Rise of the Dead

by Jeremy Dyson

  At the opposite end of the room from the door we just came through is another door, which Reynolds opens. We step into a concrete hallway and follow Reynolds to the left until he stops and opens a door on the right. He leads us into a spacious room with a kitchenette, television, a few couches, a ping pong table and a long mess table.

  "This used to be the missile bay. There's sleeping quarters off each of those doors," Reynolds says. "It's pretty cramped, but this is the most secure facility in the area. We have food, electricity and satellite communications with what few remaining military installations are operational."

  Some of the soldiers head over to the fridge and pass around cans of beer. The air smells stale, but I am relieved to finally be in a place that seems impossible to breach. We are actually safe here. The muscles in my shoulders relax and I feel like a giant weight that I have carried since the beginning of this mess has finally been lifted. I walk over to one of the doors and open it to find spartan living quarters, only a bunk bed and an alcove for storing clothes.

  "The boys will get you some chow and make sure you get settled," says Reynolds. He looks at Fletcher, who gives him a nod. "I'm going to show Agent Lorento to the com room to see if we can reach Washington and New Mexico." Lorento follows him out the door, pausing to look back at the doctor as he studies his reflection in the screen of the television on the wall.

  The old man has clearly lost it. Seeing his strange behavior, I remind myself not to relax too much. He seems elderly and frail, and if he suddenly kicks the bucket, things could get nasty in here in a hurry. Aside from that, he is definitely not thinking straight, which I already know can mean trouble for everyone.

  Aside from Lieutenant Fletcher and the co-pilot, Wiz, seven other soldiers flew in the helicopter with us. I recognize a couple of them from the night before, when we saw Fletcher outside the barracks. Since a few guys don't seem as big as some of the other soldiers, I assume they are part of the helicopter crew. I haven't really been paying much attention to any of the insignia on their uniforms, but it isn't too hard to figure out. The other five soldiers all look rough and fit, and I have no doubt any one of them could kick my ass. These guys have to be the SEALS. The SEALS stick together, and the helicopter crew hangs together. While there is a mutual respect, there is still a definite division.

  "Throw a couple pizzas in, Hernacki," Fletcher orders one of the SEALS. "And don't drink all my beer."

  The youngest looking of the SEALS grabbed two boxes of frozen pizzas and turned on an electric toaster in the kitchenette.

  "You guys okay with that?" Fletcher asks us.

  Just the mention of the word 'pizza' has me salivating. Quentin looks over at the other soldiers, then to me, and without a word, he walks into the room behind me and lays down on a bunk.

  "That would be perfect," says Danielle. "I'm starving."

  "You two want a beer?" he offers. He hands us each an ice-cold can. It's cheap beer. I probably would have even turned it down a couple of days ago, but a lot has changed since then. I crack the top and taste the cool foam that bubbles out the opening.

  The room begins to fill with the aroma of the warming pizzas. Chuck, Danielle, and I sit around on the couches. The helicopter crew plays some ping pong while the SEALS sit around the table with a deck of cards. I watch the old man as he moves from door to door, opening each one and then scanning the identical sleeping quarters as though he was looking for something.

  Within a few minutes of drinking the beer, I can even relax a little more.

  Chuck tells us about how they were working on special ops training with the SEALS and the stealth helicopters. They flew mock missions around the Chicago area at night, then monitored the media and internet to gauge how well they could avoid detection in an urban environment.

  "Nobody ever gets to see these helicopters we've been flying around in. There's only a dozen or so out there," he says.

  He smiles at Danielle, and I can tell he is hoping his story has impressed her. She smiles back.

  "So what about this place?" I ask. "How'd you end up here?"

  "We had to have someplace low profile to keep the Blackhawks. Since this place isn't even officially in service, we got clearance from the Army to conduct training exercises here this month."

  "If all this is top secret, or whatever, should we even be here?" asks Danielle.

  "I doubt it matters anymore," he says. "They got bigger problems now."

  Hernacki brings over one of the pizzas and sets it down on the table. I extract a slice for myself and bite into the warm, melted cheese. It's so hot that I burn my tongue, but I don't even mind. I devour the piece in five bites, wash it down with a swig of beer and then take another slice.

  The room grows quiet as everyone eats hungrily.

  "Don't get too used to this," says Fletcher.

  I savor the last of the crust, sucking the oil and parmesan crumbs from my fingertips.

  "So how long will the supplies here last?" I ask.

  "Not very long," he says. "For all of us, maybe a couple of weeks. We won't be here that long, though."

  "Why not?" I ask.

  "We still have orders from Washington to get Charlie Foxtrot over there to New Mexico." He points to the old man who is now in the room where Quentin is resting on the bed, and stands there staring down at the sleeping man.

  "That seems like a waste of time," says Danielle.

  “Indeed, it does," says Fletcher. "But orders is orders."

  Reynolds and Agent Lorento return to the room. Lorento sighs and goes over to retrieve the old man and ushers him across to another room.

  "Bad news," says Reynolds. "Washington has gone dark."

  Fletcher looks up at him.

  "I can't get anyone at the White House or the Pentagon," says Reynolds.

  "What about New Mexico?" asks Fletcher.

  "Still operational, but it sounds like it's FUBAR. Some private led a mutiny. Fragged the commanding officers. Told me he is running the show now."

  "So?" asks Fletcher. "What now?"

  "We have standing orders," says Reynolds.

  "Fuck orders," mutters Fletcher. "There is nobody left to give a damn if we follow orders or not."

  Agent Lorento exits the sleeping quarters, closing the door behind her. Fletcher and Reynolds stop talking as she approaches.

  I shoot a glance over to Danielle to catch her attention and she grimaces, which I take to mean she is as concerned about our situation as I am. Since we were rescued and brought to the Naval Station, every decision has been made for us. We had no control over anything, and the military personnel have these conversations like we aren't even in the room. It seems like we are mostly just extra cargo they have been ordered to transport.

  "So when do we leave?" Lorento asks Reynolds.

  Reynolds glances over at Fletcher and says, "2200 hours."

  Fletcher groans.

  "Is there a problem?" asks Lorento. She folds her arms in front of her chest and shifts her weight to one leg. The room grew silent as everyone listens. Even Quentin gets back off his bunk and ambles through the doorway to see what is going on.

  "There is," says Fletcher. "I ain't flying to New Mexico."

  "Lieutenant," Reynolds starts, but Lorento cuts him off.

  "You have direct orders from Admiral Livingston to get me and Dr. Schoenheim to Area 51 by any means necessary."

  "That was yesterday," says Fletcher. "The situation has changed."

  "Nothing's changed," insists Lorento. "The order was never rescinded."

  "Probably because there isn't anyone alive to rescind it, lady," Fletcher growls. "The situation has changed. You don't have a pilot."

  "Check your tone, lieutenant," orders the Lt. Commander. "Respect the chain of command."

  "Reynolds," Fletcher says. "With all due respect, you need to wake the fuck up. This whole mission is FUBAR just like Dr. Charlie Foxtrot in there. If I thought there was any chance that by getting him to New Mexico w
e might turn this thing around, hell, I'd be the first one lined up to get on that bird."

  "Look," begins Lorento. "We all have a job to do, whether we like it or not."

  "No. We don't work for anyone. Not anymore."

  "I still work for America, and right now my country needs me. We can't just sit here hiding in a hole in the ground. We need to do whatever we can to make things right."

  "There is no goddamn America. Can't you see that, lady?”

  Lorento rolls her eyes and growls. Fletcher picks up his cowboy hat from his head, tilts his head back and then rests the hat over his eyes.

  "We are leaving in ten hours, Lieutenant, with or without you." She picks up the last slice of pizza from the plate on the table while giving Fletcher a look of disgust. He doesn't seem to notice from beneath the brim of his hat. Then she retreats to the room where she left Dr. Schoenheim and slams the door loudly behind her.

  "You sure got a way with the ladies," says Wiz. Not bothering to look, Fletcher salutes him with a middle finger.

  "You can choose to stay or go," Reynolds informs us. "Our orders were just to get you someplace where you can safely wait this out. The rest of us," he pauses to glance sidelong at Fletcher, "still have a job to do."

  "Fucking A," chimes in one of the SEALS.

  "You've got weapons and supplies to last you a few weeks until we can relocate you to a permanent facility."

  I can tell that Reynolds doesn't really want us to go. Just more civilians to try and look after. That is all right with me, too, as I am wary about the situation in New Mexico.

  "If anyone else here has a problem with our mission, well, I'm not going to shoot anyone for dereliction of duty. I have my own doubts, but I am going to see this through. We can die in a hole in the ground, or we can try to do something to turn this thing around. So just think about that before you decide."

  Reynolds looks around the room at the soldiers. Then he walks over to the table, grabs one of the beers and proceeds to another of the sleeping quarters, closing the door behind him. Once he leaves, a few of the SEALS glance back at Fletcher. He remains still and seems to be dozing beneath his cowboy hat. After a few seconds, they return to their card game, talking not too discretely and with some bravado about finishing their mission instead of hiding under a rock. Within a minute or two, they are again joking and griping over their cards.

  The helicopter crew picks up some darts and chucks them at the board mounted on the wall. They talk amongst themselves, occasionally stopping to glance back at Fletcher sitting on the couch. Whatever they decide on, I am pretty sure they will stick together. If they don’t agree to go, I wonder who will fly the helicopter.

  I walk toward the room where Quentin is lying down and jerk my head to signal Danielle to follow me inside.

  "You okay?" I ask him, just to try and say something to engage him again. We need him now as much as ever to give us an idea what is really going on. He will know if we should stick with the SEALS and go to New Mexico, or if we stand a better chance by staying behind. We have supplies here, sure. But we'd be on our own until help arrives, if help ever arrives.

  "I'll be fine, man," says Quentin. Stitch hops onto the bunk and squirms beside Quentin and pants loudly as he pets him. Quentin sits up on the bed and makes room by sliding toward the head. Danielle sits next to him, and I close the door before sitting on the edge of the cubby along the opposite wall.

  "Did you catch all that out there?" I ask him.

  He nods but doesn't reply.

  "What do you think?" I ask him.

  Quentin thinks about it a moment.

  "Will we be safer in New Mexico?" ask Danielle.

  "No," he says. "If what they said about it is true, the undead might be the least of our worries in New Mexico."

  "So we stay," I say.

  "We stick together," confirms Danielle. She forces a smile at Quentin, which sheds a ray of light through his gloom. "Family," she adds.

  The word stings. These are the only people left I know in the world. A few days ago we didn't know each other. Now these people are the only thing keeping me going.

  Fourteen

  I wake up when the noise of the troops in the common area stirs me from sleep. I feel as good as I have felt for several days. Though there isn't a clock in the sleeping quarters, I guess I must have slept at least five or six straight hours. I can smell coffee and bacon, which helps motivate me to sit up on the bed. I notice Quentin has left the room already.

  I was so tired I fell asleep in the camo fatigues. I undress and switch to the black uniform. The cold concrete floor motivates me to hustle. I lace up the boots and follow the inviting aromas of real food out to the common area.

  The soldiers are already scraping the crumbs off their plates and into the sink. I worry I slept too long and missed out on the food.

  "About time you woke up," says Quentin.

  The four SEALS that just finished eating walk past me and out to the hallway back toward the storage room. I take a seat across from Quentin, trying not to covet his plate of food while I wait for my own.

  "What time is it?" I ask.

  "2100," he says.

  "You sound like them," I say.

  "Sorry," he says. "It will be easier to use military time in here. No natural light. It can get confusing whether it's night or day."

  "Is there any of that left?" I ask.

  "I can make more," answers Fletcher from the kitchen. "Coffee is on now."

  A door on the other side of the room opens up and Lorento steps out.

  "Come on," she urges the doctor, but he just stands in the dark.

  "I can't leave without my pants," he says.

  She sighs and shuts the door.

  "Everything alright?" asks Fletcher, peeking up from a skillet of eggs he is scrambling.

  "Did you see what Dr. Schoenheim did with his pants, Lieutenant?"

  "His pants?" he asks, holding back a shit-eating grin. "How am I supposed to know what he did with his goddamn pants?"

  "You were out here the entire time we were sleeping. Surely you must have seen him come out of the room."

  "I'm a real sound sleeper," Fletcher says.

  "Bastard," she grunts. She looks accusingly at Quentin and me, and then storms out into the hallway.

  Fletcher walks over and drops a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of me, and I thank him. I always used to order my eggs over easy, with some toast to dip in the yolk. Now, any kind of real, fresh food is beyond reproach. I pour some black coffee from a pot on the table. There is nothing to put in it but powdered creamer packets. I don't even care. I drink it black and hope it abates the slight headaches I've had from a lack of caffeine.

  "Enjoy it," he says. "We'll have a hell of a time finding any more. It's MRE's from here on out." He heads to the couch behind me and groans as he takes a seat.

  "Danielle get up yet?" I ask Quentin in between a mouthful of bacon.

  "Still out," he says. His plate is empty, and he wipes the crumbs from his mouth with a paper napkin while he watches me eat like an animal. Quentin crumples the napkin and tosses it on the plate a leans back in his chair. He rests his hands on his satisfied stomach.

  "You look like shit," he says with a smile.

  The comment makes me pause as I shove a piece of bacon in my mouth. Quentin has already taken a shower and shaved. Aside from that, he has come through this whole ordeal without looking any worse for the wear. Not even a scraped knee.

  I've been nearly blown up twice. I can feel the bruises on my back, the crusty scab from a cut on my lower lip that burns as I chew every bite of food. My face bristles with stubble, and I notice the scent of my body odor over the strong smells of coffee and bacon. In spite of everything, this is the best I have felt in days.

  "Thanks," I grumble.

  "It's an improvement," he says. "You look kind of tough now."

  "I look like I got my ass kicked, you mean."

  "Well, yeah,"
he says. "But it looks like you put up a fight at least."

  I hear white noise coming from the television and turn around to look. Fletcher flips through a few channels broadcasting nothing. Not even any test patterns or automated emergency updates.

  "Thought maybe there'd be something through the satellite," says Fletcher. He hits a button then a movie begins playing.

  "How are you doing?" I ask Quentin.

  "Don't worry about me, man," he says, turning his attention from me to the television. "I'll be fine."

  I can tell he is far from fine because we are all far from fine. We are in that place where hopelessness and misery and loss pursue us until we can't even remember what normal felt like. Even the fake gunfire on the television disturbs me. The sounds give me visions of brain matter spraying out the head of a walking corpse. It's really some movie about Vietnam. The soldiers are all smoking grass and surfing in the middle of a war zone like they were all a couple of beers short of a six-pack. I wonder how long it will be before my psyche has had enough of reality.

  "How can you watch this?" I ask Fletcher.

  "Only movie we got down here," he says. "You don't like it?"

  Instead of making a big deal out of it, I decide to get up and take a shower. The bathroom has two green shower stalls, a toilet, a urinal and two sinks below a wide mirror. The room smells of chemicals and urinal pucks.

  I grab a folded towel off a shelf above a linen basket that is nearly overflowing. There are sample bottles of generic soap and body wash from the collection on the shelf below. I strip and hang my clothes on a hook on the outside of the shower door and turn on the water. Before stepping into the stall, I reach my hand into the shower to test the temperature. The hot water stings and steam fills the room.

  For a while, I just stand there. The pulse of the water soothes my muscles. I examine the bruises and cuts on my body, and they are numerous. Looking at the one on the side of my torso makes me wince. I prod it, and then grind my teeth from the pain. I probably have some bruised ribs. Hopefully, they aren't cracked. I am glad I didn't notice how bad the injury was until now. If I'd gone to the hospital with Chet, I wouldn't be alive.