He absently started thinking about the memories of his life back in Tennessee. The zed epidemic had been raging for three years when he found himself at the Centers for Disease Control and questioning his role in the abduction and imprisonment of the two small Gunderson children, Frederick, and Macie. He and Ruth spent many nights talking about it.
They came to a decision. The plan was to surreptitiously prep a HUMVEE. When the time was right, they grabbed the children. It was intended to only be the four of them, but Grant Parsons discovered their plan and insisted on going with them. He was certain that Zach was going to kill him once they arrived in Nolensville, but there were no other options. Ruth had developed a friendship with him during his captivity and he only hoped he’d take that into consideration. Zach may kill him, but he’d take care of Ruth, and that’s all he could ask for.
Surprisingly, Zach didn’t kill him. Oh, he kicked Grant in the balls and put him in a cage for a couple of days, but instead of killing anyone, he gave them a place to live. More surprisingly, Zach taught them how to really survive in post-apocalyptic America.
Zach was a few years younger than him, had never served in the military, but seemed to know everything and he learned a lot from the man. He smiled at the memory of being taught how to ride a horse. He never admitted it, but his thighs were sore for days afterward. It was hard for him to remember if his thighs hurt worse than his arm currently did.
He reminisced throughout the night to pass the time, all the while listening intently for the sound of any vehicles. It seemed odd that nobody had come looking for him yet. He started to pace to keep the blood flowing, but his footsteps made too much noise. So, he occasionally did deep knee bends. Eventually the sky started growing lighter, though it was gray and gloomy. It was going to be one of those days. He pushed the door open slightly and peeked outside. It was quiet and nothing stirred, but then again, his visibility was only limited to about twenty feet.
His situation assessment had not changed much since last night. He was at least two blocks off the main route, which meant if he stayed here, it could possibly take the search party hours to find him and his arm needed immediate medical attention. He didn’t like it, but he had to take the risk.
He undid the door and relaced his boot and cinched as tightly as he could. The otherwise simple act was almost impossible with one bad arm and doing it was pure torture. But he pushed through the pain the way all Marines were trained to do. When he was finished, he was breathing heavily and was surprised to note a couple of beads of perspiration on his forehead.
It was light enough now where he could see the jagged bites to his arm. It was a bloody mess and seemed to be swollen. Gingerly putting his jacket back on, he checked his weapons before slowly pushing open one of the trailer doors with the barrel of his M4 and readied himself.
There were two of them. Well, four, but two were dead, lying on the ground less than a dozen feet away. The other two had been sitting, but at the sound of the trailer door opening, they got to their feet. One of them, a big male, made eye contact and started growling. Justin did not hesitate. He took aim and shot him between the eyes. The other wolf ran off before Justin could get a good aim.
He waited and listened. Only silence greeted him. There weren’t even any birds chirping. He had to move. He crouched and tried to lower himself out of the trailer as easily as he could. When he landed on the asphalt a spasm of pain went from his arm through the rest of his body, an indicator that the injury was more severe than he was ready to admit.
The pain only strengthened Justin’s resolve to get back to the main road. Tucking the hand of his injured arm into his jacket pocket, he held the rifle with his left and scanned the area. Except for the dead wolves, he appeared to be all alone. He started walking.
The sun had been up an hour when he heard a vehicle. It was coming from the direction of Fort Detrick, which he took as a good sign, and after a minute a truck came into view. Justin gave a wave with his good arm and waited. The truck approached and stopped. Stretch was the only occupant. She put the truck in park and jumped out.
“Man, what happened?”
“I hit some black ice and slid into a ditch,” Justin said. “I should have been more careful.”
Stretch nodded and then noticed the arm. “Holy shit, Justin, is that from the wreck?”
“Nope, a damn wolf attacked me,” Justin said.
She gave it a sidelong look. “Damn, baby, that looks bad. Let me get the first aid kit.”
“Thanks, girl,” he replied. He liked Stretch, but if she called him baby in front of Ruth, he’d be in trouble.
She went into the truck and emerged a moment later with a tattered bag. There were sterile rags in it and a couple of tourniquets, but not much else.
“We need to upgrade this,” she remarked. “Alright, try to hold still.” She then used his knife to cut off Justin’s sleeve, rinsed off his arm with his bottle of drinking water, and wrapped it in the rags.
“Sorry, can’t do much else,” she said. “We could cauterize it, if you’re inclined.”
“It might come to that. Let’s get back and let Kincaid look it over.”
“You know he’s not really a medical doctor,” Stretch said.
“I know.”
“Why don’t we go back to Mount Weather and let Doc Salisbury take care of it?” she asked.
“That’s the last place I want to go right now. Come on, I’ll explain everything on the way back. You’re driving.”
They got settled in and Justin welcomed the warm air emanating from the vent. He found himself starting to drift off almost immediately but shook himself awake. “Question, where is the mighty Quick Reactionary Force?” he asked.
Stretch slowed and maneuvered through some ice before answering. “We called them on the phone when you were an hour overdue. They said they’d send someone out to check. When I woke up this morning and you weren’t here, I figured you were back at Mount Weather in a nice, warm bed. But I decided to call anyway. When I got ahold of Joker, he said not only were you not there, but they didn’t have any idea you were overdue. Isn’t that some bullshit?”
“Who did you talk to on the phone last night?” Justin asked.
“D-Day.”
Justin frowned. That explained some things. Stretch read his thoughts. “It’s gotten to where we can’t rely on them for anything anymore. Why didn’t you call us on the radio?”
“The wreck knocked it out. A fuse is blown or something.”
“Alright, I’ll grab somebody, and we’ll come back and get it taken care of later. First things first, you need to get that arm looked at,” Stretch said. “Well, first I’m going to call Joker.”
Justin agreed and watched as she worked the radio.
“Anything you want me to tell Joker?” she asked. When there was no response she looked over. Justin was leaning against the passenger door, sound asleep.
Chapter 13 – Fred
While Justin was being driven back to Fort Detrick, the president, his entourage, and five other people sat at one side of the conference table while several other individuals sat on the other side, including Fred McCoy. He’d been personally invited by Lois and Norman Marnix. Otherwise, he doubted he’d be here. He sat stoically, wearing jeans that bore a few stains from the morning chores, a flannel shirt mostly hid a off-colored tee shirt underneath, and a Carhartt brand vest which had the appearance of being well used but clean.
Fred eyed the president while the man spoke in hushed tones to William Rhinehart, the country’s vice president. It did not appear to him that the man was grieving over the death of his wife too terribly much, but Fred supposed people grieved in their own way.
“You’re looking well, Mister McCoy. Fatherhood must suit you.” Fred glanced over to see former President Abe Stark speaking to him.
“Thank you, Mister President,” Fred replied.
“He ain’t no president,” D-Day chortled.
Fred did not
bother acknowledging his presence, which seemed to irritate him.
“When do you think this meeting will start, Mister President? I’ve still got a few chores to complete before dinner.”
Former president Stark started to reply, but the current president spoke up.
“Excellent question, Mister McCoy, let’s get this underway.” He rapped the table with his knuckles.
“Everyone quiet down!” D-Day yelled.
Since Gil had taken charge as the President of the United States, he had employed the services of a husband-wife team as his entourage and bodyguards. D-Day and Ruby had been living in Marcus Hook. They’d originally come from Philadelphia, where D-Day claimed he was once an enforcer for an outlaw biker gang.
“First, let me thank you all for coming,” Gil started. “It makes me proud to have a community like Mount Weather where everyone works together.”
“Except for McCoy over there,” D-Day said. “He don’t help out at all.” When he made eye contact with Fred, he gave a contemptuous stare.
Gil gave a slightly impatient nod and continued. “As you may or may not be aware, Clay has spotted a large group of people get off a paddle boat on the eastern bank of the Mississippi.”
A hand shot up. “I heard they’re Chinese soldiers.”
“That is the supposition,” Gil said and nodded to the vice president.
William Rhinehart gave a brief synopsis of Clay’s report and the implications it might entail. When he was finished, he glanced back at the president.
“Thank you, Mister Vice President. Now, here is the reason for this meeting.” Before he could speak further, he was interrupted by someone else in the audience.
“Are Melvin and True really out there looking for them?”
“Yes, they recently embarked on a reconnaissance mission in an attempt to find this group of people and determine what they are doing,” Gil said.
“If anybody can do it, those two can, I remember the time when I first saw Melvin. He came driving up in that big red truck and…”
The president slapped his hand down on the table twice, causing the person who was in the beginning of a long-winded tale to become silent.
“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, my military people advise we need to conduct reconnaissance of the surrounding area. Unfortunately, we are spread thin and we must keep a contingent of personnel here to not only keep Mount Weather safe, but to keep it running as well. So, with that in mind, I am beseeching you good people to volunteer for these missions, especially you, Mister McCoy.”
Ruby made a loud, contemptuous scoff. “You shouldn’t trust him with anything, Mister President.”
“And why is that, Ruby?” Gil asked.
“Because the sonofabitch is aiding and abetting Gunderson,” D-Day declared. “He’s a traitor.”
“Watch your mouth,” Fred warned.
D-Day sneered at him. “You don’t make threats around here, old man. Back when I was regulating my club, we had a way of dealing with traitors like you.”
“Alright now, let’s cut that nonsense out,” Rhinehart admonished. There were a few murmurings of assent. The president noticed.
“Yes, none of that now,” he said.
Fred stared at D-Day a moment before focusing back on the president. “I have a question. What makes you think those folks are Chinese soldiers?”
“Captain Smithson looked at the photographs Clay sent with his report. It is his opinion they are Chinese, but that is all supposition,” Gil said.
Fred grunted. “If Captain Smithson said they’re Chinese soldiers, they’re Chinese soldiers.”
Gil was taken aback but was undeterred. “Yes, well, Captain Smithson also believes that is why we should conduct these reconnaissance missions.”
“That is a prudent measure. Alright, if Captain Smithson feels it is necessary, I’ll volunteer, but there are three conditions that must be met prior to me agreeing to volunteer,” Fred said.
“What would those conditions be, Mister McCoy?” Vice President Rhinehart asked.
“First, my wife is beginning her third trimester. I want a room and medical care for her.”
“Most certainly,” William said.
“Second, during my absence, I want Sam Hunter temporarily relieved of all duties at Mount Weather so he can stay at my house and tend to the farm.”
William glanced at Gil, who nodded. “Of course. What is your third requirement?”
Fred pointed a calloused finger at D-Day and dipped his head slightly. “I’m challenging mister tough guy to a fight. Right here, right now. We can do it in here or outside. I don’t care which, but I’m thinking he’s all talk, no action.”
The room went quiet. Everyone had been staring and listening to Fred, he had that kind of charisma, but when Fred made the challenge, everyone turned to D-Day, whose jaw had dropped.
“You want to fight me?” he asked incredulously.
“Yep, unless you’re a coward.”
“Oh, I know all about your skills with a pistol, McCoy. That’s not going to happen, but I’ll take you on in a fistfight and we’ll see who the coward is.”
Fred surprised everyone with his response.
“Fists then,” Fred replied. “And I know all about that hideout knife you got in your boot. If you try to pull it out, I’ll kill you.”
First Sergeant Crumby, who had been sitting quietly in the back of the room, snickered loudly. D-Day heard it. His expression of astonishment turned to an angry sneer.
“You got it, old man. Everybody says you’re tough. I’m about to show them different. Outside, right now.”
Fred stood, put his hat on, and walked out. Everyone jumped up and started moving toward the door before President VanAllen could adjourn the meeting.
Chapter 14 – The Fight
Word had travelled fast. A crowd was already gathering when Fred, who had stopped off in the cafeteria, walked out the door. Nobody knew it, but he’d taken a small dab of lard and smeared it on his face. Ambling over to the crowd, he took off his gun belt and handed it to Sammy. Handing over his knife, he leaned close.
“If anyone pulls out a weapon, toss me my pistol if you can, otherwise, you know what to do.”
Sammy nodded solemnly.
D-Day and his wife walked out a minute later and paused when they saw the crowd. Ruby whispered something to her husband, who grinned and began taking off his heavy shirt.
“That woman might try something too, keep an eye on her,” Fred whispered.
“You got it,” Sammy whispered back.
Fred turned to face D-Day. The man had stripped down to a stained wife-beater, showing a plethora of faded, poor-quality tattoos. Still, there was whipcord lean muscle in his arms, much like Fred’s, and he had a few scars here and there that did not come from a surgeon’s knife.
Fred did a little stretching, but not much. Rachel had him doing yoga every morning before breakfast. He hated to admit it, but he had grown to like the stretching routines. D-Day stopped him with a curt whistle.
“You ready for your ass-whipping or you going to stand there and do a jazzercise routine?”
Fred did not bother answering. Instead, he walked toward D-Day, closing the distance until they were about ten feet apart. D-Day flexed his muscles and began circling Fred, occasionally throwing out a jab to test the distance.
Fred had no illusions. He was in his fifties. His reflexes weren’t what they once were. Back when he shot Calvin Malloy not too long ago, the grouping of the two bullet holes were almost an inch apart. He hadn’t shot that badly in years. Fred pivoted as D-Day circled, watching, waiting.
After throwing a couple of ineffective jabs without a response, D-Day interpreted Fred’s hesitance as fear. He smirked and charged in, faked a left, and threw a right hook. Fred ducked and simultaneously sidestepped under the hook. He twisted his hips and drove his right fist into D-Day’s liver, all within a half-second.
D-Day gasped in pain a
nd stumbled back. Fred stepped in and punched him in the mouth with his left, and as D-Day kept stumbling and trying to cover up, Fred followed in and continued with a barrage of punches.
Even though Fred was clearly winning the fight, he reluctantly admired the fact that D-Day seemed to have a head made of concrete and was still putting up a fight. He knew he had to end it before he got too winded or the man caught him with a lucky punch.
Zombie Rules | Book 8 | Who The Hell Is That? Page 8
