“There was a dead female mutant found at the scene when the team arrived. They had just finished loading it into the APC when Corporal Higgins was attacked.”
Saul began to pace across the suite, crisscrossing the room’s small diameter in six steps. “Damn squints got everybody in my command believing this bullshit about alien viruses! First Sergeant, what you call a mutant I call a person who has been exposed to a very toxic, highly effective bioweapon. Just because the squints don’t know what it is or how it works doesn’t mean it came from outer fucking space! Is that clear?”
“Yes sir, very clear.”
“How did the rest of Tango-nine end up dead?”
Danielson and Swanson shot and killed the civilian who attacked Corporal Higgins, then retreated to the APC to call in the incident. As they were doing so, two more male civilians emerged from the building.”
“Were they infected?”
“No sir. They freely surrendered themselves and were cooperating with the team when one of them overpowered Private Swanson, relieving her of her rifle, and then shot her with it. Private Danielson was also attacked, but he was able to subdue and kill his assailant.”
“Then what killed him?”
“The attack by the three male civilians was apparently a diversion. The video feed from Private Danielson’s headgear camera shows a car driven by a male with three female passengers, driving out of the parking lot at high speed. Private Danielson blocked the exit and fired upon the vehicle, attempting to prevent its departure. He was struck by the vehicle and died at the scene.”
Saul sighed, “Fucking Ash Carter strikes again,” he mumbled.
“Sir?”
“Ash Carter First Sergeant. What’s wrong, they didn’t teach history at the school you attended?”
“I’m sorry sir, I’m not familiar with the name.”
Well, you should be. As a matter of fact, he should be one of your fucking heroes. Back in 2016, he was the Secretary of Defense. It was his stupid squinty ass that signed the order allowing women to serve in combat positions. You used the pronoun ‘she’ when mentioning Private Swanson, so I assume that the late Private Swanson was a woman, correct?”
“Yes sir. Her name was Patricia Swanson.”
“Patricia runs out onto the battlefield, gets overpowered by a man, gets shot with her own gun, and generally fucks things up for everybody. Am I on track here, First Sergeant?”
Josephine clenched her teeth and let out a slow breath through her nose, trying her best to stay calm, “Sir! May I remind the General that Corporal Higgins and Private Danielson were overpowered by male civilians as well. And they were men. Sir!”
General Adams stopped pacing and stood close to Josephine, just inches separating their bodies. He was so close she could feel his breath on her forehead.
“Don’t patronize me First Sergeant, I am not in the mood.”
Josephine shifted uncomfortably on her feet. “No sir. That was not my intention sir. I was just trying to point out that Tango-nine were all capable soldiers who were caught off guard by the unexpected behavior of the civilians. Given the coordinated nature of the attacks on Bravo-six and Tango-nine, the science team thinks the virus may have bestowed unknown communicative abilities on some of the infected.”
Saul snorted in disgust. “First Sergeant, the entire science team are a bunch of pussies who have no idea what real war looks like. I’m tired of listening to their bullshit. I want my perimeter established and locked down by zero six hundred. I want every available body on a fire team. And tell the teams to forget about the infection protocols. Tell them to shoot anything or anyone who even smells wrong.”
“Sir, that order goes against President Kinsdale’s directive to—”
Saul stabbed an index finger in Josephine’s direction. “First Sergeant, I could give two shits about the president’s directives! I’m running this show! Is that understood?”
Josephine snapped to attention. “Yes sir!” she said. Yes sir, you pompous bag of man-pus. She turned and exited the room.
44
Ray stopped in front of the bucket truck then bent over at the waist to catch his breath. “Whew!” he breathed, “In the last ten hours I’ve done more running that I’ve done since boot camp.”
“Well maybe you should stop watching all that porn and get out the house more.”
Ray jumped in surprise. He wasn’t expecting to hear Crystal’s voice directly behind him. “What are you doing? You should’ve stayed with Moji and Wilma.”
“I figured I can die just as well running with you,” she said, catching her breath, “as I could sitting with them.”
“You thought I was running away?”
“No no,” Crystal said, “that’s not what I meant. What I am trying to say is that, if I’m going to get eaten by some monster, it might as well be while I’m trying to save myself—I mean, save us—rather than sitting down and waiting for the boogeyman to show up.”
“Alright, nice recovery. Come on, you can help me find the keys to this rig.”
Crystal tried to open the driver’s door. It wouldn’t open. “It’s locked,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s standard procedure. Wouldn’t want someone to jump in and try to drive away or steal something out the cab while you got the bucket deployed.” Ray pointed up at the bucket, about thirty feet above them. Wisps of bluish-black smoke were coming from the interior of the bucket and there was a sizable hole in the bottom of it. “Try the passenger door. Most crews are lax about following procedure and will leave at least one door unlocked, and if we’re lucky, the keys will be in the glove box.”
“You know something about these trucks?”
“Yeah,” Ray said as he walked around to the back of the vehicle where the bucket controls were located, “got a job with Tex-Can after I got out of the army. I’m one of their few black linemen.”
“Oh,” Crystal said, looking up at the bucket, “is the bucket supposed to be on fire?”
“Ray laughed, “No, and it’s not supposed to have a big hole in the bottom of it either. Looks like something caught fire up there and burned a hole right through the fiberglass. Let’s hope I can get it down, otherwise we won’t be able to drive it, even with the keys.”
Crystal jogged around to passenger side of the truck and tried the door. It opened. The passenger seat was littered with Whataburger sandwich wrappers and other debris. “God, whoever used this truck was a pig! There’s Whataburger food wrappers everywhere.” She opened the glove compartment and rummaged through it. “No keys in the glove box.”
“Whataburger? There’s only one person…,” Ray looked for and found the truck number stamped on the rear bumper.
This was truck number 27.
“Holy shit!” Ray said, “This is Jack Flanagan’s ride.”
“You knew him?” Crystal asked.
“Well, not personally but I knew of him. After the explosion, all the line crews were recalled from the field. Jack never reported. Damn, I wonder what happened to him? I hope he’s ok.”
“Now that you know who was driving, does that give you any clues as to where he may have put the keys?”
“Jack was old school, but had become pretty disillusioned with the corporate brass. He blamed them for his wife’s death after the company health insurance wouldn’t cover his wife’s cancer treatments. Knowing Jack, when he saw the power grid go down, he probably threw the keys in the bayou, said fuck the company, and ran off. But just in case, look in the little outside storage compartments. Maybe he left them in there.” The bucket’s motor whirred as Ray guided the boom away from the utility pole and lined it up parallel with the rear of the truck.
Crystal walked around the truck opening each compartment. She found nothing but tools and other unidentifiable junk. “Nothing yet,” she said.
As the bucket lowered, Ray pushed one of the control levers a little too far to the right, causing the bucket to stop suddenly about 10 feet above the groun
d then bounce up and down several times, making the whole truck bounce with it before oscillating to a stop. Ray heard something shift inside of the bucket and then a black object fell out of the hole in the bottom, hitting the ground with a soft plop.
“You sure you know how to work that thing?” Crystal teased from the opposite side of the truck.
“Yeah yeah, I got it,” he said as he walked over to see what had fallen. As he walked under the bucket he caught a whiff of a acrid but savory sweet odor that forced him to turn his head and gag. “Ugh, what the hell is that smell?” He cleared his throat and tried to spit out the metallic aftertaste, but he had inhaled too much of the bad air. It lingered in the back of his throat like burnt toast. He covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm and walked back over to the object on the ground. It was a shoe. Specifically, it was a work boot, one of the standard types that Tex-Can requires their linemen to wear. Normally a light brown or tan, the leather was frayed and burned black and the sole had partially melted, exposing the inside of the boot at the toe.
Oh shit, Ray thought, repulsed, there’s still somebody’s foot inside that fucking thing! Ray could see that the ball of the foot was blistered and flayed. The toes were intact but grossly bent up toward the top of the shoe, as if they had tried to curl away from whatever tragedy had befallen the sole. “Oh god,” he said and turned away, sickened by the thought of what must be in the bucket.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Crystal said, walking up to him but pointing over his shoulder, back toward where Moji and Wilma were sitting.
Ray turned around and saw Moji frantically hopping up and down and waving her hands over her head. She looked as if she was doing jumping jacks. She was screaming something. Ray couldn’t make out the words but he knew they were in trouble. He waved back at Moji in acknowledgement. “Something’s happening,” he said, “we gotta get back.”
“I didn’t find any keys, did you?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure I know where they are.” He ran over to the bucket controls and moved it to its locked position in the bed of the truck.
“Ugh, that smell!” Crystal said, “What is it?”
“You don’t want to know,” Ray said as he quickly hopped up on the truck bed and opened the bucket door. What was left of Jack Flanagan lay at the bottom of the bucket, still smoldering. Jack’s remains were a jumble of burnt clothing, blistered skin, and charred bone. His insides had boiled, burst, and leaked out through the hole in the bottom of the bucket, Ray could still see a thin trail of shiny slime around the hole left by the last of the entrails the fire had liberated from Jack’s body. Jack had fallen on his right side and the fire had consumed most of the clothing on his left side, including the left half of the denim jeans Jack was wearing. Ray didn’t see any keys. He assumed they were going to be under the body, on the right side. “Just my fucking luck,” he said. He started to shiver. He always shivered when his PTSD was about to be a problem.
Crystal had seen the charred boot on the ground. The smell was enough to keep her from venturing in for a closer look. She had no interest in seeing what was inside that bucket. “Ray, I hate to rush you, but Moji is going apeshit trying to get our attention. Are the keys in there or not?”
Ray took a deep breath and tried to keep his mind focused on the present. He did not want to slip into a flashback now. “Let’s find out,” he replied. He bent down and pressed is hand down tight against the bottom of the bucket and then slid it under Jack’s right buttock, near where he thought the pants back pocket would be. Ray felt an oily, damp substance in the crevice created by his hand. His PTSD addled brain reminded him that the substance was most likely bodily fluids and fat expelled from the body. He fought the urge to jerk his hand away and instead pushed it further in, until he could feel the seam of the back pocket. The pocket was empty. “Shit,” he whispered. He was going to have to dig further. He continued to wrap his arm around Jack’s corpse, his hand searching for anything that felt like keys. Finally, he felt it, a keyring. It was encased in damp cloth, Probably the front pocket, he thought. He fumbled around until he found the pocket opening and worked his fingers in, hooking the keyring with his index finger. “Got it!” he said. He yanked his arm free then jumped off the platform, keys in hand.
“Ugh!” Crystal said, a soured expression frozen on her face, “I am not getting in that truck with you smelling like that! It was bad enough with the rotting fish and puke! Now you got...whatever that is on your arm.”
Ray look at his sleeve. It was damp, and streaked with something that looked like wallpaper paste. Without hesitating, he stripped off his shirt and used it to wipe the gunk off his hands and the keys.
Crystal was struck by the intensity of her thoughts when Ray removed his shirt. He was wearing a tight white wife beater that laid in stark contrast against his milk chocolate skin and hugged the contours of a lithe, well-muscled torso. What surprised her most was what she felt when she saw the extent of the infection of his arm. It still looks like a burned tree branch has been grafted to his shoulder, she thought. But instead of being repulsed by the sight of it like she was before, now she found it strangely...attractive. “Let’s go,” Ray said, breaking her train of thought as he turned and opened the truck’s driver side door.
Crystal ran to the passenger side and hopped in. “You gonna need help steering?” she asked, pointing at Ray’s arm, resisting an sudden urge to touch it. No, caress, she corrected herself, you want to caress it.
He flexed his blackened arm before quickly jamming the key in the ignition. “Arm feels much better,” he said, and turned the key. The starter whirred twice, then the engine shuddered, backfired, and roared to life. Ray slammed the truck into gear, floor the accelerator, and spun the steering wheel hard to the left. The truck jumped the curb and tipped, lifting the driver’s side of the vehicle into the air and throwing Crystal into the passenger door. Ray quickly compensated, turning the wheel back to the right. The left side of the truck slammed to the ground, and unbeknownst to Ray or Crystal, catapulted Jack’s remains out of the bucket. Still accelerating, the truck’s rear wheels slipped crazily in the wet grass and it did several S-turns before Ray could get it under control.
“Where in the hell did you get your driver’s license?” Crystal shouted as she braced herself using the passenger assist handle above the door, “Could you at least drive on the actual road?”
Ray ignored her and focused his attention on getting back to Moji and Wilma. He was driving on a span of unkempt grass that spanned between the road and part of the golf course. The picnic table was directly in front of him, he could see Wilma’s profile sitting calmly, her eyes locked on activity happening to Ray’s left. He followed Wilma’s gaze and his jaw dropped open in surprise. There was a large pack of dogs, at least a hundred, pouring across the plaza of the zoo entrance and into the parking lot.
And more frightening, was that Moji was running to meet them.
“What is Moji doing!” Crystal screamed as Ray turned the truck onto the road, intending to put it between the dogs and Moji.
I’m not going to get there in time, Ray thought, those dogs are going to tear her to pieces!
Moji had crossed the street and run into the parking lot. Ray blew the horn frantically, trying to get her attention, to get her to turn back so he could protect her. But it was too late, she was already walking among the parked cars as the dogs spread out, weaving through and jumping on top of the cars, encircling her.
“Do something!” Crystal screamed at him, hitting him and tearing at his arm, “Drive in there and get her!” she sobbed.
“How can I do that!” he screamed back, “There’s too many cars packed in the lot!” He stopped the truck at the edge of the parking lot then rolled down his window and blew the horn repeatedly to get Moji’s attention, “Moji! Moji!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Get out of there! Run back this way!”
Crystal opened the door, hopped out onto the road, and stood abo
ut three feet clear of the truck’s front bumper. “Mo!” she screamed and waved her hands over her head, “Moji!”
The dogs didn’t take any notice of Crystal, Wilma, or Ray, their attention was focused on Moji as she continued to walk through the rows of cars, moving briskly toward the zoo entrance.
“Crystal!” Ray yelled out the window, “Go get Wilma and get back in the truck. If Moji makes it to the open area in front of the zoo entrance, I’ll be able to drive along the walking path and pick her up.” If she’s still alive, he thought.
Crystal nodded and ran to the picnic table, put her arm around Wilma’s waist, and began to walk her back to the truck.
Ray watched as Moji cleared the last row of cars, walked until she was in the middle of the entrance plaza, then she stopped and just….stood there. The dogs aren’t attacking, he thought, they’re just watching her. There were at least one hundred dogs, of all shapes and sizes. Ray recognized several breeds of pit, shepherd, poodle, and Doberman pinscher. There was even a Great Dane in the mix. However, the vast majority of them were mutts, and most of them looked to be injured in some manner. Ray could see mats of blood-soaked hair on a few of them and others were noticeably limping. Almost all of them had collars. The dogs silently gathered around Moji, no dog encroaching closer than ten feet. They made a rough circle about three dogs deep and twenty feet in diameter. “What the hell?” Ray said.
“What’s happening? Is she alright?” Crystal asked as she helped Wilma into the truck then climbed in behind her and shut the door.
“Look!” Ray said, “The dogs are just standing there looking at her.”
“Oh my god! Ray, go get over there before they kill her!” Crystal said.
“No,” Wilma said, “leave her be! Angel gonna be fine.”
Crystal reached across Wilma, grabbed the steering wheel, and shook it. “I'm tired of listening to this crazy talk. Ray get this truck moving and go get Mo before those animals rip her to pieces. If they don't get out of the way then run their asses over!”
The Scourge Page 36