by Jones, K. J.
“But you’re loyal to them here.”
“Sure. What are you without loyalty? They need somebody to lead them.”
“But not Kanesha?”
“Nesha fucking hates my guts.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Wait,” said Mullen. “So Kanesha dates white guys?”
“Kanesha dates who she wants. If she likes a guy, she don’t care about race and shit. Except for the Muslims. Too many issues that go up against a strong, independent woman like her. She doesn’t date Muslims as a basic rule now. Or when I knew her. Maybe she once did, I don’t know. Why go into shit that you know won’t work out? Makes sense to me. No man is gonna tell Nesha what to do.”
“But you guys were enemies?”
“Yeah.”
“Your tribe was killing her tribe. Weren’t you worried she’d be killed?”
“I was. But not a damn thing I could do. Look, if it wasn’t for Kevin, they would have driven me out or worse. I wasn’t allowed on any op because they didn’t trust me. Then that Historic Downtown Charleston tribe began killing us. Fucking commando style. A goddamn sniper. A fucking dude in the shadows cutting men’s throats.”
Mullen figured the latter was Peter. He knew the sniper was Ben.
“A guy was garroted,” said Kyle. “His head was barely on.”
“Your tribe tried to abduct Phebe. And tried to kill Vi and Jayce and Nia and Dre and all them.”
“Phebe?” Kyle looked around as if he had missed someone.
“No. She’s not here. She, um, was at the base.” Mullen looked at the ground, the loss threatening to explode in his chest.
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Sully’s wife. Pregnant wife.”
“Hmm. Wait. Was she really tall and tough?”
“Tall, yeah. But what do you mean by tough? Not some butch dyke in the closet.”
“No, I mean, like, a badass killer. Real strong. Would breed well?”
Mullen repeated it slowly, “Um, breed well?” He shook his head. “I mean, she was pregnant.”
“Kevin said he wanted her. She’d make strong children.”
Mullen dropped the shovel. “Are you shitting me?”
Drill sergeants looked over for trouble.
“No,” said Kyle. “He said shit like that.”
“We’re okay here,” Mullen called over to the sergeants. He picked up his shovel and resumed digging. “Your brother orchestrated the attempted kidnapping of the Pheebs?”
Kyle shrugged. “Sounded like it. But nothing about her already being pregnant. Who’s Sully?”
“The guy cutting up your tribe.”
“Ah. Okay. The commando. Moved in the shadows. He killed a lot of men. Never women or kids, though.”
“He has a code.”
“I didn’t know it was provoked. Everything everybody said sounded like people invaded Charleston, took over the Downtown area, and they were targeting us.”
Mullen snickered. “They made themselves the victims. Isn’t that always the way.”
“Mullen,” the drill sergeant yelled. “Stop the chitchat. You ain’t done.”
Muttering, “Why the fuck do we need to learn to dig holes?” Mullen resumed shoveling. “You don’t make foxholes against zoms.”
“Yeah,” said Kyle. “It’ll be digging your own grave.”
2.
The temperature warmed. Icicles hanging off the gutters dripped in a constant beat, the rhythm interrupted by icicles breaking off and falling. The snow melted, exposing brown grass and mud puddles.
“If we’re going, this would be the best weather to do it in,” said Kevin.
“We need to take a vote,” said Peter. “This is too heavy a decision for one person to determine.”
* * *
Kevin came into the kitchen with a pack and fully dressed in outdoor clothes.
“I’m going. I gotta find my little brother. They sent him to a base out west. I can’t wait around for y’all.”
The group followed him to the front door.
“Thanks for the food.” Kevin patted his pack.
“You entitled to your share,” Chris said.
Phebe and Peter stopped following at the porch. Everyone was present except for Emily, who remained resting in bed.
“Take care of yourself, brother,” said Chris.
They shook hands.
“You, too.” Over the distance, Kevin hollered to Peter and Phebe, “Good luck to y’all, your family. I mean it. And, um, thanks for not murdering me in my sleep.”
“Any time.” Peter waved.
Brandon and Pez shook Kevin’s hand. Tyler watched from the other side of the porch, not knowing how to feel about the man since there were mixed reactions to him among his elders.
Jayce said, “I forgive you. We are all sinners. Jesus forgives all who repent.”
“Um, yeah.” Kevin said to Chris, “Good luck with him.”
“Yeah..”
They watched the lone figure walking down the long driveway.
“Wow,” said Peter. “That feels weird.”
“I was almost starting to see him as a human being,” said Phebe.
“Yeah, me too. Hate that in somebody I want to kill.”
The sound of a window opening above the porch roof. “Is the Nazi really gone?” Emily yelled out.
“Yes,” Brandon called up. “Close the window.”
“Just making sure.” The sound of the window closing.
Kevin grew smaller and smaller in the distance. They went inside.
“Weird,” said Tyler. “Somebody leaving. Think he’ll survive?”
“Doubtful,” said Brandon. “On his own, hardly likely.”
“I don’t know,” said Chris. “He is a tough motherfucker.”
“Yeah,” said Peter. “The way life works, he’ll survive. The mean ones always seem to survive.”
“What does that make us?” Phebe asked.
“Well, me, obvious. Well, actually, kind of you too, babe. Sorry, but true. We just don’t have crazy fucktard themes to our meanness.”
In the living room, Jayce sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a Bible he found in the house. His lips moved and he closed his eyes as if trying to memorize passages. Chris and Phebe watched him from the doorway.
“I kind of prefer Eric’s ghosts over this,” said Chris.
“Yeah,” said Phebe. “The hungry ghosts were less … I don’t know. Medieval?”
“Is this some shit that happens to kids who lost their sisters? That what happened to Wong. The guilt, maybe?”
Phebe shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Wonder how Wong is. If he in prison for hacking.”
“I hope he’s okay.”
3.
The office of the acting POTUS was posh. Luxurious. Nothing like the rest of the mountain base. Mazy enjoyed being there. Ben, though, remained not an indoor creature, no matter how nice of a place. The new acting POTUS, aka Secretary of State, wanted military Zoners as advisors. Ben found a way of getting out of it and returning to the woods. At least he didn’t speak anymore of going AWAL.
POTUS also wanted Napier to come over, but he ran into a wall of flak with the distrust of the Marine Corps from his Cabinet and Congress. So he bided his time on getting a senior officer. This did not stop him from calling Napier on the phone, though.
Napier often said, “Lieutenant Baptiste would know more about this than me.”
The acting President had made it clear he desired cooperation with the military and to heal the soured relationship, especially with the Marine Corps and the Zoner service personnel.
Perhaps acting POTUS desired more people who could protect him – and who had a vested interest in protecting him. Maybe this was his real motivation for Mazy being there since he had Navy SEAL sailors as bodyguards. The same two SEAL sailors she and Ben had spotted at the R140 seminar. A lieutenant and a warrant officer with hard Zoner eyes.
>
If the former acting POTUS fell down a flight of stairs and died under Secret Service’s watch, this put the Secret Service under suspicion for the new acting POTUS. Maybe they were innocent, but Acting President Freling was taking no chances. He needed people not only capable of protecting him but invested in keeping him alive as an individual guy in charge. The ones to gain from him being in the Presidential chair were Marines and spec-ops, the people whose field counterparts were doing the most going black.
POTUS had the trains running, carrying food and supplies, as well as munitions, up and down the east coast and across the nation. Moving goods from places that still operating to places starving. Heavy military escorts for them. It wasn’t only against zoms, but also against groups of bad people, which had grown plentiful. When a government fell, militias started up. It had happened in every country where the government fell in the Before. It was happening in America.
Though the office was elegant and lovely, acting POTUS had maps hanging on the nice walls. These told of disasters unfolding.
Mazy studied the Carolinas map showing chemical plant disasters. Chemical plants automatic venting toxins contributed to the mass die-off of humans and animals. When the automated venting did not occur, some of the burned-down towns and cities had resulted from chemical plants blowing up.
Now POTUS worked to insure the chemical plants removed their toxic chemicals so this would not continue to happen. To remove required trains.
Alas, a train had derailed, spilling chloride gas. Today’s disaster.
“It’s turning into a no-win situation with the chemicals,” one of the SEAL sailors, Warrant Officer Gessele, said to her, watching Mazy study the maps.
“What is this map over here?” she asked.
“The nuclear power plants throughout North America and the danger radius of meltdowns.”
“I thought their reactors could be shut down.”
“They are. That’s not the problem. It’s the spent fuel rods cooling pools. Once the reactors are shut down, the pool turbines go on emergency diesel generators to keep the flow and refrigeration temperatures. Diesel means they need fuel. Which means fuel has to get to them. Otherwise, the rods heat up, boil off the water, and rise to a thousand degrees. Everything goes on fire in the facility and a meltdown occurs, spewing out radiation that’s bigger than Chernobyl.” Gessele pointed to a circle surrounding a nuclear power plant. “Within ten to twenty miles, everyone’s dead from gamma. Within fifty miles, everyone has a future of cancer. The radiation can go a long distance from the winds.”
The SEAL sailor Lieutenant Neese said, “Why not look at the war room, as they’re calling it. Emergency ops. You got clearance for it.”
“Where is it?” Mazy asked.
“I’ll make you a map.”
4.
A decision from on high had the Zoners receive supplemental shakes to put on weight. Turned out the BMI or body mass index of most of them was below normal. They needed increased caloric intake at every meal. Whereas, Fat Gamer Guy needed to diet.
At mess, the Zoners ate together, and devoured everything on their trays, as per Zoner habit. Army basic training was nice, except for being bellowed at by drill sergeants all the time. However, no one tried to kill them. They were fed three squares a day, something few had experienced for months. Endless safe drinking water, even juices and milk. Showers, including with some heat, and toilets that flushed.
So they had to learn how to dig latrine holes every now and then, which turned out to be why they dug earlier. Not that this was something high on the skill set necessity, but it made the Army happy. Latrine holes were vastly better than lugging slop buckets in shifts, as central North Charleston had had to do, since they didn’t have any exposed dirt to dig privy holes into, unlike the Star Gate House situation.
Since all the Zoners were used to sharing a close-up space with others, the barracks posed no problems for them. Indeed, most felt more rested in basic training than they had in the Zone. This was great.
The non-Zoners constantly complained. From the girl programmers to Ghetto Guy, nothing but complaints. Absolute misery every hour of the day. They couldn’t sleep in the barracks with so many people making noises and snoring. Their muscles hurt from all the exercise. They wanted some time to be left alone by the sergeants, demanding a day off already. They proclaimed rights and declared basic training inhumane. Spoiled to the ninth degree, even Ghetto Guy.
Zoners segregated from them. Hanging out with each other, despite enemy tribe status, was preferable over whiny, spoiled non-Zoners.
At a long table, central North Charleston sat at one end, supremacist tribe at the other, which made the table look quite white at one side, black at the other. Mullen and Kyle Alden acted as the bridges in between. Eric always sat next to Mullen.
The animosity between the tribes had waned in the face of dealing with non-Zoners. The sky was falling for non-Zoners in a place the Zoners felt was a nice setup. No common ground at all. The difference must have grown obvious since the sergeants rarely went at the Zoners – ever since the brawling stopped – but were on the non-Zoners like white on rice. Transforming spoiled Millennials into tough soldiers who could sleep anywhere and eat anything, an uphill struggle.
To the Zoners’ happy surprise, a member of the cook staff came over with trays of brownies for them as a reward for how good they had been.
“Oh, my God,” Kanesha cheered, all smiles.
Her gaze locked with Alden the Younger, and her smile turned into a frown with a glare. She looked away from him and resumed smiling at the brownie squares handed out on plates.
“Never did I think I would eat brownies again,” said Vi, the happiest she had looked in ages.
“Sweet, sweet chocolate brownies,” her brother said. “Gimme some, right here.”
The non-Zoners watched with obvious envy.
“Why do they get brownies?” Fat Gamer Guy complained loudly. “Where’s ours?”
“You can’t have none no way,” said Ghetto Guy. “You too fat.”
“Fuck you, man.”
5.
“Peter, wake up!”
He jerked awake. “What?”
“I smell smoke,” Phebe said.
He sniffed. “Fuck. So do I. Get up and dressed.”
Despite his leg trying to give him trouble, he jumped out from under the covers and yanked on his jeans.
“Fire,” a male voice yelled from beyond the closed bedroom door.
“Get the fuck outta the house,” Chris’s distinctive voice yelled.
Phebe hurried to dress. Peter yanked open the window and knocked out the screen. He took handfuls of their clothes and threw them out.
“What are you doing?”
“Time to obey without question,” Peter said. “Let me check the way out for you. Keep throwing shit.” He ran around the bed to the door and cautiously tested the knob. “It’s cool. Stay here.”
“Roger that.” Phebe finished tying up her boots.
Opening the door, the smoke billowed in, running across the ceiling. Phebe coughed. Peter covered his mouth and nose with his t-shirt collar.
Tyler stood in the doorway of another bedroom, fully dressed, wide-eyed, and waiting for orders. Behind him, Emily threw things out the window.
“Phebe,” Peter called over his shoulder. “Throw everything we got out the window onto the lawn.”
“Roger that.”
Peter heard Phebe moving around quickly behind him as he assessed the situation on the second-floor landing.
Everyone coughed. Dark smoke piped up the stairwell, ascending as it reached the landing and crawling across the ceiling to spread out and infiltrate the bedroom ceilings.
Pez’s voice yelled from down the stairs, “Front door inaccessible. If we move now, we can get to the mudroom door.”
“Phebe, move out, on me,” Peter barked. “Ty, Em, with me.”
Phebe threw his cane out the window. Mumbling, “I ca
n’t fucking believe this,” she hurried to him, carrying his boots.
Brandon dampened towels in the upstairs bathroom. “Put these over your faces.”
Emily hurried to him.
“Stay close to me, honey.”
“On you. Ty?”
“I’m here.”
The smoke descended from the landing ceiling, filling the space and sucking out the O2. It was difficult to see more than a few feet away and difficult to breathe. Single file, they all moved down the staircase, keeping close to the wall with wet towels held to their faces. Eyes watered uncontrollably.
At the bottom of the stairs, Peter took a tight turn towards the kitchen. The heat was excruciating. He led Phebe by the hand. She took Tyler’s hand.
“I can’t breathe,” said Emily through chokes.
“Down,” Peter ordered.
They dropped to their hands and knees and crawled as fast as they could towards the kitchen, having to drop their wetted towels from their faces.
Chris waited with the kitchen swinging door open. “Matt already out. He got Jayce.” His words cracked as he choked. He squatted down, waiting for Brandon at the end of the line to go through, then letting the door close.
The air was a bit better in the kitchen. Pez manically threw things into plastic shopping bags from the pantry. “Throw this shit out the door.”
“Weapons?” Peter’s voice cracked.
“Already out,” said Chris, grabbing bags.
They formed a conveyor line. The mudroom showed the winter gear was already out.
“Any hose?” Just as Peter asked, a new sound from the front.
“Think Matt got it going,” said Pez.
Steam joined the fire smoke.
“Keep going,” ordered Pez. “We gotta get the cellar too. Open the outside cellar doors so we’re not stuck.”
“Shit,” said Tyler. “Flames coming in.” The kid ran to the sink and grabbed the sprayer. He aimed it at the flames coming around the swinging door.
“We gotta go,” said Peter. “Phebe, Em, out, now.”
Phebe and Emily headed out of the mudroom with the bags they had been about to pass along the line. Out the back door and down the steps, the aluminum screen door banging, they nearly tripped over a heap of their winter clothing.