by Reece Hinze
“We all agreed to this. We all knew what was done after we stole that virus. We are the ones who started this shit and now we have to fix it,” Tupac boomed. He set James’ helmet and soldering gun aside and stood. He had on his skintight grey undersuit while his exosuit sat against a rack of aging magazines.
“And just how in the holy fuck are we going to fix this, huh?” Foster stood as well, gesturing at James. “With that son of a bitch?”
And James, who was passively staring out of a tinted window with his back turned, snapped around, fast as a cobra, and closed the space between he and Foster with two steps. He stared at the man with his tortured face and deep red, infected eyes. The sight was disconcerting.
“Yes, with this son of a bitch,” James said with a half snarl. “I’m infected, yet I’m not running around mindlessly killing people.” He tapped Foster on the head with each word. “Don’t you think that’s something? Don’t you think that might be the most important thing in the world?”
Foster staggered backwards, unsure what to say. He couldn’t stand the sight of James. His melted face was enough to weaken the stomach but his savage red eyes could scare the bravest of men. Suddenly, headlights flashed through the window. “We’ve got company,” Tupac said, grabbing his rifle. Westlake, as if he were never asleep at all, shot to his feet, snapping his helmet on and holding his rifle at the ready before anyone else.
“Shit man,” Tupac lamented. “I only repaired half of your helmet Captain.”
“That’s alright Corporal Breaker,” James said calmly, grabbing his rifle off of a nearby magazine rack. “Somehow I have the feeling our road doesn’t end here tonight.”
The men all gave him a sideways glance as James propped a boot onto an overturned crate and shouldered his rifle. He watched as the vehicle lights drew closer and closer. Cooper’s last words rang in his head.
Now you’re in charge, Captain.
“Defensive positions,” James growled.
Helmets locked and suits pressurized, magazines fed into rifles and actions cocked. As the headlights drew closer, James realized it wasn’t one vehicle but two. Both stopped somewhere near the gas pumps, shining their bright beams into the building. “Corporal Breaker, bring Betsy online. Hold her steady until I give the order.”
“Copy that Captain,” Tupac replied in the synthetic boom of his helmet’s speakers. He punched in commands on the device installed in the forearm of his suit. They all watched as a shadow appeared in front of the headlights. A man’s shadow.
Long arms swayed as the figure approached the door at an impossibly slow saunter. Three loud methodical raps echoed from the door. Corporal Breaker sucked in air audibly.
James, the only soldier without a helmet, frowned and aimed his rifle at the door. “What do you want?” He growled.
Three loud methodical knocks were all that came in reply. James turned to Breaker. “If anything happens, tell Betsy to fire on those trucks.” And they heard the diesel engine roar and the tank treads tear into the pavement outside as Betsy brought herself into range of the vehicles.
Once again, three loud knocks sounded on the door.
“Just open the door Cap…” Foster began but stopped after James shot him a quick look that brooked no argument. He would open the door when he was ready and not a second before. This was his squad now and he made the decisions. But it was time.
He opened the door.
Bermuda shorts, a greasy old cowboy hat, and a smile topped by a waxed grey mustache greeted him.
“Why hello boys,” he said, tipping his hat to the soldiers before turning to James. “Captain.”
“You son of a bitch,” James growled. He grabbed Dax Nicola by his Hawaiian shirt collar and pulled him close to his snarling face. “What in the hell happened? Where did you go? Why did you leave?”
“My dear Captain,” Dax replied. “I don’t understand your question.”
James roared with anger and moved to throw him into a nearby candy rack but the old man had a knife to his throat. James glowered at the Englishman, angrier than ever.
“You said you would help us. Cooper is dead!” James pulled the old man close, inches from his face, the knife tickling his Adam’s apple. “Where did you go?” He repeated.
“My dear Captain,” the old man replied. His breathe smelled of mint. “I promised to get you to your A.P.C. Did I not fulfill that task? I also promised to help you and here I am.”
“You let Cooper die,” James said, surprised at how angry and hurt he was over the death of that man.
“Yes,” Dax said, casting his eyes downward. He relaxed the knife against James’ throat. “I’m afraid I did. He charged that Cajun man on the helicopter, exchanging his life for yours. There was nothing I could do.” James released his hold. Dax flipped his knife away and stood tall, straightening his shirt the best he could.
“Cooper was a good man,” Dax said looking towards the big soldiers. “I am truly sorry for his death.” He looked back at James. “But I am a man of my word and I promised to help you.” He gestured to the lights. “I have brought my lovely wife and some chaps I knew from my day, some of the finest soldiers on the planet,” he said proudly. “We will accomplish our objective.”
He walked towards the soldiers in the group and propped a flip flopped foot on the overturned plastic carton Tupac had been using as a seat a few minutes earlier. He turned his back to James. “So gentlemen, what is that objective?”
Tupac glanced nervously at James and back to the smiling Dax but said nothing. Westlake, a soldier nearly as big as the late Cooper, just grunted. “We should find that Cajun bastard and kill him,” Foster said. “Slowly.
“Ah, revenge,” Dax said with a smile. “A sensible reaction. How do you believe we should go about accomplishing that objective?”
Foster thought for a moment. “There is more than one facility. After we destroyed the last one, he certainly moved his operation to one of the others. The North or South Texas facility probably.”
“A capital idea good sir,” Dax replied. “Where exactly are these facilities?”
Foster cast his eyes down. “I’m not sure.”
“So how do you intend on finding the Colonel, sir?”
“We won’t have to find him,” James growled. He had a map of South Texas sprawled out on the marble counter next to the vintage cash register. The soldiers turned to look at him. Dax only smiled. “He will find us. And when he does, we will need manpower. Lots of manpower. Men and women who will fight with us.” James turned to look at Tupac. “How many soldiers, not including the scientists or workers, are housed in one of these facilitates?”
“Uh,” Tupac said, moving his head from side to side as he thought. “At least a company.”
James looked to Foster. “And how will half a dozen men take on a company of super soldiers on unfamiliar ground and win?”
“We did it before,” Foster said. “When we rescued you.” He spat the last word.
“And you had the element of surprise which now you do not. Charging into one of these bases with guns blazing is exactly what the Colonel will expect us to do. We will do what he won’t expect us to do.” James turned to Tupac. “Corporal Breaker, hijack one of the defense satellites. Initiate a thermal scan of the surrounding fifty square miles. Find me an area with a low occurrence of infection and a high rate of survivors.”
“How will I know who is infected from a thermal scan Captain?”
James circled an area on the map and turned towards his men manner of factly. “It’s night time. Figure out who is sleeping and who is wondering around looking for someone to kill. We just need a starting point. A base of operations from where we can fortify and grow.” He walked to Tupac and handed him the map, pointing to the circled area. “Start here,” he said slapping him on the back. “Foster, Westlake, find some candy bars or whatever else is edible in here and see if our new guests outside are hungry.” The men hesitated but a moment before carrying
out his orders.
“Good show Captain,” Dax said grinning. “Bloody good show indeed.”
James narrowed his eyes in mock hostility. He didn’t trust Dax as far as he could throw him but he couldn’t help but like him. “How did you find me?”
“A tank is not so hard to track Captain,” Dax replied.
“Bullshit,” James said. “How did you find us?”
Dax sighed and reached for him, picking a small plastic tab the size of a pencil lead off of his grenade launcher. He stuck it in front of James’ face for him to examine. “G.P.S. tracking,” he said with a smirk. “How could I help you if I didn’t know where you were?”
“You’re a sneaky bastard,” James said and both men laughed.
The doorbell jingled as Foster and Westlake left, their big arms bundled with food. James looked at Tupac. “Well?” He said.
“This whole area was hit by infection pretty hard but I found one place. Maybe. It’s only a few miles away”
James looked at Dax. “Are you with me?”
“I am with you Captain,” he replied, his face serious.
The men shook hands. James looked out the door and towards the future. He would keep watch for he didn’t sleep anymore.
“We leave at dawn.”
Chapter XVI: Changes
The axe came down for the countless time. Paul’s hands were red with blisters, two of which burst hours ago. The noon sun burned directly overhead. The ancient trees surrounding the Slaughter homestead offered some shade but the breeze had stopped and it was hot. Really hot.
Clifford’s words at the foot of his father’s bed ignited something deep inside Paul’s heart. It was an unfamiliar feeling. One he could not quite describe. He only knew he would not, could not, disappoint his family again. He threw down his axe and picked up a shovel. He grunted as he dug the spade into the turf. The process was second nature by now.
Saw down a tree, one at least fourteen feet tall.
Chop off the limbs.
Sharpen the top to a point.
Haul the massive thing back.
Dig a hole.
Bury the log.
Repeat.
Paul couldn’t sleep the night before and had found Mr. Worsby shortly after the sun came up. He was smoking one of his big cigars and rocking in an old wooden chair that had belonged to Paul’s Grandfather. “I like to watch the sun come up,” he explained. “When you get my age you don’t know how many more sunrises you’ll get to see.”
“I want to help defend these children,” Paul blurted out. “Tell me how.” Clifford nodded his head and for the next hour, while the pair broke their fast on stale bread and canned beans, the old man explained ancient Roman military tactics. “During their campaigns, generals often led their men deep into enemy territory. Those boys never knew what direction they could get attacked from so they built a massive wooden wall called a palisade each and every night to defend their camp. Boy, we’re in the same situation now.” His ancient eyes sparkled as he spoke. “We have absolutely no idea where the attacked will come from. We have lookouts sure but son, that don’t mean a damn thing. We see them coming. So what? How are we going to stop them? Boy, I tell ya what. We need a palisade wall.”
So Paul set out to build a wall. It was midday and he had built a wall whopping five logs long and he was exhausted. Sweat poured down his bare back. By his estimation, he still had another 300 yards of logs to plant. Paul packed the dirt around his last log and leaned against his shovel, surveying his work.
“Ya know,” a voice called from behind. Paul flung himself around bringing his spade up for defense. “They say Rome wasn’t built in a day and apparently neither will that fence!” Mr. Worsby eyed Paul with shaded eyes, his black WWII veteran cap hanging low on his forehead. He was smoking the last half of his morning cigar and chuckling as he leaned on his cane.
“I nearly chopped your head in two old man,” Paul said.
“You would have done me a favor then,” Clifford said. He tapped the five logs with his cane. “I don’t know what’s more painful, you trying to build this wall or watchin’ ya do it.”
Paul sighed. “Then why don’t you pick up a shovel and help me?”
“No, no. This is young man’s work,” he said grinning. “Besides, who would give ya all the ideas if I keeled over with a heart attack digging a hole?”
“I need to fetch another log,” Paul grumbled. He started walking to the forest.
“And you might finish this wall by the time Jesus comes back,” Mr. Worsby prodded.
And suddenly, they heard the rumble of the old dodge coming down the driveway. “Speak of the devil,” Paul said.
Luke was in the driver’s seat and next to him sat Danny Ramirez, who went on his first food mission today. Joining Wade in the bed of the truck was the chain smoking Richard, the mechanic Bobby Atwood, and his two sons Jr. and Hunter.
“Looks like a good run,” Clifford said. “A full truck bed and they’re back before noon.”
As the truck passed, Wade pointed to the wall and gave his brother a thumbs up. Luke gave his brother Paul a slight glance and then looked forward.
A glance is a start.
The truck stopped near the house and the men started carrying the food to the cellar. The giant trees that stood watch over the house and shaded the children playing in the green yard seemed pleased. They rustled gently with the breeze. Wade waved, beckoned for Paul and Clifford to join them.
“Looks like the cavalry arrived,” Mr. Worsby said cheerfully.
“Will you quit it with the corny sayings old man?” Paul said, reached for his discarded shirt.
“Maybe when I’m dead.”
“Which might be sooner than later,” Paul said, smiling. He clapped Mr. Worsby gently on the back and the pair walked to the house to see what the catch brought in.
Bridgett waved to Luke as he drove past and smiled when he smiled at her. She had been trying to avoid Paul all morning and was glad Luke was back. They were home safe and early today. She would join Luke in a while but she needed some time to herself and fetching water from the well seemed like as good an excuse as any. When she got there, the façade, the fake face she wore to convince everyone she was ok, collapsed. Her bucket fell to the ground as she did, leaning her back against the cold stone. She didn’t even have Sophie with her. Her wounded dog was still weak and sleeping inside. Anne said the Dane would be okay but her face told a different story. Bridgett wanted to cry but the tears wouldn’t come.
This is all wrong. Her head was swimming.
A squirrel’s fluffy tail flicked back and forth as it buried an acorn beneath one of the towering oaks. A grackle, that’s what old Mr. Worsby called the smaller south Texas cousins of the northern raven, perched on a limb above the squirrel. It carried something large and strange in its beak and set it on the branch so it could peck at it. Bridgett strained her eyes to see what it was. It looked like a light brown pancake but that couldn’t be right. And then she saw the black tuft of hair wafting in the breeze. The pancake was a patch of light brown skin, draped over the branch. The grackle pecked. Something dropped to the ground and the bird followed. A bare eyeball, with a brown iris and nerve stem still attached, stared at her from a bed of leaves.
Revolted, Bridgett turned away.
This is wrong. This is all so wrong.
And then something touched her shoulder and Bridgett screamed.
“It’s me, it’s me!” Anne said. She hugged the trembling Bridgett. “I’m sorry dear, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Everything’s okay.”
“No it isn’t,” Bridgett cried into her shoulder. The tears finally came. Her whole body shuddered and heaved. “What kind of world is this? Everything’s gone.”
“Shh,” Anne comforted the younger woman, stroking her hair and holding her to her chest. “That’s just despair talking. We’re all together.” Anne’s mind flashed to the school and to the screams as the blood crazed infected stormed th
e doomed children. “We’re alive.”
They sat like that for some time. The breeze rolled through the tall trees. Bridgett cried and Anne cradled her. In the distance a young boy with a stick prodded a group of girls having an imaginary tea party in the shade. Shouts of indignation rose from the girls as the boy laughed and ran away, spoiling their party but there in the middle of the conflict stood John Campbell. He had been devastated after his mother was brutally killed in front of him at the now all but abandoned feed store but found a new purpose in caring for the children. He stayed with them every night, making sure to comfort those who had nightmares. He kept a working head count at all times.
“See Bridgett,” Anne said, pointing to the chubby, round-faced John. He lambasted the boy with a wagging finger. “Some good has come of this and more good will come. It’s hard to think of the sunrise in the dead of night but sure enough, the sun will shine again.”
Anne kissed Bridgett’s dark curls, dipped the water bucket she was carrying into the well, and left, leaving Bridgett to her thoughts again. She leaned her head gently on the cold stone. The lone eyeball stared at her as the black bird pecked it to pieces. She looked past the eyeball to John who gathered the children together. Story time she guessed. He loved telling the children about Star Wars, no matter if they wanted to hear it or not.
The children groaned and Bridgett smiled. Sure there was a massive plague driving normal, friendly people to homicidal tendencies, and most of these children’s parents were probably dead, but maybe everything wasn’t so bad. And then Bridgett screamed.
“Whoa, it’s just me!” Luke smiled.
“Luke! Let me know the next time you come up on me like that,” she scolded. “That’s the second time today!”
But Luke wasn’t listening. He was busy waving John away. He had heard Bridgett scream and sprinted as fast as his chubby legs carried him towards the well. “It’s okay John,” she said but he was already leaning down with a concerned look on his face, inspecting her.
