Captain Palmer leaned her head against the bulkhead wall, closing her eyes. Hank noticed the way she had one foot against the wall, bent at the knee. She had such a strong womanly shape, and looked amazing in a pair of boots. He slowly took in the sight of her whole body, amazed at how attractive she was.
She sighed and opened her eyes. In them was a swirl of confusion and ire. “What I want to know is who the hell blew up my facility. I mean, why?”
“I don’t know. Who blew up the Hill? I was there, and we weren’t losing until they let loose with the tar and oil. And Rock Island? From what I heard, they had things under control.”
“If we could get a forensics team into the EPS, we might be able to piece things together.”
“Forget that,” Hank said dismissively. “The only reason we’re all still alive is because the news drones saw how many of us were still alive before anyone could scramble apaches to finish the job. Shit happened too fast at the Bend and the Island for drones to get involved, but thanks to you and Tom, people saw.”
Captain Palmer nodded.
Ask her. Stop beating around the bush.
Hank sighed and looked around, a little embarrassed by the situation, thinking everyone was watching him, or listening in on their conversation. The woman next to him had sunk to the ground with her head propped between her knees. The man next to Captain Palmer had his back to them, his hood over his head to fend off the cold wind blowing across the deck.
“Look,” Hank said, turning toward Captain Palmer so he could keep his voice down. “I don’t know what’s going to happen once we get across, but I…well, you and…you see, I’m….” Jesus, Hank get a grip. Captain Palmer stared at him with one eyebrow raised. He took a deep breath, but it did nothing to steady his nerves. His heart pounded like a drum in his ear. “I was wondering if when all this blows over you’re interested in getting a beer or lunch or something with me.”
Captain Palmer smiled. “Are you asking me on a date?”
His heart thumped to a throbbing stop. “Yeah, well, I suppose. You’re a…well, I think that maybe we should get to know each other a little better. I’d be happy to buy the first round.”
“Hmm,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “Just one round? I mean, if it’s a date, shouldn’t you buy them all?”
Hank remembered to breathe. His face felt flush. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Sure.”
“I don’t know what they’re going to do with me once we get over there.”
The brush off. He should have known. Disappointment washed through his veins.
“I don’t even have a phone,” she went on.
Hank grunted. There were only two people on the EPS who had personal phones as far as Hank knew, and both were the sons of Senator Jefferson.
Captain Palmer closed her eyes and pursed her lips. She took a breath. “This is going to sound weird. I can give you my mother’s number.”
Hank straightened.
Her eyes opened. “You call her and she’ll let you know how to get ahold of me once I settle in. I mean, not here. With this wing,” she said, shrugging her burned arm and wincing, “they’re going to evac me as soon as they can be certain I’m not infected. After that, they may send me to Fort Carson or Fort Campbell or even Fort Hood, which is my home station. That’s a long way.”
“Texas is nice this time of year,” Hank said with a half-smile. “A lot nicer than here.”
“Sooo,” Captain Palmer said, leaving her thought dangling a moment. Her eyes showed a hint of trepidation, the same kind of worry that had been handcuffing Hank since he first met her. “Are you still interested in that date?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hank said, nodding. “Yes, I am.”
Twelve
Captain Palmer’s mother lived in Arizona. That was about all he got out of her before he realized he needed to steal paper and a pen from the crew of the tug to get the name and phone number written down. By the time he sorted that out, the bright lights of the town across the channel were right on top of them.
“You know, I haven’t always been a hunter,” Hank said as he etched her number onto the back of a shipping manifest. The tug was veering to line up with the moorings, the engine growling to slow the ship as it coasted into place.
“Well, I figured as much since we haven’t always had zombies,” Captain Palmer said with a grin.
“And I don’t do it for the money,” Hank went on. He didn’t want her thinking he was like other hunters. “When I first came over, I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into. I just wanted the hunting license so I could hide from the world for a while.”
“Divorce?”
“No, nothing like that,” Hank said dismissively, capping the pen and stuffing everything into his pants pocket. “I botched a job. My career wasn’t going to be going anywhere for a while because of it, and I needed to get my head screwed on straight.”
“Sounds a little like what got me into the Army.”
“Really? How’s that?”
Captain Palmer stared at him, lips tight. The tug thumped into place, jostling everyone. She winced as she reflexively reached to steady herself.
“You okay?” Hank asked, holding an arm out for her.
She nodded, not taking it. Instead, she leaned her head against the bulkhead and closed her eyes. With the light from the docks aimed at deck, Hank got a better view of her bandaged arm. What he thought earlier was just soot looked more like patches where blood had seeped through.
“What happened?” Hank asked softly. “To your arm?”
“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head.
“That ain’t nothing.”
“I don’t know. They pulled me out of the kennels. I….” She took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t remember anything.”
One of the crew of the tug came through, shouting orders about two lines and disembarking the critically wounded first. Hank wondered if Captain Palmer qualified, but she waited even as everyone around them shuffled to line up.
“Tell me a little more about yourself,” she said, rolling onto her left shoulder so they were facing each other. The pain still lingered in her eyes.
“Um, alright,” Hank said, trying to think of what he should say. It had been a long time since he made small talk with a woman. “I grew up in Boston. Well, suburbs. You know the area?”
She shook her head.
Hank shrugged. “Roxbury. Well, West Roxbury, actually. Kind of a rough neighborhood. Not a lot of opportunity unless you’ve got your head screwed on straight, you know?” Hank didn’t really want to talk about his childhood. He leaned against the bulkhead and watched the crew carry off the last of the stretchers. The other line of people was already moving.
“So, what did you do in West Roxbury?”
“Got in trouble over in Roxbury,” Hank joked. She smiled. “Thankfully not too much, but enough that I got a name for myself. One thing led to another and I was pretty soon working in clubs and bars, learning the ropes, getting into scraps. Paid my own way through college. Got a degree in criminal justice on the advice of my mentor, this little Italian fella you’d never think much of, except he ran protection for every nightclub and bar in South Boston. He had a stable of a couple hundred bouncers and bodyguards, and he made me one. He liked me enough to give me my own club to manage after a year, enough to give me a block of them a year later. All legit, mind you. Nothing criminal, at least nothing I ever knew about.”
“So, is that what you did?” Captain Palmer asked. “Before coming here?”
Hank looked at the line of disembarking passengers. It was moving a lot faster than his story.
“Well, kind of. It’s a long story. Maybe we should save it for those beers.”
“Fair enough,” she said as she straightened. “I guess we should get in line.”
Hank nodded and reluctantly followed her to the end of the line, which seemed impossibly short given how little time they had had since landing. Only a c
ouple dozen people were ahead of them. Time was slipping away.
“Look, I don’t hunt for the thrill of it, or for money, or anything weird like that,” Hank said, stepping beside her so he didn’t have to raise his voice. “When I first came over, I didn’t even go out for months. I just sat around listening to what others were doing. I worked the wall, and I got a job handling for one of the early hunters, a guy named Peske. Strictly inside the fence. He was a weird kind of guy. He…he used padding on his nooses so he wouldn’t hurt the zombies. Told everyone it was about economics. Don’t damage the merchandise, but I saw through it, eventually.”
Captain Palmer raised an eyebrow at that.
“He had a soft spot for them,” Hank explained. “The women especially. He caught women almost exclusively. He said they needed his protection, that the other hunters…well, never mind.” Hank waved dismissively at the thought, angry at himself for bringing it up. “What matters is he inspired me a little. I got this cockamamie idea that I could do something to help, which for me, at the time, was a big deal.
“That job I botched got people killed. That didn’t sit well with me. Still doesn’t.”
There were only a couple people in line in front of them to get on the gangplank to the pier. Hank stopped shuffling forward.
“I’m telling you all this because I don’t want you thinking I’m like those others. I hunted to save them. Bringing them over at least gave them a chance. The ones still out there, I mean, you’ve seen what it’s like.”
Captain Palmer nodded thoughtfully.
“I used to keep a log of everyone I brought in so I could do something with it. I don’t know what, maybe contact their next of kin, let them know, you know, but it went up with everything else at Biter’s Hill. Someday, though….”
“Come on, you two,” one of the soldiers called over to them. “We need to get you in-processed.”
Hank let Captain Palmer take the lead. He liked looking at the way she walked anyway.
“Do you think you made a difference?” Captain Palmer asked as they walked up the gangplank.
“Yeah. I mean I plucked hundreds of people from that hell and got them over the channel, over here where they can be cared for, and eventually they might get cured. Maybe they’ll get a second lease on life, a chance to be normal again.”
Hank thought about Penelope. They would all be just like her, naïve and guarded, frustrated by their own inability to communicate or do basic things everyone else took for granted. But they would have each other for support, all sharing the same experiences, having to overcome the same prejudices and challenges assimilating back into society. Maybe they would even be the ones to take back the Quarantine Zone.
“Military personnel in there,” a soldier told Captain Palmer. “Civilians down that way,” he added, pointing down the length of the building to another set of doors leading into the processing center.
“Well, crap,” Captain Palmer said, turning to face Hank. “I guess this is goodbye.”
“I’ll call once I get my feet on the ground. It should only be a couple days.”
“Alright,” she said.
“I’d shake your hand, but seeing as how it’s all in a sling.”
She leaned forward, moving her face next to his so quickly Hank barely had a chance to react before she planted a kiss on his cheek just above the hairline of his beard. She lingered a moment, the skin of her cheek pressed gently against his. “That’ll have to do,” she whispered.
Thirteen
Morning found Hank in a cot in the school gymnasium with about twenty other survivors. He woke abruptly to an announcement from the in-processing agent that everyone was free to go. He sat in the cot for a little while, tying his shoes and remembering the warmth of Captain Palmer’s lips, and the caress of her hair against his face. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, sure he could still smell the sooty smoke in her uniform.
He let out his breath, putting his palms on his knees, tired to the bone. It felt like waking up in the Quarantine Zone, cold and unforgiving. He hoped it wouldn’t be as bad outside.
Crisp, frigid air greeted him as he pushed open the gym door and stepped out. His sudden appearance started the few reporters leaning against their cars and trucks in the parking lot, disposable coffee cups in hand, hoods up, their breath like fog. One woman paced in the courtyard between him and the parking lot.
“I gotta go,” she said while pulling a phone from her ear. “Excuse me,” she added, addressing Hank.
He turned his back on her and started walking the other way, following the length of the building toward the back of the school.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Hank looked over his shoulder. She was right on his heels.
“Charlotte Reed, WBNX,” she said as way of introduction. “Sir, can you comment on what happened to you during the EPS disaster?”
“I’m just the janitor,” Hank grumbled.
“Were you involved with the—?”
“No, I mean I’m the janitor here,” Hank lied. “At the school.” He pointed at the ground. “I’m just here to make sure they’ve all got enough toilet paper.”
“Oh,” she said dejectedly. “Have you heard anything from the survivors about—?”
“Only that they’re out of toilet paper and hand towels,” Hank said, waving broadly to get her to step back. The ruse mostly worked. She let him pass, but not without making him take her business card, saying something about calling her if he heard anything newsworthy. Hank nodded, taking the card and stuffing it into his pocket. That seemed to be signal enough to the other reporters, who looked as dejected as she did. What a lousy job.
Hank doubled-back around the school and followed the road into downtown. He stopped at the first diner that smelled like it was pumping out a decent breakfast. He was greeted with the reassuring smell of eggs and sausage when he opened the door, saddled up to the furthest bar stool, and plucked a menu off the counter to check the prices. Things had gotten expensive, but nothing compared to EPS prices. Over there was like buying movie theater food—they had you by the balls so they jacked up the prices to their limit.
A waitress stopped in front of him. “What’ll it be, hon?”
“Three eggs, over easy, toast, hash browns, the fruit cup, a glass of OJ—is it fresh squeezed?”
“You bet,” she said, nodding.
“And coffee…black.”
“No problem,” she said as she scribbled on a pad. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, is there a pay phone in here?”
“Pay phone?”
“Like a phone booth? Maybe nearby?”
“Wow, no. I haven’t seen one of those in forever.”
Hank swore under his breath. “Can I borrow your phone, then? I just need to make a quick call. A friend is picking me up. I didn’t tell him where I was going.”
The waitress sized him up, pursing her lips, drawing them to one side. “Alright,” she said. “Just make it quick.” She pointed to the end of the counter next to the register.
“Thanks,” Hank replied, casting her as charming a smile as he could muster this early in the morning. He got up and went to the phone, and noticed the time: 11:40. So much for early in the morning. He dug a piece of paper out of his wallet and picked up the receiver. He had to squint to make out his own hastily scribbled handwriting as he punched in the phone number. Should have written it bigger. Eyes weren’t what they used to be.
He put the receiver to his ear and looked around, a little self-conscious about being overheard. It was a quiet diner by comparison to the kinds he normally went to, but then again, hunters were a raucous lot to begin with. The phone rang. He turned his back on the diner and stepped closer to the wall, putting a hand to his other ear. The phone rang again. He didn’t know why this made him nervous.
Maybe it was because he hadn’t used a phone or made a call in probably two or three years. Maybe it was because he didn’t know who would be on the other l
ine. He knew, but it was still a complete stranger, and it didn’t mean anyone would answer. It rang again. Hank didn’t have a call back number. What if it went to voice mail? Did they even have voice mail anymore? Damn, he was beginning to feel embarrassed.
“This is Sayad,” the man on the other end said.
“Uh, yeah, hi,” Hank said, clearing his throat. “I’m…I was told to call this number. T.J. told me to call you.” Hank rolled his eyes and shook his head. Get a grip, Hank.
There was a long pause. Hank was about to say something else, but the man cut in again. “Are you in town?”
“Yeah,” Hank replied. “Just eating breakfast. Look, I—”
“Go to the library. It’s open today. One o’clock. Go to the magazine rack and get a copy of Car & Driver.”
“Okay, so will you—?”
“Car & Driver.” Click.
Hank looked at the phone, irritated by the abruptness, then hung up and went back to his seat along the bar. “Thanks,” he told the waitress. He hoped he wouldn’t get the same treatment when he eventually called Captain Palmer’s mother. If the old lady didn’t want her daughter dating a guy like Hank—or any guy for that matter—she could make it nearly impossible for him to get in contact with Rebecca. She had a nice name. Rebecca. He tried it a few times in his head as he glanced toward the television on the wall.
GOVERNOR REQUESTS FEMA’S HELP was written in a banner under the anchorwoman. She sat across from some guy in a stuffed suit, jabbering about nothing.
“Here’s your coffee,” the waitress said as she poured it in front of him.
“Thanks,” Hank said. He lifted the cup to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled. It was so nice having someone else make his coffee. He sipped it and let it burn his lip and tongue.
“Hank Opland?” a man asked in a surprised tone.
Hank recognized the voice, and it wasn’t someone he ever expected to see again. He opened his eyes and slowly put down the cup.
The Angel Rise Zombie Retribution Experiment Page 5