Free Civilian Slaughter by James Rouch

on the safe side my men will do random checks. If we find anything in that list, then there'll be no food issue today.”
    That is a very fair arrangement, Major, very fair. I am sure I can get them to go along with it. If there is anything else I can do?”
    “I’ll let you know.” And he would! Revell had to give the man a high mark for initiative, even if it was prompted by self interest. Among the Russian people a display of initiative was considered dangerous, a trait to be stamped on ruthlessly. So rarely was it ever practiced that they didn't even have a word for it in their language. “By what name are you known, if I need you again?” 
    “It is fortunate, Major, that my late comrade and I shared the same first name. A call for Grigori will soon find me.”
    Revell didn't doubt that. The man was obviously an operator. He wondered how long it would be before, perhaps, he had to stamp on him.
    “You're ready then?”
The convoy sergeant had been dogging Revell's footsteps, and hovering about him through all the preparations for departure. All of that time he had been carrying the clipboard with the unsigned receipt.
    Whichever way he turned Revell found himself faced by it, and a proffered pen, like a supplicant's petition.
    On top of the buses the new guards had finally settled in among nests of rearranged luggage. Those of the combat company and the pioneers who were to travel in the trucks and Hummers were already boarding.
    Revell took a last look around to check that preparations were complete, then finally accepted the offered board. Crossing through the typed figures at the bottom of the torn and creased greasy paper, he wrote in the actual number he'd received live. Signing it and handing it back, he watched the master sergeant's expression as he read the alteration. He was far from happy.
    “Ah hell, Major. There ain't something you could add, just to sort of soften it a little, is there? You know, about the escort going astray, maybe something on those lines.”
    “You can explain that for yourself when you get back. Next time leave your captain to do his own dirty work. And if I were you I'd get those wheels changed on your transport. If the military police spot you motoring like that, they can have you on a sabotage rap. You've got enough problems as it is.”
    Exhaust smoke plumed above the lengthening column parked on the drive, as the company's transports were jockeyed into place between each of the buses.
    The perimeter of the grounds was lined with refugees. Having watched with greedy eyes every stage of the preparations for the move, they now became bolder and began to filter hesitantly toward the abandoned building. Gradually the pace of the cautious infiltration increased as they weren't challenged. Inevitably they began to converge on the kitchen area, and just as inevitably scuffles and fights began to occur.
    As he ducked into his Hummer, Revell took a last look at the imposing building. In an hour or two it would be a shell, stripped of everything movable. It was a wonder it had escaped such depredations for so long. For a while yet it might have remained intact, if the presence of the combat company had not drawn attention to it.
    Perhaps a few of the refugees would settle there for a while, until every last sliver of furniture and fittings had been consumed by the cooking fires. But it would not be for long. Disease was constantly thinning the numbers of civilians in the Zone, despite the constant replenishment caused by the frequent expansion of its area, as a consequence of fresh battles or advances. Certainly the old hotel would be abandoned the moment the truce ended. A conspicuous building was a dangerous place to be while there was fighting.
    That it had escaped serious damage for such a length of time made it all the more likely that its turn for violent demolition would be soon.
    For those pathetic displaced persons now struggling over scraps, the only comparative safety would