The Haven Hotel

Winter

The cold at this time of year is always the hardest part. The wind stings my face and nearly freezes the involuntary tears dripping from my eyes. My lips and nose feel as if they're about to fall off and my toes are completely numb in spite of the cumbersome combat boots on my feet. The cherry on top, though, is that my charge is late.

The rifle is heavy in my gloved hands, and somehow it's colder than I am. I flick the safety on and off and wonder if the weather will have any effect on the weapon's functioning. I turn the safety on and aim the barrel at a tree somewhere on my left, then slowly squeeze the useless trigger. For the eighth time that day I check the magazine to make sure I'm not running on empty. Then, for the seventh time that day, I remind myself that even if I were out of ammunition and supplies there wouldn't be much I could do about it.

An obnoxious and dangerously loud whine comes from the road in front of me and to my right. A pair of headlights pierces the fog as the car comes closer. "They're here." I say into the microphone in my collar.

"Good." The base officer's voice crackles into my left ear. I hate the way he says that single word because I knows he's warm and safe when he says it. "This is a special charge." He continues.

"What?" I've had special charges before. Now I have a good reason to despise the person I'm talking to.

"You need to be particularly careful with this one." 

"You're telling me this now?" My finger presses hard against the trigger. I've never seen this base officer before but I'm imagining my foot slamming repeatedly into his face. Next to the cold, the base officers are my most hated part of the job.

As expected, I get no response. I mumble a string of swear words in an unheard protest before the car stops in front of me. It's a rusty little VW with cloudy windows and a severely dented body. It whines and shudders on the cracked asphalt before the engine gets cut and a wiry middle aged man steps out of the driver's side. 

He's wearing a brown jacket that nearly doubles his width and a muddy white scarf that keeps his neck rigid like a cast would. He has a rounded face under a bushy salt and pepper beard. His lips twitch and curve as if in rehearsal for what he's about to say to the gun toting woman in front of him. The rifle gets a bit lighter in my hands as he shuffles towards me. I wonder what exactly is so special about this man. The Haven has had thousands of scientists and ex politicians and weapons experts come and go, and there's nothing superficial that makes this guy any different. 

"Hello." The man says. His voice has a higher pitch than what I was expecting from a man of that age. He reaches a hand out and I don't shake it. Instead I shift the rifle into my right hand and pat him up and down his torso, checking his puffy coat for any weapons. 

"There's nothing to worry about from me." He says with a nervous chuckle. "I'm on your side."

"Huh." I grunt. True to his word I find nothing on him but some electronics. Among those is a tiny GPS in his left jacket pocket. I take it from him and inspect it for a few seconds.

"I don't know how much petrol is in the car." He says while I lift a cell phone and a tiny music player from his person. "I'm sure it's gonna be enough, though."

"We're not driving." I drop the GPS and stomp it into the icy asphalt. 

"We're walking?"

"Yup." I crush the phone and then the music player. "Take your supplies. If you wanna keep the petrol you can siphon it."

"How long is the walk gonna take?" He looks like he's about to pass out already.

"Depends how fast we walk."

He sighs a puff of water vapor into the fog, then turns back to his car. I watch as he leans into the driver's seat and stays in that awkward position for at least two minutes. Then he steps back and straightens up, and the passenger door opens. A twig thin arm wrapped in several layers of orange clothing exits the car before a body that's proportionally just as small.

The child is weak, not more than five years old, with grey eyes sunken by malnutrition. I stare at the kid in spite of myself. For a second I think that this might be what's special, but I've taken many children to the Haven, some of whom were worse off than this one. The charge must have something to do with the man; I don't see the kid having any special knowledge or abilities. 

In spite of my curiosity I ask no questions. If I needed to know why the charge was special I would have been told. Even though the base officer took his time in telling me to be extra careful I've never known any of them to keep pertinent information from a field officer, so I keep my conjecture to myself. My curiosity will have to go unsatisfied until the base decides to satisfy it.

"This is my daughter." The man says, gesturing towards her like an auctioneer. "Her name is Nadia."

"Huh." I grunt again. That's probably not a real name. I wait while the man fetches a few bags from the back seats of the little VW. I note that he doesn't siphon any petrol before coming back to me with six bags that are much bigger than they should be. He waddles under the weight of his luggage.

"You're not taking all of that." I say. He pauses and drops a few of them, then digs through the bags on the floor and finds a few items. Nadia and I stand and watch while he does his repacking. She stares at the sky in silence as if the frigid wind is doing nothing to her face. 

"Yeah." The man says as he's dragging the discarded bags back to his car.

"Leave them." I say, checking the time on the old analogue watch under the glove on my left hand. "We're nearly an hour late."

"Is it gonna rain?" Nadia asks. I look up at the sky that's composed of grey clouds rolling around in the harsh wind. I wouldn't be at all surprised if a storm falls tonight.

"No." The man says as we start walking down the street and between the rows of giant gutted corpses that used to be suburban houses. It's an obvious lie, but I don't call him out on it. "No, it won't rain."