by Jones, K. J.
Another female voice yelled, “Shut your fucking mouth, nigger bitch.”
A huge distraction. The black patches refocused on the Jersey crew and the white supremacist blonds. Peter took the moment to grab Tyler and yank him through the air to him.
“You stow your shit, Ty, or you get everyone killed. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Staff.”
“Keep it that way.”
Peter released the kid, who returned to his seat on the cot with no animosity for the rough reprimand.
Miss Glenda prayed quietly for everyone. Eyes shut tight. Rocking back and forth as she held the cross to her moving lips and the Bible to her heart. Peter looked away from her, not wanting to see the reflection of who they had become to a woman who believed love and light could dominate in this world.
MPs ran to the others. The Tasing. But no shooting, so this maybe was good – Peter just didn’t know anymore. His muscles constantly tight. He’d prefer to be thrown into a gladiator-like arena. Fight his way through this rather than a quiet, controlled smoldering and having to curtail Tyler who expressed what they both felt in their hearts.
Peter realized his fists had clenched, so badly his knuckles turned white. Blood dripped from his finger where his wedding band cut into his skin. With a massive force of will, he opened his hands. He used controlled breathing to calm down.
Children cried. Women screamed. The crazies went further crazy. Mad house bedlam went berserk. Peter breathed in and out through his nose, envisioning a beautiful Caribbean beach, the surf rolling in and out along white sand, seagulls squawking, a whale song somewhere, though this stood improbable to hear at a beach. A warm breeze carrying the smells of the ocean instead of the stench of dozens of human beings.
Someone hummed. Slowly, Peter realized it was Miss Glenda, humming a song the way only a black American could do. He almost smiled at the tender, soulful melody.
Looking beside Miss Glenda, he saw three pairs of teenage eyes staring a million miles away. They sat stiff with pandemonium around them. Each had put their minds somewhere else to tune out everything.
3.
Reactivated soldiers from Matt’s barracks were re-assigned out. Not Chris, though. No such threat any time soon since Chris had received an official reprimand in his service jacket. Matt and Chris knew wherever soldiers would go, it could not be highly enabling to longevity, since nothing about Chris attending sensitivity training came up.
They knew this training would be the next step after an official reprimand since this was not Chris’s first rodeo. Sergeant Higgins broke records on how many times a soldier could attend these. He had really objected to the gender and sexual harassment training. “I ain’t never tried to stick my cock in that skanky whore bitch.” Stating this to the instructor of the training went well. The guys at Bragg planned on donating a chair to the training classroom with a plaque of Chris’s name. Base command found this insensitive.
Chris had a marked issue. The more he was confronted with his insensitivities, the worse his mouth grew. Matt suspected a neurological problem. Perhaps he was dropped on his head as a newborn.
Since any misbehaviors of reactivated service person meant postpone of transfer, Matt felt grateful for Chris’s neurological behavioral challenge. He wished he could develop his own.
Transfer pressed on Matt’s mind as impending doom. Assigned to go somewhere in the rest of the county, to never see his friends again, knowing they continued at Fort Jackson in perilous situations. Phebe and Emily in the stockade to boot.
Matt went to the doctor and met him in the cramped supply closet office with the door closed, as they did for any dubious conversations, which was nearly any topic in this paranoid place.
“Sir, am I going to be re-assed?”
“Yup. They don’t allow me a proper, full medical team. Not here. I especially cannot hold onto a line Zoner medic.”
“I can’t be transferred, sir. My people are here.”
“Don’t you have family outside the Zone?”
“Wyoming, yes, sir. I have yet to locate them to find out what’s going on. But my people here. Sergeant Higgins, Peter Sullivan, Phebe, all of them. I can’t leave them, sir.”
The doctor leaned back in his creaky chair and steepled his fingers. “How devoted are you to staying longer?”
“Very, sir.”
“I could use you, too. I’m willing to keep things to myself. They won’t re-ass an injured soldier. He’d be no use to where they’re sending people.”
“Injured, sir?”
The doctor pulled out the top drawer of his desk. “Injured. A hairline fracture to the ulna would do it.”
Matt gulped.
He thought it through again, how devoted he was to staying. In his mind’s eye, he saw Phebe smile. The way she used to, before she became the Beheader, before all of this mess began. When he’d chat with her in the kitchen late at night at the girls’ house in Wilmington. He could hear her laughter and smell her perfume. He’d been in love with her for a long time.
The love made him stand up and come around the desk. He placed his arm across the drawer.
“You sure?”
An inhale for bravery. Matt held his breath and nodded. “Do it, sir.”
The doctor used his feet to slam close the drawer. Matt screamed through gritted teeth.
* * *
“What in the fuck happened to you?” Chris demanded.
Matt had a brand new cast on his left forearm. “Insurance.”
“As in you need to get some because you’re a dumbass?”
“No.”
Matt didn’t want to say anything more, in case of eavesdroppers. Trust no one, he had begun to believe.
Chris studied him for a minute. “Okay. You a dumbass.” He looked into Matt’s eyes and nodded. He got what happened.
* * *
The doctor made sure Matt would be the attending for Peter’s disability assessment. As soon as Matt entered the examining room, he wanted to embrace his old friend. This would not do. He smiled and nodded, and received the same from Peter, who sat on the examining table. His goofy rubber shoes had dropped on the floor.
Once Matt stood close enough, he slipped tightly folded papers into Peter’s hand, then glanced at the nurse officer to see if he had noticed. He hadn’t.
It was strange for a person with more education and a higher rank to not be the one doing this, but fortunately for this case, orders were orders when they came from a Lt. Colonel. The nurse officer would not be the one doing the exam.
“She’s in the stockade,” Peter whispered.
Matt nodded. “Lift your leg.”
“Can you, somehow?”
“Rotate your ankle. Ben and Mazy received orders.”
Peter glanced at the nurse. “That hurts,” he wailed.
“Then stop doing it, soldier.”
Peter’s face showed he fought laughing. “Emily, too.”
Matt’s green eyes shot to his blue. “I know,” he whispered. “Trying to get on the roster for ‘em.”
“They took Nia from us.”
“She’s been re-assed to Ange. Bend at the knee. Kids?”
“Coping.”
The nurse left the room. They relaxed.
Peter said, “How’s my redneck? He still around and alive?”
“Getting into trouble. Mild trouble. It’s good. His mouth. The more strikes against, the less likely to re-ass.”
“Why?”
“Like I know.”
“What happened to your arm?”
Matt held it up. “To make sure I stay with you assholes longer.”
“Oh. Well. I guess that’s better than flowers and chocolate.”
Matt smiled. He had missed the snarky Sully comebacks.
“How do we get our dumbasses outta this hellhole, Matthew?”
“There’s a copy of a map we’ve been making and the family phone numbers. Security around the civvie area is tight.”
&nbs
p; “Why?”
Matt shrugged. “You’re dangerous.”
“What kind of lunatic is the CO of this place?”
“Never met him. As far as I can see, the real purpose of this place is to get troops.”
“Yeah. Caught that. What about the rest of us? Do we actually go anywhere?”
“FEMA.”
“Oh, God,” Peter wailed. “FEMA is in control of us?”
Matt somberly nodded.
“We’re doomed. We’re between zoms, regular Army, and Homeland Security. Oh, Mother of God, why did they have to find us. If we had only known, if the damn ghosts had just told us, we could have buried ourselves in mud.”
“Just stay strong.”
“Strong? I haven’t slept since I got here. I’m starting to feel that PTSD the VA really wanted me to have. I’m the only adult to kids, most of which are more adult than me. And we are on the brink of a race war in our hangar bay because some asshole decided to put white supremacists and black supremacists in the same crowded space.”
“Really? They care so much about that bullshit here?”
“Like Phebe says, never underestimate the stupidity of others. Or I started that saying. Whatever. Check on her, Matt. And on Emily. She’s pregnant, too.”
“She is? I need to get word to Pell.”
“She’s the fucking Beheader, dude. Why the fuck would anyone fuck with her. I’m fucking afraid of her.”
“Is Phebe worse?”
“No. Not really. Crankier, yes, but we all are. I may have exaggerated my fear. I kind of like it. It’s hot. But not so good in a girl-fight in the bathroom. My baby will be born behind bars during the zombie apocalypse. Right alongside a Jewish-Montana white boy baby. While I’m under the jurisdiction of FEMA with children that behave like Industrial Revolution factory worker kids. Oh, two of them. They’re going to hold Karen until she’s eighteen in a couple of weeks.”
“Shit. Oh. Reminds me. Dr. Jenkins died.”
“What?”
“Massive coronary.”
“Oh. Fucking fab. I’ll just go beat to death the girl with my cane and make this easier for her.”
“How are they?”
“Physically alive. Wrecks otherwise. We all are. It’s –”
The door opened and the nurse officer returned.
“We’re all finished here, Mister Sullivan,” Matt said.
* * *
Due to both prisoners were pregnant, Matt gained access to the stockade. They laid on their cots and rose when they saw him. He talked with the guard, who verified his orders and checked the materials he brought.
“They’re pregnant. They require their prenatal vitamins. Orders from Lieutenant Colonel Creechbaum.”
The guard took up his jangling keys. “They say these two are dangerous as hell. But they have been kittens in here. They seem to like it here.”
“We do.” Phebe stood, holding the bars and appearing like an old-timey prison inmate. She only missed the tin can to bang on the bars. A smile to Matt. “It’s quiet here.”
“Best place to be,” said Emily, sitting up from her cot. “Are you bringing my baby pills too?” She stood up and approached the bars.
“I am.”
Foreseeing he wouldn’t have a private moment to chat with them, he passed folded papers along with their pills. The map. The phone list. And a letter telling everything he knew of what was going on. Phebe took the tight bundle and passed it back to Emily without turning her face. Emily took it and tucked it into the elastic waistband of her pants, all while behaving normally. They were getting good. Regular old jailbirds.
Having passed them their prenatal pills, he looked into Phebe’s eyes and touched her hand on the bars. He mouthed, “Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“Any complaints with the pregnancies?” His medical tone.
“All’s well,” she said.
“Except for nausea,” said Emily.
“I’ll see if I can get you something for that.”
“I’d like a cup of mint tea with honey.”
“Okay. And some wings to fly outta here, too?”
Phebe said, “A cake with a big nail file.”
“I don’t think it was an Emory board.”
“Whatever.” Phebe smiled. Then whispered, “How’s my peeps?”
“The, um.” Matt’s gaze moved to the papers in Emily’s waistband. Phebe nodded. “Be good. If you aren’t feeling well, have the guard call medical.”
“Aye, aye,” said Phebe.
“Would help if they stopped Tasing us,” said Emily.
Matt shook his head with a sigh, then whispered, “How did you kill her, Pheeb?”
“The move you taught me. Temporal lobe hit.”
“Oh, my God.”
“How’s it going, Doc?” the guard called.
“All finished.”
Matt had to sign out to leave.
Walking back to medical, the weight of responsibility for her predicament sat on Matt’s shoulders. He had taught her the move which now had her up on charges.
He remembered the day, practicing in the overgrown grass yard at the Star Gate House under a radiant sun and blue sky. It was after all the talk of breaking necks and women didn’t have the strength. Peter sat on the piazza. His legs covered with a blanket as he recovered his strength. Chris wasn’t up yet.
“The shoulders have to be stationary to do it,” Peter had said, regarding breaking necks. “Otherwise, the rest of the body automatically comes with the turn of the head. Not easy shit.”
“Wait,” Matt had said. “There’s another way, without the neck. Bash the brain. There are areas of the skull easier to crack.”
“The temporal lobe?” Phebe had asked.
“Above the ear. That would work. Like, if you could knock someone close to the side of a table with a raised edge. Bash the side of the head against it. It would cause double impact from the side to side motion of the brain within the cranial cavity. And could cause the bone to shard into the brain. Instantaneous death.”
Matt had taught her to swipe the leg in order to begin the motion downward, grab the head and bash it. Phebe practiced it on him, gently, but getting the motions down.
“It’s my fault.” Matt leaned his back against the wall. “She’s going to prison because of me.”
“Anything wrong there, Sergeant?” a captain asked.
Matt straightened. “No, sir. Everything’s good.”
“Good to hear it, soldier.”
* * *
Chris had no patience with Matt’s newest guilt.
“We gotta get word to Pell that he knocked up Emily,” said Chris. “A man needs to know these things.”
Matt had to pass a rendezvous appointment through a grapevine to meet with Brandon. They met in seclusion behind the mess hall, near the reeking dumpsters. Chris kept lookout. Two Marine scout snipers played cards nearby on turned-over mess hall food crates. Brandon said they were okay and there for him.
“They’re Darsi and Pez. Zoners from Atlanta.”
“They’re taking all the way from Georgia?” Matt asked.
“Seems so,” Brandon responded. “We been working on this map. I made a copy.”
Theirs was even better. The bird’s eye views the snipers contributed filled in a lot.
Matt said, “Here’s a copy of all the family phone numbers. And a letter briefing on everything I know. But I gotta tell ya, about Emily …” That was when he dropped the bomb on the father-to-be with a jailhouse girlfriend.
Brandon went berserk.
Chris hissed, “Stop kicking up a fuss, boy. Gonna get us caught.”
Darsi calmly said without turning his head, “Pell, chill out.”
4.
Shenandoah Valley, Virginia.
Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center, or Mount Weather Emergency Assistance Center, or MWEAC, aka High Point Special Facility, or SF, or High Point Special Facility, or HPSF, or Western Virginia
Office of Controlled Conflict Operations.
These, and probably more, were the many names for another Cold War bunker complex dug into a mountain as part of the Continuance Of Government, or COG plan in case of a nuclear war. COG was a subheading under the Continuity of Operations Plan. Mount Weather was under the domain of the Department of Homeland Security, DHS, and subheading the Federal Emergency Management Agency, or FEMA.
Mazy hoped for a manual or at least a chart to keep all that straight. FEMA, everybody knew, but a lot of Americans thought DHS was a British shipping company. Most civilians called it Homeland, or a few jokingly said Fatherland Security.
Just as with Raven Rock, forest surrounded the Cheyenne Mountain-like entrance, and the five-foot-thick steel giant blast door, aka portal, stood open. People busily moved about, and small vehicles traveled to and from. The only difference seemed to be not as many military ZBDU-wearing people. Vastly more civilian attire.
They had seen from the helicopter a complex of buildings, which looked like any number of unattractive building complexes in America. Except it had better and larger roads than most. It was the aboveground FEMA location on top of the mountain.
A civilian met them and led them through a labyrinth of corridors, making chitchat with them.
He asked about their helicopter flight over, which felt about ten seconds long going from the Pennsylvania Appalachian Mountains to the Virginia Appalachian Mountains.
Mazy had been assigned by Ben for small talk detail. The one thing which never happened in the Zone was chitchatting small talk. “How was your trip? Having a good day so far?” Nope, never happened.
Perhaps the civilian had done some kind of tours of the facility in the Before. Or maybe he was just really excited to be there and he was geeking out over the facility. He told them Mount Weather was forty-five miles from Washington, DC. Check, made sense since the Big Wigs of civilian government would come here in a scary situation.
The guy prattled on further.
“There’s an on-site 90,000 gallon per day sewage treatment plant and two 250,000 gallon above-ground storage tanks which are intended to support a population of two hundred for up to thirty days. Although the facility is designed to accommodate several thousand people with sleeping cots for 2,000, only POTUS, their Cabinet –” he said in a politically correct way, avoiding gender-based language “– and the Supreme Court are provided private sleeping quarters. For continuity of government or COG purposes, senior officials are divided into Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie teams. Original plans were for one team to remain in Washington while another relocates here to Mount Weather, and the third disperses to other relocation sites. However, two teams relocated further west to an undisclosed location in our current crisis.”
