Trashy Serialised Fiction

Doing a spot of fiction writing. Haven't done any of that for a while, so I may be quite shit. Assuming that a couple of conditions are met (I remain motivated, and people don't seem to utterly hate this) I may try to continue this story here at Room in Nations (the blog that FB is stealing this from, if you're reading it on the big blue monster). It's largely unedited at this point: you've been warned.

Dante walked slowly over to where his captain was sitting, his back to the lit camp, staring out into the darkness. Malory had placed himself in the shadow of a fallen slab of concrete, and he was leaning against a low heap of rubble. It broke up his silhouette for anyone approaching. That was unlikely enough, this far back, but still.
'Mind if I join you, sir?'
Malory reached down and lifted the rifle that had been lying next to him, propped on a smaller chunk of rocky cement, making space.
'Have a seat, Virge.'
Dante lowered himself down, reflexively picking a spot, like Malory, where his outline would be indistinct. He adjusted his belt to move his various pouches of tools and ammo, then settled his weight. He looked out into the night, at the grey shapes of broken civilisation that blurred and faded into absolute darkness. There was single light shining dimly, a long way off, which might have been a fire. A camp, some part of his mind thought, or perhaps just a guttering flame in a burnt out building. An accident, or mindless arson.
'It really is a fucking wasteland, isn't it?'
Dante grunted agreement. He recognised the captain's mood for what it was, heard it in his tone. He felt the same way some days, especially when it was cold, and his chest bothered him the most. Nights like tonight weren't too bad.
'I feel like I should be grateful for it, sometimes,' Malory went on, a little above a murmur. 'It saved us after all.' Dante didn't reply, and after a pause the other man finished, 'But I hate it, too.'
Dante thought for a moment, then nodded in the gloom. 'Me too.'
Malory laughed, and though it was only a low chuckle, it wasn't completely without humour.
'Christ, Virge, whatever happened to military discipline? Since when do sergeants listen to their captains bitching?'
Dante smiled. 'Since when do they get told to call them Tom?'
'Huh,' Malory grunted, a final laugh before Dante sensed the amusement gradually leaving him, his shoulders slumping slightly again. 'Huh,' he said again, thoughtfully. Dante knew he was thinking about that issue, that military discipline, and what to do with it now. 'It's only going to take us so far,' said Malory, as though reading his friend's mind. 'Our context has changed a lot, and we need a new balance. I'm worried about Conrad.'
Dante didn't answer, but he was worried about the young man from Mallen, as well. There was an insolence there that was becoming more and more noticeable, less and less repressed. Something was sticking into Dante's back, and he shifted slightly, almost unconsciously. He seldom missed his mattress now, but rubble was still a bit uncompromising. 'I don't know how far there is to go out here anyway,' he said, after a pause.
Malory turned his head to look sidelong at the sergeant.
'Well, do you want to die here?'
Dante thought for a second, then smiled.
'No, I don't. You?' he countered.
Malory sat silent for some time, looking, unseeing, into the night. Finally he stirred.
'No,' he said. 'I don't want to die here.'