A Long Time Until Now: Chapter Three

    As dawn grayed in the east, Gina Alexander felt a little better. Her eyes were gritty, her bladder very full, and she wanted some light before she went to drain out. She was uncomfortable to the point of pain. That wasn't enough to overcome the cold, loneliness, and sheer panic. She was damp and sticky all over from sweat and dew. They were lost beyond anything imaginable, anything real, and she was terrified.

    It got a bit grayer, and pressure overcame fear.

    "Caswell, can you come with me? Latrine break. SFC Spencer, can you be backup again?"

    "Sure." "Can do."

    She leaned against the rock, rifle across her lap, and it came out in a flood. Caswell took care of business, and Spencer politely kept his back turned. Or maybe he was more afraid of what might be out there.

    She buckled fast, and they jogged back to the trucks.

    It was a striking sunrise, and she fumbled with her camera, but couldn't recall how to shoot that close to the sun, and she was disoriented from fatigue.

    Spencer said, "With your permission, sir, I'm going to suggest we take turns napping in daylight, inside the vehicles. Two hours each, two at a time."

    "Yeah. Do it."

    "Roger. Alexander, Ortiz, you're first, lie down. You both look rough."

    "Thank you, Sergeant," she said.

    On the one hand, she didn't want to sleep. There was too much to do, and she wanted nothing more than to be close to everyone else. What if they all transported back and she got left behind alone in the MRAP? But she was delirious, nauseous and hallucinating. She climbed up the metal stairs and into the back in the gray twilight, slumped into a seat, and realized she was passing out as she reached for the collar of her armor.

 

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    Bob Barker dug through the piled crap in the back of Number 9, looking for his E-tool. He'd use the shovel if he had to, but the E-tool, there it was, was better. He needed to take a dump something fierce, and he didn't want to leave a mess.

    When he got back he'd need to say something about cleaning stuff up. The back of the vehicle looked like a trash truck. If they couldn't find their gear, they couldn't react well.

    Without a word, Trinidad followed him. He nodded. No one wanted to be out of sight of anyone else, and they knew there were wolves here.

    In the movies, something always took people home, or they pulled together into a team and accomplished greatness. He didn't see that happening. They were all scared shitless, or rather, scared into not shitting. He felt like he had a rock inside.

    He scooped out a hole fast, dropped trou, and squatted. He could smell various human urines. They'd need a proper field latrine, too. Everyone was freaking out.

    Then he was, too. A rush of heat, panicked breathing. He couldn't see the vehicles. He looked up at Trinidad, who looked back briefly, then toward the troops again.

    He wiped with a paper napkin, tossed it in the dip, pulled up his pants, and shoveled dirt back over it.

    He should probably have some water. He'd been eating the coffee powder, and his throat was raw from a half pack of Marlboros.

    He was going to be out of those by tomorrow. Crap.

 

---

 

    Armand Deveraux was surprised to find he'd actually napped, and hard. He woke as Barker kicked his boot. He squinted and twisted. He was too tall for these seats, and his neck ached.

    "Yeah, I'm up."

    His dream had been messed up, too, but he didn't remember it already.

    Using one hand for support, he staggered out the back.

    "Drink water," he said. It was almost a conditioned reflex to remind the troops, and right now, they needed it more than most. Where the hell were they? "And brush your goddamned teeth," he added.

    He hadn't prayed in years. Sure, he went through the motions, went to Confession and Mass, but that was largely for Mama. It was important, but he'd been a pretty undevout Catholic.

    He was praying now. Perhaps Mary could intercede for them. He had no idea which saint would apply. So he picked several.

    The troops were going through motions, too. Ortiz and Caswell were atop the guns. Dalton and Oglesby wandered around the perimeter. The CO was swaying.

    Spencer met his eyes and flicked them toward the Lieutenant. He nodded.

    He approached the Lieutenant from the side and said, "Sir, you need rest, too. We'll need you alert later."

    "Can't sleep."

    "I have Benadryl, but I would rather save it."

    Spencer said, "He's right, sir. Listen to the medic. I'll cover things, you take a break."

    "Goddamit, okay."

    They watched him mutter and stumble his way up into Number 9. He was literally unconscious in twenty seconds.

    "What do you think of this, Sergeant Spencer?" he asked.

    "I think it's fucked up, but I don't think we can do anything about it."

    "Yeah. And we're definitely a long way off."

    "Oh?"

    "Did you see the constellations? They shifted slightly."

    "I'm well read, but not that much."

    "I'm taking some astronomy. The stars have moved a bit. We're either later or earlier."

    Spencer said, "Earlier."

    "Unless some future Earth is a park and some aliens have brought us here as a zoo exhibit."

    The SFC raised his eyebrows and said, "Damn. I hadn't considered that one. But you're right. Could be."

    "I always wanted to get out of Queens so I could see more stars."

    Spencer shrugged.

    Armand looked him over. He was haggard.

    "You rest next."

    Spencer nodded slowly. "Yeah. If I can."

    "You will. Right now, can you help me get people to drink?"

    "Yeah. Listen up!"

    Armand said, "Drink water. That's an order. You should have had a liter each today at least. And no more Ripits or Red Bull. Caffeine withdrawal is ugly."

    A couple of them grumbled, but they all complied.

    "Hey, I don't want to have to stick you and bag you out here. And someone dig a latrine."

    "Already did," Barker said. "Just a squattie, but it'll keep things cleaner."

    "Thanks."

 

---

 

---

 

    Martin Spencer woke in pain. His back ached from trying to sleep in odd positions, and he wasn't twenty anymore. He was sweaty and grimy. His guts burned because hadn't been taking his stomach meds, and had been chewing MRE coffee powder. Stress and lack of sleep wasn't helping. He washed two down. Then he thought about that.

    His paranoia was a good thing. He always carried a year's supply, but had about three months left. If they were stuck here, he'd need to develop workarounds, or he'd start dying slowly and painfully.

    Outside, everyone moved around stiffly. They were all fatigued, all scared, and all worn ragged.

    The LT stared off to the west at the falling sun. Another day had gone by, of combat naps, panic, and pulling twigs from the grass for firewood.

    "Anything you need, sir?"

    "No."

    He wasn't going to push the issue, but he understood he might have to remove Elliott and take over. That was one of those things they mentioned in BNCOC, but you hoped never happened. That didn't make this any easier.

    "I was going to put people on shifts tonight, if they can," he hinted.

    "I have it. Thank you."

    "Understood, sir."

    He backed away cautiously.

    He hoped the man did have it. Though if he did assume command, he had no idea what he could do differently.

    He noted the available water was depleting.

    "Okay, listen up! Save your water bottles, we may need to refill them. Don't crunch them up, and don't throw them away. And get the pop cans, too."

    "What's it matter?" Oglesby asked. "Either we get back or we don't."

    He'd known that kid was going to be a problem. He was a specialist, and a mouthy one.

    "Secure the crap. It matters because we may need water storage, and because leaving trash here is an OPSEC violation."

    Then Oglesby was in his face.

    "Newsflash, asshole! There aren't any Taliban around here. We're in some fucked up Sci Fi world, and either we find water or we fucking die! Didn't you..."

    He punched the kid.

    Oglesby fell backward and sprawled, a welt already showing on his cheek.

    "Put your helmet on, too."

    The kid came up fast, looking angry, but Barker and Dalton grabbed him.

    Dalton said, "Dude, it's cool. Save the bottles, okay?"

    They eased him away, as Spencer burned. The young kids always thought they knew better, and for whatever reason, he was frequently ignored, even as an SFC. It had to be his presence. Whatever it was, he couldn't command people properly.

    It was obvious to him that tossing bottles off a convoy was different from leaving them in a hasty bivouac. He grabbed two, and a Monster can, and tossed them into the back of Charlie Nine.

    He saw the LT, whose jaw was clenched, but said nothing.

    He turned back to Oglesby and said, "Are you finished? We do the best we can. Keep track of everything. If you fire a weapon, find the brass. Keep the MRE pouches, we may need them to hold water, or as dressings. Keep cardboard, we can write on it or use it as tinder. Burn cigarette butts and all other small trash. Everything must be kept neat. It may be all we have for a long time."

    Devereaux said, "Everyone should have had about six bottles or a full Camelbak by now. And change your socks. Hygiene."

    Martin really didn't want to go to the effort of taking his boots off, but he'd just made a stink about keeping cans, so he led by example and took his boots off. Then he put them back on to climb into the truck and dig through the pile of bags until he found his, and dig through that for socks. Under the Goretex, under the towel, into the other boots, where the clean socks where.

    He changed them, noticed his feet were black and lint covered, with creases from the socks and whatever sandy grit had gotten into the boots. He put the dirty ones in his laundry bag, and re-secured everything then tied his boots.

    That did feel a bit better. And how did a very simple task become such a labor?

    Fatigue, stress, everything.

    The others were changing socks, and there were creases and stains on their feet, too.

    Then he realized he actually was hungry. He'd have to go get an MRE.

    He hadn't mentioned that once the food ran out, they'd either be hunting or eating grubs. There wasn't much else around here.

    The Chicken Fajita MRE was adequately edible. But it made him thirsty. Another bottle of water went down.

    The LT was still standing, staring at nothing. But he had changed his socks.

    "Sir, water is going to become an issue shortly. We'll need to find some."

    The LT replied, "What do you suggest?" without any emotion at all. That was creepy.

    "Downhill, sir, north, to where there's likely a watershed."

    "Denied. We will wait in this location for recovery."

    They could wait a bit longer. He'd give the LT another day before taking action.

    "Understood, sir."

    The man was completely gone.

    Oglesby was violent. Caswell seemed to just sit against a rock ignoring everything around her. He wasn't sure about the others. Both Trinidad and Ortiz sat chattering in Spanish, cursing occasionally and throwing pebbles. Alexander kept looking at things through her camera. He couldn't tell if she was taking photos. Dalton bowed his head and prayed a lot. Barker seemed reasonably together; he'd dug the latrine and neatened his gear. Devereaux kept sorting through his med pack, laying stuff out and putting it back.

    "I'm going to suggest everyone neaten your gear up, and find cold and wet weather gear. It was a bit cool last night, and we don't want to get rained on."

    It took a while, but everyone did comply. He didn't blame them for being slow. He saw that all the time in the field. This was worse than any bivouac he'd ever done.

    Alexander had some kind of flat panel laid out. Battery charger. Good. He used rechargeables in his flashlights, so that would help them if this turned out long term.

    He didn't see any way it wasn't long term, and another mild panic attack rushed through him. They couldn't get home. Whatever sent them here appeared random and unplanned.

    He tried thinking about that. No aliens or future people showed up demanding or requesting information, or help. They weren't facing any particular threat. There were no real resources. Sticking them here wasn't accomplishing anything for anyone. They were just here.

    He could think of no way to get home.