by Z. A. Recht
The pub patrons couldn’t meet Stiles’s roving gaze. They fixed their looks on their beers and pub food and pretended they didn’t hear what the soldier was saying, but they were listening intently to every word.
“No fever. No delirium. Nothing. Just a nasty bite that wouldn’t heal up properly,” Stiles said, gesturing at his bandaged leg. “So I barricaded myself inside the store, hoarded some food, and hunkered down. Then I realized something just as depressing . . . when I thought I was going to turn, I was just waiting to die. And then, once I didn’t,” Stiles said with a sad laugh, “I realized that I was in the exact same situation. Just sitting, and waiting to die.”
“How did you get here, then?” Ron asked.
Stiles hooked a finger in Harris’s direction. “The cavalry found me. We had a little bit of a shoot-out, but once we realized neither of us was infected, we sort of joined up.”
Hal cleared his throat, and the patrons looked in his direction. “That’s why Stiles needs to go to Omaha. The rest of us can stay here, if we wanted to—but not him. He’s the only one we know of who’s naturally immune to the Morningstar strain. His blood is the key. This could save us from extinction. And I’m going with him. I may be retired, but I ain’t dead. Not by a long shot.”
“Shit, I’m with you,” said Rico, standing up from the table. “You know it.”
“Me, too,” said Hillyard. “From here to hell and back.” Allen thumped him on the shoulder in agreement.
Wendell said nothing, but folded his arms across his chest and nodded his assent. His crew of deckhands did the same.
“I’m on to Omaha, too,” said Harris. “Never planned otherwise. You’ve got my sub and all the ammo I can carry.”
Ron and Katie exchanged glances. They looked over at the round table and its occupants. “We’re in. Abraham gave us a breather. We love it here. But we can’t let this chance slip away. Keaton?”
The Sheriff looked over at Ron, an inquisitive expression on his face. “Yeah?”
“Better unlock the evidence locker,” Ron said. “I’m going to need my weapon back.”
Keaton sighed. “I still can’t come with you. As narcissistic as it sounds, Abraham needs me.”
“Don’t worry, Sheriff. We don’t think any less of you because of it,” Harris said, slapping Keaton’s shoulder. “You’re doing a damn fine job here. Keep your people safe. With a little luck, we’ll be back with a weapon the infected can’t do a damn thing about—a vaccine.”
“Luck be with you, guys,” said Wes. “I’m staying here, too. But I’ll be praying for you. Now let’s go. You’ve got a long road ahead of you.”
Keaton’s evidence locker was a veritable arms cache. Stiles was impressed—the Sheriff could field a small army with the gear he’d stockpiled. Confiscated weapons from bandits, standard-issue police firearms, homeland security gear—all of it sorted and stacked and labeled on stainless steel shelves. Gas masks, riot armor, tear gas, rifles, pistols, and even an M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon adorned the interior of the locker.
Stiles whistled. “Where’d you get that big fucker?” he asked, lightly touching the SAW.
“Got it off a dead raider. There were two of them, but your buddy Sherman has the other,” Keaton said. “Now, let’s see . . . where’d Wes put your gear? Wes. Wes!”
A distant reply echoed from outside the locker. “Yeah? What is it?”
“Where’d you put the gear you took from these guys?”
“Storage locker three. Most of it, anyway. Stiles’s Winchester is in the rifle case on top of the fourth shelf. Didn’t want to damage it.”
As the rest of the sailors and Hal rummaged through the locker for their weapons and gear, Stiles reached up to retrieve the weapons case on the shelf top. He unlatched it and withdrew the Winchester, inspecting it carefully.
“Look good?” asked Keaton.
“Beautiful,” said Stiles, nodding.
He leaned on his rifle and watched the others gather their gear. PO1 Wendell pulled back the bolt on his MP-5, checking to make sure the chamber was clear, then locked and loaded it with a fresh magazine. He glanced at Harris. “Good to go, sir.”
Ron and Katie were busy pulling their own gear from a separate locker. Ron checked his revolver carefully, frowning at the bit of rust that had accumulated on it during its weeks in storage. “I’m going to need some gun oil for this,” he muttered.
“Easily done,” said Keaton, pointing to a shelf in the corner. Bottles of solvent and oil lined the shelf. Ron helped himself to a few of the bottles and set about cleaning his weapon as the rest of the group finished re-equipping themselves.
“Look,” Keaton said, “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’ve got to say it anyway: be careful.”
“Don’t worry,” said Hal. “We’ll get Stiles to Omaha in one piece. Everything depends on it. You just worry about Abraham.”
Stiles’s cheeks flushed. “You make it sound like I’m more important than I am. I’m just a guy.”
“In this case, my friend, you are important,” Hal replied.
“All right,” said Keaton, folding his arms across his chest, “you’re all set. We’re sorry to see you go—we could use the extra rifles—but if you pull this off, maybe, just maybe, we won’t need any rifles anymore.”
Harris grinned. “Shit. Once we wipe out the Morningstar, there’ll still be rifles, and riflemen to use ’em. People will always be people.”
“Thanks, Sheriff,” said Harris. “We’re indebted to you for your hospitality.”
“And to Eileen for the beer,” Allen said wistfully.
Wes’s voice came echoing through the locker once more. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Keaton?”
The Sheriff cast a confused glance in the direction of Wes’s voice, then brightened. “Ah! That’s right! We’ve been saving something for a rainy day. There’s a man we’d like you to meet. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you once we tell him you’re friends with General Sherman.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see. Wes! Bring that cart around front! We’re going to Jose’s!”
“Yes, sir, oh-mighty-Sheriff, sir!” came Wes’s reply.
“Knock it off and bring the damn cart around already.”
There was only enough room in the electric cart for four. Wes and Keaton took the front seats, and Harris and Hal took the rear. As they cruised along Abraham’s streets, Hal’s thoughts turned to the home he’d left behind.
There, his only worry had been keeping up his supply of alcohol and working on his next invention. Things had turned upside down for him when he’d found himself cast out of his island paradise. Here, though, he got a taste of what life could be like if the Morningstar strain ceased to be.
The town of Abraham was well maintained. Aside from the tall, unkempt grass, ancient oaks lined the streets and the town green had been turned into a finely manicured garden. Hal spotted herb plots, perfect lines of amber grain, cornstalks, and low-lying vines with what he could only assume were unripe watermelons growing on them. This was a town that could survive, thick and thin, due not only to good leadership but a solid work ethic. The people he saw, though doubtless bereaved by those lost in the pandemic, were all smiles. Disaster had brought them closer together. It had actually had a positive effect on them. Hal grinned at the thought.
They passed a playground, and Hal watched as a pair of children on a swing set competed to see who could swing higher. He was always afraid he’d go too high and flip over when he was a kid. The thought made him grin even more. Simpler times.
The cart turned onto a narrow side street, slowed, and stopped, breaking Hal’s reverie.
“We’re here,” announced Keaton, sliding out of the driver’s seat and pointing at a hand-painted sign on a steel-shuttered door. It read ARCTURA’S BODY SHOP—OPEN FOR BUSINESS.
“A mechanic? What do we need a mechanic for?” wondered Harris.
“You’ll see. Call it a parting
gift.” Keaton pounded on the steel shutters. “Jose! Customers!”
It took a moment before a response was forthcoming.
“Customers? Ai, no customers for weeks. What do you want now? Got another truck you need fixed?”
“Not quite,” said Keaton, raising his voice to be heard through the shutters. “We need that jalopy of yours.”
“What?” came the incredulous reply. “And what makes you think I’m going to hand it over to you, eh? Americanos estúpidos, siempre incomodándome para esto o ése. ¿Cuáles son yo, un servicio del coche de alquiler?”
“Oh, knock it off, Jose. It only works on cute women, anyway. Sprechen sie English, pendejo,” Keaton shot back. “Besides, I think you’ll want to meet these guys. They’re friends of Francis Sherman.”
“Sherman? General Sherman? Mierda, that’s all you had to say! One minute—I have to unlock the shutters.”
The sound of rattling chains and clinking steel sounded from behind the shutters, and after a moment, they rolled up with a loud clatter, folding into the ceiling. Revealed was a large garage, lined with tool benches and heavy equipment. In front of them stood a darkly tanned man, short, with close-cropped black hair and a thin mustache. He was wearing oil-stained coveralls and had a wrench hung from a tool belt. Behind him, bent over an ancient-looking Ford sedan, was a young woman in similar dress. She turned to face the newcomers, wiping her face clean with a rag she had stuck in the waistband of her pants.
“How can I help you? We do it all here. Transmissions, rotations—we can even roll back the odometer for the right price.”
“I like her,” Hal said.
Jose put his arm around the young woman’s shoulders and brought her forward. The girl was pretty, with long dark hair pulled back in a braid. She shared the same tan complexion as her father, and had an exotic, enticing look about her. She carried herself confidently. “This is my daughter, Adelina. She’s the smartest thing this side of the Mississippi—and a better mechanic than I ever could hope to be.”
Keaton waved at the visiting duo. “Adelina, these men are friends of Sherman’s. The older one is Hal—the younger’s Harris, from the Navy.”
“Sherman? He’s the one who rescued me from—” Adelina broke off her sentence, overcome, and rushed to hug Hal and Harris, who both flushed and backed away at the girl’s sudden outburst of emotion. She sniffled. “He rescued me from those—those pigs!”
Jose wrapped his arms around her and patted her on the head. “Es bien, amor, son ahora ida. Ellos no pueda le lastimó más,” he said. He turned to Hal and Harris. “Those raiders—the ones under the Lutz brothers—they did . . . things to her.”
“I just wish I could have killed some of them myself,” muttered Adelina.
Jose frowned. “You’re not like them, mijitia.”
Keaton cleared his throat. “Jose, I hate to interrupt, but . . .”
Jose looked over at the Sheriff. “Right. The jalopy. I was saving it in case we were overrun and needed to make a break for it, but—for friends of Sherman, no problemo. I’m afraid it’s not in the best of shape, though.”
Jose and Adelina led the little group over to a corner of the garage. A car, covered by a tan tarp, sat gathering dust in the shadows. The pair of mechanics yanked back the cover, revealing an old pickup truck. Dings and dents covered the exterior, and rust was everywhere. The windshield was opaque from the amount of grime that had gathered on it, and the seat coverings were ripped and torn.
Jose noticed the looks of disbelief on the faces of Hal and Harris, and laughed out loud. “Don’t let her looks fool you. She runs—mostly. The keys are in the glove compartment.”
Harris frowned, a bit confused. “Wait a minute—are you just giving us this car?”
Jose nodded, still smiling. “Of course. Like I said, for friends of Sherman, I’ll do anything. He gave me back my daughter. The least I can do is give you this piece of shit. It’s the best I have, but it’s still a piece of shit.” He seesawed his hand. “Not much of a contingency plan, right? It’ll get you to Omaha a bit quicker, though.”
“How’d you know we were going to Omaha?” Harris asked, narrowing his eyes. He was the suspicious type. Hal supposed it came from being a ranking officer. One always needed to keep his ears open for loose lips.
“That’s where Sherman was headed,” Jose said, opening the passenger door of the jalopy and retrieving the key from the glove compartment. “Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that’s where you’re going, too.”
“This’ll help us out tremendously, Mr. Arctura,” said Harris, accepting the key ring from the mechanic.
“There’s a catch,” said Jose, raising a finger. “Gasoline.”
“What about it?” Harris asked, furrowing his brow.
“Not much left here. We siphoned off what we could, but we’re down to dregs,” Jose explained. “You’ve got about a half a tank in that truck. It’ll get you—maybe—a hundred miles closer to Omaha. From there you’ll have to hoof it, unless you can scrounge up some more fuel somewhere.”
“That’s good enough for us, Jose,” said Harris. “You’re very generous.”
“No, no,” said Jose, waving off the thanks. “You’re welcome to anything in my shop.”
Harris nodded curtly. “We’ll just make do with the truck, Jose. And you have my thanks nonetheless. Well, Hal—shall we?”
“Let’s,” agreed Hal, slipping into the passenger seat of the truck. “We’ll make good time in this thing.”
Commander Harris took the driver’s seat, turning over the engine. It whined a bit, screeched, and caught, purring contentedly.
“A word of warning,” said Jose, raising his voice above the sound of the engine. “If she starts to make a coughing noise on the road, shift into neutral or you’ll blow the transmission. Oh, and she pulls to the left, so keep an eye out for that.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” said Hal, leaning out the passenger window. “If we make it to Omaha in one piece, we’ll make sure to bring her back to you.”
“Keep it. It’s yours. Once you find that vaccine you’re looking for, I’m going to go find myself an abandoned Lamborghini.”
Adelina chuckled and shook her head. “Just be safe.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Harris, and shifted into drive.
Rico and Hillyard sat, watching Wendell and the deckhands play a round of Spades at another table. Allen was drunk, teetering on the back two legs of a bar stool and doing a surprisingly good job of it. Stiles sat behind him on the floor, his legs out in front of him, watching the balancing act. The crew sat in a pretty wide circle of townsfolk . . . not exactly hostile, and not exactly unwelcoming, but the news of Stiles’s condition had definitely changed the tone of the pub when the group returned. Ron and Katie were making the rounds, saying their good-byes.
“I think I can take four,” said Jones, looking intently, if a little drunkenly, at his hand of thirteen cards.
“Five more,” said Wendell, his eyes closed and looking up at the ceiling. He’d played more hands of Spades than any other sailor on the Ramage, definitely more than all of the deckhands put together.
“All right!” shouted Allen from his stool. “Nine for Wendell and Jooones!”
“Three,” whispered Stiles from the floor.
“Three,” said Smith, who had made the same bid for the last ten games. His partner Brown groaned and Jones laughed.
“Goddammit,” Brown said. “Do you even know how to play this game? Every fucking time, three tricks, you sandbagging motherfucker. After this hand”—he slammed his cards on the table, facedown—“we are swapping partners.”
“Your bid?” asked Wendell.
Brown pursed his lips and sank into his chair. “Nil.”
Allen let loose with a gigantic burp. “Three for Brith. Smown. Fuck . . . those two.”
The door to the pub eased open and Harris walked in, followed by Hal and the Sheriff.
“Oh, thank
God,” Brown said, throwing his cards into the air. “Tell me I don’t have to finish this round.”
“You don’t. Mount up, men,” Harris said over Brown’s cheer. “We’re headed out. And we’ve got a ride.”
Omaha, NE
27 June 2007
0915 hrs_
Ewan Brewster was getting very tired of scavenging duty. He knew it was necessary. Without a regular supply of food and medicines, the Fac wouldn’t have lasted as long as it had. Still, he reasoned, why did he have to do it? He’d much rather let Juni have his spot, and take up residence behind the nice, thick front doors of the Fac, safe and sound. He was sure she’d jump at the chance.
Ewan doubted Trevor felt the same way. As a matter of fact, he had a sneaking suspicion that Trev might even be happier at the prospect of heading out solo, without anything or anyone restraining him.
Their expedition the day before had yielded a pack full of expired medical supplies, but, as Trevor had predicted, Dr. Demilio had thrown the majority of them out. Brewster groaned and made a scene, but he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. The next scavenging run was set. To remove some of the sting, Sherman had decreed that it would be a full run, and not just Trev and Ewan.
Before their first run, months earlier, Trevor and Brewster had spent an hour going over a map of western Omaha until they spotted a free clinic, more than a mile from the Fac. It would be the farthest they had ever ventured from the safety of their compound, and Brewster had been nervous at the prospect. Still, the clinic would likely have everything they needed. It had been worth a shot. The risk had paid off, loading them up with enough basic supplies to keep Anna happy for several weeks. As time went on and they picked the shelves clean, Ewan knew they’d either have to leave Omaha entirely to find a new clinic or hospital worth searching, or head deeper into Omaha itself, which was, at best, a chancy proposition. At worst, it was suicide.