Cameron stepped back in to the shadows that shadowed the narrow corridor that joined the two trailers as the pair continued their conversation. They maintained a careful watch as she continued, “I don't have all of the details – even though I was there, and I fought... it’s a long story.”

“I've got another couple of hours, so why don't you keep me company and tell me the story.” Cameron hesitated in the shadows, considering that Nastia should have been up front manning the gun, but he'd learned to read the people around him and knew that something had been eating away at Nastia for a while. It seemed that Peter was providing something for her and he quietly slipped away, the rubber soles of his boots making no noise on the metal floor panels as he tiptoed away.

“Cameron was never the friendliest of people, but when he was elected by popular vote to lead the defense of our community, it was a responsibility he did not want, did not have the training to cope with or the knowledge to handle, but he stepped up and shouldered the burden,” she gazed in to the distance, seemingly reliving the few hours in hell, surrounding by fire, clattering rifles and the deeper booms of shotguns, “I got separated from my group, who were supposed to be guarding the East wall, the next thing I know is that I'm behind Cameron, helping him push a trolley with homemade flame throwers towards the West wall where the zombies were hitting us hard.”

She went on, telling him how they had repelled the assault, using the flamethrowers and hundreds if not thousands of bullets to slaughter the horde that converged upon their walls, only to have the undead climb the mountains of their own dead until they clambered over the walls and in to the compound. She detailed how they had fought and killed with guns and the when the bullets ran out with knife, sword and club until the last sixty or so had pulled back to the parking garage. She detailed their near suicidal breakout and then their arrival at the junkyard. She talked for over an hour, and he listened, only interrupting to ask a question or clarify something in her tale, “So you see.... over a hundred dead and he thinks that their blood is upon his hands, when there isn't. He doesn't get the part where it’s not his fault.”

Peter nodded, “so that's what he has nightmares about?”

“It’s not the only thing,” she replied, looking down at her the last few strands of pasta, now cold as she twirled them round her fork, “You'd have to ask Jaira about the rest. But I doubt that she knows.”

That was something he had noticed too, “what is the deal with the two of them?” her look was blank, “Cameron and Jaira. Are they together or what?” silence stretched between them, but it was a fairly comfortable silence as Nastia sought to find the right words to explain the situation and realized, she didn’t have one, “Tell me what you think and I'll tell you what I think.” She offered.

He nodded, “She wants him, he wants her but something is holding him back so they have compromised with their sleeping arrangements. He lets her sleep next to him but nothing else. He won't do anything more unless she explicitly asks.”

“And what is “it” exactly?” asked Nastia as she chewed her last mouthful.

“Not a clue,” he said as he took a forkful of his own pasta.

“Not much gets past you once you've started thinking about it. But I guess you're right. General opinion seems to think that way,” Deftly, she changed the topic, going back on the offensive to hopefully divert Peter's attention away from the love puzzle, “I guess it’s my turn to ask you a question.”

He shrugged, turning to face her, “Fair enough,” he glanced at his watch, “shoot.”

“You've dealt with the raiders before... right?” he nodded, “So how do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kill another human being.”

Peter thought about it, “Honestly, I'm not the right person to ask that question,” he rolled up the shirtsleeve on one arm to reveal a tattoo, “First Battalion of the Marine Expeditionary Force in to Iraq in 2004 and well... I came home from Fallujah.” The tattoo showed clearly the blue diamond, its red trim with the three blue “1”s of varying size. Underneath the tattoo was a second, showing the crosshairs with a sniper rifle resting just below the center point.

“Unit tattoo?” she asked

“Yeah,” he replied,

“Wow.”

“No “wow” about it, Nastia. I killed a lot of people over there with my sniper rifle. One of the first things I learned from my Drill Instructor was that “your job is to kill the enemy before he kills you” and the second thing I learned was that in combat, you must never hesitate, doubt or second guess yourself. All the skill and training in the world can't save you if you doubt your own ability to make the right decision, especially if that decision involves taking another life.”

Nastia opened her mouth to object, “I don't sanction what we did during those firefights, but I stand by the fact that it is kill or be killed. It is war. And we're at war now, against these zombie fucks and against humans,” he spat the word like a curse, “that kill and steal instead of trying to rebuild. It’s not pretty but it’s the way the world is now.”

“Kill or be killed? Is it really that simple to you?” she said with disbelief.

“I wish it was so perfect and simple,” he laughed, a bitter sound, “but all we can do is the best that we can do and sometimes to do the best, means killing the enemy before...”

“...before he kills you.” She finished. “We don't have a choice sometimes, and we kill because we have to, not because we choose to.”

“That's pretty much the way it works. It’s not perfect, but it gets the job done.” He replied as he took her plate and the fork to dump them in the kitchen sink, “Sleep well.” She said nothing as he left her to her thoughts on the subject they had discussed. With the sun already beginning to set and they only had about a dozen kilometers between them and Redding. The interior lights faded to their usual night setting.

The carnage they had wrought earlier that afternoon was not an indicator; such was the way of the world as their night proved to be quiet for all concerned as Cameron slid in to the driver's seat, vacated by a now slumbering Robert. He lifted the night vision goggles back to his eyes as he scanned their surroundings every few minutes until Natalie relieved him early in the morning. Once relieved, he found himself unable to get back to sleep, not because of the lack of space, but more because he lacked a duvet or a blanket as he tumbled down in to Jaira's bunk for only a moment as he stared at the sleeping form, snoring gently and he rolled her over like a giant log and made some space for himself, even if she refused to share the blanket.

When he woke the following morning, there was too much space on the narrow bunk bed but the coffee scent made up for that, and breakfast. Hoisting himself out of bed and in to his boots, he laced them up with his eyes closed and stood, stretching as he cracked his neck, back and knuckles.

It was true of them that unless there was some kind of emergency nothing would get this group of men and women to hop out of bed all “bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed.” The inhabitants had developed a morning routine that was a choreographed ballet of chaos as they weaved and swerved around one another, somehow everyone getting their morning fix of tea or coffee and the small cramp bathroom before or after breakfast. Cameron had made it clear that he would get his coffee before the bathroom or he would try to shave with his toothbrush.

Soon enough, they were back on the road, and the outskirts of Redding came in to view just before lunch as Peter directed them along those stretches of road that had been cleared and saw regular traffic from Redding. The outskirts of what used to be Redding were a depressing sight, barren of buildings, and of life. But the reason for that was obvious: It gave the guards atop the walls and the multiple guard towers a clear line of sight for almost a kilometer. It was clear that they could expect a welcoming committee.

As they approached the outer wall, Robert brought them to a halt a safe distance from the wall, close to the aforementioned committee that comprised of a dozen armed men supported by dozens more atop the wall, all of whom had a clear field of fire. Cameron could understand why these people were nervous. How often would fifty feet of steel armor and firepower pull up outside the walls of one’s home, “Tell your friends to lower their guns before somebody gets hurt?” suggested Cameron.

Peter nodded, and made his way to the hatch, making sure that while clad in body armor, with his sidearm strapped to his hip, the assault rifle slung across his back as he threw back the bolts and slid the door open. He leapt down lightly, landing with his feet spread to absorb the shock as the half dozen eyed him with wide eyed disbelief, as Peter hugged two of the men, and whispered something to a third who immediately looked crestfallen, as the guns upon the wall relaxed Cameron and Robert kept watch from the cab, while the others kept the appropriate guns trained upon the seven men on the ground with the grenade launcher trained upon the wall ready to unleash hell the moment somebody fired a shot in their direction. The questions were short and brief and Peter answered them clearly, but one thing was becoming very clear to the Spartans: Peter was not just someone but an actual somebody with authority as the heavy gates swung outwards, followed by a set of inner gates as well. It was a harsh reminder to Cameron of the ruined gates of Sparta.

Robert parked their vehicle in a parking space as Peter directed and then they gathered in the living room of the Fortress, all of them with the same burning question. “You’ve not been entirely honest with us have you Peter?” said Cameron, “So just who the heck are you?”

Peter stared Cameron in the eye, meeting the flinty dark gaze for the first time since he had joined them several days ago, “I am Peter Sanchez, leader of Redding.” For the first time in a long, long while, they were all lost for words as they starred, Peter continued, “Our hospitality is not what it used to be, but welcome to Redding.”

The gate was recessed in to the wall giving the residents clear fields of fire upon the gates. The militaristic mindset was reinforced when they were met by a dozen men and women with their weapons at the ready as they surrounded the building, “Routine vehicle inspection! They'll sweep the flanks and underneath the Fortress to make sure you're not bringing in any of the undead unknown. Then they will carry out a walk through the Fortress to make sure you don't have any undead aboard. After that, they will check and search for a bite, including me.” Cameron could find no argument with the logic or slightly paranoid nature of their security. One infected individual could doom a community of hundreds in a matter of hours – Sparta had its share of early close calls.