by Roger Hayden
“That’s cold, man. Ice cold.”
The men tossed their protective garments into a waste receptacle and grabbed their jackets from the lockers. After running their hands through a washing station, they opened a door leading outside and walked out. Greg lay on the ground, watching and listening for signs of anyone else in the garage. He crawled out from under the truck and stood up as every joint in his body ached. He was completely covered in dust from his hair down to his feet. He quickly took his sunglasses off, set them aside, and patted and brushed himself down.
A scan of his surroundings showed that he was in a military hangar. There wasn’t any aircraft in the room, only a few Humvees and the truck he was standing next to. There were tool cabinets, dollies, pallet jacks, stacks of pallets, and large bins of ratchet straps. It was, for all intents and purposes, an ordinary military hanger. The real action, Greg believed, was taking place outside. He moved quickly to the wall lockers in the corner and rummaged through them for a change of clothes, keeping one eye on the hangar’s entrance. He found a black T-shirt and blue jumpsuit, similar to what the other two men were wearing, and pulled them out.
He took his dirty shirt off, buried it in a trash can, and then cleaned himself up at the washing station by throwing water on his face and hair. He felt more muddy than clean and did it again. The pants stayed on, but he put on the tight-fitting T-shirt and pulled the blue jumpsuit up over his jeans and over his shoulders. It was a perfect fit. He hoped it would help him blend in a little better, though he had no idea how everyone else dressed on the base. He slowly pushed the exit door open and was met with bright sunlight shining directly on his face. He placed his sunglasses on, scanned the area, and walked out. The hunt was on.
***
Veronica had pulled at the handcuffs so much that bruises and cuts had formed around her wrist. Two days of being cuffed to a bed, and the only person she had met was Bill Hodder. He was back again to pay her a little visit, and he slammed her door shut just to let her know that he meant business. He also wasn’t wearing any protective gear.
“What do you want?” she asked.
His face was stern and serious. He immediately went to her bed, sat next to her, and got close into her face. Startled, she tried to back away.
“Let’s just cut all the bullshit right now,” he said. “I know you’re not infected, and I know that you know you’re not infected. So that’s that.”
He leaned in closer, causing Veronica to push herself against the wall.
“This base has been officially Ebola-free for over a month.” Hodder drove his own finger into his chest. “I made that happen! If it wasn’t for me, we’d all be dead right now. And how do they thank me? How do they show gratitude? They whine and complain and start talking about a resistance. Bullshit!”
He jumped off the bed and began to pace around as Veronica pushed her back harder against the wall; silent, with her eyes wide, she followed Hodder’s every move.
“Tell me about this man. This hero of yours. The one who you think is going to come save you.”
Veronica swallowed and took a deep breath. “Why would I tell you anything?”
Hodder turned to her. “Ah. A bartering woman.”
He stood with his hands on his hips and leaned down toward her, like he was talking to a child. “While a guest at our Ebola-free facility, you’ve been afforded certain protections. This is mainly of my doing. You see, Veronica, I’m the only person on this entire base keeping you safe.
“If it wasn’t for me, these men would tear you apart. And who are these men, you ask? They’re criminals, each and every one of them. With the exception of my disgruntled soldier, they have served time for robbery, battery, rape, even murder. Ex-cons brought here from a halfway house. I sought them all out, built a coalition, if you will, and took the base from an incompetent military run-operation and turned it into a refuge of survival.”
“I’m not afraid of you or your gang of perverts.”
Hodder couldn’t help but laugh. “Careful what you say around here. Some people can be very sensitive to such accusations.”
He walked over to her and slammed his fist against the wall. “Who is he?” he shouted.
“Greg. His name is Greg,” Veronica said. “What does it matter?”
“Because I sent out a team yesterday to go find him, and they haven’t come back yet. Frankly, I would like to know what we’re dealing with.”
Veronica couldn’t hide her smile. “You’re asking the wrong person. Greg is my friend. He’s a tough guy. Resourceful. But I really don’t know that much about him.”
Hodder walked closer to her and smiled back. Like a snake, he struck and smacked her across the face so hard that the loud pop reverberated throughout the room. She fell to the side of the bed, clutching her face as blood formed on her bottom lip. She couldn’t believe it had even happened. There was a ringing in her ears and she could see Hodder standing over her, ready to strike again. From where she lay, he brought his leg back and kicked her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She snapped into a fetal position, gasping for air.
The pain was intense and overwhelming. As she struggled to breathe, Hodder clutched the back of her neck and slammed her face against the wall, holding her there. He got close—so close that spit flew onto her face when he spoke.
“Now let’s stop dancing around and get serious for a moment. Start talking.”
Veronica cried out in shock and pain. She squeezed her eyes closed as her hair covered her face and blood ran down her lip.
“His name is Greg,” she said between labored breaths.
“You already told me that.” Hodder kept the side of her face pushed against the wall.
“We drove here from Carson City. He’s a security alarm specialist…a friend of mine from the bookstore I work at. I was staying at his house. We had a home invasion and had to leave.”
Hodder released her and then smacked her across the other side of her face with brute force. Her cuffed arm hung on the railing as her body flew against the corner of her bed.
Hodder stood up. “Who is he?” he shouted.
“I don’t know!” Veronica cried out. A fresh red mark rose on her face and tears streamed down her cheeks. “He’s a prepper. He takes it very seriously, but he hasn’t told me anything about his past.”
“His past?” Hodder asked. “What about it?”
“If only I knew, but I don’t, you son of a bitch.”
Hodder ran at her with his fist in the air as she backed further into the corner with her arms up, trying to defend herself. Instead he pushed through and gripped her neck, choking her. “It can get a whole lot worse and we’re getting nowhere fast. Is ‘Greg’ worth all the bruises?”
Hodder squeezed harder, constricting Veronica’s windpipe. “I have a good mind to think that he killed my men and that he’s coming here for blood as we speak.”
Veronica gripped Hodder’s arm and dug her nails into it. He showed no reaction.
“There’s something that you’re not telling me, and when I release you, right before that last bit of oxygen is needed, you’re going to start talking.”
Veronica’s face was red. Her eyes were glazed and watery, staring at the ceiling above. She couldn’t breathe and her heart raced in panic. He was cutting her oxygen off. He was killing her. Just when she thought she was going to black out, he released her and backed away. She fell face-first into the bed and inhaled with such ferocity that it looked like she was going to suck in the bedsheets. She gagged and shook, trying to catch her breath in a violent fit of coughing.
Hodder waited patiently for her to look at him, and what he saw on her face was contempt. He casually pointed down to her. “Last chance to tell me something.”
“He was a spy.” Her voice was hoarse and strained. “At least I think so. He wouldn’t tell me for sure. An assassin for hire. Not sure what agency. Told me places he’d been on all over the world on ‘assignment.’ I know he�
��s killed people before. He took down six men who broke into his home like it was nothing. Then another group came and tried the same thing, and the same thing happened to them.”
“So he’s a prepper and an assassin?” Hodder asked.
Veronica looked up at him in a dazed glance. Her left eye was starting to swell and blood began to run down her nose. “Whatever you say.”
Hodder shook a fist in the air in triumph. “Perfect! This will work great. And you said he’s alone?”
“He’s alone,” she said as her eyelids grew heavy.
“What kind of arsenal does he have?”
“He’s got everything. If your men went looking for him, I can guarantee that he got them. And if he’s coming after you, he’ll get you too.”
Hodder scratched his chin, nodding his head. “Hmmm. Well, you’ve been very helpful, Veronica.” He dug into his shirt pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “Here, clean up that pretty face.” He tossed it on the bed in front of her and walked out of the room. Veronica pushed her face into the mattress and let out a muffled cry.
***
Greg stood outside the hangar and moved quickly behind a large fenced-in air conditioning unit to his left. Properly concealed, he scoped the place out. There were several one-story buildings across the way, perfectly aligned with each other, and identical. Several people walked by the buildings, wearing worn and tattered clothing.
There was one guard tower close to the front gate in the distance and another tower at the other end to his right. Armed men, wearing jumpsuits like his or militia-type clothing, were everywhere. They looked healthier than the unarmed people and walked with the smug assurance of their own authority.
Curious, Greg noticed a large perimeter roped off and under construction with wood beams and plywood over piles of ash and burnt steel. It looked as if they were rebuilding something. The project seemed to be in its most early state. He was witnessing life on the base but was unsure of what was really going on. All he saw was constant movement with little purpose behind it.
He pulled out his binos and scanned the area for Veronica or any signs of the so-called holding area that she was in. He searched for other potential hiding places, closer to where the activity was at. The hangar area he was close to was virtually deserted. Near the living quarters, he saw in the shadows some barricades he could hide behind. He looked up at the guard towers, and both guards were looking away. Greg moved forward, finding whatever he could to hide behind along the way to the living quarters—in hopes that discovering Veronica wasn’t too far off.
Greg moved from one hiding place to the next while managing to stay unseen. He was good at blending in, for the most part, and not drawing attention to himself. If someone saw him, he hoped that he wouldn’t be mistaken for a guard, given that he was dressed like some of them. He moved from one point to the other, getting closer to the living quarters, when all of a sudden, a bell tone rang out over the intercoms affixed to each of the buildings. Then came a voice:
“All personnel report to the public square for mandatory examination.”
The message repeated another three times before the bell tone sounded again. Greg crouched behind a large circuit-breaker near the side of a building labeled “103” and watched the people stream out and form orderly lines and move behind the living quarters. In building after building, doors opened and groups of people flowed out in unison, following the same drill as the others. They soon moved out of Greg’s view.
Greg changed his position and moved along the wall next to him to the rear of the building. He came to a wide-open lot with hundreds of people standing in single file lines. Several armed men stood on a large platform in front of the men, women, and children. Standing in the center of the platform was a microphone-wielding, beret-wearing man dressed in combat fatigues. He ordered all those assembled to stand at arms-length intervals and prepare for Ebola checks. His sunglasses, black gloves, and domineering presence made him stand out from the rest of the crowd.
Several other guards walked to the front of each line carrying clipboards. Several men in medical scrubs circled the lines, monitoring everything. Classical music came blaring over the ubiquitous intercom speakers. Greg thought the whole scene bizarre. The faces of the crowd were sullen and despondent. No one looked like they wanted to be there. Greg couldn’t quite put his finger on it. They looked broken and defeated.
The beret man spoke into his microphone and continued. “Just bear with us while we conduct our standard checks. Our efforts and your patience have resulted in thirty days of this base being completely Ebola-free.”
The guards on the platform and elsewhere applauded enthusiastically while the people looked at the ground, less than impressed.
“Let’s hear it, people!” he said into the microphone. “How about a round of applause?”
The people looked up slowly and began to clap listlessly, much to the beret man’s dissatisfaction.
“Is that the best you can do? I want to see energy. I want to see those hands clapping passionately. Let’s see it!”
They began to applaud louder, though it was anything but genuine. What the hell has happened here? Greg thought to himself. He stayed low-key and out of sight and continued to watch the proceedings. With his binos, he scanned the lines for Veronica. There were women here and there, but none of them looked like her. He watched as each clipboard man approached a different person and examined their eyes, had them lift up their shirt, open their mouths, and answer a series of questions.
The beret man continued speaking as his men went down the lines asking questions and examining each person. “We have a lot to be thankful for, ladies and gentlemen. I formed a team of specialized men to apprehend the outsider who is trying to infiltrate this base and harm us.
“This outsider, this terrorist, is determined to kill as many people as he can. Why? Because it’s a sick world out there, full of sick people like him who want to infect our world in here with his poison. We apprehended his partner-in-crime, a woman, after she stabbed one of our guards right outside the gate while trying to break into the base. He managed to escape, but we currently have her in custody. Rest assured, however, that he’ll be back. The man’s name is Greg Atkins.”
There were some collective gasps in the crowd. He had their attention. Greg leaned against the wall of the building in the shadows. Hearing his name was a shock. It felt strange to be called out in such a manner, but he understood why the man was doing it. He was making it impossible for Greg to walk among the people or blend in. The risks of being caught were now even greater, something he knew the moment he heard his name.
“I’m told,” said beret man, “that this Greg Atkins is a little under six feet tall, skinny, has a beard, brown eyes, and dirty blond hair. Think Unabomber here, people. The woman told me quite a bit about him and the delight they get from murdering innocent people. Apparently, he’s a former assassin who has terrorized plenty of people before and continues to do so today. She spoke of countless murders over the past few months during their ruthless killing spree, taking advantage of the Ebola outbreak to their sick liking.”
The crowd held their faces forward with a steady gaze, captivated. From afar, Greg watched in disbelief. Soon he would have to find a more secure spot or be exposed and torn to pieces by the agitated mob.
“Put him on trial!” one of the men in the crowd shouted out. Applause rippled among the crowd.
The beret man nodded. “Once he’s captured, we certainly will. In the meantime, the woman is currently being monitored for Ebola, and as soon as she is cleared, she will face punishment for assault. And this is the best part...” The man turned, lifted his arm, and gestured to a spot where two men stood guard.
Suddenly, more guards entered the public square from a nearby building, holding small plastic buckets.
“We’re going to have a lottery.” A fearful tremor of intuition seemed to ripple through the crowd. The man called for quiet. “Each of you will
draw a number, and whoever has the winning number will be given the opportunity to enforce the sentence the woman receives after her trial. Depending on the outcome of course.” He held up a finger. “And you must be eighteen years or older.”
Several of the guards on the stage laughed at the beret man’s closing comment. The people below each pulled out a tiny piece of paper from the buckets as the guards passed by them. Greg couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The sadistic nature of those running the base exceeded even what he thought possible. Their twisted game was all the conviction he needed. But he was relieved to hear that Veronica was alive…for now.
The beret man pulled out a ticket from his own bucket and held it up in the air. “Let’s see what we have here. Who will be the lucky winner?” He tilted his head to read from the paper then paused, letting the suspense build, like they used to do on those stupid TV game shows. Finally he spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am holding number seventy-four! Number seventy-four.” He lowered his arm and looked around the crowd, waiting for a response. “Do we have number seventy-four out there?” From afar, Greg watched the scene unfold, the crowd alive with nervous anticipation.
“Oh. Oh. Right here!” a scraggly-faced, long-haired man shouted from the middle of one of the lines, holding his ticket up. His eyes were wild with excitement.
“It’s about time,” the beret man said. A guard approached the man to verify his ticket. He then turned to the stage and gave a thumbs up. The beret man nodded. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Larry Osborne,” the man said. He began to jump up and down, pumping his fists in the air. “I won! I can’t believe I won!”
From the stage, beret man smiled. “We’re all happy for you. Let’s give Larry a round of applause.”
The crowd responded with cheers, whistles, and clapping, some of it genuine and some of it forced.
Larry’s faced beamed. “What do I get to do to her?” he asked.
“That depends on the outcome of the trial,” beret man answered.