by G M Eppers
“Are you? I didn’t realize.” Of course, I knew everything about Butler. I made no move whatsoever toward the cats, and calmly stroked T.B. “Sorry, Butler, but they have the run of the plane while we’re in flight, unless we hit turbulence.”
He sneezed again and I could see his eyes starting to look red and irritated.
Dinny, attracted by all the sneezing, came toward me. “Is there a problem with our guest?”
I looked up at her casually. “Do we have any Benadryl or something? He seems to be allergic to the cats.”
She pursed her lips as if in thought. “I’m not sure. You want to help me check the cabinet?”
This threw me. I wasn’t sure what she was going for. I turned to Billings. “Keep an eye on him.” Billings nodded, got out of his chair and came over to stand and loom over Butler. Dislodging T.B., I followed Dinny into what I had thought of as her inner sanctum. I’d never been in this part of the plane before. It was toward the front, going the other direction from the locker room. There was a short stubby hallway, with one door on the end and one door on the left. A slightly sunken alcove on the right held three hard case cat carriers, currently with their doors hanging open, a couple of litter boxes to one side of the carriers, and a feeding station on the other side of the carriers with large capacity, gravity fed water and food dispensers. A few stray pieces of kibble were scattered on the floor, and a couple bloated pieces floated in the water bowl. There was a slide-down grating that latched into the floor to close off the alcove, sort of like a miniature New York shop.
Dinny stopped walking and turned to me just this side of the end door. “I just want to be clear. You don’t want me to actually find any medication for Butler, do you?”
“Only if it becomes life threatening.” Yes, I know, it would be more humane to provide him with at least an antihistamine, but at the same time letting him suffer a little with cold symptoms kept him miserable enough that he probably wouldn’t try anything like fighting us or making an escape attempt. By the time we landed, the slight but persistent oxygen deprivation should wear him out, making the transfer to American custody much easier. Another reason, besides the obvious, to use the watch system. If his allergy symptoms became serious it could be dealt with immediately.
“That’s what I thought.”
At that moment, the door on the left opened outward, blocking me behind it. I heard a voice say, “You coming, Rosensglet? We’re heading into some weather.”
“Be right there, Kevin,” I heard Dinny answer. I couldn’t see either one through the door.
The door closed, and then I saw her. She was biting her bottom lip. I crossed my arms, tapped a foot and waited expectantly. She continued gnawing her lip until I asked quietly, “why does the pilot need your help?” as calmly as I could manage.
“Um…,” Dinny muttered, hesitating.
“Dinny?”
“All right!” She blurted. “Because I’m the co-pilot, that’s why.”
“We have four co-pilots on the payroll.”
I was pretty sure she was feeling the walls closing in on her. Sheepish, she said, “they are me. I’m them.”
“All of them?” She nodded, and I gasped. “Dinny, how long has this been going on?”
“About five years. That’s when I got the license.”
“FIVE YEARS????” I couldn’t believe this. “And you’ve been collecting all four paychecks, AND your own? Dinny, that’s fraud!” I lowered my voice, but said the last two words with all the force I could muster.
“Are you going to turn me in?” Her bottom lip would be shredded if this went on much longer.
What a question! It was most definitely fraud. Very serious fraud, against the United States government and its taxpayers. However, if I said anything, with a five year history involved, it made our team either complicit or idiotic. “That’s a hell of a lot of money.” I stopped to do some quick math in my head, and actually rounded down. “It’s about a million dollars a year for five years, counting your own salary.” The plane bobbled a little as we hit a small turbulence pocket. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself, but it was nothing to worry about. I half expected Kevin to poke his head out again looking for her, but he no doubt has his hands full flying solo through weather. Right now, I didn’t care if the plane crashed. I wanted more information. “What did you do with it?”
Dinny put her hands out in desperation. “Nothing bad. I had engineers create the cat cubby, for example. And some design changes to the cargo hold. And I buy all the food out of my own pocket. While you guys are on missions, I go to farmer’s markets and local obscure groceries for interesting stuff to cook.” She started talking really fast, driven by unbelievable guilt and panic. “You’ll notice I never requisition anything. I just pay for what we need on the plane. I paid for three out of the four showers, for example. That stuff doesn’t come cheap you know, especially when we’re in Europe. I get the best. You guys deserve to eat really good meals.” She was rambling between hardware and food stuffs with almost no coherent connection between them. But as she talked, I found myself calming down. It may be fraud, but she wasn’t really profiting from it, we were. “So are you going to turn me in?” She finally repeated, wincing.
“Dinny, do you remember what Benjamin Franklin said to the Second Continental Congress when they were about to sign the Declaration of Independence?”
She straightened up and tucked her chin in, puzzled. “I wasn’t there.”
“’If we do not hang together, we will most assuredly hang separately.’” I quoted for her.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“No. I’m not turning you in. But we’ll have to figure out a way to end it reasonably. Okay?”
“Agreed. Whatever you say, Helena.”
“Now get in there before Kevin crashes us into the Atlantic Ocean.”
Dinny opened the cockpit door and slipped through, closing it behind her. I shook my head, still in a bit of shock from what I’d just learned, and went back out to the cabin, where Butler was just finishing a continuous round of sneezing and swearing.
The sneezing had also alerted the rest of the team, who were now actively watching Butler from their seats, except for Roxy who was so completely unconscious Nitro could have operated on her. “Nothing back there,” I said. “Nitro? How about you? Got anything for allergies?” Of course, he did. The only thing Nitro wasn’t allergic to was cats.
“No ma’am,” he said without any hesitation.
I sat back down and T.B. jumped back into position, picking up where he left off in his inspection of my face. I stroked T.B., who was purring contentedly, and said, “Sorry, Butler. Can’t help you. But it’s only a seven hour flight. You’re lucky. This is a GREAT APE plane. No ear popping, no sinus plugging. Nitro is prepared if you happen to go into anaphylactic shock, though.” Harelip jumped up onto Butler’s lap and he used his free right hand to shoo her off and sneezed violently, his left hand straining against the cuff. She ran back to Backwash, who gave her a comforting lick behind her ears.
Badger said, “We could turn off the equalizer, Helena. It might help, and it does save a tiny bit of fuel.”
New mouth breather Butler sneezed again, knowing with absolute certainty that introducing normal cabin pressures would make his head explode. “You wouldn’t.”
I smiled and said nothing.
“This is inhumane!” Butler objected.
“Frankly, my dear Butler,” I said, “I don’t give a damn.”
THE END
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my two editors, Graceanne Mcleod and Diane Rosenfeldt for all their help and advice. I’d never written anything of this length and hadn’t written anything at all in several years. But you never know with these things. Stephen King called it “The Gotta”. When you have no choice. I really felt that was the case. Writing this was not a choice. It was going to come out or drive me crazy. I’ve written two sequels and am playing a
round with ideas for a fourth, which is simmering, but I have confidence that it will emerge the same as the others. Whether or not you enjoyed this book, I’d love to hear from you. I am open to any kind of feedback. You can find me on Facebook at:
https://www.facebook.com/GMEppers?skip_nax_wizard=true.
Or email me at [email protected]. I’d be happy to form a mailing list for anyone who wants to be notified when the sequels get released. Thank you.
CURDS and WHEY
#2
A Shred of Dignitary
by G.M. Eppers
For Randy
Copyright © 2017 by G.M. Eppers
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2017
G.M. Eppers
2064 Douglas Ave.
Racine, WI 53402
Contents
A Shred of Dignitary
Czech Up
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Ex or Spies
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Healthy Beating
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Czech Up
Chapter One
I took a deep breath. My heart was pounding, my hands were shaking, and cold sweat dripped down my sides. Calmness was a distant stranger, a pleasant but ineffectual dream that I would never get back to. I fought the flight or fight reflex, but flight was starting to win. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to set an example for the rest of the team, but my resolve was melting like Jell-O gelatin in a microwave. I knew what awaited me on the other side of the door. It was going to end in pain. Or would pain be only the beginning? My legs felt wobbly. My stomach churned. I put one hand on the knob, not because I wanted to open the door but just to stop myself from falling over. I checked my watch, but the time didn’t register in my panic-fevered brain. Maybe I was too early. Maybe he wasn’t ready yet. I could come back later. This didn’t really have to happen right now. A short while ago I was relaxing, enjoying some ice water with a squirt of lemon juice and now I was here, wishing for a trap door to open beneath me and save me from a fate worse than death. I even looked down at the floor, but no such trap door appeared. I couldn’t will it any more than I could will my feet to step forward.
Suddenly the door swung inward and I stumbled into the room. “Come in, Helena,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I stepped inside, and he closed the door behind me. He didn’t lock it, but I knew my quick escape was impossible. “You don’t have to do this,” I said, feeling my knees begin to buckle.
“Have a seat on the table, please, and remove your shirt.” There was an array of equipment in the room, arranged in a gauntlet of physical trials. First there was a padded table covered with a strip of crinkly paper. At the foot was a single rubberized step. The table was surrounded by a tubular metal framework on which hung an opaque white curtain, which for now was pushed to one side. Near the table was a portable mammography machine with a lead apron hooked on one side, and a wheeled table covered with a white cloth. Slowly, carefully, I put one foot up on the step and boosted myself up onto the table, sitting with my feet dangling over the edge and feeling like a six year old in the principal’s office for the first time. I slipped off my t-shirt and sat there in my sport bra.
My name is Helena Montana and I work for CURDS, a somewhat militarized branch of the CDC created about ten years ago to deal with a highly dangerous, very addictive form of cheese that had infiltrated our global economy. The cheese was made with an ingredient known as Uber rennet, which, over not much time, caused severe constipation and shut down intestinal peristalsis resulting in a rupture into the abdominal cavity, peritonitis, and then death. In the meantime, it was as addictive as heroin. If you were eating it, you didn’t really care about the effects. You just wanted more. My job involved trying to track down sources of Uber and destroy it, as coordinator for the Cheese and Uber Rennet Disposal Service, Team A. I coordinated a team of eight, under Director Chiff, who led my team and two others in a worldwide effort to contain Uber. I’m trained in hand-to-hand combat, licensed to carry firearms and I’ve dealt with thugs and dealers and lowlifes for about eight years now. But what I was about to be subjected to was more terrifying.
As coordinator, it was my responsibility to go first, to set an example, to forge the way forward and put my team at ease. But inside I didn’t want to be there, I would have given my first born to be in a dentist’s chair instead, and I’d done this seven times before. But each time was different and I knew it. It was time for our team’s annual physicals, and aside from the obvious they liked to test reflexes and how well you are prepared to face the unknown and unexpected. I’m a very healthy person, but that didn’t matter. I’ve seen plenty of very healthy people get sick and worse in the blink of an eye, most notably my own father who was one of the earliest victims of OOPS, or Offensive Obstruction Pandemic Sweep, the epidemic caused by the infiltration of Uber. Normally, I didn’t really think about my health. I had too many other things to think about. But when the physicals rolled around, I channeled my inner hypochondriac. I’m also the oldest member of the team, so on top of fearing a change in my physical health, I worried about the other benchmarks. Was this the year I would start to slip?
These physicals were scheduled, and then the schedules were scheduled. It wasn’t like they were going to be interrupted. I wasn’t going to get saved by the bell, or by a phone call from Director Chiff, and be able to put it off indefinitely while we saved the world. This was going to happen now. We couldn’t be cleared for another mission until all of us had passed muster. That was one of the reasons we have three teams, A, B, and C. There was still someone to send on a mission while one was getting checked out. It made me very nervous. It was like being stuck in that extended moment between giving an answer to a really tough question on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and when Regis would actually say you were right or wrong. They always left it hanging for an eternity, and that was just for the people watching. I can’t imagine how many eons it felt like to the contestant.
“How have you been feeling?” Nitro asked, his clipboard in hand and a pen at the ready. Nitro is our doctor / biochemist / vegetarian. He was wearing his white lab coat, which he only wore for the physicals. Most of the time he wore jeans and polo shirts. Two more retractable pens were in the breast pocket. A stethoscope hung from his neck.
“Fine,” I said.
“I think I need more than that.”
“And dandy?” He looked annoyed. He was just getting started. He had to do this seven more times. Well, six, actually. Our team employed a set of conjoined twins. More about them later. “Okay. Let’s see. I’m sleeping okay. I have a good appetite. I have neither diarrhea nor constipation. I’m not experiencing any pain or burning when I urinate. My cycle is regular and I have no sex life at the moment.” In some ways, this opening interview worried me the most. This was where he asked loaded questions and used your answers to determine mental fitness. I’m normally pretty confident, out in the field or conducting business with my team members, but when I’m being judged there seems to be some lingering doubt, a reasonable certainty that this year my true self would be discovered and found wanting. That I would be sent away to a nice government asylum where my meals would consist of little blue pills and applesauce, and the highlight of each day would be taking command of the TV in the common room so I wouldn’t have to watch rerun
s of Fantasy Island.
Nitro lifted the linen off the wheeled table to reveal a collection of common medical instruments and a medicine cup filled with a milky liquid. He handed me the cup. “Drink this, Helena.”
“What is it?”
“Tell you later.”
“I’m not drinking it until you tell me what it’s for.” I can be very stubborn, even when I’m terrified. “It’s not an emetic, is it?” The last thing I wanted to do was throw up all over Nitro, even though I kind of wanted to throw up all over Nitro. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t even bother him. He’d just clean it up, disinfect, and go on with the exam without so much as an ‘ew’ or even the slightest gag. What bothered Nitro more was a heaping plate of pulled pork or a steaming hot dog on a bun.
“It’s something to . . . relax you. Take care of the white coat syndrome.” he said as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and set about preparing my free arm for a blood draw by tying flexible tubing around my left upper arm.
“You could try not wearing the white coat,” I suggested.
“How would we know which of us is the doctor?” He gave me an exaggerated grin that basically said ‘shut up and drink it.’ I noted his hesitation and looked at him suspiciously, but that was all he was going to say. I drank it. It tasted a bit chalky, leading me to believe it was probably an antacid to calm a nervous stomach. He may have had too much experience with stress vomiting or something, so I couldn’t blame him. He took the empty cup and put it back on the table and picked up a syringe. After the blood draw, he marked the vial he had produced, then copied the ID number onto his clipboard. He removed the tubing, and reached for some more prepared syringes. “Scheduled inoculations,” he explained. “And whatnot.”
