Queer how the forests gobbled up the prairie, Kincaid thought. Eight, nine hundred miles of grassland, who could reckon how much, were running into armies of trees. Tall, stout, green hardwoods. First they came in groups like advanced skirmishers, flanking and probing. Each day more squads appeared. The skirmishers grew to companies then to regiments that his men maneuvered past. But now, up ahead, a solid battle line stretched across their way, and they’d have to enter the forest.
It was so green. How could he have forgotten in just a year? New leaves shining bright, cast a restful glow over the earth that eased the eye and took away the strain. Arms of thick timber reached along the road as if to pull them in. He felt the cool of the deep forest. Like walking into a root cellar, the temperature dropped so much.
Odd, Kincaid thought, how the temperature chewed at the air. Warm sun was being cooled by frigid-air dive-bombers. Gull-winged, screaming Ju 87s, followed by icy squadrons of Messerschmitt bf 109s. The temperature soared down, like a fleet of Siberian MiG-29s dipping and shrieking, encroaching on the sun.
It was cold—it’d taken him a whole year to thaw. Thick ice shining bright, made the forest a refrigerator—a refrigerator fighting a bowl of warm pasta.
Opening: Wes.....Continuation: Rachel