Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I)

by Andrews, Linda

  That didn’t bear thinking about. Acid shot into David’s throat, and the piece of potato felt like a brick in his stomach. He quickly scanned the paper. Nothing about the bites being infectious. But the bug had to be in there to spread the disease and you could get it through inhaling it. Damn. Maybe he should call Doc and ask. Later, when he was alone. He didn’t want to worry the kid uselessly. “Use the Band-Aids to cover the scabs and stop picking at them.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major.” Steering with his elbow, Robertson rolled his sleeve down.

  David wiped his hand on his pants then stirred his stew. His appetite had fled at the sight of those bites. He forced one bite down, then another. God knew when he’d get his next meal. Viruses, bugs and bites, oh shit! Still, if it were a bug, then maybe they could combat it while it was on the surface. “Some antibiotic cream wouldn’t hurt.”

  Robertson flashed his pearly whites. “Now you sound like my mom, Big D.”

  “Can your mom kick your ass?”

  “Yours and mine both.” The private signaled their intention to exit the freeway. “With one hand behind her back.”

  David shoveled in the last bites before drinking the rest of the tasteless meal. “That must be where you get your mean streak.”

  “Gonna have to roll down the window to get some of the love outta the cab, Big D.”

  “You do that.” Licking the fork clean, he dropped it into the MRE bag before adding the extra items into his cargo pocket. He dropped the roast pouch into the garbage.

  Stopping at the light, Robertson waved his hand at the Marines in the intersection. Water dropped onto the cab from the humming air conditioning unit. “Do you think the CO went to ground because he had a few bug bites?”

  Colonel Asshole was enough of a coward to run. But… “He didn’t know when he took his leave.”

  The light changed to green and the private steered the truck toward the tank. “He’ll be pretty pissed when he finds them shoes.”

  David rolled down his window and held out a flyer as they turned left. “We need to file a report about those shoes.”

  The Marine sitting near the hatch leaned over and grabbed the paper. “Well if it ain’t the bluebird of happy news.”

  The stew rose up to sour his mouth. If the Marines had communicated via the radio, then any citizen with a scanner would know. Christ, there’d be panic in the streets. All of them would be at risk. “You knew I was coming?”

  “Got a BOLO.” The Marine dropped the paper into the tank and pulled out his cell phone. A photo of the handout stared back at him from the screen. “Word is lots of folks must be listening for your report on those DBs, Sergeant Major.”

  Ah, so he wasn’t the only one to think of the scanners and ham radio operators. Too bad someone hadn’t thought of it before announcing the dead bodies or DBs. At least word of the plague and hanta are getting around to the armed forces with the speed of the closest cell tower. “Keep your ears on.”

  David motioned for Robertson to proceed, folded the papers and stuffed them between his seat and the console.

  “Big D, how come we have to report those shoes missing? It’s not like anyone wanted them.”

  “I don’t want any of you tossed in the stockade for stealing women’s shoes.” Neither did he want them returned. Nope. As far as he was concerned, the colonel deserved every shoe. The truck lumbered down the road. Here and there, people hung grand reopening banners and washed windows.

  Everyone stopped what they were doing when they spied the truck.

  The hair on the back of David’s neck stood up. Damn, maybe they shouldn’t have driven the refrigerated truck to meet his men. But they had to know, dammit! What if some of them had bites like Robertson but felt a slight tickle at the back of their throat?

  “And the CO?” Robertson coasted toward the light.

  “I’ll take care of the CO when he comes back.” If he does. Although God only knew what David could do? There were too few officers to think he’d get something other than a reprimand in his file. And shooting him wasn’t an option.

  They turned into the neighborhood. Weeds, plants and trees choked the yards. The scent of rot weighted the morning. Children and adults scavenged through the piles of garbage. One child of twelve picked up a rat by its tail. The creature curled its body and scratched the air before the kid chucked it into a bucket on the ground. Another child slammed the lid down.

  Christ Almighty. They were eating the rats—the rats that could be infected with Plague or Hanta. The twelve-year-old scratched his arm before springing through the refuse and fishing another one out. David fingered the papers. Maybe he should hand out the flyers.

  “Look at all this garbage, Big D.” Robertson slowed the truck. “If they do as Doc suggests, they’ll burn the whole neighborhood to the ground.”

  Further down the road, a crowd gathered around his unit. On the ground, one man stood guard—his hands resting lightly on his M-4. Two stood in the open truck beds, surrounded by sacks of rations, their rifles in their hands. On the other side of the vehicle, more of his men would be standing guard watching all sides for a sneak attack. The group leader, Ray, had his gun on his back and a table between himself and the others. Some civilians stood by their portion of rice, wheat, beans and assorted canned rations. Why hadn’t they moved on? They always moved on after receiving their supplies.

  David checked his M-4—one in the chamber and a full clip. He slung his weapon over his shoulder as the truck slowed.

  The soldier in charge held his hands loosely at his sides, far enough away from his rifle to be nonthreatening, yet close enough if he needed his weapon. He faced a burly man in a ripped red flannel shirt and jeans straining under a beer gut. The citizen motioned to the soldier’s face mask then to the crowd. Heads nodded.

  “Once I draw attention off Ray, I want you to text him a photo of the flyer. Understood?”

  With his M-4 across his lap, Robertson tugged his phone from his breast pocket. “Yes, Sergeant Major.”

  Fingering the face masks by the door, David decided against wearing one. No one seemed to be coughing. Yet. And he’d bet his monthly salary that the face masks were the source of concern. He jumped to the street, slammed the door and strode forward. The smell of meat cooking drifted over the stench. Could you get plague from eating infected rats? “Problems?”

  Ray came to attention. “Some folks are a little spooked out by the masks, Sergeant Major.”

  David faced Beer Gut. With his hands behind his back he signaled for Ray to fall back. There was a squeak of metal when the soldier climbed into the bed of the supply truck. A rift from AC/DC’s Back in Black came from the truck before it was quieted.

  Ignoring the ringtone, David kept his attention on the civilian. He didn’t remember the man’s name but he recognized his sort. A troublemaker. He was the slob who claimed he was feeding extra mouths yet never produced the children. He’d also tried to alter his ration card. “Is that a fact?”

  With a heave of his lungs, Beer Gut hefted his doughy stomach up before it jiggled low again. “If this dust pneumonia is as bad as the news says, we need masks, too. We have rights, you know.”

  God save him from windbags and their rights. Still a few civilians nodded as well. So the malcontent was breeding discord. Assholes always acted up when they thought the good times were coming back. “We are required by law to wear masks when outside for more than four hours.”

  “What about us?” Beer Gut’s flying squirrel arms flapped as he spread them wide. “We’re out trying to find enough supplies to live on, and our children need fresh air. Yet by your very words, you’re risking their health by not providing masks.”

  The crowd hemmed in closer. David resisted the urge to swing his M-4 around and discharge it. Instead he held up his hand, not touching the man, but clearly defining his protective zone. “Only soldiers have been affected by the dust pneumonia and so far, no one in Arizona has. This is a federal law for the armed
forces as we are on shift for twelve hours or more.”

  A couple in the back picked up their supplies and wandered away. A group of four on the left followed. The handful of others muttered amongst themselves.

  David couldn’t make out their words, but he watched their body language. Their arms hung loosely at their sides and their features didn’t have that pinched look from a moment ago. “I would recommend you allow your children out for only an hour at a time. If you or they need to be out longer, then you may wish to cover your mouth with your washable face masks.”

  “Washable face masks?” Beer Gut’s face turned purple and his belly swelled like a bloated corpse baking in the sun. “I never received any face masks.”

  Instead of smashing his fist through the gin blossoms in the other man’s nose, David turned his palm face up. “May I see your ration card, sir?”

  Beer Gut clutched his shirt pocket. “Why? Are you going to take it? Deprive me of my fair share of rations if I don’t?”

  A few in the audience rolled their eyes, gathered their belongings and strolled away.

  God, he’d love to take it from the bastard then feed his teeth to him. “Sir, my men have a very long day ahead of them and there are many other good folks waiting for their rations. Now, hand me your card.”

  Beer Gut tugged it out of his breast pocket and slapped the paper book into David’s hand.

  “Thank you.” Ignoring the tingling in his hand, he opened the book to the first page and noted the name. Dirk Benedict. No doubt a relation of that famous American traitor. “You signed for three washable face masks on October fifth.”

  “Well.” Beer Gut huffed. “Those are all gone now.”

  David held the book out to him. “Then we’ll make a note and send out an extra one with your rations, next week. Anyone else need replacement masks?”

  No one raised their hand.

  “But that’s not fair. I should have three.” Beer Gut flicked his ration card. “Three is my fair share.”

  “You had your share, sir. Now, you’re taking someone else’s.” David stepped around the man and surveyed the rest of the crowd. “As for the rest of you, find and clean your masks. Wear them if you’d feel more comfortable doing so and tune in to the emergency broadcast station, they’ll alert you if you should be wearing the masks.”

  Beer Gut’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And the truck, Referman? If we don’t have anything to fear, how come you’re driving around the meat wagon?” He wagged a sausage thick finger at David. “And don’t bother lying. We’ve all heard the scanner. We know that DB’s are dead bodies.”

  The dispersing crowd halted and turned back toward him and his unit. Once again ringmaster, Beer Gut preened under the attention.

  David bit the inside of his jaw. If only his gun was in his hand… “As I’m sure you’ve heard on the scanner, our Marines had a hostile encounter with some gangbangers.”

  The crowd shifted, their eyes darting nervously from side to side.

  Good, they had remembered the bogeyman walked among them. “There were twenty fatalities. And unfortunately, this morning the bodies of two innocent bystanders who got caught in the crossfire were discovered as well. Since SAWs, tanks and flame throwers make quite a mess of flesh and bone, the authorities have asked us for help. Any more questions?”

  David eyed the audience. They bought it. Hell, who wouldn’t? It might very well be true.

  With one last glare, Beer Gut wheeled away his wagon full of goods.

  Ray jumped to the ground and began folding the table. “Half of us have bites, Sergeant Major. Even more of the civilians do. You think the black scabs indicate the plague?”

  “Don’t know, but you know what to look for. Everyone concerned should check with the medic when we get back to base, keep the bites covered and treat them with antibiotic cream. Anyone sick?”

  “Not that we can see.” Ray tossed the table into the bed. “We telling them?”

  David glanced at the retreating civilians. “Hell no! You saw how they reacted to the masks.”

  Ray rocked back on his heels. Hope and fear wrestled across his lean face. “Was the fresh meat really just collateral damage?”

  “That’s what we’re telling everyone at every stop.” God help them if panic sets in. David dug his MRE package out of his pocket, fished out the goodie pack, and popped out a piece of gum.

  “So you don’t know if…”

  “No.” Peppermint exploded across David’s tongue. “I’ll click the radio five times, if it is a positive.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major.” Ray swung up into the truck bed. By the time he sat down, the M-4 was across his lap and his finger near the trigger.

  David jogged back to the refrigerated truck and climbed into the cab before all three trucks moved out.

  ***

  “It’s déjà vu, all over again.” The cab shook as Robertson drew up next to the curb. Around them squatted mid-twentieth century homes with broken windowpanes, off-hinge doors, peeling paint and dirt lawns. In the front yard of one, Old Glory flew from a pristine white flag pole while bags of garbage lapped at her base—a metaphor for the more rampant rot. “And I don’t mean that in a good way.”

  David knew the place. Old Man Taylor’s house. Their distribution point for a neighborhood, lean on people yet high in crime. In their efforts to get the rations out faster, he might just have gotten the man killed. Sighing, he donned his face mask, jumped from the cab then trudged across the street. He hoped he was wrong.

  A local law enforcement official got out of the squad car, brass shield flashing on the LEO’s navy uniform and his hand on his pistol.

  David rested his hands on his M-4, his finger dancing on the edge of trigger. Behind him, the refrigeration unit hummed. The cop’s eyes widened. That’s right. My gun is bigger than yours.

  Too bad the LEO was eying the mask not the rifle. “Thought you boys would be used to the smell of bodies by now.”

  “We are.” Robertson sauntered toward them, processing kits in both hands. “We’re just not used to the smell of po-po.” Despite his mask, David saw his nose wrinkle. “Don’t you pansy-asses usually hightail it at the sight of a body?”

  David bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing. The private rebounded faster than a rubber ball moving at light speed. “What do you have?”

  “Two bodies.” LEO whipped a container out of his pocket and liberally smeared the Vicks under his nose. The skin glistened in the morning light. “Elderly male in the back yard. Elderly female down the street.” He pointed to a black lump against the chain link fence.

  “ID? Time of Death?”

  LEO wiped his finger on his pants leaving a dark streak on the fabric. “Completely hands off. I was told to leave it to the Refermen, er, the professionals.”

  David grunted. He hated pissing contests with men who had little dicks, especially with so much at stake. “Cause of death?”

  “Isn’t that what you boys figure out?”

  “Donut break is over, LEO.” Robertson dropped the cases on the ground and placed his fists on his hips. “Why don’t you do your job instead of expecting the army to do it for you.”

  “Look GI Jane—”

  “Enough!” David barked and both men jumped. The drill instructor voice had its uses. “Do the corpses show signs of infection?”

  “Infection?” Color fled LEO’s face as he held his hands over his nose and mouth. He stepped back toward his cruiser.

  “Yes. IN-FECT-SHUN.” Robertson dragged the word out.

  Green tinged LEO’s face. “You mean the Redaction is back?”

  Christ! David raked his hand through his crew cut. He hoped LEO didn’t puke on his scene. “Private.” Robertson passed him a flyer. David shoved it at the cop. “Read this and pass it around.”

  LEO snatched it up and held it at arm’s length. His eyes got wider the further down the page they traveled. “Shit! Plague? Here?”

  “Yes, carried b
y fleas on the rats.” David gestured to a family of large brown rats that munched on garbage while watching them.

  Robertson crossed his arms and deepened the pitch of his voice. “Have you been bitten?”

  “I’ve been sitting in this flea hole for three hours.” LEO began scratching his arms, thighs, neck and torso. “Of course, I’ve been bitten.”

  Robertson fished out a single dose of antibiotic cream and a few Band-Aids from his pocket. “Use this to cover them up.”

  “And this will cure it?”

  Robertson knocked over one of the cases and opened it. Removing one bunny suit, he handed it to David then kept the next one for himself. “Can’t hurt.”

  “Uh, about the bodies.” Using his teeth, LEO ripped open the cream. “I don’t know if they were infected or not, but it’s unlikely to be their COD. From what’s left of them, and there’s not much the rats haven’t eaten, they took a heavy beating, especially the old woman.”

  “Did you find their rations?”

  “None.”

  Damn. The food had gotten them killed. David hoped the scumbags were in the group that attacked the Marines last night. “Who called it in?”

  “Marines.” LEO squirted the cream on two red welts. “They went hunting their attackers last night and stumbled across these two.”

  Fear had loosened the man’s tongue. Too bad he couldn’t be cooperative under normal circumstances, but then again, this was the new normal. David shook out his bunny suit and stepped into the legs. “Do you know if they’ve been moved?”

  “Medic on duty checked for vitals.” LEO’s hands shook as he strapped on the Band-Aids. “I’ve got to go.” He dashed to his cruiser without waiting for approval.

  After zipping up his suit, David accepted a roll of duct tape from Robertson. “We process it as a crime scene.”

  Robertson wound the tape around his boots and pant legs, sealing him in. “You want to bag and tag the garbage?”

  “No, that would be useless evidence.” David sealed his wrists. “But if we’re lucky, they fought back and there’s trace evidence under their nails.”