The Remaining: Trust: A Novella by D. J. Molles Page A

jeans and a red fleece pullover. He put them on.
    He snuck out of the hotel like he’d committed some crime and walked quietly and unassumingly out of The Strip and into the surrounding civilian area. He went to the address he’d taken from the census records and found three families crammed into the house. None of them was the Donahue family.
    You know, the Donahues? he thought.
    A/M, A/F, J/M, J/M? Entitled to 3,200 calories a day?
    The families who lived there stared at him suspiciously and claimed they did not know the Donahues. They claimed they had lived there the entire time and never knew a family by the name of Donahue. But he could see the truth in their eyes. And his civilian clothes were not fooling them. They knew he was military.
    He wandered around the civilian side for a bit. The people all knew what the families in that house had known, and when he walked upon them they became quiet and reserved. Like they did not trust him. Like he was a spy sent to take something away from them. He grew angry with them and wanted to shout, This isn’t North Korea, you fucking assholes!
    But he knew better, didn’t he?
    He came to a whorehouse and he stood in front of it. It looked like any other house on the block, except for none of those houses were occupied or registered, and neither was this one. It had a red sash hanging from the front door to signal what it was. Like it was a secret, though everybody knew. Everyone knew that the soldiers would come here and the women inside would trade themselves for rations. A business that was beginning to boom inside the Greeley Green Zone.
    He wondered if Donahue, A/F, was inside.
    He didn’t go in to check.
    He went back to The Strip. Men in Cornerstone tactical uniforms checked his ID and let him back in and gave no indication of what they thought about him roaming around on the civilian side. He changed into his regular military clothes, stuffed the civilian ones in the bottom of the drawer, like he wanted to hide them.
    He found his way to the mess room to catch some late lunch. He walked hollow. Empty. Boneless, like a straw man. What could there possibly be left of him when every strong thing he’d ever been and felt had been sold and given away? In the name of complacency. In the name of peace. In the name of not rocking the boat .
    Always with the best of intentions had he completely lost himself.
    Burning couch , he told himself. You’re just trapped under that burning couch.
    He took a divided plate and he slid down. What he saw on the plate was not food but calorie counts. Rations for survival. Protein. Vegetable. Starch. Divided into the approved meal-portion size of roughly 600 calories. After breakfast, lunch, and dinner, you’d be right around 1,800 calories. Give or take. Usually give.
    At the end, he presented his ration card. The soldier in the white apron at the end typed the number into the computer, recording Major Darabie’s calorie intake for the day. His eyebrows rose, and he glanced at Abe.
    “You’re down a meal portion for the day, sir.” The soldier handed back the ration card. “You can come back for seconds. Or get a double portion at dinner.”
    Abe took the card and slipped it back into his pants pocket. He hadn’t really been paying attention when the soldier spoke, so he just nodded absently. “Okay. Thanks.”
    He found a quiet corner of the mess hall and sat.
    He shoveled food into his mouth but didn’t taste much. His mind was elsewhere.
    Lucas joined him. “Been lookin’ for you, Major.”
    Abe looked up, chewing. “Yeah?”
    “Mess hall was the last place I thought I’d find you.” The captain smirked at him, then sighed as he took a seat. “Breaking your vows of starvation, I see.”
    Underneath the sarcasm was concern. The type that you can’t just tell another man about. So you poked at it until you got the point across without actually sounding concerned.
    “I just forgot breakfast. Got a little