Free Hell's Fortress by Daniel Wallace, Michael Wallace Page B

darkened. “For now. Come on. Time to meet the general.”
    They found the so-called general inside at the table, studying a map through the dying light that filtered in through the window. He ate directly from a can of peaches, which he slid to one side when the others entered. He rose and wiped his hands on his pants. Kemp had a hard time not staring at the peaches.
    “This is the new recruit,” Shepherd said. “The others aren’t worth spit. I left them in the dunes.”
    “Hold on,” Kemp said. “I haven’t been recruited to anything. I got three Purple Hearts and the army says—”
    “Have a seat,” the man said. “Go ahead, take a load off. Shep, get this man a beer.”
    He spoke with a slight Spanish accent. Burn scars marked his face. A general? He didn’t wear a uniform. Didn’t carry himself in a military way.
    Kemp hesitated, but the thought of a beer won him over. He’d toss back a six-pack if he could. Blunt the memory of his mother’s hollow stare. Of his two nephews, pale and dead. He sat down.
    Shepherd poured the beer into a dusty glass and set it on the table. Kemp drank it down. It was warm as piss.
    “Get me another. And some food.”
    The man retrieved an MRE from the pantry: meatloaf in gravy, applesauce cake, green beans, and a peanut butter HOOAH! bar. Kemp wolfed it all down.
    When he’d finished the second beer, he felt almost human again. He sized up the general. “We going to have some introductions?”
    “Is that necessary?” the man asked. “This is Shepherd, you’re Kemp, I’m the general.”
    “You don’t look like any general I’ve ever seen.”
    “You can call me Alacrán if you want. Scorpion, if you like that better. I’m not fussy about titles, so long as people do what I ask. And the sergeant here is my right-hand man. If half of what he told me on the radio is accurate, you could be number three.”
    “Just like that? Corporal to number three? Never heard of that rank, but whatever.”
    “We’ve got bigger things to worry about out here than ranks and army BS,” Shepherd said.
    “I think you’re both full of crap,” Kemp said. “You’re not army. You’re not irregulars. You’re a bunch of bandits and deserters.”
    “Do bandits and deserters control predator drones with hellfire missiles?” Alacrán said.
    “That sounds like bullshit to me.”
    “You came into the valley with three carts and a school bus,” the man said in his accented English. “Nobody bothered you until you tried to leave. A warning shot, then the second missile hit the bunker when it started shooting back.”
    Kemp fell silent. He hadn’t told all of that to Shepherd. And Kapowski and Tippetts had never been alone with the sergeant’s men long enough to give additional details.
    “Our buddies would have finished the job,” Alacrán continued, “but we’re short of equipment on that end. Another week or two and they’ll call off the quarantine of Blister Creek—the drones will be sent elsewhere. The army has already abandoned the Green River base. Withdrawn most of the ordnance.”
    “There are a hundred thousand refugees in Green River,” Kemp said. “What about them?”
    “Like I said, abandoned.”
    “Left to die, in other words.”
    Kemp heaved himself to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen to look for more beer. He found a can sitting on the counter. He popped the top and took a swig on his way back to the table.
    It was now almost dark and nobody made a move to turn on the lights. “No generators, huh?”
    “Can’t spare the diesel,” Shepherd said.
    “Kerosene for lanterns?”
    “Only when absolutely necessary.”
    “We can sit on the porch if you’d like,” Alacrán said. “Hell of a sunset out there.”
    “I’ve seen enough sunsets. Bring in a light. Now is one of those necessary times.”
    They were giving him enough of a leash that he felt comfortable pulling at it. They needed something from him. Otherwise, why the beer? Why the bogus