In part, he felt rejected because he and Bryce had barely spoken since the incident in Buffalo. He wondered if embarrassment kept his brother from bringing up the subject, or Bryce still wanted revenge on the phantom known as Xavier. Metzger’s thoughts often strayed to the mysterious man as well, but for different reasons. He wanted to know why the man set up the prison schoolyard so quickly, because although people stooped to carrying out evil on one another, the school situation was a whole other level. It seemed to Metzger the man almost knew what he needed to do ahead of time, because the conversion of the property appeared to start almost immediately after the apocalypse.
Currently done with teaching and studies for the day, Metzger opted to walk outside around the base. Civilians were encouraged to leave any weapons in their bunk areas, so he left his swords and two sidearms secured in his footlocker at all times. He felt a bit naked without weaponry as the breeze picked up on the partly cloudy day. The perpetual winds that accompanied life on the waterfront wore him down, because simply existing among such elements wasn’t normal for most Americans. He questioned what the winter months would be like with icy water, piercing winds, and a mix of hail and snow pelting the base.
Not far from the airfield portion of the base, Metzger strolled in that direction, wondering if his new acquaintance had returned from whatever mission they sent the pilots on regularly. After he thanked their pilot in person for getting them back safely from Buffalo, a friendship began to blossom.
“Dan!” someone called to him.
Isabella spied him in the distance, and he changed direction to walk over to her. Because of his brother’s odd behavior on the Buffalo mission, Metzger hadn’t really spoken much to any of his family over the past week.
“What’s up?” he asked when they drew near.
“Not much,” she answered. “Just finished work for the day.”
“I see the dead have been thinning out,” he said, nodding toward the fence area where the dead often congregated when they reached the base.
“They’re talking about making a push to reclaim the city and give everyone their own quarters,” Isabella stated. “It’s bad enough we’re going to start running out of food and supplies, but you couple that with us living on top of one another, it’ll be unbearable.”
“No doubt,” Metzger commented.
“Look,” Isabella said with concern in her eyes, “I’ve noticed you and Bryce haven’t spoken much this past week. What’s going on?”
“That’s probably best discussed with him.”
“You know he doesn’t tell me the manly stuff,” Isabella said bitterly. “He thinks shielding me from the bullshit makes my life easier, but it just makes things worse.”
Metzger’s gaze traveled from the fence to the soldiers, sailors, and civilians crossing the base. He hoped his sister-in-law was right about living arrangements improving, because he hated sharing a building with four dozen other people. While the building provided a few common areas, much of it was simply rows of cots, old mattresses, or inflatable mattresses that didn’t always stay inflated through the night.
He’d noticed the National Guard moving their posts closer to the base, which indicated a change in military directives.
“What does Bryce say?” he asked, returning his attention to Isabella.
“He doesn’t say anything about the mission.” She paused. “Something happened between you two out there, didn’t it?”
“Bryce had a crazy idea, and I talked him out of it,” Metzger answered, leaving his words as vague as possible. “We made it home safe, and that’s the important thing.”
Isabella didn’t appear convinced.
“He’s been up nights,” she said. “There’s something he wants to do out there, and he won’t be contented until he finishes whatever it is.”
“Are you saying I should go along with his plan if the opportunity presents itself?”
“Anything is better than having him restless like this. I can tell this isn’t the Navy, and it’s not about the undead. There’s something personal gnawing away at him.”
Metzger wasn’t providing additional information, and Isabella sensed his reluctance to speak about the trip to Buffalo.
“Look, I’ve got to go pick up Nathan. Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t,” he promised.
Metzger gave her a quick hug before they parted ways. He walked in the direction of the hangar, finding a few Army enlisted men guarding the main entrance to the airstrip. They recognized him from previous visits and one produced a thin smile.
“The captain got in about an hour ago.”
“I thought I heard a plane land,” Metzger said. “Is he free?”
“I’ll check,” the second soldier said, ducking inside the gateway momentarily.
Metzger wasn’t entirely certain what led to him and Captain Scott Timmons speaking on a regular basis. It seemed Timmons wanted ways to pass the time on the base, and conversing with Metzger helped. When the younger man expressed an interest in learning more about flying, the pilot took to coaching him about some piloting basics. He explained from the beginning that each aircraft was different, and military aircraft couldn’t be flown without extensive training, so they stuck to terminology, general flying tips, and maintenance.
Whether he meant to or not, Metzger looked at the older pilot as a father figure of sorts, and Timmons taught him a lesson or two with each visit about flying. Military aircraft required hundreds of hours of class time for pilots, so the captain provided Metzger with general concepts about piloting that applied more to civilian aircraft. Even if they wanted to, the military couldn’t enforce a complete lockdown on the base that kept civilians from engaging with the military men and women, so Metzger reaped the benefits.
“He’s free,” the soldier reported, holding the gate open for Metzger, who nodded thanks before heading inside.
He walked around the corner, finding Timmons already heading his way, as though he didn’t necessarily want the civilian walking back to the area where most of the pilots congregated. Metzger understood the men often had missions and orders to discuss, so he wasn’t about to push his luck in any regard with the captain.
“Good to see you,” Timmons said, extending his hand, which Metzger shook vigorously.
“Likewise, sir.”
“Cut the ‘sir’ bullshit, son,” Timmons said, leading him toward any number of planes on the apron. “Call me Scott, or even Captain if you have to, but not sir.”
Metzger respected the man, so he didn’t want to address him inappropriately, but he also didn’t want Timmons upset with him.
“How have things been going?” the captain asked him as they walked past a helicopter and one of the two fighter jets currently housed at the base.
“Can’t complain,” Metzger replied. “The teaching thing isn’t too bad, but it’s a little mundane compared to surviving outside the walls.”
“I got a little taste of the infected in Buffalo,” Timmons said. “I wasn’t a big fan.”
“You apparently took care of business just fine.”
Timmons scoffed.
“My aim is a little rusty, so I had to let them come a little closer than I care to admit.”
Metzger knew the captain spent most of his younger years in the Knoxville, Tennessee area, only moving once he joined the Navy. He admitted what little instruction he received from his uncle, who flew planes to spray pesticides over farms, didn’t help a great deal when he entered flight school.
He proved to be a good instructor in his own right, spoon feeding Metzger a little information each time, often pointing out parts on nearby aircraft for illustration.
“What are we working with today?” Metzger inquired.
“This,” Timmons said, pointing to the mammoth plane they stood beneath.
Metzger
recalled it as the same transport plane the group took to and from Buffalo for the reconnaissance mission.
“Seems a little above my skill level,” Metzger said, staring up at the gray coloration that seemed to run forever, taking up a quarter of the landing strip.
“It’s a lot above your skill level. But a plane is a plane, son,” Timmons said, leading him back to the open hatch in the rear. “There are major differences between every model, and we spend weeks or months training on each one. If my bosses didn’t get too upset, I might be able to work with you on one of these non-combat planes.”
“Really?”
“I wouldn’t shit you,” Timmons stated with a serious expression before leading the way up the ramp. “You’re my favorite turd.”
***
Bryce Metzger wasn’t entirely certain why he got an invitation to join the joint military brass inside the largest convention room on the base until he met up with his ship’s captain. While men in uniform filed into the large room, Bryce stood with Dascher just a few steps from the door, conversing about the topic at hand.
“They have some answers about who’s responsible for the explosions,” Dascher said after Bryce asked why he was invited to such an exclusive meeting. “You’re responsible for a lot of those answers, so I insisted you be allowed to attend because you’re entitled to this information.”
“I don’t know about that, sir,” Bryce said, knowing only a handful of executive officers would be allowed to attend such an important meeting.
Typically, only the men and women in charge of making decisions received invitations to such major events.
“You belong here,” Dascher assured him. “We lost good men doing these recon assignments, so you deserve to see the fruits of your labor.”
Bryce nodded, and the two men walked inside, standing along one wall because every seat was occupied by someone with equal or higher ranks. Within a few minutes everyone had settled in, waiting for the presentation to begin, murmuring and whispering amongst themselves. A general named James McCall with the Army led the discussion, introducing himself and some of the officers flanking him. His hat sat on the conference table before him, and his gray hair remained closely cropped to his scalp. The general’s face appeared wrinkled, not from age, but from a life spent outdoors in both the field, and possibly leisure activities during his vacation time.
A computerized slideshow remained at its initial screen, projected on a blank, white wall where everyone could see clearly.
Because of the power shortage throughout the nation, meetings that easily could have taken place over a computer, or even a phone during better times, now required people to meet in person.
“We now know several facts about both the infection, both in how to combat it, and who caused the explosions that decimated major cities across the globe,” McCall began, calling up a flat image of the world with red dots occupying much more of the region than Bryce expected to see. “Thanks to no less than a dozen expeditions across the nation, and some cooperation with our neighbors to the north, we’ve carried out an investigation that delivered both names and possible locations for where we might find these folks.”
McCall nodded to an officer who pressed a button atop a remote control to forward the computer to the next slide. Basically a screen with equations, cellular diagrams, and a variety of atoms in different colors, the image made little sense to Bryce or most of the personnel occupying the room.
Chuckling, McCall thumbed toward the image projected on the wall.
“Doesn’t make any sense to me either,” the general admitted. “What matters, is our scientists are making headway with the formula. There’s no cure for death, so we can’t fix the pale stalker types out there, but our people feel confident they can create a formula that will stall, or stop, the infection from killing those who are bitten, or breathe any remnants of the chemical residue near these factories.”
Everyone nodded with satisfaction at the good news including Bryce and Dascher.
By now most everyone on the base understood the leader of the free world was indeed staying at the base with the combined military force. Only a few people reported sightings of the man, and from what Bryce understood, they frequently moved him from ship to ship to keep his location a secret for his safety.
Looking around, Bryce didn’t see him present, feeling as though the man who ultimately called the shots, that the military still protected, could at least make a token appearance at such an important meeting. For all they knew, the man might be dead and the higher ups in the military gave orders in the name of a specter to fulfil their own agendas.
“I know you all came here for the main event,” McCall stated, pushing the slideshow forward to a blank outline of the United States and Canada, smattered with more than two dozen red dots. “We’ve learned the identity of the man responsible for causing the shit storm around us. It took our people cross-referencing data from all of these different sites, but we now know who placed the trucks, and their cargo, in the right places at just the right time. He’s a French-Canadian named Jean Pierre Nadeau, eccentric millionaire, distributer of goods across the world, and extreme environmentalist.”
Everyone exchanged perplexed glances as an image of a head and shoulders professionally photographed image of a handsome man wearing a pure black shirt looked casually at the camera with a thin smile. He hardly looked like the type to execute a plan that incurred genocide across the globe with his sea blue eyes and full head of light brown hair.
Bryce felt like a racist after expecting a man wearing a turban who owned a chain of convenience stores to be the culprit. Even a disgruntled prepper seemed more plausible than a French-Canadian. He remembered a few of the South Park episodes in syndication where they depicted French-Canadians as evil beings, finding the joke now held true in this particular case.
“Don’t let this fool you,” McCall said, pointing forcefully to the projected image. “The man in this picture said many a time he thought people were killing the planet without regard for overpopulation, pollution, and the demise of thousands of species, both known and unknown to mankind. He worked as a chemist first and foremost, developing eco-friendly cleaners that he delivered across the world, sometimes for free in the name of charity to lesser developed nations. All of us were guilty for letting him slip past our defenses, and considering his resources, the man could literally be almost anywhere at the moment.”
McCall switched the slide back to the last image of North America, dotted with red in several areas between the United States and Canada.
“These are the areas where Nadeau could be hiding. They include his businesses, his residences, and places where his known associates lived or vacationed. We’re still looking into his projects prior to the apocalypse, thinking he might have built a secret bunker, or some chalet in the mountains, but without computers, the search will take time.”
A list of names and locations appeared on the wall with the next slide, and Bryce studied it, not expecting to find any useful information. He finished about half of the list when McCall spoke once more, turning his attention away from the list.
“We’re still combing through computers and journals we’ve found on his properties, and on those of his closest friends and business partners,” McCall stated for everyone’s benefit. “We don’t know if this was some grand conspiracy, or Nadeau acted alone. Unfortunately, he covered his tracks well, and our manpower is spread thin. I don’t have to tell you that communication is sketchy, because you’ve all experienced the woes of talking a town’s distance away, much less reaching our other bases.”
Bryce thought about satellite phones, but such devices were in short supply, and wouldn’t hold out indefinitely. The military was about to be set back two centuries regarding their communications, possibly requiring telegraphs and the Pony Express to reach other installations. Much of the world faced the same dilem
ma, able to communicate only in person or through notes, because they didn’t have technology better than a police radio.
“This effort is going to require some time,” McCall added. “We intend to find Nadeau, not only with the intention of bringing him to justice, but also for some answers. We want to know how he manufactured a chemical that brought about this result, and if this was actually his intention.”
“This seems like a lot of risk for answers we’ll probably receive from our scientists anyway,” one seated admiral said. “With our technology handicapped, isn’t this search a needle in a haystack?”
“I know what you’re all thinking,” McCall responded. “We’re wasting resources and risking lives, and for what? History is going to demand that we get justice for this tragic event, and our children and grandchildren will want to know that we did everything in our power to find a cure. This isn’t nearly as insurmountable as it sounds.”
Bryce listened, but his eyes returned to the image projected on the wall of the known friends and associates of the terrorist known as Nadeau. His eyes scanned the names and locations of each person until they froze on something he could not write off as coincidence.
Xavier Fournier, Buffalo, New York.
“No,” Bryce muttered, finding coincidence more difficult to believe in the apocalypse.
“What is it?” Dascher asked, giving him a quizzical look.
“I think one of those names is the guy my brother dealt with in New York.”
“When?”
“The prison school I told you about.”
Dascher nodded, and both men noticed more eyes shifting their way because no one else had spoken out of turn during the briefing.
“Can I help you gentlemen with something?” McCall asked directly, rather than waiting for one of his subordinates to speak up.
“Actually, sir,” Bryce said after clearing his throat, “I think I might be able to help you.”
The Undead Chronicles (Vol. 2): Darker Days Page 16
