8. George
Chapter Eight
George
The generator sounds like it’s chewing gravel.
It rattles against the concrete wall, coughing out hot air that smells like burned dust and old fuel. The light over my head flickers every few seconds like it’s considering giving up. Trust me, I get it.
I sit on the edge of my bunk, boots planted on the floor, helmet at my feet, sweat rolling down my spine. The air in here doesn’t move. It just sits there, thick and stale, clinging to everything. The gear, the sheets, even my skin.
My T-shirt is damp with sweat and darker near my ribs. I lift the hem and wince. The bruise from last week’s run is an ugly, spreading mess. Deep purple and yellow now, green around the edges.
“I told you it’d look worse today,” Jackson says from the bunk across from me.
I let the shirt fall.
“That’s a real pretty one, Sarge. You should take a selfie.” Mack grins from a few feet away. He’s been giving me shit long enough to know exactly how far he can push before rank starts mattering.
“Fuck off.”
Around us, everyone looks tired.
Outside, something metal slams against something heavier. Somebody yells about comms. Farther off, I can barely make out the distant crack of gunfire. That’s background noise now. At least in our world.
This base felt bigger when I first arrived.
A whole contained universe of walls, guard towers, sandbags, satellite dishes, tents, and containers with numbers spray-painted crooked on the sides. It isn’t big. It’s crowded. Cramped. A bunch of human lives jammed into too little space, waiting for the next thing to happen.
Always waiting.
Sand gets everywhere. Inside my boots. In my sheets. Between my teeth. I don’t remember what it feels like to be completely clean anymore. My shoulder pulls with a dull ache when I reach beneath my pillow for my pen. The unfinished letter is still there, and so is the envelope.
MONICA HARRIS
Neat blue ink. The same apartment address I’ve written twenty-three times.
I pull out the page.
Monica,
Still haven’t heard from you.
That’s as far as I got last night. Five words and a sentence I’ve been avoiding for forty-three days. I stare at them.
“Gear check in ten,” someone calls from outside.
Mack gets to his feet and starts adjusting his kit. “You coming?”
“In a minute.”
He looks at the paper in my hand. Then at me. “You said that yesterday.”
“I know.”
“And the day before.”
“I know.”
He studies me for a second. Mack knows about the letters. Not everything, but enough. “Don’t be late,” he says finally. “I’m not covering for your old ass when they come looking.”
“You’ve never covered for me in your life.”
“Exactly. Don’t expect me to start now.” He grabs his gear and heads for the door. Before stepping out, he looks back. “George.”
I wait.
His eyes drop to the letter. “Say what you need to say and get it done.”
Then he’s gone.
The door slams behind him. For a few seconds, I sit there listening to the generator choke against the wall. I look down at the page.
Her letters got shorter with time. The last one that came had three lines, maybe four.
Busy with work.
Things are hectic.
Hope you’re staying safe.
There was no “I miss you” or “I love you.”
Nothing about the wedding. Nothing about home. I’ve spent forty-three days pretending that doesn’t mean anything. But I’m running out of ways to lie to myself.
I put the pen to paper.
Hey. It’s me.
I stare at the words. Fucking stupid, of course it’s me. Who else would it be? I scratch them out.
I hope you’re okay.
The pen stops. I almost cross that out too, but I force myself to keep going.
We’re heading out again soon. It might be a while before I can write, and I didn’t want to leave without saying something first.
Okay, this is better.
Things are tense here. You’ve probably seen some of it on the news. Mostly we’re okay. I’m okay. Bruises. Nothing serious.
I’m tired, Mon.
I stop.
My hand tightens around the pen, then I keep going.
Not just from the work. Tired in that deep way. The kind you don’t sleep off.
I keep thinking about the apartment. The way the light hits the living room in the evening. You standing by the window pretending you don’t care about the sunset even though you always stop to look at it.
My throat tightens.
I used to picture her reading these letters there. I could see it so clearly once. Lately, when I try to picture her, her face won’t stay still in my head. I look back at the page.
I try to picture you there when things get bad.
The pen stops.
It helps.
I stare at the lie, then scratch it out. One hard line through the words. Enough that she’ll still be able to read them if she looks.
I write beneath it.
It used to help.
That one stays.
A drop of sweat lands on the page, smearing the ink. I wipe it away with the side of my hand, leaving a gray streak behind. The generator coughs again. The light flickers, but I keep writing.
I know things were rough between us before I left.
I know I pulled away.
My jaw tightens, and I stop again. There are things I know how to say out loud, but I’ve never been good at this part.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I put the pen back to the page.
I didn’t know how to come home from this and act normal. Didn’t know how to tell you what was in my head without putting it in yours too.
So I stopped telling you anything.
I’m sorry.
My vision blurs slightly. I blink hard and keep going.
I’m sorry for disappearing into myself and expecting you to wait on the other side.
When I get back, maybe we can fix this.
Or at least talk.
I think about her last letter, maybe she was already telling me the truth. Maybe I just didn’t want to hear it.
I lower the pen again.
I don’t want to keep feeling like I’m an extra in my own life.
I stare at the sentence. It’s too much, too raw. My first instinct is to cross it out. Instead, I underline it. Once. Let her see it. If she reads it. That thought comes fast enough to make my stomach turn. I look at her name on the envelope.
Forty-three days, and twenty-three letters sent. Nothing back. Maybe the mail is really delayed, or got lost. Maybe. I’m tired of that word.
A fist hits the door twice. “Hale.”
I know the voice. Don’t need the warning behind it explained. “Two minutes.”
“Copy.” Footsteps move away.
I look down at the letter one last time, and add…
I miss you.
Even if it doesn’t feel like I’m allowed to say that anymore.
That line hurts the most, which probably means it stays.
I sign it.
—George
The generator rattles, my ribs throb, and sweat runs down the back of my neck.
I fold the paper slowly and press along the crease. Slide it into the envelope.
MONICA HARRIS
The neat letters look like they belong to a younger version of me. Some hopeful idiot who believed you could build a life on wanting it badly enough. I stand. My ribs scream in protest. I wait for it to pass, grab my helmet, then shove the envelope into my pocket.
Time to work.
The heat outside hits like an open oven.
I cross the base quickly, the envelope pressed against my thigh with every step. Around me, people move with that clipped, efficient speed that means something is coming. Radios crackle, engines turn over, and gear gets checked again and again.
The mail room sits inside one of the beige containers near the center of the base. The sign above the door hangs crooked. Inside, it’s barely bigger than a closet. There are boxes everywhere with stacks of envelopes. A fan in the corner is turning slowly and accomplishing absolutely nothing.
A guy behind the counter looks up when I enter. “Dropping?”
“Yeah.”
He nods toward a crate on the table. “Plane’s wheels up in a couple hours.” I pull the envelope from my pocket. The crate is already half full with letters, small boxes, and padded mailers.
To Mom.
To Jess.
To Dad.
Pieces of people heading home before the rest of us can.
My fingers hesitate over the crate. This could be the last thing Monica gets from me for a while. I think about pulling it back, maybe reading it again. Changing something, taking out the apology, or adding another one. Or maybe even writing “I love you” even though she stopped saying it first.
“Everything good?”
I look up and see the guy behind the counter is watching me. “Yeah.”
I drop the envelope. It lands among the others with a soft thump. That’s it. Out of my hands. I leave before I can change my mind.
Mack is waiting near the vehicle when I reach the motor pool. He takes one look at me. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean more than usual.”
“Keep talking.”
“What are you gonna do? Write me a strongly worded letter?” I stare at him, and he grins.
Asshole.
I check my gear, and everything looks in place. The bruise along my ribs flares when I twist the wrong way. Mack notices. His grin disappears. “You sure you’re good?”
“I can do my job. That's enough,” I say.
There’s a reason Mack matters more than most people out here. He knows when to joke. He also knows when to stop. He holds my gaze for another second. Then nods.
We move toward the hood of the lead vehicle with everyone else.
The briefing is short. We're taking the same route south. We’ll do the supply drop, pick up personnel, and return.
There are reports of increased movement near one section of the road, but nothing has been confirmed.
That means nothing, because unconfirmed can kill you just as fast.
I study the route, check the marked intersections, the areas where visibility narrows, the places I remember from the last run. For a second, my mind drifts back to the letter I just sent to Monica, but I shut it down. The letter is gone now. Out of my hands.
This isn’t.
I drag my attention back to the map. Commit the route to memory. Ask one question about the southern approach. Get my answer. All done.
By the time the briefing ends, Monica is somewhere I can’t afford to reach for. Not now. That’s the job. You take everything else and put it away—the fear, the exhaustion, even the woman who may already be done waiting for you. You lock it somewhere deep enough that it can’t interfere.
Mack’s being quiet for once. That should probably worry me more than the mission. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong with you?” I ask.
“Nothing’s wrong with me.”
“Bullshit.” He adjusts the strap on his kit. Then glances at me. “You think she’s done?”
The question hits harder than it should. “Don’t know, can’t think about it right now.”
“George.”
“I said I don’t know, and I can’t be thinking about that right now.” He puts his hands in the air and nods.
For a second, neither of us moves to climb in. Then he asks, “What do you miss most?” I know who he means. The answer should be easy. Her. Monica.
Instead, “My apartment”, I say.
Mack leans against the side of the truck. “What about it?”
I look toward the gate. “It’s quiet.” He waits. “There’s a big window looking over the city. You can see the lights at night. Freeway in the distance. Trees past the road.”
“So you miss the view?”
I almost say yes. “I miss who I thought I was gonna be in it.” That’s the truth. Yeah, I miss my home, but it's the version of myself I thought I was going to be there that I miss most.
Mack goes still, and for once, he doesn’t make a joke. “Yeah,” he says after a second. “I get that.” I look at him. He probably does. Everyone out here is hanging on to some version of themselves that lives somewhere else.
Mack slaps the side of the truck. “Come on, old man.”
“I’m thirty-six.”
“That’s almost ancient.”
“Get in the fucking truck.”
He laughs as he climbs in ahead of me. The inside is cramped and smells like old sweat, dust, and the remains of an air freshener someone hung near the radio months ago.
I settle into place.
I pull on my headset, position my rifle, and the radio chatter fills my ears. The engine turns over, and the vehicle shudders beneath us. Ahead, the gate is still closed. It’s reinforced metal, with concrete and razor wire at the top. Beyond it, the road disappears into glare.
I keep my eyes on the road, and shut my brain off.