Page 2 of Taken By the Soldier
Regret wells inside me, and my mood darkens further.
I should’ve sent my wife and daughter to neutral ground in Europe or Australia to ride out the war. They would still be alive. But I didn’t send them away. I hadn’t believed the Americans would manage to reach the Zasforr Islands, let alone blast the entire island nation to dust. The nuclear attack had taken us, as well as the entire world, by surprise.
I curse under my breath, remove my hat, and run a hand through my damp hair.
Would the unbearable, hollow ache in my chest ever fade?
I rip off my wet uniform and set it out to dry, then go through the motions of my evening ablutions, washing off a day that had been spent patrolling the nearby highways. After donning some dry sweats, I crawl into my cold bed on the ground. I stare at the single lantern lighting the tent. Despite the chill in the air, I don’t turn on my portable heater. Discomfort, whether mild or severe, helps ground me in reality.
Images of my late wife, Isabell, and our baby daughter, Harlow, haunt me until dawn. I dream of Isabell’s silky brown hair, her soft skin, and the sweet sighs she used to make in her sleep. I dream of Harlow’s chubby cheeks, wailing cries, and cooing smiles.
Gone forever. Just…gone.
I awake to a clearing sky as the sun splinters through the tall trees of the surrounding forest. After attending a morning briefing with other unit commanders, I set off with my men in a large solar box truck that’s brimming with supplies. Most of my unit has remained behind in Deep Creek, but I’d brought five of my best men to the encampment after being asked to escort another commander’s American relative to safety.
I weigh General Clover’s words as we journey through the war-torn countryside, moving south through New York and Pennsylvania.
Take a wife, Commander Dawson. That’s an order.
Throughout my travels, I keep an eye out for such a woman, despite my reluctance to marry again. I’d married Isabell for love. This time around wouldn’t involve love or even companionship. This time would involve forcing a woman from the enemy’s side into holy matrimony.
I can scarcely fathom what I’ve been ordered to do, and yet I cannot evade my duties. God help the poor woman I set my sights upon.
During our time on the road, we pass out medicine, food, and other supplies, and most Americans receive us with cautious optimism. Only a handful attempt to kill us, though they are easily neutralized. Most Americans want the war to officially end as much as we do, and they must also realize their own government has all but forsaken them.
There are no signs of American forces until we reach Baltimore. I detect patches of enemy soldiers around the city, though it’s easy to avoid them while traveling slowly and watching the sensors.
Two of my men, Gunnar and Forrest, make their desire to find women amidst the rubble perfectly clear. After the return to Deep Creek, no immediate plans exist to venture outside the settlement.
“It’s now or never,” Forrest says.
Now or never. Fucking hell.
I suppose it’s the truth, and I have orders to follow.
I must set a good example for my men.
As much as I despise the general’s order, I know in my gut that the old man is right. These are the rules of command, and it’s my duty to lead by example.
I swallow hard when the truck stops, knowing what I must do.
My resolve hardens.
As soon as Gunnar and Forrest find their women, it will be my turn. I’m the least enthusiastic about it, so I might as well go last. No sense being picky, either. Any healthy woman of childbearing age will do.
I put on heat detection goggles and jump out of the truck, weapon in hand. The driver, Alan, and another soldier, Jared, stay behind to keep watch over our equipment. Only Gunnar and Forrest follow.
The three of us spread out down a residential street, scanning for signs of life. The majority of the American population has tucked tail and fled west, but not everyone has evacuated the cities on the East Coast. Most of the men in my unit who stayed behind in Deep Creek have wives who were plucked from war-torn cities such as this one. Some of them have even adopted war orphans and are raising little blended families.
“Here! This building!” Forrest gestures to a small brick house with boarded up windows. Graffiti decorates the outside, and rubble from the destroyed house next door blocks the front steps.
I run around the side and kick open a back door. We enter a kitchen and aim flashlights through the rooms on the first level.
“Two bodies below. Must be a basement.” Gunnar feels along a wall in a hallway covered with tapestries. Sure enough, he locates a door behind the largest one.
I study my weapon scanner. “They aren’t armed.” I clear my throat. “Unless they have knives.” Weapon scanners only detect blasters and explosives. Knives are another matter, and I’ve become quite skilled at de-arming a knife-wielding opponent.
Forrest kicks the door open and calls out a friendly greeting as he directs a flashlight down the steps. “We won’t hurt you. Show yourselves. We’re here to help.”
