Reserve Call-Up (1)
[Sick of eating nothing but canned food every day.] Hudson's grumpy old voice grumbled through the PDA.
"What kind of canned food?"
[Bean cans, chicken cans, bread cans, fruit cans—you name it.]
"They put bread in cans?"
[In America, if it can't be canned, they don't eat it.]
"What about drinks?"
[Water, a bit of tea, some coffee. I'm no survival expert. The previous owner of this house was obsessed with prepping, so I lucked out. Running low on coffee these days, though.]
I was currently on ham radio with an American. Well, technically, he was using ham radio while I spoke into my PDA. The Shelter's comms system converted signals for compatibility with any device. My contact was Hudson, turning sixty next year. He'd lost his son in deployment and his wife to uterine cancer, leaving him alone. He'd retired and returned to his hometown when the global infection hit. Turns out, the house he'd just moved into had a bunker-level shelter built by a prepper ex-owner. Too lazy to go out, he'd stocked up on food and drinks, sealed himself in, and rationed it out. He figured he could last a good while alone.
One day, while scanning radio for news, he accidentally connected with me.
[Nice to have someone to talk to. Back in my day, there were so many hams the frequencies were always jammed. That's how I met Sarah, too. Feels like searching for people in the middle of the ocean now.]
Sarah was his late wife. Her dying wish had been for him to quit drinking, so he hadn't stocked any booze—and now regretted it fiercely.
"At least you found someone across the ocean."
Laughter crackled over the comms.
[You're impressive yourself. Good luck, too. Transoceanic contact across the Pacific is no joke.]
It wasn't my skill or luck—the Shelter's gear was just that good.
[So, what'd you eat today? What's Korea's go-to stockpile? Rice, right?]
"Toast and beer."
[B-beer? For real? Lucky bastard.]
"Hang on, listen to this."
I held a beer can up to the mic and cracked it open. Hiss.
[You trying to rub it in on an old man?]
"Nah, just trying to brighten your ears."
Gulp. Gulp.
"Aaahhh..."
[Yeah, definitely rubbing it in.]
It took a while to soothe the genuinely miffed Hudson.
[Your English is damn good. Lived in the States?]
"Nah, ex-military. Discharged as major. Deployed to Lebanon and Israel. Had to chat with locals and work with US forces a lot—commanders needed English."
[Didn't realize I was talking to a VIP. Thank you for your service.]
Hudson's tone turned dead serious.
"C'mon, old timer, don't make it weird. I'm not even US military."
[Still, you shared foxholes and missions with our guys. You and your troops probably saved a few of ours. As one American, I owe you.]
Did that remind him of his fallen son?
"...Dunno how to feel about that."
Something like a spring bubbled up in my chest. Getting thanks my own country never gave—from a foreigner across the sea, no less.
[Haha! Just roll with it, son.]
Hudson said America had tons of hobbyist preppers, so quite a few survived like him. But few had comms gear, making contact rare. Those who could were trying to form a loose network.
"No big survivor groups in the States?"
[Afraid not. A ham in Oregon said there was a military unit in San Francisco rallying survivors during rescues. Went dark about a month ago.]
"That's a shame."
[Rough times. Rumors of camps in Nevada or Chicago, but just rumors.]
"Wanted to visit so many spots if I ever made it stateside. Sucks."
[Like where?]
"Central Park, White House, Waikiki, Vegas, Hoover Dam, etc."
[Sorry, kid—give up on that dream. Almost nothing's intact.]
Hudson sounded pitying. Over half the US was nuked—by their own side. To defend the homeland, they'd pay any price, even glassing their own turf. The infection must've been apocalyptic there.
[Central Park's a people-eating forest now. Looks normal from afar, but step in and the whole thing shakes. Survivors who hid there got cocooned alive. One escapee said bull-sized spiders roam it.]
"White House?"
[Black House now—no, just Black Ruin. Just charred pillars left.]
"Waikiki? Always wanted to scuba there."
[Hell of a sight, yeah. Last of the Pacific Fleet sank right offshore. Dive in, see every kind of ship. Rusty as hell, though.]
"...Aigoo."
[What was that? Aigoo?]
"Yeah. Like 'oh my'."
[Ah.]
Hudson added Hoover Dam was still standing. A garrison there fought infected hard; when the last soldiers went down, they blew TNT and it held. True to its poured-concrete madness.
"If this ever calms down, gotta see that dam at least."
[If. Hope that day comes.]
We bullshitted away the time. Then military talk circled back.
[What was your discharge rank again?]
"Major."
Technically Lt. Colonel (effective), but whatever. My unit's specialty meant company command as a major.
[No reserve call-up? Korea's all ex-soldiers, right? In war, they'd snap up officers like you.]
"Complicated mess. Was working remote when shit hit—got trapped. No external comms. By the time I sorted it, the world's endgame was over."
[Don't feel guilty or ashamed. Even if you'd fought, it'd be one more corpse on a sinking ship.]
Hudson meant it.
"I'm good. No interest in pointless deaths. Surviving let me do something worthwhile."
True—my survival saved four figures already. And counting.
[Talented folks are needed everywhere. Not everyone's frontline rifleman. Be where you shine most.]
"Thanks. As an officer discharge, I wouldn't even carry a gun if mobilized. Probably get a sector, lead conscripted reserves on defense..."
A thought flashed by.
[Hm? Something wrong?]
Hudson must've thought silence meant dropout.
[Hey, you there?]
"Nah, nothing. Gotta go—urgent business popped up."
[Thanks for chatting with this old coot. Handle that task now. In times like these, delay's poison.]
"Nah, I got good advice. Catch you later."
[Stay safe, all of us.]
I cut comms and headed straight for the Central Control Room. Why hadn't I thought of this sooner? I'd overlooked my status as a reserve officer. In a crisis, it could turbocharge this underground city's growth.