by Michael Todd
Sal nodded. “I appreciate it as I don’t think I’ll get anywhere fast. I could probably crawl, I think, but I’ll save that for a life or death scenario.”
Addams chuckled. Cortez stood to join him, and Sal watched them limp away. He assumed a base as large as the Staging Area would have its own hospital.
Someone sat beside him on the bench and drew him from his train of thought. Sal glanced at Monroe who looked exhausted. How could she not? For an entire night, they’d held onto their lives by the barest of threads. It had only been three days, but it felt like weeks since Sal had touched down there and wondered what the hell he’d find. Strangely, he somehow felt more at home there than he had anywhere else despite the turmoil and pain.
“How are you feeling?” Monroe asked as she turned to face him.
“Like I could sleep for a couple of weeks,” he answered honestly, “or something like that. Back home, I’d probably be arrested with the number of drugs Addams pumped into my system.”
She chuckled. “We’re a long way away from any significant law around here. Get as high as you please. There is the small matter of the scarcity of the good stuff, but since when has that stopped anyone?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Sal said softly and his gaze traveled over the endless vista of the Sahara. He felt drained, mentally as well as physically. He liked talking to Dr. Monroe. She seemed like she had a mind that could match his own for speed, but right now, he would easily fail a first-grade math test. His wit had abandoned him, so rather than say something he would regret later, he focused on the distant horizon and drew in deep, cleansing breaths of the cool morning air.
“You know,” Monroe said, her voice soft and almost reverent, “despite the crazy animals and plants in there—or maybe because of them—I have to say that the Zoo is one beautiful place to be. It’s so new and exciting. I don’t think I could see myself working in some boring lab or another, even if it were in a civilized part of the world and paid me like a CEO.”
Sal nodded. “It has its charms, there’s no denying that. But I think I need time to come to terms with how much crazy comes with the good. I hope that the next time I go, we at least have a team without a weak link like Lynch. I’d say may he rest in peace and I hate to speak ill of the dead, but holy shit, that guy was made of asshole.”
She laughed. “I’m glad you’re thinking of the next time.”
Sal looked at her. “How so?”
“It means you’ve decided to stay.” She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “If you’re already planning the next trip, it means that you’ve decided that you’ll go on another trip.”
Sal smirked. “I guess you’re right.”
“Here’s something to keep in mind, Jacobs.” A sly smile played across her lips. “Something beautiful generally comes with a hint of crazy to keep you on your toes. You have to decide if the beauty makes the crazy worth it.”
An open NTV with a section for a stretcher came to a stop across the road.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” The medics exited the vehicle and hurried toward him. “I’ll talk to you later, Monroe.”
She smiled as they helped Sal up, assisted him to limp over the road to lie on the stretcher, and drove away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Most of the day was spent in the hospital ward, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Addams had done the best he could in the vehicle with the little equipment and few supplies available, but nothing could take the place of real rest and real doctors who knew how to treat wounds like his. It wasn’t an emergency situation, but as he watched them clean the wounds on his legs from the angry giant locusts, he suspected that infections were a real possibility.
They were thorough, but Sal felt virtually nothing. The doctors asked questions about what happened, but he wasn’t sure how well he answered. He could recall the painkiller cocktail Addams had given him and that most of the wounds were inflicted during the last day and night. Fifteen cuts on his legs needed stitching as well as one on his face from his shattered helmet. He hadn’t even felt it at the time, oddly enough, and he wondered if it hadn’t happened when he’d yanked his helmet off. It was all conjecture now, though. He was put into a bed for recovery and was out like a light for hours.
When he woke again, he tried to pull himself out of bed but collapsed onto his back with a low, pained groan at a sharp muscle pain. He had no idea of the time or how long he’d been out. While he did feel more rested, that meant little in the bigger picture.
He took a deep breath, pressed the button that tilted the bed from a horizontal position, and he realized that he wasn’t the only one in the room. PFC Abel Hawkins looked like he’d dozed off too until the sound of the bed woke him.
“Dr. Jacobs. I’m so glad to see you up and about again.” Hawkins stood and assessed him carefully.
“Well, awake, anyway,” Sal said. “How can I help you, Hawkins?”
“Oh, I’m simply returning your house key to you.” He held the key card out. When Sal didn’t take it, the man blinked and put it on the bedside table. “And we need your signature to open your bank account here in the Staging Area so you receive your paycheck from your first trip.”
“Right,” Sal said, a little bemused. The PFC put a datapad on his lap so that he could sign it at his leisure. “How much did I get from the trip?”
“Well…” Hawkins paused to look over the details. “There’s a five-thousand-dollar commission for a specialist on one of these missions. Plus, your additions to the database from your suit amount to another thousand. Then there’s the bounty for the flowers you brought in. The total was sixty-three thousand dollars which, divided between the four survivors of your squad, amounts to fifteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars. All that added up, with the reduction from the taxes you have to pay—”
“Wait, what?” Sal interjected. “Taxes? What taxes?”
“It comes with the government contract,” Hawkins said blandly. “You must understand that your taxes pay for your lodging, food, and medical treatment. If you weren’t under contract, you would have to pay for all this separately.”
Sal nodded. “And I’m sure that the government doesn’t take a cut for itself.”
The man looked at the ground, clearly a little uncomfortable. “I’m sure I don’t know about any of that. Sixteen thousand, three hundred and fifty dollars will be deposited into your account, already properly taxed and ready for use.”
“Use where?” Sal looked around. “There’s nowhere to spend it.”
Another issue nagged at him. Hearing his three days in hell measured out and calculated at just over sixteen grand made it all feel worthless. That bundle of numbers was all he had to show for this whole adventure.
Well, the trip was all dissertation gold, but he still wanted to feel outraged about the corporate treatment he received.
In reality, though, Sal didn’t have the energy for indignation. It was all so far above him. Perhaps the next trip wouldn’t end with a squad member running off with most of their earnings, and maybe he would be left with more for his efforts. Hopefully next time, he wouldn’t have to deal with a forest full of enraged creatures.
Which reminded him that he had ended up with a lot more to show for his efforts than the money and experience he’d earned. He had a small plant of his own. Sal looked at his pack, which hadn’t been moved from his bedside where he’d put it before he drifted off. He quickly signed his name into the device on his lap. A few seconds passed as the pad processed his request and it pinged with success and a message that he had a payment pending. He accepted it, and sixteen thousand dollars was suddenly in his account.
That was more money than he’d ever had when he worked for Caltech. Most of his study had been through scholarships, so he was fortunate not to have a massive student loan to pay off, but he hadn’t rolled in dough either.
“Thank you so much,” Hawkins said with the tone of a dentist’s receptionist. He reclaimed the pad and logged out.
“Yeah, whatever,” Sal grumbled. The door of his room opened, and Kennedy stepped in.
“What’s up, Jacobs?” she asked. She looked bright and chipper in shorts, and she had no bandage on her right thigh, and no sign of stitches. There wasn’t even a damn scar there. He raised an eyebrow as he leaned against his pillow. He’d have to ask her about that later. She also looked far too full of energy for someone who’d spent the past couple of days in a jungle with a gaping leg wound, and certainly better than he felt.
“Nothing much,” he said, and nodded at Hawkins. “We set my bank account up so I can get my first paycheck.”
“Yeah.” Kennedy scowled as the private left the room. “It was a shit haul, but all things considered, we came out with a decent profit. Most other times, though, we have fewer problems and we get a heftier paycheck.”
Sal nodded. “I’m not complaining. I was an academic, remember? Getting paid that much for three days’ work is a good deal—serious and life-threatening three days’ work, but still. I don’t think I’ve ever seen five digits in any of my bank accounts ever, so I’d say I’m happy with how things turned out.”
Kennedy smiled an odd smile and nodded. “Besides, you figured out a way for us to make money more efficiently out there, so I’ll make sure you’re my specialist on every single one of my trips into the Zoo.”
“What makes you think I’d want to go back in there with you?” he asked and raised an eyebrow. She detected the playfulness in his tone, though, and smirked.
“Please. As if you could ever find a squad leader better than me. Although I will make sure to limit any and all independent contractors we take out there on future missions. I don’t want any Lynch bullshit coming back to haunt us. So, do you feel up to a celebration?”
Sal raised his eyebrows. “What kind of celebration?”
“Us survivors are heading to the bar to sink some of our earnings into the local economy.”
“You guys have a bar out here?” It seemed like a stupid question, but what the hell did he know about quasi-military bases in the middle of the Sahara Desert?
“Of course,” the sergeant said. “How do you think we keep so many people in line around here? There has to be some entertainment, and since a water park is out of the picture, they settled for a watering hole. Now, get your clothes on and meet me outside in five minutes.”
Sal nodded, and Kennedy exited the room. He pushed out of bed with a groan. Bandages covered his legs, and a couple of muscle relaxants were placed on his thighs and shoulders. The doctors had told him they would help with the muscle tears that had developed. They seemed to have an analgesic effect, too, since he couldn’t feel much in those areas.
He pulled the hospital gown over his head and tossed it aside. Sal assumed that he didn’t need a doctor to sign him out, and if he did, it made no difference. They would probably tie him down for the night, but when there was a celebration to enjoy, he didn’t intend to allow protocol or security to stop him. He yanked his pants on—the ones he’d brought from home had been delivered clean and folded—and a light shirt. He thrust his feet into his shoes and was ready to leave.
Kennedy waited for him outside the hospital and assessed him with a sharp glance.
“You look much better when you don’t bumble around in those silly specialist suits,” she said, impressed.
Sal didn’t feel good as he’d had to limp and stumble his way to the exit. “I only hope you brought a ride to get us to this bar of yours. I don’t think I’m up to a walk.”
She grinned and motioned for him to follow her to a JLTV parked nearby.
“Why do I think you didn’t drive that here yourself?” Sal asked and heaved himself into the passenger seat.
The sergeant shrugged. “Well, it’s not like they’re running short of them,” she said and gestured at the wide selection of JLTVs. “They won’t mind me appropriating it.”
Sal didn’t reply. He didn’t know enough to judge whether what she did was bad or not, but after the couple of days he’d had, the convenience of a drive outweighed the stirring of his conscience.
When they arrived, the place looked much like every other building they’d passed. All had been erected quickly and were meant to endure. The only real drawback was that they looked like they’d been made in a factory, with identical walls and roof shingles and all the same boring beige color.
The only real indication that there was a bar inside was the tiny sign painted in bright red. Mark’s Pub didn’t inspire enthusiasm from the outside.
“So, is this place a Brit pub that only shows soccer?” Sal asked. There weren’t many American bars that called themselves pubs.
“The guy who founded it wasn’t American,” Kennedy explained as she killed the engine and jumped out. “Do you need help?”
Sal raised his hand. He didn’t want her help yet but also wanted her close by in case he actually did need her. He gripped the side of the vehicle, lifted himself from the seat, and grunted softly as his feet landed on the road. He swayed as Kennedy watched with a raised eyebrow.
“You all right there, Gumby?” she asked with a grin.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he growled and focused on the necessity to stop his sore legs from what seemed like inevitable collapse.
“I intend to,” Kennedy said, “but it’ll have to wait. It looks like the rest of the team’s already inside.”
Sal followed her in slowly. While the outside conformed to the same bland, uniform shape and color as the rest of the damned base, the inside had a certain rustic charm to it. The general impression was one of a bikers’ bar in eighties B-action flicks. Soft rock played in the background, and a gruff, grizzled man stood behind the bar. The decorations could have tried to go neo-noir but ended up simply noir with all the neon on display. One even featured a cowgirl, and blinking lights made it seem like she did a goosestep in a summer dress.
It wasn’t a bad place. Then again, Sal didn’t frequent that many bars, so his reference point was limited.
The rest of the team was already there. Most looked like they had recovered admirably during their full day of rest. Sal limped to the bar where Cortez and Addams greeted him with hearty and slightly painful back-slaps.
“There he is,” Cortez said with a grin. “The rookie specialist with cojones of pure steel. Seriously, how do you get through airports? Your first round is on us, my friend.”
Sal winced as he sat but forced himself to smile. “That’s not really necessary, you know.”
“It really isn’t,” Davis cut in and his voice boomed throughout the bar which, aside from the team, was mostly empty. Only one table was occupied with a handful people in lab coats who talked quietly over their beers.
“How so?” Addams asked.
“Thanks to you guys,” Davis said, “we managed to bring in one of the biggest hauls we’ve ever had. Just in bounties, we got over forty-five grand each. We wouldn’t have made it back without you guys helping us out, so I think it’s only fair that I get the first round.”
A collective cheer rose from the team, and Sal smiled. He wasn’t sure what he would drink. Everyone ordered beers, and something fancy and probably expensive didn’t seem to be included in the offer of the first round.
Beer it was, then.
The bartender filled up seven pint glasses and distributed them among the group. He looked large and burly, but the man had a dexterity that made Sal wonder if he wasn’t a former special forces man himself. He hadn’t spoken yet, so he wasn’t sure if the man was actually British. He had to be, right? There was no pretentiousness among the teams around there, so the only reason he’d call his bar a pub was if that was the name he was familiar with.
Sal realized that he was probably overthinking and took the pint that was offered.
He’d never been a fan of beer, wasn’t a big drinker, and never had the opportunity to do so socially. He sipped cautiously, made a face at the bitter taste, and moved to the table
s where the teams had assembled. They talked loudly and recounted the various adventures that each squad had but also called a few moments of silence to honor their fallen members. It was a small group and fairly relaxed. Sal felt like an outsider but thought he should stick around, if for no other reason than to honor the fallen.
Not Lynch, though, because fuck that guy.
He leaned back, conscious that he had little add to the conversation. Cortez, Addams, and Kennedy certainly knew how to tell the stories of their adventures a lot better than he did. So long as they didn’t know about his stupid little stunt with the bounty hunters, he was happy to let them take most if not all the credit.
He was almost halfway through his pint when Monroe sat beside him. She looked good with her dirty-blond hair tied up in a loose bun. Sal hadn’t noticed before, but she almost epitomized the small, petite yet buxom blonde. It had been hidden by the heavy and rather silly-looking specialist environment suit, but now that she wore a button-up shirt and a pair of jeans, Sal could fully appreciate her figure.
“Do you mind if I join you?” she asked and pushed her glasses up her nose.
She hadn’t waited for a response, but Sal gave one anyway. “Be my guest,” he said with a small smile and raised his pint glass. She grinned and clinked it with hers.
“Congrats on the big haul,” he said to keep the awkward silence at bay for a moment. “We had something similar but—”
“Lynch ran off with most of it,” she said with a sad nod. “I heard your friends tell the story. They also talked about the bounty hunter incident.”
Sal closed his eyes. “God damn it.”
“I mean, the part where you snuck up behind the looters who had everyone pinned down and distracted them enough for your squad to finish them off. That was pretty brave as I see it.”
“You don’t think it was merely a dumb thing to do?” Sal asked. “Because it seems like it was a ridiculously dumb thing to do.”