They pull off for fuel at a truck stop just outside of Roanoke. It’s one of the larger travel plazas, scales on one side of the frontage road and a convenience store/fuel station/Subway/showers on the other. Rollins parks them toward the back, under cover of an oversize Weyerhauser rig.
“We got time to take a five?” Harper calls from the back.
Brock takes a peek at the time and their GPS location, compares it to the timetable in his phone.
“Yeah,” he says. They have more than enough cushion to take a stretch, even pick up Subway, because Rollins is driving. “Actually, make it fifteen. I want everyone in plain clothes. Except the Soldier.”
He switches to Russian. “You, stay.”
The Soldier makes no move at all, aside from the rhythmic cadence of his breath. He’s still asleep, or faking it well enough.
Harper and Mitchell hop up like two kids on Christmas, eager to piss or buy peanuts or maybe just get the hell out of the Soldier’s sight for a while. They pull out the stack of pre-distressed coveralls, shuffle for the monograms that match the names on their credit cards. The truck’s masquerading as ‘AA Drywall & Paint’, so nobody’s gonna comment when they all walk in with hats and paper ventilators.
“I’ll watch the gear if you get me a sub,” Rollins says. He arches back and cracks his neck against the driver’s seat.
“Deal,” Brock says, with no small amount of relief. He gets sore as hell sitting on his ass all day.
“I want a six inch meatball. With cheddar.”
“What kind of bread?”
“The cheese one. And a Coke.”
“Got it.”
Brock unhooks his seatbelt and squeezes through the center console to the back. Harper and Mitchell are already off, which is just as well. Better they go a few at a time, so it won’t look like they’re hopping out of a clown car.
“We need to feed the Soldier?” Rollins asks.
“Probably,” Brock says, halfway into his own coveralls. Something about the Soldier’s Frankenstein metabolism means he needs intake like six times a day. Originally, he’d thought that would be a liability, but in practice it’s not as bad as it seems. The Soldier doesn’t actually eat food in the field, just these weird powdered protein shakes and vacuum packed therapeutic MREs. Brock sometimes wonders what happens if you’re starving and had a nut allergy. Near as he can tell, pretty much all these things are made of solid peanut butter.
“I’ll get his shake.”
The Soldier’s eyes snap open the second Brock picks up a Camelbak, giving lie to the idea that he was asleep in the first place. He tracks the water bottle with open yearning, even puts one hand outside the cage, and - shit. Brock supposes he ought to follow the protocol, even though. Fuck.
“You be a good boy,” he says stiffly. Christ, this is awkward as hell. “And I’ll bring you a treat.”
Because seriously. Twenty five pages into that packet, and he’s just about sure that somewhere, someone’s keeping those files in a repository called “Pet Project” and thinks that they’re being clever.
Re: Fill: Pedigree (6/?)
They pull off for fuel at a truck stop just outside of Roanoke. It’s one of the larger travel plazas, scales on one side of the frontage road and a convenience store/fuel station/Subway/showers on the other. Rollins parks them toward the back, under cover of an oversize Weyerhauser rig.
“We got time to take a five?” Harper calls from the back.
Brock takes a peek at the time and their GPS location, compares it to the timetable in his phone.
“Yeah,” he says. They have more than enough cushion to take a stretch, even pick up Subway, because Rollins is driving. “Actually, make it fifteen. I want everyone in plain clothes. Except the Soldier.”
He switches to Russian. “You, stay.”
The Soldier makes no move at all, aside from the rhythmic cadence of his breath. He’s still asleep, or faking it well enough.
Harper and Mitchell hop up like two kids on Christmas, eager to piss or buy peanuts or maybe just get the hell out of the Soldier’s sight for a while. They pull out the stack of pre-distressed coveralls, shuffle for the monograms that match the names on their credit cards. The truck’s masquerading as ‘AA Drywall & Paint’, so nobody’s gonna comment when they all walk in with hats and paper ventilators.
“I’ll watch the gear if you get me a sub,” Rollins says. He arches back and cracks his neck against the driver’s seat.
“Deal,” Brock says, with no small amount of relief. He gets sore as hell sitting on his ass all day.
“I want a six inch meatball. With cheddar.”
“What kind of bread?”
“The cheese one. And a Coke.”
“Got it.”
Brock unhooks his seatbelt and squeezes through the center console to the back. Harper and Mitchell are already off, which is just as well. Better they go a few at a time, so it won’t look like they’re hopping out of a clown car.
“We need to feed the Soldier?” Rollins asks.
“Probably,” Brock says, halfway into his own coveralls. Something about the Soldier’s Frankenstein metabolism means he needs intake like six times a day. Originally, he’d thought that would be a liability, but in practice it’s not as bad as it seems. The Soldier doesn’t actually eat food in the field, just these weird powdered protein shakes and vacuum packed therapeutic MREs. Brock sometimes wonders what happens if you’re starving and had a nut allergy. Near as he can tell, pretty much all these things are made of solid peanut butter.
“I’ll get his shake.”
The Soldier’s eyes snap open the second Brock picks up a Camelbak, giving lie to the idea that he was asleep in the first place. He tracks the water bottle with open yearning, even puts one hand outside the cage, and - shit. Brock supposes he ought to follow the protocol, even though. Fuck.
“You be a good boy,” he says stiffly. Christ, this is awkward as hell. “And I’ll bring you a treat.”
Because seriously. Twenty five pages into that packet, and he’s just about sure that somewhere, someone’s keeping those files in a repository called “Pet Project” and thinks that they’re being clever.