But he’s only one man. I shouldn’t place my own frustrations on him. Maybe that would be easier if he showed any sort of emotional reaction to all of this.
They move from monitor to monitor, corridor to corridor, until finally stopping at the door of the barricaded room. The camera inside only shows the entrance. Someone might be inside, but it’s impossible to know from the security office.
The footage gives us no sound, so we don’t know if, when Private Jones bangs on the door, anyone reacts inside. After a few seconds, two men walk into view. One limps while the other supports him. They clear the barricade and the Sergeant and Jones enter together, guns raised.
The four men talk. The guns are lowered. I take the initiative and press the intercom button Charlie uses to communicate with them.
“Sergeant, bring the injured man to the sick bay so I can examine him.” I turn to Moretti. “Can you escort me there?”
He hesitates until the higher rank officer nods at the camera. “Follow me.”
A modest sick bay is better than none. I move around the room, searching for the bare necessities to clean and treat the wound. Possibly a gunshot. Let’s hope it’s not a bite.
Please don’t be a bite.
Jones and the Sergeant bring the other two soldiers inside. The one with the injured leg winces when we help him up on the bed. I cut the fabric on the lower half of his left leg with a pair of scissors. My eyes run over the wound, scanning for any signs of the infection. No dark lumps, no yellowing skin or red shot eyes.
“He’s clear,” I say out loud so everyone can relax. “Just a gunshot.”
Takes me a moment to realize how crazy it is to consider a gunshot wound good news. I shake my head, feeling a migraine coming on soon. The throbbing insistent pain needs to be ignored for now, for the sake of my concentration.
Time to assess the situation. Pale skin, but the bleeding is controlled thanks to quick first-aid assistance from his friend. Loss of blood, but no shock. With gloved hands I check his pulse and the leg closely. No swelling, and no major artery is damaged. I find the exit wound. A good sign. No bullet to cause a normal infection. I clean and disinfect it with saline solution.
With no anesthetic, the poor man has to be restrained by his companions in order for me to stitch the wound and close it so it can heal properly. With some help from Private Moretti we hook him to an IV, to replace fluids and increase his circulation.
Hours pass. I stay with the patient to monitor his blood pressure and recovery. He’s just as stubborn as I am, and neither of us sleep. Moretti also keeps us company, standing guard by the door.
My patient’s name is Fernando Castro. Mechanic. He tells a tale very similar to the one I lived through in St. Jude. Someone got a fever, antibiotics did nothing, and the person bit his roommate’s hand. Weird, but not dangerous. Why would they think any different? They knocked the first victim unconscious and the second went to sleep after his wound was cleaned. People went back to their tasks.
“I was in the garage, working on the Humvee. Matthews ran in and told me to block the doors. We did, but people kept screaming, wanting to get in. Someone shot me through the door. Then…” He clears his throat. “Nothing.”
He stares at the ceiling, lips tight. I recognize the guilt in his expression.
“You did what you had to do,” Moretti chimes in, still posted by the door. “You survived.”
I wish I could echo the sentiment, or even take some comfort from it. I can’t.
Judging by the long sigh, Castro shares my reluctance.
Some time later, the Sergeant returns. He takes a brief look at Castro’s leg. Is he worried about it? Does he even care? Maybe he does, but he certainly doesn’t bother to show it.
“The base is secured. We are going to need help cleaning it up. Get some rest, then report to Charlie.”
For a second I think he’s talking to my patient. Disapproval stiffens me, and I’m about to demand more rest for him, when I see that the man was talking to me.
“Report…?” I say.
“Yes. Moretti will take you to a room that is… clean. You can get a few hours to sleep. Then Charlie will give you instructions on the disposal of… the bodies. Everyone has to help to speed things up or we risk contamination.”
I’m not sure what exactly I was expecting, but cleaning blood and guts wasn’t on my list.
“We are staying? In here?” When he gives me no answer, I open my mouth. “Really? We are staying… The seven of us. Alone.”
His narrow stare pierces right through me. “Yes.”
“Why? Shouldn’t we go and help people out there? Find the rest of… the rest your group or division, or something? I mean someone must be organizing people. You moved my patients out… You took them to somewhere else, somewhere safe, right? A quarantine zone. Something.”
My ramblings end in an awkward silence. Moretti, standing behind his superior, avoids my eyes. Castro remains silent and distant. Only the Sergeant looks directly at me. Yet, he doesn’t speak. He has no explanation to offer.
I know very well I’m just a civilian. I know my presence here is mere protocol and only thanks to their diligence in following orders. I should consider myself lucky they were willing to keep me safe, but for once the Sergeant could give me an answer instead of ignoring me.
“What’s going on here? What are you not telling me?”
“Get some rest, Doc.”
The dismissal is too much. I march towards him. “Not before you explain to me why we are staying put when we should be helping people outside.”
“We are waiting for more orders.” He gives me a raised eyebrow. “Satisfied?”
No. Not even close. “Waiting for how long?”
“Are you in rush to go somewhere, Doc?”
I do my best to ignore his sarcasm. “Yes, I am. People are dying out there. If you want to stay here, then fine. But this base can hold more people. We should go out there and bring them in here. Protect any survivors we find.”
For once, I feel some support. Moretti listens to my every word, giving a slight nod. He looks at the Sergeant with expectation in his eyes.
“You have the guns and the training to do this. You bring them inside, I can treat them,” I add. “We can’t just shut the doors and pretend nothing is going on. People need us.”
The Sergeant turns his head a little, averting his gaze from mine. His eyes soften for just a brief second, then turn cold again.
“No. We stay inside, we stay safe. We can’t waste resources on finding survivors. Too much risk for too little gain.” Before I can protest, he continues, “High command will tell us what to do. In the meantime everyone stays inside. No one gets in, no one goes out. Are we clear?”
“You mean I can’t even leave? Am I your prisoner?”
He laughs. A short, humorless laugh, but it requires a contortion of the face I wasn’t sure he was capable of. “We call that following orders, but if that’s how you want to see it, be my guest.”
He leaves, ignoring my protests. I sit down again, then get up and pace around the room. Despite the noise, Castro falls asleep. I can’t believe the Sergeant. Wasn’t the point of the military to protect us? Wasn’t that what they promised us when we signed off on stricter laws, on harsher controls, on lack of privacy and everything else?
Instead they bomb cities and refuse to help. Every inch of me wants to kick something, but the truth is, I’m too tired to bother.
“Are you okay, Doc?”
Moretti’s question irritates me. “Do I look okay? Can anyone be okay in this situation? Are you okay with all of this? Are you fine with hiding in here, head buried into the sand? Waiting around like a good little soldier?” I regret saying all of it the second he flinches at my tone. “I’m… Sorry. That wasn’t fair of me. I’m…tired.”
“Yeah. I noticed.” He smiles at me. A nice, warm smile. How long has it been since I saw one? “Everything’s going to work out. You’ll see. The
Sarge only wants to keep us safe. The second more orders come in, things will make sense again.”
But they don’t come in. After three long weeks the Army gives us no sign they still exist. Castro’s leg is better. The walls are finally clean of blood and guts. The Sergeant forces us into a routine of old bread for breakfast, counting weapons and doing maintenance in the afternoons, and sleepless nights mixed with boredom and paranoia. No news comes from the outside.
I learn all the soldiers’ names. Fernando Castro. John Matthews. Charlie Trott. Victor Jones. Private Moretti becomes Tom to me. The poor guy’s assignment is to follow me around to make sure I don’t do anything stupid, also known as “act like a civilian and ignore regs.” We build a little friendship out of small talk about Italian and Mexican cooking and a mutual longing for pepper and salt.
Only the Sergeant remains the Sergeant to me. His name is Tigh. Just Tigh, apparently. My initial impression of him remains the same. He makes no effort to change it, anyway. After our third fight over the issue of leaving, he decides to avoid me entirely by staying inside his office, ear glued to the radio for his precious orders.
The normalcy and peace offered in here is merely an illusion. Every single day that passes, I’m aware the world outside is falling to pieces and that, by staying inside, I’m betraying the oath I made. Some nights I think of escaping with medical supplies and going out alone to look for people.
By morning, the nightmares changed my mind. Memories of St. Jude, the sound of breaking nails and piercing howls demanding my help mixed with ripped skin and dark teeth, all of it comes crashing in and crumbling any resolve I had.
I can mend bones and stop external bleeding, but I can’t fight my way through a crowd of delirious, violent people. I need Tigh and his guns to do that.
The very next day, I march toward Tigh’s temporary office, with a worried Tom trailing behind.
Enough is enough. He must know we waited too long. He must realize the Army abandoned him. If there is any Army left at all.
The office feels like the inside of an oven, hot and cramped. Like everywhere else in the base the air conditioner remains off to save power. There is no bed.
His table is covered with maps of the region and blueprints of the base. On the right wall, the radio station blinks red. Beads of sweat form on the Sergeant’s forehead, yet his uniform is pristine. He didn’t even roll his sleeves. Of course.
For too long, he just stares at a map and refuses to even acknowledge our presence.
“Sarge, she needs to talk to you. It’s important.”
The man bolts out of his chair, coming so close to Tom, I’m afraid he’ll strike the Private.
Seeing him up close, I notice the deep dark circles around his eyes. My own anger deflates somewhat. Tigh probably hadn’t had a good night sleep in days. I was right and wrong at the same time. He probably felt each day pass as painfully as I did. He does realize the Army abandoned him, and it’s tearing him apart. I could pity him, if he wasn’t screaming at us.
“Important.” His voice drips with venom. “So, it’s about our food resources? Maybe a suggestion on how to feed seven people during the winter? Does she know how to fix the water filtering system? Does she? No? Then get out.”
“When was the last time you slept, Sergeant?”
He turns sharply to me; incredulous I had the audacity of speaking. “Sleep? I don’t have time to sleep. I don’t have time to waste on you either. Get out.”
Tigh towers over me, the very figure of intimidation with arms crossed against his broad chest, yet I stand my ground. To get respect, I can’t back off now.
“We waited. Nobody is coming. It’s time we did something to help.”
“You have no authority here. You have no business telling me what to do.”
“That’s ridiculous—”
Static interrupts us. A broken voice comes from the radio. Tigh’s reaction is what shocks me: he’s not relieved, he’s not anxiously trying to listen. He ignores it and keeps talking, maybe to drown out the noise.
“I have a duty to keep this base safe. To wait—”
Tom and I pay no attention anymore. I pass by the Sergeant, pressing the button to turn on communications on our side. “Hello? Can you hear me? Are you there?”
Tigh grabs me by the shoulders and forces me to back away. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I’m about to protest when Tom puts a hand on his superior’s arm, which still holds me firmly in place. “Sarge, let her to do it.”
“Let go of me, Private.”
“No. Let her answer it.” This time Tom’s voice holds no hesitation.
My whole body freezes, expecting Tigh to explode at the insubordination, but once again the voice stops us. This time the call for help is clear and undeniable.
“Hello? Is someone hearing this? We’re trapped, please. They’re out there. We can’t leave. Please, someone pick up.”
Tom turns to answer the radio himself.
“Don’t you dare, Private. That’s an order.”
Tom hesitates, his hand almost backing away from the button.
The fear of losing this chance compels me to speak, my voice surprisingly loud. “You said there wasn’t anyone out there. That we didn’t have a chance in hell to find anyone without wasting all our resources. Well, we found someone. What’s the excuse now, Tigh?”
I don’t stop there, all my frustrations force me to continue, ignoring reason and the high probability of punishment. My brain doesn’t seem to care.
“I know you think you’re doing the best thing for us, but we can’t control everything. The government tried. They thought they would keep everyone else out and we would be safe. It didn’t work. It won’t work here either.”
Tom looks at the older man, his hand hovering over the radio. I take the Sergeant's silence as a good sign, and continue, “We have to bring people together again. We need to help others. If we don’t, what’s left? A few years locked up in this hellhole? What kind of life is that?”
His bright hawk eyes focus on my own. He lets go of me. A sigh escapes his lips and his shoulders fall.
“Answer it, Private.”
The Geek II
November 23rd, Monday, 8 pm
I’m not one to brag, but the miniature model of Redwood matches the town perfectly. Main street? Check. Houses that all look the same? Done. The greasy pizzeria and old drugstore? Exact copies.
As I analyze my creation on the table, Roger stands next to me with arms crossed. “So, I’m thinking of blocking the main road with Phil’s truck, since it’s big enough.”
The school model is a little out of scale, which is annoying, but considering I carved all of this under a lot of pressure, I’m thinking of forgiving myself for that.
“What got me worried is Old Hank’s farm.” He continues, “It’s too far way. We don’t have enough…”
The real problem is the school model. Something about its color seems off…
“Danny, are you listening?”
“Yeah, yeah, the farm. I got it.” I place a miniature version of me on the school’s roof. I didn’t make one for everyone, too much trouble. “The farm is too far away.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Water, the Taylors, the woods, guns and the color of the school. I used navy blue, but it’s a shade too dark, right?”
Roger takes Miniature Me from my hands, moving it to the middle of the mini-Main Street. “That’s a long list. Let’s start with the water.”
I fall onto the chair behind me. Being back in a classroom reminds me of wedgies and toilet water. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable here. The generator and its annoying humming don’t help either. My left leg shakes, and my cheek rests on my hand. Roger waits, like he always does.
“The water tower needs a guard on it. Fresh water is going to be like gold in a few months,” I tell him.
Roger nods. “Okay, we can add that to the patrol rost
er. What about the Taylors?”
A sigh escapes me. I roll the chair around for a bit, spinning it slowly. “Did they really take the dog with them?”
One of Roger’s eyebrows arches upward. “Why? Does it matter?”
I stand up, throwing my hands in the air. “Yeah, it matters, Roger. The little bastard barks at the sight of his own shadow. He’s practically a zombie magnet.” I hate imagining the puppy being ripped to pieces. “This was the safest place for him. Besides, he’s so cute, we would’ve used him to help with morale.”
Roger doubles his eyebrow raising action. “So, you don’t care about the Taylors leaving. You’re worried about the dog.”
“Well, they chose to leave town. We can’t worry about them now, can we? But Poopy had no choice.”
My friend puts a hand on my shoulder. He knows me. He understands this isn’t just about the dog.
“People stayed, Danny. Almost two hundred people believe in us.”
Of two thousand, I want to add. While less people meant fewer annoyances, it also hurts my pride. Nobody ever took me seriously in this town. This was my best chance of earning some well-deserved respect. But, no… Not even ten percent of the town stayed. So, it’s hard for me to stay positive like Roger, but I decide not to argue with him. Seems rude to do that when he’s trying to make me feel better.
“They believe in you, but okay, I get it,” I say.
“Oh no, this is all on you. The thing with the phone really scared the hell out of people.”
Roger gives me a smile; I roll my eyes, but open a smile of my own. My scare tactics may have had a strong first impression on people, but none of them lined up to learn Zombie Combat Techniques just yet. I was actually looking forward to teaching that class.
He points at the plastic trees around our mini-town. “What about the woods? What got you worried there? Is it because of the factory? The community college?”
“Both. For starters.” I turn around to pull down the map of the region, covering the blackboard. “There’s a high probability that the zombies over there will eventually get here through the woods.”
Those Who Remain Page 5
