Carrion Crew

1

Kourtney and her crew had followed the 501st battalion for weeks, waiting for any activity. Despite their dedication, they were going to be the last to the battlefield. No, that wasn't true. To be the last to arrive, they would actually have to get there. Instead they were tinkering with a broken down hauler on the west bank of the Mississippi three miles away. The biggest battle in two years raged little more than a mile away, and they were missing it. 

Those two years had been quiet too, which was part of the reason Kourtney's crew was dealing with a rotten hauler now. They had no material. There wasn't enough salvage to get the transmission its annual overhaul. On top of that, they'd been running the same dirty oil through the same filthy engine for over a year. Granted, they hadn't used the enormous vehicle much for the past two years due to the dry spell. Kourtney knew, though – and so did every other carrion crew that scavenged this miserable war – those two eventless years meant a proper battle was coming.

Allied and Confederate forces had been hoarding resources, preparing for a fight that both sides hoped would end in a decisive victory. Massive Confederate mechanized movements pushing down from the North-East were going to clash with the Western 501st mechanized Allied battalion. The hauler's radio squawked reports of an ambush near Vicksburg. Carnage was scattered all over the highway, with massive casualties on both sides. This wasn't a weak skirmish that left behind one machine for a dozen scavenging crews to pick at until it was stripped down to nothing and some scavenger was left dead. There would be more than enough for everyone this time. 

Kourtney was almost afraid to hope for the opportunities such a successful scavenge could provide. She would have enough salvage to restore the hauler, and enough of her cut left over that she could finally quit picking apart fallen machines of war. But no, that could never be a reality. The hauler couldn't carry enough to get her out for good. Not safely. For Kourtney to get out, they'd all have to get out, because you don't survive on your own. Unless she wanted to move to a city, she'd stay with the crew and they would keep each other safe. 

Her best hope was to pass the hauler on to Ash. Then she wouldn't have to go out on every single job. Kourtney could tend the station and live off of her savings. She was only thirty-three years old, but most days it felt more like sixty-six. Still not old, but not young enough to scratch and claw and snap with the rest of the vultures. The truth be told, anyone was too old for that line of work if they had the means to avoid it.

She wanted out so badly, the desire sat in her chest as a constant, hollow ache. It was a pain that got worse as reality got closer to hope. It hurt even more when that hope was ripped away from her helpless grip because of the stupid hauler breaking down. She didn't know what was wrong; Ash was still figuring that out. Kourtney just knew the thing wasn't taking anyone anywhere, and she was going to be stuck wrenching at gears and bolts and panels until she finally died.

She gave the hauler a hard kick. It hurt her toe, and she swore.

“That almost worked,” said Ash, half-buried in the engine. “I can't imagine why the hauler ever breaks down. You treat it so nice.”

Kourtney didn't kick the hauler again, but considered planting her boot into her sister. 

Ash stood up and rolled her head back and to the side, squinting with one eye until her neck emitted a loud pop. Then she leveled out and faced Kourtney's glare. 

“It's hard to see it,” Ash said. “But I think we salvaged too much of the under-armor. The thinner gauge stuff we have down there now is all chewed to hell and full of holes. We aren't keeping more than a small fraction of sand, dirt, rocks and who knows what else out.”

“We didn't have a choice,” Kourtney said. “We had to sell it. Had to eat.” She glanced sheepishly at her three crew members who stood a few steps away from the hauler. How many times had she said that over the past two years? Had to sell it. Had to eat. Enough times that saying it was a reflex.

Kourtney leaned over to look into the dirty engine. “What's wrong with it, Ash? More importantly, can you fix it?”

Her sister responded by diving back into the motor and yanking out a ragged mess of wires and grease. It looked like something a robot-cat might have coughed up. Ash gave it a disgusted once-over. “This is what's wrong.”

Scout, a short, wiry girl, stepped forward to take the clump of wires from her. “What was it?”

“PCM module,” said Ash. “It regulates our fuel efficiency. We can run without it as long as we have solar, but I'll need a hand and a few minutes to bypass it.”

Several thunderous growls rolled up the Mississippi River.

“Shells,” Ash said.

“The sky is falling,” Scout said, lifting her head to look up at the cloudless blue.

Kourtney pulled off her jacket and tossed it at him. “Let's get this done, Ash. We aren't going to miss this one.”