by Brett, Cal
“Ms. Kelly, I hope we aren’t imposing,” the Major called out from the foyer, “we heard you might be willing to share some more of your delicious tea.”
“Come on in guys,” Kelly welcomed them. “Please have a seat and I’ll check on the water.”
“Very kind of you,” the Major said, “can we do anything to help?”
“No, no,” she replied. “You boys sit down and I’ll bring it in.”
Out on the balcony she checked the tea pot which wasn’t quite ready. ‘What am I doing?’ She thought as she waited, ‘I should tell these guys to get their own damn tea!’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she almost could hear her mother say. ‘You mind your manners young lady.’
“Yes, Mother,” she smiled looking up at the sky. When the pot whistled, she picked it up and walked inside. “Alright, who’s ready?”
As she poured the water for the enthusiastic group she asked, “what were you boys so excited about finding this morning?”
“Ah,” the Major began. “Well, yesterday when we ran into that mob of… what did you call them? Undies? I rather like that. When we ran into the undies we had to stash a load of supplies we had with us. We were afraid they might have destroyed the cart but it seems to be intact, and just down the street.”
“That’s the good news,” the Leftenant said with a laugh.
“What’s the bad news?” Kelly asked.
“The road is still mobbed with the bloody things,” the red bearded officer explained, “all the activity and noise seems to have attracted more of them. So we can’t get to it at present.”
The Major sighed and leaned forward apologetically, “Kelly, Robbie, I hate to ask as we told you we would be moving on today but would it be too much of an imposition if we stayed a bit longer?”
“It’s ok with me,” Robbie said, “Kelly?”
“Of course, Major,” she agreed. “You can stay as long as you need. Those things can be pretty stubborn sometimes.”
“Thank you,” the Major said, “We really need those supplies and we can’t get to them until the crowd thins out some. With any luck it will only be a few days. And I promise we will help out around the place. We will earn our keep. So, if there are any chores you need done don’t hesitate to ask.”
“We live pretty simply, with just Robbie and me.” Kelly told them, “but now that you mention it we could use a hand turning over the landscaping around the pool so we can plant down there.”
“Consider it done,” the Major nodded.
“We could also use a hand with the electrical,” Robbie said, “do you think Corporal MacGregor would mind looking at the system, to see if we could at least get some of it working? There’s a giant water tank on the roof that collects rain. It would be great if we could get the pump working again. It’s a shame to have all those solar panels, but not be able to use them.”
“Indeed,” the Major agreed. “I’ll talk to the Color Sergeant and get it scheduled.”
Over the next few days, the Marines helped shore up weak points in the building’s defenses and pull up the landscaping around the pool to get it ready for planting. One Section pulled drywall and metal studs from the construction areas and used them to cover the large windows in the lobby. The windows were up off the street, but if the undead were to get excited they might pile on top of each other until they could smash though to get inside. Two Section dug out decorative ferns and trees, as well as the tall weeds that had sprung up over the years, from the pool patio.
After some effort, Corporal MacGregor was able to get the batteries for the solar panels connected so that they could turn on the power in a few areas. He disconnected the lines leading to the parts of the building they didn’t use or weren’t crucial. Even with the power on, Major Garrett forbade any lights be turned on in areas that might be seen from outside. They even assigned several of the Marines to walk through the building in the evening, to make sure nothing was shining from the windows.
“The damned undead are trouble enough,” the Major insisted. “We don’t need to set up a lighthouse for the hungry living. God knows what that might bring.”
In the morning, Robbie showed Corporal MacGregor the water tower’s mechanical box on the roof. They found, when it was opened up, that small animals had chewed through the wiring and built a nest in the housing. MacGregor scrunched up his face while he used his knife to dig out scraps of fabric and straw from the crevice.
“Can you fix it?” Robbie asked.
“Ahdonoo,” MacGregor said, “Cahnactons lahk ok, but e’ naeds a’ naew waerang.”
Corporal Stewart stood nearby, looking on. Robbie turned to him with a confused look.
“He says you need new wires,” Stewart interpreted.
“Can we pull them from somewhere else in the building?” Robbie asked.
“Mebee,” MacGregor answered. “Ha ye goot an tahls?”
Stewart snorted in laughter at Robbie’s confusion, “Don’t worry mate. We don’t understand him half the time either. He’s bloody indecipherable, that one.”
MacGregor growled something at Stewart that Robbie thought must have been an insult.
“Yea, yea,” Stewart replied, “at least it’s good bitter we’re drinking in Manchester, though.”
Robbie watched the two banter back and forth with little idea what they were talking about.
Finally, Stewart turned to Robbie. “He says we can probably fix it if we can find the right tools. You got tools?”
“This whole place is a construction site,” Robbie answered. “I’m sure we can find some tools. And we can pirate some wiring from something we aren’t using. Right?”
“Mebee,” MacGregor said wiping his hands on his pants.
A few hours later the pumps were finally working. By turning off the valves to the lower floors they were even able to get enough pressure to run water to the units on the top level. Sergeant Simmons, the medic, advised them not to drink it without boiling but said it should be ok for bathing and flushing toilets.
Chapter 27
That evening as the moon rose, Kelly found herself on the roof admiring the clouds, swirling like waves across the distant horizon. The clouds in the higher altitudes created a misty palette smudging the stars into blurry globes against the deep blue sky. Evening light reflected down on the river, silhouetting the ships and shapes protruding from its surface. In her days as an art student, this would have inspired her to grab her paints and try to capture the image. This evening, she just enjoyed the moment and the fact that it was fleeting.
‘Nothing lasts,’ she thought, staring into the distance, ‘enjoy it while you can.’
“Something out there?” a voice with an English accent broke her melancholy.
“Oh!” She spun, to find Leftenant Windsor striding towards her. She answered. “No. Just admiring the sky. It looks like a painting tonight.”
Windsor looked out into the distance where she had been staring and surprised her when he asked, “by whom?”
“Sorry?” She cocked her head uncertainly, not understanding the question.
“Who?” Windsor repeated, then clarified. “Which painter?”
She snickered, “I was thinking VanGogh.”
“Oh,” Windsor nodded, “VanGogh.”
He said the painter’s name in a way that, to Kelly’s American ear, sounded like spitting with a mouth full of marbles.
“Yes.” She laughed, and tried to imitate him, “VangHoph!”
“Ah, you speak Dutch!” Windsor teased.
“Dutch waffles!” Kelly parried.
Windsor leaned on the wall as they both looked out over the night sky.
“Which painting?” The red haired officer finally asked.
“Oh, Starry Night of course,” she said, as she swept her arm to indicate everything on the horizon.
“Indeed,” Windsor agreed. “The Asylum one, or the one on the Rhone?”
Kelly looked at him curiously. S
he guessed he was about her age, or maybe a little older. He was tall and fit but had the look of a man who was once, much more muscular. His face was tanned from traveling in the sun, but she could see his skin was naturally pale and sprinkled with amber freckles. Under his curly red beard, his neck was thick. His broad shoulders and muscular chest filled out his dark brown t-shirt while his biceps stretched against the fabric of its short sleeves.
Windsor’s waist narrowed into the V of an athlete and, though his military style camouflage pants were loose fitting, she could tell his legs would be equally strong. His pants were bloused neatly into the tops of his brown combat boots.
Kelly expected that with his military training he could probably fight the enemy, hunt animals for food, build a shelter with sticks, and start a fire with rocks. But, she did not expect him to know anything about art.
“The Rhone, I think,” Kelly said suspiciously.
“Oh?” Windsor answered, looking at the sky, as if conversing about impressionist painters was all in a day’s work. “Before he went barking mad?”
“I think he was ill all along,” Kelly replied, “in those days I guess you could check yourself in to an asylum when the voices got to be too much.”
“I don’t think I’d like being locked up in a nineteenth century asylum much, though,” Windsor added.
“Surprising,” she said.
“What?” He asked. “You prefer to be locked up?”
“No.” Kelly giggled, “I wouldn’t have pegged you for an art lover.”
“I’m not really,” he replied. “I had to take some art history classes at university.”
“You had to take them?” She asked.
“Well,” he explained with a grin. “My uncle insisted I should take them. He said they would make me more refined and worldly wise. He also said, it was a good way to impress the ladies.”
“Did it work?” Kelly laughed.
“You tell me,” Windsor replied.
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps crunching over the gravel roof. They turned and saw Corporal Dupree approaching.
“Pardon, Sir!” Dupree stopped a few feet away, came to attention and saluted the Leftenant.
“As you were, Corporal,” Windsor returned the salute and the enlisted man relaxed. “Report.”
“Sir,” Dupree said. “The Major sends his regards and requests your presence in the squad room.”
“Very good,” Windsor responded. “Please send my compliments to the Major and let him know I am on my way. Carry on.”
Dupree saluted again, then turned and marched away towards the stairwell.
“You will have to excuse me, Kelly,” Windsor said, “duty calls.”
“Of course,” Kelly agreed, and joked. “Next time we can discuss Cubism.”
The Leftenant was already making his way towards the stairs but turned and made a face. “Ugh. I hate modern art.”
Kelly watched him go, thinking how odd it was to meet someone like Windsor in the middle of the hell they found themselves surviving. It was nice to have a conversation about something other than scavenging for food, how to get the critical supplies they needed or how not to be eaten by the undead. The presence of these Marines made her aware of everything they had been missing in life. She missed having friends and meeting new people. Robbie had been a good and faithful companion, but he wasn’t someone she could sit up and talk with all night about whatever was on her mind.
As the Leftenant disappeared through the stairwell door something else caught her attention. She recognized Mr. Clark sitting on the wall near the stair. She hadn’t noticed him earlier, and wondered how long he had been there. Clark seemed to be staring at her. It wasn’t a malicious or creepy stare. He seemed to be scrutinizing her, sizing her up.
“Good evening, Mr. Clark,” Kelly called.
“Good evening, Kelly,” Clark replied with a wave. He then stood up and followed Windsor down the stairs.
“This has been a weird night,” Kelly said as she watched him vanish into the shadows. Then, thinking back to what Corporal Dupree had said she muttered. “Wait. What squad room? Do we have a squad room?”
Down below, Robbie followed MacGregor and Stewart out onto the pool deck. His arms were sore from working all day while his legs ached from going up and down the stairs. If the two Marines hurt as bad as he did, they did not show it. Neither complained, or displayed any indication that the long day of manual labor had affected them.
MacGregor was tall and lanky with a long face and square jar. His brown hair and beard framed a beak like nose and bright blue eyes. The brown t-shirt he wore was sweat stained and untucked from his camouflage trousers. Dust and dirt clung to his uniform from his crawling around during their work to repair the solar panels and water pump. As soon as they were outside, the Scotsman lit up a cigarette and handed the pack to his squad mate.
Stewart pulled out one of the thin white cylinders and held it in his dark fingers. He was a fireplug of a man, standing average height, with a wide torso and thick legs. His hair was black and his beard curled in waves around his jaw line. He had golden brown eyes and the flat nose and thick lips of many of African descent. He held up the box of cigarettes, offering one to Robbie.
“No thanks,” Robbie said.
“Suit yourself.” Stewart said, shrugging his shoulders, before stopping to light the cigarette he had perched on his lips. He closed his eyes and took a deep drag. A moment later, he expelled a cloud of smoke and smiled. “That’s the ticket.”
Robbie looked around and noticed that several other enlisted Marines were already in the courtyard. Up on the wall, a Marine wearing body armor sat, with his rifle in his lap. From that height, Robbie could tell he would have a good view of the streets and warehouses along the river. Stewart waved at the man, who returned the gesture then went back to watching the perimeter. Robbie wondered if these guys ever let their guard down.
Stewart and MacGregor led Robbie over to a steel and glass patio table where two Marines sat, cleaning their rifles. Robbie had been introduced to the two before, but didn’t recall their names. Standing nearby he recognized Sergeant Simmons, the medic who had set his finger, trimming his beard with a pair of scissors.
Conversations were hushed. The men were relaxed but seemed aware that their proximity to the street created a need to keep the noise down. In the moonlight, Robbie could see they all wore dark brown t-shirts but each had different designs and slogans. He couldn’t read the inscriptions, but most seemed to have some sort of skull or sword emblazoned on them.
Simmons nodded at the trio as they approached, “Aright?”
“Aright, Sergeant,” Stewart replied. He pronounced the rank as “Sarnt” and it took Robbie a second to translate what he meant. MacGregor greeted Simmons as well but Robbie had given up on understanding what he said.
The two at the table looked up and smiled.
“Ay-up!” The shorter of the two said, looking up from wiping his barrel with a greasy rag, as if surprised to see them. “Wot’s the cat dragged in?”
“No bloody bitter, that’s for sure,” Stewart answered as he pulled a chair over to the table. He pointed a thumb at Robbie. “You know our boy, Rob?”
“Yea, we met in the car park.” He extended his hand. “Cheers. Devin O’Reilly.”
“Michael Kim,” the other man at the table stood to shake Robbie’s hand.
“Robert Bruce,” Robbie said shaking their hands as he introduced himself again.
“Es he nam tru, Robert Bruce?!” MacGregor exclaimed with surprise.
“Yes…” Robbie answered, unsurely.
“Oy!” MacGregor cracked a huge smile and suddenly swept Robbie into a headlock. “Ya’ dinna tael mae yaer a Bruce!” Ferociously grinding Robbie’s hair with his fist, he declared. “Yaer aright w me, Laddie.”
The Scotsman released Robbie, who scampered back, unsure how to react. The other men laughed while Robbie rubbed his sore head.
“Why is everyone making such a big deal about my name?” Robbie asked. “The Major and the Leftenant said something about it too.”
“Do ye nae noo yer Scots heestry, lad?!” MacGregor said surprised.
“I was in the tenth grade when this all started,” Robbie answered. “We didn’t even get through American history.”
“Oae yer namesek were Robert ta Bruce,” MacGregor said, “Ahnly wun o’ the greetest fraedom feaghters ehn Scots heestry.”
“Ok,” Robbie nodded thinking he might have understood the Scotsman’s brogue. “Some sort of Scottish hero?”
“Aye!” MacGregor nodded vigorously. “The greetest after Wallace. Ye’ve seen Braveheart?”
“Braveheart?” Robbie asked. “What’s that?”
“Ahnly the greetest muvie there ever wuz, aboot the Scots!” MacGregor went on.
“Only, it’s shite history,” Simmons injected. “And, the English win in the end. Sorry to ruin it for you, mate.”
“Oh aye!” MacGregor laughed, “boot ets stahl a greet fahlm. Stack w mae Robbie. Ahl learn ya all aboot the Scots.”
“Now you’re in for it,” Kim said sitting back down. “He’s going to follow you home.”
“Aye,” O’Reilly added, “and, he’s not proper house broken.”
“Oh, ahm fookin’ haws broke enof fer yer mahthers, ye bastards.” MacGregor spat back at them, as he pulled up a chair to the table.
“Come on over, Robbie,” O’Reilly invited. “Move over Michael. Make some room for the new boy.”
Kim slid around the table and indicated for Robbie to join them in the open space. Robbie grabbed a chair and hesitantly moved it in between Kim and the Scotsman. MacGregor looked as if he had already forgotten grabbing the younger man and had started a separate conversation with O’Reilly. Robbie sat down and tried to follow for a few seconds, but quickly gave up.
“Don’t mind him,” Kim said. “He’s a bit uncivilized, but he’s good to have in a fight.”
“I can tell,” Robbie laughed rubbing his head. “If you plan to noogie the enemy to death.”