Chicago Run

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“If you want my opinion, Sarge, these patrols are a waste of our time,” Corporal Lyle Carson commented while trudging along a secondary road located five miles southwest of Technic City. He squinted up at the bright January sun, glad he was wearing his thermal combat fatigues. Even with the sunshine the temperature hovered only in the twenties. If he didn’t have the thermal protection he’d be freezing his butt off after seven hours of patrol duty.

“I didn’t ask your opinion, Carson,” the sergeant responded stiffly from his position at the head of the six-person column. He glanced over his left shoulder, his weathered features creasing in a frown. “And from now on keep them to yourself.”

“Sorry, Sarge,” Carson said, and leaned forward to whisper to the dark-haired woman in front of him. “What’s eating the sarge today, Lavender?”

“I don’t know,” the woman replied. “And it’s Private Lavender to you.”

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