Carrion (The Bren Watts Diaries #1)

Chapter 50

The Cadet Mess in Washington Hall was a sprawling mess hall filled with hundreds of ten-person tables. Various military and historical artifacts decorated its walls, banners, painted glass windows, and murals, which some dated all the way back to the Revolutionary War.

There was a gaping hole in the middle: The Armory.

The entire Corps ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner here, part of their drill exercises to make the cadets disciplined and organized. If you need to gather all the soldiers in one place, usher them into the armory, this would be the place. 

"It could be a trap," Logan whispered. He glared at Armas warily, but the other man didn't notice. "He's sketchy."

"Yeah. Dude just tried to shoot me, but I think he's rattled," I said.

"You trust him?"

"I don't trust anybody."

"You trust me."

"You're an exception, captain obvious. I meant strangers."

Armas was the first to go down the stairs into the armory, and we watched him disappear in the darkness. Logan quickly followed after him, rifle in hand. "I'll make sure he doesn't grab a gun while he's in there."

I rolled my eyes. Armas already had a rifle with him. He could quickly turn around and started shooting us, but I didn't stop Logan from going down to the armory. Vectors pounded against the door. I was glad that the doors were 3 inches thick of hard oak, two stories high, grander, and imposing across the dining area. It reminded me of Harry Potter's Great Hall.

I smelled gunpowder when I peered down at the armory. It wasn't a hole that someone had to burst their way in. It was a sliding bulkhead situated below the high arches at the center of the dining area, where there was an open floor space (or used to be). Stairs led down to another bulkhead, and there, it spread out to a bigger room, large enough to store six or seven SUVs. Rows of gun shelves, cabinets, boxes, and among other things, stood in the darkness. Armas switched the lights on, illuminating the space. Most of the racks were empty, but there was plenty enough for us to go around. Clearly, they left in a hurry, leaving many things behind.

"If there weren't thousands of vectors heading our way, we could make this building into a fortress," Aria said, disappointed.

A couple of .50 cal machine guns sat on one shelf. Below was a rack of M4 carbines, some shotguns, a couple of sniper rifles, and a few ammunition boxes to go with them. Pistols, grenades, tactical vests, bayonets, M50 gas masks, accessory kits, and literally anything we could use to protect ourselves for a very long time. The others stayed away from touching the grenades.

We emptied the entire armory for about an hour, laying down all the weapons on the dining hall tables while putting the heavy-duty ones were on the marbled floor.

I turned to Armas. "Is there a tailor shop nearby? A workshop?"

"Why do you need that for?" Armas asked.

"Uniforms."

It took him a moment to realize what I meant. His face scrunched up in confusion, then to shock, anger, and then disgust. "Are you trying to insult me by wearing our uniform?"

"No. But what do you think our chances are of getting into Albany? Many survivors and refugees are heading over there, and I'm sure they've already blockaded most of the city off from outsiders. It is already one of the pincer cities against an attack from the south. We need to take advantage of all we can get that would put us past those perimeters, and we can do that by wearing a disguise. It might work, or it might not. Still, one can't be too careful. I'll use you, too. You can make us all look legit."