by Dan DeWitt
He saw a tape dispenser hanging off of the door, tore off a piece, and gave the photo a quick kiss before hanging it. He'd take it back when he left the island for good, but for now it was at home.
Orpheus put his hand on the knob and hesitated. He was fully aware that it was here when his friend got bitten and the world turned to shit again. Above the door, some enterprising artist had painted "The Zom Shelter," complete with dripping blood, and he could hear the music pumping through the door.
It's just a bar this time. Just a bar.
He opened the door and couldn't believe what he saw.
O
Orpheus had seen firsthand how the promise of alcohol brought people together. How many times had people asked for help moving into a new house, and then sweetened the deal with pizza and beer? Alcohol was currency, as often as not.
This time had been no different. Ethan, not so far removed from turning the legal drinking age that it had lost its shiny newness, had come up with the idea to turn the bomb shelter into a bar. Orpheus had seen no reason to say no. The zombies were gone, save for the carcass of one of the biggest men Orpheus had ever seen lying in the corridor. Even desiccated as it was, it weighed a ton ("You should've seen him when he was fresh," Ethan had offered and told his father the story of Rachel's heroics). So he'd told Ethan to have at it.
In less than two weeks, and on their own time, they'd done an incredible amount of work. Televisions had been liberated from the AV room and were now mounted and wired for satellite reception. Someone's iPod was playing through a stereo. The walls were covered with all sorts of sports memorabilia, uniforms, and trophies. They'd even found a disco ball in the theater department. It spun slowly on battery power.
They'd actually built a bar from scratch. He assumed that the materials had come from the shop, but he had no clue how they'd done it in such a short time, or what plans they had used, but he suspected that a few of his men had reported for the briefing a little tired on a few occasions. They'd even given it several coats of lacquer, so it had the feel of a real bar top. The stools had come from the cafeteria. The only thing that was missing was the brass foot rail. If it wasn't for the uniform pants, it would look like any other bar. It was easy to forget that they were underground and encased in concrete.
He had just broken the threshold when the music came to a dead stop. Fish had his finger on the iPod and yelled, "Well, as I live and breathe! Welcome to the freakshow, Captain!"
Fish was comfortable with him, and he had every right to be. The rest of them, however, still had no idea why he was there or what he wanted. Most of them slowly lowered their drinks, and a few even tried to hide them, like kids at a high school party when someone's parents walked in. Orpheus walked to the bar and didn't say a word, even as three soldiers fell all over themselves giving up their seats. He motioned for the dry erase board and a marker, and wrote only three words. No one spoke, not even Fish.
The "bartender", a man named Malone, looked at the board and smiled.
He hung it back in its place so all of them could see what he had written: NO RANK HERE.
"Now someone get me a damn drink before I start wondering where all of this booze came from."
And the party resumed.
Malone reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottled domestic beer. He held it up so that Orpheus could see the label and got a nod of approval. He dropped the bottle out of sight, and a moment later placed the capless bottle in front of his boss. Orpheus toasted Fish, who returned it with a bottle of his own.
Orpheus took three long swigs and drained nearly half the bottle. He hadn't had a drink in over a week, so the beer lit up his taste buds. "Man, that's good." He put the bottle down, spun on his stool, and tried to unwind a bit.
Jackie had been pissed. Once she'd calmed down, she'd admitted that he was correct in his assessment that all of the donations would have bothered her, but she'd gotten him to agree that it wasn't his place to make a decision like that and keep her in the dark. They both agreed that they loved and missed each other very much, but they were split on whether or not he was, as she'd put it, "a big, stupid, money-hiding asshat."
He looked down and realized that he'd drained his beer. He got another one and told Malone to not bring him any more tonight. He knew from experience that when the first one goes down that easy, it was smart to call it a night early. He let the second beer breathe for a minute.
The music volume dropped and he heard Fish yell, "Lady entering the bar!" That sentence was automatically echoed by most of the patrons, a learned behavior from basic training. Back then, it was a warning to make sure that you were covered up and on your best behavior.
Come to think of it, it still meant the same thing.
He knew that Rachel was with Ethan on school grounds, checking on the posted sentries. So the candidates were down to one.
A tattooed ball of energy landed on the stool next to him. "Buy a girl a grog, sailor?"
He turned to face Lena. "There are so many things wrong with that one sentence alone."
"Hey, I'm an IT geek. What do you want from me?"
Malone practically ran over to see what she wanted. Her answer was, "Something in a shot. Nothing ladylike. I'm celebrating."
The bartender produced a shot glass and an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid. "What's that?" she asked.
"Best not to ask, ma'am."
"Sounds good to me. And one for my friend here."
"Yeah?" Malone asked.
Orpheus slid his untouched beer over to Lena. "Yeah, sure."
Malone poured a second one and left the bottle with them.
Lena held up her glass.
"Wait, what are we celebrating?"
"In a minute, in a minute. Just shoot this with me."
They clinked their shot glasses and threw them back. Orpheus shot his quickly and cleanly, but the afterburn was intense. "Jesus, Malone, whose piss is that?"
Lena was a bit slower, and sputtered a bit. "God, what was that shit, anyway?" She stuck her tongue out and made gagging noises.
"Hey, you ordered it." He took a drink from the beer that he'd given to her. It helped to put out the fire a little. "Okay, what's the occasion?"
She took a sip of beer and explained. "Okay, you remember the radio station that was here? The one that Ethan trashed? Well, I pulled a few favors and managed to get the permits to broadcast on that frequency. I'm going to be the voice of the island!"
"I don't understand. That radio station is gone."
"That one is. But we have a broadcast setup right here in this school."
"That's cool, but there's no way that signal makes it to the mainland."
"No, Cam, but that's what the internet's for. Come on, you're not that old." She began to get more animated, her hands moving a mile a minute. "I managed to land some syndication deals all over the East Coast. Marty helped a little. A lot. Okay, he did it all. Anyway, this is huge for us. Zombie radio. It won't be just a cute name!"
It was hard to not be infected by her enthusiasm. "What's the, uh ...?”
"The word you're searching for is 'format.' It'll be music, interviews, updates, listener stories, whatever I want. The marketing guys agree that ratings should be really big."
Orpheus chewed on it for a moment. "You know, I think it's awesome. In anybody else's hands, I'd probably try to fight it, but you're earned my full support."
She spontaneously hugged him.
"Jeez, can I leave you alone for ten minutes without you putting the moves on our boss?"
Lena broke her hug and gave Tim a quick kiss on the lips. "Hey, baby, I was just telling him about the radio thing. He thinks it's a great idea."
"I do. You'll do well." Orpheus got up. "I have to get some rest. I haven't been doing my internal clock any favors." He shook Tim's hand and guided him into his vacated seat. "You let them know that as long as this stays under control, we won't have a problem. If anyone screws up, I'll shut it down."
"You got it. When's your first interview?"
"What?"
"Nothing! Nothing! He was talking to me," Lena said. It was obvious that she was flustered.
Orpheus did the math. "You promised them an interview with me."
She took a sip of her beer and said, timidly, "Kind of."
He put a hand on her shoulder, leaned forward slightly, and looked her straight in the eyes. "Explain."
She put the bottle to her lips, more for protection than for thirst. She nearly spoke into the bottle itself. "I maybe promised them that I'd get thirty minutes a week from you."
Orpheus couldn't find it in himself to be surprised. Or mad. He just wagged his finger at her impotently while he attempted to form a response. What came out was, "I never liked your tattoos." The three of them laughed, and Orpheus said, "Thirty minutes. Not a second more. And I decide where and when."
"Of course, of course, thankyouthankyou!" She hugged him again.
Tim threw his hands up. "Oh, come on, I'm right here!"
Good Start
By the end of the third week, the school and its grounds were completely secured. Every bit of infrastructure was not only running smoothly but had at least one backup in place. A double fence surrounded the entire school, the armory was stocked with weapons and over a hundred thousand combined rounds, food filled not only the cafeteria's storage space but a few unused rooms nearby, and the school had three independent generators installed (any one of which could run the school). Even the gym had been returned to its intended purpose, as Orpheus had allowed the men to sleep three to a room as long as they got his approval. Every soldier took him up on it, to no one's surprise.
The school could be a completely functional fortress for at least several months. It would take a small, human army with heavy weapons to take it. Even if every remaining zombie on the island attacked them all at once, the school would be impenetrable for an extended period.
Even Orpheus caught himself relaxing every now and then.
Then he reminded himself that securing their base was the easy part. Now they had to begin the process of seeking out ... hunting ... the zombies. No matter how well he'd prepared his troops, they'd still be much more vulnerable outside the fences.
So he constantly kicked himself for letting up and always tried to consider the worst-case scenario. He figured that he had them all covered, up to and including a meteor strike.
Still, he felt the nerves, and that was a good thing. He was about to send his men off on their own.
He met everyone in the staging area. His lieutenants had already organized the personnel into four teams. Each team consisted of one Rhino, one Jeep, and fourteen troops, including a team leader.
Lena was briefing them all on the day's plan of attack. She had mapped out the entire island and implemented a plan that would allow them to cover the most ground with the least risk. She stressed the importance of high-visibility areas and the necessity for each team to be able to relocate to another team's location within a minute. Orpheus loved watching her work. For all of her free-spiritedness, she was born to do exactly this. She'd already done it once before with a lot less at her disposal, and she understood that lives were in her hand. She took that as seriously as one could.
"Do not deviate from this plan. I've busted my ass for a month, checking satellite photos, weather reports, population clusters, currents, and everything I can imagine to give you every advantage." She saw Orpheus and continued. "If you ad-lib because you're bored or, worse, you think you know better than I do, the very best that you can hope for is that you'll be kicked off of this island. Is that understood?"
They did.
"Good. Plans may need to change from time to time. Communicate, communicate, communicate. When you're out there, all I have is the info you share. And all you have is me. Questions?"
There were none.
Orpheus nodded to Ethan, who said, "Let's get to work."
Within sixty seconds, the teams were loaded and heading to their assigned zones, and Orpheus and Lena stood alone. Even though he intended to head back to the same place that Lena was, he had no desire to walk together. Not because she was bad company. It didn't come any better. But he did need some time alone to think.
About the job.
About his family.
Certainly about Ralston.
But mostly about loose ends. The island was home to a few, none of his own creation, but he intended to tie them up.
The last time he was here, it seemed that nearly everyone was working an angle. This go round, it was him.
He hated unfinished business.
The walk back to his office felt different. For the first time in weeks, the place wasn't alive with activity. Everything that needed to be set up had been, and only now had they been able to begin the work they were there to do. With the majority of his personnel out to scrub the island there was only a small contingent of sentries, cooks, mechanics, and the like left at the base, and most of them were out of sight. Once, he couldn't go fifty feet without walking by someone else. Now, with a few strategic turns here and there, he could get back to his office unseen, even by Thompson.
The effect was almost eerie, and he had to remind himself that it was all a good thing. The operation was running even more smoothly than he'd hoped. Outside of Ralston's visit, nothing had really gone off script.
And that's exactly why Cameron Holt, firm believer in the other shoe, was worried.
This nagged him all the way back to his office, but it was quickly forgotten when Orpheus pulled a weighty accordion file from his personal bag.
He pulled out the first folder and smiled. After they'd escaped the island, Lena had clued him in to "Project: Snake." This was everything she'd amassed on one Martin Trager before it turned out he wasn't quite the asshole that they all thought he was. Even though he was now a staunch ally and unquestioned friend, Orpheus kept the file. He knew the value of information. He put that file to the side and saw one with his own name on it, which was news to him. The front of the folder featured a yellow sticky note with a big smiley face and the words "DON'T BE MAD." He skimmed through the file, passing over physicals and correspondence until his eyes registered the phrase "on the edge." He read that entry with interest. Lena had amassed an informal, but surprisingly extensive, psych profile on him. The picture that she painted wasn't pretty.
Her handwritten summary paragraph read: Cameron Holt is a man on a mission, as personal as they get. At this point, as much as I want to think otherwise, I believe that he is on a fool's errand, and that his son is dead. I've looked at literally thousands of photos and videos, and not even a hint of a clue. Cam is most likely aware of this on some level, but won't allow himself to accept it. Assuming this is the case, the longer his "mission" goes on, the more risks he is likely to take until he is either killed or can no longer deny his son's fate and will take his own life. He's clinically depressed, but fights it with rage and sheer force of will. He's made an admirable effort to hide this, but those of us who know better can see right through it. He carries a single-shot "backup" on his leg, for Christ's sake. Who only needs one shot? I'll continue to work on his behalf and pray for a miracle, despite the resistance from certain tall, bespectacled southerners who think they know better (could be a guy thing, I don't know). Why? Because I'm the only one who can give him any hope, and I'll delay his tragic end as long as I possibly can, thank you very much.
He didn't know how many times he reread that paragraph. He just couldn't take his eyes from it. He wanted to find something, anything to argue with.
He couldn't. He really had been that close.
That was then, though. He'd pulled himself back from the abyss.
I have.
Despite his desire to burn his file immediately, he couldn't allow himself the bout of hypocrisy. He slid the file on top of Martin Trager's and moved on. Next was Ralston's file. He put that in a different pile for later reading. Same for Thompson's, th
ough he figured he had a pretty good handle on him already.
Friend files over here, unknowns such as Tino and German over there.
The last file was what he was most interested in. Judging by the thickness, Lena had been a very busy girl. He opened it up and removed a large map of the island. He unfolded it and spread it out. At its full size, it nearly covered his desk. The file also contained a transparent overlay. Once he was sure of the proper orientation, he laid that on top of the map. Next came a bundle of 6x9 sheets of paper held together by a heavy duty spring clip. The top sheet had a simple label on it: "OB1" and a timestamp. He found the corresponding label on the overlay and placed the sheet next to it. He did the same for the next paper. He repeated this process nearly a dozen more times until the stack was exhausted.
He placed his palms flat against his desk and drummed his fingers several times. He was about to begin reading when it occurred to him that he didn't want anyone other than a handful of trusted people to ever see this, but he didn't want to go through the hassle of setting it up every time, either. He grabbed the sticky note from his file and wrote underneath Lena's script. He marched to his door and slapped the reminder to "LOCK UP YOUR DAMN OFFICE" on the door.
He returned to his desk. He moved the now empty "Reported Outbreaks" file to the floor beside him and dove in to the firsthand accounts. The first few confirmed what he already knew: that the outbreaks started suddenly, with only one or a small handful of people ... and they all started within a few minutes of each other. He used his own experience as a starting point. He knew the exact time that Marcy's friend had turned, because he had looked at his watch no more than thirty seconds prior. When Orpheus took into account that all of the reported times were approximate guesses by terrified witnesses, and that all of them ostensibly occurred within fifteen minutes on either side of his known baseline, he couldn't shake the feeling that they had actually occurred simultaneously.
