Savages by James Cook Page A

head. 1800 was 6:00 PM. “I can do that. How about a ride home later?”
    “Of course.”
    “Thanks.” 
    Jacobs stood up. “I’ll send runners if I need anything else from you. Where should they look?”
    “We’ll hang out at the enlisted club,” I said. “Either there or the chow hall.” 
    As Gabe and I stood up to go, Jacobs said, “Gabriel, one more question.”
    Gabe looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
    “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you lose your finger?”

 
NINE
     
     
    General Jacobs only sent one runner. He came into the mess hall where we were eating lunch with Delta Squad and asked if he could speak with me in private for a moment. We stepped outside, and he asked me how much experience I had with the AK-47 rifle platform.
    “None,” I said.
    He seemed surprised. I asked him if there was anything else. He shook his head, thanked me, and took off at a jog. I watched him go until he was out of sight. He was a short guy, maybe five-foot-six at the most. His arms and legs were thin but full of stringy muscle. He wore a dry-fit shirt that must have cost a small fortune, running shorts that were barely long enough to be considered masculine, and a pair of worn down zero-drop sneakers. I noticed he ran toe-to-heel instead of heel-to-toe.
    I read a book once about a tribe of natives in Mexico who ran the same way. They could cover fifty miles at a go as easy me walking down my driveway. I wondered if the runner had read the same book. I also wondered how much trade he earned in an average day. When I first got to Hollow Rock, so many people wanted to work as runners the mayor started making them apply for business licenses. As time went by, the cream rose to the top, and the really good ones put the lazy and the slow out of business. It was still competitive, but a good runner could make far better trade than your average farmhand or full-time guardsman.
    Then there were the Runners with a capital R. More of a tribe than an occupation. They transported goods and messages from one community to another, sticking to the wilds and supporting each other through a network of hidden campsites and safe-houses. Tough people. Slow to trust, constantly armed, and if they took a contract, they fulfilled it or died trying. Gabe had gotten in with them by saving one of their lives, and explained to me their practices. Each Runner had a name known only to other members of the community. Gabe had one, but refused to tell me what it was. Consequently, I did not feel bad about occasionally borrowing his horse without asking.
    Back in the mess hall, I sat down and went back to my food. Roasted chicken, beans, squash, greens, diced cucumbers, and damn good bread. The bread was the best part, thick and crusty with plenty of bite. The vegetables were local, but the chicken was imported from Kansas. Chickens were big business out there, along with goats and a burgeoning beef trade. I hoped the beef ranchers were successful. Most of the cattle in the US had been devoured by ghouls in the years since the Outbreak. Only a few had survived, but the population was on the rebound. I liked chicken, but the thought of eating an honest to God cheeseburger was enough to make me misty eyed.
    “Fuller’s memorial service is tomorrow at sunset,” Thompson said. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like he had not slept much. Dark circles, beard stubble, slight tremor of the hands and voice, all the classic signs.
    The mood around the table had been subdued. Only sporadic conversation, simple questions and answers with no enthusiasm. A lot of pushing food around with listless forks. The squad had lost people before, but it did not get any easier with repetition. Fuller had been one of the good ones. He would be missed.
    I looked down the table at the survivors. Ethan, Cole, Cormier, Page, Hicks, Holland, and the newest addition, Smith. No more Fuller. His absence felt like a sinkhole, sudden and empty. I thought about