by Jones, K. J.
“Are you?”
“What?”
“Alright? All of you?”
“Not getting you.”
“Sure. I’ll go back to tell them. Oh, um, are the hostiles dead?”
“Yeah. Shit. Um. Just remembered. Go check on the gay house. I thought Stanton ran. Go find him.”
In the fresh air, Matt walked halfway to the gay house before he realized he was being sent to tend to the homosexual. “Shit.” Orders were orders, and it made sense to send the medic, so he sucked it up.
“Hello?” he called at the front door. A push on the oak and it swung open. “Shit.”
A fastidiously antique decorated home. Plaster walls riddled with bullet holes. Blood splatter. Furniture wreckage. He found the body of Manuel. “Stanton! Show yourself.”
A full search of the house. Serious antiques everywhere. The Browning remained on the piazza. “Amazing.” A functioning relic.
He searched the garden. No signs of Stanton. Nor any blood illuminated by his flashlight.
“Where the fuck are you?”
He walked back through the house. “Where are you?” Stanton could have taken off into the streets and be anywhere.
But since he didn’t seem the most emotionally stoic, he’d probably get himself to the Star Gate House.
However, orders were orders, and Matt was ordered to find him.
He could be injured. He may need medical care.
A sound drew Matt’s attention to a cupboard in the kitchen. Robert lay dead beside a turned over table. Gun still in his hand. He had been shot at least three times in the chest. The number of bullet holes through the kitchen told it was an OK Corral type fight.
“You went out fighting, brother.”
A strange sound from the cupboard under the sink.
Prepared for it to be rats, Matt lowered his riffle and took up his sidearms. Cursing that he hadn’t put on any ZBDUs, not even leather gloves, this could go wrong for him in so many ways. He opened one side of the double doors with his left while aiming with his right.
Stanton. Pale. Shaking. Terrified. Scrunched up among cleaning supplies.
“There you are. Come on out.”
Nothing. Not even a look at him. Stanton had shell shock.
Matt touched his shoulder.
Stanton jerked and screamed.
“Whoa, whoa, calm down.”
Stanton surged into Matt’s arms. He wept.
“Um. Get the fuck off me. We’re not friends.”
But he was so pitiful.
Matt softened. “Are you injured?”
No indication of injury.
Stanton’s gaze went to Robert. He screamed again.
“Shhh. Come on, outta there. Stand up.”
Stanton didn’t move. Matt sighed. He put his arm over the thinner man’s shoulder and pulled him along.
“Let’s go to the house. Okay?”
Dealing with Stanton made him forget to report that Phebe, Tyler, and apparently Ben as well, had gone to the Darkside. He brought his patient into the Star Gate House. A crowd gathered.
It was Peter’s turn for Stanton to surge at to be held and protected. “Yeah, there, there.” Peter patted his back. “Look who we have for you. Angela.”
She glared at Peter but took Stanton anyway and walked him into the house.
“Couldn’t have been Robert to survive, huh?”
Mazy slapped Peter in the back of the head.
“Hey!”
“You are a wrong man.”
“We got dead weight with this guy.”
“Be sensitive.”
“Um, no. Let me check the Magic Eightball to see if that is foreseen.”
Matt remembered what he wanted to tell them. “They’re chopping off heads.”
“Who is?” Mazy asked.
“The three. Ben, Ty, and Pheebs.”
“But they’re okay?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“They won?”
“Yup.”
Peter said, “Then I’m not seeing a problem.”
“They’re cutting off their heads. Henderson and them.”
Peter smiled. A laugh followed. “Chris will be proud.”
“They’re cutting off heads?” Brandon’s face reflected horror.
“Oh, God,” Peter moaned. “Why couldn’t the zom apoc happen just with Boomers and GenX? Before such generation sensitivities started,” he stated mockingly. He looked at Emily. “These are the people with the Nazi room.”
“I’d cut off their heads too.”
“Em!” her boyfriend reprimanded.
“I am not going to have a rebirth of that shit, Brandon. The only good Nazi is a dead Nazi, period.”
Peter chuckled. Apparently, the two Millennials weren’t exactly on the same page.
* * *
“I could smell them.” Phebe mashed a head onto a stake on the front lawn of Henderson’s house.
“You smelled them?” Ben smiled. “In the dark?”
“Yeah. I was hiding under a table. I could smell it was not one of my own. And I heard his feet in front of me. So I cut his hamstring.”
“That was the scream. Okay. That’s awesome!” He doubled laughing.
Tyler said, “Pheebs got a superpower.” He mashed a head on a stake.
6.
“Severed heads on stakes, really?” Peter laughed.
“You are just jealous,” Phebe responded.
“Um, yeah. When do I get to do that? It’s so retro tribal. Very Iron Age Celtic of you, babe.”
“I thought so.” She waved at the flies collecting on the heads.
“But not too warding off in this location. You think, babe?”
“Where else?”
“Where are bad guys coming from?”
“We don’t know. The options are by land or by sea.”
“So, put the heads there.”
“Where?”
“I dunno. How about one head by land and two by sea? It worked for Paul Revere.”
“Yeah. A little bit different from what he did.”
“Nah.”
“Want help getting inside?”
“It took me eight years to walk here. We really need to get a golf cart for me.”
“Come on. I’ll help you. Arm over the shoulder. You get to see the Nazi room.”
“Ooh. I haven’t seen one of those in real life.”
“When you get stronger, you can chop off heads too.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“You really sharpened the hell out of that machete blade.”
“Helped ya, huh?”
“Didn’t know it could cut like that.”
“This retro tribal warrior thing you’re doing is really hot, babe.”
The house, now lit by the rising sun, was decorated ala Ethan Allen. Until they reached a large room on the third floor.
“Whoa,” exclaimed Peter.
A huge red and black Third Reach flag hung vertically from the ceiling. Mannequins wore SS uniforms. Glass display cases, the kind normally seen in museums, displayed various artifacts of the war. The glass broken open. Knives removed for current usage. Not much else was practical.
“This dude was actually married?” Peter looked around with awe. “Most men can’t even get a man cave.”
Tyler popped up. He wore an old SS helmet.
“There’s a look for ya,” said Peter.
“It’s stupid. I think I'm gonna use it as my piss pot.”
“Make sure it’s sealed then.”
“Yeah,” Phebe said. “You have to clean it up otherwise.”
“Is there anything from the Allies in here?” Peter asked.
“Ben said there ain’t no allied stuff.”
“Ty,” Phebe reprimanded.
He sighed. “Ben said there aren’t any. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
Peter investigated closer. “Did this guy not get the memo our side fought the Nazis?” He t
ook a cap off a mannequin. It held a double skulls pin. “I do like that the Nazis dressed for the occasion.” He turned the front of the cap to her.
“Hmm. Yet somehow they didn’t know they were the bad guys.”
Chapter Four
1.
Phebe’s turn to make the psychiatric nurse rounds to the bedrooms. Two of the easiest things to find in rich people’s houses were antidepressants and vitamins. First stop, Eric.
For some reason she couldn’t begin to understand, depression had crept back into the Star Gate House since the upbeat victory a few days ago over Henderson and company.
Eric sat up when she pulled back the curtain and let sunlight in. His mattress lay on the floor. No box spring. Empty water bottles and a jar of peanut butter beside the mattress. No other furniture.
“What are they?” he asked.
His hair stuck up in several directions. A beard grew spotty on his face.
“Things to make you feel better?”
“What if I don’t want to feel better?”
“Then we come in here and kick your ass. How’s that for an alternative?”
“Fine. I’ll take ‘em.”
“Antidepressant. B vitamins. And vitamin D.”
“That supposed to do something?”
She handed him a water bottle. “Take ‘em.”
“Yes, ma’am. If the ancestors want me too.”
As he took his pills, she looked around, wondering if the ancestors were here.
No matter his mental state, Eric was a better patient than Stanton. Crumpled up tissues surrounded Stanton’s bed – a four-poster, grand bed. He had a furnished room.
“Have you used all the boxes of tissues?”
“My life has lost all meaning.”
“Well, then. Take these anyway.”
“In some hope that I could ever recover from this trauma?”
“Stanton.” She sighed. “I’ll send women in here with wooden spoons to beat you if you don’t take them?”
“Violence is never the answer.”
“Around here, it is. Take ‘em.”
“You are an intimidating woman.”
“I try to be. It’s on my list of personal goals.”
“Darling, you have achieved your goal.” He swigged water to make the pills go down. “Now, may I rest in peace?”
“No. Clean up this place and return to the living downstairs.”
“I cannot bear it.”
“Whatever.”
She left his bedroom door open, despite his yelling for her to close it. Sympathetic over losses was not on her agenda today.
Onto her own bedroom.
Peter wasn’t in the bed. A fire crackled. The temperature a little too warm for her taste. She walked around the loveseat. He had his whole long body on it. Feet hanging off the arm. He stared at the fireplace.
“Your serotonin levels are low.”
He said nothing.
“Why’d you make a fire?”
“Something to stare at, since there’s no TV.”
“C’mon, take these.”
“Is there a cyanide pill in there?”
“Don’t be dramatic, or I’ll have you bunk in with Stanton.”
“Who?”
“Screamy gay guy. If your ass was up, you’d remember who I was talking about. Sit up and take your meds, mister.”
“Why?”
“To feel better and get going.”
“Why should I? It won’t help.”
She sighed. Another difficult patient. “Drug withdrawal makes your serotonin level drop. That would make a person very depressed. Or in your case, apparently, up and down. Serotonin is the happy neurotransmitter.”
“I don’t deserve to be happy.”
“Oh, God.”
“Ya know, a little sympathy, a little nurturing, could go a long way.”
“Not around here. We got a lot of stuff to do daily. We need personnel. Three depressed people in their beds and then there’s Chris and around the clock with him. We don’t have enough people to secure the perimeter of our territory on top of everything else. We’re stretched too far. It’s a lot of territory. We just finally got the stank fridge out of the kitchen.”
“Are you blaming Chris for being unconscious? He’s sick.”
“I am not blaming anyone,” she said through clenched teeth. “Take your pills, please.”
“What are they?”
“Gabapentin. Cymbalta, which helps with pain and depression. Vitamins B and D.”
“Doesn’t that make me a pill head going from one kind of pill to another?”
“Sit up and take these pills. Here’s your water. Have you been drinking enough water?”
“Stop nagging me.”
“Peter Timothy Sullivan. I am about to lose patience with you.”
“You can go away if I bother you.”
“You can take your damn pills.”
“Go away.”
She bellowed, “Take ‘em now!”
“Shit. Fine.”
He sat up. Downed all of them with a chaser of water. Then opened his mouth to be a wise ass. “All gone.”
“Tonguing them won’t help.”
“I swallowed ‘em. Shit. Man. I should’ve impregnated a nicer woman.”
She headed to the door. “Yeah? Well, a nicer woman wouldn’t have you.”
“Women love me.”
“Not in this house. Get up and get some food.”
“Fucking bring me some.”
“Dream on, buddy.”
She went next to the attic door and climbed the old wooden steps. It was her shift in the sniper’s nest, relieving Ben so he could eat and take a nap.
A nap was about it with Ben the insomniac.
All the glass had been removed from the dormer windows so the SASS riffle could point out in multiple directions.
“Your vitamins are waiting downstairs.”
“Oh. Good.”
Finally, someone positive.
“How are they?” he asked.
“Terrible and being melodramatic.”
“Glad it’s you dealing with them.”
“I could resort to threatening to shoot them.”
“They may want to be shot, so not a good threat.”
“See how I don’t get this?”
“I’ve been there.”
“Then, Ben, maybe you can talk to my husband-man and get his ass in gear. He’s back in the dumps.”
“It’s rough when you’ve lost men under you. Whenever losing buddies.”
She took the riffle from him. He stood and she took the chair at the rectangular window opening.
“Why aren’t you depressed then?” She looked through the scope.
“I wasn’t in charge. It would come down harder on him. And my mind seems to have gone somewhere else.”
“What do you mean?” She turned around to look up at his face.
“Feels more like a cold simmering rage. And numbness. I feel no empathy anymore.”
“Hmm.” She returned to the scope. “None at all?”
“Only towards you guys.”
“Good. Hate the sniper lacking empathy for me.”
“Yeah. That could go wrong in so many ways.”
2.
Chris was awake.
Dr. Jenkins wouldn’t allow them to see him. He was too weak for company.
“I should be allowed to visit the big meathead,” Peter complained. He had made the journey downstairs for food when the doctor came in.
“It would take you an hour to get there,” Tyler said.
“Look, small fry. I’d use you as my cane.”
“I’m not your cane, old man.”
Peter’s jaw dropped in the offense. “Did you get that from my shrewish wife?”
“Jewish?”
“No, shrewish.”
“What does that mean?”
“We gotta get you a dictionary. Or a universal translator or something.”
3.
The metal WWII helmet sat on the dining room table. Tyler was right. It looked more like a chamber pot than something to put on the head. The chin strap had decayed away. The lightning SS emblems had faded but not disappeared.
“That thing gives me the creeps,” said Emily. “That whole fucking room is horrible.”
“You went in?” Phebe sipped her milk-less, heavily sweetened coffee.
The first floor was quiet. .
“Yeah. I was curious. Wish I hadn’t. I’m not sure which was more disturbing, the beheadings or the room.” Emily rocked her head back and forth as she weighed the pros and cons. “The room. Especially since the guys are taking stuff out of it and playing with it.”
“Glad you made that decision.”
“Huh?”
“No, nothing. Preferred it when they played with the Star Wars room of that other house.”
“They broke everything.”
“The plastic lightsabers didn’t stand a chance against us.”
“What’s with these rich people and their strange collections?”
“I don’t know. But a life-sized R2D2 is pretty cool.” Phebe gestured to the robot sitting in the corner of the dining room.”
“Yeah. That really adds to the antique décor.”
“It just needs batteries.”
Emily laughed. “What about that S & M room in that one house?”
“They were into some freaky stuff.”
“The swing? Oh, my God.”
Phebe laughed. “The guys were trying to picture how that worked.”
“I told Brandon no, no way, man. Not happening.”
“I mean, you find vibrators and all kinds of shit in people’s bedrooms, but never a whole room dedicated to getting their freak on.”
“It’s just unfortunate we don’t find rooms filled with useful things.”
“You don’t consider Han Solo’s blaster useful? It lit up and made the blaster sound.”
“Oh, yeah. You and the overgrown children shooting at each other with that obnoxious noise was the highlight of my life. I try to forget it when you resort to their level.”
“Resort? How do you know I don’t actually live at that level?”
Emily looked her in the eyes. “Please, don’t tell me you do.”
“Ok. I won’t then. Except for this. I want to find a Doctor Who room. That’s on my wish list.”
“A what?”
Phebe rolled her eyes so hard her head went backward. “You do not know who Doctor Who is? David Tennant? The best Doctor ever. In my opinion. Albeit, that could be fighting words in some quarters. Why are you staring at my second head?”
