A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Jenkins removed the radio from his belt and, handing it to Daymon, said, “In the event of an emergency we wouldn’t want to have the Jackson Police Chief and the Jackson Fire Chief unable to communicate now would we?”

  Daymon eyed the radio, looked up at Jenkins and said, “Good call.” He tucked it in his pocket and climbed into Lu Lu.

  “Be careful out there,” Jenkins intoned, tapping a beat on the warm roof.

  “I’ll take that advice to heart,” Daymon said, firing up Lu Lu. He glanced in the side mirror and watched Jenkins get in the Tahoe, initiate a three point turn on the gravel road—

  then the truck disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  Chapter 28

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Schriever AFB

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Security pod

  Taking conservative strides, almost baby steps, Ted walked beside Airman Davis. “Why won’t you tell me where you are taking me?” he asked, trying to anticipate which path the compact airman was going to lead him down next.

  “We’ll be there shortly. We have someone we would like you to...” Airman Davis stopped in his tracks, put his hands on his hips and stared groundward, searching his brain for the word.

  “Evaluate...” Ted intoned.

  “Correct... thank you Ted... I haven’t been sleeping much lately. I once heard someone say you can sleep when you’re dead... doesn’t hold much water these days, does it?”

  “I just lost my partner... apparently he’s getting some shuteye,” Ted spat.

  “I’m so sorry Mr. Keller, bad time for gallows humor.”

  The two men walked in silence for a few minutes until Davis stopped them in front of the squat windowless building which housed Schriever’s minimally staffed security facility. “This is our destination, sir,” he said.

  Ted shot him a suspicious glare. “Who am I evaluating?”

  Saying nothing, Davis pushed through the plate glass door.

  Feeling the blast of cool conditioned air shifted Ted’s mood incrementally into the good column.

  The waiting room was representative of any other government building, furnished sparsely with a handful of light blue plastic chairs and a single table filled to overflowing with old periodicals.

  The walls in the lobby had been painted a battleship gray, the same gloomy hue as the exterior of the building. Apparently the Navy had given the Air Force some of their surplus paint, Ted thought to himself.

  Airman Davis left Ted’s side and approached the man sitting behind a sliding glass partition. The man, clean shaven with a high and tight haircut, looked up from the months’ old issue of Popular Mechanic.

  Davis flashed a quick salute as his superior stood and reciprocated.

  “Come on in,” the man said as he opened the metal door adjacent to the sliding glass divider. He quickly ushered the E-2 and the civilian inside then closed the door behind them.

  Ted noticed the air temperature once again drop considerably. Fucking government— an interrogation technique straight out of Gitmo he guessed.

  “Hi Ted—I’m Senior Airman Croswell... I’m babysitting Francis today.”

  Ted furrowed his brow. “You mean Pug?”

  Croswell shook his head. “He prefers to be called Pug... but we like to call him Francis... it pisses him off.”

  Davis made a face at Croswell then interjected, “I haven’t filled him in entirely.”

  Croswell shrugged his shoulders, as if implying it wasn’t his problem, before he continued talking. “Let’s just say he got out of line a bit... which led to some innocent people getting hurt.”

  Ted inched up to the one-way window. Inset into the wall, the four foot by eight foot piece of tempered glass allowed him to see Pug while still remaining anonymous. Except for two metal chairs, the only other furniture in the interview room was a compact table which appeared to be bolted to the floor.

  Dressed head to toe in traffic cone orange, Pug rocked slowly in his chair, hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer, on his face a look of glazed detachment. Dried to black, blood caked his swollen ears. Suspended under each eye, puffed black bags bracketed his freshly broken nose.

  Ted pressed closer to the viewing window and, noticing the manacles securing Pug’s wrists and ankles said, “Pug’s an asshole... I get that. Probably likes to fight judging by that fault line of a nose, but what did he do to warrant the beating and the four point lockdown?”

  “He wasn’t playing nice,” Croswell reiterated, then handed Ted a leather-bound notebook and a silver pen. “You need a pipe... cardigan? Maybe a leather couch? I can save you the time... I have already diagnosed the...” The E-2 didn’t finish his thought and wisely held his tongue.

  The interior door opened suddenly as the diminutive Major Freda Nash strode in, followed closely by the base commander Colonel Cornelius Shrill who dwarfed everyone in the room.

  Nash reached her hand out and said, “I want to thank you for accompanying Airman Davis especially without being allowed any of the details. I’m sure you’re still mourning the loss of your partner. You have my condolences.”

  Ted shot her a skeptical look while he shook her hand.

  Colonel Shrill, who stood a few inches taller, matched Ted’s gaze and nodded in agreement.

  For a full minute no one spoke, the only sound the steady thrumming of the air conditioner.

  Ted withstood the uneasy silence by staring at Pug. He withdrew the picture of him and William from his pocket and handed it to the woman named Nash. “That’s Will and me in Mexico.” Then choking up he stated, “I didn’t even get to visit him after he was taken away and I was thrown into quarantine. A lady soldier just wheeled him away the night we arrived... I just want to know how he spent his last hours. To know that he got the kind of care that I have been giving him these last few years.”

  “I’m not making excuses but I’ve been told he was very sick prior to quarantine. At first they suspected he was infected with Omega...”

  “I told them he was HIV positive,” Ted blurted.

  “You have to appreciate the situation for what it looked like to our people. With that stuff going on out there they had to take every precaution to protect themselves,” Shrill added. “We’re in the business of protecting Americans.”

  “I know,” Ted said weakly.

  Nash added, “I’m sure he received the utmost of care before he passed. We planned on having an autopsy performed on your friend... it is standard protocol for anyone who dies while on the base. Our problem is finding someone to perform the autopsy. When we find a pathologist we will certainly know more. Then we can fill you in.” Nash truly regretted that she was forced to lie by omission. But the need to know why Pug had done what he did was more important than any one man’s feelings. Furthermore, the fact that he had obviously not acted alone made such expediency necessary.

  “Do you need any special equipment to evaluate the prisoner?” asked Shrill. “If we have it here on base I’ll send someone for it.”

  “How about a full size MRI machine... got one of them lying around?”

  The Colonel made a face then coughed.

  “Just kidding,” Ted conceded.

  Shrill’s eyebrows relaxed.

  “On the trip from Denver I looted... wrong word. I liberated medicine for Will from a drugstore in Castle Rock. I didn’t know when we’d see another so I filled the bag with a myriad of other stuff... just in case. I wasn’t stealing really. One of the soldiers at the quarantine facility took the medicine along with our weapons when we arrived.”

  “Everybody gets the same treatment when they come onto the base... merely precautions,” Shrill interjected.

  Ted smirked. He hated his time in quarantine, alone in his own head with nothing worthwhile to read—no Freud, no Wundt, no Watson. He continued, “I am going to need that bag of meds. If I remember right, the shelves I cleaned out had a host of different products. Also have the Airman find a large gau
ge syringe and a bottle of water—distilled if you can find it.”

  “Davis,” Shrill barked. “Go down to the hangar and get Mister Keller’s belongings.”

  “And the syringe?”

  “Ask around...” Shrill barked.

  “Yes sir.” The airman double-timed it out the front door.

  Shrill addressed Ted. “Can you tell us about Pug? You came with him from Denver—right?”

  After the door closed behind the retreating airman, Ted responded to Shrill’s questions. “I spent a couple hours with the guy two... almost three days ago. I’m being honest when I say I do not like being in his presence. I mean... he treated me like a dick from the moment I met him.” Ted looked through the mirrored glass at Pug. “Shit—from the looks of his face he got some of his own medicine.”

  Shrill glanced over at Nash—a knowing look exchanged.

  Airman Croswell straightened a stack of loose papers, clacking them on the pass through receiving counter before handing them to Ted, who immediately noticed the forms for what they were: standard government medical boilerplate used in the battery of psychological testing which soldiers in basic training all the way up to higher level security clearance personnel were routinely subjected to. Paper waste—one of the few things the United States government had perfected—and it appeared the habit was proving to be a hard one to break. Before the world went to shit, Denver and Colorado Springs had a large number of active duty and retired military, and a large part of Ted’s practice involved testifying in court, offering clinical evaluations and his professional medical opinion to help lawyers secure for their clients the largest service-related disability payments they were due. To say he had an intimate relationship with the type of paperwork he held in his hand would have been an understatement.

  Pug lifted his head. He appeared to be looking at his reflection in the mirrored glass. His mouth began to move. Ted tried to make out what he was saying, but the fact that his lips were puffed and split made reading them, even minimally, virtually impossible.

  “That room has got to be wired for sound. Is there some way I can hear what he’s saying?” Ted asked, keeping his eyes on the subject.

  “Turn on the microphone Airman Croswell,” Shrill ordered.

  “He’s been repeating the same thing since he was brought in... hasn’t changed much. Something about Mighty Mouse,” Croswell proffered.

  Pug’s voice burst from the recessed speakers mounted in the low ceiling. “Here I come to save the day. Here I come to save the day. Here I come...” Then in a small voice he said, “No I will not be quiet. You shut up Francis.”

  “I won’t be needing these,” Ted said, thrusting the blank forms back to the airman. “The lawyers are all dead anyway. Anyone have a pen light?”

  “Will a mini Mag-Light do the trick?”

  “It will have to do,” Ted said, taking the small black aluminum flashlight from Davis.

  “I can’t in good conscience unshackle the prisoner for you,” Croswell proffered.

  “Nor would I let you,” Shrill added gruffly.

  “Someone gonna let me in to see public enemy number one?”

  Freda Nash said, “Airman...”

  Croswell hit the buzzer.

  Concern evident in her voice, Nash said, “Be careful, Mister Keller.”

  Ted made a face, pushed the door open and stepped into the interview room. The smells hit him at once. Feces, sweat, and fear—thick on the circulated air.

  Hearing the door open, Pug produced a wan smile. “Who are you?” he croaked.

  “I’m Dr. Keller. I need to look at your eyes.” Then, shivering, he yelled towards the one-way glass, “Someone kill the A/C please.”

  He went to a knee and with two fingers held open the lid on Pug’s battered left eye. It looked like a broken red yolk, and blood had invaded the white. Holding the LED light a few inches away he panned it horizontally back and forth. Pug’s pupil didn’t react to the invading light like it should have. “Who did this to you?”

  “Daddy did,” Pug said in a gruff faraway voice.

  Ted furrowed his brow and asked, “Who?”

  “Daddy... he hurts us. Baaad.”

  “You’re all right now, Pug,” Ted said, suddenly struck with empathy for the smart ass road dog. “Your Dad isn’t going to hurt you now.”

  “I know... Mighty Mouse won’t let him.”

  “Who’s Mighty Mouse?” Ted asked, as he checked the other eye.

  “I am. And I can fly too,” he said in a convincing little voice. Then, looking like a defeated bantam weight fighter, his head slumped forward.

  “The nice man Davis is bringing you your medicine. Do you usually take pills or get a shot?”

  “Yellow pills please.” Here I come to save the day.

  Ted knelt with his arms at his sides in a non-threatening manner and asked, “What happened to your pills?”

  “Francis lost them.”

  “Where did you lose them Francis?”

  “At the big black man’s house. I killed him... then I stole his truck...”

  “Do you feel remorseful about that?” Ted asked.

  “I shot him.”

  “Did he hurt you?” Ted asked, his voice going soft.

  “Dad hurts me. He hurts my privates.” Pug drew his stunted limbs in as far as the restraints permitted.

  The intercom spared Ted from having to ask a follow up question. A female voice said, “Airman Davis is back with your medication Mr. Keller.”

  “Have him bring it in please.”

  Davis stepped in, shielding his eyes from the hundred watt bulb with one hand and with the other passed Ted the bag.

  Ted rooted around in the large plastic sack and brought out a rectangular white cardboard box labeled Geodon (Ziprasidone Mesylate).

  “Were you able to find a suitable syringe and the water?”

  “Oh. Sorry Dr. Keller.” Davis handed over the syringe which had been in his shirt pocket, then pulled the unopened bottle of water from a side cargo pocket.

  With his back to the prisoner, Ted opened the box of medicine and retrieved one of the glass twenty-milligram vials and set it aside. Next he cracked the seal on the bottled water and set it on the floor between his knees. He then ripped the syringe from its sterile packaging and drew the proper amount of water which he injected into the Ziprasidone vial, then shook it vigorously in order to reconstitute the powdered medicine.

  “I need a hand in here,” Ted said in a low voice.

  Pug shifted in his seat. Manacles rattled metal on metal. “What are you doing Dad?”

  “It’s OK son... I will never hurt you again,” Ted said, playing along.

  Davis and Croswell entered the room while Ted readied the injection; after withdrawing the proper dose he said, “This has to go into muscle... hold him tightly.”

  With the two men pressing Pug firmly into the chair Ted hiked down the man’s pants and jabbed the thirty gauge needle into his right butt cheek.

  Pug didn’t have much fight left in him yet he still cried out.

  “Thanks gentlemen... that went better than I thought,” Ted said as he policed up the medicine, water and used syringe and tossed them back into the bag which he handed over to Croswell.

  One at a time Ted, Croswell and Davis stepped from the room and formed up in front of the one-way glass.

  “So one shot and he’s just like new?” Shrill asked as he stared at the pathetic looking figure through the glass.

  “Just like that?” Davis said incredulously.

  “He’s suffering from DID.”

  Nash tore her eyes from the prisoner and spoke up, “In layman’s terms, Dr. Keller.”

  “DID... Dual Identity Disorder. This man is a survivor alright. He survived childhood horrors, probably sexual in nature, that caused him to make up an alter personality... kind of like an internal bad cop/good cop type of scenario. Sometimes the alter identity will go away after the trauma ceases. Other times new ep
isodes of extreme violence or trauma—for instance the dead tearing someone limb from limb. Something like that can trigger an episode.”

  “When does the identity switch back?” Shrill asked.

  “Since someone has recently beaten the hell out of him... I suspect it may not. I have a feeling he has been either off of his meds—probably some kind of an oral antipsychotic—or he has been under-medicating for quite some time. All very plausible because I know I haven’t seen an open Rite Aid for a couple of weeks. At any rate his demons were let loose—so to speak. You’ll have to give him the same dose after four hours,” Ted said, shrugging his shoulders while making a face that said he had given it his best shot.

  Shrill held open the exterior door. “Davis... Croswell... we need a moment alone with the doctor.”

  Nash turned from the glass and took a seat at the end of the long table, then cleared her throat and said in a soft voice, “Ted... I owe you an amends. I am so sorry for your loss. What I’m about to tell you is going to be very hard for you to accept—we had to make a snap decision.”

  “Who is we, and why are you apologizing?” Ted asked as a confused look crossed his face.

  Nash went on, “William is dead... there’s no changing that.” She paused as Ted pulled a chair and sat down heavily. “Since there is no delicate way to say this, I’m going to lay it all out on the table. William was murdered, along with six other people.”

  After an audible gasp Ted slapped the table with both palms. “All I did was give William his drug cocktail and something to help him sleep—for two days you let me believe the sedatives I gave him caused his death. How-fucking-dare-you!”

  Shrill maneuvered between Ted and the much smaller major, remained on his feet and said, “It had to be done—he had one or more people helping him—and they are still on the loose. We looked at the kid Wilson and his sister... hell, we even thought you were involved. We checked a Denver phone book and sure enough what you told the soldiers at intake checked out.” The colonel took a deep cleansing breath then wagged a finger at Ted. “One... according to the Yellow Pages you all lived in the same building—except for Sasha—her name didn’t show up but she’s a minor so that didn’t seem so unusual. And two... evidence led us from the crime scene right to Pug’s doorstep—literally. He was shutdown... withdrawn. He gave up without a fight.”