Weren't supposed to hit mile 9 on the I-70, Father Gray said this is where the winds begin to peel your skin off. We proved that myth wrong alright. And Captain was insistent. He was getting hot hands and wanted to loot. I don't know where the hell Father Gray got the idea that mile 9 is somehow any more hostile than mile 8 or 7. To me, it's just all a blur of white snow and chilly gales that blow out from the Creaking City that the bookkeepers said had once been named Philadelphia. We just call it the Creaking City because she always creaks like an abandoned ship every time a round of wind swirls by, and I swear you can hear the sounds of the dead in there.
Cod hands me a cigarette while we ride on the Humvee. Our tires are multi-terrain but the snow is thick on these concrete roadways. Never stops snowing over the Knoxville line. Been snowing long as anyone can remember.
"Here, mate," he puts up a flint lighter and steadies it by my mouth. Thick wool gloves on his hand make it difficult to snap the flint wheel, but he gets it finally. I breathe in and taste good tobacco. Airs so cold I can't tell the difference between smoke and the fog on my breath. It's a good feeling when you inhale that nicotine in the cold and blow out, and the snowflakes and ice are all blowing in your hair and your nose is snotting and running. I'm sarcastic, it's fucking miserable up here.
"Time!" Captain yells out from Humvee behind. His has four men and a gunner on the .50 cal, and he is sticking his head out the passenger window screaming at our Humvee every five minutes asking the same damn question. Time 'till we hit the exit ramp, so we can scout on the bridge what the hell we're getting ourselves into.
I slammed the top of the Humvee metal twice with my fists. Tom Shanks is driving. He's good with a knife, why we call him shanks. He puts up a two through the window. I turn back to the captain and hit my cigarette, and motion two at him.
29-Jan-2018 01:35:50
- Last edited on
29-Jan-2018 01:51:41
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tmac attack
