by JE Gurley
At first, she paid no attention to the black man standing frozen on the sidewalk, but something in his odd mannerism caused her to look more closely. He glanced at the bar, and then down the street, as if trying to come to a decision. Finally, he turned to the bar and walked in. He stood looking around for a moment before choosing a table, the one directly across from her. He cast a quick, nervous smile in her direction as he sat down. Miklos rushed over with a bar towel draped over his arm. She thought this odd, since he never waited on tables. The customer usually ordered and picked up their drinks from the bar.
“What can I get you, sir?” he asked, smiling profusely.
The man seemed undecided, then cocked his head, nodded and answered, “A beer.”
“I have several good beers,” Miklos informed him.
“Any beer,” the man replied.
As Miklos rushed off to fetch the beer, the man glanced at Bahati and saw her staring at him. He smiled and explained, “I’m not much of a beer drinker, but I thought I should order something.”
She returned his smile and nodded politely. Miklos returned with a bottle of beer and a cold mug and her martini on a tray. He placed her martini in front of her and then carried the beer and mug to the other patron. She took a sip. It was very dry with just a splash of vermouth, the way she liked it. There were no fresh olives, but a twist of lemon peel added a touch of tartness. She had learned to enjoy martinis while visiting southern France during her last year of high school with her friends. Sipping the concoction reminded her of those times. She wondered if any of them still lived.
The man ignored the frosted mug and picked up the bottle. He took a short experimental sip, smiled, and then took a longer swig. “Not bad,” he said.
Miklos beamed. “Thank you, Colonel. I am most pleased.” He muttered to himself as he walked away.
Bahati recognized the man now – Colonel Martin Schumer, commandant of the military and de facto head of the government of Salt Lake City. She had seen him once when she had worked on the Ditch, but she didn’t recognize him now without his uniform. He seemed somehow smaller, more vulnerable. He seemed uncomfortable in the bar but determined to finish his beer, as if wasting it would be a major sin. She felt sorry for him.
“I worked on the Ditch,” she said to him. “You saved us, Colonel.”
He looked startled; then replied, “No, people like you saved us. I just drew a line on a map and let others make it happen.”
His modesty surprised her. She had expected a high-ranking officer to have as large an ego. “I saw you digging with a shovel alongside the rest of us.”
His smile seemed genuine. “I’ve always felt more comfortable doing than ordering it done.”
“Have you tried Miklos’s martinis?”
“I can’t drink hard liquor.”
She smiled. “Oh? A soldier that doesn’t drink?”
“Never got a chance growing up in the Alabama Bible Belt. My father was strict. I didn’t even drink beer until I joined the army.”
“Why aren’t you in uniform now?” she asked.
His eyes grew darker and the corners of his mouth sagged slightly. She immediately regretted her question. His reasons were his own and she had no right to pry, but a few seconds later, he smiled.
“Sometimes I like to get away and pretend I’m a normal man.” He pointed down the block. She craned her neck and saw two uniformed soldiers standing on the corner, his escort keeping a discrete distance. “It’s an illusion, of course, but it helps.”
An idea flittered across her mind. It seemed silly, perhaps even wrong, but the colonel seemed like a nice man thrust into a position with which he was uncomfortable. “There’s a back door, you know. Would you like to take a stroll, Colonel?”
He stared at her for a long moment, and then broke into a wide grin. “The name’s Martin and yes I would.”
“My name is Bahati. I’m not from around here,” she said as a joke.
“Neither am I,” he replied.
His easy humor put her at ease. She set aside her unfinished martini and stood. She heard the heavy metal back door creak as Miklos, who had had been listening to them, opened it for them. They left their unfinished drinks and slipped out the back door into the alley. The cold wind funneling down the alley was biting. She pulled up the collar on her coat.
“Sergeant Williams and Corporal Rollins are going to be angry with me for this,” Schumer said, but Bahati noticed that he was smiling like a schoolboy cutting class.
“Just a quick stroll to assert your independence,” she suggested.
“What are you asserting?” he asked.
She considered his question for a moment before replying, “My individuality.”
Schumer frowned. “Do you not feel like an individual?”
“Not at the factory. Sometimes not even here in the streets. We all seem to be morphing into one people, drawn together by our despair, huddled together in our fear, and living quietly as if our next mistake could be our last.”
They reached the end of the alley and turned south down an empty Main Street. A building warded off the worst of the cold wind, but without streetlamps, the area was dark and uninviting. She didn’t worry about crime, almost unheard of in the city, but she was wary of the shadows, a holdover from the days of sudden zombie attacks.
“We’re living at the edge of our limits,” he said. “After a time, it plays on people’s fears. I remember the celebrations when we completed the Ditch. People felt as if they had accomplished something grand. Parties erupted all over the city. We even had fireworks. Now, we simply survive.”
“But things are getting better, right?” she asked.
His hesitation in answering dismayed her. She needed to hear a resounding ‘Yes’ from the man in charge of their lives, but he seemed to be choosing his words carefully.
“In general, yes. We’ve cleared parts of San Diego, Phoenix, and have a base in Washington state, but it’s a slow go. Much of the country’s infrastructure is in shambles. The real problem isn’t recovering. There are … factions in the military that see a different path for the future of America. Here in Salt Lake City, we have it better than most areas of the country. We have some independence, some of that individuality you’re talking about. I fear my influence may not be enough to keep us out of the conflict I see coming.”
She grew suddenly cold. “War?”
“No, I don’t think it will come to that, but there could be violence.”
She considered his meaning. In spite of the time she had spent among them, Americans still baffled her. Even for a people whose entire history had been conflict, it seemed counterproductive to fight among themselves when so few remained.
Schumer continued. “In Europe, NATO keeps the munies sequestered from the general population in camps. The munies willingly donate blood, similar to here in Salt Lake City, but they have few rights. A few of our leaders want to go a step further. In San Diego, they sedate munies and harvest their blood. I’ve received numerous ‘recommendations’ that I do the same. I’ve refused in the strongest terms possible. I’ve expected orders to stand down at any time, but my popularity for saving the city has given me a reprieve. Attention was focused elsewhere. Now, I don’t know.”
Bahati had heard rumors of concentration camp-like facilities for munies, but like most, had dismissed them as spurious. After all, how could humans treat other humans like animals? The colonel’s confirmation of the rumors shattered her world. It could happen here. It could happen to her. She was furious. She stopped walking and spun to face him.
“You won’t let them, will you?”
Her sudden anger took him by surprise. “I’m just a colonel in the military. I follow orders. I won’t do it, but I can’t stop them from removing me from my position of authority.”
“Position of authority? Is that all this is to you? Why did we work so hard to save ourselves if we are simply to become cattle? You’re a colonel. You’re in command. Yo
ur men worship you. Hell, the entire city adores you. Fight them.”
“I have less than five hundred troops and most of them are involved in the logistics of feeding a city. Maybe two hundred have combat training. How can I fight anyone with them?”
“We’ll all fight. I’ll fight. I was there during the Arab Spring in Cairo. Ordinary people fought – students, shopkeepers, taxi drivers, and farmers. Give us weapons and teach us how to use them.” Her voice rose in volume as she realized the enormity of what she was suggesting. Her anger gave her the courage to continue. “We’ll fight for our lives. We’ll fight for our freedom. If we have weapons and training, we might at least die like humans.”
Spent, her courage discharged like a spark of electricity by her words, she suddenly became dizzy. Her body refused to cooperate. She felt Schumer’s hands as he reached out to catch her as she collapsed. She tried to smile at his whispered words, but the effort was too great.
“You’re right, Bahati,” he said, “we have to make a stand for what is right.”
5
San Diego, California
Admiral Anthony Van Ekland stood on Pier 17 at the San Diego Naval Base admiring the destroyer they had just completed refurbishing. In her year of idleness, she had accumulated a heavy coat of rust, pigeons and seagulls had covered her decks and railings with inches of poop, and rats had chewed miles of electrical wiring. Now, after months of hard labor, she had a trained crew and was ready to sail. The DD-567, guided missile destroyer USS Watts, sporting a fresh coat of gray paint, rolled gently in the bay as if eager for the journey. Soon, she would carry her new crew south to check on the status of the Panama Canal. Accompanying her, would be a team of canal and lock specialists gleaned from every port and canal in the U.S. if the locks were still operational or easily repairable, passage to the East Coast would be possible.
As far as Van Ekland was concerned, the Eastern Seaboard cities were death traps, difficult to provide for and impossible to defend. With so few people surviving, it made more sense to move the people to the Southwest or the West Coast where sufficient power was available and the weather was milder. San Diego had power, water, and transportation. What better place to center the new United States? He smiled at the prospect of being near the center of power. Power was like water; it tended to spread out. All he need do was to be ready with his cup.
He would not repeat the mistake of the base’s former commander. General Perry had refused to follow orders due to a matter of conscience. Van Ekland had no such problem. He would not let the munie problem be his downfall as it had Perry’s. He had orders to transfer the munies at the base to Phoenix, where permanent facilities were near completion. He would personally oversee the transfer of munies. He would be glad to get rid of them. He was a sailor, not the commandant of a prison camp. Upon his arrival, he had inspected the rows of comatose men, women, and children, their precious blood dripping into collection tanks, and had thanked God that he had been spared such a fate. He knew the necessity for their blood, the source of Blue Juice, but as a munie himself, he felt sympathy for their plight. However, he was pragmatic enough to know that he didn’t want to join them in their miserable oblivion.
The tracks were nearly operational between San Diego and Phoenix. Within the next few weeks, medical trailers would be loaded onto sixteen flatcars, each containing twenty-eight munies, for a total of four-hundred-and-forty-eight bodies. Once they left San Diego, they would no longer be his responsibility.
“A Christmas present for General Hershimer,” he said aloud thinking of the trainload of munies. “I wonder if I should add a bow and ribbon to the damn train.”
Phoenix would become the new center for medical research and vaccine production, leaving him to concentrate on military matters. NATO was clamoring for a centralized military to meet any threats posed by the scattered former Soviet Republics, China, and Eastern Asia. Europe was a shambles, her population reduced by four-fifths. The fertile farmlands of southern France produced sufficient food to feed them, but Europe was poor in resources and looked to the U.S. with envious eyes. The U.S. President had so far resisted handing over command to NATO, but Van Ekland knew him as a spineless bastard and suspected a deal was in the works. If so, the U.S. would never rise higher than Europe allowed, becoming a source of valuable raw products and manufactured goods. The balance of power rested in the hands of the military. It was his intention to keep it there.
A figure waved to him from the ship. He squinted against the glare of the sun and recognized the ship’s commander, Captain Leland Sheppard. At twenty-six, he was a bit young for command of his own ship, but he had proven himself up to the task as second-in-command of a missile frigate during runs up and down the coast. Van Ekland had few capable officers to choose from. Ships at sea fared poorly during the zombie plague. He hoped the young commander managed to reach Panama. He would hate to lose the Watts.
Van Ekland forced a smile to his face and waved back. “At least we still have GPS,” he said under his breath.
Tucson, Arizona
Captain Nathaniel Lacey tried not to nod off to the monotonous, rhythmic clanging as the jigger passed over welds in the rails. The small, two-man motorized car, driven by Hugh O’Malley, a cigar-chewing gang pusher from Hoboken, New York, had left the rail yard in Phoenix four hours earlier for the convoluted journey from Phoenix to Coolidge to Picacho to the work gang north of Tucson. O’Malley, a stickler for details, had insisted on stopping to check every new section of rail along the way. Lacey didn’t mind too much. He wasn’t sure he entirely trusted the hastily formed railroad crews. They lacked discipline. He did trust O’Malley. O’Malley’s thirty years on the railroad more than compensated for his own total lack of railroad experience. He knew men and O’Malley knew railroads. Together, he hoped they could quickly get the track cleared through Tucson so he could move on to other things. They had cleared the tracks from San Diego to Phoenix two months earlier, a backbreaking job in stifling heat and dust. No trains had yet made the journey, but they soon would.
“We’re here,” O’Malley announced.
The metal wheels of the jigger squealed in protest as he applied the brakes, jerking Lacey forward into his seatbelt. In front of them sat the Hi-Rail crane truck and the flatbed car used to transport the bulldozer necessary to clear away the debris from the year-old wreck. Ten men, mostly former railroad workers from around the country, sat idle or leaned against shovels staring at the newcomers. He frowned when he saw their weapons stacked carelessly on the bed of the flatcar.
“I thought you said they were a good crew,” Lacey said. “They look like a bunch of fuck ups to me.”
O’Malley sneered at the man he thought of as dead weight. “The snipes heard us coming fifteen minutes ago. They’re waiting for you.”
Lacey grinned. When he had first heard the word snipes, he had immediately thought of snipe hunting, the practical joke of Southern good ole boys, not railroad work gangs. O’Malley climbed out of the jigger and walked up to the crew pusher, a tall black man with shoulders wider than any man Lacey had ever seen. He wore his green hard hat cocked at an angle.
“Soweta,” O’Malley called out loudly, “how they hangin’?”
Soweta grabbed his crotch with one hand and broke out in a toothy grin. “Low to show, boss.” The man’s musical basso profundo voice carried easily to Lacey. It was just a shade higher in pitch than a low rumble.
“The captain here,” O’Malley jerked his thumb over his shoulder in Lacey’s direction, “is an impatient man. How much longer?”
Soweta scowled at Lacey and pointed to the crumpled, burned out hulks of boxcars and flatcars littering the area. Piles of charred cargo indistinguishable from the wreckage dotted the cleared spaces. “There was more than a mile of this shit on the tracks. Some fool parked a dozer down the line and derailed the entire train. The train took out a tank farm for a power station. Big mess. Burning oil melted and fused metal. We laid some new ballast and tie
s and replaced a few sections of rail. Luckily, the engines landed far enough from the track that we didn’t have to move them. The dozer’s no good for that sort of work. We’re good to go.”
O’Malley spat out the stub of his cigar and glared at Lacey. “Fuck ups, huh?” he challenged.
Lacey climbed out of the jigger, trying to hide his limp from camped legs. The nearer he got to Soweta, the larger the big black man loomed. He towered over O’Malley, not a short man at five-feet-seven-inches, by a good foot. His hands were large enough to pound spikes. The ten-pound sledgehammer he carried looked like a finishing hammer in his meaty hands. Looking up at the big gang pusher, Lacey felt like a child at his father’s knees.
“Dingane here is from South Africa, a Zulu, but don’t worry, he won’t eat you.”
Both O’Malley and Soweta laughed hysterically. He ignored them.
“How far has the track been cleared?”
Soweta stopped laughing and stared at Lacey for a moment before replying. He raised an arm and pointed down the line. As he did, Lacey noticed the pearl-handled automatic stuck down the back of Soweta’s pants. Maybe he’s not such a fuck up after all. “We’ve been all the way to the outskirts of Tucson, maybe fifteen miles. Many zombies. Any farther and we’ll need you army boys.” He grinned. “My men handle shovels and picks better than rifles.”
“So I noticed. My men are on their way by truck.” Lacey checked his watch. “It’s four now. They’ll be here before sunset.”
“I hope so,” Soweta growled. “We hear all kinds of noises in the dark. Not good. Many zombies moving northwest following the Catalina Mountains. More there.” He glanced around nervously. Lacey followed his gaze to a line of ghostly airplanes parked in the distance, Pinal Air Park. “This is a bad place.”
