by Jones, K. J.
“Excuse me?”
“Not compromising you for what he’s got in his head. That’s not right.”
“They’re my friends.”
“Got that.”
“I just met you. And all the rest out there.”
“You wanted a name. You got one. Welcome to the Seventy-fifth Rangers, sister.” His gaze at her was unwavering and stern.
She sat, stunned, not knowing how to react to him.
His intense gaze remained for a few seconds more, as if to see if she’d challenge further, then shifted to Matt. “We clear here, Gleason?”
Matt stiffened. “Affirmative, staff.”
Peter crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. Waiting.
Matt sighed. He opened another medical bag, smaller than the one he called a Jump Bag. Unzipped, revealing medications. He loaded a syringe with clear liquid. Cleaned Syanna’s arm and injected.
“Morphine,” he said. “She’ll be out for a while.”
“Good job,” said Peter.
“She could die, Sul.”
“She’s strong. Gotta rest on that. If nothing else, she’ll fight just to be fit to tell you off some more.”
Matt’s mouth tried to turn upwards in at least a smirk, but his eyes filled with worry. He looked from Peter to Syanna.
Phebe took Syanna’s delicate hand in hers, watching as her friend’s facial muscles relaxed and her breathing slowed. “She’s not suffering anymore.”
Matt said, “Hmm.” He bit his bottom lip, watching Syanna. When he turned towards the doorway, he saw Peter watching Phebe.
His fists clenched.
Peter’s gaze slid to meet Matt’s and he raised his chin in challenge.
Meanwhile, Phebe fussed over the bedding around Syanna, making the patient comfortable and putting everything. She threw the cellophane wrapper of the syringe into an overflowing trash can. She moved oblivious to what was going on behind her.
“Take care of your girlfriend, Matt.”
Phebe turned to see why Peter had said that. “She’s asleep.” She looked between the two men, confused. “She seems okay.”
Matt tore his gaze from Peter and looked at Phebe. He sighed in defeat.
“Do you want me to check her pulse?” Phebe asked. “I am Red Cross certified.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll take care of her vitals.”
“Okay.” She cocked a brow, wondering why there was weirdness. “Anything I can do?”
“There’s food in the kitchen,” said Peter. “Eat while you can.”
“Not feeling hungry.”
“Up to you. Get some rest then. In the living room.”
“Oh,” she said. “Okay.” She went to the doorway. “Let you guys talk or whatever. I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”
He stepped aside, letting her pass, and tried not to laugh at what she had said.
He was about to step away, when Matt said, “She’s very independent, Sul.”
“Yeah.” Peter’s gaze softened as he looked at his friend, seeing he was relenting in this. There wouldn’t be need of a confrontation.
A hundred things to say hung in the air.
They said nothing more. Peter left the doorway. Matt stayed sitting on the side of the bed, not taking the vitals of his girlfriend. He held his head in his hands for a while.
“Shit.” He took up his stethoscope and did his job.
Chapter Four
Evac
1.
“Saddle up, people,” Peter bellowed. “We’re moving out.”
Phebe startled awake on the couch. Mullen slept on the recliner.
“Plan is we are heading to Carolina Beach to my boat. Raven’s sighted gunships in the sky. We are in the shit, people. Grab any supplies of use and be ready to bug out in ten.”
Phebe and Mullen had only the sweaty, filthy clothes on their back. Phebe put on her shoes. That was all she had to prepare for leaving.
Not even a jacket or a purse. A strong sense of vulnerability at having no possessions. No home. No car. No cell phone. No driver’s license or money. She was a refugee. Surrounded by strangers who behaved in ways she’d never seen before, except for her fellow civilian Mullen. But she didn’t know him either. Another stranger. Her roommate was unconscious. And her only other friend, Matt, she wanted to cleave to him for security. But he was busy. She hugged herself, feeling the weight of her situation bearing down on her.
Mullen gathered the blanket from the recliner and the one she used on the couch. He seemed ready. Big eyed and skittish, he appeared as if he’d jump out of his sneakers at any second.
“You ready, Phebe?” he asked.
“I have nothing.”
“Here. Take a blanket.”
“Thanks.”
She hugged the blanket. Mullen did the same with his. The bulge in the back pocket of his jeans told he at least had a wallet, more than she had.
The two civilians watched the surrounding activity. With trained precision, the others cleared out kitchen cabinets and packed anything useful. Each of them had an intimidating black assault rifle. A distribution of these weapons had taken place while the civilians slept.
But more than weapons, the vibe had changed. It was no longer friends sort of hanging out at Chris’s house.
Within ten minutes, bags of various kinds, from duffels to kid’s backpacks, slung over shoulders. They gathered at the front door. Matt carried Syanna wrapped in a comforter from the bedroom. His medical bags hung from his shoulders.
Peter said, “Vehicle assignments. We’re taking the three SUVs and leaving the cop cars behind. Raven you’re with Julio in the Beast. Jim and Mazy, you’re with Matt and Syanna in the Jimmy. I take Chris, Phebe, and Mullen in the Suburban. It’s got a big cargo back. Put the bulk of the supplies back there. You know your assignments of who carries and who covers, so let’s move out.”
“Stay with me,” Chris told the two civilians. “See you got your wooby blankets.”
Nine people lined up at the door. Jimbo went out first. The butt of his assault rifle at his shoulder, he looked down the sights and stepped purposely. Mazy was next, holding her rifle the same way, and she took the opposite side of the porch.
Leaving the house looked more like a military assault.
Various voices called, “Clear.” Matt moved out and the civilians followed him. Chris at the end. His weapon up in the same manner as the others.
Outside, they spaced out, encircling the vehicles, watching outward. The civilians approached the Suburban, parked on the yard, and Peter opened the back door. The two slid in. Quietly, Peter closed the door. He moved around the vehicle to the driver’s side. Chris took up the position he had left.
This was probably how the President of United States felt when traveling.
The other two vehicles sat in the driveway. Ben climbed on top of the Beast with the sniper rifle, where he scanned the terrain. Mazy opened the back of the Jimmy and Matt slid in Syanna. The patient secured, they loaded supplies into the back of the Suburban. Within a couple of minutes, everyone got into their assigned vehicles. Ben came down. Engines turned on. Because of the menacing bumper in the front, the Beast led the way.
“You know,” Mullen spoke in a hushed voice to Phebe in the backseat. “When my parents go on vacation, they take three hours to load the car with a lot of yelling at each other.”
Phebe nodded in agreement. “Guess we’re in the military way.”
“Oh,” said Chris from the front passenger seat. “Nearly forgot. Girl, here’s a nine to replace that Barbie gun. We don’t got no three-eighty ammo.” He passed back a black 9 mm pistol. “It got explosive hollow-tips, so you’ll be good.”
Mullen tisked his tongue. “How come she gets a gun?”
“You shoot some zoms and we’ll give you one,” said Peter.
“Yeah,” said Chris. “Prove yourself you man enough, boy.”
“Oh, but she’s man enough? A girl.”
&nb
sp; “Hey now,” said Peter. “Your sexist attitude doesn’t fly here. My sister is more man than several men combined.”
“Your sister scary,” Chris said to him.
“That’s part of her charm.”
“Hot as hell, though. Talks real bad.”
“Yeah.” Peter chuckled. “She sounds like a longshoreman. Acts like one too.” Peter looked in the rearview for a second at the passengers in the back. “My sister, Caitlyn, is a Boston PD cop. Five foot ten. Looks like a model. She flipped Chris off the top deck of my boat when he got nasty with her. Right into the water. It was wicked reta’ded.” He laughed.
“Must run in your family,” said Chris, not as amused.
“What? Flipping your fat ass? We’ll own that.”
“Asshole.”
Mullen leaned towards Phebe and whispered, “What’s a longshoreman?”
“A dock worker, I think.”
2.
The convoy maneuvered around abandoned vehicles and dead bodies.
"Is this what a war-torn city looks like?" Phebe asked.
"Not enough burnt up shit," said Chris,. He lit a cigarette.
“What are you doing?” Peter demanded.
“I’ll crack the window.”
“I’ll crack the window with your head.”
“Don’t get all whiney about cancer. Nobody gonna live that long no more.”
“I was thinking about the breathing thing I tend to do. We need good lungs for the running and screaming we may have to do later.”
“You planning on screaming?”
“I haven’t ruled it out. Having not been through a footrace with zombies yet, I don’t want to be restricted in my options. Maybe I’d enjoy screaming. Find it emotionally rewarding.”
Chris gave him a wry look. He lowered the window and flicked out the cigarette. Then popped gum in his mouth. “Can’t stop for a smoke break, can we?”
“We could. I think it might be more eventful than anticipated.”
“Fucking zombie apocalypse.”
Both men craned their necks to look up through the windshield.
"Here we go," said Peter. "We got an Apache Guardian."
Ben's voice through the HAM from the Black Beast, "There's a Little Bird about two dozen yards ahead of us. Over."
"Got your buddies in it? Over," asked Chris.
"Sure looks it. Over."
Phebe made a confused face. Peter's gaze looked at her through the rearview.
"It has snipers hanging out the sides," he clarified.
"What the hell is this?" Mullen exclaimed. "Are they going to shoot us?"
Peter and Chris exchanged a look.
"Son," said Chris. "This here would be our first end times. We'd hope they'd shoot the zoms."
"Ha!" Peter laughed. "Now you're saying it. Zoms."
"Doesn't make you right about shit."
"I'm always right about shit."
“Except when you wrong.”
“Thought I was once, but it turned out to be your fault.”
“Ain’t my fault. It never my fault.” Chris touched the vehicle’s climate control.
“What are you doing?”
“Freezing in here.”
“Stop touching things.”
“I ain’t touching things. I’m making it warmer.”
“Keep your hands to yourself. I’m the driver.”
“So we all die of cold just ‘cause your Yankee dumbass don’t feel it?”
“Welcome back to the Army, sergeant.”
“No, fuck that. You don’t out rank shit anymore.”
“Stop it.”
The two bickered over the controls for the next three minutes, insulting and cursing each other. They descended into arguing about things they did years ago, laced with a multitude of military acronyms and lingo.
Mullen whispered to Phebe, “Now they sound more like my parents. How long have these two been married?” He snorted as he laughed. “Ya know?”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“Your parents get along?”
“No. They nipped that whole marriage thing in the bud early on. After my father’s secretary called my mom to tell her about their affair and accused my mom of being a prudish Irish bitch.”
“What was that about the Irish?” Peter demanded.
“How’d you hear that?” she asked.
“I got bat ears.”
“It was nothing. I was just sharing with Mullen.”
“Sharing’s caring. What about the Irish?”
“Nothing. Just something my father’s Italian secretary called my mom.”
“She called your mom ‘Irish’?”
“Not exactly. She called her a prudish Irish bitch.”
“Wait. Your mom’s Irish?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re half Irish?”
“Yeah.”
“Half Italian and half Irish?”
“The usual combo. Yeah.”
His blue eyes stared at her through the rearview mirror. “Which way were you raised?”
“We went to a St. Patrick’s church. I pronounce Italian dishes at restaurants in Little Italy as bad as WASPs do.” A WASP was a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, a commonly used term among white Americans in heavily Catholic regions of the United States.
“You were raised Irish.” He spoke as if this was the most amazing revelation of his life.
“You just wanna jump in the back and fuck her now,” said Chris. “I’ll take the wheel.”
Peter glared at him. “You got the tact of these zombies.”
“You drooling there, son.” Chris laughed.
“Look, he who seeks out the fattest redneck chicks in the world, who got mouths worse than Syanna Lynn with an eighth of the looks.”
“God above, Devil inside, that’s a Southern girl.”
“Yeah? Then you change your phone number without telling them you’re ending it, you fucking coward.”
“I ain’t no fucking coward.”
They were off to bickering again.
The convoy reached one of the main thoroughfare roads. Abandoned cars as far as the eye could see. Doors left open. Dead bodies between cars. Garbage strewn everywhere. A burnt-out gas station at the corner.
The Beast in the lead went up on the sidewalk, and the other two followed.
"Now this here looks more like a war-torn city," said Chris, referring to the gas station.
"Ah the memories," said Peter.
"Yeah. The smell of burning oil."
"And the sound of the rotor blades of a gunship overhead."
The two civilians craned their necks to see out their respective side windows at hearing a helicopter’s rotor blades.
“Yeah,” said Chris. “But back then we knew they were on our side.”
Phebe and Mullen looked at Chris, then at each other.
“Are we gonna die?” Mullen asked, alarm in his voice.
"Is it following us?" asked Phebe.
“Second question,” said Peter, “looks like they’re checking us out. First question response, there will be no spontaneous urination on Bubba’s leather seats.”
Chris laughed.
"Can't ..." Mullen struggled to spit out his words. "Can't an Apache light up a truck?"
"Oh yeah," said Chris. "Chain guns can rip the fuck outta truck. Blow it up even. Looks cool as shit."
"Perhaps not so much if you're in that truck," said Peter.
"No. That probably suck."
"For the two seconds you remain alive while it's happening."
“Quick death.”
"Why is it following us?" Phebe asked with concern.
"I dunno," said Peter. "Hoping curiosity."
"Hoping?"
"The Force is weak with me, sweetheart. I can't read their minds."
"They must have recalled the troops," commented Chris.
"Not necessarily," said Peter. "Guys that are already here. From the bases."
"T
rue."
The lead vehicle stopped.
"We got an obstruction," said Julio’s voice over the radio. "Looks like somebody's been pushing vehicles aside. But this appears to be a new car wreck. Dead people inside are still warm. Over."
"Can we push them outta our way?" asked Peter. "Over."
"It'll take all of us. Push and cover. Over."
"We're on our way. Over."
Peter put the Suburban into park and cut off the engine. He turned to the civilians. “Stay here. You got the nine. Keep the doors locked.” He looked at Mullen. “No screaming. You’ll embarrass yourself in front of a girl.”
“Fuck you, Sullivan.”
Peter smiled. “Still got some fight in ya.” With that, he was out, locking the doors as he went.
The two civilians sat like frightened suburban white children left in the car by their parents in Gangland L.A.
Phebe, as the elder, tried to mask her fear. Her hand holding the gun shook.
The guys went out of sight.
After what felt like three hours, Mullen said, "I think I'm seeing somebody over there."
"Where?" Phebe leaned forward to see around him to his window.
"There." He pointed against the glass.
A man walked crouched down as he came around vehicles. He paused every few seconds and looked around, then resumed his path.
"Is he going to try to steal an SUV?" asked Mullen. "I hope they locked theirs."
"There's another one. See him?"
"Uhm," said Mullen. "I think they're looking at us. Are they looking at us? Should we hide?"
"A third guy, over there."
"I don't like this."
"Shit. He didn't leave the radio," Phebe said.
"Can we honk? Or no? Not good, right? Brings zombies, right? You know how to use that gun right I mean they wouldn’t give it to you if you didn’t they wouldn’t give me one you’ve shot people right done this before --"
“Stop talking, Mullen.”
“Okay.”
“These windows are tinted. They can’t see us unless they get right up to the windows.”
“Except the windshield isn’t tinted,” he said. “Can see right in.”
“Keep calm.”
The three converged on the Beast and tried the doors. They turned and saw right into the Suburban through the windshield.
