes, raised his head. "I can't," he gasped, shaking his head as his eyes rolled back. "I can't do this. I..."

He fell, collapsing forward where Hannibal caught him. Unconscious - or worse - Hannibal didn't know. He didn't care, either. He would carry him until his own strength gave out and then die with him. But he'd be damned if he would leave him here.

"Hannibal!" BA's voice was startling. Still trying to hold Face up and out of the snow, Hannibal turned and looked over his shoulder. "There's a cabin up ahead!" BA called. "Looks like it's empty!"
"Good!" Was it good? What did that mean? What was a cabin and what was it doing in the middle of the woods? A flicker of coherence, and Hannibal realized what he had just heard. A cabin. Shelter. Shit, maybe they actually had a chance of living through this. "Get over here and help me carry him!"

Face was unresponsive as they lifted him, holding his arms across their shoulders. Hannibal looked around quickly as they stumbled into the small clearing and the structure, silhouetted by the moon. There were no tire tracks, and snow covered the path that led off to the right - probably a driveway. No one was here.

The hope of rest and warmth gave Hannibal strength he didn't know he had, and he moved quickly up the front steps, onto the porch. Realizing he had nothing with which to unlock the door, he simply stood back and let BA kick it in, then stumbled into the room that was just as cold as outside. A thick layer of dust over the furniture told them that no one had been here in years.

Hannibal looked immediately at BA. "Make a fire," he ordered quickly.

"Right!" BA was already moving.

Hannibal dragged the unconscious lieutenant to the sofa, and deposited him there. Only then did he check for a pulse. It was there. It was weak. Fueled by adrenaline but still shaking violently himself, Hannibal rose to his feet, dragged a chair in front of the door to keep it closed, and headed into the bedroom. He found blankets on the bed, and more in the closet. But they wouldn't help if he couldn't get Face's body to actually start generating heat again.

Back in the main room, BA had logs stacked for a fire. "Make it quick and make it hot," Hannibal ordered. "Paper, cloth, whatever you can find." He dropped the blankets unceremoniously on top of Face as a stack of newspapers caught his eye. "Here." He took the whole pile to BA.

With shaking hands, BA started the fire. The brittle, old papers torched quickly, and the two of them dragged Face closer to the fireplace. They stripped him of the cold, wet clothes, and as BA fed the fire, Hannibal piled blankets on top of him. Then he stood, and stumbled, one foot in front of the other, into the kitchen.

The cupboards held no food, but there were dishes, and a few pots. Hannibal grabbed the largest one and took it outside, collecting the undisturbed snow, careful not to scrape the ground. By the time he'd returned, BA was running out of paper to burn.

"Put the logs on," Hannibal said, coming close and collapsing near the fire.

He was still shaking, and as the adrenaline wore off, the exhaustion was setting in. He set the pot next to the fire and used numb fingers to untie his boots. As he stripped the wet clothes, he grabbed one of the blankets from Face and wrapped it around himself. He thought better of it quickly, and instead lay down on the hard floor - next to Face and under the pile of blankets. Face was finally beginning to warm again. Hannibal was still shaking.

For the first time, it occurred to him to check on BA. "Are you okay?" he asked, opening his eyes to look up at him. BA was shivering, too. But he nodded, holding his hands out to the fire.

"Lay down." Hannibal's thoughts were muddled. The adrenaline was fading fast into an exhausted confusion. "Body heat."

The last thing he was aware of was the shift in the blankets as BA lay down on the other side of Face, pressing in close to distance himself a few inches from the fire.