by Jones, K. J.
“Do you see this a lot?” she asked.
“Recently, every shift.”
He was a paramedic, on top of going to college for a nursing degree. He was a former medic with the 75th Regiment Rangers. Three tours in Iraq. Then he was transferred to a M.A.S.H. unit in Afghanistan. Very little unnerved him.
“What do you do with them?” she asked.
“Tranquilize them and bring them to the hospital.”
“Then what?”
He shrugged. “I guess they go through withdrawal.”
“Drugs? Really?”
“Why is that so hard for you to believe, Pheebs?”
“That looked awfully extreme for merely drugs.”
“How many stoned outta their minds people have you actually seen?”
“Okay, you got me there.” She crossed her arms and shifted her weight to the other foot. “Not exactly social circles I travel in.”
“Not many meth head PhD candidates?” He smiled.
“No. Though sometimes you wonder. But nothing like that!” She arms gestured again.
“It’ll be okay. The government will find the drug and outlaw it. It’ll decline like bath salts did. That drug made people go crazy like that girl, too. It’s just the next version of it.”
“I’m hearing a lot about this bath salts lately.” Her arms resumed crossing.
“It’s comparable to this drug-usage outbreak.”
“Guess I missed twenty-twelve’s fun,” she said.
“I wasn’t in the country during it. I had my own fun.”
“Yeah. Wars are ecstatically fun, I hear.”
“I felt so.” He smiled to her.
His green-eyed gaze looked at her too long, increasing her discomfort.
“Well,” she said. “I need to get to that research. Thesis calling.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll see you later then?” It sounded more like a question than a statement.
“See ya,” she said.
She walked away and glanced back. He watched her. “Shit,” she muttered. Her fiery roommate’s boyfriend having an eye for her was not something she planned on. Matt often lingered in the kitchen at night at her house, when Phebe was making tea before bed. At first, she thought it was her imagination. But lately, she wondered if the signals she sensed were real. And that meant trouble.
Trouble she did not need.
She dedicated her life to completing her thesis and getting her PhD. Without a doctorate, her anthropology master’s degree was worthless. Just another liberal arts educated person with a mountain of student loans. Who couldn’t get a good job.
Instead of heading to the library, she veered off.
The student health center overflowed with sick students. She pulled out a yellow face mask from her bag and put it on. Then wove through everyone to reach the computer bay, where she logged in for a therapy counseling appointment. Once done, she sanitized her hands of germs. And waited as far from the sick kids as she could get.
3.
Peter Sullivan lined up the shot. His vivid blue eyes looked to the target. He raised back the golf club, twisting at the waist while bending a leg, and hit.
A Christmas tree ornament shattered into a zillion glistening pieces as it launched over dark water.
A fluffy gray cat braced herself to pursue the movement, but then thought better and relaxed. Year-old Dock Cat looked at Peter on the upper boat deck.
They both turned at hearing footsteps on the floating dock leading to the eighty-foot boat. The footfalls came up wooden steps to the portside gangway.
Peter leaned against the golf club and watched.
Matt Gleason carried a brown paper bag. “I brought beer.”
“Then you’re allowed to stay.”
Matt gave the finger up at the dark-haired Bostonian.
“How does a guy who’s a double A personality type have any time off?” Peter asked.
“I do get some time off.”
Matt went to the hang-out deck. He sat on a warn-out leather seat plundered from an old model pickup and opened a micro fridge where he inserted the beer.
Dock Cat investigated Matt’s smells. She rubbed against his legs.
“How much do you think it would cost to put a hit out on a girlfriend?” asked Matt.
Peter came down the ladder and dropped himself into a chair. Despite the low temperature, he wore cut off cargo pants and a T-shirt, and his feet were bare. Matt handed him a microbrew.
“A normal girlfriend,” said Peter. “Probably not much. But Miss Syanna Lynn Claiborne, a Marine general’s daughter, probably more than you can afford. At least with the people we know.”
“How did I get myself into this relationship?”
Both men swigged off their beer bottles.
Dock Cat watched them.
“Honestly?” asked Peter.
“Not too honest. I wasn’t out to get laid when I met her.”
“Okay then. She’s beautiful. A former pageant princess. That’s too much for a Texas cowboy like you.”
“I’m from Wyoming, Sully. Jimbo’s from Texas.”
“Whatever. Horses. Cowboys. It’s all the same.”
“Not really, no,” said Matt. “Is it still New Orleans, Texas, Las Vegas, and California, that’s the lower side of the country for you?”
“Yes. That’s all that matters.”
“You Eastern seaboard people. You know from New Hampshire to Florida and that’s it.”
“That would be Maine to Florida. Maine is under Canada.”
“Whatever.” Matt grinned. “Maine, New Hampshire, it’s all the same.”
Peter laughed. “Fair enough. So what happened this time with the princess of the South? Should I pretend to listen?”
“Nuh, man. We got a drug user, a Zombie-using girl on campus, right. I try to help. Syanna gets pissed at me. Calling me ‘always gotta be a hero.’ Storms off on my dumbass. I’m left there with Phebe, her roommate.”
“I remember you talking about the roommate.”
“She’s like a thousand times better girl than Syanna.”
“Dude, that’s dangerous.”
“I know. That’s why I keep my distance.”
“The PhD roommate, right? From New York?”
“Yeah. I like her more than my girlfriend. But they’re roommates. Syanna will kill both of us. Assuming she feels the same way. I don’t know if she does. No way to find out right now.”
“Sucks, man. Back to this Zombie shit … what?”
“Do you not watch the news?”
“You know I’m allergic to the news. If I wanted to be lied to and manipulated, I’d go to a bar and pick up a girl like Syanna.”
Matt chuckled. “That’s just wrong, Sul.”
“Hey, I tell it as it is, brother.”
They sat silent for a moment, drinking. Dock Cat jumped onto Peter’s lap. She groomed, contented on her ownership over the man. When he tried to move, her yellow eyes stared up in complaint.
“My leg’s cramping, you she-beast.”
She meowed at him.
He rested his left leg on a cushioned stool. Dock Cat readjusted herself.
Surgical scars ran from calf to thigh on his leg. The rest hidden by cargo shorts. Three bullet holes spaced out in accordance to how fast an AK-47 shot at semi-automatic on a man diving out of the way. The rest of the scars were from screws and sutures. His dark leg hair remained bald in those areas.
Coastal North Carolina couldn’t throw at him any cold temp comparable to winter in Boston. But his leg felt every degree below summer balmy.
“You should’ve told me at the start of this relationship,” said Matt.
“Oh God. Really? You’re blaming me? I did tell you. But you weren’t listening. You were all acting independent from us.”
“I was not.”
“You so were. Don’t lie. You were all fancy college student. A nurse racking up awards at school. You didn’t want to hang out with us losers.”
“I never felt that way,” said Matt. “I was just surprised that all of you came to Wilmington.”
“Why wouldn’t I have? Boston has my family. It’s also too cold. I’d walk like I’m ninety. And Georgia is too hot. Too many bible-beating Baptists. Worse than here. I knew Wilmington from when I was at Bragg.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“But,” said Peter. “Back to this Zombie thing. That may explain an experience I had on Saturday night.”
“What happened? Sharing’s caring.” Matt chuckled.
Peter laughed. “Go fuck yourself, man.”
“No, really, what happened?”
“I was at Walmart, buying beer. It’s like, fifteen till midnight. Plenty of time. There’s no one there, which is totally weird for a Saturday night. But I figure they’re all puking out their brains from the flu, instead of booze.”
“Okay,” said Matt.
“This fat black woman comes in. She’s barely dressed. Okay, so it’s Saturday night. She’s drunk, whatever. I’m just trying to get my beer checked by this cute girl behind the register. This woman starts doing this, like, demoness striptease, right in front the closed customer service. Taking off her clothes. Hissing. There’s fat rolls and giant tits. Not sexy at all, unless you go for fat possessed chicks. The security guard, armed with a cell phone, comes up to her and starts ma’aming her—‘ma’am, you can’t do that here. I’ll have to call the police,’ type shit. Suddenly, she goes from demoness stripper to just fucking demon.
"She lunges at him and bites his face, ripping out a chunk of cheek. He’s screaming. She’s laughing like the Chucky doll. She takes off running, fat rolls and tits bouncing. I get concerned for the cashier and I jump over the counter and protect her as Crazy Tits runs past her. The male cashier who looks about twelve and some guy from management, chase after her. There’s restocking pallets through the aisles. She runs through, still laughing. Boxes go flying. Paper towel rolls across the floor, and the two men fall over them. I’m laughing my ass off. Wilmington’s finest charge in and they chase her, too. I’m like, okay, they’ve got this, so I’ll get my beer and go. The girl says to me, ‘Sir, it’s past midnight.’ I’m like, ‘But I just protected you.’ She says, ‘It’s the state law, sir. You can’t buy alcohol until tomorrow at one.’”
“Oh no,” said Matt.
“I tell you, luck of the Irish never ceases.”
“So you always say. Yeah, that was a Zombie-user.”
“So Crazy Tits was on drugs. Fits. Why’d she take off her clothes and make me wish I was blind?”
“Tachycardia.”
“Gesundheit.”
Matt laughed. “No, it means rapid heartbeat. It makes their body heat rise. They take off their clothes then.”
“I guess stripping in public makes sense, if you’re stoned out of your mind.” Peter looked down at Dock Cat. “It makes you dance.” He picked up her front paws and made her dance to silent music. She bit his fingers. He laughed at her effort. “Battle kitten!” Her tail twitched, pupils dilated, and all four knife-bearing paws attacked his arm. “Owe. Owe. Owe.”
Matt laughed at his pain. “You provoked her.”
She raced off his lap and chased her tail by leaping circles up in the air.
Peter examined the scratches and drawn blood on his hands.
She tore into the cabin. Crashing sounds soon followed.
“Your cat’s mental.”
“Yeah.” Peter shrugged. “I like her that way.”
East Texan Jimbo Conway and his girlfriend walked up the floating dock.
“Cheese it,” Peter yelled. “The coppers are here.”
“We’re off duty,” Jimbo yelled back.
They came up the steps and across on the boat’s gangway.
“Hello, Corporal,” Peter said.
“Oh, are we using Army ranks today, Staff Sergeant?”
“I’m preferring it over being called That Asshole Who Lives on the Crab Trawler.”
“Don’t know if your rank will stop that, Sully. Matt, man, since when are you free to hang out?”
“Hello, Lieutenant,” Peter said to Mazy, Jimbo’s girlfriend.
“What’s up, Sul?” They exchanged cheek kisses. “I wish I had that rank on the force.”
“When are they going to promote you, as the most badass woman in the police?”
“That’s what I keep wondering myself.” She smiled. “I didn’t expect such bullshit here.”
“Still better than NOPD, right?”
Mazy was from New Orleans. “Oh, by miles. I’m just dealing with racist, sexist cops who don’t like outsiders. Not cocaine dealing cops.”
“They’re stupid but honest here.”
Any day of the week, Mazy was beautiful. She’d shame Nefertiti. French, African, and Native American, all merged in her, a common thing in the south of Louisiana black population. But she was tough as nails. An ex-Marine. She spoke in several languages and was by far smarter than Jimbo. None of the guys understood how small-build pasty white Jimbo got her. But they welcomed her. She played a mean hand of cards.
“I’ll beat you in poker this time, cher,” said Peter.
“Doubtful, Yankee.” She shot him a radiant smile. “Matt, brother, it’s been forever.”
They clutched hands, then exchanged kisses on the cheek.
“Looking gorgeous as ever,” Matt said.
“Oh, this ole thing.”
The men laughed at the ultra-Southern belle expression.
Mazy and Jimbo carried market bags into the cabin.
“See you manically cleaned again,” Jimbo said, as they returned to the deck.
“OCD works well for me,” Peter retorted.
Mazy watched as Peter filled a tall glass with whiskey. She looked into his eyes. The pupils in pools of blue were too big. He was wasted.
He pulled out cards. “Are we playing or are we talking about our feelings some more?” He shot a look at Matt.
Hand dealt, Peter leaned back and examined his cards.
Mazy threw her hand down. “Sullivan, I’d like to talk with you. In private.”
His dark brows shot up. “We’re playing, Maze.”
“Right. Now.”
“Yes, L-T.” He dropped his cards face down on the table and stood. “Officers,” he said to the guys. “They never get over ordering us grunts around.”
They didn’t even crack a smile.
In the cabin, he asked, “What’s up, cher? Does Jimbo know you want to run away with me?” He grinned.
Her almond-shaped eyes hardened. “Why is ATF interested in you?”
“Whoa. Hit the brakes there, woman.”
“They questioned us as known associates.”
He crossed his arms. His legs stood apart, standing his ground. “Maybe you two should leave then. Protect yourselves.”
“Fuck you, Sully.” She used her hands to emphasize her words. “Jim respects the hell outta you.”
“Maybe you need to tell him I’m discharged.” He looked away, dismissing her argument.
“What is wrong with you?”
He sharply laughed. “Oh, that’s the million-dollar question. When you figure it out, tell my family.”
“All the stories of the great Pete Sullivan I’ve heard. The hero. The man who single handedly saved a Delta sniper’s life after an RPG slammed into the building. The man who led his men through the shit and never left a man behind. They trust you with their lives.”
His gaze locked in on her. He yelled, “That man died!”
She stepped back. Never had she seen him lose his temper.
He paced. Anger racking his face. “When are you people gonna get it through your heads?” He turned towards her. He pointed with every word. “That man’s dead. This is the disabled shitbag left. Get used to it.”
She regrouped. “And who is he?”
“Someone you don’t want to know, police officer.” He waved her away.
“Half of your family are cops.”
“Yeah? The other half’s criminals. Did you hear that part? From the South Boston projects. Did you know my grandfather was a leg breaker for Whitey Burgess? Twenty-five years in Walpole prison for murder.”
“Actually, I did. And your other grandfather was a police captain.”
“Well, I’m taking after the criminal side. Better money.” Arms crossed.
“What is it that you are doing?”
“Better to not know. Keeps you safer.” He sighed, broad shoulders moving up and down. His gaze looked around for a second, then locked back on her. “Who are you to be in my face about this? You’re my buddy’s girlfriend. I owe you nothing. You got a problem with me, get off my boat.”
“Is that how it is?”
“Yes. Go the fuck away.”
“Fine!
Mazy gathered what they brought from the fridge and bagged it up.
She marched out onto the deck. “Jim, we’re leaving. Well, I am. I’m apparently not wanted here.”
Jimbo asked, “What … what’s going on?” He looked to Matt, who shrugged.
“I’m going.”
“Why?” asked her boyfriend.
“I’ve worked too hard in the department to risk it knowing someone the ATF is investigating, when he’s acting like a total asshole.”
She hurried to the portside gangway.
Julio Reyes came up the dock. The former Delta sniper Peter saved in Iraq. They had been best friends since they were both medically discharged.
A ponytail pulled back Julio’s black hair. Tattoos covered both arms, revealed by a T-shirt. A black leather jacket hung from his arm. It wasn’t cold to a man from Chicago.
“Que pasa?” he asked Mazy.
“Tu amigo es un maldito imbécil.”
Julio couldn’t argue with that. “Sorry if he offended you, amiga.”
She then told him about ATF agents questioning her and Jimbo.
Julio didn’t seem surprised, only worried. “Shit.”
“You know what’s going on?”
Jimbo joined them, looking clueless.
“We may have to leave soon,” said Julio.
“It’s gun sales, isn’t it?” she demanded.
“No,” said Julio. “Not sales. Exactly.”
She looked back at the boat. The Molly, a refurbished crab trawler, dominated the end of the dock. House boats ran up one side, containing quiet retired Baby Boomers going about their business.
