by Dan DeWitt
He eventually finagled a membership at the local gun club, which was pretty exclusive. The only way in was to either have a legacy membership from a relative or be sponsored by a current member. Though "finagled" wasn't exactly the right word. What happened was that he walked in, introduced himself, and they fell all over themselves signing both he and Jackie up. To show his appreciation, Cam allowed his likeness to be used in some print ads and did a few radio spots gratis. Fame really did have its perks, as much as he hated being the face of anything.
She took to the weapons training pretty quickly, due to him being a good teacher and her having a certain aptitude for it. After three months or so she started to head to the range by herself. In fact, she went more often than he did. Neither one of them worked or was particularly busy anymore, but she also didn't have his experience around weapons. She didn't want to say, "Yeah, I learned how to shoot once." She wanted to be able to pick up any firearm and know how to fire it, reload, and clear a jam.
Now that he was gone for a year? She didn't exactly live there, but she'd locked up a time or two.
Once a long time ago, he'd come back from a deployment about 20 pounds lighter, and in the best shape of his life. She asked him how he did it, and he'd said, "If you're not drinking, partying, or cheating on a deployment, you find something else to do and do it a lot."
She understood that now. Boy, did she understand it.
Jackie entered the code and opened the safe. She put her pistol and several magazines into her carrying case and snapped it shut, still very annoyed with him. She grabbed her hearing and eye protection off of the top of the safe and headed out. She walked past her father, said only, "Club," and left, still very annoyed with him, too.
The drive to the club was only a few minutes, not long enough for her to either completely calm down or work herself into a greater anger, so she arrived in pretty much the same state that she'd been in when she'd left the house.
Connor Spruce, the proprietor, had a bottle of spring water waiting for her. "Saw you pull up, Mrs. H. Slow day. The line's all yours."
She accepted the water bottle with a smile and walked through the red door at the back of the room. She headed to her usual spot at #12 and set up. The range master, Buck, walked the entire line, verified that they were alone, and set up a target for her at a 25 meter distance. After he was safely back on the line, he signaled to her that it was safe to fire.
She pulled the first ten shots, and they sailed over the shoulder of the silhouette. She paused and realized that she was firing angry. She put the pistol down and stepped back for a moment to compose herself. Buck held up his fingers in an Everything okay? gesture. She shot him back a quick thumbs up and returned to her spot.
The rest of the rounds hit the target's center mass in a reasonably tight grouping near where the heart would be.
Better, she thought. Can't hit shit when you're angry.
She popped out the empty magazine and slid another in. She saw movement on the right side of the line. A man was setting up two spots down from her. That wasn't out of the ordinary; just like in a movie theater, people tended to gravitate as close to the center as they could get. He was blond and looked to be about Cameron's age, give or take. He looked up at her and smiled. He pointed to her hearing protection and mimed her taking it off. She thought that he might be the next in a long line of men who had hit on her out on the line, a pursuit which lasted exactly as long as it took for another club member to educate them about who her husband was, that is. Whether that was out of respect, awe, or fear of him, she didn't really care. Still, she obliged the man.
"Is this okay?" He asked while pointing to #14.
She didn't understand what he was saying at first. Then it clicked that he was actually asking her if him being so close on an empty range would make her uncomfortable. She responded, "No, that's fine. Thank you for asking."
He touched two fingers to his eyebrow in a mini salute and started setting up his spot, and she returned to her own.
Not a creep. Good to know.
The rounds from the second magazine were even tighter than the first. Jackie briefly considered going through the third, but she'd taken the edge off of her anger, and figured it would just be a waste of ammunition. She watched the other man fire for a few seconds. She actually recognized his weapon, a Beretta, the same as her husband's. He fired it confidently, like him. He emptied his magazine and reloaded like lightning, never taking his aim from the target, like him. Suddenly, despite her initial anger, she missed her husband very badly. She packed up quickly, waved to the range master, and left the line.
When she entered the common area, Connor asked her, "Something to eat, Mrs. H? The special is a chef's salad. I'm that chef, so it probably sucks, but still. It's a special."
She hadn't realized that she was hungry until Connor had brought it up. She sidled up to the bar and said, "That actually sounds pretty good, Connor. Thanks."
"Just give me five minutes. Seltzer?"
"With lime, please."
He disappeared into the back to make her salad. Her eyes wandered to the televisions that were mounted at each end, facing inward. One of them showed a 24-hour news channel, and the other sports highlights. Not really being interested in either of them, she pulled out her cell phone and opened up her ebook app. It immediately synced to where she had left off on her tablet at home.
She had just reached the part where the romantic interest had proclaimed his undying love for the protagonist (a fiercely independent, yet still acutely feminine, war correspondent, who also had a black belt in judo) when Connor arrived with the salad. Salad wins, she thought, and deferred to her growling stomach.
Despite Connor's self-deprecating claims, the salad was incredibly delicious. The meat was fresh, the lettuce crisp, and she savored every bite after the initial few when she had just attacked it. Connor seemed very pleased with himself as he washed glasses on the opposite end.
She was down to the last quarter or so when she glanced at the news feed, which showed an aerial view of a large brick building. The location was immediately familiar. After all, she had dropped her son off there every morning for four years. The next shot was of a reporter, and she recognized him, as well, only not as quickly. Then he stuck the microphone in her husband's direction, and it came back to her. He'd done the same thing within a few minutes of her husband's return. She still didn't understand how reporters had gotten there so quickly. Then it occurred to her that maybe they were sticking close to her just in case she did something newsworthy like check into rehab or kill herself or something, and that soured her on the reporter even more. The graphic identified him as Iver Thompson, and the subtitle read "Live from Island Z."
Ugh. The island actually has a name.
The closed captioning disappeared as the volume was turned up. "I figure that this is relevant to your interests," the barman said.
"... going well at this point, as expected. We have a group of skilled professional soldiers and experienced leadership," Cameron said.
The reporter took the microphone back to say, "By 'experienced' you mean with the zombies."
"Yes, that's what I mean."
"But they have no military experience themselves. Are you afraid that their lack of experience could endanger this decidedly military-style operation? Why would you elect to put your son, your future daughter-in-law, a college student, and a former security guard in charge of an operation with such far-reaching ramifications if it fails?"
Oh, boy. She recognized the look that had come over her husband's face. It was a subtle change, but it almost always meant trouble. Cameron Holt was a wonderful man in a host of ways, but he still had problems with his temper. Come on, honey, keep it together.
He fought it off and responded, "Quite the opposite. This time, the enemy is extremely hard to kill. Their behavior is erratic, yet they are single-minded in their purpose. They have no regard for their own existence. Wounds that would incapacit
ate humans don't matter to them at all. They cannot be intimidated. They won't surrender. And they wear our friends' faces. Anyone coming in here with a preconception that the way they were taught to wage war against humans is the way to do it now would endanger the mission. As you've already learned for yourself, this is an entirely different type of war, Mr. Thompson. I know. I've fought in both. And the four people you mentioned not only have more knowledge of zombies than anyone else alive, save for me, but I trust each of them with my life and the lives of everyone under my command."
Good for you, babe.
Connor gave voice to a similar sentiment, only with a little more color. "Yeah, you tell that twerp, Mr. H!"
Thompson seemed impressed with that answer. Jackie didn't think that it was because he believed the answer. She doubted that a guy like him believed in anything. But it was exactly the sound byte he was looking for, she imagined.
As if on cue, the graphic below changed to: "A Different Type of War - Orpheus."
Thompson threw it back to the anchor, and the story changed to a more common type of war in the Middle East. She gathered up her gear and said, "I'll take the check, Connor. I need to make an important call."
"Yeah, like I'm going to charge you after that speech."
She put a twenty on the bar and winked. "Yeah, like I'm not going to pay you after that salad."
She left the club in a much better mood than when she had arrived. All of her anger at Cameron had just evaporated after seeing him in the interview. She knew that whatever his reason for keeping the money from her was, in his mind, for her benefit. She may disagree ... okay, would almost definitely disagree ... but she wouldn't doubt his motive.
Now she just wanted to speak to him, check on him, make sure he was okay.
Kicking his ass could wait a little while.
He picked up and she ripped off the Band-Aid, telling him that she knew, but they could talk about it later. She just wanted to check on him and the kids, make sure everything was okay, and did anyone need anything?
After that call, she felt lighter, like she had burned off the anger for a little while through gunfire and bleu cheese dressing. She was calm enough to make the phone call that her husband suggested she make. The voice on the other end seemed to have been caught completely off guard, but once Jackie had explained why she wanted to meet, she seemed to relax. When the call was over, Jackie tuned the satellite radio to the 80's channel and sang along with Cyndi Lauper as she drove to the market to pick up a few things to have ready for her guest.
Even if she had been paying closer attention, she probably wouldn't have noticed the midnight blue Subaru pulling out a few seconds after she did.
Understandings
"Okay, time to work some magic on this footage." Thompson's cameraman, Greg Hedley, packed up and got ready to move to the school's AV room. When he had first arrived, the cameraman had been impressed with the equipment that the school had sprung for, and decided to just work with what they had. "If I need anything really special, which I doubt, I can get it from the van or requisition it from the mainland."
Orpheus motioned to two of his men. "Take an escort."
Hedley said, "Oh, come on, Cap, I know it's your show, but I'll be fine. This place is locked down tight. I don't need a babysitter."
Orpheus was insistent. "Take an escort, or take your ass back on home."
Hedley acquiesced. "You're the boss." He turned to Thompson. "Meet you at The Zom Shelter at," he looked at his watch, "6:30?"
"You got it."
Hedley left and it was just the two of them. "Awesome interview, Cap. That quote is going to stand out during my Pulitzer acceptance speech."
"You sound pretty confident."
Thompson took a sip of bottled water. "Are you kidding? I am literally the only game in town for one of the biggest stories in history."
Orpheus couldn't disagree. "Speaking of which, how did you get this gig? I specifically stated that I wanted no embedded reporters. I got literally everything I wanted except for that. And you are literally the last reporter I'd want here. You have dirt on someone?"
"Heh. That's not a horrible guess."
"Who?"
"Now that," Thompson said, "you'd have to beat out of me." He stopped mid-sip when he saw the look on Orpheus' face. "Not a challenge."
"Too bad."
"You really don't like me, do you?"
"I'm not in love with you, no. Part of it is how you horned your way in here, part of it is how I know for a fact that you're Ralston's boy, and the rest is just your personality."
Thompson laughed. Genuinely laughed. "An honest opinion. I like that a lot. I don't get many in my line of work. I'll be honest with you, too. I may take some liberties here and there, I may sensationalize some stuff, and I may be so omnipresent that you'll think there's ten of me. But, by the time I'm done here, you're going to look like a cross between Patton, Einstein, Neil Armstrong, and Martin Luther King, because that narrative works out best for both of us. You don't have to trust me personally, but you should trust in my self-interest. You keep me alive, I'll make you immortal."
Orpheus surprised himself by nodding. He'd trusted nicer people in the past and been burned, so he was willing to give a conceited punk who was up front with him a chance.
Thompson slung his bag over his shoulder. "I'm going to get a head start on drinking."
"Your escort's right outside."
"Uh, copy that."
He got three strides before Orpheus asked, "'The Zom Shelter'? That's what you're calling it?"
Thompson beamed. "That's what we're all calling it, baby. Came up with it myself. Although I'd trade that any day to be the one who came up with 'Orpheus.' That's just perfect."
Orpheus motioned to the two soldiers who were stationed outside his office. "Take him where he wants to go. Check the duty roster, notify your replacements, and knock off for the night."
"Yes, sir," they answered in unison and escorted Thompson through the basement door to the Zom Shelter.
Ugh, that is just an awful name.
He set the tomahawk on his desk to protect the leather chair and sat down. He absentmindedly traced his finger along the blade and considered some things.
Thompson made a lot of sense. As much as he didn't like him after his first encounter ... and still didn't ... he would be wise to let Thompson do his job. He wasn't looking to tear Orpheus down. Not only did he have no reason to, but there was really nothing to find. No hidden crimes, no extramarital affairs, no corruption. He'd make his name and earn recognition by making him even more of a sympathetic figure, the ultimate reluctant hero. To do that, he'd also have to imply that Ralston is kind of an asshole, which Orpheus was fine with.
He'd also made a good argument for a few drinks.
"Screw it," Orpheus muttered and stood up. He had just dropped the tomahawk into its case when his phone rang. Jackie. He smiled and answered. "Hey, you."
It went downhill from there, because now Jackie was unloading about the money. By the time they said their I love yous, he was halfway to the Zom Shelter. He declined his own escort because, well, he was in charge.
He walked down the stairs and turned the corner. What was once a corridor of seemingly endless concrete had been dressed up with posters and photographs. The posters had to have been lifted straight from the library and repurposed, because they showed kids reading and owls in glasses reading, and slogans like, "Reading is a free ticket to anywhere!" The effect was both hilarious and a little touching. The photographs, now those were different. They ranged everywhere from wallet sized to 8x10. They featured mostly women and children, but there was a significant amount of family photos, as well. It was clear that the soldiers had decided to make the photos that they brought public, instead of keeping them for themselves. The message was clear: "Now we know who each other is fighting for." Considering the manpower and funding that he had at his disposal, and that he was taking no chances, it was easy to forget
the possible consequences if they fucked it up. If one, just one, infected person made it back to the mainland, what he'd lived through a year ago would be small potatoes when compared to a continent-wide epidemic.
He lingered over the photos for some time. His desire for a drink had taken a back seat. A few soldiers passed behind him, heading in either direction, but he barely noticed. He was transfixed by the photos, and walked slowly down the corridor, looking from one side to the other. He often stopped altogether and stared, as if he were in an art gallery. His knowledge of art was non-existent, but he understood this. What really got him were the children in their baseball uniforms, princess dresses, diapers. Not only were his children (he'd started considering Rachel to be his own long ago) fully grown and capable, but they were right here with him, and he'd separated from the Air Force before they'd even conceived Ethan. He couldn't imagine having to leave toddlers behind. He knew that it was really common for military personnel to be deployed during childhoods, even pregnancies, but he was thankful that he'd never had to go through it.
The children on this island never had a chance. Jen believed that the virus killed them outright before they turned, and Orpheus' own experience supported that, as he'd never seen an infected child, thank God. He hated thinking about it, but was doomed to, and had made sort of a peace that dying at the hands of the virus itself was the far more merciful option.
He reached over to his left bicep and pulled the Velcro release on his ID badge holder. He slid out his badge and the thin stack of papers behind it: a twenty dollar bill, a credit card (hey, they had internet), and a worn but still well-preserved photograph of he and his wife at their wedding.
They were so young then. Not "too young to be married" young, just with so much youth and vitality and looks. Jackie had kept most of hers in all categories, and he had no idea how. On some days he just woke up feeling old and wrinkled and completely apathetic to where the day would take him.