by Jones, K. J.
Matt and Angela complied.
The guards weren’t all African Americans. A chubby, tough-looking woman with dark roots coming out of her platinum hair stepped forward. Tattoos up and down her arms. She looked like someone comfortable on a Harley. She opened the cargo far back and checked.
“They clear back here,” she hollered.
“Password?” the young man at Jerome’s window asked.
“Hoochie coochie would be today’s pass.”
The guards backed away and waved them through.
“Hoochie coochie?” Peter asked.
“Hard to come up with a daily password. Shit can go off the rails.” He glanced to the backseat. “Sorry, again, ma’am.”
Rolling through the open gate, the terrain made a dramatic shift.
Kids ran around. Puppies chased their heels. Vivid colors exploded from fabric and tapestries hung from walls. There were vegetable gardens in anything that would hold soil.
“Is that a horse stable?” Matt asked.
“Yeah. They come up here a while back.”
“He’s a horseman,” Peter said.
“For real?” Jerome turned to see Matt.
“All my life.”
“Good. They need some help. Things were going okay when we had a mounted police officer. But he died. We don’t know much about keeping horses.”
“I’ll take a look at them right after I see the patients.”
Peter’s brow cocked. Jerome said police officer instead of cop. Cops tended to say that. And he wore a police gun belt with a police issue sidearms. Language could be deceiving. Jerome spoke more grammatically correct at times, especially when speaking to Angela and Matt. The waiver of dialect Peter knew from Chris. Phebe called it code switching.
Jerome directed Peter where to park amongst more Mad Maxed vehicles.
The walled-in compound encompassed several blocks in all directions. Buildings made up the wall in some areas. The exterior of which was undoubtedly sealed up.
Very different from Historic Charleston.
“Monty wants to meet with you,” Jerome said. “Figuring you ain’t the medical people.”
“Okay,” responded Peter.
There was no way for Ben and Phebe to do anything but watch from the outside of the wall. Peter figured if they were out there, they were being watched by scouts on rooftops from this group.
A young, pretty woman with her hair wrapped in a vivid purple cloth approached Matt and Angela. “I’m Kanesha. We’re grateful y’all are here.” She shook their hands. “We think LaShawn is getting close.”
“Is she the woman needing a C-section?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just call me Matt. I never graduated from college to make officer.”
She smiled. “My mama taught me manners.”
“Well, then. I don’t want to get in the way of that.”
“I’ll help ya with the bags.”
Peter cocked a brow. Lots of smiles between Matt and Kanesha. She was too young for Matty, he thought. She was about twenty. But apocalypse men couldn’t be that into old rules.
He turned and looked around. Were there anymore chubby white women like the rough-looking one outside? Chris needed female company, so he could later hide from her.
Maybe the biker chick would be good for Chris.
Probably not. She looked like a woman who’d drag Chris out of hiding by the hair.
Peter smirked to himself, envisioning it.
There were a lot of pretty girls around Jayce’s age. Assuming the kid wasn’t a total goofball around girls and his mother ever let him out again.
He watched where Matt and Angela were led. Into a building where kids ran in and out.
“Monty’s in the council tent.”
He followed Jerome. And noted the man’s authoritarian walk.
“That is quite a tent.”
“Yeah. Looks like hippies thrown up on it. But folks like all the colors. Cheers ‘em up.”
“What did you do before the outbreak?”
“This and that.”
“Meaning what?”
“Worked a little fast food.”
“And?”
Jerome chuckled. “You got an instinct, don’t ya?”
“When a young man doesn’t come across as a fry cook at McDonald’s, yeah.”
“North Charleston Police Department.”
Peter smiled. He nailed it. The awesomeness continued. He hadn’t lost his touch. At least not in that regard.
“I was a detective,” Jerome continued. “Undercover. We were all recalled when the shit began, then put into riot gear. As you know … how this all goes down.”
“But there was more fighting here?”
“Sure was. The population had a heads up. We saw y’all on the news.”
“Us?”
“You’re Wilmington area, right? Says Carolina Beach on your boat. I know where that is. North of Myrtle Beach.”
“Damn.”
“Give it time. We’re born and raised here. Can’t know it all on such a big place after just a couple of weeks. And starting fresh with supplies and all. Setting in. You lack enough people for the jobs. Unlike us.”
“You got your pregnant sister to safety?”
“She and her kids all I got for family now. Apart from this here all fam now.”
“Sorry. Hey, that’s a lot, though.”
Jerome held back a tapestry tent flap. “He here.”
The people inside stood up.
There were no chairs. Only pillows and thin mattresses, all covered by either rich fabric or faux fur. It reminded him of some kind of Mongolian tent back in the day, minus the paisley tapestry.
They stood in a U-shape. Monty seemed to be the older man in the middle. Peter wanted the man to be Monty because he fit what he hoped for. Graying dreadlocks below his shoulders, pulled back in a loose band. A gentle, middle-aged face with a welcoming smile.
“Sullivan I presume?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Montgomery.” Hand presented. “Call me Monty, please.”
“Sully.”
Monty smiled, increasing the wrinkles around his eyes.
“Let me introduce you to the council. To be honest, they wanted to see you, because they’re nosey people.”
A white woman stepped forward. She was about Phebe’s age and Phebe’s height. “That’s why we’re in public service.”
Her light blond hair looked to have gone dreadlocks over the past months. Phebe complained about that – if you didn’t have a brush or a comb, it began to happen and grew to a point where it was go with it or cut it all off. This woman went with it.
“Diane. I’m head of the war council.”
“Credentials for this, if I may ask?” His instinct triggered. Something about her mannerism. Very military.
“Not as much as you when it comes to ground, I hear. But I try to do my best. I’m an Air Force F-22 fighter pilot. Two tours in Iraq. Just got home from Afghanistan in rotation when the shit hit the fan.”
“Whoa. I was not expecting that. You look too young.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. It’s all the days of lack of washing maybe.” Big smile.
He felt an urge to return the smile. Instead, he made sure to scratch his face with his left hand, so the wedding band gleamed in the lantern light.
He shook hands with each member of the council, but he wasn’t too interested in them. Except for the guy in charge of garbage. He noted him and put a To-Do on the list to chat with him if given the chance. What the hell to do with all the garbage they accumulated?
The others satisfied their curiosity and moved out of the tent. Their names swirled around in his head as he tried to place them with the faces.
“Please, sit.” Monty gestured to the pillow-mattresses.
He sat with the council chief and head of warfare.
“You have questions,” Diane said. “I can see them burning in your eyes.”
“Yeah. First one, how are you spying on us?”
She pulled a map out. “This is for you. A copy of our intel map. You have a huge terrain to cover.”
He brought a lantern closer to study the map. “Apparently, we may have to wall like you have.”
“You’ll be hard-pressed to,” said Monty. Peter liked his baritone voice. “You aren’t wealthy in trucks and buses there. You lack manufacturing warehouses.”
“Unfortunately,” Diane said, “hostiles have the docks. And even the most inbred trash knows how to make a bomb.”
“Bombs,” Peter muttered. “Fantastic.”
“Yeah. I would love to airstrike them. But airstrikes don’t come in our favor.”
“Have there been airstrikes up here?”
“A few. But they have stopped.”
“Gassing?”
“Oh, no. We’re not too historic in North Charleston. They go right for the big booms. There’s craters further north of us.”
“Jesus.” He blew out air. “You guys have really lived in the shit.”
“Every day. For months. Feels like years. But apparently, it’s just months, I’m told.”
“Believe it or not, just months.”
“How things can change fast.”
The map showed not only the easy hiding places to spy on his group, but where the hostile groups were. Peter already knew this, but it was nice to receive more detailed information.
“We want intel from the HAM radio,” said Diane.
“We’re working on it,” responded Peter. “We got his map of the virus spread. We’ll copy it and bring it to you. But his additional intel-gathering was stupid. It’s about these sonsabitches here.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Monty said.
“What happened at Parris Island?” Diane asked.
3.
“We can do the surgery right now.”
LaShawn’s baby was ready. Matt’s hand felt the hardness of the abdomen, and the baby bump had dropped low. Both were indications the baby was preparing to come.
“I’m scared. This ain’t a hospital.”
“I know, sweetheart,” he reassured LaShawn.
Kanesha opened trunks and plastic crates. “This is all the antibiotics we got. There more at the hospital complex, of course. But there is crazy people there. I mean, real crazy. They gone the wrong way in all this.”
“What do you mean, honey?” Angela asked. “How much more wrong can they get from white supremacists?”
“Like … eating people.”
Angela’s jaw dropped.
“We know they cooking meth over there. Scouts have smelled it cooking up. Scouts who know what that smells like if you get my meaning.”
“Let’s not talk about this here.” Matt's head gestured to his patient.
“Sorry, girlfriend. You want some chamomile tea for your nerves? I’ll go get you some. Miss Angela, would you come with me?”
“I’d be glad to. I get to see how somebody else is doing their kitchen.”
“Oh, that ain’t been easy with no electricity ‘cept from the generators we found.”
Matt watched them exit. He worried about Angela receiving any more information on meth head cannibals, and how that would come down on the Jackson kids. They may be restricted to their bedrooms only. Possibly with bars on the windows.
He smiled at his patient. “It is going to be alright, hon.” He wasn’t entirely convinced of that. The surgery area needed to be sterilized. And a standby of blood in case things went wrong.
“Do you know your blood type, honey?”
He hoped his patient was O positive. It was the most common in the United States. His group alone had several, including Chris, Angela, and the Jackson kids. Everyone but Tyler and Mullen knew their blood types.
She knew it, and it was O positive. He smiled.
Next problem, he needed to anesthetize his patient. The last time he did that, Peter supplied him with heroin. The drugs had burned up on the island. At the medical center during bug-out, Matt could not unlock the safe in which all narcotics were kept. It was too big and heavy to grab and run with. Moot issue anyway, since it would have ended up on the bottom of a river.
4.
Waiting outside was useless. Phebe received word from Ben to go home. Peter gave some heads up via the radio on things he had learned.
She waved goodbye to Vi and the marksmen scouts on the rooftops as she got into her Lamborghini. But as she drove south, heading back towards Interstate 26 and the overland bridge, she noticed Vi’s black BMW followed. She changed channels to talk to her.
“Vi, Pheeb. Whatcha doing? Over.
“Making sure you get there alright, girlfriend. And watch over your tribe till y’all regrouped. Don’t need to be losing y’all. That’s my orders. Over.”
“Hope you aren’t expecting some good meals. Over.”
“You got beer? Over.”
Phebe laughed. “We do, actually. Over.”
“That’s all I want then to make me the happiest woman at the end of the world. Over.”
With Vi’s BMW in the distance of her rearview mirror, she drove in the ascent arc of the bridge. Despite her desire to listen to music, she refrained. This was a DMZ line, she had been warned, meaning it had some of the worst fights. Just like the Vietnam War’s DMZ.
“We hang their dead bodies off this bridge. Over.”
“Good call. I’m partial towards beheadings myself. Heads on stakes. Over.”
Vi’s laughter. “I know you are, girl. Over.”
The drive was peaceful. The sports car’s engine purred like a contented big cat. Derelict and half-destroyed vehicles pushed far to the sides, making lanes open on both sides. Phebe hummed to herself. Checked her mirrors. Scanned around.
The side of the bridge blew up.
“Holy!”
The Lamborghini lifted at the left. The wheels swerved. She struggled to keep control. Smoke engulfed her windows.
The fragile front end slammed into a derelict car.
Airbags deployed, hitting her face.
“We are under attack,” Vi’s voice through the radio. “RPG on the bridge. Checking on Phebe. Over.”
Phebe shook her face. Adrenaline jacked up. Whatever injuries she had sustained, she couldn’t feel them. Her hand searched for her knife to eliminate the airbag in her face.
The door yanked up. Vi stabbed the airbag.
“Get your weapon and move out!”
Ben had the SASS. Phebe grabbed the hunting riffle she had secured between the bucket seats.
Vi cut her seatbelt, wasting no time. The smell of burnt gunpowder. The smoke cloud dissipated in the breeze.
As soon as the airbag and seatbelt cleared, Vi yanked her by the arm out. The BMW was parked a few feet away.
“In. Move fast.”
Phebe hurried to the door and got in. Vi slid across the hood like she was in the Dukes of Hazzard. She rushed into the open door of the driver's seat. Gear in first, she didn’t wait in acceleration to shut the door. Momentum shut it for her.
“I got a white woman in the middle of this shit.”
“They’re after me?”
“Damn right. This the white supremacist that got the docks. Your place is closer than ours. We gotta go.”
“I can get reinforcement.”
“Do it, girl. We in the shit here.”
Phebe switched to her group’s channel and called it in.
“On our way,” Emily responded. “Over.”
5.
“What do you mean, they’re after my wife?” Peter roared. He grabbed his M4 and stood. “I’m going after her.”
“Get them reinforcements from our side,” Monty ordered.
Diana was already heading for the tent flap. “On it.” She said into her radio, “Fighters in camp, we’re rolling.”
Matt hurried out of the building, yelling orders to Kenisha. “Get a room and instruments sterilized. I’ll be back.”
“I’ll pray for you,” she yelled after him.
“Ange, stay here.”
“Oh, Jesus, please, protect them,” muttered Angela.
Kenisha took her hand in hers and watch with worry in their brown eyes.
Just as Matt stepped off the front stairs of the building, his radio crackled. Brandon’s voice, “We’re under attack. Over.”
“Raven,” Peter’s voice. “Go back. Over.”
“Already on it. Over.”
“Bet he is,” muttered Peter.
Matt ran up to join him.
“We gotta get there,” he said. “Their after her.”
“Get into one of their vehicles,” ordered Peter. “In case I get blown up.”
The Mad Max vehicles surrounded Peter’s SUV as he exited, including the pickup with the teenager and .50 cal. More vehicles joined on the way.
They had a war to fight.
6.
“Asshole are listening in on our radios,” Phebe said.
“We ain’t got no scramblers.”
Vi slammed on the brakes. Then hit reverse. Phebe jolted back and forth.
A blockage at the end of the bridge.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Shit.” Vi kept looking back as she drove. “They know that?”
“Don’t know. But don’t sacrifice me.”
“We allies, girlfriend. I ain’t given them shit.”
She banged a hard turn, throwing Phebe against the door. Then hit first gear.
“Shit. You drive like me.”
7.
Skiffs came across the bay. Smelly, unwashed men with disheveled beards stepped onto the dock.
“This here gonna be her first run since I cleaned her again.” Chris loaded the chain into the SAW’s feed.
“What do we do?” Stanton’s voice was so high pitched, dogs may have howled in the next county.
“Keep outta our ways.”
“I can do that.”
Eric’s voice further in the house told them he was losing his mind too.
“Go tend to crazy boy.”
“Alright.” Stanton hurried to tend to his task.
“Fuck. We gotta have radio silence. Where them assholes of ours at?”
Nia said, “Tyler and Brandon are on the dock. Dre and them are at the front windows.”
An explosion.
“What the fuck?”
* * *
Tyler groaned through gritted teeth with shrapnel in his side.