Gears of War: Jacinto’s Remnant by Karen Traviss Page B

like the frigging grubs. Splitting into different types .
    “You’re going to butcher all this shit in the open, right?” Baird said. “Entrails. Gross.”
    “See it as sausages. Nothing gets wasted.”
    Hoffman had set up the new HQ and barracks in an abandoned boarding school, confined to the ground floor until the engineers could carry out repairs to the upper floors. Bernie drove the ’Dill into what had once been the staff car park and jumped out to unload with Baird. Gears wandered out to watch as she managed to drape the smallest animal across her shoulders and tottered toward the entrance with it. She could hear Cole’s bellowing laugh even before he burst through the main doors.
    “Shit, baby, you never gonna get that through the cat flap.” He held out his arms. “Let the Cole Train take your burden.”
    “You think it’s too dressy as a collar? Maybe if I took off the hooves.”
    Cole lifted the carcass as if it was weightless. “I’m glad you’re givin’ up eating kitties, Boomer Lady. They got worms.”
    Dom stood outside the entrance, leaning on a shovel where he’d been clearing snow. The poor little bastard was trying hard to look as if nothing in particular had happened to him. Bernie was still trying to gauge the right time to get him to talk, but Dom would probably pick his own moment. He certainly had over Carlos’s death.
    “I’ll give you a hand, Cole,” Dom said. “I’ve never had venison. What’s it like?”
    Baird lowered another carcass from the ’Dill’s roof, letting Dom take up the slack. “You’ll hate it. I’ll have your share. Hey, I want the antlers for the mess wall.”
    They were all trying hard—even Baird. Delta had closed ranks around Dom, looking out for him and making sure he wasn’t left on his own. Bernie didn’t think that a man who could live with losing his kids and parents was a suicide risk now, but then he hadn’t had to blow their brains out himself, so maybe caution was a good idea. She left them to unload and headed for CIC—an old laundry—to clear things with Hoffman, finding herself stepping over Gears dismantling their armor plates down to the components to scrub them. Some were boiling shirts and pants in an open vat of soapy water, standing around in an assortment of borrowed work clothes. Combat was a smelly business. This was the first real break they’d had to get the stench of grubs, blood, and sweat out of their kit. The scent of damp decay—wood, brick, mold—still lingered under the assault of newer, cleaner odors.
    And shit, it was cold in here.
    Hoffman was leaning over a paper chart with Anya and the EM chief when Bernie walked in. They seemed to be checking routes between the docks and the inhabited part of the city. Nobody had debarked from the larger vessels in the evacuation fleet yet. Bernie wasn’t the only one who thought they were a better place to be.
    “Mataki,” Hoffman said, glancing up for a moment, “I want you to set up daily bushcraft classes for the civvies. Is there anything practical they can do in the field?”
    “Berries and traps, sir. I don’t recommend the river. Civvies and thin ice don’t mix.”
    “And see Parry about supply recon teams. One of his men says there’s a lot of recoverables on the south side of the city—machinery, raw materials.”
    “And the Stranded didn’t sniff it out?”
    “Another secure COG facility that we kept to ourselves.”
    Ouch . Hoffman was still livid that Prescott had hung on to classified information right up to the final battle. Maybe he’d beaten the rest of it out of him. Good for you, Vic . Anya, now wearing sensible working rig and flat boots, gave her a quick flash of the eyebrows. Fights had been had, evidently.
    “Will do, sir. Permission to barter some venison with the civvies?”
    He leaned over the chart again, both hands flat on the table. “Go ahead. I’ll file it under public relations.”
    “I found some cattle tracks, too—farm