Outside

As Baird walked through the northern camp of Port Farrall, he realized just how little he owned. The civilians all had a grab bag of miscellaneous junk and people with cars and boats had even more than that—Gears had nothing. Very few had family mementos and others only had the shirt on their back. Baird had nothing to his name, only the tools on his belt and the ammo he forgot to hand in when he went off duty.

He passed tent after tent of people huddled together or sorting their belongings. It had only been two days since they evacuated; the town in the near distance was still unusable despite the engineer corps best efforts. They still had a lot of civilians to place, but thankfully they had heat. Now Baird wondered how long it would last and how long before tempers flared.

Something caught his eye from the opposite row of tents. A man bundled in winter gear pulled a thick red coat from a bag, holding it up to inspect it. It looked in perfect condition to Baird, and he wanted it. No, he needed it. Standing around in the snow with only armor was a sure way to catch his death.

Baird crossed the walkway and called, "Hey, old man! Anyone using that coat?"

The man looked up, coat clutched to his chest. "Excuse you?"

"Yeah, excuse me while I freeze my ass off protecting you." Baird rolled his eyes, stopping beside the man, and gestured to the coat. "What do you want for it?"

"Are they still keeping up with your salary? Money won't do you any good now, Gear."

This was why Baird avoided civilians—Stranded or otherwise. They were an idiotic herd of meatbags until someone snapped at them or wanted something. Did it matter to them that Gears risked their lives? No, not really. Very rarely Baird spotted someone thanking a Gear or saying something nice. The civvies weren't afraid to get mouthy with their protectors and it pissed him off. It was outside his comfort zone; there were other Gears better suited for civilian liaison.

"Listen, old man, I can give you half a ration bar for it. How does that sound?"

"I'm not comfortable taking more than my share."

"But you're okay letting Gears freeze? Come on, you guys have more than any of us right now. It won't kill you to share." How many times have I heard that in my life? God, I sound like my mother.

The man contemplated it. Baird watched him chew it over, losing patience with every passing second. He could have ordered it out of the man's hands, but maybe he did have a heart. He was legitimately willing to barter to get the coat. If he could, that was at least one coat in circulation for the rest of the Gears.

I'm not doing a good deed or anything. I just want a damn coat, and Dom's shift is next. He could use it.

Baird knew, whatever excuse he told the man, he was lying to himself. He didn't want the coat for himself or any other Gear, but he wanted to do something for Dom. It was only two days ago when he had to put his wife down. Years of searching—all for nothing. Baird wasn't able to offer any comforting words or even be there for the guy. A simple act like this was the only way he could think to show his support. He's miserable enough; he doesn't have to be an icicle, too.

"What's your name, son?" the man asked.

"Corporal Damon Baird. Why? Going to report me for harassing you?"

"Just wanted to make sure I had the right goggled shithead," the man replied with a challenging smile. "Your reputation proceeds you. I heard you're good with machinery."

Baird's eyes lit up and he grinned. This was his lucky day, after all. "Well I don't mean to brag, but yeah. I can fix just about anything."

"You know enough about cars?"

"Better than I know the back of my hand."

The man tied the coat's arms around his waist and motioned for Baird to follow. The army had claimed all vehicles for their cause and were parked in marshaling zone Q. Baird knew the society had come down to bartering, but he never imagined to trade his skills instead of material possessions. He tried to keep his interaction time with civvies to a minimum, but maybe their dog-eat-dog world of bartering could teach him something.

A rusted truck had its' hood propped up, wires and multicolored tubes spilling out into the cold. The man leaned against it. "She won't start and the engineers don't have time to take a look, but I'd really appreciate it if I could get it up and running. A few folks around here think it's the carburetor that's causing problems."

Baird dug into one of his pockets and pulled out the flashlight Marcus had given him, thankful the NCOG boys still had some common sense to stock up. He handed the flashlight to the man, instructing him where to shine it, and then leaned over the hood.

Well, that explains all the wires, he thought. Someone had completely disconnected the piece in hopes of finding the problem and Baird could see it like a Berserker charging at him.

"Your carburetor's flooded, man. Probably the fuel pump," Baird sighed. It was always a tragedy when vehicles were damaged. "You've also got a few holes on the choke valve. Did you drive this thing through a battlefield?"

"There was a small skirmish while we evacuated. I thought I heard something pop."

Baird stood and rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed it wasn't a quick fix and mildly annoyed that someone had shot the truck. "Listen, I could probably patch that up but finding a working fuel pump—or even enough parts to rig one—is going to be a lot harder. I wish it was just the float that was causing problems. Much easier to fix."

"When could you repair it?" the man asked hopefully.

"Whenever I get a chance. I don't get a lot of down time right now and I'll have to find some materials to patch the hole, maybe more if it's deep. Shit, if the bullet is still in there I'll have to dig it out, too. You'd be better off replacing the damn thing but all the auto stores are a thing of the past."

"So my truck will probably never run again?"

"Oh no, it has to. It belongs to the army right now and we need all the vehicles we can get—someone will come along sooner or later to fix it, but I'm offering to take care of it before we're all dead. It just might take some time. I was kind of on a scavenging trip already so I'll keep my eyes open for the parts I need here."

"Could it be done in two weeks?"

Civvies. Thick and hollow as Sovereigns. "I'm not making any promises."

The old man held out a hand. "But I'll hold you to it, Corporal."

Baird shook his hand and the deal was done. The man handed over the coat and Baird immediately slipped into it. It was a tight fit through the shoulders, but he was definitely warmer already. He shoved his hands into the pockets while he surveyed the truck, memorizing the rusted blue paint and the chip off the driver's side mirror. He would find the parts; he always did.

"Um"—shit, what do I say?—"sorry about this being a little one-sided. But I'll fix it, uh—what's your name?"

"Roland Baxter. And don't worry about it. I guess we all need to step outside our comforts now and then. Just as long as you eventually fix my truck, we're even."

Baird was at a loss for words. What did someone say in this situation? He couldn't keep up his end of the bargain yet so what was the protocol? Did he say thank you? He rolled his shoulders and hoped Roland wouldn't realize just how uncomfortable he felt. Not only did he rarely talk to civilians, he never made a deal with one. What if he couldn't fix the truck? Would Roland come after him? I can't stand the unknown.

"Stepping outside our comforts, huh?" Baird mumbled. "Shit, I think I actually understand that one."