He swung around to look behind them and a flash of silver caught his eye. His jaw dropped and a spiteful wave of wind sent harsh, stinging sand into his open mouth. He began to cough and spit, doubled over.
When Kenn put a hand on his arm, Charlie thrust the binoculars at him. "People!" he choked out, pointing. "It's... headlights... right? Lots of them."
Kenn tensed further, looking hard. A long line of people, but were they survivors or slavers? Guess we'll find out, he thought, watching the large convoy of semis, cars, and trucks turn toward them.
Headlights flashed from the lead rig and then from each vehicle as they were seen. Kenn felt his heart warm a little at the familiar American greeting, but it didn't stop the worry in his gut.
"Stay close to me, boy. Do what I do."
"Yes, sir."
The two weary travelers waited tensely, the Marine automatically trying to estimate their number. Not that it mattered. They couldn't fight so many, and there was no place to take cover, but he drew his gun anyway as the convoy got closer, letting it hang along his side.
Thick sand blew harder as all the vehicles except the lead rig slowed, then stopped. The huge red, white, and blue tractor-trailer inched forward, and Kenn got ready to fight.
The semi stopped smoothly next to them, and as the driver's window went down, Kenn stepped in front of Charlie and lifted his gun to his hip. The barrel was still pointed at the dusty ground, but with his finger on the trigger, it was a clear warning.
The driver's big hand was on the wheel and when the left finished with the window, it joined the right. "Do you intend to use that weapon, Soldier?"
The voice was a cold bark, and years of training made both males square their shoulders, the correct response falling automatically from Kenn's mouth, despite the insulting title (10).
"A Marine never draws without intent. That would be a mistake!"
"And what's wrong with that, grunt?"
The hard tone allowed no hesitation, "Because the United States Marine Corps does not make mistakes!"
Kenn snapped his mouth shut, studying the driver. Short, golden blond hair, black, mirrored sunglasses, white T-shirt, and yes, there was the single dog tag. He had been found by one of his own.
"So where ya headed?"
This tone was friendly, open, but Kenn understood that the first, sharp edge of command he had greeted them with was his real voice.