Free Omega Days (Book 3): Drifters by John L. Campbell Page B

this chore,” Halsey said, heading for the motionless figure, “and I don’t think it will ever be done.”
    •   •   •
    A fire was crackling in the small living room, and Vladimir was seated at the kitchen table while Halsey cleared the plates. The low hum of the generator came through the wall, and the door and all the shuttered windows were bolted tight. A kerosene lantern glowed on the table beside a saucer Halsey had produced to serve as an ashtray for the Russian. Vlad blew smoke at the beamed ceiling.
    “You have been here since this all began?” the pilot asked. “Living alone?”
    “I’ve been living alone since I got out of the service,” Halsey said from the sink. “Had some lady friends over the years, none who wanted to settle for a beat-up ranch hand. I’m not complaining.”
    “It is lonely out here, is it not?”
    “I’m used to it. And I’ve got my books.”
    Vladimir had already seen a pair of full bookcases, with more paperbacks stacked in piles near them.
    “How about you?” Halsey asked. “Any family?” Then he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, that’s probably the wrong thing to say.”
    “Not at all,” the Russian said. “I had a family. They were gone before all this.”
    The ranch hand returned to the table with a bottle of amber liquid and a pair of glasses, taking a seat. “Well then I’m sorry, but at the same time it seems a blessing.”
    Vladimir agreed. That was exactly how he saw it.
    Halsey pushed a glass at his guest and twisted the top off the bottle. “I don’t have any vodka. Never acquired the taste. This will have to do.”
    “It will be fine. I do not care for vodka either.”
    The ranch hand stopped before he could pour. “You’re bullshitting me.”
    A homely grin. “Yes, I know, a Russian who does not drink vodka. Unthinkable. So I will also tell you that I am inept at chess, I do not care for snow or opera, and I cannot dance. I am indeed a very poor excuse for a Russian.”
    Halsey smiled and poured. “I imagine the boys in your squadron had their fun with you.”
    They touched glasses. “Look at me, my friend,” Vladimir said. “People have been having fun with me all my life. But they are all gone now, the friends along with the tormentors.”
    The ranch hand lifted his glass. “To those who are gone, good and bad alike.”
    They drank throughout the evening, finishing the partial bottle only to have Halsey produce a new one from a kitchen cabinet. Vladimir explained how a serving flight officer from the Russian Federation had managed to be in California when the world ended. His native country had purchased a number of Black Hawks from the United States and had sent Vlad and several others to America to learn to be flight instructors. When the plague hit, and spun quickly out of control, Vladimir had been pressed into service, flying rescue missions out of a California naval air station.
    Halsey talked a bit about ranch life and taking care of Carson Pepper’s spread, but he seemed more interested in listening to the Russian. As the liquor warmed his insides and loosened his tongue, Vlad spoke more about his experiences around NAS Lemoore, the large group back in the Bay Area, and the USS
Nimitz
. He also told Halsey about Sophia and little Ben. The other man smiled and told the pilot he was lucky to have people who cared about him, and that they were safe. Then he explained the map over the fireplace, pointing out places he had explored and looted. The Russian pointed at the small town just to the east.
    “Paradise? It sounds nice.”
    Halsey spit tobacco into a mason jar. “Not anymore. Used to be nice enough, I guess, just a little town, nothing special. Had a bit of a rough element there, though, more trailer parks than churches.” He tapped the map. “There’s a bad bunch up there, vagrants and alcoholics and disability cheats, all come together like a pack of wild dogs. I call ’em Paradise Trash. Ran into them a