Free The Fall of America: Winter Ops by W.R. Benton Page B

patrols out randomly covering the area is my guess, and we just bumped into them.”
    Kerr chewed a few minutes and then asked, “What now?  I mean, do we keep moving north?”
    “I think we can safely move toward our group now. The snow is covering our tracks and I don't want to still be moving toward them when this stuff stops.  If we are, our tracks will even be visible from the air.”
    Kerr nodded and then said, “That makes sense to me. What did you do before the fall?”
    “I spent a few years in the army, got out, and went to college on the G.I. Bill.  I then owned a security company, was married and living well. How about you?”
    The black man smiled and said, “I spent four years in the army, went to school at night, and after I got out I went to dental school. My parents were so proud of me the day my dental office opened.  Then a year later, I lost my ass in the fall, including both parents. I was married, had two young twin boys, but they were all murdered one day while I was out looking for food.  I returned home to a house spattered with blood.”
    “My first wife was killed, too.”
    “My parents were both in their late sixties, with my dad on blood pressure medication, and mom a diabetic. When the pharmacies closed, they were both dead within a few months, and my anger was so great, I started killing. I didn't just kill anyone, but when I found some worthless bastards, I took them out.”
    “I think you missed a few.”
    He gave a low chuckle and said, “Yep, I surely did. In Jackson, where I lived, some groups were eating people, but keeping them alive until needed. They'd pull the victim out, tie them up, and then decapitate them with a machete. I watched them a few nights and it was the sickest damned thing I'd ever seen. When they murdered a young girl, no more than ten years old, I did my best to wipe that whole bunch out. Then one day I ran into an old army friend and he told me about the resistance. Now, this was before the Russians were here, but they were coming, or so he claimed.  You pretty much know the rest of the story.”
    “There are still some sick —”
    “Do you hear that?”  Kerr asked.

CHAPTER 6
    F rom his bed in the hospital, the Senior Sergeant could look out the window and see men and women scurrying around like ants.  He'd been questioned so much by intelligence his patience was thin and temper mean.  They'd asked him a zillion questions about all sorts of things and made an attempt to make Lieutenant Smirnov look bad. Morozov had finally grown mad at the men questioning him and ran them from his room. They're a bunch of damned paper pushers and not a one of them has ever been shot at.  Any combat soldier knows at times there is nothing you can do but die, he thought as he moved and then winced from pain.
    Suddenly he heard a loud voice, “Taras, you lazy bastard, what are you doing in bed?”
    “I needed a short nap.”  he replied as he met the blue eyes of Master Sergeant Stas Fedorovo.
    The Master Sergeant walked to the bed, pulled a pint of vodka from his coat and slipped it under the mattress. Smiling, he asked, “Are they treating you well?  And, what are the extent of your injuries? I heard you were the only survivor of your squad, but how can that be?”
    Master Sergeant Fedorovo was short, just five feet and four inches, but every inch of him was a fighter. He weighed 120 pounds, or 54.55 kilos.  He'd joined the army at 17 and quickly found a home.  His brown hair was cropped almost to the skin and he looked mean most of the time, but he was a compassionate man inside.
    “Ambushed us as we woke at dawn.  Lieutenant Smirnov and I were in the bushes doing our morning business when it happened.  The fight did not last more then two minutes and then we started walking back to base.  I then —”
    The Master Sergeant patted Morozov on the shoulder and said, “I read the report, Taras, but did anyone screw up?”
    “Not that I can remember.