Monkey's Uncle [Drunk Monkeys 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Tymber Dalton

  The old downtown area of Colima had been abandoned for good once the hospital there closed. Now the majority of the remaining residents lived just to the south and west in what had formerly been a suburb of Colima. It was still called Colima, and was where the local post office and police station had been relocated.

  At least the region was lush with agriculture, food finally becoming more valuable than drugs in the region.

  And right now, unfortunately, their clinic was between doctors. It meant India actually got to bank more money, because when there wasn’t a doctor in the post, CMI paid her that salary as well.

  There was another knock on the door. India stifled her groan. “¡Si! ¡Uno momento!”

  No rest for the farking weary. And there would be little rest in her immediate future. Not unless CMI sent her a doctor.

  Exhausted, India trudged toward the door to start the second half of her day.

  Chapter Four

  When India stepped out of the back room that was also her bedroom and locked the door behind her, she turned to find herself face-to-face with a tall, thin, pale-skinned, ginger-haired guy who looked like he was about three sweat droplets away from melting right through his clothes.

  He looked vaguely familiar, but India couldn’t immediately place him and shoved it out of her mind. She figured anyone who didn’t resemble the local tanned, brown-haired, brown-eyed population would likely stand out in her mind.

  Mama stood off to the side and gave India a helpless shrug. In the waiting room area, there were already four families queued for their post-siesta appointments. If this day was like any other, there would be at least twenty or thirty more patients behind them.

  If it was a light day.

  Great.

  Without thinking about it, India asked, “¿Cómo te puedo ayudar?”

  The man’s brow furrowed in confusion as he apologetically shook his head at her.

  Now India understood the source of Mama’s helplessness. “Can I help you?” she slowly asked him.

  If he didn’t speak English or Spanish, they were both farked.

  His eyebrows arched and he finally gave her a smile. “Ah,” he said. “You speak English quite well, I see.” He had an accent she couldn’t immediately place, perhaps Irish or Scottish.

  “That would be because I’m from St. Louis.” She was hot, tired, and in no mood for guessing games or condescension. “Whaddya want, buddy? I’m busy.” She pointed toward the patients in the waiting area.

  His eyebrows arched further skyward. “Oh, I see. My apologies. My name is Doctor, um, Peters—”

  “Oh, thank god!” she said, grabbing his hand and pumping it vigorously. “Last I heard, CMI told me they were hoping to have another MD posted here soon, but usually they’re way better about giving me a heads-up pre-arrival. I know Kite’s had them horribly backlogged. Maybe that’s it.”

  Before he could say anything else, she hooked an arm through his and dragged him toward their main exam room as she called out instructions to Mama in Spanish to send in their first patient.

  He sounded confused. “Um, Miss—”

  “India Pelletier, licensed nurse practitioner. Indy’s fine. We’re informal around here, doc. I haven’t had a day off in over five months. You have noooo idea how glad I am you showed up today!”

  She shoved him toward the wash sink in the corner and turned to take the chart from Mama as a mother with her four small children, all under the age of ten, entered the exam room.

  “Wash up,” India told him. “Sorry to throw you right into the bear pit like this, but we have a full afternoon ahead of us.”

  Other than the fact that he apparently didn’t understand a lick of Spanish—which was odd, because CMI was usually better than that about matching doctors with their posts—India was glad to see he was good with kids, and even the adult patients. He appeared a little tentative at first, but it wasn’t uncommon for them to get doctors straight out of residency who were still wet behind the ears, so to speak.

  By the time evening rolled around, they’d seen forty-two patients total in the afternoon session, and Dr. Peters had managed to pick up a couple of words and phrases in Spanish for simple things like inhale, exhale, stick out your tongue, and where does it hurt?

  She didn’t even know what his first name was yet.

  He was washing up in the corner sink while India wiped down the exam table. “So, what’s your first name, doc?”

  “Peter.”

  She stopped and turned to look at him. “You’re shitting me?”

  Confusion filled his face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your name’s Peter Peters? Wow. What’d you do, kick your mom in the bladder all through her pregnancy?”

  His face reddened. “Um, yes, well, people usually call me, um, Mac.”

  “Can’t blame you there. You want a drink?”

  “Oh, yes, please. A glass of water would be lovely, thank you.”

  She laughed. “How long you been in Mexico?”

  “Um, only a couple of days.”

  “Then you should know that you do not want to drink tap water yet, and I don’t have the bottled kind here. We have a filter on the well, but you don’t want to dump strange food and strange water into your system all on the same day. Anyway, I was referring to something a little stronger than water.”

  She headed out to the main storeroom, where their four large, commercial refrigerators, the small kitchenette, and what passed for their lab were located. All the fridges were padlocked shut. India went to the one on the far end, where they stored some of their more commonly used perishable medications and her groceries.

  And where she kept her private stash.

  “Oh,” he said, following her. “I’ll take a whisky, then, if you have it.”

  She turned with the unlabeled bottle in hand and held it up. “You’ll take a belt of tequila. Made locally. One of our patients pays in it. I keep it cold because it doesn’t burn so much going down that way.”

  She grabbed a couple of chipped but clean coffee mugs from a nearby shelf holding her other dishes and cooking utensils, splashed a couple of fingers of the liquid in each one, and then handed him a mug.

  He stared at the alcoholic brew, uncertainty on his face.

  “It hasn’t killed me yet,” she teased, “and I’ve been here almost four years now.” She nodded at his mug. “Believe me, you’ll be glad for it by the time your hitch here is through. Doc Karsonnes, who was here when I first arrived, he swore that it killed off Montezuma’s Revenge and damn near anything else living in your gut.” She grinned and held up her mug. “Salut.”

  He held his up, too. “Sláinte.”

  She raised her mug to her lips and took a sip as she eagerly watched him over the rim.

  This had become her hazing ritual. Some took to the agave-based bathtub booze better than others. It was always good for at least a snicker, if not a full on belly laugh.

  Doc Karsonnes had laughed his ass off when she’d spent a good minute coughing at the taste of the rotgut the first time she’d sampled it.

  The nurse before her, who’d been there a couple of years already when Karsonnes arrived, had hazed him.

  And thus it went.

  She gave the guy credit. Maybe he’d had plenty of drinking experience before this because he only made a slight face, wincing as he choked down the mouthful.

  “That’s bloody awful,” he finally managed.

  She smiled and took another sip. “Welcome to Colima, Mac. It’s an acquired taste. You’ll get used to it. You’d better get used to it, because unless you want to drink the local beer, which is even worse, it’s about the best you’re gonna get.”

  He stared into his mug. “Effin’ hell,” he muttered.

  “So you got a place in town already, or do you need me to set you up in the other spare room in back? Sorry it’s sort of become a storage room right now, but we can get it cleaned out in an hour or so, if we’re working togethe
r.”

  He actually took another swallow of the tequila, tipping the mug’s bottom up and draining it before holding it out to her. At first she thought he was done, but when he didn’t actually relinquish the mug when she grabbed hold, she realized he was looking for a refill.

  Wow. He’s got choads.

  She poured more into his cup.

  “I’ll need the room here,” he said, his voice sounding pained and a little hoarse from the liquor. “I actually have some equipment I brought with me and I’d rather have it on-site.”

  “Equipment?” She didn’t want to get her hopes up. “Please tell me they finally sent us the new ultrasound machine I’ve been begging for for a year?” Their current one was over thirty years old and extremely temperamental. Sometimes, she even had to give it a swift kick in the side to get it to power up.

  She didn’t know if the red flush in his cheeks was from the booze or embarrassment. “Eh, sorry, no. My research equipment.”

  “Oh. Research?” Her dander immediately rose. “Look, I don’t know what CMI told you, but I’m not allowing you to guinea-pig my people.”

  His face turned beet red. “No, sorry, I didn’t mean research like that. I won’t be testing anything on people. Any people. At least, not for a while, and certainly not here. I’m strictly in the research and information-gathering mode of my project at this point.”

  “Oh, sorry.” She let her guard down a little. “What are you researching?”

  “I, uh, my apologies. I’m not in a position to talk about it at this time. Eh, confidentiality agreement, you know. Sorry.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “I will not be testing anything on people, or even likely animals, while I’m here. I promise.”

  She warily studied him. “Okay. Just as long as we’re clear on that.”

  “We certainly are. I simply wish to help.”

  She relaxed a little more. “Well, okay then. Good. Join the club. Helping is what we do best here. We don’t always succeed at it, but we win more than we lose, so I consider that a good thing.”

  “How long have you been here again?”

  “A couple of weeks from the end of my four-year stint, but I’m giving serious thought to asking for an extension.”

  “Don’t you miss being in America?”

  She let out a snort and drained the rest of her tequila. “Nope. I don’t miss St. Louis, anyway. You ever hear of Reverend Silo and his megachurch?”

  He shook his head.

  “Guy’s a real piece of work. He’d been growing in popularity, but apparently he’s slick enough to cash in on the ‘apocalypse’ and the Kite infection. He had a huge satellite church in St. Louis, and it would seem now he’s building a big compound there.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not following you. You object to his church?”

  “I object to my parents tossing away their life savings to his church, yes.”

  “Ah.” He slowly nodded. “Again, my apologies.”

  “They e-mailed me that they want me to move home and support them after they gave away all their money to the asshole.” She let out a disgusted snort. “Last time I tried to talk with them on the phone, they were trying to convince me I should be tithing to his church, too. That they were worried about my eternal soul, especially with ‘end times’ upon us.” She let out another derisive snort.

  “I take it you’re not quite as concerned?”

  “Hardly. Guy’s a con artist. If there really is a capital-G god, and if he’s enough of a dick to not let me into Heaven simply because I didn’t fork over some cash after all the work I’ve done? Then frankly? I don’t want to be there, anyway. I’ll take my chances, thank you very much.”

  “Hadn’t quite thought about it like that. But I do believe I agree with you. I’m not a religious man myself. Science has been my religion since I was a boy.” He held out his mug for yet another refill.

  She poured it. “You might want to slow down there, Mac. Stuff’ll hit you hard if you’re not used to it.”

  He smiled, but it looked well worn and more than a little sad. “I’m afraid to admit that I’ve had worse liquor, and in far greater quantities. I am Irish, after all. In my family, drinking was usually a competitive sport held at family gatherings, such as during evening dinners every night.”

  That drew a smile from her.

  I like him. “You sound like a man who’s done a little demon-drowning in his life.”

  She didn’t understand why his expression clouded and turned somber.

  Then again, maybe she didn’t want to.

  “Not quite enough,” he quietly said. “Not yet, at least, I’m sad to say.”

  Chapter Five

  Once the spook left, Oscar was able to ask the other question he couldn’t in front of the man.

  “We sure we can trust him? That he’s not setting us up?”

  “If he was going to set us up,” Alpha said, “he would have done it two weeks ago when we first got here. And not after getting us new IDs, either.”

  “True.”

  “I was in basic with the guy,” Alpha continued. “He already had a wife back then, or he would have applied for the SOTIF program, too.”

  “Ah.” That made sense.

  If Alpha trusted the spook, Oscar supposed he would have to as well.

  The spook had also told them that, regarding the mole in Arliss’ food chain, the general hadn’t made that common knowledge yet. It was business as usual, and the last official status update the spook had access to without ringing any bells indicated the DMs were somewhere on the Australian continent.

  “What’s your best opinion of the situation?” Papa had asked him.

  “You’re still flying under radar. Move your asses ASAP. I don’t want to know how you do it or where you go. Just do it. So far, nothing I’ve done is directly traceable back to me via the food chain. I’d like to keep it that way. I’ll help you out whenever I can, but I suspect you’re going to be a hot potato pretty soon.”

  Before he left, the spook arranged a one-time info drop for them in two weeks’ time, an anonymous e-mail account where Papa could grab whatever info the man might have for them in terms of updates.

  The group packed, loaded, and was ready to move in less than two hours. Oscar gave their two civvies all due credit. Q and Pandora were adapting to a secretive life on the run like a couple of champs.

  Well, excluding the fact that Q was one of the reasons the world was in such a farking mess to start with. Other than that, he was a nice guy with his balls caught in a vice.

  Oscar didn’t have a wife or kids, but if he did, he couldn’t swear he would have acted any differently in the situation than the doctor or his teammates had. Trapped in North Korea and facing a choice between following direct and heinous orders to create a virus, or else watch your wife, daughters, and mother be raped and killed in front of you, and then watch your brothers be killed, before you finally died?

  The world, or your family?

  No, it wasn’t an easy choice.

  That was one of the reasons all the SOTIF teams were comprised of men who had no significant others and no children.

  Although Doc and Tango had sort of screwed the norm there with Pandora. Then again, they were all OTG now, so it wasn’t like any of the rules applied to them anymore.

  They had a world to save. By any means necessary.

  If it wasn’t for Pandora, they might still be wandering around in Vietnam and looking for a doctor from The List who’d already bugged out.

  Oscar and Yankee sat next to each other in the back of one of the trucks. They weren’t alone, but none of the other four guys perched amongst the equipment in the truck bed could hear their conversation.

  “You all right, Lance?” Yankee quietly asked him.

  Oscar shot his brother a look in the dark. They’d both been Oscar and Yankee, not Lance and Vance Lyons, for so long that it felt almost weird using their given names. SOTIF unit members all got code names for identifi
cation.

  “I’m fine.”

  Their particular specialty was munitions and demolitions, skills that had served their unit well in the past four years the Drunk Monkeys had been together. When you absolutely, positively had to blow shit up, that was their job.

  Before Kite, their unit was a hammer. A finely tuned precision hammer, but a hammer nonetheless. Their usual assignments involved taking out terrorists. In the past several decades, militant terrorists of all religious, political, and sometimes just plain criminal flavors had come crawling out of the woodwork, taking advantage of the world-wide economic implosions and the influenza and other pandemics to further their causes.

  The SOTIF units’ jobs were mostly to go in and smack down terrorists and other troublemakers by whatever means necessary so they couldn’t cause trouble any longer. Sometimes they were directed to remove one or two specific people from the breathing-abled population. Sometimes they were sent on rescue or retrieval missions.

  And they excelled at their job. All of the SOTIF units direct-reported to brass, no middle-men or lower-echelon wonks to gum up the works. As SOTIF1, they were General Arliss’ pet team, since he’d been the brainchild behind the program in the first place. They didn’t know how many other teams Arliss still direct-commanded, and frankly, they didn’t care.

  Wasn’t their job description to know.

  Hammer, nail.

  Repeat as ordered.

  Post-Kite, once The List had been compiled and distributed, their job had been to follow up leads fed to them by Arliss and fulfill whatever orders he issued, by any means necessary.

  Only this time, trying to keep the people alive and safe if they located them.

  “How much longer you think we have in?” Yankee asked him.

  “Not my problem, Vance.” Oscar glanced at his twin brother. Vance was two minutes older than him. While they were identical in appearance, their personalities had cooked up vastly different. Vance liked to talk about things.