“Hi Hendricks, so sorry for the long wait, what’s up?”
“Hi, yeah…this is Lonnie, Hendricks had to leave. He told me to let you know he was going to extract the contestants.”
It was Cheryl’s turn to be speechless, slack-jawed with surprise that they had dared to go against her orders, it took seconds but she recovered and yelled into the phone.
“He's fired! You're fired!”
“Whatever.”
“Stop and think! What if they die in the helicopter? Return to attack our people, anything could happen!”
“We got it.”
Lonnie sounded as jaded and bored as Hendricks normally did. Long careers in military search and rescue made it pretty much impossible to scare these two; both had also gotten in young, put in their time, and retired young from the Navy. It left them with a nice pension waiting while they went on to well-paying private jobs, losing this one wasn’t a big worry for either of the two. She had no leverage.
“This was just a heads-up. I were you, I’d get me a lawyer.”
He hung up. Son of a bitch hung up on her. She stared in disbelief at the phone, then in a fit of pique, slammed it repeatedly on the desk until it cracked and broke. Eventually she calmed down, drew in a few deep breaths, and sat back in her chair. She had planned on having more time, had not expected this mutiny so soon and now wondered if others had gotten in touch with Fats. Fats, who was actually liked and respected, although he was something of a shark of elephantine proportion.
Fats, who had always gotten what was hers.
Fats, who was going to pay this time; all of them were. No, if the fat man had wanted to get involved, he’d have done it already, still...
Seething, she scratched her forearms, small spots of blood surfaced and blotted the shirt’s white silk sleeve. She didn’t mind or notice them as she grabbed her smartphone. The man she was about to call and whose day she was about to worsen was a frustrated mid-level office manager from FEMA, a man resentfully entering his middle age while holding onto childhood’s dreams and ambitions.
A star. He wanted to be a star, deluded by his own sense of importance and overestimation of his unfulfilled potential, Cheryl shook her head in wonder as she thought of him. But she had cheerfully encouraged his delusions because she found him useful. Enough of you and your dreams then, she thought and dialed his number. She was about to burn this pawn.
----------
“You leave them there! Damn it!” He sputtered over the line.
Cheryl heard another voice in the background, then the sounds of his muffled, rapid footsteps, followed by a slammed door. He came back on the line sounding anxious and shrill. “Just leave them — get the rest out right now and let the army deal with them. No one that's bitten, hurt, or dead is supposed to get out of there! You said it was safe!”
“Yeah, well. Shit happens,” Cheryl replied offhanded, enjoying the drama and his panic.
“Well forget about me, then! Don’t ever even mention my name.”
“But, Mike!” she smiled, and inflicted a bit more fear and insecurity in his life. “Mike, Mike, Mike. Remember? We already have: your name is in the credits.”
He hung up. Shaking now, Mike remained frozen in the small dark office room, ready to vomit and feeling dizzy. Eventually he realized she had been messing with him. His name was not in the credits, but it might as well have been. Fully appreciating that an overload of steaming excrement was about to hit the proverbial fan, and that he might find himself front and center of the spewing, he grabbed the paper recycling bin, threw up in it, then made an anonymous call to the National Guard hotline, a number set up for an emergency just like this.
Frantic and fast, he got his message across, taking as little responsibility for the event as he possibly could. In the timespan of a few minutes the soldier manning the hotline ran through the emotional spectrum from annoyance to unhappiness to anger and at last, slid into informed controlled panic mode. When the man on the line cut off the call, he relayed the message up the chain of command. Command took action: planes and helicopters took flight, troops were redirected, and plans implemented.
Mike then called his brother in law, who seemed to know anyone and everyone, and might recommend a lawyer. It took a couple of hours before Cheryl got a tense call back from him. Trying to keep cool, he went about informing her of his actions and advising that henceforth and forever she’d be an unknown entity to him. He was blabbering something about not calling when she hung up on him.
There you go, she thought and pulled the bottle from the bottom drawer again to pour another drink, you just have to think of things in terms of solvable challenges. Let’s have the army add some excitement to the mix. She doubted they’d allow Hendricks to bring out anyone in a hurry. A soft notification ping rang from her tablet: #whoisAnjali, #tlf, #thelastflag were trending tags skyrocketing upward in the digital universe. It did not go unnoticed. The CDC got into the action. They damn well knew who Anjali was and they wanted her out of there. Her family wanted her out, and they were calling anyone who might help and listen, right up to the president.
“From a serious shindig, to a right hullabaloo,” Cheryl croaked softly, pleased as she scrolled through the newsfeeds.
----------
Bundled up in layer of thermals and a thick wool sweater under his worn Carhartt coat, and wool hat, Hendricks stood in the wide open patch of land designated for the main helicopter holding area. Two Bells 429 were ready to take off and he waved them on, watching them lift off in the incoming snow. He grabbed his smartphone and called out.
“Tom.”
“How are we doing, Hendricks?”
“Okay. Just sent ’em off and they better hurry —we're due for serious crap weather, its looking uglier by the minute.” He gazed up at the sky; it looked hostile. What had the weatherman said? Oh yeah, ‘A once in a century event…an incredibly powerful and intense cold weather front. Bring your pet inside!’
“Listen Tom, call Joe and the Cobra team. The helicopters will pick them up in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“The Cobras will need help getting in the helicopter: They’ve got one seriously hurt guy.”
Hendricks made an inarticulate sound between a groan and a sigh. “Yeah I saw the video —it looked bad, real bad. The Bell can carry seven people, easy. Along with the pilot, I sent two more guys to help load him in.”
“Okay. Let’s hope one trip will do it.”
“One trip will have to do it; a few hours and the weather will be shit. Anyone on the ground better take cover.”
“Where do you want them?”
“Cobras? Small community plaza, three blocks north from the store they're holed up in. The helicopter can land there. Easy.”
“Joe?”
“We can land right in the street for him.”
“Will call them up.”
“And Tom, just so you know I'm not going behind your back, I'm calling Fats direct. See if I can shut all of this down now and get everyone out.”
“Best idea I've heard all day. I haven’t managed to reach him. Good luck and let me know how it goes.”
Good luck indeed, Tom thought, as he ended the call. The viewership metrics that the show was generating would have beat Jesus second coming as he rode in on a silver unicorn. He wondered if Fats could shut this down even if he wanted to.
----------
“Joe? Joe, we're coming to get you!”
Tom’s voice over the headset came through loud and clear, and from his refuge at the back of the small store, hidden behind shelves of cheap goods and trying to keep warm in layers of cardboards, Joe let out a loud groan of relief. He would have leapt up and danced with joy if it wasn’t for the busted ankle. The pain had gotten progressively worse, and the ankle and foot had acquired the look of a
bloated and rotting eggplant-tomato hybrid.
“Thank God, really happy to hear that, man!” Joe struggled to his feet and hobbled to the front while keeping to the cover of the shelves and products as much as he could. Not that it mattered much. Not only Gene was still there banging on the damn door; he had picked up company. Joe swore softly under his breath. “Tom, I can’t get out from the front. I see at least three of those things blocking the exit.”
“Look for a back door. I’ll call you back.”
“You bet.”
He got back to his spot at rear of the store and grabbed his other boot but reconsidered, there was no way he’d be able to put it back on, he flung it aside and looked for something to support him. An old broom left leaning against the wall got his attention. Maybe, he thought, and grabbed it, twisted off the head then tried it out: leaned on it, swung it about, and poked assorted cans off the shelves. “All right, this will do —nice reliable walking stick and weapon.”
He found a flimsy scuffed door behind some large cardboard boxes, no way this was the back exit. He opened it and let himself into a dark, tight corridor that had been partially used for storage. He sucked in his stomach and walked in, his back sliding on the wall that was free of clutter. “The building is bigger than it looks,” he muttered into the headset as he made it to a back exit and cracked it open as silently as possible. Only one of those things back here: a woman who slowly paced back and forth while fixated on a spot on a wall half a block down the alley.
Okay, okay, this looks good. He thought, but no need to attract attention until the copter gets here, and shut the door and with a groan leaned his forehead against it in silent anxiety. How? How did I ever get my ass in situation like this?! Dumbass!
A loud crash from the front followed by the sound of falling glass made him jump in fear, and he hobbled back as fast as he could to look. One of the door’s top window panes was broken,the door itself had come off one of the hinges and began its inward tilt.
“They'll be any time now, shit!” he whispered in the headset, hoping they were listening to him, and closed the flimsy door. Fucking rotters. Shit. If I hadn’t needed the money…
“Joe,” Tom’s voice came back on, “Stay safe and hide, we’ll be with you in fifteen. Can you do that?”
“Trying man, trying.” He whispered back. “They are here.”
Joe considered using the spray paint on their eyes, he had a can left in his large jacket pocket, but most likely it’d just rile them up and he would only be able to get a few, anyway. As promised after fifteen minutes of tense waiting and watching as they started to make their way in he heard the helicopter in the distance, the rhythmic sound of the rotors grew louder until it was deafening, it had arrived. He cracked open the door and saw it, about thirty feet from the entrance. Beautiful. Just beautiful. Right there and then, angels from on high wouldn’t have looked as good to him.
Hendricks called to him on the headset, “Can you get outside, Joe?”
“Yeah, yeah I’ll get out the back, take the alley, and race out front. I might need help once I get there.
“Go!”
He opened the back exit door; the alley was empty. The dead woman had gone for the rotor’s sounds. Joe ran out, hopping and limping, he turned the corner into the small narrow alley lined with garbage cans and pipes that exited on the main street. Clenching his jaws to stop from screaming in pain, he made it to the street where the helicopter hovered a few feet off the ground. The pilot had kept the rotors going and the side door was open, one of the guys on board saw him and pointed him out. Thirty feet away — thirty short feet. Fifteen or twenty returned were between him and salvation, and they were also heading for the copter.
“Don’t leave me!” He screamed. “I'm here!” “Don’t leave me here, guys!” He howled “Don’t leave me here!”
Thirty feet and he hobbled on as fast as he could and swung the sturdy broom handle, grateful as hell it wasn’t a cheap aluminum imported piece of crap from the dollar store. He hit, thrust, and shoved the turned as he made his way toward salvation.
Twenty feet! And thank God they were so damn clumsy. He shoulder-blocked two men and spun a third around into another.
Fifteen feet! He wiggled away from the grip of a dark haired woman who grabbed onto his arm. The sound of her nails on his soft-shell jacket was surrealistically loud and clear in his ears.
Ten feet! He tripped and fell face first to the ground.
The fall shocked and stunned him; it split his lip and broke his nose, it almost knocked him out. He screamed then as much from the pain as from the fear and spat out two teeth from his bloody mouth as he frantically struggled to get up. One of those things was holding onto his leg —a woman whose face was colorless, with the exception of her jaundiced, dull eyes, filmed with dust but filled with want. For a crazy moment he thought she was crying, then he realized that it was the rain and snow that was falling faster and thicker. She dragged herself up on his body hand over hand, two more of the turned closed in: one stumbled on the woman and fell on top of them both and it knocked the breath out of him.
The rain turned to fat wet flakes of snow, but Joe was past noticing the weather, he let go of the broom, and in desperation got a hold of the man by the throat, right under the jaw. He could see the woman getting closer, her attention riveted on him and her mouth silently working. The man was too heavy and Joe’s arms started to give way, until the dead man was almost at kissing distance and the woman’s hands gripped his forearms and she bit down on his bicep.
Oh God! Not gonna make it! Not gonna make it! NOT GONNA MAKE IT! The thought was a screaming panicked loop in his head. And then a loud red blur slammed on the side of the dead man’s head and a heavy boot shoved him to the side, relieving him of some of the weight that was pinning him down. His savior was one of the helicopter’s crew, who had used a fire extinguisher on the dead man, he now brought it down and smashed the woman’s head with enough force to reshape the top her skull into a bowl and dislodging both of her eyes. The other rescuer grabbed Joe by back of his jacket, and together they pulled him loose of his attackers and dragged him back with them as they rushed to the helicopter.
“We are in, GO!” The younger man yelled, once he they all got in, he slammed the helicopter door behind them. “GO! GO! GO!”
The vertical takeoff pushed them into the floor where the three men whooped and laughed with relief.
“Oh my God!” Yelled Joe, “Thank you, God! Thank you, guys! I was done for. Done for!”
The two other men looked shocked and relived. The younger of the two leaned over and high fived him “Don’t mention it, guy. Part offfhh....”
“What?” Joe looked at him quizzically and followed his gaze. His bare foot was bloody.
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Clean it up, man.” The other guy tossed him a first aid kit. “Clean it up — maybe it’s not yours.”
With fear making him nauseous, Joe grabbed a handful of alcohol wipes and frantically cleaned and scrubbed at his foot. He dropped the dirty wipes on the floor and grabbed more, then poured some of the 70 proof direct on the foot and held it out for inspection.
“Nothing.” He let out a heave of relief. “Skin’s intact, not even a scratch, just ugly, broken and frozen. Thank God.”
With nervous laughter they relaxed and got into their seats.
“Damn, don’t believe our pilot ever did a faster lift off. I’m Mack,” the older man said, then pointed to the younger guy, who had brandished the fire extinguisher, “Slugger here is Warren.”
Warren smiled then gestured toward the window. “Check it out. We got company.” Outside, unusually close, two military jets joined them in their flight.
----------
“Alvin, get your team ready. We're coming to pick you up. Meet the helicopter two blocks nort
h of where you are. There's a small civic square there.”
“We’ll be there.” Alvin went to Ty and gestured for Theo to follow. They gently lifted him from the floor, each wrapping one of his arms around their shoulder. “We're getting you out, man.” Alvin tried to reassure his friend and Ty responded with a feeble nod; he was clammy, covered in sweat and shaking, a vocal reply was out of the question. “He’s in shock. That copter better be there,” Alvin muttered.
Race the Dead (Book 1): The Last Flag Page 12
