A Brief History of the Near Future

~ Book One ~

The Fish House

~ Act One ~

Itch, Scratch, Bite

Prologue: Street Justice

Dressed in rags, the slinger stepped toward the underpass and scanned the rat-gnawed occupants. Dealing in these hovels could be a bit dangerous, but he was well known among many of the vagrants. Besides, anything worth doing always came with a little risk; so he approached several men crouched over a low fire, cradled by a ring of rocks.

“What’chu want?!” one of the filthy beggars snapped, with accusing eyes.

“Just looking to unload a little blue,” the newcomer said, and offered a small bag of crystal. “Want some?”

“Sling that trash elsewhere,” the first man huffed, while the second hanged his head and refused to look at the grubby salesmen. The third hissed and waved him away—so the dealer turned and found himself face to face with an aging Bette.

“Trade you for a little head,” she grinned, half her teeth missing while the other half were stained and pitted. She looked to be twice the age of the salesman, though a lot of that wear was probably just the heavy weathering of street life.

“Cash only, ma’am,” the polite dealer stated. “I’ll give you this for ten,” he wagged the little baggie in her face.

“Ain’t got no cash,” she swiped at the bag—only to be interrupted by a commotion at the far end of the overpass. Someone else had approached from the other end of the trail, a hobbler that looked a little fresh in his filth. This newcomer fell on the first man he came across, as the poor slob was working on a bike.

“What the hell?!” the mechanic screamed and tried to shake the man off—but the assailant latched on tight, biting and punching and scratching his victim.

Shouts went up, and because the mechanic was rather well known and popular among many of the homeless camp, they rushed to his aid. A full-blown scuffle broke out. The slinger wrapped his free hand around a blade in his pocket, as he watched the increasing violence. At first, the newcomer put up quite a fight, turning and attacking anyone that put hands on him—but he was up against three, five, eight other men; and they were happy to do damage. The scuffle didn’t last long, though there was plenty of blood to go around.

Half a dozen were injured, as they continued to kick the man, even when he was down. Hoots and hollers rang under the overpass. Several on the fringes were already packing their gear, or simply wandering off without it, not wanting any part of the attack or its eventual repercussions. Some were too far involved, as they surrounded the strange assailant that now laid unmoving at their feet.

“Is he dead?” one of them wondered.

“Serves him right,” replied another. “He scratched the shit out of me!”

“Can’t leave him here,” a third man stated and grabbed his collar. “Help me get him into the water,” he continued.

Several of the others grabbed arms and legs and helped drag the unmoving man into the creek. They dropped him face down in the current and watched him bob along as the water caught hold and pulled the body with it.

With a shake of his head, the dealer turned and started down the path. The camp was aggravated. It was no time to make sales. Besides, most were striking their tents and preparing to move out. Others groused and showed their wounds as they gathered their bags. In an hour this popular spot would be empty—as if the cops stopped by and ordered everyone away—but that’s how it goes on the streets. Easy come, easy go.

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Chapter 1: Chase

Chase didn’t normally go out on Sundays, because he usually opened the kitchen Monday mornings—but Brittany asked him to go, and Chase thought quite the world of her, so he decided what could it hurt? After all Brittany was beautiful, Chase was interested, and it’d been a good month since he’d pulled such a stunt. Besides, every once in a while a young body has to let off some steam, so Chase figured it’d do him some good to go have a beer or two with friends.

That’s what he told himself.

He said, I’m going out to have drinks with my good friends from work. But Chase wasn’t fooled. He knew he was going to see about Brittany.

Having somewhere else to be, Chase cleaned a little quicker and got out of The Fish House a good twenty minutes faster than he normally does. He was so giddy at Brittany’s invitation, he practically skipped over to Shauntie’s, as he imagined all sorts of pleasant scenarios involving the cute blonde waitress.

Well, it’s Shauntie’s so the place is never empty, but Sunday evenings are one of the few times when it isn’t packed to the gills. Indeed, there was an empty seat right next to Kevin and Jamal; so Chase slid in next to them and ordered a pilsner.

“I’ll be damned!” Kevin said as he clapped Chase on the back. “Look who took a break from that blasted Jeep of his to make an appearance at Shauntie’s!”

“Hey!” Jamal nodded. “What’s the occasion?” he asked as he tapped his half-full glass of amber against Chase’s fresh pour. “It’s not your birthday, is it?”

“I just wanted to hang with the crew,” Chase shrugged, then brightened as he caught sight of Brittany over Kevin’s shoulder. The happy face didn’t last. It took on a sour note when Chase saw Brittany sitting next to Soft Hands. “Didn’t they break up?!” He muttered under his breath.

Kevin saw Chase gawking. Indeed, he’d caught Chase gazing off at Brittany with fairy dust in his eyes quite a bit these days—which was a problem in the kitchen of The Fish House when the eggs needed turning. Tonight, it was just irritating. Still, Kevin shook his head, and said, “dude, you gotta stop makin’ eyes at that one. She’s a shameless flirt, and for whatever reason, she’s stuck at the hips to Soft Hands.”

“Yeah,” Jamal agreed. “She ain’t never getting away from that vainglorious idiot.”

“Vainglorious?!” Kevin let out a howl. “You take my boy’s advice! He don’t pay everyone with ten dollar words!” he chirped, and clapped Jamal on the back.

Feeling mocked, Jamal turned on Kevin. “You know I’m right. She flirts with everyone—except Alej, of course.”

Kevin backed off. “I’m agreeing!” he protested, then turned on Chase again. “We get it! Brittany’s bright, she’s got a good attitude, she’s a certified smoke show—but don’t let the distraction stick! She’s an unwitting siren among the rocks. She’s an unblemished apple that’s been dipped in poison by some foul-tempered witch.”

Chase frowned. “You make her sound like some sort of succubus.”

“I said unwitting,” Kevin countered. “Some people are a danger to everyone, including themselves. It’s a curse, not a feature. Besides, Brittany’s not in your league. You and her aren’t even a possibility,” he claimed.

“Oh, come on!” Chase said, as he rallied to his own defense. “I’ve got a lot to offer! She’s not out of my league!”

Kevin leaned in and shook his head. “Well—you’re right on the first point, you do have a lot to offer. You could a pull a girl that hawt—”

“Hawter,” Jamal corrected.

Kevin gave a nod and barely missed a beat as he continued on. “But you can’t have that one. Brittany’s not in your league. Not a higher league. A different league,” he continued. “It don’t matter how good you are at short stop. You’ll never be considered for the Ryder’s Cup.”

“That don’t make any sense,” Chase countered. “Neither one of us is hockey people.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Nixon!” Kevin clapped his head. “Chase, you’re a good guy. You’re a guy’s guy! You go hunting, you tinker with your car, you work on the respectable side of the restaurant—”

“Back of house!” Jamal called, and mashed his glass against Kevin’s and Chase’s.

“Hoorah,” Kevin replied, took a small sip, then turned his attention back to Chase. “You need a girl with a bit of tomboy in her. You need a girl that knows that a proper road trip means at least half the nights will be spent in a tent. You want a girl that’s willing to go mudding,” he continued. “Brittany is not one of those girls. Brittany is a girlie girl. Leave ‘er to the girlie guys, like Soft Hands.”

“You remember the last time she broke up with Soft Hands?” Jamal cut in. “You remember how you asked her if she wanted to go hiking?”

Chase leaned back and crossed his arms. He saw no reason to talk about that episode.

“What’d she say?” Jamal continued his interrogation. “She said, ‘eww!’ Remember? She said, ‘Who goes outside on purpose?!’”

Chase began to protest. “Guys, come on—”

Jamal cut him off. “There was stank on it! Bless her heart, but she really doesn’t understand why people spend any time outside.”

“We all know Brittany won’t go outside for less than half a cigarette,” Kevin observed.

Jamal nodded. “She’s a modern day Boo Radley, that one. If there were tunnels connecting everything, she’d never see the sun.”

“Who’s Boo Radley?” Chase asked.

Jamal and Kevin stared at each other, both embarrassed for their friend.

“Guys, you’re being ridiculous. She’s not a vampire,” Chase replied. “Besides don’t girlie girls want boyish boys?”

Kevin and Jamal both shook their heads. “What do you have in common?” Kevin asked. “What do you even talk about with that girl?”

“She’s keen on music… there’s the frogs…” Chase struggled.

“Frogs?!” Jamal mocked. “Well, if that ain’t a match made in heaven! And I ain’t never heard of no one that likes music!” he rolled his eyes as he took a long obvious drink from his glass.

“She listens to retrowave, and goes to the exotic pet shop on eighth!” Kevin shook his head. It’s not like she’s hunting through the cattails in short-shorts with Megadeth on her earbuds!” He stared at Chase for several blank seconds, then turned to Jamal. “He doesn’t see it! How—how doesn’t he see it?!”

Jamal shrugged and stared at the last half inch of beer in his glass. “They’re oil and water—but all he can see is they’re both liquid.”

For several long seconds, the three friends sat in silence and refused to make eye contact with each other. “Enough guff from the two of us,” Kevin finally added, as he stared once more at his friend. “Why don’t you go say hi to her and be friendly? We like Brittany. We like you too. We just don’t like the two of you together,” he finished.

“Come back to us when you get bored,” Jamal added.

“Retrowave ain’t that bad,” Chase muttered—but he’d already been dismissed. Jamal was now leaning into Kevin with his phone out.

“Check this out,” Jamal nudged his friend. “There’s been no air traffic in or out of Colorado for two days now…”

“Sounds like a problem for other people,” Kevin replied, unconcerned.

“Says their having massive systems failures in the air traffic control network,” Jamal scratched his head. “Says only emergency aircraft are in the air… may take a week or more to fix the problem?!”

“Why do you care?” Kevin huffed. “You got somewhere to go…?”

Chase wasn’t interested in eavesdropping on the concerns of the jet-set. Finished with his pilsner, he ordered a hazy. With a full pour in hand, he tapped glasses with the other two cooks to show he harbored no hard feelings—even though he felt crushed and betrayed—then took his leave and circled among the others. He was halfway done with his second beer when he found himself standing next to Brittany. Oh lord, she was beautiful! His tender heart skipped a pitter and tried to catch itself with an extra heavy patter. “Hey there, short-stack,” Chase teased. “H-hh-how’s your night?” he stuttered as he watched her brilliant features dull.

Brittany’s smile tightened and her emerald eyes no longer sparked with mirth. How many times did she have to tell people she didn’t like pet names?! Still, Brittany set a gentle hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m fine. What are you up to these days?” With that, she prayed he had something to say that might rivet her attention, pique her interest, then finish with an insight so profound and uplifting that it would shatter paradigms. That’s what it would take from this boy—even though she thought he was quite nice and liked him as a friend. Still, his obvious and unwanted attention made the poor blonde feel heavy, and reminded her of her troubles. Of late, Brittany felt stuck. She felt everything was monotonous. A morass. A malaise. Everything was wrong in slippery indefinable ways—ways that dripped through her fingers and stained her nails with the stench of a rotting society. The world continued on, as if everything was hunky-dory—or even progressing—and yet she felt the suck of an impossible swamp all about her. She was sinking, her stylish boots unable to find purchase in the thin watery muck of hypocrisy and hidden agenda she could sense all about her—though it refused to show its true nature. She could feel the grime of propaganda and malicious intent, as it gripped her calves and crawled up her thighs. Thin strands of it somehow ran against gravity. It poured up her body and into her mouth, nose, ears, and eyes; filling her with contradictions and doubt. Help us! She cried to the gods, late at night as she often prayed for a sleep that was just as likely to be plagued by nightmares. Is there nothing for the poor, the buggered, the defeated?! Yet, the prayers went unanswered, so whenever some wide-eyed believer ballyhooed about the grace and glory of god—all too often she turned away with a sneer—despite wanting nothing more than a reason to believe.

“Oh, not much,” Chase began his answer and rubbed the back of his neck. “Just work, and working on the Jeep.” He smiled—then began to tell her that he finally got the CJ5 running! Rebuilding the transmission and switching out a leaky head gasket were the hard parts. After that, it was all the small work: shocks, spark plugs, and plenty of fluids. Admittedly, she still needed a ton of work. There were a lot of cosmetic items that begged his attention. He needed to sand off some rust and repaint the whole thing, inside and out; but in mechanical terms, the vehicle was totally road worthy! Indeed, he planned to take her off-roading this Wednesday, his first excursion since he got the beast!

Brittany couldn’t follow the description of the bits and bobs, or the intricacy of getting the various do-dads to work together. All she could think of was the grease and the way it stained his nails to the quick—even after a good scrubbing. Thank the Roosevelts that Chef made him wear gloves in the kitchen!

Suppressing a shiver, Brittany mustered a half-smile, and hoped that at least she would not give offense. After all, she really liked Chase—just not the way that he liked her. He was a good guy and always rather proper in his attentions. She’d seen him with his shirt off, and he would have looked good if not for all the grease. Indeed, if the world ended tomorrow and they were the last two people on earth—well, that was about the only way she could see the two of them ever working out.

But then, he wouldn’t be pretty. It wouldn’t just be grease staining his skin. It’d be unwashed pits, skid marks, and the stink of socks that’d been dragged through the mud for weeks on end. She prayed to god and Martin Van Buren that they would take her before the world ended. She wasn’t built for such suffering!

Brittany gave Chase another pat on the shoulder, and interrupted with, “I’m glad you got your car working. I’m going out for a smoke.”

Car?!

Chase stared after her, astonished that she didn’t realize the importance of rebuilding a CJ5! It took him countless hours of research, nearly ten thousand dollars, and a heavy amount of assistance from his twin brother—to whom he now owed a good deal of favors—and Brittany simply walked off in the middle of his triumph!? It was unconscionable!

Mayzee stepped next to Chase, and with a gentle finger lifted his chin so he no longer gaped after Brittany like a fish out of water. “Forget about her,” she said. “She’d rather be fighting with her boyfriend than talking to the rest of us.”

Shocked, Chase turned on Mayzee. “Why does everyone find it necessary to talk to me about Brittany?!” he snapped.

Mayzee shrugged. “Maybe we just don’t want to see you suffer.”

Chase pointed after Brittany, “and why doesn’t she end my suffering?”

Mayzee put her hands on her hips. “And what would that entail?”

“Maybe a date?” Chase gave an exasperated shrug.

“I dunno,” Mayzee rubbed sympathy into his arm. “I’m not the one with that answer.”

“I don’t get it,” Chase shook his head. “I just can’t figure why she’s still with that idiot! You think they’ll ever break up? I mean—do you think they’ll ever stay broke up?!”

“Probably,” Mayzee shrugged. “I think they’re terrible together, so hopefully just one more time, and then for good.”

“They only ever seem to fight,” Chase observed with a sigh.

Mayzee grabbed his chin and stared him in the eyes. “Don’t torture yourself over that girl,” she began. “Look,” she turned his chin back so they both stared at Brittany once more. They could see her through the back window, as she yelled at Soft Hands, with a cigarette between her polished nails. They could just hear her voice—though they could only make out a few of the curse words. “Is that what you want?” Mayzee asked. “Is that the kind of mess you need?”

“She wouldn’t be so mean to me, since I wouldn’t be such an idiot,” Chase defended.

“Yes she would!” Mayzee replied. “And do you know why she would do that to you? Because she needs the drama! She craves it! That’s why she sticks with Soft Hands. He’s glib, unaffected, and totally prepared to deal with her pyrotechnics. Indeed, they’d be really good for each other, if they just made the effort to be really good for each other,” she shrugged. “But you, you’re not that type, and her eccentricities would only make you miserable. You’re strong. You’re silent. You say what needs to be said.”

“Maybe that’s what she needs,” Chase shrugged.

“I know you want to paint this as some sort of possibility, but it’s just not there,” Mayzee shook her head. For a long second, she stared at an obstinate Chase. “You just don’t get it, do you? Not every girl is made for every boy.”

“If she’s not interested, why does she invite me to these things?” Chase countered.

“She invited half the people here,” Mayzee noted.

“And why does she flirt with me?!”

“She flirts with everybody,” Mayzee replied. “Doesn’t it drive you up the wall when she’s flirting with Kevin and Jamal?”

“Jamal’s got a girl, and Kevin only ever pretends like he’s interested,” Chase shrugged. “It’s pretty obvious.”

“And yet she still does it, just the way she flirts with you,” Mayzee stared. “She flirts with me, Kaleb, Chef, even Craig despite his engagement! It’s just one of the ways she shows her friendship. It’s just who she is,” she paused. “Doesn’t it make you wonder that she don’t flirt with you any different?”

“Alej was different,” Chase frowned. “Back when they still talked to each other.”

“That’s because Alej had a chance,” Mayzee pointed.

Chase locked eyes and glared at Mayzee. Did she mean to hurt his feelings? “You know, I may not stand a chance with Brittany, but having everyone throw it in my face makes me want to try all the more!”

Mayzee stared back at Chase, and offered a commiserating look. “That might be the smartest thing you’ve said all night,” she answered with a soft smile. “Don’t take it personal. We can’t all be strong and silent. Most of us are weak and talk too much,” she continued. She put a gentle hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry. I know you gotta work this out on your own. I only mean to help,” She pulled Chase close and kissed his temple. “Be better than the rest of us,” she added, then turned and wandered off.

Chase stuck around for another half hour or so. He got a third drink—but abandoned it halfway through when he realized Brittany had left without even saying goodbye. Well, that did it! Defeated, Chase said good night to the few people that still remained, then began his trek home.

Chase didn’t live far from Shauntie’s—or work for that matter—so he walked. It was only a mile or so, and the crisp winter air would do him some good. The chill served the purpose of getting Brittany out of his mind. The cool air reminded him that the world is not always warm fuzzy feelings and getting what one wants. Sometimes, it’s cold nights cutting through homeless camps—though conveniently, there didn’t seem to be any homeless around.

Chase was walking next to the creek as it passed under the interstate. It could be a sketchy stretch, but he was a full grown man and still fresh from five years in the navy, so the danger was minimal. He wasn’t worried at all—until he came across a vagrant that was humping some poor comatose lady. They were the first street people he’d seen all night. A jolt of fear rushed through him, though he quickly brushed it aside. Two beggars going after it on a sickly patch of grass… It wasn’t a sight he’d ever come across before. He lurched, then decided to continue on his way, as he kept the gross couple in his periphery. Theoretically, he didn’t mind that a couple of vagrants should get their rocks off in plain sight of the city—but something felt off. His first instinct was to go back, to go any other way home. But that meant either Colorado Avenue four blocks up—which was just as sketch this time of night; or it was down around the back end of WalMart three blocks down—which came with all the same problems. Besides, the lady seemed to be fine with her lover’s affections—as she simply laid there and took it. Likely, it didn’t even register with her. Likely, she was high as a kite and half out of her body anyway.

Chase grinned away his uneasiness as he shambled past, all quiet-like; because what people do in the dark is none of his business—even if they do it out on the street—but the closer he got the more freaked out it made him. Heckles raised, he just wanted to get past the gross couple. Indeed, he was half a dozen steps beyond the two when he glanced back and accidentally kicked a small stone at the same time.

The tiny rock bounced down the walk, clicking and clacking. It was the most noise Chase had made yet, and it was barely above the slight scuff of his steps. He glared after the small stone as it skittered across the concrete.

Despite the smallness of the noise, it caught the vagrant’s ear. In an instant, he stopped his thrusting and turned his attention to Chase. The hairs on the back of Chase’s neck were alight with electricity, and he could feel the man staring. He turned back toward the man, suddenly sure that everything was incredibly wrong!

In a rush, the stranger stood up. He stared murder at Chase, and for a split second, Chase simply stared back with horror in his eyes. This vagrant had blood all over him! That’s when he realized that the scoundrel wasn’t making love to some bag-lady, drugged to the gills. She was dead—and he was eating her!

And now that hungry gaze was locked on Chase.

Not wanting to fight some blood-crazed junkie, Chase bolted.

With a snarl, the bloody man ran after him.

Speeding across the concrete, Chase turned north, away from the creek and toward the buildings of the nearest street. He figured he could distance the sicko pretty quick, because most the vagrants down by the creek weren’t in very good condition—but every once in a while, you get one that’s young and strong, or meth’d to the gills. Whatever the reason, this creepo was hot on his heels!

Chase ran down an alley and ducked into an alcove. He scrambled up a fence with the assistance of a thick maple—as the bloody vagrant closed in, swiped at his prey, and came up short. The vagrant slammed into the fence and let out a nerve-wracking howl. The ruckus set off a whole block of dogs; howling, barking, and whining.

Chase ran past the side of the house and into the street. He thought he was scot-free, so he skipped across the black top and up to his own house. The buzz of alcohol and the surge of adrenaline caused his fingers to shake as he shuffled through his keys. He slipped the right one into the lock, then turned the knob and pushed the door open. He took half a step through the doorway—then felt a hand on his collar. Next thing he knew he was falling backward, toppling off the patio and into the soft grass of the yard.

Nails dug at him! Teeth bit into him! Chase covered his face. The bloody vagrant was strong!—but not particularly good at fighting—which was a good thing, because he meant to do harm. The junkie flailed away, attempting to do maximum damage without any thought—but unlike the junkie-psycho, Chase knew how to fight. After the initial shock of the ambush, Chase fought back. He punched the grim visage square in the face, then wrapped his arm in a bar while he was dazed. From there, he managed to wrestle the bloody vagrant down; as he swore and cursed and bled from a dozen different superficial wounds. The junkie snarled, howled, and railed incoherently as he continued to scratch with his free hand, then sunk his teeth into Chase’s forearm.

The front door opened. Craig and Mr. Chen both piled out of the house, confused, alarmed, and angered by the struggle they found in the front yard. Mr. Chen tried to separate the combatants with his broom, while Craig pulled off his shirt and used it to collar the vagrant.

For the next several minutes, as many as a dozen of the country’s presidents suffered strange slanders and odd castigations from all three of the Chens before the police and fire department finally arrived with sirens blaring and lights flashing. A cop and two firemen leapt into the fray. The brothers stopped fighting immediately—but not the junkie. The bloody vagrant pulled one of his hand’s free and managed to bite the cop, before the interlopers finally wrangled him into the back of the squad car.

The firemen checked Chase, and also bothered Craig—though the older twin had no injuries to show. “You should be fine with nothing more than a little neosporin,” the senior fireman began, “—but call your doctor immediately if any of these injuries look like they might be infected…”

Although the older firemen was exacting and professional in every way, the younger simply seemed harried. He caught Chase staring, and stated, “we’re seeing an awful lot of this lately.”

“How much is a lot?” Chase asked as a chill ran through him.

“First call was two days ago,” the young buck began. “There were fifteen calls yesterday, and we’ve had at least that many calls tonight—which is bothersome, since it’s still an hour before lunch.”

Terrified, Chase turned to the older fireman.

“This shit happens, kid,” the senior said, then cuffed his junior’s arm. “Tell him this shit happens.”

“Rarely!” the younger fireman fumed, then turned and shook his head. After regaining his composure, he turned to Chase and said, “this shit happens—and it makes for a really long night!”

The cop took Chase’s story and believed every word of it—especially since the junkie was belligerent to an extreme. Not only did the gory vagrant refuse to say anything coherent, but he struggled to such an extent that even after the cops had him securely chained to the back seat of the cruiser, he still smashed his face into the window—repeatedly—as blood smeared over the inside of the tempered glass.

The cops left with the meth’d up creepo in tow. The firemen said they’d go under the overpass and have a look for the lady. After that, the Chens were left to themselves—for all of seven minutes.

~ two ~

Men in Black

For several seconds, all three of the Chens watched as the officials drove away with the mad man in tow.

Craig eyed his brother, Chase, and with a smirk asked, “What’s black and white and red all over?”

“A zebra in a blender,” Chase answered the old joke.

“The mirror,” Craig grinned. “Go look.”

Chase pushed his brother. “This shit stings!” he complained.

“You’re fine,” Craig put out an apologetic hand, though he still wore a grin. “Dude, you had him in a good hold before we even got there!”

“That fucker pulled me right off the porch—” Chase started to complain—but a flat pain pressed into his thigh, and he flinched toward the door. “Hey!” he cried, and turned to the bristly end of the broom as it flew away from his leg and prepared for a second strike.

At the far end of the broom was a glaring Mr. Chen, angry at the foul language. “Look at you!” he chastised. “You a mess! This is what you get for stay out all night and pick fights with homeless! You be more careful!”

“You saw him!” Chase stared at his father. “He ate a lady!”

“Your mom raised you to be better than that!” Mr. Chen frowned.

“I’m shaking, dad!” Chase held out his hand. “Reagan almighty, that bastard was really trying to kill me! He chased me for blocks!”

“Well, you dishonor missus when you speak like that,” Mr. Chen said in a low slow voice as his calm returned. His boys were alright and the authorities had left with thanks and compliments. He held out his arm and took Chase under it. “You did good, son. Now don’t get too big for your britches,” He smiled. “Come inside. I put on a pot for tea.”

The three went in. Chase caught sight of himself in the hall mirror and turned to take a long look. He was a mess! His blue jeans were stained, mostly with grass and dirt, but there were massive patches of blood. His Pink Floyd shirt was absolutely ruined, ripped, and with blood all over it. On top of that, there was a hole rubbed into his Orange Crush hat! He stared at his fresh bandages with barely a streak of red on ‘em, and the copious amounts of blood that stained his clothes and realized most of this blood must have come from the lady under the freeway—and the rabid junkie had rubbed it all over him. For a long second, he felt like he might be sick.

Chase breathed deep as he poked at the edges of his injuries to see how tender they were. There was a steady throbbing heat pouring from his wounds and sapping his strength. He felt absolutely bushwhacked, and didn’t want to tackle a shower—though he certainly needed it! At the same time, he was wired to fight. Indeed, he half expected another junkie nut-case psycho to come rushing out of the shadows and jump on him!

Chase stood and stared at himself. He was shook. He thought maybe not to call his injuries all that superficial. For a second—when he first went toppling backward into the grass—he’d wondered if this is how he might die. What if the crazy vagrant had been just a little bit stronger, just a little bit smarter, just a little bit quicker? He glanced up and thought to himself, this is just the beginning of something big and terrible. A chill like none he’d ever felt came over him. His heart dropped into his stomach. Some reserve of lingering adrenaline gave him another shock, and although it wasn’t even midnight, he wondered if he’d manage to sleep at all.

Shaking his head, Chase walked into the kitchen. “I’m gonna take a shower—“ he began, then stopped and turned, as there was an interrupting knock at the door.

“Deh neh loh moh,” Mr. Chen turned with a muttered curse, and shuffled his way back into the entrance; as the twins crowded after him. “Who there?!” Mr. Chen complained, and peeked through the peephole.

Standing on the porch were two solid looking men of middle age, dressed in black suits. “What you want?!” he called to the strangers.

“Chase Chen?” A heavy voice asked. “We’re here to talk with a mister Chase McAllister Chen.”

“And who are you?” Mr. Chen asked through the door.

“We’re D. I. A., sir. Are you Chase Chen? If we could have a word, we’d be much obliged,” he repeated.

“And if we say no?” Mr. Chen asked.

“Well…” the voice began. “Please don’t say no. We just have a few questions—and maybe an answer or two.”

“An answer to what?” Chase asked.

“Is one of you Chase Chen? If so, do you know the man that attacked you tonight?” the suited stranger continued.

Chase shook his head. “Just some meth-head…” he shrugged. “Didn’t give me a name. He wasn’t really the talking type.”

“What if I told you it wasn’t just some meth-head? What if I told you that man was a high ranking member of the military, a colonel in the US army?”

“I’d be surprised,” Chase replied. “He sure didn’t fight like military, and a damned good thing too. He about yanked my head off when he first got a hold of me.”

“There’s a reason he ain’t a speaker,” the suited man responded. “Mr. Chase, this would be much easier if we could talk to you face to face.”

“I think I’d rather not,” Chase said.

“You’re not in trouble—not for fighting with the colonel anyway. He’s obviously not in the right state of mind,” the special agent noted.

“Who did you say you were?” Chase wondered.

“We’re from the Defense Intelligence Agency,” the man in black answered. “I’m Special Agent Dodd. My associate here is Special Agent Kenzie. We’re part of a task force looking into a biological that’s been going around, and that’s making people crazy,” he said.

“A what?” Craig asked in his brother’s voice.

“A biological, highly contagious,” Special Agent Dodd continued. “Chase, were you bit by any chance? Were you scratched?”

His eyes went wide, and Chase covered his arm. He gave a worried look to his twin, and a guilty glance to his adopting father.

“Not saying that I was—but what if I was?” Chase asked.

“Well, we’d ask you to come with us. We’d take you down to Evans Hospital, where we’d administer the cure, and keep you under observation until we’re sure you’re not a threat,” Special Agent Dodd explained.

“And what if I wasn’t?” Craig asked for his brother.

“Then we’d ask for visual confirmation of that fact,” Special Agent Dodd replied. “See, the problem is, if there’s even just a little scratch on you, there’s a chance you’ll react like Colonel Etienne.”

“You mean like some sort of blood-crazed zombie?” Chase asked.

“We’re certainly not using that word—it comes with a lot of inaccurate assumptions—though there are similarities,” Special Agent Dodd answered. “Listen, Chase: you’re not in trouble—but you are in danger. Last week Colonel Etienne was a strong vibrant member of the community—and over the course of about eleven hours, he degenerated into what you saw tonight. About dinner time yesterday, he attacked and nearly killed his own wife. He scratched and bit his daughter. When his son intervened and tried to protect the ladies, Colonel Etienne mauled the boy. Thankfully, his wife is in stable condition—but his daughter is exhibiting similar signs of distress.”

“What of the son?” Chase asked.

“Unfortunately, the boy succumbed to his injuries,” Special Agent Dodd shook his head. “What’d you call him? A meth-head? A blood-crazed meth-head? Well, that’s not far off. If we don’t get you the treatment, your chances of ending up just like that are too high to ignore.”

“What are these odds?” Chase asked.

“Without the treatment? They’re awful close to fifty-fifty,” Special Agent Dodd answered.

“And what are my chances with the treatment?” Chase asked.

“Pretty much a hundred percent recovery…” they could hear the special agent turn to his partner. "What was the last report? Ninety-seven, point eight?”

Special Agent Kenzie shrugged and shook his head.

“What’s the treatment?” Chase continued.

“It’s called Phalanx. It’s a couple of pills and a simple injection,” Special Agent Dodd volunteered.

“If my chances of ending up like your colonel are so high, why are there only the two of you to bring me in?” Chase asked.

The two agents stared at each other, not wanting to answer the question. “We do have a little time,” Special Agent Dodd finally said. “Even at eleven hours, Colonel Etienne changed pretty quick. Most people take a day or two, maybe even three before they finally snap,” he said. “Listen, Chase, if you refuse to come out, we will come in and get you. If that happens, you won’t like it at all, and neither will your people—but we will do it. However, if you come with us now, I will personally do everything I can to make you comfortable. You will have to stay with us for a while—maybe as long as a week—but after that, you’re home free. So what do you say, son? Can we come in? Then you can show us you weren’t bit, and after that, we swear to get out of your hair.”

“They can’t be trusted,” Mr. Chen whispered. “Go hide and we’ll have Craig show them you weren’t bit!”

Chase considered his injuries. He could feel a heat, a soreness about the glowing wounds. “But if I become a zombie…” he began.

“You’re not a stupid zombie!” Craig hissed.

“We get it,” Special Agent Dodd continued through the door. “This isn’t your fault, and we don’t blame you at all. We understand your reticence, but this is for the greater good, so please—please open the door and let us talk to you face to face.”

Since getting out of the military, Chase wasn’t normally one to go along with official authority, but he felt this was right. With a frown, he unlocked the door. “I was bit,” he admitted to Special Agent Dodd. “I was scratched,” he showed the wounds on his arms and neck, despite how obvious they were.

“Well, that’s a damned shame,” Special Agent Dodd frowned. “If you’ll come with us, we’ll get you treated immediately,” he pointed to the car. “Then, we only have to hold you until we’re sure you’re not one of the unlucky few.”

“So wait,” Craig cut in. “How many are like this? How many are bit?”

“Too many,” Special Agent Kenzie answered.

Chase turned to his brother and Mr. Chen. “This is becoming the longest night ever,” he said and gave them both hugs.

“I tell you not to stay out so late!” Mr. Chen snipped—but then his expression softened. “You be good. I call Mr. Wiezcykyi.”

Chase gave a nod, then followed Special Agent Dodd.

“How many is too many?!” Craig continued his questions.

“Where you take him?!” Mr. Chen cut in.

“Evans Hospital, Fort Carson,” Special Agent Dodd answered the old man.

Chase and the agents got in the car and drove off.

It wasn’t far to Fort Carson—which was lit like it was preparing for war—with heavy barricades and armored units at the edge of the road. “Sweet Eisenhower,” Chase swore, as they passed by the entrance to the first gate. “You weren’t kidding,” he said, as he felt his heart sink. “This really is serious,” he stared at the barricades, men, vehicles, and the long line of sand bags that stretched in both directions.

“We’re working against the curve, Chase Chen. Time is not on our side,” Special Agent Dodd began. “If you would have made us come in after you, it would have been with a half dozen of these boys in tow.”

“Though they wouldn’t have dressed like this,” Special Agent Kenzie muttered. The Special Agents cut the conversation, so they could talk to the MPs at the gate. They got through with no trouble, though the MPs took a serious look at the Special Agent’s credentials. Shortly after that, they arrived at the hospital, and Chase was taken downstairs into the basement.

“Hey!” Chase complained. “These are cells! Like actual jail cells!” Indeed, the hall was wide and mostly concrete. There were at least a dozen little rooms down each side of the hall, with additional halls jutting off to either side.

“These are very secure rooms where we normally treat military criminals, yes—but we are currently using them for the itching sickness. Unfortunately, until we know you’re not a danger to everyone, you will have to stay in this little room,” Special Agent Dodd explained. “We did gussy it up a bit. We gave you extra blankets and we’ll get you some books from the library. I can’t promise you much of a selection, but you’re sure to find something of interest.”

“And if I refuse?!” Chase asked, incredulous.

“Oh no,” Special Agent Kenzie chuckled. “There is no refusing,” the big man said with a smirk.

“Please,” Special Agent Dodd said and opened the door to an empty cell.

With a huff, Chase walked in. “So when does the treatment begin? When do I get this Phalanx?” he asked.

“There is no Phalanx,” Special Agent Dodd shook his head. “I’m sorry for the ruse, but that’s just something I got from a book,” he continued. “If it makes you feel any better, it didn’t work in the book either.”

“Well, it doesn’t make me feel any better!” Chase raged. “So now what?! So now I just wait to become a zombie?! Is that what happens?! You stick me, and poke me, and pray to find a cure that I guarantee you’re too dumb to discover! Is that it?! You just keep me in prison until I freak out?!”

With the patience of a president, Special Agent Dodd waited for the rant to end. “I might have lied about Phalanx, but everything else I said was true,” he answered. “It really is the odds of a coin toss as to whether or not you’ll snap. I mean, it’s not quite that in your favor—more like a 40 percent chance that you remain you, and 60 percent that you snap—but that’s a lot better than you’ll get in the movies.”

It did calm Chase a bit to be reassured of such good odds—as he continued to lean against the bars. Besides, he was locked in the cell, so there was nothing he could do about the unfairness of it all anyway. There was nothing to do but complain—and what good would that do? “So I just sit in here until you’re happy I’m not going to turn?”

“That, and we’ll ask for a bit of blood from time to time,” Special Agent Dodd nodded. “And when I say ask, I mean that we will have some blood from you, voluntary or otherwise.”

“And if I should turn?” Chase asked.

“We’ve built a special facility for the ones that snap,” Special Agent Dodd answered. “We hold them and pray for a cure—but they’ve resisted every intervention we’ve invented so far. I know it isn’t much, but hope springs eternal.”

“Well, raise the tariffs, McKinley!” Chase cursed. “This just gets better and better!”

“Listen, I’m sorry I lied about a cure,” Special Agent Dodd continued. “I did that to get you down here—but everything else I’ve told you is true, and we’ve been very forthright in answering your questions—so answer me this; since the chance of you becoming like Colonel Etienne is just about the odds of a coin toss, can we really afford to leave you out among the public, where it’s quite likely you will infect others?”

“Before you answer, let me add something more,” Special Agent Dodd continued. “Just because you haven’t turned, doesn’t mean you aren’t contagious. Before a victim snaps, they get the itch. When they itch, they start to scratch. This happens to everyone whether they turn or not. They all get the itch, even if they are one of the few—the very few indeed—that don’t act on it, that don’t scratch. So with that fact in mind, do you think we should leave you out among the public? Should we leave you to infect your siblings, your parents, your coworkers, your friends and neighbors?”

Chase stared back, blinked, then asked his own question. “How long has this been going on?”

“Now there’s the bigger view,” Special Agent Dodd smiled as he leaned against the bars. The smile disappeared. “It started in Aspen, not quite two weeks ago. It only took a few days to get to Denver, and a few more before it started down here. Now Aspen—Aspen’s a shit-hole. You can’t get closer than fifty miles to Aspen. There’s National Guard all through the mountains—all very hush-hush, of course.

“Not that it matters,” the Special Agent continued. “Three days ago, we got our first case in Utah. Yesterday, we got word of a case in Vegas; and about an hour ago, we got confirmation of yet another case in Los Angeles.”

Wide-eyed, Chase backed away from the door. “Two weeks?” He repeated and his jaw went slack. “How many people?” he asked. “How many sick people are there?!”

“Colorado Springs has hundreds of confirmed cases. Denver is in the thousands. In the mountains—we don’t know what’s going on in the mountains anymore.”

Chase continued to stare. “That’s why you’re being so open about it.”

Special Agent Dodd nodded. “The way things are going, this is all going to be out in the open by week’s end. Anything else? Any more questions?” he asked. “Would you like some food? This is a hospital, mind you, so there’s nothing you’d enjoy,” he shrugged.

“Nah,” Chase answered then leaned against the bars and considered the unbelievable turn of events. Was he really just supposed to wait here to turn into a zombie?! He stuck a finger to his mouth and licked at the nail.

Special Agent Kenzie turned and looked at his friend knowingly. “He’s starting early.”

“It’s a good thing we brought him in when we did,” Special Agent Dodd nodded, then turned back to Chase. “Listen, kid. we did you a solid putting you down here. We could have put you upstairs in one of the individual rooms—but then you’d be strapped to a bed. Down here, you can walk around. You can see what’s going on, though the setting isn’t as soft, isn’t as comfortable. But up there, I swear they turn faster up there,” he nodded. “Upstairs or down, this won’t break you if you don’t let it,” he paused and shrugged. “Maybe—maybe not,” he corrected. “Either way, we’re pulling for you. We want to let you out. You have the best of the U. S. military on your side. All you gotta do is stay sane,” he said with a crisp nod.

~ three ~

Midnight Tea

Craig stared after the car that carried his twin brother. He worried for Chase and figured his injuries most be worse than he let on, or he never would have agreed to go with a couple spooks. The only thing that Craig could figure was that Chase actually believed he might become a zombie—but zombies aren’t real!

“You dumb boys!” Mr. Chen snapped and slapped Craig’s butt with the flat of his broom, interrupting the young man’s thoughts. “Out at all hours! No wonder some druggie attack your brother!”

“What are you talkin’ about?! I’ve been home all day!” Craig replied. He stepped into the house. “Besides, we’ve been out later than this, and I’ve never been attacked by zombies!”

“And how long you expect such luck to last?!” Mr. Chen harangued the young twin. “Mrs. Chen would be so disappointed!”

Craig pouted. “Come on now, don’t drag her into this.”

“Chase brought cops and great shame to our house!” Mr. Chen continued his lecture. “How long will we be talk of neighbors? Eeyah! What would President Tabbard say?!”

“The neighbors get it! Chase was attacked!” Craig defended his twin. “Besides, he’s a grown man! He’s allowed to be out!”

“Oh, boy get lippy,” Mr. Chen replied, though his anger was barely a simmer.

Craig tsked. “You’re not even mad at me, you’re mad at Chase for making a scene!”

“Well, he look just like you!”

Craig didn’t dignify this accusation with a reply. Instead, he just shook his head.

“And now I got to call Mr. Wiezcykyi!” Mr. Chen continued. “Eyaaah! You know how much he charge an hour?! You know how much he charge at night?!”

Before Craig could answer, his younger brother Kaleb sauntered down the stairs in sweats and a tee, with wild hair and a scowl on his face. “What the hell is going on down here?!” he carped. “You know, some of us have to work in the morning!”

“You be quiet!” Mr. Chen snapped at the youngest of his adopted children. “Your dumb brother got arrested for fight with some cranked-up vagrant,” he pointed.

“It wasn’t a meth-head, it was a zombie,” Craig stated. “You heard the special coppers!”

Mr. Chen waved him off. “You too serious! They no hold him for zombie! They take for fight with colonel! Eeeyah! Defense Intelligence no do zombie! They have grunt for zombie!”

“You think so?” Craig scratched his head. Still, it didn’t explain why Chase went along. His brother wasn’t dumb. He’d spent his time in the navy. He knew that intelligence types were prone to spin the truth. Could it be that Special Agent Dodd had cooked up the lie on the spot in order to bamboozle Chase and get him into the car? Perhaps once Chase was in the car, all the ghoulish nonsense went right out the window. Well, if that was the case, it was a good thing dad knew Mr. Wiezcykyi! He was an ace of a lawyer!

“What a minute. You’re telling me that Chase got arrested?!” Kaleb queried.

“You could have come down and helped,” Craig retorted.

“I poked my head out the window,” Kaleb shrugged. “I figured it was all over when you and Chase had the vagrant twisted in a pretzel. Then the sirens arrived and none of you were dragged off, so I figured the rest was just details—but it keeps going on—and now you’re telling me Chase got arrested?!”

“He’s fine,” Craig said to Kaleb. “They won’t be able to keep him more than 24 hours, and dad’s calling Mr. Wiezcykyi, so—”

“Don’t call me dad!” Mr. Chen tried to slap Craig with the broom again, but the twin brushed the weapon aside.

Despite their antics, Kaleb managed to stay on task. “Chase is supposed to open,” he lamented. “Who’s going to cover breakfast?!”

Craig shrugged. “Well, hopefully Mr. Wiezcykyi works fast.”

Kaleb sagged, then brightened as he stared at Craig. “Hey, why don’t you come in early and open the kitchen?”

“Open the what?!” Craig replied. “I’m a bartender, what do I know about kitchens?”

“You cut fruit,” Kaleb shrugged. “You can cut vegetables.”

Craig shook his head. “He’s not in to do prep! And I may know the new menu, but I don’t know how to cook the new menu.”

“Ugh! Fine! Let me get my phone…” Kaleb deflated, knowing that he would have to do the cooking if nobody else could step in. He turned and trundled up the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Chen glared at Craig, then smacked his butt with the broom again.

“What now?!” Craig glared.

“Look what you do!” Mr. Chen snapped. “You upset your brother!”

“I didn’t do this! This is Chase’s mess!” Craig defended.

“Bah!” Mr. Chen continued. “You just like him!”

Craig stared back at the little Asian man and shook his head.

Mr. Chen threatened the broom again—but the threat was empty. His face softened. Bedraggled, he set the broom next to the door, then wrapped an arm around his adopted son and hobbled into the kitchen. “Come. Have a bit of tea while I call Mr. Wiezcykyi—then off to bed you go! Eeeyaah! Tomorrow already here!”

Craig agreed, as sleep was the one thing he wanted—but it’d take at least a little tea to wind down!

Dad called Mr. Wiezcykyi, who just happened to answer immediately, then had an agitated talk with the lawyer. Dad complained about the Special Agents and his wayward children. He aimed a couple sharp barbs at Craig, which the twin didn’t appreciate. He did give praise for how the boys restrained the attacker, so that was nice.

Yet, Craig was familiar with so much of the story that he drifted away and attempted to address his own concerns. His first big question was: why did Chase agree to go with the spooks? Did he really buy all that biological clap-trap? He wasn’t stupid, so Craig wondered if maybe there was something to the zombie nonsense after all...

Anyway, Mr. Wiezcykyi promised to intercede on Chase’s behalf. After that, dad began to repeat himself—only now with the details all out of order to make sure Mr. Wiezcykyi had all the pertinent facts. Craig felt dad could have left off repeating the insults—then lost interest in the conversation altogether as it wandered down the hall and into the living room. Still, wherever his father went, he went at such a volume that Craig could hear him in the kitchen, as he waited for the water to boil.

Craig watched the pot and worried about the second big question of the night: Virginia, his girlfriend. She was out of state, visiting old friends. It’d been a week since he’d last seen her, and he wasn’t expecting her back for another four days… yet he couldn’t shake a gnawing sensation that maybe he’d seen her for the last time. They had a weird discussion the night before she left, and she’d taken things to a dark place. It made him nervous. Despite a dozen texts and several chains of happy emojis, he still had a sinking feeling that everything wasn’t right between them. He thought he might text her, but wasn’t sure what to say. Maybe something like: Hey, babe. There are zombies in Colorado, and I suspect Chase might be one of them, so maybe you should stay in Utah until we get this all cleared up… But that was stupid. He didn’t even know if it was true. Besides, it was late, and he didn’t want her staying in Utah, so he decided to sleep on it instead.

Then came the third worry of the night, which Craig hadn’t had initially. After getting off the phone, Mr. Chen made tea. He sat and listened to Craig’s concerns while he stirred and sipped his beverage with a measured hand. The old man didn’t say much, since he’d said all he had to say, and he’d said it repeatedly and at volume while on the phone—all except for one thing. Once Craig was gassed out, Mr. Chen let his adopted son in on a secret. He lifted his pant leg and revealed a thin line of blood just above his right ankle.

“What? You got scratched?!” Craig asked. “But when?!”

Mr. Chen chuckled. “When you think?”

Craig was aghast, sure that the old man would now turn into a zombie! “We need to get you to the hospital. After all, they’re going to give Chase the cure, and you need it too!”

Mr. Chen shook his head. “Chase may trust government poops, not I.”

“But what about us?! What about me and Kaleb?!” Craig asked.

“You no have lock on door?” Mr. Chen countered. “Eeyah! You worry like woman! I get neosporin, and in morning, good as new! You see!”

“But dad!” Craig protested.

“Don’t call me that,” Mr. Chen muttered and waved him off. With a groan, he lifted himself out of his chair, then went to bed.

Craig couldn’t. He tried, but his worry kept him up. For the most part, he assumed Mr. Chen was right, and this was all much ado about nothing—but a thin touch of uncertainty told him this was far worse than he could possibly know, that Chase was right, and that a dark future loomed. He laid in bed and tossed a bit, then decided to take a shower. Hot and cold water poured over him in turns for a good half hour, eroding his concern. The water did it’s work. After the shower, he felt much better about the world, and assumed it would all return to normal by the end of tomorrow. Mr. Chen would be fine, then Mr. Wiezcykyi would bring Chase home. By the end of the week, he’d see Virginia, and just like that, life would be back on track! Plain and simple! With such happy thoughts in his head, Craig quickly fell asleep with a smile on his face.

~ four ~

Lock Up

Chase paced the cell. By now he felt completely sober, though there was a dull lethargy in place of his tipsiness. Despite his lassitude, he couldn’t sleep. There was an agitation about him as the heat of his injuries continued to grow. Indeed, he started to feel itchy, and the only thing that kept him from scratching was to lick his fingers.

Sometime before sunrise, a doctor came in with two other men. The two accompanying soldiers were dressed in riot gear, fully padded with helmets and thick leather gloves. “Hello, Chase,” the doctor began. “I’m Hakeem Fateh.”

“Hello, doctor,” Chase replied and stepped up to the bars, as he scratched himself absently.

“And how are you feeling?” Dr. Fateh continued.

“Restless,” Chase admitted, then dropped his hands to his side, suddenly self-conscious.

“Getting the itch?” the doctor grinned uneasily, more of a statement than a question. “Don’t be too concerned. It is expected.”

“Well, I’m afraid I am,” Chase admitted. “Can you offer me any hope?”

“The fact that you’re talking is a very good sign. People don’t talk when they’re about to snap. Keep talking and you’ll be fine,” Doctor Fateh said with a critical nod. “As for now, we’re just going to take a little blood,” he smiled. “These two are going to hold your arms. Don’t struggle and they won’t hurt you. There just here to make sure I don’t get scratched,” the doctor stated. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Chase repeated. “What do you want me to do?”

“Grab the bars as far out as possible and relax as much as you can.”

Chase did as he was told. “Now what?”

The two padded men approached and wrapped their arms through the bars. They had Chase pinned, but they did nothing more than hold him still.

“Good,” the doctor smiled. “And now I’m going to take some blood.” He took a needle out of his pocket and slapped Chase’s left arm.

“Any luck figuring out what’s causing all this?” Chase asked.

“We’ve isolated several interesting proteins and a number of enzymes that are like nothing we’ve ever seen—but the mechanics of the actual change has remained elusive,” Dr. Fateh said, then stuck the needle in a visible vein.

Chase flinched, as the padded men held him still. “I was hoping for better news than that. I was hoping you were on the edge of a breakthrough.”

“Remedy and prevention are not really the military’s strong suit,” Dr. Fateh smiled an uneasy smile. “At this point, I think the only thing we could do is spread it, if that were the thing we wanted to do.” The doctor took several milliliters of blood, then pulled the syringe from Chase’s arm. “Thank you,” he smiled, capped the syringe, and put it in his pocket. He took a small ball of cotton out of a separate pocket and taped it to Chase’s arm. “All better,” he smiled. “Okay, now I’m going to swab the inside of your cheek…” He did just that. “And finally I want you to stretch out your arm,” he said.

“Why?” Chase asked.

“I want to collect a sample from under your nails,” Dr. Fateh stated. “You’ve been licking your fingers almost since you got here. All the itchers do it. That’s why we worry about the scratching. You don’t think it magically comes out of your nails, do you?” He stared at the young man behind the bars. “Hold out your hand. I’m just going to take a scraping.”

Chase reached through the bars and splayed his fingers. One of the padded soldiers grabbed his arm next to his shoulder while the other interlaced his gloved fingers between Chase’s and made them immobile. Dr. Fateh took the scraping and put the wooden file in a test tube, then sealed it. “Thank you,” he said to Chase, then turned and walked out. The men in riot gear let go of Chase’s arm and followed after the doctor.

Chase rubbed his wrist and hand, although they were not much worse for wear. “Next time buy me dinner first?” He said to the soldiers as they left.

The far one turned. “If I buy you dinner, I better be getting more than a little hand-holding,” he replied, as he continued to walk away.

“If you want to come back, I’ll kiss you both,” Chase offered, but the two men simply shook their heads and continued to walk. Would it spread with a kiss? He wondered.

Chase figured that’d be the last he’d see of them—until they wanted more blood—but the doctor returned almost immediately with a box in hand. The box was full of books. “I haven’t read any of these,” he began. “I just brought what looked interesting.” With a smile, the doctor placed the box outside the bars, just within Chase’s reach. “Beg your pardon if I don’t get any closer,” he said.

Chase pulled the box forward and began to browse. There were military books and a fair bit of fiction: thrillers, fantasy, sci-fi; all the things that military types might like to read. “Mind if I take two?”

Dr. Fateh shrugged. “With little else to do, I imagine you’ll get through them pretty fast,” he nodded.

Chase picked through them, and wondered that he recognized so few titles. He saw How to Kill a Mockingbird, but passed over it, thinking that he didn’t want to read anything racist, then selected a couple others he’d never seen before. Not that he was an avid reader. Quite the opposite—but what else was there to do?! With a sigh, he pushed the box out as far as he could. “Can I get a TV in here instead?”

Dr. Fateh shook his head.

“Well, thanks anyway,” Chase said, and held up the books.

“You’re welcome,” the doctor smiled. He took up the box and began to walk away.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Chase called after the young man. “Are my chances really fifty-fifty?”

The doctor turned and gave another shrug. “Seems about so,” he began. “I’m not taking a count myself, but even odds jive with what I’ve seen.”

“So they really will let me out of here once I prove to be clean?”

Dr Fateh shrugged. “They say that everyone has to stay at least a week—but then, this all started six days ago—so ask me again tomorrow.”

Chase smirked, well aware of how dodgy the military could be with anything that wasn’t in writing. At least the young Dr. Fateh was kind enough to answer his questions. “Thanks for your honesty,” Chase said and held out a hand. “I’m Petty Officer Chase Chen.”

“Specialist Hakeem Fateh,” the doctor stated. “Don’t mind if I won’t shake, sailor. I mean no disrespect.”

“None taken,” Chase nodded and pulled his hand back inside the bars. “Are there a lot of military in here?”

“A couple dozen,” Dr. Fateh said with a nod, then turned and carried the books away. “Enjoy those,” he said over his shoulder. “I haven’t heard anything about Replay, but everyone talks about Dispatches being an eye opener,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down the long hall and out the door.

Chase turned the books over and gave them a second examination. He considered the doctor’s recommendation, then decided he’d rather escape reality instead of diving into one of its darker chapters; so he set Dispatches down and cracked open Replay as he laid back on his cot. Intrigued as he was that the author would kill the main character on page one, he still barely made it to the second page before the door to the cell block popped open. He would have ignored it, but there was a struggle coming down the hall. Several military men were dragging a resisting cop down the block of cells.

“You can’t do this!” the bloody cop screamed, as he struggled against the soldiers. “I got rights, damn you! I got rights!” he complained.

The military men ignored his protests, then pushed him into the cell across from Chase. They pitched him into the room, then turned and walked out, while the officer peeled himself off the floor. By the time he got to the cell door, he was locked in, and the men that had put him in the cell were leaving.

“You can’t do this!” he screamed after them—but they were already gone. This didn’t stop him from yelling some more. “You let me out, you louts! There will be hell to pay, you feckless turds! Hell, I say!”

Chase stared at the cop, curious that he should recognize the man. “Officer Lars,” he nodded at the cop that took away Colonel Etienne.

Officer Lars returned Chase’s gaze. His eyes narrowed. “I know you,” he snarled. “Did you tell ‘em I got bit?! Are you the reason I’m in here, you little rat?!” he lambasted. He raised a hand through the bars and pointed. “It was you, wasn’t it, you little Judas!?”

“No,” Chase denied, indigent.

In pure fact, it was Officer Lars that had got himself in trouble. He’d written in his own report that he was bit—which he was—though Colonel Etienne’s teeth didn’t break the skin, as they didn’t even cut through the cop’s jacket. “I know it was you, you filthy traitor!” the cop continued to scold Chase. “I’m going to beat your ass, toilet worm!”

“Screw you!” Chase replied, then realized the whole exchange was pointless. He glared through several more insults, then shook his head, and retreated to his cot. He laid down with his books, and ignored the indignant cop as he tried to make out the lettering of the second page of Replay. For some reason, the ink seemed to swim and curl about the page as he rubbed at his eyes.

Officer Lars continued to cuss. Several strangers in other cells added to the racket with howls and shrieks. Surrounded by the frenzied calls of those that had lost their minds—or were close to it—the passion drained out of the officer’s swearing. After a few more half-hearted curses, he left off the threats altogether—as the racket from the other cells continued for several more minutes, an unearthly chorus of rage and spite.

Eventually the noise died down, though one of the captives, a massive man in fatigues, must have howled for the better part of an hour as he rattled the bars. Chase struggled through the first chapter of his book—as he absentmindedly licked at his fingers and scratched irritably all about his body. A dim buzzing caught in his ear and seemed to shake his whole frame. He couldn’t concentrate. After a while, he thought to sleep. Still, he closed his eyes against the various annoyances, then tossed and turned. He didn’t sleep a wink before they brought him breakfast.

~ five ~

Brand New Day

In his own bed, Craig planned to wake some time around noon, utterly refreshed. He wasn’t working until dinner, so he expected to wake slow after a long, deep, and settling sleep.

Well, that was the plan.

Shortly after seven, a commotion began to build outside his window and across the street. A teenage boy raged at a door; punching, kicking, and screaming incoherently. Disturbed, but not fully awake, Craig tossed in his bed and yanked a pillow over his head.

Outside and along the opposite sidewalk, a large old lady ambled in front of the neighbor’s house with a lit cigarette between two fingers, and the leashes of her two yorkies in the other hand. She slowed as she stared at the violent teen—pounding at the door and shaking the knob, his language loud and unintelligible. She paused as one toy dog did his business on a nearby tree. She exchanged a few bewildered words with an approaching mailman.

“What’s with him?” the mailman asked of the raging teen as the boy continued to pound at the door.

The old lady shrugged. “His ma must have put him out…”

After a few beats, the mailman decided that his solicitations were more important than the issues of the screaming teen. He approached the porch as the youngster thrashed and pummeled the door. With a gentle nudge, the mailman pointed to the mail slot and expected the youth to simply stand aside while he delivered his fliers and envelopes.

The teen was not so accommodating. Instead, the incoherent youngster turned on the mailman, howled like a feral beast, and drove the bewildered mailman off the patio.

As the two combatants tumbled into the yard, the large lady screamed. Her dogs barked and bawled. Across, the street, the commotion was too much to ignore. Craig threw off his covers, ran to the window, and tried to decipher the chaotic scene below.

The mailman and the wild teen rolled in the unkempt grass of the yard as they cursed and snarled and kicked at each other. The large lady huffed and muscled her two yapping yorkies down the street and away from the confrontation. She juggled the two leashes and the lit cigarette in one hand as she attempted to fish her phone from her back pocket with the other.

A young couple approached. They cocked their heads and grinned at the spectacle as they stepped ever closer.

“Hey!” Craig yelled, then decided it was best to go outside. He turned from the window, pulled on his pants, and ran for the stairs.

Ahead of him, he could hear Mr. Chen open the front door and curse the fracas, as the old man stepped outside. By the time Craig got to the front door, a disheveled Mr. Chen was at the front gate; cussing up a storm, as he waved his broom over his head. “Stop that racket!” he yelled across traffic. “By the beard of Lincoln, you calm down, before I come over and give you something to howl about!” the diminutive Asian commanded.

Across the street, his threats were ignored, as the much larger mailman attempted to untangle himself from the wild-eyed teenager. He pushed and cursed and kicked his worst—though he took some early damage from the young boy. Finally, the older, larger, and more strategic mailman managed to force the little maniac away.

On the sidewalk, the young couple had stopped to mock the combatants. Now separated, the bloody mailman stood his ground as he stared at the raging man-child.

Howling, the feral teen rolled on his side, caught sight of the gawking couple, picked himself to his feet, and charged. Like deer caught in the blind of headlights, the young gentleman froze, while his girlfriend cowered behind him and shrieked.

The feral teenager ignored the open gate and threw himself over the low fence instead. He tackled the young man, as the girlfriend stepped away. She screamed bloody murder as the feral youth and the young lover grappled. Meanwhile, the large lady lumbered further away from the combat, as she pressed her phone against her cheek, and bodily dragged her two toy dogs away from the melee—as they barked and howled and riled the neighborhood dogs.

The young lover struggled with the feral teen. They rolled off the sidewalk and onto the side of the street—which was very wide and much used. Colorado Avenue was a major road. Indeed, the Chens lived not far from the towers of downtown, on one of the few roads that crossed under the freeway. Moving west from the underpass, the large commercial structures dwindled and shrunk down to smaller shops, garages, apartment buildings, and a fair number of large homes that dated to the late 1800’s. The busy avenue boasted four lanes of traffic, two in each direction. But the street was wider yet, as there was a parking lane on both sides. It was in the far parking lane that the violent teen and the boyfriend wrestled between two parked cars; while traffic roared past at an aggressive clip. Most of traffic did not see them at all—except for the westbound lane closest to the curb. Several drivers in this lane checked their brakes and a few laid on their horns as they continued past. One swerved into the other lane and narrowly missed a truck that was creeping up on its left.

Despite traffic, the combatants continued to wrestle. The girlfriend offered dainty kicks and blistering screams to her boyfriend’s attacker—which wasn’t helping the poor boyfriend much at all.

Having delivered his post, the bloody mailman made his way back to the sidewalk as he prepared for round two. Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Dew neh loh moh!” Mr. Chen cursed at the feral teen. He let himself out the waist high gate, and stepped to the curb. He raised his broom and told the teen what he thought of him in a fine mix of languages. Indeed, the little Asian man would have crossed the street and joined the fight, if not for the rush of traffic.

Craig wanted to get across the street himself—especially when the raging teen suddenly quit the prone boyfriend and decided to maul the pretty girlfriend instead.

“Don’t fight women!” Mr. Chen continued, followed by some fowl Japanese and a mean bit of Mandarin. Mr. Chen only ever used Japanese when he was mad—and Mandarin was reserved for times when he was boiling hot. Indeed, the only parts he ever spoke of either language were the curse words. But then, what does one expect of a native Cantonese?

Meanwhile, the mailman set his satchel on the sidewalk and stepped forward, determined to reenter the fray. The mailman wiped his bloody nose—then pulled up short with horror in his eyes.

Craig checked traffic and saw a break coming. He prepared to cross—and that’s when the unthinkable happened. The raging teen rose over the bloodied young lady. He turned, locked eyes with Mr. Chen, snarled—then ran into the street—despite traffic. The feral teenager made it across the first lane, only to be immediately cut off at the knees by a passing corvette convertible. Bodily, the teen rolled over the hood, then smashed into the windshield. He flopped over the seats and nearly rolled off the car altogether—as the corvette screeched to a halt in the first lane of on-coming traffic.

Craig and Mr. Chen recoiled, both shocked by the horror of the impact. Craig was sure the boy was dead. Certainly, both his legs were broke! Even if the boy lived, he’d never walked again!

The boy didn’t seem to care. The feral youth pulled himself across the trunk of the car and toward the seats. The driver turned and the crippled teenager reached out and raked his face. Screaming bloody murder, the driver abandoned his corvette—and almost got mashed by an over-sized truck coming the other direction—but the operator of the truck cut the wheel and slammed the brakes.

Tires squealed and the truck grunted as it collided with the curb, then continued on. Going as fast as it was, the truck squealed across the sidewalk, took out an electrical box, and pinched it against the brick of a used bookstore. Sparks flew, and Craig could hear—could feel—the electricity go out all across the neighborhood.

That’s when the sirens arrived. Fire trucks, cop cars, and ambulances all converged on traffic that was now in a complete snarl. There was an ever growing mob on the street gathered around the accident—though they kept their distance from the bloody mess of a teenager. He twitched and convulsed as he lay across the trunk of the corvette, and struck at anyone that came close. The paramedics approached. He lunged at the first firefighter, who was weary of such an attack and dodged back with ease.

The feral youth continued to hiss and scratch at those that approached, unconcerned by the gravity of his injuries—which were quite apparent to Craig, even from across the street. Blood dripped off the corvette and pooled in the road. The cops and paramedics devised a plan to get the maniacal boy strapped to a gurney without anymore scratches or bites. Indeed, it took four of them working in unison to pull it off.

The growling, shrieking, hissing teen wasn’t the only one trundled into an ambulance. The paramedics also took the mailman, the boyfriend, the girlfriend, and the driver of the corvette. The mailman tried to refuse, as did the driver of the corvette since it was very much a glancing blow—just a few nails that raked across his cheek—but the cops insisted.

Horrified, Craig stood by Mr. Chen and watched as the ambulances took the wounded, and the cops began to untangle the mess of vehicles. He remembered the words of Special Agent Dodd and his heart raced as realized the copper must have been telling the truth! “Dad!” he gaped, and was about to go over everything they’d witnessed in the last twenty-four hours—but was interrupted by a cop that came over to ask them some questions.

The officer, a large and imposing man, took their statements. “Thank you,” he said and turned to leave—then spun about, remembering to ask one final thing. “On the off chance, were either of you bit?” he eyed them critically. “Were either of you scratched?”

Craig shook his head and turned to his father.

“And how he scratch us?!” Mr. Chen snapped. “He other side of street!”

With a bit of glare, the officer nodded, then turned and walked away.

Craig gaped at Mr. Chen. “Blessed Buchanan! The freakin’ zombie apocalypse!” he whispered, while Mr. Chen stood on the sidewalk and frowned. He waved to the large lady with the yorkies; as she lit another cigarette, then turned and moseyed on her way, with her dogs in tow. Craig tried to talk to Mr. Chen, but dad simply stood there and watched the wreckers take the corvette and the massive truck. He watched the cops put caution tape around the ruined electrical box—then left with their sirens blaring—on to the next job. Finally, there was nothing left to see. The only proofs of the incident were the ruined electrical box, a slick of fluids left by the truck, and a pool of blood in the far lane that traffic was now dragging west. “Dad!” Craig repeated, still worried that Mr. Chen wasn’t getting it.

Mr. Chen put up a silencing hand as he stared into the city. He turned to Craig. “Listen,” he said, as he cocked his ear to the wind. Living so close to the city center, Mr. Chen was used to sirens—but there seemed to be an inordinate amount of them, and coming from all directions. To Craig’s comfort, the old man shook his head and said, “this something bad.” With that, he turned, and carried his broom back inside; all as he muttered, “dew neh loh moh…”

“What’ll we do?!” Craig asked as they entered the house.

“First, we bring Chase home,” Mr. Chen said. “I call Mr. Wiezcykyi again.”

“Hello,” the lawyer answered.

“Fancy pants lawman,” Mr. Chen snipped. “Where Chase?”

Mr. Wiezcykyi sighed. “The wheels grind slowly, Mr. Chen. You gotta give me more time—”

“You do anything?!” Mr. Chen snapped.

“Of course I am!” Mr. Wiezcykyi replied. “They say they can’t release him! They say they got him on a week long emergency hold—”

“There no such thing!” Mr. Chen roared. “I no flee Mao to live in communist America! Do your job, or no get paid!”

A long suffering sigh issued over the phone. “Hold on now,” Mr. Wiezcykyi answered. “I’m headed down to Evans Hospital this very moment to see if I can’t talk some sense into them—and just so you know, Chase isn’t the only one down there. I have another client breathing down my neck, trying to get his wife back—WHAT THE HELL?!” he interrupted his own train of thought. He’d come over the hill and caught his first glimpse of the entrance to Fort Carson, heavily barricaded, with vehicles and men all about. “Well if that don’t beat all…” he muttered. “Mr. Chen, I got to go. I’ll call you back as soon as I have something to say,” and with that the line went dead.

“Wait!” Mr. Chen snapped, but he was already cut off. “Dew neh loh moh!” he cursed and dialed again—to no effect. The call was ignored, and he knew the futility of leaving a voicemail, so he hung up, then turned to his adopted son. “For now, we let Chase worry about Chase,” he said, though his expression made it plain that he still worried for his adopted son.

Craig gave a solemn nod. “We have no power,” he began. “Soon, we’ll have no water.”

“I get generator,” Mr. Chen went out to the garage. He checked the generator, which wasn’t even half full. He shook the gas can, which was nearly dry. With several curses, he wheeled the generator through the mess of parts and tools that Chase and Craig had piled about the carriage house. He kicked a wheel of the CJ5 and cursed the vehicle, as he pulled the generator over the low lip of the door. He tugged the generator up the back steps and wheeled it into the kitchen; then went back outside and returned with the empty gas can, which he shook at Craig. “Eyah! Your dumb brother let gas get low, and now we nearly out!” he complained.

“How much fuel do we have?” Craig asked, as he continued to fill mason jars from the tap.

“Not long! Couple hours,” Mr. Chen fumed. “Most important thing, keep fridges cold. This only run fridges a few days!”

“Well, let’s turn it on,” Craig stated. “I need to charge my phone.”

“Eyah! I just told you, sparing!” Mr. Chen complained. “Use my phone,” he offered.

“Do you have Virginia’s number?” Craig asked.

“Why I have Virginia’s number? Why you no have Virginia’s number?” Mr. Chen countered.

“I do, it’s in my dead phone!” Craig stated. “Where else would I keep it?”

“Stupid boy no back up important information! We low on gas! No generator until tonight! And no going in fridge!” Mr. Chen glared.

“But I didn’t get breakfast yet,” Craig complained.

“Strong boy. Good fat,” Mr. Chen pinched his stomach. “You eat tonight. You no die.”

“And what about Virginia?!” Craig continued.

“She no even in town,” Mr. Chen noted. “Worry of people here first.”

“Okay,” Craig nodded. “Well, we should certainly close the restaurant.”

“No your decision!” Mr. Chen countered. “You warn Kaleb and Chef! They decide restaurant!”

“But—” Craig continued to argue.

“You warn!” Mr. Chen pushed his phone at Craig. “Eyyah! Restaurant safer than here! Go be useful!” With that, the old man disappeared.

With a frown, Craig went back to filling mason jars with tap water.

Mr. Chen returned with flashlights, a radio, and spare batteries. He came back to the kitchen where there were now several cases of quart mason jars all filled with water; along with an assortment of other jars, bottles, lidded bowls, and more. Indeed, practically every pot in the kitchen was filled to the brim, with or without lids. They were stacked in their precarious manner, taking up most of the table, half the counter space, and a solid corner of the floor in the dining room.

“Craig?” Mr. Chen called, surprised to find the twin was gone. He paused, then heard water running in the upstairs bathroom. He followed the sound and poked his head in the room, happy that the boy thought to fill the tub. His happiness didn’t last and his anger was immediate. He bolted into the room and smacked Craig up the back side of his head; as Craig leaned out the window with a joint in hand.

“Hey!” Craig fussed, then pulled himself back inside—though he continued to hold the joint out the window.

“You dumb boy!” Mr. Chen screamed and began slapping Craig about the arms, body, and head. “You no smoke in house!”

“I’m not!” Craig protested. “I got the window open!”

“You in house! You smoke!” Mr. Chen glared. “You no smoke in house!”

“But zombies!” Craig cried.

“I no care if Rutherford B. Hayes and Jesus both return and tear out whole wall in process! YOU NO SMOKE IN HOUSE!” Mr. Chen lambasted.

“Fine!” Craig said, and dashed the joint in the sink.

For a long second, the two simply glared at each other. Then, having got his way, Mr. Chen continued in a cool manner. “You call restaurant?”

“Yeah, I just spoke with Kaleb,” Craig answered. “I don’t think he believes me,” he shrugged.

“Bah!” Mr. Chen huffed. “He believe when he see!” With that, he gave a long slow nod. “You do good with water. Next, go around block and get more gas,” he said. “Maybe it not so crazy at gas station yet.”

“That gas station?!” Craig blinked. “It’s been crazy at that gas station long before the zombies!” he stated. “Tell ya what: I'll go get gas if we can turn the generator on and recharge my phone,” he bargained.

“Eeyah! Do as I say!” Mr. Chen grabbed at Craig’s ear.

Craig dodged under his father’s hand, and made for his room. He put on his heavy coat and thickest gloves—despite the sunny weather. In the kitchen, he emptied the last dribbles of fuel from the gas can into the generator. Eyes darting, he stepped out of the house, into the alley, and re-lit his joint.

“Tell you what,” Mr. Chen called after him. “Get second gas can and you charge phone!”

“But—” Craig began to protest.

“No buts!” Mr. Chen cut in. “Get second gas can!”

With a gulp, Craig agreed, then made his way to the corner gas station—as a myriad of distant sirens sounded from all directions. Head on a swivel and eyes darting, he stepped into the store. He grabbed a second can and ignored the clerk as the man behind the counter eyed his thick coat and gloves with suspicion. There was a sunny mildness to this balmy February day—but then the clientele of the store was a strange amalgamation. Located on a major east-west highway and so very close to downtown, there was a fine mix of commuters, tourists, professional drivers, and more than the station’s fair share of vagrants. What was one more oddball in a place like this?

Admittedly, Craig was hot as hell in his extra dress, but comfort wasn’t the reason for the outfit, nor was he interested in explaining it. He grabbed a second gas can and gave the clerk a hundred dollar bill. “Give me enough gas on pump five to fill them both,” he said of the gas cans. With that, he went back outside. He flinched from anyone that approached, though none stepped too close. With jitters and a stream of curses spilling from his lips, Craig filled the cans, then stepped away from the station without bothering to go back in for his change. Done with his chore, he ran back through the alley, despite the stifling heat of his hefty coat and gloves and the awkward weight of the full gas cans. Back in the alley, he re-lit his joint. Even though it was only a few blocks from the house, Craig was a sweaty mess by the time he returned home. He peeled off the coat and gloves, then turned on the generator and plugged in his phone.

“One hour!” Mr. Chen said with a finger in Craig’s face. “One hour and off!”

Craig nodded. An hour was more than enough to charge his phone—and since the power was on and the fridges were running, he made himself a bit of breakfast while he waited.

~ six ~

The Itching Sickness

In the morning, a young man in fatigues brought Chase a plate of overcooked bacon, soggy unseasoned eggs, and a biscuit that tasted just a little better than cardboard. The soldier’s name was Armand, and although Chase was half delirious with the itch, he caught the soldier staring. Initially, Chase assumed the soldier was staring because he was in the brig with the itching sickness—but the staring continued, and it seemed to be personal.

Chase stared back, figuring this Armand must be an association of his twin brother Craig, since the army was his brother’s branch of service. Although this seemed quite unlikely, considering the vast number of soldiers in the army’s employ, Chase was quite familiar with the feeling of being mistaken for his brother, and this felt just like that.

Armand continued to stare.

Chase stared back at Armand, his face passive and clueless—though a seething hatred stirred as Armand wasn’t very good at hiding his own animosity. His eyes squinted and his lips twitched at the corners, bending toward a frown. Irritated by more than the staring, Chase glared as he set aside the mediocre food, and accused more than asked, “DEWIYOYU?!”

The slurred comment caused Armand to break a grin before he turned and walked away.

What the hell was that?! A ray of clarity shot through the anger that was fogging over Chase’s thoughts. Jolted, he abandoned his pathetic breakfast and spent the next twenty minutes in front of the mirror, before he finally managed to say, “lemon face, lion face,” in halfway decent English. He spent another half hour in front of the sink washing the cobwebs from his mind.

As he stood staring into the stainless steel mirror, a chaplain came in, set a stool in front of the first cell (well out of arm’s reach, mind you), then commenced to make small talk until the prisoner shooed him away. This man of the cloth continued down the line, chatting with any of the prisoners that were willing and capable of conversation.

Chase listened as the chaplain approached the others in turn. Some were out of their ever-loving minds—though they’d been that way since Chase first got there. The chaplain noted these on a clipboard as he continued down the line. Some complained of being hot and uncomfortable, while others were upbeat as they wiggled, squirmed, and itched themselves absently. Some seemed strained and others were calm. As the interviews continued, Chase was relieved that the chaplain started down the other side of the hall; so by the time the pinched-face man finally made it to his cell, Chase knew the conversation would be tepid as best.

The chaplain didn’t disappoint. He had a terrible habit of turning everything into a confession. Still, concentrating on the chaplain and his obvious attempts to lay blame at Chase’s own feet helped the young twin ignore the burning itchiness that crawled just under his skin.

The chaplain noticed this restlessness. “It’s funny, but cheaters and liars often squirm in just such a manner,” he observed with a penetrating gaze. “Do you have a guilty soul, Chase Chen? Do you want confession for your sins?”

A fit of rage caught in his heart. Chase wanted to gouge the chaplain’s eyes out. He stared back at the chaplain, licked several of his fingers, and reminded himself that most of those boasting of their own righteousness were often more akin to the pharisees than the one they tacked up on the cross—but his reply wasn’t nearly so elegant. Whatever he said sounded like gibberish in his own ears, so he trailed off, then found himself staring up at the light, as the dim buzz of electricity seemed to grow louder and louder; a persistent nagging hum that refused to let off.

“It is rude to ignore your visitors, young man. Especially those that aim for your betterment…” the chaplain continued. Chase hissed at the man, then returned to his consideration of the light and the electrical hum that poured from the fixture. Needless to say, that was the end of their conversation. The chaplain stood and took his self-righteous perch to the next cell.

The day wore on. Chase couldn’t stop the itching. He got really angry about the light over his cot, as the buzzing continued to grow in intensity. Across the hall, Officer Lars started up with the insults again, and this time Chase stared murder back at the copper, until the cop realized an angry glare was all he’d get. Eventually, the officer got bored and gave the accusations a rest.

Chase continued to stare, as the incessant buzz of electricity continued to grow and gnaw at his nerves. He leaned into the bars and pressed against them, though they didn’t move, all while fantasizing about the damage he would do to Officer Lars if he should only get a hand on the man. Indeed, when Dr. Fateh approached with a late lunch, Chase was still glaring across the hall. He turned on the doctor, snarled, and yanked the tray out of the doctor’s hands.

“Oh...,” Dr. Fateh stepped back. “You okay in there?” He asked.

Chase growled, then grumbled something unintelligible, as he remembered the kindness of the doctor. Still, he stretched out his hands, and despite the fact that he didn’t really want to hurt the doctor, he begged him to come just a little bit closer, so he might grab his coat and smash his face into the bars of the cell.

“I get it,” Dr. Fateh said as he locked eyes with Chase. “By now, you’re uncomfortable, agitated, irritable as all hell—but this is what you gotta do; you gotta stay sane. Whatever you do, you can’t lose your shit,” he began. “Right now you got the itch, and I imagine anger is all you see, but you gotta come back. If you continue, you snap, and you never speak again. If you lose it, if you snap—well, that’s it. We ain’t seen anyone come back from the snap.”

“But the itch,” Dr. Fateh continued. “Well, I can tell you only got the itch, because you ain’t trying to get through these bars just yet. Not like that poor bastard,” he pointed at another cell, where the large man in fatigues moaned and pressed his face into the bars. Dr. Fateh shook his head. “Look, you gotta struggle. You gotta remember your words,” he advised with a nod. For several seconds, he continued to stare at Chase, then realized that locking eyes was not helping. With a shake of his head, he turned, and went out the way he came.

A cruel chuckle drifted from across the hall. “You got the sick, boy?!” Officer Lars called, as he leaned against his bars, then chortled with hostile mirth. “You turning feral, you dumb faggot?! Haha! That fucker didn’t even break my skin! I won’t be sick! Not at all! I’m just gonna wait ‘em out, and when all is said and done. Then, once they let me out because I ain’t sick at all, well, that’s when I’m going to put a bullet between your eyes!”

Chase wanted to murder the man; but as Officer Lars continued with his insults, Chase considered the words of Dr. Fateh. He changed his attention from the man across the hall to the bars that kept them separated. There was no give to the bars and no way around them, so after a brief evaluation—or what seemed a brief evaluation though the endeavor lasted north of twenty minutes—Chase turned away from them too.

Wanting nothing more than to simply stop itching, Chase forced himself to lay on the cot, to ignore the continuing insults, and also the raging burn that radiated from the scratches on his arms. He opened Dispatches and puzzled over the strange marks contained within. There was a reason for these words, grouped together in long chains of meaning. There was a story and a purpose behind them. He tried to ignore the itching heat that ran riot through his veins, and struggled with the curious jot and curl of ink instead—all while the irritating buzz of electricity that ran through the light grated against his nerves. He couldn’t believe how loud the electricity sounded! He did everything he could to ignore the harsh thrum emanating from the bare bulb above him—then, after what felt like an eternity of irritation; he gave up on the book, pulled the cot to the center of the room, and unscrewed the bulb so there was no longer any electricity running through it. The roaring hum stopped.

Ah, better!

Still, Chase could hear the bulbs in the hall and the other cells—but they weren’t nearly so grating since he had some distance from them. Having a modicum of peace, Chase laid back on his cot and thought to get some sleep. How long did he lay there before the hall door opened? It couldn’t have been long. Maybe minutes. He didn’t cool much at all.

Several soldiers, including a smirking Armand, escorted a civilian into the room. “Right this way, Mr. Wiezcykyi,” Armand said to the man, then stopped him in front of Chase’s cell.

“This is indeed Chase Chen,” Mr. Wiezcykyi said as he turned from one soldier to another. “Any of you care to explain why his light is out? Any particular reason to keep him in the dark?”

“I can tell you that the light was on the last time I was in here, and I guarantee you that none of us are going into these cells, “Armand replied. “For whatever reason, he must have unscrewed it himself, sir.”

Chase stood and stomped to the bars with hatred in his eyes, and a finger in his mouth. He recognized the soldier Armand as the worst among them—though he had no way of articulating why. There was just a sense that this man was a bastard.

“Ah, Chase!” Mr. Wiezcykyi smiled. “How are they treating you? Any complaints?” He asked as he stepped closer to the cell. He blinked and frowned as he got a better look at the young man. “You look like hell,” he noted. “What’s got you so upset?” he asked in a calm manner. “What have they done to you?” He asked as he leaned against the bars.

Running hot with delirium, Chase grabbed at the lawyer and raked his arm.

“Ow—dammit!” Mr. Wiezcykyi scowled as he backed away from Chase. ”What the hell was that for?!”

“Breach!” Armand screamed, and shoved Mr. Wiezcykyi at the other soldiers. They grabbed the lawyer and barred his arms.

“What’s the meaning of this?! Unhand me at once!” Mr. Wiezcykyi protested. But the soldiers ignored him as they wrangled him down the line of cells. They came to one that was empty and pushed the mouthy lawyer in, then turned and locked the wrought iron door. “Sweet Jefferson, this is unconscionable!” the lawyer raged. “You can bet your pension that a judge is going to hear about this! You’re all on notice!” He said as he pulled his phone from his pocket—but there was no reception this deep in the hospital. “Hey!” he yelled, as the soldiers turned and walked away. “I’m a civilian, Grant dammit, and I got rights!”

“You got something,” Armand smirked, then turned and laughed with the other soldiers as they all walked away. As they passed Chase’s cell, Armand stopped and grinned at the twin. “Well done,” he sneered. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t let me down.”

Angered, Chase reached through the bars. He grabbed at Armand—but the soldier backed out of range.

“Whoooa!” another soldier began. “He’s about fit for the pit!”

“Soon,” Armand said with a malicious grin, then turned on his heels, and led the other soldiers out.

Unsure of exactly what had happened, it still registered with Chase that he had done something very bad. He moaned and stepped back from the bars while he scratched at his own shoulder, and licked the nails of his other hand. Defeated, he slumped onto his cot. Once there, he closed his eyes and did his best to ignore the fire burning through his veins.

~ seven ~

Workin’ a Double

Up at The Fish House, the youngest brother, Kaleb, sat at the bar. He shuffled papers he didn’t want to address and hoped that lunch would be busier than breakfast. The phone rang. Still avoiding the paperwork, he tipped an ear toward the host stand.

“This is the Fish House. Renata speaking. How can I help you?” The young hostess began. “Oh, hey Craig! Yeah, one sec. He’s sitting right here,” she turned to Kaleb and held the receiver out to him. “For you,” she confirmed.

“Kaleb speaking,” he said, as he pressed the phone to his ear, and wondered what his brother might say that couldn’t wait a couple hours, since Craig was due to take over the bar for the dinner shift.

“Hey buddy,” Craig began. “How’re things up on the hill?”

“Not good,” Kaleb said. “Breakfast was about half as busy as usual. Customers were in a funk. On top of that, this evening’s twenty top canceled,” he confessed. “I don’t know what’s in the water, but it’s a down day for sure.”

“Not surprised,” Craig stated. “It’s probably because of all the zombies.”

“The… what?” Kaleb asked, certain that he’d misheard his brother. For a split second, he thought that Craig had blamed the slump in business on zombies—but that’s stupid! There’s no such thing as zombies!

“Zombies! Or at least something very much resembling zombies,” Craig continued. “That’s what got Chase last night. In fact, we had another one this morning, just after you left, right across the street.”

Kaleb rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m finding this a little hard to believe,” he admitted.

“Understandable,” Craig continued. “Still, I think we should shut the place down. You know, give the employees a chance to prepare for the coming zombie apocalypse.”

“Yeah, well, for the end of the world, you seem unaffected,” Kaleb replied.

“Fear is the mind-killer,” Craig answered. “Improvise, adapt, and overcome. After that, there’s not a lot of room for freakin’ out. Not if you want to survive,” he said. “Plus I’m weeded to the gills.”

“What the hell, Craig?!” Kaleb snapped. “You said you wouldn’t smoke before work!”

“It’s the freakin’ zombie apocalypse!” Craig yelled back. “I needed something to take the edge off!”

“Kennedy on a cross!” Kaleb swore. “You know, I can’t believe you! You and your brother are always coming up with some lame excuses! No wonder chef refused to make you anything more than a bartender!”

“Now listen here, twerp,” Craig retorted. “Bartender is exactly what I wanted, and Chase is your brother too—”

“You just want the day off!” Kaleb cut in. “That’s what all this zombie crap is about! You’re pathetic, you know! I should tell Chef! Mom would be so disappointed!”

“You leave mom out of it,” Craig said cold and irate. “And as far as Candice goes, you cover for me or I’ll tell her what really happened between you and Amber!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Kaleb began to protest—but word of the neighbor girl took the wind right out of his sails. “Are you really not coming in?”

“You just said yourself that half the reservations have canceled, including the twenty top,” Craig replied. “Don’t you find that suspicious?”

“I feel like I’d hear about it if there were zombies,” Kaleb answered.

“I can’t help it if I found out first!” Craig stated. “Be safe. Close the shop. Come home. I’ll get this place all ready for you!”

“I’m not closing the restaurant over a rumor, and since you’re scheduled I expect you to be here!” Kaleb replied. “We still have the other half of the reservations, and you’re the third person to call in today! If you don’t show, we don’t have a bartender!”

“Well now, daft Taft, it’s the end of the world—and you’re worried about who’s going to shake the martinis?!” Craig exclaimed. “I can tell you it ain’t going to be me! If you have to have a bartender—fOr tHE LasT nIGhT oF CivIliZAtiOn—give it to Mayzee. She’s on tonight. Have her work it!”

“You think you have an answer for everything,” Kaleb countered. “But you should know that Mayzee hates the bar.”

“Hate it or not, I bet she still does it,” Craig predicted. “Besides, it’s going to be deader than you think. Do you even have power?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Power’s out in the whole neighborhood,” Craig stated. “Take a look out the window.”

“We must be on the generators,” Kaleb realized. “Are you saying that zombies knocked out the power?”

“Kind of—a truck took out the electrical box in front of Westside Stories—but it was because of that zombie,” Craig answered.

Kaleb considered his brother’s assertions as he stared off into oblivion. After a long second, he got mad at himself for contemplating his brother’s nuttiness. “Craig, you done lost your damned mind!” he fumed. “You’re really calling out because of zombies?!”

“You were up when Chase got home,” Craig reminded. “He fought a zombie! Why else do you think they dragged him off to the army hospital?”

“When I left this morning dad seemed pretty convinced that the three of you were simply duped by some special coppers,” Kaleb replied. “He said Mr. Wiezcykyi is getting him out.”

“They took Chase because he got scratched,” Craig stated.

“Zombies don’t scratch,” Kaleb noted. “They bite. How are scratches supposed to infect people? Does it grow out of their nails?”

“Scratch, bite—they still took him to the hospital,” Craig replied. “Besides, it doesn’t matter how you cut it, I’m still not coming in. There’s not much I’m afraid of, but zombies—”

“Oh yeah?! What else does the great Craig Bennington Chen fear besides zombies?!” Kaleb retorted.

“Greyliens,” Craig answered, his voice soft and reserved—as if the greyliens might hear him. “And pretty much anything in the ocean—which is why I went in to the army.”

“You nimrod,” Kaleb pressed his palm to the side of his face, “You’re so dumb.”

“Maybe, but at least I’m smart enough to make it through the coming zombie apocalypse,” Craig replied. Then, in a soft voice, he added, “Whatever you do, don’t let anyone bite you.” With that, he hung up the phone.

“Reagan almighty!” Kaleb swore. He didn’t get it! The restaurant was the family business, and Craig and Chase swore they loved the place—then promptly refused to put any real work into it! They never did anything more than the absolute minimum! The real work of running the place was left to Chef and Kaleb—not that Chef minded—but it bothered the crap out of Kaleb! He was beginning to resent the twins for their ambivalence. No, he already resented them! How could they be so callous?!

“Dew neh loh…” he began his adopted father’s favorite curse, then remembered what it meant and who it referenced, and cut off halfway through. “Sorry, mom,” he finished, as he considered the sweet manners, the long-suffering demeanor, and the soft smile of Mrs. Chen.

Well, if Craig wouldn’t cooperate, it fell to Kaleb to clean up the mess! He went into the dining room and waited for Mayzee to step away from the only table in the restaurant—a four top of foreigners.

Bedraggled, Mayzee sloughed away from the bubbly Swedes and meandered to the computer.

“You all right?” Kaleb asked.

“I’m fine,” Mayzee stated, though she was obviously not fine. “It’s just tourists,” she claimed.

“Well, I’ve got more bad news for you,” Kaleb continued. “You’ve got the bar tonight.”

“What?!” Mayzee snapped, her hands going to her hips. “But we agreed that I don’t have to work the bar no more!”

“Yes, but you’ll have to take this one up with Craig,” Kaleb stated. “He called in and he says you owe him.”

“Holy James K. Polk!” Mayzee cursed. “That rat fink, calling in favors,” she shook her head. “First a double and now the bar…” With a huff, the complaint died off, and Mayzee went back out into the lobby, even more distraught.

“And just like that you’re going to do it?!” Kaleb asked as he followed after her. He knew he was risking her cooperation, but then, he wanted her to refuse! “I admit, I was kind of hoping you’d call Craig and light into him for his presumption. Maybe tell him he had to come in.”

“Well I may not like it, but I do owe him,” Mayzee answered.

“Sweet Eisenhower! Does Craig have something on everyone?!” Kaleb asked.

“Probably,” Mayzee turned. “What’s he got on you?” she guessed.

“Amber,” Kaleb admitted. “You?”

“Armand,” Mayzee answered. “Seems like your brother knows his a-holes.” She shook her head.

The light outer doors burst open and Brittany strode in. “Well traffic’s a damned nightmare! It’s so bad I had to skip my coffee to make it this early!” she claimed, justifying the fact that she was ten minutes late. “There was a straight up brawl on Kiowa that had traffic backed up for blocks! There must have been half a dozen idiots just rilin’ and fightin’ right in the middle of the street! I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it!” she continued.

“Well, I’m glad you came at all,” Kaleb brushed the tardiness aside. “Three people have called off, and Mark is an hour late and refusing to answer his phone, so I think we’re short four for the evening.”

“Called off?” Brittany repeated. “Was that an option?”

“Not for you,” Kaleb replied.

“Well, I can’t say I blame them, considering the day! I swear I heard a gunshot on my way…” Brittany shrugged as she leaned in to kiss the massive aquarium that stood sentinel in the entry way. “Anyway, I’d rather be here than my cramped apartment if the borg landed and started abducting our glorious leaders,” she rolled her eyes. “Chef got any specials today?” She asked as she searched for her favorite goby.

“The twenty top canceled, so we’re doing their custom dishes for specials,” Kaleb stated. “Chef’s got the counts on the board.”

“Heard,” Brittany said as she turned and stalked over to her good friend. “Hey there, Mayzee!” she squealed and hugged her coworker. Mayzee sunk into Brittany’s arms, and Brittany knew that something was wrong. “What’s up?” she whispered.

Mayzee glanced at the Kaleb and gave a subtle shake of her head.

Brittany took Mayzee’s hand and led her to a back corner of the kitchen, then stared at her friend and whispered. “What’s going on?”

“Craig called in, so now I’ve got the bar,” Mayzee complained. “That and these damn foreigners at 46.”

“Sorry ‘bout the bar,” Brittany shrugged. “And why you lettin’ a bunch of tourists ruin your day?! It’s just one bad tip?”

“It’s quite the opposite,” Mayzee began. “They offered me a fifty if I could get ‘em coke,” she whispered.

The air went out of Brittany. “Did you do it?”

“I didn’t say yes—but I didn’t tell ‘em no either,” Mayzee stared.

Brittany blinked. “You’re not thinking…” she wouldn’t say his name.

“Not a chance in hell!” Mayzee began. “But at the same time… I could use the fifty bucks,” she said, as she stared at her friend.

“Mayzee…” Brittany stared back and shook her head, not knowing what else to say.

“It’s okay,” Mayzee replied, turned, and stepped back into the dining room. She approached the only occupied table in the restaurant; a high booth in the corner with three football-sized blond boys, just barely men. One was fairly big, and the other two were simply massive, rivaling the bulk and muscly might of Thor himself! There was also a lady of an equally young age; a svelte blonde with large eyes and big white teeth that stood nearly nine feet tall. What an absolute stunner! From the first second she saw them, she was drawn to them—until they asked her to get them coke. Now she just wanted them to go away.

Mayzee approached the table, stopped, and stared at the foreigners and admired their beauty one last time, then held her hand out and tilted her head to the side. “All right, boys,” she said, hoping they’d forgive her for doing something so ugly.

The guy in the far corner pulled a crisp fifty out of his pocket and handed it to her with a giggle. His friends all smirked and nodded.

Mayzee tilted her head to the other side, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Give me another one,” she ordered.

“But why?!” complained the one that had paid.

“Because I’d feel guilty if I didn’t give you the scoop—but the scoop is another fifty bucks,” Mayzee replied with her hand still extended.

The Swedes looked at each other. Discussion erupted among them in a muddle of English and their mother tongue.

“You know…” Mayzee said as she stared off into space. “Forget it,” she finished, and set the fifty bucks back on the table. She turned and started to walk away.

“Wait wait wait!” The nearest Swede grabbed her arm.

She stopped, turned, and stared down at his hand.

He let her go, then pulled another fifty bucks out of his wallet, snagged the other off the table, and thrust them both at Mayzee. “Okay?!” He smiled and shook the bills at her.

The others all nodded encouragingly.

Mayzee stared at the bills and gave herself one last second before she did the wrong thing. “All right then,” she said. Shaking her head, she reluctantly pocketed the money. “His name is Armand. He’s a paranoid asshole, and I can guarantee he cuts everything with baby powder and borax. Whatever you do, leave me out of your conversation, or he’s likely to charge you double. You still want his number? You’re far better off going—” she shook her head “—anywhere else.”

The nearest was growing impatient. He demanded the number.

With a long weary sigh, Mayzee pulled her notebook from her apron and flipped it open. She scribbled a number on a blank page, tore it out, and set it on the table.

The nearest boy tried to pick it up, but Mayzee pressed it down with her finger. “Burn this,” she advised as she stared into his eyes. “Burn this, and say a holy high prayer to whatever god you worship.” She gave a serious nod; then lifted her finger, turned, and walked to the kitchen.

Having the number, the Swedes left. A couple more tables straggled in. Dinner began, and the rush was anemic—which was fine; since the restaurant was down a server, a cook, a busser, and a dishwasher. In the kitchen, Kevin and Jamal wouldn’t get off their phones. They kept showing each other videos—but it was slow and all the food came out quick—so Kaleb had a hard time telling them to knock it off. He thought about bothering Chef while she worked on the monthly inventory—but it was so slow! He decided to ignore the grisly videos of people attacking random strangers in the streets—until the two cooks insisted that he watch just one more. “Why are you showing me this?!” Kaleb asked, as Jamal pushed his phone at the young manager yet again. “It’s sick!”

“This is Denver!” Jamal stared. “Something’s up!”

“Pfft!” Kaleb snorted.

“There’s like fifty of these clips!” Kevin defended. “And they’re all new: today and yesterday!”

“Denver’s a big city,” Kaleb said with a shrug—though fifty such attacks in the last two days seemed excessive. For a second, he considered zombies—then cursed Craig for putting such a stupid thought in his head. “My bet is these things happen all the time, and you’re only noticing because you don’t usually watch that sort of thing.”

“Speak for yourself!” Kevin replied. “We watch fight videos with Craig and Chase all the time!”

That tracked—but Kaleb wasn’t interested, so he started to move away.

“On top of that, they’re erasing ‘em,” Jamal continued. “Each time I refresh the tag, there’s two new ones and the old ones are all gone—until someone else uploads them again—and then ten minutes later, they’re all gone again!”

“Like it’s some sort of conspiracy?!” Kaleb mocked.

“You bet your ass!” Kevin replied. “Big tech is covering something up!”

Kaleb shook his head, refused to say the word ‘zombies’, then went about his business.

It wasn’t even seven o’clock and despite being short staffed, he decided to cut Renata and have her go about her closing duties. At least there weren’t any fires to put out—or so he thought—until Mayzee approached as he waited at the host stand. She on the edge of tears. “What is it?” he asked her.

“It’s the young lady that just sat at the bar,” she whispered.

The hackles rose on the back of his neck. “Solo?” he asked.

Mayzee nodded.

Kaleb’s heart dropped into his stomach. “You served her, didn’t you?”

Mayzee gave another pathetic nod.

Kaleb’s eyes went wide. He stepped quick to the bar as he muttered under his breath, “Shit oh shit oh shit!” Despite a cold sweat, he put on his best smile, walked behind the bar, and approached the lone woman at the far end. She was all dolled up on a Monday night. Immediately, he could tell she was young. Immediately, he could tell she was too young. “How are you tonight?” he asked, as if nothing was amiss.

“A little pissed off,” the young woman glared. “I take it you’re in charge of this shit show?!”

“That’s not quite how I would qualify us, but yes, I am,” Kaleb stated.

“You’re a little young,” the woman replied.

“Speak for yourself,” Kaleb answered. “With that being said, is there any way you’ll let us off with a warning?”

“It’s a gross violation to serve alcohol to anyone under age,” the copper noted.

“We take great pains to make sure this doesn’t happen—but even Mohammad Ali lost from time to time,” Kaleb shrugged.

“Great pains?!” the copper repeated. “All she had to do was check my ID!”

“Unfortunately, our regular bartender is out tonight,” Kaleb answered.

“There’re like twenty people in the entire restaurant including the staff,” the copper continued. “How hard can it be?”

“You know, it’s the slow times that get ya,” Kaleb replied. “When it’s slow like this, that’s when you’re off your rhythm, and that’s when most mistakes happen.”

The copper shook her head. “All I’m hearing are excuses.”

“Because I’m begging you to excuse us,” Kaleb stated. “If an apology is what you want, then let me offer it proper. I’m sorry. We should not have served you beer. Mistakes where made.”

Pen to paper, she glared at him. “You want to give me your names?”

“Only if you give me yours first,” Kaleb replied.

“Officer DeLaceya, badge number thirteen thirty-seven.”

Kaleb gave his name and answered all her questions, as Officer DeLaceya filled out the summons. “No chance at all you’ll let us off with a warning?” He asked one last time.

“It’s scofflaws like you that are ruining this once great nation!” Officer DeLaceya accused.

“That’s a bit much,” Kaleb answered. “First off, it was a beer; and secondly, The Fish House has been in business for nearly 40 years. You’re going to tell me that one beer in 40 years is ruining this great nation?”

Officer DeLaceya glared. “This might have been a fine establishment at one point, but it’s obvious to me that it’s suffering under current management.”

“Okay, fine,” Kaleb stared back. “Why don’t you give me the summons; and then you and whatever crawled up your ass can be on your way.”

The young officer’s eyes shrank to slits. “I should take you in.”

“Sure, fine,” Kaleb held out his wrists. “It’d just be one more thing for me to put on the counter-suit,” he bluffed.

“Your license is hereby suspended,” Officer DeLaceya said with a rude smile. She ripped the summons from her pad of duplicates and set it before him. “See you in court,” she finished with a smirk, then stood up and marched across the dining room.

Kaleb put a hand over the piece of paper and watched her leave with hate in his heart. At least she was gone—or so he thought. He went to the back, so he could kvetch and beg forgiveness from Chef—but Kevin and Jamal cut him off.

“Check out this vid,” Kevin said as he thrust his phone at Kaleb.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Jamal added. “And it happened seven minutes ago!”

Kaleb pushed the phone aside. “I don’t want to see anything more about Denver!” he fumed.

“This one happened here, right downtown!” Kevin told him. “It happened at the corner of Kiowa and—”

Before he could finish, they all heard the crash of dishes and a general commotion from the dining room. Someone screamed, long and loud.

“Brittany!” Jamal exclaimed.

The cooks were past Kaleb in a flash, followed by Chef. Kaleb turned and ran after them.

Kaleb whimpered as he walked into the dining room and witnessed the impossible mess before him. “Jesus, Mary, and Nixon…” he swore.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

...Brittany knew he was going to be a problem the moment he walked in with two coats and a hood pulled over his face. The two friends helped sell it as all three sloughed after Renata. The first was visibly upset, angry, or having just cried. The second was visibly worried. The skulker in the middle gave off a sour aura—or so she thought as she walked along the far end of the room. She wondered what Renata made of the lot but didn’t catch the hostess’ eye.

Renata sat the three deep in Mayzee’s territory, and Brittany had other matters to attend, so she saw and heard nothing herself for another twenty minutes or so…

...until Renata caught her at the pass, chatting with Kevin and Jamal. “The guy at 23 has got to go!” the young hostess proclaimed, as she paused before her coworkers.

“Why? What’d he do?” Brittany asked, and looked over Renata’s shoulder. Kevin leaned in, while Jamal was digging in a fridge.

“He annoyed 22 so much they moved to 8,” Renata began the complaint. “Then, coming out of the restroom, he scratched Mary Boddington! ” she charged.

“Hey, the Boddington’s are here!” Kevin smiled. “Jamal, did you know the Boddington’s are here?!”

“Mary got scratched by some asshole!” Brittany repeated for the sake of the cook.

“Oh hell no!” Kevin exclaimed and leaned closer.

Renate nodded, grimly. “He hissed at her and scratched her at the same time!” she expanded. “I was coming out of the restroom as she was going in, right after it happened. She showed me scratch, bleeding and running halfway down her arm. He definitely did it on purpose!”

“Anyway, I was going to tell Mayzee, but she’s chewing her nails and has Kaleb sweating behind the bar. Do you want me to get Chef instead?” Renata pointed.

Brittany shook her head and stomped out toward the dining room. “I’ve been annoyed all day, and now I get to yell at somebody!” she blustered.

“Oh shit!” Kevin cackled. “Get the phone out, Renata! We’re going to have one of those Denver videos!”

“I can’t,” Renata shook her head. “I gotta find chef and tell him that creepy dude is back by the gate again.”

“This isn’t...?” Kevin threatened with his spatula, but Renata shook her head.

“This is some new dude,” the hostess explained. “But it’s the third time I’ve seen him out there, and it’s the second time someone’s complained about him,” she shrugged as she stepped through the kitchen. “Chef keeps telling me I have to let her know whenever I spot someone pulling some creepy shit—and I should probably tell her we’re ejecting a customer—any idea where I might find her?” she asked as she continued on her quest.

Kevin shrugged as he turned back toward the stove. “Try the freezer,” he called, then smiled as he caught the resignation in Renata’s moan. “You hear that, Jamal?! Cancel 23!” he called over the roar of the fans. Jamal pulled himself out of the fridge. “But 23 is finished,” he blinked. “I’m just trying to find some crème fraische,” he shrugged.

“We’re out up here,” Kevin explained. “You’re gonna have to go back to the walk-in.”

Brittany passed Kaleb in the hall, irritation all over his face, as she stomped into the dining room on a mission all her own. She turned the corner, caught sight of 23, and immediately started sizing them up. The first two seemed defeated before she even got there—but the third one seethed and he was pretty big. She reconsidered her road. She glanced about the room and saw William nudge Mary as they realized what was happening. She also caught the eye of the gentleman at 8. He gave her a stern nod as the table of three took keen interest in the proceedings. Reinforced, Brittany charged forward, not minding that the closest of her friends was halfway across the room—especially when she noticed the sickly pallor of her target’s skin, and his hair looked like it was soaked in sweat. He looked sick.

“Ahem!” she cleared her throat in order to get the table’s attention. A low keen hiss emanated from her target. “Your antics are not appreciated, and if you do not leave immediately, we will be forced to call—” she began in a stern voice—and then she screamed, as the sweat soaked seether hopped up on the bench and launched himself over the table at her.

Brittany turned to run away, but he caught her by the shirt, scratching her back and pulling her off her feet. She fell back and landed heavily on her tailbone—and he landed on top of her, toppling her to the right, as his table mates tried to pull him off. Brittany continued to scream as she tried to free her right arm and pressed her left hand into her attacker’s face. She swore she poked his eye—but if she did, he barely seemed to notice. Having the opportunity, he bit her on the side. She thought she might die as his teeth pinched then pierced her—only to release as Mr. Murphy pulled the young man off of her by his hair. The seether turned on Mr. Murphy and caught the kind old man flat-footed with his absolute wildness. Mr. Murphy gave ground, as the seether struck and grappled and scratched at him.

And then another body was involved. The man from 8 took a swing at the berserker, and clipped him pretty good, though the seether managed to turn the blow at the last second. In retaliation, the seether put a fist straight into this man’s nose, then picked up a chair and launched it at Will as the Boddington came marching across the dining room with a couple cousins in tow.

Brittany scrambled past Mr. Murphy as Chef, Kevin, and Jamal all came running into the room.

Surrounded by so many adversaries, the seether paused.

“Come quietly, and we won’t have to hurt you,” Chef said to the seether. “Somebody call the sheriff,” she added to the room.

But the seether wasn’t paused because he was outnumbered. He was simply selecting a target. He decided to pick off the little one first, especially since she was mouthy. He charged at Chef.

Chef parried the attack and almost before the others could get there, she had him in a full nelson. The others picked her up, and she picked him up, then she frogmarched the offender out into the parking lot despite his struggles.

“Fightin’ my people and make a mess of my place?!” Chef Candice lectured as she hobbled him forward. “Next time I see you up here, it’s gonna go much worse than this—and this is gonna go bad!” she continued. “You’re going to the big house!”

He struggled against her, but she had a firm grip and wasn’t getting tired—still, she wondered that although she heard sirens, none of them seemed to be approaching.

“We’ll leave,” one of the other boys from 23 was saying to Kaleb. “We just want him to leave first,” he pointed to his table mate. Candice took a longer look at the boy. His face was all puffy and one of his eyes was turning purple.

“How are we coming along with that phone call?” she turned to Jamal and Kevin as they hovered behind her.

The two cooks referred the question to the small crowd of interested stragglers.

“It’s still ringing,” Mrs. Murphy answered.

For a long second, everyone froze and listened to the ringtone of Mrs. Murphy’s phone—until the monotone of the sound was interrupted by a pitiful and agonized howl which came from the struggling seether as it remained caught in Chef’s iron grip. The sound stretched and carried—then was answered from various directions at indeterminate distances that seemed to stretch for blocks.

A chill silence stretched across the late evening sky. A pit caught in Kaleb’s stomach.

Renata rushed out the front door. “Hey chef,” she smiled, though it immediately turned to a frown. “I’ve been meaning to tell you there’s this weird creepy stranger loitering at the gate—”

A figure came screaming out of the night—or more accurately—limping in an aggressive manner. It was an old lady, incoherent and swinging a cane. Hobbling forward, she charged at Will Boddington.

Will gave ground grudgingly to the ol’ spitfire and was assisted by Kevin and Jamal as the two cooks harassed the attacker, turning her this way and that and always off balance. At one point, she turned on chef while she held the seether, but Kevin grabbed her hair and nearly yanked her off her feet as he dragged her back a yard.

As all that continued, a car door opened about halfway across the parking lot, then closed as someone quickly got out. The shadow turned and shouted. “FREEZE MOTHERFUCKER!” as a patch of darkness rushed forward—only to be answered by a flash of light and a loud pop, punctuated with the scream of some creature as it writhed in pain.

The hard tack of heels on pavement cut through the cries as a slight figure stepped out of the darkness.

“Hi!,” Officer DeLaceya stepped under the light of the portico with a revolver in one hand and an overnight bag in the other. There was also an apologetic smile across her face, as she continued to address the alarmed onlookers and dodge the two maniacs as she proceeded. “A soon as I got in my car, that asshole was staring at me!” she pointed back at the man that she’d shot in the knee.

“He’s still coming for you,” Candice noted.

Indeed, the one she shot was dragging itself after her, now a full car length closer.

“I think maybe we should all go inside,” Delaceya nodded.

“Maybe you two should come back inside with us,” Candice said two the other two boys from table 23. With a nod, they dodged back inside.

“Are you going to be able to get rid of these two before we go in?” DeLaceya asked over the ruckus of the two hostiles, and followed the other retreating bodies.

“I’m thinking I’ll just throw him at her, and if we’re lucky, they’ll both start fighting each other,” Candice answered as she backed him toward the door. “How many are out there?”

“Just the old lady and the limper over there, but I heard maybe a dozen down the hill. I guess we’ll see if any more come up here,” she stated. “I caught that one staring at me, right after I got in my car. I thought maybe I’d just drive away; but when he howled, and at least eight of them answered back. “I about shit myself,” she stated. “I think maybe I’d rather stay up here for a bit.”

“Is that so?” Candace replied as she released her prisoner and pushed him at the angry old lady; then scrabbled inside behind Kevin, Jamal, and Will. “Any idea what the hell is wrong with them?”

Officer DeLaceya didn’t answer—but there wasn’t silence either. Instead, there was just the dial tone as Mrs. Murphy tried once again the reach the sheriff’s office.

The front doors were locked and barred. “Kaleb, Kevin; go check the other entrances and make sure everything’s secure,” Candice ordered. “Jamal, go shut down the kitchen before we burn ourselves up.”

Yes, chef,” they answered and went about their tasks.

A dull banging sounded at the door. DeLaceya turned back, nervous after her staring contest with the creep.

“Don’t worry about that,” Candice told her. “Those doors are three inches of oak, detailed and structurally reinforced with spanish cedar, barred, and bolted above and below. It’s going to take a lot more that that to get through these doors,” she smiled.

The banging intensified and the little old lady and the limper joined the seether’s efforts.

“Perhaps let’s move one of the bigger tables in front of the doors, just in case,” Candice decided.

Unfortunately for the others in the room, the table she had in mind was the large decorative piece arranged between the fire and the edge of the first grand window so that guests that liked different temperatures could gather at it comfortably. Indeed, it was big enough for a group of twenty—if all they were doing were cocktails and napkin foods—still, it was large enough that it would take six of them to budge it…

...and before they could get to that, they had to clear the smaller tables that were in the way...

Having a task, the room turned and began to shift chairs and grab empty tables—but it was all proceeding a little too slowly for Eriq. He was feeling the fear after getting punched in the face and knocked on his ass. He fell back and smacked his head…

...stars…

...he had one of those moments where he thought he might be dead—and that maniac was just outside, banging on the door! Fear shot through him. He decided he wanted the table that was directly in front of him—despite the glasses and half eaten plates that were still on it. He grabbed the edge of the hefty table and dragged it bodily several feet across the floor, it’s contents only adding to the mess of 23, and several other tables that had been toppled in the ruckus.

Chef Candice jumped in front of him, waving and yelling.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Chef glared, as she stepped toward the massive man with fire in her eyes. She was pretty big for a girl, but still gave eight inches and a couple stone to Eriq. Not that she cared. He was about the same size as the seether. “We gotta live here!” she scolded. “You want us living like pigs?!” she snapped and pressed her face up at him.

Eriq backed away and set the table on its foot. “No, ma’am,” he said, and shook his head.

Chef gave a nod—though she refused to smile. She turned and caught the room gawking. “Alright ladies: grab the rags, the brooms, the mops! Boys, bring me that table! Chop! Chop! Let’s move with a purpose, people! We got a riot on our hands!!” she glared.

In short order, a path was formed and the large table from the back of the room was pressed against the door. Dishes were picked from the mess and placed on trays to be carried to the kitchen—or dumped in the trash. There were linens, silverware, shakers, purses, phones, and other affects to be salvaged from beneath the thrown food and spilled drink. Despite the good work, the mood was glum and pensive. Questions hung heavy in the air only to be answered with further questions—or vague statements of little value.

“How many are out there?”

“Six?”

“Seven?”

“What’s wrong with them? Why are they attacking us?”

...“I feel like there’s usually not that many lights flashing around the city…”

“If you go on the back balcony you can here at least a half dozen sirens, people screaming, dogs howling—even the wind is picking up…”

Kaleb stood at the thick glass window and considered chewing his nails. One word repeated over and over in his head. “Zombies,” he whispered, beginning to think it was true.

“What?” Kevin turned. His eyes got wide as he leaned toward Kaleb. “Did you say zombies?!”

Immediately, Kaleb wanted to take it back. He stared at the cook and shook his head.

“Yeah you did!” Kevin continued. “You said zombies!”

“I heard it too,” Brittany confirmed. “But that’s stupid! They move way too fast!”

“What do you mean, they move way to fast?!” Kevin turned on Brittany. “What sort of lame zombie lore are you reading?!”

“I’ll have you know that my smut is not trash!” Brittany leaned forward and glared at Kevin. “I keep only the finest, and place the lesser efforts in those friendly little lending libraries that have become so popular with the nice people of this neighborhood,” she lectured. “With luck, they will find a loving home at the hands of some dupe and shall be treasured for a good long life—though they deserve the fate of a homeless fire!” she finished, then burst into tears.

With that, they all started considering the possibility that these were indeed zombies outside—or something very much resembling zombies...

Brittany cried as Mayzee led her to the office with hopes of bandaging her bloodied friend—while the others started putting the pieces together.

“The videos… Air traffic control…”

“Man! Chase was attacked!”

“Brittany said gunshots… she said there was a brawl in the middle of an intersection...”

Speculations and concerns started floating in the air.

“We are kind of isolated—Denver—but after that... so maybe it won’t spread far...”

“Mr. Murphy got scratched,” somebody whispered. “Is he going to get sick too?”

“I’m tellin’ ya man! It’s the pharma companies!” Kevin accused. With this one, several people gave into their stress and booed at the man—or rallied behind his cause—a few not caring at all for the issue at hand, just needing a reason to vent.

A commotion stirred, increasingly loud and shrill. The phone was still ringing, though nobody expected anyone at the sheriff’s office to pick it up. Candice and Kaleb were trying to reign things in, and the little brother wondered that the world was falling apart. His heart sank.

“DIDN’T I TELL YA?!” a strong voice called from the top of the stairs. They all turned to see the newcomer, dressed in fatigues and staring at Kaleb like a warrior prince. There was a rifle over his shoulder, and a sidearm on his hip, along with a wicked long knife...

“Craig?!” Renata called, the third to identify him in his strange garb. “Oh, Craig!” she cried, then ran up the stairs, and wrapped him in a hug.

“Looks like I got here just in time,” Craig said as he stepped down the stairs, a shit-eating grin on his face, and a young alluring Renata on his arm. In this moment of vindication—and maybe because he’d been proved right in such a dramatic fashion—Kaleb hated him.

~ eight ~

A Breach in Protocol

Armand straightened his helmet as he followed the padded forms of Seymour, Watts, and Granby down the stairs and into the belly of the hospital, where they would find more snapped in the medical brig. While tasked with clearing the cells of anyone that had snapped, they essentially wore riot gear, though they left aside the shields. It was exhausting work. They took the belligerents up two flights of stairs, then outside, where there was a makeshift pit dug into the earth—and they did it kicking and fighting the whole way. Once outside, they lowered the zacks into the pit as gentle as they could—while the other aggressors tried to pull them into the pit. They were ordered to take as much care as possible—but what were they to do when the snapped fought them tooth and nail at every turn? Some injuries were inevitable.

Still, the beasts never seemed to take much damage—or more accurately, they never seemed to notice the damage they took. If one should sprain his ankle when he fell into the pit, he might hobble across the pit—but not in a slow and plodding manner. Instead, the injured zack would be aggressive in his gait, dragging his bad foot as fast as possible.

The pit… it was nearly the size of a football field and took several days of constant work to create. It was ten feet deep with reinforced walls of cement and rebar. Above the pit was a chain-link fence that was topped with concertina wire. Another five feet over the wire was a thick tin roof, supported by a hastily erected steel frame that was over-engineered. There was no way any of the zacks were ever getting out.

Still, two of the snapped had managed to pull themselves out of the pit and up onto the fence. Both were now stuck in the concertina wire. One was held in place by a hundred barbs that bit deep into his flesh. Every once in a while, he’d pull a barb free, and the whole fence might shake as the beastie gained another fraction of an inch, only to be caught again. Below the monster, blood dripped down the fence—which isn’t to say that the creature was approachable. The bloody zack hissed and threatened anyone that came close. As for the other snapped that had got itself stuck in the concerntina wire, well, he had not moved in over a day and was developing a smell worse than death.

Several of the men complained, but orders were not to interfere with the snapped unless they should get completely free of their prison. For now, even the dead one was not to be touched. “They won’t even let you cut the dead one out?” Banner had repeated when Armand had first complained about it. “What gives?”

“Personally, I think they’re trying to figure out who they’d blame if the wrong person came to know about it,” Armand considered.

“And why is that taking so long?” Banner wondered.

“I’m guessing they think they can’t pin it on one of the enlisted men,” Armand replied.

“Maybe the wrong person already knows, and he or she is trying to figure out who to fry for the death of this insolent aggressor,” Banner speculated.

Insolent aggressor. Armand rolled his eyes at the term—but that’s what command was calling them, and demanding that everyone else call them the same: insolent aggressors. As if the dumb louts could understand so many syllables. They couldn’t understand a damned thing—or if they could, they could no longer respond with anything resembling speech. And they certainly weren’t cooperating just because someone called them by the right name. As far as Armand could tell, they were nothing but stupid vitriol—and there was a growing crowd of them in the pit, nearly a hundred when the day had started. His squad alone would add a couple dozen by the end of their shift.

Insolent aggressors. Most of the enlisted men didn’t care for the euphemistic term, in part because it was so damned long. Most simply referred to the bastards as ‘snapped’, though a few called them ‘zack’. Only those looking for the worst details ever called them ‘zombie’. ‘Zombie’ implied specific circumstances which weren’t met by this current crisis. No. These beasts turned too slowly, taking hours and often days. That is, assuming they turned at all. So many of the people that got scratched or bit didn’t turn at all—though they were contagious. Some people theorized that it wasn’t a permanent change—but Armand could see it. For one, they grew incredibly pale, turning blue ever so slightly, and they chewed their lips to the point where a few of the oldest didn’t have lips at all.

Still, they couldn’t call them zombies, because there was a protocol for zombies—a no-holds-barred, kill-’em-where-they-stand protocol that the top brass wasn’t willing to initiate; because these were Americans, and that meant due process and liability. At least, that’s how Armand figured it. It’s not as if brass was giving power points on why these insolent aggressors were to be treated with kid’s gloves, but it was the only thing that made sense to the sergeant. The higher-ups were all writing cover-your-ass memos and the enlisted men played at stop-gap solutions, all while everything unraveled. Armand was convinced that the situation was quickly winding out of all control. Well, not according to command. According to command, everything would return to normal in a few day’s time—or so they kept saying. They’d been saying that since the first day, only to bring in more and more agents from over a dozen different departments, agencies, and organizations. They built the pit, and as more and more scratchers were brought on base, and brass continued to parrot that everything would soon return to normal. Well, Armand knew that the government was an aging schizophrenic with unfathomable reasons shrouded in layers of secrecy and stupidity, so he figured this was simply more of that. Despite the growing difficulties, brass seemed intent on trying to sweep it all under the rug. It’s all fine—just do as you’re told. All will be fine—just keep your head buried in sand and shit.

Armand didn’t know what to expect and only trusted his own observations. He made a study of this strange new enemy, these insolent aggressors. He had three different terms for them: itchers, scratchers, and the snapped. The snapped were the ones that had physically changed. They no longer spoke and were always up for a fight. Itchers were still human, no matter how mean they might be. You could usually tell them apart, because these ones were cussing when they attacked. Problem was Armand couldn’t always tell the itchers and the snapped apart. Sometimes the itchers were simply incoherent. This is where the term scratcher was effective. Anyone that was contagious was a scratcher, whether or not they’d snapped, so you could refer to any of them as scratchers.

Snapped or not, Armand hated all these stupid scratchers. They were weak of body, will, and mind. As far as he could tell, this was just the universe’s latest iteration of survival of the fittest. Still, Armand knew his place, and in the current structure he was pretty low on the totem pole. Despite the danger, the times smelled of nothing but opportunity to the ambitious young soldier. Oh, it reeked of calamity and chaos at first—and although the chaos remained, the danger had shifted to become the enticing chance at a better station—if only he could keep his wits about him. Brass might be sure of the inviolability of America’s armed forces, but Armand could smell a heavy shift in the winds. How big might the coming changes be? For now, he would do his work and keep his head down. He was to serve his time, and he would do it with honor and distinction; no matter how dumb his orders or the officers that issued them.

Armand adjusted his helmet, turned the corner, and continued down the stairs. For the last several hours, Armand’s squad had dragged one insolent aggressor after the last out of their cells, up a flight of stairs, then lowered them over the edge of the pit, while the guards distracted the other occupants. “Who else we got?” Seymour asked, as he avoided looking at the massive insolent aggressor to his left.

“Nah, we take Mander this trip,” Armand stated flatly. “We’ve put him off long enough,” he mumbled. The others grumbled, but Armand was in charge, so they’d do as he said.

Of course, there was reason to put off Mander as long as possible. Private First Class Mander was easily six and a half feet tall and over 250 pounds of raging rock-hard muscle. He was in good shape—fighting shape—and he was trouble as soon they opened the door. With a roar, zack Mander brushed Seymour aside, and laid into Watts. Thankfully, there were four of ‘em, so Granby managed to get Mander’s left arm, and Armand swept his feet—as the giant pummeled and raked at the padding of Watts’ armor—while Watts cried like a girl. Seymour recovered and took Mander’s right arm, leaving Watts with the monster’s left leg, as tears fell from his face—and for a while they had the large man under control. Halfway up the stairs, Seymour lost his grip. The large zombie fell onto his back, then twisted toward Granby. “Ulysses S. Christ!” Armand swore, as he pulled his baton. He rained several vicious blows upon Private First Class Mander, striking him center mass. He might have wondered if he did any damage—what with the zack ignoring his blows—except that he heard the cracking of ribs and knew that the private was simply fighting through his injuries. Did they feel any pain at all?! “Get his arm, Grant dammit!”

“I’m trying!” Seymour complained, as he grabbed at the large insolent aggressor. He put both hands on the man’s right arm and pulled him taut once more.

Sweating and grumbling, the four men finally managed to get Mander to the edge of the pit and push him in. The beast caught the lip of the pit, but only managed to break his fall, as he tumbled in. Once on the floor, he ran and jumped at the walls, trying to climb out. Athletic as he was, he wasn’t much of a jumper. Emboldened by the efforts of this new arrival, several others leapt and struggled to find any purchase—but as their failures continued, they eventually gave up—or not. It didn’t matter, so long as they never got out. So far, none of them had. So far, only two had even managed to get hold of the chain-link; and those two were now stuck in the concertina wire.

Major Ing approached the edge of the pit. “He’s a wheezing mess,” he eyed Private Mander. “He weren’t doing that before,” he noted, then turned to the four enlisted men. “Anyone care to explain?”

“Sir, he got loose on the stairs,” Armand began. “He’s a big motherfucker, and almost dragged down Granby, sir. I gave him several necessary licks with my baton, so we could get him back under control, sir.”

“Is that so?” Major Ing looked to the others. They all nodded. then officer turned to Granby. “Did he bite you? Did he scratch you? Did he break flesh?”

“Sir, no sir!” Granby answered. With only the slightest hesitation, he loosened his elbow pads, pulled the velcro straps off his gloves, and rolled up his sleeves. Sure enough, his hand and arm were clear of any marks. Not that Armand was surprised. Granby had managed to dodge most of Mander’s attacks—unlike Seymour and Watts. If anyone was scratched, it was Watts—but Armand wouldn’t say anything about that. Not in front of the Major. He wasn’t no rat. Indeed, he shouldn’t have mentioned Granby by name, but then, Major Ing probably would have made them all strip if he hadn’t. Either way, Armand would watch his charges and make sure they didn’t start itching.

“Very well,” Major Ing turned back to Armand. “How many more you got left to bring up today?”

“Maybe half a dozen more, sir,” Armand answered.

With a frown, Major Ing shook his head. “And I figured you’d be done an hour ago.”

“Sir, we have more and more to drag up everyday,” Armand explained. “Yesterday it was twelve. Today we have twenty three. Lookin’ at the crowd they keep bringing in, we could have as many as forty tomorrow, sir.”

Major Ing eyed the men critically as they continued to heave, as they continued to try and catch their breath after so much exertion in the thin Colorado air. “Take ten minutes and pull your shit together,” he said, then turned to Armand. “Not you, sergeant. You and I need a word.”

Armand followed Major Ing as they stepped away from the ad hoc pit. They crossed through the gate and passed the guards. Armand followed on Ing’s heels as they slowly stepped along the wall of the hospital, and wondered what was up. His first thought was ‘Snow White’—but this wouldn’t be about money, since that was still two weeks out and never mentioned on post. No. Whatever the Major wanted, it’d be about the current thing. It’d be about the zacks.

“What do you make of all this?” Major Ing began without turning around. " You think we’re doing the right thing, leaving these insolent aggressors alive?”

“Sir, I think it’s a waste of resources and dangerous to boot,” Armand answered. “They might not talk, and they’re singular in their focus, but I seen ‘em do a few things that surprise me, sir.”

“Does chipping at cement and unscrewing light bulbs worry you?” Major Ing eyed his underling, then continued before Armand could answer. “Well, I’m not too concerned about a few idiosyncratic actions, but you might be right. Truth be told, this whole shit-fest is falling apart,” he claimed and scratched the back of his neck—then stopped and stared at Armand. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but rumor is, General Boyle and half his command have the itch. Indeed, this whole operation is floppy as the ol’ man, and bound to go tits up at any moment,” he stared at the young sergeant.

“Sir, what would you have me do about it, sir?” Armand asked.

Major Ing almost smiled. “Well, I appreciate you asking! Maybe just keep an eye on your men, and note any that might balk at hard orders. If the shit hits the fan, we can’t have a bunch of squeamish Mimis second guessing their betters.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Armand grinned. He forgot about the three men under his command. Watts was next to useless, Granby was a bore, and Seymour had a stick up his ass—and none of them concerned the Major, not even a little. No. Major Ing wouldn’t bother with the lowest of the low. This was about Armand’s superiors.

“I always knew you were a sharp one, sergeant,” Major Ing eyed the young enlisted man. “Do us both a favor and leave Lieutenant Todd and Captain Hamm out of this discussion. Those two are a couple soggy waffles,” he said, and confirmed Armand’s suspicions, then turned and continued away from the pit.

Armand began to follow.

“That’ll be all, sergeant,” Major Ing said without turning around.

Armand gave a salute, then turned and walked back toward the hospital entrance. He looked about, and since the lieutenant was nowhere around, he pulled out his phone and checked his messages. Among them was a note from an unknown number.

you have good blow? ;-)

He frowned at the directness of the message. He would have ignored it if there wasn’t another message from the same number a mere thirty minutes later:

Mayzee sent us

A righteous anger lit in Armand’s eyes and made it hard for him to focus. For several seconds he wanted nothing more than to kick a puppy or punch a baby. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose and called Banner.

“Hey Armand,” Banner answered. “What’s up, brother? You still in the stink?”

“Yeah, not even halfway through,” Armand answered. “Listen, I got a text from someone asking about a princess and claiming to know Mayzee.”

“Brazen Mayzee?!” Banner replied. “You think it’s a setup?”

“Doubt it,” Armand replied. “She’s a lot of things, but I don’t think a fink is one of ‘em.”

“I hate to say it, but thinking about that girl was never one of your strong suits,” Banner noted. “You want me to send one of the toads down to CircleK with a little baker’s bag of salt?”

“Nah, I got a better idea. Why don’t you pick ‘em up and bring ‘em on base,” Armand grinned.

“Are you hearing yourself?!” Banner replied. “There’s no bringing anyone on base right now! It’s a shit-fest cluster-fuck, and we’d get pinched quicker than a turd in a firefight!”

“No we won’t,” Armand replied. “Just tell the MPs you got a scratcher.”

Banner considered that for a long second. “I dunno…” he balked. “Sounds a bit sketch…”

“Listen, once you say they’re scratchers, ain’t no one gonna believe a damned thing they say, especially since you won’t have any contraband on you anyway,” Armand answered. “It’s a friend of Mayzee,” he added. “Isn’t it the civil thing for me to meet her friends?”

Banner whistled. “All right, then. Let’s do it your way—but I’m going to get them to pay me first,” he grinned. “Send ‘em to the CircleK. Tell ‘em I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

~ nine ~

Critical Mass

Chef Candice wore an uneasy smile as she considered the front doors of The Fish House. Her father had them purposely over engineered, since he wanted a door to keep out all comers up to and including police, so she wasn’t worried that they’d keep out a few psychotic neighbors. She was more concerned that the doors would have to remain shut, thereby forcing her and the others to stay inside.

Not that staying inside was such a terrible fate. After buying the building, Mr. Chen insisted on heavy renovations and while the outside was reinforced and built into a fortress, the inside became a bit of a palace. Candice had asked mom about the remodeling projects that cost the family so much. The obvious stuff made sense, upgrading the kitchen and new carpet for the dining room; but the heavy locks and redundant security seemed a bit much, even to a young teen that was already committed to joining the marines. Mom explained that Mr. Chen had grown up during China’s cultural revolution, and although he was only a child during those difficult years, he was still quite scarred by the lengths and depths of the atrocities he witnessed.

For now, the doors barely shook, but the sound was grating as more rioters joined the assault. They would hold, so Candice turned her attention to other matters. What of her customers, the men and women of her staff? Most of them were known and many could be treated as family. But what were they to do? How much of the world had gone crazy? She turned to her little brother.

“Kaleb. We might be spending the night here,” she surmised. “Find out what these people intend to do as far as sleep goes, then break out some blankets.”

“I’ll let them use some of the decorative pillows upstairs,” he nodded.

“Not moms.”

Kaleb stared at chef, appalled at the very thought. “Aren’t those all in the office?”

“Maybe. A few of them float around at times,” Candice stated. “Listen, from here on out, one of us is always awake. When I’m asleep, you’re in charge. Got it?”

Kaleb nodded.

“Good,” Candice smiled. “I’ll take the nights,” she stated, then turned her attention to the rest of the room.

“How’d you get in?” Renata asked, as Craig made his way down the stairs.

“I put a grappling hook over the balcony railing and came up the hard way,” he smiled. “I’d have used the front door, like a civilized person, but...”

“How many are out there?” Officer DeLaceya asked.

“I didn’t really get a good look,” Craig answered. “When I saw more coming up the hill I decided to go up the hard way.”

“You thought you’d be able to walk through the front door, and you still brought a grappling hook?” Kaleb argued.

“You tell me!” Craig snapped at the young brother. “You were a boy scout!”

For a long second, the two glared at each other. Candice frowned, wondering what had caused this rift between her brothers.

Bored with the argument, Renata poked her index finger into Craig’s chest several times, then pointed at the door. “What’s wrong with them?” she asked.

“They got a sickness,” Craig said. “It makes them vicious and stupid.”

“Like zombies?” Mrs. Murphy clarified. “You really think they’re zombies?”

At the edge of the room, Jamal elbowed Kevin. “The Denver videos!” he chortled, connecting the dots.

“Jesus, Mary, and Nixon!” Kevin swore, wide-eyed. “To think there’s a zombie invasion going on—and worse than that—we have one in the house!” he whispered to his friend.

“Brittany!” Jamal hissed, then they both turned and bolted for the office—while the others concentrated on Craig.

“So what happened here?” Craig asked, as he eyed the mess about the room. “Is everyone okay?”

“So of us are a little jostled and uncertain,” Mr. Murphy piped up. “ But there’s no real harm been done,” he shrugged.

Renata shook her head and started to crumble. “This can’t be happening,” she began. “There’s no such thing as zombies!”

“Go tell that to them,” Craig replied.

“It could be anything. It could be a lot of things,” Renata continued to argue. “How could you possibly know what’s wrong with them?!”

“Funny that you ask,” Craig began to explain. “My brother was attacked last night. After the fight, a couple DIA came to take him away—”

“Denver International Airport?” Eriq asked, confused.

“Defense Intelligence Agency,” Chef informed. “Please continue.”

“Thank you,” Craig smiled. “These two agents were kind enough to explain what was happening—not that I believed it. Not at first. Dad and I figured it was just a ruse so they could take Chase into custody. That’s the way I felt about it—until this morning. This morning, another zombie caused a ruckus across the street, which ended with the neighborhood losing power.”

“You’re telling us a zombie took out the power?” Renata stared, incredulous.

“Technically it was a truck—but it was because of a zombie,” Craig clarified. “A whole host of things happened in between, but without the zombie, we still have power…”

“Oh Taylor, Tyler and Taft; is this really happening?!” Renata continued. “We’re all going to die!” she lambasted.

With that, several of the others all started to speak at once. It was another conflagration as hysteria started to build.

“THERE’S GOOD NEWS!” Craig shouted over the commotion. Everyone turned their attention back to the man in fatigues. “There’s a cure, so we just need to wait for that and we’ll all be fine! Besides, not everyone turns,” he claimed. “If your scratched there’s still fifty-fifty odds that nothing will happen, so don’t freak out.”

“A cure!” Renata breathed. “Are you sure?”

Craig nodded. “It’s called Phalanx, and the army has it at Evans Hospital. That’s why they took Chase.”

“If you’ve known about this all day long, why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Chef asked.

“I did,” Craig insisted. “Ask Kaleb.”

The room turned on Kaleb and stared. A cold sweat came over the young manager. “I thought he was trying to get out of his shift,” the younger brother explained. “If he called you and told you the zombie apocalypse was in full swing, would you have believed him?!” he defended.

“I’m not saying I blame you,” Craig replied before anyone else could cut in. “It’s not something one believes until he sees it. So, what do you think, baby brother? Zombies, or…?”

Kaleb glared. He hated it when they called him ‘baby brother’, so he seethed instead of answering.

“What are we going to do?” Renata asked.

“First thing we gotta do is pull the drapes and turn off all unnecessary lights, so at least we’re not attracting any more,” Craig stated. “Then, we bunker down and hope the ones at the door get bored and go away.”

“And if they don’t?” Eriq asked.

“If that’s the way of it, we’ll have to think of something else,” Craig shrugged.

Chef glanced about the room, and slowly gave a nod. “All right, people! We got a task ahead of us!—” she began, then cut herself off. “Where’s the rest of my staff?” she wondered.

That’s when Mayzee ran in the room with tears in her eyes, babbling about Kevin and Jamal, and what they did to Brittany.

~ ten ~

Subterfuge

Mayzee and Brittany retreated to the office, where Mayzee cleaned and dressed Brittany’s wounds, which were mostly superficial, though there was a bite mark on her side that looked a little gnarly. She drenched it with neosporin and taped a massive square of gauze to it with the skill and patience of a president. “All better?” Mayzee asked as she rubbed comfort into the upper arm of the injured party.

Sniffling and still on the verge of tears, Brittany gave a brave nod. “Th-th-thank, youu,” she stammered.

“Hey,” Mayzee began, slow and calming. “You’re gonna be fine, baby! Everything’s aye okay!”

“Is it?” Brittany asked, her fear plain upon her face.

Before Mayzee could answer, Jamal and Kevin poked their heads into the office. “You girls all right?” Kevin asked, more than a touch anxious.

“Yeah, we’re just taking a break,” Mayzee gave a brave smile. “Why? What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Jamal feigned indifference. “We’re just wondering if you might help us with something in the kitchen.”

Mayzee gave a puzzled look. “The kitchen?” she repeated, smelling a rat. They seemed awfully calm after the evening’s events—and wanted help in the kitchen?

“You want to come to, Brittany?” Kevin smiled and held out a gentle hand. “I know I wouldn’t want to be left alone,” he smiled.

They were all friends, so the ladies went along. The cooks led the girls through the kitchen and into the back hall. Despite Mayzee’s reticence, all four walked into the cooler—then Kevin pushed Brittany further in, and followed Jamal as he pushed Mayzee out.

“What the hell!” Mayzee complained, as Kevin slammed the door shut, then slid a bolt into the lock. “What do you think you’re doing?!” She tried to fight her way past Jamal, but he was more than a match for her.

“It’s for her own good,” Jamal said as he kept Mayzee from unlocking the walk-in.

“This ain’t no good for her!” Mayzee shot back. “Let her out!” she ordered.

Kevin and Jamal both shook their heads and stood their ground. “She got bit,” Kevin explained. “She’s a danger to all of us.”

They could all hear Brittany screaming, even through the thick metal door.

“That girl’s been through enough,” Mayzee stated. “By Lincoln’s beard, you better let her out!”

“No can do, princess,” Kevin said.

Mayzee knew there was no way she could get through the two men on her own. “Stupid a-holes!” she said as she turned and fled the scene.

“I don’t like it,” Kevin turned to Jamal. “But we gotta see this through,” he said, as the muffled screams of Brittany continued. “For everyone’s safety.”

Jamal nodded and bumped fists with his good friend. There was no doubt in his mind that Brittany would soon be a zombie. Indeed, his real question was, what was taking her so long?

There was of course one other issue that bubbled near the surface. “What are we going to do about Mr. Murphy?” Kevin asked out loud.

Mayzee returned with Chef, Kaleb, and half the dining room in tow. Chef Candice glowered. “What do you knuckle-heads think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“We’re keeping everyone alive!” Kevin snapped back. “Brittany got bit! It’s only a matter of time before she turns and starts attacking the rest of us!”

“So you lock her in the walk-in?” Chef stated. “So what do we do when we get hungry? Or do we just let her tear all our food to shit before she freezes?”

“That’s not the reason she shouldn’t be in there!” Mayzee complained. “She hasn’t done anything to anybody!”

Chef held out a hand so Mayzee’d be quiet and kept her focus on her cooks. “I don’t blame you for trying to quarantine her,” she began in a low, calm, and controlled voice, “but the walk-in is not the place for it, nor do you get to keep people prisoner. Let her out,” she commanded.

For several seconds, Jamal and Kevin stared back at Chef. Someone else began to speak, but without even looking, Chef threw up a silencing hand as she continued to glare at her cooks. “Don’t make me tell you twice,” she shook her head.

The cooks gave in. With a huff, Kevin pulled the bolt and Jamal opened the door.

“AYYEEE!” Brittany shrieked as she flew out of the walk-in, all tears and rage. She raked the air with her nails, trying to get at Kevin and Jamal—but Chef got in the way and wrapped her in a hug.

“Heyheyhey!” Chef held Brittany and turned her in slow circles in an effort to calm her. “Revenge isn’t going to get us anywhere,” she whispered in her ear.

“You bastards!” she snarled at the cooks between her tears. “You dumb bastards!” she cried, then melted into Chef’s warm embrace.

“We can’t have her out among the rest of us,” Kevin said to Chef. “She’s bound to turn any second!”

“According to Craig, its fifty-fifty she turns at all,” Chef replied, as she turned and led Brittany out into the dining room. “Come listen to my brother. Let him tell you what he knows,” she ordered.

~ eleven ~

Weak Links in the Chain

Armand stood in front of Chase’s cell and glowered. He recognized him as soon as he’d seen him—though he would have sworn his name was Craig. Chase… Craig… The names were so close, no wonder that he had him confused.

Not that it mattered. Armand recognized him immediately. How could he forget Mayzee’s old friend, the one that had caused him so much trouble just a few months back? He wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t walked into it. The bastard had come on post and talked with Lieutenant Todd after Mayzee and Armand’s relationship hit the rocks. He claimed Armand wouldn’t stop pestering the lass, and—well—let’s just say a lieutenant can make a sergeant’s life a living hell if he feels so inclined. It got so bad that Armand tried to get Major Ing to intervene on his behalf. He gave the Major the coke cash first, in hopes of buttering him up, then laid out his problem.

“You trying to make trouble?!” Major Ing glared. “Listen here, shit-stain! You threaten our venture with unwanted attention and I’ll make Lieutenant Todd’s ultimatum feel like your grandmother’s half-measures!” he began. “Or maybe you’re not making enough money to keep your nose clean?!” he glowered. “I’ve doubled your income, and you risk that over some weeping whore?!” he shook his head. “You take your lumps and walk that straight and narrow, or I’ll bury you so deep, it’ll cause an issue with the mole-men!” he continued. “Fix this, and fix it immediately.”

After that, Armand quit calling, quit texting, quit showing up at Mayzee’s work. His heart might ache, but he was rolling in money. Between that and the coke, there were bitches lined around the block. He allowed himself to be distracted—yet, it took him far too long to forget about Mayzee. Indeed, he’d barely managed that feat—and that’s when the DIA spooks brought in Chase—and all his old feelings were dragged out of the attic. And now some friends of hers wanted coke?! Twice she’d been invoked, and her ghost was bringing up a heat—a hate—he hadn’t felt in some time.

Armand wasn’t surprised Chase didn’t recognize him back, since Chase was delirious with the itch. Indeed, the itch was the reason Armand was so willing to show the lawyer in—and Chase had performed perfectly!. Armand smirked to think of that. What a stupid lawyer with an impossible name!

At the far end of the cells, the lawyer wasn’t fairing all that well. Indeed, he was doing a good deal worse, since Chase had managed to sleep. Sleep meant that Chase might be getting over it—though some still snapped. The ones that stayed awake, they always turned, but the ones that slept tended to get better.

Armand thought to do something to wake Chase, to pull him out of his slumber and hopefully make it that much easier for him to slip over the edge—but he glanced about and found the cop across the hall staring at him. He’d messed with itchers before, but not when there were witnesses. Still, he’d put Chase’s name on the list of those to be moved to the pit. Not that Dr. Fateh would approve if he continued to sleep—but then he was probably faking and and already crazy...

Well, there was nothing else to do about all that. Instead, Armand simply stared hostility at the young man in his cell and prayed to the dark gods that the Chase would only get worse.

Behind Armand, the door to the cell block popped open, and a dozen soldiers escorted several large blonds into the hall. Upon seeing the cells, the young vikings realized that not only was there no coke in their future, but also that there predicament was spiraling all out of control. It dawned on them to protest their jailing—but what were they going to do against a dozen armed soldiers?

Armand saw Banner among them with a wide dumb grin on his face. “Raise the tariffs, McKinley; you find enough of ‘em?!” Armand wondered.

Banner stepped from the train of soldiers as they herded the large foreigners to the far end of the hall. “Why can’t you curse like the rest of us?” he began. “Why you always got to bring a bunch of obscure presidents into it?”

Armand shrugged. He just thought it was funny. He remembered the first time he’d heard such a swear—then turned a bit sallow as he realized that he’d picked it up from Mayzee and her friends at The Fish House. Those dumb buggers all swore like that! Still, he didn’t care that it was inspired by Mayzee. He liked it nonetheless. Indeed, perhaps he liked it more, he decided, as he remembered the warm smooth touch of her skin. God and Grant, she was something else!

The large Swedes became more and more adamant about resisting—but the soldiers separated them, and forced them down the line all the same. The Swedes were pressed into one of the few unoccupied cells, where they screamed and tried to fight—until the soldiers convinced them to stay where they were with a bit of exemplary violence.

After several punches and a couple kicks, the soldiers turned and left. They found it easy to ignore the cacophony of howls, jeers, and cries that swelled with the coming of the Swedes. That’s just the way it was down here. After a week, these insolent aggressors were becoming the new routine.

Banner had a sneer on his face as he stared after the Swedes. “Mayzee’s friends were even dumber than I thought,” he said. “They just yammered in their stupid language. You should have seen their faces when we called the guards over!” he practically chortled.

Armand gave a nod. “The girl is a looker,” he said appreciatively.

“I thought so myself,” Banner replied, then decided to change the subject. “Look at this,” he said, and showed Armand his phone. There was a message that read:

report immediately

It was from his commanding officer. “I’m not the only one that got this,” Banner said. “They’re calling everyone to their posts,” he stared at his friend. “Everyone,” he repeated with wide eyes.

Armand’s eyes got big. “I told you this was going to be a problem!”

“Yeah, well, I got to get across base and see the lieutenant. You take care of that hot blonde for me?” Banner grinned, then turned to leave.

Armand followed him out. He stepped into the hall, intent on going to the cafeteria, but found himself in front of the Major as Ing came striding the other direction with a good dozen men in tow. Armand saluted as the gaggle of brass began to pass.

“Sergeant,” Major Ing locked eyes. “Get in line.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Armand replied, though he inwardly groaned.

The troop grew as it made its way through the hospital. They were heading for the administrative wing when a loud angry voice called down the hall. “Get off me, you goons!”

The gaggle of brass turned to see Special Agent Dodd, pursued by two men in fatigues. “MAJOR!” Dodd snapped, and the entire train ground to a halt. “Why are you trying to kick me out of the hospital?!” the special agent glared as he charged forward with his partner in tow.

Major Ing stood tall and faced his accuser. “You’re going out there and gathering from that list I gave you—”

“The fact that there’s a list is rather concerning!” Special Agent Dodd cut the officer off. “Each time we go into the city to grab another itcher, you’ve got two more waiting for us! And where you going to put ‘em all!?”

“The pit is plenty big to hold a several hundred more, and we can have a second pit in three days if we wanted,” Major Ing stated. “Hurry along now. You’re falling behind.”

“We need to be talking to the public,” the special agent stated. “We can’t be pretending nothing’s happening out there—”

“That’s not our job!” Major Ing shouted over the top of Dodd. “Get off your ass and leave the politicking to the hand-shakin’ baby-kissers!”

Dodd blinked and replied in a calm fashion. “Three of your own regiment are dead, and another 26 are quarantined, Major,” he stated, matter-of-fact. “We can’t be pretending this isn’t happening out there, while it’s overwhelming us here!”

“You son of a bitch,” Major Ing snarled and swung at the special agent.

Dodd caught the swing and turned it aside. He pushed the Major into Armand and Banner, only to find himself tangled with several other soldiers. Kenzie ran interference, but there were too many to hold back!

Major Ing straightened himself, and pointed a finger at Dodd. “Get out there and do your job before I have you arrested!”

“We’ll see what Colonel Edwards has to say about this!” the special agent replied and turned toward the administrative wing.

“You’re headed the wrong direction,” Major Ing grinned. “Colonel Edwards is locked in the east wing with the itch. Until he gets better—if he gets better—I’m the commanding officer of this hospital.”

“Then I’ll take this straight to General Boyle,” Special Agent Dodd turned to leave.

“He snapped about an hour ago,” Major Ing answered. “Colonel B. Cooper is the ranking officer on post, and—surprise, surprise—he wants us all to do our jobs!”

This was all news to Armand. A thrill shot through him as he wondered why this daft DIA son-of-a-bitch thought a bunch of dumb civvies should know anything about anything ever! Then he thought, how much further would things have to break down before they were issued their rifles and given the order, shoot to kill?

“You feckless bastard!” Special Agent Dodd raged at the Major. “You’re too afraid to tell the people what’s going on! Get a camera crew in here! Show them what’s happening to these people!”

“We don’t need panic on our hands, and public discourse isn’t what we do anyway,” Major Ing snarled. “Command is in shambles. One in every ten enlisted is in quarantine—and you want to hold a press conference?! It’s not our job to babysit the plebs! We’re here to do war against out enemies, and our current enemies are all out there, waiting for you to come pick them up!”

“To bring them here so they can chill their heels in your little open air prison?!” Special Agent Dodd continued. “What good does that do us?”

“You’re going to bring them here, and we’re going to start liquidating them,” Major Ing stated. “This babysitting bullshit is over! Time for the warriors to war!”

“We’re here to protect our people,” Special Agent Dodd countered. “We’re here to serve!”

“Do I look like a waiter?!” Major Ing retorted. “You may be a glossy version of a beat cop, but the rest of us are dyed-in-the-wool killers! Civilians are not our concern! Enemies are what we deal with, and lately we’ve been filling the basement full of ‘em! Now we’re going to get rid of ‘em!”

“Don’t you dare!” Special Agent Dodd said. “Those are our people!”

“They’re all but dead, and they’re adding to our problems,” Major Ing stated. “By liquidating the lot of ‘em I’d just be making it official!”

“What about a cure?!” Special Agent Dodd countered.

“What makes you think we’ll ever have a cure?” Major Ing answered with his own question. “Dr. Fateh and his white coats have been working for a week, and they got bunk to show for it! And what will they have in a month? A year? A decade? We still can’t cure cancer or the common cold! Hell, even TB is making a comeback!” he chortled, then added, “I should have you arrested!”

“For what?!” Dodd snarled.

“You think we don’t know?” Major Ing replied. “You and your partner have been telling the plebs what’s going on! We had another lawyer in, and he was saying a lot!”

“I ain’t signed no NDA over this horseshit!” Dodd answered. “And you think they’re not going to notice what’s going on if we don’t talk about it?!”

“It’s not your place!” Major Ing snapped. “This is a matter of national security!”

“Funny how it’s all so secret—even when everyone knows about it,” Dodd surmised. “No wonder the public don’t trust us when we refuse to tell them anything, especially when its something they’re already seeing.”

“Your rationalizing don’t make it legal,” Major Ing stated.

“Neither do orders,” Kenzie replied. “Immoral is unlawful.”

Major Ing turned and began on his way once more.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Special Agent Dodd snapped. He grabbed Major Ing by the shoulder. Major Ing shrugged him off, then turned, and threw a jab—but the Special Agent blocked it. Several men jumped forward, in an attempt to separate the two, and Kenzie got caught in all the wrestling—but all these others were only looking to break up the fight. Not Armand. He’d do the hard thing the rest of these ninnies were too chicken to do. As the others wrestled with the Special Agents, Armand took the opportunity to grab Dodd’s gun and shoot him with it.

BLAM!

Wide-eyed and growing pale, Dodd slid to the ground and gasped as he bled out.

“Arrest that man!” Special Agent Kenzie snapped and pointed at Armand.

“Rescind that order!” Major Ing objected. “He was defending me!” He turned and glowered at Dodd’s partner as Armand pointed Dodd’s gun at him. “And what about you, Special Agent Kenzie? Are you with us, or are you with the enemy?”

Special Agent Kenzie stared back, his face turning red and eyes starting to water, “I’ll kill all of you!” he snapped, and glared at them all in turn—though he made no further move.

Major Ing took Kenzie’s sidearm and gave it to a lieutenant. “See this man to the brig,” he said.

“S-s-sir?” the lieutenant stared wide-eyed at the Major.

“Get him out of my sight!” Major Ing snapped, and with that, Special Agent Kenzie was led off by several guns.

Major Ing gave orders to his various officers. “Captain Gerhart, get a rifle on every man in this unit. Lieutenant Sabino, we need trenches out back, enough for a thousand bodies. Sergeant Piao, clean that up,” he said of the corpse in the hall.

Eventually, Armand was the only one left. For several long seconds, Major Ing simply stared at the sergeant. “I was going to put you in charge of hospital security, but since you shot Dodd, I don’t know that I can promote you,” he said.

Armand tried to hide his irritation. He should of known Major Ing was more of a politician than a man—but then again, he was just an officer.

“You may have saved me from one headache, but you simply gave me another,” Major Ing continued.

“Sir, since I’m causing you problems,” Armand began. “Might I offer you a solution, sir?”

“I’m all ears,” Major Ing replied.

“Sir, since you can’t put me in charge of hospital security, perhaps you can put me in charge of the pit?” Armand said, sensing an angle.

“To what end?”

“So I can study them,” Armand began. “Instead of wasting bullets on the snapped, I’d simply stop feeding them. What happens to them if they don’t have anything to eat? Do they have any defenses, or are they simple and stupid, the way the movies paint them? How dumb are they? And how smart is their biology? How long will they last without any chicken?”

Major Ing considered this. “Yes, I think it’s best we study them, just as we’d study any enemy,” he gave a nod. “All right, sergeant. The pit is yours. Dismissed.”

Armand smiled as he turned and made his way to the cafeteria. With the pit under his control, what sort of wagers might he make? He could see himself making a grip of easy cash on stupid bets, all of which would have to do with his theories about these insolent aggressors! And since he was in charge of the pit, maybe he could wrangle control of the brig from Dr. Fateh. If that happened, he’d get Chase in the pit for sure, even if he didn’t snap! Ah, money and revenge! What could be sweeter than that?! He thought, as he stroked the pistol of Special Agent Dodd, another fine trophy.

~ twelve ~

The Siege Continues

Back at The Fish House, Craig closed the heavy drapes as Officer Delaceya followed him around and asked questions in such a rapid-fire fashion that he couldn’t possibly answer—and so he didn’t bother trying—which seemed fine with the copper as she was all nerves. Instead, Craig smiled and reminisced. He remembered when dad had taken out the frilly lace curtains that came with the place and put in the thick burgundy drapes that could blot out the sun. At first, he hadn’t liked them at all. With the old curtains that barely hazed the view, The Fish House had a light and ethereal quality; while the new blood red drapes made the place seem overly serious and darkly dramatic in contrast. Still, Mr. Chen had insisted. “There may be a time when we want privacy,” he smiled. “Until then, we leave them open.”

This assertion hadn’t changed the mind of a young Craig. He continued to complain—until Mrs. Chen intervened and explained. She told her young adopted son stories of the old country, and how the government had spied on its friends and enemies alike. “The more the government over-reached, the more the people resented the government. The more the people resisted the dictates of their leaders, the more tyrannical the government became. In the end, all the people were suspect, even the ones within the government,” she explained. “If you flinched at an order, you were seen as a sympathizer; and if you were too quick to pull the trigger, you were seen as a rival looking to usurp power.” Mrs. Chen shook her head. “There was no winning, so the whole country lost. We lost so much. We lost millions, and that’s just the count in people.”

Still, Craig liked what he liked. He groused and glared and tried to bargain for the old drapes. He didn’t understand the inadequacies of government—until he served four years in their military. Only then would he come home and appreciate the heavy drapes and the reason for their installment. Besides, the drapes gave The Fish House a gravity more akin to what it actually was; a massive conglomeration of stone, steel, and heavy tempered glass, set upon a low hill overlooking downtown; a palace, and also a fortress.

Chef, Kaleb, Kevin, Jamal, Mayzee, and Brittany all returned. Chef Candice stared about the room and noted the fidgety energy of her customers and staff. She squinted at them and tried to see their strengths. It was time to bring them to their senses, and inspire them to be their better selves. “All right then,” she began. “I know most of you, and most of you know me. The staff, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy. Lorraine—thank you for bringing your friends.”

Lorraine gave a nod of acknowledgment, despite a queasy smile.

“Jim and Harriet. The Boddington clan,” she finished introducing the tables she knew, then turned to the family she didn’t know, also to Lorraine’s friends,and the two young men that sat with the seether. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Chef Candice Chen, I’m the chief executive of The Fish House, my father’s house; and in his absence, I keep it. Welcome,” she gave a long-suffering smile.

“That said,” she continued, “we are facing extraordinary circumstances. For reasons beyond our ken, some of the good people of this city have lost their damned minds and are trying to break in; so they might beat us, eat us, or whatever it is they intend to do. Whatever that is, I’m not interested in finding out.”

“Due to our continuing difficulties, I hereby cordially invite you one and all to stay until the current crisis is resolved,” Chef smiled. “If that means that you must stay the night, or even the week, you are welcome,” she beamed. “We’re in an evolving situation, so we’ll have to improvise and adapt if we wish to overcome—but know this: in this house I am the final word. If I say something is one way, or something is another, my word is bond. You will respect it—or you are free to go,” she stared about the room. “That’s the way it is. You will respect me. You will respect my house. You will respect my staff. You will respect my customers. Indeed, respect will be in the very air we breathe! It will be in the food we eat, and the water we drink! Anyone that offends this sweet exchange of respect will be escorted out! Am I clear?!” With that, Chef Candice glared around the room.

“Sir, yes sir!” Craig snapped to attention, then glared at the others.

The staff began to clap, also the Murphys and the Boddingtons; which encouraged the others to do the same, since none of them wanted to leave.

“At this time, a defensive posture is best,” Chef decided. “The doors are locked and barricaded, the drapes are pulled. Next, I’ll double check the other doors and shut off all the exterior lights. After that, we’ll see if these zombies don’t disperse on their own,” she nodded. “As to the rest of you, this place is a mess! Get these tables cleared and cleaned! Then get to the dish pit and get the dishes done!”

“What if we don’t work for you?” Eriq asked.

“Stay out of the way, and stay out of the kitchen,” Chef said. “The kitchen is reserved for work. You want something to eat? Kitchen’s closed. You want something to drink? Kaleb, get that man a pitcher of water.”

Kaleb stood and stepped quickly to the bar. Chef smiled to see it. She waited while he gathered a pitcher and a glass, then returned, and with the greatest of decorum, set them before Eriq.

Eriq glared at Kaleb, then turned his anger at Chef.

For a long second, Chef stared back. She wondered if she’d have to say something more—but Eriq glanced about the room and realized he was very much alone in his opposition to Chef. As the others glared at him, he flinched from the confrontation; then sat, poured himself a glass of water, and lifted it into the air. “Cheers,” he said, and took a long drink.

Chef turned her gaze to the rest of the room. “Anyone that works gets a shiftie. Just one, Mayzee. It’s not a party. We’re just taking the edge off, okay? Also, any pastries in the pastry case will be available once the dishes are done—and be free and liberal with the coffee, Mayzee. This might be a long night.”

Mayzee gave a nod.

Chef clapped several times. “Chop chop, people! Enough gawking! Let’s get this room clean, and bunker down! Elbows and assholes! Grease ‘em up, and get to work!”

Jamal and Kevin went back to the kitchen. Mr. Murphy went with them. “I’ve scrubbed a few flat-tops in my day,” the regular said, as he followed the young cooks.

Brittany, Mayzee, and Kaleb started on the tables, and many of the guests threw in their own effort, including Eriq.

Chef caught Renata as the young hostess stepped forward to help the others. “Darling, you have a special task,” she began. “Get on the phone. Call your parents and tell them what’s going on—but don’t linger. I need you to go down the schedule and call everyone that isn’t here. Tell them what’s happening, and tell them if they aren’t safe where they are, they can come here. We’ll get them in somehow,” Chef concluded. “That goes for your parents too. If they want to come here—” she finished with a nod.

Next, Chef caught Kaleb with a handful of dishes. “Lock up the shop. I don’t want anyone helping themselves to the market. That food is stable and will last us months.”

Frightened, Kaleb stared at his sister. “You think all this might last that long?”

Chef shrugged.

“That’s why you offered the pastries,” Kaleb replied with a nod.

“They’re only good for a few days,” Chef agreed. “If there’s still a bunch left, we’ll freeze the extras.”

Kaleb put his dishes in the kitchen, then returned to the shop and closed it up.

Seeing that Candice had things well under control, Craig turned to leave.

“What about you?” Chef called after Craig. “Where are you going?”

“The roof,” Craig answered. “I want to get a good view,” he said as he continued on his way.

Hearing that Craig was going to take a look at the city, Officer DeLaceya followed hot on his heels.

~ thirteen ~

Hold Please

Renata stood at the host stand and tried to ignore the incessant banging against the front doors. She dialed her parents, left a message, and did everything she could to ignore the ruckus.

Bang! BangBaBBangBanBang!

Renata continued with her work. She left several messages, and began to worry that the rest of the world was already dead, when one of her calls finally went through.

“Hello?” Alej asked as he picked up the line. He seemed cautious, perplexed, curious to know why his work would call at such a late hour on his day off.

“Oh am I glad to hear you!” Renata sighed, as a great tension sloughed off her shoulders. She felt her eyes tear up with relief. “I was beginning to think no one would ever answer!”

“Yeah?” Alej replied, his curiosity multiplying. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Don’t you know?!” Renata said, astounded that anyone could be unaware of the zombie apocalypse—and then, because it was such a silly thing to assert, the words stuck in her mouth.

“Know what? I haven’t been at work in two days,” Alej answered. “What’s going on over there?!” he continued, as Renata’s frenetic energy was proving contagious.

“It’s the end of the world,” Renata breathed, already halfway to hysterics.

“What?!” Alej was now fully engaged. “Are they closing down the restaurant?!” he asked, assuming that would be the absolute worst thing that could happen. “Did Chef pull the plug?! Is everyone fired?! What’s with all that racket?!” he stood. “Renata, what’s going on over there?!”

“It’s the living dead!” Renata cried. “They’re trying to bust the front door down!” She finally managed between gasping sobs.

“Renata—what?!” Alej replied, unwilling to consider the absurd. “This isn’t funny. Where’s Chef?!”

“I dunno!” Renata wept.

“Okay,” Alej began, as he calmed himself down. “Renata, I need you to breathe. I need you to breathe, and I need you to start from the beginning. What’s going on?”

“I told you, Alej! It’s the end of the world!” Renata snapped, her frustration getting the better of her. “Everyone’s turned to zombies and they’re trying to break the door down!”

“Who’s a zombie?” Alej questioned. “Did something happen to one of the brothers? Is Mayzee a zombie?”

“No, it’s the people outside!” Renata cried. “We’ve got the doors locked, but they’re trying to beat ‘em down! They’ve been at it for a good twenty minutes now and it’s driving me crazy!”

“All right, Renata. Haha, funny, funny,” Alej continued, as a rational skepticism got the best of him. “I’m coming down there, and when I get there, you’re going to apologize for pulling my leg; and you’re also going to buy me a beer for the trouble.” He sounded halfway between annoyed and amused. To think that Renata—and who else at the restaurant?!—would go through such trouble on a random Monday just to prank him... Well, it was kind of endearing—just so long as Brittany wasn’t involved.

“Do I sound like I’m joking?!” Renata screamed. “Don’t let them bite you!”

“No one’s trying to bite me,” Alej replied, almost bored with the prank. “Look, I’m heading out the door right now. I’ll be there in twenty min—OH SHIT!” Something collided with Alej. He let out a grunt and a curse.

Renata heard a snarl come over the line, then the phone scuffed. There was a donk, and the line went dead. “Hello…? Hello...!? HELLO...!?” But Alej was no longer there. Renata figured he must have dropped his phone. He must have left his apartment and been attacked. Oh, how stupid could she be?! Why hadn’t she warned him?!

But she had warned him! So why didn’t he believe her?! Did she say something wrong—or was he simply too obstinate?! Worried for the kind busser, and sure that she would soon die herself, she lowered her head and bawled for a good dozen breaths.

The banging on the door continued.

Nerves shot, Renata turned and screamed at the sound, long and loud.

Half the room turned and took notice—which is to say, the whole room took notice. Half of them simply refused to acknowledge it, while the other half looked up and frowned at the young girl’s troubles.

Lorraine separated from her friends, approached Renata, and wrapped the young hostess in a hug. “Hey, now! It’s okay!” she said, as she rubbed Renata’s back and refused to acknowledge the door. “Here,” Lorraine continued, and ignored the fact that her hand was shaking as she took the phone. “Let me try for a while,” she said. “Which one are we on?” she practically whispered.

Renata pointed to the name below Alej. The calls continued until Eriq came over with a deep frown cutting across his face. “Any luck?” he asked.

“No,” Lorraine answered. “The last few calls didn’t even go to voice mail.”

“Are you calling cells?” Eriq continued. “Are any of them landlines?”

Lorraine turned to Renata. The young hostess glanced at them both and gave a shrug. “What’s a landline?”

“This,” Eriq tapped the phone in front of her. “I was talking to my sister when I lost signal,” he stated. “Look at everyone else with a cell,” he continued. Sure enough, several people in the room were squinting at their phones as if they weren’t working properly. “I think the towers are down.”

“Where’s your sister?” Renata asked. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s in Philadelphia,” Eriq answered. “She said I sound crazy. Maybe now she’ll believe me.”

Renata checked her own cell. “I got no bars and the Wi-Fi won’t connect.”

“Anyone got a signal?” Lorraine called through the room.

“It just died,” Mrs. Murphy stated, and several others nodded in agreement. “I was talking to my neighbor and it just died,” she shrugged.

“So we can’t call anyone?!” Renata gaped.

“Not unless they have a landline,” Lorraine stated. “And that might be none of them,” she frowned. “Who else should we call?” she asked, as she dialed the next number on the list. She felt there must be something else they could do—but whatever that might be, she had no idea.

~ fourteen ~

A Rooftop View

“Sooo, what are you thinking?” Officer DeLaceya asked Craig, as she followed him up the ladder to the roof. She was feeling unnerved. It’d been a strange night, and she’d been at this restaurant far longer than she intended. She’d originally left the building feeling vindicated and cheap at the same time. She got the last word with the bratty manager—what with giving him a ticket and all—yet she resented the fact that she was doing such petty work when the world was plagued by real crime and full of true evil. Instead of investigating serious corruption and graft, she was practically entrapping people into breaking petty statutes—and that’s when she heard someone running through the parking lot.

She ducked into her car and locked the door.

A middle aged man with wild eyes approached her door and pulled on the handle. He yanked it several times as Officer DeLaceya pulled her pistol from her bag. She pointed the gun at him and yelled, “back off!” Instead of doing as she said, the man punched the window, then turned and gawked as someone else came out of the restaurant. Back and forth, this man turned between DeLaceya as she was stuck in her car, and the people piling out of the restaurant. He stepped toward the restaurant, then took several steps back toward DeLaceya’s car, then several more steps the other way—and then he was howling, and others were answering the call. I chill went through her. She shivered and decided she wasn’t going anywhere. Gun in hand, she opened the door and grabbed her bags. She turned on the loon and ordered him to stay away. When he came running at her, instinct took over. She lowered the gun and shot him just above the knee.

His leg gave out. She thought that’d be the end of, that he’d start blubbering, and she’d call an ambulance for the man; but then he’d come crawling after her with grunts and snarls. As they all retreated back into the restaurant she knew that everything was wrong, and for the first time in years, she was terrified; almost witless.

To distract herself, DeLaceya followed the handsome man in fatigues up to the roof and peppered him with questions. “There’s really more of them out there? Are they all crazy? How many of these things have you seen?”

“Three up close. Maybe a dozen all together,” Craig shrugged.

“Are you sure they’re zombies?” DeLaceya continued.

“They don’t speak, you can’t reason with them, and they’re relentless,” Craig answered. “What would you call ‘em?”

“You know all that after seeing just three of them?”

“You mean, after seeing maybe a dozen?” Craig corrected.

“So what are we doing up here?”

“I’m not doing anything!” Craig snapped, irritated. “I just want to take a look at the city and think for a bit!”

“Okay, but what are we going to do about the zombies at the door?” DeLaceya continued.

Infuriated, Craig turned and stared back at her. “Not a damned thing!” he growled. “In fact, I’m kinda hopin’ they just go away! Like you! Just—” he waved her away, then huffed, as he stepped onto the roof and strolled out of sight.

Chagrined, Officer DeLaceya paused. Why was he so upset? After all, these were important questions that deserved answers! She pulled herself up to the top of the ladder, stepped onto the roof, and followed after Craig. “Should we just shoot ‘em?” she continued. “How many bullets do you have? I got two dozen myself.”

“We’re not shooting anything!” Craig continued. “Didn’t you hear me?! There’s a cure! Killing these zombies is just like killing anyone else!”

Officer DeLaceya blinked. “There really is a cure?”

“Didn’t I say there’s a cure?!” Craig glared. “Why would I lie about such a thing?!”

“I guess I didn’t take that seriously,” DeLaceya replied. “I thought maybe you were saying that just to calm things down,” she explained. “So what are we going to do?”

“THAT’S WHAT I’M TRYING TO FIGURE OUT!” Craig raged, exasperated. He turned from the young copper, then walked to the east edge of the building and stared out over the city.

Leaving off her questions, Officer DeLaceya followed. Despite the noise of her inquiries that were now strictly inside her head, she could hear the cry of distant sirens along with the bark and howl of a hundred neighborhood dogs. “Holy matrimony…” she muttered, as she took in the scene. “Has the whole city gone mad?!”

Craig ignored the question. “That’s trouble,” he pointed at the road that curved down the hill. “There’s another one coming up this way.”

“Why?” Officer DeLaceya started. “I mean, the cooking’s pretty good here, but not so much that I’d beat the doors down,” she shrugged.

Craig rolled his eyes at the smart comment, as he focused on the streets below.

The neighborhood around The Fish House was mostly dark, but there was enough ambient light from the rest of the city, so much so that Officer DeLaceya could see several silhouettes walking and running up the street. As they moved, some of them howled, or screamed, or yelled unintelligibly. “That’s creepy,” she stated. “I thought zombies only moaned—and look how fast some of them are! I thought zombies were supposed to shamble.”

“I’ve never met one before,” Craig stated. “This is my first zombie apocalypse.”

“I guess we’re all new to this,” Officer DeLaceya replied, and stared out over the city.

The Fish House sat on a small hill just to the west and with a great view of downtown Colorado Springs, which was clearly visible behind the freeway and Monument Creek. The river and the main road ran parallel to each other on a north-south track. Between here and there were a couple blocks of single family homes with the occasional cluster of commercial shops: a couple hotels, a gas station at the edge of a strip mall, several commercial garages, and the massive Bijou bridge...

The exterior lights of The Fish House clicked off and made it easier for them to see the shadows that shifted about the dark neighborhood. Usually the view from the restaurant was one of general order and the tendency of men to build sound structures. It was treetops and shingles, before a thick line of concrete that cut north to south: a freeway that ran along the front range and cut the state into the eastern plains and the western mountains. Beyond the freeway was the unseen creek, set deep in her bed. Above the rise of the far bank were the commercial towers of glass, steel, and brick that made up downtown Colorado Springs. Downtown still had power. It was lit with emergency lights of every sort, blinking and flashing, as sirens and alarms cried into the night.

Craig pulled the rifle off his back and stared through the scope. Usually, downtown was a calm and prosaic sight—but not tonight. Tonight there were lights and sirens everywhere, punctuated by a cacophony of people screaming and yelling, as dogs barked and howled their growing concern. Traffic was sparse—except in tight knots of snarled congestion. Numerous crashes were evident and the rules of the road seemed to be completely suspended. Cars ran red lights, drove on the shoulders and over curbs—if they had the clearance. Others were clustered in jumbles, smashed one against another. A fair number of bodies ran through the traffic jams; some fleeing, some chasing.

People were everywhere, running, slinking, hobbling. Craig watched a man run down a street, chased by several others. The running man was too concerned with his pursuers instead of watching where he put his feet. He tripped on a parking block, and was instantly swarmed by shrieking incoherent assailants. They pummeled and scratched the man until he was unresponsive. As he lay on the ground, the attacks slowed. One by one, the assailants stalked off and disappeared around the corner of St. Mary’s Cathedral. “He’s still alive,” Craig sighed, as the man rolled on his back. “Thank god they didn’t kill him.”

“You mind if I…?” Officer DeLaceya gestured to the rifle.

“Just a look?” Craig replied.

DeLaceya nodded.

“Have a gander,” Craig said, and passed the weapon to her.

Officer DeLaceya checked to see that the safety was on, then stared through the scope. “Sweet Jesus, this is wild! What is happening to these people?!” she wondered, as she pointed at a woman that smashed at a lit window. She resisted the urge to flick the switch and take a shot at the vandal. Not that she’d hit. How far was the target? Nearly a mile? Besides, it was a far cry from breaking glass to taking a life, and the distance made the shot all but impossible, especially with an unknown gun. She toggled the safety off, then toggled it back on.

“You’re a copper,” Craig began. “Haven’t you seen any indicators that things were amiss? A bump in violent offenders? A spike in domestic disputes?”

“Nothing to suggest this!” Officer DeLaceya answered. “I mean, crime tends to rise and fall. An increase in cases doesn’t necessarily suggest an impending armageddon. I mean, crime might spike for a week, but that’s just the nature of man. It’s just a heat wave, or something equally unfathomable. Maybe its a full moon, or Mars and Saturn are caught in a difficult aspect,” she shrugged, then passed the rifle back to Craig.

Craig rolled his eyes to hear heavenly bodies blamed for this calamity. “Are you suggesting this will end once the Red Warrior is no longer conjunct Kronos the Time Keeper?”

“Why? Is that what’s happening?” Officer DeLaceya asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Craig stated as he continued to glance about the city. “Kaleb’s into that stuff, not me.”

“Same,” Officer DeLaceya began. “My big sister can talk for hours about that sort, so I’m passingly fluent, but I rarely give it more than lip service…” she trailed off. She stared out over the city for a long minute, then continued on the topic of crime. “I mean, I guess there’s been more activity of late. There was a weird dossier that was making the rounds: a list of names: details on some 30 or 40 people of interest. There was a hundred thousand dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of any one of them.”

“America’s most wanted?” Craig speculated.

“Colorado’s most wanted,” Officer DeLaceya replied. “Most of the names were from the Denver area, a bunch were up in the mountains. There were only three from the Springs, though it was said any of them might be in town. By the time I saw the list, two of the locals had been found. One was dead, floating in the creek, the other was being held at one of the hospitals. The last one, the one that was still on the lamb, was some colonel,” she stated. “You think that dossier might have had something to do with all this?”

“Probably,” Craig shrugged. “They say it was a colonel that attacked my brother. Maybe it was the same guy.”

“There’s also been intelligence types around the precinct—but they’re not talking to me,” Officer DeLaceya continued. “I’m a nobody, fresh out of the academy, and I guess there’s always a few of the spooky sort passing through.”

“Spooks?” Craig wondered. “Never met many that were willing to share—especially anything useful—except maybe the one that took my brother. He sure seemed willing to talk.”

“You sound like you know the type,” Officer DeLaceya noted.

“Ex-military,” Craig admitted.

“How long?”

“Four years.”

“Well, thank you for your service,” Officer DeLaceya replied.

Craig snorted.

“What?” DeLaceya stared.

“You trying to butter me up?” Craig said with a derisive eye, though he passed her the gun again.

“What does that mean?” Officer DeLaceya asked, as she gazed through the scope. “And mind how you answer. My brother’s Air Force, and my father served in the Navy for twenty odd years.”

“And despite that, I’m sure they both have much to recommend them—but I can tell you this, many of the things I did and saw in the army had nothing to do with the protection of our great people,” Craig answered. “Nah, that whole, ‘protecting your freedoms’ crap is just a line they feed the rubes so we won’t notice all the war profiteers cramming money into their own pockets.”

“Heresy,” Officer DeLaceya murmured. “Are you just bitter, or should I wonder what crimes you committed on the battlefield?”

“None that weren’t passingly common,” Craig retorted, “and yes, I am rather bitter about it.” Having said his peace, he clapped his trap and took the gun from her, then turned his attention back to the city. “Enough of that tomfoolery. What do you make of all this?”

“Looks like everyone’s either turned into zombies, or turned into idiots,” she answered.

“Not all of them, for sure,” Craig replied. “This town is full of survivors.”

“You mean to say, you don’t hate veterans after all?”

“Why would I hate them?” Craig countered. “Most of ‘em joined the service for all the right reasons, and some of them manage to stay good people. Besides, I am one. I may resent getting duped, but here I am,” he said. “It’s the war machine that used my friends for cannon fodder—that’s what I resent. I resent saluting, flag waving, and mystifying hymns that celebrate a courage and honor all too common in the rank and file—those that know nothing of what their truly doing. From my observations, honor is quite absent among those that made any real decisions. That’s what I resent. I resent the glorification of marching down a primrose path of subjugation and death—paved with the best of intentions—but lacking reason, logic, and consistent application. I resent orders that always served the special interests of a certain type of rich and powerful, and fuck everyone else.”

The distant report of a gun sounded. Pop! Popop Op! As if meaning to accentuate Craig’s heretical rant—or maybe just to cut it off.

“It’s a full on war zone out there,” Officer DeLaceya stated with wide eyes as she leaned away from the angry veteran. “The Mae’s on fire.”

“Well, downtown is a mess,” Craig said. “But it almost seems a bit peaceful around here.”

“Yeah,” Officer DeLaceya agreed. “It’s almost quiet in this dark—except for the dogs.”

“And any of the houses with lights still on,” Craig stated. “There are more people with generators than I would have guessed.”

“It’s not just the ones with the lights,” Officer DeLaceya pointed. “Check out that one over there: down Walnut, about two blocks north of Bijou.”

“Okay… what am I looking for?” Craig questioned.

“Near side,” DeLaceya stated. “You can’t see much more than two heads in the backyard—but I just saw another one walking across the street, just moping along. She perked up and got real interested in that house as she passed. She stepped into the street, and started running about half way across. I think she’s at the front door.”

“Did they just turn the lights off?” Craig asked.

“Not that I saw.”

“Weird,” Craig noted. “What do you make of it?”

“Dunno,” Officer DeLaceya replied. “Maybe the new one was drawn to the sounds of the other two.”

“But she went for the other door?” Craig wondered.

“Yeah,” Officer Delaceya frowned. “Not what I’d expect from a super stupid zombie.”

“Careful,” Craig began. “Stupid can and will surprise you.”

“If you don’t know this, then you’re one of the dangerous ones,” Officer DeLaceya smiled.

“I do know this—and I’m still one of the dangerous ones,” Craig replied.

“Well, after your stupid rant, you must be incredibly dangerous,” Officer Delaceya smirked, then shook her head and turned back to the dark house that was under siege. “Do you think they might have a generator? Do you think the zombies might hear that?”

Craig turned and stared at the two large generators that were installed on the roof of The Fish House. He thought the sound of the generators was something of a purr, and although it was a bit loud, was it possible anyone could even hear it from the parking lot, much less, halfway down the hill? “You think they can pick up on the hum of a generator over the rest of this riot?”

“Maybe,” Officer DeLaceya shrugged. “Maybe not.”

“Well, now that the lights are off, let’s get downstairs and see if we can’t disperse the bastards banging at the front door,” Craig said. “They seem to be drawing more and more up the hill.”

Officer DeLaceya turned and followed after Craig. “Okay,” she said, then pursed her lips, furrowed her brow, and asked, “Sooo, what are you thinking?”

~ fifteen ~

Running Laps

Craig and Officer Delaceya found Chef pulling liquor out of the liquor room while Eriq disassembled the shelving. “What are you doing?” Craig asked, curious that one of the most notoriously abused aspects of restaurant life would soon be less secure as the zombie apocalypse commenced. “Feeling froggy?”

“We need a place to put Brittany,” Chef said. “She’s got scratches and bite marks all over her from the one that got inside. We need a place for her to sleep so she can’t scratch the rest of us.”

“Oh,” Craig nodded. “And why’s he helping?” He pointed at Eriq.

Chef shrugged. “He said he’s good with a hammer.”

Eriq paused in his work and turned to Craig, “And she agreed to give me a bottle of rum for my efforts,” he grinned, then resumed his work.

Craig gave a nod. “Was anyone else scratched?” he asked.

Chef Candice stopped and stared up at her brother. “Probably,” she admitted with a frown. “It was something of a skirmish, but it’s fine. It might be a little cramped, but this room is big enough for three or four... Why? What brings you upstairs?”

“Well, the lights are off, but those assholes are still at the door, banging away. To make things worse, more of them keep coming up the road,” Craig said.

Chef scratched her head. “You think the ones already up here are attracting more?”

“I do,” Craig nodded as he peeled the rifle off his back. “Take this, so I can go run them off.”

“How do you intend to do that?” Chef asked.

“I’m gonna go out there and give them something to chase,” Craig smiled. “Some of ‘em are runners, so I need to be light.”

”Well, it’s awful nice of you to give up your long gun,” Chef said as she took the rifle.

“You’re like to take better care of it anyway,” Craig eyed his older sister.

“That’s probably true,” Chef shrugged. “So what’s this plan of yours?”

“I already told you,” Craig stated. “I’m going out the side door to do a bit of yelling. When they all turn to chase me, I’m gonna run down the hill, go around the side, and climb up the rope, just the way I came in the first time.”

Chef frowned. “Sounds half-baked.”

“Well, the heat’s still on, so chances are, we’ll still get cooked,” Craig answered. “Besides, how difficult does a plan have to be in order to get it over on zombies? Aren’t they about as dumb as they come?”

Chef shrugged. “I sure hope so. If you give me a minute, I’ll cover you from the roof,” she said, lifting the rifle.

“Don’t fire unless you absolutely have to,” Craig stated. “We still have the cure to consider.”

Chef gave a nod, then went on the roof and positioned herself so she could see the parking lot and half the road down the hill. She’d have to reposition once Craig got that far, but it wouldn’t be a problem—assuming Craig wouldn’t need her for five to ten seconds—but then, ten seconds could be an awful long time when one is running for his life. In the end, there was nothing to be done about that. Risks would be taken.

With Chef on the roof, Craig took Officer DeLaceya to the balcony, where he left the rope with the grappling hook. Craig secured the hook end to the thick stone railing, then gave the rope to the young officer. “Once you see me come around that corner, throw this down.”

Officer DeLaceya nodded. “You be careful,” she said and wrapped Craig in a hefty hug. She kissed his cheek, and half his lips. “For luck,” she smiled, as she continued to hug him.

“Thanks,” Craig pushed her away. She was cute and all, but he had Virginia to consider. With a nod and a bit of a goofy grin, Craig went to a side door and would have slipped out unobserved if not for the alarm. “Oh shit!” he yelled, as he slammed the door shut, then turned and ran from the oncoming zombies. He dodged several, and stiff-armed one that tried to get his nails on Craig—but they glanced off his BDU jacket. He bolted across the parking lot, dodged around a car to keep one of the faster ones at bay, then ran through the gate and sprinted down the steep street.

Inside, Officer DeLaceya covered her ears as the alarm continued to blare. “HEY!” she called, as if anyone could hear her about the siren. Glaring, Kaleb ran over and shut off the alarm with a special key. Now that the alarm was off, Officer DeLaceya ignored Kaleb’s complaints and ran out to the balcony.

Outside, there were several more zombies creeping up the street. Craig was past most of them before they even registered he was there. In their clumsy manner, they turned and followed the sprinter, some faster than others.

Craig almost made it down the hill without any incident—except that he came across a zombie so immediately and in exactly the wrong spot that he had no time to consider it—no time at all! He thought to dodge, but by the time the thought was in his head, it was already too late. Instead, he lowered his shoulder and thanked his lucky stars that the zombie before him had no time to react. “Out of the way!” he yelled, and bowled over the zombie. The beast smashed to the ground, and Craig prayed he didn’t kill it.

Craig barely slowed as he continued on his way. Good thing too. There were a couple dozen of the monsters chasing after him! Some were admittedly slow, but a number were runners! He dodged through a gate, threw himself over a chain-link fence like his life depended on it, and just like that he was at the back of the hill. With his heart in his throat, he looked up and saw a length of rope sailing through the air. He grabbed the end and began up the steep slope as zombies flooded the yard behind him. They couldn’t manage the slope—until one grabbed the rope and began to climb up after him in a ponderous and deliberate manner.

“Hurry, hurry!” Officer DeLaceya cried. “They’re climbing up after you!” she pointed.

Zombies climb?! Craig thought, as a surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins. He was young and strong, so it wasn’t long before he was over the balcony.

Having finished his climb, Craig turned and stared at the zombie that pulled herself up the rope after him. She was in good shape and climbed rather quick. She was over halfway up—and there were others grabbing at the rope behind her—but the second zombie was thick, slow, and barely past the base of the steep slope; so all the others were stuck behind him.

“I guess they’re not as dumb as we thought,” Officer DeLaceya said as she cut the rope. She gave a snort as the beast fell. It hit the ground, then shrieked and howled. Craig had his hands on his knees as he huffed and puffed in order to get his wind back. Officer DeLaceya wrapped him in a hug and gave him another kiss—this time directly on the lips. “You did wonderful,” she smiled, and made eyes at the handsome young man.

Confused by her affection, Craig pushed her away. He liked her kissing him, but he would have much preferred that it was Virginia, and felt guilty that it wasn’t. With a nod he smiled back at her, then dodged another kiss, and said. “I don’t know that we’re out of the woods just yet.”

“What do you mean?” Officer DeLaceya glared, intuiting that he didn’t push her away because of the zombies.

Craig didn’t answer. Instead, he stared over the balcony at the mass of zombies below. It would have been fine if they would have stayed where they were, with about twelve feet of cliff between the zombies and the base of the Fish House. There was no approach for them up this steep slope—though several tried. Most turned and twitched and moseyed off in some other direction—which meant that quite a few had found the street and were coming up the hill again.

“That’s not good,” Officer DeLaceya stated, once she was certain that the amount of zombies coming up the street was too great to be random.

“Goes to show they’re more human than they appear,” Craig replied.

“I fail to see how that helps us,” Officer DeLaceya countered.

“It doesn’t,” Craig agreed. “Not yet. But it’ll be perfect when the cure arrives.”

Not caring for the cure, Officer Delaceya turned and considered their dilemma. Why were the zombies coming back up the hill?! She glanced about the dark neighborhood, as if it might provide an answer. “Hey look,” she pointed. “You remember that house on Walnut?”

Craig followed her line of sight. “Not really,” he replied.

“That was the house that was surrounded, the one that was dark,” Officer DeLaceya stated. “But now the lights are on and the window is broke. What do you make of that?”

“I’m guessing they must have a generator after all,” Craig shrugged. He was about to say it couldn’t mean anything else, when a scream and several bright flashes erupted from the very same house.

POpOP! POp!

The gun sounded, followed by another scream, and several more flashes.

PoP pOPoppOpoP!

After that, the screaming continued for several long seconds—then stopped.

“That sucks,” Craig stated. “But what’s that house have to do with us?”

“Do you think the zombies saw someone go in there? Or maybe they saw the lights go out and remembered them being on,” Officer DeLaceya speculated. “How long do you think they remember things?”

“Are you suggesting they remember the front door?” Craig replied. “Do you think they’re coming up here because they remember the lights being on?”

“Well, too many of those bastards are coming back up the hill, so there must be a reason why,” Officer DeLaceya pointed.

The lights in the distant house went off. Confused, Officer DeLaceya turned and blinked at Craig. “And now the lights are off again! What do you think that means?!” she asked.

“What makes you think it means anything at all?” Craig replied. “Who’s to say it wasn’t the survivors that shut off the power?” he offered, just to be contrary.

“Didn’t sound like there were survivors,” Officer DeLaceya replied with a confused but calculating gaze. Her mouth hung open, like she’d just bit on a hook.

“As if that don’t make it weirder,” Craig pointed. Several zombies jostled their way out of the broken window. “So now they’re coming out?”

Officer DeLaceya’s eyes got big. “I think it was the zombies that took out the power!” she insisted. “My god! They’re not just attracted to lights! They’re attracted to electricity!”

“But without the lights, how’s that possible?” Craig replied.

“Can’t you hear it?!” Officer DeLaceya asked him. “I mean, most people can’t, but I’ve heard it all my life! It’s a faint, high-pitched buzz. I usually don’t pay it no mind, because it’s always there; dull, innocuous, barely perceptible—I don’t think most people can even hear it, but I always have, and my little brother can hear it too,” she explained. “Mostly, it’s just a keen way to tell if the power’s out, or the lights are simply off. Hell, I can still hear it—and I think they can too! It explains why they’re at particular houses, and why there seems to be even more of them downtown. I think whatever makes them zombies makes their hearing more acute. And that electrical buzz—” she stared, her eyes practically bugged out of her head. “That buzz is still coming from here! It’s still running through the walls because of the generators! The lights may be off, but to them, this place is buzzing!” she realized. “We gotta shut off the generators!”

“How does that make sense?!” Craig replied. “I can’t hear a god-dammed thing!”

“It’s not what you hear,” Officer DeLaceya countered. “It’s about what they hear! They keep coming up the road, so there must be a reason! Can you think of anything else?”

“A good memory?” Craig stated. “What do we actually know of zombies? I mean, not just the lazy way they’re written and portrayed in the movies—but what are they really?”

“Exactly!” Officer DeLaceya replied. “If it’s just a good memory, we’re screwed. But if its the electricity they hear, all we have to do is shut of the generators.”

“If we shut of the generators, we’re dead in a week,” Craig replied.

“No one says we have to leave them off. We just have to shut them off long enough so they go somewhere else!” Officer DeLaceya answered. “Come on! What other ideas do we have?!”

Craig sized her up and considered what she said. “All right,” Craig said with a nod. “Let’s give it a try.”

They went inside and told Chef, as she continued to clear out the liquor room. At first, she didn’t want to hear it, until Renata found them, shivering and shaking with tears in her eyes. “It worked. It worked, until it didn’t! They’re back to banging on the doors, those damned bastards!” she cried. “I can’t take it anymore!”

Well, let’s give it a try,” Chef said with a grim nod. “Renata, put out a dozen tea candles, and ask the guests to shut off their phones, just in case they can sense those too.”

Renata wiped her eyes and tried to hide her pout. “The phones are useless anyway. WiFi is out and there’s no signal,” she said, as she turned and headed for the stairs.

“See?!” Officer DeLaceya said to Craig and Chef Candice. “The zombies must have taken out the cell towers!”

But the siblings weren’t convinced.

~ sixteen ~

Jail Break

Chase had no idea how long he slept, only that the itch and burn of the scratches he’d received had slowly evaporated as he drifted into unconsciousness. Likely, he would have slept for a good time more—if not for a ruckus several cells over that quickly devolved into ear-piercing screams—as a half dozen soldiers seperated the tall svelte blonde from her cousins and dragged her the block. She screamed and fought the whole way out, to no avail; as her battered cousins cursed them in their viking tongue.

Chase lifted his head from his pillow, then turned and watched as a group of soldiers escorted the leggy blonde from the brig. Two of them were more than enough to manhandle the toothy Swede, while the other four chuckled and made lewd comments as they followed along. None seemed to be worried about her tantrum or the incidental damage she did as they hauled her from the block.

Chase frowned at the commotion. He tried to convince himself that she must have snapped and become a danger to them all—but his instincts told him otherwise. Her screams seemed to come from fear, not rage; and none of the soldiers seemed even a little bit worried that she might infect them. With a huff, he stared after the soldiers—not that he could do anything about it, not from behind these bars—and then they were gone, and there was even less he could do about it.

Fully awake, Chase decided to crack a book, then wondered why his light was out. He stared up at the dull bulb and thought there was something he should know about it, something he should remember. He set the book aside, and was about to investigate further, when the door to the cell block opened again. This time a furtive Dr. Fateh slunk down the hall.

“Doctor,” Chase greeted, as the man passed his cell.

With a grim nod, Dr. Fateh gave a wave, then continued down the line. Further down the cell block, he stopped and opened a door. The doctor cringed at the creak of the rusty hinges, then held a brief conversation in snatches of whisper with whoever was behind those bars.

Special Agent Kenzie stepped from the cell and dusted himself off. He turned and marched for the door to the block.

“Special Agent Kenzie,” Chase blinked at the man. “Did you get scratched too?” he asked.

“No sir,” the special agent said, without breaking stride.

Dr. Fateh followed the Special Agent, slowed, then stopped in front of Chase’s cell. He turned and studied the twin. “How are you feeling?” he asked with a critical eye.

“Pretty damned good,” Chase smiled. “I reckon I don’t got the itch no more. Looks like you’ll have to let me out sooner than later,” he grinned.

Dr. Fateh frowned, and a worried expression came over his face. He paused for a long second, then stepped to the door of the cell. He pulled his keys and fumbled at the lock. “Looks like its your lucky day,” he forced a smile.

Something about the whole situation felt off. Chase backed from the door with a frown.

Special Agent Kenzie turned. With a frown of his own, he put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “What are you doing?!” He demanded in curt fashion.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Dr. Fateh replied. “What do you think happens to these people under Major Ing and his underlings?” he said as he turned the key in its lock.

Special Agent Kenzie held the door closed. “What if he’s still sick?”

Dr. Fateh stared at Chase. “If I let you out and you scratch me, I will kill you.” The doctor’s eyes were grim and determined.

Chase frowned. “Maybe I’ll just wait for the next person to let me out.”

Dr. Fateh shook his head. “You don’t want to stay in here. Rumor is, they’re about to start liquidating the snapped.”

“I’m cured,” Chase began. “Why should that worry me?” he asked, though more than an inkling of bother tickled the back of his mind.

“Well, you are still contagious,” Dr. Fateh stared at Chase.

Hearing these words felt like betrayal. “What the hell?! When am I cured?!” Chase fumed.

“One thing at a time,” Dr Fateh began. “You have to remember, this is all quite new to us too. It’s still an evolving situation. ”

“How long will I be contagious?” Chase continued.

“A day? A week?” Dr. Fateh shrugged. “You’ll be fine, just don’t scratch anyone—or bite.”

“He makes a wrong move, I’ll put a bullet in ‘im,” Special Agent Kenzie threatened.

“Enough with the intimidation!” Chase snapped, then noted that the agent didn’t have a gun. Something big had changed. Something big had happened. The two men were on edge and making unnecessary threats—and at the same time the doctor was trying to talk him out of the cell. With a gulp, Chase decided he’d rather be out than in, so he gave a nod, and stared the agent and the doctor in the eye. “On my honor, no scratching,” he said, then asked, “so what’s changed?”

“What makes you think something’s changed?” Special Agent Kenzie stated.

“If you weren’t scratched, why were in a cell? And why is Dr. Fateh slinking around in order to let you out?” Chase asked. “Seems to me like you were locked up, and he’s risking a court marshal to let you out.”

Dr. Fateh gave a nod as he unlocked the door. “A number of command either have the itch or have snapped altogether,” he said as he opened the cell door.

“And the rest are out of their god-damned minds!” Special Agent Kenzie snarled between his teeth. He grabbed Chase’s hand and pulled him close. Inches apart, he stared at the twin intently. “We go quiet, and you follow orders, you hear?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Chase replied.

“You been in the service?” Special Agent Kenzie continued, already convinced of the answer.

“Five years in the navy,” Chase nodded. “My last station was aboard the USS Frank Cable out of Guam.”

Special Agent Kenzie gave a nod and smiled at Fateh. “He’ll do.”

“What of these others?” Dr. Fateh asked as he glanced around the block.

Special Agent Kenzie shook his head. “We don’t have time to baby-sit.”

Dr. Fateh turned away and started down the line. “We can’t leave ‘em here. Not if their healthy. Letting them out is the right thing to do.”

“It’s the dumb shit thing to do—” Special Agent Kenzie snipped, then shook his head and began again. “You’re right. Leaving them here may just be a death sentence—but don’t take no scratchers. We can’t take that chance.”

“Only if they can speak,” Fateh amended. “If they’re just a little itchy, he can watch them,” he said and turned to Chase. “You’re not afraid of being scratched again, are you?”

“What happens if I get scratched again?” Chase wondered.

Fateh shrugged. “No one knows.”

Chase considered the possibilities as they stretched off into the unknowable future, then figured this was no time to dilly-dally. Now was a time for courage, bold action, and let the chips fall where they may. “I got over it once,” he smiled. “I can get over it again.”

Dr. Fateh turned to the other cells in search of anyone healthy enough to join them. A few had snapped—or were deep in the throes of the itch—including Mr. Wiezcykyi. The lawyer reached through the bars. He pawed and hissed at the open air, but the normally wordy lawyer had nothing coherent to say. Kenzie shook his head as Fateh followed him to the next cell. Chase couldn’t do anything but agree with their curt evaluation. “Sorry, ol’ friend,” he said as he kept his distance. He couldn’t fathom why, but he felt guilty about the state of the man.

They continued their search for anyone cognizant and came to the cell with the Swedes in it.

“Why are there three in this same cell?” Chase asked. “Oi! Blondie! What’s with the long face?!”

The three large foreigners huddled far from the bars as they spoke with each other in hushed viking. Even at a distance, Chase could see several fat bruises on their faces, and a fair amount of fresh blood, to highlight the dried blood that caked at the the corners of their mouths and noses. “I don’t think they suffer from the itch at all,” Chase surmised. “No matter how much their lady-friend hissed and shrieked, the soldiers that took her seemed unbothered by her scratching.”

“All the blood is a result of them resisting, not attacking,” Kenzie nodded.

“The men that came to collect their friend had no padding,” Fateh nodded. “And yet, it was because so many went up the stairs with her that I was able to get the two of you out,” he concluded, then shook his head. “I do hope she can keep them distracted for a little while longer—though I have an inkling of what it will cost her.”

“Enough of that grim business,” Kenzie cut in. “Hey you!” he called to the three young scandanavians. “Do you boys speak English?”

“Ja,” the little one said, “McDonalds, Mike Tyson, America,” he replied in sarcastic fashion.

“Listen,” Kenzie stared. “Those fools that took your friend would be the end of us all, so you can stay here and likely die, or you can come with us and possibly live. Understand?”

A bit of argument ensued as the three vikings discussed this among themselves. They stepped forward with varying degrees of trepidation. The first held out his hand and shook it with Kenzie, Fateh, and Chase. He pointed to himself in introduction. “Danel,” he smiled, then pointed to his massive cousins. “Bjorn, Bjergsen.”

“Let ‘em out,” Kenzie said, and Chase nodded in agreement.

“And what about this one?” Fateh asked as they came to the cell of Officer Lars.

Chase shook his head. “He don’t like me at all. He thinks I’m the reason he got locked up.”

Fateh shrugged. ”We can’t leave him behind just because the two of you have a little beef. Not if he’s not sick. They may well kill him if he stays.”

“Can’t say I saw him even a little bit sick, and he claimed from the start that he never got scratched,” Chase admitted. He didn’t like the idea of letting Officer Lars out, but it felt like the right thing to do. Besides, what were the chances the officer would still be fired up once there were no bars between them? Dogs were always brave when guarded by a locked gate. Without any barriers between them, Officer Lars would likely forget the hostility and get along, at least grudgingly.

And if he didn’t? Well, Chase wasn’t some small and insignificant boy. He was healthy and strong, in the prime of his life, with years of military service. If it came to a physical contest, Chase liked his odds.

“Officer!” Fateh called. “How you feeling in there?!”

Officer Lars roused, then peeled himself off his cot. With an uncertain frown, he approached the bars. ”What is it?” he asked, suspicious, as he rubbed sleep from his eyes.

“We’re getting out of here,” Kenzie told him. “You can come with us, but you gotta promise to get along with the young sailor,” he said with a thumb in Chase’s direction.

“The boy owes me for my troubles,” Officer Lars said with a glint of hostility.

“It’s your choice,” Kenzie said. “Bury the hatchet or stay in the cell. We’ve already got it from the boy that he holds no ill will.”

“And why should I worry about staying in my cell?” Officer Lars asked.

“The order is to start liquidating the snapped,” Fateh explained. “We don’t think it’ll be long before they add the itching to the list. And what if they extend that to everyone else in these cells?” he wondered.

“So you’re orchestrating a jailbreak,” Officer Lars realized, then turned in a few slow circles as he considered the situation. “Mortal danger, you say? Well, if that’s what you think, let’s dig us that metaphorical hole and throw in a couple imaginary hatchets,” he said, and stretched a hand out to Chase.

With trepidation, Chase took the hand and shook it nonetheless. Lars squeezed hard, but Chase returned the pressure, knowing it was the only way to keep his digits safe.

“See now?! Everything’s copacetic,” Officer Lars said with a greasy smile.

The seven men left the cell block. They entered a room where two men held several other guards at gunpoint; tied, disarmed, and gagged. “Jesus, Hakeem!” the first one said, as he stared at the mob. He was a private by rank, and his name was Seymour. “I thought you just wanted to free the spook!”

“And what happens to the rest of them under Major Ing?” Dr. Hakeem Fateh shook his head. “We couldn’t just leave these others,” he finished.

“Well, we don’t got weapons for them all,” the second one said, as he passed a pistol to Kenzie. He was a lieutenant, with the name ‘Todd’ plastered across his tag.

Private Seymour looked among the others as he held out a pistol. Chase moved to take it, but Seymour glared at him and gave the gun to the copper. “Here you go, officer,” he said, and gave the weapon to Lars.

“Let’s get out of here while the getting’s good!” Lieutenant Todd said, then stepped past the others and pointed the opposite way. “Seymour, you got the rear.”

With that, the nine men slipped into a corridor and began down the hall. Lieutenant Todd and Kenzie led the way, followed by the scandanavians—as Fateh and Chase pushed them along. Private Seymour and Officer Lars brought up the rear.

A warning sign came from Kenzie and Todd. The others all backed against a wall as voices carried around a corner.

“…hot piece of ass! Can’t wait for my turn—” the one was laughing as he stepped into view. He caught sight of the nine men crouched against the wall and immediately went for his sidearm. The other soldier also reached for his weapon—but it was too late. Kenzie, Lieutenant Todd, and the swedes were already upon them. The two soldiers were pummeled, grappled, and pinned to the ground—their weapons stripped before they could do anything but give off a few surprised shouts.

“Nothing lasting, boys!” Dr. Fateh begged as he stepped toward the downed men.

Chase held back, in case trouble developed from some other direction—which was exactly what happened. He turned as Officer Lars slammed Private Seymour up against the wall, then aimed his gun at Chase’s head!

Chase shoved the weapon aside as Officer Lars pulled the trigger.

BLOUW!

His head right next to the blast, Private Seymour covered his ears and dropped to the ground.

Officer Lars stepped back and raised the weapon again—but Chase was too fast. He smashed the cop’s hands against the wall, and clothes-lined the officer before Lars could do anything about it.

With a cough, Officer Lars spun on the ground and grabbed at Chase’s ankle. He pressed into the young sailor’s shin with his shoulder and bowled him over. From there, the two began to grapple. It’d been a couple years since the last time Chase wrestled, and the older officer was surprisingly strong. He was quicker and stronger than Colonel Etienne by a lot! Chase found himself in a losing position as Officer Lars slowly tangled him into a knot.

But there were others in the hall. All of the sudden, Officer Lars screamed and let go of Chase altogether, as Agent Kenzie lifted the cop off of Chase by his hair.

Still, Officer Lars was a scrapper. He mule-kicked the Special Agent and caught him in the knee. With a yelp, Kenzie flinched back and let go. The copper bolted down the long hall, screaming as he went. “Help! They’re escaping!”

Kenzie took a step forward, then cursed as his knee gave out.

Chase rolled over and snagged the gun that Officer Lars had dropped. Dr. Fateh helped him off the ground, as Kenzie turned to the downed private.

“WHAT?!” Private Seymour yelled at the Special Agent. “I CAN’T HEAR A FUCKING THING! MY EARS ARE RINGING!”

“Shiva’s tits,” Fateh muttered under his breath and shook his head. “With all this ruckus, it’s a miracle nobody’s sounded the—”

Alarms blared and cut off the doctor. Emergency lights flashed to life all up and down the hall. Fateh about jumped out of his skin.

“Well, that answers that,” Lieutenant Todd shouted above the racket. He put a hand on Bjorn’s shoulder—or was it Bjergson?—and pulled him off the downed men. “You’ve beat ‘em senseless!” he stated. “You planning to kill ‘em too?!”

Bjergsen—or was it Bjorn?—spit on the downed men, then followed after the others.

Despite the lights and alarms they made it to the exit without any further incidence. Lieutenant Todd pushed the door open and Chase felt the cool evening air whip down the hall. After being cramped up in the stale basement for what felt like forever the crisp breeze felt so good! With a glad heart, he followed the soldiers out into the open—only to notice the scandinavians weren’t coming with them. Instead, the three foreigners were arguing among themselves at the door to the hospital.

“What is this?!” Chase asked Danel, as Bjorn and Bjerson pushed the smaller one out the door.

“They won’t let me stay!” Danel said with tears in his eyes.

“And why would you possibly want to stay?!” Chase asked, confused that Bjorn and Bjergsen meant to go back in—while Danel should cry about having to leave.

“They’re going back for Danika,” Danel said, “but they won’t let me come with them!”

“Go,” Bjergsen—or was it Bjorn?—pointed them away. “Tell our people.”

Danel shook his head and tried to push past the bigger two, all while cursing in his foreign tongue.

With a grim nod, Chase gave his gun to Bjorn—or was it Bjergsen? “When you get out of here, find us at The Fish House,” he said with a nod.

“Last call at The Fish House,” Bjergsen—or was it Bjorn?—repeated with a funny grin, then gave a nod and a salute. “Now go,” he said as he closed the door on Chase and his smaller cousin.

“Let’s go,” Chase grabbed Danel and pulled him from the door. Although Danel was small compared to Bjorn and Bjergson, he was still a fair bit larger than Chase. After a second of resistance, Danel turned and followed after the twin with tears in his eyes.

“And where the hell are those two going?!” Lieutenant Todd wanted to know of Bjorn and Bjergson.

“They’re going after their cousin,” Chase said, as he and Danel stepped past the bewildered Lieutenant.

“Well, more power to ‘em,” Kenzie said. “Maybe they’ll keep Major Ing and his asshole lackeys occupied for a while,” he added. “Let’s move, people, and let’s try to keep it quiet, eh?!”

~ seventeen ~

The Cool Waters of the Aquarium

To the right of the host stand, as one first enters The Fish House, there is an over-sized aquarium that holds nearly a thousand gallons of water and salt along with a dozen different species of fish, plants, and other aquatic life native to the estuaries of the South China Sea. This exquisite tank filled with exotic life also serves as a window into the small market that stocks a number of grab-and-go foods prepared by The Fish House kitchen, other artisanal fare from local purveyors, and premium imports from some 30 different oriental and pacific nations. When Brittany first started, she thought she’d never get sick of staring at the fish; as they swam past staples of the eastern diet. Even after two years of almost daily exposure, she couldn’t keep her eyes off the tank. Indeed, her relationship with the tank had cured her tardiness, as she’d always arrive early so she might count the scats or hunt for gobies. She became so attracted to the life lived behind the glass that she got her own aquarium at home with a pair of tomato frogs: Ben and Bernadette.

But the frogs were long forgotten, as Brittany sat at the bench next to the aquarium and stared through the translucent waters, her mind beginning to fog. Despite the beautiful display before her, she couldn’t get out of her own head. Her thoughts were manic and scattered, as they dragged her in a hundred different directions and shifted her view of the world. Not that her body was feeling much better. She felt flush and agitated. She chewed at her nails, as that was about the only way to keep herself from clawing her own skin, which felt several sizes too tight. Add to that the constant banging on the door and an incessant hiss that seemed to be coming out of the very walls of the place and to be shining from the lights; and no wonder Brittany stood and started screaming incoherently at the unsuspecting fish.

She turned and stomped over to the heavy front door. Leaning over the table, she began banging on the door, and shrieking at the zombies on the other side. She screamed and bashed at the door for a good thirty seconds before anyone cared to approach. Eventually, she petered out. She turned to find that a number of customers and coworkers had gathered around her with worry and fear on their faces. At least they were smart enough to keep their distance—as she shrieked at them next. She felt like she was on fire and wanted to scratch her own skin to ribbons. She needed to cool down, and before her was a mighty tank of water.

Brittany opened the aquarium and sank an arm into the cool liquid life, then splashed herself—which brought immediate but very temporary relief—so she decided to lift the lid and crawl into the tank, only to be pulled back before she could get over the lip of the thick industrial glass.

Lorraine had rushed forward and pulled her friend back, only to regret it immediately, as Brittany tore at her arms. Lorraine jerked away, took several steps back, and screamed, “WHY?!” Immediate tears swelled in her eyes as she stared at the thin red lines beginning to blossom with crimson life.

Brittany turned and glared at her friend, then began to cry and scream and wallow on the floor in front of the aquarium, just screaming.

We gotta get rid of her,” Eriq said to the others. He put on his coat with its thick rugged arms and began forward, as Kaleb and Chef Candice rushed into the room and waved the others back.

“Hey, Brittany,” Kaleb began.

“GO ‘WAY!”

“Why don’t you come with me. We got a place for you to sleep,” Kaleb explained.

“I dowanna sleeeppp!” Brittany moaned, and rolled over uncomfortably.

“Come on,” Kaleb coaxed. “Let’s go upstairs…”

Irritated, Brittany turned herself over and began to get up. She scowled as she got to all fours, Kaleb staying just out of reach.

As soon as Brittany was up, Candice grabbed her from behind, pinned her arms to her side, and bodied her into the air.

“It’s okay,” Chef Candice said, as she held Brittany close. “Let’s get you upstairs, somewhere safe where you can rest,” she explained—though Brittany wasn’t in the mood to hear it. Instead, she flailed and screamed at her boss, while the others looked on, astounded. Except for Kaleb. He led the way to the elevator and pushed all the buttons, so Candice could just keep a good hold on Brittany.

Delirious, Brittany recognized the liquor room. She recognized it despite the fact that all the liquor was gone and the shelving had been repurposed to strengthen the cage. It was no longer keeping out meddlesome opportunists. Now it would be keeping in the maniacal.

At least for the time being... Chef knew it was only ever going to be a temporary solution. Would it get them through the week? she thought, and considered the difficulties before her. Who else was scratched? She knew there was others—like Lorraine! But she was just the latest... Where were they going to keep them all?! “We just gotta make it to tomorrow,” she said to her brother.

“What happens tomorrow?” Kaleb wondered.

“We’ll do what we did today,” Candice began. “We’ll make it to tomorrow,” she finished with a grin.

Inside the cage was a mountain of laundry: table cloths, napkins, towels in lumpy bags. Brittany didn’t notice that half of it was dirty. Nor did she care. She was pissed from being held! Chef propelled her into the cage. Brittany turned and ran back at the door—but by the time she reached it, Chef had it closed and locked. Although there were gaps in the thick wiring, Brittany couldn’t get more than a finger’s length through the door, as she stared and screamed at Chef Candice.

“You’re not getting out with that kind of attitude,” Chef Candice frowned.

Brittany raged incoherently.

Shaking her head, Candice turned off the light, and stepped from the room, though she left the outer door open. “G‘night, Brittany bunny,” she said. “Sleep tight.”

For several minutes, Brittany raged—but nothing came of her wailing. Finally tired and not remembering why she was screaming in the first place, Brittany retreated the overstuffed bags of dirty laundry. In the semi dark and relatively quiet of the liquor room, the itch didn’t burn so bad. Brittany could almost relax. After a minute or so, Brittany let off the screaming. She forgot why she was so angry in the first place, then sat, and eventually laid down on the lumpy bags of laundry. She closed her eyes, and let the warm soft darkness envelope her. It couldn’t have been an hour before the buzzing in the walls stopped. After that, she was quite comfortable, and slept for several hours. Indeed, she was feeling quite peaceful—until they brought her company.

~ eighteen ~

The Wives of Fort Carson

Angelique Mayfield sat on the couch and watched her children play, their manner subdued. She could tell they sensed her tension, her uneasiness—which ramped to a fever pitch three days ago, when they saw a random attack while they shopped at the commissary. It took half a dozen bystanders to subdue the crazy: the manager, one of the beefier clerks, and four run-of-the-mill shoppers. The ruckus didn’t end, not before the police dragged him out of the building, still fighting and kicking. There was blood all over the coffee section, which was a shame, since that was the one thing she still needed.

Then again, if she’d been a minute earlier to get the beans, she would have been involved in the violence. Indeed, there were four victims of the maniac before he was finally collared. Three had superficial wounds; but the fourth was gushing blood and half delirious. Not only was this last man bit, but the attacker had smashed him into the metal shelving and cut his cheek open and broke his jaw. With a shudder, she had turned her cart to the checkout and wondered if she could bum some of the blessed bean from one of her friends.

On her way home, Angelique had stopped by Loretta Todd’s, because she had good coffee and was game to lend her some. While they chatted, Angelique described the attack to her friend, after which Loretta told Angelique what she knew about the itching sickness that was going around, and how it was all very hush among the men. Angelique knew that Loretta’s husband was a lieutenant at the hospital, but that might not be her source. These things were said with high or low confidence, and Loretta swore this was very high confidence information.

Angelique Mayfield considered the stories that Loretta had told her. They sounded outlandish—but it made sense considering the violence she had witnessed.

For the most part, she’d stayed in with the young ones the last couple days, and when she did go out, she had her piece and her concealed carry permit in her bag.

Imagine her lack of surprise when she saw and heard nothing on the news or the radio (go figure), but all of Mrs. Mayfield’s friends were talking about it, half the time in coded texts, or walls of long story that happened to them or a a close affiliation. Every day brought word of some new attack, or two, or even three from people she knew—but the media was playing it down, saying that for some reason fight videos were surging in interest, and not that there were more actual fights in the area. It was concerning to say the least.

Still, Master Sergeant Mayfield left on his trip all the same, and now all Angelique Mayfield wanted in the world was for her husband to come home—but Master Sergeant Mayfield wouldn’t be back in town for another ten days, until he finished his temporary duty in Montana.

The doorbell chimed. Mrs. Mayfield flinched. Her children frowned and paused in their play—even the youngest, who stopped blowing raspberries at Perry, the blue heeler, because the dog turned toward the door and growled. Mrs. Mayfield forced a reassuring smile for her children as if everything was well in order, then stood, took the revolver off the top of the fridge, and let it’s weight impress some authority upon her as she held it behind her back.

With her free hand, Angelique Mayfield cracked open the door. Surprised to see a crowd on her stoop. “Lieutenant Todd,” she almost smiled. “Who are your friends?”

“Sorry to bother you,” Lieutenant Todd nodded. “We’re in a bit of a spot. Any chance we can come in?”

Mrs. Mayfield vacillated for a long second. Although this was her good friend’s husband, and she had quite a respect for the man, she also noted the hints of strain on Lieutenant Todd’s face, and had to weigh that against the safety of her children. She didn’t think her good friend’s husband wouldn’t press her for a favor unless he really needed it, and she doubted he meant her any harm... The men behind him seemed subdued, cautious, perhaps hunted… but not dangerous.

Not that they ever look dangerous. Don’t the dangerous ones do everything they can not to look dangerous? Could she trust possibly them? “Yeah, of course,” she said as she pushed open the door. “Any chance this has to do with the itching sickness?” she wondered out loud, disturbed to see blood all over the clothes of the last man.

“It does,” Lieutenant Todd nodded. “You feeling okay these days?”

“I am, thank you,” Mrs. Mayfield answered. “So what’s the trouble?” she asked, as she tucked the revolver into the waistband of her pants.

“Well, the short is that we need to get off post,” Lieutenant Todd began.

Mrs. Mayfield shook her head. “Everyone’s required on continuous ops,” she replied. “They’re barely letting civilians come and go. What’s changed?”

“Nothing on that front. The problem is that half of the top brass is sick, and Major Ing has taken over the hospital,” Lieutenant Todd continued.

“I’ve heard of this Major,” Mrs. Mayfield frowned. “What’s the long of it?”

“Strictest of confidence?” Lieutenant Todd asked.

“Of course!” Mr.s Mayfield frowned. “I know the code!”

“This is Special Agent Kenzie, with the DIA,” Lieutenant Todd introduced. “His partner was shot and killed, and he was arrested, though he did nothing wrong. Seymour, the doc and I broke him out of the brig, along with these others; and now we’re all AWOL—”

“Jesus Jackson!” Private Seymour snapped. “What’d you tell her all that for?!”

Lieutenant Todd turned on the private. “You agreed to follow my lead, and she can’t help us if she doesn’t know what’s going on,” he replied.

“If she wanted to, we could get in some serious shit!” Private Seymour stated.

“She said strictest of confidence,” Lieutenant Todd answered. “You mind if I get back to the matter at hand?”

Private Seymour huffed, folded his arms, and pressed himself into a corner.

“Can you call my wife?” Lieutenant Todd asked. “I put my phone down a vent so they can’t track it.”

“He broke mine and threw it in the field,” Private Seymour groused, mostly to himself.

“I broke mine too,” Dr. Fateh reminded the young private.

“That serious, eh?” Mrs. Mayfield asked, wide-eyed.

“They know that we’re gone,” Lieutenant Todd continued. “It’s just a matter of time until they track our phones. I doubt they’re listening on my wife just yet, but I’d give it fifty-fifty they got eyes on her before the end of the hour,” Lieutenant Todd stated.

Mrs. Mayfield turned and collected her phone from her purse. “I think I can manage a little tact,” she added as she dialed Loretta Todd’s number. “Now be quiet. I have to think,” she continued, as the phone rang. “Hey, princess!” she began. “You still feeling a tad too admired?”

“Hi Lindsey! Uh… I mean… you know… sometimes a body just wants to be left alone,” Loretta played along, sensing there was a point to this strange introduction.

“That’s the spirit!” Lindsey Mayfield continued with a smile. “Haters abound, but you can’t let them wreck your day. Turn away from wickedness is what I say!”

“I’ve heard you say it,” Loretta Todd replied, then let off, since she was still trying to figure out what her good friend was saying. It might all be a lark, nothing but fun and games; but then again, it might not. It might be secret code. Weirder things had happened. Whichever it was, she’d let her friend poke along however she would. After all, it was her call, and she was still trying to suss out what was happening...

“Well, you know what they say,” Lindsey Mayfield continued. “Tomorrow never comes!”

“They do say that, don’t they,” Loretta Todd replied, realizing that whatever was going on, it was happening now—and with haters around? Were there eyes on her? If so, there were probably ears, which explained the code…

“Speaking of tomorrow, I wish you’d come over! There’s so much to tell you, so much to talk about,” Lindsey Mayfield continued. “We have serious matters to discuss. No fluff or filler—but that’s just the way it is with you and me—so so serious! You’ll come see me tomorrow, won’t you? You’ll come see me just as soon as you can?” she asked with a heavy pout.

“Yes! Yes, of course I will!” Loretta Todd answered. So now there were contradictory tomorrows, which meant that the tomorrows were likely met for different people… Did Lindsey want her to come over as soon as possible? She was meant to know that tomorrow never comes and that she was to come over as soon as possible, while anyone listening would assume that the actual visit would not happen until tomorrow? Was that the message?! Is that what she was to make of it?!

Were there really eyes on her?!

Loretta had to restrain herself from rushing to the curtains and peaking out the window. “I’ll be over first thing,” she continued, both specific and vague. “You feeling okay?” she asked, feeling quite queasy herself. The last few days had been a little stressful and put her out of sorts. Was she just imagining this was some sort of emergency, when her friend was just being quirky?

“I’m good,” Angelique answered. “All things considered, I’m doing quite well—just a little down is all. Dan ain’t home for another week,” she answered. “I can’t abide it! I want to run from my troubles! Will you come too? Will you run away with me, darling?”

“For a long weekend?” Loretta Todd answered, as her concern continued to grow. Though Lindsey had her fanciful moments, they never lasted this long! Indeed, she was usually rather straight forward and matter-of-fact. But all this was said in such a dramatic manner and with such a heavy dose of something unspoken, something off, something sinister. What more did her good friend know, and how did she know it? “Just until your hubby comes home?” she continued to hedge.

“Pish posh! You think I’d ask you to leave your man if it wasn’t forever?!” Lindsey pressed. “I’m aiming for a fresh start with the true love of my life!”

Private Seymour shook his head as he listened to Angelique’s half the conversation. “Is she going to do anything more than flirt?” he whispered to Special Agent Kenzie.

“You ain’t never heard a lady talk code to one of her girlfriends?” Kenzie replied to the private. “Trust me, it’s unbreakable, just like Navajo,” he nodded at the woman, as she listened to her friend’s reply.

On the other end of the phone, Loretta Todd could practically hear her heart, it was beating so loud. “Oh my!” she paused. If she was reading this correctly, her one true love—Lieutenant Todd—was at the Mayfields! And once she got there, they were never going home?! Could that be it?!

If her husband was in trouble, well that explained why anyone would be listening. They would be looking for her husband. Was she to believe that he’d somehow made his way to the Mayfields—and now he was waiting for her to join? Well, she’d need to be careful, because they must be watching her too.

As one would…

Was that the gist of it? Could that be accurate? Tears came to her eyes as her stress levels soared. Loretta couldn’t think of anything to say, so there was dead air for several long seconds before she finally spoke. “Anything for true love,” she answered. “Let’s keep it secret. I don’t think others would understand.” She answered in a jovial tone, hoping to appear playful and over-the-top.

“Of course, my love,” Lindsey Mayfield agreed with a deep sigh. “Well, I gotta go pack an overnight bag, and the baby needs a bath.”

“Okay… Okay,” Loretta’s mind was spinning. “Call me if you get a minute?”

“Might be a couple hours, but then maybe I can tuck you in if you’re having trouble sleeping?” Mrs. Mayfield hung up. She smiled and nodded at Lieutenant Todd. “I think that did it.”

“Good,” he nodded back. “Now how do we free her up—assuming that there are eyes and ears on her?”

“That’s a bit more of a trick,” Mrs. Mayfield frowned. “I’m going to need to bring in reinforcements, a bit of the brain trust. All top notch and devoted to the cause, of course.”

Lieutenant Todd nodded, “Let’s do it.”

“Sammie,” Mrs. Mayfield called to her oldest daughter. “Go next door and tell Mrs. Baker that I need to see her immediately, and ask her to bring her phone.”

With a nod, Sophie opened the front door and disappeared into the night.

“What the hell!?” Private Seymour complained. “Now we’re telling the neighbors?!”

Lieutenant Todd held up a calming hand—but Mrs. Mayfield pushed it aside and said, “Private, does it bother you that I want to have a friend over to my own home?” She studied the young man.

Blank-faced, Private Seymour stared back at the imposing and rather attractive woman before him. “Yes ma’am,” he admitted. “I don’t think most people would look kindly on me after I betrayed my post.”

“Oh? Was it betrayed?” she wondered, somewhat shocked at the qualification, and somewhat not.

“No!” Private Seymour replied. “I mean, not the way I see it!” He turned and pointed at Kenzie. “Armand murdered his partner, and Major Ing covered it up! I won’t be party to that! But some people, some people might see it as a dereliction of duty,” he explained.

“Yes, but some people have no sense of integrity,” Mrs. Mayfield responded. “Who’s this Armand?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him before.”

“Sergeant Armand,” Private Seymour began. “He runs my platoon. He’s Major Ing’s little protege. He’s half as smart and twice as bad.”

“I believe you, Private Seymour, and you know why I believe you?” Mrs. Mayfield asked.

“Because I’m telling the truth?” Private Seymour reasoned.

“I sense that—though a good liar might fool me,” Mrs. Mayfield grinned as she shook her head. “No, I believe you because Lieutenant Todd hasn’t contradicted you. You see, I know Lieutenant Todd. I’m a good friend of his wife. He knows my husband and my children. We’ve broken bread together. So now he needs my help—and admittedly it’s more help than I know how to give—so you know what I’m going to do about it?”

“No,” Private Seymour replied.

“I’m going to gather my resources , people I trust with my own life; because me helping a bunch of deserters is big trouble, not just for you, but for me too, and for anyone else that I include,” Mrs. Mayfield put a gentle hand on his arm. “So will you trust me? Will you trust my friends? If you do, I promise I will do everything I can to get us all out of this mess, okay?”

For several long seconds, Private Seymour stared at the older woman, suddenly in love with her—but not wanting to show it. “Yes ma’am,” he said with a slow swallow, then stared at his feet. “Anything you ask,” he admitted in a whisper.

The front door opened. Sammie entered, followed by a middle aged lady that pulled up short when she saw all the men in the room. “Oh!” she gasped, as she saw the blood all over Chase’s clothes.

“He is a bit concerning, isn’t he?” Mrs. Mayfield considered the young man. “Sophie, go get one of your dad’s old t-shirts,” she ordered, then turned to the others. “At least we can clean up the top half of him…”

Sophie stepped from the room.

Angelique Mayfield turned to Mrs. Baker and wrapped her in a hug. “Thank you for coming! I need to borrow your phone.”

“Well, of course,” she pulled her phone from her pocket. “What’s going on over here?!” she wondered out loud as she studied the strangers.

“Give me just a sec, and we’ll get into that,” Mrs. Mayfield nodded to her neighbor, then dialed a number. “Hey Carlotta!… No, this is Lindsey Mayfield… Yeah, I would’ve, but I called the wrong person, so now they might be listening… Yeah, ‘they’ they—whoever they are… Sorry for the inconvenience, but can you come over? Immediately please? I got a problem you might be able to fix… Mrs. Eurich?!…” she frowned. “I… I don’t think you should…” there was a long pause. “Well, consider this above top secret, then do what you think is best. I trust you…” she shrugged as she deflated. “See you soon,” she finished in surrender.

“Who’s Mrs. Eurich?” Lieutenant Todd asked.

“A close friend of Carlotta Steele,” Mrs. Mayfield shook her head. “We had beef, so she may be stand-offish—or maybe she just hates the lot of us—I’ve never been able to peg her.”

Lieutenant Todd tensed. “Will she be a problem?”

“No,”Mrs. Mayfield shrugged. “She might not help, but she’d be taking a major risk if she turned against us.”

Mrs. Baker nodded in agreement. “If she did anything suspect, we’d break out the knives and she’d never have a minute’s peace.”

“Why is it that women prefer knives over guns?” Private Seymour wondered.

“Because they’re quiet, and they’re up close and personal. They put the romance in killing,” Mrs. Baker grinned. “Now how about you answer a couple of my questions?” she leaned into the private.

For the next twenty minutes, Private Seymour, Lieutenant Todd, Special Agent Kenzie, Dr. Hakeem Fateh, Danel Gronalosken, and Chase McAllister Chen answered a battery of rapid fire questions—only for Carlotta Steele and Mrs. Eurich to show up and ask nearly all the same questions for over an hour before the growing gaggle of women was satisfied.

“So how do we get my wife over here?” Lieutenant Todd asked once the women finished with their interrogation.

“I think we can do that without too much hassle,” Carlotta Steele grinned, then pulled her phone from her purse—and much to the chagrin of Private Seymour—dialed another number. “Hey Julie!…” Carlotta began. “Listen up, darling. I got a problem, and I think you’re the perfect solution! You know Loretta Todd?… That’s the one! I need you to host an intervention, ASAP… Yeah, yeah! A proper intervention! There may be eyes and possibly ears on our poor girl… It’s not verified, mind you. I’m playing a hunch…”

“Get Scarlet,” Mrs. Eurich suggested, thinking it might be time to tell Scarlet about her husband.

“Good idea!” Carlotta whispered, then returned her attention back to the phone. “Take Scarlet with you. If there are eyes, use her as a distraction—and remind her to look fantastic without trying to look fantastic? We want their attention without them knowing that we want their attention, okay?… I know, but she can be a little eager is all… Once our friend is free and clear, can you get her a ride over here?”

“Bring Scarlet,” Mrs. Eurich added.

“Did you hear that?—oh! And we’re at the Mayfield’s, just so you know,” Carlotta Steele noted, then put her hand over the mic. “What about Raven?”

Mrs. Eurich shrugged. “Raven’s fine.”

“Sounds good, darling,” Carlotta said to the phone. “Give us a ring when you’re about to move. We’ll let Loretta know you’re coming. Don’t call her directly, okay? Eyes and ears, mind you—but we’ve got a burned line, so let us use it... I know... I love you too. Thank you for this,” she hung up and smiled at the growing crowd. “Well then. Once she gets here, how do we get you all off base?”

“Now that’s a good question,” Lieutenant Todd confirmed, as he scratched the back of his neck.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“Blessed Buchanan,” Private Hewitt complained, as he sat in a car and stared at the dark house. “Why do we got to do this in twelve hour shifts? With everyone on post, aren’t there plenty of us to do eights instead?”

“Keep complaining and you’re done with the donuts,” Lieutenant Sabino said with his eyes still closed.

But the grousing continued as Private Hewitt stared at the dark house. “You know, If I wanted to do stakeouts, I’d’ve gone civilian,” he replied, as he dug another fritter from the box of pastries. “I mean, the lights went out half an hour ago! Do we really gotta sit out here the whole time she slee—?”

A knock at the driver’s window interrupted the private’s question. Lieutenant Sabino flinched, sat up, and stared out his window at a couple young beauties. They had a bored rottweiler on a leash, and also a skittish french bulldog. The women were striking, even in simple jeans and t-shirts. As quick as he could, Lieutenant Sabino rolled down the window. “Ladies,” he smiled. “Is there something we can do for you?”

“Depends,” the dark-haired stunner stared. “More than anything I’m just a little curious what you’re doing outside my house,” she claimed.

“Official business, ma’am,” Lieutenant Sabino replied, more than happy to be difficult with the beauty. Anything to keep her around and asking questions. “Which one of these houses is yours?” he grinned at the dark-haired wonder.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” the other one snorted, a captivating ginger. “You boys up to no good?” She asked with a hand on her ample hip.

“That’s a matter of national security,” Lieutenant Sabino smirked.

“Is that so?” the dark-haired beauty sparked. She feigned intrigue, then cocked her head and continued, “well, we’re the neighborhood watch, so feel free to spill the tea.”

“We’re on watch oursel—” Private Hewitt began.

“Shut up,” Lieutenant Sabino cut in, then glared at the girls. “No tea for us, ladies. And we have plenty of coffee, so thanks,” he concluded.

“Looks like they’re pleading the fifth,” the ginger mused, then gave a shrug. She leaned in at the window, giving a nice view of her cleavage, then gave a wave of her hair and settled herself with a smile. “So what side arm do you carry?” she batted her eyes as she stared at the private in the passenger seat.

“Give us your names and maybe we’ll tell,” Lieutenant Sabino countered.

“My name’s Raven,” the ginger smiled. “That’s Scarlet,” she pointed at her dark-haired friend.

“You’re Raven?” Lieutenant Sabino began, amused. “And she’s Scarlet? Did your parents mix you up at birth?”

“For your information, I was named after Scarlet O’Hara, and I can’t help it that I look so much like a young Elizabeth Taylor,” Scarlet explained.

“Elizabeth who?” Lieutenant Sabino wondered. “Do you mean Vivien Leigh?”

Scarlet glared. “If you’re going to mock us, we got nothing more to say,” she threatened and took a step back. “Night, fellas!”

“He’s got a Glock 21 and I carry a Browning 1911,” Private Hewitt cut in.

“Ooo, I do like the classics!” Raven winked at the enlisted. A faint clang caught in the distance, and the frenchie let out a low growl as it stared across the street. “Oh, Abdul, do be quiet!” she rebuked the dog and gave a bit of a tug on the taut leash.

“You named your frenchie Abdul?” Lieutenant Sabino wondered.

“Of course!” Scarlet leaned over her friend. “These days Abdul is a perfectly french name,” she beamed, her pearly whites shining—not that she was feeling it. She wanted to ask about the itching sickness. She wanted to ask about her husband that hadn’t been home in almost a week. But such questions would put these men on edge and make them suspicious. Besides, it was a big post. Chances were they’d never met and didn’t know Private Scott Mander. Well, suspicion was the last thing she wanted, so she tossed her hair and asked the question that she least wanted to ask. She knew it’d keep their attention, and wasn’t that the game? “You two married?” she wondered out loud. “You got girlfriends?” she pouted.

“Not I,” Private Hewitt confirmed.

“Me neither,” Lieutenant Sabino lied. “You know, it’s rather chilly out there. Why don’t the two of you join us in the car? We got donuts.”

Raven shook her head. “There’s barely a breeze, and we don’t mind if we chill,” she said with a satisfied grin.

“Well, we think it’s best if you join us,” Lieutenant Sabino continued to push. “Indeed, we’d be shirking our duties if we didn’t get a couple bomb shells like you back to the armory,” he grinned.

“What?!” Scarlet guffawed. She backed away as Raven laughed with her.

“Well if that ain’t some rank cheese!” Raven snorted. “Points for a good line, but we’re not the type to go for a few easy words!” She beamed, and with Scarlet right behind her, she leaned in at the window once more. “What unit are you with?” she asked. “And if you say demolition, we’re out!”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Loretta had spent an hour scrambling about the house, packing several bags full of the things she refused to leave. She also grabbed her husband’s bug-out bag, and stuffed another one full of the things she wanted him to have. After that, she sat, and began her vigil. That’s when the worry started to creep in. Was her husband really in some grand amount of trouble?! What had he done to require all this sneaking about?!

Or what if all of this was just a grand misunderstanding, or simply a lark? What if this was much ado about nothing, just Lindsey being bored and taking advantage of the fact that times are strange? Well, if that was the case, she could always feel stupid about it while she unpacked their things. But if Lieutenant was in trouble, and she didn’t pack?! Well, that would be a travesty!

After doing nothing but worrying for several minutes, she turned off all the lights, since it was a good time to go to bed anyway—and she didn’t want to see all the things she was going to miss. Besides, as the night continued, it’d only be more and more suspicious if the lights remained on. They were off a good ten minutes before she finally built up the courage to look out the window and see if she could spot anyone that might be watching her. She pulled the curtain back a fraction. The only thing she could see was a car several houses down, parked on the wrong side of the street and staring right at her. There were a couple bodies inside, and she decided it might be a thing—except there were two lovely young women standing at the driver’s side window—so it seemed like nothing more than the end of a double date.

Loretta Todd watched the car and women, and wondered if she was paranoid. There was plenty to frighten her, what with the itching sickness, Angelique Mayfield’s weird call, and the fact that her husband was required on continuous ops for the foreseeable future. But then, wasn’t everything an emergency in the military? Every time some foreign politician rattled a saber? Every report out of Washington hinting at an imminent invasion? What was the chance that this was any different? Maybe Angelique was losing her cool and giving into the fear porn. Maybe it was best to go to bed and check on her friend first thing in the morning, as she had said…

Her phone buzzed. She turned to the coffee table and glanced down to see a message from Angelique. It read:

It’s time I put the kid’s to bed

Loretta’s heart raced as she read the short line again and again. She resisted the urge to reply. There was nothing to say to the short comment anyway. After all, it was nothing but a simple statement of fact—and Loretta was quite sure that the only part that mattered were the fist two words: it’s time.

She breathed and tried to calm herself. There was so much to fear, and yet she was excited to start, excited to see her husband and figure out what was coming next. Whatever was happening, it was big, and her husband was somehow at the center of it.

Yet, this seemed like too much—all this cloak and dagger—over what?! The itching sickness?!

But what else could it be?! After all, the itching sickness had infected everything. It only started four days ago, and it was beginning to crop up everywhere!

If it was the itching sickness, then it must be much worse than she imagined! That put her on edge. Was this just the first part of a greater attack? Could it be Russia? Or China? Or perhaps it was rogue elements within the U.S. government?! Maybe her husband got wind of some false flag operation he wasn’t supposed to know about, and now he had to run!

She shook her head. It all seemed too ridiculous, too dramatic, too sudden. Well, it was certainly possible that this was just a lot of paranoia and hysteria in a big mix of coincidence. Indeed, this could be anything—or perhaps it was nothing at all! Perhaps this was all just some elaborate scheme to get Loretta over to Lindsey’s for a massive party… late at night… while Lindsey’s husband was away, and her children were asleep…

Okay, so that wouldn’t be it.

A slight scratching sounded from the back door. It quit, then started again a few seconds later. Nerves on fire, Loretta crept through the dark room. With a baton in her off-hand, she cracked open the door.

“Oh!” A surprised Julie flinched away and put a calming hand on her chest. “I knew you were going to open it, and somehow you still managed to surprise me!” she exclaimed with a mischievous grin—though the words were barely above a whisper.

Loretta grabbed Julie and pressed her lips close to her good friend’s ear. “I’m so glad you’re here!” she breathed the words. “They didn’t see you, did they?!”

“Impossible!” Julie beamed. “Scarlet and Raven are flirting up a storm! But let’s not take too long. Half the men on this post aren’t worth knowing, and despite all her raw talent, I don’t think Scarlet’s heart is in it.”

“So this is really happening?!” Loretta wondered. “I can’t—I just don’t understand!”

“Well, you’ve got two pair of eyes staring right at you, so something’s up,” Julie replied, then shook her head. “You have any idea what this is all about?”

“Something to do with the hubby,” Loretta admitted. “Though I suppose it has everything to do with the itching sickness too.”

“Cripes,” Julie shook hear head. “Why does everything have to be so god-damned secret around here?!” she fumed as she followed Loretta into the house. “I mean, from me,” she continued. “I know why other people keep other people from knowing about anything, but why keep it from me?!”

“Help me with these bags?” Loretta asked, as she collected several pieces of luggage.

Julie attempted to lift the first bag. “Holy Hoover!” she fussed. “You packin’ weights in this duffel?!”

“Ammo—among other things,” Loretta smiled. “Let me get that one. That one’s my husband’s. Take this one instead.”

“Well, whatever you got in here, it ain’t much lighter,” Julie noted as she shouldered the other bag. “Is this everything?”

“No,” Loretta answered. “But we can’t possibly take everything now, can we?”

“Guess not,” Julie shook her head. “Where’d you put your phone?”

“It’s still on the coffee table,” she noted. “I thought it might be best to leave it.”

“Indeed, I was specifically told to make sure you leave it,” Julie smiled. “Besides, I don’t think we have the strength to lift it anyway! Not with everything else we have in hand!” She struggled under the weight of the bags. “What did your husband do to merit all this?!”

“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?” Loretta shrugged. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Perhaps,” Julie said, as she struggled under the bags. “I’ll be framed and frog-watered,” she sighed. “It’s only Monday, and I feel like this week is never going to end,” she lamented in a whisper as she pulled open the back door and slunk into the yard. “How are we going to get these bags over the fence?! I mean, Mary Mother of Nixon, they’re heavier than a lifetime of catholic guilt!”

Loretta shrugged. “We’ll just push ‘em over the top and hope that none of the bullets go off.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Abdul growled at the dull thud that Scarlet would not have registered if the dog hadn’t reacted. She wondered that the two soldiers missed the sound—until she remembered the distracting nature of Raven’s bust. With a bit of a grin, she continued to play and parley—asking questions she didn’t care to have answered—until her phone vibrated in her back pocket. As Raven continued to flirt with the distracted soldiers, she checked the message. It was nothing but a thumb’s up emoji from Julie. With a hand on her friend’s shoulder, Scarlet started away. Halfway through her line, Raven turned and followed.

“Hey! Where are you going?!” a disappointed Lieutenant Sabino called after the women. “I thought you lived right here?!”

“Yes, but there’s riff-raff on the street, so tonight I’ll stay with my friend,” Scarlet replied as she leaned on Raven and continued to walk away.

“Come back!” Lieutenant Sabino sagged as he leaned out the window. “When do we see you again?!”

“I’d guess the next time there’s a menace in the neighborhood,” Raven called. “We do hope it’s soon!” she smiled and blew a kiss at the men.

“What do you say you meet us in the morning?” the officer continued. “Eden’s Apple, say… seven o’clock?”

“We drinking?” Scarlet asked.

“Bloody marys and mimosas,” Lieutenant Sabino smiled. “They have an excellent breakfast croissant!” he said.

“Sounds nice,” Scarlet replied. “If we’re getting up that early, we better get to bed,” she waved as she continued on her way.

“So you’re going to join us?” Private Hewitt had his window down and he was also hanging out the side.

Raven gave a wave. “Night, boys!” she said, as she pulled a distracted Abdul and Raven’s bored Rottweiler after her.

The soldiers barked several additional solicitations, but the ladies couldn’t make them out cleanly as the distance increased.

Back in the car, Lieutenant Sabino slapped Private Hewitt across the chest with the back of his hand.

“Hey!” Private Hewitt complained. “What was that for?!”

“You chased ‘em off, loser!” Lieutenant Sabino glared.

“Pfft!” Private Hewitt huffed. “I’m shocked they talked to either of us as long as they did!” he replied. “Take it for what it was: a brush with the divine!” he claimed, and tore into the fritter, as he stared at the back end of the retreating angels. “I mean the red-head was a 10—but the other—Jesus H. Roosevelt! I’d weep just to see her smile again!”

“She was something, wasn’t she?” Lieutenant Sabino sighed. Oh well. He’d think of her the next time he rolled Amanda on her stomach.

(If you’re enjoying this, please donate, because donating is love.)

Chapter 19: The First Night of the Zombie Apocalypse

Since Kaleb had locked the market, the aquarium was the only way to see inside the little grocer, only now it was Lorraine that sat on the bench and stared through the glass, the water, and the fish. She sat and stared at the normalcy of the store with its neat lines of product, and thought about the world of yesterday—a day before zombies—as tears flowed down her cheeks. Suffering new troubles, she longed for the shortcomings of a daily routine she knew all too well; that had bred a fair amount of apathy, aversion, and contempt with its constant mediocrity. At least she could navigate that world without much hassle. Here and now she could not even go home to her own space. “Why me?” she whimpered, as she tried to ignore the long scratches that Brittany had gifted her, of a heat that was building in her arms. “Why?! Why me?!”

Hours before, Lorraine had arrived at The Fish House in a frustrated state, griping to her friends about the exigencies of modern urban life. She complained about her difficulties at work and the ongoing low-key feud with her ex-lover—all of which now seemed insignificant, even petty, compared to the undying mob that banged relentless against the door! Indeed, the last few hours had grown increasingly untenable, making the difficulties of the dying age seem acceptable—even desirable—in retrospect.

Staring at the unknowing uncaring fish in their tank, Lorraine wasn’t sure if she should lament the fact that she was now infected—or should she be thankful that she would no longer have to suffer as one of the living? It was a question of how far things would deteriorate. Would she turn and hunt her loved ones, or would she stay herself—so she might struggle and suffer just to survive; running from zombies, exposed to the elements, with meager and tasteless sustenance on the rare occasions when she could find it? Would she find herself wishing she had died in the initial days of the outbreak, when dying was easy, when practically everyone was doing it?

“WHY ME?!” she cried.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lorraine caught a glimpse of someone approaching and almost jumped out of he skin, thinking the zombies had managed to get through the door. But it wasn’t a monster. It was just Mayzee, with a soft comforting smile on her face, and a margarita in hand; half-rimmed with salt.

“Oh, thank the Roosevelts for you!” Lorraine breathed, with one hand on her heart. A wan smile creased her lips, as she accepted the smooth blend of liquor, juice, and sugar. “I really need this,” she admitted. She took a long sip and smiled—though the smile disappeared, to be replaced with a frown. “Is Chef really going to hold us to just the one?!” she asked, and pretended her tears had everything to do with the limited alcohol, and not the absurdity of zombies at the door, nor the fact that she was scratched and nearly at her wit’s end as she contemplated her own turning.

“I’m sure she meant that for the staff. Otherwise, I suppose I shall have to serve the customers as much as they like,” Mayzee winked.

Indeed, Candice had meant exactly what she said about no more than one drink per person—but Mayzee and Kaleb had pulled the chef aside and argued against such a stringent policy. Shouldn’t they use all means available, including a bit of excessive alcohol, to soothe the jangled nerves of their charges? After all, there would only ever be one ‘first night of the zombie apocalypse’…? Chef Candice wasn’t above the logic and rationale of her underlings, and so she allowed herself to be swayed. Besides, this wasn’t the military. Indeed, these were the softest and sweetest of civilians, genteel in the face of hangry patrons—and just as soldiers need weapons to fight their enemies, wait staff need hard drinks and soft pastries to coddle the jangled emotions of their patrons. So Chef had agreed. Whatever it took to keep the customers calm and cooperative would be employed—but Mayzee was told to pour slow and stretch the time between rounds. It’d do no good to let things get out of hand in the other direction. But then, going slow would be easy for the substitute bartender. She wasn’t the fastest, and definitely not the most practiced at mixing drinks. She spent a lot of time double-checking recipes, and measuring ingredients with an exactness that a trained hand like Craig would have managed by instinct alone.

Mayzee stared at Lorraine, the generous regular, and gave a nod to the phone. “Did you and Renata get through to anybody?”

Lorraine shook her head. “Alej was the only one that answered.”

“What’d he have to say?” Mayzee queried.

“He talked to Renata, not me, but I guess he said this whole thing was a ruse before the call got dropped,” Lorraine sulked. “Do you think he might have escaped? Do you think he might be alright?”

“Well, he’s young, strong, and fairly bright,” Mayzee replied with a shrug. “He’s got as good a chance as anyone, so hopefully,” she said, and put a calming hand on Lorraine’s shoulder. “It’d sure be good to have him around.”

“I guess we’ll see,” Lorraine replied without much hope. She figured anyone beyond these walls was already dead, or maybe still going through the long slow process of dying, much like herself. She took another deep pull of the margarita, her sad soft eyes locked on the chartreuse liquid as it drained over the salt-dabbled rim.

Mayzee sat next to Lorraine, then gathered her in for a hug. “You hang in there, okay? Don’t forget, there’s a cure,” she smiled. “It’s all going to be fine!”

“Oh, right,” Lorraine almost cracked a smile. There’s a cure! Her shoulders sagged, as if a mighty weight had been removed and she could relax her strained muscles. “You know, this all seems so unreal, so unfathomably dark, that there should be such a simple answer to this incredible problem.”

“This ain’t the movies. The world hasn’t ended just yet,” Mayzee grinned and squeezed her shoulder. “Where’s Renata?”

Lorraine sniffed and wiped her eyes. “She’s been in and out of the restroom, as if she might possibly save her make-up with another round of dabbing,” she began. “Each time she comes out, she’s back to crying in a matter of minutes—not that I blame her,” she shrugged, then waved at the door. “Freakin’ Ford, that banging is incessant! No wonder the poor thing is in such a frazzled state!”

“It’s getting on everyone’s nerves,” Mayzee nodded. “Chef says the construction of those doors would give the proper Stasi fits for hours, so…” she continued—though she wasn’t totally convinced. “Why don’t you come away from the entrance and help me pass out drinks? The doors are going to hold with or without us sitting here, and if they do come down, wouldn’t it be better to be further away?”

“That’s assuming we want to survive,” Lorraine groused, though she stood and followed after the bartender.

Mayzee took the next drink from her line of finished cocktails. With Lorraine in tow, she walked this one to Mrs. Murphy.

The old lady broke from her revelry and turned to the approaching girls. “Oh, thank Eisenhower!” she smiled as she took the sidecar from Mayzee.

Mayzee smiled back and put a kind hand on the older woman’s arm. “You just let us know when you want another,” she winked.

“But Chef said just the one,” Mrs. Murphy noted.

“And since when do the Murphys not get special treatment?” Mayzee stared. “You’ve been visiting The Fish House since we were tucked away on the wrong end of Cucharras!”

“I should think that was back before you were born,” Mrs. Murphy sighed.

“Yes, but I’ve heard the stories—and none of them were ever about the Murphys overdoing it,” Mayzee grinned.

“All right, dear,” Mrs. Murphy smiled. “If that’s the way it is, then I’ll want another just as soon as I can get it!” she said and took a long pull on her drink.

“Lorraine, why don’t you stay with Mrs. Murphy and keep her company?” Mayzee suggested.

“That’d be lovely,” Mrs. Murphy smiled and took Lorraine’s hand. “I love the wave of your hair!”

“Oh!” Lorraine blushed, took a seat, and gave Mrs. Murphy’s hand an appreciative squeeze.

“And darling?” Mrs. Murphy called after the retreating bartender. “Next time you’re in the kitchen, will you check on Phil and see that he’s alright?” she asked. “See to it that he puts a little neosporin on the scratches that awful man gave him. He can be a bit boorish about such things, so you tell him I said so, and then maybe he’ll do it,” she fussed.

Mayzee gave a nod as she continued away from the two.

At the far end of the room, Renata returned with a dozen tea lights floating in a metal mixing bowl, her makeup smudged and streaky. She set the bowl in the center of the room and lit the candles. Halfway through lighting the candles, the lights went out. A hushed murmur washed through the crowd. Expectantly, Renata turned to the door—but the banging continued unabated. ”Well, that didn’t seem to phase ‘em!” she pouted. “Curse all Whigs! Now we can’t see, and the zombies are still going to eat us!” she cried.

“Hush now,” Mayzee replied. “Let’s give it a little more time,” she continued. “That door’s not buckling,” she added, not totally convinced herself. After all, it’s not like they could see the fastenings, as they were obscured by the massive table. If the doors were giving, would they even know it?

But then, there were also the table to get through...

Craig came down the stairs, stretched and leaned against the bar. Officer DeLaceya followed and sat next to him. He turned to the front door and shook his head disapprovingly, while the young copper gazed at the twin admiringly. With the generators off, she could no longer hear the long familiar buzz of electricity running through the walls. Admittedly, there was a tinge of doubt about whether or not the zombies could hear it—but she was pleased that Craig had agreed to see the generators all turned off in order to test her hypothesis. After all, they could always turn them back on.

“What next?” she asked the camouflaged twin.

Craig shrugged. “You mean after we give ‘em a little time to wander off?”

“Yeah,” Officer DeLaceya nodded.

“Well, at some point I gotta go see about my dad,” Craig frowned. “In the meantime, I’d like to have a nip of the good stuff with my sister,” he grinned, as Chef Candice entered the room.

“Everybody,” Chef began in a sure tone. “Please put your phones in airplane mode, or power them off completely, so there’s no signal going out.”

“Do you really think that matters?” Eriq asked.

“No idea,” Chef replied. “I figure if they can sense the electricity in the walls, maybe they can hear the WiFi too.”

Eriq turned off his phone. “They’re not working anyway, and I might want the battery for later,” he reasoned.

Now that the generators were down Officer DeLaceya was hearing something else, something faint, but growing more insistent. It was the call of nature. She crossed her legs so as not to lose a drop. She turned to Craig and said, “I’ll be back,” then hopped off the stool and made for the lady’s room with a tea candle to light the way.

Chef took her place at the bar. “She’s rather into you,” she grinned.

“Pfft!” Craig waved the comment away. “So that’s it? We just keep the generators off so the zombies never come back?”

“I certainly hope not!” Chef answered. “If we can’t turn the generators on from time to time, our food will spoil.”

“Yeah, but that won’t happen for a while. How long do we got? Days, maybe weeks, if you can keep the dummies out of the walk-ins?” Craig wondered.

“Several days,” Chef Candice nodded. “We’ll just wait as long as we can, then turn ‘em back on. But the longer we wait, the longer we’ll have to run the generators to get everything back down to the proper temperatures.”

“Agreed, but the longer we keep the generators off, the longer the zombies have to wander away,” Craig argued. “The further they get, the less likely they are to come back when we turn the generators back on.”

Candice nodded. “We’ll hold off until the thermostats dip into the red. Then the generators come back on and we live with whatever happens, knowing that we did all that we could.”

“That’s a plan,” Craig smiled. “How much fuel do we have?”

“We got a fill last Wednesday, and we usually dip down to about thirty percent between fills, so a little over two weeks if we ran at full capacity—which we won’t,” Chef Candice calculated. “We have to run the generators off it, but we won’t be using the stoves and ovens as much, so I’d say we’re good for at least a month,” she speculated. “Maybe two.”

“Doesn’t sound like long,” Craig frowned. “Maybe it wasn’t a good thing when dad disconnected us from the city’s gas.”

“It’ll be a good thing if the gas goes off,” Chef replied. “Let’s say it lasts a couple months. At that point, will we have any food to keep in the freezers? At that point, the question becomes, how long is this zombie apocalypse gonna last? Might we be blessed with a short one?”

“I dunno,” Craig shrugged. “This is the first one I’ve ever experienced—but popular media makes it out like this is just the way it is now. It’s nothing but zombies from here to eternity.”

“Is that so?” Chef frowned. “Well, I hope the stories are wrong. I mean, don’t they have to eat too? What happens when they run out of food?”

Craig feigned disgust. “That’s a terrible thing to ask their food,” he replied. “Besides, this isn’t your normal zombie story. Normal zombie stories don’t have a cure,” he grinned. “I doubt we’ll be at this for two whole months.”

Chef Candice gave a nod. “And normal zombies, don’t take hours or days to turn,” she answered. “So what else is different about real zombies?”

“Who knows,” Craig shrugged. “None of this is supposed to be possible.”

“Yeah, but since it is happening, we can surmise that it must have happened before,” Chef Candice considered. “And if it’s happened before, our ancestors must have survived it.”

“My ancestors or yours?” Craig turned and stared at his adopted sister.

Chef Candice smirked, “But aren’t we both Chinese?”

Craig giggled, then hugged her, happy to hear the old joke. In a way they were both Chinese. Neither one of them remembered much of anything before the Chens. Candice had an inkling of life in the orphanage, since she was adopted at the ripe age of six. Two years later, the Chens adopted Craig and Chase at the tender age of four. Kaleb was added a year later, little more than a sprout at eleven months. On top of that, none of them looked like the others—except for the twins. Candice was pale and blonde with large eyes and a soft round face, while the twins were heavily melanated, with dark eyes, and kinky hair. Kaleb was somewhere in between these two extremes. He was tan with dark straight hair and a thin angular face—but he didn’t look Asian. No. He looked Southern European, or maybe Middle Eastern. Indeed, whenever the four children introduced themselves, nobody ever believed they were related—except for the twins—and then only a sharp eye could tell those two apart.

“So what makes you think our ancestors have survived something like this?” Craig wondered. “Could this not be a new thing? Perhaps coming out of some lab?”

“Like Umbrella Corp?” Candice shrugged. “I dunno. I just figured if this is happening now, it must have happened before,” she reasoned. “Nothing new under the sun, and all that…”

“But isn’t there a first time for everything?” Craig countered.

“I suppose,” Candice figured.

Craig stared his sister in the eye. “Do you think we’ll ever know what caused this?”

“Only if we survive,” Candice shrugged. “And I like our chances. Even after the freezers and fridges are empty, we still have all the dried foods in the store, and there’s only about twenty of us here, so we should have enough food to get us deep into summer.”

“By then, the cure should be just about everywhere, along with the National Guard,” Craig said with a nod and a smile. He stood and went around the edge of the bar. “I bet we don’t have to hold out a whole week before all this is winding down!” He pulled a bottle of 291 off the shelf and grabbed a couple glasses. “Not to say that I don’t have my worries.”

“Oh?” Candice eyed her little brother. “What else are you worried about?”

“Dad, Chase, and Virginia,” Craig began. “Mostly dad,” he admitted as he poured a thin shot of the good stuff.

“Just a pinkie, thanky,” Chef Candice said as Craig gave her a light pour of the whiskey. “What’s up with dad?” she wondered.

“He got scratched,” Craig whispered and stared at his sister, not wanting to miss her reaction. “Last night, he showed me his leg after Chase got hauled off by the special police.”

Candice sucked her teeth. “Damn.” She took a tiny sip. “You think he’s all right?”

“That tough ol’ goat?” Craig shrugged. “Dunno… When the old man goes, I guarantee it’ll take something as exotic as a zombie apocalypse to do it, but then he was fine when I left.”

“Well, if we didn’t worry, he’d turn into a zombie for sure,” Chef Candice claimed. “To the ol’ man. May the good president’s of this grand country keep him safe.”

“Amen and affirmed,” Craig gave a nod. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. We get all the worry, and he gets to mock us when all is said and done.”

“I wouldn’t mind if that’s the way it goes,” Candice tapped glasses with her brother. “So what about Chase?”

Craig shrugged. “Chase is at the hospital. Dad has Mr. Wiezcykyi on the case, but I doubt that a legal team is what he needs. Either way, the hospital is where they have the cure, so he’s actually the least of my concerns.”

“And what about Virginia?” Candice continued. “Isn’t she still in Utah?”

“Yeah, visiting friends and family in Salt Lake,” Craig admitted. “I called her, and she was skeptical about the zombies. I told her the city might not be the best place to be, and to keep her eyes open. She said she’s going to San Pete to see her mom, so…”

“Where’s San Pete?” Candice wondered.

“Somewhere in the desert?” Craig shrugged. “She said there aren’t a lot of people, so that was enough for me. I was in a bit of a rush when we talked. I wanted to get up here before anything happened—what with Kaleb not believing me.”

“Fair enough, but you should figure out about this San Pete,” Candice surmised. “Why don’t you call her on the landline?”

Craig’s eyes went wide and he rushed over to the host stand. He dialed Virginia’s number. She answered after several rings, and for several minutes, he talked and listened in an animated fashion. Amused, Chef nipped at the half shot of 291, and savored the notes of warm cinnamon and vanilla. She watched her excited brother speak with his betrothed, then decided to put a couple ice cubes in her whiskey to help stretch it out. “Well? What’d she say?” she asked when Craig finally returned.

“She’s still headed south, but they don’t have a vehicle no more,” Craig stated as he retrieved the remainder of his whiskey. “They got wrecked trying to get off the interstate. Most of ‘em are fine, though the brother’s got a mangled leg. She said they’re hobbling south through Utah Valley,” he took a sip of his 291, as worry creased his face.

Candice frowned. “Where’s Utah Valley?”

“That’s what I asked,” Craig shrugged. “She said everyone in Utah knows, so if I can’t find her in Gunnison, I’ll find her in the mountains that separate San Pete and Utah Valley.”

Chef shook her head. “This is turning out to be a lot of names. I’m thinking maybe you should write them down,” she said, then leaned across the bar and snagged a pad and pen for Craig to use. “So the brother broke his leg, eh?” Chef continued. “Did she say how bad?”

“Must not have been too bad,” Craig said. “They were able to set it. They cut a broom so he could use it as a crutch,” he continued, as he wrote down Gunnison, San Pete, and Utah Valley. “The others walked away with only minor injuries: minor cuts and bruises. I imagine they all got a little rattled. Needless to say, she believes me about the zombies now.”

“Did you tell her about the electricity?”

“I did indeed!” Craig nodded. “She said they made it to a friend’s house in Springville. They’re going to bunker down for the night. She said she’d trip the breakers once she tells the others why.”

“Springville. Add that to your list,” Chef Candice tapped the paper with the names on it. “So now what? You planning to go find her?”

For several long seconds, Craig stared at his sister. “I feel like I have to,” he nodded. “Could I forgive myself if I didn’t?”

“Probably not,” Candice nodded. “So what’s the plan?”

“I’ll go west until I find Gunnison, and if she doesn’t meet me there, I go north until I find her,” Craig shrugged. “San Pete. Springville. Utah Valley,” he shrugged. “with any luck, we’ll be back by the end of the week.”

“Where’s your phone?” Candice asked.

“I turned it off and left it at home,” Craig answered. “Nothing unnecessary when I may have to run.”

“You know her number without it?”

Craig nodded. “I spent half the day memorizing it,” he smiled. “Dad gave me shit earlier when I didn’t know it by heart,” he shrugged.

“Sounds like dad—and it also sounds like you got a plan,” Candice nodded. “Though finding a good paper map should be near the top of your list of things to do,” she grinned.

“Sounds like I got a lot to do,” Craig nodded. “I think it’s about time I got to it.”

“When you go outside, do you mind dragging some of those zombies with you?” Candice asked. “If you do, I’d be much obliged. With them gone, I imagine we’ll be fine here for quite some time, so no rush coming home. We know what we’re up against, and you’d be next to useless as long as you’re all worried about your girl anyway—so go, find her, and bring her back to us safe, okay?”

“Thank you,” Craig sighed and wrapped his sister in a hug. “For a second, I thought you might try to talk me out of it.”

“Could I?” Chef Candice asked. “If I lectured you, would you stay? Because that’s not a bad idea either.”

Craig stared at his sister. “Maybe. Maybe I could convince myself to stay for a day or two—or maybe even a week. But I’d hate myself every moment of it.”

“That’s about what I thought,” Chef nodded. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

For a long second, Craig stared at his drink and nodded to himself.

Candice put a soothing hand on his back. “What is it?” she asked.

“I’m scared,” Craig admitted. “I’m scared I’m never going to see her again. I’m scared I’m going to get out there and all I’m going to find are zombies. I’m scared I’ll come back and you’ll all be zombies too,” he admitted.

“None of that now,” Chef pulled him close. “You be smart out there, you hear? Be deliberate. Be disciplined. This is nothing but a long game of escape and evade, okay?”

Craig nodded as he stared back at his sister. “You’re right. I’m trained for this.”

Chef smiled. “Maybe it’s a good thing it’s you and not the sailor.”

“He’d fair better if there was an ocean in the way—but as it is, there’s not a lot of boats between here and Utah,” Craig smirked.

Officer DeLaceya appeared with a plate of fish, some asparagus, a salad, and a croissant.

“What’s all this?” Craig asked as she sat down next to him.

“I ran into Renata in the girl’s room,” Officer DeLaceya shrugged. “We got to talking and I told her I didn’t get dinner yet, so she took me into the kitchen and asked the boys to whip me up a little something. Didn’t they do great?!” she grinned.

“They did indeed,” Craig said, and helped himself to a piece of her asparagus.

Officer DeLaceya glared, though she let him take it. She caught sight of the paper with the list of names on it. “Who’s San Pete?” she asked.

“ ‘Where’ is the proper question,” Craig corrected, as he stuffed the napkin in his pocket. “Unfortunately, we don’t know the answer.” He reached over the bar and grabbed another glass, then lifted the bottle of 291. “You need a little night cap to go with your dinner?”

“Oh...” Officer DeLaceya paused. She wiped her hands, then reached for the glass. “Maybe I will—“

“No!“ Kaleb shouted from across the room, then stomped to the bar as he wagged his finger at the three of them. “No!” he snapped again, and tried to take the glass from Officer DeLaceya—though she held it away from him with a glare. “She’s underage, and she’s made it markedly clear that such hi-jinx will not be tolerated!”

Craig turned to Kaleb with a quizzical stare and said, “In english, brother.”

“She stung us!” Kaleb threw his arms out. “She pulled our license! Technically, nobody should be drinking!”

Craig turned to Officer DeLaceya. “Is that true?” he asked. “You were here to bust us?”

“That was all before the zombie apocalypse,” Officer DeLaceya admitted with a sheepish nod. “Anyway, I think I lost the paperwork,” she finished as she glared at Kaleb.

Craig whistled, and added, “well, that explains the outfit! And here I thought you got stood up on a date!”

“What?!” Officer DeLaceya shot back. “I’ve never been stood up in my life!”

“Well, you’re young yet. Keep dating and it will inevitably happen,” Craig shrugged. “Besides, I imagine a lot of women got stood up on the first night of the zombie apocalypse. A lot of men too.”

Offended, Officer DeLaceya gaped at Craig, then punched his arm and glared.

“Hey!” he snapped, as he just managed to keep from spilling his drink. “That’s alcohol abuse!” After a momentary glare, he continued. “Don’t be upset. I was saying you look good! Good enough to be out on a date! Isn’t that a compliment where you come from?!”

“Well, why didn’t you say it that way?!” DeLaceya snapped back.

“I’m all about subtext,” Craig replied and lifted the bottle of 291 between them. “So are you going to join us or not?! I’d wager a full fist of dead presidents this wouldn’t be the first time you’ve ever had a drink, and you might have fallen in with a straight-laced crew, but this is the end of the old world, so…”

With a furtive glance at Kaleb, Officer DeLaceya held the glass out to Craig.”You’d be right,” she admitted, and held out her glass.

Kaleb answered all of this with a dramatic guffaw, then turned away from the bar with much waving of his arms, and shaking of his head. “Unbelieveable! Un-fucking-believable!” he roared as he stormed away.

“What an asshole,” Officer DeLaceya glared after the young manager. “If it weren’t for the two of you, I’d still file the paperwork when all of this is over.”

“Hey now,” Craig said in a stern voice. “That’s my little brother you’re talking about.”

Officer DeLaceya paused, as she tried to suss out the statement. “Do you mean like, you’re actual brother?” she looked back and and forth between Craig and Kaleb and tried to decide if they had a different mother, or a different father, and how does one tell either way? “But you’re not even the same color,” she observed, wondering if it was some sort of joke. “Are you like halfsies?”

Craig shook his head. “Adopted.”

Officer DeLaceya turned to Chef Candice. “Is he serious?”

“I’d be the one to know,” Chef grinned. “After all, I’m their older sister.”

Officer DeLaceya flinched away, befuddled. “Y’all done lost it!” she exclaimed. “Stop pulling my leg!”

“Ask anyone,” Craig replied.

“It’s true,” Mayzee piped up from behind the glassware. “They’re all adopted.”

For several long seconds, Officer DeLaceya stared between the two, then turned back to Mayzee. “Are you a sibling too?”

“No,” Mayzee smiled. “But they’re kind enough that they treat me like family.”

“Hear, hear!” Craig held up his glass.

“Well I’ll he hornswoggled,” Officer DeLaceya gaped. “Siblings? The three of you?!”

“Who says there’s only three?” Craig grinned. “Listen, do me a favor while I’m gone. Play nice with my brother.”

With dead eyes, DeLaceya stared back at the man in fatigues. “Well, since you’re so polite about it, I might just be a right perfect lady—until you return!” she claimed, and shook her fist at the younger brother. “I kid,” she added, and gave Craig a wink.

“Well, that’s all anyone can ask,” Craig said, and raised his near-empty glass.

“Where are you going anyway?”

“To run off the zombies again, and to check on dad,” Craig answered, leaving off the part about his fiance’. He didn’t want this tart getting all bothered after she’d just agreed to be nice to Kaleb.

DeLaceya had a fat thumb of whiskey and Chef poured herself another faint hint, so she could cheers them too. After the customary clink, Craig emptied the last of his glass, while DeLaceya played with the idea of breaking their arrangement. She decided it depended on Kaleb and half expected that the feud would continue—until it came time for Craig to leave, and she witnessed Kaleb go out of his way to wrap his brother in a hug and tell him he was sorry for not believing him, for saying such mean things on the phone. Even she had to admit it was sweet of him to voice his faults, to be in the wrong and to acknowledge it in a rather exacting way. Then she remembered his apology when she first busted Mayzee for pouring her an illegal beer, and how angry she’d been because she felt forced to give out these stupid tickets. After all, it was a bullshit law with an exorbitant punishment—but he was such a smug prick at the same! Well, at least he stood humbled now! Now, she could forget about the ticket. Indeed, when all this was over, would there be a department to return to? What did it mean to be police during the zombie apocalypse? Did it mean these others might look up to her, despite her youth, despite her inexperience? She took a long pull on her drink and welcomed the fluttering release that the stinging fumes brought with them. With any luck, everything would return to normal in a few days, once the cure was going around. After all, these things always went away. They popped up for a week, or a month, or maybe a year, and then they went away… Wasn’t that the way of it? She frowned. When was the last plague? Covid? The Spanish Flu? The Balck Death? She blanched as she considered the stories she’d heard.

“Don’t sweat it,” Craig smiled back at his little brother. “The zombie apocalypse isn’t something others can tell you about,” he nodded. “It has to be experienced!”

“I was so mad at you,” Kaleb shook his head. “I still am,” he noted with a sideways glare at DeLaceya.

“Well, you’ll have to be mad at me from a distance,” Craig said as he hugged his little brother back. “Take care of these people, okay? Including the copper. I have to go see about Virginia.”

Virginia?! DeLaceya wondered. Who the fuck is Virginia?! A vile envy caught in her heart—not that it mattered much. It wouldn’t be the first time she wrecked a relationship just to get a man. Soon enough, Craig would be back, and she’d see whether or not this Virginia could measure up!

“Be careful,” Kaleb said as he held his big brother close. “Take care of dad.”

“What do you mean?!” Craig smirked as he pushed his brother away. “I’m going home so dad can take care of me!” he grinned.

Kaleb frowned and shook his head. “You play too much.”

“No such thing,” Craig smiled. He turned as Jamal came out of the kitchen and pulled off his apron, then stared at the brother in fatigues. “What’s up?” Craig asked the cook.

“I’m coming with you,” Jamal stated.

“No you’re not,” Craig answered.

“I can guarantee that you’re too slow to lose me, and do you really want to waste the energy it’d take to make me stay—assuming that’s even possible?” Jamal reasoned.

“You might be right, but I don’t need you, and these people do,” Craig replied.

Jamal shook his head. “I’m going stir crazy just scrubbing in the kitchen, and you can use somebody to watch your back,” he said.

“All right, then,” Craig began. “But if you come with me, you gotta bring dad back here.”

Jamal liked that. “How is the old man anyway? I feel like I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “You should keep that luck. He’s just as difficult as ever,” he answered. “Anyone else want to go? Anyone else got a hankering to play rough with the zombies? I guarantee nothing.”

Kevin twitched and shifted from foot to foot.

Sensing his desire to go, Renata grabbed his hand. “Don’t leave us,” she begged.

“Okay,” Kevin blinked, then wrapped an arm around her.

“Last call!” Craig said, and slapped a heavy hand across Jamal’s shoulders. “Mayzee, give this man half a shot—just enough to kill the nerves!”

Jamal waved her off. He wanted to be dead sober for this.

“Don’t expect us to come back tonight,” Craig continued. “Might be best that we hole up at the house.”

“If you change your mind, I’ll keep a look-out on the roof,” Chef Candice said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep anyway, so come back if you have to—and don’t leave until you’ve given me a minute to get in position!”

“Well, what are you waiting for?!” Craig demanded.

Chef gave him one final hug, then hugged Jamal too. “Don’t come back until it’s safe to do so. We’ll keep a constant eye out, so if you got to bunker down a few days, you do that, okay?”

Jamal nodded.

Others gave hugs and said their goodbyes as Craig and Jamal approached the south door; the small emergency exit that Craig had used the first time. This time Kaleb disconnected the alarm before they went out, since it was hooked to a battery backup and would sound even without the generators.

As they got in place, Jamal pulled on a pair of nylon gloves. Craig eyed him, curious.

“Unless you got another pair of those leather bad boys, these are better than nothing,” Jamal shrugged. “So what’s the plan? Are we just running?”

“Dodging around cars, and going over fences,” Craig nodded. “What’s the number one rule?”

“Don’t get bit,” Jamal stated.

“Or scratched for that matter,” Craig nodded. “What’s the number two rule?”

Jamal shook his head. “I hope you don’t got a lot of these,” he complained. “I never did learn to count that high.”

“Me neither,” Craig smiled. “Some of these bastards are pretty fast. They move like they’re still alive. Got it?”

“I’ve been watching videos all day!” Jamal snapped back, annoyed. “I know what’s going on!”

“All right then,” Craig raised his hands. “You ready?”

With a gulp, Jamal nodded. Now that he was committed to going outside, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to.

Craig turned to the room, waved and smiled, then pushed the side door open. He didn’t expect anything outside, since there was no noise coming from this door—so imagine his surprise when he saw two zombies standing there like they were waiting for him! They lurched at the two men.

“The hell?!” Craig swore, then jumped forward and pushed the zombies roughly out of the way. Neither one was all that big. Jamal ran after Craig as the two zombies staggered back. The began to correct, but instead of chasing Craig and Jamal, they went for the open door.

Kaleb pulled the door shut before the two zombies could get in. “They’re on their own now,” he frowned, as he looked at the others gathered about the room.

A few seconds later, the banging on the front door dimmed, then eventually petered out altogether. The silence increased, as smiles spread throughout the room. Minutes passed, and whispers with them. The silence stretched, until it became too much for some. They whispered, then cracked jokes and giggled. A wave of relaxation washed through the room as the calm continued. Conversation increased. People began to use their normal voices. The worry dissipated, and a heavy tiredness weighed on the gathered crowd. It felt like forever since Chef Candice threw the first zombie out the front door—but it had only been about five hours—five dismal and frantic hours!

And now there was peace. Now there was calm. The tension had left the building.

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Chapter 20: The Wives of Fort Carson Redux

Back at the Mayfields, Private Seymour shuddered as another knock on the door signaled the arrival of Loretta Todd and Julie. He was about out of his mind and red hot with rage when more knocking followed—but once the door opened to reveal Raven and Scarlet, he perked and wondered if rotting in jail for the rest of his life wasn’t a proper price for the company of such fine creatures! They were absolute visions! Private Seymour gaped. He had never seen the redhead before, but the one with the midnight locks was somehow familiar. He wasn’t surprised that he should remember her, after all, she was eleven out of ten! But where had he met her, and how had he forgotten an encounter with such a divine beast?

“Now how do we get our friends off post?” Angelique Mayfield asked, and returned them all to the matter at hand.

“What if we just hide them until the crisis has passed?” Mrs. Baker suggested. “They’re bound to loosen security once this weird sickness ends.”

“Yeah!” Private Seymour nodded. For his part, he thought it might be grand to slink around in various basements and attics—so long as Scarlet and Raven brought him food and comfort from time to time!

“And how long might that take?” Carlotta Steele wondered. “If it was just a few days, we might manage it. But it’s been nearly a week since the spooks first arrived, and from all appearances things are only getting worse. Hiding them might last for months,” she noted. “I think we hold on to the notion of Anne Frank-ing them as a last resort.”

Mrs. Mayfield shook her head. “What else do we got?”

“Do we know any of the MPs well enough to sneak ‘em out?” Julia asked.

Lieutenant Todd shook his head. “A few of them are friendly—but enough to risk their own skin? They’d have to be a true friend indeed!”

“How about tunneling?” Raven wondered as she turned away from Private Seymour’s continuous stare. “This house is fairly close to the highway. How long would it take to dig under the street?”

“How close is it to the other side of the highway?” Dr. Fateh wondered.

“Maybe a quarter of a mile,” Lieutenant Todd estimated.

“That’d take weeks,” Kenzie replied. “And that’s assuming we dodge around any pipes and wires. Cutting infrastructure would have them digging down on top of us within hours,” he continued. “And let’s say we did make it out, even after that, could we keep the tunnel hidden? Because if it should ever be discovered, the owner of the house better be long gone, or they’d be in the shit up to their neck.”

“So a tunnel is a long shot,” Mrs. Mayfield replied. “What else do we got?”

“Planes?” Mrs. Baker spit-balled. “Could we commandeer a helicopter?”

“Judas B. Hayes!” Private Seymour chirped. “Talk about deep in the shit! Just the thought of stealing a helicopter makes my armpits sticky!”

“And that’s assuming one of us could fly it,” Lieutenant Todd shrugged. “Anyone?” A few head’s shook as they all looked for confirmation from anyone else. “It’s just as well. If we took a helicopter, they’ll shoot us down once they realize we have no clearance.”

“And where would we take it anyway?” Kenzie continued. “It’s a sexy thought, but they’d track us the whole time. Likely, they’d have a whole company five minutes behind us.”

“Okay, so no helicopters,” Angelique continued. “I assume that tanks and any other specialty vehicles are just as problematic.”

“We’d never even get close to ‘em,” Lieutenant Todd agreed.

“What if we wait a few days, then sneak you out on to the range?” Raven considered. “You could cross the highway down around Penrose or Pueblo,” she surmised.

“The range is closed while this crisis continues,” Lieutenant Todd answered. “They’re patrolling Wilderness Road—but I think that might be the best idea so far, at least for the four of us,” he pointed at the military men. “It might be easier to get Chase and Danel through the gates since they’re both civilians.”

“Civilians that busted out of the brig,” Kenzie replied. “And I doubt the doctor has any E and E.”

“What’s E and E?” Dr. Fateh asked.

“Escape and evade,” Chase explained. “What’d you do in basic?”

“Forgot it all just as soon as I could,” Dr. Fateh shrugged. “The goal was always to be a doctor. The military was just the cheapest way to go about it.”

“So maybe the range isn’t the best path,” Lieutenant Todd frowned. “What else do we got?”

For a time, nobody spoke. They shook their heads and refused to hold eye contact with each other. “I got a long shot,” Mrs. Eurich piped up. It was the first thing she’d said all night. She turned and pointed at Carlotta Steele. “You remember that one guard? The one with the gambling problem? Goodrich, or Goodnow, or…?”

“Captain Goodwyn,” Carlotta Steele nodded. “Loud and obnoxious. The only other thing I remember about him is that I don’t care to remember him at all. Why? What about him?”

“Word is he lost ten thousand he doesn’t have playing cards,” Mrs. Eurich continued. “He ranks at the gate. Could be bribable…”

“Ten thousand!” Private Seymour whistled. “There’s a grip of cash none of us have!”

“It’s actually rather cheap for a life, much less seven,” Agent Kenzie considered the idea. “How long has he been sweating?”

“The better part of a week,” Mrs. Eurich shrugged. “Apparently, he’s been losing a lot lately. His credit is maxed. Rumor is that he had to get the cash from a loan-shark this time.”

“Someone on base?” Kenzie asked.

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Eurich shook her head.

“Woulda been better if it was someone on this side of the gate that could still glare him down,” Kenzie said. “And where do we get that kind of cash anyway? Any chance he’ll take a card?”

“I got gold in the bag,” Lieutenant Todd smiled. “Not much, mind you, but it’ll cover that.”

Mrs. Eurich shook her head. “Keep your metal,” she said. “What do you got in paper?”

“Couple hundred,” Lieutenant Todd shrugged. “Not nearly enough.”

“Well, empty your pockets, ladies and gentlemen!” Mrs. Eurich said to the rest of the room. “Chop chop! Let’s gather the assets! We need ten K in cold hard cash!”

The others all turned out their wallets and piled their money, which came mostly from the ladies, since half the men were in prison and had nothing except the clothes on their backs. Mrs. Mayfield counted it. “Two thousand, six hundred, and eighty-four dollars,” she shook her head. “Do you think he’d take that?”

“Maybe,” Kenzie shrugged. “I think a full ten would be far more enticing.”

“I’m disappointed in the lot of you!” Mrs. Eurich scolded. “You’re all military, and none of you keep cash on hand?!”

“Says you!” Private Seymour retorted. “I put in nearly four hundred bucks! You added a paltry thirty-seven!”

“There’s still the gold,” Lieutenant Todd answered. “We also have a fair bit of silver—”

“I’m telling you, keep your metal!” Mrs. Eurich gave a long suffering sigh. “It’s fine. I can cover it,” she confirmed. “I have to go home and get it out of the safe, mind you.”

“Why not just give him gold?” Lieutenant Todd pressed.

“Because if this situation continues to disintegrate—and it seems to be doing just that—gold will be more and more valuable, while cash could lose all relevance,” Mrs. Eurich claimed.

“Yeah right!” Private Seymour sneered. “Who deals in gold?!”

Mrs. Eurich turned on the young private. “Gold has maintained its value since emperor’s immemorial, while cash is barely a hundred years old.”

“America’s older than that,” Private Seymour replied. “We’re over 250 years old!”

“Yes, but not the Federal Reserve Act of 1913, and our current notes have only been around since 1964, so...” Mrs. Eurich countered. “I’m telling you, keep your gold! I’ve got cash and I’m happy to cover it. Besides, you’re going to need my Escalade, so I have to go home anyway—or do you plan to sneak out in your Tundra?” she pointed at the Lieutenant. “that is, assuming you can get it?”

“That does bring up difficulties,” Lieutenant Todd admitted. “You’d give us your Escalade?”

“Consider it borrowed,” Mrs. Eurich smiled. “Just leave me your keys and we’ll trade for a week, or a month, or however long this takes. Besides, there will be more than just seven of you.”

“Who’s the eighth?” Lieutenant Todd wondered as he glanced about the room. “You coming with us?” he pointed at Mrs. Eurich.

“Not I,” she shook her head. “Scarlet’s going with you.”

“Me?!” Scarlet pointed to herself and stared about the room, suddenly nervous.

Elated, Private Seymour offered a prayer of thanks to whatever gods had arranged this blessed development!

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Eurich approached her. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. The time just hasn’t been right.”

“Tell me what?” Scarlet demanded, her nervousness growing. She glanced around the others. “What are you telling me?”

“I haven’t known all that long,” Mrs. Eurich explained with her arms stretched out in apology. “I only heard about it yesterday,” she continued. “I had a friend do some poking around,” she shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s about Scott, isn’t it?!” Scarlet realized. “What do you know?! Where is he?!”

“He got the itching sickness,” Mrs. Eurich confessed. “I’m so sorry, but he’s never coming back.”

“He’s DEAD?!” Scarlet yelled. “NOO!!” she screamed. Tears rolled, as the beauty collapsed in a heap.

Mrs. Eurich lifted her from the floor and hugged her. Raven and Carlotta Steele joined in, followed by the rest of the women.

“WHY?!” Scarlet sobbed. “Why is this happening?!”

“That’s how I know you,” Private Seymour blinked. His words little more than a whisper. “You’re Scarlet Mander.” he realized. “Blessed Buchanan! That’s how I know you! You were at the military ball!”

Scarlet blinked at the man. “I don’t remember you,” she snipped and glared.

“Doubt that you would,” Private Seymour shrugged. “We were never introduced, but you—you had everyone’s eye,” he said, then shook his head. “But that’s neither here nor there,” he continued. “I seen your husband,” he nodded. “You’re man ain’t dead—but he did snap. He was one of the first. Snapped several days ago,” he shook his head. “They don’t come back from that—not that I’ve seen—not that anyone’s seen,” he hedged, and wondered if anyone might contradict him.

“What does that mean?!” Scarlet stared about the other men. “I thought the sickness killed! Isn’t that why you’re all working on a cure?!”

“Working on it,” Dr. Fateh repeated with a nod, then shook his head and lowered his eyes.

“There’s no cure?!” Scarlet fumed.

“No ma’am,” Kenzie answered. “And I doubt there ever will be.”

“But he’s still alive!” Scarlet gushed, her hope returning.

“Not if Major Ing gets his way,” Private Seymour muttered.

“What!?” Scarlet blanched, then turned and stared at the others. “We gotta do something! We got to get him out of there!”

“No, nononono—that’s a terrible idea,” Lieutenant Todd replied. “Even with a dozen of us, we’d never get him out of the hospital.”

“But we gotta help!” Scarlet fumed. “We’re helping you after all!” She pressed an accusing finger at Lieutenant Todd.

“Okay, let’s say we did get him out,” Kenzie considered. “First thing he’d do is fight us. He’s violent and vicious, and there’s nothing we can do to change that,” the special agent explained.

“And he’s big as shit!” Private Seymour cut in.

“He’d fight us every step of the way,” Special Agent Kenzie continued. “He’d fight them, he’d fight you,” he pointed at Scarlet. “Whatever made him your husband, it’s gone. He’s just not that man anymore.”

“Screw you!” Scarlet screamed. “Screw all of you! What do any of you know anyway?! If you won’t help me, I’ll go alone!”

“Mr. Wiezcykyi is still down there,” Chase commiserated. “He’s a good guy, and we had to leave him too.”

“Who?” Scarlet blinked, paused by the vulnerability of the young twin.

“Mr. Wiezcykyi,” Chase repeated. “He’s an old family friend. To make it worse, I think I was the one that scratched him—not that I remember it—but I have an inkling,” he shrugged.

“Don’t beat yourself up, kid,” Kenzie put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “He might still come back.”

“He might get better?” Scarlet repeated. “Then what about Scott?! Why can’t he get better!?”

“That’s just not the way it works,” Dr. Fateh explained. “After a certain point, they just stay violent. And it’s not just that they’re violent—they physically change. The biology shifts. All of it. Hormones, musculature, bone density… everything shifts. Once they snap, they’re just not themselves anymore. They’re just not human anymore.”

“He’s turning blue,” Private Seymour added. “He’s as far gone as they get.”

“He’s gone too far, there’s a point of no return, and he was one of the first to cross it” Kenize added. “Chase here, he got sick, but not that sick. Sick enough to scratch. He toed that line, but he came back. Indeed, we took a risk bringing him along. Although he’s fully in control of his faculties, he’s still contagious,” the Special Agent explained.

Several of the others took a step back from the youth.

“It’s okay,” Kenzie continued. “He’s aware and he’s been fully under his own control. Mr. Wiezcykyi could also come back—but we still couldn’t bring him with us. Not at the moment. He’s full into the itch. He’s aggressive and dangerous. That’s why we couldn’t bring him with us. He might come back, yeah. But at the moment, he’s a danger to us all. He’d itch, scratch, and bite—even if he comes back, at this time he’s a danger. But not Scott. If we let him out, he’d fight us the whole way here. He’d be scratching and infecting all of us. Indeed, we’d still be fighting him, and he’d be fighting you too,” he pointed. “Ask him. That blood on his pants is from the one that attacked him out on the street. Tell ‘em what you did to get attacked,” he said to Chase.

“I walked by,” Chase stated. “I interrupted him while he was eating.”

“What? Like a hamburger?” Mrs. Baker wondered.

“No,” Chase shuddered to remember. “He was eating some lady. I thought she was homeless. I thought they both were… I thought they were makin’ whoopie… But they weren’t, and when he heard me, he stood up with blood all over him, and chased me all the way home . He attacked me on my own porch as I was trying to get in the house.”

That caused Scarlet to pause. “What’s it like?” she began. “What does it feel like to itch?”

“It’s just anger and irritation,” Chase shook his head. “All your subtle thoughts go right out the window. Instead, you just see red. You just want to hurt people, and you itch and burn like the chicken pox and poison ivy had a shit-ass child.”

“What’d you do about it?” Scarlet continued.

“I tried not to dwell on it,” Chase answered. “I slept. I think sleeping was a big part of getting over it. Otherwise, I don’t know how I got over it. In fact, I don’t know that I had much to do with it at all. Maybe I just got lucky,” he shrugged.

Scarlet glanced about the room, then turned to her feet and asked the carpet her next question. “Is he really gone?”

The gathered women closed around her again, holding and hugging her. “We’re so sorry,” they said. “It’s so unfair. You don’t deserve this.”

“And yet, this is the reality,” Mrs. Eurich said with little sympathy. She turned to Loretta.“She has family on the north end of town,” she explained with a stern eye. “Can’t imagine why she’d want to stay here anymore. So you’ll take her with you?”

“Of course,” Loretta nodded.

Mrs. Eurich kept her eyes on Loretta Todd. “If you take her with you, then I’ll consider us even.”

“Even with the money and the vehicle?” Loretta blinked. “Why would you do so much for us? Why would you do so much for her?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do—and she reminds me of my little sister,” Mrs. Eurich claimed, her manner analytical. “Look, I know we’ve never been friends. I know you don’t care for me, and I don’t mind that at all. I am rather stand-offish—difficult at best. More interested in what I can pull out of the dirt than the accomplishments of others,” she cracked a fraction of a smile. “I don’t need much. Carlotta is my one true friend, and also Scarlet for the last several months. Add a husband, three children, and a garden full of flowers and that’s more than enough for a loner like me. I just don’t have a lot to go around,” she explained. “For what it’s worth, I’ve always respected and thought quite highly of you—despite the casual disregard I may have displayed,” she took Loretta’s hand. “You should know, I’m quite happy to be of assistance, and I do hope this plan works,” she nodded. “Scarlet deserves to go home. And you deserve to be safe and happy. Your husband is a courageous man, a man of integrity,” she concluded, then gave another nod. “Just leave your keys with Angelique in case there’s need of your house. Would you say that’s fair?” Mrs. Eurich grinned, then turned, and stepped out the front door. “I’ll be back in ten,” she claimed as she dragged Scarlet and Raven with her. “Come along, girls.”

“So we’re really going to do this?” Private Seymour asked, trepidatious, but more than happy that Scarlet would be joining them.

“It’s one bad plan or another,” Kenzie shrugged. “But we’re at the eleventh hour and we gotta do something,” he shook his head. “Whatever we do, it’s going to take a healthy dose of luck, or godly favor; so pour your heart out and beg your ancestors for whatever help they’re willing to give us. We’re likely to need it.”

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Chapter 21: Run Home

Jamal knew the zombies were fast. He’d seen plenty of videos of the damned things running and hitting and biting people; but it didn’t register until he was outside, until he had their attention, until they were running after him that not only were some of them of fast, they were motivated! That’s when it struck him that it wasn’t a foot race. It was a hunt.

Back up.

Rewind.

The first two were not fast—but they were unexpected. While some unknown number of the creatures banged at the front door of The Fish House, these two waited at the side exit, making no sound, no effort to get in; just standing there, calm and patient. When Craig pushed the door open, these two zombies lunged forward and grabbed at him. Dressed in his protective BDUs and wearing leather gloves, Craig was able to ignore their fruitless attempts to bite and scratch him. He simply pushed the two beasts back, then broke for the parking lot, with Jamal hot on his heels. “Whoo-dee-whooo!” Craig whooped, and sprinted for the open gate, as Jamal ran after him. “Come and get some!” Craig yelled at the crowd of zombies as he rushed past the front door.

Several zombies broke from the front door and charged after them like sprinters at a track meet. The others followed, although they lagged behind; old, injured, or otherwise slow.

Jamal sprinted across the parking lot and past the open gate. He fled after Craig, as Craig ran down the hill and tore through the neighborhood. Jamal caught sight of a zombie in his periphery, as it came off a porch, then another that was part way up an alley. There were a couple more among a cluster of crashed cars and too much blood. They came across these zombies so quickly and were past them almost before they registered—though they joined the growing mob that trailed after the two young men.

Craig cut across an open yard and took a corner awful close to the house. Just before he took the corner, Jamal glanced back and saw that the closest zombie was a couple dozen steps behind—but that isn’t far at all when one is running full speed! A dump of adrenaline lit his nerves as he bolted around the corner, caught sight of his friend, and poured it on, not even a full second behind.

Craig and Jamal dipped between a couple identical duplexes. Jamal almost panicked when he saw the chain-linked fence that blocked the way, but Craig went over it so fast that the fence was clear almost before Jamal reached it. He scrambled over the chain-link as several zombies turned between the duplexes and sprinted after them. Jamal got over. The first zombie tried to run through the fence and mashed into it face first. He bounced off it and the sound and force of the crash caused both young men to flinch as they turned back to see what had happened.

Craig and Jamal ran on. Two more zombies approached the chain-link barrier, not quite as reckless as that first. Indeed, both of these tried to climb. One couldn’t get more than six inches off the ground—but the other climbed with relative ease—though not nearly as fast as Craig or Jamal.

The friends slowed as they approached the back fence of the yard, then paused at the gate. Jamal turned back the other way. The first zombie had managed to get over the fence, but was now lying in a heap at its base. The beast pushed itself up to its hands and knees with blood in its teeth and hatred in its eyes. At first it looked like it was coming off a set of starting blocks—but the zombie immediately pulled up lame, barely able to hobble after them.

Craig batted his friend with a light fist. “Now we go quiet-like,” he whispered, then opened the creaky gate and stepped into the alley. He took several jaunty steps down the alley—then sprinted for the far end as a zombie rushed after him through a neighboring yard. The beast turned on Jamal as the young cook passed—but the young cook lowered his shoulder and leveled his attacker. The zombie ricocheted off Jamal, then bounced off a trash can, and sprawled in the dirt as the two young men cleared the next corner. They ran another block, then slowed again when there was no sign of pursuit.

Jamal breathed deep and deliberate as he tried to calm his heart. He stretched his neck as he peered around corners. He perked his ears and listened for little sounds; the snapping of twigs, the dragging of feet, grunts and growls—all while he tried to ignore the big sounds; distant sirens, faint screams, the howl of terrified dogs.

Down the next alley, they spotted three—no—five little half-sized zombies, kicking and straining at a fence that was slowly gave way to their relentless assault, all while a little cornered dachshund howled in terror. Jamal shook his head as he realized they were a block from Buena Mañana elementary school. He took a step forward. “We can take the little pissers,” he said, hoping to rescue the dog.

“Yeah, but then we’ve beat the crap out of half a dozen children,” Craig replied with a hand on Jamal’s arm.

“Well maybe they shouldn’t attack poor animals!” Jamal replied, and pulled away from his friend.

“So you’re going to maul a bunch of kids for a dog you don’t know?” Craig glared. “Don’t forget, we’ve got the cure to consider! We can’t go around killing and maiming innocents!”

“That ain’t innocent!” Jamal pointed. “Besides, I wasn’t planning to kill anything!”

“Could you stop them by doing anything else?” Craig continued. “I’ve seen one with broken legs attack anyone that came near him as he lay in a pool of his own blood! They don’t have an off button!” He exclaimed in a harsh whisper, then added a bit more. “One for six. One at the price of six is just bad math!”

“There’s only five of them,” Jamal corrected. “Besides, dogs are better than people.”

“Some dogs are better than some people,” Craig countered and shook his friend. “Think of their parents, of their mothers and grandmothers. In a week, when everyone is getting the cure, don’t we want them around so they can get it too?”

“So until then, we just allow them to be rampaging little shits?!” Jamal huffed, as his heart’s conviction continued to dissolve.

“And what if one of the little itchers gets a hand on you?! What if one of them manages to scratch you?!” Craig replied. “You want to end up like that?!”

Turning gave Jamal pause, as he was scared. He’d watched half a hundred videos of unfettered violence, and was nervous to engage. He’d seen too much of the abandon and ferocity of those that had snapped—and that’s how he let Craig talk him into giving up the poor dog. “Fine,” he snipped through stiff lips, and made to follow after his friend. He did his best to ignore the frightened howls of the poor beast—and the sudden shriek: the most terrible noise Jamal had ever heard—cut short as the zombie kids tore through the fence and silenced the little dog forever.

“Jesus, Judas, and John Adams,” Jamal swore under his breath. He knew he’d let Craig convince him of taking the weak path, as the chill of his own cowardice caused him to shiver. He could feel a pit of self-loathing forming deep in his heart, adding to other regrets and failures he had yet to cast off. But at least they didn’t see anymore zombies. Not until they got to the Chen house.

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Chapter 22: A Bad Plan at the Eleventh Hour

Mrs. Eurich didn’t return in ten. Indeed, at twenty minutes, Private Seymour seemed to be the only one that noticed she still wasn’t back. At half an hour, Special Agent Kenzie was sleeping in a recliner, Chase was passed out on the floor, and Danel looked like he was in shock as he stared off into the corners of the house. The private seemed to be the only one concerned that the old biddy was still missing. At forty minutes, he complained to Lieutenant Todd—then had a few choice words for Carlotta Steele and Julie when the two simply brushed his concerns aside. During this hubbub, Mrs. Baker left and took the Mayfield children with her. It took Mrs. Mayfield another ten minutes and a nice cup of tea with a heavy dose of honey to calm Private Seymour. And as for the doctor—where was the doctor?!

Half an hour later, Mrs. Eurich finally returned. Scarlet and Raven were with her—but they weren’t the only ones. Scarlet cradled an infant while two toddlers followed on her heels. One whimpered while the oldest took in the room and seemed to measure it for his own purposes—a tyke of maybe three, as he held the leash of a french bulldog.

“Twelve?!” Private Seymour did a quick count. “You better have a bus, Mrs. Eurich, or we’re never going to fit everyone!”

“It’s eleven by my count,” she replied, then brushed him aside, and went back out to get more bags. The pile of luggage expanded.

“So we’ve got to fit all this stuff plus eleven people and a dog in one car?!” Private Seymour complained.

“The mule’s got a roof rack,” Mrs. Eurich countered. “But you’re right. We’ll need to pare this down a bit…”

“Alright, mama,” Lieutenant Todd turned to Loretta. “Let’s get it down to the bare necessities,” he said, as he opened his bug-out bag. “I’m going to trust that we can find better food than this,” he sloughed a half dozen MREs onto the counter. “And somewhere better to sleep,” he ditched a tent.

Private Seymour watched as Scarlet and the Todds figured out what they’d take and what they’d abandon. His irritation grew as he considered the fact that he’d abandoned everything he owned—except for the scant possessions on his person—and his chance of getting any of it back were slim to none: his car, his tools, his contacts. Jesus Jackson! His phone was snapped and chucked into a field! Meanwhile, Lieutenant Todd was sifting through socks and spare pants! He was about to start arguing again when he found Scarlet staring right at him, concern in her eyes, and a question on her lips. “What is it?” he asked, and all his issues disappeared.

“Loretta’s going to drive, so I can carry my baby, but the other two still need a place to sit,” Scarlet said. “We’re not bringing the car seats for obvious reasons.”

“Obvious reasons?” Private Seymour shook his head. “I’m just an enlisted, lady. You’re going to have to break it down into the smallest pieces possible.”

“We’ve folded the back seats and you’re going to pile in with half the supplies,” she explained. “Will you hold Michael while we go through the gate?”

“Sure, yeah. I can do that,” Private Seymour smiled, happy to assist.

“We’re going to pile blankets and pillows on top of you, not that it will be comfortable,” Scarlet continued. “You’ll be crowded and hot, and you’ll need to be still,” she stared.

“Are you telling me, or the boy?” Private Seymour wondered, since she seemed to be addressing them both. In answer, Scarlet nodded.

The Private’s ire almost increased when he spotted the doctor rubbing the water out of his hair with a towel. Dr. Fateh caught him staring, and smiled, “might be the last time any of us get a good shower.”

Not long after—around two in the morning—the men piled out of the house and crawled into the back of the Escalade. They huddled up against each other, while the ladies piled gear and blankets over the top of them. Although Private Seymour wasn’t exactly holding Michael, his concern for the little boy allowed him to forget his own worries. To keep the small boy calm, he told jokes in a dim whisper. “Did you hear about the astronaut that went to the Sun?”

Michael shook his head.

“He went at night so he wouldn’t burn up,” Seymour smiled.

“Alright, we’re at the gate,” Loretta warned. “Everyone be quiet.”

Private Seymour held a finger to his lips, and Michael repeated the gesture back at him, then nestled his head against the Private’s shoulder.

“Sir,” Loretta addressed the guard. “Any troubles?”

“None that need concern you,” the guard replied. “IDs please.”

“You’re requiring IDs to get off post?” Loretta asked as she handed over her military ID.

“Don’t play stupid,” the guard replied. “You know as well as anyone there’s an emergency.”

“I do,” Loretta admitted. “It’s the nature of the emergency that I don’t understand. Nobody seems to be saying anything.”

“You haven’t been bit?” the guard replied. “Neither of you have been scratched?”

“What we do in the bedroom is none of your concern,” Scarlet winked.

For several long seconds the guard simply stared at the woman in the passenger seat. “Alright,” he began. “Unlock the doors. We have to search the back.”

“You have to what?!” Scarlet glared. “No!”

“Unlock the doors, ma’am. I’m not going to ask you twice,” the guard glared.

“Whoa, whoa!” Loretta intervened. “Let’s dial it back a bit! Look, I don’t want you rummaging through our stuff, so before we go any further, can I have a word with Captain Goodwyn?”

With a huff, the guard turned toward the guardhouse and banged on the door. He stepped in, and after several long seconds, a grumpy man of middle years and a rotund physique wobbled from the guardhouse. “What is it?!” he snapped at the women. “You going to unlock your doors, or what?!”

“Captain Goodwyn,” Loretta replied. “I’m under the impression—” she began.

A different guard interrupted by leaning over the captain, his face flush and his demeanor odd, “slend me hone cpatain. I’m not phillin’ gud,” he groused in a muddled tongue.

“Criminy, Hopkins! Get off my back!” Captain Goodwyn turned and pushed the man away. “Nobody’s going anywhere, you goon! Spivey, get this clown!”

“Caatin,” Hopkins continued. “I’m knot fillin gewd,” he repeated, as Spivey pulled him away.

“Lincoln’s Beard!” Captain Goodwyn swore, then turned back to the women with a glare. “Look here, ladies! If you don’t unlock the doors, you’re not getting through the gate,” he demanded. “So you go ahead and hit your little lock flipper—or you can put ‘er in reverse and get your trollop asses back to your boyfriends before I have you arrested!” he snapped.

Loretta lifted a heavy envelope from between her legs and offered it to the captain. “How about you just wave us through?” she replied.

“What’s this?!” Captain Goodwyn snatched the envelope, then leaned in and glowered, as he shook the envelope at the two ladies. “You trying to bribe me?!” he accused in a harsh whisper. “Right in front of my men?!”

“Sir, that’s ten thousand dollars,” Loretta confirmed in a calm voice. “Just put that in your pocket and wave us through,” she continued. “That’s all we ask.”

“You think it’s just that easy?!” the captain continued to gas. “You think you just roll up, pass a bag, and off you go?!” He glanced all about, his eyes wide and panicky. “Just what the hell you got back there?!”

“Wave us through, captain,” Loretta repeated. “Just wave us through.”

“This was a mistake,” Scarlet blanched. “Let’s just go back home.”

“Oh no!” the captain began. “You ain’t just gonna—”

“Aaarghhrgh!” Spivey screamed—interrupting this interrogation—as Hopkins bowled into him and bit his face. A scuffle ensued as the other guards all piled on top of Hopkins and tried to peel him off Spivey. Captain Goodwyn turned toward the scuffle, his hand still on the frame of the Escalade. “Is he just faking?!” the captain accused, as the fighting continued. “Sweet Eisenhower, you tellin’ me he had the sick this whole time?!” he cussed. “Git him out here!” He said, then turned back to Loretta and Scarlet and shook the envelope at them again—as the rest of the guards pulled a fighting Hopkins away from the guardhouse. “You got some nerve rollin’ up and trying to bribe a man of my character! What the hell you got back there that’s worth ten thousand dollars anyway?!” He put a hand on his gun. “What the hell is moving around back there?!”

“We’re not going to let you poke around our stuff,” Loretta resisted.

“Turn us around and let us go home,” Scarlet begged.

Private Seymour had an inkling of an idea. It just felt right, so he leaned over and whispered to Michael. “Go ahead,” he said to the young boy. “Take a peek at the yelling man. He won’t hurt you. I won’t let him. But I need to know what he looks like,” the soldier whispered.

Afraid, Michael still peeked out from between two blankets and caught the captain’s eye, then retreated back under the cover and whispered, “he looks mean and fat!”

“That’s my baby boy,” Scarlet leaned across and touched the captain’s hand. “Please! I’m begging you! I just want to go home to my parents! Their father’s got the sick, and I don’t think I’m ever going to see him again—!” she cried, as tears flowed down her face.

“How many are back there? Are all of them yours?” Captain Goodwyn asked with a soft voice.

“Hers or mine,” Loretta answered.

Captain Goodwyn glared, stuffed the envelope in his shirt, then shook a finger at the two women. “This isn’t the way you do it!” he snarled. “There’s better ways to do these things!” He claimed, then stepped back, and whistled at the man at the barricade. “Pull ‘em back, Jansen! Let ‘em through!” he ordered.

Ever so slowly, Loretta pulled through the gate. She rolled up her window, gave Jansen a wave, then stopped at the stop sign before she finally pulled out onto the highway.

“Taylor, Tyler, and Taft!” Scarlet swore and wiped her eyes. “I thought we were cooked!”

“Me too,” Loretta confessed. “I’m literally shaking!” she fumed. “That asshole! He couldn’t just take the money!? He had to grill us about it first?! What’d he think we have?! A bloody nuke or something?! Cocksucker!”

Several snickers sounded from around the Escalade as they all breathed a sigh of relief. Several seconds of silence passed as the tension washed out of the car.

“Mommy,” the quiet voice of Michael squeaked from under the blanket. “What’s a cocksucker?” the tyke asked.

Mouth agape, Loretta blushed. Someone snickered, then the whole vehicle erupted with peels of raucous laughter.

“Give it a few years,” Private Seymour said to the little boy. “At your age, you’d just be disgusted anyway.”

“Is it that bad?” Michael replied.

Private Seymour gave a noncommittal shrug, then refused to make eye contact with the tyke, as he tried to suppress his mirth.

The blankets pulled back, and they all relaxed. For a while, no one spoke.

Chase broke the silence. “Where are we going first?” he asked.

“Good question,” Lieutenant Todd nodded. “Who’s close by?”

“He is,” Kenzie pointed at Chase. “Which is probably why he’s asking.”

“How do we get there?” Loretta wondered, as she cruised under South Academy.

“Once we get to the freeway, get on going north, then get off on the very next exit going west. At that point we’re two blocks from my house,” Chase stated. “On top of that, my dad and my brother both know what’s going on. They were there when I was attacked, so we won’t have to do any explaining.”

~ FIN ~

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Acknowledgments

First, I’d like to say ‘thank you’ to my nieces, Vina, Marcela, and Jaya; as their infatuation with the zombie genre is what inspired this work.

Secondly, I’d like to thank Coco Lucero for her editing, and Gary Barnes for doing such a bang-up job on the art; and to both for being my friend.

Next, I’d like to thank No Agenda, Grimerica, Bowl After Bowl, Hog Story, Sewer Chat /w Nick the Rat, Extremely Live, Homegrown Hits, Media Monarchy, and the rest of the podosphere that preaches my work.

Additionally, I’d like to thank the east coast swing dance scene of greater Colorado for putting up with my frequent ramblings about zombies when I should be keeping rhythm. Especially to Katie Hopkins for helping me with some editing.

I’d also like to thank all my friends at the home office, and also among all the branches I visit for work.

Finally, I’d like to thank my family in general and my innumerable friends near and far, for keeping me insane—it takes a special case to witness the zombie apocalypse before it happens! Thank god for letting it be me!