by JE Gurley
Jeb found Mace alone in the generator building replacing a faulty circuit breaker. They had added solar panels stripped from the Saguaro Solar Power Plant to augment the natural gas generators. With no certified electrician, the bulk of the work had fallen on Mace, who had slowly become a jack-of-all-trades.
“Where’s Sikes?” Jeb asked.
Mace scowled at him. “Bastard’s not much of an electrician. He almost fried my ass, so I sent him outside to help with the wall. At least he can weld.”
Jeb eyed the spaghetti strands of color-coded wires in Mace’s hand. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Hell no.”
“Maybe you should get Vince to help.”
Mace stopped working and looked up at Jeb. “He’s gone.”
“Gone? Where?” he asked, slightly irritated that mace had not informed him.
“I asked him to run a little errand for me.”
Jeb frowned. “Oh? I didn’t hear anything about it at the last committee meeting.”
By the glower in Mace’s green eyes, Jeb knew he had touched upon a sore spot. “And you won’t. Those useless pieces of crap can suck my...”
“Mace!” Jeb warned.
“Okay,” Mace replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “They’re your buddies, not mine. I asked Vince to go out to set up a series of radio repeater stations for the Ham radio. That way, we can transmit at low power and avoid detection. If the military finds one station, we simply switch to another one. It expands our range as well.”
Jeb nodded at Mace’s ingenuity. “That was a good idea. Why didn’t you bring it up at a meeting?”
Mace scowled at Jeb. “Because it needed to be done. There wasn’t time for endless discussion or the usual grandstanding.”
“You don’t give the committee much credit.”
Mace made a fist and shoved it through his cupped other hand, a rude gesture in several languages. “Too many of them are too much in love with the sound of their own voices.”
Jeb resisted a chuckle, trying to keep his voice serious. “Vince was a good choice for the trip.”
They had encountered former Air Force Technical Sergeant Vince Holcomb on the journey to San Diego. His quick wit, even-tempered personality, and his ability to make sense of the complex operations that kept Biosphere2 operating had made him a vital member of their team, as well as a friend.
Mace stripped a wire with his pliers and examined it. “He seems to enjoy the outdoors more than life under glass. I don’t think he trusts Erin and her bunch.”
“Most don’t,” Jeb agreed. “Has she made any progress?”
Doctor Erin Costner and her CDC team had been one of several working on a vaccine for the zombie plague to replace the temporary Blue Juice the military had developed from the blood of munies and used as a club to keep the troops in line. In San Diego, Costner had refused to cooperate with the military and had thrown her lot in with Jeb and the others.
Mace picked up a blue wire, scratched his head with one hand, and dropped the wire, replacing it with a red wire. “Hell if I know. I do know she works too damned hard. See if you can persuade her to take a day off or something.”
“I’ve tried. She’s dedicated.”
“Driven, you mean,” Mace said. He twisted the red wire with the one he had stripped and pulled a switch. A green panel light accompanied the hum of returning electrical current. “It works,” he said with a broad smile. He replaced his tools in the toolbox and closed the panel door. “Now, we get almost half our electricity from solar.”
“I guess we’ve gone green,” Jeb replied with a grin, “And all it took was an apocalypse.”
“Being off the grid has its advantages. For one, the authorities can’t back trace the current flow to us.”
Jeb nodded. He also worried about a possible military strike. They had dealt the military’s clandestine blood bank factory in San Diego a serious blow. Each member of the group was required to undergo weapons training. Weapons they had uncovered at a survivalist’s farmhouse near Yuma on their journey to San Diego augmented their small but growing arsenal. Vince had even converted several air-to-air missiles he had stripped from Raptors located at the secret underground Red Rock nuclear facility beneath the Pinal Air Park to SAMs, deadly surface-to-air missiles.
They were as prepared as they could be for an attack from without, but Jeb suspected that their biggest problem would come from within. You couldn’t keep so many dissimilar people from such diverse backgrounds confined to a small space without friction, and friction caused fires.
Mace sat on the cool concrete floor with his back against a generator. He pulled out his tobacco pouch and sheaf of Zig Zag papers liberated from a smoke shop and expertly rolled a cigarette, licking the edges to keep it together. Lighting it with his battered Zippo lighter, he took a deep drag and exhaled slowly.
“Gotta make another tobacco run soon,” he said. “I’m running low.”
Jeb eyed the No Smoking sign by the door and frowned. “We’ve cleared out most of the shops in Oracle and Catalina. Tucson’s too dangerous.”
“We could try the Tohono O’Odham reservation. It’s farther away, but it should be safer.”
Jeb shook his head. “One of the latecomers said that the tribal police were shooting interlopers on tribal lands. For some reason, the Tohono O’Odham was less affected by the plague than most.” He scratched his head. “Maybe Erin should look into that.”
Mace flicked his ashes on the floor and ground them into the concrete with the toe of his boot. “Don’t suggest that to her. She’ll forgo her remaining four hours of sleep to investigate.”
“Elliot is pushing her too hard,” Jeb replied.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about Elliot Samuels, former FEMA liaison with the CDC in Atlanta. According to Erin Costner, Elliot had defied FEMA and Homeland Security by failing to report the incident in Colorado in which Costner had freed the zombies and tried to release the captive munies. In San Diego, he had joined Jeb and the others. Elliot was taciturn and a loner, difficult to read, but Jeb saw something behind his somber eyes that troubled him. Costner trusted him, so he tried to cut Elliot a little slack, but he had not quite made up his mind about him.
“No harder than he pushes himself,” Mace countered. “He’s up at dawn to patrol the perimeter and works with Erin’s bunch until midnight or later.”
“Still...” Jeb left his remark unfinished.
“We made a mistake moving them out to the Planning Center. We’re too spread out.”
Jeb agreed, but the action committee chosen by the entire Biosphere commune had ignored his suggestion. As a member of the committee, he had argued against it, but relented to the will of the majority. Mace had scolded him for allowing, as he put it, “Democracy to rear its ugly head.”
“Too many people are frightened when you mention viruses and research in the same breath. To them, the farther away the better. Some of them think people like Erin are responsible for the plague.”
“They are,” Mace growled, “but I reckon she’s trying to make up for their stupidity. People are happy enough for the Blue Juice she produces,” Mace growled.
A few of their number, including Costner and most of her team, were not immune to the plague. Without bi-monthly injections of the temporary vaccine, they faced death by the virus still rampant in the air and the risk of turning into zombies. So far, in spite of her exhaustive effort, all attempts at a full vaccine had proven fruitless.
Mace stubbed out his cigarette on his heel and stuck the remainder in his pocket. “Waste not, want not.”
Everyone had become frugal since the plague. Recycling had become second thought. He rose from the floor, groaning as his knees protested loudly. “Enough of this lying about. Back to work.”
“What’s next on your agenda?”
Mace eyed Jeb suspiciously. “Why, you need me?”
Jeb sighed and shook his head slowly. “You know me too well. What do you think of turning the
ocean biome into a fish farm?”
“Well, it would certainly supplement our food supply. The container farm is about at its limits. Derek DeVries wants to bring in some livestock. As much as I like a good steak and an omelet for breakfast, I think animals will only attract packs of coyotes or cougars. Their population has exploded lately.”
Jeb, too, had noticed the increase in coyote sightings. Their haunting calls floating through the canyons outside the domes serenaded the inhabitants to sleep almost nightly.
“Packs of wild dogs, too, I think.”
“About the aquarium. Fish is supposed to be brain food and God knows we need to be smarter than we were, but it’s a bigger job than I can handle. Vince might figure it out, but it’ll take a lot of time and resources.”
Jeb nodded. “That’s what I thought.” He was secretly hoping for just such an answer. As much as they needed more food, he hated to lose the aquarium. It had become his favorite spot to sit and think in solitude.
“Well, if you’re ready, let’s head back.”
Mace picked up his toolbox, tucked it under his arm, and followed Jeb. Outside, the day though still early was already a scorching 101 degrees. Jeb was ready for the summer monsoons to bring some much needed moisture and relief from the heat. His warnings for everyone to drink plenty of water to keep hydrated often were ignored. For someone born in the north or back east, 3% humidity was unheard of, and the small infirmary had already treated several cases of sunstroke. Trained in psychiatry, Jeb’s medical training was limited to his college days, but poor as it was, he had become the commune’s de facto physician. Erin or some of her crew assisted when necessary, but to say their patient skills were rusty was being overly polite. They were more used to dealing with viruses than with human beings.
Mace could not pass the sandbag wall without inspecting the progress. The wall reached almost halfway around the living quarters, the desert habitat and the agriculture habitat. The main habitat had only small windows, but the agriculture dome was mostly glass. Eight people were straining under the weight of fifty-pound sand bags, stacking them atop one another. Bright flashes of light came from Sikes’s welder as he strengthened the hog wire holding the sand bags in place. Wearing heavy leather welder’s gloves and a welder’s mask, Sikes must have been burning up, but he moved along the wire quickly and expertly. Jeb was sure Mace was aware that at the present rate, it would take another two months to enclose the glass habitat completely.
Watching Sikes at work made Jeb aware of how hot he was. He swiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and glanced up at the sun. It was probably his imagination, but he could swear the days were hotter than normal and getting hotter. With no accurate weather reports, it was just a guess of course. Heat was as much their enemy as time.
All heads turned as a gunshot in the distance echoed across the ridge. Jeb looked at Mace.
“Anyone target practice today?” At least once a week everyone went through a weapons training class at Mace’s insistence.
Mace scratched his chin and frowned. “That came from the front gate.”
When Jeb saw Willet Anderson running toward him waving his arms, Jeb knew his day had just gotten worse. Anderson was a newcomer, a loner who had not yet fully integrated with the small community. Cautioned on numerous prior occasions against his penchant for exploring on his own, he had volunteered to man the guard shack at the gate on the solitary road leading to the domes. Jeb didn’t entirely trust him, but no one else enjoyed the lonely job. He grimaced when he noticed how recklessly Anderson carried his rifle by the strap, letting the barrel drag in the dirt.
“A car’s coming,” he yelled.
“Who fired that shot?” Mace demanded.
Jeb took one look at Anderson’s fear-filled face and knew who had fired.
“How many?” he asked.
Anderson stopped in front of them, his face red and breathing hard from his run. “Uh, I don’t know. Two I think.”
“You think,” Mace growled at him. “That would be a first. Is the gate closed?”
Anderson glanced away quickly. “No. I, I forgot.”
Mace swore and grabbed Anderson by his collar. “Why didn’t you radio?”
Jeb was angry with Anderson for abandoning his post, but decided to save him from Mace’s wrath. Anderson was a fool and frightened, but Jeb was more concerned why no one from the monitoring room had reported anything. The reason they had installed cameras was to avoid just such surprises.
“Go tell the others,” he said. Anderson disappeared inside the dome.
He noticed that most of those working on the wall who had witnessed Anderson’s arrival had already picked up their weapons. Mace had ordered anyone working outside to keep their weapons nearby at all times. Good bunch.
Mace pointed to two men, motioned them toward the souvenir shop entrance of the habitat complex, and then turned to Jeb. “I’ll take two more people and cover the parking lot from the berm. You’d better bring in Costner and her crew just to be safe.”
Jeb swallowed hard. He had killed both men and zombies since Judgment Day. Killing was easy, he had learned, if your motivation was sufficient, just a hurrying along of the natural processes of life. Not letting the guilt overwhelm you, that was the difficult part. Luckily, enough of his humanity remained that he was still reluctant to kill. Mace, on the other hand, considered it expedient to survival. Jeb knew that he needed to be there when they confronted the new arrivals to avoid a possible conflict if possible.
“No. I’ll send someone. I want to see who it is.”
Mace stared at him with a raised eyebrow. “You can’t be responsible for them all, Jeb. They wanted a democracy. Let them have it.” He spat on the ground. “It hardly worked before. It sure as hell won’t work now.”
Jeb wasn’t as certain about the demise of democracy as Mace was. True, it had its myriad of faults, but it was better than most systems of rule, better than the chaos that prevailed outside. “I’m just looking out for Karen.”
Mace nodded. “Let’s go see who’s come calling.”
A dirty, blue 2010 Ford Mustang sat idling in the parking lot. Jeb could see three men inside and guessed they had not gotten out, either out of respect or from fear of a possibly perilous reception. One of the commune’s sharpshooters was visible lying on top of the fifteen-foot-tall berm built from mine tailings that surrounded the Biosphere2 habitat, his rifle zeroed in on the driver of the vehicle. Jeb stepped through the gate, touching the .45 in his holster for reassurance. A man emerged from the passenger side with a white rag in his hand. He waved it a few times in the air and smiled.
“We mean you no harm,” he said with a heavy Carolinas accent. “Take us to your leader.” He wore a baseball cap covering his long red hair and a bloodstained one-piece jumpsuit. He leaned across the roof of the car keeping both hands in plain sight as if he had gone through the ritual several times before.
Jeb admired the man’s sense of humor when confronted by armed men. “Where are you from?” Jeb asked. He saw the Mustang bore New Mexico plates but that didn’t mean anything.
“I’m from Charleston. My friends here are from Las Cruces. We’ve been living up near the Mogollon Rim for a few months, near Payson.”
“Why are you here?”
“A forest fire took out most of Payson so we headed south.”
Jeb nodded. He had noticed the heavy smoke to the north for the last few weeks and expected it was from a forest fire. The pine forests along the 2000-foot Mogollon Rim would be dry as tender this time of year.
“Got any weapons?” he asked.
The man smiled. “Be stupid if we didn’t, but we locked them in the trunk when we saw the guard at the gate take off running. Good thing he can’t shoot straight. Like I said, we aren’t looking for trouble, just a place to rest up for a day or two. We’re making for Mexico.”
Jeb remembered the migration of Mexican zombies he had encountered following the Colorado River nor
th. “Why Mexico?”
“We figured we might find us a sandy beach, some tequila, and maybe a few senoritas. It’s getting too dangerous here.” He paused a moment. “Your man took a shot at us and bolted like a scared rabbit. We didn’t shoot back. That should show you that we mean no harm.” He waved his hands in the air. “Look. Do you think we might come inside and talk? It’s damn hot out here.” He nodded toward the men with rifles. “It looks like you got enough men to keep us covered.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Mace said as walked down the side of the berm. He lowered his rifle, but his pistol was half out of his holster just in case.
The red headed man stared at Mace for a long moment. “I think you would have preferred to shoot first and not bother to ask questions later.”
Mace grinned. “I still can.”
The stranger threw back his head and laughed. “Hard times,” he said.
“Hard times,” Mace agreed.
The other two men emerged from the vehicle, a short, dark-haired man and rail-thin, scrawny kid barely out of his twenties with spiked bleached blond hair. His right ear lobe glittered with a dozen earrings, a half-carat diamond stud protruded from his nose and the fingers of both hands resembled a jewelry store, some fingers bearing more than one ring. The kid’s mascara-shaded eyes darted around nervously, taking in the armed men surrounding him. He wore a black Billy Idol t-shirt, black jeans and sneakers.
The dark haired man appeared to be Latino. As he stepped out of the Mustang, his eyes took in the security cameras atop their metal poles and then swept them casually across the well-armed men confronting him. He wore a sweat-stained straw Stetson, a cowboy shirt, jeans and black Ariat cowboy boots with silver tips and turquoise. More turquoise decorated his belt buckle and a silver bracelet wound around his wrist.
“This here’s Juan Mendoza,” the red headed man said, nodding toward the dark haired man. “The kid is Billy Idol. Nah, not that Billy Idol,” he explained, seeing Mace’s raised eyebrows. “Won’t tell me his real last name. He just likes Billy Idol. He has about a dozen of those damn black shirts. I’m Harris, Nick Harris.”
