by Joe Nobody
With a supreme effort, he finally managed to free himself, the basket’s dark interior and disheveled equipment making the task uncommonly problematic.
It was a pure stroke of luck that he found the hatch, another agonizing effort required to open the entry.
A slight breeze helped clear some of his brain-fog… a quick assessment telling Norse that one of his arms was broken, as were at least two of his ribs.
His next thoughts were of his crew. There was no way he could manage to even check their conditions in his current state. He had to get out of the wounded tank. He had to get help for his men.
With his one good arm, Norse pulled himself toward the portal-like opening. It was an invigorating accomplishment when his head appeared in the night air.
Using a shirtsleeve to wipe the blood from his face, the captain took a moment to evaluate the state of his command. Havoc was lying on its side, the monstrous war machine now as helpless as a newborn baby.
Chunks of concrete and protruding rebar littered the immediate vicinity, a thin layer of white dust giving every surface a haunting, almost ghost-like hue. Norse didn’t smell any smoke, couldn’t see any flames. At least his tank wasn’t burning.
After bracing himself for another bout of pain, the captain pushed off with his legs. He managed to get his waist clear of Havoc’s metal shell. Needing a rest, Norse loosed his grip on the hatch’s rim, forgetting that his beast of burden was no longer upright. He fell out of the hatch, landing badly in a heap. The pain nearly made him lose consciousness.
Despite the blood running from his damaged ears, Norse could hear activity in the distance. Help was nearby.
He struggled to his feet and scanned the area. Havoc had been tossed like a child’s toy by the explosion, eventually coming to rest 50 meters inside of no-man’s land.
Norse could identify lights and soldiers on both sides of the now-gaping roadway. The army had sent reinforcements and rescuers. Help was nearby.
He began stumbling toward the roadway, each step bringing sharp streaks of withering pain. He managed four steps when a stern voice sounded over the loudspeaker. “Attention! Attention! Unknown party approaching the exit four overpass, you are entering a restricted zone. I repeat, you are entering a restricted zone. Turn around immediately, or by order of the president of the United States, we will engage with lethal force. This is your one and only warning.”
The captain was stunned. He’d made that same announcement so many times. Was he so messed up the men on the freeway didn’t know who he was?
“This is Captain Norse from the #6 unit,” he did his best to yell. “I’m wounded and require assistance. My tank was just blown into no-man’s land. Some of my crew may still be alive. Please… we need help.”
A burst of machine gun fire ripped through the air, the thump, thump, thump of the bullets whizzing directly over the captain’s head.
Norse was in shock. Why are they firing at me, his confused mind kept asking. Why are my own men shooting at me?
His body told him to turn and run, but his heart wouldn’t let the command reach his legs. It all wasn’t right… it wasn’t fair… he wasn’t one of the Skinnies.
A bright spotlight flashed on, the beam temporarily blinding Norse. “Captain, I’m sorry, but you know the rules as well as anybody. Turn around, sir. Go find help inside the wall. I can’t let you get any closer. I will order you shot.”
An adrenalin of rage surged through the officer’s veins, pushing the pain aside and clearing his mind. “How dare you shoot at your commanding officer? Are you fucking crazy? Now send someone out here right this minute and render assistance to me and my crew, or I’ll have your ass up on charges.”
When no response came from the roadway, Norse took a step forward. Again, the machine gun sang its song, this time sending stinging bits of dirt and grass into the officer’s body. A different voice then carried through the air. Norse recognized his colonel’s gravely tone. “No more warnings, Captain. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it’s got to be. Turn around and walk away, or we’ll take you down.”
Norse believed him, the only question remaining in his mind was whether or not to die right here, or turn and face the horror that was Houston.
“Fuck it,” he whispered. “I’m not going to give these pricks the pleasure of gunning me down.”
The once proud, serving officer of the United States Army started to pivot, but then paused. With his good arm, Norse issued a final salute – using only one finger. He then turned into the night and began to hobble away.
It took all of his energy to stumble out of the demarcation zone. Desperately needing to rest, Norse made his way to a nearby tree, slumping awkwardly to the ground with his back against the trunk.
He began to regret his decision, the exertion of his stroll bleeding off the anger and fury that had driven him away in defiance.
Fear. It soon dawned on the wounded officer that he was scared. Resting on the ground, alone in the night with a battered, weakened body, Norse began recycling the tales of horror that he’d heard about Houston.
According to every rumor, the Bayou City was a place ruled by anarchy. The population was said to be desperate, leaderless and out of control. Tales of cannibalism, mountains of dead, rotting corpses, and ruthless gangs dominating the streets filled the wounded officer’s mind. It was a nightmare beyond dying from Ebola.
For a few moments, Norse was convinced he’d be better off turning back toward the army units and marching purposefully into their fire. At least it would be over with quickly.
Anything, he deemed, would be better than becoming some desperate, disease-ridden animal’s dinner. He wondered briefly if they killed their victims before consuming human flesh. Maybe they boil you alive, he worried. Maybe they just eat you raw while you’re trying to crawl away.
Panic formed in his gut, a sweat of fear beaded on his face. “No,” he whispered to the night, “I’ve suffered enough for one evening. I’m going to turn around, and let them shoot me.”
“Why would you do that?” came a strange voice.
Norse turned, another level of fright overtaking his body. He spotted the legs of a man and then a rifle butt descending toward his skull. For the second time in less than an hour, Captain Shane Norse’s world went black.
Norse awoke in a small, dim room equipped only with a toilet and sink. Bolts of thunderous pain surged through his skull, the agony causing his intestines to twist and knot. He thought he was going to vomit, but didn’t believe he could make it to the head.
He managed one elbow, the canvas cot creaking under the shift in his weight. He was in a jail cell, the black matrix of bars now clearly visible in the low light. “At least no one has made a meal of you yet,” he quipped.
The captain sensed rather than saw movement on the outside of his cell. For a moment he tried to blink his way to clearer eyesight, the effort only serving to make his brain throb even more.
It came as a complete surprise to find his broken arm in a cast. Finding the cut on his head had received a series of staples added to his bewilderment. “Why fix me up if you’re just going to eat me,” he whispered to the empty room.
The sound of approaching footfalls brought the return of dread to Norse’s thinking.
Two human outlines appeared at the wall of bars, the lack of light making it difficult for the captain to make out the features of either person.
“What’s your name, soldier?” asked a voice full of authority.
“Captain Shane Norse, 1st of the 3rd Combat Team, 7th Cav, United States Army,” he answered automatically.
“Well, Captain Norse, my name is Colonel Jack Taylor, Commander of the 1st Irregulars, Gulf Republic. How are you feeling, son?”
“I’ve been better, Colonel. Am I a prisoner?”
“Now that is an excellent question, Captain. The answer depends on your story and our capability to confirm it. Why did you enter my area of operation?”
Norse s
tarted to answer, but was interrupted by a wave of nausea. Clutching his stomach, the captain groaned loudly and eyed the nearby toilet.
“I’m sorry, Captain, but we don’t have many medications left. Our medical staff did the best they could on your injuries. All of our pain meds ran out months ago, so there’s little I can do to make you more comfortable.”
Norse nodded his understanding, but was still too unsure of his gut to speak.
“There’s also a chance you’ve been exposed to the virus,” Taylor continued. “The man who found you out by the border is a survivor, as were many of the medics that patched you up. We still don’t know when an individual is no longer contagious, so you might up and die on us before we have a chance to talk. I’ll be back later to see if you’re feeling up to a conversation… or are dead. Good luck, Captain.”
And with that, Taylor was gone, the sound of his retreating steps echoing throughout the otherwise silent concrete rooms.
A sudden need to lie back down consumed Shane’s thoughts, the combination of head and stomach aches quickly draining his strength. As he came to rest on the pillow, it suddenly occurred to the captain that the other person standing next to Taylor had never left.
Just as his eyes were trying to focus beyond the bars, he heard the cell door rattle open. Norse thought he had to be dreaming, a vision of a dark haired girl entering his space. She was carrying a plastic tray with what appeared to be food and water.
“You need to drink,” her gentle voice commanded. “Drink lots of water… all you can handle. You’ve lost a lot of blood and may have some internal bleeding. Water will help with your head as well.”
“Who are you?” Shane asked.
“I’m your caretaker and jailer,” she responded with a smile.
“Jailer?”
To answer his question, she turned slightly and patted the pistol holstered on her belt. “Don’t try anything clever,” she said. “I hate shooting people.”
Something in the woman’s green eyes convinced Norse. I bet you do, he thought.
The colonel knew he needed to sleep, his long night at the command rooftop depriving him of an entire night’s rest. He was still “revved-up,” however, the positive energy of an operation that had been a complete success still flowing through his body.
He instructed the major to drop him off a mile from his quarters. “I need to walk off some of this stress,” he informed the junior officer. “I know a short-cut through the park.”
“Just as a reminder, sir, we’re supposed to attend the board’s celebration this morning. You didn’t hear it from me, but I think they are planning on giving you an award.”
“You don’t say?” Taylor responded, mocking surprise.
“You earned it, sir. I haven’t seen our people so upbeat since the Q began. Folks are walking around like they have a purpose in life.”
“I noticed that,” the colonel nodded. “I tried to tell our friends on the board that would be the case. Leadership entails keeping morale at high levels, son. Don’t let anyone ever tell you differently.”
Taylor exited the Jeep, again nodding his thanks to the driver. “See you later, Major.” He then began the long walk back to his rack, contemplating what they wanted to accomplish next.
Essentially the ruling council of Houston, the board consisted of various individuals who assumed the leadership vacuum created when the old city and county governments had collapsed.
The board’s membership was a mixed lot. Among their ranks served both a minister and a priest, the latter having beentheArchdiocese of the Houston/Galveston Catholic community. Another was a self-described “old school Baptist preacher,” who in reality was the leader of one of the city’s famous mega-churches. His pre-Ebola flock had numbered in the tens of thousands. In addition, there was a ranking police commander, a senior officer of the local National Guard Units, three business executives, a hospital president, and of course, Colonel Taylor.
Taylor always felt like he was the outlier of the ruling body.
Every other member had been in a position of power or prestige before the collapse. The colonel had been nothing more than a manager of a small, private security team that guarded warehouses in an industrial complex.
He’d been forced to come out of retirement because of Jenny, his wife of 31 years. Diagnosed with stage three breast cancer, Mrs. Taylor’s medical bills were on the verge of depleting the couple’s retirement funds, his VA insurance clearly not up to the task.
At the advice of another retired Marine, Jack had applied for an open spot, basically a supervisor of a 16-man strong department of night watchmen. Many of the guards were younger jarheads who had left the Corps and been unable to find better paying work.
Compared to his responsibility while actively serving, managing the small operation at the Northside Industrial Complex was light duty. There were two streets of huge warehouses and a couple of small manufacturing facilities, all surrounded by a chair-link, barbed wire-topped fence. They patrolled, checked locks, and manned the guard booth at the entrance. It was a low-key job with little stress, yet provided enough supplemental income to give the Taylor household a chance to see Jenny’s treatment through.
There was another advantage to the job – location. Northside was right down the street from the non-profit hospital complex where the uninsured and underinsured like his wife were being treated. The retired Marine liked being close to his mate, the proximity seeming to comfort her as well.
When Ebola had come to the shores of the United States, the colonel hadn’t been concerned. He’d been around the world enough to recognize media-induced hype, and besides, Jenny was struggling with her medications. He was aware, but not focused on the situation, most of his free time spent at his wife’s bedside.
The first reported cases to hit Houston did little to elevate his concerns. Watching his wife’s body reject her cocktail of medications consumed the colonel’s thoughts and energy. Even when the occasional news report did alarm him, he pushed it back. Jenny needed calm – she had enough to worry about.
When news broke of the virus’s mutation into a more deadly strain, he found himself comforting both a declining spouse and a nervous bunch of employees. Most of his guards were young men with families and small children. His calm, in-control leadership style quelled anxiety and earned respect.
So caught up in the events of his immediate surroundings, Taylor actually missed the president’s announcement of Houston’s quarantine, learning of the life changing news from an employee who was uncertain if he should leave his family and report for work.
“Colonel, I hate to leave you hanging,” the former NCO had stated. “But there’s a lot of very upset people in my neighborhood. They’re mulling around down at the corner, and I can hear some pretty harsh words flying around. There’s going to be trouble, sir, and my wife and kids are scared shitless.”
“Bring them with you,” Taylor had replied, something in the man’s voice making the retired officer’s small hairs come alert. “We can make them comfortable here, and you can keep an eye on them.”
“It’s more than just that, Colonel. Have you watched the news? They’re showing video of empty grocery store shelves, mile-long lines at gas stations, and a lot of very angry people bunching up. Most of the banks have closed, and somebody threw a Molotov cocktail at a police car.”
His employee’s words made Taylor aware he’d been hearing far more sirens than was typical. “I’ll check it out as soon as we hang up. Pack up whatever you can, and bring it with you. We’ll ride out the storm here at the complex.”
Word had spread quickly amongst the tight-knit staff, the guards appreciating their boss’s flexibility and concerns for their loved ones. They also knew the security of being in numbers. By the end of the second day of the quarantine, the colonel found his facility had morphed into a combination daycare center and refugee camp. Girlfriends, children, parents, and friends scampered about turning one of the empty w
arehouses into a condominium of sorts. Some smartass named the building the “Hotel Zombie.”
The events of morning Q+3 completely justified everyone’s concerns. Taylor, spending the night on a cot in his office, was awakened by a very upset watchman. “Sir, something’s going on down at the hospital. I know Mrs. Taylor is there, and I thought you would want to check it out.”
Rushing outside, Taylor spied a column of smoke rising into the morning sky. There was a nearly continuous chorus of sirens. Hustling to his car, the colonel made for the hospital, praying his wife was unharmed. He soon found his way blocked by a huge crowd of people and a wall of Houston police officers. St. Mary’s charity hospital was burning, streams of water reaching skyward to fight the boiling smoke and flames soaring from the windows of the complex’s third floor.
“They’ve got a cure in there,” someone in the throng was shouting. “Those doctors have a cure, but you’ve got to be rich before they’ll let you in.”
Another group was chanting, “Cure the poor! Cure the poor!”
Someone had even made signs, a mulling group on the sidewalk holding up placards accusing the government of everything from conspiracy to outright fraud.
The colonel had seen his share of unrest. He’d been in Iraq when the regime had crumbled under the weight of American armor, watched an insurgency drum up local anger in Mosul a few years later. It was obvious that the situation in front of him was about to get out of control. It only took a rumor… a single misspoken word or partially heard phase to get it started. He had to get Jenny out. But how?
Luckily, a Marine Corps officer isn’t easy discouraged. Taylor began circling the facility on foot, seaching for any opening to bypass the police and fire units keeping the public at bay.
He discovered the hospital’s dumpsters unguarded. A few moments later he pulled on a blue, disposable surgery smock and skull cap. The distracted cops let him pass without question.
