Chapter 205
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 205
Chapter Title: Survivors (8)
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Water was boiled and food cooked over firewood only on the first day. They had thought the gas was depleted, but it turned out the valve had simply been shut off. As the temporary base was originally a lodging facility, there were twenty gas canisters stored outdoors, with plenty remaining. There were also several smaller cylinders, likely rentals for the campers. Captain Langford was delighted. Chopping wood produced smoke, which could attract variants.
The reason the valve was closed was easy to guess. This was a village with more lodging than ordinary homes. Since the plague originated in Asia, tourist traffic must have plummeted, so it wouldn't be surprising if they had shut down before the West Coast infection. The blocking operation troops who briefly occupied the place probably hadn't had time to worry about it.
Gas lines didn't extend to this unincorporated mountain community. They secured numerous canisters from nearby homes and other inns as well. With gas in such abundance, the boiler was running from the second day of their stay. Electricity was also plentiful from the solar panels they had gathered—too many to even install—so the pump drawing up groundwater worked normally too.
The soldiers cheered at the prospect of unlimited hot showers, of course.
Everything was more abundant than initially expected. Everyone was reluctant to leave.
Preparations for departure proceeded smoothly.
Lieutenant Barker smashed the TV in the lounge. It was an old projection model, but what he needed was a single Fresnel lens film inside. A thin, flat magnifying glass with a diagonal of 61 inches. He fitted it into a frame made in the workshop to create a solar cooker.
It was a useful item. Winter would have made one if he hadn't been busy hunting. Its utility varied with the weather, but the appeal was being able to cook without fuel. Still, Lieutenant Barker seemed to enjoy the process of making it more than necessity.
"I've wanted to try making one ever since I saw it online. Who knew the chance would come like this."
In this worldview where survival know-how was paramount, online information sharing was active, and the military survival manual had been extensively updated for infected areas. Well-regarded civilian info quickly made it into military manuals and newsletters. The Fresnel concentrator was one such example.
In the end, Lieutenant Barker ruined one frying pan.
After finishing dagger throwing practice, evening arrived. It was 6 p.m., but the sky was still bright. The lieutenant demonstrated cooking in front of Winter. Aligning the pan precisely at the focal point made it shine so brightly it was hard to look at directly. The meat turned to charcoal, and the glowing red-hot pan lost its coating and warped.
Yet he grinned.
"Wow, what firepower! Isn't it cool? Hope this helps with the captain's circular bald spot."
Lieutenant Escamilla sighed at her fellow officer's nonsense. She glanced around cautiously, wondering if the man himself was nearby. Amid soldiers enjoying leisurely meals and the occasional On the Rocks whiskey, the temporary company commander was nowhere to be seen.
Captain Langford's crown was indeed sparse. It seemed ongoing for a while, but the intense stress of recent days had likely worsened it.
'Moving 80 people isn't solved by food alone.'
When Winter brought back the horses, the captain had been thrilled. But upon learning they weren't suitable for transport, he couldn't hide his disappointment. The morning after their second day, at the command meeting, he fiddled unconsciously with his hair as he asked again, as if confirming.
"Only 100 kilos per horse?"
"Considering distance, duration, and road conditions, it's better to ride light. Even with extra load, don't exceed pack weight. A wagon would be different."
From experience, a horse could carry about 20% of its body weight on its back. Beyond that, it struggled; over 30%, it couldn't endure long journeys. Risk of exhaustion or death.
The benefit for high-speed recon to protect the marching column outweighed transport use.
So Winter scouted the village's single Catholic church, hoping for a hearse wagon. But with fewer residents than company size, they didn't have anything so elaborate.
No officer knew horses like Winter. The captain had vaguely assumed hundreds of kilos per horse.
"I thought four for recon and one for transport... Wagon, wagon... Lieutenant Escamilla. Can we make one in the workshop?"
"No, we don't even know how, and no tools for that precision work."
It was originally just supplying firewood for the inn and campground. Above all, wheels needed iron. Even a makeshift would fail quickly.
"Right. Stupid question."
He rubbed his balding spot again.
Fortunately, by the fourth day— this morning—the issue resolved. While Winter was on his final hunt, Lieutenant Malcolm Kruger secured a vehicle.
The truck was found 600 meters west at the national park ranger station. Campground and parking lot empty, but this official vehicle remained behind the office. It had a tow hitch, but was easily detached.
Keys from the office wouldn't start it. Lieutenant Kruger and soldiers pulled it by hand. Solar-charged battery got it running, albeit roughly.
Fuel looked good. Siphoning a bit with a rubber hose from the tank bottom showed no debris or discoloration. Maybe diesel's stability over gasoline?
Captain Langford smiled, scratching his bald spot.
It must bother him. Winter pondered mentioning it, as he seemed oblivious.
'Tell him?'
But he didn't. The soldiers and officers pretended not to notice out of consideration. If it built camaraderie this way, it was good. He'd be embarrassed later, but human bonds among the unit took priority.
Winter saw it as a commander's sacrifice.
Or maybe he knew.
Anyway, the vehicle eased burdens. This pickup excelled at towing over self-loading, but still carried far more than horses.
Without it, each soldier would shoulder much more.
Captain set daily march at 30 km, assuming no combat or mountains. But full combat load over that distance was no small feat.
In that sense, Lieutenant Barker's solar cooker was something the captain would appreciate.
"Alright, properly this time!"
Barker oiled a new pan. Adjusted stand height prevented the prior disaster.
Sizzle—
The meat crackled loudly. It was brined, scored, rinsed of salt, patted dry. Not long aged, so texture intact. First proper tasting portion. Hitherto, raw sufficed.
Winter, biggest contributor, should taste first— so now.
The Coast Guard lieutenant boasted cooking skills. True or not, his moves were confident. Onlooking soldiers jeered familiarly.
Cracked pepper sprinkled. Splash of vinegar. Dried mushrooms, asparagus, mustard seeds in, shaken sizzling. Hard to gauge doneness amid oil gleaming like late afternoon sun. Lieutenant's confidence waned; soon poking with knife often.
"Done."
Steaming meat chunk plated white. Drizzled with flavorful oil like sauce— steak-like visually. Placed on Winter's outdoor table.
Attention focused. Officers and soldiers awaiting turn. Could become staple. Though not daily like this.
Winter took knife. Nice slicing feel. Finger-joint-sized piece in mouth. Aromas and juices, then quite salty by US standards. Texture firmer than butcher meat. Not tough— more resistant than springy. Chewable positively, unmeaty negatively.
Decent for salt-cured.
"It's edible enough."
Escamilla tasted post-evaluation. Expression ambiguous as she chewed.
"Not great."
Kruger followed.
"Tasteless."
Soldier's gem:
"Day-old McDonald's patty for takeout would be better. If I served this to Dad, I'd lose an arm or leg by now. Still beats veggie omelet three times a day— that's not food, it's a weapon."
Veggie omelet meant MRE. The one everyone dodged during close-quarters at Fort Roberts. Those who hated it gagged on first bite.
No positive reactions after. Only Winter, with rough palate from past life, gave mild praise. Chef Barker indignant, spitting while chewing remnants.
"You fat bastards! We've been eating too luxuriously! It's not bad! Right, Lieutenant?"
Hitherto, daily fresh-kill grilled. Peak freshness; herded prey to water near base for slaughter to ease transport. Chunks pulsing like alive astonished all, rank aside.
Such meat was exquisite. Pepper-salt grill wowed anyone.
Arrow turned to Winter; awkward smile.
"Don't be too upset. I supervised the salting."
Half blame on him. Chef gazed sky, arms spread.
"Think about it— taste aside, this is an incredibly expensive meal."
Escamilla consoled.
"What do you mean?"
"Lieutenant Han Gyeowol made it himself. Premium price if sold. Thousand bucks a serving? Taste irrelevant."
"..."
Barker tallied silently. Thousand per, full stock— millionaire. Fingers wiggling millions, proposed to Winter.
"After discharge, business together?"
"..."
Post-war fund plausible seller.
Two more nights, then depart. Minus drying, prep done; post-meal rest for all but guards.
Fortification exhausted troops. Reinforced buildings, log fence whole trunks, watchtower today. Thanks to workshop, ranger heavy gear.
Worth effort for soon-abandoned site?
Yes.
Not just rally point.
"I can't give up hope on other survivors."
Captain at fortification meeting.
"Four bases on Golden Gate shores alone. 10th Mountain remnants from Angel Island might've escaped unaided. If chased to Tamalpais, paths lead here either way. Prep for that. We have margin."
He'd leave map of route for latecomers' hope.
Even one safer night for troops worthwhile.
Sun set.
Slanting rays to dusk, dusk to twilight. Day's game results: Winter, Anne, CIA agents' whiskey turn.
Agents pool in lounge rec room. Winter wanted to decline, but heard Kowalski depressed lately. From Tucker, Kelly.
Makes sense— isolated, even colleagues distanced subtly.
Anne said join casually, no incident mention. Show unconcerned ease. Bittersweet smile; unsure if pity or witness protection.
"Lieutenant, thanks for good booze."
Talbot handed Winter filled glass. Ice under light sparkled amber crystal.
"Don't like strong stuff."
High-proof, as said. Perfume-thick scent. Wild Turkey top line. Best of wager prizes.
Yet top teams untouched. As if owner set.
Winter's pick drew boos if other bottles neared.
"They're grateful. Formal thanks too. We'd be dead without you. Lifesaver."
Tucker said.
Post-recovery, soldiers' attitudes shifted markedly. Command presence palpable.
Joanna raised glass.
"Cheers."
Clink. Five glasses chimed clear.
============================ Author's Note ============================
#Stamina
The author's stamina is as robust as Spartacus. Readers, rest assured and enjoy the novel.
#Typos
Always grateful to those pointing out typos.
#Pink Salt Cure1, Cure2
As Hantian detailed last chapter: correct. Just "pink salt" risks confusion with Himalayan rock salt.
#Horse Load Capacity
Safe back weight: 20% body or less. 25% rough breathing, 30% high stress.
Draft variables like wheel diameter, road, slope; per Work Horse Handbook (L. Miller): large wheels half horse weight total, small third.
Even with wagon, load doesn't surge.
Twenty Mule Team (20 horses...) hauled 3.5t wagon +9t ore once: ~600kg/horse. Likely heavy draft over 1t body.