by SP Durnin
Team Mimi had earned some serious goodwill for that one.
“No. We’re not on till Wednesday,” Jake replied, locking up the Hummer and pocketing the keys. Some search teams shared transports, but a condition for them staying was that their vehicles—The Mimi and Rae’s Humvee—were theirs, and theirs alone.
“Nice! We can go to Señorita Gita’s tonight. They’re having Ted’s band play again. Even though the music is dated, beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to entertainment in the apocalypse.” Sampson’s smile was mammoth.
Leo nudged him with an elbow as they headed for Al’s workshop. “You just wanna ogle the bartender. That guy with the shaved head.”
“This is also true.” Henry admitted.
“Maybe I’ll see you guys there later. Have to go report in.” That fact didn’t improve Jake’s mood at all as he veered off from the others towards the center of the refuge, and Bessie Haynes Elementary School. That’s where the town council conducted business, and much of the remaining military might was stationed. The scraggly-haired man cringed at the thought of speaking with them. While he and his companions virtually had carte blanche, he still chafed under the admittedly lax leash of the Pecos council. He hated meeting with them. They were basically good people as Szimanski had informed him, but unpleasant memories surfaced in their presence. In her presence.
O’Connor followed the outer wall south until he could cut east on 9th Street. From there it was only four blocks to the school, which he could see in the distance as soon as he turned the corner. He waved and nodded to a few of the residents who looked he way as he passed. Jake was still getting used to being around that many people he didn’t know. The survivors of Langley, even though they’d more than quadrupled his party in number, were nothing at all like being in a town of nearly seventeen hundred living human beings. It made him nervous and, on occasion, more than a little jumpy. He’d actually continued sleeping in the confines of the Screamin’ Mimi each night, just to get away from people.
He wasn’t the only one who did so either. Though their party had been offered a pair of vacant homes to stay in (as Elle, Leo, Gwen and her ex/current boyfriend Mark Weaver were doing together), or even rooms at the Pecos Knights Inn (Rae and Sampson chose two) on 3rd and Mulberry, Foster always slept in his ‘baby,’ since leaving the hospital. In the driver’s seat, the med bay gurney, or even just sitting against the inner bulkhead. He didn’t like being away from the Mimi much with so many people always staring at it.
Cho insisted on spending each night there as well, but (unlike the prior months) didn’t roll a sleeping bag out on floor near the rear hatch. She and O’Connor slept together in one of the Japanese hotel-style bunks that was recessed into the port hull. When they’d actually sleep. Kat had hated the bunks previously, stating that they made her feel so lonely she couldn’t bear to spend the night in one. Now, she slept the sleep of the good and the just. Never stirring, or suffering from night terrors any longer, so long as he was there beside her. Most nights, Jake couldn’t have untwined their limbs if he’d felt so inclined. Which he damn sure did not. But the situation ate at him.
Never mind that moderate sized hordes showed up nearly every week outside the walls. The defenders of Pecos had learned from hellish crowd on the day of Jake’s arrival, however. They made short work of those even a few hundred strong, by way of a firetruck, a liberal amount of diesel fuel, and a pair of Allan Ryker’s homemade flamethrowers.
Never mind that General Winston Hess, and his RUST (Reintegrated United States Territories) force of deserters and killers, were sure to venture to the South Texas haven soon.
If those—along with dead people wanting to bite his damn face off—were his only sources of stress, Jake would be fine and dandy. The primary reason for his desire to leave was right here in Pecos. Having it haunt his dreams for months was bad enough. But to come face-to-face with it again, after clawing his way back from the brink of insanity with Kat’s help, was a cosmic-level joke at his expense. Jake swore if he made it to the Pearly Gates, the first thing he’d do was beat the ever-living shit out of his guardian angel. The fluffy little fucker who was supposed to be looking out for him was probably the very same guy who handed out mints in the bathroom of the afterlife. The idiot cousin nobody wanted to assign any important tasks to, because if they did he’d screw paradise up for everyone else. Because he had to have known. He would’ve known full well the source of Jake’s discomfort would come equipped with red hair and freckles. With bright green eyes he knew as well as his own and a quirky smile. That the sound of its laughter that tore at his heart would be the envy of a thousand cherubim.
And O’Connor hated every damn minute he had to spend near it. Being around it, in the same room with it, made him feel like someone was taking hot razor wire and wrapping it around his soul.
It felt like dying all over again.
Angrily snatching a cigarette from the pack in his tactical vest, Jake lit up as he strode along and, scowling hard enough to give himself the beginnings of a headache, he steeled himself. This was just another pain-in-the-ass progress report to a group of bureaucrats. He’d faced Nazis, and murderous lunatics. He’d fought zombies, for fuck’s sake. Giving the town council an update on their salvage work would be a breeze.
Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, moron. The Voice in his brain didn’t buy it either. Didn’t you spend a month doing your best impersonation of a carrot not long ago? Or was that a potato? You are Celtic and all…
Jake ground his teeth and mentally slapped The Voice around a bit until it shut its yap. He didn’t need any snarky input from a lingering symptom of insanity residing in his back-brain.
Bessie Haynes Elementary had gone through some changes since the virtual fall of civilization. Gone were the decorative structures normally associated with public schools. The three-foot brick wall—and subsequent “beautification area”—once lining the front had been torn out. The “refuse concealment zone” (the big-ass, nine-foot tall walls in the shape of a C, used to keep the offensive sight of outdoor dumpsters from oh-so-impressionable future Green Warriors) had been removed as well. Once disassembled, the thousands of bricks had been put to good use by a squad of marines. Under the direction of a pair of masons in town they’d bricked up all the first floor windows and access points, leaving only a lone, steel security door for entry and egress. Nearby outbuildings and the surrounding grounds were used for both consumables and arms storage as well, thereby turning the once hallowed halls of education had been turned into a full blown fortress.
A detachment of marines and handful of the army’s 344th Military Intelligence Battalion bunked right across the road in the old school. After the command chain on their side of the Rockies went dark, the devil-dogs (under the command of surviving enlisted officer, one no-nonsense Master Sergeant James Close) had carved a path two-hundred and eleven miles westward to Pecos through the wreckage of the old world, all the way from Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo. They’d suffered horrid casualties along the way. Not due to incompetent leadership or unit performance, but simply because of the awful nature of their foes. The zombies didn’t feel fear or pain. They weren’t biologically capable of experiencing “shock and awe.” They had no leadership, or battle tactics to speak of, so no matter how many his men put down, there were always more. Master Sergeant Close and his troops were forced time and again to alter their route, so it had taken them three weeks to traverse what would only take a few hours, pre-zombie. They’d scrounged edibles—along with a bit of ammunition from local police stations and national guard armories—once their supplies had bottomed out, to keep from starving. They’d siphoned fuel from underground tanks at gas stations, and even abandoned vehicles a few times to stay mobile.
It needs to be noted: Even while being constantly hunted or attacked by ghouls, the master sergeant and his troopers had managed to rescue—and safely bring along—nearly two dozen survivors they’d come across during their
time on the run. Close was of the “Old School,” and was dammed if he’d leave a single American he’d sworn to defend so many years ago to be devoured by the ghouls. Close took his oath seriously. That was why he was the One In Charge, of all the military forces within Pecos anyway. He deferred to the authority of the town council in virtually all matters, with only a few exceptions. Those few were: The defense of the outer walls, defense of the town’s water and food supplies, and the training of all civilians in the use of firearms. Like “Sweaty Teddy,” he was of the mind that all men and women inside the refuge needed to possess a rifle and a sidearm, and be competent in its use. Close believed there could very well be a time when they might be fighting beside his marines to defend their walls, from the dead or otherwise, and he wanted people to be ready. While the town had managed to occasionally make contact with forces over the mountains, the remaining government on the West Coast had as-of-yet been unable to get them support. They were still on their own, for now
But then again, most Texans were fine with that. At least before the dead rose. Too much government involvement in their day-to-day lives tended to make their fingers itch for their rifles, which was as it should be.
O’Connor waved to the master sergeant as he approached the school. Close dismissed a pair of marines back to their barracks across the road after speaking with them briefly, then waited for the younger man next to the security door.
“O’Connor, you look like seven different flavors of shit. When’s the last time you ate? Or slept?” Close extended a hand.
Jake shook it firmly and took a final drag from his cigarette. “Don’t sugar-coat it for me or anything master sergeant, tell me what you really think. Kidding. I feel like shit. This heat is something. I think I’m turning into a Soylent Green wafer as I speak here.”
Being a fan of old movies, Close grinned. “Loved that one. Heston yelling “IT’S PEOPLE!” was worth than the entire Planet of the Apes series, in my opinion. And you’ll feel better if you drink more. I’ve got standing orders with my men here for ten glasses of water a day, minimum. Most consume more than that, but there are always a few slow learners. You headed inside?”
Nodding, Jake raised one foot and stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot. Wildfires in Texas were a real danger. Just flicking a cigarette over your shoulder, or from the window of your vehicle, could very well cause a blaze capable of destroying thousands of acres. And with few firefighting capabilities since the apocalypse, anyone who smoked was quite careful with their butts. “Yeah. Fun, fun, fun. But at least there’s air conditioning in there.”
“I’m headed for the southern wall for shift change. Remind Nichols—if you see him—that some of my men volunteered to help out in the pens and chicken coops tomorrow, again. They’ll be there by oh-seven-hundred.”
O’Connor chuckled. “They volunteered or they were volun-told?”
“Let’s say I encouraged a dozen to pitch in for the greater good” Close opened the door. “If we want to keep eating pulled pork with our beans, and occasionally a little bacon, and actual eggs instead of all that livestock feed in the silos for breakfast, I can spare a few of my people now and then. We still pull security on the walls with Ted’s civilian forces and search teams, but too much downtime makes for lax discipline. And we need to keep our shit together if that bastard Hess will be coming.”
Jake halted halfway through the door. “About that. George and I have been talking, and—”
“That ex-Squid of yours? The one who drives that big, pink thing?”
“The Mimi is something special.” Jake looked back towards the north side of town. While he couldn’t see Al’s workshop from where they stood, let alone their flamingo-colored RV from hell, Jake made sure he new exactly where it was at any given moment. “But just between you and me? George is more than your average navy vet. From what little he’s been willing to tell me, the man’s been working for the Department of Defense for almost twenty years now. Allan almost shit a square turd when he copped to being a “fixer.” Rae’s one too.”
Close’s eyes bugged. “Sweet baby Jesus on a flying, fucking mountain bike. Fixers are scary-ass individuals. They have access, nearly unlimited access, to funding, troops, equipment… You do realize they’re outside the normal chain of command, don’t you? Either one of them possesses the legal authority—via the Chief of Naval Operations to take command of my men. And me. And this outpost, for that matter. How in God’s name were you lucky enough to get hooked up with those two?”
“Long story. I was never late on my rent, so I guess George took a shine to me.”
“You have no idea. Really. The stories I’ve heard…”
“Where Foster is involved I’d believe anything. Maybe not Rae, but George? Yeah.” Jake coughed. “That’s one of the reasons we need to have a long conversation, very soon. About what we’re going to do once the good general shows.”
“Table that for now. Go do your business with the council, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Just make it sometime in the afternoon. I’ll be mucking out pens all morning, so by then I’ll need a drink.”
That was surprising. “You’re one of the volunteers?”
“Can’t ask my men to do something I won’t, or can’t.” Close grinned, tossed a wave over his shoulder at O’Connor, and began walking for the barracks. “So long as I’m ‘in the shit’ with them, they’ll follow me into hell and back. Besides, it keeps me humble.”
Shaking his head, Jake moved through the lobby towards the second floor stairwell. He nodded briefly at the pair of men on guard at the bottom. They’d seen him come and go every day for weeks, so they didn’t stop him and he proceeded to trot up. The council had taken to meeting daily in the last classroom on the left down the center hall for a couple of reasons. It was the farthest from the only exterior door for one, and it had access to the first floor roof for another. If attacked, or in case of zombie infiltration, they could avoid getting into the mix and make tracks across the roof to the “short bus” waiting on the east side of the school.
Jake didn’t bother knocking. He simply opened the door and walked in. It drove Mrs. Nancy Wilson—previously Secretary of Public Works, prior to the zombies—up the wall when he did that. Since she disapproved of Jake and his companions retaining sole possession of the Screamin’ Mimi after their arrival, and evidently Jake in general for some reason. He took joy where he could find it these days.
“Mr. O’Connor.” She looked up from her spot at the small conference table at the far end of the room. “To what do we owe your social call this time?”
Ted Jackson—who looked as familiar to Jake as he did to Ryan Szimanski—gave Wilson a calm gaze. He was a tall, thin man with long hair held back with a rubber band, and an almost imperceptible lisp. Jake tried to place where he’d seen Ted before, but the ol’ synapses weren’t firing so he kept drawing a blank. “Calm yer tits, Nancy. His team was on salvage duty this morning. How’d it go? Find anything worthwhile?”
“Surprisingly, yes. We skirted around to Fort Davis to—” Jake began.
Wilson cut him off. “It was decided previously that area had too large of an infected presence to venture into! So you defied your instructions from this council, thoughtlessly risked personnel and valuable assets, and—”
“And we found a virtually untouched fucking drug store, chock full of antibiotics and supplies that Barker and the other doctors at the med-center state they need!” Jake yelled over her. He’d had enough of the arrogant woman’s thinly veiled abuse over the last weeks. “And ‘risking personnel’? What the hell do you know? Has your prissy ass stepped outside town once since everything happened? Have you even seen a zombie since the walls went up, for that matter?”
Hank Nichols, rancher rep chuckled. “Not likely. She’d no more go out there than she would help pluck chickens for weekend meals.”
Jake swore if looks could kill, the one Wilson shot at Hank would’ve caused the man to burst into flames
.
“You know very well why I don’t venture outside! I don’t have any of the training the salvage teams do, and I’m needed here. None of you know how to keep water from the tower flowing. My teams are—”
“Exactly. Your people keep the water on. Not you.” Garth drawled. His short, stocky frame, block jaw, and shaved head gave him the appearance of a bulldog. He was tenacious about keeping his people safe during supply missions, and as a rule didn’t like office-drones. “All you do is sit your ass right there in that chair most days, and ‘delegate responsibilities’ while everyone else gets their hands dirty.”
“Oh, right! I’m useless, but no one else wants to be in charge of rationing out our edibles! Do you have any idea how much food nearly thirteen-hundred people consume in a week? Or how many vehicles that mechanic of yours and his workers manage to keep running, Ted?” Wilson pulled a file from a stack of the same to her left and shook it at him. “Any ideas for how to deal with the next outbreak of cholera? How about—”
“Nancy, that will be enough.”
That came from the final member of the Pecos council.
Laurel… Jake tried to shake off the lurking flashback. No. She’s gone. You watched her die. She’s dead and done and dust, and nothing you do will change that.
It wasn’t Laurel. To be fair, all of his companions who’d known the red-haired object of Jake’s affections, had mistakenly thought the woman who’d come to greet them on the day of their arrival was their deceased friend. That she’d somehow miraculously survived the explosion and subsequent collapse of the Cincinnati Gas and Electric Lake complex, after their battle with William Pool and his Purifiers in Ohio. Even Cho had believed it, for a few moments. Regardless, that wasn’t the case.