L'Enfant Du Diable Pt. 2

"Mercado Lane" wasn't just Nyack's new nickname. It was also the title given to Depew Ave. The two strips across—Jackson and Burd—were used to house armored cars, supply trucks, and regiment soldiers while Main St. was utilized as a taxiway for convoys to form and store salvaged Hexagon artillery. Pope tightened security and basically "herded" the people of Nyack away from the town's borders and designated civilian quarters beyond High Ave. in the hopes of boosting market activity. "Anything to make that damn dollar go 'round," she'd say. North Midland Ave. was sealed off as Pope sent three-fourths of her labor forces to restore the Montefiore Hospital. Rest assured we knew where those taxes were going. I asked Anais to drop me off before #160 Burd St. where the Pali' guys shared a two-story home that was probably an inch-and-round bigger than the Vergs residence. Broken windows, dented screen doors, jammed ventilation systems. That eyesore of a home had "Pali' Recon" written all over it.

"Lord, have mercy."

The place was so vile that I had to perform the sign of the cross before placing my toes on the rotten steps. Hot, moist gales blew through the screen and dampened my neck and face. It smelled like dry spit. I pressed my hanky against the door with my pointer finger then slowly pushed it open, walking in on the guys snorting crack on a roundtable that had two call girls grinding on top of it. It appeared that they made the house their own private joint. I heard the hums of Lieutenant Miller coming from the dark of the room. He sat on a stained sofa, a smoke in hand, scowling at the girls like he was going to lay a finger on them. Needless to say, he wasn't doing alright, and I thought that I knew him well enough to pull him out of that venal place. I felt a bit disappointed. That must've counted for something, right?

"Lieutenant—"

"Babes," he was kind of startled when I engaged him. "What are you doing here? I think it's best you head back to your ivory tower or wherever Pope has you cozied up in. This place ain't for little girls—"

"As brothels aren't for Nyack." The lieutenant saw the anger pouring down my face in the form of sweat. It made him laugh a bit. I asked him, "Does Captain Finer know about this? I'd like to know where he is."

"Don't bother with him. Let that boy snooze."

"With all due respect, sir, I will not 'let him snooze'. If Pope finds out about this, she might kick you out."

The lieutenant begged to differ. "I don't think so, Babes."

"What you think has no effect on what she'll do to you. And it's 'Baby'—not 'Babes'."

"Ease up, Babes." He blew his smoke at me then made his way to the roundtable, dipping his pinky in the crack then smearing it on his canines. "You're just like Big Mama. Very nosy and all that."

"Hey—"

"I'm being brutally honest. Sorry not sorry."

I asked him, "Hypothetically, I write a letter to Pope, ratting you out. What'll you do then?"

All he did was laugh in my face. "Like you have the gall to do that. Nyack needs Pali' more than Pali' needs them. I can spend two whole months in Big Indian and still find better grub there than in Mercado-fucking-Lane."

"So, you think you can manage?"

"Babes, I know I can manage."

"Very well." I readied the journal and flicked my pen, looking for a surface to write on, but every table and chair had some kind of stain on them. I nested the memoir in my hand instead and began writing where I stood. "Dear county executives," I uttered out loud. "I am writing to let you know that—"

"Hey, wait—"

"1Lt. Miller and various members of the Palisades Reconnaissance have been partaking in clandestine acts in their designated quarters, #160 Burd Street." I glanced at the lieutenant and saw the worry in his wide eyes. "The troops have in their possession a—"

"Baby, wait." He wised up a bit and reverted to calling me by my actual surname. "Well, I had no idea it was illegal, you know? Congress usually lets us do what we want in our own time, and believe me, we've been doing these things ever since. You know you can't exile a man for doing what he has been doing his entire life. It's like exiling him because of his culture, you feel me?"

"I'm afraid I don't 'feel you', and this is different, sir. I don't think Pope is that forgiving of a woman. If she knows about this, she won't cut any of you slack."

"You think I don't know that?" The lieutenant sat back down on the couch and asked me, "What brings you here anyway?"

I told him that, "You were never mentioned in Tommy's journal. I'm just doing him the favor. Filling in the blanks if you will."

"Doing him the favor? What, are you going to interview me or some shit?"

"I was hoping to."

He proceeded to mock me, "Hypothetically, what happens if I say 'no'?"

"Then I have everything I need to blackmail you."

He didn't expect me to answer. He thought I was too tame to bite back, but I was starting to get used to it all. I was getting used to him. "Shit," he fretted. "Well, where do you wish to conduct your tea-party conversation?"

"Wherever you please. Just not here."

"Okay, but I'll have you know that I'm…" He showed me his engagement ring.

"And you're here doing…?" I pointed at the girls on the table. They were rubbing themselves on each other like bars of soap.

"It was none of your business in the first place, Baby. I'm surprised you care so damn much about me." He reached into the cushions of the musty couch and retrieved his flask. "Anyways," he sipped from it, "we should probably get going. Pope's militiamen informed us that there's a French supply truck nearby, and it just so happened to stall when taking a detour. The guys radioed in minutes ago. They're still there."

"Still where?"

North Palisades Center Dr., Valley Cottage, N.Y.

They needed someone to do an inventory on the spoils that militiamen salvaged from enemy supply trucks. I volunteered since I wasn't able to conduct the interview with the lieutenant at all. It was like he was trying his best to avoid me. The man had me ride in a separate jeep and even ordered me to wait in my seat for a couple minutes before I could examine the trucks. When he gave the word, he rushed back into his jeep. I checked what they pilfered despite being mildly irritated by him. The truck was packed. It was carrying two sacks of potatoes, two sacks of carrots, three bags of peas, a bag of peppers, a crate of ginger, four tins of coffee, two tins of chamomile tea, six bars of unbranded chocolate, three cans of meat spreads, a box of hardtacks, a box of plastic utensils, a money clip holding ₣ 1,250, a cigarette box, and a logbook. The other truck had the same things, just without the money clip which me and a few of the militiamen split. I pocketed ₣ 125 that day. Lucky me if we ever had to leave "dollar-dominant" territory.

I spoke to one of the armed guards. "It must've been quite the scuffle plundering their wares, though the longer we stay, the higher the chances we run into patrol forces. It's best we head back as soon as we can, don't you think?"

"Scuffle?" The militiaman told me that, "There was no scuffle. We just found the trucks parked out here for no apparent reason. The street was quiet long enough, and we figured we'd take what we can while the air's still cold and dead."

"Cold and dead? You just found them out here like this?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Here," the man handed me the logbook and said to me, "You can hold onto that. Maybe you'll find something interesting in it."

I opened the logbook but there was nothing in it. It was relatively new, too. No peels, no scratches. When I looked back at the trucks, the Pali' guys tried to extract gas from them, but they looked to be empty. There weren't any keys, guns, or whatever left behind. Just the goods.

Lieutenant Miller decided to approach me, and with a long exhale, he said, "Fine. Let's get along with it," like he felt bad for shunning me aside moments prior, but my eagerness to hear about his story was replaced by a faint sense of dread. "Jesus. What's going on with you? You look like a ghost or however that saying goes."

Something didn't sit right with me. There were eyes piercing through the back of my head, and whispers brushing the lobes of my ears in the form of a west wind. It wasn't safe out there.

"There was no scuffle," I informed him.

"What?"

"Pope's men just found the trucks out here, and they've been lying around for a suspiciously long time."

He asked me, "What, you think it's a…?"

I nodded my head. How could it not have been? Those French guards were very keen about their provisions. Ours, too. They wouldn't just leave a truck in good condition out in the open with perishables up for grabs. They were there for a reason, and that reason was "natural selection".

Fools, we all were.

"Shit… Okay." Lieutenant Miller grabbed me by the arm and brought me to his armored car. While he was strapping me in, he asked me, "Do you have your gun on you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He looked at the trucks one more time. "Baby, how sure are you about this?"

"I don't really know, sir, but my gut tells me it's a bit too quiet."

"Damn. Mine tells me the same thing." He too readied his pistol. "I knew finding supply trucks in the middle of the road was too good to be fucking true. I was under the impression that those guys took care of some business, then again, we're talking 'bout Pope's flying monkeys. I'm not sure if you've heard her use the term 'soupy in the brain' before, but she never applies that to her men chiefly because she's too ashamed to point that shit out. In short, fuck us, Baby. Fuck. Us."

"What do we do, sir?"

"Stay here. I'll have a chat with the kindergarten drop-outs."

The second jeep—the one I rode to the spot—was already halfway full of sacks and crates. Pali' guys were really testing that car's poor shocks which looked like they were bound to give at any moment. I heard the lieutenant's faint voice through the glass, telling the Nyack guards to keep their eyes peeled and that we were being watched. Moments later, the clouds stopped rolling, the grass stopped swaying, and that west wind halted into still air. The static sucked on my ears and made my head feel like it was going to burst. I couldn't endure the pressure. Desperately, I hyperventilated to get that air back into my system. If I didn't, I would have fainted then and there. To make things worse, there was a shimmer that came from the tall trees. It looked like a shooting star falling into the forest or the moon setting during the daytime. As bright and as crystal-clear as it was, it was nothing short of an enemy sniper.

Eye in the sky.

Bang!

It was the creek all over again—me in the car and the Pali' guys out in the open. This time, however, the French weren't aiming for the bait. They were aiming for me. With one shot to the windshield, a shower of glass rained down on me and grazed my skin. I remember it burning like fire. Glass particles fine as dust stuck to me similarly to the way glitter would. It wasn't something I could just rub off.

"Oh, God!" I cried my heart out. "Make it stop! Make it stop!"

There was nothing that my whistle-pitched cries could do for me. Like the yellowbelly I was, I kicked and screamed in my seat, dropping my pistol and forgetting where I was. I was in a manic state that not even the volley fires of militiamen could snap me out of.

Bang!

A second sniper shot had an armed guard's head blown into smithereens. I couldn't believe what I witnessed. Those Hexagon troops sure were ruthless. As a bloody mist filled the air, I unclasped my seatbelt and ducked for cover. I curled up into a ball underneath the dash and decided to just wait it out, but the attack lasted way longer than I had hoped. Again, a barrage of forestbound bullets battered the driver's side door of the humvee. Who was I to them that they wanted me dead so bad? They had Pali' guys firing at them from the banked road. They should've shot back at them, right? Anyway, the rounds which embedded themselves into the seat cushions were hot enough to ignite the cotton and leather. Flares were spinning in the cockpit, stinging my sliced skin and puncturing my poisoned lungs. I was suffocating in a cloud made from ash and glass. Thankfully, the lieutenant was there to pull me out of that deadly rut. Once the ceasefire took place, he came running across the street to check on me.

He yelled, "Baby?! Baby, respond!"

Every crease in my hands channeled blood. They dripped down my fingertips and stained the leg space where I cowered. The passenger door, as soon as Lieutenant Miller whipped it open, flung off its hinges after absorbing a shotgun blast. Strays ricocheted off of the panel and across the street, grazing our friendlies in the process. The lieutenant dragged my bruised body out of the battered car and rested me against its back tire.

"Shit," he fretted. "You're hurt. Are you hurting bad?"

 I felt my wounds seizing up. "Pretty bad."

The heat died down once Pope's militiamen advanced to the edge of the strip where they ratted French guards out of the woods for the Pali' guys to finish off. Lieutenant Miller and I emptied our guns while seeking cover behind the humvee which, sadly, didn't survive the ambush. You should've seen the driver's side of it. It was mangled beyond repair. We still heard Hexagon soldiers rustling in the bushes, but those sounds quickly faltered, and the flocks of birds which shot up from distant forest patches meant that the French were moving in the opposite direction. That was too close a call, I'll tell you. Way too close, but the west wind came howling once again when things got quiet. This time, it was a peaceful kind of quiet.

"Shit. You called it, Baby. You fucking called it," he sounded irritated. The lieutenant dusted the glass from my shoulders and asked me, "Can you walk?"

"Yes… I can manage—"

"Then get your ass up, why don't ya?" He continued to mumble under his breath while wiping down his pistol, "Stupid diary. Stupid memoir. You wanted to tag along so badly, huh?"

"Hey."

"What?"

"You know I can hear you."

"Yeah? Well, my apologies, lady. I didn't know that we can only either speak to the room or not speak at all. Fucking wow, man." He pointed at Pope's guards and said to me, "Is every motherfucker in this sorry-ass town a man with a brain the size of ant bums?" He then asked the volunteers who were just as stunned as me, "What? Don't you pickle-kissers know what a fucking bait looks like?! I can spot shit like that a mile away. The only reason why I didn't know was because you guys made it look like you had things under con-fucking-trol! I must be a dumbass for thinking that shit in the first place! My God!"

I didn't like hearing him cuss any longer, so I told him straight, "Enough with that."

"With what?"

"The f-word. You don't need to say that all the time."

"I'm sorry. Is this preschool? Are we running some kind of daycare here? The French are baiting the streets, Baby. If we got cavemen for patrol, might as well deem us F-U-C-K'ed. We're ass-deep in a trail of shit these cheese-eaters are intentionally leaving behind, and we've got guys eating it up. That's the short of it." He tried lighting a smoke, though every stick he pulled was drenched at the tip, either from sweat or from blood. "You wanted to tag along so bad? This is what you get."

"I'm sorry. I was here to do an inventory. I wasn't here to fight—"

"But when a fight breaks out, you don't do inventory. You fight. Did you do that? Huh? Did you fight? Did you stand your ground like the rest? Did you raise your gun like you were supposed to? Did you, like me every God-given time, cover your friendlies?" His last back-handed question actually hurt a bit. "Did you do anything of importance just now? Was there a task that you have accomplished, coming up here all sunshine and rainbows?" He had a point, kind of. "Baby, answer me."

He made me feel like there was no point in fulfilling Tommy's memoir. That there was no point in finishing it. To him, there was no time for the little things, and no time must be made for them whatsoever. The man was radical like that.

I answered him, "No, sir."

"At least you know. Next time, when you ride along, do something for once."

"Excuse me, mister, it was you who suggested North Palisades. I was just here to conduct an interview with you. You said it yourself that even you didn't know there was something going on. If anything, I was the reason why we didn't get torn to shreds, skinned alive, or whatever the French do to people like us." It kind of felt nice answering back at the lieutenant. I never did that to anyone before. "I am the reason why your guard was up. I get hunches, and my hunches are always correct, so don't you tell me that I did nothing. For that warning I gave you earlier, you owe me a fraction of your gratitude because none of you saw that coming except for me."

If anything was scarier than his enraged state, it was when he'd straighten his back and rid his face of any emotion. I couldn't decipher if he was going to just tell me off or strike me like he wanted to with those girls back at Burd St. "Smug attitudes—I don't let slide, Babes. You're forgetting who's in charge."

"And you're forgetting that I can do things, too."

"You forget to do them. You forget to apply yourself." He stared me down with eyes sharper than the glass on my skin. "Get in the car, Baby. That's an order."

"But it's busted—"

"The other car!"

I didn't need to do a thing to get that man to reach his boiling-point. I was amongst a crowd of, like he said, "men with brains the size of ant bums", and still, he chose to call me out for something I didn't do. He was right. I didn't do anything… because everything that was done on that road was done with a sense of obtuseness. Initially, I wasn't mad about Pope's guards being lured to the bait. It was only when I took the blame that their foolishness really grinded my gears. I knew it was bait, and I wasn't seasoned like the others. I also wasn't obtuse, but that's all I have to say about that. A sack of potatoes, a sack of carrots, some ginger, some chocolate, and some meat spreads were all we got from the trip. They threw in a coffee tin as well, but I was quick to swipe it from the plunder. I cradled that can the entire ride home while Lieutenant Miller towed the other humvee. He said he didn't want to leave it out there and that it could still be fixed by "buffing out a few scratches", those scratches being inch-deep bullet holes into the car's chassis and engine. Because we were towing the other car, our ride home was a lot slower. That meant that the lieutenant had no escape from my eagerness to know more about him. He could sense that I was preparing to interview him just from watching me reach into my pocket.

"Christ, Baby. Not now."

"What? I wasn't even doing anything."

"C'mon." He pointed at my hands and said, "I know what kind of reach that is. That's the let-me-write-something-down reach. Let's be real, what else are you gonna be writing about?"

"The bait? The ambush?" I pressed the journal onto the dash and readied my pen. "People are gonna wanna hear about this. We can't just go back into town with a broken jeep and leave people wondering."

"Word of mouth," he replied. "We tell it to 'em straight."

"And it's better to have a written form of whatever that statement is going to be. No 'um's', no stutters."

"You know what?" He gave me that fake smile again. "You do you. I can spend the rest of my time on this big, green earth arguing with people like you, or I can just be quiet and save my blessed breath. I think I'll save my breath, thank you very much."

"And thank you." I set the nib of my pen under my previous entry and said, "So… Your name in full?"

"Shit," he smiled a bit while saying that. "You are something else, Babes."

"I know everyone else's names. I don't know yours."

"If I give you my name, will you lay off?"

I crossed my heart and responded with, "I promise."

"You promise?"

"Mhm."

He let the shell of our car hum for a few seconds before answering me. "1Lt. Trevor Miller, but you can only ever call me 'lieutenant' or 'sir'. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good." He then told me that, "If you get close with the CS, you can call him 'Boy', and if you get close with the captain, 'Cap'. There. I gave you two more unneeded answers to your question. Now please, zip it."

"I just have one more."

"Christ… Okay, let's hear it."

"How was life before all this?"

"Pass," he said.

"Well… did you break any hearts serving in the regiment?"

"Pass."

"What about that ring on your finger?"

He squinted his eyes. "My God. Mega-pass."

"And what about O-Peck? Is there a reason as to why you despise that place so much?"

"I don't despise the place. Also, it's 'Overpeck'. Not 'O-Peck'," he corrected me. "O-Peck's the squad that operates inside Overpeck, and those are the guys I fucking hate. You're getting the names all jumbled up. That's the first thing. Secondly, it's none of your business what I despise and do not despise."

"Well, I need to know something about you."

"I love football and I hate vegans. I love beer and I skip church. I like cars and I love women. I've got a thing for Asians and I hate blondes. Is that enough for your upcoming bestseller?"

"It'll suffice, I guess."

Oct. 7, 1992

1Lt. Trevor Miller, although loud and crass, follows orders to a tee when told to do so. Despite his rude, aggressive, sarcastic, and obnoxious demeanor, the man seems like the right company when confronted with a life-or-death situation, and I have been in enough life-or-death situations with him to know that's a fact. He's a soldier who keeps his code on a line fed yards away, reeling it in whenever duty calls like it's some mantle he could wear and strip as he pleases. He's a loyal troop to the regiment, troubled by the temptations of vice and lust.

He is a walking contradiction.

* * *

Apparently, Nyack was quiet enough that one could hear gunshots fired from miles around. It didn't matter if they came from the woods, the streets, or even underground. Shots would always be heard. Townsfolk came flooding Main St.'s sidewalks once our humvees rushed in. Everyone was there. Well, not everyone. General Vergs, in a bothered stride, marched his way to the end of the road under the belief that our convoy was being followed. Dr. Agatha and Anais—I saw them at the back of the crowd along with the CS and various shopkeepers. Pope and Captain Finer—they weren't there.

"Miller," the general's voice quaked. "Talk to me, Miller. We've got guys scoping out the distance from the buildings, but they can't see anything. You have to let me know and fast. What the hell happened back there?"

"Pope's fucking guys. That's what the fuck happened back there."

"Miller—"

"I swear to you, if these are the pea-for-brains we entrust in keeping the town safe, then we all might as well have our feet chopped up and shoved way up our asses."

General Vergs held onto the lieutenant's collar like he was a dog on a leash. He was sick and tired of the man's rants as with everyone else we rode into town with. "Miller, answer me."

Dozens of folks filled the streets, however the silence was still overpowering.

"You wanna know what happened out there, sir?"

"'Want to know'? I need to know. It is my job to know."

"Then I will let you know that this whole town is full of stupid! I mean, how stupid does Pope have to be to hire such stupid people to do stupid runs for her?" He pointed west, back at North Palisades, huffing steam from his nostrils as he told him, "Pope's men spent literal hours on the street, looking for provision, perishables, whatever the fuck they could only to find French bait on a street, and guess what… They didn't suspect a damn thing! They didn't bother spreading shrubs, flipping pebbles, or any of that shit. They came and gobbled that shit up."

"So, they didn't have a hunch?"

"Nada, sir. Ze-fucking-ro. For someone so high and mighty, Pope ain't necessarily the brightest bulb in the tree."

General Vergs rebutted, "Pope's not dull."

"I thought you hate the old hag. Ain't that what you said?"

"'Hate's' a pretty strong word, but she's not slow." The general lowered his voice, "These volunteers—they're entitled to being less knowledgeable than you and I when it comes to warfare, but Pope's way smarter than you think, and I don't dislike her because of her forces." He placed the telegram on the lieutenant's chest and said, "It's because of this."

"This? And what the hell is this?"

"Read it, Miller."

Dear Gen. Mitchell Agustus Vergs & Dr. Emily Agatha Betancourt:

On behalf of Nyack's HOR-integrated Postal Services, I am informing you that, due to the unstableness of eastbound government pay systems and the dormant state of the IRS, military pay has been delayed. Instead, Congress has allocated funds to the rehabilitation of Mercado Lane. As you know, the Montefiore Hospital is currently under reconstruction as a means to expand Rockland County's range of services. As compensation however, troops and their families will be receiving care packages consisting of assorted perishables, water, toiletries, and general medications biweekly until the Montefiore Hospital is completely restored. Regiment funding will commence on November 1st.

Thank you for understanding.

Sincerely,

County Executive Helena Maurice L. Pope & Inspector General Wayne Cassidy

The lieutenant asked, "And who the hell is Cassidy?"

General Vergs told him, "Pope's friend from health services. Notice how she said 'I am informing you' and not 'I regret to inform you'. It's because she doesn't regret anything at all. And look…" He pointed at the last section of the letter. "She follows it up with 'thank you for understanding'. What a joke. I know cabinet suck-ups who put up better facades than whatever that is."

"Health services as in 'HHS'? What, is she power tripping?"

"Looks like it." He took the letter from the lieutenant's grasp and stuck it down his pants. "She has the power, the network. Hell, if I had that kind of influence, I'd be making bold moves just like her."

"What kind of moves?"

"The kind that speeds us up and slows 'em down." He then asked, "Jesus, what happened to that jeep? Did you guys roll it down the mountainside? Looks like it's been through hell and back."

"Well, it has been through hell and back." Lieutenant Miller told him, "I situated Baby inside that unit, but the guys kept trying to shoot her down."

"Shoot her down?" The general faced me and assessed the cuts and bruises all over my hands and neck. "Christ… Baby, why didn't you say anything?" He told Lieutenant Miller, "Before we continue this discussion, I need you to bring the ADC back to our place. We'll have her treated there."

"On it," said the lieutenant.

Funny how every time I went out with the squad, they faced the threats while I came home with the battle scars. I had one notch on my belt and a few dozen scabs all over. They didn't hurt that much. The only catch was that when those wounds healed, they scarred up and made me look tougher than I actually was. I didn't like that. They didn't look good on me.

* * *

I was treated on the second floor of the Vergs residence by Dr. Agatha. We were in a guest room that had nothing but a nightstand, a chair, and a narrow hospital bed which I sat on. It was a good thing she lent me that coat. If it weren't for that, my shirt—maybe even my torso—would have been torn to shreds. My hands and neck were swelling from the crystal fibers. Again, despite the discomfort, they were all shallow cuts and bruises. I learned to just rub some dirt on it and carry on. There was nothing more that the doctor could do either. My hands were wrapped, and I was dressed in a breathable turtleneck sweater.

"You shouldn't head out too often, Elisabeth," Dr. Agatha told me. "It's dangerous."

"I'm afraid duty called, ma'am."

"Well, that saying shouldn't apply to you." She then pointed to Lieutenant Miller who was standing in the corner of the room. "And you," the doctor made her way over to him and wiped his face with a moist rag. "Who put you in charge of the ADC? You shouldn't be giving her orders without the captain's permission."

"Ma'am, with all due respect, Baby insisted on following me up to North Palisades, and all for what? Another entry in that little diary of his?"

"Miller—"

"Ma'am, it's not fair that if she were to get lynched out there, her being her own person, that nonsense would be plastered on my conscience. It doesn't work like that." It didn't matter who he was talking to. Even if it were Pope, General Vergs, or his own mother, I presumed he'd still bark. He spoke back to the doctor like she was just another vendor down the lane. "You said the same thing about this gal when you talked to Big Papa about her 'permission slip', right? That she's her own woman? That the girl has her own responsibilities? Isn't that what you said?"

Dr. Agatha answered, "That's right."

"Then how come, when she starts making her own decisions, magically, she becomes my responsibility?"

"There's no magic to it, Miller." The doctor told him that, "You pledged to die for this country. When you do that, you pledge to die for its people."

"She's not from here, ma'am. The broad's a Canuck." He did it again. He looked west. I could tell because the wind only ever blew from that direction. "Also, where is Finer? He hasn't been down Burd Street yet. He also hasn't visited you guys here. I know because you sound like you haven't seen him all day. Where is he?"

"I don't know," the doctor muttered. "Probably having a late lunch with Pope." She set down the rag and cleared the nightstand of all her tools. "I'm pooped. There's still some food on the kitchen table downstairs. Feel free to dig in and whatnot. I know you're both starving. You especially, Elisabeth." She then grabbed Lieutenant Miller by the arm and sunk her nails into his skin, reeling him in like a fish caught on a line. "I don't know where this nasty attitude is coming from, but frankly, I don't care. Manners, Miller, you don't have them, and I can see this causing a stir in the regiment if you don't acquire some soon. I need you to be calm and collected. Is that clear?"

The lieutenant scoffed. "Calm and collected."

"Don't make me write to O-Peck." Maybe O-Peck was what he was always looking back at. I mean, after all, Overpeck was west of Nyack, and he'd always flare up about it the same way he'd flare up upon hearing the French be mentioned in any context. Dr. Agatha repeated herself, "Is. That. Clear?"

"Crystal, ma'am."

The lieutenant and I were left in the guest room to recuperate. He pulled the chair away from the bed and sat on it, driving his knuckles into the palm of his other hand, but not in a way to appear tough and scary. The lieutenant was gathering the courage to look me in the eyes.

Well, he didn't, but he told me that, "My assholery is genetic, believe it or not. My kind of temperament—it runs in the genes. It's a curse."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked. "Is this your form of an apology? Your version of saying 'I'm sorry'?"

"You wanted that O-Peck story, didn't you?" The lieutenant fiddled with the ring on his finger. "Look, I got a girl. She's west of here, waiting for me to head her way, but I got zero plans of going back there. I mean, fuck that noise. I'm a problem on two legs, Baby. I'm a liability to her. So, to answer your question earlier, yeah. I broke a heart. Are we good? Will you shut up about it? Will you stop interrogating me?"

It took me a while to respond. "Lieutenant…"

"Hmm."

I could see glossy films draping over his eyes. "Lieutenant…"

"What?"

"Are you alright?"

He wiped his eyes and immediately stood from the chair. "Peachy." He then patted the doorframe upon exiting the room and said, "Tell me if you run into the captain. We rode into town together, but not seeing him around is starting to make me question if we really did. I just need the confirmation."

"Yes, sir."

"As you were."

I heard plates and utensils clanking downstairs. I thought Dr. Agatha was fixing up the table for the lieutenant and I to dine on, but once I made it down the steps, I caught her swaying against the kitchen sink. The lieutenant was nowhere to be found. He must've stormed off. The doctor's knees trembled and so did her shoulders. Her body, fragile like a daisy, got pulled and dragged by the wind in the room.

"Doctor?"

Seconds later, she dropped the dishes into the pool of water in the sink then fell back onto her chair which I guess she had strategically placed behind her since her legs were giving in. I rushed to the doctor, pale in complexion out of fear and worry for her safety. As she laid back in her seat, she coughed up a storm, spraying her palms with droplets of blood that slipped through the gaps in her teeth.

"Doctor—"

"I'm alright, Elisabeth." She waved me away with her bloodied hand and said, "If you could just fetch me a glass, I'll be okay."

Hurryingly, I ran a glass under the tap then offered it to her. After that, I brushed her hair then wiped her mouth dry with the cuff of my sweater all while nursing her stomach as that was what seemed to have her in discomfort, like she took a shot to the gut. I knelt by her side, waiting for her to tell me why she was in such bad shape all of a sudden.

She tittered. "I take it you'd like to know?"

"You don't have to if you don't want to, ma'am."

"I want to." The doctor brought her seat back to the table and sat there, downing her glass of water and scooping me up a serving of what she had prepared earlier. "I'm sick, Elisabeth." My heart sank when she told me that. "Endometrial cancer… Have you ever heard of it?"

"Cancer of the uterus… Bad business."

"Indeed." She had a bottle of Xemperil rested in her grasp. It's a kind of PD-1 inhibitor. She stroked it like it was a lucky charm. She said, "There aren't enough of these in the world to keep Mitchell from worrying about me so damn much. At night, I can't move. I just can't. And without this, even in the day, I just cripple. It gets harder and harder every time… Every time."

"Anais… Does she know?"

"Oh, god, no. She mustn't… ever. We have too many things going on. This? I don't want this for her. That fear, that lingering anxiousness which looms for days or months on end… She's too young to be feeling any of that."

"I understand, Doctor. I can't imagine the stress and pain you and General Vergs must be going through."

"Don't bother imagining, Baby. In this day and age, all you can do is hear about it and move on. There's no time to think. There's only time to do." She handed over my permission slip and said, "Mitchell wanted me to let you know that he and Pope have their differences, but they will always be put aside for you and for everyone else. You're not involved in whatever competition they've got going on, and so, you shouldn't be ashamed of asking favors from either of them. They're not kids. They're not petty. Well… they are, but I'll say this: they're not jerks about it to other people."

I asked her, "Not that I care to preserve my image, Doctor, but what will the regiment think about this?"

"The troops neither love nor hate that woman. The only reason they let her be is because—" She froze like she almost let something slip. "Do you… Do you know Pope's relevance to the regiment? You know, other than keeping things under control here in Nyack?"

"I don't think so, ma'am."

"I see…" A faint smile added a little hue to her gray skin. She looked out the window, gazing at the flowers in the garden. "On the other hand, Pope wanted me to inform you that you start working at the postal office tomorrow at precisely ten fifty in the AM. Clerical work if I'm not mistaken. I'm sure she won't be that hard on you."

"I'm grateful for any task at all," I responded. "Also, for the nth time, I'm grateful for you. I don't know how I can ever repay you for everything that you've done for me—"

"Don't you dare think that, even for a second, you owe me in any way, sweetie. Selflessness, if applied in a healthy manner, rewards a person. If you can help at no cost, then just do it. There's nothing wrong in making things a bit better around here. I mean, I'm a medical officer. It's my duty to make things better."

"Then let me be selfless for my own sake." I asked her, "Is there anything I can do for you? Any favors? Anything at all?"

* * *

It was the 8th of October, and the time was ten thirty.

I politely knocked on Pope's door, ready to begin my tasks for that day. On the other side of it, I could hear General Vergs arguing with her in a similar way I heard him argue with the doctor during my first day at Big Indian. I was expecting one of them to storm out of the room and put up some facade to make it look as if everything was fine—the typical response—but instead, Pope opened her door then waved her hand at me, telling me to come in. It's like she knew I was there just from sniffing out my scent. They caught my attention at the same time. General Vergs referred to me by my surname while Pope called me "Lisa".

The county executive said to the room, "Am I the only sane person here? Am I the only one making the sound decisions? Logical decisions?"

"Sound decisions?" The general clapped back. "Pope, the troops are starving—"

"And for the greater good, they will have to starve. Can't you learn how to read between the lines? Can't you see the light at the end of the tunnel?"

"There is no light wherever you are taking our people."

She waved her letter in his face, telling him that, "Cassidy has a list of doctors, nurses, medical practitioners who are already onboard with this plan. Once the hospital is up and running, it starts running. HHS will provide the manpower, the supplies—"

"And to hell with all that," the general interrupted her. "At what cost? Starving the already hungry? Your decision won't seem that logically sound after you let that thought simmer."

"My God, Vergs, Emily is sick—"

"Don't bring her into this. Don't you dare."

"What are you bringing into this?" she asked him. "What's your reason? Me—I have networks to reestablish, a system to revive, a coast to restore. We are all hungry, lost, and ill. Don't give me that crap about troops needing their compensation. I've seen their quarters. I've seen Burd Street."

"Oh, no," I fretted under my breath.

"And I don't think illegal substances are going to solve their problem. The delay exists for those two reasons. In what other way can I not be logically sound? You tell me."

"You had no right to halt our pay," General Vergs said in a tone so deep that it was barely heard. "You had no right to appeal to Congress as if you can just change the rules whenever you please—"

"I have control over this office," Pope pointed at her chest and answered back with conviction. "And I have control over the entirety of Rockland County. I had every right to do what I did, and you are in no position to tell me otherwise. You think I am doing this to hog your money? Do you think I want your money? You think I didn't initially consider requesting for a separate aid? HOR doesn't have the luxury of just giving away funds, and I hope you know that."

"And why couldn't you ask for more funds?"

"Because the DMZ isn't the only thing scaring the nation half to death," she answered him. "Have you seen Washington? Have you seen the Canadian border?"

"Why?"

"Not that we can do anything about it, but there are spies in Washington, D.C. As for the border, the only reason why you haven't received any calls about OECs getting ambushed is because U.S. troops fight like hell up there, and that keeps Congress from calling you up, especially that we have the damn Hudson to worry about on our end." She went back to her previous point by saying, "Am I getting through to you? Am I logically sound now? Yes, if your troops receive their respective cuts, it nourishes Mercado Lane's economic system, and that's great and all, but it wouldn't be at a quick enough rate to trounce even a spec of what Hexagon territories are reeling in. They've got master camps and, I don't know if you've heard, but they're the kings of trade. Now, you can succumb to that. You can succumb to using French currency from here on out, but that money doesn't make our world go round. You can't grow that back. When you're out of it, you pilfer, and when you pilfer, you fight. When you fight, you die, and there doesn't need to be any of that."

"Pope—"

"I just want a chance to prove that civility yields something way better than hate and violence. It takes time, but it's the only path that preserves what we have now. It keeps the peace pretty damn well."

"You've spilled blood just to get to this point."

"There was no other option. I had to fight to earn this position, to win the seed of my vision." She begged the general, "Please. Don't make it all for nothing. It was a scary time, and it need not be repeated."

"Pope—"

"Vergs… please."

As a way of acknowledging Pope's reasoning, General Vergs responded by saying, "Then you stick to your word. Food, water, medicine biweekly. No exceptions. Are we clear?"

"Yes… Yes, we are."

"Then I must get going." General Vergs walked over to me and bowed his head. "Ill manners should never be displayed. I'd like to apologize for you having witnessed them, Baby."

"No worries, General," I replied.

He then took a quick glance at the county executive. "Pope, you, too."

Soon after the general left the head office, Pope plopped down on her chair like a sack of potatoes, catching her breath as if she had just finished running a marathon. Obviously, I wanted to make sure that she was okay, but the old woman insisted that I sit down as well. I submitted the signed slip to her and lent my ears. She said, "I too would like to apologize for that minor altercation. General Vergs—he has a… a thick skull, really. And as it turns out, so do I."

"It's alright to feel frustrated from time to time, ma'am. There's nothing wrong with that." I checked my watch and asked, "May I know why you called me here this morning?"

"Ah," Pope opened one of the many drawers of her desk then brought out a black, vintage typewriter that had a matted shine to it. "I need you to draft me a letter addressed to Captain Mapleman requesting that O-Peck joins the regiment in defending the northern border of the DMZ. I don't know if Vergs told you the full extent of the mission, but the reason why the dogs were stationed at Edgewater in the first place was because the Department of Defense stated that they will only deploy reinforcements granted that the regiment operating near Hoboken—that's you guys—neutralizes seventy percent of French-occupied hamlets around the N.Y. region."

"Seventy percent is a lot for just us, ma'am, even with militiamen."

"Uh-hu, and you thought my expectations were unrealistic."

"Is General Vergs okay with requesting O-Peck's presence?"

Pope told me, "That's why he was here in the first place. We were brainstorming on how to fortify the troops. It was a silent exchange of judging gazes that made that whole discussion transpire into a 'pointing-fingers' contest. But yes, he's onboard with O-Peck."

"May I know how O-Peck came about?"

I was told that, "There's a prison somewhere along Teaneck Creek. Hemingway Correctional Center. That's where U.S. troops deliver French captives. If that Renata girl was never taken in, she would be rotting her days somewhere there. O-Peck was stationed on the bridge to prevent eastbound enemies from coming in and causing a ruckus."

"I see. But there's a gap. French boats found an entryway through the creak and were on route to Fort Lee. Congress didn't think that far ahead? When I look back now, they should've seen that coming from a mile away."

"Sweetheart," she sounded like my mother, "Congress doesn't care about what their forces do once they're deployed. All they need to show the public is that they've done something on their end. They don't care if there's a loophole in their plan. They also don't care if the guys die or not, but I do, and although it seems like a foolish choice to remove O-Peck from their station, the DMZ is more of an apparent matter than just doing morning-to-evening details around a block in the woods. There's really no other way to go about this. Captain Mapleman's the closest connection we've got and the most viable option for backup." She slid the typewriter over to me and said, "Go on. Work your magic. Actually, pen and paper first. Ink's sparse."

I have to say I found it rather difficult to please the woman when it came to drafting that letter. Every now and then, she'd smack her tongue against the roof of her mouth or wag her head at me. I wondered why she did that. There weren't any errors in my letter. I made it short, cohesive, and professional. Perhaps, I wasn't listening to the pointers she was giving me. Perhaps, I was side-eying the home across the street. I remembered it molding away underneath a thick coat of wild vines and slanting trees, but it didn't look abandoned. It was a two-story house with purple panels, a tiled roof, and a smoking chimney. I suspected that it belonged to Pope given that it shared the same hanging plants like the ones spinning in her office.

"Eyes on the desk," she told me.

Hoping to start some kind of light conversation, I chimed, "That house across the street looks lovely."

"It is lovely."

"Is it yours?"

The county executive asked, "The plants are a dead giveaway, huh?" She cleaned the windowsill of withered leaves then sat on the ledge, picking flowers which thrived on the outer walls of the postal office. "No. It belonged to my mother-in-law. Actually, it was their ancestral home. That's another reason why I had to spill blood. I had to take back what was rightfully theirs. Though I must be honest. It does hurt to see it in the condition that it's in. I'd have it fixed, but we're not very liquid right now."

"I understand."

"You always understand." While I was stuck in an endless loop of scribbling words and crossing them out, Pope said to me, "I want to know more about you, Lisa. I want to understand something about you. You seem awfully quiet whenever you stroll around. I'd like to know what's on your mind. I know everyone else like the back of my hand, but you? You're a quiet little lady."

"I'm afraid I don't really know what to talk about," I responded. "I guess I was just brought up this way. As a kid, I was always told to keep my head down and my words to myself, but I don't think there was anything wrong with that. Frankly, I believe that's what kept me alive all these years."

"Keeping quiet?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Safe—yes, you will be—but what about exposure?" Pope said that, "Surely, someone who keeps themself doesn't have that much of a presence in the world if you know what I mean."

"I think that lack of presence spared me many times over."

"I don't mean to pry," Pope replied. "I just can't wrap my head around it." She then asked me, "Doesn't it get lonely? Before all this, what was it like?"

I answered, "Tranquil. Tommy and I—we lived calm lives in the countryside. T-SIAP was in the city of course, but the ride to and from wasn't so bad."

"How was work?"

"Work was okay. Glass offices, hot coffee, quiet coworkers. That was all I wanted." I was happy to reminisce. "Dr. Harriet was our project head. He was the only one I was close to. A father-figure. Hold on…." I reached for the memoir and pulled a photograph from the pages. It was a picture of me wrapping my arm around his as he walked me down the aisle. I had another one of us doing the father-daughter dance, but I lost it a long time ago. "I've been using this to bookmark Tommy's journal, but that's him at our wedding."

"Oh, how sweet." Her smile turned into a look of confusion once she took the photo from my hand. "A garden wedding? I thought you were a woman of God. Agatha told me at least."

"Well, Tommy wasn't a believer, and I didn't want to force that on him. I wanted to make sure he was comfortable with the family he was marrying into."

"You put the needs of others before your own." Pope nodded her head. "I respect that." She placed the flowers on the desk then pressed her damp fingers on the paper. "You're just like my son-in-law. Very quiet, very obedient, does what he's told. I swear, that man would go through hell and back for anyone who'd ask him to."

I smiled and said, "Sounds like he was a proper gent."

"Why, he is. My sweet Noby."

Noby… It kind of sounded like Noble.

* * *

#52 South Broadway St. Pope called it the "Purple Home".

By the way, even when we weren't driving out of town, I carried those two pistols everywhere I went. The escort was in my holster while the .38 special slept in my parka. That old coat paired well with an orange shoal that the captain found for me. The market goers, the vendors—they all had some form of tool for defense: planks, cleavers, brooms, mops… even frozen fish. They were all used to the sight of troops resting firearms against their own guts, though I didn't want to scare the ones who weren't. I didn't want them to be scared of me at least, so I made sure that my guns were hidden at all times. Also, I thought it would be rude to enter Pope's home with those firearms tainting the place, and I didn't want to displease whoever was watching over it.

Knock, knock.

Now, I'm no wood expert, though I remember that front door feeling and sounding so crisp and clear, like I was tapping my knuckles against a mahogany tree somewhere in a dry forest. The door wasn't shaven down nor was it painted. It was literally a thick slab of bark shaped into a rectangle then bolted onto gold hinges. It gave the home a mystical sort of feel. I fell in love with it.

"Hello?" I spoke to the door. "Pope sent me? I'm here to return her typewriter."

The tree bark door swung open and into the dark of the room beyond it, revealing Captain Finer standing on the other side with a broom in his grasp. He was the housekeeper. The captain rested the broom on the doorframe and took the typewriter from my shaking arms, telling me to come inside.

"How do you like Nyack so far?" he asked.

"It's not so bad. I didn't know you were Pope's housekeeper. I was wondering where you were this entire time."

"I'm sorry. I offered to keep the place tidy for her just to steer clear from Burd St. I heard that Miller turned the place into a pigsty. I wouldn't pay them a visit if I were you."

"Regretfully, I already did."

"Oh… then I'm sorry I wasn't there to redirect you."

"Don't be." I closed the door and hung my parka on the coat rack, slipping my holstered pistol into one of its pockets. "The lieutenant's probably cleaning that place up as we speak. I scared him the other day, telling him that I was going to write to Pope about their problematic behavior if they didn't shape up."

"Oh, really? And what did he say?"

"He didn't say anything about it, but he did look scared."

"Atta girl," he nudged me on the shoulder and laughed. "There always needs to be someone snapping him back in place every once in a while. I'm surprised you get to do that, though I am sorry you have to deal with his rude behavior. I'll stick around to make sure he's not that hard on you. I promise."

"Thank you, Captain."

"So, is Mrs. Pope hard on you too or is she…," he did a so-so gesture with his hand, "alright?"

"She's been sweet to me."

"Awesome. She's sweet to sweet people, you know what I mean? She, uh… 'reciprocates' whatever people project on her. And I know you. You're kind and patient."

I asked him out of the blue, "Do you happen to know a 'Noby' by any chance?"

"A what-now?"

"Noby," I repeated.

"Noby? Maybe it's short for 'nobody'," he spoke in a rather silly tone. Captain Finer then asked me, "You wanna check upstairs?"

"What's upstairs?"

"I wouldn't wanna ruin the surprise."

"I don't mean to be a pessimist, though I am rather sick of surprises. They're not good for the heart." I made him laugh with that remark. "What are the chances of this one scaring me to death?"

"Zero. It'll be a pleasant surprise, trust me."

He led me to the second floor of the house and brought me into Pope's bedroom where vine and moss covered the walls. Tiny lizards and buzzing insects thrived inside the small space, but it didn't feel icky. Her sheets were clean and so were her drapes. The floors were moist yet spotless, and even though the air was damp, it was clean. Way cleaner than the air in the postal office. It felt like it was healing my lungs. It was so clear.

I muttered, "She's really one with nature, isn't she?"

"Yeah. She's a woman of peace. It doesn't seem like it on the outside, but she is." He sat by her home office and played with the typewriter after setting it down, pressing on its keys. "A lot of people call her out for a lot of things, and I don't like it. She's like a governor that the people are trying to overthrow, but why? Public service—that's her duty. She stepped up because no one else was going to. If you ask me, she has a reason to be harsh. Those guys—they're ingrates."

P-E-L-E-T-I-E-R. I saw him type those letters in that specific sequence, though I didn't think much about it. My maiden name was common, and for me at least, it looked interesting to read. Maybe it was interesting for him as well. I sat on the corner of Pope's bed and looked through the window, staring into her office from across South Broadway. I saw her still crossing out words and phrases from my draft letter.

But something caught my eye.

A single Swamp Rose Mallow danced in the corner of the windowsill, just below my elbow. Blushing petals, vibrant leaves, golden dew. It was the most colorful thing I had seen in gray Nyack. It reeled me in, my body mindlessly inching toward it like a moth drawn to a flame. I couldn't help myself. I romanticized the idea of that specific flower harnessing luck like it was a charm.

"Ah," Captain Finer saw me reaching for the flower. "I see you spotted our version of a four-leaf clover, huh?"

"I guess I have. Ever since you told me about the Lady Baltimore, I've developed a fixation about it. I fell in love with the idea. I…" I didn't want to be alone. "I thought it was sweet."

"That's nice." He pointed at the wilting flower and said, "Go on then. Pluck it."

"But it looks like it's on its way—"

"Nonsense." He went over to the windowsill and stroked the stem of the dying Rose Mallow. "If an ounce of luck—a droplet of it—were a physical, tangible thing, people would be fighting tooth and nail over it, but just because it isn't doesn't mean it's pointless. You know, Helen told me that we take a lot of things for granted in this world, especially things that take only the form of a word or a concept, like love or hope." Captain Finer pointed to his temple then said, "It's crazy to think how far a mental construct can get someone."

"What about you?" I asked him.

"What do you mean 'what about me'?"

I plucked the Rose Mallow from the windowsill and raised it up to my chin. I asked him, "Wouldn't you be needing something like this? From the two of us, I believe you'll be faced with more trials and tribulations."

"I need luck—that is true—but my mother always told me that flowers were meant to rest on a woman's ear if ever they parted from the ground. Also, it suits you more than it suits me."

Captain Finer guided my hands as I slid the flower into my hair, letting it sit there and rest for how little time it had left. Nothing was said after that. He looked off to the side, sliding away as if he wasn't allowed to be seen with me. Minutes passed, and I followed him downstairs so he could find a new ink ribbon for the typewriter, and I must say, he knew the layout of the place like it was his own. Yes, he was the housekeeper, though he didn't move like one. For me at least, a housekeeper would move calmly and steadily, knowing that the place isn't theirs. Not only that, but Captain Finer, if I hadn't said before—I'm sure I have—was a gentleman. Tommy was one too, and the only place he was able to drop his chivalrous behavior was in the comfort of our own home. The captain paced the first floor in a groggy manner like he had just woken up. He pointed to the fridge and offered me a glass of OJ. He even told me to pay no mind to the cracks in the ceiling as he was "getting to it". I eventually stopped following and let him wander into the living room by himself. From a good distance away, I broke the silence.

"Are you Noby?"

He put his hands on his hips and bowed his head. "Me? Yeah."

 "Why didn't you tell me at first?"

"Well, I don't really make it a point to let people know that the county executive's my mother-in-law. We try to keep our connection private as it isn't anyone's business nor should it be."

"I apologize."

"No, it's okay." He pointed at the flower in my hair and said, "I guess it was the, uh…"

"Oh, yes. It was a dead giveaway." The captain offered to let me sit in the living room where they had an abundance of folders scattered all over the place. I queried him regarding the home. "So, you've been here before?"

"Once or twice, yeah. But Mrs. Pope's letting me lodge here for the entirety of the militia's stay in Rockland County." He then asked me, "May I know where they assigned you?"

"A small place along Duryea," I told him.

"Are you sharing?"

"No." I made a box with my hands and joked that, "I don't even think you'd fit in it. The place is big enough for a family of cats or dogs, but for me, it's just right for my size. I like it there. Nice and quiet."

"I see." Captain Finer cleaned the clutter of folders before my feet. "Actually, from the get-go, I kinda knew you weren't much of an extrovert. You and Tommy both." He then stacked them in a pile on top of the coffee table and sat on one of the living room chairs. "Usually, volunteers would be warming up to the regiment by now, speaking their minds, shaking hands, greeting people on a first-name basis. Tommy didn't do that. You don't do that either."

"I hope I don't offend by not doing so."

"You don't. It's okay."

I pointed to the files on the table. "What are those?"

"Oh, those? Records on Franco-Soviet activities. I mean, all of them are. Some of this stuff dates back to the 1940's. German occupation, France's provisional government. They all tie into this one way or another."

With how far I had come, I still didn't know anything about the opposition. Who were we fighting? Who were we after?

I decided to ask the captain, "Do you know anything about General Bernard?"

"Not much. The only thing I know is that he and General Vergs knew each other way before all of this. Friends or enemies—I'm not sure. Bernard's father was an associate of Artur Popov II, an industrial architect who developed artillery for the Bolsheviks. If I'm not mistaken, that old bastard is still alive and kicking somewhere—Bernard's father, that is. In hiding, I believe." He handed me a letter which he claimed to be salvaged from the Barren Buffer Zone. "Miller calls the French 'cheese-eaters', when in reality, they should be called 'Franco-Soviets'. January 4th, 1992: France made a silent yet dubious regime change, turning to the hammer and sickle. It was never addressed on TV nor on paper… but it did happen. We just don't know why. Photographs of papers from French newsstands were what leaked the information, circulated around mainstream media like it was wildfire. That's how the rest of the world found out, but as you can see… it was too late."

"And what's this letter about?"

Fort Lee, 10/11/92 was all it said.

 "We've read enemy bulletins—official papers—about the DMZ's northern border receding, U.S. troops falling back, and Hexagon ships advancing. Whenever something happens, the French are always updated via these bulletins as in printed documents. But a simple hand-written letter like that? It means smaller circles. Lesser people."

"Is that good or bad? You think the Hexagon's been infiltrated by another militia?"

"No." The captain asked for the letter and stashed it away in the pile. "We think that the Hexagon's seeking assistance from squads, units… highly-trained individuals… 'Eyes and Ears'. Maybe they're closing in, and that's gonna be a problem if we don't fortify the frontier."

"The snipers?"

"The snipers, their bugs. Sounds like reconnaissance if you ask me."

I informed him that, "General Vergs and Pope are requesting the assistance of O-Peck. Maybe that levels the playing field for us."

"It does, but that would mean that they'll be the ones defending Fort Lee. Believe it or not, as rusty and as headstrong as we are, Pali' Recon's more fit to deal with those damn snipers."

I had faith in the regiment—let's make that clear—but Pali' Recon going up against French marksmen? The idea was a longshot. I doubted him quickly.

"What makes you say that?"

Captain Finer simply responded with, "L'Enfant Du Diable… 'Devil Child'… a wolf in sheep's clothing," then said nothing more.

Dear Capt. Christopher Mapleman:

As a result of Hexagon troops occupying the DMZ, we request the aid of your squad, O-Peck, in defending the regiment's outpost in Fort Lee, the northern border of the Barren Buffer Zone. It is believed that the Hexagon is set to advance once more on or before the 11th of October with plans of shrinking the buffer zone and invading towns up north, possibly requesting reinforcements from a highly-trained unit operating under the title "Eyes and Ears". We will be awaiting your response upon receiving this letter.

Sincerely,

Gen. Mitchell Agustus Vergs & County Executive Helena Maurice L. Pope