Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I)

by Andrews, Linda

  “Well,” Henry piped into the silence. “We can’t let your skills go rusty. Now that the Redaction is over, you’ll want to get another job.”

  “And Mildred will be glad to get a break.” Connie led them across the street to a two-story ranch with a slate gray roof. No weed, bush or tree marred the plain gravel front yard. Cane sweeping side to side, she led them up the driveway to the small portico. “This is Denise Power’s house.”

  Henry scooted around her and pressed the bell. Once. Twice. Deep chimes resonated inside.

  Manny unzipped his jacket, and then zipped it back up. Was this the home of the dead woman? Was she even now being a rat treat in her backyard? And what of the man? The killer that threw her bloody body off the balcony. Was he still around, waiting to strike? Jesus Christ. He should have told the soldiers. They could have caught the guy.

  “Probably still in bed.” Henry grumbled, pressing the bell twice more.

  “Be nice, Henry.” Connie rapped her cane on the door three times. The knocking blended with the dying peals.

  Manny spun the metal tab of his zipper until the hoodie puckered. Tell them. I have to tell them. But now I’ll look guilty.

  “We can’t sit here all day.”

  Connie sighed and pushed her gray hair off her forehead. “Alright, get the key from under the mat.”

  “I’ll get it.” Irina squeezed around them, knelt and lifted the corner of the straw welcome mat. She held the key out to Henry before standing next to Manny.

  Her warm fingers slid against his. His muscles jumped with the need to grab her hand and run away.

  Henry slid the key in the lock. The tumblers turned with a soft thud and the door opened on silent hinges.

  Voices drifted around him and so did something else. The odor of evacuated bowels. The signature of death. Manny swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He slapped his hand over his mouth to keep from vomiting. How could the house smell so strong if the body was outside?

  Rini gasped and buried her head in his shoulder.

  “Denise? Denise?” Connie stopped on the threshold. “It’s Connie. I’ve come with your supplies.”

  Henry tugged her back outside and shut the door. Gray tinged his pale skin. “She’s gone to be with her children, Connie. Wait here while I go call the sergeant major.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  David zipped up the body bag. His pulse pounded at his temples. Stanley ‘Stash’ Epstein. Twelve years old. Beaten to death by a bunch of gangbangers over food. Food for fuck’s sake! There was enough for everyone, no need to steal or kill for it. Maybe humanity deserved the shit sandwich Mother Nature was about to force feed it.

  At the very least, the people who did this deserved to rot in a particularly hot corner of Hell for eternity times two. Maybe longer. Stooping, he slid his hands under the kid. Plastic crinkled as he lifted the remains and cradled them against his chest. God, the kid weighed next to nothing. What threat could he have presented against anyone?

  “Hey Big D.”

  David closed his eyes for a moment. The kid had survived the Redaction, only to be killed for no damn good reason. None. He hoped the Marines hunted every last one of the gang and put a bullet through their heads. God knew, if one of the Aspero walked in front of his truck, he’d gun the engine.

  “Yo, Earth to Big D.” Standing over the processing kits, Robertson snapped his fingers. “Come in, Big D.”

  He adjusted the bundle in his arms and stepped out of his thoughts. “Robertson this had better not be about the hobbies of this month’s Playmate.”

  Tsking, Robertson tucked the camera in the kit before closing it. “That babe was so smoking, no red-blooded man would have even pretended to read the articles.”

  Stepping around the private, David headed for the door. He wasn’t in the mood for the dark humor Robertson specialized in. Maybe morgue duty was finally getting to him. It got to everyone sooner or later. Better to leave the room before he ripped the private two new ones.

  “Big D.” He heard the rustle and grunt as the private lifted the kits. “Before you distracted me, I thought you should know that your phone was ringing.”

  Well, hell. David strode down the hall. It wasn’t ringing now. Of course, that just meant he’d probably missed an important call. One demanding he deliver another package to the good doctor. Thoughts of Mavis shined a ray of sunshine into the dark hallway. Entering the living room, he glanced passed the stacks of toys to the sagging couch. Should he put the remains down and check the number?

  Robertson brushed his back as he hustled by. Although his shoulders were bowed by the processing kits, he held out his arms. “I’ll take him, Big D. You see to the call.”

  For a moment, David tightened his grip on the kid. He’d given him all the dignity he could. But with the call, he might be able to save the life of his cousin and the boy who’d given them both shelter. Maybe.

  “Yeah, okay.” He placed the body in Robertson’s arms. His limbs felt lighter, empty. Sighing, he ripped off his gloves. “I’ll get the doors.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Big D. He doesn’t weigh anything.” Above his mask, Robertson’s face darkened. “You think we can find a nest of those plague carrying rats and dump them off at the Aspero’s house?”

  Opening the door, David smiled. The plague was a nasty way to die. And slow. Plus, the bastards would infect each other. Sometimes a brilliant idea emerged from the dark corners of the private’s mind. “We’ll see.”

  “Bullets are too good for the likes of them.”

  Stepping onto the carport, David opened the back of the refrigerated truck before unzipping his bunny suit and stripping it off his shoulders. The slick fabric bunched around his ankles. Using his gloves as mitts, he unwound the duct tape from around his boots and shucked off the garment. Piling his soiled clothes on the dusty cement, he unclipped his phone from his belt. He glanced at the display and frowned.

  Unknown name.

  Not the Surgeon General with a pick-up, which meant no Mavis. Hmm. He hit up his voicemail then entered his code.

  “Sergeant Major, this is Wheelchair Henry.” The man’s voice shook. “I mean Henry, the guy in the wheelchair.”

  Dread spiraled down David’s spine and his heart thudded heavily in his chest. Christ. He’d just seen them today. Did the girl’s injuries require hospitalization?

  “We live off of Baseline between Seventh and Central. You were here today dropping off supplies.”

  David kicked at his discarded PPE. “Just get to the point.”

  A heavy sigh came over the line. “We found a body. It’s Ms. Powers. She, uh, hanged herself.”

  Closing his eyes, David tossed his head back. Suicide. It was a suicide. He breathed deeply, until his heart slowed. He snapped the phone shut.

  “Trouble Big D?” Robertson’s boots hit the ground as the truck door clattered down.

  “Another body.” David glanced at the private through his eyelashes.

  Robertson unzipped his bunny suit before peeling off his gloves and nesting them one inside the other. “The Redaction, Plague or Hanta virus?”

  “Suicide.”

  “If they’d just waited, Mother Nature would have done it for them.” Robertson double bagged their garments, sealed them up, and then slapped on the biohazard sticker. Opening the door a crack, he stuffed the bag inside the truck bed. “Please tell me, the DB didn’t eat his shotgun. I am so not in the mood for blood and brains abstract art.”

  David pulled a lock out of his pants pocket and secured the door. “I don’t know, but we’re headed back to Wheelchair Henry’s.”

  “Damn, Big D. This is a bad side of town to be living on.”

  It was emptying out pretty damn fast too. At least, this one wasn’t a murder. While walking back to the cab, he unclipped his phone, called up the last number and hit redial. The phone rang once. Twice.

  “Hello?”

  David licked his lips. Damn, he’d reached one of
the women. Not that they weren’t competent, but he’d rather deal with Henry. The ex-Green Beret was unlikely to break down crying. He couldn’t deal with tears right now. “Yes, Ma’am. This is Sergeant Major Dawson. I’m returning Henry’s call.”

  “Oh, yes.” She lowered her voice. “It’s about Denise, poor lamb. I guess losing her children was just too much for her.”

  He rolled his shoulders. Tension popped along his spine. Dead children. That explained a lot. Had he been the one who had collected them? After climbing into the cab, he raked his fingers through his hair and slammed the door shut behind him. There’d been so many… “Yes, I understand. If you could just give us the address, we’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

  “No need for that, Sergeant Major.” The woman’s voice became muffled and a door creaked. Had she shut herself in a closet so the little ones didn’t hear? “Henry will be at the gate, waiting for you. He’ll take you right to Denise’s.”

  He certainly hoped the little ones hadn’t found the body. They’d been through enough. All of them had. Damned selfish of suicides to leave other traumatized individuals to find their corpses. “Much obliged, ma’am.”

  “Address?” After donning a fresh mask, Robertson started the engine before shifting the truck into gear.

  He closed his phone. David pressed against the seat as the vehicle lurched forward. “They’re going to meet us at the gate.”

  The private nodded while steering down the deserted street.

  Nearly deserted. An audience of rats watched them pass. Plague infested. If only. David cleared his throat and reached into his pocket for the remains of his MRE. The condiments pack—the Hersey bar in this post-Redaction world. With its little packets of salt, sugar, toilet tissue, gum, matches and Tabasco Sauce, it won friends and influenced people.

  Robertson slowed the truck as they neared the intersection. In white bunny-suits, technicians ghosted over the scene—snapping pictures, collecting bullet casings and packaging the dead. With less than twenty bodies, they should have been done three hours ago. Either these guys were new to MA duty or they feared the gangbangers would sue.

  He hoped one of them called. It would make it easier to wipe out the rest.

  The Marine on duty ducked under the tape and jogged over to them. His finger remained near the trigger of his SAW as he climbed the step to be level with the truck window. “Find any more bodies?”

  “Not there but we have a new one across the way.” Robertson adjusted the metal piece on his face mask.

  The Marine pushed his helmet up so David could see his eyes. “Any more updates?”

  David scratched his back against the bucket seat. So much for him being anonymous. Damn, his ass and everything else might get handed to him if word got back to the higher ups. “Not at the moment.”

  The Marine fished out a booklet from his pocket and tore off a page. “Our CO thinks if things get bad we might need a fall back point.” He folded the paper and handed it to Robertson. “Since he grew up here, he thought your contact might want some first-hand information. It’s a private number.”

  Accepting the paper, he tucked it into his jacket. “I’ll pass it along. Tell him to check his messages.”

  “We all are, Sergeant Major.” The Marine jumped down and jogged back to his unit.

  Robertson pressed the gas pedal and angled the vehicle around the blood spatter in the road. Slapping at the visor, he blocked the setting sun so shade slanted across his eyes. “Well that was fun. Hope whoever has the loose lips doesn’t get you shot, Big D.”

  Nodding, David glanced out the window. He grabbed a water bottle from the back and chugged half of it down. His mouth still felt dry. The fancy block wall of the gated community came into view. “It doesn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to figure out I was the leak. After all, I’m the only one in contact with the Doc. My orders are common knowledge.”

  The truck slowed as they approached the break in the wall for the entrance. Robertson hit the blinker even though they were the only ones on the street. “Do you think we’ll have to bug out?”

  Hell yeah. He glanced down the road, seeing not the houses and street but the nuclear power plant sitting some seventy miles away. A time bomb waiting to sterilize everything in its fallout’s path. “Mavis is trying to convince the Surgeon General to organize drop points so the survivors will have what they need to reach rendezvous points.”

  “God-damn-fucking-shit.” In a wide turn, Robertson turned into the entrance and slammed on his brakes.

  David braced his hand on the dash before his seatbelt locked up. “Only four swear words?”

  Wheelchair Henry rolled back and forth in front of the gate. He waved from almost underneath the truck’s grill before entering the code to let them in.

  Robertson scratched his chin before leaning forward to rest his forearms on the steering wheel. “Four is enough. The Doc in charge seems to be a bright woman if she’s considering a strategic retreat. Of course, an ant with a fart of a thought is better than those dumb asses in Washington.”

  David chuckled. “I can assure you, Mavis has more than one thought in her head.”

  The truck inched forward, crowding the opening gate. With a backward glance over his shoulder, Wheelchair Henry shot through the gap. He continued rolling across the street and up the curb. By the time Robertson guided the truck into the neighborhood, the older man was parked on the porch of the house catty-corner from the entrance.

  With expert maneuvering, Robertson turned, jockeyed, and then backed the truck into the driveway. He killed the engine, but kept the refrigeration running in the back. “With as many meat packages we’ve picked up today, I’m glad I restocked the truck.”

  David grabbed a package of gear and tossed one to the private before jumping to the driveway. “We’ll do a quick assessment of the scene before we interview the witnesses.”

  “Sure thing, Big D.” Robertson’s boots hit the ground. They slammed their doors together and strode to the back of the truck.

  Wheelchair Henry set his chair’s brake at the end of the porch. “We all found her. But I’m the only one who went inside when she didn’t answer the door.” He dragged a hand down his craggy features. His lips were a slash across his face when they reappeared. “Them kids have been through enough, and to find her the first day they’re here. The woman is just damned inconsiderate of others.”

  Letting the old man vent, David unlocked the latch before rolling up the truck’s gate. Cold air washed over his skin, bringing along with it the smells of waste, blood and decay.

  “She acted like she was the only one who’d lost someone, lost their kids.” Wheelchair Henry swiped at his eyes. “We all lost someone.” For a moment, his eyes clouded over. “But we don’t give up. We don’t kill ourselves. There are so many other folks in need. So many kids without parents.”

  He slumped in his seat and bowed his head.

  After removing one of the scene processing kits out of the truck, David rested his hand on the other man’s shoulder. Muscle pushed back against his palm. “I don’t know why anyone takes their own life, sir. I do know that sometimes people just get lost in their own pain and can’t seem to find a way out.”

  Wheelchair Henry sniffed before vertebra by vertebra he sat, shoulders squared in his chair. “Not everyone’s cut out for war. And this damn flu waged a nasty war on us all.”

  “Amen.” Robertson yanked the gate closed and latched it. He didn’t bother locking it. Everyone knew by now that valuables wouldn’t be with the bodies. They were always bagged and tagged separately.

  David stepped into a brand new bunny suit and zipped up the slick material. Grabbing a roll of duct tape from his kit, he sealed off his ankles. “Can you call the others back while we do a preliminary check of the scene?”

  “I’ll get them.” Wheelchair Henry released the brake on his chair. “They should be done delivering the rations to the others.”

  Robertson snapped h
is gloves over the end of his sleeves then picked up the camera. After flipping the screen, he hit the record button and the lens cover retracted while it protruded from the camera body. He focused on the house front, recording the address while taking in the condition of the front facing windows. “Sergeant Major David Dawson and Private First Class Casanova Robertson recording the death of Denise Powers of Six-Four-Two South Mayflower Drive.”

  David donned his own gloves while Robertson droned on—relating who found the body, how it was reported and the presumption of suicide. After the private finished scanning the porch and the gravel in front of the windows, David entered the house and caught sight of the remains hanging in front of him. A rolling office chair lay on its side not too far from her. The smell of excrement seeped through his face mask. He paused, listening to the buzz of flies.

  The skin between his shoulder blades itched. Her head was at the wrong angle. It seemed to be broken, not at all consistent with a slow strangulation implied by the chair. “Damn.”

  Brushing his arm, Robertson paused next to him. “Mother-Fucking-shit-eating-cock-sucking-no-balled-bastards.”

  “Exactly.” David closed his eyes and counted. One. Two. Three. Why couldn’t things just be simple? Five. Six. Was it too much to ask? Eight. Nine. Ten. “I’ll check the back door. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the murderer will have left a bloody fingerprint behind.”

  Robertson snorted.

  A man could dream. After the private panned the open space, David walked to the back. Damn. French doors. He tried the knob. And locked. Had the killer gotten inside another way?

  “You think Wheelchair Henry and the others knew?” Robertson focused on the chair.

  “No. The idea of suicide pissed him off. Learning that a murderer had gotten into his world would have made him livid.” No soldier like the perimeter breached on his watch. David pulled down a vertical blind slat and peered outside. Mud spotted the concrete. Hot damn! The perp had left tracks on the patio. Not many, true, but it might be enough to ID the bastard. “Robertson, Santa left you a present on the patio.”