They continued like that for the rest of the week. Armin stood on guard during the night, and Dussander would usher him into the room near one or two in the morning. It was pointless after all. Dr. Hurst didn’t want them to protect the children. They were fine. Dussander wasn’t going to go without having Armin under his thumb for an entire week. Armin came in, they didn’t speak. He’d push a blanket and a pillow onto the floor and Armin would sleep there.

Dussander had woken up once to find Armin hurriedly searching the room, quiet and frantic. Looking for his gun. He wouldn’t have taken it if he found it (not right away), because Dussander would have known, but the boy wouldn’t have lasted. His nerves would have made him snatch it up and shove it in his holster.

Which was why Dussander had grunted rather loudly and told Armin rather groggily to do forty push-ups and get back to bed.

He’d search again, of course. Only when he thought Dussander wouldn’t know. He was frightened to death of disobeying.

The morning of the seventh day came slowly. There was no sun to great them, no alarm to warn them, just the pleasant lull of darkness. Dussander awoke to silence and emptiness, with only the not-so-steady breathing of Armin to great him. He rolled to side, reached across the cot to grab his hat, and shucked it on his head after a few quick strokes of his hand through his hair.

“Hauptmann?”

“Get up Mendel.”

Armin stirred and Dussander flicked on the flashlight so they could see.

“We’re leaving today. Hurry and we might catch a quick breakfast before Dr. Hurst sends us out.”

“Do you need to be on post, sir?”

Dussander grunted and shucked on his pants. It didn’t matter if he did or not, he wouldn’t be. Oh yes, he’d stayed put during the day, but Armin had been with him then. He wasn’t going to dance around Hurst. She would have known anyway. The mothers would have realized they weren’t always there when they checked the halls or took crying babes out for a quick, comforting walk.

They dressed quickly and in silence, leaving the room as prim and proper as they could. Armin had his hat tucked under his arm, goggles about his neck as he raked a comb he’d manage to scrounge up through his hair. The longer they stayed the more the boy focused on his grooming. Dussander had caught him with a bloody scalp a few times the last couple days.

That was treated with forty push-ups as well.

Which wasn’t punishment at all, really. The boy was enjoying it. It calmed him down, gave him some sense of order. The settlement was commanded well enough, but Dussander would be damned if he could figure out how Armin’s mind worked. So long as it kept his trigger happy private from attacking anyone, Dussander was content.

The hall lights hadn’t yet been turned on, leaving them pitted in darkness as they walked. No goggles, though. The halls were straight and it wasn’t difficult to find the stairs so long as Dussander kept a hand against the wall. The goggles wouldn’t help them navigate the building very well. They saw through the walls and illuminated bodies. Dussander didn’t mind the darkness. Kept his ears open.

Armin seemed to be in agreement on that one, at least. The boy was very quiet when he walked, his breathing stifled so he would listen.

Dussander dearly hoped that nothing did attempt to sneak up on them. His attempts at keeping Armin calm would go down the drain.

Not that he himself was making things better. But so long as Armin kept his paranoia focused on Dussander and not on the people, that was fine. That was what Dussander wanted. And Armin wouldn’t dare try anything with him, so long as Dussander kept himself as his only source of order.

The mess hall was empty, but there was a light flickering overhead. It was dim, to keep energy, but bright enough to see by. A clock blinking across the other side of the room read five in the morning. No one but the sentries should be awake for another hour at least.

Dussander crossed the room, leaving Armin to carefully scrape back some chairs and take a seat. He slipped their ration cards through a machine and grabbed the bars that were spurted out. It wasn’t much, but Dussander wanted them fed as much as possible before they left. He wasn’t sure how much food Hurst was going to allot them on their little journey.

He returned to Armin and shoved a packet across the table at him before ripping open his own.

They didn’t get to eat in silence.

“Is it going to be dangerous?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Mendel.” Of course it was going to be dangerous. It was going to be suicide.

Armin raked his fingers through his hair and lowered his eyes,” Isn’t there other things we can do? They’re can’t be that much left-.”

“Don’t talk. Eat.”

“Sir-.”

Dussander surged to his feet, knocking back his chair. Armin ducked his head and moved to take a bite of his ration bar.

“Stand up.”

Armin hand quivered. He set the bar down, pushed back his chair, and stood.

“You’re afraid.”

Armin did not reply.

“You are afraid.”

“Yes.”

“You are going to war. Are you afraid when you go into battle?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live?”

“Yes.”

“Do you try to get out of going to battle?”

“No…never….”

“Shut-up. Why try to get out of this?”

“It’s madness.”

Oh, what a bright little boy.

Dussander reached across the table and grabbed Armin’s chin, forcing his head upward. They locked eyes, and Dussander set his jaw, expressionless.

“Yes,” said Dussander,” It is.”

“We’ll die.” Not maybe we’ll die, not we could die. We will die.

“Why are you afraid? What do you have to live for, Mendel? Your mother is dead, your father is dead, you have no wife, no children. You are a soldier.”

Armin did not reply.

“Woah!” the doors banged open on the other side of the room and three men poured in, followed by Dr. Hurst.

Dussander let his hand drop from Armin’s jaw. Armin slid back into his chair, head bowed.

“Hauptmann?”

“English, Mendel.”

Armin swallowed,” Will sie mich?”

Dussander froze. The men were sauntering into the room now, and Hurst was shooting them all a very stern look.

Dussander stepped forward to greet them,” English, Mendel. Twenty push-ups.”

The three men they were working with were exactly what Dussander thought they would be. Rowdy, bawdy men who, although they listened, had their own ideas as to how the settlement should be run. Two of them were rather slender men, not boys, but not old either, and the other was a large brute of man who looked like an escaped convict. Dussander was used to working with men like that. Lots of them got sent to the army, after all.

Armin was still managing push-ups when they introduced themselves.

Roger and Stan were two of the small ones, and the big fellow called himself Victor. Americans, all of them, without a spot of a second language between them (although Stan quite happily mentioned taking French through university, but couldn’t remember much more than how to count to ten and ask for the bathroom).

“Your vehicle is ready, gentleman, and we packed what ammunition we could afford onto it. You’ll eat breakfast here, and then it is imperitive that you leave immediately,” said Dr.Hurst, folding down the creases in her lab coat. She wasn’t looking at any of them.

Guilty.

The word was thick and crimson in Dussander’s mind.

“I would like to inspect the weapons myself, before we leave,” said Dussander, stepping forward. He caught sight of Armin rising off the floor from the corner of his eye. The boy flipped his comb out of his shirt and raked it through his hair a few times before tucking his hat back on. Dussander withheld a grimace and turned his attention to Hurst.

“Impossible,” she said, lifting her chin. She met his gaze. Of course, she didn’t feel guilty about sending him off to die. It was the men she’d worked with, whether or not she liked them, that would bother her.

She wasn’t familiar with war.

Dussander was about to retort when she decided to continue.

“If you have any problems or inquiries about the state of the weapons, you can ask Victor. He packed them.”

Dussander’s eyes flickered toward the large man.

He was staring stiffly down at Armin as Stan and Roger blabbed nonsensically to one another. Armin was standing very tautly under his gaze, his eyes flickering back and forth between everyone but Victor himself. Dussander didn’t miss the fingers twitching beside his empty holster.

Don’t stare at him. Dussander didn’t like it any more than Armin did. The little obegefrieter was his.

Victor seemed to realize his name had been mentioned and pried his eyes away from Armin long enough to pass a gaze between Hurst and Dussander.

“What’s the state of the weapons,” Dussander asked, voice carefully monotone and devoid of any of the anger that bubbled along his veins.

“As good as we’ve got. We brought one sniper rifle, a few revolvers, a couple silencers to go with them. Don’t want to attract the beasties, after all. And ammo, of course. Two revolvers for each of us, but…you’ve got your own guns too, right?”

Dussander nodded,” Did you check to make sure they were in working order before loading them?”

“Course! Don’t want to get eaten any more than you do, sir.”

Armin’s head snapped up at the ‘sir’.

“Yer an army general, aren’t you Mr. Dussander?”

“Captain.”

The kitchen door squeaked open from across the room, and there was little conversation following that. They ate leftovers. Dr. Hurst didn’t want to waste any more time than had already been wasted. If they could fit it in their mouths, the Infected would eat it, after all. Hopefully the bodies appeased them enough to stay away from the ship.

They ate quickly, Dr. Hurst allowed no room for talking or time-wasting (not that the boys didn’t try, but they received a frenzied look and a barked reminder of the time before shutting up). Dr. Hurst ushered them out of the kitchen with a promise that the cooks would clean up the dishes, there was no need for politeness.

Of course not. They were going to die. Why make them bother with chores?

It was pitch black outside and Dussander wrenched his goggles from his pocket and slipped them over his eyes. Armin did the same, whisking his comb through his hair before righting his hat.

The vehicle was nothing more than a small jeep. Weapons were piled in the back, tightened securely by bungee cords and shoved to one side so someone might squeeze into the seat. There wasn’t much room on it. Roger took the drivers seat, and Victor settled down beside him, leaving Armin, Dussander, and Stan to cram into the vehicle where they could. Dussander took the back, beside the weapons, and Armin perched himself against the back of the driver’s seat. Stan squirming onto the other side, his legs dangling down against the revolvers.

“Settled in, gentlemen?” Dr. Hurst spoke very quietly, and her eyes weren’t on them when she did.

Dussander could see the gangly, red shapes moving across the dunes toward them. The infected, for all their lack of sentience, weren’t stupid. And neither was Dr. Hurst.

“How do we bring stuff back in this?” asked Stan,” It’s hardly big enough to fit us.”

“You’ll drag it,” said Hurst,” There’s cables under the arms.”

And for the smaller stuff…

…well, she didn’t expect all of them to make it back anyway, did she?

Dussander slid the goggled away from his eyes and cast her knowing look. The engine rumbled to life, but she kept his gaze, even in the darkness, until they’d driven well out of sight.

She didn’t expect him to make it back. That Dussander had little doubt of.