by Rod Redux
The sky was clear. It had quit spitting snow sometime during the night, but it was bitterly cold. Before he’d even walked halfway, Mort’s nose was red and running and he was shaking all over like he’d stuck a fork in a power outlet. Mort slipped on the icy sidewalks a couple times, even with the cane, and almost took a girl down with him. The girl had trotted over to lend him a shoulder to lean on, seeing the tall, skinny guy floundering on the icy walk.
“I’m so sorry,” he’d apologized, clutching her for support. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. I’m fine,” the girl snorted, amused by their clumsy slipping and sliding. “Maintenance really should salt these sidewalks before somebody breaks a leg.” She was young, maybe twenty, with long brown hair and high cheekbones. Very slim. Bony, really. “I’m Jean, by the way.”
“Mort.”
“Careful Mort!” she cried as his legs went out side-to-side in a half-splits. She laughed as he clutched her coat, putting her arm around his narrow waist. “Oh my god! We both almost fell down!” she snorted. She delivered him to blue yard cafeteria, then hurried on her way with a cheery wave (and maybe even a brief, interested glance down and then up).
Since he was on light duty, Mort was only required to work four hours a day to receive his allotment of credits. Mort’s supervisor was a short, stout man named Brent Maguire. He was gruff and sharp-tongued, a retired marine in his old life, he said, but Mort quickly came to respect him. The man’s foul mouth reminded him of Pete, and he was efficient and fair-minded. He gave Mort the grand tour, outlined Mort’s responsibilities, then set Mort loose to work while he went about his own duties.
Mort was grateful to have something productive to do. He sat at the stainless steel prep table in the kitchen and peeled potatoes for lunch. Breakfast was still being served out front, but the blue yard cafeteria served several hundred people every day and lunch had to be prepped while people were still coming in for their morning meal. Large pans of ground beef slathered in tomato sauce were already stacked on the table next to him, ready to be slid into the ovens. White beans bubbled in great pots on the range. As Mort tried to make himself useful, the other kitchen workers scurried to and fro around him. A few of them stopped for a moment to introduce themselves and welcome him, but the kitchen of blue yard’s cafeteria stayed pretty chaotic all morning, and Mort wasn’t sure if he had been all that much of a help when his shift was over.
Reluctant to return to his room in Dorm Eight, Mort volunteered to work a little longer than necessary. Mr. Maguire didn’t object. He handed Mort a ladle and told him to go up front and help serve. Mort spent the next hour or two scooping mashed potatoes and gravy onto lunch trays.
It should have been boring, but Mort found the work satisfying. It was nice to be around so many people. He smiled and talked to some of them as they scooted their trays down the serving line. He didn’t know any of them, aside from a couple people here and there he’d encountered at the infirmary. It was just good to be among people who weren’t crazed and trying to eat his brains. To feel as if he was part of a society again, even diminished and wounded, as it certainly was now.
In the press of the hungry crowd, Mort didn’t see Pete come in the front door—but Pete saw him.
“Mort!” Pete declared. “Oh shit Jesus! Mort!”
Mort looked up in shock as Pete wriggled into the middle of the line. A couple people snarled at him over cutting in, but Pete ignored them.
“Pete!”
“Mort! I’ve been looking for you since I got back!”
Mort grinned, feeling something thaw inside him. “You have?”
“Yeah!”
A guy standing midway down the steam table barked: “Come on, guy! You’re holding up the line!”
Pete waved him off, asked, “How much longer you got to work? We should hang out.”
“Actually, my shift was over a couple hours ago. I’ve just been helping out…”
“So fix us a tray and we’ll have lunch together. We got some catchin’ up to do.”
Mort nodded, “All right.” He handed his ladle to the worker next to him with an apologetic shrug and left the serving tables. “Just hang on,” he called to Pete, untying his apron.
Mort prepared the two of them a lunch tray and carried them out into the dining area. Pete had found a place for them to sit at one of the far tables and was waiting for Mort anxiously. He eyed Mort’s bad leg as Mort limped toward him, then stood up and grabbed the trays so Mort could sit.
“Damn! That bastard did a number on you, buddy,” Pete said, meaning DaVinci. “I can’t call you lardass anymore, either. You’re skinny as a beanpole.”
“Yeah. I lost a lot of weight.”
“How you feeling? How’s your brain? I mean, you know…” Ever the sensitive one, Pete put his finger to his head like a gun and pulled the trigger. “I thought that psycho killed you.”
“I have some damage to my visual cortex or something like that, but I’m pretty much okay. I get some headaches and dizzy spells.”
“Fuck!”
“Mainly, I have trouble remembering what I’m looking at sometimes. It doesn’t… you know… compute anymore. Like, I have trouble finding my shoes now. I’ll see them on the floor, but my mind doesn’t latch onto them and say: there, shoes.”
“That really sucks, but I’m glad you’re doing better.”
“Yeah. They kicked me out of the infirmary a few days ago. It’s pretty crowded with all the survivors those… uh…Archons keep bringing in.”
Pete leaned in close. “Yeah, what do you think about those things? Pretty crazy, huh? My gramma always told me about guardian angels and stuff like that, but I never really thought it was really real, you know? I always thought all that Bible stuff was made up, so people would feel bad and go to church, but I guess it’s all true.”
Mort shrugged, noncommittal. He wanted to talk to Pete about that, but not in such a busy venue. The other survivors could get really worked up about the Archons if anyone questioned the motivations or origins of the strange beings. He’d seen two men nearly come to blows over the Archons in the common area of the dorm yesterday evening. One thought they were aliens. The other angels like in the Bible.
“So what have you been doing?” Mort asked, changing the subject. “I thought you’d come see me at the infirmary, but you never showed.”
Pete looked a little ashamed. “I did come see you a couple times, but you were really out of it. You just kind of slurred, like you were talking in your sleep. I signed up for the scouting crews after that and I’ve been going on outcamp maneuvers ever since. I just got back from one, actually. I went to look you up at the hospital first thing. When I got there and asked about you, they said you were gone.” Pete laughed. “At first, I thought they meant you were dead and I about shit myself, but then they said you weren’t gone like that. They meant you’d been discharged.”
Mort snorted along with Pete. “Sorry about that.”
Pete shook his head. “It’s all good, man. I’m just glad you ain’t dead.”
“Me, too.”
“So anyways… I went to housing to find out where you were staying, but you weren’t there either. I asked around for you there at the dorm and some pregnant chick said she thought you were working. I says where and she says blue cafeteria… so here I am!”
“I’m glad you came to see me. I’ve been feeling pretty lonely. You don’t happen to know what happened to Dao-ming, do you?”
Pete frowned. “Last I heard, she was going to sign up to watch after the orphans in one of the dorms in Yellow Yard. They keep all the orphaned kids in one dorm. They call it the orphanage. You mean she hasn’t come to see you?”
“No.”
“That’s weird.”
Mort felt a pang of sorrow. Pete had found him easily enough. Dao-ming had been here in the camp all this time and hadn’t bothered to come looking for him. That could only mean she didn’t want to see him. Maybe she blamed him for her
sister’s death.
The two friends lunched together, then decided to head on over to Mort’s dorm room. Pete left for a little while and returned with a six pack of beer. They shut Mort’s door and cracked open some brews and talked. Mort wasn’t much of a drinker. The first beer made him tipsy. They finished getting caught up as evening fell, and Pete—four beers down the hole by then—convinced Mort to accompany him to the orphanage so they could find out why Dao-ming had never visited Mort in the infirmary.
Mort was reluctant to go, but allowed Pete to talk him into it. With his cane in one hand and Pete’s shoulder under his arm, they walked across the cold compound to the dorm where the orphaned children were boarded. Pete was swaying a little and Mort’s leg was aching and threatening to give out, but they got there without falling on the icy sidewalks.
They didn’t even have to go inside.
Dao-ming was standing outside the front doors with a tall, muscular guy in jeans and a sweater. The guy’s back was to Mort. Dao-ming was facing them but didn’t look their direction. She was smiling up at the guy as he smoked. They were talking, standing close together.
“What a fuckin’ bitch!” Pete snarled.
Feeling suddenly nauseous, Mort said, “Let’s go back, Pete.”
“Naw, I’m gonna kick that fucker’s ass!”
“No, Pete! Please. Just help me walk back to the dorm.”
Pete objected to retreat, but Mort refused to confront Dao-ming. His eyes felt hot and watery. He didn’t want to humiliate himself. They shambled back toward Dorm Eight. Halfway back, Mort felt his lunch and the two beers he’d drank with Pete come squirting up from his belly. He doubled over and puked in the slushy snow.
“Aw, man! Gross!” Pete groaned, holding Mort’s waist.
Mort stood up, wiping his chin, then doubled over to ralf again.
“There-there… let it all out,” Pete said sympathetically, patting his back.
Mort started laughing then. Snot hanging out both nostrils, he stood humped forward, waiting to see if anything else was going to come shooting out of him. When he felt like he was done puking, he raised up, wiped his mouth and nose and said, “You got any more beer, Pete?”
“I think I can locate us another six pack.”
They got really wasted.
17
Orientation
Pete slept over that night, stripping off and rolling onto the top bunk sometime after midnight. He was still snoring the next morning when Mort woke.
Mort swung his legs out of bed, knocking over a couple empty beer cans, then checked his clock to see how much time he had to get ready. It was still early so there was no rush. Scratching his balls, Mort reached for his cane and stood up gingerly. His head started throbbing and he wondered exactly how much he’d drank the night before.
Too much was the answer, Mort decided rather quickly, head thumping.
He shuffled to the bathroom to drain his bladder. The evidence of his overindulgence poured out of him for what felt like five minutes. No matter how much it made the big head hurt, Mort ruminated, it was always a pleasure to hose it back out the little head. He sighed as his needle dropped from full to empty, then returned to his room to get ready for work.
Pete was laying on his back in his skivvies, blankets kicked down to the foot of his bed. Mort’s pal was snoring noisily and sporting a might morning woody. Mort snickered as he got dressed, then slipped out the door to report for work.
Bob Hawthorne, Tina’s boyfriend, caught him in the commons area, which was still pretty deserted at this time of morning. “Hey, Mort! Can I get you to do me a favor?” he called.
Mort turned. “Sure. What is it?”
Bob looked worried and jumpy. “Tina’s supposed to report in for her blood test today, but she’s caught the flu or something. You’re N.I. like her. Will you tell the doc that she’ll come in as soon as she’s feeling a little better?”
Mort was planning on getting his test done after his work shift today. All non-immune residents were required to submit for testing twice a week. He nodded. “Yeah, I don’t mind. Are you sure she’s okay?”
“Yeah-yeah. She’s just sick. Diarrhea and vomiting. No brain munchies.” He giggled nervously. “She’s probably just getting ready to have the baby. She’s been rearranging our room all week. Nesting.”
Mort nodded. “I hope she gets to feeling better.”
“Yeah, me too.” Bob started back toward his room, waving. “Thanks, Mort! I appreciate it!”
Mort walked to the blue yard cafeteria. He didn’t know which was hurting worse: his leg, his head or his heart. It was a bright, clear morning and the sun was glaring off the snow, making his eyes water. It had probably been a bad idea to drink so much with all the pain meds he was taking, not to mention being shot in the head with a cattle gun a month previous, but seeing Dao-ming with that other guy and realizing she had moved on so quickly—and so… coldly—had hurt him far worse than he suspected it might.
He’d known, somehow, somewhere in the back of his mind. That was why he’d hesitated to ask about her when he went to the administration building three days ago. It would have been a simple thing to find out where she was staying and what duties she’d signed up for, but he had taken a pass on that opportunity. It was one thing to suspect, another to know. The former hurt a lot less.
Well, he’d just have to get over it. They’d only fucked once.
(Yeah, just say “fucked”. It was easier if it was just a fuck.)
It was kind of lousy to dump someone out of your life like that, but maybe she’d come in when he was still out of it and decided she didn’t want to be Frankenstein’s Bride. It was not something he would have done, but...
What did Pete say last night when they were drinking? Oh, yeah. It’s just bitches being bitches.
The cafeteria was a madhouse that morning, but Mort was glad of the chaos. It kept his mind off his heartbreak. Every time he had a moment to think, he pictured Dao-ming under some other guy, gasping and moaning and scratching his back as he drove her from one gut-wrenching orgasm to the next. It made him nauseous.
“You okay, today, Mort?” his supervisor, Mr. Maguire, asked. “You look kinda shitty.”
“I’m fine. Little under the weather.”
“Well, don’t overdo it. You’re supposed to be on light duty. There ain’t no need for it. I appreciate you staying over yesterday to help out, but you go home on time today and get some rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Maguire slapped him on the back and hurried off. Someone had let the garlic bread burn.
Mort finished his shift and limped to the infirmary. There was not much of a wait to get his blood test. Most of the residents of New Jerusalem were immune to the zombie virus. He was cheered by the concern of the hospital’s staff. It seemed like half the day shift came to say hello and ask how he was making it while a nurse drew several tubes of blood from his arm.
“I’m doing pretty good,” Mort answered.
Nurse Ratchet even waddled in to give him a hug. “We miss you,” she said gruffly. “I don’t have anybody to tease.”
He told the nurse that Tina Laramie was ill and would be coming in for her test when she felt better. The nurse made a notation on her clipboard. “All right. I’ll mark her down for tomorrow, but these tests are not voluntary. They’re very important for the safety of all our residents. If someone should become infected, it could spread to all the non-immune survivors very quickly. You tell her she has to come in tomorrow to be tested. This isn’t something we can afford to be loosey-goosy about.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mort replied dutifully.
The nurse taped a cotton ball to the crook of his arm and said, “All right, then. Thank you, Mr. Lesser. We’ll get in contact with you if your test comes back positive.”
That was a chilling thought.
“How many people are still getting infected?” Mort asked, flexing his arm.
“Not many,” the
nurse said vaguely, looking down at his clipboard. She seemed a little evasive about that.
“One or two a week?”
“Well… not quite that many. You really have to be bitten for the virus to get a toehold. It seems to concentrate in the salivary glands… and it’s present at dangerous levels in other bodily fluids, too. Blood, feces, urine. Um, semen and vaginal secretions. We’ve been trying to study it, but the facilities here are limited. The Archons have been helping out with that, too. They’re completely immune to it, but I think they’re worried it may mutate again. Can you imagine if the Archons suddenly become vulnerable to the zombie virus? That would be a big ‘game over’ for all of us, I think.”
Mort chuckled. “Thanks! You’ve really cheered me up.”
The nurse laughed, too. “You asked…”
Pete was still snoring when Mort returned. He jerked upright with a snort as Mort entered his dorm room and shut the door behind him. “Whussat!” he yelled, blinking around in confusion.
“It’s okay. It’s me,” Mort said, peeling his coat off and throwing it across the back of his chair.
Pete shuddered. “I was dreaming about those wolves.”
“What wolves?”
Pete jumped down from the top bunk and went into the bathroom to piss. As he voided his bladder and then got dressed, he told Mort about the zombie wolves that had ambushed his scout unit near the town of Cooper’s Hollow.
“It was the scariest fuckin’ thing I think I’ve ever seen,” he confessed. “And I’ve seen some shit, too. We both have. Zombie people are bad enough, but these things…”
“I think all human beings have an instinctive fear of wolves,” Mort said.
Pete nodded. “Right? So… what are you doin’ today?”
Mort sat on his bunk. “I was planning on going to orientation tonight. I never got a chance to attend one.”
“That’s cool. I went to orientation a couple days after the Archons brought us here. It was interesting. I’ll go with you if you want.”