On the crest of the low hill is the blackened remains of what was once a large mansion. Ashes and dust, yellow and gray and black, stain the ground and rise in faint puffs with every whim of the breeze. Once-great wooden columns are all that's still standing, at least seven meters high each, a burnt carved forest.
Over a field fire-scarred rafters, dead cinders and black roof tiles, there's a small hut which stands raised on foot-high stilts, the spirit of the dead manor reborn on the pyre.
You approach the building, passing large clay jugs half-buried in ash and fresh dirt, every one covered with a rough cloth held from the wind with a stone at each corner. The smell of boiling water wafts through the cloth-covered doorway. I push it aside and place a foot into the small hut. He's squatting before a smoky fire, his bandana off and folded up beside him, dropping a few small green leaves into a small longhandled iron pot. Steam drifts from it to my eager mouth. He looks up. “Take your shoes off. Leave them outside.”
I hesitate, looking behind to you. You're already working your dusty boots off your feet.

A minute later, we're all standing tightly together, more-or-less indoors, barefooted and clothes dusted off. You look around in the musty light. It's a small home about as wide as it is long, constructed with salvaged timbers from the burnt mansion and newly-hewn lumber which still shows green. There are gaps in the floor which ash and dirt floats up through, but the wood is rough and cool on your feet. At the far end, unstained silk cloths hang from the ceiling, almost-but-not-quite partitioning an elevated platform from the rest of the house. You crane your neck slightly. A pair of brightly-colored blankets and a few large furs furs are folded on the platform behind the silks; large smoky basalts rest in the space between the wooden platform and the charred floor.
Shelves line the walls, filled with paraphernalia, metal cookware, cans of food, stone bowls, folded clothing. Embers glow among smoking logs – a fire built in a hole cut in the floor. A low table of dark wood rests on the floor between you and the man, a broken leg reinforced with an oversized bolt and a metal brace. The walls are dried mud between a timber frame; the rafters of the roof hang low; there is little light except from the door and a cloth-covered hole in the roof which only lets about half the smoke out. The house is still and dark; oddly warm despite the drafty floor.
He leans forward and pours the water from the pot into seven cups waiting on the table; a wilted flower of steam gently blooming from each cup as it is filled in its turn.
Nurse nearly yells, tearing her bandana off her face roughly. “Is that tea?!” Hands shoot out at the table; I scramble to grab a cup before they're all gone.
Bring it to my nose, inhale deeply.
There's about a half-inch of offcolor water in the bottom of the chipped earthenware cup. I pull my kerchief off, raise the cup to my lips to my dry lips and down it like a shot. I shut my eyes, enjoying the warmth of the water on my parched mouth. It's gone in a second, and I'm left with a burned tongue and a fading memory of wet.
You dwell over your cup – it's weak and there's little, but it's real tea and you've missed it more than you'd like to admit. You take a sip, wondering how long it will be before anything grown in this soil can be brewed again. You watch the man over the rim of the cup. He's looking at me with distaste and wariness, but I don't notice, because I'm around the house.
“Would you… mind taking the weapons out?” Oh! You hadn't considered that – yeah, I'm taking my guns off. I push them into Dad's arms, pushing him and everybody else out the door.
“Go, get. Watch the weapons outside. And here, take my water bag, see if you can't fill it, but don't bother his girlfriend.” I turn to leave. I tell you to stay. You pause, then remove your water bag from your belt and the rifle from your shoulder, handing the bag to Nurse and the gun to Ace.
You sit on the floor across from the man, and I follow suite. Ace, cup in hand, shoves the gun into Nurse's arms as she leaves. She glares at him and he leans against the frame of the door. I place my cup on the table and quickly grab one last cup, must have gotten left behind.
There is a silence.
“So.” “Are you gonna be talkin', or should I?” He's quiet. I grin. “I gotta say, you're the first person that speaks my language that's not tried to kill me first.”
He smiles a little bit at that. I point a jerky thumb at you. “We been walking a long time, since Joe bombed the East Coast and the Army got cold feet.” I shrug. “Nobody saw that coming, did they?” I slurp the tea out of the cup, nodding with him. “Nope. Where the hell is Cuba, anyways?” “I wonder how bad it was.” He frowns thoughtfully. “They couldn't have destroyed everything, could they?” “Don't ask me.” I grin wryly. “I missed the boat back.” He nods slowly. “So you are among those walking back?”
“Yep. How many have been back through here?” “Not many.” “Got a clue how far back's the arr oh kay line?” He shakes his head slowly, leaning back. “I don't know. At least past Seoul.” You frown. If we're not even holding Seoul... “Are you sure about that,” you ask, “are there no US forces north of the Han?” He nods. “They left a brigade behind and part of the wing in Seoul, but I hear they all pulled back to near Busan when the dust came it. They said it was too dangerous.” You see me looking at you. He continues. “I've see too many get sick and die horribly since this spring. It's the New Nationalists and the Soviets bombing each other, it's putting poison in the dust. I try to keep myself safe, but I don't know if it's enough.” “Hey, I saw a Red tank column moving down the road this morning.”
“Really?” He looks worried. “That's... not good news.” “Tell me about it.” He looks around his house. Silence falls for a half-minute. “Where do you think you're going?” I pause, thinking. Ace answers for me. “Busan, probably.” He nods. “Then I'm taking a boat off this continent and never coming back.” The main listens, silently asking him to continue. Ace grins and starts talking, happy to find a new ear. “It's just my kind of effing luck. Last flight off the Sydney – and I'd done at least twelve, y'know? – yeah, last flight before we leave the Yalu 'cause sand was starting to fall, and God knows it takes nigh on forever to get that off a flight deck. Besides, who wants to breathe that crap, anyhow? So, I'm in my little Firefly, just minding my own business in the back, y'know, dropping relief packets and the such, and well suddenly ask myself why the hell we're going down all sideways-like, right? Blasted elevator must've bombed, or sommat, I don't right know. Never got to ask, either, so my pilot's dead, right, and I'm knocked right silly and my clothes are on fire, yeah? And not a single one'a these loveless gooks'll tend me a hand while I'm running about, hair on-” “Ace,” you sigh, “just shut it.” His thick eyebrows drop an inch. He scowls at you and talks to the man. “You're a Yank, no?” He considers this a moment, then, yes, he decides, I was.
“Was? Come on, you're one of us, right?” I gesture to the right wall, to the shelf upon which sit a folded uniform. “It's not just anybody that's got the costume, right?” He just watches through your head. Okay, I say, you don't want to talk about it. Heard anything about how the war's going on? He deliberates. “I heard NATO got kicked out of Belgium.” Wow, big surprise. I act shocked. “Good Lord, that's terrible! Ace, is that terrible?” “Yeah, terrible.” You agree that it is terrible. Are they still in Spain?” “I think so.” “...Do you know anything else?” “Uh, no.” “No?” “No.” God, this man is hard to carry on a conversation with. “Why don't you tell me why you're all shacked up instead of trying to get back?” He waits. I nod, encouraging him to speak. “When,” he finally begins, “everything went to hell, and my entire company arrived at HQ to find it deserted, we tried to get to the coast first. Naturally, there was nobody there but other ex-Army gangs waiting to, uh, slaughter us.”
You remember trying to get out of Shenyang, late 1953. A city of chaos and death, the impeding Soviet assault and withdrawal of US and ROK forces whipping everybody within into a state of absolute panic.
Was everybody trying to kill you? It seemed that way. The Army had just been barely holding off the guerrillas who plagued the invasion force wherever there was a population to melt into, and when they pulled out, it seemed as though every wife, every shopkeeper, every Chinese-speaking farmer picked up a blade or found a gun and declared death to anybody who let as much as an annyeong or a howdy slip from their lips.
While the evacuation in sub-coastal Liaoning was much better executed than further north, what soldiers were left behind were the best armed and angriest of Shenyang, who who didn't hesitate to shoot whomever had slanted eyes and no uniform the first few days, and whomever wasn't holding a bigger gun the next few. They roved the alleys in gangs and lay in traps on roads, presumably to keep the Chinese out, but essentially holding the city in siege from the inside. Where Russian shells fell, they absolutely leveled – tactical nuclear artillery, the same weapon with which France was overrun. The destruction of Shenyang was complete and bloodless, for nobody was left to bleed.