“Ewwww,” she squealed.
“That explains the smell,” Theresa stated.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I’ll git along as soon as we get this out of the way. The base doctor has ordered everyone to get a flu shot,” he said, laying the drawl on thick.
Regina crawled onto the bottom bunk, content to play with her doll.
Theresa made a face and said, “You are positive this is necessary?”
“All new incoming survivors have been inoculated... I’m just crossing T’s and dotting I’s,” he said apologetically. “Don’t worry; it’s the kind of needle diabetics use... real small.”
Elvis took the lid off of the Coleman six-pack cooler and removed two pre-filled syringes.
Regina’s eyes widened. “What are those for?”
“Something to keep you from getting sick... it will only hurt a teeny tiny bit,” he promised as he swabbed her arm with a funny smelling square of cloth. More as a distraction than to establish some kind of bedside manner, he asked her what her favorite color was.
“Pink... owww,” Regina cried.
Elvis set the empty syringe aside and produced a cotton ball from his fanny pack. “Hold this,” he said to the girl. Then he secured it over the tiny entry wound with a length of medical tape. “Next...”
As he readied the next booster he began chatting with Theresa. “You were in bed pretty early, are you feeling OK?”
“I’m just fine. I was sleeping because there is absolutely nothing to do here... I’ve read every single book I could get my hands on. It’s monotonous as heck and I’ve found that sleeping helps pass the time. Are you sure I need this?”
He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “With all of the dead bodies lying around... even a little cold can kill. I highly recommend it.”
He smells good up close, Theresa thought, besides a little shot won’t hurt. “OK,” she said as she looked away and hiked up her sleeve, offering her shoulder to the stranger.
He wasted no time. This is too easy, he told himself. Then he wondered if his comrade was having equal success on her assignment.
Theresa felt the sting then winced as the heat radiated down her arm.
“That wasn’t bad, was it?” he said, taping a cotton ball in place. His gloved hands felt strong on her arm—reassuring and safe.
“I have felt worse pain.”
“Any questions?” he asked as he gathered up his things and popped the lid on the cooler closed with a slap of his palm.
“What should we expect... will we get the flu or just feel a little puny?”
The younger man leaned forward a degree and smiled, a twinkle lighting his eyes. The gesture made Theresa want to pounce on him like a cougar—not the furry feline predator kind—but the forty-five year old Demi Moore jumping Ashton Kutcher’s bones type of cougar. It was just enough to make a gal moisten a pair of knickers.
He suddenly got serious.
“The virus affects each person differently. I’d keep an eye on Regina. If she starts to show symptoms get her to bed and tuck her in.” He smiled again.
Theresa stared at the cluster of brilliant diamonds on her ring finger, then cast her eyes away and offered a sincere platonic thank you.
“Bye,” Regina said, adding a princess wave.
This one isn’t going to get away, Theresa thought. I can’t have him... so maybe Nadine can work her magic. Hell, they are closer in age anyway. “Hey Elvis.”
“Yes,” he answered, pausing at the door.
“My single... I mean my sister will be right back. Think you can wait for her?”
“I’ve inoculated nearly half of the civilian barracks—but I still have a lot of people to see—if I stand here yakking I won’t get to ‘em all. Not everyone has been as easy and accommodating as you and your daughter... I commend you both for that.” He tipped his Huskers cap. “I better get going now. I’ll come back tomorrow and stick anybody I missed today.”
Theresa held the door open as he collected his things.
He smiled one last time.
She watched his backside as he walked away. Nadine, where the hell are you? A wet cough racked her body. Then another and she hawked a glob of phlegm in the dirt, then called after him, “She’s a catch.”
***
The tall stranger had been gone less than five minutes when Nadine returned from the Porta-Potties.
Theresa accosted her sister at the door, begging her to run and find the man who she described as George Clooney’s much younger doppelganger.
“I know, I just passed him. Black ball cap... big boned... tall and dark.”
“Describes him to a T,” Theresa said with a smile and a wink.
“He gave us a little baby flu shot,” Regina added proudly as she made her doll do a little jig on the bottom bunk.
“Did he give your dolly a shot?” Auntie Nadine said playfully.
“It’s for people, silly,” Regina said.
Theresa looked at her hands then focused on the wedding band there. She couldn’t help but worry about her husband who had been stranded thousands of miles away in New York City when the planes had been grounded. Would he ever make his way home to Colorado Springs to feel her loving embrace? Would daddy’s little girl remember her father? Theresa felt a wave of sadness wash over her—sooner or later she was going to have to confront reality and find a way to move forward.
Noticing the faraway look, Regina asked innocently, “What are you thinking about Mom?”
Swiping at a single tear she said, “I was thinking about how you and I could go about setting your auntie up with the nice man who just left. And if I didn’t know how afraid your Auntie Nadine was of needles, I’d go track him down right now.”
“Forget the needle,” Nadine said with a sly grin. “I wonder what else he’s injecting...”
“Not around Regina,” Theresa said, shooting her sis a stern look.
“Just kidding Tee.”
“I bet you could catch him if you ran,” Regina added.
“If you won’t listen to me at least listen to your niece. Elvis told us that he only has a couple more house calls to make,” Theresa said, bound and determined to live vicariously through her sister—Armageddon or no Armageddon.
Taking the advice to heart, Nadine rushed to the door and poked her head out, looked both ways; then she popped back in with a dejected look on her face. “Another one that got away.”
“I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding band... maybe you can find him tomorrow and schedule an injection,” Theresa whispered.
“I could only be so fortunate. But I bet he’s in an ongoing relationship. Heck, he’s probably gay. That’d be just my luck.”
The sisters broke out in laughter.
“Regina.”
“Yes Mom.”
“Time to brush your teeth and get ready for bed. Auntie and I are going to stay up and talk.”
“Can I sleep with you tonight Auntie?”
“Certainly... crawl in my bunk. Sleep tight and don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“Ewww.”
“That was just a figure of speech honey. So... when your Mom and I finish our grown up time I will snug with you.”
“OK,” Regina said as she crawled into the lower bunk clutching her doll firmly.
***
Eight down—two to go, Elvis thought to himself. The first eight had gone off without a hitch but he knew there was no room for error on his part. While keeping a wary eye out for the security patrols which had been recently doubled, he banged loudly on the temporary barracks door.
Nothing... but they could be sleeping.
His ball park calculations led him to believe that better than ninety percent of the people he had come into contact with during the last hour and a half had acquiesced, accepting the minor inconvenience of a little poke with little concern. His favorite line echoed in his head, With all of the dead bodies lying around... even a little cold can kill. I highly recommen
d it. The same line he had used to seal the deal with Theresa and every accommodating person thereafter. He smiled, picturing himself decked out in a tuxedo, soaking in the adulation as he held the svelte golden statue aloft. I’d like to thank the Motion Picture Academy...blah, blah, blah. “Yep... I shoulda went to Hollywood,” he muttered. As he had made his way from tent to tent he noticed most of the civilians that he had inoculated seemed either deeply depressed or mired in a state of ongoing melancholy. He supposed it was what the early pioneers called Cabin Fever. Most had been in bed. A few had even been asleep well before the mandatory blackout hour—the hour right before dusk when power from the generators which had been keeping Schriever in the 21st century was shut off to the civilian areas. Only the mess hall and other vital military interests on base had the luxury of round the clock electricity. In addition, and as a precaution against attracting walkers during the night, other strict blackout measures had been put in place. All windows were to remain covered. Movement about the base was discouraged and air traffic was forbidden except in emergency situations.
Pushing the hows and whys from his mind Elvis scaled the steps. Ignoring the fluttering note he knocked loudly, and, after receiving no response, he pushed through the door. The humid air inside of the tent reeked of feces and death. “Son of a bitch,” he said as the overwhelming stench hit him like a fist. The first thing he noticed after his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior was the folding chair lying sideways on the wood floor, and when he walked his gaze up, the source of the odors became evident. A pallid corpse hung slack, lifeless eyes bugged from their sockets like a surprised Loony Tunes character. This guy wasn’t taking any chances, Elvis thought as he counted the requisite thirteen loops—it appeared the decedent had tied his hangman’s knot by the book and taken great care to properly secure one end to the rafters. However, it didn’t appear to have broken the man’s neck, instead it appeared that he had died from asphyxiation. The man’s face blazed red with broken capillaries. And to add insult to injury, an erection tented the front of his pajamas which were soiled when his bowels involuntarily released. The resulting lake of oily diarrhea pooled below the dead man’s feet proved an irresistible attraction for the multitude of flies jinking and diving about the body.
The Huskers fan stepped from the dead man’s quarters and looked down the long line of tents that he had already visited. Not far from where he was standing an Air Force security patrol crossed his path.
“Evening gentlemen,” he said.
They nodded—scrutinized his lunchbox—but said nothing about the gloves.
Sweating profusely, Elvis waited a tick and observed the two men as they slowly prowled the civilians’ living quarters.
Not bad for a couple hours work, he told himself, swinging the cooler like a pendulum—just a worker bee returning from another fine day spent burying the dead. He set off in the opposite direction as the patrol, walked a hundred yards then stopped next to a fifty-five gallon oil drum that been converted into a garbage can. The top layer of MRE wrappers and empty water bottles crinkled as he concealed the cooler underneath the refuse. Then he snapped the latex gloves from his hands one at a time and tossed them after. Done making the doughnuts, he thought, as he clapped his hands to rid them of talcum dust.
Chapter 32
Outbreak - Day 11
South of Schriever
With nervous civilian drivers behind the wheel, the ten idling moving trucks sat scattered haphazardly about the road like wayward sheep. And because there was only the lone MRAP for protection, Sergeant ‘Icky’ Lawson ordered the civilian gunners to remain extra vigilant.
As antsy and emotionally charged as Brook was, she had already decided there would be no more heroics unless one of their own got into trouble. Risking her life like she did in order to save someone who may have already been infected had been utter insanity on her part. Furthermore, she knew that she had risked Wilson’s safety and that was at the least indefensible and at the worst a sign of dereliction she was not proud of.
Ten minutes later the two gun trucks wheeled around and took their places in front of the column.
General Gaines’s voice crackled over the civilian comms. “Not a Z in sight on the surface roads. Still, you’ve got to remember to stay frosty and keep your guards up people.”
As a military wife who had heard Cade utter it a thousand times, Brook mouthed the words ‘Stay Frosty,’ a millisecond before Gaines offered the same sage advice.
***
Wilson maneuvered the U-Haul, keeping pace with the long line of trucks stretching out ahead of him. After a few minutes spent driving through empty streets lined with juvenile dogwoods, the lead gun truck abruptly came to a stop behind one of the nondescript warehouses.
“Too many hiding spots,” Wilson moaned.
“Lots of food,” Brook countered.
“I just want to get this thing loaded and get back.”
Being a nurse, Brook couldn’t help but offer advice. “Better stretch—and lift with your knees—not with your back. You wrench something then you’re done. I’ll leave you for the dead before I carry you,” she said facetiously.
Not fully aware she had been joking, Wilson smiled. In his mind he was flipping her the bird.
An annoying reverse alarm sounded as he backed the Dakota truck closer to the loading dock that stretched the length of the warehouse. Steel roll up doors painted white and numbered 1 thru 20 loomed above. He guessed the openings to be at least thirty feet tall and twenty wide, more than enough clearance for a fully loaded forklift to move in and out of efficiently.
Wilson looked on as the SF operators led by Gaines quickly gained entry. And after twenty minutes of ‘staying frosty,’ whatever that meant, he noticed the doors begin to roll up. Ten in all. Once they were opened, one of the military men directed his U-Haul to door number 10 where the Dakota’s rear bumper met the large rubber fenders attached below the lip of the loading dock with a bone jarring thud.
“Whoops,” Wilson offered without looking at Brook.
She donned her helmet and smiled but said nothing.
***
Brook slid from the truck then scaled the loading dock. She stood a few feet in front of door number 10 and cast her gaze inside the shadowy building. Flashlight beams cut the dark as Gaines led a troop of civilians down the aisles, pointing out what he wanted to be loaded onto the trucks.
M4 held at low ready, Brook paced the loading dock. She wove her small frame between pallets stacked high with cans and boxes, marveling at the sheer enormity of the distribution center. Row upon row of floor to ceiling shelving containing everything from cleaning supplies and paper products to all manner of nonperishable foods covered every available square inch inside the building. Well before the old consumer driven world ground to a screeching halt this massive distribution warehouse had supplied restaurants and grocers all along the Rocky Mountain range. Now the food was going to allow the small slice of remaining humanity to survive for a few more weeks. She recognized most of the names on the delivery invoices—Olive Garden, Wendy’s, Fast Burger and many more—their shipments sitting in front of her on a loading dock in Fountain Valley, Colorado, never to be delivered. No more drive thrus, no more pizza delivery, no more supermarkets—she pondered the austerity the future held for her family as she walked up the ramp away from the loading docks to take a look at the road.
During the hour plus that she had been on watch she hadn’t seen a single walker, and with the forklifts’ backup klaxons blaring and the soldiers barking orders, she had expected them to show up by now.
She looked down the roadway in both directions.
Clear.
The sound of chains rattling reached her ears as all ten doors began to roll down at once, followed by exhaust notes that echoed off of the building’s ribbed steel walls as engines thrummed to life.
At a slow trot Brook made her way back to the Dakota truck and as soon as she slid into her seat Wilson loo
ked at her and asked if the coast was clear.
Brook nodded. “There aren’t any walkers on the road if that’s what you mean.”
Wilson breathed a sigh of relief.
“But don’t get your hopes up... all of the walkers we passed back there will surely still be there waiting for us when we drive back through.”
“Not good. Gaines reversed the driving order.” That’s so he can keep an eye on you—Hair-Trigger, Wilson thought. “That means we’re going to be the first truck behind the Humvees... and the biggest target for the pusbags.”
Just then a few sharp pings sounded on the steel roof above their heads. Then more patters on the hood and glass in front of them.
“Summer thunderstorm... that’s good if it’s heading towards Springs. Might just mask the noise this metal monster makes on the highway and we can slip past the majority of the Zs.”
We can only hope, Wilson thought as he set the wipers in motion, smearing bugs and who knows what else into two greasy cataracts on the windshield.
Gaines’ voice came over the Motorola two-way. “Move em out,” he said brusquely.
Just then jagged fork lightning seared the sky. A half a second later a clap sounding like two trains colliding tore overhead. Then the confined loading area amplified the thunder and it rumbled on for several seconds.
“That hit pretty close to here.”
“You want to know what my husband has to say about close?” Brook asked as Wilson nosed the U-Haul in behind the two Humvee gun trucks.
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me no matter what I say.”
“Correct,” Brook stated forcefully. The rain was pounding the truck in earnest. The wipers cleaned the gore but could barely keep up with the cascading sheets of rainwater. Over the whop-whop of the wipers she said, “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”
“I get the horseshoes part...”
“The hand grenade part—you don’t want to know the details. Cade told me all about it. Not pretty.”
A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 23