With a slam of her boot, she broke free long enough to gain a couple of feet's distance, but her gun wasn't within safe reach. After getting back on her feet, she grabbed the nightstick from her other holster and brought it down on the snarling skull. That only slowed the skeletal Eater for a moment. After two more hits, she decided that it was a useless task. The bleached skull seemed to have been crystallized in the desert sun into something as hard as rock.
She gave up on killing it and decided to outrun it. Doing quick zigzag steps, she made a move for her bike and was an inch away from the handle when another hand shot up out of the sand and grabbed for her boot. Leaping back a couple of feet to avoid it and the first Eater, she saw other disturbances under the sand between her and the bike.
How many? She wondered as more areas of the sparkling sand began to bulge and shift. She figured the things hadn't buried themselves intentionally. They'd probably been snaking their way through the desert for weeks and had been covered by sand after last night's wind storm.
Five, six, seven…
No way to get back to the bike.
She ran for the fence, spidered up the chain link, using her fingers and the soles of her boots to propel herself up the small links, and screamed for help.
They were all onto her now. Another half dozen had joined their ranks, and some, barely more than boney torsos, began to hoist themselves up, link by link.
Where were the guards on this side of building? Why hadn't anyone seen what was going on and alerted Bernard and Milton to come back for her? Probably asleep or on a pee break…
She kept climbing higher and higher until she reached the razor wire on the top. There was no going through it, and even if she could make it through the sharp tangles, it was a long drop to the moat down below where she'd be shish kabob on one of the tall rebar spikes. Alternately kicking at jaws and claw-like fingers, she moved horizontally just below the wire. She'd progressed just yards when she heard movement on the other side of her. Craning her head around, she saw three more skeletal figures advancing, cutting off her route. She was fifteen feet up, and her only choices were to drop down into the waiting mouths below or take her chances with the razor wire and the drop to the moat.
She went up.
Managing to part the wire with her elbows, her progress was halted when it snagged on her sleeve tearing it away. She screeched like a banshee as she kicked at the mummy head close to her dangling leg. Flakes of skin like dried clay flew through the air as she pummeled it, doing everything she could to keep its teeth from biting into her. In the scuffle, her knee veered up into the razor wire and her shorts caught on the wire. The pain barely registered as a sharp blade raked across her flesh, creating a red, oozing zipper line down her thigh.
It was Don and the soldier that saved her. They finally noticed she was no longer keeping pace with them and circled back, spraying bullets until the sand was blanketed with heaps of corpses.
That was her last day of perimeter bike patrol, and she had this lovely scar to commemorate it.
Don and Private Bernard brought silk flowers and chocolates to her infirmary bed the next day, exclaiming what shitheads they'd been for not noticing that she'd fallen back. She was glad that Mark hadn't been there when they arrived, or he'd probably have decked them. She blamed herself for the incident, though. She'd put herself at risk by not staying with the group.
The memory of that near-death experience receded as she felt Mark's mouth working his way up from the scar. Thankfully, their pleasure-making was not interrupted by the harsh sound of a siren, so they enjoyed their time together with abandon.
Chapter 3
A half hour later, the sheets were twisted into knots and covered in sweat. They laid side by side in silence, resting. There were a lot of things on Cheryl's mind that she wanted to talk about. Even though they shared a room, it seemed that their work schedules kept them from having much quality time together. When they did have time, he was in his dark zone, the withdrawn place that he slipped in and out of on almost daily basis. And when he wasn't brooding, he was immersed in his obsession…
"Mark..."
When he didn't open his eyes, she put a hand on his arm. He didn't stir.
There was no way he was asleep.
When were they going to talk about it?
She still wore her engagement ring. It took some investigative work and a little bribery, but she'd eventually gotten it back from the crooked guard who was in charge of incomer belongings during quarantine. It was dented and no amount of scrubbing seemed to be able to loosen the grime of dried blood in the groove that circled it, but it had been given to her with love and had come through hell with her, so its appearance was insignificant.
Even so, it was a daily reminder that it had been over a year since they'd gotten engaged, including a whole six months since they'd found each other again at the fort, and he hadn't mentioned anything about a wedding since before the epidemic started. She'd held her tongue, feeling selfish for caring about something that seemed so unimportant when the world was in tatters.
And yet…there were four weddings scheduled at the chapel this week. She'd seen the announcements on the chalk board outside the community hall on her way to her post this morning. Weren't rituals like that important to maintain some sense of normalcy, even during the worst of times? Important for some sense of hope that things could return to the way they were—if only on the surface for now?
She wasn't going to harp about it—no good could come of that. For a little while longer, she'd keep silent and hope that when he was ready, he'd bring it up. Maybe, he'd even surprise her with a dress and some ruse to get her to the chapel. It would be better that way, better than dragging him there by an ear.
After lying there for a few minutes, she got up and put on a t-shirt and a pair of clean shorts. Then, she left the room and went down the hall to the women's bathroom to freshen up.
When she came back, Mark was up and dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. He had one foot propped up on a folding metal chair while he adjusted an ankle holster. A Glock pistol was next to him on the freshly made bed. It hadn't been issued to him by the Army; he'd purchased it a few days ago from a gun smuggler in the fort who brought in all sorts of contraband.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Getting ready for dinner."
"You know you're not supposed to—"
"I don’t care," he said, fitting the gun in the holster. "I'm not going anywhere without some kind of a weapon. Remember the woman at dinner last week?"
Cheryl couldn't forget. While sitting at a table in the cafeteria, she'd heard a crash behind her. When she turned around, she saw a twenty-something woman in a short jumper and sandals sprawled face down on the ground. A plastic tray, silverware, and soggy canned peas were scattered around her.
A voice rang out from the onlookers. "Get a guard!"
Before anyone came, a distraught bus boy rushed over and began cleaning up the mess around her.
"Get back!"
If the boy heard the man yelling at him, he gave no indication as he continued sweeping peas into his dust pan. With his back turned, he didn't see the fallen woman raise her head with vacant eyes and begin to stuff a trail of smashed peas into her mouth. By the time he seemed to notice that the crowd who had circled around him had fallen back, the woman reached him and grabbed ahold of his wrist. He screamed as she clamped down and tore off a piece of his flesh.
Chances were…that bus boy had been put down by now. Even though a guard had taken out the woman before she could do any more damage and someone had quickly grabbed some napkins to stop the flow of blood, the boy didn't qualify for a ration of the limited supply of vaccine.
Why had no one shot the woman before she attacked? Because guns had been banned from the cafeteria twelve days back after a shootout occurred over an argument about the last slice of peach pie. One man had stabbed the other in the hand with a fork. Then, guns were drawn and the rest…
well…she didn't want to think about it now.
"You got a problem with my dinner attire?" Mark asked.
"No," Cheryl said, shaking her head. She threw her arms around his neck and laughed, saying "I think that bulging piece of metal over your sock goes nicely with your outfit."
"Okay then. Let's go…"
Minutes later, they found the dinner hall blissfully quiet as they stood in line. Disappointment set in after they submitted their ration cards to the cafeteria attendant and found that the only things being served were baked beans and some hard biscuits.
"That's it?" Mark asked as he slid his tray down the rail.
"We're low on everything this week," the young male server said, scooping up a ladle full of mushy, overcooked pinto beans, seasoned with green slices that looked like jalapenos but could be anything from mushrooms to unripe tomatoes. "They cancelled Monday's trip into town."
They sat down to eat at a long table, wedging in between a family with two preschool-aged kids and an older woman who seemed to be struggling to get her beans to her mouth with a shaky hand.
"Did you know that?" Cheryl whispered, leaning closer to him.
"That they cancelled this week's safari? No, I—"
She glared at him and shushed him with a finger to her lips. There was no need to worry anyone around them.
Mark lowered his voice. "No. That was somehow left out of the spot report."
"Really? What else do you think they aren't telling us?"
"A lot."
Cheryl didn't press him further. They couldn't talk in front of anyone else. If they did anything to alarm the inhabitants of the fort, they might risk disappearing like the guy with the shaggy gray hair who used to hop up on tables and rant that they all had implants in their brains that were set to activate and turn them into N.E.U.s at a preset time.
She laid her napkin across her lap then reached into the pocket of her shorts and took out a tiny crystal perfume bottle with a sprig of silk Baby's Breath inserted in the top. She set it in front of her plate next to her water glass.
Mark rolled his eyes. "That's really embarrassing, you know."
"I don't care," she said. "I always kept flowers on the table back home. It's one of the few things that makes me feel like I'm not living in a prison or some sort of institution."
Mark was already on his third bite of beans when she bowed her head and said thank you for the food. She wasn't praying to anyone in particular; she figured that she was just putting it out there to the universe. From time to time, she did ponder the concept of God, though. She'd run across many people that thought this apocalypse was somehow God's plan, but she didn't believe it. She didn't believe that any all-powerful entity would create something so beautiful as the earth and its inhabitants, only to let it all be systematically destroyed in such a painful, foul way. So, she decided to have gratitude for any ray of sunshine in each day that could be a symbol for the return to the way life had once been. Bless this momentary crumb of sustenance, however bland and tasteless it may be.
After Cheryl took a couple of bites, a little boy sitting next to her who looked to be three or four, with big, watery eyes began to wail. His mouth was covered with crumbs from the biscuit, and he twisted his head away from his mother's attempts to force feed him with a spoon.
"This is all you get, baby. You better eat."
"Don't like it!"
Of course he didn't like the beans. They were spicy and had some unidentifiable herbs added to them that didn't seem to go together.
When the mother tried to push the spoon on him again, the child started to scream at the top of his lungs, causing everyone around to turn their heads in his direction.
Mark looked the other way and started shoveling food in his mouth.
Cheryl handed one of her biscuits to the mother. "Here…I've got extra."
"Thank you," the woman said. "God bless you." She handed the biscuit to the boy. He instantly went quiet as he bit down and began to suck like it was a pacifier, tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks.
She went back to her meal, but ate it slowly, trying to mentally stretch it into something more palatable. Mark finished his mess of beans and biscuits just a minute later. "See ya later…" he said, clearing his tray.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to the room. I could use a nap after such an action-packed day." He gave her a goofy salute before walking away.
Curious about his sudden departure, she headed towards their room after she was done eating. Sergeant Cruz stopped her in the hall on the way and told her that her second patrol shift later in the evening was cancelled, because they were still working on clean up from the day's earlier attack and just manning a smaller force in the meantime.
"Unless you want to help the Removers?"
"No way," she said. "I'd prefer a night off."
After some more talk about the attack, she told him she'd see him on her next shift and went on her way.
When she got back to the room, she found Mark lying on the bed, eyes shut, with earbuds in his ears and a slow grind of guitars leaking out from them, screeching like a howling cat.
"You awake?" she asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
He didn't reply, though she figured she'd clearly said it loud enough for him to hear over the music.
"My second shift was cancelled, so I was thinking about going to The Tavern. Maybe I could bat my eyelashes and pump some brass for more information about today's attack."
No response.
"They're also having a bikini contest."
If he was awake, she figured that would have elicited at least an eyebrow raise, if not a snickering comment.
"I'm entering in it."
"What?" Mark said, opening his eyes and pulling out an earbud.
"Just kidding." She started to unlace her boots so she could change into pants. "We could go to The Tavern or see the Friday night movie."
"What is it?"
"A comedy. I think it's "Liar, Liar" with Jim Carrey."
"Seen it."
"What about The Tavern then?"
"Nah."
"Something a little more groovy like The Dance Hall?"
"Not my favorite place. And, I don't have enough credits…"
"Really? With all the overtime you've put in, you should have an abundance."
"After I bought the Glock, I made a trade with Scott Paynes."
"For?"
"More Internet access time."
"Of course. Well…if you're going to be a slug tonight, I'm going to go out without you then. Gloria mentioned the other day that she was going to the movie, and I'd rather hang out with her then stay here and watch you go clickety-click all night and rant about conspiracy theories."
"Suit yourself," he said, closing his eyes again.
She sat there for a moment, staring at his clean-shaven, square chin, and his rising and falling chest, wondering what was going on underneath that scalp full of short, blond hair.
At the door, she paused. "Can I have the pistol?"
He sighed then reached down and unbuckled the holster, handing it over to her without a word.
"See ya, she said.
He grunted in response.
Once she exited the room, she stood outside and changed her mind. She really didn't want to sit in a dark room and watch some silly comedy. A visit to The Tavern sounded like a better idea. Even if they served little more than water and small dishes of stale peanuts these days, she'd feel less claustrophobic if she could get out and socialize a little.
Arriving at the bar, she was surprised that there wasn't a single tan uniform from the Patrol units. She wondered if they'd all gone to a meeting like the one Mark mentioned about reinforcing the fort. If that's where they were, she thought it was interesting that he hadn't been invited. He ranked high enough that he should have been included.
Oh well, she thought. She might as well hang out anyway. The Tavern buzzed with good spirits around her. She
soon found out that thanks to an abandoned semi-truck carrying a load from a domestic brewery that had been found abandoned on Highway 10, there was no shortage of beverages at the bar. She ordered an amber-colored porter, paid with her ration card and accepted an offer to play chess with a silver-haired man who had been a school bus driver before the apocalypse began. Like Mark, he had scars on his hands and face, but according to his unabashed confession that followed his introduction, it wasn't from contracting the infection.
Marlin moved his rook forward. "I was trapped in the bus barn. There were seven or eight of them fellas coming after me with their googly eyes and monster groans. I figured I could distract them with a fire, so I filled my Coke can with some gasoline and stuffed a rag in it, but before I could throw the damn thing, this little kindergartener—a girl named Jamie who sometimes rode my bus—snuck up behind me and grabbed my shirt. She was messed up, all snarling with bloody teeth and curled fingers. I batted her away and threw that bomb just a second too late."
He said there were scars up and down his arms too. Cheryl declined his offer to see them.
She could have called checkmate early in the game when her queen and rook had his king in peril, but she made a less aggressive move instead and several moves later, let him win the game.
"Two out of three?" he asked, setting up the board again.
"Okay. Winner gets bragging rights then."
Marlin rubbed the stubble on his chin. "How about winner gets a trade instead?"
She leaned back in her chair and put her hands on the table, ready to rise up. "What kind of trade?"
He looked down at the diamond ring on her hand then back up towards her face. "Those earrings you got on—those little silver studs. I'm bunking with a guy whose daughter turns twelve in a couple of days. They'd be a nice gift for her."
Cheryl put one hand up to her ear, feeling the little round ball. Since her hair had grown back down over her ears, she rarely noticed them anymore. "Deal," she said.
Eaters (Book 2): The Resistance Page 3
