Recoil

3

I found eight metal boxes labelled 200 rounds – 7.62 MDX – Link 1.4 among the empty wooden RPG crates and drums of firing cable. There was a belt of 200 link in each, and every fourth round was a tracer.

A pool of blood glistened in the torch beam as it sank slowly into the grit. There was another big splash of it against the back wall. I felt a jolt of guilt. Was I responsible? Had I zapped him? All of a sudden, Crucial’s words weren’t as reassuring as he’d meant them to be.

I started throwing the boxes of link towards the dugout entrance. I knew that two fold-down handles in each hand and two boxes under each arm was the most I could physically carry. But that was without a weapon. I dropped them into one of the RPG crates and heaved it on to my shoulder. Weapon in my left hand, I started to hump the gear up to the trenches.

I didn’t try to run: I’d have spent more time flat on my face than moving uphill.

Bateman was on the gun, doing his job. Standish was to his left, doing nothing except getting even more pissed off. Tough shit, we were staying. But it worried me that he was so quiet. I dumped my load beside them and went back down to the dugout. Humping boxes of link took me back to my days as the infantry crow. The job of lugging the twelve-pound boxes of link always fell to the new boy – that was just the way it was.

I waited by the drums. Crucial appeared, a body over his shoulder, butcher style, legs held, arms dangling. He must have been knackered. He was also carrying a GPMG by the handle, and an AK in his left hand.

Sam had another gun, and stooped like an old man under the weight of link round his neck.

I joined them at the track and nodded at the body. ‘He from Nuka?’

‘No, he had a weapon.’ He accelerated away from me in his haste to get the boy to treatment.

‘I’ve just taken another one up there.’ I grunted with the effort of talking and climbing. ‘Little fucker’s got a round through the stomach.’

Crucial crested the top of the knoll and disappeared. Sam stopped, and gripped my arm. ‘This can’t go on, Nick. You know that, don’t you?’