Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I)

by Andrews, Linda

  Hell, there were few vehicles on the road that weren’t government-issue.

  “Sorry, Sergeant Major.” Private Folgers cleared his throat, looked right then left before bracing an elbow against the door. “We were attacked last night.”

  Attacked! Here? His body shook with outrage and relief. At least it wasn’t the beginning of the end, but… David straightened and surveyed the base. Same TEMPer barracks, mess hall, and storage/supply tent. Same two portables with their heat pumps humming. Same trucks in the motor pool. And absolutely no sign of a firefight. “Who attacked us?”

  “NonComs.” The private scratched at a red welt on the back of his hand. “They just went crazy and rushed forward, guns blazing. Molotov cocktails exploding.”

  Noncoms. Non-combatants. Civilians. Mavis had said they’d turn on the military, murdering anyone who stood between them and what they wanted. But all of that was to come later.

  After the Redaction’s return.

  After their loved ones started dying.

  Again.

  David ran his fingers through his short hair and scratched his head. Something didn’t add up. Where were the casings? The bodies? He couldn’t see his men giving up an eyelash without a fight. “Doesn’t seem to be much damage to the infrastructure.”

  Maybe they’d only taken the rations and antivirals. Ah, shit. That was worse, so much worse than just shooting them dead.

  PFC Folger’s pale forehead wrinkled before he smoothed it flat. Slowly, he turned to look at the base before facing David again. “Why would anyone want body bags, bunny suits and gloves?”

  David inhaled cold air, heard the soft whistle as it slid between his teeth. Easy. Obviously, the kid was a little shaken up. Probably the first time he’d had to fire his weapon since basic. “You said the base was attacked.”

  With a high-pitched laugh, the private shook his head and glanced up at the sky. “Not us.”

  He strangled the steering wheel. Whatever the kid saw, David seriously hoped he’d get around to sharing it with him. And soon. Some where, out there, Patient Zero waited to be collected.

  Apparently just realizing he was laughing alone, PFC Folgers stopped chuckling mid-note. “The Marines were attacked in South Phoenix. Non-com just came out of the night, shooting and throwing fire bombs at their tank. Pea shooters and flaming bottles of alcohol against a tank.” He shook his head. “What douche bags.”

  His words percolated through David’s skull. Noncoms killed, not from the Redaction but by simple lead poisoning. Hot damn! The day was looking up. Shifting mental gears, he began to compile a list of supplies they’d need for the pick-up. “How many killed?”

  “Twenty crispy critters.” The private rubbed a red zit on his chin. “Another twelve injured.”

  Not a bad kill ratio. Of course, the liberal media wouldn’t see it that way. But damn, what kind of dumb ass attacked the very people protecting them and keeping order? “Did we lose any?”

  “Nah.” PFC Folgers stepped away from the Humvee. “If you listen to them tell it, bullets bounce off Marines.”

  David lifted his foot from the brake and the vehicle drifted forward. “Yeah? Well, private, here’s a bit of advice. You can tell a Marine is lying when his lips are moving.”

  Chuckling and shaking his head, the soldier stepped back.

  David felt the corners of his mouth lift. Damn. When was the last time he’d laughed? Forever. Certainly tonight was no trip to the funny farm. He checked the rearview mirror before turning toward the motor pool. Still, maybe he should pencil it on his calendar. Laugh every day at… He pushed up his sleeve and consulted his watch. …at five-forty-three a.m.

  Best of all, it might just drive his men nuts.

  After pulling into the Humvee’s assigned spot, he killed the engine and pulled the keys out of the ignition. Pinching the corner of Mavis’s flyer, he slid out of the driver’s seat. The plywood door to the motor pool tent banged against the ropes tying it down as his boots hit the cracked asphalt.

  And speaking of his men…

  Robertson hitch-stepped toward him. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted across the four feet. “Yo! Big D, it’s about time you got back from your hook-up with the Doc.”

  “I came as soon as I got the word.” David tossed his keys at Vegas. Catching up to Robertson, he slapped the paper into his gut. “Make a hundred copies of this, will you?”

  The clerk caught them on his clipboard before dumping them into his waiting palm. “I just need you to sign here, and you’ll be good to go.”

  Catching the pen swinging from the chain attached to the metal clip, David scrawled his name in the highlighted spot.

  “What’s this?” Angling the paper toward the sun, Robertson held it up to the light. “Plague. What plague? I thought we weren’t supposed to mention the Redaction’s return.”

  “That’s the flu.” David tucked the pen under the clip and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. “We’re talking about the Plague, as in the Black Death.”

  Robertson’s eyes widened so much the whites shone brightly in their sockets. “No fucking way! Where the hell did that come from?”

  Vegas stood on tiptoes to read over Robertson’s shoulder. “Rats. These things are carried by rats?”

  “And what is a Hannah virus?” Robertson bounced on the balls of his feet. “It better not be some damn STD.”

  “Hanta virus, dumb ass.” Vegas cuffed Robertson upside the head. “It’s from rat urine. You must be having really kinky sex to be using that.”

  After dodging another hit, Robertson drove his elbow into the other private’s gut. “Don’t act like you know anything.”

  Last thing he needed was their pissing contest turning into a junior high wrestling match. It had happened before. David cleared his throat and flicked the back of the paper. “Copies, Robertson. Double time.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major.” He crumpled the paper against his forehead and then dashed inside the motor pool office.

  “Anything I can do, Sergeant Major?” Vegas clasped the clipboard behind his back.

  “I’ll leave a copy with you to pass on to the other bases.” David eyed a rat dashing across the sidewalk. Its tail slithered over the concrete before it disappeared into a drainage ditch. “Fax, email, or carrier pigeon. We need to disseminate the information as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major.” Vegas glanced at the tent. “I’ll get right on it.”

  Of course, he would. They all would. No one wanted to pick up more corpses than absolutely necessary. David eyed the mess hall. Did he have time to grab a cup of Joe before heading out? The big refrigerated truck was still here. He checked his watch. If he’d gotten the call thirty-three minutes ago, his men should have been locked and loaded within fifteen. At the Redaction’s height, they had collected more than twenty bodies before lunch. “What’s the status of my men?”

  “Out on distribution duty, Sergeant Major.”

  “Distribution duty? We have bodies to pick up.”

  “The CO ordered them to leave.” Vegas raised his chin and stared over David’s shoulder. “He said that you and PFC Robertson could collect the stiffs. He waited until they left before he departed for leave.”

  David clenched his jaw. He just bet Asshole had seen the men off. No doubt, he wanted another five-finger-discount on the supplies. “Double check the rations.”

  Vegas grinned. “Already did, Sergeant Major. I’m sorry to say, a bandit has made off with the last of those ladies shoes, but glad to report that we’ve found ten boxes of rations that had been reported as missing earlier.”

  “I found the missing rations.” Robertson strutted toward them. He waved a copy of the information at Vegas. “But I’ll deny all knowledge of ladies shoes under pain of death.”

  “I’ll get right on this, Sergeant Major.” Vegas snatched the paper out of the air when Robertson let go of it.

  David nodded before heading for the big refrigerate
d truck. “We ready to go, Private Robertson?”

  “Absolutely, Sergeant Major.” Robertson veered toward the smaller one.

  Obviously the lack of sleep was affecting him. David whistled and jerked his head to the big truck. “That one won’t hold twenty bodies.”

  “Twenty?” Robertson opened the door and tossed the papers inside. “What you smoking Big D? We’re collecting two.” He held up two fingers. “Two, not twenty. An old couple who died of suspicious causes.”

  David skidded to a halt. Two. Suspicious causes. He jiggled the phone in his pocket. Perhaps this was the day they found Patient Zero, after all.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sunnie’s moose slippers slapped the kitchen tile. Coffee. Must have coffee. Rubbing her scratchy eyes, she shuffled toward the red light. Thank God the electricity had come back on. Yawning into the crook of her arm, she lifted her mug from the rack in the sink and set it on the counter. Warmth radiated from the glass coffee pot. How old was it?

  She sniffed the steam above the dark brew. Reasonably fresh and… Hazelnut. Her favorite. Brown drops spotted the laminate counter as she filled her mug. What a night. Swiping her tongue over her teeth, she added powdered creamer to her mug. Gad, she’d forgotten to brush her teeth before going to bed.

  Her brain just couldn’t shut down the thoughts.

  Had Aunt Mavis’s plan worked? Were rumors of the Redaction’s return percolating through America? Shuffling across the great room, she stopped in front of the glass coffee table and poked the remote’s power button. Images blossomed on the television—smiling children, Mom, Dad and the family pooch. A commercial for fresh eggs.

  Her stomach rumbled as saliva pooled in her mouth.

  “Figures I’d get a food commercial.” She set her coffee on the coaster before slogging back to the kitchen. “Those things should be banned until the grocery stores open.”

  Skirting the island, she opened the fridge. Cold air washed goosebumps across her skin. She shuffled the carefully labeled plastic containers looking for the breakfast offerings. “Ah good. Powdered eggs with powdered cheddar cheese, or powdered milk and oatmeal with raisins?”

  Her taste buds rebelled at the thought of either.

  “Hush now.” She swallowed despite her dry mouth. “You’re lucky you have food at all.”

  Taste fatigue was far better than starvation. God knew lots of people on the blogs suffered from the later. She removed a container of oatmeal and lifted the lid. Red heart shapes poked through the off-white lumps.

  “Oooh!” Sunnie pinched a piece out and tucked it in her mouth. “Strawberries. My favorite.”

  She sprinkled cinnamon on top, stirred it with a spoon then popped the container in the microwave. Licking the spoon, she propped a hip against the counter and stared at the screen. The car commercial faded to black seconds before a news personality appeared on the screen.

  The rail thin Asian woman flashed a smile bright enough to be seen from space as she turned to face the camera. “And from coverage of our elected officials and military enjoying their free Burgers in a Basket meals, we continue reporting on the lifting of the public gathering ban, or Mob Day, as it is being called. Here with a report from our affiliate station in Juneau, Alaska is James Martinez.”

  The camera panned to the right, allowing the two people to be displayed side-by-side.

  “Welcome James. Can you tell us how citizens in the state’s capital celebrated?”

  The husky man on the screen held the microphone up and smiled but didn’t talk. Black soot swirled through the spotlight illuminating him and veiled the view over his shoulder.

  “James, can you hear us?” The newswoman held her finger to her ear, showing the French tips of her long nails. Her gaze darted from the camera to the right. “James?”

  A gust blew James’s hood off his head; the action galvanized him. He straightened and raised the microphone closer to his mouth. “Hello, Aimee! Yes, I can hear you and, quite frankly, I wish I were in Phoenix. I understand you’re having sunshine.”

  Aimee’s brown eyes widened, no doubt confused at the unscripted banter. “We aren’t known as the Valley of the Sun for nothing. Is that ash?”

  Great. Phony people interacting. Unfortunately, the Redaction hadn’t killed that. Sunnie pivoted about as the microwave dinged. Holding the container with a dishtowel, she walked to the couch and flopped down. Maybe she should change the channel. Find someone who actually told the news instead of kibitzing about their boring life. Balancing her oatmeal on her knee, Sunnie reached for the remote.

  “Actually Aimee, it’s snow.” A black flake landed on James’s cheek. The spot quickly melted, streaked down his face to drip off his chin. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the ash from those fires in China has permeated the Polar Jet Stream, and now the soot is slowly falling to the ground.”

  The camera shifted to the view over his shoulder and both news personalities disappeared from the screen. In the dim light, the houses, cars and sloping streets looked like a charcoal sketch—a study of black, gray, and white. No one seemed to be about.

  Sunnie’s finger hovered over the channel button. They’d said the magic word—China. She scooped up a spoonful of oatmeal, squishing the warm lumps between her tongue and palate. Could the Redaction arrive in the country via the Jet Stream? And would it affect Aunt Mavis’s calculations if it hit Alaska first?

  “Has that put a damper on Mob Day celebrations, James?”

  Sunnie snorted. What a stupid question. Swallowing her oatmeal, she shook her empty spoon at the TV. “Do you see people out dancing in the streets?”

  James stepped back into the frame. The ashy snow cut his cheeks like runny mascara. “Not a bit. We just moved the party indoors.”

  Right. Like she believed that. Sunnie fished out a strawberry and sucked it off her utensil. “Then where are the people, Jimmy boy?”

  With her eyebrows arched, Aimee appeared in the screen next to him. “Does this ash pose any health risks?”

  “Only for those who have long term exposure.” James stopped smiling. Cue the serious news. “Many of the soldiers stationed on the corners have been hospitalized for respiratory problems. Doctors say it resembles the dust pneumonia cases from the Dust Bowl years.”

  Sunnie dropped her spoon. Holy cow! The Redaction had started in the lungs. Was this the first case of the sickness’s return?

  Aimee nodded. “Yes, we’ve heard of cases in the mid-West where the jet stream dips down into the Southern states. Tell me—.”

  Sunnie clicked off the remote. She had to check the boards. Maybe she could mention the dust thingy being similar to the Redaction. Carrying her oatmeal in one hand, she rose from the sofa. Silver gleamed in the corner of her eye? Should she check Aunt Mavis’s projections? The soldier had returned last night. Maybe he had brought some information that changed things.

  Maybe things wouldn’t be as bad as Aunt Mavis predicted.

  She set her bowl on the table and fingered the computer case’s latches. Should she open it? It wasn’t like her aunt hadn’t allowed her to see the projections. Still…

  “Aunt Mavis?” Her voice echoed around the great room. No answer. That’s odd. Her aunt was usually up with the sun. Then again, she’d still be up when Sunnie had gone to bed at almost three in the morning. She glanced at the clock. Ten.

  Her aunt never slept that late!

  Except… Sunnie’s heart stopped. Except for when she’d had the Redaction. Sunnie leapt away from the dining room table. The suitcase. It had come from China, carried by a Chinese spy. What if it had been booby-trapped with that superbug?

  Turning on her heel, she ran from the room. “Aunt Mavis!”

  She slid around the corner into the hallway, and the tile raked off one of her moose slippers. Who cared? She had to find her aunt. What if she lost her? What if… She axed the thought and jogged around the bend. Cold leached through the pad of her bare foot as she cleared the threshold of her aunt�
�s bedroom. Her toes dug into the moose head of her sole slipper as she skidded to a stop.

  Empty.

  The king-sized bed was empty and neatly made, with the three throw pillows standing on their points. No sweating, feverish aunt. Setting her hand on her chest, Sunnie felt her heart pound against her palm. Her knees shook and she collapsed onto the bed. Her weight pulled rays into the smooth double-chain quilt.

  Her aunt was healthy, safe, and out.

  Sunnie chewed on her thumbnail. But where had she gone? There wasn’t a note tacked to the refrigerator door. Aunt Mavis always left a note. Unless… Nah, it had been the soldier not his boss who’d come back last night. Pushing off the bed, she scanned the room. A cross of dried palm leaves hung from the edge of the dresser mirror. The laminate wood floor was swept, every wooden surface gleamed. No folded clothes sat on the green barrel chair in the corner. A mystery novel was lined up with the edge of the nightstand.

  Everything was neatly in place.

  So unlike her parent’s bedroom. Sunnie’s gaze zeroed in on the photo on the wall. Mom and Aunt Mavis swimming in some unnamed lake. Sunnie inhaled through the jab of pain. Her mom would have been around nineteen in that picture. More than halfway through her lifespan.

  Sunnie’s current age. Running her fingers through her hair, she shook out the tangled locks. Would she die young too? God that was a depressing thought.

  Especially considering she faced the Redaction.

  Again.

  She’d survived it once. And Aunt Mavis had said she would again. But was that realistic?

  “This depressing thought is brought to you by sharp razors. A must for every survivor contemplating cutting their wrists.” Blowing her bangs out of her eyes, she shuffled from the room.

  Think happy thoughts. Bunnies hopping in clover. Puppies. She scrubbed her hands down her face. Maybe not puppies. Most dogs had died within the first few weeks. Birds? Definitely not! They’d dropped dead mid-flight conking people on the head. Focus on the bunnies. Furry kittens? They’d lasted only a few weeks longer than dogs. Bunnies it was. Happy bunnies. Lop-eared rabbits with long gray fur. She toed into her slipper. Fuzzy warmth caressed her chilled skin.