Zompoc Survivor: Odyssey by Ben Reeder

slung. Her skin was pale, even more so against her dark hair. It made her eyes, almost as dark as her hair, stand out. “Please, wait.” I put a hand out to Amy, a caution against drawing her pistol again.
    “You’re really going to Hastings?” the woman asked when she caught up to us. I nodded. “Then I’ll go with you.”
    “Invitation’s still open. I’m Dave, this is Amy,” I told her. Up close, I could see the white lines of salt rings on her t-shirt.
    “PFC Allie McKay,” the woman said. “First Squardon, 134 th Cav, Troop A.”
    “Is there anything you need to grab from the truck?” I asked her.
    “Come take a look,” she said. We followed, and she pulled the rear cover aside to reveal stacks of cardboard boxes labeled “Humanitarian Daily Ration” and cases of bottled water. The wind shifted and I caught a whiff of excrement. On the south side of the road, I could see its source. To McKay’s credit, she had managed to get her waste a pretty good distance from the truck. She’d used the empty ration bags to keep things contained and as close to sanitary as possible but two weeks in the same little space made for a lot of smell. More than one of the bags had come open as well. She climbed into the back of the truck, and I pulled myself up behind her.
    Inside, I could see where she had cleared a place for herself in the middle of the truck’s cargo. A collapsible bucket stood in the corner of the space, and a makeshift pallet made from stacked cardboard boxes was laid out along one side. Her BDU blouse was folded neatly atop one of the boxes, and she had set her helmet on top of it. Two empty magazines were stacked beside it, along with a spoon, towelettes in packets, a stack of napkins and a handful of other condiments from an accessory pack. Several foil pouches of crackers and spreads were laid out next to that. I’d only been outside the wire a few times while I was in Iraq, but I recognized the soldiers’ habit of always keeping some food stashed away. In the Air Force, I was always sure of when and where my next meal was going to be, but in the Army, that wasn’t always the case. Besides that, most soldiers burned a lot more calories than the average airman did.
    “Welcome to my Fortress of Solitude,” McKay said as she picked up the helmet and pulled her blouse out from under it. “Sorry it’s such a mess, but it’s the maid’s day off. But hey, help yourself to anything from the kitchen. I’ve got plenty.”
    “Grabbing a couple of these boxes wouldn’t be a bad idea. But do you mind if I take a look at your radios?”
    “We only had one,” she said as she stuffed the crackers and spreads into her cargo pockets. “And it’s not even good for spare parts now.”
    “Was it in the lead vehicle?” I asked. She nodded and tucked the spoon into her breast pocket before she grabbed the two empty magazines.
    “One of the guys got bit and started to turn, then the next thing we knew, a grenade went off inside it.”
    “I guess there are worse ways to go,” I said as we each grabbed a case of water.
    “Yeah, but they also had all the ammo. You wouldn’t happen to have any five-five-six on you, would you? I’m fresh out.”
    “Actually, I do. Let’s grab a few mags before we head out so we have something to put it in.” Ten minutes later, we had ten extra magazines, and two cases each of the HDRs and bottled water loaded into the back of my truck. McKay climbed into the rear of the cab and stretched her legs out as she started to load the spare magazines.
    “So, what happened back there?” I asked as we pushed on.
    “We got orders to set up a road block north of Clay Center, and an aid station for refugees at the church,” she answered after a few moments of thought. “We pulled up and saw all the people in the lot, so the LT gets out to go talk to them. I guess he figured they were waiting for us or something. And then, they all just run at him. And he just freezes